HUBERT WARLEIGH, YR., OF WARBROK
Next morning early, Mr. Effingham was enjoying the fresh, cool air when
Dick marched up to him.
‘Well, Evans,’ said Effingham, ‘Christmas Day is over. Tell me, were you
able to abstain?’
‘Believe me, I got drunk, sir,’ answered the veteran, ‘but I’m all right
now till New Year’s Day.’
‘I am afraid that your constitution will suffer, Evans, if you continue
these regular—or rather irregular—excesses.’
‘Can’t say for that, sir. Been drunk every Christmas since the year as I
’listed in the old rigiment; but I wanted to tell you about that young
man as was in our hut last night. Do you know who he is, sir?’
‘No, indeed, Evans! I suspected he was no ordinary station-hand.’
‘Well, no, sir; that’s the youngest of the old Colonel’s sons. Him as
they used to call “Gyp” Warleigh. He was allers fond of ramblin’ and
campin’ out, from a boy, gipsy fashion. When the Colonel died, he went
right away to some of the far-out stations beyond Monaro, and never
turned up for years. Old Tom knowed him at once, but didn’t let on.’
‘Poor fellow! How hard that he should have come back to his father’s
house penniless and poorly clad. I wonder if we could find him
employment here?’
‘H—m! I don’t know, sir; we haven’t much to keep hands goin’ at this
season, but you can see him yourself. I daresay he’ll come up to thank
you afore he goes.’
Dick’s conjecture proved true, inasmuch as before the breakfast bell
rang the prodigal walked up to the garden gate.
This time he underwent a more careful examination, the result of which
was to impress the master of the house in a favourable manner. Though
dressed much as before, there was some improvement in his appearance. He
came forward now, with the advantage conferred by rest and good
entertainment. His regular features, as Mr. Effingham now thought,
showed plainly the marks of aristocratic lineage. The eyes, especially,
were bold and steadfast, while his figure, hardened by the toils of a
backwoods life, in its grand outline and muscular development, aroused
the admiration of a professional connoisseur. The bronzed face had lost
its haggard expression, and it was with a frank smile that he raised his
hat slightly and said, ‘Good-morning, sir. I have come to thank you for
your kindness and hospitality.’
‘I am pleased to have been enabled to afford it,’ said the master of the
establishment; ‘but is there nothing more that I can do for your
father’s son?’
The man started; a frown set the lower part of his face in rigid
sternness. After a moment’s pause the cloud-like expression cleared, and
with softened voice he said:
‘I see they have told you. I thought the old stock-rider knew me; he was
here before we lived at Warbrok. Yes, it is all true. I am Hubert
Warleigh.’
Mr. Effingham’s impulsive heart was stirred within him, at these words,
to a degree which he himself would hardly have admitted. The actual
presentment of this cadet of an old family—once the object of a mother’s
care, a mother’s prayers—fallen from his position and compelled to
wander over the country, meanly dressed and carrying a burden in this
hot weather, touched him to the heart. He walked up to the speaker, and
laying his hand upon his arm, said in tones of deep feeling:
‘My dear fellow, will you let me advise you, as I should thank any
Christian man to do for my son in like need? Stay with us for a time. I
may be able to assist you indirectly, if not otherwise. At the worst,
the hospitality of this house—of your old home—is open to you as long as
you please to accept it.’
‘You are kind—too kind, sir,’ said the wanderer, while his bold eyes
softened, and for a moment he turned his face towards the lake. ‘The old
place makes me feel like a boy again. But it will never do—_it’s too
late_. You don’t know the ways of this country yet, and you might come
to repent being so soft—I mean so good-natured.’
‘I will take the risk,’ persisted Effingham. ‘Let me see you restored to
your proper standing in society, and following any occupation befitting
a gentleman, and I shall hold myself fully repaid.’
The stranger smiled, half-sadly, half-humorously, as he seated himself
on a fence-rail.
‘That is not so easy as you think, sir,’ he said. ‘Though there’s very
few people in this country would bother about trying. When a fellow’s
been rambling about the bush, working and living with the men, for years
and years, it is not so easy to turn him into a gentleman again. Worst
of all when he’s come short of education, and has half-forgotten how to
behave himself before ladies. Ladies! I swear, when I saw your
daughters, looking like rosebuds in the old verandah, I felt like a
blackfellow.’
‘That a feeling of—of rusticity—would be one of the consequences of a
roving life, I can understand; but you are young—a mere boy yet. Believe
one who has seen something of the world, that the awkwardness you refer
to would soon disappear were you once more among your equals.’
‘Too late—too late!’ said the man gloomily. ‘Gyp Warleigh must remain in
the state he has brought himself to. I know him better than you do,
worse luck! There’s another reason why I’m afraid to trust myself in a
decent house.’
‘Good heavens!’ said Effingham. ‘Then what is that? You surely have
not——’
‘Taken to the bush? Not yet; but it’s best to be straight. I learned the
trick of turning up my little finger too early and too well; and though
I’m right enough for months when I’m far in the bush, or have had a
spell of work, I’m helpless when the drinking fit comes on me. I _must_
have it, if I was to die twenty times over. And the worst of it is, I
can feel it coming creeping on me for weeks beforehand; I can no more
fight it off than a man who’s half-way down a range can stop himself.
But it’s no use talking—I must be off. How well the old place looks!
It’s a grand season, certainly.’
‘You have had adventures here in the old days,’ said Effingham, willing
to lead him into conversation. ‘Had you a fight with bush-rangers in the
dining-room ever?’
‘Then the bullet-marks _are_ there yet?’ said the stranger carelessly.
‘Well, there was wild work at Warbrok when that was done, but
bushrangers had no say in it. It was the old governor who blazed away
there. He was always a two-bottle man, was the governor, and after poor
mother died he scarcely ever went to bed sober. Randal and Clem were
terrible wild chaps, or they might have kept matters together. I was the
youngest, and let do pretty much as I liked. I never learned anything
except to read and write badly. Always in the men’s huts, I picked up
all the villainy going before I was fourteen. But about those
bullet-marks in the wall.’
‘I feel deeply interested, believe me; and if you would permit me to
repair the neglect you have experienced, something may yet be done.’
‘You don’t know men of my sort, Captain, or you wouldn’t talk in that
way. Not that I haven’t a feeling towards you that I’ve never had since
poor mother died, and told me to be a good boy, as she stroked my hair
for the last time. But how could I? What chance is there for a lad in
the bush, living as we did in those days? I remember Randal’s coming
home from Bathurst races—he’d go any distance to a race meeting. He was
like a madman. It was then that the row came about with the governor,
when they nearly shot one another.’
‘Nearly shot one another! Good heavens! How _could_ that happen?’
‘After the cellar racket Randal had the sense to stay away at Monaro and
work at our station there for months. He could work when he liked, and a
smarter man among stock never handled a slip-rail. But he had to come
home at last. The governor talked to him most polite. Hoped he’d stay to
dinner. He drank fair; they were well into the fourth bottle when the
row began. He told us afterwards that the old man, instead of flying
into a rage, as usual, was bitter and cool, played with him a bit, but
finished up by saying that “though it was the worst day’s work he ever
did to come to this accursed country, he hardly expected his eldest son
would turn out a burglar and a thief.”
‘Randal was off his head by this time—been ‘a bit on’ before he
came—swore he wouldn’t stand that from any man, not even his own father.
The old man glared at him like a tiger, and fetching out the loaded
duelling pistols, which people always had handy in those days, gave him
one, and they stood up at different ends of the long room.
‘We heard the shots and rushed in. There was Randal holding on by the
wall, swaying about, and, pointing to the ceiling, saying, as well as he
could, “Fired in the air! by ——! fired in—the—air!” Sure enough, there
was the mark of his bullet in the ceiling, but the _other one_ had hit
the wall, barely an inch from Randal’s head.’
‘What an awful affair! How your father must have rejoiced that he was
spared the guilt of such a crime.’
‘I don’t know about that; all he _said_ next day was, that his hand must
have been shaky, or he would have rid the world of an infernal
scoundrel, who had disgraced his family and was no son of his. He never
spoke to him again.’
‘Miserable father—lost son! What became of your brothers, may I ask,
since you have told me so much?’
‘Randal was in a vessel coming back from Adelaide with an exploring
party. He’d been lushing pretty heavy, and they thought he must have
gone overboard one night in a fit of the horrors. Anyhow, he was never
seen alive afterwards. Poor Clem—he wasn’t half as bad as Randal, only
easy led—died at the Big River: was shepherding when we last heard of
him. I’m all that’s left of the Warleighs. Some fine day you’ll hear of
me being drowned crossing a river, or killed by the blacks, or broke my
neck off a horse; and a good job too. I must be off now. It’s years
since I’ve said as much to any one.’
‘But why—why not stay and commence a happier career? Scores of men have
done so, years after your age. You will have encouragement from every
member of my family.’
‘Family!’ answered the outcast, with a bitter smile. ‘Am I fit to
associate with _ladies_? Why, even while I’m speaking to you I can
hardly open my mouth without an oath or a rough word. No! It might have
been once; it’s years too late now. But I thank you all the same; and if
ever a chance comes in my way of doing your people a good turn, you may
depend your life on Gyp Warleigh. Good-bye, sir!’
As he rose to his feet, squaring his shoulders and towering to the full
height of his stature, Mr. Effingham instinctively held out his hand.
Closing his own upon it for one moment in an iron grasp, the wanderer
strode forth upon his path, and was lost behind a turn in the timber.
Howard Effingham returned to his household filled with sad thought. He
had seen ruined men of all sorts and kinds before; had known many who,
with every social aid and endowment, had chosen to tread the path of
degradation. But there was, to his mind, an element of unusual pathos in
this acquiescent yet resentful debasement of a noble nature. In the hall
he met Wilfred and Guy. Contrasting their frank, untroubled countenances
with that of the ill-fated son of his predecessor his heart swelled with
thankfulness.
‘What a long talk you have been having with our dark friend,’ said
Wilfred. ‘Does he want a situation as stock-rider? or has he a project
requiring the aid of a little capital? He doesn’t look like an
enthusiast.’
‘Nor is he one,’ answered the father briefly. ‘He is an unhappy man,
whom you will compassionate when I tell you that he is Hubert
Warleigh—the Colonel’s youngest son.’
‘Good heavens!’ cried Wilfred. ‘Who said there was no romance in a new
country? I thought he was a fine-looking fellow, with something uncommon
about him. What a history!’
‘What a dreadful, what an astonishing thing!’ exclaimed Annabel, who,
having an appetite for novelty, and seldom being so absorbed in her
household duties as to escape early notice of such, had joined the
group. ‘To think that that sunburned, roughly-dressed man, carrying a
bundle with his blanket and all kinds of things, should be a gentleman,
the son of an old officer; just like Wilfred and Guy here! To be sure,
he _was_ handsome, in spite of his disguise; and did you notice what
splendid black eyes he had? Poor fellow, poor fellow! Why didn’t you
make him stay, papa?’
‘My child! I did try to persuade him; I promised to see what we could do
for him. My heart yearned to the youngster, thinking that if, in the
bounds of possibility, any child of mine was in such evil case, so might
some father’s heart turn to him in his need. But he only said it was too
late, with a kind of proud regret. Yet I think he was grateful, for he
wrung my hand at parting, said it had done him good to speak with me,
and if he could ever do us a service I might count upon him.’
* * * * *
In the dreamy days of the late summer one and all derived great solace
and enjoyment from the Lake William Book Club, now become, thanks to Mr.
Churbett’s brother in London, a working institution. That gentleman had
forwarded a well-selected assortment, comprising the newest publications
of the day, in various departments of literature, not forgetting a
judicious sprinkling of fiction. The books brought out by the family,
neither few nor of humble rank, had been read and re-read until they
were known by heart. This fresh storehouse of knowledge was, for the
first time in their lives, truly appreciated.
Mr. Churbett had employed himself in his solitary hours in covering with
strong white paper and carefully entitling each volume. These he divided
into ‘sets,’ comprising, say, a modicum of history, travel, biography,
or science, with a three-volume novel. The sets being duly numbered, a
sketch circuit was calculated, and proper arrangements made. He, for
instance, forwarded a set to Benmohr, whence they were enjoined to
forward them at the expiration of a month to The Chase; at the same time
receiving a fresh supply from headquarters. O’Desmond sent them on to
the Snowdens, to be despatched by them to Mr. Hampden at Wangarua. So it
came to pass that when the twelfth subscriber forwarded the
first-mentioned set to its original dwelling-place at Mr. Churbett’s,
the year had completed its cycle, and each household had had ample, but
not over-abundant, time to thoroughly master the contents of their dole
of literature.
The autumn month of March was chiefly characterised by the rural
population of the district, as being the season in which was held the
Annual Yass Race Meeting. This tournament was deservedly popular in an
English-speaking community. There was no wife, widow, or maid,
irrespectively of the male representatives, who did not feel a mild
interest in the Town Plate, the delightfully dangerous Steeplechase, and
finally in the ‘Ladies’ Bag.’ This thrilling event comprised a
collection of fancy-work—slippers, embroidered smoking-caps, and
gorgeous cigar-cases, suitable for masculine use or ornament.
The coveted prize was fabricated by the fair hands of the dames and
damsels of the district. The race was confined to amateurs, and those
only were permitted to compete who had received invitations from the
Secretary of the Ladies’ Committee.
Great interest was taken, it may be supposed, in the carrying-off of
this trophy, and many a youthful aspirant might be seen ‘brushing with
hasty step the dew away,’ as he reviewed at dawn his training
arrangements with a face of anxiety, such as might become the owner of a
Derby favourite.
By direct or devious ways the echoes of battle-cries, proper to the
approaching fray, commenced to reach The Chase. Faintly interested as
had been the family in the probable pleasures of such an assemblage,
they could not remain wholly insensible. With each succeeding week
tidings and murmurs of the Carnival swelled into sonorous tone. One day
a couple of grooms, leading horses sheeted and hooded, of which the
satin skins and delicate limbs bore testimony to their title to blue
blood, would pass by on their way to Yass; or Mr. Churbett would ride
over with the latest news, declaring that Grey Surrey was in such
condition that no horse in the district had a chance with him, though
Hamilton’s No Mamma had notoriously been in training for a month longer.
Also, that the truly illustrious steeplechaser, The Cid, had been
stabled at Badajos for the night; but that, in his opinion, he could not
be held at his fences, and if so, St. Andrew would make such an
exhibition of him as would astonish his backers and the Tasmanian
division generally. Then Mrs. Snowden would arrive to lunch, and among
other items of intelligence volunteer the information that the ball,
which the Racing Club Committee was pledged to give this year, would
exceed in magnificence all previous entertainments. Borne on the wings
of the weekly post there came a missive from Mrs. Rockley, reminding
Mrs. Effingham of her promise to come and bring her daughters for the
race week, assuring her that rooms at Rockley Lodge awaited them, and
that wilful child Christabel was prepared to die of grief in the event
of anything preventing their having the pleasure of their company.
Then Bob Clarke was, after all, to ride The Cid. He was the only man
that could hold him at his fences. So there would be such a set-to
between him and St. Andrew, with Charlie Hamilton up, as had never been
seen in the district. The western division were going to back The Cid to
the clothes on their back. Hamilton was a cool hand across country, and
a good amateur jock wherever you put him up, but Bob Clarke, who had had
his early training among the stiff four-railers and enclosed
pasture-lands of Tasmania, was an extraordinary horseman, and had a way
of getting a beaten horse over his last fences which stamped him as the
man to put your money on.
It was not in human nature altogether to disregard current opinions,
which, in default of more important public events, swayed the pastoral
community as well as the dwellers in the rural townships. The Effinghams
gradually abandoned themselves to the stream, and decided to accept Mrs.
Rockley’s invitation for the lady part of the family. To this end
Wilfred made a flying visit to the town, where he had been promptly
taken in custody by Mr. Rockley and lodged in safe keeping at his
hospitable mansion.
He returned with what Beatrice called a rose-coloured description of the
whole establishment; notably of the marvellous beauty of Christabel
Rockley, the only daughter.
‘Why, you haven’t seen girls for I don’t know how long,’ said Annabel,
‘except us, of course—and you don’t see any beauty in fair people—so how
can you tell? The first young woman with a pale face and dark eyes is a
vision of loveliness, of course. Wait till _we_ go to Yass, and you will
hear a proper description.’
‘Women are always unsympathetic about one another,’ he retorted. ‘That’s
the reason one can hardly trust the best woman’s portrait of her
friend.’
‘And men are so credulous,’ said Beatrice. ‘I wonder any sensible woman
has the patience to appropriate one. See how they admire the merest
chits with the beauty of a china doll, and so very, _very_ little more
brains. There is a nice woman, I admit, here and there, but a man
doesn’t know her when he sees her.’
‘All this is premature,’ said the assaulted brother, trying to assume an
air of philosophical serenity. ‘I know nothing about Miss Christabel
save and except that she is “beautiful exceedingly,” like the dame in
Coleridge. But you will find Mr. Rockley’s the nicest house to stay in,
or I much mistake, that you have been in of late years, and, in a
general way, you will enjoy yourselves more than you expect.’
‘I expect _great things_,’ said Annabel, ‘and I intend to enjoy myself
immensely. Fancy, what a pleasure it will be to me to see quantities of
new people! Even Rosamond confessed to me that she felt interested in
our coming glimpse of Australian society. We _have_ been a good deal
shut up, and it will do us good; even Beatrice will fall across a new
book or a fresh character to read, which comes to much the same thing. I
prefer live characters myself.’
‘And I prefer the books,’ said Beatrice; ‘there’s such a dreadful amount
of time lost in talking to people, very often, about such wretched
commonplaces. You can’t skip their twaddle or gossip, and you can in a
book.’