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“Most emphatically I am.” | Sybylla Melvyn | in a deadly calm voice.<|quote|>“Most emphatically I am.”</|quote|>“Then all I can say | you in earnest?” he asked in a deadly calm voice.<|quote|>“Most emphatically I am.”</|quote|>“Then all I can say is that I haven’t much | Ha ha ha!” The jealous rage had died out of his face and was succeeded by trembling and a pallor so ghastly, that I began to have a little faith in descriptions of love which I had hitherto ridiculed. “Are you in earnest?” he asked in a deadly calm voice.<|quote|>“Most emphatically I am.”</|quote|>“Then all I can say is that I haven’t much respect for you, Miss Melvyn. I always considered that there were three classes of women—one, that would marry a blackfellow if he had money; another, that were shameless flirts, and who amuse themselves by flirting and disgracing the name of | angling for, when you are only the bothersome appendage with which they would have to put up, for the sake of your property. And you must not think that because some women will marry for a home they all will. I trust I have explained to your satisfaction, Mr Beecham. Ha ha ha!” The jealous rage had died out of his face and was succeeded by trembling and a pallor so ghastly, that I began to have a little faith in descriptions of love which I had hitherto ridiculed. “Are you in earnest?” he asked in a deadly calm voice.<|quote|>“Most emphatically I am.”</|quote|>“Then all I can say is that I haven’t much respect for you, Miss Melvyn. I always considered that there were three classes of women—one, that would marry a blackfellow if he had money; another, that were shameless flirts, and who amuse themselves by flirting and disgracing the name of woman; and a third class that were pure and true, on whom a man could stake his life and whom he could worship. I thought you belonged to this class, but I have been mistaken. I know you always try to appear heartless and worthless, but I fancied it was | Mr Beecham, that is all. Ha ha ha! So you thought you had a right to lecture me as your future slave! Just fancy! I never had the slightest intention of marrying you. You were so disgustingly conceited that I have been attempting to rub a little of it out of you. Marry you! Ha ha! Because the social laws are so arranged that a woman’s only sphere is marriage, and because they endeavour to secure a man who can give them a little more ease, you must not run away with the idea that it is yourself they are angling for, when you are only the bothersome appendage with which they would have to put up, for the sake of your property. And you must not think that because some women will marry for a home they all will. I trust I have explained to your satisfaction, Mr Beecham. Ha ha ha!” The jealous rage had died out of his face and was succeeded by trembling and a pallor so ghastly, that I began to have a little faith in descriptions of love which I had hitherto ridiculed. “Are you in earnest?” he asked in a deadly calm voice.<|quote|>“Most emphatically I am.”</|quote|>“Then all I can say is that I haven’t much respect for you, Miss Melvyn. I always considered that there were three classes of women—one, that would marry a blackfellow if he had money; another, that were shameless flirts, and who amuse themselves by flirting and disgracing the name of woman; and a third class that were pure and true, on whom a man could stake his life and whom he could worship. I thought you belonged to this class, but I have been mistaken. I know you always try to appear heartless and worthless, but I fancied it was only your youth and mischief, and imagined you were good underneath; but I have been mistaken,” he repeated with quiet contempt. His face had regained its natural colour, and the well-cut pleasant mouth, clearly seen beneath the soft drooping moustache, had hardened into a sullen line which told me he would never be first to seek reconciliation—not even to save his life. “Bah!” I exclaimed sarcastically. “It appears that we all labour under delusions. Go and get a beautiful woman to wear your ring and your name. One that will be able to say yes and no at the right | with other men. How dare you receive their attentions and be so friendly with them!” “How dare you speak to me like that! I reserve the right of behaving as I please without your permission.” “I won’t have a girl with my engagement ring on her finger going on as you do. I think I have a right to complain, for I could get any amount of splendid women in every way to wear it for me, and behave themselves properly too,” he said fiercely. I tossed my head defiantly, saying, “Loose your hold of me, and I’ll quickly explain matters to my own satisfaction and yours, Harold Beecham.” He let me go, and I stepped a pace or two away from him, drew the costly ring from my finger, and, with indifference and contempt, tossed it to his feet, where the juice of crushed strawberries was staining the ground, and facing him, said mockingly: “Now, speak to the girl who wears your engagement ring, for I’ll degrade myself by wearing it no more. If you think I think you as great a catch as you think yourself, just because you have a little money, you are a trifle mistaken, Mr Beecham, that is all. Ha ha ha! So you thought you had a right to lecture me as your future slave! Just fancy! I never had the slightest intention of marrying you. You were so disgustingly conceited that I have been attempting to rub a little of it out of you. Marry you! Ha ha! Because the social laws are so arranged that a woman’s only sphere is marriage, and because they endeavour to secure a man who can give them a little more ease, you must not run away with the idea that it is yourself they are angling for, when you are only the bothersome appendage with which they would have to put up, for the sake of your property. And you must not think that because some women will marry for a home they all will. I trust I have explained to your satisfaction, Mr Beecham. Ha ha ha!” The jealous rage had died out of his face and was succeeded by trembling and a pallor so ghastly, that I began to have a little faith in descriptions of love which I had hitherto ridiculed. “Are you in earnest?” he asked in a deadly calm voice.<|quote|>“Most emphatically I am.”</|quote|>“Then all I can say is that I haven’t much respect for you, Miss Melvyn. I always considered that there were three classes of women—one, that would marry a blackfellow if he had money; another, that were shameless flirts, and who amuse themselves by flirting and disgracing the name of woman; and a third class that were pure and true, on whom a man could stake his life and whom he could worship. I thought you belonged to this class, but I have been mistaken. I know you always try to appear heartless and worthless, but I fancied it was only your youth and mischief, and imagined you were good underneath; but I have been mistaken,” he repeated with quiet contempt. His face had regained its natural colour, and the well-cut pleasant mouth, clearly seen beneath the soft drooping moustache, had hardened into a sullen line which told me he would never be first to seek reconciliation—not even to save his life. “Bah!” I exclaimed sarcastically. “It appears that we all labour under delusions. Go and get a beautiful woman to wear your ring and your name. One that will be able to say yes and no at the right time; one who will know how to dress properly; one who wouldn’t for the world do anything that other women did not also; one who will know where to buy the best groceries and who will readily sell herself to you for your wealth. That’s the sort of woman that suits men, and there are plenty of them; procure one, and don’t bother with me. I am too small and silly, and have nothing to recommend me. I fear it speaks little for your sense or taste that you ever thought of me. Ta-ta, Mr Beecham,” I said over my shoulder with a mocking smile, and walked away. When about half-way down the orchard reflection pulled me up shortly under an apple-tree. I had said what I had said because, feeling bitter for the want of love, and because full of pain myself, I rejoiced with a sort of revenge to see the same feeling flash across another’s face. But now I was cool, and, forgetting myself, thought of Harold. I had led him on because his perpetually calm demeanour had excited in me a desire to test if it were possible to disturb him. I had thought him incapable | at the extreme end from the house, it took us some time to reach them. I led the way to our destination—a secluded nook where grape-vines clambered up fig-trees, and where the top of gooseberry bushes met the lower limbs of cherry-trees. Blue and yellow lupins stood knee-high, and strawberries grew wild among them. We had not uttered a sound, and I had not glanced at my companion. I stopped; he wheeled abruptly and grasped my wrist in a manner which sent the basket whirling from my hand. I looked up at his face, which was blazing with passion, and dark with a darker tinge than Nature and the sun had given it, from the shapely swelling neck, in its soft well-turned-down collar, to where the stiff black hair, wet with perspiration, hung on the wide forehead. “Unhand me, sir!” I said shortly, attempting to wrench myself free, but I might as well have tried to pull away from a lion. “Unhand me!” I repeated. For answer he took a firmer hold, in one hand seizing my arm above the elbow, and gripping my shoulder with the other so tightly that, through my flimsy covering, his strong fingers bruised me so severely that in a calmer moment I would have squirmed and cried out with pain. “How dare you touch me!” He drew me so closely to him that, through his thin shirt—the only garment on the upper part of his figure—I could feel the heat of his body, and his big heart beating wildly. At last! at last! I had waked this calm silent giant into life. After many an ineffectual struggle I had got at a little real love or passion, or call it by any name—something wild and warm and splendidly alive that one could feel, the most thrilling, electric, and exquisite sensation known. I thoroughly enjoyed the situation, but did not let this appear. A minute or two passed and he did not speak. “Mr Beecham, I’ll trouble you to explain yourself. How dare you lay your hands upon me?” “Explain!” he breathed rather than spoke, in a tone of concentrated fury. “I’ll make _you_ explain, and I’ll do what I like with you. I’ll touch you as much as I think fit. I’ll throw you over the fence if _you_ don’t explain to _my_ satisfaction.” “What is there that I can explain?” “Explain your conduct with other men. How dare you receive their attentions and be so friendly with them!” “How dare you speak to me like that! I reserve the right of behaving as I please without your permission.” “I won’t have a girl with my engagement ring on her finger going on as you do. I think I have a right to complain, for I could get any amount of splendid women in every way to wear it for me, and behave themselves properly too,” he said fiercely. I tossed my head defiantly, saying, “Loose your hold of me, and I’ll quickly explain matters to my own satisfaction and yours, Harold Beecham.” He let me go, and I stepped a pace or two away from him, drew the costly ring from my finger, and, with indifference and contempt, tossed it to his feet, where the juice of crushed strawberries was staining the ground, and facing him, said mockingly: “Now, speak to the girl who wears your engagement ring, for I’ll degrade myself by wearing it no more. If you think I think you as great a catch as you think yourself, just because you have a little money, you are a trifle mistaken, Mr Beecham, that is all. Ha ha ha! So you thought you had a right to lecture me as your future slave! Just fancy! I never had the slightest intention of marrying you. You were so disgustingly conceited that I have been attempting to rub a little of it out of you. Marry you! Ha ha! Because the social laws are so arranged that a woman’s only sphere is marriage, and because they endeavour to secure a man who can give them a little more ease, you must not run away with the idea that it is yourself they are angling for, when you are only the bothersome appendage with which they would have to put up, for the sake of your property. And you must not think that because some women will marry for a home they all will. I trust I have explained to your satisfaction, Mr Beecham. Ha ha ha!” The jealous rage had died out of his face and was succeeded by trembling and a pallor so ghastly, that I began to have a little faith in descriptions of love which I had hitherto ridiculed. “Are you in earnest?” he asked in a deadly calm voice.<|quote|>“Most emphatically I am.”</|quote|>“Then all I can say is that I haven’t much respect for you, Miss Melvyn. I always considered that there were three classes of women—one, that would marry a blackfellow if he had money; another, that were shameless flirts, and who amuse themselves by flirting and disgracing the name of woman; and a third class that were pure and true, on whom a man could stake his life and whom he could worship. I thought you belonged to this class, but I have been mistaken. I know you always try to appear heartless and worthless, but I fancied it was only your youth and mischief, and imagined you were good underneath; but I have been mistaken,” he repeated with quiet contempt. His face had regained its natural colour, and the well-cut pleasant mouth, clearly seen beneath the soft drooping moustache, had hardened into a sullen line which told me he would never be first to seek reconciliation—not even to save his life. “Bah!” I exclaimed sarcastically. “It appears that we all labour under delusions. Go and get a beautiful woman to wear your ring and your name. One that will be able to say yes and no at the right time; one who will know how to dress properly; one who wouldn’t for the world do anything that other women did not also; one who will know where to buy the best groceries and who will readily sell herself to you for your wealth. That’s the sort of woman that suits men, and there are plenty of them; procure one, and don’t bother with me. I am too small and silly, and have nothing to recommend me. I fear it speaks little for your sense or taste that you ever thought of me. Ta-ta, Mr Beecham,” I said over my shoulder with a mocking smile, and walked away. When about half-way down the orchard reflection pulled me up shortly under an apple-tree. I had said what I had said because, feeling bitter for the want of love, and because full of pain myself, I rejoiced with a sort of revenge to see the same feeling flash across another’s face. But now I was cool, and, forgetting myself, thought of Harold. I had led him on because his perpetually calm demeanour had excited in me a desire to test if it were possible to disturb him. I had thought him incapable of emotion, but he had proved himself a man of strong and deep emotion; might he not also be capable of feeling—of love? He had not been mean or nasty in his rage, and his anger had been righteous. By accepting his proposal of marriage, I had given him the right of expressing his objection to any of my actions of which he disapproved. I on my part had the liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was | you as much as I think fit. I’ll throw you over the fence if _you_ don’t explain to _my_ satisfaction.” “What is there that I can explain?” “Explain your conduct with other men. How dare you receive their attentions and be so friendly with them!” “How dare you speak to me like that! I reserve the right of behaving as I please without your permission.” “I won’t have a girl with my engagement ring on her finger going on as you do. I think I have a right to complain, for I could get any amount of splendid women in every way to wear it for me, and behave themselves properly too,” he said fiercely. I tossed my head defiantly, saying, “Loose your hold of me, and I’ll quickly explain matters to my own satisfaction and yours, Harold Beecham.” He let me go, and I stepped a pace or two away from him, drew the costly ring from my finger, and, with indifference and contempt, tossed it to his feet, where the juice of crushed strawberries was staining the ground, and facing him, said mockingly: “Now, speak to the girl who wears your engagement ring, for I’ll degrade myself by wearing it no more. If you think I think you as great a catch as you think yourself, just because you have a little money, you are a trifle mistaken, Mr Beecham, that is all. Ha ha ha! So you thought you had a right to lecture me as your future slave! Just fancy! I never had the slightest intention of marrying you. You were so disgustingly conceited that I have been attempting to rub a little of it out of you. Marry you! Ha ha! Because the social laws are so arranged that a woman’s only sphere is marriage, and because they endeavour to secure a man who can give them a little more ease, you must not run away with the idea that it is yourself they are angling for, when you are only the bothersome appendage with which they would have to put up, for the sake of your property. And you must not think that because some women will marry for a home they all will. I trust I have explained to your satisfaction, Mr Beecham. Ha ha ha!” The jealous rage had died out of his face and was succeeded by trembling and a pallor so ghastly, that I began to have a little faith in descriptions of love which I had hitherto ridiculed. “Are you in earnest?” he asked in a deadly calm voice.<|quote|>“Most emphatically I am.”</|quote|>“Then all I can say is that I haven’t much respect for you, Miss Melvyn. I always considered that there were three classes of women—one, that would marry a blackfellow if he had money; another, that were shameless flirts, and who amuse themselves by flirting and disgracing the name of woman; and a third class that were pure and true, on whom a man could stake his life and whom he could worship. I thought you belonged to this class, but I have been mistaken. I know you always try to appear heartless and worthless, but I fancied it was only your youth and mischief, and imagined you were good underneath; but I have been mistaken,” he repeated with quiet contempt. His face had regained its natural colour, and the well-cut pleasant mouth, clearly seen beneath the soft drooping moustache, had hardened into a sullen line which told me he would never be first to seek reconciliation—not even to save his life. “Bah!” I exclaimed sarcastically. “It appears that we all labour under delusions. Go and get a beautiful woman to wear your ring and your name. One that will be able to say yes and no at the right time; one who will know how to dress properly; one who wouldn’t for the world do anything that other women did not also; one who will know where to buy the best groceries and who will readily sell herself to you for your wealth. That’s the sort of woman that suits men, and there are plenty of them; procure one, and don’t bother with me. I am too small and silly, and have nothing to recommend me. I fear it speaks little for your sense or taste that you ever thought of | My Brilliant Career |
“Then all I can say is that I haven’t much respect for you, Miss Melvyn. I always considered that there were three classes of women—one, that would marry a blackfellow if he had money; another, that were shameless flirts, and who amuse themselves by flirting and disgracing the name of woman; and a third class that were pure and true, on whom a man could stake his life and whom he could worship. I thought you belonged to this class, but I have been mistaken. I know you always try to appear heartless and worthless, but I fancied it was only your youth and mischief, and imagined you were good underneath; but I have been mistaken,” | Harold Beecham | voice. “Most emphatically I am.”<|quote|>“Then all I can say is that I haven’t much respect for you, Miss Melvyn. I always considered that there were three classes of women—one, that would marry a blackfellow if he had money; another, that were shameless flirts, and who amuse themselves by flirting and disgracing the name of woman; and a third class that were pure and true, on whom a man could stake his life and whom he could worship. I thought you belonged to this class, but I have been mistaken. I know you always try to appear heartless and worthless, but I fancied it was only your youth and mischief, and imagined you were good underneath; but I have been mistaken,”</|quote|>he repeated with quiet contempt. | asked in a deadly calm voice. “Most emphatically I am.”<|quote|>“Then all I can say is that I haven’t much respect for you, Miss Melvyn. I always considered that there were three classes of women—one, that would marry a blackfellow if he had money; another, that were shameless flirts, and who amuse themselves by flirting and disgracing the name of woman; and a third class that were pure and true, on whom a man could stake his life and whom he could worship. I thought you belonged to this class, but I have been mistaken. I know you always try to appear heartless and worthless, but I fancied it was only your youth and mischief, and imagined you were good underneath; but I have been mistaken,”</|quote|>he repeated with quiet contempt. His face had regained its | jealous rage had died out of his face and was succeeded by trembling and a pallor so ghastly, that I began to have a little faith in descriptions of love which I had hitherto ridiculed. “Are you in earnest?” he asked in a deadly calm voice. “Most emphatically I am.”<|quote|>“Then all I can say is that I haven’t much respect for you, Miss Melvyn. I always considered that there were three classes of women—one, that would marry a blackfellow if he had money; another, that were shameless flirts, and who amuse themselves by flirting and disgracing the name of woman; and a third class that were pure and true, on whom a man could stake his life and whom he could worship. I thought you belonged to this class, but I have been mistaken. I know you always try to appear heartless and worthless, but I fancied it was only your youth and mischief, and imagined you were good underneath; but I have been mistaken,”</|quote|>he repeated with quiet contempt. His face had regained its natural colour, and the well-cut pleasant mouth, clearly seen beneath the soft drooping moustache, had hardened into a sullen line which told me he would never be first to seek reconciliation—not even to save his life. “Bah!” I exclaimed sarcastically. | are only the bothersome appendage with which they would have to put up, for the sake of your property. And you must not think that because some women will marry for a home they all will. I trust I have explained to your satisfaction, Mr Beecham. Ha ha ha!” The jealous rage had died out of his face and was succeeded by trembling and a pallor so ghastly, that I began to have a little faith in descriptions of love which I had hitherto ridiculed. “Are you in earnest?” he asked in a deadly calm voice. “Most emphatically I am.”<|quote|>“Then all I can say is that I haven’t much respect for you, Miss Melvyn. I always considered that there were three classes of women—one, that would marry a blackfellow if he had money; another, that were shameless flirts, and who amuse themselves by flirting and disgracing the name of woman; and a third class that were pure and true, on whom a man could stake his life and whom he could worship. I thought you belonged to this class, but I have been mistaken. I know you always try to appear heartless and worthless, but I fancied it was only your youth and mischief, and imagined you were good underneath; but I have been mistaken,”</|quote|>he repeated with quiet contempt. His face had regained its natural colour, and the well-cut pleasant mouth, clearly seen beneath the soft drooping moustache, had hardened into a sullen line which told me he would never be first to seek reconciliation—not even to save his life. “Bah!” I exclaimed sarcastically. “It appears that we all labour under delusions. Go and get a beautiful woman to wear your ring and your name. One that will be able to say yes and no at the right time; one who will know how to dress properly; one who wouldn’t for the world do | all. Ha ha ha! So you thought you had a right to lecture me as your future slave! Just fancy! I never had the slightest intention of marrying you. You were so disgustingly conceited that I have been attempting to rub a little of it out of you. Marry you! Ha ha! Because the social laws are so arranged that a woman’s only sphere is marriage, and because they endeavour to secure a man who can give them a little more ease, you must not run away with the idea that it is yourself they are angling for, when you are only the bothersome appendage with which they would have to put up, for the sake of your property. And you must not think that because some women will marry for a home they all will. I trust I have explained to your satisfaction, Mr Beecham. Ha ha ha!” The jealous rage had died out of his face and was succeeded by trembling and a pallor so ghastly, that I began to have a little faith in descriptions of love which I had hitherto ridiculed. “Are you in earnest?” he asked in a deadly calm voice. “Most emphatically I am.”<|quote|>“Then all I can say is that I haven’t much respect for you, Miss Melvyn. I always considered that there were three classes of women—one, that would marry a blackfellow if he had money; another, that were shameless flirts, and who amuse themselves by flirting and disgracing the name of woman; and a third class that were pure and true, on whom a man could stake his life and whom he could worship. I thought you belonged to this class, but I have been mistaken. I know you always try to appear heartless and worthless, but I fancied it was only your youth and mischief, and imagined you were good underneath; but I have been mistaken,”</|quote|>he repeated with quiet contempt. His face had regained its natural colour, and the well-cut pleasant mouth, clearly seen beneath the soft drooping moustache, had hardened into a sullen line which told me he would never be first to seek reconciliation—not even to save his life. “Bah!” I exclaimed sarcastically. “It appears that we all labour under delusions. Go and get a beautiful woman to wear your ring and your name. One that will be able to say yes and no at the right time; one who will know how to dress properly; one who wouldn’t for the world do anything that other women did not also; one who will know where to buy the best groceries and who will readily sell herself to you for your wealth. That’s the sort of woman that suits men, and there are plenty of them; procure one, and don’t bother with me. I am too small and silly, and have nothing to recommend me. I fear it speaks little for your sense or taste that you ever thought of me. Ta-ta, Mr Beecham,” I said over my shoulder with a mocking smile, and walked away. When about half-way down the orchard reflection pulled | dare you receive their attentions and be so friendly with them!” “How dare you speak to me like that! I reserve the right of behaving as I please without your permission.” “I won’t have a girl with my engagement ring on her finger going on as you do. I think I have a right to complain, for I could get any amount of splendid women in every way to wear it for me, and behave themselves properly too,” he said fiercely. I tossed my head defiantly, saying, “Loose your hold of me, and I’ll quickly explain matters to my own satisfaction and yours, Harold Beecham.” He let me go, and I stepped a pace or two away from him, drew the costly ring from my finger, and, with indifference and contempt, tossed it to his feet, where the juice of crushed strawberries was staining the ground, and facing him, said mockingly: “Now, speak to the girl who wears your engagement ring, for I’ll degrade myself by wearing it no more. If you think I think you as great a catch as you think yourself, just because you have a little money, you are a trifle mistaken, Mr Beecham, that is all. Ha ha ha! So you thought you had a right to lecture me as your future slave! Just fancy! I never had the slightest intention of marrying you. You were so disgustingly conceited that I have been attempting to rub a little of it out of you. Marry you! Ha ha! Because the social laws are so arranged that a woman’s only sphere is marriage, and because they endeavour to secure a man who can give them a little more ease, you must not run away with the idea that it is yourself they are angling for, when you are only the bothersome appendage with which they would have to put up, for the sake of your property. And you must not think that because some women will marry for a home they all will. I trust I have explained to your satisfaction, Mr Beecham. Ha ha ha!” The jealous rage had died out of his face and was succeeded by trembling and a pallor so ghastly, that I began to have a little faith in descriptions of love which I had hitherto ridiculed. “Are you in earnest?” he asked in a deadly calm voice. “Most emphatically I am.”<|quote|>“Then all I can say is that I haven’t much respect for you, Miss Melvyn. I always considered that there were three classes of women—one, that would marry a blackfellow if he had money; another, that were shameless flirts, and who amuse themselves by flirting and disgracing the name of woman; and a third class that were pure and true, on whom a man could stake his life and whom he could worship. I thought you belonged to this class, but I have been mistaken. I know you always try to appear heartless and worthless, but I fancied it was only your youth and mischief, and imagined you were good underneath; but I have been mistaken,”</|quote|>he repeated with quiet contempt. His face had regained its natural colour, and the well-cut pleasant mouth, clearly seen beneath the soft drooping moustache, had hardened into a sullen line which told me he would never be first to seek reconciliation—not even to save his life. “Bah!” I exclaimed sarcastically. “It appears that we all labour under delusions. Go and get a beautiful woman to wear your ring and your name. One that will be able to say yes and no at the right time; one who will know how to dress properly; one who wouldn’t for the world do anything that other women did not also; one who will know where to buy the best groceries and who will readily sell herself to you for your wealth. That’s the sort of woman that suits men, and there are plenty of them; procure one, and don’t bother with me. I am too small and silly, and have nothing to recommend me. I fear it speaks little for your sense or taste that you ever thought of me. Ta-ta, Mr Beecham,” I said over my shoulder with a mocking smile, and walked away. When about half-way down the orchard reflection pulled me up shortly under an apple-tree. I had said what I had said because, feeling bitter for the want of love, and because full of pain myself, I rejoiced with a sort of revenge to see the same feeling flash across another’s face. But now I was cool, and, forgetting myself, thought of Harold. I had led him on because his perpetually calm demeanour had excited in me a desire to test if it were possible to disturb him. I had thought him incapable of emotion, but he had proved himself a man of strong and deep emotion; might he not also be capable of feeling—of love? He had not been mean or nasty in his rage, and his anger had been righteous. By accepting his proposal of marriage, I had given him the right of expressing his objection to any of my actions of which he disapproved. I on my part had the liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in | from the house, it took us some time to reach them. I led the way to our destination—a secluded nook where grape-vines clambered up fig-trees, and where the top of gooseberry bushes met the lower limbs of cherry-trees. Blue and yellow lupins stood knee-high, and strawberries grew wild among them. We had not uttered a sound, and I had not glanced at my companion. I stopped; he wheeled abruptly and grasped my wrist in a manner which sent the basket whirling from my hand. I looked up at his face, which was blazing with passion, and dark with a darker tinge than Nature and the sun had given it, from the shapely swelling neck, in its soft well-turned-down collar, to where the stiff black hair, wet with perspiration, hung on the wide forehead. “Unhand me, sir!” I said shortly, attempting to wrench myself free, but I might as well have tried to pull away from a lion. “Unhand me!” I repeated. For answer he took a firmer hold, in one hand seizing my arm above the elbow, and gripping my shoulder with the other so tightly that, through my flimsy covering, his strong fingers bruised me so severely that in a calmer moment I would have squirmed and cried out with pain. “How dare you touch me!” He drew me so closely to him that, through his thin shirt—the only garment on the upper part of his figure—I could feel the heat of his body, and his big heart beating wildly. At last! at last! I had waked this calm silent giant into life. After many an ineffectual struggle I had got at a little real love or passion, or call it by any name—something wild and warm and splendidly alive that one could feel, the most thrilling, electric, and exquisite sensation known. I thoroughly enjoyed the situation, but did not let this appear. A minute or two passed and he did not speak. “Mr Beecham, I’ll trouble you to explain yourself. How dare you lay your hands upon me?” “Explain!” he breathed rather than spoke, in a tone of concentrated fury. “I’ll make _you_ explain, and I’ll do what I like with you. I’ll touch you as much as I think fit. I’ll throw you over the fence if _you_ don’t explain to _my_ satisfaction.” “What is there that I can explain?” “Explain your conduct with other men. How dare you receive their attentions and be so friendly with them!” “How dare you speak to me like that! I reserve the right of behaving as I please without your permission.” “I won’t have a girl with my engagement ring on her finger going on as you do. I think I have a right to complain, for I could get any amount of splendid women in every way to wear it for me, and behave themselves properly too,” he said fiercely. I tossed my head defiantly, saying, “Loose your hold of me, and I’ll quickly explain matters to my own satisfaction and yours, Harold Beecham.” He let me go, and I stepped a pace or two away from him, drew the costly ring from my finger, and, with indifference and contempt, tossed it to his feet, where the juice of crushed strawberries was staining the ground, and facing him, said mockingly: “Now, speak to the girl who wears your engagement ring, for I’ll degrade myself by wearing it no more. If you think I think you as great a catch as you think yourself, just because you have a little money, you are a trifle mistaken, Mr Beecham, that is all. Ha ha ha! So you thought you had a right to lecture me as your future slave! Just fancy! I never had the slightest intention of marrying you. You were so disgustingly conceited that I have been attempting to rub a little of it out of you. Marry you! Ha ha! Because the social laws are so arranged that a woman’s only sphere is marriage, and because they endeavour to secure a man who can give them a little more ease, you must not run away with the idea that it is yourself they are angling for, when you are only the bothersome appendage with which they would have to put up, for the sake of your property. And you must not think that because some women will marry for a home they all will. I trust I have explained to your satisfaction, Mr Beecham. Ha ha ha!” The jealous rage had died out of his face and was succeeded by trembling and a pallor so ghastly, that I began to have a little faith in descriptions of love which I had hitherto ridiculed. “Are you in earnest?” he asked in a deadly calm voice. “Most emphatically I am.”<|quote|>“Then all I can say is that I haven’t much respect for you, Miss Melvyn. I always considered that there were three classes of women—one, that would marry a blackfellow if he had money; another, that were shameless flirts, and who amuse themselves by flirting and disgracing the name of woman; and a third class that were pure and true, on whom a man could stake his life and whom he could worship. I thought you belonged to this class, but I have been mistaken. I know you always try to appear heartless and worthless, but I fancied it was only your youth and mischief, and imagined you were good underneath; but I have been mistaken,”</|quote|>he repeated with quiet contempt. His face had regained its natural colour, and the well-cut pleasant mouth, clearly seen beneath the soft drooping moustache, had hardened into a sullen line which told me he would never be first to seek reconciliation—not even to save his life. “Bah!” I exclaimed sarcastically. “It appears that we all labour under delusions. Go and get a beautiful woman to wear your ring and your name. One that will be able to say yes and no at the right time; one who will know how to dress properly; one who wouldn’t for the world do anything that other women did not also; one who will know where to buy the best groceries and who will readily sell herself to you for your wealth. That’s the sort of woman that suits men, and there are plenty of them; procure one, and don’t bother with me. I am too small and silly, and have nothing to recommend me. I fear it speaks little for your sense or taste that you ever thought of me. Ta-ta, Mr Beecham,” I said over my shoulder with a mocking smile, and walked away. When about half-way down the orchard reflection pulled me up shortly under an apple-tree. I had said what I had said because, feeling bitter for the want of love, and because full of pain myself, I rejoiced with a sort of revenge to see the same feeling flash across another’s face. But now I was cool, and, forgetting myself, thought of Harold. I had led him on because his perpetually calm demeanour had excited in me a desire to test if it were possible to disturb him. I had thought him incapable of emotion, but he had proved himself a man of strong and deep emotion; might he not also be capable of feeling—of love? He had not been mean or nasty in his rage, and his anger had been righteous. By accepting his proposal of marriage, I had given him the right of expressing his objection to any of my actions of which he disapproved. I on my part had the liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of | on as you do. I think I have a right to complain, for I could get any amount of splendid women in every way to wear it for me, and behave themselves properly too,” he said fiercely. I tossed my head defiantly, saying, “Loose your hold of me, and I’ll quickly explain matters to my own satisfaction and yours, Harold Beecham.” He let me go, and I stepped a pace or two away from him, drew the costly ring from my finger, and, with indifference and contempt, tossed it to his feet, where the juice of crushed strawberries was staining the ground, and facing him, said mockingly: “Now, speak to the girl who wears your engagement ring, for I’ll degrade myself by wearing it no more. If you think I think you as great a catch as you think yourself, just because you have a little money, you are a trifle mistaken, Mr Beecham, that is all. Ha ha ha! So you thought you had a right to lecture me as your future slave! Just fancy! I never had the slightest intention of marrying you. You were so disgustingly conceited that I have been attempting to rub a little of it out of you. Marry you! Ha ha! Because the social laws are so arranged that a woman’s only sphere is marriage, and because they endeavour to secure a man who can give them a little more ease, you must not run away with the idea that it is yourself they are angling for, when you are only the bothersome appendage with which they would have to put up, for the sake of your property. And you must not think that because some women will marry for a home they all will. I trust I have explained to your satisfaction, Mr Beecham. Ha ha ha!” The jealous rage had died out of his face and was succeeded by trembling and a pallor so ghastly, that I began to have a little faith in descriptions of love which I had hitherto ridiculed. “Are you in earnest?” he asked in a deadly calm voice. “Most emphatically I am.”<|quote|>“Then all I can say is that I haven’t much respect for you, Miss Melvyn. I always considered that there were three classes of women—one, that would marry a blackfellow if he had money; another, that were shameless flirts, and who amuse themselves by flirting and disgracing the name of woman; and a third class that were pure and true, on whom a man could stake his life and whom he could worship. I thought you belonged to this class, but I have been mistaken. I know you always try to appear heartless and worthless, but I fancied it was only your youth and mischief, and imagined you were good underneath; but I have been mistaken,”</|quote|>he repeated with quiet contempt. His face had regained its natural colour, and the well-cut pleasant mouth, clearly seen beneath the soft drooping moustache, had hardened into a sullen line which told me he would never be first to seek reconciliation—not even to save his life. “Bah!” I exclaimed sarcastically. “It appears that we all labour under delusions. Go and get a beautiful woman to wear your ring and your name. One that will be able to say yes and no at the right time; one who will know how to dress properly; one who wouldn’t for the world do anything that other women did not also; one who will know where to buy the best groceries and who will readily sell herself to you for your wealth. That’s the sort of woman that suits men, and there are plenty of them; procure one, and don’t bother with me. I am too small and silly, and have nothing to recommend me. I fear it speaks little for your sense or taste that you ever thought of me. Ta-ta, Mr Beecham,” I said over my shoulder with a mocking smile, and walked away. When about half-way down the orchard reflection pulled me up shortly under an apple-tree. I had said what I had said because, feeling bitter for the want of love, and because full of pain myself, I rejoiced with a sort of revenge to see the same feeling flash across another’s face. But now I was cool, and, forgetting myself, thought of Harold. I had led him on because his perpetually calm demeanour had excited in me a desire to test if it were possible to disturb him. I had thought him incapable of emotion, but he had proved himself a man of strong and deep emotion; might he not also be capable of feeling—of love? He had not been mean or nasty in his rage, and his anger had been righteous. By accepting his proposal of marriage, I had given him the right of expressing his objection to any of my actions of which he disapproved. I on my part had the liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that | My Brilliant Career |
he repeated with quiet contempt. His face had regained its natural colour, and the well-cut pleasant mouth, clearly seen beneath the soft drooping moustache, had hardened into a sullen line which told me he would never be first to seek reconciliation—not even to save his life. | No speaker | but I have been mistaken,”<|quote|>he repeated with quiet contempt. His face had regained its natural colour, and the well-cut pleasant mouth, clearly seen beneath the soft drooping moustache, had hardened into a sullen line which told me he would never be first to seek reconciliation—not even to save his life.</|quote|>“Bah!” I exclaimed sarcastically. “It | imagined you were good underneath; but I have been mistaken,”<|quote|>he repeated with quiet contempt. His face had regained its natural colour, and the well-cut pleasant mouth, clearly seen beneath the soft drooping moustache, had hardened into a sullen line which told me he would never be first to seek reconciliation—not even to save his life.</|quote|>“Bah!” I exclaimed sarcastically. “It appears that we all labour | his life and whom he could worship. I thought you belonged to this class, but I have been mistaken. I know you always try to appear heartless and worthless, but I fancied it was only your youth and mischief, and imagined you were good underneath; but I have been mistaken,”<|quote|>he repeated with quiet contempt. His face had regained its natural colour, and the well-cut pleasant mouth, clearly seen beneath the soft drooping moustache, had hardened into a sullen line which told me he would never be first to seek reconciliation—not even to save his life.</|quote|>“Bah!” I exclaimed sarcastically. “It appears that we all labour under delusions. Go and get a beautiful woman to wear your ring and your name. One that will be able to say yes and no at the right time; one who will know how to dress properly; one who wouldn’t | always considered that there were three classes of women—one, that would marry a blackfellow if he had money; another, that were shameless flirts, and who amuse themselves by flirting and disgracing the name of woman; and a third class that were pure and true, on whom a man could stake his life and whom he could worship. I thought you belonged to this class, but I have been mistaken. I know you always try to appear heartless and worthless, but I fancied it was only your youth and mischief, and imagined you were good underneath; but I have been mistaken,”<|quote|>he repeated with quiet contempt. His face had regained its natural colour, and the well-cut pleasant mouth, clearly seen beneath the soft drooping moustache, had hardened into a sullen line which told me he would never be first to seek reconciliation—not even to save his life.</|quote|>“Bah!” I exclaimed sarcastically. “It appears that we all labour under delusions. Go and get a beautiful woman to wear your ring and your name. One that will be able to say yes and no at the right time; one who will know how to dress properly; one who wouldn’t for the world do anything that other women did not also; one who will know where to buy the best groceries and who will readily sell herself to you for your wealth. That’s the sort of woman that suits men, and there are plenty of them; procure one, and don’t | of your property. And you must not think that because some women will marry for a home they all will. I trust I have explained to your satisfaction, Mr Beecham. Ha ha ha!” The jealous rage had died out of his face and was succeeded by trembling and a pallor so ghastly, that I began to have a little faith in descriptions of love which I had hitherto ridiculed. “Are you in earnest?” he asked in a deadly calm voice. “Most emphatically I am.” “Then all I can say is that I haven’t much respect for you, Miss Melvyn. I always considered that there were three classes of women—one, that would marry a blackfellow if he had money; another, that were shameless flirts, and who amuse themselves by flirting and disgracing the name of woman; and a third class that were pure and true, on whom a man could stake his life and whom he could worship. I thought you belonged to this class, but I have been mistaken. I know you always try to appear heartless and worthless, but I fancied it was only your youth and mischief, and imagined you were good underneath; but I have been mistaken,”<|quote|>he repeated with quiet contempt. His face had regained its natural colour, and the well-cut pleasant mouth, clearly seen beneath the soft drooping moustache, had hardened into a sullen line which told me he would never be first to seek reconciliation—not even to save his life.</|quote|>“Bah!” I exclaimed sarcastically. “It appears that we all labour under delusions. Go and get a beautiful woman to wear your ring and your name. One that will be able to say yes and no at the right time; one who will know how to dress properly; one who wouldn’t for the world do anything that other women did not also; one who will know where to buy the best groceries and who will readily sell herself to you for your wealth. That’s the sort of woman that suits men, and there are plenty of them; procure one, and don’t bother with me. I am too small and silly, and have nothing to recommend me. I fear it speaks little for your sense or taste that you ever thought of me. Ta-ta, Mr Beecham,” I said over my shoulder with a mocking smile, and walked away. When about half-way down the orchard reflection pulled me up shortly under an apple-tree. I had said what I had said because, feeling bitter for the want of love, and because full of pain myself, I rejoiced with a sort of revenge to see the same feeling flash across another’s face. But now I | away from him, drew the costly ring from my finger, and, with indifference and contempt, tossed it to his feet, where the juice of crushed strawberries was staining the ground, and facing him, said mockingly: “Now, speak to the girl who wears your engagement ring, for I’ll degrade myself by wearing it no more. If you think I think you as great a catch as you think yourself, just because you have a little money, you are a trifle mistaken, Mr Beecham, that is all. Ha ha ha! So you thought you had a right to lecture me as your future slave! Just fancy! I never had the slightest intention of marrying you. You were so disgustingly conceited that I have been attempting to rub a little of it out of you. Marry you! Ha ha! Because the social laws are so arranged that a woman’s only sphere is marriage, and because they endeavour to secure a man who can give them a little more ease, you must not run away with the idea that it is yourself they are angling for, when you are only the bothersome appendage with which they would have to put up, for the sake of your property. And you must not think that because some women will marry for a home they all will. I trust I have explained to your satisfaction, Mr Beecham. Ha ha ha!” The jealous rage had died out of his face and was succeeded by trembling and a pallor so ghastly, that I began to have a little faith in descriptions of love which I had hitherto ridiculed. “Are you in earnest?” he asked in a deadly calm voice. “Most emphatically I am.” “Then all I can say is that I haven’t much respect for you, Miss Melvyn. I always considered that there were three classes of women—one, that would marry a blackfellow if he had money; another, that were shameless flirts, and who amuse themselves by flirting and disgracing the name of woman; and a third class that were pure and true, on whom a man could stake his life and whom he could worship. I thought you belonged to this class, but I have been mistaken. I know you always try to appear heartless and worthless, but I fancied it was only your youth and mischief, and imagined you were good underneath; but I have been mistaken,”<|quote|>he repeated with quiet contempt. His face had regained its natural colour, and the well-cut pleasant mouth, clearly seen beneath the soft drooping moustache, had hardened into a sullen line which told me he would never be first to seek reconciliation—not even to save his life.</|quote|>“Bah!” I exclaimed sarcastically. “It appears that we all labour under delusions. Go and get a beautiful woman to wear your ring and your name. One that will be able to say yes and no at the right time; one who will know how to dress properly; one who wouldn’t for the world do anything that other women did not also; one who will know where to buy the best groceries and who will readily sell herself to you for your wealth. That’s the sort of woman that suits men, and there are plenty of them; procure one, and don’t bother with me. I am too small and silly, and have nothing to recommend me. I fear it speaks little for your sense or taste that you ever thought of me. Ta-ta, Mr Beecham,” I said over my shoulder with a mocking smile, and walked away. When about half-way down the orchard reflection pulled me up shortly under an apple-tree. I had said what I had said because, feeling bitter for the want of love, and because full of pain myself, I rejoiced with a sort of revenge to see the same feeling flash across another’s face. But now I was cool, and, forgetting myself, thought of Harold. I had led him on because his perpetually calm demeanour had excited in me a desire to test if it were possible to disturb him. I had thought him incapable of emotion, but he had proved himself a man of strong and deep emotion; might he not also be capable of feeling—of love? He had not been mean or nasty in his rage, and his anger had been righteous. By accepting his proposal of marriage, I had given him the right of expressing his objection to any of my actions of which he disapproved. I on my part had the liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry | soft well-turned-down collar, to where the stiff black hair, wet with perspiration, hung on the wide forehead. “Unhand me, sir!” I said shortly, attempting to wrench myself free, but I might as well have tried to pull away from a lion. “Unhand me!” I repeated. For answer he took a firmer hold, in one hand seizing my arm above the elbow, and gripping my shoulder with the other so tightly that, through my flimsy covering, his strong fingers bruised me so severely that in a calmer moment I would have squirmed and cried out with pain. “How dare you touch me!” He drew me so closely to him that, through his thin shirt—the only garment on the upper part of his figure—I could feel the heat of his body, and his big heart beating wildly. At last! at last! I had waked this calm silent giant into life. After many an ineffectual struggle I had got at a little real love or passion, or call it by any name—something wild and warm and splendidly alive that one could feel, the most thrilling, electric, and exquisite sensation known. I thoroughly enjoyed the situation, but did not let this appear. A minute or two passed and he did not speak. “Mr Beecham, I’ll trouble you to explain yourself. How dare you lay your hands upon me?” “Explain!” he breathed rather than spoke, in a tone of concentrated fury. “I’ll make _you_ explain, and I’ll do what I like with you. I’ll touch you as much as I think fit. I’ll throw you over the fence if _you_ don’t explain to _my_ satisfaction.” “What is there that I can explain?” “Explain your conduct with other men. How dare you receive their attentions and be so friendly with them!” “How dare you speak to me like that! I reserve the right of behaving as I please without your permission.” “I won’t have a girl with my engagement ring on her finger going on as you do. I think I have a right to complain, for I could get any amount of splendid women in every way to wear it for me, and behave themselves properly too,” he said fiercely. I tossed my head defiantly, saying, “Loose your hold of me, and I’ll quickly explain matters to my own satisfaction and yours, Harold Beecham.” He let me go, and I stepped a pace or two away from him, drew the costly ring from my finger, and, with indifference and contempt, tossed it to his feet, where the juice of crushed strawberries was staining the ground, and facing him, said mockingly: “Now, speak to the girl who wears your engagement ring, for I’ll degrade myself by wearing it no more. If you think I think you as great a catch as you think yourself, just because you have a little money, you are a trifle mistaken, Mr Beecham, that is all. Ha ha ha! So you thought you had a right to lecture me as your future slave! Just fancy! I never had the slightest intention of marrying you. You were so disgustingly conceited that I have been attempting to rub a little of it out of you. Marry you! Ha ha! Because the social laws are so arranged that a woman’s only sphere is marriage, and because they endeavour to secure a man who can give them a little more ease, you must not run away with the idea that it is yourself they are angling for, when you are only the bothersome appendage with which they would have to put up, for the sake of your property. And you must not think that because some women will marry for a home they all will. I trust I have explained to your satisfaction, Mr Beecham. Ha ha ha!” The jealous rage had died out of his face and was succeeded by trembling and a pallor so ghastly, that I began to have a little faith in descriptions of love which I had hitherto ridiculed. “Are you in earnest?” he asked in a deadly calm voice. “Most emphatically I am.” “Then all I can say is that I haven’t much respect for you, Miss Melvyn. I always considered that there were three classes of women—one, that would marry a blackfellow if he had money; another, that were shameless flirts, and who amuse themselves by flirting and disgracing the name of woman; and a third class that were pure and true, on whom a man could stake his life and whom he could worship. I thought you belonged to this class, but I have been mistaken. I know you always try to appear heartless and worthless, but I fancied it was only your youth and mischief, and imagined you were good underneath; but I have been mistaken,”<|quote|>he repeated with quiet contempt. His face had regained its natural colour, and the well-cut pleasant mouth, clearly seen beneath the soft drooping moustache, had hardened into a sullen line which told me he would never be first to seek reconciliation—not even to save his life.</|quote|>“Bah!” I exclaimed sarcastically. “It appears that we all labour under delusions. Go and get a beautiful woman to wear your ring and your name. One that will be able to say yes and no at the right time; one who will know how to dress properly; one who wouldn’t for the world do anything that other women did not also; one who will know where to buy the best groceries and who will readily sell herself to you for your wealth. That’s the sort of woman that suits men, and there are plenty of them; procure one, and don’t bother with me. I am too small and silly, and have nothing to recommend me. I fear it speaks little for your sense or taste that you ever thought of me. Ta-ta, Mr Beecham,” I said over my shoulder with a mocking smile, and walked away. When about half-way down the orchard reflection pulled me up shortly under an apple-tree. I had said what I had said because, feeling bitter for the want of love, and because full of pain myself, I rejoiced with a sort of revenge to see the same feeling flash across another’s face. But now I was cool, and, forgetting myself, thought of Harold. I had led him on because his perpetually calm demeanour had excited in me a desire to test if it were possible to disturb him. I had thought him incapable of emotion, but he had proved himself a man of strong and deep emotion; might he not also be capable of feeling—of love? He had not been mean or nasty in his rage, and his anger had been righteous. By accepting his proposal of marriage, I had given him the right of expressing his objection to any of my actions of which he disapproved. I on my part had the liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try | you must not run away with the idea that it is yourself they are angling for, when you are only the bothersome appendage with which they would have to put up, for the sake of your property. And you must not think that because some women will marry for a home they all will. I trust I have explained to your satisfaction, Mr Beecham. Ha ha ha!” The jealous rage had died out of his face and was succeeded by trembling and a pallor so ghastly, that I began to have a little faith in descriptions of love which I had hitherto ridiculed. “Are you in earnest?” he asked in a deadly calm voice. “Most emphatically I am.” “Then all I can say is that I haven’t much respect for you, Miss Melvyn. I always considered that there were three classes of women—one, that would marry a blackfellow if he had money; another, that were shameless flirts, and who amuse themselves by flirting and disgracing the name of woman; and a third class that were pure and true, on whom a man could stake his life and whom he could worship. I thought you belonged to this class, but I have been mistaken. I know you always try to appear heartless and worthless, but I fancied it was only your youth and mischief, and imagined you were good underneath; but I have been mistaken,”<|quote|>he repeated with quiet contempt. His face had regained its natural colour, and the well-cut pleasant mouth, clearly seen beneath the soft drooping moustache, had hardened into a sullen line which told me he would never be first to seek reconciliation—not even to save his life.</|quote|>“Bah!” I exclaimed sarcastically. “It appears that we all labour under delusions. Go and get a beautiful woman to wear your ring and your name. One that will be able to say yes and no at the right time; one who will know how to dress properly; one who wouldn’t for the world do anything that other women did not also; one who will know where to buy the best groceries and who will readily sell herself to you for your wealth. That’s the sort of woman that suits men, and there are plenty of them; procure one, and don’t bother with me. I am too small and silly, and have nothing to recommend me. I fear it speaks little for your sense or taste that you ever thought of me. Ta-ta, Mr Beecham,” I said over my shoulder with a mocking smile, and walked away. When about half-way down the orchard reflection pulled me up shortly under an apple-tree. I had said what I had said because, feeling bitter for the want of love, and because full of pain myself, I rejoiced with a sort of revenge to see the same feeling flash across another’s face. But now I was cool, and, forgetting myself, thought of Harold. I had led him on because his perpetually calm demeanour had excited in me a desire to test if it were possible to disturb him. I had thought him incapable of emotion, but he had proved himself a man of strong and deep emotion; might he not also be capable of feeling—of love? He had not been mean or nasty in his rage, and his anger had been righteous. By accepting his proposal of marriage, I had given him the right of expressing his objection to any of my actions of which he disapproved. I on my part had the liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond | My Brilliant Career |
“Bah!” | Sybylla Melvyn | even to save his life.<|quote|>“Bah!”</|quote|>I exclaimed sarcastically. “It appears | be first to seek reconciliation—not even to save his life.<|quote|>“Bah!”</|quote|>I exclaimed sarcastically. “It appears that we all labour under | I have been mistaken,” he repeated with quiet contempt. His face had regained its natural colour, and the well-cut pleasant mouth, clearly seen beneath the soft drooping moustache, had hardened into a sullen line which told me he would never be first to seek reconciliation—not even to save his life.<|quote|>“Bah!”</|quote|>I exclaimed sarcastically. “It appears that we all labour under delusions. Go and get a beautiful woman to wear your ring and your name. One that will be able to say yes and no at the right time; one who will know how to dress properly; one who wouldn’t for | a man could stake his life and whom he could worship. I thought you belonged to this class, but I have been mistaken. I know you always try to appear heartless and worthless, but I fancied it was only your youth and mischief, and imagined you were good underneath; but I have been mistaken,” he repeated with quiet contempt. His face had regained its natural colour, and the well-cut pleasant mouth, clearly seen beneath the soft drooping moustache, had hardened into a sullen line which told me he would never be first to seek reconciliation—not even to save his life.<|quote|>“Bah!”</|quote|>I exclaimed sarcastically. “It appears that we all labour under delusions. Go and get a beautiful woman to wear your ring and your name. One that will be able to say yes and no at the right time; one who will know how to dress properly; one who wouldn’t for the world do anything that other women did not also; one who will know where to buy the best groceries and who will readily sell herself to you for your wealth. That’s the sort of woman that suits men, and there are plenty of them; procure one, and don’t bother | trembling and a pallor so ghastly, that I began to have a little faith in descriptions of love which I had hitherto ridiculed. “Are you in earnest?” he asked in a deadly calm voice. “Most emphatically I am.” “Then all I can say is that I haven’t much respect for you, Miss Melvyn. I always considered that there were three classes of women—one, that would marry a blackfellow if he had money; another, that were shameless flirts, and who amuse themselves by flirting and disgracing the name of woman; and a third class that were pure and true, on whom a man could stake his life and whom he could worship. I thought you belonged to this class, but I have been mistaken. I know you always try to appear heartless and worthless, but I fancied it was only your youth and mischief, and imagined you were good underneath; but I have been mistaken,” he repeated with quiet contempt. His face had regained its natural colour, and the well-cut pleasant mouth, clearly seen beneath the soft drooping moustache, had hardened into a sullen line which told me he would never be first to seek reconciliation—not even to save his life.<|quote|>“Bah!”</|quote|>I exclaimed sarcastically. “It appears that we all labour under delusions. Go and get a beautiful woman to wear your ring and your name. One that will be able to say yes and no at the right time; one who will know how to dress properly; one who wouldn’t for the world do anything that other women did not also; one who will know where to buy the best groceries and who will readily sell herself to you for your wealth. That’s the sort of woman that suits men, and there are plenty of them; procure one, and don’t bother with me. I am too small and silly, and have nothing to recommend me. I fear it speaks little for your sense or taste that you ever thought of me. Ta-ta, Mr Beecham,” I said over my shoulder with a mocking smile, and walked away. When about half-way down the orchard reflection pulled me up shortly under an apple-tree. I had said what I had said because, feeling bitter for the want of love, and because full of pain myself, I rejoiced with a sort of revenge to see the same feeling flash across another’s face. But now I was | I’ll degrade myself by wearing it no more. If you think I think you as great a catch as you think yourself, just because you have a little money, you are a trifle mistaken, Mr Beecham, that is all. Ha ha ha! So you thought you had a right to lecture me as your future slave! Just fancy! I never had the slightest intention of marrying you. You were so disgustingly conceited that I have been attempting to rub a little of it out of you. Marry you! Ha ha! Because the social laws are so arranged that a woman’s only sphere is marriage, and because they endeavour to secure a man who can give them a little more ease, you must not run away with the idea that it is yourself they are angling for, when you are only the bothersome appendage with which they would have to put up, for the sake of your property. And you must not think that because some women will marry for a home they all will. I trust I have explained to your satisfaction, Mr Beecham. Ha ha ha!” The jealous rage had died out of his face and was succeeded by trembling and a pallor so ghastly, that I began to have a little faith in descriptions of love which I had hitherto ridiculed. “Are you in earnest?” he asked in a deadly calm voice. “Most emphatically I am.” “Then all I can say is that I haven’t much respect for you, Miss Melvyn. I always considered that there were three classes of women—one, that would marry a blackfellow if he had money; another, that were shameless flirts, and who amuse themselves by flirting and disgracing the name of woman; and a third class that were pure and true, on whom a man could stake his life and whom he could worship. I thought you belonged to this class, but I have been mistaken. I know you always try to appear heartless and worthless, but I fancied it was only your youth and mischief, and imagined you were good underneath; but I have been mistaken,” he repeated with quiet contempt. His face had regained its natural colour, and the well-cut pleasant mouth, clearly seen beneath the soft drooping moustache, had hardened into a sullen line which told me he would never be first to seek reconciliation—not even to save his life.<|quote|>“Bah!”</|quote|>I exclaimed sarcastically. “It appears that we all labour under delusions. Go and get a beautiful woman to wear your ring and your name. One that will be able to say yes and no at the right time; one who will know how to dress properly; one who wouldn’t for the world do anything that other women did not also; one who will know where to buy the best groceries and who will readily sell herself to you for your wealth. That’s the sort of woman that suits men, and there are plenty of them; procure one, and don’t bother with me. I am too small and silly, and have nothing to recommend me. I fear it speaks little for your sense or taste that you ever thought of me. Ta-ta, Mr Beecham,” I said over my shoulder with a mocking smile, and walked away. When about half-way down the orchard reflection pulled me up shortly under an apple-tree. I had said what I had said because, feeling bitter for the want of love, and because full of pain myself, I rejoiced with a sort of revenge to see the same feeling flash across another’s face. But now I was cool, and, forgetting myself, thought of Harold. I had led him on because his perpetually calm demeanour had excited in me a desire to test if it were possible to disturb him. I had thought him incapable of emotion, but he had proved himself a man of strong and deep emotion; might he not also be capable of feeling—of love? He had not been mean or nasty in his rage, and his anger had been righteous. By accepting his proposal of marriage, I had given him the right of expressing his objection to any of my actions of which he disapproved. I on my part had the liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to | answer he took a firmer hold, in one hand seizing my arm above the elbow, and gripping my shoulder with the other so tightly that, through my flimsy covering, his strong fingers bruised me so severely that in a calmer moment I would have squirmed and cried out with pain. “How dare you touch me!” He drew me so closely to him that, through his thin shirt—the only garment on the upper part of his figure—I could feel the heat of his body, and his big heart beating wildly. At last! at last! I had waked this calm silent giant into life. After many an ineffectual struggle I had got at a little real love or passion, or call it by any name—something wild and warm and splendidly alive that one could feel, the most thrilling, electric, and exquisite sensation known. I thoroughly enjoyed the situation, but did not let this appear. A minute or two passed and he did not speak. “Mr Beecham, I’ll trouble you to explain yourself. How dare you lay your hands upon me?” “Explain!” he breathed rather than spoke, in a tone of concentrated fury. “I’ll make _you_ explain, and I’ll do what I like with you. I’ll touch you as much as I think fit. I’ll throw you over the fence if _you_ don’t explain to _my_ satisfaction.” “What is there that I can explain?” “Explain your conduct with other men. How dare you receive their attentions and be so friendly with them!” “How dare you speak to me like that! I reserve the right of behaving as I please without your permission.” “I won’t have a girl with my engagement ring on her finger going on as you do. I think I have a right to complain, for I could get any amount of splendid women in every way to wear it for me, and behave themselves properly too,” he said fiercely. I tossed my head defiantly, saying, “Loose your hold of me, and I’ll quickly explain matters to my own satisfaction and yours, Harold Beecham.” He let me go, and I stepped a pace or two away from him, drew the costly ring from my finger, and, with indifference and contempt, tossed it to his feet, where the juice of crushed strawberries was staining the ground, and facing him, said mockingly: “Now, speak to the girl who wears your engagement ring, for I’ll degrade myself by wearing it no more. If you think I think you as great a catch as you think yourself, just because you have a little money, you are a trifle mistaken, Mr Beecham, that is all. Ha ha ha! So you thought you had a right to lecture me as your future slave! Just fancy! I never had the slightest intention of marrying you. You were so disgustingly conceited that I have been attempting to rub a little of it out of you. Marry you! Ha ha! Because the social laws are so arranged that a woman’s only sphere is marriage, and because they endeavour to secure a man who can give them a little more ease, you must not run away with the idea that it is yourself they are angling for, when you are only the bothersome appendage with which they would have to put up, for the sake of your property. And you must not think that because some women will marry for a home they all will. I trust I have explained to your satisfaction, Mr Beecham. Ha ha ha!” The jealous rage had died out of his face and was succeeded by trembling and a pallor so ghastly, that I began to have a little faith in descriptions of love which I had hitherto ridiculed. “Are you in earnest?” he asked in a deadly calm voice. “Most emphatically I am.” “Then all I can say is that I haven’t much respect for you, Miss Melvyn. I always considered that there were three classes of women—one, that would marry a blackfellow if he had money; another, that were shameless flirts, and who amuse themselves by flirting and disgracing the name of woman; and a third class that were pure and true, on whom a man could stake his life and whom he could worship. I thought you belonged to this class, but I have been mistaken. I know you always try to appear heartless and worthless, but I fancied it was only your youth and mischief, and imagined you were good underneath; but I have been mistaken,” he repeated with quiet contempt. His face had regained its natural colour, and the well-cut pleasant mouth, clearly seen beneath the soft drooping moustache, had hardened into a sullen line which told me he would never be first to seek reconciliation—not even to save his life.<|quote|>“Bah!”</|quote|>I exclaimed sarcastically. “It appears that we all labour under delusions. Go and get a beautiful woman to wear your ring and your name. One that will be able to say yes and no at the right time; one who will know how to dress properly; one who wouldn’t for the world do anything that other women did not also; one who will know where to buy the best groceries and who will readily sell herself to you for your wealth. That’s the sort of woman that suits men, and there are plenty of them; procure one, and don’t bother with me. I am too small and silly, and have nothing to recommend me. I fear it speaks little for your sense or taste that you ever thought of me. Ta-ta, Mr Beecham,” I said over my shoulder with a mocking smile, and walked away. When about half-way down the orchard reflection pulled me up shortly under an apple-tree. I had said what I had said because, feeling bitter for the want of love, and because full of pain myself, I rejoiced with a sort of revenge to see the same feeling flash across another’s face. But now I was cool, and, forgetting myself, thought of Harold. I had led him on because his perpetually calm demeanour had excited in me a desire to test if it were possible to disturb him. I had thought him incapable of emotion, but he had proved himself a man of strong and deep emotion; might he not also be capable of feeling—of love? He had not been mean or nasty in his rage, and his anger had been righteous. By accepting his proposal of marriage, I had given him the right of expressing his objection to any of my actions of which he disapproved. I on my part had the liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to | it for me, and behave themselves properly too,” he said fiercely. I tossed my head defiantly, saying, “Loose your hold of me, and I’ll quickly explain matters to my own satisfaction and yours, Harold Beecham.” He let me go, and I stepped a pace or two away from him, drew the costly ring from my finger, and, with indifference and contempt, tossed it to his feet, where the juice of crushed strawberries was staining the ground, and facing him, said mockingly: “Now, speak to the girl who wears your engagement ring, for I’ll degrade myself by wearing it no more. If you think I think you as great a catch as you think yourself, just because you have a little money, you are a trifle mistaken, Mr Beecham, that is all. Ha ha ha! So you thought you had a right to lecture me as your future slave! Just fancy! I never had the slightest intention of marrying you. You were so disgustingly conceited that I have been attempting to rub a little of it out of you. Marry you! Ha ha! Because the social laws are so arranged that a woman’s only sphere is marriage, and because they endeavour to secure a man who can give them a little more ease, you must not run away with the idea that it is yourself they are angling for, when you are only the bothersome appendage with which they would have to put up, for the sake of your property. And you must not think that because some women will marry for a home they all will. I trust I have explained to your satisfaction, Mr Beecham. Ha ha ha!” The jealous rage had died out of his face and was succeeded by trembling and a pallor so ghastly, that I began to have a little faith in descriptions of love which I had hitherto ridiculed. “Are you in earnest?” he asked in a deadly calm voice. “Most emphatically I am.” “Then all I can say is that I haven’t much respect for you, Miss Melvyn. I always considered that there were three classes of women—one, that would marry a blackfellow if he had money; another, that were shameless flirts, and who amuse themselves by flirting and disgracing the name of woman; and a third class that were pure and true, on whom a man could stake his life and whom he could worship. I thought you belonged to this class, but I have been mistaken. I know you always try to appear heartless and worthless, but I fancied it was only your youth and mischief, and imagined you were good underneath; but I have been mistaken,” he repeated with quiet contempt. His face had regained its natural colour, and the well-cut pleasant mouth, clearly seen beneath the soft drooping moustache, had hardened into a sullen line which told me he would never be first to seek reconciliation—not even to save his life.<|quote|>“Bah!”</|quote|>I exclaimed sarcastically. “It appears that we all labour under delusions. Go and get a beautiful woman to wear your ring and your name. One that will be able to say yes and no at the right time; one who will know how to dress properly; one who wouldn’t for the world do anything that other women did not also; one who will know where to buy the best groceries and who will readily sell herself to you for your wealth. That’s the sort of woman that suits men, and there are plenty of them; procure one, and don’t bother with me. I am too small and silly, and have nothing to recommend me. I fear it speaks little for your sense or taste that you ever thought of me. Ta-ta, Mr Beecham,” I said over my shoulder with a mocking smile, and walked away. When about half-way down the orchard reflection pulled me up shortly under an apple-tree. I had said what I had said because, feeling bitter for the want of love, and because full of pain myself, I rejoiced with a sort of revenge to see the same feeling flash across another’s face. But now I was cool, and, forgetting myself, thought of Harold. I had led him on because his perpetually calm demeanour had excited in me a desire to test if it were possible to disturb him. I had | My Brilliant Career |
I exclaimed sarcastically. | No speaker | to save his life. “Bah!”<|quote|>I exclaimed sarcastically.</|quote|>“It appears that we all | first to seek reconciliation—not even to save his life. “Bah!”<|quote|>I exclaimed sarcastically.</|quote|>“It appears that we all labour under delusions. Go and | have been mistaken,” he repeated with quiet contempt. His face had regained its natural colour, and the well-cut pleasant mouth, clearly seen beneath the soft drooping moustache, had hardened into a sullen line which told me he would never be first to seek reconciliation—not even to save his life. “Bah!”<|quote|>I exclaimed sarcastically.</|quote|>“It appears that we all labour under delusions. Go and get a beautiful woman to wear your ring and your name. One that will be able to say yes and no at the right time; one who will know how to dress properly; one who wouldn’t for the world do | man could stake his life and whom he could worship. I thought you belonged to this class, but I have been mistaken. I know you always try to appear heartless and worthless, but I fancied it was only your youth and mischief, and imagined you were good underneath; but I have been mistaken,” he repeated with quiet contempt. His face had regained its natural colour, and the well-cut pleasant mouth, clearly seen beneath the soft drooping moustache, had hardened into a sullen line which told me he would never be first to seek reconciliation—not even to save his life. “Bah!”<|quote|>I exclaimed sarcastically.</|quote|>“It appears that we all labour under delusions. Go and get a beautiful woman to wear your ring and your name. One that will be able to say yes and no at the right time; one who will know how to dress properly; one who wouldn’t for the world do anything that other women did not also; one who will know where to buy the best groceries and who will readily sell herself to you for your wealth. That’s the sort of woman that suits men, and there are plenty of them; procure one, and don’t bother with me. I | and a pallor so ghastly, that I began to have a little faith in descriptions of love which I had hitherto ridiculed. “Are you in earnest?” he asked in a deadly calm voice. “Most emphatically I am.” “Then all I can say is that I haven’t much respect for you, Miss Melvyn. I always considered that there were three classes of women—one, that would marry a blackfellow if he had money; another, that were shameless flirts, and who amuse themselves by flirting and disgracing the name of woman; and a third class that were pure and true, on whom a man could stake his life and whom he could worship. I thought you belonged to this class, but I have been mistaken. I know you always try to appear heartless and worthless, but I fancied it was only your youth and mischief, and imagined you were good underneath; but I have been mistaken,” he repeated with quiet contempt. His face had regained its natural colour, and the well-cut pleasant mouth, clearly seen beneath the soft drooping moustache, had hardened into a sullen line which told me he would never be first to seek reconciliation—not even to save his life. “Bah!”<|quote|>I exclaimed sarcastically.</|quote|>“It appears that we all labour under delusions. Go and get a beautiful woman to wear your ring and your name. One that will be able to say yes and no at the right time; one who will know how to dress properly; one who wouldn’t for the world do anything that other women did not also; one who will know where to buy the best groceries and who will readily sell herself to you for your wealth. That’s the sort of woman that suits men, and there are plenty of them; procure one, and don’t bother with me. I am too small and silly, and have nothing to recommend me. I fear it speaks little for your sense or taste that you ever thought of me. Ta-ta, Mr Beecham,” I said over my shoulder with a mocking smile, and walked away. When about half-way down the orchard reflection pulled me up shortly under an apple-tree. I had said what I had said because, feeling bitter for the want of love, and because full of pain myself, I rejoiced with a sort of revenge to see the same feeling flash across another’s face. But now I was cool, and, forgetting | degrade myself by wearing it no more. If you think I think you as great a catch as you think yourself, just because you have a little money, you are a trifle mistaken, Mr Beecham, that is all. Ha ha ha! So you thought you had a right to lecture me as your future slave! Just fancy! I never had the slightest intention of marrying you. You were so disgustingly conceited that I have been attempting to rub a little of it out of you. Marry you! Ha ha! Because the social laws are so arranged that a woman’s only sphere is marriage, and because they endeavour to secure a man who can give them a little more ease, you must not run away with the idea that it is yourself they are angling for, when you are only the bothersome appendage with which they would have to put up, for the sake of your property. And you must not think that because some women will marry for a home they all will. I trust I have explained to your satisfaction, Mr Beecham. Ha ha ha!” The jealous rage had died out of his face and was succeeded by trembling and a pallor so ghastly, that I began to have a little faith in descriptions of love which I had hitherto ridiculed. “Are you in earnest?” he asked in a deadly calm voice. “Most emphatically I am.” “Then all I can say is that I haven’t much respect for you, Miss Melvyn. I always considered that there were three classes of women—one, that would marry a blackfellow if he had money; another, that were shameless flirts, and who amuse themselves by flirting and disgracing the name of woman; and a third class that were pure and true, on whom a man could stake his life and whom he could worship. I thought you belonged to this class, but I have been mistaken. I know you always try to appear heartless and worthless, but I fancied it was only your youth and mischief, and imagined you were good underneath; but I have been mistaken,” he repeated with quiet contempt. His face had regained its natural colour, and the well-cut pleasant mouth, clearly seen beneath the soft drooping moustache, had hardened into a sullen line which told me he would never be first to seek reconciliation—not even to save his life. “Bah!”<|quote|>I exclaimed sarcastically.</|quote|>“It appears that we all labour under delusions. Go and get a beautiful woman to wear your ring and your name. One that will be able to say yes and no at the right time; one who will know how to dress properly; one who wouldn’t for the world do anything that other women did not also; one who will know where to buy the best groceries and who will readily sell herself to you for your wealth. That’s the sort of woman that suits men, and there are plenty of them; procure one, and don’t bother with me. I am too small and silly, and have nothing to recommend me. I fear it speaks little for your sense or taste that you ever thought of me. Ta-ta, Mr Beecham,” I said over my shoulder with a mocking smile, and walked away. When about half-way down the orchard reflection pulled me up shortly under an apple-tree. I had said what I had said because, feeling bitter for the want of love, and because full of pain myself, I rejoiced with a sort of revenge to see the same feeling flash across another’s face. But now I was cool, and, forgetting myself, thought of Harold. I had led him on because his perpetually calm demeanour had excited in me a desire to test if it were possible to disturb him. I had thought him incapable of emotion, but he had proved himself a man of strong and deep emotion; might he not also be capable of feeling—of love? He had not been mean or nasty in his rage, and his anger had been righteous. By accepting his proposal of marriage, I had given him the right of expressing his objection to any of my actions of which he disapproved. I on my part had the liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any | he took a firmer hold, in one hand seizing my arm above the elbow, and gripping my shoulder with the other so tightly that, through my flimsy covering, his strong fingers bruised me so severely that in a calmer moment I would have squirmed and cried out with pain. “How dare you touch me!” He drew me so closely to him that, through his thin shirt—the only garment on the upper part of his figure—I could feel the heat of his body, and his big heart beating wildly. At last! at last! I had waked this calm silent giant into life. After many an ineffectual struggle I had got at a little real love or passion, or call it by any name—something wild and warm and splendidly alive that one could feel, the most thrilling, electric, and exquisite sensation known. I thoroughly enjoyed the situation, but did not let this appear. A minute or two passed and he did not speak. “Mr Beecham, I’ll trouble you to explain yourself. How dare you lay your hands upon me?” “Explain!” he breathed rather than spoke, in a tone of concentrated fury. “I’ll make _you_ explain, and I’ll do what I like with you. I’ll touch you as much as I think fit. I’ll throw you over the fence if _you_ don’t explain to _my_ satisfaction.” “What is there that I can explain?” “Explain your conduct with other men. How dare you receive their attentions and be so friendly with them!” “How dare you speak to me like that! I reserve the right of behaving as I please without your permission.” “I won’t have a girl with my engagement ring on her finger going on as you do. I think I have a right to complain, for I could get any amount of splendid women in every way to wear it for me, and behave themselves properly too,” he said fiercely. I tossed my head defiantly, saying, “Loose your hold of me, and I’ll quickly explain matters to my own satisfaction and yours, Harold Beecham.” He let me go, and I stepped a pace or two away from him, drew the costly ring from my finger, and, with indifference and contempt, tossed it to his feet, where the juice of crushed strawberries was staining the ground, and facing him, said mockingly: “Now, speak to the girl who wears your engagement ring, for I’ll degrade myself by wearing it no more. If you think I think you as great a catch as you think yourself, just because you have a little money, you are a trifle mistaken, Mr Beecham, that is all. Ha ha ha! So you thought you had a right to lecture me as your future slave! Just fancy! I never had the slightest intention of marrying you. You were so disgustingly conceited that I have been attempting to rub a little of it out of you. Marry you! Ha ha! Because the social laws are so arranged that a woman’s only sphere is marriage, and because they endeavour to secure a man who can give them a little more ease, you must not run away with the idea that it is yourself they are angling for, when you are only the bothersome appendage with which they would have to put up, for the sake of your property. And you must not think that because some women will marry for a home they all will. I trust I have explained to your satisfaction, Mr Beecham. Ha ha ha!” The jealous rage had died out of his face and was succeeded by trembling and a pallor so ghastly, that I began to have a little faith in descriptions of love which I had hitherto ridiculed. “Are you in earnest?” he asked in a deadly calm voice. “Most emphatically I am.” “Then all I can say is that I haven’t much respect for you, Miss Melvyn. I always considered that there were three classes of women—one, that would marry a blackfellow if he had money; another, that were shameless flirts, and who amuse themselves by flirting and disgracing the name of woman; and a third class that were pure and true, on whom a man could stake his life and whom he could worship. I thought you belonged to this class, but I have been mistaken. I know you always try to appear heartless and worthless, but I fancied it was only your youth and mischief, and imagined you were good underneath; but I have been mistaken,” he repeated with quiet contempt. His face had regained its natural colour, and the well-cut pleasant mouth, clearly seen beneath the soft drooping moustache, had hardened into a sullen line which told me he would never be first to seek reconciliation—not even to save his life. “Bah!”<|quote|>I exclaimed sarcastically.</|quote|>“It appears that we all labour under delusions. Go and get a beautiful woman to wear your ring and your name. One that will be able to say yes and no at the right time; one who will know how to dress properly; one who wouldn’t for the world do anything that other women did not also; one who will know where to buy the best groceries and who will readily sell herself to you for your wealth. That’s the sort of woman that suits men, and there are plenty of them; procure one, and don’t bother with me. I am too small and silly, and have nothing to recommend me. I fear it speaks little for your sense or taste that you ever thought of me. Ta-ta, Mr Beecham,” I said over my shoulder with a mocking smile, and walked away. When about half-way down the orchard reflection pulled me up shortly under an apple-tree. I had said what I had said because, feeling bitter for the want of love, and because full of pain myself, I rejoiced with a sort of revenge to see the same feeling flash across another’s face. But now I was cool, and, forgetting myself, thought of Harold. I had led him on because his perpetually calm demeanour had excited in me a desire to test if it were possible to disturb him. I had thought him incapable of emotion, but he had proved himself a man of strong and deep emotion; might he not also be capable of feeling—of love? He had not been mean or nasty in his rage, and his anger had been righteous. By accepting his proposal of marriage, I had given him the right of expressing his objection to any of my actions of which he disapproved. I on my part had the liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I | a little more ease, you must not run away with the idea that it is yourself they are angling for, when you are only the bothersome appendage with which they would have to put up, for the sake of your property. And you must not think that because some women will marry for a home they all will. I trust I have explained to your satisfaction, Mr Beecham. Ha ha ha!” The jealous rage had died out of his face and was succeeded by trembling and a pallor so ghastly, that I began to have a little faith in descriptions of love which I had hitherto ridiculed. “Are you in earnest?” he asked in a deadly calm voice. “Most emphatically I am.” “Then all I can say is that I haven’t much respect for you, Miss Melvyn. I always considered that there were three classes of women—one, that would marry a blackfellow if he had money; another, that were shameless flirts, and who amuse themselves by flirting and disgracing the name of woman; and a third class that were pure and true, on whom a man could stake his life and whom he could worship. I thought you belonged to this class, but I have been mistaken. I know you always try to appear heartless and worthless, but I fancied it was only your youth and mischief, and imagined you were good underneath; but I have been mistaken,” he repeated with quiet contempt. His face had regained its natural colour, and the well-cut pleasant mouth, clearly seen beneath the soft drooping moustache, had hardened into a sullen line which told me he would never be first to seek reconciliation—not even to save his life. “Bah!”<|quote|>I exclaimed sarcastically.</|quote|>“It appears that we all labour under delusions. Go and get a beautiful woman to wear your ring and your name. One that will be able to say yes and no at the right time; one who will know how to dress properly; one who wouldn’t for the world do anything that other women did not also; one who will know where to buy the best groceries and who will readily sell herself to you for your wealth. That’s the sort of woman that suits men, and there are plenty of them; procure one, and don’t bother with me. I am too small and silly, and have nothing to recommend me. I fear it speaks little for your sense or taste that you ever thought of me. Ta-ta, Mr Beecham,” I said over my shoulder with a mocking smile, and walked away. When about half-way down the orchard reflection pulled me up shortly under an apple-tree. I had said what I had said because, feeling bitter for the want of love, and because full of pain myself, I rejoiced with a sort of revenge to see the same feeling flash across another’s face. But now I was cool, and, forgetting myself, thought of Harold. I had led him on because his perpetually calm demeanour had excited in me a desire to test if it were possible to disturb him. I had thought him incapable of emotion, but he had proved himself a man of strong and deep emotion; might he not also be capable of feeling—of love? He had not been mean or nasty in his rage, and his anger had been righteous. By accepting his proposal of marriage, I had given him the right of expressing his objection to any of my actions of which he disapproved. I on my part had the liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead | My Brilliant Career |
“It appears that we all labour under delusions. Go and get a beautiful woman to wear your ring and your name. One that will be able to say yes and no at the right time; one who will know how to dress properly; one who wouldn’t for the world do anything that other women did not also; one who will know where to buy the best groceries and who will readily sell herself to you for your wealth. That’s the sort of woman that suits men, and there are plenty of them; procure one, and don’t bother with me. I am too small and silly, and have nothing to recommend me. I fear it speaks little for your sense or taste that you ever thought of me. Ta-ta, Mr Beecham,” | Sybylla Melvyn | life. “Bah!” I exclaimed sarcastically.<|quote|>“It appears that we all labour under delusions. Go and get a beautiful woman to wear your ring and your name. One that will be able to say yes and no at the right time; one who will know how to dress properly; one who wouldn’t for the world do anything that other women did not also; one who will know where to buy the best groceries and who will readily sell herself to you for your wealth. That’s the sort of woman that suits men, and there are plenty of them; procure one, and don’t bother with me. I am too small and silly, and have nothing to recommend me. I fear it speaks little for your sense or taste that you ever thought of me. Ta-ta, Mr Beecham,”</|quote|>I said over my shoulder | reconciliation—not even to save his life. “Bah!” I exclaimed sarcastically.<|quote|>“It appears that we all labour under delusions. Go and get a beautiful woman to wear your ring and your name. One that will be able to say yes and no at the right time; one who will know how to dress properly; one who wouldn’t for the world do anything that other women did not also; one who will know where to buy the best groceries and who will readily sell herself to you for your wealth. That’s the sort of woman that suits men, and there are plenty of them; procure one, and don’t bother with me. I am too small and silly, and have nothing to recommend me. I fear it speaks little for your sense or taste that you ever thought of me. Ta-ta, Mr Beecham,”</|quote|>I said over my shoulder with a mocking smile, and | he repeated with quiet contempt. His face had regained its natural colour, and the well-cut pleasant mouth, clearly seen beneath the soft drooping moustache, had hardened into a sullen line which told me he would never be first to seek reconciliation—not even to save his life. “Bah!” I exclaimed sarcastically.<|quote|>“It appears that we all labour under delusions. Go and get a beautiful woman to wear your ring and your name. One that will be able to say yes and no at the right time; one who will know how to dress properly; one who wouldn’t for the world do anything that other women did not also; one who will know where to buy the best groceries and who will readily sell herself to you for your wealth. That’s the sort of woman that suits men, and there are plenty of them; procure one, and don’t bother with me. I am too small and silly, and have nothing to recommend me. I fear it speaks little for your sense or taste that you ever thought of me. Ta-ta, Mr Beecham,”</|quote|>I said over my shoulder with a mocking smile, and walked away. When about half-way down the orchard reflection pulled me up shortly under an apple-tree. I had said what I had said because, feeling bitter for the want of love, and because full of pain myself, I rejoiced with | his life and whom he could worship. I thought you belonged to this class, but I have been mistaken. I know you always try to appear heartless and worthless, but I fancied it was only your youth and mischief, and imagined you were good underneath; but I have been mistaken,” he repeated with quiet contempt. His face had regained its natural colour, and the well-cut pleasant mouth, clearly seen beneath the soft drooping moustache, had hardened into a sullen line which told me he would never be first to seek reconciliation—not even to save his life. “Bah!” I exclaimed sarcastically.<|quote|>“It appears that we all labour under delusions. Go and get a beautiful woman to wear your ring and your name. One that will be able to say yes and no at the right time; one who will know how to dress properly; one who wouldn’t for the world do anything that other women did not also; one who will know where to buy the best groceries and who will readily sell herself to you for your wealth. That’s the sort of woman that suits men, and there are plenty of them; procure one, and don’t bother with me. I am too small and silly, and have nothing to recommend me. I fear it speaks little for your sense or taste that you ever thought of me. Ta-ta, Mr Beecham,”</|quote|>I said over my shoulder with a mocking smile, and walked away. When about half-way down the orchard reflection pulled me up shortly under an apple-tree. I had said what I had said because, feeling bitter for the want of love, and because full of pain myself, I rejoiced with a sort of revenge to see the same feeling flash across another’s face. But now I was cool, and, forgetting myself, thought of Harold. I had led him on because his perpetually calm demeanour had excited in me a desire to test if it were possible to disturb him. I | so ghastly, that I began to have a little faith in descriptions of love which I had hitherto ridiculed. “Are you in earnest?” he asked in a deadly calm voice. “Most emphatically I am.” “Then all I can say is that I haven’t much respect for you, Miss Melvyn. I always considered that there were three classes of women—one, that would marry a blackfellow if he had money; another, that were shameless flirts, and who amuse themselves by flirting and disgracing the name of woman; and a third class that were pure and true, on whom a man could stake his life and whom he could worship. I thought you belonged to this class, but I have been mistaken. I know you always try to appear heartless and worthless, but I fancied it was only your youth and mischief, and imagined you were good underneath; but I have been mistaken,” he repeated with quiet contempt. His face had regained its natural colour, and the well-cut pleasant mouth, clearly seen beneath the soft drooping moustache, had hardened into a sullen line which told me he would never be first to seek reconciliation—not even to save his life. “Bah!” I exclaimed sarcastically.<|quote|>“It appears that we all labour under delusions. Go and get a beautiful woman to wear your ring and your name. One that will be able to say yes and no at the right time; one who will know how to dress properly; one who wouldn’t for the world do anything that other women did not also; one who will know where to buy the best groceries and who will readily sell herself to you for your wealth. That’s the sort of woman that suits men, and there are plenty of them; procure one, and don’t bother with me. I am too small and silly, and have nothing to recommend me. I fear it speaks little for your sense or taste that you ever thought of me. Ta-ta, Mr Beecham,”</|quote|>I said over my shoulder with a mocking smile, and walked away. When about half-way down the orchard reflection pulled me up shortly under an apple-tree. I had said what I had said because, feeling bitter for the want of love, and because full of pain myself, I rejoiced with a sort of revenge to see the same feeling flash across another’s face. But now I was cool, and, forgetting myself, thought of Harold. I had led him on because his perpetually calm demeanour had excited in me a desire to test if it were possible to disturb him. I had thought him incapable of emotion, but he had proved himself a man of strong and deep emotion; might he not also be capable of feeling—of love? He had not been mean or nasty in his rage, and his anger had been righteous. By accepting his proposal of marriage, I had given him the right of expressing his objection to any of my actions of which he disapproved. I on my part had the liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s | wearing it no more. If you think I think you as great a catch as you think yourself, just because you have a little money, you are a trifle mistaken, Mr Beecham, that is all. Ha ha ha! So you thought you had a right to lecture me as your future slave! Just fancy! I never had the slightest intention of marrying you. You were so disgustingly conceited that I have been attempting to rub a little of it out of you. Marry you! Ha ha! Because the social laws are so arranged that a woman’s only sphere is marriage, and because they endeavour to secure a man who can give them a little more ease, you must not run away with the idea that it is yourself they are angling for, when you are only the bothersome appendage with which they would have to put up, for the sake of your property. And you must not think that because some women will marry for a home they all will. I trust I have explained to your satisfaction, Mr Beecham. Ha ha ha!” The jealous rage had died out of his face and was succeeded by trembling and a pallor so ghastly, that I began to have a little faith in descriptions of love which I had hitherto ridiculed. “Are you in earnest?” he asked in a deadly calm voice. “Most emphatically I am.” “Then all I can say is that I haven’t much respect for you, Miss Melvyn. I always considered that there were three classes of women—one, that would marry a blackfellow if he had money; another, that were shameless flirts, and who amuse themselves by flirting and disgracing the name of woman; and a third class that were pure and true, on whom a man could stake his life and whom he could worship. I thought you belonged to this class, but I have been mistaken. I know you always try to appear heartless and worthless, but I fancied it was only your youth and mischief, and imagined you were good underneath; but I have been mistaken,” he repeated with quiet contempt. His face had regained its natural colour, and the well-cut pleasant mouth, clearly seen beneath the soft drooping moustache, had hardened into a sullen line which told me he would never be first to seek reconciliation—not even to save his life. “Bah!” I exclaimed sarcastically.<|quote|>“It appears that we all labour under delusions. Go and get a beautiful woman to wear your ring and your name. One that will be able to say yes and no at the right time; one who will know how to dress properly; one who wouldn’t for the world do anything that other women did not also; one who will know where to buy the best groceries and who will readily sell herself to you for your wealth. That’s the sort of woman that suits men, and there are plenty of them; procure one, and don’t bother with me. I am too small and silly, and have nothing to recommend me. I fear it speaks little for your sense or taste that you ever thought of me. Ta-ta, Mr Beecham,”</|quote|>I said over my shoulder with a mocking smile, and walked away. When about half-way down the orchard reflection pulled me up shortly under an apple-tree. I had said what I had said because, feeling bitter for the want of love, and because full of pain myself, I rejoiced with a sort of revenge to see the same feeling flash across another’s face. But now I was cool, and, forgetting myself, thought of Harold. I had led him on because his perpetually calm demeanour had excited in me a desire to test if it were possible to disturb him. I had thought him incapable of emotion, but he had proved himself a man of strong and deep emotion; might he not also be capable of feeling—of love? He had not been mean or nasty in his rage, and his anger had been righteous. By accepting his proposal of marriage, I had given him the right of expressing his objection to any of my actions of which he disapproved. I on my part had the liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat | firmer hold, in one hand seizing my arm above the elbow, and gripping my shoulder with the other so tightly that, through my flimsy covering, his strong fingers bruised me so severely that in a calmer moment I would have squirmed and cried out with pain. “How dare you touch me!” He drew me so closely to him that, through his thin shirt—the only garment on the upper part of his figure—I could feel the heat of his body, and his big heart beating wildly. At last! at last! I had waked this calm silent giant into life. After many an ineffectual struggle I had got at a little real love or passion, or call it by any name—something wild and warm and splendidly alive that one could feel, the most thrilling, electric, and exquisite sensation known. I thoroughly enjoyed the situation, but did not let this appear. A minute or two passed and he did not speak. “Mr Beecham, I’ll trouble you to explain yourself. How dare you lay your hands upon me?” “Explain!” he breathed rather than spoke, in a tone of concentrated fury. “I’ll make _you_ explain, and I’ll do what I like with you. I’ll touch you as much as I think fit. I’ll throw you over the fence if _you_ don’t explain to _my_ satisfaction.” “What is there that I can explain?” “Explain your conduct with other men. How dare you receive their attentions and be so friendly with them!” “How dare you speak to me like that! I reserve the right of behaving as I please without your permission.” “I won’t have a girl with my engagement ring on her finger going on as you do. I think I have a right to complain, for I could get any amount of splendid women in every way to wear it for me, and behave themselves properly too,” he said fiercely. I tossed my head defiantly, saying, “Loose your hold of me, and I’ll quickly explain matters to my own satisfaction and yours, Harold Beecham.” He let me go, and I stepped a pace or two away from him, drew the costly ring from my finger, and, with indifference and contempt, tossed it to his feet, where the juice of crushed strawberries was staining the ground, and facing him, said mockingly: “Now, speak to the girl who wears your engagement ring, for I’ll degrade myself by wearing it no more. If you think I think you as great a catch as you think yourself, just because you have a little money, you are a trifle mistaken, Mr Beecham, that is all. Ha ha ha! So you thought you had a right to lecture me as your future slave! Just fancy! I never had the slightest intention of marrying you. You were so disgustingly conceited that I have been attempting to rub a little of it out of you. Marry you! Ha ha! Because the social laws are so arranged that a woman’s only sphere is marriage, and because they endeavour to secure a man who can give them a little more ease, you must not run away with the idea that it is yourself they are angling for, when you are only the bothersome appendage with which they would have to put up, for the sake of your property. And you must not think that because some women will marry for a home they all will. I trust I have explained to your satisfaction, Mr Beecham. Ha ha ha!” The jealous rage had died out of his face and was succeeded by trembling and a pallor so ghastly, that I began to have a little faith in descriptions of love which I had hitherto ridiculed. “Are you in earnest?” he asked in a deadly calm voice. “Most emphatically I am.” “Then all I can say is that I haven’t much respect for you, Miss Melvyn. I always considered that there were three classes of women—one, that would marry a blackfellow if he had money; another, that were shameless flirts, and who amuse themselves by flirting and disgracing the name of woman; and a third class that were pure and true, on whom a man could stake his life and whom he could worship. I thought you belonged to this class, but I have been mistaken. I know you always try to appear heartless and worthless, but I fancied it was only your youth and mischief, and imagined you were good underneath; but I have been mistaken,” he repeated with quiet contempt. His face had regained its natural colour, and the well-cut pleasant mouth, clearly seen beneath the soft drooping moustache, had hardened into a sullen line which told me he would never be first to seek reconciliation—not even to save his life. “Bah!” I exclaimed sarcastically.<|quote|>“It appears that we all labour under delusions. Go and get a beautiful woman to wear your ring and your name. One that will be able to say yes and no at the right time; one who will know how to dress properly; one who wouldn’t for the world do anything that other women did not also; one who will know where to buy the best groceries and who will readily sell herself to you for your wealth. That’s the sort of woman that suits men, and there are plenty of them; procure one, and don’t bother with me. I am too small and silly, and have nothing to recommend me. I fear it speaks little for your sense or taste that you ever thought of me. Ta-ta, Mr Beecham,”</|quote|>I said over my shoulder with a mocking smile, and walked away. When about half-way down the orchard reflection pulled me up shortly under an apple-tree. I had said what I had said because, feeling bitter for the want of love, and because full of pain myself, I rejoiced with a sort of revenge to see the same feeling flash across another’s face. But now I was cool, and, forgetting myself, thought of Harold. I had led him on because his perpetually calm demeanour had excited in me a desire to test if it were possible to disturb him. I had thought him incapable of emotion, but he had proved himself a man of strong and deep emotion; might he not also be capable of feeling—of love? He had not been mean or nasty in his rage, and his anger had been righteous. By accepting his proposal of marriage, I had given him the right of expressing his objection to any of my actions of which he disapproved. I on my part had the liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to | his feet, where the juice of crushed strawberries was staining the ground, and facing him, said mockingly: “Now, speak to the girl who wears your engagement ring, for I’ll degrade myself by wearing it no more. If you think I think you as great a catch as you think yourself, just because you have a little money, you are a trifle mistaken, Mr Beecham, that is all. Ha ha ha! So you thought you had a right to lecture me as your future slave! Just fancy! I never had the slightest intention of marrying you. You were so disgustingly conceited that I have been attempting to rub a little of it out of you. Marry you! Ha ha! Because the social laws are so arranged that a woman’s only sphere is marriage, and because they endeavour to secure a man who can give them a little more ease, you must not run away with the idea that it is yourself they are angling for, when you are only the bothersome appendage with which they would have to put up, for the sake of your property. And you must not think that because some women will marry for a home they all will. I trust I have explained to your satisfaction, Mr Beecham. Ha ha ha!” The jealous rage had died out of his face and was succeeded by trembling and a pallor so ghastly, that I began to have a little faith in descriptions of love which I had hitherto ridiculed. “Are you in earnest?” he asked in a deadly calm voice. “Most emphatically I am.” “Then all I can say is that I haven’t much respect for you, Miss Melvyn. I always considered that there were three classes of women—one, that would marry a blackfellow if he had money; another, that were shameless flirts, and who amuse themselves by flirting and disgracing the name of woman; and a third class that were pure and true, on whom a man could stake his life and whom he could worship. I thought you belonged to this class, but I have been mistaken. I know you always try to appear heartless and worthless, but I fancied it was only your youth and mischief, and imagined you were good underneath; but I have been mistaken,” he repeated with quiet contempt. His face had regained its natural colour, and the well-cut pleasant mouth, clearly seen beneath the soft drooping moustache, had hardened into a sullen line which told me he would never be first to seek reconciliation—not even to save his life. “Bah!” I exclaimed sarcastically.<|quote|>“It appears that we all labour under delusions. Go and get a beautiful woman to wear your ring and your name. One that will be able to say yes and no at the right time; one who will know how to dress properly; one who wouldn’t for the world do anything that other women did not also; one who will know where to buy the best groceries and who will readily sell herself to you for your wealth. That’s the sort of woman that suits men, and there are plenty of them; procure one, and don’t bother with me. I am too small and silly, and have nothing to recommend me. I fear it speaks little for your sense or taste that you ever thought of me. Ta-ta, Mr Beecham,”</|quote|>I said over my shoulder with a mocking smile, and walked away. When about half-way down the orchard reflection pulled me up shortly under an apple-tree. I had said what I had said because, feeling bitter for the want of love, and because full of pain myself, I rejoiced with a sort of revenge to see the same feeling flash across another’s face. But now I was cool, and, forgetting myself, thought of Harold. I had led him on because his perpetually calm demeanour had excited in me a desire to test if it were possible to disturb him. I had thought him incapable of emotion, but he had proved himself a man of strong and deep emotion; might he not also be capable of feeling—of love? He had not been mean or nasty in his rage, and his anger had been righteous. By accepting his proposal of marriage, I had given him the right of expressing his objection to any of my actions of which he disapproved. I on my part had the liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, | My Brilliant Career |
I said over my shoulder with a mocking smile, and walked away. When about half-way down the orchard reflection pulled me up shortly under an apple-tree. I had said what I had said because, feeling bitter for the want of love, and because full of pain myself, I rejoiced with a sort of revenge to see the same feeling flash across another’s face. But now I was cool, and, forgetting myself, thought of Harold. I had led him on because his perpetually calm demeanour had excited in me a desire to test if it were possible to disturb him. I had thought him incapable of emotion, but he had proved himself a man of strong and deep emotion; might he not also be capable of feeling—of love? He had not been mean or nasty in his rage, and his anger had been righteous. By accepting his proposal of marriage, I had given him the right of expressing his objection to any of my actions of which he disapproved. I on my part had the liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. | No speaker | of me. Ta-ta, Mr Beecham,”<|quote|>I said over my shoulder with a mocking smile, and walked away. When about half-way down the orchard reflection pulled me up shortly under an apple-tree. I had said what I had said because, feeling bitter for the want of love, and because full of pain myself, I rejoiced with a sort of revenge to see the same feeling flash across another’s face. But now I was cool, and, forgetting myself, thought of Harold. I had led him on because his perpetually calm demeanour had excited in me a desire to test if it were possible to disturb him. I had thought him incapable of emotion, but he had proved himself a man of strong and deep emotion; might he not also be capable of feeling—of love? He had not been mean or nasty in his rage, and his anger had been righteous. By accepting his proposal of marriage, I had given him the right of expressing his objection to any of my actions of which he disapproved. I on my part had the liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp.</|quote|>“Mr Beecham, Harold, I am | taste that you ever thought of me. Ta-ta, Mr Beecham,”<|quote|>I said over my shoulder with a mocking smile, and walked away. When about half-way down the orchard reflection pulled me up shortly under an apple-tree. I had said what I had said because, feeling bitter for the want of love, and because full of pain myself, I rejoiced with a sort of revenge to see the same feeling flash across another’s face. But now I was cool, and, forgetting myself, thought of Harold. I had led him on because his perpetually calm demeanour had excited in me a desire to test if it were possible to disturb him. I had thought him incapable of emotion, but he had proved himself a man of strong and deep emotion; might he not also be capable of feeling—of love? He had not been mean or nasty in his rage, and his anger had been righteous. By accepting his proposal of marriage, I had given him the right of expressing his objection to any of my actions of which he disapproved. I on my part had the liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp.</|quote|>“Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so | sort of woman that suits men, and there are plenty of them; procure one, and don’t bother with me. I am too small and silly, and have nothing to recommend me. I fear it speaks little for your sense or taste that you ever thought of me. Ta-ta, Mr Beecham,”<|quote|>I said over my shoulder with a mocking smile, and walked away. When about half-way down the orchard reflection pulled me up shortly under an apple-tree. I had said what I had said because, feeling bitter for the want of love, and because full of pain myself, I rejoiced with a sort of revenge to see the same feeling flash across another’s face. But now I was cool, and, forgetting myself, thought of Harold. I had led him on because his perpetually calm demeanour had excited in me a desire to test if it were possible to disturb him. I had thought him incapable of emotion, but he had proved himself a man of strong and deep emotion; might he not also be capable of feeling—of love? He had not been mean or nasty in his rage, and his anger had been righteous. By accepting his proposal of marriage, I had given him the right of expressing his objection to any of my actions of which he disapproved. I on my part had the liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp.</|quote|>“Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my | no at the right time; one who will know how to dress properly; one who wouldn’t for the world do anything that other women did not also; one who will know where to buy the best groceries and who will readily sell herself to you for your wealth. That’s the sort of woman that suits men, and there are plenty of them; procure one, and don’t bother with me. I am too small and silly, and have nothing to recommend me. I fear it speaks little for your sense or taste that you ever thought of me. Ta-ta, Mr Beecham,”<|quote|>I said over my shoulder with a mocking smile, and walked away. When about half-way down the orchard reflection pulled me up shortly under an apple-tree. I had said what I had said because, feeling bitter for the want of love, and because full of pain myself, I rejoiced with a sort of revenge to see the same feeling flash across another’s face. But now I was cool, and, forgetting myself, thought of Harold. I had led him on because his perpetually calm demeanour had excited in me a desire to test if it were possible to disturb him. I had thought him incapable of emotion, but he had proved himself a man of strong and deep emotion; might he not also be capable of feeling—of love? He had not been mean or nasty in his rage, and his anger had been righteous. By accepting his proposal of marriage, I had given him the right of expressing his objection to any of my actions of which he disapproved. I on my part had the liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp.</|quote|>“Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to | I fancied it was only your youth and mischief, and imagined you were good underneath; but I have been mistaken,” he repeated with quiet contempt. His face had regained its natural colour, and the well-cut pleasant mouth, clearly seen beneath the soft drooping moustache, had hardened into a sullen line which told me he would never be first to seek reconciliation—not even to save his life. “Bah!” I exclaimed sarcastically. “It appears that we all labour under delusions. Go and get a beautiful woman to wear your ring and your name. One that will be able to say yes and no at the right time; one who will know how to dress properly; one who wouldn’t for the world do anything that other women did not also; one who will know where to buy the best groceries and who will readily sell herself to you for your wealth. That’s the sort of woman that suits men, and there are plenty of them; procure one, and don’t bother with me. I am too small and silly, and have nothing to recommend me. I fear it speaks little for your sense or taste that you ever thought of me. Ta-ta, Mr Beecham,”<|quote|>I said over my shoulder with a mocking smile, and walked away. When about half-way down the orchard reflection pulled me up shortly under an apple-tree. I had said what I had said because, feeling bitter for the want of love, and because full of pain myself, I rejoiced with a sort of revenge to see the same feeling flash across another’s face. But now I was cool, and, forgetting myself, thought of Harold. I had led him on because his perpetually calm demeanour had excited in me a desire to test if it were possible to disturb him. I had thought him incapable of emotion, but he had proved himself a man of strong and deep emotion; might he not also be capable of feeling—of love? He had not been mean or nasty in his rage, and his anger had been righteous. By accepting his proposal of marriage, I had given him the right of expressing his objection to any of my actions of which he disapproved. I on my part had the liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp.</|quote|>“Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love | angling for, when you are only the bothersome appendage with which they would have to put up, for the sake of your property. And you must not think that because some women will marry for a home they all will. I trust I have explained to your satisfaction, Mr Beecham. Ha ha ha!” The jealous rage had died out of his face and was succeeded by trembling and a pallor so ghastly, that I began to have a little faith in descriptions of love which I had hitherto ridiculed. “Are you in earnest?” he asked in a deadly calm voice. “Most emphatically I am.” “Then all I can say is that I haven’t much respect for you, Miss Melvyn. I always considered that there were three classes of women—one, that would marry a blackfellow if he had money; another, that were shameless flirts, and who amuse themselves by flirting and disgracing the name of woman; and a third class that were pure and true, on whom a man could stake his life and whom he could worship. I thought you belonged to this class, but I have been mistaken. I know you always try to appear heartless and worthless, but I fancied it was only your youth and mischief, and imagined you were good underneath; but I have been mistaken,” he repeated with quiet contempt. His face had regained its natural colour, and the well-cut pleasant mouth, clearly seen beneath the soft drooping moustache, had hardened into a sullen line which told me he would never be first to seek reconciliation—not even to save his life. “Bah!” I exclaimed sarcastically. “It appears that we all labour under delusions. Go and get a beautiful woman to wear your ring and your name. One that will be able to say yes and no at the right time; one who will know how to dress properly; one who wouldn’t for the world do anything that other women did not also; one who will know where to buy the best groceries and who will readily sell herself to you for your wealth. That’s the sort of woman that suits men, and there are plenty of them; procure one, and don’t bother with me. I am too small and silly, and have nothing to recommend me. I fear it speaks little for your sense or taste that you ever thought of me. Ta-ta, Mr Beecham,”<|quote|>I said over my shoulder with a mocking smile, and walked away. When about half-way down the orchard reflection pulled me up shortly under an apple-tree. I had said what I had said because, feeling bitter for the want of love, and because full of pain myself, I rejoiced with a sort of revenge to see the same feeling flash across another’s face. But now I was cool, and, forgetting myself, thought of Harold. I had led him on because his perpetually calm demeanour had excited in me a desire to test if it were possible to disturb him. I had thought him incapable of emotion, but he had proved himself a man of strong and deep emotion; might he not also be capable of feeling—of love? He had not been mean or nasty in his rage, and his anger had been righteous. By accepting his proposal of marriage, I had given him the right of expressing his objection to any of my actions of which he disapproved. I on my part had the liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp.</|quote|>“Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for | most thrilling, electric, and exquisite sensation known. I thoroughly enjoyed the situation, but did not let this appear. A minute or two passed and he did not speak. “Mr Beecham, I’ll trouble you to explain yourself. How dare you lay your hands upon me?” “Explain!” he breathed rather than spoke, in a tone of concentrated fury. “I’ll make _you_ explain, and I’ll do what I like with you. I’ll touch you as much as I think fit. I’ll throw you over the fence if _you_ don’t explain to _my_ satisfaction.” “What is there that I can explain?” “Explain your conduct with other men. How dare you receive their attentions and be so friendly with them!” “How dare you speak to me like that! I reserve the right of behaving as I please without your permission.” “I won’t have a girl with my engagement ring on her finger going on as you do. I think I have a right to complain, for I could get any amount of splendid women in every way to wear it for me, and behave themselves properly too,” he said fiercely. I tossed my head defiantly, saying, “Loose your hold of me, and I’ll quickly explain matters to my own satisfaction and yours, Harold Beecham.” He let me go, and I stepped a pace or two away from him, drew the costly ring from my finger, and, with indifference and contempt, tossed it to his feet, where the juice of crushed strawberries was staining the ground, and facing him, said mockingly: “Now, speak to the girl who wears your engagement ring, for I’ll degrade myself by wearing it no more. If you think I think you as great a catch as you think yourself, just because you have a little money, you are a trifle mistaken, Mr Beecham, that is all. Ha ha ha! So you thought you had a right to lecture me as your future slave! Just fancy! I never had the slightest intention of marrying you. You were so disgustingly conceited that I have been attempting to rub a little of it out of you. Marry you! Ha ha! Because the social laws are so arranged that a woman’s only sphere is marriage, and because they endeavour to secure a man who can give them a little more ease, you must not run away with the idea that it is yourself they are angling for, when you are only the bothersome appendage with which they would have to put up, for the sake of your property. And you must not think that because some women will marry for a home they all will. I trust I have explained to your satisfaction, Mr Beecham. Ha ha ha!” The jealous rage had died out of his face and was succeeded by trembling and a pallor so ghastly, that I began to have a little faith in descriptions of love which I had hitherto ridiculed. “Are you in earnest?” he asked in a deadly calm voice. “Most emphatically I am.” “Then all I can say is that I haven’t much respect for you, Miss Melvyn. I always considered that there were three classes of women—one, that would marry a blackfellow if he had money; another, that were shameless flirts, and who amuse themselves by flirting and disgracing the name of woman; and a third class that were pure and true, on whom a man could stake his life and whom he could worship. I thought you belonged to this class, but I have been mistaken. I know you always try to appear heartless and worthless, but I fancied it was only your youth and mischief, and imagined you were good underneath; but I have been mistaken,” he repeated with quiet contempt. His face had regained its natural colour, and the well-cut pleasant mouth, clearly seen beneath the soft drooping moustache, had hardened into a sullen line which told me he would never be first to seek reconciliation—not even to save his life. “Bah!” I exclaimed sarcastically. “It appears that we all labour under delusions. Go and get a beautiful woman to wear your ring and your name. One that will be able to say yes and no at the right time; one who will know how to dress properly; one who wouldn’t for the world do anything that other women did not also; one who will know where to buy the best groceries and who will readily sell herself to you for your wealth. That’s the sort of woman that suits men, and there are plenty of them; procure one, and don’t bother with me. I am too small and silly, and have nothing to recommend me. I fear it speaks little for your sense or taste that you ever thought of me. Ta-ta, Mr Beecham,”<|quote|>I said over my shoulder with a mocking smile, and walked away. When about half-way down the orchard reflection pulled me up shortly under an apple-tree. I had said what I had said because, feeling bitter for the want of love, and because full of pain myself, I rejoiced with a sort of revenge to see the same feeling flash across another’s face. But now I was cool, and, forgetting myself, thought of Harold. I had led him on because his perpetually calm demeanour had excited in me a desire to test if it were possible to disturb him. I had thought him incapable of emotion, but he had proved himself a man of strong and deep emotion; might he not also be capable of feeling—of love? He had not been mean or nasty in his rage, and his anger had been righteous. By accepting his proposal of marriage, I had given him the right of expressing his objection to any of my actions of which he disapproved. I on my part had the liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp.</|quote|>“Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy | to rub a little of it out of you. Marry you! Ha ha! Because the social laws are so arranged that a woman’s only sphere is marriage, and because they endeavour to secure a man who can give them a little more ease, you must not run away with the idea that it is yourself they are angling for, when you are only the bothersome appendage with which they would have to put up, for the sake of your property. And you must not think that because some women will marry for a home they all will. I trust I have explained to your satisfaction, Mr Beecham. Ha ha ha!” The jealous rage had died out of his face and was succeeded by trembling and a pallor so ghastly, that I began to have a little faith in descriptions of love which I had hitherto ridiculed. “Are you in earnest?” he asked in a deadly calm voice. “Most emphatically I am.” “Then all I can say is that I haven’t much respect for you, Miss Melvyn. I always considered that there were three classes of women—one, that would marry a blackfellow if he had money; another, that were shameless flirts, and who amuse themselves by flirting and disgracing the name of woman; and a third class that were pure and true, on whom a man could stake his life and whom he could worship. I thought you belonged to this class, but I have been mistaken. I know you always try to appear heartless and worthless, but I fancied it was only your youth and mischief, and imagined you were good underneath; but I have been mistaken,” he repeated with quiet contempt. His face had regained its natural colour, and the well-cut pleasant mouth, clearly seen beneath the soft drooping moustache, had hardened into a sullen line which told me he would never be first to seek reconciliation—not even to save his life. “Bah!” I exclaimed sarcastically. “It appears that we all labour under delusions. Go and get a beautiful woman to wear your ring and your name. One that will be able to say yes and no at the right time; one who will know how to dress properly; one who wouldn’t for the world do anything that other women did not also; one who will know where to buy the best groceries and who will readily sell herself to you for your wealth. That’s the sort of woman that suits men, and there are plenty of them; procure one, and don’t bother with me. I am too small and silly, and have nothing to recommend me. I fear it speaks little for your sense or taste that you ever thought of me. Ta-ta, Mr Beecham,”<|quote|>I said over my shoulder with a mocking smile, and walked away. When about half-way down the orchard reflection pulled me up shortly under an apple-tree. I had said what I had said because, feeling bitter for the want of love, and because full of pain myself, I rejoiced with a sort of revenge to see the same feeling flash across another’s face. But now I was cool, and, forgetting myself, thought of Harold. I had led him on because his perpetually calm demeanour had excited in me a desire to test if it were possible to disturb him. I had thought him incapable of emotion, but he had proved himself a man of strong and deep emotion; might he not also be capable of feeling—of love? He had not been mean or nasty in his rage, and his anger had been righteous. By accepting his proposal of marriage, I had given him the right of expressing his objection to any of my actions of which he disapproved. I on my part had the liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp.</|quote|>“Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon | My Brilliant Career |
“Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” | Sybylla Melvyn | in a gentle caressing clasp.<|quote|>“Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?”</|quote|>I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, | cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp.<|quote|>“Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?”</|quote|>I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out | felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp.<|quote|>“Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?”</|quote|>I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: | me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp.<|quote|>“Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?”</|quote|>I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of | is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp.<|quote|>“Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?”</|quote|>I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you | possible to disturb him. I had thought him incapable of emotion, but he had proved himself a man of strong and deep emotion; might he not also be capable of feeling—of love? He had not been mean or nasty in his rage, and his anger had been righteous. By accepting his proposal of marriage, I had given him the right of expressing his objection to any of my actions of which he disapproved. I on my part had the liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp.<|quote|>“Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?”</|quote|>I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a | in a deadly calm voice. “Most emphatically I am.” “Then all I can say is that I haven’t much respect for you, Miss Melvyn. I always considered that there were three classes of women—one, that would marry a blackfellow if he had money; another, that were shameless flirts, and who amuse themselves by flirting and disgracing the name of woman; and a third class that were pure and true, on whom a man could stake his life and whom he could worship. I thought you belonged to this class, but I have been mistaken. I know you always try to appear heartless and worthless, but I fancied it was only your youth and mischief, and imagined you were good underneath; but I have been mistaken,” he repeated with quiet contempt. His face had regained its natural colour, and the well-cut pleasant mouth, clearly seen beneath the soft drooping moustache, had hardened into a sullen line which told me he would never be first to seek reconciliation—not even to save his life. “Bah!” I exclaimed sarcastically. “It appears that we all labour under delusions. Go and get a beautiful woman to wear your ring and your name. One that will be able to say yes and no at the right time; one who will know how to dress properly; one who wouldn’t for the world do anything that other women did not also; one who will know where to buy the best groceries and who will readily sell herself to you for your wealth. That’s the sort of woman that suits men, and there are plenty of them; procure one, and don’t bother with me. I am too small and silly, and have nothing to recommend me. I fear it speaks little for your sense or taste that you ever thought of me. Ta-ta, Mr Beecham,” I said over my shoulder with a mocking smile, and walked away. When about half-way down the orchard reflection pulled me up shortly under an apple-tree. I had said what I had said because, feeling bitter for the want of love, and because full of pain myself, I rejoiced with a sort of revenge to see the same feeling flash across another’s face. But now I was cool, and, forgetting myself, thought of Harold. I had led him on because his perpetually calm demeanour had excited in me a desire to test if it were possible to disturb him. I had thought him incapable of emotion, but he had proved himself a man of strong and deep emotion; might he not also be capable of feeling—of love? He had not been mean or nasty in his rage, and his anger had been righteous. By accepting his proposal of marriage, I had given him the right of expressing his objection to any of my actions of which he disapproved. I on my part had the liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp.<|quote|>“Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?”</|quote|>I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t | to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp.<|quote|>“Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?”</|quote|>I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when | My Brilliant Career |
I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: | No speaker | and let us start afresh?”<|quote|>I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said:</|quote|>“Are you in earnest? Well, | things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?”<|quote|>I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said:</|quote|>“Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like | been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?”<|quote|>I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said:</|quote|>“Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of | that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?”<|quote|>I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said:</|quote|>“Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I | very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?”<|quote|>I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said:</|quote|>“Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep | not also be capable of feeling—of love? He had not been mean or nasty in his rage, and his anger had been righteous. By accepting his proposal of marriage, I had given him the right of expressing his objection to any of my actions of which he disapproved. I on my part had the liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?”<|quote|>I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said:</|quote|>“Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they | always considered that there were three classes of women—one, that would marry a blackfellow if he had money; another, that were shameless flirts, and who amuse themselves by flirting and disgracing the name of woman; and a third class that were pure and true, on whom a man could stake his life and whom he could worship. I thought you belonged to this class, but I have been mistaken. I know you always try to appear heartless and worthless, but I fancied it was only your youth and mischief, and imagined you were good underneath; but I have been mistaken,” he repeated with quiet contempt. His face had regained its natural colour, and the well-cut pleasant mouth, clearly seen beneath the soft drooping moustache, had hardened into a sullen line which told me he would never be first to seek reconciliation—not even to save his life. “Bah!” I exclaimed sarcastically. “It appears that we all labour under delusions. Go and get a beautiful woman to wear your ring and your name. One that will be able to say yes and no at the right time; one who will know how to dress properly; one who wouldn’t for the world do anything that other women did not also; one who will know where to buy the best groceries and who will readily sell herself to you for your wealth. That’s the sort of woman that suits men, and there are plenty of them; procure one, and don’t bother with me. I am too small and silly, and have nothing to recommend me. I fear it speaks little for your sense or taste that you ever thought of me. Ta-ta, Mr Beecham,” I said over my shoulder with a mocking smile, and walked away. When about half-way down the orchard reflection pulled me up shortly under an apple-tree. I had said what I had said because, feeling bitter for the want of love, and because full of pain myself, I rejoiced with a sort of revenge to see the same feeling flash across another’s face. But now I was cool, and, forgetting myself, thought of Harold. I had led him on because his perpetually calm demeanour had excited in me a desire to test if it were possible to disturb him. I had thought him incapable of emotion, but he had proved himself a man of strong and deep emotion; might he not also be capable of feeling—of love? He had not been mean or nasty in his rage, and his anger had been righteous. By accepting his proposal of marriage, I had given him the right of expressing his objection to any of my actions of which he disapproved. I on my part had the liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?”<|quote|>I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said:</|quote|>“Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal | to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?”<|quote|>I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said:</|quote|>“Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night | My Brilliant Career |
“Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” | Harold Beecham | lovable expression as he said:<|quote|>“Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.”</|quote|>“Yes, I’m in earnest. Can | mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said:<|quote|>“Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.”</|quote|>“Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is | I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said:<|quote|>“Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.”</|quote|>“Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you | been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said:<|quote|>“Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.”</|quote|>“Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make | dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said:<|quote|>“Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.”</|quote|>“Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; | my part had the liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said:<|quote|>“Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.”</|quote|>“Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows | his life and whom he could worship. I thought you belonged to this class, but I have been mistaken. I know you always try to appear heartless and worthless, but I fancied it was only your youth and mischief, and imagined you were good underneath; but I have been mistaken,” he repeated with quiet contempt. His face had regained its natural colour, and the well-cut pleasant mouth, clearly seen beneath the soft drooping moustache, had hardened into a sullen line which told me he would never be first to seek reconciliation—not even to save his life. “Bah!” I exclaimed sarcastically. “It appears that we all labour under delusions. Go and get a beautiful woman to wear your ring and your name. One that will be able to say yes and no at the right time; one who will know how to dress properly; one who wouldn’t for the world do anything that other women did not also; one who will know where to buy the best groceries and who will readily sell herself to you for your wealth. That’s the sort of woman that suits men, and there are plenty of them; procure one, and don’t bother with me. I am too small and silly, and have nothing to recommend me. I fear it speaks little for your sense or taste that you ever thought of me. Ta-ta, Mr Beecham,” I said over my shoulder with a mocking smile, and walked away. When about half-way down the orchard reflection pulled me up shortly under an apple-tree. I had said what I had said because, feeling bitter for the want of love, and because full of pain myself, I rejoiced with a sort of revenge to see the same feeling flash across another’s face. But now I was cool, and, forgetting myself, thought of Harold. I had led him on because his perpetually calm demeanour had excited in me a desire to test if it were possible to disturb him. I had thought him incapable of emotion, but he had proved himself a man of strong and deep emotion; might he not also be capable of feeling—of love? He had not been mean or nasty in his rage, and his anger had been righteous. By accepting his proposal of marriage, I had given him the right of expressing his objection to any of my actions of which he disapproved. I on my part had the liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said:<|quote|>“Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.”</|quote|>“Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” | in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said:<|quote|>“Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.”</|quote|>“Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of | My Brilliant Career |
“Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” | Sybylla Melvyn | more like the little woman.”<|quote|>“Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?”</|quote|>“There is nothing to forgive, | earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.”<|quote|>“Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?”</|quote|>“There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t | was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.”<|quote|>“Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?”</|quote|>“There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us | strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.”<|quote|>“Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?”</|quote|>“There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered | hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.”<|quote|>“Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?”</|quote|>“There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting | our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.”<|quote|>“Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?”</|quote|>“There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would | class, but I have been mistaken. I know you always try to appear heartless and worthless, but I fancied it was only your youth and mischief, and imagined you were good underneath; but I have been mistaken,” he repeated with quiet contempt. His face had regained its natural colour, and the well-cut pleasant mouth, clearly seen beneath the soft drooping moustache, had hardened into a sullen line which told me he would never be first to seek reconciliation—not even to save his life. “Bah!” I exclaimed sarcastically. “It appears that we all labour under delusions. Go and get a beautiful woman to wear your ring and your name. One that will be able to say yes and no at the right time; one who will know how to dress properly; one who wouldn’t for the world do anything that other women did not also; one who will know where to buy the best groceries and who will readily sell herself to you for your wealth. That’s the sort of woman that suits men, and there are plenty of them; procure one, and don’t bother with me. I am too small and silly, and have nothing to recommend me. I fear it speaks little for your sense or taste that you ever thought of me. Ta-ta, Mr Beecham,” I said over my shoulder with a mocking smile, and walked away. When about half-way down the orchard reflection pulled me up shortly under an apple-tree. I had said what I had said because, feeling bitter for the want of love, and because full of pain myself, I rejoiced with a sort of revenge to see the same feeling flash across another’s face. But now I was cool, and, forgetting myself, thought of Harold. I had led him on because his perpetually calm demeanour had excited in me a desire to test if it were possible to disturb him. I had thought him incapable of emotion, but he had proved himself a man of strong and deep emotion; might he not also be capable of feeling—of love? He had not been mean or nasty in his rage, and his anger had been righteous. By accepting his proposal of marriage, I had given him the right of expressing his objection to any of my actions of which he disapproved. I on my part had the liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.”<|quote|>“Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?”</|quote|>“There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. | post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.”<|quote|>“Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?”</|quote|>“There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” | My Brilliant Career |
“There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” | Harold Beecham | earnest. Can you forgive me?”<|quote|>“There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.”</|quote|>“But I did mean them | little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?”<|quote|>“There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.”</|quote|>“But I did mean them in one sort of a | expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?”<|quote|>“There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.”</|quote|>“But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something | a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?”<|quote|>“There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.”</|quote|>“But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted | not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?”<|quote|>“There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.”</|quote|>“But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love | actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?”<|quote|>“There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.”</|quote|>“But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy | you always try to appear heartless and worthless, but I fancied it was only your youth and mischief, and imagined you were good underneath; but I have been mistaken,” he repeated with quiet contempt. His face had regained its natural colour, and the well-cut pleasant mouth, clearly seen beneath the soft drooping moustache, had hardened into a sullen line which told me he would never be first to seek reconciliation—not even to save his life. “Bah!” I exclaimed sarcastically. “It appears that we all labour under delusions. Go and get a beautiful woman to wear your ring and your name. One that will be able to say yes and no at the right time; one who will know how to dress properly; one who wouldn’t for the world do anything that other women did not also; one who will know where to buy the best groceries and who will readily sell herself to you for your wealth. That’s the sort of woman that suits men, and there are plenty of them; procure one, and don’t bother with me. I am too small and silly, and have nothing to recommend me. I fear it speaks little for your sense or taste that you ever thought of me. Ta-ta, Mr Beecham,” I said over my shoulder with a mocking smile, and walked away. When about half-way down the orchard reflection pulled me up shortly under an apple-tree. I had said what I had said because, feeling bitter for the want of love, and because full of pain myself, I rejoiced with a sort of revenge to see the same feeling flash across another’s face. But now I was cool, and, forgetting myself, thought of Harold. I had led him on because his perpetually calm demeanour had excited in me a desire to test if it were possible to disturb him. I had thought him incapable of emotion, but he had proved himself a man of strong and deep emotion; might he not also be capable of feeling—of love? He had not been mean or nasty in his rage, and his anger had been righteous. By accepting his proposal of marriage, I had given him the right of expressing his objection to any of my actions of which he disapproved. I on my part had the liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?”<|quote|>“There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.”</|quote|>“But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” | actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?”<|quote|>“There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.”</|quote|>“But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big | My Brilliant Career |
“But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” | Sybylla Melvyn | blood curdling sentiments you aired.”<|quote|>“But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.”</|quote|>“How do you mean to | mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.”<|quote|>“But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.”</|quote|>“How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for | relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.”<|quote|>“But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.”</|quote|>“How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never | Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.”<|quote|>“But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.”</|quote|>“How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say | to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.”<|quote|>“But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.”</|quote|>“How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can | to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.”<|quote|>“But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.”</|quote|>“How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about | you were good underneath; but I have been mistaken,” he repeated with quiet contempt. His face had regained its natural colour, and the well-cut pleasant mouth, clearly seen beneath the soft drooping moustache, had hardened into a sullen line which told me he would never be first to seek reconciliation—not even to save his life. “Bah!” I exclaimed sarcastically. “It appears that we all labour under delusions. Go and get a beautiful woman to wear your ring and your name. One that will be able to say yes and no at the right time; one who will know how to dress properly; one who wouldn’t for the world do anything that other women did not also; one who will know where to buy the best groceries and who will readily sell herself to you for your wealth. That’s the sort of woman that suits men, and there are plenty of them; procure one, and don’t bother with me. I am too small and silly, and have nothing to recommend me. I fear it speaks little for your sense or taste that you ever thought of me. Ta-ta, Mr Beecham,” I said over my shoulder with a mocking smile, and walked away. When about half-way down the orchard reflection pulled me up shortly under an apple-tree. I had said what I had said because, feeling bitter for the want of love, and because full of pain myself, I rejoiced with a sort of revenge to see the same feeling flash across another’s face. But now I was cool, and, forgetting myself, thought of Harold. I had led him on because his perpetually calm demeanour had excited in me a desire to test if it were possible to disturb him. I had thought him incapable of emotion, but he had proved himself a man of strong and deep emotion; might he not also be capable of feeling—of love? He had not been mean or nasty in his rage, and his anger had been righteous. By accepting his proposal of marriage, I had given him the right of expressing his objection to any of my actions of which he disapproved. I on my part had the liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.”<|quote|>“But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.”</|quote|>“How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said | or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.”<|quote|>“But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.”</|quote|>“How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly | My Brilliant Career |
“How do you mean to start afresh?” | Harold Beecham | another. Let us start afresh.”<|quote|>“How do you mean to start afresh?”</|quote|>“I mean for us to | a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.”<|quote|>“How do you mean to start afresh?”</|quote|>“I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” | the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.”<|quote|>“How do you mean to start afresh?”</|quote|>“I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. | of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.”<|quote|>“How do you mean to start afresh?”</|quote|>“I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection | had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.”<|quote|>“How do you mean to start afresh?”</|quote|>“I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care | granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.”<|quote|>“How do you mean to start afresh?”</|quote|>“I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, | natural colour, and the well-cut pleasant mouth, clearly seen beneath the soft drooping moustache, had hardened into a sullen line which told me he would never be first to seek reconciliation—not even to save his life. “Bah!” I exclaimed sarcastically. “It appears that we all labour under delusions. Go and get a beautiful woman to wear your ring and your name. One that will be able to say yes and no at the right time; one who will know how to dress properly; one who wouldn’t for the world do anything that other women did not also; one who will know where to buy the best groceries and who will readily sell herself to you for your wealth. That’s the sort of woman that suits men, and there are plenty of them; procure one, and don’t bother with me. I am too small and silly, and have nothing to recommend me. I fear it speaks little for your sense or taste that you ever thought of me. Ta-ta, Mr Beecham,” I said over my shoulder with a mocking smile, and walked away. When about half-way down the orchard reflection pulled me up shortly under an apple-tree. I had said what I had said because, feeling bitter for the want of love, and because full of pain myself, I rejoiced with a sort of revenge to see the same feeling flash across another’s face. But now I was cool, and, forgetting myself, thought of Harold. I had led him on because his perpetually calm demeanour had excited in me a desire to test if it were possible to disturb him. I had thought him incapable of emotion, but he had proved himself a man of strong and deep emotion; might he not also be capable of feeling—of love? He had not been mean or nasty in his rage, and his anger had been righteous. By accepting his proposal of marriage, I had given him the right of expressing his objection to any of my actions of which he disapproved. I on my part had the liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.”<|quote|>“How do you mean to start afresh?”</|quote|>“I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs | always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.”<|quote|>“How do you mean to start afresh?”</|quote|>“I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much | My Brilliant Career |
“I mean for us to be chums again.” | Sybylla Melvyn | you mean to start afresh?”<|quote|>“I mean for us to be chums again.”</|quote|>“Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; | us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?”<|quote|>“I mean for us to be chums again.”</|quote|>“Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something | Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?”<|quote|>“I mean for us to be chums again.”</|quote|>“Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love | earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?”<|quote|>“I mean for us to be chums again.”</|quote|>“Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I | had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?”<|quote|>“I mean for us to be chums again.”</|quote|>“Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression | right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?”<|quote|>“I mean for us to be chums again.”</|quote|>“Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing | clearly seen beneath the soft drooping moustache, had hardened into a sullen line which told me he would never be first to seek reconciliation—not even to save his life. “Bah!” I exclaimed sarcastically. “It appears that we all labour under delusions. Go and get a beautiful woman to wear your ring and your name. One that will be able to say yes and no at the right time; one who will know how to dress properly; one who wouldn’t for the world do anything that other women did not also; one who will know where to buy the best groceries and who will readily sell herself to you for your wealth. That’s the sort of woman that suits men, and there are plenty of them; procure one, and don’t bother with me. I am too small and silly, and have nothing to recommend me. I fear it speaks little for your sense or taste that you ever thought of me. Ta-ta, Mr Beecham,” I said over my shoulder with a mocking smile, and walked away. When about half-way down the orchard reflection pulled me up shortly under an apple-tree. I had said what I had said because, feeling bitter for the want of love, and because full of pain myself, I rejoiced with a sort of revenge to see the same feeling flash across another’s face. But now I was cool, and, forgetting myself, thought of Harold. I had led him on because his perpetually calm demeanour had excited in me a desire to test if it were possible to disturb him. I had thought him incapable of emotion, but he had proved himself a man of strong and deep emotion; might he not also be capable of feeling—of love? He had not been mean or nasty in his rage, and his anger had been righteous. By accepting his proposal of marriage, I had given him the right of expressing his objection to any of my actions of which he disapproved. I on my part had the liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?”<|quote|>“I mean for us to be chums again.”</|quote|>“Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good | post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?”<|quote|>“I mean for us to be chums again.”</|quote|>“Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I | My Brilliant Career |
“Oh, chums!” | Harold Beecham | us to be chums again.”<|quote|>“Oh, chums!”</|quote|>he said impatiently; “I want | start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.”<|quote|>“Oh, chums!”</|quote|>he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, | forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.”<|quote|>“Oh, chums!”</|quote|>he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” | eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.”<|quote|>“Oh, chums!”</|quote|>he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt | felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.”<|quote|>“Oh, chums!”</|quote|>he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon | or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.”<|quote|>“Oh, chums!”</|quote|>he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never | hardened into a sullen line which told me he would never be first to seek reconciliation—not even to save his life. “Bah!” I exclaimed sarcastically. “It appears that we all labour under delusions. Go and get a beautiful woman to wear your ring and your name. One that will be able to say yes and no at the right time; one who will know how to dress properly; one who wouldn’t for the world do anything that other women did not also; one who will know where to buy the best groceries and who will readily sell herself to you for your wealth. That’s the sort of woman that suits men, and there are plenty of them; procure one, and don’t bother with me. I am too small and silly, and have nothing to recommend me. I fear it speaks little for your sense or taste that you ever thought of me. Ta-ta, Mr Beecham,” I said over my shoulder with a mocking smile, and walked away. When about half-way down the orchard reflection pulled me up shortly under an apple-tree. I had said what I had said because, feeling bitter for the want of love, and because full of pain myself, I rejoiced with a sort of revenge to see the same feeling flash across another’s face. But now I was cool, and, forgetting myself, thought of Harold. I had led him on because his perpetually calm demeanour had excited in me a desire to test if it were possible to disturb him. I had thought him incapable of emotion, but he had proved himself a man of strong and deep emotion; might he not also be capable of feeling—of love? He had not been mean or nasty in his rage, and his anger had been righteous. By accepting his proposal of marriage, I had given him the right of expressing his objection to any of my actions of which he disapproved. I on my part had the liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.”<|quote|>“Oh, chums!”</|quote|>he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr | dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.”<|quote|>“Oh, chums!”</|quote|>he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he | My Brilliant Career |
he said impatiently; | No speaker | be chums again.” “Oh, chums!”<|quote|>he said impatiently;</|quote|>“I want to be something | “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!”<|quote|>he said impatiently;</|quote|>“I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be | I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!”<|quote|>he said impatiently;</|quote|>“I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” | Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!”<|quote|>he said impatiently;</|quote|>“I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill | disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!”<|quote|>he said impatiently;</|quote|>“I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, | take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!”<|quote|>he said impatiently;</|quote|>“I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” | a sullen line which told me he would never be first to seek reconciliation—not even to save his life. “Bah!” I exclaimed sarcastically. “It appears that we all labour under delusions. Go and get a beautiful woman to wear your ring and your name. One that will be able to say yes and no at the right time; one who will know how to dress properly; one who wouldn’t for the world do anything that other women did not also; one who will know where to buy the best groceries and who will readily sell herself to you for your wealth. That’s the sort of woman that suits men, and there are plenty of them; procure one, and don’t bother with me. I am too small and silly, and have nothing to recommend me. I fear it speaks little for your sense or taste that you ever thought of me. Ta-ta, Mr Beecham,” I said over my shoulder with a mocking smile, and walked away. When about half-way down the orchard reflection pulled me up shortly under an apple-tree. I had said what I had said because, feeling bitter for the want of love, and because full of pain myself, I rejoiced with a sort of revenge to see the same feeling flash across another’s face. But now I was cool, and, forgetting myself, thought of Harold. I had led him on because his perpetually calm demeanour had excited in me a desire to test if it were possible to disturb him. I had thought him incapable of emotion, but he had proved himself a man of strong and deep emotion; might he not also be capable of feeling—of love? He had not been mean or nasty in his rage, and his anger had been righteous. By accepting his proposal of marriage, I had given him the right of expressing his objection to any of my actions of which he disapproved. I on my part had the liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!”<|quote|>he said impatiently;</|quote|>“I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss | I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!”<|quote|>he said impatiently;</|quote|>“I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing | My Brilliant Career |
“I want to be something more.” | Harold Beecham | “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently;<|quote|>“I want to be something more.”</|quote|>“Well, I will be something | us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently;<|quote|>“I want to be something more.”</|quote|>“Well, I will be something more if you will try | didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently;<|quote|>“I want to be something more.”</|quote|>“Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a | searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently;<|quote|>“I want to be something more.”</|quote|>“Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time | my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently;<|quote|>“I want to be something more.”</|quote|>“Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly | own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently;<|quote|>“I want to be something more.”</|quote|>“Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you | which told me he would never be first to seek reconciliation—not even to save his life. “Bah!” I exclaimed sarcastically. “It appears that we all labour under delusions. Go and get a beautiful woman to wear your ring and your name. One that will be able to say yes and no at the right time; one who will know how to dress properly; one who wouldn’t for the world do anything that other women did not also; one who will know where to buy the best groceries and who will readily sell herself to you for your wealth. That’s the sort of woman that suits men, and there are plenty of them; procure one, and don’t bother with me. I am too small and silly, and have nothing to recommend me. I fear it speaks little for your sense or taste that you ever thought of me. Ta-ta, Mr Beecham,” I said over my shoulder with a mocking smile, and walked away. When about half-way down the orchard reflection pulled me up shortly under an apple-tree. I had said what I had said because, feeling bitter for the want of love, and because full of pain myself, I rejoiced with a sort of revenge to see the same feeling flash across another’s face. But now I was cool, and, forgetting myself, thought of Harold. I had led him on because his perpetually calm demeanour had excited in me a desire to test if it were possible to disturb him. I had thought him incapable of emotion, but he had proved himself a man of strong and deep emotion; might he not also be capable of feeling—of love? He had not been mean or nasty in his rage, and his anger had been righteous. By accepting his proposal of marriage, I had given him the right of expressing his objection to any of my actions of which he disapproved. I on my part had the liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently;<|quote|>“I want to be something more.”</|quote|>“Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, | fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently;<|quote|>“I want to be something more.”</|quote|>“Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can | My Brilliant Career |
“Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” | Sybylla Melvyn | want to be something more.”<|quote|>“Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,”</|quote|>I replied. “How? What do | chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.”<|quote|>“Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,”</|quote|>I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you | blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.”<|quote|>“Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,”</|quote|>I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but | seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.”<|quote|>“Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,”</|quote|>I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to | ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.”<|quote|>“Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,”</|quote|>I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort | him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.”<|quote|>“Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,”</|quote|>I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four | be first to seek reconciliation—not even to save his life. “Bah!” I exclaimed sarcastically. “It appears that we all labour under delusions. Go and get a beautiful woman to wear your ring and your name. One that will be able to say yes and no at the right time; one who will know how to dress properly; one who wouldn’t for the world do anything that other women did not also; one who will know where to buy the best groceries and who will readily sell herself to you for your wealth. That’s the sort of woman that suits men, and there are plenty of them; procure one, and don’t bother with me. I am too small and silly, and have nothing to recommend me. I fear it speaks little for your sense or taste that you ever thought of me. Ta-ta, Mr Beecham,” I said over my shoulder with a mocking smile, and walked away. When about half-way down the orchard reflection pulled me up shortly under an apple-tree. I had said what I had said because, feeling bitter for the want of love, and because full of pain myself, I rejoiced with a sort of revenge to see the same feeling flash across another’s face. But now I was cool, and, forgetting myself, thought of Harold. I had led him on because his perpetually calm demeanour had excited in me a desire to test if it were possible to disturb him. I had thought him incapable of emotion, but he had proved himself a man of strong and deep emotion; might he not also be capable of feeling—of love? He had not been mean or nasty in his rage, and his anger had been righteous. By accepting his proposal of marriage, I had given him the right of expressing his objection to any of my actions of which he disapproved. I on my part had the liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.”<|quote|>“Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,”</|quote|>I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, | part had the liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.”<|quote|>“Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,”</|quote|>I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might | My Brilliant Career |
I replied. | No speaker | will try to make me,”<|quote|>I replied.</|quote|>“How? What do you mean?” | be something more if you will try to make me,”<|quote|>I replied.</|quote|>“How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try | of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,”<|quote|>I replied.</|quote|>“How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t | said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,”<|quote|>I replied.</|quote|>“How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself | have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,”<|quote|>I replied.</|quote|>“How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly | any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,”<|quote|>I replied.</|quote|>“How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five | sarcastically. “It appears that we all labour under delusions. Go and get a beautiful woman to wear your ring and your name. One that will be able to say yes and no at the right time; one who will know how to dress properly; one who wouldn’t for the world do anything that other women did not also; one who will know where to buy the best groceries and who will readily sell herself to you for your wealth. That’s the sort of woman that suits men, and there are plenty of them; procure one, and don’t bother with me. I am too small and silly, and have nothing to recommend me. I fear it speaks little for your sense or taste that you ever thought of me. Ta-ta, Mr Beecham,” I said over my shoulder with a mocking smile, and walked away. When about half-way down the orchard reflection pulled me up shortly under an apple-tree. I had said what I had said because, feeling bitter for the want of love, and because full of pain myself, I rejoiced with a sort of revenge to see the same feeling flash across another’s face. But now I was cool, and, forgetting myself, thought of Harold. I had led him on because his perpetually calm demeanour had excited in me a desire to test if it were possible to disturb him. I had thought him incapable of emotion, but he had proved himself a man of strong and deep emotion; might he not also be capable of feeling—of love? He had not been mean or nasty in his rage, and his anger had been righteous. By accepting his proposal of marriage, I had given him the right of expressing his objection to any of my actions of which he disapproved. I on my part had the liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,”<|quote|>I replied.</|quote|>“How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! | I had thought him incapable of emotion, but he had proved himself a man of strong and deep emotion; might he not also be capable of feeling—of love? He had not been mean or nasty in his rage, and his anger had been righteous. By accepting his proposal of marriage, I had given him the right of expressing his objection to any of my actions of which he disapproved. I on my part had the liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,”<|quote|>I replied.</|quote|>“How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, | My Brilliant Career |
“How? What do you mean?” | Harold Beecham | to make me,” I replied.<|quote|>“How? What do you mean?”</|quote|>“I mean you never try | more if you will try to make me,” I replied.<|quote|>“How? What do you mean?”</|quote|>“I mean you never try to make me fond of | way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied.<|quote|>“How? What do you mean?”</|quote|>“I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless | you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied.<|quote|>“How? What do you mean?”</|quote|>“I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will | nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied.<|quote|>“How? What do you mean?”</|quote|>“I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you | feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied.<|quote|>“How? What do you mean?”</|quote|>“I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” | appears that we all labour under delusions. Go and get a beautiful woman to wear your ring and your name. One that will be able to say yes and no at the right time; one who will know how to dress properly; one who wouldn’t for the world do anything that other women did not also; one who will know where to buy the best groceries and who will readily sell herself to you for your wealth. That’s the sort of woman that suits men, and there are plenty of them; procure one, and don’t bother with me. I am too small and silly, and have nothing to recommend me. I fear it speaks little for your sense or taste that you ever thought of me. Ta-ta, Mr Beecham,” I said over my shoulder with a mocking smile, and walked away. When about half-way down the orchard reflection pulled me up shortly under an apple-tree. I had said what I had said because, feeling bitter for the want of love, and because full of pain myself, I rejoiced with a sort of revenge to see the same feeling flash across another’s face. But now I was cool, and, forgetting myself, thought of Harold. I had led him on because his perpetually calm demeanour had excited in me a desire to test if it were possible to disturb him. I had thought him incapable of emotion, but he had proved himself a man of strong and deep emotion; might he not also be capable of feeling—of love? He had not been mean or nasty in his rage, and his anger had been righteous. By accepting his proposal of marriage, I had given him the right of expressing his objection to any of my actions of which he disapproved. I on my part had the liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied.<|quote|>“How? What do you mean?”</|quote|>“I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, | hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied.<|quote|>“How? What do you mean?”</|quote|>“I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. | My Brilliant Career |
“I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” | Sybylla Melvyn | “How? What do you mean?”<|quote|>“I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.”</|quote|>“Why, bless me!” he ejaculated | to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?”<|quote|>“I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.”</|quote|>“Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. | Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?”<|quote|>“I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.”</|quote|>“Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt | is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?”<|quote|>“I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.”</|quote|>“Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love | hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?”<|quote|>“I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.”</|quote|>“Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and | to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?”<|quote|>“I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.”</|quote|>“Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning | under delusions. Go and get a beautiful woman to wear your ring and your name. One that will be able to say yes and no at the right time; one who will know how to dress properly; one who wouldn’t for the world do anything that other women did not also; one who will know where to buy the best groceries and who will readily sell herself to you for your wealth. That’s the sort of woman that suits men, and there are plenty of them; procure one, and don’t bother with me. I am too small and silly, and have nothing to recommend me. I fear it speaks little for your sense or taste that you ever thought of me. Ta-ta, Mr Beecham,” I said over my shoulder with a mocking smile, and walked away. When about half-way down the orchard reflection pulled me up shortly under an apple-tree. I had said what I had said because, feeling bitter for the want of love, and because full of pain myself, I rejoiced with a sort of revenge to see the same feeling flash across another’s face. But now I was cool, and, forgetting myself, thought of Harold. I had led him on because his perpetually calm demeanour had excited in me a desire to test if it were possible to disturb him. I had thought him incapable of emotion, but he had proved himself a man of strong and deep emotion; might he not also be capable of feeling—of love? He had not been mean or nasty in his rage, and his anger had been righteous. By accepting his proposal of marriage, I had given him the right of expressing his objection to any of my actions of which he disapproved. I on my part had the liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?”<|quote|>“I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.”</|quote|>“Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry | palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?”<|quote|>“I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.”</|quote|>“Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, | My Brilliant Career |
“Why, bless me!” | Harold Beecham | word of love to me.”<|quote|>“Why, bless me!”</|quote|>he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s | You have never uttered one word of love to me.”<|quote|>“Why, bless me!”</|quote|>he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only | he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.”<|quote|>“Why, bless me!”</|quote|>he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill | I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.”<|quote|>“Why, bless me!”</|quote|>he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to | Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.”<|quote|>“Why, bless me!”</|quote|>he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a | than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.”<|quote|>“Why, bless me!”</|quote|>he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my | say yes and no at the right time; one who will know how to dress properly; one who wouldn’t for the world do anything that other women did not also; one who will know where to buy the best groceries and who will readily sell herself to you for your wealth. That’s the sort of woman that suits men, and there are plenty of them; procure one, and don’t bother with me. I am too small and silly, and have nothing to recommend me. I fear it speaks little for your sense or taste that you ever thought of me. Ta-ta, Mr Beecham,” I said over my shoulder with a mocking smile, and walked away. When about half-way down the orchard reflection pulled me up shortly under an apple-tree. I had said what I had said because, feeling bitter for the want of love, and because full of pain myself, I rejoiced with a sort of revenge to see the same feeling flash across another’s face. But now I was cool, and, forgetting myself, thought of Harold. I had led him on because his perpetually calm demeanour had excited in me a desire to test if it were possible to disturb him. I had thought him incapable of emotion, but he had proved himself a man of strong and deep emotion; might he not also be capable of feeling—of love? He had not been mean or nasty in his rage, and his anger had been righteous. By accepting his proposal of marriage, I had given him the right of expressing his objection to any of my actions of which he disapproved. I on my part had the liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.”<|quote|>“Why, bless me!”</|quote|>he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, | wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.”<|quote|>“Why, bless me!”</|quote|>he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on | My Brilliant Career |
he ejaculated in surprise. | No speaker | to me.” “Why, bless me!”<|quote|>he ejaculated in surprise.</|quote|>“It’s a fact. I have | uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!”<|quote|>he ejaculated in surprise.</|quote|>“It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and | “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!”<|quote|>he ejaculated in surprise.</|quote|>“It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many | didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!”<|quote|>he ejaculated in surprise.</|quote|>“It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I | so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!”<|quote|>he ejaculated in surprise.</|quote|>“It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave | it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!”<|quote|>he ejaculated in surprise.</|quote|>“It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious | no at the right time; one who will know how to dress properly; one who wouldn’t for the world do anything that other women did not also; one who will know where to buy the best groceries and who will readily sell herself to you for your wealth. That’s the sort of woman that suits men, and there are plenty of them; procure one, and don’t bother with me. I am too small and silly, and have nothing to recommend me. I fear it speaks little for your sense or taste that you ever thought of me. Ta-ta, Mr Beecham,” I said over my shoulder with a mocking smile, and walked away. When about half-way down the orchard reflection pulled me up shortly under an apple-tree. I had said what I had said because, feeling bitter for the want of love, and because full of pain myself, I rejoiced with a sort of revenge to see the same feeling flash across another’s face. But now I was cool, and, forgetting myself, thought of Harold. I had led him on because his perpetually calm demeanour had excited in me a desire to test if it were possible to disturb him. I had thought him incapable of emotion, but he had proved himself a man of strong and deep emotion; might he not also be capable of feeling—of love? He had not been mean or nasty in his rage, and his anger had been righteous. By accepting his proposal of marriage, I had given him the right of expressing his objection to any of my actions of which he disapproved. I on my part had the liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!”<|quote|>he ejaculated in surprise.</|quote|>“It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet | not also be capable of feeling—of love? He had not been mean or nasty in his rage, and his anger had been righteous. By accepting his proposal of marriage, I had given him the right of expressing his objection to any of my actions of which he disapproved. I on my part had the liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!”<|quote|>he ejaculated in surprise.</|quote|>“It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, | My Brilliant Career |
“It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” | Sybylla Melvyn | me!” he ejaculated in surprise.<|quote|>“It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.”</|quote|>“Why, bless me, didn’t you | love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise.<|quote|>“It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.”</|quote|>“Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to | something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise.<|quote|>“It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.”</|quote|>“Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till | remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise.<|quote|>“It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.”</|quote|>“Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day | so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise.<|quote|>“It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.”</|quote|>“Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a | other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise.<|quote|>“It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.”</|quote|>“Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up | time; one who will know how to dress properly; one who wouldn’t for the world do anything that other women did not also; one who will know where to buy the best groceries and who will readily sell herself to you for your wealth. That’s the sort of woman that suits men, and there are plenty of them; procure one, and don’t bother with me. I am too small and silly, and have nothing to recommend me. I fear it speaks little for your sense or taste that you ever thought of me. Ta-ta, Mr Beecham,” I said over my shoulder with a mocking smile, and walked away. When about half-way down the orchard reflection pulled me up shortly under an apple-tree. I had said what I had said because, feeling bitter for the want of love, and because full of pain myself, I rejoiced with a sort of revenge to see the same feeling flash across another’s face. But now I was cool, and, forgetting myself, thought of Harold. I had led him on because his perpetually calm demeanour had excited in me a desire to test if it were possible to disturb him. I had thought him incapable of emotion, but he had proved himself a man of strong and deep emotion; might he not also be capable of feeling—of love? He had not been mean or nasty in his rage, and his anger had been righteous. By accepting his proposal of marriage, I had given him the right of expressing his objection to any of my actions of which he disapproved. I on my part had the liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise.<|quote|>“It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.”</|quote|>“Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had | other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise.<|quote|>“It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.”</|quote|>“Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The | My Brilliant Career |
“Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” | Harold Beecham | you didn’t care a pin.”<|quote|>“Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?”</|quote|>“Oh no; and you must | see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.”<|quote|>“Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?”</|quote|>“Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting | you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.”<|quote|>“Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?”</|quote|>“Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it | in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.”<|quote|>“Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?”</|quote|>“Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take | bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.”<|quote|>“Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?”</|quote|>“Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan | Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.”<|quote|>“Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?”</|quote|>“Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after | did not also; one who will know where to buy the best groceries and who will readily sell herself to you for your wealth. That’s the sort of woman that suits men, and there are plenty of them; procure one, and don’t bother with me. I am too small and silly, and have nothing to recommend me. I fear it speaks little for your sense or taste that you ever thought of me. Ta-ta, Mr Beecham,” I said over my shoulder with a mocking smile, and walked away. When about half-way down the orchard reflection pulled me up shortly under an apple-tree. I had said what I had said because, feeling bitter for the want of love, and because full of pain myself, I rejoiced with a sort of revenge to see the same feeling flash across another’s face. But now I was cool, and, forgetting myself, thought of Harold. I had led him on because his perpetually calm demeanour had excited in me a desire to test if it were possible to disturb him. I had thought him incapable of emotion, but he had proved himself a man of strong and deep emotion; might he not also be capable of feeling—of love? He had not been mean or nasty in his rage, and his anger had been righteous. By accepting his proposal of marriage, I had given him the right of expressing his objection to any of my actions of which he disapproved. I on my part had the liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.”<|quote|>“Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?”</|quote|>“Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What | am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.”<|quote|>“Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?”</|quote|>“Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” | My Brilliant Career |
“Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” | Sybylla Melvyn | you wear my ring again?”<|quote|>“Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.”</|quote|>“Don’t you love me, Syb? | within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?”<|quote|>“Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.”</|quote|>“Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing | was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?”<|quote|>“Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.”</|quote|>“Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, | to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?”<|quote|>“Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.”</|quote|>“Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can | little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?”<|quote|>“Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.”</|quote|>“Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might | His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?”<|quote|>“Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.”</|quote|>“Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while | I fear it speaks little for your sense or taste that you ever thought of me. Ta-ta, Mr Beecham,” I said over my shoulder with a mocking smile, and walked away. When about half-way down the orchard reflection pulled me up shortly under an apple-tree. I had said what I had said because, feeling bitter for the want of love, and because full of pain myself, I rejoiced with a sort of revenge to see the same feeling flash across another’s face. But now I was cool, and, forgetting myself, thought of Harold. I had led him on because his perpetually calm demeanour had excited in me a desire to test if it were possible to disturb him. I had thought him incapable of emotion, but he had proved himself a man of strong and deep emotion; might he not also be capable of feeling—of love? He had not been mean or nasty in his rage, and his anger had been righteous. By accepting his proposal of marriage, I had given him the right of expressing his objection to any of my actions of which he disapproved. I on my part had the liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?”<|quote|>“Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.”</|quote|>“Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple | as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?”<|quote|>“Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.”</|quote|>“Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to | My Brilliant Career |
“Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” | Harold Beecham | I will try my best.”<|quote|>“Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?”</|quote|>and a pained expression came | enough to marry you, but I will try my best.”<|quote|>“Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?”</|quote|>and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, | fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.”<|quote|>“Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?”</|quote|>and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get | have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.”<|quote|>“Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?”</|quote|>and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much | sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.”<|quote|>“Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?”</|quote|>and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” | me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.”<|quote|>“Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?”</|quote|>and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my | smile, and walked away. When about half-way down the orchard reflection pulled me up shortly under an apple-tree. I had said what I had said because, feeling bitter for the want of love, and because full of pain myself, I rejoiced with a sort of revenge to see the same feeling flash across another’s face. But now I was cool, and, forgetting myself, thought of Harold. I had led him on because his perpetually calm demeanour had excited in me a desire to test if it were possible to disturb him. I had thought him incapable of emotion, but he had proved himself a man of strong and deep emotion; might he not also be capable of feeling—of love? He had not been mean or nasty in his rage, and his anger had been righteous. By accepting his proposal of marriage, I had given him the right of expressing his objection to any of my actions of which he disapproved. I on my part had the liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.”<|quote|>“Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?”</|quote|>and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some | My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.”<|quote|>“Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?”</|quote|>and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my | My Brilliant Career |
and a pained expression came upon his face. | No speaker | care a straw for me?”<|quote|>and a pained expression came upon his face.</|quote|>“Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I | be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?”<|quote|>and a pained expression came upon his face.</|quote|>“Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but | if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?”<|quote|>and a pained expression came upon his face.</|quote|>“Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it | about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?”<|quote|>and a pained expression came upon his face.</|quote|>“Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage | to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?”<|quote|>and a pained expression came upon his face.</|quote|>“Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it | play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?”<|quote|>and a pained expression came upon his face.</|quote|>“Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry | and because full of pain myself, I rejoiced with a sort of revenge to see the same feeling flash across another’s face. But now I was cool, and, forgetting myself, thought of Harold. I had led him on because his perpetually calm demeanour had excited in me a desire to test if it were possible to disturb him. I had thought him incapable of emotion, but he had proved himself a man of strong and deep emotion; might he not also be capable of feeling—of love? He had not been mean or nasty in his rage, and his anger had been righteous. By accepting his proposal of marriage, I had given him the right of expressing his objection to any of my actions of which he disapproved. I on my part had the liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?”<|quote|>and a pained expression came upon his face.</|quote|>“Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to | Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?”<|quote|>and a pained expression came upon his face.</|quote|>“Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity | My Brilliant Career |
“Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” | Sybylla Melvyn | expression came upon his face.<|quote|>“Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.”</|quote|>I looked for it, and | for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face.<|quote|>“Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.”</|quote|>I looked for it, and finding it a few steps | to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face.<|quote|>“Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.”</|quote|>I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I | kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face.<|quote|>“Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.”</|quote|>I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you | impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face.<|quote|>“Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.”</|quote|>I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am | expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face.<|quote|>“Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.”</|quote|>I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I | with a sort of revenge to see the same feeling flash across another’s face. But now I was cool, and, forgetting myself, thought of Harold. I had led him on because his perpetually calm demeanour had excited in me a desire to test if it were possible to disturb him. I had thought him incapable of emotion, but he had proved himself a man of strong and deep emotion; might he not also be capable of feeling—of love? He had not been mean or nasty in his rage, and his anger had been righteous. By accepting his proposal of marriage, I had given him the right of expressing his objection to any of my actions of which he disapproved. I on my part had the liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face.<|quote|>“Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.”</|quote|>I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a | a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face.<|quote|>“Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.”</|quote|>I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk | My Brilliant Career |
I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. | No speaker | see how we get on.”<|quote|>I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him.</|quote|>“Can you really trust me | ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.”<|quote|>I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him.</|quote|>“Can you really trust me again after seeing me get | a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.”<|quote|>I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him.</|quote|>“Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let | I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.”<|quote|>I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him.</|quote|>“Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit | word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.”<|quote|>I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him.</|quote|>“Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had | gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.”<|quote|>I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him.</|quote|>“Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only | if it were possible to disturb him. I had thought him incapable of emotion, but he had proved himself a man of strong and deep emotion; might he not also be capable of feeling—of love? He had not been mean or nasty in his rage, and his anger had been righteous. By accepting his proposal of marriage, I had given him the right of expressing his objection to any of my actions of which he disapproved. I on my part had the liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.”<|quote|>I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him.</|quote|>“Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him | I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.”<|quote|>I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him.</|quote|>“Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like | My Brilliant Career |
“Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” | Harold Beecham | away, gave it to him.<|quote|>“Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,”</|quote|>he said. “Believe me, Hal, | finding it a few steps away, gave it to him.<|quote|>“Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,”</|quote|>he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much | you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him.<|quote|>“Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,”</|quote|>he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan | best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him.<|quote|>“Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,”</|quote|>he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could | I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him.<|quote|>“Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,”</|quote|>he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- | said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him.<|quote|>“Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,”</|quote|>he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so | he had proved himself a man of strong and deep emotion; might he not also be capable of feeling—of love? He had not been mean or nasty in his rage, and his anger had been righteous. By accepting his proposal of marriage, I had given him the right of expressing his objection to any of my actions of which he disapproved. I on my part had the liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him.<|quote|>“Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,”</|quote|>he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks | “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him.<|quote|>“Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,”</|quote|>he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, | My Brilliant Career |
he said. | No speaker | often do that, you know,”<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>“Believe me, Hal, I liked | beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,”<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>“Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish | your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,”<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>“Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows | be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,”<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>“Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy | was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,”<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>“Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less | me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,”<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>“Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as | mean or nasty in his rage, and his anger had been righteous. By accepting his proposal of marriage, I had given him the right of expressing his objection to any of my actions of which he disapproved. I on my part had the liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,”<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>“Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit | something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,”<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>“Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were | My Brilliant Career |
“Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” | Sybylla Melvyn | that, you know,” he said.<|quote|>“Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.”</|quote|>“But I have a frightful | a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said.<|quote|>“Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.”</|quote|>“But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what | Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said.<|quote|>“Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.”</|quote|>“But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having | that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said.<|quote|>“Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.”</|quote|>“But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what | to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said.<|quote|>“Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.”</|quote|>“But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday | was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said.<|quote|>“Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.”</|quote|>“But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is | nasty in his rage, and his anger had been righteous. By accepting his proposal of marriage, I had given him the right of expressing his objection to any of my actions of which he disapproved. I on my part had the liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said.<|quote|>“Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.”</|quote|>“But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the | been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said.<|quote|>“Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.”</|quote|>“But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying | My Brilliant Career |
“But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” | Harold Beecham | away—they cramp and bore me.”<|quote|>“But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?”</|quote|>“No fear,” I laughed; “I | in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.”<|quote|>“But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?”</|quote|>“No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit | rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.”<|quote|>“But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?”</|quote|>“No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never | if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.”<|quote|>“But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?”</|quote|>“No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning | now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.”<|quote|>“But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?”</|quote|>“No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, | Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.”<|quote|>“But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?”</|quote|>“No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman | liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.”<|quote|>“But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?”</|quote|>“No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at | “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.”<|quote|>“But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?”</|quote|>“No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to | My Brilliant Career |
“No fear,” | Sybylla Melvyn | not be frightened of me?”<|quote|>“No fear,”</|quote|>I laughed; “I would defy | in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?”<|quote|>“No fear,”</|quote|>I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as | a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?”<|quote|>“No fear,”</|quote|>I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it | finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?”<|quote|>“No fear,”</|quote|>I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of | you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?”<|quote|>“No fear,”</|quote|>I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it | I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?”<|quote|>“No fear,”</|quote|>I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the | when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?”<|quote|>“No fear,”</|quote|>I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but | had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?”<|quote|>“No fear,”</|quote|>I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would | My Brilliant Career |
I laughed; | No speaker | frightened of me?” “No fear,”<|quote|>I laughed;</|quote|>“I would defy you.” “A | yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,”<|quote|>I laughed;</|quote|>“I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy | again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,”<|quote|>I laughed;</|quote|>“I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I | a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,”<|quote|>I laughed;</|quote|>“I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle | to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,”<|quote|>I laughed;</|quote|>“I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a | you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,”<|quote|>I laughed;</|quote|>“I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and | man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,”<|quote|>I laughed;</|quote|>“I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t | mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,”<|quote|>I laughed;</|quote|>“I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May | My Brilliant Career |
“I would defy you.” | Sybylla Melvyn | me?” “No fear,” I laughed;<|quote|>“I would defy you.”</|quote|>“A tomtit might as well | you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed;<|quote|>“I would defy you.”</|quote|>“A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with | can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed;<|quote|>“I would defy you.”</|quote|>“A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do | steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed;<|quote|>“I would defy you.”</|quote|>“A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer | you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed;<|quote|>“I would defy you.”</|quote|>“A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on | mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed;<|quote|>“I would defy you.”</|quote|>“A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will | love was rejected or spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed;<|quote|>“I would defy you.”</|quote|>“A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button | to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed;<|quote|>“I would defy you.”</|quote|>“A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to | My Brilliant Career |
“A tomtit might as well defy me,” | Harold Beecham | laughed; “I would defy you.”<|quote|>“A tomtit might as well defy me,”</|quote|>he said with amusement. “Well, | of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.”<|quote|>“A tomtit might as well defy me,”</|quote|>he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a | never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.”<|quote|>“A tomtit might as well defy me,”</|quote|>he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I | to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.”<|quote|>“A tomtit might as well defy me,”</|quote|>he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom | try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.”<|quote|>“A tomtit might as well defy me,”</|quote|>he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, | the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.”<|quote|>“A tomtit might as well defy me,”</|quote|>he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s | spurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.”<|quote|>“A tomtit might as well defy me,”</|quote|>he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their | tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.”<|quote|>“A tomtit might as well defy me,”</|quote|>he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would | My Brilliant Career |
he said with amusement. | No speaker | might as well defy me,”<|quote|>he said with amusement.</|quote|>“Well, big as you are, | would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,”<|quote|>he said with amusement.</|quote|>“Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior | have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,”<|quote|>he said with amusement.</|quote|>“Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are | again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,”<|quote|>he said with amusement.</|quote|>“Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and | Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,”<|quote|>he said with amusement.</|quote|>“Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much | I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,”<|quote|>he said with amusement.</|quote|>“Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve | really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,”<|quote|>he said with amusement.</|quote|>“Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine | mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,”<|quote|>he said with amusement.</|quote|>“Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite | My Brilliant Career |
“Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” | Sybylla Melvyn | me,” he said with amusement.<|quote|>“Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,”</|quote|>I replied. “Yes, unless it | tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement.<|quote|>“Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,”</|quote|>I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But | to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement.<|quote|>“Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,”</|quote|>I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very | get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement.<|quote|>“Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,”</|quote|>I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to | of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement.<|quote|>“Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,”</|quote|>I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle | in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement.<|quote|>“Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,”</|quote|>I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: | I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement.<|quote|>“Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,”</|quote|>I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on | if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement.<|quote|>“Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,”</|quote|>I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable | My Brilliant Career |
I replied. | No speaker | about could easily defy you,”<|quote|>I replied.</|quote|>“Yes, unless it was caged,” | such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,”<|quote|>I replied.</|quote|>“Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you | I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,”<|quote|>I replied.</|quote|>“Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I | me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,”<|quote|>I replied.</|quote|>“Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis | you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,”<|quote|>I replied.</|quote|>“Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it | to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,”<|quote|>I replied.</|quote|>“Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, | was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,”<|quote|>I replied.</|quote|>“Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long | horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,”<|quote|>I replied.</|quote|>“Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by | My Brilliant Career |
“Yes, unless it was caged,” | Harold Beecham | easily defy you,” I replied.<|quote|>“Yes, unless it was caged,”</|quote|>he said. “But supposing you | facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied.<|quote|>“Yes, unless it was caged,”</|quote|>he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I | do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied.<|quote|>“Yes, unless it was caged,”</|quote|>he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I | I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied.<|quote|>“Yes, unless it was caged,”</|quote|>he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just | care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied.<|quote|>“Yes, unless it was caged,”</|quote|>he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my | afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied.<|quote|>“Yes, unless it was caged,”</|quote|>he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! | what right had I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied.<|quote|>“Yes, unless it was caged,”</|quote|>he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common | have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied.<|quote|>“Yes, unless it was caged,”</|quote|>he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” | My Brilliant Career |
he said. | No speaker | “Yes, unless it was caged,”<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>“But supposing you never got | easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,”<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>“But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, | you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,”<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>“But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able | I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,”<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>“But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, | and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,”<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>“But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to | to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,”<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>“But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, | constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,”<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>“But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for | I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,”<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>“But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a | My Brilliant Career |
“But supposing you never got it caged,” | Sybylla Melvyn | it was caged,” he said.<|quote|>“But supposing you never got it caged,”</|quote|>I returned. “Syb, what do | you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said.<|quote|>“But supposing you never got it caged,”</|quote|>I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I | be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said.<|quote|>“But supposing you never got it caged,”</|quote|>I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my | you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said.<|quote|>“But supposing you never got it caged,”</|quote|>I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their | pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said.<|quote|>“But supposing you never got it caged,”</|quote|>I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about | chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said.<|quote|>“But supposing you never got it caged,”</|quote|>I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss | his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said.<|quote|>“But supposing you never got it caged,”</|quote|>I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat | of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said.<|quote|>“But supposing you never got it caged,”</|quote|>I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that | My Brilliant Career |
I returned. | No speaker | you never got it caged,”<|quote|>I returned.</|quote|>“Syb, what do you mean?” | caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,”<|quote|>I returned.</|quote|>“Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I | laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,”<|quote|>I returned.</|quote|>“Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” | I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,”<|quote|>I returned.</|quote|>“Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold | Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,”<|quote|>I returned.</|quote|>“Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and | “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,”<|quote|>I returned.</|quote|>“Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, | own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,”<|quote|>I returned.</|quote|>“Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to | again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,”<|quote|>I returned.</|quote|>“Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed | My Brilliant Career |
“Syb, what do you mean?” | Harold Beecham | got it caged,” I returned.<|quote|>“Syb, what do you mean?”</|quote|>“What could I mean?” “I | said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned.<|quote|>“Syb, what do you mean?”</|quote|>“What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always | would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned.<|quote|>“Syb, what do you mean?”</|quote|>“What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had | bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned.<|quote|>“Syb, what do you mean?”</|quote|>“What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his | afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned.<|quote|>“Syb, what do you mean?”</|quote|>“What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to | to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned.<|quote|>“Syb, what do you mean?”</|quote|>“What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! | the responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned.<|quote|>“Syb, what do you mean?”</|quote|>“What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, | afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned.<|quote|>“Syb, what do you mean?”</|quote|>“What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so | My Brilliant Career |
“What could I mean?” | Sybylla Melvyn | “Syb, what do you mean?”<|quote|>“What could I mean?”</|quote|>“I don’t know. There are | got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?”<|quote|>“What could I mean?”</|quote|>“I don’t know. There are always about four or five | might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?”<|quote|>“What could I mean?”</|quote|>“I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the | themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?”<|quote|>“What could I mean?”</|quote|>“I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while | you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?”<|quote|>“What could I mean?”</|quote|>“I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the | I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?”<|quote|>“What could I mean?”</|quote|>“I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, | I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?”<|quote|>“What could I mean?”</|quote|>“I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his | and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?”<|quote|>“What could I mean?”</|quote|>“I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had | My Brilliant Career |
“I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” | Harold Beecham | mean?” “What could I mean?”<|quote|>“I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.”</|quote|>“Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You | returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?”<|quote|>“I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.”</|quote|>“Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I | me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?”<|quote|>“I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.”</|quote|>“Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, | who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?”<|quote|>“I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.”</|quote|>“Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was | me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?”<|quote|>“I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.”</|quote|>“Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last | more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?”<|quote|>“I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.”</|quote|>“Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, | my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?”<|quote|>“I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.”</|quote|>“Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment | possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?”<|quote|>“I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.”</|quote|>“Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you | My Brilliant Career |
“Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” | Harold Beecham | meanings in what you say.”<|quote|>“Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.”</|quote|>The glorious summer day had | always about four or five meanings in what you say.”<|quote|>“Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.”</|quote|>The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom | facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.”<|quote|>“Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.”</|quote|>The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold | have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.”<|quote|>“Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.”</|quote|>The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. | like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.”<|quote|>“Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.”</|quote|>The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk | “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.”<|quote|>“Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.”</|quote|>The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the | to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.”<|quote|>“Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.”</|quote|>The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains | to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.”<|quote|>“Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.”</|quote|>The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book | My Brilliant Career |
The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: | No speaker | out of my idle gabble.”<|quote|>The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper:</|quote|>“Now that I know you | able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.”<|quote|>The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper:</|quote|>“Now that I know you care, I will not annoy | “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.”<|quote|>The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper:</|quote|>“Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When | would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.”<|quote|>The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper:</|quote|>“Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, | away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.”<|quote|>The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper:</|quote|>“Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by | in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.”<|quote|>The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper:</|quote|>“Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me | makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham. I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal. His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me approach. My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.”<|quote|>The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper:</|quote|>“Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, | cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.”<|quote|>The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper:</|quote|>“Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but | My Brilliant Career |
“Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” | Sybylla Melvyn | stooping to hear me whisper:<|quote|>“Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.”</|quote|>“Don’t talk like that. I | last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper:<|quote|>“Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.”</|quote|>“Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the | it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper:<|quote|>“Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.”</|quote|>“Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel | enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper:<|quote|>“Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.”</|quote|>“Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, | I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper:<|quote|>“Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.”</|quote|>“Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, | till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper:<|quote|>“Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.”</|quote|>“Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. | cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp. “Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper:<|quote|>“Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.”</|quote|>“Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had | defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper:<|quote|>“Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.”</|quote|>“Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting | My Brilliant Career |
“Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” | Harold Beecham | you any more by flirting.”<|quote|>“Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?”</|quote|>“No. That is the very | care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.”<|quote|>“Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?”</|quote|>“No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” | tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.”<|quote|>“Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?”</|quote|>“No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry | a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.”<|quote|>“Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?”</|quote|>“No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! | idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.”<|quote|>“Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?”</|quote|>“No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very | few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.”<|quote|>“Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?”</|quote|>“No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and | so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: “Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.”<|quote|>“Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?”</|quote|>“No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he | and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.”<|quote|>“Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?”</|quote|>“No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, | My Brilliant Career |
“No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” | Sybylla Melvyn | in such an infernal rage?”<|quote|>“No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!”</|quote|>“Good night,” he replied, taking | detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?”<|quote|>“No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!”</|quote|>“Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. | you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?”<|quote|>“No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!”</|quote|>“Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. | an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?”<|quote|>“No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!”</|quote|>“Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” | banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?”<|quote|>“No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!”</|quote|>“Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What | and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?”<|quote|>“No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!”</|quote|>“Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a | you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?”<|quote|>“No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!”</|quote|>“Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. | and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?”<|quote|>“No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!”</|quote|>“Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called | My Brilliant Career |
“Good night,” | Harold Beecham | thing I liked. Good night!”<|quote|>“Good night,”</|quote|>he replied, taking both my | “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!”<|quote|>“Good night,”</|quote|>he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are | selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!”<|quote|>“Good night,”</|quote|>he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it | to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!”<|quote|>“Good night,”</|quote|>he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat | it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!”<|quote|>“Good night,”</|quote|>he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day | only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!”<|quote|>“Good night,”</|quote|>he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They | little woman.” “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!”<|quote|>“Good night,”</|quote|>he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had | with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!”<|quote|>“Good night,”</|quote|>he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the | My Brilliant Career |
he replied, taking both my hands in his. | No speaker | liked. Good night!” “Good night,”<|quote|>he replied, taking both my hands in his.</|quote|>“You are the best little | is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,”<|quote|>he replied, taking both my hands in his.</|quote|>“You are the best little woman in the world, and | that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,”<|quote|>he replied, taking both my hands in his.</|quote|>“You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! | me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,”<|quote|>he replied, taking both my hands in his.</|quote|>“You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long | done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,”<|quote|>he replied, taking both my hands in his.</|quote|>“You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw | what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,”<|quote|>he replied, taking both my hands in his.</|quote|>“You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir | “Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?” “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,”<|quote|>he replied, taking both my hands in his.</|quote|>“You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a | it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,”<|quote|>he replied, taking both my hands in his.</|quote|>“You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was | My Brilliant Career |
“You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” | Harold Beecham | both my hands in his.<|quote|>“You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.”</|quote|>“It’s to be hoped you’ve | “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his.<|quote|>“You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.”</|quote|>“It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry | how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his.<|quote|>“You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.”</|quote|>“It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, | I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his.<|quote|>“You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.”</|quote|>“It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed | Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his.<|quote|>“You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.”</|quote|>“It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in | you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his.<|quote|>“You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.”</|quote|>“It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save | “There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.” “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his.<|quote|>“You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.”</|quote|>“It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on | I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his.<|quote|>“You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.”</|quote|>“It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad | My Brilliant Career |
“It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” | Archie Goodchum | all your other birthdays together.”<|quote|>“It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,”</|quote|>said Goodchum. Then it was: | I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.”<|quote|>“It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,”</|quote|>said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good | detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.”<|quote|>“It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,”</|quote|>said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good | Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.”<|quote|>“It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,”</|quote|>said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had | it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.”<|quote|>“It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,”</|quote|>said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging | me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.”<|quote|>“It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,”</|quote|>said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham | “But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us start afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.”<|quote|>“It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,”</|quote|>said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his | a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.”<|quote|>“It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,”</|quote|>said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he | My Brilliant Career |
said Goodchum. Then it was: | No speaker | than he was this afternoon,”<|quote|>said Goodchum. Then it was:</|quote|>“Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good | make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,”<|quote|>said Goodchum. Then it was:</|quote|>“Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! | Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,”<|quote|>said Goodchum. Then it was:</|quote|>“Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long | quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,”<|quote|>said Goodchum. Then it was:</|quote|>“Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. | was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,”<|quote|>said Goodchum. Then it was:</|quote|>“Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very | about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,”<|quote|>said Goodchum. Then it was:</|quote|>“Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on | afresh.” “How do you mean to start afresh?” “I mean for us to be chums again.” “Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.” “Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied. “How? What do you mean?” “I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,”<|quote|>said Goodchum. Then it was:</|quote|>“Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered | hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,”<|quote|>said Goodchum. Then it was:</|quote|>“Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the | My Brilliant Career |
I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, | No speaker | Miss Melvyn! Good night all!”<|quote|>I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying,</|quote|>“Hal, we are quits,” when, | Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!”<|quote|>I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying,</|quote|>“Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, | Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!”<|quote|>I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying,</|quote|>“Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw | “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!”<|quote|>I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying,</|quote|>“Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some | to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!”<|quote|>I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying,</|quote|>“Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They | must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!”<|quote|>I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying,</|quote|>“Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was | to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me.” “Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise. “It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.” “Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!”<|quote|>I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying,</|quote|>“Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow | with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!”<|quote|>I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying,</|quote|>“Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his | My Brilliant Career |
“Hal, we are quits,” | Sybylla Melvyn | a joyous little laugh, saying,<|quote|>“Hal, we are quits,”</|quote|>when, on disrobing for the | affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying,<|quote|>“Hal, we are quits,”</|quote|>when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my | thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying,<|quote|>“Hal, we are quits,”</|quote|>when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on | Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying,<|quote|>“Hal, we are quits,”</|quote|>when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing | how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying,<|quote|>“Hal, we are quits,”</|quote|>when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful | ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying,<|quote|>“Hal, we are quits,”</|quote|>when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus | about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying,<|quote|>“Hal, we are quits,”</|quote|>when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I | You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying,<|quote|>“Hal, we are quits,”</|quote|>when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and | My Brilliant Career |
when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that | No speaker | saying, “Hal, we are quits,”<|quote|>when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that</|quote|>“It looks a bit dotty.” | laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,”<|quote|>when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that</|quote|>“It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I | ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,”<|quote|>when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that</|quote|>“It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives | night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,”<|quote|>when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that</|quote|>“It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham | and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,”<|quote|>when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that</|quote|>“It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and | gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,”<|quote|>when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that</|quote|>“It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and | have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?” “Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.” “Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face. “Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him. “Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,”<|quote|>when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that</|quote|>“It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The | you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,”<|quote|>when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that</|quote|>“It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him | My Brilliant Career |
“It looks a bit dotty.” | Harold Beecham | matter with it, only that<|quote|>“It looks a bit dotty.”</|quote|>“Men are queer creatures,” I | make out what was the matter with it, only that<|quote|>“It looks a bit dotty.”</|quote|>“Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most | he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that<|quote|>“It looks a bit dotty.”</|quote|>“Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can | to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that<|quote|>“It looks a bit dotty.”</|quote|>“Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on | feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that<|quote|>“It looks a bit dotty.”</|quote|>“Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as | quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that<|quote|>“It looks a bit dotty.”</|quote|>“Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was | you know,” he said. “Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that<|quote|>“It looks a bit dotty.”</|quote|>“Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly | long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that<|quote|>“It looks a bit dotty.”</|quote|>“Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared | My Brilliant Career |
“Men are queer creatures,” | Sybylla Melvyn | “It looks a bit dotty.”<|quote|>“Men are queer creatures,”</|quote|>I returned. “They have the | matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.”<|quote|>“Men are queer creatures,”</|quote|>I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some | me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.”<|quote|>“Men are queer creatures,”</|quote|>I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature | much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.”<|quote|>“Men are queer creatures,”</|quote|>I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon | I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.”<|quote|>“Men are queer creatures,”</|quote|>I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the | When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.”<|quote|>“Men are queer creatures,”</|quote|>I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts | me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.”<|quote|>“Men are queer creatures,”</|quote|>I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad | of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.”<|quote|>“Men are queer creatures,”</|quote|>I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents | My Brilliant Career |
I returned. | No speaker | dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,”<|quote|>I returned.</|quote|>“They have the most wonderful | that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,”<|quote|>I returned.</|quote|>“They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but | sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,”<|quote|>I returned.</|quote|>“They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water | book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,”<|quote|>I returned.</|quote|>“They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been | little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,”<|quote|>I returned.</|quote|>“They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There | you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,”<|quote|>I returned.</|quote|>“They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an | it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,”<|quote|>I returned.</|quote|>“They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping | to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,”<|quote|>I returned.</|quote|>“They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had | My Brilliant Career |
“They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” | Sybylla Melvyn | are queer creatures,” I returned.<|quote|>“They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.”</|quote|>I cannot imagine how the | looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned.<|quote|>“They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.”</|quote|>I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for | as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned.<|quote|>“They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.”</|quote|>I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for | some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned.<|quote|>“They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.”</|quote|>I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that | saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned.<|quote|>“They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.”</|quote|>I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented | see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned.<|quote|>“They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.”</|quote|>I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other | much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.” “But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?” “No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.” “A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned.<|quote|>“They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.”</|quote|>I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she | both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned.<|quote|>“They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.”</|quote|>I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He | My Brilliant Career |
I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a | No speaker | hair to save their life.”<|quote|>I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a</|quote|>“lucky beggar” , and envied | a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.”<|quote|>I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a</|quote|>“lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, | to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.”<|quote|>I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a</|quote|>“lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had | to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.”<|quote|>I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a</|quote|>“lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed | half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.”<|quote|>I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a</|quote|>“lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his | be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.”<|quote|>I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a</|quote|>“lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought | said with amusement. “Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you,” I replied. “Yes, unless it was caged,” he said. “But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned. “Syb, what do you mean?” “What could I mean?” “I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say.” “Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.” The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter. My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.”<|quote|>I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a</|quote|>“lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, | were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.”<|quote|>I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a</|quote|>“lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of | My Brilliant Career |
“lucky beggar” | No speaker | looked upon as such a<|quote|>“lucky beggar”</|quote|>, and envied as a | it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a<|quote|>“lucky beggar”</|quote|>, and envied as a pet of fortune, had been | investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a<|quote|>“lucky beggar”</|quote|>, and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him | penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a<|quote|>“lucky beggar”</|quote|>, and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this | once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a<|quote|>“lucky beggar”</|quote|>, and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with | 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a<|quote|>“lucky beggar”</|quote|>, and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be | saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a<|quote|>“lucky beggar”</|quote|>, and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! | was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a<|quote|>“lucky beggar”</|quote|>, and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with | My Brilliant Career |
, and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent | No speaker | as such a “lucky beggar”<|quote|>, and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent</|quote|>“going bung” of a building | that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar”<|quote|>, and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent</|quote|>“going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run | and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar”<|quote|>, and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent</|quote|>“going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and | have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar”<|quote|>, and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent</|quote|>“going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, | they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar”<|quote|>, and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent</|quote|>“going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a | December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar”<|quote|>, and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent</|quote|>“going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I | contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics. I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper: “Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.” “Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar”<|quote|>, and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent</|quote|>“going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him | of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar”<|quote|>, and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent</|quote|>“going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked | My Brilliant Career |
“going bung” | No speaker | mire, and now the recent<|quote|>“going bung”</|quote|>of a building society—his sole | pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent<|quote|>“going bung”</|quote|>of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely | his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent<|quote|>“going bung”</|quote|>of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped | by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent<|quote|>“going bung”</|quote|>of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the | reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent<|quote|>“going bung”</|quote|>of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. | and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent<|quote|>“going bung”</|quote|>of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him | moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent<|quote|>“going bung”</|quote|>of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a | soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent<|quote|>“going bung”</|quote|>of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” | My Brilliant Career |
of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. | No speaker | now the recent “going bung”<|quote|>of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines.</|quote|>“Oh, Harold, I am so | farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung”<|quote|>of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines.</|quote|>“Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed | property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung”<|quote|>of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines.</|quote|>“Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its | unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung”<|quote|>of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines.</|quote|>“Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to | that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung”<|quote|>of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines.</|quote|>“Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you | him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung”<|quote|>of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines.</|quote|>“Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they | yourself as much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?” “No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!” “Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together.” “It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was: “Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung”<|quote|>of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines.</|quote|>“Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It | to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung”<|quote|>of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines.</|quote|>“Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely | My Brilliant Career |
“Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” | Sybylla Melvyn | labourer was pretty hard lines.<|quote|>“Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!”</|quote|>I managed to stammer at | suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines.<|quote|>“Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!”</|quote|>I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. | man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines.<|quote|>“Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!”</|quote|>I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride | personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines.<|quote|>“Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!”</|quote|>I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for | or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines.<|quote|>“Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!”</|quote|>I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the | for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines.<|quote|>“Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!”</|quote|>I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first | night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines.<|quote|>“Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!”</|quote|>I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man | it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines.<|quote|>“Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!”</|quote|>I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as | My Brilliant Career |
I managed to stammer at last. | No speaker | am so sorry for you!”<|quote|>I managed to stammer at last.</|quote|>“Don’t worry about me. There’s | hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!”<|quote|>I managed to stammer at last.</|quote|>“Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled | of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!”<|quote|>I managed to stammer at last.</|quote|>“Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold | his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!”<|quote|>I managed to stammer at last.</|quote|>“Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is | great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!”<|quote|>I managed to stammer at last.</|quote|>“Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before | purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!”<|quote|>I managed to stammer at last.</|quote|>“Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him | Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!”<|quote|>I managed to stammer at last.</|quote|>“Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as | After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!”<|quote|>I managed to stammer at last.</|quote|>“Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a | My Brilliant Career |
“Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” | Harold Beecham | managed to stammer at last.<|quote|>“Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,”</|quote|>he said, drawing his splendid | so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last.<|quote|>“Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,”</|quote|>he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, | deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last.<|quote|>“Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,”</|quote|>he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his | on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last.<|quote|>“Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,”</|quote|>he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the | ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last.<|quote|>“Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,”</|quote|>he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his | me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last.<|quote|>“Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,”</|quote|>he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human | Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!” I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last.<|quote|>“Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,”</|quote|>he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went | sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last.<|quote|>“Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,”</|quote|>he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just | My Brilliant Career |
he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. | No speaker | stand in my boots today,”<|quote|>he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him.</|quote|>“Syb, I have been expecting | give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,”<|quote|>he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him.</|quote|>“Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now | equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,”<|quote|>he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him.</|quote|>“Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me | to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,”<|quote|>he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him.</|quote|>“Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let | year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,”<|quote|>he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him.</|quote|>“Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me | me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,”<|quote|>he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him.</|quote|>“Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these | by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affections after all. I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,”<|quote|>he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him.</|quote|>“Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which | for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,”<|quote|>he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him.</|quote|>“Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let | My Brilliant Career |
“Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” | Harold Beecham | a great blow to him.<|quote|>“Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.”</|quote|>I sat and wondered at | his home, must have been a great blow to him.<|quote|>“Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.”</|quote|>I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the | height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him.<|quote|>“Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.”</|quote|>I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, | Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him.<|quote|>“Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.”</|quote|>I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to | estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him.<|quote|>“Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.”</|quote|>I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned | of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him.<|quote|>“Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.”</|quote|>I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one | are quits,” when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black. It had been a very happy day for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December. There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road. In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him.<|quote|>“Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.”</|quote|>I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was | I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him.<|quote|>“Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.”</|quote|>I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, | My Brilliant Career |
I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. | No speaker | to had you let me.”<|quote|>I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow.</|quote|>“Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though | as I would have tried to had you let me.”<|quote|>I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow.</|quote|>“Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if | I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.”<|quote|>I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow.</|quote|>“Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along | I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.”<|quote|>I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow.</|quote|>“Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I | I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.”<|quote|>I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow.</|quote|>“Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. | years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.”<|quote|>I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow.</|quote|>“Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence | seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.”<|quote|>I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow.</|quote|>“Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what I had said to him the Sunday before. Grannie, strange to say, never suspected | pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.”<|quote|>I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow.</|quote|>“Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a | My Brilliant Career |
“Good-bye, Syb,” | Harold Beecham | found betrayal on his brow.<|quote|>“Good-bye, Syb,”</|quote|>he said; “though I’m a | suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow.<|quote|>“Good-bye, Syb,”</|quote|>he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could | I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow.<|quote|>“Good-bye, Syb,”</|quote|>he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his | of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow.<|quote|>“Good-bye, Syb,”</|quote|>he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and | said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow.<|quote|>“Good-bye, Syb,”</|quote|>he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the | and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow.<|quote|>“Good-bye, Syb,”</|quote|>he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran | I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow.<|quote|>“Good-bye, Syb,”</|quote|>he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what I had said to him the Sunday before. Grannie, strange to say, never suspected that there | estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow.<|quote|>“Good-bye, Syb,”</|quote|>he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold | My Brilliant Career |
he said; | No speaker | on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,”<|quote|>he said;</|quote|>“though I’m a nobody now, | he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,”<|quote|>he said;</|quote|>“though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be | have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,”<|quote|>he said;</|quote|>“though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders | If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,”<|quote|>he said;</|quote|>“though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was | his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,”<|quote|>he said;</|quote|>“though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness | failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,”<|quote|>he said;</|quote|>“though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as | as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,”<|quote|>he said;</|quote|>“though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what I had said to him the Sunday before. Grannie, strange to say, never suspected that there was likely | lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,”<|quote|>he said;</|quote|>“though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business | My Brilliant Career |
“though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” | Harold Beecham | brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said;<|quote|>“though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.”</|quote|>I remember him wringing the | troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said;<|quote|>“though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.”</|quote|>I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched | to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said;<|quote|>“though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.”</|quote|>I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was | didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said;<|quote|>“though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.”</|quote|>I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, | figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said;<|quote|>“though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.”</|quote|>I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would | the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said;<|quote|>“though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.”</|quote|>I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard | asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking. My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said;<|quote|>“though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.”</|quote|>I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what I had said to him the Sunday before. Grannie, strange to say, never suspected that there was likely to be anything between us. Harold was so undemonstrative, and had always come and gone as he liked at Caddagat: | remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said;<|quote|>“though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.”</|quote|>I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear | My Brilliant Career |
I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. | No speaker | be afraid to ask me.”<|quote|>I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed.</|quote|>“Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come | of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.”<|quote|>I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed.</|quote|>“Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want | crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.”<|quote|>I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed.</|quote|>“Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are | you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.”<|quote|>I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed.</|quote|>“Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I | a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.”<|quote|>I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed.</|quote|>“Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in | recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.”<|quote|>I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed.</|quote|>“Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had | it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it, only that “It looks a bit dotty.” “Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s hair to save their life.” I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time. He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up. Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at me as I reclined in the hammock. There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.”<|quote|>I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed.</|quote|>“Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what I had said to him the Sunday before. Grannie, strange to say, never suspected that there was likely to be anything between us. Harold was so undemonstrative, and had always come and gone as he liked at Caddagat: she overlooked the possibility of his being a lover, and in our intercourse allowed us almost the freedom of sister and brother or cousins. On this particular afternoon, after we had talked to grannie for a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said. “Certainly,” I replied. “That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.” Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me. “Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.” I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man, and so studied to express myself in a way which would not for an instant give him the impression that I was promising to marry him because—what I don’t know and it doesn’t matter much, but I said: “Hal, don’t you think it is a little selfish of you to want to throw me over just because you have lost your money? You are young, healthy, have good character and influential connections, and plenty of good practical ability and sense, so, surely, you will know no such thing as failure if you meet the world bravely. Go and be the | to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.”<|quote|>I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed.</|quote|>“Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was | My Brilliant Career |
“Hal, Hal!” | Sybylla Melvyn | just as he had passed.<|quote|>“Hal, Hal!”</|quote|>I called. “Come back, come | fence in a breathless state just as he had passed.<|quote|>“Hal, Hal!”</|quote|>I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He | a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed.<|quote|>“Hal, Hal!”</|quote|>I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or | and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed.<|quote|>“Hal, Hal!”</|quote|>I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I | it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed.<|quote|>“Hal, Hal!”</|quote|>I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, | give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed.<|quote|>“Hal, Hal!”</|quote|>I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. | to mither a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed.<|quote|>“Hal, Hal!”</|quote|>I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what I had said to him the Sunday before. Grannie, strange to say, never suspected that there was likely to be anything between us. Harold was so undemonstrative, and had always come and gone as he liked at Caddagat: she overlooked the possibility of his being a lover, and in our intercourse allowed us almost the freedom of sister and brother or cousins. On this particular afternoon, after we had talked to grannie for a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said. “Certainly,” I replied. “That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.” Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me. “Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.” I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man, and so studied to express myself in a way which would not for an instant give him the impression that I was promising to marry him because—what I don’t know and it doesn’t matter much, but I said: “Hal, don’t you think it is a little selfish of you to want to throw me over just because you have lost your money? You are young, healthy, have good character and influential connections, and plenty of good practical ability and sense, so, surely, you will know no such thing as failure if you meet the world bravely. Go and be the man you | be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed.<|quote|>“Hal, Hal!”</|quote|>I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, | My Brilliant Career |
I called. | No speaker | he had passed. “Hal, Hal!”<|quote|>I called.</|quote|>“Come back, come back! I | a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!”<|quote|>I called.</|quote|>“Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his | cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!”<|quote|>I called.</|quote|>“Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for | of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!”<|quote|>I called.</|quote|>“Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and | dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!”<|quote|>I called.</|quote|>“Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed | all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!”<|quote|>I called.</|quote|>“Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great | a Barcoo lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!”<|quote|>I called.</|quote|>“Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what I had said to him the Sunday before. Grannie, strange to say, never suspected that there was likely to be anything between us. Harold was so undemonstrative, and had always come and gone as he liked at Caddagat: she overlooked the possibility of his being a lover, and in our intercourse allowed us almost the freedom of sister and brother or cousins. On this particular afternoon, after we had talked to grannie for a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said. “Certainly,” I replied. “That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.” Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me. “Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.” I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man, and so studied to express myself in a way which would not for an instant give him the impression that I was promising to marry him because—what I don’t know and it doesn’t matter much, but I said: “Hal, don’t you think it is a little selfish of you to want to throw me over just because you have lost your money? You are young, healthy, have good character and influential connections, and plenty of good practical ability and sense, so, surely, you will know no such thing as failure if you meet the world bravely. Go and be the man you are; and | suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!”<|quote|>I called.</|quote|>“Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world | My Brilliant Career |
“Come back, come back! I want you.” | Sybylla Melvyn | passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called.<|quote|>“Come back, come back! I want you.”</|quote|>He turned his horse slowly. | state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called.<|quote|>“Come back, come back! I want you.”</|quote|>He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” | the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called.<|quote|>“Come back, come back! I want you.”</|quote|>He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want | being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called.<|quote|>“Come back, come back! I want you.”</|quote|>He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence | me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called.<|quote|>“Come back, come back! I want you.”</|quote|>He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, | of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called.<|quote|>“Come back, come back! I want you.”</|quote|>He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer | lawyer. The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called.<|quote|>“Come back, come back! I want you.”</|quote|>He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what I had said to him the Sunday before. Grannie, strange to say, never suspected that there was likely to be anything between us. Harold was so undemonstrative, and had always come and gone as he liked at Caddagat: she overlooked the possibility of his being a lover, and in our intercourse allowed us almost the freedom of sister and brother or cousins. On this particular afternoon, after we had talked to grannie for a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said. “Certainly,” I replied. “That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.” Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me. “Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.” I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man, and so studied to express myself in a way which would not for an instant give him the impression that I was promising to marry him because—what I don’t know and it doesn’t matter much, but I said: “Hal, don’t you think it is a little selfish of you to want to throw me over just because you have lost your money? You are young, healthy, have good character and influential connections, and plenty of good practical ability and sense, so, surely, you will know no such thing as failure if you meet the world bravely. Go and be the man you are; and if you fail, when I am twenty-one | waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called.<|quote|>“Come back, come back! I want you.”</|quote|>He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in | My Brilliant Career |
He turned his horse slowly. | No speaker | come back! I want you.”<|quote|>He turned his horse slowly.</|quote|>“Well, Syb, what is it?” | Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.”<|quote|>He turned his horse slowly.</|quote|>“Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I | road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.”<|quote|>He turned his horse slowly.</|quote|>“Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you | Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.”<|quote|>He turned his horse slowly.</|quote|>“Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast | was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.”<|quote|>He turned his horse slowly.</|quote|>“Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, | of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.”<|quote|>He turned his horse slowly.</|quote|>“Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as | I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.”<|quote|>He turned his horse slowly.</|quote|>“Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what I had said to him the Sunday before. Grannie, strange to say, never suspected that there was likely to be anything between us. Harold was so undemonstrative, and had always come and gone as he liked at Caddagat: she overlooked the possibility of his being a lover, and in our intercourse allowed us almost the freedom of sister and brother or cousins. On this particular afternoon, after we had talked to grannie for a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said. “Certainly,” I replied. “That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.” Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me. “Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.” I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man, and so studied to express myself in a way which would not for an instant give him the impression that I was promising to marry him because—what I don’t know and it doesn’t matter much, but I said: “Hal, don’t you think it is a little selfish of you to want to throw me over just because you have lost your money? You are young, healthy, have good character and influential connections, and plenty of good practical ability and sense, so, surely, you will know no such thing as failure if you meet the world bravely. Go and be the man you are; and if you fail, when I am twenty-one I will marry you, and | head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.”<|quote|>He turned his horse slowly.</|quote|>“Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob | My Brilliant Career |
“Well, Syb, what is it?” | Harold Beecham | He turned his horse slowly.<|quote|>“Well, Syb, what is it?”</|quote|>“Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I | come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly.<|quote|>“Well, Syb, what is it?”</|quote|>“Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to | and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly.<|quote|>“Well, Syb, what is it?”</|quote|>“Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if | this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly.<|quote|>“Well, Syb, what is it?”</|quote|>“Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When | in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly.<|quote|>“Well, Syb, what is it?”</|quote|>“Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man | care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly.<|quote|>“Well, Syb, what is it?”</|quote|>“Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations | Harold Beecham, looked upon as such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly.<|quote|>“Well, Syb, what is it?”</|quote|>“Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what I had said to him the Sunday before. Grannie, strange to say, never suspected that there was likely to be anything between us. Harold was so undemonstrative, and had always come and gone as he liked at Caddagat: she overlooked the possibility of his being a lover, and in our intercourse allowed us almost the freedom of sister and brother or cousins. On this particular afternoon, after we had talked to grannie for a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said. “Certainly,” I replied. “That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.” Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me. “Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.” I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man, and so studied to express myself in a way which would not for an instant give him the impression that I was promising to marry him because—what I don’t know and it doesn’t matter much, but I said: “Hal, don’t you think it is a little selfish of you to want to throw me over just because you have lost your money? You are young, healthy, have good character and influential connections, and plenty of good practical ability and sense, so, surely, you will know no such thing as failure if you meet the world bravely. Go and be the man you are; and if you fail, when I am twenty-one I will marry you, and we will help each other. | impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly.<|quote|>“Well, Syb, what is it?”</|quote|>“Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what I had said to him the Sunday before. Grannie, strange to say, never suspected that there was likely to | My Brilliant Career |
“Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” | Sybylla Melvyn | “Well, Syb, what is it?”<|quote|>“Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.”</|quote|>“It is too good to | He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?”<|quote|>“Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.”</|quote|>“It is too good to be true. I thought you | through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?”<|quote|>“Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.”</|quote|>“It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and | anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?”<|quote|>“Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.”</|quote|>“It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were | idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?”<|quote|>“Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.”</|quote|>“It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would | was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?”<|quote|>“Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.”</|quote|>“It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the | such a “lucky beggar” , and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?”<|quote|>“Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.”</|quote|>“It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what I had said to him the Sunday before. Grannie, strange to say, never suspected that there was likely to be anything between us. Harold was so undemonstrative, and had always come and gone as he liked at Caddagat: she overlooked the possibility of his being a lover, and in our intercourse allowed us almost the freedom of sister and brother or cousins. On this particular afternoon, after we had talked to grannie for a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said. “Certainly,” I replied. “That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.” Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me. “Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.” I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man, and so studied to express myself in a way which would not for an instant give him the impression that I was promising to marry him because—what I don’t know and it doesn’t matter much, but I said: “Hal, don’t you think it is a little selfish of you to want to throw me over just because you have lost your money? You are young, healthy, have good character and influential connections, and plenty of good practical ability and sense, so, surely, you will know no such thing as failure if you meet the world bravely. Go and be the man you are; and if you fail, when I am twenty-one I will marry you, and we will help each other. I am young and strong, and am used to hard work, so poverty will not alarm me in the least. If you want me, I want you. “Syb, you are such a perfect little brick that I couldn’t be such a beggarly cur as to let you do that. I knew you were as true as steel | with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?”<|quote|>“Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.”</|quote|>“It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be | My Brilliant Career |
“It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” | Harold Beecham | as poor as a crow.”<|quote|>“It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?”</|quote|>“Just what I say,” I | am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.”<|quote|>“It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?”</|quote|>“Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, | too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.”<|quote|>“It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?”</|quote|>“Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are | hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.”<|quote|>“It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?”</|quote|>“Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and | their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.”<|quote|>“It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?”</|quote|>“Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams | of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.”<|quote|>“It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?”</|quote|>“Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what | The tick plague had ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.”<|quote|>“It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?”</|quote|>“Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what I had said to him the Sunday before. Grannie, strange to say, never suspected that there was likely to be anything between us. Harold was so undemonstrative, and had always come and gone as he liked at Caddagat: she overlooked the possibility of his being a lover, and in our intercourse allowed us almost the freedom of sister and brother or cousins. On this particular afternoon, after we had talked to grannie for a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said. “Certainly,” I replied. “That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.” Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me. “Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.” I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man, and so studied to express myself in a way which would not for an instant give him the impression that I was promising to marry him because—what I don’t know and it doesn’t matter much, but I said: “Hal, don’t you think it is a little selfish of you to want to throw me over just because you have lost your money? You are young, healthy, have good character and influential connections, and plenty of good practical ability and sense, so, surely, you will know no such thing as failure if you meet the world bravely. Go and be the man you are; and if you fail, when I am twenty-one I will marry you, and we will help each other. I am young and strong, and am used to hard work, so poverty will not alarm me in the least. If you want me, I want you. “Syb, you are such a perfect little brick that I couldn’t be such a beggarly cur as to let you do that. I knew you were as true as steel under your funny little whims and contrariness; and could you really love me now that I am poor?” I | in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.”<|quote|>“It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?”</|quote|>“Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob | My Brilliant Career |
“Just what I say,” | Sybylla Melvyn | Sybylla, what do you mean?”<|quote|>“Just what I say,”</|quote|>I replied, and without further | you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?”<|quote|>“Just what I say,”</|quote|>I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence | whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?”<|quote|>“Just what I say,”</|quote|>I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple | he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?”<|quote|>“Just what I say,”</|quote|>I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his | become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?”<|quote|>“Just what I say,”</|quote|>I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost | never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?”<|quote|>“Just what I say,”</|quote|>I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what I had said to | bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?”<|quote|>“Just what I say,”</|quote|>I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what I had said to him the Sunday before. Grannie, strange to say, never suspected that there was likely to be anything between us. Harold was so undemonstrative, and had always come and gone as he liked at Caddagat: she overlooked the possibility of his being a lover, and in our intercourse allowed us almost the freedom of sister and brother or cousins. On this particular afternoon, after we had talked to grannie for a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said. “Certainly,” I replied. “That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.” Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me. “Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.” I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man, and so studied to express myself in a way which would not for an instant give him the impression that I was promising to marry him because—what I don’t know and it doesn’t matter much, but I said: “Hal, don’t you think it is a little selfish of you to want to throw me over just because you have lost your money? You are young, healthy, have good character and influential connections, and plenty of good practical ability and sense, so, surely, you will know no such thing as failure if you meet the world bravely. Go and be the man you are; and if you fail, when I am twenty-one I will marry you, and we will help each other. I am young and strong, and am used to hard work, so poverty will not alarm me in the least. If you want me, I want you. “Syb, you are such a perfect little brick that I couldn’t be such a beggarly cur as to let you do that. I knew you were as true as steel under your funny little whims and contrariness; and could you really love me now that I am poor?” I replied with vigour: “Do | But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?”<|quote|>“Just what I say,”</|quote|>I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far | My Brilliant Career |
I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: | No speaker | mean?” “Just what I say,”<|quote|>I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus:</|quote|>“Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit | me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,”<|quote|>I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus:</|quote|>“Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So | or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,”<|quote|>I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus:</|quote|>“Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless | Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,”<|quote|>I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus:</|quote|>“Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, | sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,”<|quote|>I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus:</|quote|>“Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during | suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,”<|quote|>I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus:</|quote|>“Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what I had said to him the Sunday before. Grannie, strange to say, never suspected that there was likely to be anything between us. Harold was so undemonstrative, and had always come and gone as he liked at Caddagat: she overlooked the possibility of his being a lover, and in our intercourse allowed us almost the freedom of sister and brother or cousins. On this particular | New South Wales. The burning of his wool last year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore. He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,”<|quote|>I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus:</|quote|>“Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what I had said to him the Sunday before. Grannie, strange to say, never suspected that there was likely to be anything between us. Harold was so undemonstrative, and had always come and gone as he liked at Caddagat: she overlooked the possibility of his being a lover, and in our intercourse allowed us almost the freedom of sister and brother or cousins. On this particular afternoon, after we had talked to grannie for a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said. “Certainly,” I replied. “That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.” Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me. “Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.” I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man, and so studied to express myself in a way which would not for an instant give him the impression that I was promising to marry him because—what I don’t know and it doesn’t matter much, but I said: “Hal, don’t you think it is a little selfish of you to want to throw me over just because you have lost your money? You are young, healthy, have good character and influential connections, and plenty of good practical ability and sense, so, surely, you will know no such thing as failure if you meet the world bravely. Go and be the man you are; and if you fail, when I am twenty-one I will marry you, and we will help each other. I am young and strong, and am used to hard work, so poverty will not alarm me in the least. If you want me, I want you. “Syb, you are such a perfect little brick that I couldn’t be such a beggarly cur as to let you do that. I knew you were as true as steel under your funny little whims and contrariness; and could you really love me now that I am poor?” I replied with vigour: “Do you think I am that sort, that cares for a person only because he has a little money? Why! that is the very thing I am always preaching against. If a man was a lord or a millionaire I would not have him if I loved him not, but I would marry a poor cripple if I loved him. It wasn’t | his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,”<|quote|>I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus:</|quote|>“Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what I had said to him the Sunday before. Grannie, strange to say, never suspected that there was likely to be anything between us. Harold was so undemonstrative, and had always come and gone as he liked at Caddagat: she overlooked the possibility of his being a lover, and in our intercourse allowed us almost the freedom of sister and brother or cousins. On this particular afternoon, after we had talked to grannie for a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said. “Certainly,” I replied. “That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.” Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me. “Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think | My Brilliant Career |
“Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. | Sybylla Melvyn | and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus:<|quote|>“Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men.</|quote|>“Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought | some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus:<|quote|>“Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men.</|quote|>“Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in | ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus:<|quote|>“Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men.</|quote|>“Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and | I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus:<|quote|>“Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men.</|quote|>“Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at | where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus:<|quote|>“Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men.</|quote|>“Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock | his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus:<|quote|>“Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men.</|quote|>“Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what I had said to him the Sunday before. Grannie, strange to say, never suspected that there was likely to be anything between us. Harold was so undemonstrative, and had always come and gone as he liked at Caddagat: she overlooked the possibility of his being a lover, and in our intercourse allowed us almost the freedom of sister and brother or cousins. On this particular afternoon, after we had talked to grannie for a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said. “Certainly,” I replied. “That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to | the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs. I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus:<|quote|>“Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men.</|quote|>“Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what I had said to him the Sunday before. Grannie, strange to say, never suspected that there was likely to be anything between us. Harold was so undemonstrative, and had always come and gone as he liked at Caddagat: she overlooked the possibility of his being a lover, and in our intercourse allowed us almost the freedom of sister and brother or cousins. On this particular afternoon, after we had talked to grannie for a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said. “Certainly,” I replied. “That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.” Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me. “Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.” I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man, and so studied to express myself in a way which would not for an instant give him the impression that I was promising to marry him because—what I don’t know and it doesn’t matter much, but I said: “Hal, don’t you think it is a little selfish of you to want to throw me over just because you have lost your money? You are young, healthy, have good character and influential connections, and plenty of good practical ability and sense, so, surely, you will know no such thing as failure if you meet the world bravely. Go and be the man you are; and if you fail, when I am twenty-one I will marry you, and we will help each other. I am young and strong, and am used to hard work, so poverty will not alarm me in the least. If you want me, I want you. “Syb, you are such a perfect little brick that I couldn’t be such a beggarly cur as to let you do that. I knew you were as true as steel under your funny little whims and contrariness; and could you really love me now that I am poor?” I replied with vigour: “Do you think I am that sort, that cares for a person only because he has a little money? Why! that is the very thing I am always preaching against. If a man was a lord or a millionaire I would not have him if I loved him not, but I would marry a poor cripple if I loved him. It wasn’t because you owned Five-Bob Downs that I liked you, but because you have a big heart in which one would have room to get warm, and because you are true, and because you are kind and big and—” Here I could feel my voice getting shaky, and being afraid I would make a fool of myself by crying, I left off. “Syb, I will try and fix matters up a bit, and will | but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus:<|quote|>“Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men.</|quote|>“Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what I had said to him the Sunday before. Grannie, strange to say, never suspected that there was likely to be anything between us. Harold was so undemonstrative, and had always come and gone as he liked at Caddagat: she overlooked the possibility of his being a lover, and in our intercourse allowed us almost the freedom of sister and brother or cousins. On this particular afternoon, after we had talked to grannie for a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said. “Certainly,” I replied. “That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.” Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me. “Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.” I knew I was not dealing with | My Brilliant Career |
“Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” | Sybylla Melvyn | world was made for men.<|quote|>“Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!”</|quote|>CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams | all, a man—a man! The world was made for men.<|quote|>“Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!”</|quote|>CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before | through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men.<|quote|>“Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!”</|quote|>CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. | him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men.<|quote|>“Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!”</|quote|>CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not | surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men.<|quote|>“Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!”</|quote|>CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an | but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men.<|quote|>“Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!”</|quote|>CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what I had said to him the Sunday before. Grannie, strange to say, never suspected that there was likely to be anything between us. Harold was so undemonstrative, and had always come and gone as he liked at Caddagat: she overlooked the possibility of his being a lover, and in our intercourse allowed us almost the freedom of sister and brother or cousins. On this particular afternoon, after we had talked to grannie for a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said. “Certainly,” I replied. “That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.” Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me. “Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.” I knew I was not dealing with | but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines. “Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last. “Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men.<|quote|>“Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!”</|quote|>CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what I had said to him the Sunday before. Grannie, strange to say, never suspected that there was likely to be anything between us. Harold was so undemonstrative, and had always come and gone as he liked at Caddagat: she overlooked the possibility of his being a lover, and in our intercourse allowed us almost the freedom of sister and brother or cousins. On this particular afternoon, after we had talked to grannie for a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said. “Certainly,” I replied. “That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.” Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me. “Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.” I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man, and so studied to express myself in a way which would not for an instant give him the impression that I was promising to marry him because—what I don’t know and it doesn’t matter much, but I said: “Hal, don’t you think it is a little selfish of you to want to throw me over just because you have lost your money? You are young, healthy, have good character and influential connections, and plenty of good practical ability and sense, so, surely, you will know no such thing as failure if you meet the world bravely. Go and be the man you are; and if you fail, when I am twenty-one I will marry you, and we will help each other. I am young and strong, and am used to hard work, so poverty will not alarm me in the least. If you want me, I want you. “Syb, you are such a perfect little brick that I couldn’t be such a beggarly cur as to let you do that. I knew you were as true as steel under your funny little whims and contrariness; and could you really love me now that I am poor?” I replied with vigour: “Do you think I am that sort, that cares for a person only because he has a little money? Why! that is the very thing I am always preaching against. If a man was a lord or a millionaire I would not have him if I loved him not, but I would marry a poor cripple if I loved him. It wasn’t because you owned Five-Bob Downs that I liked you, but because you have a big heart in which one would have room to get warm, and because you are true, and because you are kind and big and—” Here I could feel my voice getting shaky, and being afraid I would make a fool of myself by crying, I left off. “Syb, I will try and fix matters up a bit, and will claim you in that time if I have a home.” “Claim me, home or not, if you are so disposed, but I will make this condition. Do not tell anyone we are engaged, and remember you are perfectly free. If you see a woman you like more than me, promise me on your sacred word that you | marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men.<|quote|>“Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!”</|quote|>CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what I had said to him the Sunday before. Grannie, strange to say, never suspected that there was likely to be anything between us. Harold was so undemonstrative, and had always come and gone as he liked at Caddagat: she overlooked the possibility of his being a lover, and in our intercourse allowed us almost the freedom of sister and brother or cousins. On this particular afternoon, after we had talked to grannie for a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said. “Certainly,” I replied. “That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.” Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me. “Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.” I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man, and so studied to express myself in a way which would not for an instant give him the impression that I was promising to marry him because—what I don’t know and it doesn’t matter much, but I said: “Hal, don’t you think it is a little selfish of you to want to throw me over just because you have lost your money? You are young, healthy, have good character and influential connections, and plenty of good practical ability and sense, so, surely, you will know no such thing as failure if you meet the world bravely. Go and be the man you are; and if you fail, when I am twenty-one I will marry you, and we will help each other. I am | My Brilliant Career |
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what I had said to him the Sunday before. Grannie, strange to say, never suspected that there was likely to be anything between us. Harold was so undemonstrative, and had always come and gone as he liked at Caddagat: she overlooked the possibility of his being a lover, and in our intercourse allowed us almost the freedom of sister and brother or cousins. On this particular afternoon, after we had talked to grannie for a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said. | No speaker | ha! The conceit of you!”<|quote|>CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what I had said to him the Sunday before. Grannie, strange to say, never suspected that there was likely to be anything between us. Harold was so undemonstrative, and had always come and gone as he liked at Caddagat: she overlooked the possibility of his being a lover, and in our intercourse allowed us almost the freedom of sister and brother or cousins. On this particular afternoon, after we had talked to grannie for a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said.</|quote|>“Certainly,” I replied. “That is, | a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!”<|quote|>CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what I had said to him the Sunday before. Grannie, strange to say, never suspected that there was likely to be anything between us. Harold was so undemonstrative, and had always come and gone as he liked at Caddagat: she overlooked the possibility of his being a lover, and in our intercourse allowed us almost the freedom of sister and brother or cousins. On this particular afternoon, after we had talked to grannie for a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said.</|quote|>“Certainly,” I replied. “That is, if you really care for | a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!”<|quote|>CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what I had said to him the Sunday before. Grannie, strange to say, never suspected that there was likely to be anything between us. Harold was so undemonstrative, and had always come and gone as he liked at Caddagat: she overlooked the possibility of his being a lover, and in our intercourse allowed us almost the freedom of sister and brother or cousins. On this particular afternoon, after we had talked to grannie for a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said.</|quote|>“Certainly,” I replied. “That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.” Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me. “Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but | standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!”<|quote|>CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what I had said to him the Sunday before. Grannie, strange to say, never suspected that there was likely to be anything between us. Harold was so undemonstrative, and had always come and gone as he liked at Caddagat: she overlooked the possibility of his being a lover, and in our intercourse allowed us almost the freedom of sister and brother or cousins. On this particular afternoon, after we had talked to grannie for a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said.</|quote|>“Certainly,” I replied. “That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.” Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me. “Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.” I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man, and so studied to express myself in a way which would not for an instant give him the impression | Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!”<|quote|>CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what I had said to him the Sunday before. Grannie, strange to say, never suspected that there was likely to be anything between us. Harold was so undemonstrative, and had always come and gone as he liked at Caddagat: she overlooked the possibility of his being a lover, and in our intercourse allowed us almost the freedom of sister and brother or cousins. On this particular afternoon, after we had talked to grannie for a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said.</|quote|>“Certainly,” I replied. “That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.” Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me. “Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.” I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man, and so studied to express myself in a way which would not for an instant give him the impression that I was promising to marry him because—what I don’t know and it doesn’t matter much, but I said: “Hal, don’t you think it is a little selfish of you to want to throw me over just because you have lost your money? You are young, healthy, have good character and influential connections, and plenty of good practical ability and sense, so, surely, you will know no such thing as failure if you meet the world bravely. Go and be the man you are; and if you fail, when I am twenty-one I will marry you, and we will help | love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!”<|quote|>CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what I had said to him the Sunday before. Grannie, strange to say, never suspected that there was likely to be anything between us. Harold was so undemonstrative, and had always come and gone as he liked at Caddagat: she overlooked the possibility of his being a lover, and in our intercourse allowed us almost the freedom of sister and brother or cousins. On this particular afternoon, after we had talked to grannie for a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said.</|quote|>“Certainly,” I replied. “That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.” Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me. “Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.” I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man, and so studied to express myself in a way which would not for an instant give him the impression that I was promising to marry him because—what I don’t know and it doesn’t matter much, but I said: “Hal, don’t you think it is a little selfish of you to want to throw me over just because you have lost your money? You are young, healthy, have good character and influential connections, and plenty of good practical ability and sense, so, surely, you will know no such thing as failure if you meet the world bravely. Go and be the man you are; and if you fail, when I am twenty-one I will marry you, and we will help each other. I am young and strong, and am used to hard work, so poverty will not alarm me in the least. If you want me, I want you. “Syb, you are such a perfect little brick that I couldn’t be such a beggarly cur as to let you do that. I knew you were as true as steel under your funny little whims and contrariness; and could you really love me now that I am poor?” I replied with vigour: “Do you think I am that sort, that cares for a person only because he has a little money? Why! that is the very thing I am always preaching against. If a man was a lord or a millionaire I would not have him if I loved him not, but I would marry a poor cripple if I loved him. It wasn’t because you owned Five-Bob Downs that I liked you, but because you have a big heart in which one would have room to get warm, and because you are true, and because you are kind and big and—” Here I could feel my voice getting shaky, and being afraid I would make a fool of myself by | and ill, though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features. Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him. “Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I would have tried to had you let me.” I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found betrayal on his brow. “Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.” I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!”<|quote|>CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what I had said to him the Sunday before. Grannie, strange to say, never suspected that there was likely to be anything between us. Harold was so undemonstrative, and had always come and gone as he liked at Caddagat: she overlooked the possibility of his being a lover, and in our intercourse allowed us almost the freedom of sister and brother or cousins. On this particular afternoon, after we had talked to grannie for a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said.</|quote|>“Certainly,” I replied. “That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.” Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me. “Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.” I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man, and so studied to express myself in a way which would not for an instant give him the impression that I was promising to marry him because—what I don’t know and it doesn’t matter much, but I said: “Hal, don’t you think it is a little selfish of you to want to throw me over just because you have lost your money? You are young, healthy, have good character and influential connections, and plenty of good practical ability and sense, so, surely, you will know no such thing as failure if you meet the world bravely. Go and be the man you are; and if you fail, when I am twenty-one I will marry you, and we will help each other. I am young and strong, and am used to hard work, so poverty will not alarm me in the least. If you want me, I want you. “Syb, you are such a perfect little brick that I couldn’t be such a beggarly cur as to let you do that. I knew you were as true as steel under your funny little whims and contrariness; and could you really love me now that I am poor?” I replied with vigour: “Do you think I am that sort, that cares for a person only because he has a little money? Why! that is the very thing I am always preaching against. If a man was a lord or a millionaire I would not have him if I loved him not, but I would marry a poor cripple if I loved him. It wasn’t because you owned Five-Bob Downs that I liked you, but because you have a big heart in which one would have room to get warm, and because you are true, and because you are kind and big and—” Here I could feel my voice getting shaky, and being afraid I would make a fool of myself by crying, I left off. “Syb, I will try and fix matters up a bit, and will claim you in that time if I have a home.” “Claim me, home or not, if you are so disposed, but I will make this condition. Do not tell anyone we are engaged, and remember you are perfectly free. If you see a woman you like more than me, promise me on your sacred word that you will have none of those idiotic unjust ideas of keeping true to me. Promise.” “Yes, I will promise,” he said easily, thinking then, no doubt, as many a one before him has thought, that he would never be called upon to fulfil his word. “I will promise in return that I will not look at another man in a matrimonial way until the four years are up, so you need not be jealous and worry yourself; for, Hal, you can trust me, can you not?” Taking my hand in his and looking at me with a world of love in his eyes, which moved me in spite of myself, he said: “I could trust you in every way to the end of the world.” “Thank you, Harold. What we have said is agreed upon—that is, of course, as things appear now: if anything turns up to disturb this arrangement it is not irrevocable in the least degree, and we can lay out more suitable plans. Four years will not be long, and I will be more sensible at the end of that time—that is, of course, if I ever have any sense. We will not write or have any communication, so you will be perfectly free if you see anyone you like better than me to go in and win. Do you agree?” “Certainly; any little thing like that you can settle according to your fancy. I’m set up as long as I get you one way or another, that’s all I want. It was a bit tough being cleared out from all the old ways, but if I have you to stand by me it will be a great start. Say what you said last Sunday, again. Syb, say you will be my wife.” I had expected him to put it in that way, and believing in doing all or nothing, had laid out that I would put my hand in his and promise what he | “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!”<|quote|>CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what I had said to him the Sunday before. Grannie, strange to say, never suspected that there was likely to be anything between us. Harold was so undemonstrative, and had always come and gone as he liked at Caddagat: she overlooked the possibility of his being a lover, and in our intercourse allowed us almost the freedom of sister and brother or cousins. On this particular afternoon, after we had talked to grannie for a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said.</|quote|>“Certainly,” I replied. “That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.” Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me. “Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.” I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man, and so studied to express myself in a way which would not for an instant give him the impression that I was promising to marry him because—what I don’t know and it doesn’t matter much, but I said: “Hal, don’t you think it is a little selfish of you to want to throw me over just because you have lost your money? You are young, healthy, have good character and influential connections, and plenty of good practical ability and sense, so, surely, you will know no such thing as failure if you meet the world bravely. Go and be the man you are; and if you fail, when I am twenty-one I will marry you, and we will help each other. I am young and strong, and am used to hard work, so poverty will not alarm me in the least. If you want me, I want you. “Syb, you are such a perfect little brick that I couldn’t be such a beggarly cur as to let you do that. I knew you were as true as steel under your funny little whims and contrariness; and could you really love me now that I am poor?” I replied with vigour: “Do you think I am that sort, that cares for a person only because he has a little money? Why! that is the very thing I am always preaching against. If a man was a lord or a millionaire I would not have him if I loved him not, but I would marry a poor cripple if I loved him. It wasn’t because you owned Five-Bob Downs that I liked you, but because you have a big heart in which one would have room to get warm, and because you are true, and because you are kind and big and—” Here I could feel my voice getting shaky, and being afraid I would make a fool of myself by crying, I left off. “Syb, I will try and fix matters up a bit, and will claim you in that time if I have a home.” “Claim me, home or not, if you are so disposed, but I will make this condition. Do not tell anyone we are engaged, and remember you are perfectly free. If you see a woman you like more than me, promise me on your sacred word that you will have none of those idiotic unjust ideas of keeping true to me. Promise.” “Yes, I will promise,” he said easily, thinking then, no doubt, as many a one before him has thought, that he would never be called upon to fulfil his | My Brilliant Career |
“Certainly,” | Sybylla Melvyn | really meant what I said.<|quote|>“Certainly,”</|quote|>I replied. “That is, if | Harold asked me had I really meant what I said.<|quote|>“Certainly,”</|quote|>I replied. “That is, if you really care for me, | for a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said.<|quote|>“Certainly,”</|quote|>I replied. “That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.” Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me. “Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I | us. Harold was so undemonstrative, and had always come and gone as he liked at Caddagat: she overlooked the possibility of his being a lover, and in our intercourse allowed us almost the freedom of sister and brother or cousins. On this particular afternoon, after we had talked to grannie for a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said.<|quote|>“Certainly,”</|quote|>I replied. “That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.” Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me. “Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.” I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man, and so studied to express myself in a way which would not for an instant give him the impression that | old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what I had said to him the Sunday before. Grannie, strange to say, never suspected that there was likely to be anything between us. Harold was so undemonstrative, and had always come and gone as he liked at Caddagat: she overlooked the possibility of his being a lover, and in our intercourse allowed us almost the freedom of sister and brother or cousins. On this particular afternoon, after we had talked to grannie for a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said.<|quote|>“Certainly,”</|quote|>I replied. “That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.” Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me. “Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.” I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man, and so studied to express myself in a way which would not for an instant give him the impression that I was promising to marry him because—what I don’t know and it doesn’t matter much, but I said: “Hal, don’t you think it is a little selfish of you to want to throw me over just because you have lost your money? You are young, healthy, have good character and influential connections, and plenty of good practical ability and sense, so, surely, you will know no such thing as failure if you meet the world bravely. Go and be the man you are; and if you fail, when I am twenty-one I will marry you, and we will help each | a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what I had said to him the Sunday before. Grannie, strange to say, never suspected that there was likely to be anything between us. Harold was so undemonstrative, and had always come and gone as he liked at Caddagat: she overlooked the possibility of his being a lover, and in our intercourse allowed us almost the freedom of sister and brother or cousins. On this particular afternoon, after we had talked to grannie for a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said.<|quote|>“Certainly,”</|quote|>I replied. “That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.” Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me. “Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.” I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man, and so studied to express myself in a way which would not for an instant give him the impression that I was promising to marry him because—what I don’t know and it doesn’t matter much, but I said: “Hal, don’t you think it is a little selfish of you to want to throw me over just because you have lost your money? You are young, healthy, have good character and influential connections, and plenty of good practical ability and sense, so, surely, you will know no such thing as failure if you meet the world bravely. Go and be the man you are; and if you fail, when I am twenty-one I will marry you, and we will help each other. I am young and strong, and am used to hard work, so poverty will not alarm me in the least. If you want me, I want you. “Syb, you are such a perfect little brick that I couldn’t be such a beggarly cur as to let you do that. I knew you were as true as steel under your funny little whims and contrariness; and could you really love me now that I am poor?” I replied with vigour: “Do you think I am that sort, that cares for a person only because he has a little money? Why! that is the very thing I am always preaching against. If a man was a lord or a millionaire I would not have him if I loved him not, but I would marry a poor cripple if I loved him. It wasn’t because you owned Five-Bob Downs that I liked you, but because you have a big heart in which one would have room to get warm, and because you are true, and because you are kind and big and—” Here I could feel my voice getting shaky, and being afraid I would make a fool of myself by crying, | of uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what I had said to him the Sunday before. Grannie, strange to say, never suspected that there was likely to be anything between us. Harold was so undemonstrative, and had always come and gone as he liked at Caddagat: she overlooked the possibility of his being a lover, and in our intercourse allowed us almost the freedom of sister and brother or cousins. On this particular afternoon, after we had talked to grannie for a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said.<|quote|>“Certainly,”</|quote|>I replied. “That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.” Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me. “Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.” I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man, and so studied to express myself in a way which would not for an instant give him the impression that I was promising to marry him because—what I don’t know and it doesn’t matter much, but I said: “Hal, don’t you think it is a little selfish of you to want to throw me over just because you have lost your money? You are young, healthy, have good character and influential connections, and plenty of good practical ability and sense, so, surely, you will know no such thing as failure if you meet the world bravely. Go and be the man you are; and if you fail, when I am twenty-one I will marry you, and we will help each other. I am young and strong, and am used to hard work, so poverty will not alarm me in the least. If you want me, I want you. “Syb, you are such a perfect little brick that I couldn’t be such a beggarly cur as to let you do that. I knew you were as true as steel under your funny little whims and contrariness; and could you really love me now that I am poor?” I replied with vigour: “Do you think I am that sort, that cares for a person only because he has a little money? Why! that is the very thing I am always preaching against. If a man was a lord or a millionaire I would not have him if I loved him not, but I would marry a poor cripple if I loved him. It wasn’t because you owned Five-Bob Downs that I liked you, but because you have a big heart in which one would have room to get warm, and because you are true, and because you are kind and big and—” Here I could feel my voice getting shaky, and being afraid I would make a fool of myself by crying, I left off. “Syb, I will try and fix matters up a bit, and will claim you in that time if I have a home.” “Claim me, home or not, if you are so disposed, but I will make this condition. Do not tell anyone we are engaged, and remember you are perfectly free. If you see a woman you like more than me, promise me on your sacred word that you will have none of those idiotic unjust ideas of keeping true to me. Promise.” “Yes, I will promise,” he said easily, thinking then, no doubt, as many a one before him has thought, that he would never be called upon to fulfil his word. “I will promise in return that I will not look at another man in a matrimonial way until the four years are up, so you need not be jealous and worry yourself; for, Hal, you can trust me, can you not?” Taking my hand in his and looking at me with a world of love in his eyes, which moved me in spite of myself, he said: “I could trust you in every way to the end of the world.” “Thank you, Harold. What we have said is agreed upon—that is, of course, as things appear now: if anything turns up to disturb this arrangement it is not irrevocable in the least degree, and we can lay out more suitable plans. Four years will not be long, and I will be more sensible at the end of that time—that is, of course, if I ever have any sense. We will not write or have any communication, so you will be perfectly free if you see anyone you like better than me to go in and win. Do you agree?” “Certainly; any little thing like that you can settle according to your fancy. I’m set up as long as I get you one way or another, that’s all I want. It was a bit tough being cleared out from all the old ways, but if I have you to stand by me it will be a great start. Say what you said last Sunday, again. Syb, say you will be my wife.” I had expected him to put it in that way, and believing in doing all or nothing, had laid out that I would put my hand in his and promise what he asked. | master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what I had said to him the Sunday before. Grannie, strange to say, never suspected that there was likely to be anything between us. Harold was so undemonstrative, and had always come and gone as he liked at Caddagat: she overlooked the possibility of his being a lover, and in our intercourse allowed us almost the freedom of sister and brother or cousins. On this particular afternoon, after we had talked to grannie for a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said.<|quote|>“Certainly,”</|quote|>I replied. “That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.” Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me. “Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.” I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man, and so studied to express myself in a way which would not for an instant give him the impression that I was promising to marry him because—what I don’t know and it doesn’t matter much, but I said: “Hal, don’t you think it is a little selfish of you to want to throw me over just because you have lost your money? You are young, healthy, have good character and influential connections, and plenty of good practical ability and sense, so, surely, you will know no such thing as failure if you meet the world bravely. Go and be the man you are; and if you fail, when I am twenty-one I will marry you, and we will help each other. I am young and strong, and am used to hard work, so poverty will not alarm me in the least. If you want me, I want you. “Syb, you are such a perfect little brick that I couldn’t be such a beggarly cur as to let you do that. I knew you were as true as steel under your funny little whims and contrariness; and could you really love me now that I am poor?” I replied with vigour: “Do | My Brilliant Career |
I replied. | No speaker | meant what I said. “Certainly,”<|quote|>I replied.</|quote|>“That is, if you really | asked me had I really meant what I said. “Certainly,”<|quote|>I replied.</|quote|>“That is, if you really care for me, and think | a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said. “Certainly,”<|quote|>I replied.</|quote|>“That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.” Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me. “Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it | Harold was so undemonstrative, and had always come and gone as he liked at Caddagat: she overlooked the possibility of his being a lover, and in our intercourse allowed us almost the freedom of sister and brother or cousins. On this particular afternoon, after we had talked to grannie for a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said. “Certainly,”<|quote|>I replied.</|quote|>“That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.” Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me. “Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.” I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man, and so studied to express myself in a way which would not for an instant give him the impression that I was | associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what I had said to him the Sunday before. Grannie, strange to say, never suspected that there was likely to be anything between us. Harold was so undemonstrative, and had always come and gone as he liked at Caddagat: she overlooked the possibility of his being a lover, and in our intercourse allowed us almost the freedom of sister and brother or cousins. On this particular afternoon, after we had talked to grannie for a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said. “Certainly,”<|quote|>I replied.</|quote|>“That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.” Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me. “Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.” I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man, and so studied to express myself in a way which would not for an instant give him the impression that I was promising to marry him because—what I don’t know and it doesn’t matter much, but I said: “Hal, don’t you think it is a little selfish of you to want to throw me over just because you have lost your money? You are young, healthy, have good character and influential connections, and plenty of good practical ability and sense, so, surely, you will know no such thing as failure if you meet the world bravely. Go and be the man you are; and if you fail, when I am twenty-one I will marry you, and we will help each other. I | man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what I had said to him the Sunday before. Grannie, strange to say, never suspected that there was likely to be anything between us. Harold was so undemonstrative, and had always come and gone as he liked at Caddagat: she overlooked the possibility of his being a lover, and in our intercourse allowed us almost the freedom of sister and brother or cousins. On this particular afternoon, after we had talked to grannie for a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said. “Certainly,”<|quote|>I replied.</|quote|>“That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.” Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me. “Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.” I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man, and so studied to express myself in a way which would not for an instant give him the impression that I was promising to marry him because—what I don’t know and it doesn’t matter much, but I said: “Hal, don’t you think it is a little selfish of you to want to throw me over just because you have lost your money? You are young, healthy, have good character and influential connections, and plenty of good practical ability and sense, so, surely, you will know no such thing as failure if you meet the world bravely. Go and be the man you are; and if you fail, when I am twenty-one I will marry you, and we will help each other. I am young and strong, and am used to hard work, so poverty will not alarm me in the least. If you want me, I want you. “Syb, you are such a perfect little brick that I couldn’t be such a beggarly cur as to let you do that. I knew you were as true as steel under your funny little whims and contrariness; and could you really love me now that I am poor?” I replied with vigour: “Do you think I am that sort, that cares for a person only because he has a little money? Why! that is the very thing I am always preaching against. If a man was a lord or a millionaire I would not have him if I loved him not, but I would marry a poor cripple if I loved him. It wasn’t because you owned Five-Bob Downs that I liked you, but because you have a big heart in which one would have room to get warm, and because you are true, and because you are kind and big and—” Here I could feel my voice getting shaky, and being afraid I would make a fool of myself by crying, I left | uttering idle nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what I had said to him the Sunday before. Grannie, strange to say, never suspected that there was likely to be anything between us. Harold was so undemonstrative, and had always come and gone as he liked at Caddagat: she overlooked the possibility of his being a lover, and in our intercourse allowed us almost the freedom of sister and brother or cousins. On this particular afternoon, after we had talked to grannie for a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said. “Certainly,”<|quote|>I replied.</|quote|>“That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.” Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me. “Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.” I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man, and so studied to express myself in a way which would not for an instant give him the impression that I was promising to marry him because—what I don’t know and it doesn’t matter much, but I said: “Hal, don’t you think it is a little selfish of you to want to throw me over just because you have lost your money? You are young, healthy, have good character and influential connections, and plenty of good practical ability and sense, so, surely, you will know no such thing as failure if you meet the world bravely. Go and be the man you are; and if you fail, when I am twenty-one I will marry you, and we will help each other. I am young and strong, and am used to hard work, so poverty will not alarm me in the least. If you want me, I want you. “Syb, you are such a perfect little brick that I couldn’t be such a beggarly cur as to let you do that. I knew you were as true as steel under your funny little whims and contrariness; and could you really love me now that I am poor?” I replied with vigour: “Do you think I am that sort, that cares for a person only because he has a little money? Why! that is the very thing I am always preaching against. If a man was a lord or a millionaire I would not have him if I loved him not, but I would marry a poor cripple if I loved him. It wasn’t because you owned Five-Bob Downs that I liked you, but because you have a big heart in which one would have room to get warm, and because you are true, and because you are kind and big and—” Here I could feel my voice getting shaky, and being afraid I would make a fool of myself by crying, I left off. “Syb, I will try and fix matters up a bit, and will claim you in that time if I have a home.” “Claim me, home or not, if you are so disposed, but I will make this condition. Do not tell anyone we are engaged, and remember you are perfectly free. If you see a woman you like more than me, promise me on your sacred word that you will have none of those idiotic unjust ideas of keeping true to me. Promise.” “Yes, I will promise,” he said easily, thinking then, no doubt, as many a one before him has thought, that he would never be called upon to fulfil his word. “I will promise in return that I will not look at another man in a matrimonial way until the four years are up, so you need not be jealous and worry yourself; for, Hal, you can trust me, can you not?” Taking my hand in his and looking at me with a world of love in his eyes, which moved me in spite of myself, he said: “I could trust you in every way to the end of the world.” “Thank you, Harold. What we have said is agreed upon—that is, of course, as things appear now: if anything turns up to disturb this arrangement it is not irrevocable in the least degree, and we can lay out more suitable plans. Four years will not be long, and I will be more sensible at the end of that time—that is, of course, if I ever have any sense. We will not write or have any communication, so you will be perfectly free if you see anyone you like better than me to go in and win. Do you agree?” “Certainly; any little thing like that you can settle according to your fancy. I’m set up as long as I get you one way or another, that’s all I want. It was a bit tough being cleared out from all the old ways, but if I have you to stand by me it will be a great start. Say what you said last Sunday, again. Syb, say you will be my wife.” I had expected him to put it in that way, and believing in doing all or nothing, had laid out that I would put my hand in his and promise what he asked. But now | I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what I had said to him the Sunday before. Grannie, strange to say, never suspected that there was likely to be anything between us. Harold was so undemonstrative, and had always come and gone as he liked at Caddagat: she overlooked the possibility of his being a lover, and in our intercourse allowed us almost the freedom of sister and brother or cousins. On this particular afternoon, after we had talked to grannie for a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said. “Certainly,”<|quote|>I replied.</|quote|>“That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.” Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me. “Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.” I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man, and so studied to express myself in a way which would not for an instant give him the impression that I was promising to marry him because—what I don’t know and it doesn’t matter much, but I said: “Hal, don’t you think it is a little selfish of you to want to throw me over just because you have lost your money? You are young, healthy, have good character and influential connections, and plenty of good practical ability and sense, so, surely, you will know no such thing as failure if you meet the world bravely. Go and be the man you are; and if you fail, when I am twenty-one I will marry you, and we will help each other. I am young and strong, and am used to hard work, so poverty will not alarm me in the least. If you want me, I want you. “Syb, you are such a perfect little brick that I couldn’t be such a beggarly cur as to let you do that. I knew you were as true as steel under your funny little whims and contrariness; and could you really love me now that I am poor?” I replied with vigour: “Do you think I am that sort, that cares for a person only because he has a little money? Why! that is the very thing I am always preaching against. If a man was a lord or a millionaire I would not have him if I loved him not, but I would marry a poor cripple if I loved him. It wasn’t because you owned Five-Bob Downs that I liked you, but because you have a big heart in which one would have room to get warm, and because you are true, and because you are kind and big and—” Here I could feel my voice getting shaky, and being afraid I would make a fool of myself by crying, I left off. “Syb, I will try and fix matters up a bit, and will claim you in that time if I have a home.” “Claim me, home or not, if you are so disposed, but I will | My Brilliant Career |
“That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.” | Sybylla Melvyn | I said. “Certainly,” I replied.<|quote|>“That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.”</|quote|>Ere he put it in | had I really meant what I said. “Certainly,” I replied.<|quote|>“That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.”</|quote|>Ere he put it in words I read his answer | while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said. “Certainly,” I replied.<|quote|>“That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.”</|quote|>Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me. “Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.” I knew I was not dealing | so undemonstrative, and had always come and gone as he liked at Caddagat: she overlooked the possibility of his being a lover, and in our intercourse allowed us almost the freedom of sister and brother or cousins. On this particular afternoon, after we had talked to grannie for a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said. “Certainly,” I replied.<|quote|>“That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.”</|quote|>Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me. “Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.” I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man, and so studied to express myself in a way which would not for an instant give him the impression that I was promising to marry him because—what I don’t know and it doesn’t matter much, but I said: “Hal, don’t you | possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what I had said to him the Sunday before. Grannie, strange to say, never suspected that there was likely to be anything between us. Harold was so undemonstrative, and had always come and gone as he liked at Caddagat: she overlooked the possibility of his being a lover, and in our intercourse allowed us almost the freedom of sister and brother or cousins. On this particular afternoon, after we had talked to grannie for a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said. “Certainly,” I replied.<|quote|>“That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.”</|quote|>Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me. “Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.” I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man, and so studied to express myself in a way which would not for an instant give him the impression that I was promising to marry him because—what I don’t know and it doesn’t matter much, but I said: “Hal, don’t you think it is a little selfish of you to want to throw me over just because you have lost your money? You are young, healthy, have good character and influential connections, and plenty of good practical ability and sense, so, surely, you will know no such thing as failure if you meet the world bravely. Go and be the man you are; and if you fail, when I am twenty-one I will marry you, and we will help each other. I am young and strong, and am used to hard work, so poverty will not alarm me in the least. | sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what I had said to him the Sunday before. Grannie, strange to say, never suspected that there was likely to be anything between us. Harold was so undemonstrative, and had always come and gone as he liked at Caddagat: she overlooked the possibility of his being a lover, and in our intercourse allowed us almost the freedom of sister and brother or cousins. On this particular afternoon, after we had talked to grannie for a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said. “Certainly,” I replied.<|quote|>“That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.”</|quote|>Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me. “Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.” I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man, and so studied to express myself in a way which would not for an instant give him the impression that I was promising to marry him because—what I don’t know and it doesn’t matter much, but I said: “Hal, don’t you think it is a little selfish of you to want to throw me over just because you have lost your money? You are young, healthy, have good character and influential connections, and plenty of good practical ability and sense, so, surely, you will know no such thing as failure if you meet the world bravely. Go and be the man you are; and if you fail, when I am twenty-one I will marry you, and we will help each other. I am young and strong, and am used to hard work, so poverty will not alarm me in the least. If you want me, I want you. “Syb, you are such a perfect little brick that I couldn’t be such a beggarly cur as to let you do that. I knew you were as true as steel under your funny little whims and contrariness; and could you really love me now that I am poor?” I replied with vigour: “Do you think I am that sort, that cares for a person only because he has a little money? Why! that is the very thing I am always preaching against. If a man was a lord or a millionaire I would not have him if I loved him not, but I would marry a poor cripple if I loved him. It wasn’t because you owned Five-Bob Downs that I liked you, but because you have a big heart in which one would have room to get warm, and because you are true, and because you are kind and big and—” Here I could feel my voice getting shaky, and being afraid I would make a fool of myself by crying, I left off. “Syb, I will try and fix matters up a bit, and will claim you in that time if | nothings. While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what I had said to him the Sunday before. Grannie, strange to say, never suspected that there was likely to be anything between us. Harold was so undemonstrative, and had always come and gone as he liked at Caddagat: she overlooked the possibility of his being a lover, and in our intercourse allowed us almost the freedom of sister and brother or cousins. On this particular afternoon, after we had talked to grannie for a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said. “Certainly,” I replied.<|quote|>“That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.”</|quote|>Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me. “Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.” I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man, and so studied to express myself in a way which would not for an instant give him the impression that I was promising to marry him because—what I don’t know and it doesn’t matter much, but I said: “Hal, don’t you think it is a little selfish of you to want to throw me over just because you have lost your money? You are young, healthy, have good character and influential connections, and plenty of good practical ability and sense, so, surely, you will know no such thing as failure if you meet the world bravely. Go and be the man you are; and if you fail, when I am twenty-one I will marry you, and we will help each other. I am young and strong, and am used to hard work, so poverty will not alarm me in the least. If you want me, I want you. “Syb, you are such a perfect little brick that I couldn’t be such a beggarly cur as to let you do that. I knew you were as true as steel under your funny little whims and contrariness; and could you really love me now that I am poor?” I replied with vigour: “Do you think I am that sort, that cares for a person only because he has a little money? Why! that is the very thing I am always preaching against. If a man was a lord or a millionaire I would not have him if I loved him not, but I would marry a poor cripple if I loved him. It wasn’t because you owned Five-Bob Downs that I liked you, but because you have a big heart in which one would have room to get warm, and because you are true, and because you are kind and big and—” Here I could feel my voice getting shaky, and being afraid I would make a fool of myself by crying, I left off. “Syb, I will try and fix matters up a bit, and will claim you in that time if I have a home.” “Claim me, home or not, if you are so disposed, but I will make this condition. Do not tell anyone we are engaged, and remember you are perfectly free. If you see a woman you like more than me, promise me on your sacred word that you will have none of those idiotic unjust ideas of keeping true to me. Promise.” “Yes, I will promise,” he said easily, thinking then, no doubt, as many a one before him has thought, that he would never be called upon to fulfil his word. “I will promise in return that I will not look at another man in a matrimonial way until the four years are up, so you need not be jealous and worry yourself; for, Hal, you can trust me, can you not?” Taking my hand in his and looking at me with a world of love in his eyes, which moved me in spite of myself, he said: “I could trust you in every way to the end of the world.” “Thank you, Harold. What we have said is agreed upon—that is, of course, as things appear now: if anything turns up to disturb this arrangement it is not irrevocable in the least degree, and we can lay out more suitable plans. Four years will not be long, and I will be more sensible at the end of that time—that is, of course, if I ever have any sense. We will not write or have any communication, so you will be perfectly free if you see anyone you like better than me to go in and win. Do you agree?” “Certainly; any little thing like that you can settle according to your fancy. I’m set up as long as I get you one way or another, that’s all I want. It was a bit tough being cleared out from all the old ways, but if I have you to stand by me it will be a great start. Say what you said last Sunday, again. Syb, say you will be my wife.” I had expected him to put it in that way, and believing in doing all or nothing, had laid out that I would put my hand in his and promise what he asked. But now the word wife finished me up. I was very fond of Harold—fond to such an extent that had I | man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what I had said to him the Sunday before. Grannie, strange to say, never suspected that there was likely to be anything between us. Harold was so undemonstrative, and had always come and gone as he liked at Caddagat: she overlooked the possibility of his being a lover, and in our intercourse allowed us almost the freedom of sister and brother or cousins. On this particular afternoon, after we had talked to grannie for a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said. “Certainly,” I replied.<|quote|>“That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.”</|quote|>Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me. “Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.” I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man, and so studied to express myself in a way which would not for an instant give him the impression that I was promising to marry him because—what I don’t know and it doesn’t matter much, but I said: “Hal, don’t you think it is a little selfish of you to want to throw me over just because you have lost your money? You are young, healthy, have good character and influential connections, and plenty of good practical ability and sense, so, surely, you will know no such thing as failure if you meet the world bravely. Go and be the man you are; and if you fail, when I am twenty-one I will marry you, and we will help each other. I am young and strong, and am used to hard work, so poverty will not alarm me in the least. If you want me, I want you. “Syb, you are such a perfect little brick that I couldn’t be such a beggarly cur as to let you do that. I knew you were as true as steel under your funny little whims and contrariness; and could you really love | My Brilliant Career |
Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me. | No speaker | me of all my sex.”<|quote|>Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me.</|quote|>“Syb, you know what I | think it wise to choose me of all my sex.”<|quote|>Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me.</|quote|>“Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but | and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said. “Certainly,” I replied. “That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.”<|quote|>Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me.</|quote|>“Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.” I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man, and so studied to express myself in a way | being a lover, and in our intercourse allowed us almost the freedom of sister and brother or cousins. On this particular afternoon, after we had talked to grannie for a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said. “Certainly,” I replied. “That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.”<|quote|>Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me.</|quote|>“Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.” I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man, and so studied to express myself in a way which would not for an instant give him the impression that I was promising to marry him because—what I don’t know and it doesn’t matter much, but I said: “Hal, don’t you think it is a little selfish of you to want to throw me over just because you have | female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what I had said to him the Sunday before. Grannie, strange to say, never suspected that there was likely to be anything between us. Harold was so undemonstrative, and had always come and gone as he liked at Caddagat: she overlooked the possibility of his being a lover, and in our intercourse allowed us almost the freedom of sister and brother or cousins. On this particular afternoon, after we had talked to grannie for a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said. “Certainly,” I replied. “That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.”<|quote|>Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me.</|quote|>“Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.” I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man, and so studied to express myself in a way which would not for an instant give him the impression that I was promising to marry him because—what I don’t know and it doesn’t matter much, but I said: “Hal, don’t you think it is a little selfish of you to want to throw me over just because you have lost your money? You are young, healthy, have good character and influential connections, and plenty of good practical ability and sense, so, surely, you will know no such thing as failure if you meet the world bravely. Go and be the man you are; and if you fail, when I am twenty-one I will marry you, and we will help each other. I am young and strong, and am used to hard work, so poverty will not alarm me in the least. If you want me, I want you. “Syb, you are such a perfect little brick that I couldn’t | You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what I had said to him the Sunday before. Grannie, strange to say, never suspected that there was likely to be anything between us. Harold was so undemonstrative, and had always come and gone as he liked at Caddagat: she overlooked the possibility of his being a lover, and in our intercourse allowed us almost the freedom of sister and brother or cousins. On this particular afternoon, after we had talked to grannie for a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said. “Certainly,” I replied. “That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.”<|quote|>Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me.</|quote|>“Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.” I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man, and so studied to express myself in a way which would not for an instant give him the impression that I was promising to marry him because—what I don’t know and it doesn’t matter much, but I said: “Hal, don’t you think it is a little selfish of you to want to throw me over just because you have lost your money? You are young, healthy, have good character and influential connections, and plenty of good practical ability and sense, so, surely, you will know no such thing as failure if you meet the world bravely. Go and be the man you are; and if you fail, when I am twenty-one I will marry you, and we will help each other. I am young and strong, and am used to hard work, so poverty will not alarm me in the least. If you want me, I want you. “Syb, you are such a perfect little brick that I couldn’t be such a beggarly cur as to let you do that. I knew you were as true as steel under your funny little whims and contrariness; and could you really love me now that I am poor?” I replied with vigour: “Do you think I am that sort, that cares for a person only because he has a little money? Why! that is the very thing I am always preaching against. If a man was a lord or a millionaire I would not have him if I loved him not, but I would marry a poor cripple if I loved him. It wasn’t because you owned Five-Bob Downs that I liked you, but because you have a big heart in which one would have room to get warm, and because you are true, and because you are kind and big and—” Here I could feel my voice getting shaky, and being afraid I would make a fool of myself by crying, I left off. “Syb, I will try and fix matters up a bit, and will claim you in that time if I have a home.” “Claim me, home or not, if you are so disposed, but I will make | let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what I had said to him the Sunday before. Grannie, strange to say, never suspected that there was likely to be anything between us. Harold was so undemonstrative, and had always come and gone as he liked at Caddagat: she overlooked the possibility of his being a lover, and in our intercourse allowed us almost the freedom of sister and brother or cousins. On this particular afternoon, after we had talked to grannie for a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said. “Certainly,” I replied. “That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.”<|quote|>Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me.</|quote|>“Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.” I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man, and so studied to express myself in a way which would not for an instant give him the impression that I was promising to marry him because—what I don’t know and it doesn’t matter much, but I said: “Hal, don’t you think it is a little selfish of you to want to throw me over just because you have lost your money? You are young, healthy, have good character and influential connections, and plenty of good practical ability and sense, so, surely, you will know no such thing as failure if you meet the world bravely. Go and be the man you are; and if you fail, when I am twenty-one I will marry you, and we will help each other. I am young and strong, and am used to hard work, so poverty will not alarm me in the least. If you want me, I want you. “Syb, you are such a perfect little brick that I couldn’t be such a beggarly cur as to let you do that. I knew you were as true as steel under your funny little whims and contrariness; and could you really love me now that I am poor?” I replied with vigour: “Do you think I am that sort, that cares for a person only because he has a little money? Why! that is the very thing I am always preaching against. If a man was a lord or a millionaire I would not have him if I loved him not, but I would marry a poor cripple if I loved him. It wasn’t because you owned Five-Bob Downs that I liked you, but because you have a big heart in which one would have room to get warm, and because you are true, and because you are kind and big and—” Here I could feel my voice getting shaky, and being afraid I would make a fool of myself by crying, I left off. “Syb, I will try and fix matters up a bit, and will claim you in that time if I have a home.” “Claim me, home or not, if you are so disposed, but I will make this condition. Do not tell anyone we are engaged, and remember you are perfectly free. If you see a woman you like more than me, promise me on your sacred word that you will have none of those idiotic unjust ideas of keeping true to me. Promise.” “Yes, I will promise,” he said easily, thinking then, no doubt, as many a one before him has thought, that he would never be called upon to fulfil his word. “I will promise in return that I will not look at another man in a matrimonial way until the four years are up, so you need not be jealous and worry yourself; for, Hal, you can trust me, can you not?” Taking my hand in his and looking at me with a world of love in his eyes, which moved me in spite of myself, he said: “I could trust you in every way to the end of the world.” “Thank you, Harold. What we have said is agreed upon—that is, of course, as things appear now: if anything turns up to disturb this arrangement it is not irrevocable in the least degree, and we can lay out more suitable plans. Four years will not be long, and I will be more sensible at the end of that time—that is, of course, if I ever have any sense. We will not write or have any communication, so you will be perfectly free if you see anyone you like better than me to go in and win. Do you agree?” “Certainly; any little thing like that you can settle according to your fancy. I’m set up as long as I get you one way or another, that’s all I want. It was a bit tough being cleared out from all the old ways, but if I have you to stand by me it will be a great start. Say what you said last Sunday, again. Syb, say you will be my wife.” I had expected him to put it in that way, and believing in doing all or nothing, had laid out that I would put my hand in his and promise what he asked. But now the word wife finished me up. I was very fond of Harold—fond to such an extent that had I a fortune I would gladly have given it all to him: I felt capable of giving him a | you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what I had said to him the Sunday before. Grannie, strange to say, never suspected that there was likely to be anything between us. Harold was so undemonstrative, and had always come and gone as he liked at Caddagat: she overlooked the possibility of his being a lover, and in our intercourse allowed us almost the freedom of sister and brother or cousins. On this particular afternoon, after we had talked to grannie for a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said. “Certainly,” I replied. “That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.”<|quote|>Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me.</|quote|>“Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.” I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man, and so studied to express myself in a way which would not for an instant give him the impression that I was promising to marry him because—what I don’t know and it doesn’t matter much, but I said: “Hal, don’t you think it is a little selfish of you to want to throw me over just because you have lost your money? You are young, healthy, have good character and influential connections, and plenty of good practical ability and sense, so, surely, you will know no such thing as failure if you meet the world bravely. Go and be the man you are; and if you fail, when I am twenty-one I will marry you, and we will help each other. I am young and strong, and am used to hard work, so poverty will not alarm me in the least. If you want me, I want you. “Syb, you are such a perfect little brick that I couldn’t be such a beggarly cur as to let you do that. I knew you were as true as steel under your funny little whims and contrariness; and could you really love me now that I am poor?” I replied with vigour: “Do you think I am that sort, that cares for a person only because he has a little money? Why! that is the very thing I am always preaching against. If a man was a lord or a millionaire I would not have him if I loved him not, but I would marry a poor cripple if I loved him. It wasn’t because you owned Five-Bob Downs that I liked you, but because you have a big heart in which one would have room to get warm, and because you are true, and because you are kind and big and—” Here I could feel my voice getting shaky, and being afraid I would make a fool of myself by crying, I left off. “Syb, I will try and fix matters up a bit, and will claim you in that time if I have a home.” “Claim me, home or not, if you are so disposed, but I will make this condition. Do not tell anyone we are engaged, and remember you are perfectly free. If you see a woman you like more than me, promise me on your sacred word that you will have none of those idiotic unjust ideas of keeping true to me. Promise.” “Yes, I will promise,” he said easily, thinking then, no doubt, as many a one before him has thought, | My Brilliant Career |
“Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.” | Harold Beecham | brown eyes bent upon me.<|quote|>“Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.”</|quote|>I knew I was not | his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me.<|quote|>“Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.”</|quote|>I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but | Harold asked me had I really meant what I said. “Certainly,” I replied. “That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.” Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me.<|quote|>“Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.”</|quote|>I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man, and so studied to express myself in a way which would not for an instant give him the impression that I was promising to marry him because—what I don’t know and it doesn’t matter much, | On this particular afternoon, after we had talked to grannie for a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said. “Certainly,” I replied. “That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.” Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me.<|quote|>“Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.”</|quote|>I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man, and so studied to express myself in a way which would not for an instant give him the impression that I was promising to marry him because—what I don’t know and it doesn’t matter much, but I said: “Hal, don’t you think it is a little selfish of you to want to throw me over just because you have lost your money? You are young, healthy, have good character and influential connections, and plenty of good practical ability and sense, so, surely, you will know | boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what I had said to him the Sunday before. Grannie, strange to say, never suspected that there was likely to be anything between us. Harold was so undemonstrative, and had always come and gone as he liked at Caddagat: she overlooked the possibility of his being a lover, and in our intercourse allowed us almost the freedom of sister and brother or cousins. On this particular afternoon, after we had talked to grannie for a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said. “Certainly,” I replied. “That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.” Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me.<|quote|>“Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.”</|quote|>I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man, and so studied to express myself in a way which would not for an instant give him the impression that I was promising to marry him because—what I don’t know and it doesn’t matter much, but I said: “Hal, don’t you think it is a little selfish of you to want to throw me over just because you have lost your money? You are young, healthy, have good character and influential connections, and plenty of good practical ability and sense, so, surely, you will know no such thing as failure if you meet the world bravely. Go and be the man you are; and if you fail, when I am twenty-one I will marry you, and we will help each other. I am young and strong, and am used to hard work, so poverty will not alarm me in the least. If you want me, I want you. “Syb, you are such a perfect little brick that I couldn’t be such a beggarly cur as to let you do that. I knew you were as true as steel under your funny little whims and contrariness; | or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what I had said to him the Sunday before. Grannie, strange to say, never suspected that there was likely to be anything between us. Harold was so undemonstrative, and had always come and gone as he liked at Caddagat: she overlooked the possibility of his being a lover, and in our intercourse allowed us almost the freedom of sister and brother or cousins. On this particular afternoon, after we had talked to grannie for a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said. “Certainly,” I replied. “That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.” Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me.<|quote|>“Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.”</|quote|>I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man, and so studied to express myself in a way which would not for an instant give him the impression that I was promising to marry him because—what I don’t know and it doesn’t matter much, but I said: “Hal, don’t you think it is a little selfish of you to want to throw me over just because you have lost your money? You are young, healthy, have good character and influential connections, and plenty of good practical ability and sense, so, surely, you will know no such thing as failure if you meet the world bravely. Go and be the man you are; and if you fail, when I am twenty-one I will marry you, and we will help each other. I am young and strong, and am used to hard work, so poverty will not alarm me in the least. If you want me, I want you. “Syb, you are such a perfect little brick that I couldn’t be such a beggarly cur as to let you do that. I knew you were as true as steel under your funny little whims and contrariness; and could you really love me now that I am poor?” I replied with vigour: “Do you think I am that sort, that cares for a person only because he has a little money? Why! that is the very thing I am always preaching against. If a man was a lord or a millionaire I would not have him if I loved him not, but I would marry a poor cripple if I loved him. It wasn’t because you owned Five-Bob Downs that I liked you, but because you have a big heart in which one would have room to get warm, and because you are true, and because you are kind and big and—” Here I could feel my voice getting shaky, and being afraid I would make a fool of myself by crying, I left off. “Syb, I will try and fix matters up a bit, and will claim you in that time if I have a home.” “Claim me, home or not, if you are so disposed, but I will make this condition. Do not tell anyone we are engaged, and remember you are perfectly free. If you see a woman you like more than me, promise | him in the world. He would find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what I had said to him the Sunday before. Grannie, strange to say, never suspected that there was likely to be anything between us. Harold was so undemonstrative, and had always come and gone as he liked at Caddagat: she overlooked the possibility of his being a lover, and in our intercourse allowed us almost the freedom of sister and brother or cousins. On this particular afternoon, after we had talked to grannie for a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said. “Certainly,” I replied. “That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.” Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me.<|quote|>“Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.”</|quote|>I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man, and so studied to express myself in a way which would not for an instant give him the impression that I was promising to marry him because—what I don’t know and it doesn’t matter much, but I said: “Hal, don’t you think it is a little selfish of you to want to throw me over just because you have lost your money? You are young, healthy, have good character and influential connections, and plenty of good practical ability and sense, so, surely, you will know no such thing as failure if you meet the world bravely. Go and be the man you are; and if you fail, when I am twenty-one I will marry you, and we will help each other. I am young and strong, and am used to hard work, so poverty will not alarm me in the least. If you want me, I want you. “Syb, you are such a perfect little brick that I couldn’t be such a beggarly cur as to let you do that. I knew you were as true as steel under your funny little whims and contrariness; and could you really love me now that I am poor?” I replied with vigour: “Do you think I am that sort, that cares for a person only because he has a little money? Why! that is the very thing I am always preaching against. If a man was a lord or a millionaire I would not have him if I loved him not, but I would marry a poor cripple if I loved him. It wasn’t because you owned Five-Bob Downs that I liked you, but because you have a big heart in which one would have room to get warm, and because you are true, and because you are kind and big and—” Here I could feel my voice getting shaky, and being afraid I would make a fool of myself by crying, I left off. “Syb, I will try and fix matters up a bit, and will claim you in that time if I have a home.” “Claim me, home or not, if you are so disposed, but I will make this condition. Do not tell anyone we are engaged, and remember you are perfectly free. If you see a woman you like more than me, promise me on your sacred word that you will have none of those idiotic unjust ideas of keeping true to me. Promise.” “Yes, I will promise,” he said easily, thinking then, no doubt, as many a one before him has thought, that he would never be called upon to fulfil his word. “I will promise in return that I will not look at another man in a matrimonial way until the four years are up, so you need not be jealous and worry yourself; for, Hal, you can trust me, can you not?” Taking my hand in his and looking at me with a world of love in his eyes, which moved me in spite of myself, he said: “I could trust you in every way to the end of the world.” “Thank you, Harold. What we have said is agreed upon—that is, of course, as things appear now: if anything turns up to disturb this arrangement it is not irrevocable in the least degree, and we can lay out more suitable plans. Four years will not be long, and I will be more sensible at the end of that time—that is, of course, if I ever have any sense. We will not write or have any communication, so you will be perfectly free if you see anyone you like better than me to go in and win. Do you agree?” “Certainly; any little thing like that you can settle according to your fancy. I’m set up as long as I get you one way or another, that’s all I want. It was a bit tough being cleared out from all the old ways, but if I have you to stand by me it will be a great start. Say what you said last Sunday, again. Syb, say you will be my wife.” I had expected him to put it in that way, and believing in doing all or nothing, had laid out that I would put my hand in his and promise what he asked. But now the word wife finished me up. I was very fond of Harold—fond to such an extent that had I a fortune I would gladly have given it all to him: I felt capable of giving him a life of servitude, but I loved him—big, manly, lovable, wholesome Harold—from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot he was good in | It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what I had said to him the Sunday before. Grannie, strange to say, never suspected that there was likely to be anything between us. Harold was so undemonstrative, and had always come and gone as he liked at Caddagat: she overlooked the possibility of his being a lover, and in our intercourse allowed us almost the freedom of sister and brother or cousins. On this particular afternoon, after we had talked to grannie for a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said. “Certainly,” I replied. “That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.” Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me.<|quote|>“Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.”</|quote|>I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man, and so studied to express myself in a way which would not for an instant give him the impression that I was promising to marry him because—what I don’t know and it doesn’t matter much, but I said: “Hal, don’t you think it is a little selfish of you to want to throw me over just because you have lost your money? You are young, healthy, have good character and influential connections, and plenty of good practical ability and sense, so, surely, you will know no such thing as failure if you meet the world bravely. Go and be the man you are; and if you fail, when I am twenty-one I will marry you, and we will help each other. I am young and strong, and am used to hard work, so poverty will not alarm me in the least. If you want me, I want you. “Syb, you are such a perfect little brick that I couldn’t be such a beggarly cur as to let you do that. I knew you were as true as steel under your funny little whims and contrariness; and could you really love me now that I am poor?” I replied with vigour: “Do you think I am that sort, that cares for a person only because he has a little money? Why! that is the very thing I | My Brilliant Career |
I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man, and so studied to express myself in a way which would not for an instant give him the impression that I was promising to marry him because—what I don’t know and it doesn’t matter much, but I said: | No speaker | to make such a sacrifice.”<|quote|>I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man, and so studied to express myself in a way which would not for an instant give him the impression that I was promising to marry him because—what I don’t know and it doesn’t matter much, but I said:</|quote|>“Hal, don’t you think it | of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.”<|quote|>I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man, and so studied to express myself in a way which would not for an instant give him the impression that I was promising to marry him because—what I don’t know and it doesn’t matter much, but I said:</|quote|>“Hal, don’t you think it is a little selfish of | choose me of all my sex.” Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me. “Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.”<|quote|>I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man, and so studied to express myself in a way which would not for an instant give him the impression that I was promising to marry him because—what I don’t know and it doesn’t matter much, but I said:</|quote|>“Hal, don’t you think it is a little selfish of you to want to throw me over just because you have lost your money? You are young, healthy, have good character and influential connections, and plenty of good practical ability and sense, so, surely, you will know no such thing | come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said. “Certainly,” I replied. “That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.” Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me. “Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.”<|quote|>I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man, and so studied to express myself in a way which would not for an instant give him the impression that I was promising to marry him because—what I don’t know and it doesn’t matter much, but I said:</|quote|>“Hal, don’t you think it is a little selfish of you to want to throw me over just because you have lost your money? You are young, healthy, have good character and influential connections, and plenty of good practical ability and sense, so, surely, you will know no such thing as failure if you meet the world bravely. Go and be the man you are; and if you fail, when I am twenty-one I will marry you, and we will help each other. I am young and strong, and am used to hard work, so poverty will not alarm me | us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what I had said to him the Sunday before. Grannie, strange to say, never suspected that there was likely to be anything between us. Harold was so undemonstrative, and had always come and gone as he liked at Caddagat: she overlooked the possibility of his being a lover, and in our intercourse allowed us almost the freedom of sister and brother or cousins. On this particular afternoon, after we had talked to grannie for a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said. “Certainly,” I replied. “That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.” Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me. “Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.”<|quote|>I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man, and so studied to express myself in a way which would not for an instant give him the impression that I was promising to marry him because—what I don’t know and it doesn’t matter much, but I said:</|quote|>“Hal, don’t you think it is a little selfish of you to want to throw me over just because you have lost your money? You are young, healthy, have good character and influential connections, and plenty of good practical ability and sense, so, surely, you will know no such thing as failure if you meet the world bravely. Go and be the man you are; and if you fail, when I am twenty-one I will marry you, and we will help each other. I am young and strong, and am used to hard work, so poverty will not alarm me in the least. If you want me, I want you. “Syb, you are such a perfect little brick that I couldn’t be such a beggarly cur as to let you do that. I knew you were as true as steel under your funny little whims and contrariness; and could you really love me now that I am poor?” I replied with vigour: “Do you think I am that sort, that cares for a person only because he has a little money? Why! that is the very thing I am always preaching against. If a man was a lord or a | support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what I had said to him the Sunday before. Grannie, strange to say, never suspected that there was likely to be anything between us. Harold was so undemonstrative, and had always come and gone as he liked at Caddagat: she overlooked the possibility of his being a lover, and in our intercourse allowed us almost the freedom of sister and brother or cousins. On this particular afternoon, after we had talked to grannie for a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said. “Certainly,” I replied. “That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.” Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me. “Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.”<|quote|>I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man, and so studied to express myself in a way which would not for an instant give him the impression that I was promising to marry him because—what I don’t know and it doesn’t matter much, but I said:</|quote|>“Hal, don’t you think it is a little selfish of you to want to throw me over just because you have lost your money? You are young, healthy, have good character and influential connections, and plenty of good practical ability and sense, so, surely, you will know no such thing as failure if you meet the world bravely. Go and be the man you are; and if you fail, when I am twenty-one I will marry you, and we will help each other. I am young and strong, and am used to hard work, so poverty will not alarm me in the least. If you want me, I want you. “Syb, you are such a perfect little brick that I couldn’t be such a beggarly cur as to let you do that. I knew you were as true as steel under your funny little whims and contrariness; and could you really love me now that I am poor?” I replied with vigour: “Do you think I am that sort, that cares for a person only because he has a little money? Why! that is the very thing I am always preaching against. If a man was a lord or a millionaire I would not have him if I loved him not, but I would marry a poor cripple if I loved him. It wasn’t because you owned Five-Bob Downs that I liked you, but because you have a big heart in which one would have room to get warm, and because you are true, and because you are kind and big and—” Here I could feel my voice getting shaky, and being afraid I would make a fool of myself by crying, I left off. “Syb, I will try and fix matters up a bit, and will claim you in that time if I have a home.” “Claim me, home or not, if you are so disposed, but I will make this condition. Do not tell anyone we are engaged, and remember you are perfectly free. If you see a woman you like more than me, promise me on your sacred word that you will have none of those idiotic unjust ideas of keeping true to me. Promise.” “Yes, I will promise,” he said easily, thinking then, no doubt, as many a one before him has thought, that he would never be called upon to fulfil his word. “I will | be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what I had said to him the Sunday before. Grannie, strange to say, never suspected that there was likely to be anything between us. Harold was so undemonstrative, and had always come and gone as he liked at Caddagat: she overlooked the possibility of his being a lover, and in our intercourse allowed us almost the freedom of sister and brother or cousins. On this particular afternoon, after we had talked to grannie for a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said. “Certainly,” I replied. “That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.” Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me. “Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.”<|quote|>I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man, and so studied to express myself in a way which would not for an instant give him the impression that I was promising to marry him because—what I don’t know and it doesn’t matter much, but I said:</|quote|>“Hal, don’t you think it is a little selfish of you to want to throw me over just because you have lost your money? You are young, healthy, have good character and influential connections, and plenty of good practical ability and sense, so, surely, you will know no such thing as failure if you meet the world bravely. Go and be the man you are; and if you fail, when I am twenty-one I will marry you, and we will help each other. I am young and strong, and am used to hard work, so poverty will not alarm me in the least. If you want me, I want you. “Syb, you are such a perfect little brick that I couldn’t be such a beggarly cur as to let you do that. I knew you were as true as steel under your funny little whims and contrariness; and could you really love me now that I am poor?” I replied with vigour: “Do you think I am that sort, that cares for a person only because he has a little money? Why! that is the very thing I am always preaching against. If a man was a lord or a millionaire I would not have him if I loved him not, but I would marry a poor cripple if I loved him. It wasn’t because you owned Five-Bob Downs that I liked you, but because you have a big heart in which one would have room to get warm, and because you are true, and because you are kind and big and—” Here I could feel my voice getting shaky, and being afraid I would make a fool of myself by crying, I left off. “Syb, I will try and fix matters up a bit, and will claim you in that time if I have a home.” “Claim me, home or not, if you are so disposed, but I will make this condition. Do not tell anyone we are engaged, and remember you are perfectly free. If you see a woman you like more than me, promise me on your sacred word that you will have none of those idiotic unjust ideas of keeping true to me. Promise.” “Yes, I will promise,” he said easily, thinking then, no doubt, as many a one before him has thought, that he would never be called upon to fulfil his word. “I will promise in return that I will not look at another man in a matrimonial way until the four years are up, so you need not be jealous and worry yourself; for, Hal, you can trust me, can you not?” Taking my hand in his and looking at me with a world of love in his eyes, which moved me in spite of myself, he said: “I could trust you in every way to the end of the world.” “Thank you, Harold. What we have said is agreed upon—that is, of course, as things appear now: if anything turns up to disturb this arrangement it is not irrevocable in the least degree, and we can lay out more suitable plans. Four years will not be long, and I will be more sensible at the end of that time—that is, of course, if I ever have any sense. We will not write or have any communication, so you will be perfectly free if you see anyone you like better than me to go in and win. Do you agree?” “Certainly; any little thing like that you can settle according to your fancy. I’m set up as long as I get you one way or another, that’s all I want. It was a bit tough being cleared out from all the old ways, but if I have you to stand by me it will be a great start. Say what you said last Sunday, again. Syb, say you will be my wife.” I had expected him to put it in that way, and believing in doing all or nothing, had laid out that I would put my hand in his and promise what he asked. But now the word wife finished me up. I was very fond of Harold—fond to such an extent that had I a fortune I would gladly have given it all to him: I felt capable of giving him a life of servitude, but I loved him—big, manly, lovable, wholesome Harold—from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot he was good in my sight, but lacking in that power over me which would make me desirous of being the mother of his children. As for explaining my feelings to him—ha! He would laughingly call them one of my funny little whims. With his orthodox, practical, plain, commonsense views of these things, he would not understand | man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what I had said to him the Sunday before. Grannie, strange to say, never suspected that there was likely to be anything between us. Harold was so undemonstrative, and had always come and gone as he liked at Caddagat: she overlooked the possibility of his being a lover, and in our intercourse allowed us almost the freedom of sister and brother or cousins. On this particular afternoon, after we had talked to grannie for a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said. “Certainly,” I replied. “That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.” Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me. “Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.”<|quote|>I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man, and so studied to express myself in a way which would not for an instant give him the impression that I was promising to marry him because—what I don’t know and it doesn’t matter much, but I said:</|quote|>“Hal, don’t you think it is a little selfish of you to want to throw me over just because you have lost your money? You are young, healthy, have good character and influential connections, and plenty of good practical ability and sense, so, surely, you will know no such thing as failure if you meet the world bravely. Go and be the man you are; and if you fail, when I am twenty-one I will marry you, and we will help each other. I am young and strong, and am used to hard work, so poverty will not alarm me in the least. If you want me, I want you. “Syb, you are such a perfect little brick that I couldn’t be such a beggarly cur as to let you do that. I knew you were as true as steel under your funny little whims and contrariness; and could you really love me now that I am poor?” I replied with vigour: “Do you think I am that sort, that cares for a person only because he has a little money? Why! that is the very thing I am always preaching against. If a man was a lord or a millionaire I would not have him if I loved him not, but I would marry a poor cripple if I loved him. It wasn’t because you owned Five-Bob Downs that I liked you, | My Brilliant Career |
“Hal, don’t you think it is a little selfish of you to want to throw me over just because you have lost your money? You are young, healthy, have good character and influential connections, and plenty of good practical ability and sense, so, surely, you will know no such thing as failure if you meet the world bravely. Go and be the man you are; and if you fail, when I am twenty-one I will marry you, and we will help each other. I am young and strong, and am used to hard work, so poverty will not alarm me in the least. If you want me, I want you. | Sybylla Melvyn | matter much, but I said:<|quote|>“Hal, don’t you think it is a little selfish of you to want to throw me over just because you have lost your money? You are young, healthy, have good character and influential connections, and plenty of good practical ability and sense, so, surely, you will know no such thing as failure if you meet the world bravely. Go and be the man you are; and if you fail, when I am twenty-one I will marry you, and we will help each other. I am young and strong, and am used to hard work, so poverty will not alarm me in the least. If you want me, I want you.</|quote|>“Syb, you are such a | don’t know and it doesn’t matter much, but I said:<|quote|>“Hal, don’t you think it is a little selfish of you to want to throw me over just because you have lost your money? You are young, healthy, have good character and influential connections, and plenty of good practical ability and sense, so, surely, you will know no such thing as failure if you meet the world bravely. Go and be the man you are; and if you fail, when I am twenty-one I will marry you, and we will help each other. I am young and strong, and am used to hard work, so poverty will not alarm me in the least. If you want me, I want you.</|quote|>“Syb, you are such a perfect little brick that I | was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man, and so studied to express myself in a way which would not for an instant give him the impression that I was promising to marry him because—what I don’t know and it doesn’t matter much, but I said:<|quote|>“Hal, don’t you think it is a little selfish of you to want to throw me over just because you have lost your money? You are young, healthy, have good character and influential connections, and plenty of good practical ability and sense, so, surely, you will know no such thing as failure if you meet the world bravely. Go and be the man you are; and if you fail, when I am twenty-one I will marry you, and we will help each other. I am young and strong, and am used to hard work, so poverty will not alarm me in the least. If you want me, I want you.</|quote|>“Syb, you are such a perfect little brick that I couldn’t be such a beggarly cur as to let you do that. I knew you were as true as steel under your funny little whims and contrariness; and could you really love me now that I am poor?” I replied | all my sex.” Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me. “Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.” I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man, and so studied to express myself in a way which would not for an instant give him the impression that I was promising to marry him because—what I don’t know and it doesn’t matter much, but I said:<|quote|>“Hal, don’t you think it is a little selfish of you to want to throw me over just because you have lost your money? You are young, healthy, have good character and influential connections, and plenty of good practical ability and sense, so, surely, you will know no such thing as failure if you meet the world bravely. Go and be the man you are; and if you fail, when I am twenty-one I will marry you, and we will help each other. I am young and strong, and am used to hard work, so poverty will not alarm me in the least. If you want me, I want you.</|quote|>“Syb, you are such a perfect little brick that I couldn’t be such a beggarly cur as to let you do that. I knew you were as true as steel under your funny little whims and contrariness; and could you really love me now that I am poor?” I replied with vigour: “Do you think I am that sort, that cares for a person only because he has a little money? Why! that is the very thing I am always preaching against. If a man was a lord or a millionaire I would not have him if I loved him | possibility of his being a lover, and in our intercourse allowed us almost the freedom of sister and brother or cousins. On this particular afternoon, after we had talked to grannie for a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said. “Certainly,” I replied. “That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.” Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me. “Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.” I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man, and so studied to express myself in a way which would not for an instant give him the impression that I was promising to marry him because—what I don’t know and it doesn’t matter much, but I said:<|quote|>“Hal, don’t you think it is a little selfish of you to want to throw me over just because you have lost your money? You are young, healthy, have good character and influential connections, and plenty of good practical ability and sense, so, surely, you will know no such thing as failure if you meet the world bravely. Go and be the man you are; and if you fail, when I am twenty-one I will marry you, and we will help each other. I am young and strong, and am used to hard work, so poverty will not alarm me in the least. If you want me, I want you.</|quote|>“Syb, you are such a perfect little brick that I couldn’t be such a beggarly cur as to let you do that. I knew you were as true as steel under your funny little whims and contrariness; and could you really love me now that I am poor?” I replied with vigour: “Do you think I am that sort, that cares for a person only because he has a little money? Why! that is the very thing I am always preaching against. If a man was a lord or a millionaire I would not have him if I loved him not, but I would marry a poor cripple if I loved him. It wasn’t because you owned Five-Bob Downs that I liked you, but because you have a big heart in which one would have room to get warm, and because you are true, and because you are kind and big and—” Here I could feel my voice getting shaky, and being afraid I would make a fool of myself by crying, I left off. “Syb, I will try and fix matters up a bit, and will claim you in that time if I have a home.” “Claim me, home | on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what I had said to him the Sunday before. Grannie, strange to say, never suspected that there was likely to be anything between us. Harold was so undemonstrative, and had always come and gone as he liked at Caddagat: she overlooked the possibility of his being a lover, and in our intercourse allowed us almost the freedom of sister and brother or cousins. On this particular afternoon, after we had talked to grannie for a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said. “Certainly,” I replied. “That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.” Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me. “Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.” I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man, and so studied to express myself in a way which would not for an instant give him the impression that I was promising to marry him because—what I don’t know and it doesn’t matter much, but I said:<|quote|>“Hal, don’t you think it is a little selfish of you to want to throw me over just because you have lost your money? You are young, healthy, have good character and influential connections, and plenty of good practical ability and sense, so, surely, you will know no such thing as failure if you meet the world bravely. Go and be the man you are; and if you fail, when I am twenty-one I will marry you, and we will help each other. I am young and strong, and am used to hard work, so poverty will not alarm me in the least. If you want me, I want you.</|quote|>“Syb, you are such a perfect little brick that I couldn’t be such a beggarly cur as to let you do that. I knew you were as true as steel under your funny little whims and contrariness; and could you really love me now that I am poor?” I replied with vigour: “Do you think I am that sort, that cares for a person only because he has a little money? Why! that is the very thing I am always preaching against. If a man was a lord or a millionaire I would not have him if I loved him not, but I would marry a poor cripple if I loved him. It wasn’t because you owned Five-Bob Downs that I liked you, but because you have a big heart in which one would have room to get warm, and because you are true, and because you are kind and big and—” Here I could feel my voice getting shaky, and being afraid I would make a fool of myself by crying, I left off. “Syb, I will try and fix matters up a bit, and will claim you in that time if I have a home.” “Claim me, home or not, if you are so disposed, but I will make this condition. Do not tell anyone we are engaged, and remember you are perfectly free. If you see a woman you like more than me, promise me on your sacred word that you will have none of those idiotic unjust ideas of keeping true to me. Promise.” “Yes, I will promise,” he said easily, thinking then, no doubt, as many a one before him has thought, that he would never be called upon to fulfil his word. “I will promise in return that I will not look at another man in a matrimonial way until the four years are up, so you need not be jealous and worry yourself; for, Hal, you can trust me, can you not?” Taking my hand in his and looking at me with a world of love in his eyes, which moved me in spite of myself, he said: “I could trust you in every way to the end of the world.” “Thank you, Harold. What we have said is agreed upon—that is, of course, as things appear now: if anything turns up to disturb this arrangement it is not irrevocable in the least | to let one so young be embittered in that way. There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed. “Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.” He turned his horse slowly. “Well, Syb, what is it?” “Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.” “It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what do you mean?” “Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come. When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went. After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways. I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus: “Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what I had said to him the Sunday before. Grannie, strange to say, never suspected that there was likely to be anything between us. Harold was so undemonstrative, and had always come and gone as he liked at Caddagat: she overlooked the possibility of his being a lover, and in our intercourse allowed us almost the freedom of sister and brother or cousins. On this particular afternoon, after we had talked to grannie for a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said. “Certainly,” I replied. “That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.” Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me. “Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.” I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man, and so studied to express myself in a way which would not for an instant give him the impression that I was promising to marry him because—what I don’t know and it doesn’t matter much, but I said:<|quote|>“Hal, don’t you think it is a little selfish of you to want to throw me over just because you have lost your money? You are young, healthy, have good character and influential connections, and plenty of good practical ability and sense, so, surely, you will know no such thing as failure if you meet the world bravely. Go and be the man you are; and if you fail, when I am twenty-one I will marry you, and we will help each other. I am young and strong, and am used to hard work, so poverty will not alarm me in the least. If you want me, I want you.</|quote|>“Syb, you are such a perfect little brick that I couldn’t be such a beggarly cur as to let you do that. I knew you were as true as steel under your funny little whims and contrariness; and could you really love me now that I am poor?” I replied with vigour: “Do you think I am that sort, that cares for a person only because he has a little money? Why! that is the very thing I am always preaching against. If a man was a lord or a millionaire I would not have him if I loved him not, but I would marry a poor cripple if I loved him. It wasn’t because you owned Five-Bob Downs that I liked you, but because you have a big heart in which one would have room to get warm, and because you are true, and because you are kind and big and—” Here I could feel my voice getting shaky, and being afraid I would make a fool of myself by crying, I left off. “Syb, I will try and fix matters up a bit, and will claim you in that time if I have a home.” “Claim me, home or not, if you are so disposed, but I will make this condition. Do not tell anyone we are engaged, and remember you are perfectly free. If you see a woman you like more than me, promise me on your sacred word that you will have none of those idiotic unjust ideas of keeping true to me. Promise.” “Yes, I will promise,” he said easily, thinking then, no doubt, as many a one before him has thought, that he would never be called upon to fulfil his word. “I will promise in return that I will not look at another man in a matrimonial way until the four years are up, so you need not be jealous and worry yourself; for, Hal, you can trust me, can you not?” Taking my hand in his and looking at me with a world of love in his eyes, which moved me in spite of myself, he said: “I could trust you in every way to the end of the world.” “Thank you, Harold. What we have said is agreed upon—that is, of course, as things appear now: if anything turns up to disturb this arrangement it is not irrevocable in the least degree, and we can lay out more suitable plans. Four years will not be long, and I will be more sensible at the end of that time—that is, of course, if I ever have any sense. We will not write or have any communication, so you will be perfectly free if you see anyone you like better than me to go in and win. Do you agree?” “Certainly; any little thing like that you can settle according to your fancy. I’m set up as long as I get you one way or another, that’s all I want. It was a bit tough being cleared out from all the old ways, but if I have you to stand by me it will be a great start. Say what you said last Sunday, again. Syb, say you will be my wife.” I had expected him to put it in that way, and believing in doing all or nothing, had laid out that I would put my hand in his and promise what he asked. But now the word wife finished me up. I was very fond of Harold—fond to such an extent that had I a fortune I would gladly have given it all to him: I felt capable of giving him a life of servitude, but I loved him—big, manly, lovable, wholesome Harold—from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot he was good in my sight, but lacking in that power over me which would make me desirous of being the mother of his children. As for explaining my feelings to him—ha! He would laughingly call them one of my funny little whims. With his orthodox, practical, plain, commonsense views of these things, he would not understand me. What was there to understand? Only that I was queer and different from other women. But he was waiting for me to speak. I had put my hand to the plough and could not turn back. I could not use the word wife, but I put my hand in his, looked at him steadily, and said— “Harold. I meant what I said last Sunday. If you want me—if I am of any use to you—I will marry you when I attain my majority.” He was satisfied. He bade us good-bye early that afternoon, as he intended departing from Five-Bob when the morrow was young, and had two or three | Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So you actually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a man through life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and a half in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections, spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man of sense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men. “Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor, useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or rather below, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsaken man who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit of you!” CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Because? The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas. Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies, who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approved of their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. They intended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—in Melbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling of his affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He had been offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could not bring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what I had said to him the Sunday before. Grannie, strange to say, never suspected that there was likely to be anything between us. Harold was so undemonstrative, and had always come and gone as he liked at Caddagat: she overlooked the possibility of his being a lover, and in our intercourse allowed us almost the freedom of sister and brother or cousins. On this particular afternoon, after we had talked to grannie for a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said. “Certainly,” I replied. “That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.” Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me. “Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.” I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man, and so studied to express myself in a way which would not for an instant give him the impression that I was promising to marry him because—what I don’t know and it doesn’t matter much, but I said:<|quote|>“Hal, don’t you think it is a little selfish of you to want to throw me over just because you have lost your money? You are young, healthy, have good character and influential connections, and plenty of good practical ability and sense, so, surely, you will know no such thing as failure if you meet the world bravely. Go and be the man you are; and if you fail, when I am twenty-one I will marry you, and we will help each other. I am young and strong, and am used to hard work, so poverty will not alarm me in the least. If you want me, I want you.</|quote|>“Syb, you are such a perfect little brick that I couldn’t be such a beggarly cur as to let you do that. I knew you were as true as steel under your funny little whims and contrariness; and could you really love me now that I am poor?” I replied with vigour: “Do you think I am that sort, that cares for a person only because he has a little money? Why! that is the very thing I am always preaching against. If a man was a lord or a millionaire I would not have him if I loved him not, but I would marry a poor cripple if I loved him. It wasn’t because you owned Five-Bob Downs that I liked you, but because you have a big heart in which one would have room to get warm, and because you are true, and because you are kind and big and—” Here I could feel my voice getting shaky, and being afraid I would make a fool of myself by crying, I left off. “Syb, I will try and fix matters up a bit, and will claim you in that time if I have a home.” “Claim me, home or not, if you are so disposed, but I will make this condition. Do not tell anyone we are engaged, and remember you are perfectly free. If you see a woman you like more than me, promise me on your sacred word that you will have none of those idiotic unjust ideas of keeping true to me. Promise.” “Yes, I will promise,” he said easily, thinking then, no doubt, as many a one before him has thought, that he would never be called upon to fulfil his word. “I will promise in return that I will not look at another man in a matrimonial way until the four years are up, so you need not be jealous and worry yourself; for, Hal, you can trust me, can you not?” Taking my hand in his and looking at me with a world of love in his eyes, which moved me in spite of myself, he said: “I could trust you in every way to the end of the world.” “Thank you, Harold. What we have said is agreed upon—that is, of course, as things appear now: if anything turns up to disturb this arrangement it is not irrevocable in the least degree, and we can lay out more suitable plans. Four years will not be long, and I will be more sensible at the end of that time—that is, of course, if I ever have any sense. We will not write or have any communication, so you will be perfectly free if you see anyone you like better than me to go in and win. Do you agree?” “Certainly; any little thing like that you can settle according to your fancy. I’m set up as long as I get you one way or another, that’s all I want. It was a bit tough being cleared out from all the old ways, but if I have you to stand by me it will be a great start. Say what you said last Sunday, again. Syb, say you will be my wife.” I had expected him to put it in that way, and believing in doing all or nothing, had laid out that I would put my hand in his and promise what he asked. But now the word wife finished me up. I was very fond of Harold—fond to such an extent that | My Brilliant Career |
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