HOBART, where it was decided to spend the honeymoon, from their joint
experience of its unequalled summer climate, and picturesque beauty, was
reached on the following day. A charming villa “by the sad sea waves”
had been secured for them, by a friend, the all-potential personage who
“ran,” so to speak, the social, sporting, and residential affairs of the
city, and whose dictum, at once suave and authoritative, no Tasmanian,
whether foreign visitor or native born, was found bold enough to
withstand. The bridegroom remembered driving there in a tandem cart,
drawn by a refractory pair, which he had reduced to subjection, doing
the twelve miles out, at a creditable pace, though not quite in time for
dinner. But the view, the isolation and the forest paths of this ideal
private paradise had imprinted themselves indelibly on his memory.
As it happened, the person in charge of the cottage was absent, but
refreshment was sent in by the housekeeper, which they were in a mood
thoroughly to enjoy, looking forward to the many divine repasts which
they would share in this enchanting retreat.
From the open window of the morning room, looking eastward, they gazed
over the south arm of the Derwent; a broad estuary having the cloud
effects and much of the spacious grandeur of the ocean. The headland, on
which the bungalow stood, commanded a wide and varied view, in which sea
and crag, land and water were romantically mingled. Scrambling down the
cliff by a precipitous path to the beach, they found to their great
delight that a raspberry plantation had been formed on the
cliff-sheltered slope, much of which was in full bearing. The modified
English climate of Tasmania is eminently favourable to the production of
the smaller fruits, such as the currant, strawberry, gooseberry,
raspberry and blackberry—this last growing in wild profusion in hedges
and over fences.
“Oh! how delightful,” cried Imogen, as, seated on a large stone she
applied herself to the consumption of an enticing raspberry feast spread
upon a leaf platter, woven deftly by the hands of her husband. “Look at
the calm water—the fishing boats, the gulls, the small waves breaking on
the beach! Was there ever such an ideal honeymoon lodge? And these
lovely raspberries. We can get cream at the house. And what a leaf
platter! Where did you learn to make one, sir? you must have had
practice.”
“At Nuku-heva! I was stranded there for six months once. The girls
taught me.”
“Girls, indeed! That sounds very general and comprehensive. No savage
maiden in particular. Quite sure, now? No photograph?”
“If there was, I’ve forgotten all about her. I don’t keep photographs.
There’s only one damsel that is imperishably engraved upon heart and
soul—memory, aye, this mortal frame—by a totally new process. It has the
effect of destroying all former negatives—the best specimens of
photography are put to shame, and obliterated.
“And that is called—?”
“The last love of the mature man—the answering fondness of _the_
woman—the best love—the true love—the only love which survives the
burden of care, the agony of grief, the chances and changes of life. The
steady flame which burns even brighter in the dark depths of despair.”
“Oh! I daresay—fascinating creatures, I suppose—were they not?”
“I have forgotten all about them. There is one fascination for me,
henceforth, and one only. It will last me until my life ends or hers. I
pray that mine may be the first summons.”
“Men were deceivers, ever,” hummed Imogen. “But I must make the best of
it, now I have got you. The Fates were against us at first, were they
not? What a strange thing is a girl’s heart! How short a time it takes
to cast itself at a man’s feet. How long—long—endless, wretched,
unendurable are the days of doubt, grief, anguish unutterable, if he
prove faithless, or the girl has over-rated his attachment. It nearly
killed me, when I thought you had gone away without caring.”
“And suppose I _had_ never returned? I began to believe you had decided
not to answer my letters. That Edward had not relented. That _you_ did
not care—transient interest, and so on. It is so with many women.”
“Transient interest!” cried Imogen, jumping up and scattering the
raspberries in her excitement. “Why, there was not one single hour from
the time you left Marondah till I saw you again, that my heart was not
full of thoughts of you. Why should I not think of you? You told me you
loved me—though it was so short a time since we had met, and my every
sense cried out that your love was returned—redoubled in fervour and
volume.”
“How little we know of women and their deeper feelings,” mused Blount.
“How often you hear of a pair of lovers, that he or she has ‘changed
their mind.’ The ordinary platitudes are rehearsed to friends and
acquaintances. When they separate—perhaps for ever—the outside world
murmurs cynically, ‘better before marriage than after,’ and the incident
is closed.”
“Closed, yes,” answered Imogen, “because one heart is bleeding to
death.”
While rambling through the old house, which was handsomely furnished,
though not in modern fashion, they came upon a morning room, which had
evidently been regarded as a fitting apartment for treasures of art and
literature, etchings, etc.
In it was a bookcase, containing old and choice editions. The dates,
those of the last century, told a tale of the family fortunes,
presumably at a higher level of position than in these later days. A
“dower chest” of oak was rubbed over, and the inscription deciphered; a
few rare etchings were noted and appreciated. Through these the lovers
went carefully hand in hand, Blount, who was a connoisseur of
experience, pointing out to Imogen any special value, or acknowledged
excellence; when, suddenly letting go her hand, he rushed over to a dim
corner of the room, where he stopped in front of an oil painting,
evidently of greater age and value than the other pictures.
“Yes,” he said, first carefully removing the dust from the left hand
corner of the canvas, under which, though faint and indistinct, the name
of a once famous artist, with a date, could be distinguished.
“I thought so, it is a Romney. He was famed for his portraits. But what
a marvellous coincidence! Perfectly miraculous! I was told that in
Tasmania I should fall across curious survivals, as at one time the
emigration of retired military and naval officers was officially
stimulated by the English Government. The promise of cheap land and
labour (that of assigned servants, as they were called) in a British
colony with a mild climate and fertile soil, attracted to a
quasi-idyllic life those heads of families, whose moderate fortunes
forbade enterprise in Britain. Special districts, such as Westbury and
New Norfolk, were indicated as peculiarly adapted for fruit and dairy
farms.”
“I remember quite well,” said Imogen, “when I was here at school in
Hobart, that many of the girls belonged to families such as you mention.
Such nice people, with grand old names, but so very, very poor. The
parents were not the sort to get on in a new country, though the sons,
as they grew up, mostly altered that state of affairs. But they did not
remain in Tasmania. No! they went to Queensland, New Zealand, or
Victoria till they made money. Then they generally returned to marry an
old sweetheart and settle down for life near Launceston or Hobart. They
were very patriotic, and awfully fond of their dear little island. But
what is all this coincidence? You seem quite excited about it.”
“Will you have the goodness to look at this picture, Mrs. Blount?”
“I am looking,” said she. “It must be a very life-like portrait of
somebody. And how beautifully painted! Quite a gem, evidently. The more
you look at it the more life-like it appears. What lovely blue eyes! A
girl in the glory of her youthful graces; I mustn’t add airs, I suppose,
for fear of being thought cynical. But the expression must have been
caught with amazing fidelity. Stamped, as it were, for ever. I suppose
it is very valuable?”
“If it is the portrait which I have reason to believe it is its value is
great. The original was found in an old manor house belonging to the De
Cliffords. The house—once a king’s—though not untenanted, was let to
people unacquainted with art, and had been so neglected as to be almost
in ruins. The owner of the estate, an eccentric recluse, was a very old
man. He refused to have any of the furniture removed, or the paintings
taken down from the walls. At his death, people were permitted to view
the place, which was afterwards sold. The heir-at-law turned everything
he could into money, and emigrated to Tasmania.”
“Quite the proper thing to do. We did something of the same sort,
whereof the aforesaid Imogen (I was so described in my settlement) met
with one Blount, and marrying him, became the happiest girl in Australia
or out of it. Didn’t she?”
Blount responded appropriately; it would seem convincingly, for the
dialogue was resumed as they again went out. She desired to know why,
and wherefore, this particular portrait was so very precious. Other
young women, doubtless, in that long dead time, had had their portraits
painted.
“Because this is the _very_ picture, I am almost certain, which inspired
Robert Montgomery with those lovely lines of his: ‘To the Portrait of an
Unknown Lady.’ Have you never read them?”
“No! I have heard some one speak of them, though.”
“Well, the picture disappeared before the sale. The family would never
explain. There was evidently some mystery, painful or otherwise,
connected with it. Montgomery’s lines had made it famous. And it was a
disappointment to intending buyers, many of whom came long distances to
bid for it.”
“Rather a long story, but wildly interesting. To think that we should
have come across it on our wedding trip, and _here_ of all places. Well,
as a punishment for your taking so much interest in an unknown lady you
shall repeat the lines. I daresay you know them by heart.”
“I think I do. At any rate I know the leading ones. If there are more we
can read them together afterwards.
“‘Image of one who lived of yore,
Hail to that lovely mien!
Once quick and conscious, now no more
On land or ocean seen;
Were all life’s breathing forms to pass
Before me in Agrippa’s glass,
Many as fair as thou might be,
But oh! not one, not one _like thee_!’”
Here the girl’s head sank on her lover’s shoulder, and as her slender
form reclined with the unconscious abandon of a child against his
breast, while his arm wound closely and yet more closely around her
yielding waist, “Oh! go on, go on, my darling! let me hear it all,” she
murmured:
“‘Thou art no child of fancy—thou
The very look dost wear
That gave enchantment to a brow,
Wreathed with luxuriant hair—
Lips of the morn, embalmed in dew,
And eyes of evening’s starry blue,
Of all that e’er enjoyed the sun,
Thou art the image of but _one_!
“‘And who was she in virgin prime
And May of womanhood,
Whose roses here, unplucked by time,
In shadowy tints have stood?
While many a winter’s withering blast
Hath o’er the dark cold chamber passed,
In which her once resplendent form
Slumbered to dust beneath the storm.
“‘Of gentle blood, upon her birth
Consenting planets smiled,
And she had seen those days of mirth
Which frolic round the child:
To bridal bloom her youth had sprung,
Behold her beautiful and young;
Lives there a record which hath told
That she was wedded, widowed, old?
“‘How long the date, ’twere vain to guess,
The pencil’s cunning art
Can but one single glance express,
One motion of the heart,
A smile, a blush, a transient grace
Of air and attitude and face,
One passion’s changing colour mix,
One moment’s flight, for ages fix.
“‘Where dwelt she? ask yon aged oak
Whose boughs embower the lawn,
Whether the bird’s wild minstrelsy
Awoke her here at dawn?
Whether beneath its youthful shade
At noon, in infancy, she played?
If from the oak no answer come
Of her, all oracles are dumb!’
“There are more verses; I will show you the poem so that you may enjoy
the spirit of it. It was a favourite of mine, since boyhood. And now I
see the crests of the waves towards the southern skyline, rearing
higher. The sea breeze is often chill. Suppose we scramble up the path
and go inside?”
“What a lovely view! and what delicious verses,” cried the girl. “Shall
we always be as happy as we are now? I feel as if I did not deserve it.”
“And I am lost in wonder and admiration at the supernatural state of
bliss in which _I_ find myself,” answered Blount. “I ought to throw
something of value into the deep, to avert the anger of Nemesis. Here
goes,” and before Imogen could prevent him, he had unfastened a bangle
which he wore on his wrist, and hurled it far into the advancing tide.
“Let us hope that no fish will swallow it, and return it, through the
agency of the cookmaid.”
“Now, I call that wasteful and superstitious,” quoth Imogen, pretending
to be angry. “You will need all the silver in the South Pacific
Comstock, if you throw about jewellery in that reckless fashion. And who
gave you that bangle, may I ask? You never showed it to me.”
“I won it in a bet, long ago. The agreement was that whoever won was to
wear the bangle till he or she was married. After that, they might
dispose of it as they thought fit. I forgot all about it till to-day. So
this seemed an auspicious hour, and I sacrificed it to the malign
deities.”
“And this is man’s fidelity!” quoted Imogen. “For of course, it was a
woman. Confess! Didn’t your heart give a little throb, as you pitched
away the poor thing’s gift?”
“Hm! the poor thing, as you call her, is happily married ‘to a
first-class Earl, that keeps his carriage.’ I daresay she’s forgotten my
name, as I nearly did that of the possessor of the bangle.”
* * * * *
The allotted term of happiness passed at the Hermitage, for such had
been the name given to it by the original owner, who lived there for the
last remaining years of a long life, too quickly came to an end. For
happiness, it surely was, of the too rare, exquisitely attempered
quality, undisturbed by regrets for the past, or forebodings for the
future. Such wounds and bruises of the heart, as he had encountered,
though painful, even in a sense agonising, at the time, were of a nature
to be cured by the subtle medicaments of the old established family
physician, Time. They were not “his fault,” so to speak. Such sorrows
and smarts are not of the nature of incurable complaints. The agony
abates. The healthful appetite in youth for variety, for change of
scene, the solace of bodily exercise, and the competition with new
intelligences, extinguish morbid imaginings: thus leaving free the
immortal Genius of Youth to range amid the unexplored kingdoms of
Romance, where in defiance of giants and goblins, he is yet fated to
discover and carry off the fairy princess.
“And I did discover her, darling, didn’t I?” said he, fondly pressing
her hand which lay so lovingly surrendered to his own, as after a long
stroll through the fern-shadowed glades of the still untouched primeval
forest, they came in sight of the Hermitage, and halted to watch the
breakers rolling on the beach below the verandah, where during their
first delirium they had so often watched the moon rise over a summer
sea.
“All very well, sir,” replied Imogen, with the bright smile which
irradiated her countenance like that of a joyous child, “but the
‘carrying off’ ‘hung fire’ (to return to the prose of daily life), until
the princess became apprehensive, lest she might not be carried off at
all, and was minded to set out to reverse the process, and carry off the
knight. How would that have sounded? What a deathblow to all the legends
of chivalry! The page’s dress would be rather a difficulty, wouldn’t it?
Fancy me appearing amongst all those nice girls and men at Hollywood
Hall! Inquiring, too, for ‘a gentleman of the name of Blount!’ I hardly
_did_ know your name then, which would have been a drawback. I am tall
enough for a page, though, and could have arranged the ‘clustering
ringlets, rich and rare,’ like poor Constance de Beverley. How I wept
for her, when I was a school-girl, little thinking that I should have to
weep bitter tears for myself in days to come.”
“And did she weep, my heart’s treasure, in her true knight’s absence?”
“Weep?” cried she, while—in the midst of her mockery and simulated
grief, the true tears filled her eyes at the remembrance, “‘wept enough
to extinguish a beacon light’—I took to reading dear Sir Walter Scott
again in sheer desperation. _Ivanhoe_ and _Rob Roy_ saved my life, I
really believe, when I was recovering from that—hm—‘influenza.’ Oh, how
wretched I was! As the Sturt, that dear old river, flowed before my
window, more than once I thought what a release it would be from all but
unendurable pangs. I don’t wonder that women drown or hang themselves in
such a case. I knew of one—yes—two instances—poor things!”
“Any men?”
“Yes; two also. So the numbers are even. We don’t seem to be growing
cheerful, though, do we? I feel just a little tired; afternoon tea must
be nearly ready. There’s nothing left for us now (as Stevenson says),
‘not even suicide, only to be good,’ a fine resolve to finish up with.”
“Let us seal the contract, those who are in favour, etc. Carried
unanimously!”
The day’s post brought a letter from Mr. Tregonwell, which, like a stone
thrown into a pond, disturbed the smoothness of their idyllic life. An
incursion of the emissaries of Fate was imminent.
“Mr. Blount’s presence was absolutely, _urgently_ necessary at the mine.
There was industrial trouble brewing. The ‘wages men’—as those labourers
at a mine are called, who are not shareholders—had increased necessarily
to a large number; _they_ wanted higher pay, the weather being bad and
the discomforts considerable. The British shareholders were in a
majority on the London Board and were beginning to make their power
felt. No serious dispute, but better to arrange in time. Would have come
himself to Hobart, but thought it imprudent at present to leave the
mine. Very rich ore body just opened out. Prospects absolutely
wonderful. Sorry to bother him, but business urgent.”
“What a terrible man!” moaned Imogen. “Wherever we are he will always be
coming suddenly down upon us and destroying our peace of mind. I
suppose, however, that he is a necessary evil.”
“He is a first-rate worker and very prudent withal, but to show the
element of luck in these matters it is to _my_ decision, not his, that
we retained the share which is now likely to become a fortune.”
“Oh! but there must be some special quality among your bundle of
qualities which you are so fond of decrying,” said Imogen, with wifely
partiality; “some quick insight into the real value of things, which is
in so many cases superior to mere industry and perseverance.”
“There must be,” said Blount thoughtfully, accepting the compliment, “or
how should I have secured _one_ priceless treasure to which all the
mines of Golconda are but as pebbles and withered leaves.”
“What treasure? Oh, flatterer!” said the girl; “how you have capped my
poor but honest belief in you. Well, time alone must tell how this
particularly clever human investment is going to turn out. It won’t do
for this lady to ‘protest too much.’ Now where shall I stay until my
knight returns from the war?”
“In Hobart, I should say, most decidedly. It is a cheerful city at this
season of year. The coolness of the summer, the charm of the scenery,
the cheerfulness of the society—this being the play-place of six other
colonies. Any chance of Mrs. Bruce coming over? Suggest the idea.”
“Perhaps she might.”
“Tell her I have taken a cottage between Sandy Bay and Brown’s River for
her specially; one of the loveliest suburbs. If she’ll come over and
take care of you, I shall be eternally indebted to her for the _second_
time. You remember the first? How good she was. But for her —, etc.”
“She must come as our guest, and bring Black Paddy and Polly, and the
babies, for offside groom and nurserymaid—(that’s good Australian, isn’t
it? nearly equal to ‘Banjo’ Paterson).”
“Stuff and nonsense! Australians talk the purest English; rather better,
in fact, than the home-grown article. But oh! how I should love to have
her here and the dear chicks. Edward could come for her afterwards.”
So that was settled. Mrs. Bruce, replying, wrote that Edward had given
her leave to come for a couple of months. It was really getting very hot
and baby was pale. He, Edward, not the baby, was going to Sydney on
business; thought of selling out of Queensland, so would cross over and
spend the end of the visit with them.
* * * * *
These arrangements were carried out. Mrs. Bruce, with her servants and
children, were safely bestowed at the pretty villa at Sandy Bay, where
Black Paddy, as groom and coachman, and Polly, as under-nursemaid,
excited as much attention as Mrs. Huntingdon’s ayah from Madras. Mr.
Blount was free to depart for the South Pacific Comstock (Proprietary),
which included a decided change from these Arcadian habitudes. Arrived
at Strahan, he perceived various improvements, which he correctly
attributed to Tregonwell’s boundless energy and aroused imagination.
Long stretches of corduroy, regularly repaired, rendered the transit
business comparatively free from difficulty. Great gangs of men were
employed in clearing the track for the projected railway. The work of
piercing the forest was tremendous. The great size of the trees (a
scientist had measured one eighty feet in circumference), the density
and confused nature of the jungle, through which the way had almost to
be tunnelled, if such an expression can be applied to operations above
ground, retarded progress. The masses of fallen timber at the sides of
the track, the whole laborious task carried on under ceaseless rain, was
sufficient to over-task the energies of all but the stubborn, resistless
Anglo-Saxon.
But on the mining fields of Australasia, if but the precious metal,
gold, silver, or copper, be visible, or even believed to be within reach
in sufficient quantities, _no toil_, no hardship is sufficient to daunt
the resolute miner; neither heat, nor cold, the burning dust storms of
Broken Hill, the icy blasts that sweep from the solitudes of Cape Nome
over the frozen soil of Klondyke, have power to stay the conquering
march of the men, ay, of the women of our race, or slake the thirst for
adventure which is as the breath of their nostrils.
So, by the time Mr. Blount arrived on the scene, after a single day’s
journey from the coast, the melodramatic action of a progressive mining
town was “in full blast.”
The hotels and stores were comparatively palatial. Tall weatherboard
buildings with balconies, enabled the inmates to gaze over the waving
ocean of tree-tops and to mark where the jungle had been invaded by the
pioneer’s axe, that primary weapon of civilisation. The streets, miry
and deep-rutted, had yet side walks with wooden curbs, which
provisionally, at any rate, preserved the foot passengers from the
slough into which the ceaseless trampling of bullocks, horses and mules
had worn the track. As in all such places in their earlier stages, money
was plentiful. Wages were high, labour was scarce. The adventurers who
came to inspect the “field” necessarily brought capital with them. Under
the Mining Act and Regulations of the colony, allotments had been marked
out in the principal streets to be acquired by purchase or lease. Legal
occupation had succeeded the early scramble for possession. A Progress
Committee had been formed, precursor of municipal action, of which Mr.
Tregonwell, of course, was the elected President. Its members advised
the Government of the day of urgently necessary reforms, or demanded
such, with no lack of democratic earnestness. Behind all this life and
movement there was the encouraging certainty of the still-increasing
richness of the principal mine, the original shares in which rose to a
height almost unprecedented.
Among other necessities of civilisation, a newspaper had, of course,
been established. The _Comstock Clarion_ subserved its purpose by clean
type, smart local intelligence, and accurate reviews of all mining
enterprises from Australia to the ends of the earth. Having been waited
upon by the editor without loss of time, Mr. Blount found himself thus
presented to an intelligent and enterprising public:—
“A DISTINGUISHED VISITOR.
“Yesterday morning we had the honour of welcoming to our thriving
township a gentleman, to whose courage and enterprise the public of
Comstock are indebted for the inception of a great national industry,
the founding of a city fated to rival, if not surpass, in wealth and
population both Hobart and Launceston. Mr. Blount courteously supplied,
in answer to our request, the following interesting notes of his
original connection with the great mine in which he owns a controlling
interest.
“Visiting Tasmania _en route_ for England a few years since, he was
offered shares in a newly-prospected silver mine. Mr. Tregonwell was
then associated with him in mining ventures. The partners were offered a
half share in the claim newly taken up of four men’s ground, Messrs.
Herbert and Clarke owning the remainder. Mr. Tregonwell, though
experienced and sanguine—of which qualities we have ample proof before
our eyes—advised the rejection of the ‘show.’ Mr. Blount, for a reason
not stated, was firm in retaining it. He was in a position to find the
cash for payment of lease application, rents, and working expenses until
the discovery of the richest silver lode south of the line was an
accomplished fact. ‘Si monumentum queris, circumspice.’”
The Latin quotation was inappropriate, inasmuch as it was not proposed
to erect any kind of memorial structure in honour of Mr. Blount, but it
looked well, and few of the readers of the _Clarion_ were critical.
However, the article had the effect of directing all eyes to the
visitor, unobtrusively dressed as he was, whenever he appeared. He was,
of course, _fêted_ and invited to banquets given by leading citizens or
mining celebrities. The financial condition of the mine was eminently
satisfactory, even brilliant. It held a high place among British
investors and foreign syndicates. Members even of the British Parliament
did not disdain to take passages in the “P. and O.” or “Messageries’”
boats for the special purpose of inspecting the wonderful mine. They
returned laden with lumps of ore, being fragments of a silver mountain
which they had seen with their eyes and driven a pick into when
personally conducted by the American “mining Captain,” who received
£5,000 a year salary, and was promised another £1,000 should things
continue to go well.
As the season had advanced the weather even in that austere and dreadful
wilderness relaxed its icy grip. The forest trees, the giant eucalypts
and towering pines, “had a tinge of softer green.” The moss looked
bright “touched by the footsteps of spring,” haunting even that unlovely
wild. Mr. Blount, though loyally impatient to return to his Imogen and
the calm delights of Hobart, felt distinctly in better spirits. He even
took a mild gratification in marking the heterogeneous element of the
stranger hordes that arrived daily, gathered as they were from the ends
of the earth, of all nations apparently, and several colours. “Gentle
and simple,” forlorn workers and wayfarers from many a distant land,
mingled with derelicts of the classes akin to “Mr. and Mrs. Winchester.”
The men feverishly anxious to strike some lucky find or chance
investment, the women poorly dressed, working at the humblest household
tasks, all wearing the vague, yearning, half-despairing expression,
which comes of the heart-sickness of “hope deferred.” Theirs was the
harder lot. Still, with but few exceptions, they faced the rude living
and unaccustomed toil with the courage women invariably show when hard
fortune makes a call on their nobler attributes.
Nowhere is the ascent of the “up grade” of mining prosperity, when the
tide of fortune is flowing, and the financial barometer is “set fair,”
made easier than in Australasia. Rude as may be the earlier stages, the
change from the mining camp, the collection of rude cabins, to the town,
the city even, is magically rapid. To the gold or silver deposit, as the
case may be, everything is attracted with resistless force as by the
loadstone mountain of Sindbad. Time, distance, the rude approach by land
travel, the stormy seas, all are defied. And though delays and dangers
are so thickly strewn before the path of the adventurer, he and his like
invariably arrive at their goal and would get there somehow, if behind
every tree stood an armed robber, and were every trickling creek a
turbulent river.
Mr. Tregonwell had proved himself capable of carrying out the rather
extensive programme, financial and otherwise, which he had produced for
the inspection of his partners on their first meeting at the mine. The
manager of world-wide experience and unequalled reputation _had_ been
procured from America; had been paid the liberal salary; had proved
himself more than worthy of his fame. The railway to Strahan was in
process of completion. Contracts, let at many different points, were
nearing one another with startling rapidity.
The price of provisions had fallen. Wages were high—yet the contractors
were making as much money as the shareholders. With the exception of the
very poor and the chronic cases of ill-luck from which no community is,
ever has been, or ever will be free, the Great Silver Field was the
modern exemplar of a place where every one had all that he wanted now,
and was satisfied that such would be the case for the future.
The wages misunderstanding had been settled, an arrangement made with
one of the most stable banks in Australia, by which the Directors agreed
to cash Mr. Tregonwell’s drafts for all reasonable, and, indeed,
unreasonable, amounts, as some over-cautious, narrow-minded people
considered. The predominant partner began to revolve the question of an
early departure. The juniors, Charlie Herbert and Jack Clarke, had
earned golden opinions from Tregonwell as cheerful workers and
high-couraged comrades. He willingly agreed to their holidays at
Christmas time, now drawing nigh, if one would remain with him for
company, and perhaps assistance in time of need, while the other enjoyed
himself among his relatives and friends in one of the charming country
houses of his native land. As for himself, he did not require change or
recreation, his duty was to the shareholders, who had entrusted him with
such uncontrolled powers of dictatorship.
Mr. Blount would be within easy reach of telegrams at Hobart, whence he
could come up for a week when a difficult point or question of further
outlay needed to be settled. Comstock was not such a very uncomfortable
place now, and would be less so in the near future, and Frampton
Tregonwell had lived and thriven amid worse surroundings.
So, as the short summer of the West Coast crept slowly on towards the
“great Festival” which heralds “Peace on Earth, and good will towards
men,” all things seemed moving in a tranquil orderly manner towards
organised success and permanent prosperity. The big mill with the newest
improvements, and a high-grade German scientist from Freiburg in
command, had just been completed and was turning out unprecedented
returns. Everything went smoothly, socially and otherwise. Although so
near to what had once been an accumulation of the most desperate
criminals the world could show, only kept under by the merciless
uniformity of a severe administration—the present crime record was
curiously low, and trifling in extent. Labour was well paid, well fed
and lodged. All men had, moreover, the hope of even greater benefits, as
results from their toil. Under these circumstances the list of offences
is invariably light. The inducements to crime were so small, as almost
to lead to an optimistic belief that incursions on the goods and persons
of neighbours would at an early date cease and determine. The dream of
the philanthropist would at last be fulfilled.
Perhaps, also, that other dream of a socialistic division of labour with
equal partition of the fruits of the earth, and the partition of the
fruits of labour (chiefly _other men’s_ labour) for the benefit of the
poor but honest worker would be an accomplished fact.
So, in the ordering of things mundane, it came to pass that Mr. Blount,
to his great contentment and satisfaction, had everything arranged and
“fixed up,” as Tregonwell expressed it (culling his phrases from all
nations and many tongues), and departing via Strahan, bade farewell for
the present to Macquarie Harbour, Hell’s Gates, and the other lonely and
more or less historic localities. The passage, for a wonder, was smooth,
the wind fair, and it was with joy and satisfaction, which he could
hardly forbear expressing in a shout of exultation, that he found
himself once more in Hobart, within arm’s length, so to speak, of Imogen
and his “kingdom by the sea.”
That young woman had kept herself well informed as to the time when the
Strahan steamer might be expected, and appeared at the wharf driving the
mail phaeton. Black Paddy was beside her on the box; in front was the
bay mare, “Matchless,” with her mate “Graceful,” in top condition, and
ready to jump out of their skins, with rest and good keep. This valuable
animal, formerly hard worked, with but little rest, and far from
luxurious fare, had been contented to rattle up and down the hills
between Hobart and Brown’s River and the Huon, without so much as a hint
from the whip. Under present circumstances, she naturally took a little
holding.
But Imogen and Mrs. Bruce had been accustomed to ride and drive almost
as soon as they could walk. With great nerve and full experience, fine
hands, an unequalled knowledge of the tempers and dispositions,
management and control, of all sorts and conditions of horses, very few
secrets of the noble animal, whether in saddle or harness, were hidden
from them. So when Imogen drove up to the Tasmanian Club, where her
husband had temporarily deposited himself, his specimens and belongings
generally, he had no misgivings as to the competency of his charioteer,
nor did he offer, as most men would have done, to take the reins
himself.
“How well they look,” he remarked, after the first greeting,
“‘Matchless’ has fallen on her legs in coming to this establishment.
Does she give any trouble in her altered condition?”
“Hardly any, only she doesn’t like waiting, now there is no cab behind
her. Burra burrai, Paddy! Mine thinkit mare plenty saucy direckaly.”
That swart retainer understood the position, and helping the club
servant with the heaviest trunk on to the back seat, stepped up beside
it with noiseless agility, while at the same moment “Matchless” and
“Graceful” moved off with regulated speed, which soon landed them at
“home”—a word which Mr. Blount pleased himself by repeating more than
once.
“Hilda looks just as she did,” said he, “when I first saw her at
Marondah. I admired her then. I admire her now—how little I thought that
I should see her again, as a sister-in-law! or that a certain ‘vision of
delight was to burst upon my sight’ so soon afterwards.”
“I remember how you stared,” said Imogen; “almost rudely, indeed. Didn’t
you?”
“First of all, I didn’t know that Mrs. Bruce had a sister in the house.
Secondly, when the girl aforesaid appeared, unexpectedly in all her
fresh and smiling loveliness—pardon my partiality—I was completely
knocked over, so to speak, and couldn’t help a sort of rapt gaze—as at a
wood nymph, which you unkindly call staring. I fell in love—at first
sight as men say—deep, deeper, miles deep next morning, and so will
remain till my life’s end.”
“I am afraid it goes rather like that with me, if I must confess,”
admitted Imogen, “though the heroine of a modern novel would never have
behaved so badly, now would she?”
“All’s well that ends well,” said the returned voyager. “I’ll hold the
horses while you run in, Paddy!”
The luggage having been taken in, Paddy ascended nimbly, and drove
soberly round to the stable.
* * * * *
Christmas having actually arrived, it was the commencement of the
“season” in Hobart and Tasmania generally. The dear little island, so
true an epitome of the ancestral isle in the climatic conditions, in the
stubborn independence of the population, in the incurious, unambitious
lives of the rural inhabitants, was filled with strangers and pilgrims
from every colony in Australasia.
Persons in search of health, haggard men from the Queensland “Never
Never” country, the far “Bulloo,” and “The Gulf,” where hostile blacks
and fever decimated the pioneers! Outworn prospectors from West
Australia—a rainless, red-hot, dust-tormented region, where, incredible
as it may appear, the water is charged for separately as well as the
whisky.
Commercial, pastoral and legal magnates, whose over-taxed brain craved
little save rest and coolness—contented to lie about inhaling the
evening breeze—to read, to fish, to muse, to think maybe, of a heaven,
where lawyers’ clerks, even with briefs, were not admitted. Sailors too,
from the half dozen men of war from the South Pacific fleet, having a
run ashore, and playing their part nobly, as is their wont on land, in
all picnics, balls and cricket matches, even in drives to the Huon River
nearly fifty miles out and back. This was rather an object lesson for
British tourists, as to the capabilities of Australian horses, and
Australian drivers, inasmuch as the leading drag with four horses, hired
from a well-known livery stable proprietor, and driven by a native-born
Tasmanian, negotiated the fifty-mile stage, allowing two hours for
luncheon and boating on the river, between breakfast time and dusk, the
whole being performed not only without distress to the well-bred team,
but with “safety to the passenger, and satisfaction to the looker on.”
The road was by no means of average description, far from level, indeed,
having shuddering deeps, where it wound along hillsides, and sudden
turns, and twisted at right angles, when the leaders ran across a dip in
the gully, which crossed the road, and the wheelers had their heads
turned at right angles to the leaders. Then the down grade towards the
sea, on the return trip, when the heavily laden coach rolled, lurching
at times near the edge of the precipice, and the “boldest held their
breath for a time.” But through every change, and doubtful seeming
adventure, in darksome forest, and ferny glade, where the light of
heaven was obscured, the watchful eye and sure hand of the charioteer
guided team and coach, with practised ease and assured safety.
Then the race meeting, to which you went by land or water, as taste
inclined. The deep sea fishing in the harbour, or the streams so clear
and cold in summer, where the trout lay under bridge or bank, and when
skies were dull, took the fly much as in Britain.
The hunting with country packs, the shooting, the long walks over hill
and dale—the halts, when a peep through the forest glades showed a
distant view of the foam-crested ocean! What joyous days were those,
when with Imogen by his side, who walked as well as she rode and drove,
they started with a few picked friends for that exceptional piece of
exercise, which includes the ascent of Mount Wellington. It is an Alpine
feat, only to be attempted by the young and vigorous, in the springtime
of life. “The way is long, the mountain steep,” and if limbs and lungs
are not in good order, the pedestrian is sure to tire half way, to
collapse ingloriously before the summit is reached. Rough in some places
is the track—over the ploughed field’s (so called) painful march. A
sprained ankle may easily result, from a slip, or worse even, a
dislocated knee, most tedious and troublesome of the minor injuries, and
which has lamed for life ere now the too confident pedestrian. Another
danger to be feared, is the sudden envelopment by the mountain mist,
under the confusing conditions of which more than one person has lost
his way and his life, perishing in some unnamed retreat. No such dangers
affrighted Imogen and her husband. They reached the summit, and standing
there, hand in hand, beheld the unrivalled scene. High over forest and
valley they gazed o’er the boundless ocean plain—so still and shining,
three thousand feet below them. The forest, with apparently a level
surface above its umbrageous eucalypts, looked like a toy shrubbery. The
city nestled between the sea wall and the enormous mountain bulk, under
whose shadow it lay.
The busy population looked small as the denizens of a populous anthill.
“It is a still day, ‘Grâce à Dieu,’” said Blount; “there’s no tyrannous
south wind from the ocean—coming apparently straight from the ice fields
of the Pole, to chill us to the bone, and cause the poor forest trees to
cry and groan aloud in their anguish. Wind has its good points,
probably, but I confess to a prejudice against the Euroclydon variety.
Especially when we are doing this Alpine business. By the way, there is
Mr. Wendover’s delightful woodland châlet—only a mile away. Suppose we
make a call there.”
“I scorn to acknowledge myself tired,” said Imogen; “but raspberries and
cream—this _is_ the season—would be an appropriate incident on this day
of days. They recall the Hermitage, do they not? I can’t say more.”
“And Mrs. Wendover is so charmingly hospitable,” said a girl companion.
“She has always the newest books, and music too, which, with the
before-mentioned raspberries, takes one far in the pursuit of
happiness.”
“While youth, and the good digestion which waits on appetite, last,”
said a middle-aged person with a bright eye and generally alert
expression. “Youth is the great secret. Heaven forbid that any of this
good company should confess to a hint of middle age, but _I_ have a
haunting dread lest the world’s best joys should be stealing away from
me.”
“Are there not compensations, Captain Warrender?” asked a lady, whose
refined, intellectual cast of countenance suggested literature. “Think
how delightful to hear of one’s last new book being rushed for new
editions, and simply being devoured all over the world.”
“Success is pleasant in whatever state of life it comes to one, but were
I allowed to choose between reading and writing, my vote would be
distinctly in favour of the former. The delightful self-complacency with
his task which the author of a successful book is supposed to feel is
over-rated, I assure you. It becomes a task, like all other compulsory
labour, and there are so many times and seasons when one would much
rather do something else. The chief, almost the only valuable result to
the producer (except the money, which, of course, is not despised) is,
that the reputation of successful authorship brings with it a host of
agreeable acquaintances, and even some true and lifelong friendships.”
“Have you found other authors free from envy, malice, and so forth?”
asked Mrs. Allendale.
“I can truly say that I have, with the rarest exceptions. Now and then a
man writing on party lines will administer a dose of unkind, perhaps
unfair, criticism which he calls ‘slating’ your book. But there is
little real ill-nature in the article, however much you may feel annoyed
at the time. And the freemasonry which exists among literary people,
great and small, makes on the whole for friendly relations. A man says:
‘Oh, you wrote _Cocoanuts and Cannibals_, didn’t you? Had rather a run
when it came out. Queer place to live in, I should think.’ Then you
foregather, and become, as it were, the honorary member of a club. Not
that one volunteers this information, but it leaks out.”
“Oh, here is the châlet gate, and I see Mrs. Wendover’s pet Jersey cow,
‘Lily Langtry,’” said Miss Chetwynde. “How nice she looks among the red
and white clover. Puts one in mind of dear old England, doesn’t it?”
“Where you never were,” laughed another maiden of the happy isle.
“I know that, but I’ve read so much about the grand old country that I
can fancy everything. Dear Miss Mitford! what a lovely touch she has! I
shall go there some day if I live. In the meantime here comes Mrs.
Wendover, all smiles, welcome, and a picture hat, dear creature! I
wonder what Miss Mitford would have thought of this forest, which comes
up so close to the house, if she had seen it. I should be afraid of a
fire some day.”
“Oh! our forests don’t burn so badly, even when they are on fire; this
place is safe enough. Sunburn is our worst danger just now, and there’s
the naval ball this evening. My cheeks _are_ on fire, just feel them.”
“Oh, certainly, Miss Chetwynd!” said a small middy, who was of the
party. “Anything else I can do for you?”
“I was not speaking to you, Mr. Harcourt. I was replying to Clara
Mildmay, and I shall cancel that dance I promised you this evening if
you’re not more respectful.”
“Oh, here you are!” cried Mrs. Wendover, in accents of genuine welcome.
“This is the most lucky chance. You must all positively stay to lunch. I
was getting tired of my own company for once in a way. John had sent a
messenger to say that he would not come out till the evening. So you are
evidently sent by Allah to cheer my loneliness.”
“We should all be charmed,” replied Imogen, taking her place as chief
chaperon, “but it is simply impossible. Captain Warrender will tell you
that we are all going to the naval ball this evening, and by the time we
get to Hobart we sha’n’t have a minute to spare, to dress in time and
get the sunburn off our faces.”
“Then you must come in and have raspberries and cream. It’s quite a
charity to take them off our hands. Walter and Nora and I are going to
the ball too, so I must insist.”
Cooled and refreshed, indeed invigorated by the raspberries and Jersey
cream, with suitable accompaniments, the jocund crew bade adieu to their
hostess, and trooped off to the Fairy Bower, that fern-shaded trysting
place in the heart of the forest, dear to so many generations of holiday
folk, where the four-in-hand drag awaited them by the fountain, and bore
them safely to their several destinations. The naval ball was a
pronounced success. Could it be otherwise “manned” by the officers of
the half-dozen men-of-war then in harbour? The band, the waiters at the
buffet, the assistants who held the dividing line in the ball-room, the
attendants at the doors of the supper-room, were all in uniform, while
the epaulettes and profusion of gold lace lit up the mass of civilian
costumes. It was a contention seriously debated at the time, and never
satisfactorily settled, as to whom the honour of being the belle of the
ball should be awarded. But all agreed that the crown of the Queen of
Beauty, if there had been a tournament, as in the days of chivalry, at
which to present it, should have been awarded either to Mrs. Blount
(_née_ Imogen Carrisforth) or to Miss Leslie, a native-born Tasmanian,
whose complexion was held to be unapproachable south of the Line, and
whose pre-eminence in loveliness had never before been disputed.
Each had their partisans, sworn admirers and liegemen. Each was declared
to be the prettiest girl, or the handsomest woman in Australasia—for the
New Zealand competitor “took a lot of beating,” as an ardent youthful
admirer phrased it. It remained, however, undecided, and will probably
be revived, like other vexed questions from time to time, with similar
lack of finality. As to one thing, however, the unanimity was pronounced
and decisive—the success of the entertainment. When “God Save the Queen”
was played, it was nearer three o’clock in the morning than two, and all
but the most inveterate dancers had had enough of it. Some of the junior
division indeed petitioned for just one more waltz and a galop; but
discipline being the soul of the navy, as well as the army, the
Admiral’s fiat had decided the matter irrevocably. Carriages were
ordered, shawls and wraps were donned by the matrons and maids who had
“seen it out,” as their partners expressed it, and the curtain fell upon
one of the most successful comedies or melodramas, as the case may be,
still popular, as in old historic days, on the mirthful, mournful, but
ever mysterious stage of human life.
After this crowning joy came a succession of _fêtes_. Meetings of the
Racing and Polo Clubs, with a gymkhana arranged by the latter society,
also picnics and private parties, the Garden Party in the lovely grounds
of Government House, where that befitting architectural ornament
overlooks the broad winding reaches of the Derwent. All these had to be
attended and availed of. The great events of the Polo Club, in “potato
and bucket” race, when the competitors were compelled to dismount, pick
up a potato from the ground and deposit the same in a bucket, placed for
the purpose; as also the tandem race, when the aspirant riding one
horse, had to drive another, with long reins, before him, also to
negotiate a winding in and out course, before returning to the starting
point, were both won by an active young squatter from the Upper Sturt,
to the unconcealed joy of Mrs. Bruce and Imogen, the latter race,
indeed, after a very close finish with a naval officer, who was the
recognised champion at this and other gymkhana contests. But won it was,
by the pastoral champion, though only by a nose. So after an inquiry
meeting by the committee of the club, it was to him adjudged, and the
trophy borne off in triumph. It is not to be supposed that the
squirearchy of the land was unrepresented at these Isthmian Games, or
that under such circumstances they left their wives and daughters, aunts
and cousins behind; or, if such an unnatural piece of selfishness had
been for a moment contemplated, that the women of the land would not
have organised a revolt, declared a republic, elected a president, and
marched down with banners flying to invest the capital, and make their
own terms with the terrified Government of the day. No such Amazonian
action was, happily, rendered necessary by sins of omission or
commission on the part of their liege lords or legal protectors.
That they had sufficient courage and martial spirit for such an
_émeute_, no one doubted. But with the exception of a quasi-warlike
observation by a Tasmanian girl, on beholding the phalanx of alien
beauty arrayed at the naval ball, that on the next occasion of the sort
she intended to bring her gun and shoot a girl or two “from across the
Straits” by way of warning, no specific action was taken.
So the old antagonism (veiled, of course, and conventional) that has
existed between the home-grown and the imported feminine product, was
conducted with discreet diplomacy, and the admirers of Helen or Briseis
had to content themselves with displaying personal or conversational
superiority in lieu of lethal weapons.
So on the ground in drags, mail phaetons, buggies and dogcarts of the
period, the female contingent arrived, chiefly before the first gun of
the engagement metaphorically aroused the echoes in the glens and forest
glades around Mount Wellington. The Hollywood Hall family was fully
represented, the Claremonts, the Bowyers. The magnate of Holmby, Mr.
Dick Dereker, in all his glory, had deposited himself and his most
intimate friend, John Hampden, a new arrival from England, at the club,
and was daily to be viewed by the admiring population of Hobart in Davey
or Macquarie Street in company with other stars of the social firmament.
Mr. Blount noticed with interest the extraordinary popularity which
encircled this favourite of fortune in the chief city of his native
land. As he walked down the street it was a kind of royal progress. He
was the people’s idol, the uncrowned king of the happy isle. Men of note
and standing crossed over to greet and shake hands with him. Even the
shady characters had a soft spot in their hardened hearts for “Dicky
Dereker.” Why was this adulation? Other country gentlemen were handsome
and chivalrous. All of them rode, drove, shot well; they, like him, had
been born “in the island,” and as such had the claims of a patriot for
the suffrages of their countrymen.
But the difficulty was to find all these virtues, personal
recommendations, gifts and graces, centred in one individual. The
popular verdict so declared it. And if the “classes and the masses” in
Tasmania had been polled as to his fitness for any post of eminence,
from the vice-regal administrator of the government downward, every man,
woman and child in the island would have gone “solid” for “Dicky
Dereker.”
Of this resistless, all-conquering sway, Mr. Blount was shortly to have
proof and confirmation, had such been needed. Sooth to say, he felt more
than slight misgivings; indeed, something near to what is called an
accusing conscience, with respect to his marked attentions to and
quasi-friendship for Laura Claremont on the occasion of his last visit
to Hollywood Hall. He was then (it may be stated for the defence) in the
somewhat perilous position of having been warned off, as he considered
it, by the family at Marondah, and was thus unprovided with an
attraction of counterbalancing interest. “Full many a heart is caught on
the rebound,” and doubtless the sympathetic manner and intellectual
superiority of Laura Claremont, combined with her personal endowments,
constituted a strong case for the unattached, unprotected stranger. When
he returned to Tasmania, bringing his bride with him radiant with the
overflowing happiness of the recent honeymoon, would the sympathetic
“friend” in whose society he had so openly delighted look coldly upon
him? Would _her_ friends and compatriots combine to denounce him as an
unworthy trifler, who, after paying compromising attentions, not only
“rode away,” but married a former flame, not even permitting a decent
interval to elapse between his preference for the old love and desertion
of the new?
Much troubled by these considerations he had even thought over an
indirect way of breaking the news, in a non-committal way, to the young
lady, and her (perhaps) justly incensed family and friends.
But _qui s’excuse s’accuse_ recurred to his mind with painful
promptitude. So, fortunately (as it turned out), he decided to trust to
time and chance for extrication from the dilemma. For, as he was
entering the hospitable portal of the Tasmanian Club, with a view to
luncheon and the later news items, he was joined by Claude Clinton, who
at once questioned him as to subscriptions for the forthcoming ball,
given by the members and players of the polo club. “How many tickets
shall I send you? They’re a guinea for men and half as much for ladies;
and have you heard the last engagement? No? It was only given out this
morning. Laura Claremont has made up her mind at last; Dick Dereker is
the happy man!”
“Send me a dozen tickets,” said Mr. Blount, who felt like John Bunyan
after his burden of sins had been removed. “They have my heartiest
congratulations.”
“All right,” said the omnipotent Secretary for Home Affairs; “by the
way, wasn’t the fair Laura rather a friend of yours? The Tenby girls
thought you were making strong running at the Hollywood Ball.”
“Every man of sense and taste must admire Miss Claremont,” he replied
with diplomatic gravity, masking, however, emotions of such intensity
that he had some difficulty in preserving calmness. “I was no exception
to the rule, that was all.”
“Perhaps it helped to bring Master Dick to the scratch—the affair has
been going on for years; if so, you did her a service. Dick is a
splendid fellow, but when a man has a whole island to pick from he feels
inclined to dally with a decision. However, they are to be married at
once—before the House meets—not to let the honeymoon interfere with his
legislative duties.”
“I am delighted to hear it,” Mr. Blount affirmed, with such evident
sincerity that Mr. Clinton departed to overtake his multifarious duties,
with the conviction that he was a fine, large-hearted, generous
personage, as well in the matter of ball subscriptions as in the more
romantic passages of life’s mystery. The young lady referred to had not
come down to the naval ball for reasons of her own, or otherwise, the
Squire’s health requiring her attendance upon him at the Hall. Such, at
any rate, was the explanation given by the family friends:—“Dear Laura
was _so_ attached to her father, and so self-denying and conscientious
in the discharge of her duties.”
Some of the frivolous division, perhaps a trifle impatient of perpetual
proclamation of “Aristides the Just,” hinted that there _is_ such a
device known to the female heart—inscrutable as are its myriad emotions
and minor tendencies—as the encouragement of a fervent admirer, up to a
certain point, for the stimulation of a laggard lover, the adorer No. 2
being known in the unstudied phrase as the “runner up.” However that may
have been, Mr. Blount took care to communicate the momentous
intelligence to his wife and sister-in-law immediately upon his arrival
at home. Mrs. Blount, with natural curiosity, expressed a wish to see
this wonderful Laura Claremont—whom everybody praised and indeed
referred to as one of the few girls in the island worthy of Dick
Dereker. “I suspect _you_ flirted with her on that driving tour—and at
the ball too—you lost your card, I remember. Now confess!”
“She is a very fine girl—dark, and stately-looking. Every one admires
her, but as for comparing her, _et cetera_, the idea is preposterous.”
“He hadn’t got our letters then, poor fellow!” said Imogen, who,
fortunately, was not of a jealous disposition. “So if he made ever such
a little swerve from what is called the path of duty I suppose I must
forgive him. You won’t do so again, sir, I’ll see to that!”
“I hope you and Miss Claremont will be _great_ friends. She is just the
sort of woman you would like. I’ll make a point of introducing you at
the Polo Ball. Here are the tickets, and a few to spare.”
“You have been most generous,” said Mrs. Bruce. “I’ll keep three for
Edward, myself, and a friend, if one turns up. I daresay we shall find
one or two.”
“No, take half; I bought them for the family. Perhaps some of the Upper
Sturt people may turn up.”
“Quite likely,” said Imogen; “perhaps even from Bunjil! Oh, dear! what
fun that would be!”
“I know what you are laughing at,” said her sister. “Do you see her
joke, Val?”
“Not in the least. Let us share it, Mrs. Bruce.”
“It is a good joke,” said that merry matron, going off again into fits
of laughter; “but I shall not tell you just yet. It is a secret.”
The male relative looked puzzled, admitting that the solution was beyond
him; at which stage it seemed destined to remain.