When I began to think of Tom, I became far more melancholy than any thought of Spring or Bronzewing had made me. How Tom would miss me! And where should I find another like him, whatever part of the world I might go to?
Mother was fond of contrasting the manners of society in “her time” and in her country with the disrespect for les convenances which characterized some of her acquaintances of later years, particularly the young men; but I had seen plenty of emigrant Englishmen, and not one of them the gentleman Tom was in all his ways, not only after he left Oxford, but before he went there, though certainly Oxford life did develop and polish him wonderfully.
Sighing heavily, and caring no more for the Zoological Gardens and Madame Tussaud’s, I opened the garden gate and went out into the paddock. Spring, having barked himself hoarse at the opossum, which sat serenely on an exposed bough above him, with pointed ears pricked up and bushy tail hanging down, uttering a nervous little accompaniment of growls, discharged a final volley, and trotted after me; and, not consciously following any route in particular, we went towards the river, nearly a mile away, which was threatening to dry up into a chain of stagnant water-holes. Across the moonlit paddock, scorched to a sandy white; over the slip-panels in the fence, which, of course, I never dreamed of taking down; through a larger extent of burnt-up meadow, where white-faced Herefords came up to us and stared at us, munching audibly in the still night air; over another fence—a brush fence this time, instead of posts and rails—through which I scrambled where I saw a likely place, irrespective of gates, and in which my muslin train came to most dreadful grief; through more paddocks, this time sprinkled with shorn white sheep, who scampered away from Spring in the most abject terror, though he would have scorned to look at them; and finally into the shadow of the belt of gum and wattle trees that fringed the windings of the little river.
Any one who had watched me taking such a walk at that time of night, and especially if he or she had seen what came of it, would certainly have accused me of keeping clandestine appointments with young men—a thing I would no more dream of doing than mother herself, notwithstanding my unfortunate ignorance of Mrs. Grundy’s prejudices.
I was used to these wild rambles at all hours, considering my dog a sufficient escort. I was a thorough bush girl, as mother sadly acknowledged, and had no fear of strange men, or horned cattle, or snakes, or darkness, or rain, or anything else that I know of. And when, from under the bank of the river, a great curly sheep dog rushed up at us, and began to growl at Spring, the two wagging their tails and putting their black noses together, I was as much surprised and dismayed as ever I was in my life. It was Tom’s dog, as I knew in a moment; and of course Tom followed him up the bank to see what he was after. He must have been pretty much astonished too, when he saw me standing above him, in my white dress, without a scrap of hat on.
“Oh, Tom, what are you doing here?” I cried nervously, feeling my face and neck on fire—the first time I had ever been affected that way by a meeting with him.
“Why, Kitty, is it you?” he responded incredulously. “What are you doing so far away from home? You have nobody with you?”
“No—only Spring. We were just having a walk, and I thought, when we were so far, I’d see if there were any ducks in that corner where the moon shines. Father and mother were busy talking, and did not want me. I didn’t notice how the time was going. I’m afraid it’s getting very late, Tom?”
“Nearly nine o’clock, I should think. Never mind; it’s a lovely night. Come and sit on this stump a few minutes while I set my trap, and then I’ll walk home with you. Do you know what I am doing? Trying to catch some more water-rats for you. I’ve got two hung up in that tree. I’ve dressed thirteen skins already—wattle-bark, and pumice-stone, and all the proper things. You’d never know they had not been done by a furrier; they are as soft as wash-leather, and the fur like silk. If you cut off the yellowish part at the edges, and leave only the brown, they will be plenty wide enough, and you will have the swellest imaginable jacket by next winter.”
I took his hand and scrambled down the bank, in a happy flutter of shame and pleasure, renewing my assurances that I no more dreamt of seeing him there than of seeing the bunyip itself.