MR. WILLIAM ROCKLEY OF YASS
Upon his next visit to The Chase, which took place shortly after this
conversation, the Reverend Harley Sternworth was accompanied by a
pleasant-looking, alert, middle-aged personage, who, descending from the
dog-cart with alacrity, was introduced as Mr. William Rockley of Yass.
‘Bless my soul!’ said this gentleman, looking eagerly around, ‘what a
fine property! Never saw it look so well before. I’m delighted to find
it has got into such good hands; neglected in Colonel Warleigh’s time,
even worse since by rascally tenants. Nearly bought it myself, but
couldn’t spare the money. Splendid investment; finest land in the whole
district, finest water, finest grass. I ought to know.’
‘It is most gratifying to hear a gentleman of your experience speak so
highly of Warbrok,’ said Mr. Effingham. ‘Our good friend here has been
the making of our fortunes.’
‘Just like him! just like him!’ said the new-comer, lighting a cigar and
puffing out smoke and sentences with equal impetuosity. ‘Always
attending to other people’s business; might have made his own fortune,
two or three times over, if he’d taken my advice.’
‘I know some one else who is tarred with the same brush,’ returned the
parson. ‘Who bought in young Harding’s place the other day, when his
mortgagee sold him up, and re-sold it to him on the most Utopian terms?
But shouldn’t you like to walk round while you smoke your cigar this
morning? We can pay our respects to the ladies afterwards.’
‘Just the very thing. Many a time I’ve been here in the old days. What a
change! What a change! Bless my soul, how well the garden looks; never
expected to see it bloom again! And the old house!—one would almost
think Mrs. Warleigh was alive.’
‘The best of wives and mothers,’ said Mr. Sternworth with feeling. ‘What
a true lady and good Christian she was! If she had lived, there would
have been a different household.’
‘Daresay, daresay,’ said Mr. Rockley meditatively. ‘Precious rascals,
the sons; hadn’t much of a chance, perhaps. Wild lot here in those days,
eh? So I see you have had that mound moved from the back of the cellar.’
‘We couldn’t think what it was,’ said Mr. Effingham. ‘The excavation
must have been made long ago.’
‘Not heard the story, then? Wonderful how some secrets are kept. Never
mind, Sternworth, I won’t tell Captain Effingham the _other_ one. Randal
Warleigh, the eldest son, was one of the wildest devils that even _this_
country ever saw. Clever, handsome, but dissipated; reckless,
unprincipled, in fact. Old man and he constantly quarrelling. Not that
the Colonel was all that a father should have been, but he drank like a
gentleman. Never touched anything before dinner. He finished his bottle
of port then, and sometimes another, but no morning spirit-drinking.
Would as soon have smoked a black pipe or worn a beard. It came to this
at last, that when he went away he locked up sideboard and cellar,
forbidding the housekeeper to give his sons any liquor.’
‘The Colonel left home for a week in Yass, when Randal arrived with some
cattle and two fellow-roysterers. No grog available. Naturally savage.
Swore he would burn the old rookery down before he would submit to be
treated so. Behaved like a madman. Ordered up his men, got picks and
shovels, dug a tunnel under the cellar wall, and helped himself, _ad
libitum_, to wine and spirits.’
‘The governor’s a soldier,’ he said; ‘I’ve given him a lesson in civil
engineering. Here’s his health, boys!’
‘What an outrage!’ said Mr. Effingham.
‘You would have said so if you had seen Warbrok when the old gentleman
returned. Every soul on the place—all convict servants in those days—had
been drunk for a week. Cellar half-emptied, house in confusion. Randal
and his friends had betaken themselves, luckily, the day before, to the
Snowy River, or there might have been murder done. As it was——’
‘I think we may spare our friend any more chronicles of the good old
times, Rockley; let us go down and see the dairy cows, those that Harry
O’Desmond sold him.’
‘All right!’ said his friend good-humouredly, accepting the change of
subject. ‘I daresay Harry O’ had his price, but they _are_ the best
cattle in the country.’
Mr. Rockley was equally hearty and complimentary as to the live stock.
Didn’t think he had ever seen finer cows, finer grass; he believed Mr.
Effingham, if he went on as he was doing, would make a fortune by
dairying. If old Colonel Warleigh had not been ignorant of rural
matters, and his elder sons infernal low-lived scoundrels, a fortune
would have been made before at Warbrok. Nothing could have prevented
that family from becoming rich, with this estate for a home farm, and
two splendid stations on Monaro, but the grossest mismanagement,
incompetence, and vicious tendencies—he might say depravity—of course,
he meant on the part of the young men. The Colonel was indiscreet—in
fact, a d——d old fool—but everybody respected him.
The three gentlemen completed the round of the establishment, during
which progress their mutual friend had praised the stock-yard, the wheat
stack, the lake, the garden, and had pretty well exhausted his
cigar-case. It was high noon in Warbrok, and the shelter of the broad
verandah, which he eulogised by declaring it to be the finest verandah
he had ever been under in his life, was distinctly grateful.
Upon his introduction to Mrs. Effingham and the young ladies, he was
afflicted with an inability to express adequately his respectful
admiration of the whole party. Everything elicited a cordial panegyric.
It was apparent, even without the aid of a few guarded observations from
Harley Sternworth, that Mr. Rockley’s compliments arose from no weak
intention of flattery, no foolish fondness or indiscriminate praise. It
was simply the outpouring of a spring of benevolence which brimmed over
in an important organ, which, for greater convenience in localising the
emotions, is known as the heart. Longing to do good to all mankind, with
perceptions of rare insight and keenness, much of Mr. Rockley’s
philanthropy was necessarily confined to words. But when the opportunity
arrived of translating good wishes into good deeds, few—very few—of the
sons of men embarked in that difficult negotiation with half the
pleasure, patience, and thoroughness of William Rockley.
The friends had not intended to stay the night, the time of a business
man being limited, but upon invitation being pressingly made, first by
Mrs. Effingham and then by the young ladies, one after another, Mr.
Rockley declared that he couldn’t resist such allurements, but that they
must make a cruelly early start and get back to Yass to breakfast next
day. He believed they would see him there often. Mrs. Rockley had not
had the pleasure of calling upon Mrs. Effingham, because she had been
away in Sydney visiting her children at school, as well as an aunt who
was very ill—was always ill, he added impatiently. But she would drive
over and see them, most likely next week; and whenever Mrs. Effingham
and the young ladies came to Yass, or the Captain and his sons, they
must make his house their home—indeed, he would be deeply offended if he
heard of their going to an hotel.
‘Well, really I’m afraid——’
‘My dear sir,’ interrupted Mr. Rockley, ‘of course you meant what you
said about the need of recreation for young people. Your sons have not
had any since you came here, except an odd slap at a flock of ducks—and
these Lake William birds are pretty shy. Then the ladies have hardly
seen any one in the district, except the half-dozen men that have been
to call. Don’t you suppose it’s natural that they should like to know
the world they’ve come to live in?’
‘We are such a large party, Mr. Rockley,’ said Mrs. Effingham, who felt
the necessity of being represented at this important council. ‘It is
extremely kind of you, but——’
‘But look here, Mrs. Effingham,’ interrupted Mr. Rockley with fiery
impatience, so evidently habitual that she could not for a moment
consider it to be disrespectful, ‘don’t you think it probable, in the
nature of things, that you may visit Yass—which is your county town,
remember—at the time of the races? All the world will be going. It’s a
time of year when there is nothing to do—as the parson here will tell
you. There will be balls, picnics, and parties for the young
ladies—everything, in fact. _You must go_, you see that, surely? You’ll
be the only family of position in the country-side that won’t be there.
And if you go and don’t make my house your home, instead of a noisy,
rackety hotel, why—I’ll never speak to one of you again.’
Here Mr. Rockley closed his rapidly delivered address, with a look of
stern determination, which almost frightened Mrs. Effingham.
‘You will really offend my good friend and his most amiable and
hospitable lady if you do not accept his invitation,’ said Mr.
Sternworth. ‘It is hardly an ordinary race-meeting so much as a
periodical social gathering, of which a little racing (as in most
English communities, and there never was one more thoroughly British
than this) is the ostensible _raison d’être_.’
‘Well, Howard, for the young people’s sake, we really must think of it,’
said Mrs. Effingham, answering, lest her husband, in distrust of a
colonial gathering, might definitely decline. ‘There will be time enough
to apprise Mrs. Rockley before the event.’
‘My wife will write to you when I get home,’ said Mr. Rockley, ‘and
explain matters more fully than I can do.—Everything goes off pleasantly
at our annual holiday, doesn’t it, Harley?’
‘So much so, that in my office of priest I have never had occasion to
enter my protest. The people need a respite from the toils and
privations of their narrow home world, almost more than we do.’
The evening passed most pleasantly. The parson and the soldier talked
over old army days. While Mr. Rockley, who had been a squatter before
finally settling down at Yass as principal merchant and banker, gave
Wilfred and Guy practical advice. Then he assured Mrs. Effingham that at
any time when she or the young ladies required change, they had only to
write to Mrs. Rockley—or come, indeed, without writing—and make their
house a home for as long as ever it suited them. Subsequently he
declared that he had never heard any music in the least degree to be
compared to the duet which Rosamond and Annabel executed for his
especial benefit. He charmed Mrs. Effingham by telling her that her son
Wilfred was the most promising and sensible young man he had ever
noticed as a beginner in the bush, and must infallibly do great things.
Lastly, he begged that he might be provided with a cup of coffee at
daylight, as, if he and Mr. Sternworth were not at Yass by
breakfast-time, dreadful things might happen to the whole district.
Annabel declared that she would get up and make it for him herself.
Their visitors then retired for the night, all hands being in a high
state of mutual appreciation.
‘Your friend seems a most genial and sterling person, Harley,’ said Mr.
Effingham, as they indulged in a final stroll up the verandah, after the
general departure. ‘Is he always so complimentary?’
‘He can be extremely the reverse, upon occasion; but he is, perhaps, the
man of all others in whose good feeling I have the most undoubting
faith. Under that impetuous, explosive manner, the outcome of a fervid,
uncompromising nature, he carries an extraordinary talent for affairs,
and one of the most generous hearts ever granted to mortal man. He has
the soul of the Caliph Haroun Alraschid, and has secretly done more good
deeds, to my knowledge, in this district than all the rest of us put
together. His correct taste has enabled him to appreciate all my dear
children here. From this time forth you may reckon upon a powerful,
untiring friend in William Rockley.’
‘I know _one_ friend, Harley,’ said Effingham as their hands met in a
parting grasp, ‘who has been more than a brother to me in my hour of
need. We can never divide the gratitude which is your due from me and
mine.’
‘Pooh! pooh! a man wants more friends than one, especially in Australia,
where a season of adversity—which means a dry one—may be hanging over
him; and a better one than William Rockley will be to you, henceforth,
no man ever saw or heard of. Good-night!’
So passed the happy days of the first early summer-time at Warbrok—days
which knew no change until the great festival of Christmas approached,
which closes the year in all England’s dependencies with hallowed
revelry and honoured mirth. Christmas was imminent. The 20th of December
had arrived; a day of mingled joy and sorrow, as more freshly, vividly
came back the buried memories of old days, the echo of the lost chimes
of English Christmas bells. But in spite of such natural feelings, the
advent of Christmas was not suffered to pass without tokens of gladness
and services of thanksgiving.
It had been decided to invite Messrs. Hamilton and Argyll, with Mr.
Churbett and Mr. Forbes, to join the modest family festivities on this
occasion. Old Tom had been duly despatched with the important missives,
and the invitations were frankly accepted.
On the 24th of December, therefore, late in the afternoon, which is the
regulation hour for calling in Australian country society, the visitor
being aware that he is expected to stay all night, and not desiring,
unless he is _very_ young, to have more than an hour to dispose of
before dinner, the gentlemen aforesaid rode up. They had met by
appointment and made the expedition together.
* * * * *
‘Fancy this being Christmas Day!’ exclaimed Annabel, as—the
time-honoured greetings being uttered—the whole party disposed
themselves comfortably around the breakfast-table. ‘And what a lovely
fresh morning! Not a hot-wind day, as old Dick said it would be. It
makes me shiver when I think of how we were wrapped up this time last
year.’
‘Are you certain it _is_ Christmas, Miss Annabel?’ said Fred Churbett;
‘I doubt it, because of the absence of holly and snow, and old women and
school children, and waits and the parish beadle—all the belongings of
our forefathers. There _must_ be some mistake. The sun is too fast,
depend upon it. I must write to the _Times_.’
‘Old Dick brought a load of scarlet-flowering bushes from the hills
yesterday,’ said Rosamond, ‘with which he solemnly decorated his hut and
our verandah pillars. He wished to make Andrew a present of a few
branches as a peace-offering, but he declined, making some indignant
remark about Prelatism or Erastianism, which Dick did not understand.’
At eleven o’clock A.M. a parade of the ‘full strength of the regiment,’
as Effingham phrased it, was ordered. Chairs, with all things proper,
and a reading-desk, had been arranged on the south side of the wide
verandah.
To this gathering-point the different members of the establishment had
been gradually converging, arrayed in garments, which, if varying from
the fashion-plates of the day, were neat, suitable, and of perfect
cleanliness. Mrs. Evans’s skill as a laundress, which was in the inverse
ratio to her mildness of disposition, enabled Dick to appear in white
duck trousers and a shirt-front which distanced all rivalry. They
contrasted strongly with the unbroken tint of brick-dust red presented
by his face and throat, the latter encircled by an ancient military
stock. Mrs. Evans was attired with such splendour that it was manifest
she had sacrificed comfort to fashion.
‘Old Tom’ had donned, as suitable for the grandeur and solemnity of the
occasion, a well-worn pair of cord breeches, the gift of some employer
of sporting tendencies, which, ‘a world too wide for his shrunk shanks,’
were met at the knee by carefully polished boots, the long-vanished tops
being replaced by moleskin caps. A drill overshirt, fastened at the
waist with a broad leather belt, from which depended a tobacco-pouch,
completed this effective costume. The iron-grey hair was carefully
combed back from his withered countenance; his keen eyes gleamed from
their hollow orbits, imparting an appearance of mysterious vitality to
the ancient stock-rider.
Andrew and Jeanie, of course, attended, the latter dressed with the good
taste which always characterised her, and the former having in charge
the sturdy silent Duncan, with their younger offspring. Of these, Jessie
bade fair to furnish a favourable type of the ‘fair-haired lassie’ so
frequently met with in the ballads of her native land, while Colin, the
second boy, was a clever, confident youngster, in whose intelligence
Andrew secretly felt pride, though he repressed with outward sternness
all manifestations of the same.
Andrew himself, it must be stated, appeared under protest, holding that
‘thae Yerastian, prelatic festivals,’ in his opinion, ‘were no warranted
by the General Assembly o’ the Kirk o’ Scotland, natheless, being little
mair than dwellers in the wilderness, it behoved a’ Christians, though
they should be but a scattered remnant in the clefts o’ the rocks, to
agree in bearing testimony to the Word.’
Across the broad verandah the members of the family, with their
visitors, were seated, behind them the retainers. A table covered with a
cloth was placed before Mr. Effingham, with the family Bible and a
prayer-book of the Church of England.
As he made commencement, and with the words, ‘When the wicked man
turneth away,’ the congregation stood up, it was a matter of difficulty
with Mrs. Effingham to restrain her tears. How the well-remembered
sentences seemed to smite the rock of her well-guarded emotions as with
the rod of the Prophet! She trembled lest the spring should break forth
from her o’erburdened heart, whelming alike prudence and the sense of
fitness. The eyes of the girls were dewy, as they recalled the
white-robed, long-remembered pastor, the ivy-covered church, storied
with legend and memorial of their race, the villagers, the friends of
their youth, the unquestioned security of position, long guaranteed by
habit and usage, apparently unalterable. And now, where stood they,
while the sacred words proceeded from the lips of the head of the
household, whom they had followed to this far land?
In a ‘lodge in the wilderness,’ a speck in a ‘boundless contiguity of
shade,’ with its unfamiliar adjuncts and a company of strangers—pilgrims
and wayfarers—even as they. For a brief interval the suddenly realised
picture of distance and isolation was so real, the momentary pang of
bitterness so keenly agonising, that more than one sob was heard, while
Annabel, whose feelings were less habitually under control, threw her
arms round Jeanie’s neck (who had nursed her as a babe) and wept
unrestrainedly.
No notice was taken of this natural outburst of emotion. Jeanie, with
unobtrusive tenderness and unfailing tact, comforted the weeping girl.
Solemnly the words of the service sounded from her father’s lips, while
the ordinary responses concealed the occasional sobs of the mourner for
home and native land. She had unconsciously translated the unspoken
words of more disciplined hearts.
Gradually, as the service continued, the influences of the scene
exercised a healing power upon the group—the fair, golden day, the
tender azure of the sky, the wandering breeze, the waters of the lake
lapping the shore, the whispering of the waving trees, even the hush of
Beautiful silence all around,
Save wood-bird to wood-bird calling,
commenced insensibly to soothe the hearts of the exiles. Gradually their
faces recovered serenity, and as the repetitions of belief and trust, of
submission to a Supreme Benevolence, were repeated, that ‘peace which
passeth all understanding,’ an indwelling guest with some, a memory, a
long-forgotten visitant with others, appeared for a space to have
enveloped the little company on that day assembled at Warbrok.
The simply-conducted service was verging on conclusion when a stranger
appeared upon the track from the high road. In bushman’s dress, and
carrying upon his back the ordinary knapsack (or ‘swag’) of the
travelling labourer, he strode along the path at a pace considerably
higher in point of speed than is usual with men who, as a class, being
confident of free quarters at every homestead, see no necessity for
haste. A tall, powerfully-built man, his sun-bronzed countenance
afforded no clue to his social qualification.
Halting at the garden gate, he stood suddenly arrested as he
comprehended the occupation of the assembled group. He looked keenly
around, then easing the heavy roll by a motion of his shoulders, awaited
the final benediction.
‘What is your business with me?’ said Mr. Effingham, closing his book,
and regarding with interest the stranger, whose bold dark eyes roved
around, now over the assembled company, now over the buildings and
offices, and lastly settled with half-admiration, half-diffidence, on
the bright faces of the girls. ‘I have no employment here at present.
Perhaps you would like to stay to-night. You are heartily welcome.’
‘Come along o’ me, young man,’ interposed Dick Evans, as promptly
divining the wayfarer’s habitudes. ‘Come along o’ me; you’ll have a
share of our Christmas dinner, and you might come by a worse.’
‘All right,’ replied the stranger cheerfully, and with a nod of
acknowledgment to Mr. Effingham he jerked back his personal effects into
their position and strode after his interlocutor, who, with old Tom
Glendinning, quitted the party, leaving Mrs. Evans to follow at her
convenience.
‘Fine soldier that man would have made,’ said Mr. Effingham, as he
marked the well-knit frame, the elastic step of the stranger. ‘I wonder
what his occupation is?’
‘Horse-breaker, bullock-driver, station hand of some sort,’ said Argyll
indifferently. ‘Just finished a job of splitting, probably, or is
bringing his shearing cheque to get rid of in Yass.’
‘He appeared to have seen better days, poor fellow,’ said Mrs.
Effingham, ever compassionate. ‘I noticed a wistful expression in his
eyes when he first came up.’
‘I thought he looked proud and disdainful,’ said Annabel, ‘and when old
Dick said “come along,” I half expected him to reply indignantly. But he
went off readily enough. I wonder if he’s a gentleman in disguise?’
‘Or a bushranger,’ suggested Churbett. ‘Donohoe is “out” just now, and
is said to have a new hand with him. These gentry have been occasionally
entertained, like angels, unawares.’
‘What a shocking idea!’ exclaimed Annabel. ‘You have no sentiment, Mr.
Churbett. How would _you_ like to be suspected by everybody if you were
reduced to poverty? He is very handsome, at any rate.’
‘Fred would be too lazy to walk, that is one thing certain, Miss
Annabel,’ said Hamilton. ‘He would prefer to take the situation of cook
or hut-keeper at a quiet station, where there were no children. Fancy
his coming up, touching his hat respectfully, and saying, “I suppose you
haven’t a berth about the kitchen as would suit a pore man, Miss?”’
Here the speaker gave so capital an imitation of Mr. Churbett’s accented
tone in conversation that everybody laughed, including the subject of
the joke, who said it was just like Hamilton’s impudence, but that
_other_ people occasionally had mistakes made as to their station in
life. What about old MʻCallum sending him and Argyll to pass the night
in the men’s hut?
‘The old ruffian!’ said Argyll, surprised out of his usual serenity, ‘I
had two minds to knock him down; another, to tell him he was an ignorant
savage; and a fourth, to camp under a gum-tree.’
‘What did you do finally?’ asked Rosamond, much interested. ‘What an
awkward position to be placed in.’
‘The night happened to be wet,’ explained Hamilton; ‘we had ridden far,
and were _so_ hungry—no other place of abode within twenty miles; so—it
was very unheroic—but we had to put our pride in our pockets, and sleep,
or rather _stay_, in an uncomfortable hut, with half-a dozen
farm-servants.’
‘What a bore!’ said Wilfred. ‘Did he know your names? It seems
inconceivable.’
‘The real truth was,’ said Mr. Churbett, volunteering an explanation,
‘that the old man, taking umbrage somewhere at what he considered our
friend Hamilton’s superfine manners and polite habit of banter, had
vowed to serve him and Argyll out if ever they came his way. This was
how he carried out his dark and dreadful oath.’
‘What a terrible person!’ exclaimed Annabel, opening her eyes. ‘Were you
very miserable, Mr. Hamilton?’
‘Sufficiently so, I am afraid, to have made our friend chuckle if he had
known. We had to ride twenty miles before we saw a hair-brush again, and
Argyll, I must say, looked dishevelled.’
A simultaneous inclination to laughter seized the party, as they gazed
with one accord at Argyll’s curling locks.
‘I should think that embarrassments might arise,’ said Mr. Effingham,
‘from the habit of claiming hospitality when travelling here. There are
inns, I suppose, but they are infrequent.’
‘Not so many mistakes are made as one might think,’ explained Churbett.
‘Squatters’ names are widely known, even out of their districts, and
every one accepts a night’s lodging frankly, as he expects to give one
in return.’
‘But how can we know whether the stranger be a gentleman, or even a
respectable person?’ said Mrs. Effingham. ‘One would be so sorry to be
unkind, and yet might be led into entertaining undesirable guests.’
‘Every gentleman should send in his card,’ said Argyll, ‘if he wishes to
be received, or give his name and address to the servant. People who
will not so comply with the usages of society have no right to
consideration.’
‘But suppose people are not well dressed,’ said Wilfred, ‘or are
outwardly unlike gentlemen, what are you to do? It would be annoying to
make mistakes in either way.’
‘When people are not dressed like gentlemen,’ said Hamilton, ‘you may
take it for granted that they have forfeited their position, or are
contented to be treated as steerage passengers, so to speak. In such
cases the safer plan, as far as my experience goes, is to permit them to
please themselves. I had a good look at our friend yonder, as he came
up, and I have a shrewd suspicion that he belongs to the latter
category.’
‘Poor young man!’ said Mrs. Effingham. ‘Couldn’t anything be done for
him? Think of a son of ours being placed in that position!’
‘He is making himself comfortable with old Dick Evans, most likely,
however unromantic it may appear,’ said Churbett. ‘He will enjoy his
dinner—I daresay he hasn’t had many good ones lately—have a great talk
with Dick and the old stock-rider, and smoke his pipe afterwards with
much contentment.’
‘But a _gentleman_, if he be a gentleman, never could lower himself to
such surroundings, surely?’ queried Rosamond. ‘It is not possible.’
‘Oh yes, it _is_,’ said Beatrice. ‘Because, you remember, Sergeant
Bothwell was more comfortable in the butler’s room with old John Gudyill
than he would have been with Lady Bellenden and her guests, though she
longed to entertain him suitably, on account of his royal blood.’
‘Miss Beatrice, I congratulate you on your familiarity with dear Sir
Walter,’ said Argyll. ‘It is a case perfectly in point, because Francis
Stewart, otherwise Bothwell, had at one time mixed in the society of the
day, and must have had the manners befitting his birth. Nevertheless in
his lapsed condition he preferred the _sans gêne_ of his inferiors.
There are many such in Australia, who “have sat at good men’s feasts,”
but are now, unfortunately, more at ease in the men’s hut.’
‘Of course you’ve heard of Carl Hotson, the man they used to call “the
Count”?’ said Hamilton. ‘No? He lived at Carlsruhe, on the other side of
the range, near the Great South Gap, where every one was obliged to
pass, and (there being no inn) stay all night. Now “the Count” was a
fastidious person of literary tastes. He chafed against entertaining a
fresh batch of guests every night. “Respectable persons—aw—I am
informed, but—aw—I don’t keep an hotel!” Unwilling to be bored, and yet
anxious not to be churlish, he took a middle course. He invented “the
stranger’s hut,” which has since obtained in other parts of the
country.’
‘Whatever was that?’ asked Guy.
‘He had a snug cottage built at a short distance from the road. Into
this dwelling every traveller, without introduction, was ushered. A good
dinner, with bed and breakfast, was supplied. His horse was paddocked,
and in the morning the guest, suitably entertained, but ignorant of the
personnel of the proprietor, as in a castle of romance, was free to
depart.’
‘And a very good idea it was,’ said Mr. Effingham. ‘I can imagine one
becoming tired of casual guests.’
‘Some people were not of that opinion,’ said Mr. Forbes, ‘declaring it
to be in contravention of the custom of the country. One evening Dr.
Portman, an elderly gentleman, of majestic demeanour, came to Carlsruhe.
He relied on a colonial reputation to procure him unusual privileges,
but not receiving them, wrote a stiff note to Mr. Hotson, regretting his
inability to thank him personally for his peculiar hospitality, and
enclosing a cheque for a guinea in payment of the expense incurred.’
‘What did “the Count” say to that?’
‘He was equal to the occasion. The answer was as follows:—
‘SIR—I have received a most extraordinary letter signed J.D. Portman,
enclosing a cheque for one guinea. The latter document I have
transmitted to the Treasurer of the Lunatic Asylum.—Obediently yours,
CARL HOTSON.’
The Christmas dinner, which included a noble wild turkey, a fillet of
veal, a baron of beef, with two brace of black duck, as well as green
peas, cauliflowers, and early potatoes from the now productive garden,
was a great success. Cheerful and contented were those who sat around
the board. Merry and well-sustained was the flow of badinage, which kept
the young people amused and amusing. In the late afternoon the guests
excused themselves, and left for home, alleging that work commenced
early on the morrow, and that they were anxious as to the results of
universal holiday-making.