Meggie muttered something but wouldn't look at him again, so confused and angry she couldn't think of any appropriately light conversation. Oh, it wasn't fair! How dare someone else have eyes and face like Father Ralph! Not the way he looked at her: the mirth was something of his own and he had no love burning for her there; from the first moment of seeing Father Ralph kneeling in the dust of the Gilly station yard Meggie had seen love in his eyes. To look into his eyes and not see him! It was a cruel joke, a punishment.
Unaware of the thoughts his companion harbored, Luke O'neill kept his wicked bay beside Meggie's demure mare as they splashed through the creek, still running strong from so much rain. She was a beauty, all right! That hair! What was simply carrots on the male Clearys was something else again on this little sprig. If only she would look up, give him a better chance to see that face! Just then she did, with such a look on it that his brows came together, puzzled; not as if she hated him, exactly, but as if she was trying to see something and couldn't, or had seen something and wished she hadn't. Or whatever. It seemed to upset her, anyway. Luke was not used to being weighed in a feminine balance and found wanting. Caught naturally in a deli- cious trap of sunset-gold hair and soft eyes, his interest only fed on her displeasure and disappointment. Still she was watching him, pink mouth fallen slightly open, a silky dew of sweat on her upper lip and forehead because it was so hot, her reddish-gold brows arched in seeking wonderment. He grinned to reveal Father Ralph's big white teeth; yet it was not Father Ralph's smile. "Do you know you look exactly like a baby, all oh! and ah!?"
She looked away. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to stare. You reminded me of someone, that's all."
"Stare all you like. It's better than looking at the top of your head, pretty though that might be. Who do I remind you of?" "No one important. It's just strange, seeing someone familiar and yet terribly unfamiliar."
"What's your name, little Miss Cleary?"
"Meggie."
"Meggie . . . It hasn't got enough dignity, it doesn't suit you a bit. I'd rather you were called something like Belinda or Madeline, but if Meggie's the best you've got to offer, I'll go for it. What's the Meggie stand for -Margaret?"
"No, Meghann."
"Ah, now that's more like! I'll call you Meghann."
"No, you won't!" she snapped. "I detest it!"
But he only laughed. "You've had too much of your own way, little Miss Meghann. If I want to call you Eustacia Sophronia Augusta, I will, you know." They had reached the stockyards; he slipped off his bay, aiming a punch at its snapping head which rocked it into submission, and stood, obviously waiting for her to offer him her hands so he could help her down. But she touched the chestnut mare with her heels and walked on up the track. "Don't you put the dainty lady with the common old stockmen?" he called after her.
"Certainly not!" she answered without turning. Oh, it wasn't fair! Even on his own two feet he was like Father Ralph; as tall, as broad in the shoulders and narrow in the hips, and with something of the same grace, though differently employed. Father Ralph moved like a dancer, Luke O'neill like an athlete. His hair was as thick and black and curling, his eyes as blue, his nose as fine and straight, his mouth as well cut.
And yet he was no more like Father Ralph than-than than a ghost gum, so tall and pale and splendid, was like a blue gum, also tall and pale and splendid.
After that chance meeting Meggie kept her ears open for opinions and gossip about Luke O'neill. Bob and the boys were pleased with his work and seemed to get along well with him; apparently he hadn't a lazy bone in his body, according to Bob. Even Fee brought his name up in conversation one evening by remarking that he was a very handsome man.
"Does he remind you of anyone?" Meggie asked idly, flat on her stomach on the carpet reading a book.
Fee considered the question for a moment. "Well, I suppose he's a bit like Father de Bricassart. The same build, the same coloring. But it isn't a striking likeness; they're too different as men. "Meggie, I wish you'd sit in a chair like a lady to read! Just because you're in jodhpurs you don't have to forget modesty entirely." "Pooh!" said Meggie. "As if anyone notices!"
And so it went. There was a likeness, but the men behind the faces were so unalike only Meggie was plagued by it, for she was in love with one of them and resented finding the other attractive. In the kitchen she found he was a prime favorite, and also discovered how he could afford the luxury of wearing white shirts and white breeches into the paddocks; Mrs. Smith washed and ironed them for him, succumbing to his ready, beguiling charm. "Och, what a fine Irishman he is and all!" Minnie sighed ecstatically. "He's an Australian," said Meggie provocatively. "Born here, maybe, Miss Meggie darlin', but wit' a name like O'neill now, he's as Irish as Paddy's pigs, not meanin' any disrespect to yer sainted father, Miss Meggie, may he rest in peace and sing wit' the angels. Mr. Luke not Irish, and him wit' that black hair, thim blue eyes? In the old days the O'neills was the kings of Ireland." "I thought the O'Connors were," said Meggie slyly. Minnie's round little eyes twinkled. "Ah, well now, Miss Meggie, 'twas a big country and all."
"Go on! It's about the size of Drogheda! And anyway, O'neill is an Orange name; you can't fool me."
"It is that. But it's a great Irish name and it existed before there were Orangemen ever thought of. It is a name from Ulster parts, so it's logical there'd have to be a few of thim Orange, isn't it now? But there was the O'neill of Clandeboy and the O'neill Mor back when, Miss Meggie darlin'." Meggie gave up the battle; Minnie had long since lost any militant Fenian tendencies she might once have possessed, and could pronounce the word "Orange" without having a stroke.