Australia Revenged Part 2

"Dressmaking or something of that sort. And, poor devil, I believe she has two or three kids to support, brothers and sisters."

"Ah, well! I suppose she'll pick up with Sir Charles, now? He's got plenty of the needful."

"Fool if she doesn't," replied this elegant young gentleman, flippantly.

Extremes meet. The naked savage has a fairly low estimate of the value of his womankind, but it is many degrees higher than that of this product of a highly-cultured civilization.

Tommy's curiosity was roused and he was anxious to draw more particulars of his peculiar gift from his friend, so he continued his catechism.

"I say, Wyck! I suppose if you wanted a girl to get properly struck on you, you could do it. Eh?"

"Rather, Tommy, I only want a girl to be in my company three or four times and I can mould her so that she will break her heart and pine away, if I leave her."

"Nonsense. But you don't go so far as that?"

"No, but I may do so for an experiment."

"I suppose you alluded to this power when you once said you had conquered every nation under the sun?"

"Oh! only that I had willed girls of most nationalities."

"And who are the two you are looking after now?"

"One I have found; she is a Swiss. The other I am looking for; she is an Australian."

"Australian, eh? I fancy I could fit you up there. I know a jolly girl from Australia."

"You do? By Jove, Tommy, that's glorious! Who is she?"

"I don't know her very well. She lives in one of the suburbs with some retired Australians, called Whyte. Her name is Amy Johnson."

"Is she good-looking?"

"She's more, she's sweetly pretty. But I believe she is engaged to a young fellow named Morris, also an Australian."

"That makes it all the more interesting. But how are we to meet?" said Wyck, really roused.

"I can arrange that, if you are game for a suburban ball-room. The Brixton Bachelors give their annual ball shortly. She will be there and I will get you an invite."

"Tommy, you're a brick," said his friend, slapping him on the back; a proceeding which ensured the success of his neat manoeuvre, by which a note or two was transferred from Wyck's pocket-book to that of his friend, who was "rather hard-pressed, you know," and Wyck was "a devilish good chap for helping a fellow out of a hole."

In Piccadilly they parted, Tommy's last words being:

"'Ware young Australian, old chap. These colonial fellows are not to be trifled with."

"My dear boy, I've heard that before. They told me the same with regard to Americans, but three of my notches represent Yankee maidens. I'm all right. Don't forget the ticket for the ball. I must complete my score of fifty."

He waved him an adieu, and went his way, very well pleased with himself and full of self-confidence. The old pitcher in the fable succ.u.mbed at the hundredth journey, and Wyck's successful career will be cut short by the fiftieth notch.

CHAPTER III.

THE MIA-MIA.[A]

"How dare you do it, sir? You are too presumptuous."

"I am awfully sorry, Amy, but really I could not help myself."

"But you did help yourself, Reg," and the young girl turned upon her companion such a bewitchingly pretty face, her lips pouting with badly-simulated anger, that the young man had no compunction in taking her in his arms, and kissing the pouting lips till they smiled again.

This scene was enacted in a tiny summer-house of trellis-work, completely covered with hanging greenery, which stood in one of those pretty gardens that are still to be found in the suburb of Brixton. The summer-house appeared to be designed expressly for its two occupants. It held only two seats and was of dimensions just sufficiently confined to prevent them from being too far apart. Through the opening could be seen the full stretch of the carefully-tended garden, backed by a comfortable house with a verandah running round it. On the lawn, a couple of dogs were lying lazily; hanging in the verandah was an aviary and the noisy twittering of its occupants reached the ears of the two in the summer-house. Their eyes dwelt lovingly on the scene before them, with a sense of rest, for happiness and contentment seemed to be in the air.

An elderly man in shirt-sleeves was busily engaged in pruning some fruit trees. As he paused in his work to wipe his perspiring brow he formed a picture of contentment in complete harmony with the scene of which he was a part. This was Oliver Whyte, the owner of the house and garden, which he had christened, in true Australian fashion, "The Mia-Mia." He was a man of about sixty, short and thick-set in appearance with a tendency to corpulence. His character was written in his fine open face, clean-shaven save for a ring of white hair that set his honest countenance in an oval frame; was felt as one listened to the tones of his rough, good-natured voice. He was joined by an elderly woman, who despite her grey hair and heavy build, was as active as many a younger maid. Her voice had a genuine and pleasant ring in it and her face always wore a cheerful, contented smile. She was beloved by all who came in contact with her, for she was the embodiment of the word motherly.

The dogs rose and stretched themselves and lazily rubbed their noses against her skirt, as she pa.s.sed from one flower bed to another, snipping a dead leaf here and picking a faded blossom there. This was Mrs. Whyte or, as Oliver fondly calls her, "the missus."

Forty years before, Oliver Whyte, a young man in his prime, set out with two companions for the sunny sh.o.r.es of Australia. He had served his time as a carpenter, and his employers had cause to regret the loss of a fine workman when Whyte became fired with the ambition of travel at the time when the glorious accounts of the richness of Australia attracted the energetic youth of Britain. Arriving in Melbourne in '52, when the gold fever was at its height, he and his companions lost no time in finding their way to the fields in search of the precious metal. He spent twelve months in rough living and hard labour then, to realize it was not as easy to make a fortune as he imagined. But he was a good artizan and, men of his stamp being scarce, he returned to Melbourne and started working at his trade. In vain he tried to persuade his mates to follow suit, but the gold-fever had taken too strong a hold upon them. Wages were very high in Melbourne, and he had no difficulty in earning ten and even fifteen pounds a week. In a few months' time he was able to start in business on his own account and, as Melbourne had by this time been acknowledged as the capital town, he invested all his savings in land which could then be had at low rates. When he had made a fair business he sent home for the girl with whom he had "kept company," and on her arrival they were married in Melbourne. Years went by, his business extended, and his land increased in value fifty-fold, and Oliver Whyte was rapidly becoming a wealthy man.

The fact that no children blessed their union was a great trouble to the Whytes. But when his wife began to fret over it Whyte would answer in his cheery fashion, "Never mind, missus, we shall have to get one of somebody else's."

One day, when they were at their mid-day meal, a letter in a strange hand-writing was brought to them, in which they were begged to come at once to the Melbourne Hospital where a woman named Johnson wished to see them.

"Johnson! Johnson!" said Whyte. "The only Johnson I ever knew, was my mate, Bill Johnson, whom I left on the 'fields.'"

"Maybe this is his wife, Olly."

"We'll go at once and see her."

Straightway the honest couple set out for the hospital and, on arriving there, were taken to the bedside of a dying woman.

"Are you Olly Whyte?" asked the woman, feebly.

"Yes, that's me," said Whyte.

"My name is Johnson and Bill told me that if anything went wrong I was to look out for Olly Whyte, and he would help me."

"Are you Bill's wife, then? Where is he?"

"Dead, two years ago, and I am going to join him."

"Poor old Bill!" said Whyte, feelingly.

"I've got a little girl," murmured the poor woman. "She ain't been brought up first cla.s.s, but if you would look after her I'd die happy."

"Where is she?" said Mrs. Whyte, speaking for the first time. "Of course we will do so."

That night the widow of Whyte's old mate, Bill Johnson, died and the house of Whyte had an additional inmate in the shape of a tousled-haired little girl, removed from a tenement in Little Bourke Street, one of the lowest slums in Melbourne. When Amy Johnson found herself in the midst of these novel surroundings, and experienced the delights of new and warm clothing and of plenty of good things to eat, and the disagreeables of having her face and hands washed oftener than she thought necessary, her equilibrium was completely upset. But time and careful handling soon made her forget her old ways. As she grew up, she developed startling qualities of mind and body, united to a loveable disposition, that she soon filled the gap in the home of the old couple. At the age of eight she was sent to school, where she early distinguished herself and became a great favourite with the teacher, as with her schoolfellows. Her life was one of sunny happiness, the more so because she was completely unspoiled. Though she never knew trouble, she could yet sympathize with it, and she returned the idolization of her adopted parents with a love and consideration that caused them to bless the day that saw them on their errand of mercy to Melbourne Hospital.