THE NEW HOME
When Wilfred awoke from deep untroubled slumber, the sun seemed gazing
at the encampment with haughty, fixed regard, as of a monarch, enthroned
upon the summit of the purple mountain range.
Unwitting of the lengths (fortunately) to which the unsparing archer
could go in Southern lands, he essayed to commence dressing.
Rising hurriedly, he was reminded by a tap on the head from the
axle-tree that he was in a bedroom of restricted accommodation. More
guarded in his after-movements he crawled outside, first placing on the
dewy grass a rug upon which to stand. He commenced his toilette, and
cast a comprehensive glance around.
The first thing he saw was the upright form of Richard Evans, who,
returning from a search after his hobbled horses, drove them before him
towards the camp, at the same time smoking his pipe with a serene and
satisfied air. The morning was chilly, but he had not thought a coat
necessary, and in a check shirt and moleskin trousers calmly braved an
atmosphere not much above forty degrees Fahrenheit.
‘This must be a fine climate,’ said Wilfred to his father. ‘We shall be
well wrapped up till breakfast time, at any rate, and yet that old
buffer is wandering about in his shirt-sleeves as if he were in Naples.’
‘He is pretty hard-bitten, you may depend,’ said Mr. Effingham. ‘I think
some of our old “die-hards” are as tough samples of humanity as could
anywhere be met. I do not uphold the British soldier as a model, but
they were men in my time, beyond any manner of doubt.’
Dick marched up his team to the waggon, whence the lodgers had by this
time issued—Andrew to make a fire near the tent, and Jeanie to penetrate
that sacred enclosure, and presumably to act as tire-woman in the
interior.
The shafts, which had served Dick as a sleeping apartment during the
night, aided by a shroud of tarpaulin, were uplifted, and bagging being
thereon stretched, were converted into a manger for the chaff and maize,
which the horses quickly commenced to consume.
Presently Jeanie issued from the tent, and finding the camp-kettle
boiling, proceeded to make tea. Andrew, in the meantime, milked the cow.
The gridiron was brought into requisition, and certain mutton chops
broiled. Eventually Mrs. Effingham and her daughters issued from the
tent, fresh and dainty of aspect as if they had just left their bedrooms
at The Chase. Then the day commenced, and also breakfast.
‘Good-morning, O mother! Hail, O tender maidens! What do you think of
camping out?’ was Wilfred’s greeting, ‘Have you been sitting up weeping,
or did you forget everything till daylight, as we did?’
‘We all slept like tops,’ said Annabel. ‘I never was so sleepy in my
life. I was almost off before I could undress. I think it’s splendid.
And oh! what is there for breakfast?’
Grilled chops, smoking cups of tea, with bread and butter, constituted
the repast. Worse meals have been eaten. The appetites were, like the
travellers, highly respectable. By the time the meal was finished, Mr.
Richard Evans had harnessed his team, and bringing himself up to the
attitude of ‘attention,’ requested to know when the ladies would like to
make a start.
After consultation, it was notified to their guide and courier that as
soon as the tent was struck and the baggage packed, every one would be
ready.
The troops being in high health and spirits, in a comparatively short
space of time the march was resumed. Wilfred and Guy walked ahead,
fowling-piece in hand. Andrew drove the cow, which followed quietly in
the rear. The coupled greyhounds looked eagerly around, as if sensible
that they were now in hunting country. They were with difficulty
restrained when a wallaby, in two bounds, crossed the road and
disappeared in an adjoining scrub.
The dry air was pure and fresh, the unclouded sky blue as a sapphire
dome, the winding forest road free from all impediment but an occasional
ledge of sandstone. If there is any portion of the day ‘when the poor
are rich in spirits and health,’ when the heart of youth stirs, when age
is soothed with dreams of happiness, it is in that sweetest hour which
follows the early morning meal in rural Australia. Dawn is austere,
mid-day often sultry, but nowhere will he, whose heart and intelligence
respond alike gratefully to that charmed time, find its inspirations
more invigorating than in the early summer of Australia. Then the
fortunate traveller experiences coolness without cold, and warmth
without the heat which produces lassitude.
As the waggon rolled easily along, the horses stepping cheerily on the
track, the wayfarers paced over the unwonted herbage with an alertness
of mien which would have suggested a very different history.
‘How lovely the shrubs are that we see in all directions!’ said Mrs.
Effingham. ‘What should we have given for that golden flowering mimosa
at The Chase, or this blue-leaved, pink pointed tree, which I suppose
must be a young eucalyptus. Here they are so common that no one heeds
them, and yet there are rare plants enough to set up a dozen
greenhouses.’
‘Everything is so utterly different,’ said Rosamond. ‘I am most
agreeably surprised at the landscape. What erroneous ideas one has of
far countries! I suppose it is because we seldom feel sufficient
interest to learn about them thoroughly. I pictured Australia a sandy
waste, with burned-up reedy grass, and a general air of the desert. Now,
here we have woods, a pretty little brook rippling by, rocks and hills,
and in the distance a mountain. I could make quite an effective sketch.’
‘The country isn’t all like this, Miss,’ said Dick Evans, with a
deferential air. ‘If you was to go two or three hundred miles into the
bush, there’s no timber at all; you’ld find it all sand and
salt-bushes—the curiousest place ever you see.’
‘How can it be the “bush,”’ inquired Wilfred, ‘if there are no trees?
But we are not going so far, at any rate.’
‘Finest grazing land out,’ said Richard the experienced. ‘All the stock
rolling fat—no trouble in looking after ’em. If I was a young gentleman,
that’s the place I’d make for. Not but what Warbrok’s a pleasant spot,
and maybe the young ladies will like it better than the plains.’
‘I fancy we all shall, Richard,’ said Rosamond. ‘The plains may be very
well for sheep and cattle, but I prefer a woodland country like this. I
suppose we can have a garden there?’
‘Used to be the best garden in all the country-side, Miss, but the
Warleighs were a wild lot; they let everything go to wrack. The trees
and bushes is mostly wore out, but the sile’s that good, as a handy man
would soon make it ship-shape again.’
‘What are we to do for lunch?’ said Annabel, with some appearance of
anxiety. ‘If we are to go on roaming over the land from sunrise to
sunset without stopping, I shall die of hunger—I’m sure I shall. I keep
thinking about those cakes of Jeanie’s.’
‘My dear child,’ said her mother, ‘I daresay we shall manage to feed you
and the rest of the flock. I am pleased to find that you have such a
famous appetite. To be sure, you have not stopped growing yet, and this
fresh air acts as a tonic. So far, we must not complain of the climate.’
‘It’s only a few miles furder on, ma’am, to the King Parrot Waterhole,
where we can stop in the middle of the day, and have a bit to eat if the
young ladies is sharp-set. I always stop on the road and feed my horses
about twelve o’clock. And if the young gentlemen was to walk on, they
might shoot a pair of ducks at the waterhole, as would come in handy for
the pot.’
When about mid-day they reached the King Parrot Waterhole, a
reed-fringed pool, about as large as their English horse-pond, they
found Wilfred in possession of a pair of the beautiful grey-breasted
wood-ducks (_Anas Boscha_), a teal, with chestnut and black feathers and
a brilliant green neck, also a dark-furred kangaroo, which Dick
pronounced to be a rock wallaby.
‘Australia isn’t such a bad place for game,’ said Guy. ‘We found the
ducks swimming in the pool, three brace altogether, and “Damsel” caught
this two-legged hare, as she thought it, as it was making up that stony
hill. _I_ like it better than Surrey.’
‘We shall find out ever so many interesting things,’ said Rosamond. ‘I
shall never feel thankful enough to that good old Professor Muste for
teaching me the small bit of botany that I know. Now, look at this
lovely Clianthus, is it not enough to warm the heart of a Trappist? And
here is that exquisite purple Kennedya, which ought, in an Australian
novel, to be wreathed round the heroine’s hat. Do my eyes deceive me, or
is not that a white heath? I must dig it up.’
‘I believe, Rosamond, that you could comfort yourself on Mount Ararat,’
said Annabel. ‘Why, it will be _ages_ before those ducks can be picked
and roasted. Oh, Jeanie, Jeanie, can’t we have them before tea-time? I
wish I had never seen them.’
‘If you like, you can help me take off the feathers, and spare Jeanie’s
everlastingly busy fingers,’ said Beatrice.
Here Annabel looked ruefully at her tiny, delicate hands, with a child’s
pout.
‘Oh, it’s no use looking at your pretty hands,’ said the more practical
Beatrice. ‘This is the land of work, and all who can’t make themselves
useful will be treated like the foolish virgins in the parable. It
always makes me smile when that chapter is read. I can fancy Annabel
holding out her lamp, with an injured expression, saying, “Well, nobody
told me it was time to get ready.”’
‘Beatrice, my daughter,’ said Mrs. Effingham gravely, ‘sacred subjects
are not befitting matter for idle talking; dispositions vary, and you
may remember that Martha was not praised for her anxiety to serve.’
At mid-day the kettle bubbled on the fire, kindled by the ever-ready
Richard, cakes and sandwiches were handed round, the tea—thanks to
Daisy—was gratefully sipped.
The sun shone brightly on the green flat, where the horses grazed in
peace and plenty. The birds chirped and called at intervals; all Nature
seemed glad and responsive to the joyous season of the southern spring.
Thus their days wore on, in peaceful progression, alike free from toil,
anxiety, or adventure. The daily stage was accomplished, under Dick’s
experienced direction, without mistake or misadventure. The evening meal
was a time of rest and cheerful enjoyment, the night’s slumbers
refreshing and unbroken.
‘What a delightful country this is! I feel quite a new creature,
especially after breakfast,’ exclaimed Annabel one morning. ‘I could go
on like this for months, till we reached the other side of the
continent, if there is any other side. Will it be as nice as this, I
wonder, at Malbrook, or Warbrok, or whatever they call it? Warbrok Chase
won’t look so bad on our letters, when we write home. I must send a
sketch of it to cousin Elizabeth, with a bark cabin, of course. She will
never believe that we have a real house to live in among the backwoods.
What sort of a house is it, Dick? Is it thatched and gabled and damp and
delightful, with dear little diamond casements like the keeper’s lodge,
or is it a horrid wooden barn? Tell me now, there’s a dear old man!’
‘We shall be there, Miss, the day after to-morrer, please God,’
responded Dick with respectful solemnity. ‘Parson Sternworth said I was
to say nought about the place, but let it come on you suddent-like. And
I’m a man as is used to obey orders.’
‘Very well, you disagreeable old soldier,’ said the playful maiden.
‘I’ll be even with you and the parson, as you call him. See if I don’t.’
‘Sorry to disobleege you, Miss Anniebell,’ said the veteran, ‘but if my
old General, Sir Hugh Gough, was to come and say, “Corporal Richard
Evans, hand me over the chart of the country,” I should have to tell him
that he hadn’t got the counter-sign.’
‘And quite right too, Evans,’ interposed Mr. Effingham, ‘to keep up your
good old habits in a new country. Discipline is the soul of the army.’
‘I was allers taught _that_, sir,’ replied Dick, with an air of military
reminiscence which would have befitted a veteran of the Great Frederick.
‘But when we reaches Warbrok my agreement’s out with the Parson, and
Miss can order me about all day.’
In spite of Annabel’s asseverations that the party would never reach the
spot indicated, and that she believed there never was any such place,
but that Dick would lead them into a trackless forest and abandon them,
the journey ended about the time specified. A rugged track, indeed, one
afternoon tried their patience. The horses laboured, the docile cow
limped and lagged, the girls complained, while Andrew’s countenance
became visibly elongated.
At length Dick Evans’s wooden facial muscles relaxed, as halting on the
hardly-gained hill-top he pointed with his whip-handle, saying simply,
‘There’s Warbrok! So the young ladies and gentlemen can see for
theirselves.’
How eagerly did the whole party gaze upon the landscape, which now, in
the clear light of the Southern eve, lay softly in repose before them!
The character of the scenery had changed with the wondrous suddenness
peculiar to the land in which they had come to dwell. A picture set in a
frame of forest and unfriendly thickets! Now before their eyes came with
magical abruptness a vision of green slopes, tall groves, and verdurous
meadows. It was one of nature’s forest parks. Traces of the imperfect
operations of a new country were visible, in felled timber, in naked,
girdled trees, in unsightly fences. But nature was in bounteous mood,
and had heightened the contrast with the barren region they had
over-passed, by a flushed abundance of summer vegetation. This lavish
profusion of herb and leaf imparted a richness of colouring, a clearness
of tone, which in a less favourable season of the year Warbrok must
perceptibly have lacked.
‘Oh, what a lovely, lovely place!’ cried Annabel, transported beyond
herself as she stood on tip-toe and gazed rapturously at the scene.
‘Those must be the Delectable Mountains. Dick, you are a Christian hero
[the old man smiled deprecatingly], I forgive you on the spot. And there
is the house, a _real_ house with two storeys—actually two—I thought
there were only cottages up the country—and an orchard; and is that a
blue cloud or the sea? We must have turned round again. Surely it can’t
be _our lake_? That would be too heavenly, and those glorious mountains
beyond!’
‘That’s Lake William, miss, called after His Gracious Majesty King
William the Fourth,’ explained Dick, accurate and reverential. ‘Fourteen
miles long and seven broad. You’ll find the house big enough, but it’s a
long way from being in good order; and it’s a mercy there’s a tree alive
in the orchard.’
‘Oh, never mind, we’ll soon put things to rights, won’t we, mamma? And
what splendid creatures those old trees will be when they come out in
leaf. I suppose it’s too early in the spring yet?’ continued she.
‘Dead—every one of ’em, miss,’ explained their conductor. ‘They’ve been
ring-barked, more’s the pity. They was beauties when I knowed ’em fust,
before the blessed tenants was let ruinate everything about the place. I
wonder there’s a stone of the house standing, that I do. And now, sir,
we’ll get on, and the young ladies can have tea in their own parlour, if
my old woman’s made a fire, accordin’ to orders.’
The hearts of the more reflective portion of the party were too full for
comment, so Annabel’s chatter was allowed to run on unchecked. A feeling
of despondency had been gradually stealing over Howard Effingham and his
wife, as for the two last stages they had pictured to themselves the
toil of building up a home amid the barren solitudes, such as, in their
innocence, they thought their new property might resemble. Now, here was
a spot in which they might live out their lives with cheerful and
contented minds, thankful that ‘their lines had fallen in pleasant
places’; having reason to hope that their children might dwell in peace
and prosperity after them.
‘We can never be sufficiently grateful to your dear old friend,’ said
Mrs. Effingham. ‘If he had not in the first place written you that
letter, Howard, and afterwards acted upon his opinion so boldly, what
might have been our fate?’
‘He always used to look after me when we were in the regiment,’ said her
husband acquiescingly; ‘I daresay he’ll find a similar pleasure in
taking charge of us now. Fortunately for you and the girls, he never
married.’
A few miles only needed to be traversed before Mr. Evans triumphantly
drove his team through the gate of the dilapidated garden fence
surrounding the front of a large old-fashioned stone mansion, with wide
verandah and lofty balcony, supported upon freestone pillars. A stout,
elderly woman of decided aspect opened the creaking hall door, and
casting a searching glance at Mr. R. Evans, made the strangers welcome.
‘I’m sure I’m very glad to see you, my lady,’ said she, bobbing an
antiquated curtsey, ‘and you, sir, and the young ladies and gentlemen.
I’ve done all I could to clean up the old barrack of a house; it was
that lonesome, and made me frighted with ghosts, as I thought I’d never
live to see you all; and Dick here, I knew there was no certainty of, as
might have gone to Timor, or the Indies, and never let on a word about
it. Please you to come in, my lady.’
‘My old woman’s temper is none of the best, Captain,’ said Dick, stating
the fact with philosophical calmness, ‘but I’ll warrant she’s cleaned up
as much as any two, and very bad it wanted it when Parson Sternworth
brought us over.’
Now that a nearer view was afforded of the demesne and dwelling, it was
evident that the place had been long abandoned to natural decay and
sordid neglect. The fences were rotten, gapped, or fallen; the orchard,
though the aged trees were high out of the reach of browsing cattle, had
been used as a convenient species of stock paddock; the climbers,
including a magnificent bignonia and a wistaria, the great laterals of
which had erstwhile clothed the verandah pillars with beauty and bloom,
were broken and twisted. In the rear of the building all the broken
bottles and bones of the land appeared to be collected; while, with
windows broken, shutters hanging on a single hinge, doors closing with
difficulty, or impossible to open, all things told of the recklessness
of ruined owners.
Still, in despite of all deficiencies, the essentials of value could not
be overlooked. The house, though naked and desolate of aspect, was large
and commodious, promising in its shingled roof and massive stone walls
protection against the heat of summer, the cold of winter. The deep
black mould needed but ordinary culture to respond generously. The
offices might be mouldering and valueless, but the _land_ was there,
thinly timbered, richly grassed, well adapted for stock of all kinds.
And though the gaunt limbs of the girdled trees looked sadly
unpicturesque between the front of the house and the lake shore, some
had been left untouched, and the grass was all the more richly swarded.
The lake itself was a grand indisputable fact. It was deep and fresh,
abounding in water-fowl, a priceless boon to dwellers in a climate
wherein a lack of rivers and permanent reservoirs is unhappily a
distinguishing characteristic.
Let it not be supposed that Wilfred and his mother, the girls and Jeanie
were outside the house all this time. Very promptly had Dick unloaded
the household stores, pressing all able-bodied persons, including his
wife, into the service, until the commissariat was safely bestowed under
shelter. His waggon was taken to the rear, his horses unharnessed, and
he himself in a marvellously short space of time enjoying a well-earned
pipe, and advising Andrew to bestow Daisy’s calf in a dilapidated but
still convertible calf-pen, so that his mother might graze at ease, and
yet be available for the family breakfast table in the morning.
‘The grass here is fust-rate,’ he said, in a tone of explanation to
Andrew. ‘There’s been a lot of rain in spring. It’s a pity but we had a
few good cows to milk. It would be just play for you and me and the
young master in the mornings. Teach him to catch hold like and learn him
the use of his hands.’
‘_Him_ milk!’ exclaimed Andrew, in a tone of horrified contempt. ‘And
yet—I dinna say but if it’s the Lord’s will the family should ha’ been
brocht to this strange land, it may be no that wrang that he should
labour, like the apostles, “working with his hauns.” There’s guid
warrant for’t.’
Meanwhile, inside the house important arrangements were proceeding. The
sitting-room, a great, bare apartment, had an ample fireplace, which
threw out a genial warmth from glowing logs. There was a large, solid
cedar table, which Mrs. Evans had rubbed and polished till the dark red
grain of the noble wood was clearly visible. Also a dozen _real_ chairs,
as Annabel delightedly observed, stood around, upon which it was
possible to enjoy the long-disused comfort of sitting down. Of this
privilege she promptly availed herself.
The night-draperies were disposed in the chief bedchamber, though until
the arrival of the furniture it was apparent that the primitive sleeping
accommodation of the road would need to be continued. Mr. Effingham and
his sons were luxuriously billeted in another apartment, where, after
their axle-tree experiences, they did not pity themselves.
Andrew and his family were disposed of in the divisions of the kitchen,
which, in colonial fashion, was a detached building in the rear. Mr. and
Mrs. Evans had, on their previous entry on the premises, located
themselves in an outlying cottage (or hut, as they called it), formerly
the abode of the dairyman, where their possessions had no need of
rearrangement. Even the dogs had quarters allotted to them, in the long
range of stabling formerly tenanted by many a gallant steed in the old
extravagant days of the colony, when unstinted hospitality and claret
had been the proverbial rule at Warbrok.
‘Oh dear!’ exclaimed Annabel from her chair, ‘what a luxurious feeling
it is to be once more in a _home_ of one’s own! Though it’s a funny old
place and must have been a tempting refuge for ghosts wandering in
search of quarters. And then to think that to-morrow morning we shall
not have to move on, for ever and ever. I was beginning to get the least
bit tired of it; were not you, mamma? Though I would have died sooner
than confess it.’
‘Words cannot describe how thankful I am, my dear child,’ said her
mother, ‘that we have had the good fortune to end this land journey so
well. It is the first one of the kind I ever undertook, and I trust it
will be the last. But let us remember in our prayers to-night _whose_
hand has shielded us from the perils of the deep, and whatever dangers
we may have escaped upon the land.’
‘I feel as if we had all been acting a charade or an extended _tableau
vivant_,’ said Rosamond. ‘Like you, Annabel, dear, I am not sorry that
the theatricals are over, though the play has been a success so far. It
has no more nights to run, fortunately for the performers. Our everyday
life will commence to-morrow. We must enter upon it in a cheerful,
determined spirit.’
‘I cannot help fancying,’ said Beatrice, ‘that colonial travellers enjoy
an unnecessary amount of prestige, or some experiences must differ from
ours. We might have had a Dick who would have lost his horses or
overturned the waggon, and bushrangers (there _are_ bushrangers, for I
saw in a paper that Donohoe and his gang had “stuck-up,” whatever that
means, Mr. Icely’s drays and robbed them) might have taken us captive.
We have missed the romance of Australian life evidently.’
Howard Effingham felt strangely moved as he walked slowly forth at dawn.
He watched the majestic orb irradiate the mist-shrouded turrets of the
great mountain range which lay to the eastward. Endless wealth of colour
was evoked by the day-god’s kiss, softly, stealingly, suffusing the
neutral-tinted dome, then with magical completeness flashing into
supernal splendour. The dew glistened upon the vernal greensward. The
pied warbler rolled his richest notes in flute-like carol. The
wild-fowl, on the glistening mirror of the lake, swam, dived, or flew in
playful pursuit. The bracing air was unspeakably grateful to Howard
Effingham’s rurally attuned senses. Amid this bounty of nature in her
less sophisticated aspects, his heart swelled with the thought that much
of the wide champaign, the woodland, and the water, over which his eye
roamed wonderingly, called him master. He saw, with the quick projection
of a sanguine spirit, his family domiciled once more with comfort and
security. And not without befitting dignity, so long despaired of. He
prized the ability to indulge again the disused pursuits of a country
life. Though in a far land, among strange people, separated by a whole
ocean from the scenes of his youth and manhood, he now felt for the
first time since the great disaster that contentment, even happiness,
was possible. Once more he felt himself a country gentleman, or at the
least an Australian squire. With the thought he recalled the village
chimes in their lost home, and his wife’s reference of every
circumstance of life to the special dispensation of a benign, overruling
Providence occurred to him. With unconscious soliloquy he exclaimed, ‘I
have not deserved this; God be merciful to me a sinner!’
Dick Evans, with his horses, now appeared upon the scene, bells,
hobbles, and all. He bore every appearance of having been up at least
two hours.
‘What a wonderful old fellow that is!’ said Wilfred, who had joined his
father; ‘day or night seems alike to him. He is always hard at work at
something or other—always helpful and civil, apparently good at a score
of trades, yet military as a pipe-clayed belt. Mr. Sternworth admitted
that he had faults, but up to this time we have never discovered them.’
‘If he has none, he is such an old soldier as I have never met,’ said
his father mildly. ‘Longer acquaintance will, I suppose, abate his
unnatural perfection. But, in any case, we must keep him on until we are
sufficiently acclimatised to set up for ourselves.’
‘Quite so, sir! We cannot have our reverend mentor always at beck and
call. We want some one here who knows the country and its ways. Guy and
I will soon pick up the lie of the land, as he calls it, but at present
we are all raw and ignorant together.’
‘Then we had better engage him at once. I suppose he can tell us the
proper wages.’
‘Very possibly; but now I think of it, sir, hadn’t you better delegate
the executive department to me? Of course to carry out your
instructions, but you might do worse than appoint me your responsible
minister.’
‘My boy!’ said Effingham, grasping his son’s hand, ‘I should have made
the suggestion if you had not anticipated me. I cheerfully yield the
management to you, as you will have the laborious part of the work. Many
things will need to be done, for which I am unfit, but which you will
gradually master. I fully trust you, both as an example to Guy and
Selden, and the guardian of your mother and sisters.’
‘As God will help me in my need, they will need no other,’ replied the
eldest son. ‘So far I have led a self-indulgent life. But the spur of
necessity (you must admit) has been wanting. Now the hour has come. You
never refused me a pleasure; trust me to fulfil every duty.’
‘I never have doubted it, my boy! I always knew that higher qualities
were latent in your nature. As you say, the hour has come. We were never
laggards when the trumpet-call sounded. And now, let us join the family
party.’
As they reached the house, from which they had rambled some distance,
the sun was two hours high, and the smoke issuing from the kitchen
chimney denoted that culinary operations were in progress. At that
moment a serviceable-looking dogcart, drawn by a wiry, roan horse,
trotted briskly along the track from the main road, and in drawing up,
displayed in the driver the welcome presentment of the Rev. Harley
Sternworth.
‘How do, Howard? How are you, Wilfred, my boy? Welcome to Warbrok—to
Warbrok Chase, that is. I shall learn it in time. Very proper addendum;
suits the country, and gratifies the young ladies’ taste. Thought I’d
catch you at your first breakfast. Here, Dick, you old rascal—that is,
you deserving veteran—take Roanoke.’
The somewhat decided features of the old army chaplain softened visibly
as, entering the bare uncarpeted apartment, he descried Mrs. Effingham
and her daughters sitting near the breakfast table, evidently awaiting
the master of the house. His quick eye noticed at once the progress of
feminine adaptation, as well as the marked air of comfort produced with
such scanty material.
He must surely have been gratified by the sensation he produced. The
girls embraced him, hanging upon his words with eagerness, as on the
accents of the recovered relative of the melodrama. Mrs. Effingham
greeted him with an amount of warmth foreign to her usual demeanour. The
little ones held up their faces to be kissed by ‘Uncle Harley.’
‘We are just going to have our first breakfast,’ said Annabel. ‘Sit down
this very minute. Haven’t we done wonders?’
Indeed, by the fresh, morning light, the parlour already looked homelike
and attractive. The breakfast table, ‘decored with napery,’ as Caleb
Balderstone phrased it, had a delicately clean and appetising
appearance. A brimming milk jug showed that the herbage of Warbrok had
not been without its effect upon their fellow-passenger from the Channel
Islands. A goodly round of beef, their last roadside purchase,
constituted the _pièce de résistance_. A dish of eggs and bacon,
supplied by Mrs. Evans, whose poultry travelled with her everywhere, and
looked upon the waggon as their home, added to the glory of the repast.
A large loaf of fresh bread, baked by the same useful matron, stood
proudly upon a plate, near the roadside tea equipage, and a kettle like
a Russian _samovar_. Nor was artistic ornamentation wholly absent.
Annabel had fished up a broken vase from a lumber room, which, filled
with the poor remnants of the borders, ‘where once a garden smiled,’ and
supplemented with ‘wild buttercups and very nearly daisies,’ as she
described the native flora, made an harmonious contribution.
Before commencing the meal, as Mr. Effingham took his seat at the head
of his own table once more, humble as were the surroundings, his wife
glanced at the youngest darling, Blanche. She ran across to a smaller
table covered with a rug, and thence lifting off a volume of some
weight, brought it to their guest. His eyes met those of his old comrade
and of her his life’s faithful companion. The chaplain’s eyes were
moistened, in despite of his efforts at composure. What recollections
were not summoned up by the recurrence of that simple household
observance? His voice faltering, at first, with genuine emotion, Harley
Sternworth took the sacred volume, and read a portion, before praying in
simple phrase, that the Great Being who had been pleased to lead the
steps of His servants to this far land, would guide them in all their
ways, and prosper the work of their hands in their new home. ‘May His
blessing be upon you all, and upon your children’s children after you,
in this the land of our adoption,’ said the good priest, as he arose in
the midst of the universal amen.
‘Do you know that it was by no means too warm when I left Yass at
daylight this morning? This is called a hot climate. But in our early
summer we have frosts sometimes worthy of Yorkshire. Yesterday there was
rather a sharp one. We shall have rain again soon.’
‘Oh, I hope not,’ said Annabel. ‘This is such lovely, charming weather.
So clear and bright, and not at all too warm. I should like it to last
for months.’
‘Then, my dear young lady, we should all be ruined. Rain rarely does
harm in this country. Sometimes there are floods, and people who live on
meadowlands suffer. But the more rain the merrier, in this country at
least. It is a land of contradictions, you know. Your Lake William,
here, will never overflow, so you may be easy in your minds, if it rains
ever so hard.’
‘And what does my thoughtful young friend, Rosamond, think of the new
home?’ inquired the old gentleman, looking at her with affectionate
eyes.
‘She thinks, Uncle Sternworth, that nothing better for us all could have
been devised in the wide world, unless the Queen had ordered her
Ministers to turn out Sir Percy de Warrenne and put us in possession of
Old Court. Even that, though Sir Percy is a graceless kinsman, might not
have been so good for us, as making a home for ourselves here, out of
our own heads, as the children say.’
‘And you are quite satisfied, my dear?’
‘More than satisfied. I am exulting and eager to begin work. In England
I suffered sometimes from want of occupation. Here, every moment of the
day will be well and usefully employed.’
‘And Miss Beatrice also approves?’
‘_Miss_ Beatrice says,’ replied that more difficult damsel, who was
generally held to be reserved, if not proud, ‘she would not have come to
Australia if it could have been helped. But having come, supposes she
will not make more useless lament than other people.’
‘Beatrice secretly hates the country, I know she does,’ exclaimed
Annabel, ‘and it is ungrateful of her, particularly when we have such a
lovely place, with a garden, and a lake, and mountains and sunsets, and
everything we can possibly want.’
‘I am not so imaginative as to expect to live on mountains and sunsets,
and I must confess it will take me a long time to become accustomed to
the want of _nearly_ all the pleasures of life, but I suppose I shall
manage to bear up my share of the family burdens.’
‘You have always done so hitherto, my dear,’ said Mrs. Effingham; ‘but
you are not fond of putting forward your good deeds—hardly sufficiently
so, as I tell you.’
‘Some one has run away with Beatrice’s share of vanity,’ said Rosamond.
‘But we must not stay talking all the morning. I am chief butler, and
shall have to be chief baker too, perhaps, some day. I must break up the
meeting, as every one has apparently breakfasted.’
‘And I must have a serious business conversation with your father and
Wilfred,’ said Mr. Sternworth. ‘Where is the study—the library, I mean?
Not furnished yet! Well, suppose we adjourn to the ex-drawing-room. It’s
a spacious apartment, where the late tenant, a practical man, used to
store his maize. There is a deal table, for I put it there myself. Guy,
you may as well ask Dick Evans to show you the most likely place for
wild-fowl. Better bring chairs, Wilfred. We are going to have a
“sederunt,” as they say in Scotland.’