relinquish a promising clerkship to emigrate in his wake—into this he had read more than it would hold.— And, as he picked his muddy steps, Mahony agreed with himself that the net result, for him, of Purdy's coming to the colony, had been to saddle him with a new responsibility. It was his lot for ever to be helping the lad out of tight places. Sometimes it made him feel unnecessarily bearish. For Purdy had the knack, common to sunny, improvident natures, of taking everything that was done for him for granted. His want of delicacy in this respect was distressing. Yet, in spite of it all, it was hard to bear him a grudge for long together. A well-meaning young beggar if ever there was one! That very day how faithfully he had stuck at his side, assisting at dull discussions and duller purchasings, without once obtruding his own concerns.—And here Mahony remembered their talk on the ride to town. Purdy had expressed the wish to settle down and take a wife. A poor friend that would be who did not back him up in this intention.
As he sidled into one of the front benches of a half-empty hall—the mesmerist, a corpse-like man in black, already surveyed its thinness from the platform with an air of pained surprise—Mahony decided that Purdy should have his chance. The heavy rains of the day, and the consequent probable flooding of the Ponds and the Marsh, would serve as an excuse for a change of route. He would go and have a look at Purdy's sweetheart; would ride back to the diggings by way of Geelong.
Chapter VI
In a whitewashed parlour of "Beamish's Family Hotel" some few miles north of Geelong, three young women, in voluminous skirts and with their hair looped low over their ears, sat at work. Books lay open on the table before two of them; the third was making a bookmark. Two were fair, plump, rosy, and well over twenty; the third, pale-skinned and dark, was still a very young girl. She it was who stitched magenta hieroglyphics on a strip of perforated cardboard.
"Do lemme see, Poll," said the eldest of the trio, and laid down her pen. "You 'AVE bin quick about it, my dear."
Polly, the brunette, freed her needle of silk and twirled the bookmark by its ribbon ends. Spinning, the mystic characters united to form the words: "Kiss me quick."
Her companions tittered. "If ma didn't know for certain 'twas meant for your brother John, she'd never 'ave let you make it," said the second blonde, whose name was Jinny.
"Girls, what a lark it 'ud be to send it up to Purdy Smith, by Ned!" said the first speaker.
Polly blushed. "Fy, Tilly! That wouldn't be ladylike."
Tilly's big bosom rose and fell in a sigh. "What's a lark never is."
Jinny giggled, agreeably scandalized: "What things you do say, Till! Don't let ma 'ear you, that's all."
"Ma be blowed!—'Ow does this look now, Polly?" And across the wax-cloth Tilly pushed a copybook, in which she had laboriously inscribed a prim maxim the requisite number of times.
Polly laid down her work and knitted her brows over the page.
"Well … it's better than the last one, Tilly," she said gently, averse to hurting her pupil's feelings. "But still not quite good enough. The f's, look, should be more like this." And taking a steel pen she made several long-tailed f's, in a tiny, pointed hand.
Tilly yielded an ungrudging admiration. "'Ow well you do it, Poll! But I HATE writing. If only ma weren't so set on it!"
"You'll never be able to write yourself to a certain person, 'oos name I won't mention, if you don't 'urry up and learn," said Jinny, looking sage.
"What's the odds! We've always got Poll to write for us," gave back Tilly, and lazily stretched out a large, plump hand to recover the copybook. "A certain person'll never know—or not till it's too late."
"Here, Polly dear," said Jinny, and held out a book. "I know it now."
Again Polly put down her embroidery. She took the book. "Plough!" said she.
"Plough?" echoed Jinny vaguely, and turned a pair of soft, cow-like brown eyes on the blowflies sitting sticky and sleepy round the walls of the room. "Wait a jiff … lemme think! Plough? Oh, yes, I know. P-l. … "
"P-l-o" prompted Polly, the speller coming to a full stop.
"P-l-o-w!" shot out Jinny, in triumph.
"Not QUITE right," said Polly. "It's g-h, Jinny: p-l-o-u-g-h."
"Oh, that's what I meant. I knew it right enough."
"Well, now, trough!"
"Trough?" repeated Jinny, in the same slow, vacant way.
"Trough? Wait, lemme think a minute. T-r-o. … "
Polly's lips all but formed the "u," to prevent the "f" she felt impending. "I'm afraid you'll have to take it again, Jinny dear," she said reluctantly, as nothing further was forthcoming.
"Oh, no, Poll. T-r-o-" began Jinny with fresh vigour. But before she could add a fourth to the three letters, a heavy foot pounded down the passage, and a stout woman, out of breath, her cap-bands flying, came bustling in and slammed the door.
"Girls, girls, now whatever d'ye think? 'Ere's Purdy Smith come ridin' inter the yard, an' another gent with 'im. Scuttle along now, an' put them books away!—Tilda, yer net's 'alf 'angin' off—you don't want yer sweet-'eart to see you all untidy like that, do you?—'Elp 'em, Polly my dear, and be quick about it!—H'out with yer sewin', chicks!"
Sprung up from their seats the three girls darted to and fro. The telltale spelling and copy-books were flung into the drawer of the chiffonier, and the key was turned on them. Polly, her immodest sampler safely hidden at the bottom of her workbox, was the most composed of the three; and while locks were smoothed and collars adjusted in the adjoining bedroom, she remained behind to look out thimbles, needles and strips of plain sewing, and to lay them naturally about the table.
The blonde sisters reappeared, all aglow with excitement. Tilly, in particular, was in a sad flutter.
"Girls, I simply CAN'T face 'im in 'ere!" she declared. "It was 'ere, in this very room, that 'e first—you know what!"
"Nor can I," cried Jinny, catching the fever.
"Feel my 'eart, 'ow it beats," said her sister, pressing her hands, one over the other, to her full left breast.
"Mine's every bit as bad," averred Jinny.
"I believe I shall 'ave the palpitations and faint away, if I stop 'ere."
Polly was genuinely concerned. "I'll run and call mother back."
"No, I tell you what: let's 'ide!" cried Tilly, recovering.
Jinny wavered. "But will they find us?"
"Duffer! Of course. Ma'll give 'em the 'int.—Come on!"
Suiting the action to the word, and imitated by her sister, she scrambled over the window sill to the verandah. Polly found herself alone. Her conscientious scrupling: "But mother may be cross!" had passed unheeded. Now, she, too, fell into a flurry.
