‘CALLED ON BY THE COUNTY’
When the important drove reached Warbrok, great was the excitement.
Wilfred’s absence was the loss of Hamlet from the play; his return the
signal for joy and congratulation. The little commonwealth was visibly
agitated as the tired cattle trailed along the track to the stock-yard,
with Dick sitting bolt upright in his saddle behind them, and Wilfred
essaying to crack the inconveniently long whip provided for him.
The girls made their appearance upon the verandah; Andrew looked forth
as interested, yet under protest. Guy walked behind, and much admired
the vast number and imposing appearance of the herd; while Captain and
Mrs. Effingham stood arm in arm at a safe distance appreciating the
prowess of their first-born.
‘Now, sir,’ quoth the ready Dick, ‘we’ll put ’em in the yard and make
’em safe to-night; to-morrow, some one will have to tail ’em.’
‘Tail them?’ said Wilfred. ‘Some of their ears have been scolloped, I
see; but surely it is not necessary to cut their tails in a hot climate
like this?’
‘S’cuse me, sir,’ said Dick respectfully, ‘I wouldn’t put the knife to
them for pounds; “tailing” means shepherdin’.’
‘And what does “shepherding” mean? I thought shepherds were only for
sheep?’
‘Well, sir, I never heerd talk of shepherdin’ at home, but it’s a
currency word for follerin’ anything that close, right agin’ their
tails, that a shepherd couldn’t be more careful with his sheep; so we
talk of shepherdin’ a s’picious c’rakter, or a lot of stock, or a man
that’s tossicated with notes stickin’ out of his pocket, or a young
woman, or anything that wants lookin’ after very partickler.’
‘Now I understand,’ said Wilfred. ‘It’s not a bad word, and might be
used in serious matters.’
‘No mistake about that, sir. Now the yard’s finished off and topped up,
we’ll soon be able to make a start with the dairy. There’ll be
half-a-dozen calves within the week, and more afore the month’s out.
There’s nothin’ breaks in cows to stop like their young calves; you’ll
soon see ’em hanging about the yard as if they’d been bred here,
’specially as the feed is so forrard. There’s no mistake, a myst season
do make everything go pleasant.’
When the cattle were in the yard, and the slip rails made safe by having
spare posts put across them, Wilfred unsaddled his provisional mount and
walked into the house in a satisfactory mental condition.
‘So, behold you of return!’ quoted Rosamond, running to meet him, and
marching him triumphantly into the dining-room, where all was ready for
tea. ‘The time has been rather long. Papa has been walking about, not
knowing exactly what to do, or leave undone; Guy shooting, not
over-successfully. The most steadily employed member of the household,
and the happiest, I suppose, has been Andrew, digging without
intermission the whole time.’
‘I wish we could dig too, or have some employment found for us,’ said
Annabel; ‘girls are shamefully unprovided with real work, except
stocking-mending. Jeanie won’t let us do anything in the kitchen, and
really, that is the only place where there is any fun. The house is so
large, and echoing at night when the wind blows. And only think, we
found the mark of a pistol bullet in the dining-room wall at one end,
and there is another in the ceiling!’
‘How do you know it was a pistol shot?’ inquired Wilfred. ‘Some one
threw a salt-cellar at the butler in the good old times.’
‘Perhaps it was fired in the good old times; perhaps it killed some
one—how horrible! Perhaps he was carried out through the passage. But we
know it was a shot, because Guy poked about and found the bullet
flattened out.’
‘Well, we must ask Evans; very likely old Colonel Warleigh fired pistols
in his mad fits. He used to sit, they say, night after night, drinking
and cursing by himself after his wife died and his sons left him. No one
dared go near him when his pistols were loaded. But we need not think of
these things now, Annabel. He is dead and gone, and his sons are not in
this part of the country. So I see you have had flower-beds made while I
was away. I declare the wistaria and bignonia are breaking into flower.
How gorgeous they will look!’
‘Yes, mamma said she could not exist without flowers any longer, so we
persuaded Andrew, much against his will,—for he said “he was just fair
harassed wi’ thae early potatoes,”—to dig these borders. Guy helped us
to transplant and sow seeds, so we shall have flowers of our own once
more.’
‘We shall have everything of our own in a few years if we are patient,’
said Wilfred; ‘and you damsels don’t want trips to watering-places, and
so on. This life is better than Boulogne, or the Channel Islands, though
it may be a trifle lonely.’
‘Boulogne! A thousandfold,’ said Rosamond. ‘Here we have life and hope.
Those poor families we used to see there looked liked ghosts and
apparitions of their old selves. You remember watching them walking down
drearily to see the packet come in—the girls dowdy or shabby, the old
people hopeless and apathetic, the sons so idle and lounging? I shudder
when I think how near we were to such horrors ourselves. The very air of
Australia seems to give one fresh life. Can anything be finer than this
sunset?’
In truth, the scene upon which her eyes rested might have cheered a
sadder heart than that of the high-hearted maiden who now, with her arm
upon her brother’s shoulder, directed his gaze to the far empurpled
hills, merging their violet cloud masses and orange-gold tints in the
darkening eve. The green pastures, relieved by clumps of heavy-foliaged
trees, glowed emerald bright against the dark-browed mountain spur. The
dying sun-rays fell in fire-flakes of burning gold on the mirrored
silver of the lake. Wrapped in soft tremulous mist lay the hills upon
the farther shore, vast with the subtle effect of limitless distance. At
such times one could dream with the faith of older days—that Earth, the
universal mother, loved her children, and breathed forth in growth of
herb and flower her smiling welcome.
That night, as the Effinghams sat around their table, an unconscious
feeling of thankfulness swelled each heart. The parents saw assurance of
a well-provided suitable home for the little troop, the probable
disbanding of which had cost such sad forebodings. The sons, strong in
the faith of youth, saw a future of adventure, well-rewarded labour,
perhaps brilliant success. The girls felt that their lives would not be
henceforth deprived of the social intercourse which had once been an
ordinary condition of existence.
‘How did you fare at Mr. O’Desmond’s, my son? What kind of an
establishment does he keep?’ inquired Mrs. Effingham.
‘You will all be rather astonished,’ answered Wilfred mysteriously.
‘What should you think, Annabel? You are a good hand at guessing.’
‘Let me think. He is very aristocratic and dignified, yet he might live
in a hut. Men are so independent of rooms or houses, almost of
looking-glasses. Now a woman in a poky little place always shows it in
her dress. I should say he lives in a comfortable cottage, and has
everything very complete.’
‘And you would be right. We shall have to mind our manners and dinners
when he comes again. He lives like a club bachelor, and is as well
lodged as—let us say—a land steward on an absentee nobleman’s estate.’
‘You must be romancing, Wilfred,’ said Beatrice. ‘Where could he get the
luxuries that such a great man as you have described could procure? What
a wonderful difference a few thousand miles makes! We think ourselves
not so much worse, essentially, than we were in England; but we must be
deteriorating.’
‘Don’t talk nonsense, my dear Beatrice,’ said Rosamond. ‘Is it not a
little vulgar to attach so much weight to externals? As long as we are
doing our duty, why should there be any deterioration? It will be our
own fault if we adopt a lower level of manners.’
‘Oh, but how can any one expect to be the same in colonial society?’
exclaimed Annabel. ‘See how insignificant even the “best people” are out
here. Why, I was reading yesterday about a “country baronet,” and even a
“well-meaning, unfashionable countess,” being looked down
upon—positively laughed at—in England. Now think what tremendous
potentates they would be out here! I’m sure that proves what I say.’
‘Your propositions and proofs are worthy of one another, my dear,’ said
Wilfred. ‘But as to society, I shan’t be sorry when more of our
neighbours call.’
‘Now that the house is fit to receive them I shall be pleased, my dear
son, to see the people of the land. I am sure I hope there are some nice
ones.’
Wilfred rose early next morning to indulge himself with another look at
the new cattle. He was only just in time, as Dick had breakfasted,
caught his horse, and was about to let out the imprisoned drove.
‘I’ll tail ’em for the first few days, sir,’ he said, ‘till I give ’em
the way of camping under them big trees near the little swamp. It will
make a first-rate camp for ’em, and learn ’em to run handy to the place.
After that we must get some sort of a lad to foller ’em. It won’t pay
you to keep me at blackfellow’s work.’
‘What’s that?’ inquired Wilfred.
‘Why, simple work like this, that any black boy could do, if he didn’t
give his mind to ’possums. Besides, we wants a horse-yard, and a bit of
a paddock, and another field cleared, to plough for next year.’
‘That seems a good deal of work to carry on, Richard. Won’t it take more
hands? Remember, we must go economically to work. My father is by no
means a rich man.’
‘That’s quite right, sir; no one should run themselves out of pocket,
high or low. But if we had some one to go with these cows till the
calves come, and that won’t be long, you and I could do what work I’ve
chalked out.’
‘Why should not Guy “tail” the cows, as you call it?’ suggested Wilfred,
pleased with the idea that they would be able to provide labour from
their own community. ‘It would do him no harm.’
‘Perhaps the young gentleman mightn’t like it,’ said Dick, with deep
respect. ‘It’s dull work, every day, like.’
‘Oh, he _must_ like it!’ decided Wilfred, with the despotic elder
brother tone. ‘We have come out here to work, and he must take his
share. He may find it dull for a time; but he can shoot a little and
amuse himself, as long as he doesn’t come home without them, like Little
Bo-peep. What would a boy cost?’
‘About six or eight shillings a week, and his rations, sir, which would
come to as much again. But the young master needn’t stay out after four
o’clock.’
‘Then we make a saving at once of say sixteen shillings a week. Guy
never earned so much in his life before. He will be quite proud of his
value in the labour market. You and I can begin splitting and fencing at
once.’
‘But we shall want some more cattle, sir,’ suggested Dick.
‘More cattle!’ said Wilfred in amazement, to whom a hundred head was an
awe-striking number. ‘What for?’
‘Why, to eat! It don’t do to buy meat every time you want a roast or a
steak. Cheapest to kill your own. If we was to buy a mob of common
cattle, they’d cost nothing to speak of; the bullocks soon fatten, and
the cows would breed you up a fair mixed herd in no time.’
‘Well, but we have these cattle you have just let out,’ pleaded Wilfred,
looking admiringly at the red, white, and roan shorthorn crosses, which,
spreading over the rich meadow, were feeding quietly, as if reared
there.
‘Them’s all very well, sir; but it’ll be years before you kill a bullock
out of that lot; they’ve got to come, all in good time. But the quiet
steers, and the worst of the cows, in a mixed herd, will be fat before
you can look round, in a season like this, and your beef won’t cost you
above a penny a pound.’
It was decided that Guy was to ‘tail’ or herd the new cows at present.
Upon this duty being named to him, he made no objection—rather seemed to
like it.
‘I suppose as long as I don’t lose them I can do anything I like,’ he
said; ‘hunt ’possums, shoot, ferret out ferns for Rosamond, or even
read.’
‘The more you lets the cattle alone the better, Mr. Guy,’ said Dick. ‘As
long as they don’t sneak away from you, you can’t take it too easy.
There’s fine feed all roads now, and after the first hour or two they’ll
fill theirselves and lie down like working bullocks. But you’ll want a
horse.’
‘That I shall,’ said the boy, beginning to take up the fashions of the
bush, and to rebel at the idea of going on foot, as if mankind was a
species of centaur.
‘Must have more horses too, sir,’ announced Dick, with a calm air of ask
and have.
‘How many?’ returned Wilfred uncomplyingly; ‘it seems we shall want more
horses—we haven’t any, certainly—more cattle, more tillage, more yards,
more paddocks; it will soon come to wanting more money, and where to get
_that_ I don’t know.’
‘Horses are dirt cheap, sir, just now, and can’t be done without, nohow.
You’ll want a cob for the Captain to potter about on, a couple of hacks
for yourself, one apiece for Mr. Guy and the young ladies—they’d like a
canter now and then afore Christmas. I hear Mick Donnelly’s selling off,
to clear out for Monaro. You couldn’t do better than ride over and see
his lot; they’ll be pretty sure to live on our grass, if any of the
neighbours gets ’em, and you may as well have that profit out of ’em
yourself.’
The conversation having come to an end, Mr. Evans was about to move
after his cattle, now indulging in a pretty wide spread, when a horseman
joining them, greeted Wilfred.
‘Good-morning, sir,’ said the stranger, with loud, peculiar, but not
unpleasant voice, having a note of culture too. ‘Glad to make your
acquaintance; Mr. Effingham, I believe? We’re neighbours, on the south,
about ten miles from Benmohr. You haven’t seen a chestnut pony about,
branded 2C? He used to run here in Hunt’s time. Why, hang me! if he
isn’t coming up to show himself!’
The chestnut pony which had borne Wilfred so successfully in the journey
for the new cattle now trotted up, having followed Evans’s mare, to
which animal he had attached himself, after the manner of horses, prone
to contract sudden friendships.
Wilfred, about to disclaim any knowledge of the strange gentleman’s
chestnut, not dreaming that the estray which had come in so handily
could be his property, and as yet not given to reading at a glance 2C or
other hieroglyph, felt rather nonplussed, more especially when he
noticed the stranger’s eye attracted to the saddle-mark on the pony’s
fat back.
‘I must confess to having ridden your horse, if he be so, a short
journey. We were not aware of his ownership, and I had no horse of my
own. I trust you will forgive the liberty.’
‘He _has_ rather nice paces. How did you like him?’ inquired the
stranger urbanely, much as if he had a favour conferred upon him. ‘I’ll
run him into the yard now with your permission, and lead him home.’
‘Pray come in, and allow me to introduce you to my people,’ said
Wilfred, satisfied, from the stranger’s bearing, that he was a desirable
acquaintance. ‘With the exception of Mr. O’Desmond, from whom I bought
these cattle, we have not seen a neighbour yet.’
‘Know them all in time,’ said the stranger; ‘no great shakes, some of
them, when you _do_ know them. My name’s Churbett, by the bye—Fred
Churbett, of The Oaks; cattle station on Banksia Creek, used to be
called She-oak Flat—had to change it. Nice cattle O’Desmond let you
have; got good stock, but makes you pay for them.’
‘How you have improved the old place!’ continued Mr. Churbett, as they
approached the house. ‘Who would believe that so much could have been
made of it? Never saw it in the palmy days of Colonel Warleigh, though.
Seems to have run in the military line of ownership. The old boy kept up
great state. Four-in-hand always to Yass, they say. Coachman, butler,
lots of servants—convicts, of course. Awful temper; cursed freely, drank
ditto. Sons not behindhand, improved upon the paternal sins—gambling,
horse-racing, Old Harry generally. Had to clear out and sell. Great pull
for the district having a family straight from “home” settled in it.’
‘I trust the advantage will be mutual,’ said Wilfred. ‘We hope to be
neighbourly when we are quite settled. But you will understand that it
has taken us a little time to shake down.’
‘Thought of that,’ said Mr. Churbett, ‘or should have had the pleasure
of calling before. Trotted over to look up master “Traveller” for the
muster, or should have waited another week.’
Mr. Churbett’s horses having been disposed of, he was duly introduced.
He proved if anything a greater success than Mr. O’Desmond. He was
musical, and the sight of the piano immediately brought up talk about
the last opera he had heard in London. He was also a great reader, and
after touching upon half a score of authors, promised to bring over a
new book which he had just got up from town.
‘Really,’ said Annabel innocently, ‘this is a surprise. I never dreamed
of getting a new book in the bush. Why, it only came out just before we
left. I was longing to read it; but, of course, we were too miserable
and worried. How can it have got here so quickly?’
‘Just the same way that we did, I suppose,’ said Beatrice—‘in a ship.
You forget the time that has passed since we landed.’
‘Still, it is a pleasant surprise. I shouldn’t wonder, perhaps we may
get some new music soon. But I should as soon have thought of a
book-club in the moon.’
‘Talking of book-clubs,’ said Churbett, ‘we are trying to get up one; I
hope you will join. With twelve members, and a moderate subscription, we
can import a very fair lot of books every year. A brother of mine in
London can choose them for us; I am to be librarian. The books are
divided into sets, which each subscriber sends on in turn.’
Annabel clapped her hands. ‘How delightful! Wilfred, of course, will
join. Fancy, dear, _clean_ new books every month. Really, life is
becoming quite intoxicating, and I thought we should die of dulness and
ennui.’
‘No; did you, though?’ echoed Mr. Churbett compassionately. ‘I confess
to feeling inclined to cry when I came up to Murson Creek and saw the
hut I was to live in for the first year. But one’s feelings get
wonderfully altered after a while.’
‘And are you _quite_ resigned, that is contented, to give up operas and
picture galleries, clubs and travel, all the pleasant parts of English
life?’ asked Rosamond.
‘It _was_ hard at first, Miss Effingham; but here I have independence,
with the prospect of a fortune. In England such was not the case,
particularly the independence. Operas and other memories recall a fairy
realm which I may yet re-enter. Meantime, I ride about all day, work now
and then, smoke and read at night, and if not exactly happy, am decently
cheerful.’
‘What the world calls pleasure you never see, I suppose?’ said Beatrice
philosophically.
‘Do we not? I forgot one compensation in our virtuous, self-denying
lives. Once a year, at least, we have races in Yass, which is our
metropolis. Then we all meet together, as a solemn, social obligation.
Pilgrimage to Mecca, and so on. Very few true believers absent. Balls,
picnics, any amount of dancing, flirtation, what not. Enough to last for
the rest of the year. After a week or two we go home sorrowfully,
staying at each other’s houses on the way, to let down the excitement by
degrees.’
‘Where do the ladies come from?’ asked Annabel. ‘I suppose there are
very few?’
‘Very few!’ said Mr. Churbett in tones of horror. ‘_Ever_ so many. Is it
possible you have never heard, even in Europe, of the beautiful Miss
Christabel Rockley, the fascinating Mrs. Snowden, the talented Mrs.
Porchester? Ladies! They abound, or how should we remain civilised? Yass
is well known to be the home of all the graces. Could O’Desmond retain
his _grand seigneur_ air but for the advantage of refined association? I
wish I could take you round, Miss Effingham, on an introductory tour.
What a book we could write of our experiences!—“Travels and Sketches in
the Upper Strata of the Social System of the Yass District, by Miss
Annabel Effingham, illustrated by F. Churbett, F.R.Y.A.S.S., Fellow of
the Royal Yass Analytical Squatting Society,” reads well.’
‘Quite delicious,’ said Annabel. ‘But everything that is nice is
improper, so, of course, I shouldn’t be let go. Not even Rosamond, who
is prudence personified. I’m afraid there is no more liberty for poor
women in a new country than an old one. That _is_ the bell—I was sure of
it. Mr. Churbett, allow me to invite you to dinner—an early one, which
is about the extent of my privileges.’
Mr. Churbett accepted the invitation, as he no doubt would have acceded
to any proposition emanating from the speaker even less manifestly
beneficial. He kept the whole party amused, and lingered until he
declared he should have to gallop Grey Surrey all the way home to get
there before dark.
‘He’s like me,’ he explained, upon being charged with cruelty; ‘he only
does a day’s work now and then, and he doesn’t mind it when it does
come.’
Resisting all invitation to stop for the night, on the plea that the
effort necessary in his case must be made some time and might as well be
undergone now, he departed in the odour of high consideration, if not of
sanctity.
In order that no opportunities might be lost, Wilfred commenced the
habit of rising at dawn and joining Dick at the stock-yard, where the
old man had initiated a dairy, with the aid of the few cows of the
O’Desmond brand which had produced calves. Here he was attended by
Andrew, who sturdily proceeded to take his share of the work, in spite
of Dick’s sarcastic attitude. He evidently considered the dairy to be
his province, and regarded Andrew as an interloper.
‘Na, na, Maister Wilfred,’ said Andrew, ‘I hae been acquent in my time
wi’ a’ manner o’ kye, and had a collie following me these thretty years.
It’s no because we’re in a new land that I’m to turn my back on ilka
occupa-ation that will bring in profit to the laird and his bairns.
Jeanie can mak’ as sweet butter as ever a gudewife in Lothian, and we
hae to depend maistly on the butter-keggies, for what I see.’
‘You’ll find that garden of yours, when the weeds come up, quite enough
for one, I’m thinking. There’s enough of us here, if Mr. Wilfred takes
to it kind, as he seems to do. But if you’re such a dab hand at milking,
you can tek that red cow that’s come in this morning.’
‘And a gra-and show o’ milk she has,’ quoth Andrew, ‘maist unco-omon!’
Dick commenced, with a stolid expression, to arrange the slip-rails,
which apparently took time to adjust. Andrew, meanwhile, proud of the
opportunity of exhibiting his familiarity with the art and science of
milking, moved the red cow into one of the bails, or stalls, in which
cows are ordinarily milked in Australia.
Sitting upon a three-legged stool, he commenced his ancient and
classical task. He had succeeded in, perhaps, drawing a pint from the
over-full udder of the red cow aforesaid, when she suddenly raised her
hind leg and caught him with such emphasis that man and milk, pail and
stool, went clattering down into the corner of the yard.
‘Gude save us!’ exclaimed Andrew, picking himself up, and rubbing his
person, while he collected all that was recoverable of the scattered
properties. ‘What garred the fell beastie act sae daft-like. I hae
milket a hunner coos, and ne’er was whummled like yon.’
‘Perhaps they was Scotch cows, and understood your talk, Mr. Cargill,’
said Dick, with great politeness, covering a grim enjoyment; ‘but in
this country we mostly _leg-ropes_ cows when we bail ’em up, for fear of
accidents.’
‘Weel, I winna say that these queys, being brocht up in a mair savage
fashion than in bonnie Scotland, wadna need head and heel fastenings.
But, ma certie, they would glower in my part of the country, gin ye tied
a coo’s leg like a thrawn ox at the smithy.’
‘I suppose “we must do at Rome, etc.,” and all the rest of it, Andrew,’
said Wilfred. ‘Here, Dick, make a beginning with your cow, and Andrew
and I will put a leg-rope on this one. Never too late to mend. I’ll back
Andrew to hold his own yet in the milking-yard, or anywhere else.’
Old Dick, having satisfied his grudge by compassing the downfall of
Andrew, whom he had shrewdly guessed never to have been accustomed to a
leg-rope, condescended to instruct Wilfred in the proper way to knot it.
The cows were eventually milked _secundum artem_, and when the full
buckets, foaming over with creamy fluid, stood on a bench outside the
yard, Wilfred saw with distinct gratification the first dividend from
the cattle investment.
‘We must calculate now, Andrew,’ he said, as they walked over to the
house, ‘how much butter can be made from the milk of these cows. It is a
small matter, of course; but multiplied by ten—as we shall have at least
fifty cows in milk, Dick says, before Christmas—it will not be so bad.’
‘After conseederin’ the matter maist carefully,’ said Andrew, ‘I am free
to give it as ma deleeberate opeenion that gin the pasture keeps aye
green and plenteous we may mak’ baith butter and cheese o’ the best
quality. As to price, I canna yet say, havin’ nae knowledge o’ the
mairkets.’
‘Well, we have made a beginning, Andrew, and that is a great matter. If
we can only pay current expenses, without employing more hands, we shall
be doing well, I consider.’
‘We must work gey and close at the first gang aff, Maister Wilfred, and
then dinna ye fear. Wi’ the Lord’s blessing, we’ll be spared to set up
our horn on high, as weel as thae prood Amalekites, that have had the
first grip o’ this gra-and Canaan. I was doon yestreen and lookit at the
field o’ victual—the paddock, as yon auld carle ca’s it. It’s maist
promising—forbye ordinar’—maist unco-omon.’
Among the list of indispensable investments which Dick Evans had urged
upon Wilfred, but which he had not at present thought it necessary to
undertake, were another lot of cattle, a dozen horses (more or less),
and some kind of taxed cart, or light vehicle. Apparently these would be
advantageous and profitable, but Wilfred had determined to be most
sparing in all outlay, lest the reserve fund of the family should come
to a premature end.
On this day it seemed that the advanced guard of the neighbouring gentry
had commenced to lay formal siege to Warbrok Chase. On his return to the
house in the afternoon, Wilfred descried two good-looking horses hanging
up to the garden fence, and upon entering the sitting-room beheld their
owners in amicable converse with his mother and sisters. He was promptly
introduced to Mr. Argyll and Mr. Charles Hamilton. Both men were well,
even fashionably dressed, and bore about them the nameless air which
stamps the holder of a degree in the university of society.
‘We should have called before,’ said Mr. Argyll, a tall fair-haired man,
whose quick glancing blue eye and mobile features betrayed natural
impetuosity, kept under by training; ‘but my partner here is such an
awfully hard-working fellow, that he would not quit the engineering with
which he was busied, to visit the Queen of Sheba, if she had just
settled in the neighbourhood.’
‘I was not aware,’ said Mr. Hamilton coolly, and with an air of settled
conviction upon his regular and handsome features, ‘of the extent of my
sacrifice to duty. I may venture to assure Mrs. Effingham that my
neighbourly duties for the future will not be neglected.’
‘I hope not,’ said Mrs. Effingham; ‘for, now that the excitement of
settling in such a very different world has passed away, we begin to
feel rather lonely—may I say dull?’
‘No, mamma,’ said Rosamond, ‘you must not say that. We are all so fully
occupied, from morning to dusk, that we have no time to be dull.’
‘Oh, but we cannot get on without society,’ remarked Annabel. ‘I feel in
the highest spirits as long as there is so much to do, that there is no
time for thinking; indeed, I hate to have a moment to myself. But in the
afternoons, when papa and the boys are out, I begin to realise our
solitary position, and the feeling becomes oppressive.’
‘Very naturally too,’ said Mr. Argyll. ‘But as yet you have no idea of
the social resources which you will be able to draw upon when you are
acquainted with everybody.’
‘And who is everybody?’ asked Beatrice. ‘How can we be sociable if
people don’t come to see us? Suppose you tell us who are the nice people
of the district, and we shall be able to enjoy them in anticipation.’
‘You will see most of them within the month; but I shrink from
describing them. Charles, you are afraid of nobody, suppose you give us
a _catalogue raisonné_.’
‘Certainly, if Miss Effingham wishes it,’ assented Mr. Hamilton, who had
the imperturbable look which goes with a temperament difficult to
surprise or intimidate. ‘I shall have great pleasure in trotting out our
friends for her information. We have been here only three years, so in
case of mistakes you must be considerate.’
‘Oh, we shall be most discreet,’ said Annabel; ‘besides, we have no
acquaintance yet to chatter to—that’s the best guarantee for prudence.’
‘I think I may take your solemn affirmation not to betray me,’ said Mr.
Hamilton, looking admiringly into Annabel’s lovely eyes, ‘and even then
I would face the risk. First, there is Captain Snowden with his wife. He
was in the navy, I think; he has rather more of the sailor about him
than—what shall I say?—the courtier, though he can be very agreeable
when he likes. Madame is extremely lady-like, clever, travelled, what
not. You must see her and judge for yourself.’
‘Are there any more ladies?’ asked Rosamond. ‘They possess an absorbing
interest for us.’
‘Ever so many more,’ laughed Hamilton. ‘Mrs. Porchester, who is rather a
“blue”; Mrs. Egremont, who is a beauty; the Misses Carter, who are
good-nature itself. The others, I think, you must find out by degrees.
In Yass there are some very nice families, particularly that of Mr.
Rockley. He is the leading merchant in these parts, and rules like a
benevolent despot. His wife is hospitable and amiable beyond compare;
his daughter, Miss Christabel, dangerously beautiful. I _must_ leave
something to the imagination.’
‘I assure you we are most grateful to you as it is,’ said Mrs.
Effingham. ‘It is really encouraging to find that there are so many
charming people in the neighbourhood. We should hardly consider them in
the same county at home; but here they don’t seem to mind riding any
distance.’
‘I am mistaken,’ said Hamilton, ‘if you do not find people riding
wonderful distances to visit Warbrok. We are less than twenty miles
away, I am thankful to say, so you will see us as often as you care for.
By the way,’ turning to Wilfred, ‘did I hear you say you were going to
Donnelly’s sale? If you buy stock there, you had better stay a night at
Benmohr on your return. It is just a fair stage.’
‘Thanks. I shall be most happy. Do you think it a good idea to invest at
Donnelly’s?’
‘If I were in your place I should buy all his cattle and a few horses.
They can’t fail to be a profitable purchase, as you seem to have any
amount of grass. But we must be going. We shall expect you at Benmohr
the day after the sale. Mrs. Effingham, I shall do myself the honour of
another visit, after you have been able to verify my portraitures.’
‘What gentlemanlike young men!’ said Mrs. Effingham, when the guests
were fairly away. ‘I am so sorry that your papa was out. He would have
been so pleased. Mr. Argyll seems so clever, and Mr. Hamilton is very
handsome—both wonderfully well dressed for the bush.’
‘I should say Mr. Argyll was disposed to be sarcastic,’ said Rosamond;
‘and I am mistaken if he has not a fierce temper. He told us he was a
Highlander, which accounts for it.’
‘Mr. Hamilton is one of the nicest-looking men I have seen for a long
time,’ said Annabel; ‘what splendid eyes he has! He is very particular
about his gloves too; gives time and reflection to his toilet, I should
say.’
‘I have heard Dick say that he is the hardest-working squatter in the
district,’ said Wilfred. ‘He is devoted to ploughing, digging,
navvy-work, horse-breaking—“all manner of slavery,” as Dick says.’
‘Who would have thought it!’ exclaimed Mrs. Effingham in tones of
astonishment. ‘From his appearance I should have thought that he was
afraid to soil those white hands of his.’
‘The best-dressed people are not the most backward at work or fighting,’
said Wilfred.
‘But how _can_ he keep his hands white,’ inquired Annabel with a great
appearance of interest, ‘if he really works like a labourer?’
‘Perhaps he works in gloves; a man can get through a great deal of work
in a pair of old riding-gloves, and his hands be never the worse. There
is something about those two men that I like extremely. Mr. Argyll puts
me in mind of Fergus MʻIvor with that fiery glance; he looks as if he
had a savage temper, well held in.’
‘They are both very nice, and I hope you will make real friends of them,
Wilfred,’ said Mrs. Effingham. ‘Might I also suggest that, as it is
evidently practicable to dress like a gentleman and work hard, a certain
young man should be more careful of his appearance?’
‘I deserve that, I know, old lady,’ said her son laughingly; ‘but really
there is a temptation in the wilderness to costume a little. I promise
you to amend.’
‘Our circle of acquaintance is expanding,’ said Beatrice; ‘certainly it
has the charm of variety. Mr. O’Desmond is Irish, Mr. Churbett from
London, our last visitors Scots—one Highland, one Lowland. All differing
among themselves too. I am sure we shall be fully occupied; it will be a
task of some delicacy _tenir de salon_, if we ever have them here at a
party.’
‘A party!’ said Mrs. Effingham; ‘don’t think of it for _years_ to come,
child. It would be impossible, inappropriate in every way.’
‘But there’s no harm, mamma, surely, in _thinking_ of it,’ pleaded
Annabel. ‘It encourages one to keep alive, if nothing else.’