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Updated: June 6, 2025
Beaudesart possessed a vast store of Debrett information touching those early gentlemen-colonists whose enterprise is hymned by loftier harps than mine, but whose sordid greed and unspeakable arrogance has yet to be said or sung.
Beaudesart assumes if she merely takes for granted that I'm going to marry her, I must do it, to keep her in countenance. How, in the fiend's name, can I slink out of it, now that I'm accepted? Can I tell her I've examined my heart, and I find I can only love her as a sister? Now, would n't that sound well? No, no; I'm a done man.
Do you think I'd condescend to undermine you, you storekeeper? Look out for Martin; never mind me." "I don't mean her," mumbled the young fool; "I mean Mrs. Beaudesart. You're going to marry her when you get your promotion ain't you?"
"Haud yir toang, lassie, fir Gode-sak," snarled the sheep-overseer, who was the senior of our company. "Be ma saul, an A hid ony say intil't, A'd whang the de'il oot o' ye baith wi' a stokewhup." "By George! you better not include Mrs. Beaudesart in your goodwill," remarked young Mooney gravely. "You'll have Collins in your wool." "Keep your temper, Collins," murmured Nelson.
There was something impressive in the recollection that, during the whole of our companionship, he had never uttered one objectionable or uncharitable word, nor attempted any witticism respecting Mrs. Beaudesart.
But I say Mrs. Beaudesart is sorting out her own old wedding toggery; she knows you'll never have money enough to" "How does Martin come to be at the ram-paddock, if he lives here?" I interrupted. "I'll tell you the whole rigmarole," replied the genial ass. That would be last night, of course.
Upon the whole, ugly, illiterate and, above all, ill-starred, lowly, and defenceless as she was, she would have made an admirable butt for the flea-power of your illustrated comic journal. Mrs. Beaudesart abhorred Ida for her ugliness, for her vulgarity, for her simplicity, but chiefly for her name. And, to add to the aggravation, she could n't answer back without crying.
The boundary man laid down his pipe, rested his forehead on his arm upon the table, and for a minute or two sobbed like a child. It was dreadful to see him. He was worse than Ida, in an argument with Mrs. Beaudesart; he was as bad as an Australian judge, passing mitigated sentence on some well-connected criminal.
"Are n't you coming back to the station for your pocket-book?" he asked, with a glance out of the corner of his eye. "I find I've got it here all the time wonder how I came to overlook it." "Thinking too much about Mrs. Beaudesart," suggested the squatter. "She won't be at all displeased to hear of it. Good-bye, Collins. Safe Joumey."
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