BERTHA had chosen her favourite Botanic Gardens for the scene of her courtship, and it was there that her daily meetings with Alec took place. She found, perhaps, in the surroundings, a little compensation for that want of poetic feeling that even her partiality had to admit on the part of her lover.
On his side, from either the association with Bertha, or that mind-awakening which not infrequently arises with the amorous sentiment, he often surprised himself by quite original observations.
Bertha noted this change in him with the hope of the sanguine woman who trusts to mould her husband in the way that good husbands should go. If she could only wean him from those hateful horses, that was her dream.
They were walking side by side. She would not take the arm he offered.
“It was too countrified!” she said, and he submitted.
“How beautiful the lawns look to-day, Alec?”
“Yes; first-class feed for a cow,” said Alec, gazing about critically.
“And the trees—do you notice what lovely foliage they have?”
“I don’t know much about foliage, and that’s a fact, Bertha; but as for trees, I reckon I know a good one when I see it, and I looked the whole lot over the other day, and I’ll take my oath there’s not a good free splitter in the lot! A lot of knotty, cross-grained wretches! They are only fit for mill-wood, if they are fit for that!”
Bertha sighed softly to herself.
“I should so like to travel, would not you, Alec? To go to other countries and see something of the world?”
“That’s just my idea. Let’s go to the next Melbourne Cup. We can do the thing tip-top, and have a grand old time!”
“Oh, bother the Melbourne Cup, Alec! You are always thinking of races. They say there is nothing worth noticing in Melbourne after you have seen Sydney, except it may be the bad smells. And their races are just like ours, so they won’t be much of a treat.”
“How you do talk, Bertha. Why, Melbourne is the finest city in Australia.”
“I was thinking of other countries—France and England, for instance.”
“What’s the good of our going to England? Isn’t Australia the finest country in the world, and the people ahead of all the others? Look at our fighting men, our rowing men, our cricketers. Why, we can beat them all, hands down. Australia’s good enough for me, any day.”
“But think of Paris. You have heard of Paris—wonderful, beautiful Paris.”
“You mean the place where the plaster comes from?”
“Yes, and hundreds of things beside. It is the city of delight, with miles of wonderful shops, arcades and picture-galleries, and crowds of the most elegantly dressed people in the world. I believe if I could only see Paris I should be willing to die.”
“You had better see Australia and live,” replied Alec, stumbling on an epigram unconsciously.
“And there is a wonderful garden there, miles long, called the Bois de Boulogne; and now I remember that they have a celebrated horse-race there called the Paris Grand Prize, and all the great people in Europe go to see it.”
“That might be worth looking at,” said Alec, doubtfully; “if those Frenchmen only knew how to ride.”
“And think of the hundreds of ladies all beautifully dressed; not a rag-tag and bob-tail like we have here, but real ladies, with real costumes, every one a study and a delight. Oh, I should like to see it.”
“I don’t believe it’s better than Randwick.”
“Alec, don’t talk like that. It is like some one swearing in a church.”
“That’s all right, Bertha. Don’t you mind me. Of course I know nothing about all these fine things. Australia is good enough for me, but if you want to see these dirty Frenchmen and their painted women, why we will take a trip there some day.”
“That’s so good of you,” said Bertha, squeezing his hand, and giving him a look that filtered through his being with a wild deliciousness. “Only take me to Paris, and then I will come and stay in Australia for ever and ever.”
“And when shall we get married, Bertha?” inquired Alec, thinking the moment a propitious one. “When is the day to be?”
“What do you want to be in such a hurry for? Are we not very nice as we are? I am sure it is beautiful to walk in the Gardens every day.”
“I don’t say no, Bertha; but I am always afraid some one will run off with you again, and next time I might not be able to find you.”
“I am very careful, Alec, now. I never go out after dark, and as for going in a cab, I believe I shall always hate the sight of them.”
“You had better make sure; marry me and done with it.”
“There you go again. I never heard of any one so impatient. This is the best time in our lives, if we only knew it. We are young and free, no cares, no troubles. Let us live and enjoy as we are for a little while. And a girl’s youth goes away so quickly. I wonder, Alec, if you will think as much of me when I am old and ugly?”
“You ugly?” said Alec derisively.
“Well, not perhaps quite ugly, but you know well enough that here in Australia girls fade very quickly. I dread to think what I shall be like in ten years’ time—all wrinkles and grey hairs, with no more figure than a post, no doubt. Oh! I want to keep young always, always, and never get old at all. Don’t you, Alec?”
“I can’t say I ever thought much about it. If a three-year-old would always remain a three-year-old it would be a great chuck-in, no doubt-that is, if they did not raise the weight. But I guess there is not much show of getting the soft side of the handicapper. We all have to carry weight-for-age.”
“I really wish, Alec, you could talk a little time without bringing in your everlasting horse-racing. There are other things in the world besides horses.”
“So there are, Bertha,” said Alec soothingly; “there are cattle and sheep. But, you see, they are not in my line.”
“You’re a goose,” replied Bertha, laughing, “and I half believe you are making fun of me all the time. Where did you go yesterday afternoon?”
“I have been house-hunting. It seems the proper thing, when I am engaged to a girl like you, to find a home to please her, and I wanted to give you a surprise.”
“You choose a house!” with a tone that made Alec feel two inches shorter. “What should a man know about a house?”
“So I concluded, and I decided that you had best please yourself. Where would you like to live? I was thinking of Randwick—a nice stylish place.”
“What, live away from the harbour—the sea—with nothing to look at but houses and sand-hills? That would be horrible!”
“Where then, my dear? Choose your own place; it’s all the same to me.”
“I have always dreamt of one of those cottages with wide verandahs near the harbour, with a water frontage, a little house for a boat, and green lawns and gardens right down to the water. That would be lovely!”
“I never thought of that. But they are very awkward to drive to, generally, those sort of places. But I was at Bob Simmons’s place the other day—it’s just the kind of house you would like and we had some fine sport with the dogs killing rats down on the rocks. One old rat was real game, and no mistake!”
“But there are not rats everywhere all round the harbour,” said Bertha, with much concern.
“Just swarms with them! That’s the best of it! A fellow could always find a bit of amusement. It’s as good as bandicooting, any day.”
“I think I would rather not be quite so close to the water, then. I hate rats, and I don’t like seeing anything killed. We will go and look for a house together.”
“All right, let’s go to-morrow.”
“Yes, or the next day. To-morrow I have got to have a dress tried on.”
And then the two lovers talked for half-an-hour as to the relative importance of the new dress and the new house, and which it was most important to give the first attention.
Needless to relate, the dress carried the day.