In one respect at least it cannot be denied that the new country
differs widely from the old. Events of important and fateful nature
succeed each other with a rapidity so great as to affect the actor
with a sensation of unreality. He soon learns, however, that this
high-pressure transaction of life involves issues none the less
exacting of consequences. He recognises the necessity of watchfulness,
of prompt decision, and abandons himself to the accelerated rate of
speed with a degree of confidence which he cannot help suspecting to
be recklessness in disguise. It may be that ideas akin to this view of
the subject passed through Mr. Neuchamp’s reflective mind while waiting
for the appointed time at which he was to meet Mr. Frankston at his
office. But a few hours since he had been on the verge of a headlong
and what now appeared to him a dangerous investment, in which his whole
capital might have been swamped, and his plans for social and colonial
regeneration delayed for years, if not wholly frustrated. Now, with an
equally violent oscillation, he had abandoned one recent friend, and
adopted another equally unknown; to-morrow he might be embarked upon
another project with equal risk of proximity to a colonial whirlpool
capable of swallowing an argosy. What was he to do in this frightful
procession, where fortune and ruin followed each other upon the path of
life like express trains?
Was there such a thing as prudence, hesitation, or delay in Australian
business matters? He would not be so credulous again. Was this cheerful
old merchant, whose speech was kindness, and whose eye was truth
apparently, to be unreservedly trusted? He would hear what his counsel
was like meanwhile; he knew his friend Granville to be clear-sighted
and direct. He fully trusted him, and had good reason to do so. Yes—he
would put his fortune on this die. _Vogue la galère!_
He had consulted his watch more than once before the hansom deposited
him with a portmanteau at the office of Paul Frankston and Co., at two
minutes past five o’clock. Just afterwards, a well-appointed carriage,
drawn by a well-matched pair of bays, drove rapidly up to the door. As
he was approvingly regarding the well-bred horses, he did not observe
that a young lady inside was essaying to open the door of the carriage.
Ernest, shocked at his unchivalrous conduct, rushed to the door,
wrenched it open, and with a slight but deferential bow assisted her to
alight. She walked at once into the office, followed by Mr. Neuchamp.
‘I have been to Shaddock’s, papa, for some books, and I thought I
was late,’ she said, throwing her arms round the old man’s neck,
unconscious that Ernest was immediately behind.
‘You’re generally punctual, puss, and so I won’t scold her, Mr.
Neuchamp,’ said the old boy with his customary chuckle, as the young
lady turned round and beheld with surprise the involuntary witness of
her tribute of affection. ‘Mr. Neuchamp, my daughter Antonia. My dear,
this gentleman is coming to stay with us for a few months—for a year or
two—all his life, perhaps, so the sooner you get acquainted the better.’
Then the young lady smiled, and hoped that Mr. Neuchamp would find
their house pleasant, and become accustomed in time to papa’s jokes.
‘I can tell you it’s no joke at all, miss. You know very well that if
Mr. Granville would have had you, I should have ordered you to marry
him forthwith. Now, Mr. Neuchamp is a great friend of his, and all we
can do for him will be too little.’
‘Mr. Granville was the nicest man I ever met,’ affirmed the young lady.
‘As for marrying, that is another matter. I daresay Mr. Neuchamp is
coming to a proper understanding about your assertions, papa. How do
you like the view, Mr. Neuchamp?’
As she spoke she leaned partly out of the carriage and gazed seawards.
They were now driving upon a rather narrow and winding road, smoothly
gravelled and well kept, much like a country lane in England. On the
southern side the hill rose abruptly above them; on the lower side a
dwarf wall of sandstone blocks occasionally protected the traveller
from a too precipitous descent. Shrubs and flowers, as strange to Mr.
Neuchamp as the flora of the far-famed bay, but a mile or two from
them now, was to Sir Joseph Banks, bordered the road on either side in
rich profusion. But the eye roamed over the intervening valley, over
villas of trim beauty, clean-cut in the delicately pale sandstone, to
the wondrous beauty of the landlocked sea. Blue as the Ægean, it was
superior in its astonishing wealth of bays, mimic quays, and peerless
anchorage to any harbour in the world. Crafts of all kinds and sizes
floated upon its unruffled wave, from the majestic ocean steamer,
gliding proudly to her anchorage, to the white-winged, over-rigged
sailing boat, with her crew of lads seated desperately on her windward
gunnel, to squatter out like a brood of wild ducks and right their
crank craft, should fortune and the breeze desert them. Northward
rose the ‘sullen shape’ of the great sandstone promontory, the North
Head, towering over the surges that break endlessly at its base, and
with its twin sentinel of the south, guarding the narrow entrance to
the unrivalled haven. The fresh breeze swept through the girl’s hair
and tinged her cheek with a transient glow, as she said, ‘Is not that
lovely? I have seen it almost daily for years, but it never palls on
me.’
‘Beautiful as a dream landscape,’ said Ernest from his heart. ‘It makes
one recall dear old Sir Walter’s words—
‘“Where’s the coward that would not dare
To fight for such a land?”’
‘We are a peaceful people so far,’ said Mr. Frankston; ‘but I fancy
that we should take to war kindly enough in the event of invasion,
for instance, and hammer away as briskly and as doggedly as our
forefathers.’
‘How many years have you been in this colony, may I ask?’ said Ernest.
‘Not long enough to shake off British feelings and prejudices, I am
certain.’
‘About ten years,’ deposed Mr. Frankston confidently.
‘Oh, papa!’ said Miss Antonia.
‘Well!’ said the old gentleman, looking roguishly at her, ‘I may have
been here a _leetle_ longer; but I am within the strict limits of truth
in stating I have been here for ten years—there is no doubt about that.’
Thus chatting, they had arrived at a pair of iron gates, through which
entering, they turned into the smoothest of gravel roads, which was
obviously watered daily.
The grounds through which the upstanding bay horses bore them over
the superb gravel, were extensive, but in perfect order. Many of the
trees, chiefly of semi-tropical habit, were of great age, and their
broad glossy leaves, faintly stirred by the sea-breeze, had a murmuring
sound, which told the heart of an imaginative listener tales of a calm
enchanted main of coral reefs, of palm-fringed, milk-white strands, and
all the wonders of the charmed Isles of the Great South Sea.
They drew up at the door of a large old-fashioned mansion, built of
pale sandstone and surmounted by an extremely broad paved verandah,
looking like a section of an ice-house.
‘Mr. Neuchamp!’ said the old gentleman, ‘this is your home as long as
you are in Australia. I hope you like the look of it. It’s exactly
twelve minutes to dinner-time; so I recommend both of you to waste no
time in dressing. James!’
A serious-looking man-servant advanced, and taking Ernest’s portmanteau
inducted him into a fascinating bedroom, with such a view of the sea
that he was nearly led into forgetting the old gentleman’s paternal
admonition, and being late for dinner.
However, by putting on extra steam, after the important transaction
of the tie was completed, he managed to re-enter the hall just as Mr.
Frankston came skipping downstairs, and was immediately entrusted with
the care of Miss Frankston as far as the dining-room.
The evening was warm, but the perfection of cookery, combined with
the quality and temperature of the wines to prevent any deep feeling
of inconvenience. Miss Frankston talked pleasantly and unaffectedly,
while the old gentleman neglected no opportunity of interjecting a joke
or telling some remarkably good story, for Mr. Neuchamp’s benefit, of
which his daughter did not always see the point.
After dinner Miss Frankston retired, with an assurance from her father
that they did not intend to absent themselves for more than ten
minutes, after which the serious butler brought in tenderly another
bottle of claret, and departed.
‘Fill your glass, Mr. Neuchamp,’ said the old man; ‘it won’t hurt your
head, nor your—any other part, I guarantee, for I imported it myself,
and let us talk a _very_ little business. What do you think of doing?’
‘My intention is fixed to purchase a landed property, an estate or
station, as you call them. Of course I can only begin in a small way,
and that was why Mr. Selmore’s place, Gammon Downs, seemed particularly
suited.’
‘Gammon Downs has ruined every man but Selmore, who has ever had
anything to do with it. It’s a sour, bad little place, in which you
would have lost all your money in about a year, and would have had to
sell, or give away, the stock.’
‘And did Mr. Selmore know that it was a bad investment, an undesirable
property, when he offered it to me?’
‘I am sorry to say,’ quoth the old gentleman, ‘that he _did_ know it,
perfectly well; he knew that it has ruined half a dozen men, whose
names I could give you.’
‘And is he considered to be a gentleman, and a man of honour, in this
part of the world?’ inquired Mr. Neuchamp in tones of great surprise.
‘Well, he _is_ a gentleman—that is, if good birth, good manners, and
a good education go to make one. But he has always speculated to the
verge of his capital, and now, stock being rather low, he is decidedly
hard up. But he is a wonderfully sharp hand, and he generally contrives
to get hold of a “black hat” at least once a year, which has pulled him
through so far.’
‘A black hat?’ demanded Ernest; ‘and why not?—they seem common enough.
And why should a hat, black or white, help him in any way?’
‘You don’t quite understand,’ answered Mr. Frankston, with a twinkle
of his fun-loving gray eyes, ‘though it is more a bush expression than
a town one, and rather slangy. A “black hat” in Australian parlance
means a new arrival. And as people without colonial experience, like
yourself, for instance, cannot be expected to understand the relative
value of stock and stations, such a purchaser falls an easy prey to a
talented but unscrupulous man like your friend Selmore.’
A light suddenly illumined the understanding of Mr. Neuchamp, whose
faculties, like those of enthusiasts generally, were keen, if
occasionally misdirected.
‘So _that_ was what his friend Evelyn laughingly alluded to when they
met us yesterday. “I see you have your black hat with you,” he said.’
‘By Jove! you don’t say so; did Evelyn say that?’ laughed the
commercial mentor; ‘just like him; for two pins he’d have warned you
not to believe a word he said. Fine fellow, Evelyn! And what did Mr.
Selmore say?’
‘He only smiled, took off his own hat—an ordinary “Lincoln and
Bennett”—stroked it, and put it on his head again.’
‘Capital, capital! O lord! that was Selmore all over. You can’t easily
match him. He has the devil’s own readiness. Deuced clever fellow
he always was! It’s a pity, too, really it is. If he were not so
desperately cornered, I believe he’s a kind-hearted fellow in the main.
But when he has bills to meet he’d take in his own father.’
‘Thou shalt want ere I want,’ as that famous freelance, Mr. Dugald
Dalgetty, formerly of Marischal College, remarked, thought Ernest;
but he said, ‘It seems then that my small capital was very nearly
appropriated to the retirement of Mr. Selmore’s bills payable, which
was _not_ my primary intention in choosing a colonial career. My dear
sir, I shall never be sufficiently thankful for your kind advice. What
would you advise me to do now, if I may trespass further on your great
kindness?’
‘My dear boy, as Granville’s friend, I look upon you as my son
temporarily; and if I had a son who had just completed his education
and wished to purchase station property, I should say to him, this is a
country and stock-farming is a profession not to be understood all at
once. Before investing your money spend a little time in learning the
ways of the people of the country and of the management of stock before
you invest a shilling.’
‘And how long do you think a man of reasonable intelligence ought to be
in gaining the requisite knowledge?’ asked Ernest, rather dismayed at
the prospect of a lengthened term of apprenticeship.
‘Not a day less than two years,’ answered Mr. Frankston decisively.
‘My advice to you is to travel for a month or two through the interior,
and then to locate yourself on some station where you can acquire the
details of practical management.’
‘But will not that be expensive, and what could I do with my money in
the meantime?’
‘It will not be expensive; and as to your money, you can lodge it in
a bank, where you will receive interest at current rates. You can
select any of our Sydney banks, which are quite as safe as the Bank of
England. I shall then be happy to give you introductions which will
secure you a home and the means of acquiring the necessary knowledge.’
‘Thanks, a thousand thanks,’ quoth Ernest, much relieved; ‘at any rate
I shall feel safe. I shall gladly take your advice; and the sooner I am
off the better.’
‘Better stay a month with me,’ urged the kind-hearted old boy; ‘there
is plenty of time for you to learn all about stock, and how to
distinguish between Gammon Downs and a run that, if it doesn’t make a
fortune all at once, will not ruin you under five years at any rate.’
But the man to whom he spoke had not crossed ten thousand miles of
ocean, torn up old associations, and severed himself from the inherited
life of an English country gentleman, to linger by the wayside. So he
made answer—
‘My dear sir, I feel that if I have left many good friends behind I
have found one as kind and more effectual in help and counsel. But my
purpose is fixed. I cannot rest without I feel that I am on my way to
its fulfilment. With your permission I must leave town next week at
farthest.’
‘Well, well—I am not sure but that you are wise. Sydney is an easy
place to spend money in, and there is nothing like buckling to when
there is work to be done. I must see and pick you up a horse.’
‘Do you know,’ said Mr. Neuchamp, with an air of slight diffidence,
‘that I much prefer to walk; I shall see more of the country and be
less hampered, I imagine, on foot.’
‘_Walk! walk!_’ repeated Mr. Frankston, rather taken aback; ‘don’t
think of it.’
‘Why not, may I ask?’
‘Because in this country no one walks. It is too hot for that sort of
thing, and it is not exactly the thing for a gentleman.’
‘But,’ pleaded Ernest, ‘I am a tolerable pedestrian; many a pleasant
walking tour I have had in England, and indeed on the Continent. Is
there any danger?’
‘None, that I am aware of—but I would certainly advise you to get a
horse, or a couple; they are cheap enough here.’
‘You won’t be offended if I say that I really prefer walking. It is
a capital thing in many ways; and I shall not get a chance of seeing
Australian life without conventional spectacles so easily again
perhaps.’
‘Please yourself, then,’ said Mr. Frankston; ‘I am very much in favour
of letting people alone, particularly in unimportant matters; you will
find out for yourself, I daresay, why I advised you to commence your
journey on the outside of a good horse. You won’t take any more wine?
Then we’ll go and get a cup of coffee from Antonia.’
They found that young lady ensconced in a large cane chair upon the
balcony in front of the drawing-room, gazing dreamily over the dark
glimmering waters.
‘You will find coffee on that round table, Mr. Neuchamp; and you, papa,
will find your cigar-case on that ledge. Mr. Neuchamp, if you like to
smoke, pray do so; I have no dislike to it in the open air.’
Mr. Neuchamp did not smoke. He held it to be a waste of time, of money,
of brain-power; leading likewise to a false content with circumstances,
with which the true man should wage ceaseless warfare. So he brought
his chair near to that of Miss Frankston, and as the old gentleman
lighted his cigar and leaned back in much comfort at some distance, he
felt fully disposed for a little æsthetic talk.
‘What a glorious night,’ he remarked, ‘with this faint fresh
sea-breeze! how grand the effect of the darkly bright water, the
burning stars, and this superb cloudless heaven!’
‘It is so indescribably glorious,’ made answer Miss Frankston, ‘that
I feel incensed with myself for not delighting in it more freshly and
intensely. But it is thus with all familiar marvels that one has seen
all one’s life.’
‘All one’s life?’ repeated he.
‘I was born in this house,’ said she simply, ‘and have sat on a chair
like this, and gazed on the sea, as we are doing now, when I was a
small lonely child.’
‘Oh! dreamy and luxurious southerner,’ laughed he. ‘A life of
lotus-eating! Has it affected the tenor of your mind with any
indisposition to exertion or change?’
‘As far as I can pretend to know, it has had the reverse tendency in my
case. I have always had a passionate desire to travel. I am my father’s
own daughter in that respect, he says.’
‘And where has Mr. Frankston chiefly been?’
‘Where has he not been? When he was young he managed to get away
to sea, and roamed about the world splendidly; he has been to New
Zealand, of course; all over the South Sea Islands; besides having
travelled to England and the Continent, the East and West Indies,
Russia, America, China, and Japan.’
‘You quite take my breath away. Your papa is a perfect Marco Polo. But
why should he have gone to England?’
‘In order to see it, of course. Every Australian with sufficient brains
to comprehend that there are more streets in the world than George
Street would like to do that.’
‘And was Mr. Frankston born in Australia? I thought he told me that he
had been ten years here.’
‘So he has been, and fifty more. He did not say _only_ ten years. He
likes to joke about being taken for an Englishman, and says it is
because he has a red face and a white waistcoat.’
‘Well, I do not see the resemblance on those grounds,’ made answer Mr.
Neuchamp guardedly. ‘But really, your papa is so exactly like an old
gentleman of my acquaintance, who is a very Briton of Britons, that I
took it for granted that he must be English.’
‘So he is English, and so am I English; only we were not born in that
small great country. But you _must_ think that there ought to be some
distinguishing manner, or accent, about Australians, or you would not
exhibit surprise at the resemblance.’
‘If I ever had such an absurd idea, I am now entirely disabused of it,’
said Mr. Neuchamp gallantly; ‘and I must hope that in a short time to
come I may be taken for an Australian, of which at present there is not
apparently the least prospect.’
‘Indeed, there is not,’ replied Miss Frankston; ‘pray excuse my
smiling at the idea.’
‘But why should I be so advertised, apparently by my whole personal
effect upon society, that the waiters at the hotel are as aware of the
fact, the cabmen, the persons whom I pass in the street, as if I had
“passenger’s luggage” marked on my shirt-front? It is not entirely my
complexion, for I see blonde people in every direction; nor my clothes,
nor my speech, I hope.’
‘I do not know, indeed. I cannot say. There must be some difference,
or people would not notice it. But you must not imagine that because
you are known to have just come from home that anything short of a
compliment is intended. Indeed,’ said the girl with some diffidence,
‘it’s quite the other way.’
‘I am delighted to hear you say so,’ returned Mr. Neuchamp, ‘and it
will comfort Wilhelm Meister during his “Wanderjähre.”’
‘Kennst du das Land?’
sang she. ‘Are you fond of music, Mr. Neuchamp? for I think I shall go
in and give papa his nightly allowance of harmony. He refuses always to
go to bed until I have sung to him. You had better keep him company.’
Mr. Neuchamp did so, the air of the balcony and the sight of the
wondrous Southern Cross being as yet more attractive than the lady of
the castle and her song.
‘That’s right,’ said the old gentleman, lighting another cigar and
composing himself to listen. ‘Pity you don’t smoke; it’s an added
pleasure, and one hasn’t too many in this world. It’s a luxury that
lasts—one of the few things you can do as well when you’re old as when
you are young.’
‘I must differ from you,’ returned Mr. Neuchamp. ‘I think it often
leads to the wasting of valuable time, but I bow to your greater
experience.’
‘And greater age; and you are right to be on the self-denying side
for the present. But ask yourself what an old buffer like myself can
do with his evenings more profitably. My eyes—not so good as they
were thirty years since—have generally had a fair day’s work before
dinner-time. Cards, talk, and a moderate smoke make up an old man’s
evening. When I look at the sea here—and she always was a good friend
to me—hear Antonia sing and play—bless her heart! and smoke a very good
cigar, it is rather a cunningly mixed enjoyment, you must own. Now
she’s off!’
The last statement was made simultaneously with the first notes of a
song which floated out through the opened French windows, and proved
to Mr. Neuchamp—a fair connoisseur—that his hostess had a fresh, true,
soprano voice, and rather unusual execution. As he sat listening to
song after song which Miss Frankston bestowed upon them with an utter
absence of apologetic affectation, as the stars burned more brightly
in the cloudless southern sky, as the wavelets kept their rhythmical
murmurous monotone, he involuntarily asked himself if he had left _all_
the social luxuries in the other hemisphere.
‘This is pleasant,’ said the merchant, after a long silence of words,
with something between a sigh and a shake; ‘but there are such things
as breakfast and business for to-morrow. We must end the concert. Make
for that small table in the corner.’
Upon the piece of furniture referred to there stood a silver-encrusted
inviting spirit-stand, with a bottle of iced Marco-brünner.
‘You must allow me to thank you for your songs, Miss Frankston,’ said
Ernest; ‘whether the surroundings completed the witchery I cannot tell,
but I have rarely enjoyed music so much.’
‘I am glad you like my singing,’ said she simply; ‘we see so few people
that I am not always sure whether my old music-master and myself
extract the correct expression in much of our practice.’
‘I can assure you of the correctness of your rendering,’ promptly
assented the stranger-critic. ‘I heard the last song you were good
enough to favour us with sung the week before I left. It had just been
published. And I certainly prefer a slight emendation, which I think
you have made.’
‘Most satisfactory!’ said she, with a mock inclination of respect;
‘and now good-night. Papa and breakfast wait for no man.’