MISS VERA FANE OF BLACK MOUNTAIN
After a due amount of dining and dressing, the former performed by the
male and the latter by the feminine portion of the gathered social
elements, ‘The great Terpsichorean event, which marked this most
harmonious Turf reunion, was inaugurated with _éclat_,’ as the editor of
the _Yass Standard_ (in happy ignorance of the illegal arrangement which
divers magnates, chiefly being Justices of the Peace, were at that very
hour transacting) described it in the following Monday’s issue.
All the bachelors, and not a few of the married men, had quarters at the
Budgeree Hotel, so that they had no unnecessary fatigue to undergo, but
were enabled to present themselves in the grand ballroom of that
imposing building nearly as soon as it was ascertained that the Rockley
contingent, which apparently combined everybody’s favourite partner, had
arrived.
The brass band included a wandering minstrel from the metropolis, whose
aid, both instrumentally and in the selection of dance music, proved
truly valuable. The invitations, owing to the liberal views of Mr.
Rockley, had been comprehensive, taking in all the townspeople who could
by any chance have felt aggrieved at being left out.
The ball was opened by a quadrille, in which Mrs. Rockley and Hampden
took part, while Rockley, with deferential demeanour, led out Mrs.
Effingham, who consented on that occasion only to revive the
recollections of her youth. Mrs. Snowden and Argyll, Hamilton and
Rosamond Effingham, with other not less distinguished personages,
‘assisted’ at this opening celebration.
After this ceremonious commencement the first waltz took place, in which
Wilfred found himself anticipated as to a dance with Christabel Rockley,
who, with an utterly bewildering look, regretted that she was engaged to
Bob Clarke. That heroic personage swiftly whirled away with the goddess
in his arms, leaving Wilfred more annoyed than he liked to confess, and
divided in his resolutions whether to stay at home and work austerely,
avoiding the lighter amusements, or to buy the best horse in the Benmohr
stud, train him at The Chase, and ride against Bob Clarke for his life
at the next meeting. He had called up sufficient presence of mind to
place his name again on Miss Christabel’s very popular card, rather low
down, it is true, but still available for a favourite waltz, in which
Fred Churbett had promised to assist with his cornet, and Hamilton with
his Sax-horn, a new instrument, believed to be the combination of all
sweet and sonorous sounds possible to the trumpet tribe.
But all inappropriate thoughts were driven out by the next partner, a
striking-looking girl, to whom he was introduced by Mr. Rockley, very
properly doing duty as chief steward.
This young lady’s name was stated to be Vera Fane, with great clearness
of intonation. He further volunteered the information that she was the
daughter of his old friend, Dr. Fane, and (in what was meant to be a
whisper) ‘as nice a girl as ever you met in your life.’
The young lady smiled and blushed, but without discomposure, at this
evidence of the high value at which she was rated.
‘Rather too good to be true, don’t you think?’ she said, with a frank
yet modest air. ‘I ought to declare myself much honoured, and all the
rest of it. But you know Mr. Rockley’s warm-hearted way of talking, and
I really think he believes every word of it. He has known me from a
child. But I apologise, and we’ll say no more about it, please. Very
good racing there seems to have been. I was _so_ sorry, in despair I may
say, to miss the steeplechase.’
‘Then you only came in to-day?’ asked Wilfred. ‘How was that? I didn’t
think any lady in the district could have forgone the excitement. It
seems to rank with the miracle plays of the Middle Ages.’
‘Or rather the masques and tournaments of those of chivalry. But I was
away from home, and had to ride a long way for the ball and the Ladies’
Bag to-morrow.’
‘I am afraid you must be tired. How far have you come to-day?’
‘Really,’ said the young lady, with some hesitation, ‘I must plead
guilty to having ridden fifty miles to-day. I am afraid it shows
over-eagerness for pleasure, and dear old Mr. Sternworth might scold me,
if he was not so indulgent to what he calls “the necessities of youth.”
But our home is a lonely spot, and I have so _very_ little change.’
‘Fifty miles!’ said Wilfred, in astonishment. ‘And do you really mean to
say that you have ridden that immense distance, and are going to dance
afterwards? It will kill you.’
‘You must be thinking of young ladies in England, Mr. Effingham,’ said
the girl, with an amused look; ‘not but what some of them rode fair
distances for the same reasons a hundred years ago, papa says. I daresay
I shall feel tired on Sunday; but, as I’ve ridden ever since I could
walk, it is nothing so very wonderful. You mustn’t think me quite an
Amazon.’
‘On the contrary,’ said Wilfred, looking at the girl’s graceful figure,
and recognising that air of refinement which tells of gentle blood, ‘I
am lost in astonishment only. You look as if you had made a start from
“The Big House” with the rest of Mrs. Rockley’s flock. But we must join
this waltz, if you don’t mind, or your journey will have been in vain.’
Miss Fane smiled assent, and as they threaded the lively maze,
practically demonstrated that she had by no means so overtired herself
as to interfere with her dancing. Wilfred immediately established her
among the half-dozen perfections he had discovered in that line. There
was, moreover, a frank, unconcealed enjoyment of the whole affair, which
pleased her partner. Her fresh, unpremeditated remarks, showing original
thought, interested him; so much so, that when he led her to a seat
beside her chaperon, having previously secured a second dance at a later
period of the evening—and the _very last_—even Sir Roger de Coverley—the
bitterness of soul with which he had seen Christabel Rockley borne off
by the all-conquering Bob Clarke, was considerably abated. He would have
been incensed if any one had quoted ‘_surgit amari aliquid_,’
nevertheless; if one may so render the cheerful bard, ‘some charming
person generally turns up, with power to interest.’ It would not have
been so far inapplicable to his, or indeed to the (comparatively) broken
hearts of most of us.
By the time the dance of dances had arrived, when he was privileged to
clasp the slight waist and gaze into the haunting eyes of the divine
Christabel, he was conscious of a more philosophical state of mind than
in the beginning of the evening. Nevertheless, the mystic glamour of
beauty came over him, fresh and resistless, as the condescending charmer
let her witching orbs fall kindly on his countenance, smiled merrily
till her pearly teeth just parted the rosy lips, and blushed
enchantingly when he accused her of permitting Bob Clarke to monopolise
her. She defended herself, however, in such a pleading, melodious voice;
said it was cruel in people to make remarks, altogether looking so like
a lovely child, half penitent, half pouting, that he felt much minded to
take her in his arms and assure her of his forgiveness, promising
unbounded confidence in her prudence, and obedience to her commands for
the time to come.
‘There will be some more excitement, do you know, for the Ladies’ Bag
to-morrow,’ said the enchantress. ‘Mr. Churbett’s Grey Surrey may not
win it, after all. Bob told me that a horse of Mr. Greyford’s, that
nobody knows about, has a chance. He’s suspected of having been in good
company before. Won’t it be fun if he wins, though I shall be sorry for
Mr. Churbett. Only Mr. Greyford can’t get a gentleman rider the proper
weight. What is yours?’
‘Really,’ said Wilfred, ‘I’m not sure to a few pounds. But why do you
ask?’
‘Don’t you see? If you’re not under eleven stone, you can ride him. We
can’t let any one in without an invitation received before the race. You
had one, I know.’
‘Oh yes, I believe so; but I never thought of riding.’
‘Well, but you _can_ ride, of course. Now, if you’re the proper weight,
you might ride Mendicant for Mr. Greyford; it would do him a service,
and make the race better fun. Besides, all the girls would like to see
you ride, I know.’
‘Would _you_ take any interest in my winning, Miss Rockley? Say the
word, and I will do that or anything else in the wide world.’
‘Oh, I daresay; just as if you cared what _I_ thought. Now there’s Vera
Fane, that papa introduced you to, she would be charmed to see you win
it. Oh, I know——’
‘But yourself? Only say the word.’
‘Then _do_ ride—there, don’t look at me like that, or you’ll have mamma
thinking I’m ill and knocked up with excitement; and if she begins to
say I look pale, papa’s capable of carrying me off before the ball’s
over.’
Wilfred, thus adjured, veiled the ardent fire of his glances, and then
and there pledged himself to ride Mr. Greyford’s Mendicant for the
Ladies’ Bag, and to win, if Miss Rockley would only back him, which she
promised to do.
It was surprising how much more interest Wilfred took in the coming
contest, now that he was about to guide one of the chariot racers, to
disperse _pulverem Olympicum_ in his own person. He danced perseveringly
with all the partners suggested to him, covering himself with glory in
the eyes of Mr. Rockley. He had another and yet another dance with Miss
Fane, being much gratified at the interest she expressed concerning the
coming race. He made the acquaintance, too, of Mr. Greyford.
‘_Re_ Mendicant, he’s a lazy beggar,’ said that gentleman frankly, ‘but
well-bred, and can come at the finish if he likes. I had given up the
idea of starting him for want of a jock, but I shall be happy if you
will ride him for me. We’ll go halves in this wonderful bag if Mendicant
pulls it off.’
And so the great race ball was relegated to the limbo of dead joys and
pleasures, to that shadow-land where the goblets we have quaffed, the
chaplets which wreathed our brows, the laughter that kindled our hearts,
the hands that pressed, the hearts—ah me!—that throbbed, have mostly
departed. There do they lie, fair, imperishable, awaiting but the blast
of the enchanted horn to arise, to sparkle and glow, to thrill once
more. Or has the cold earth closed remorselessly, _eternally_, over our
joys and those who shared them, never again to know awakening till Time
shall be no more?
Much must be conceded to the influence of the Australian climate or to
the embalming influences of active pleasure-seeking, which seems to
possess an Egyptian potency for keeping its votaries _in statu quo_
while engaged in the worship of the goddess. Whatever may have been the
secret of unfailing youth, most of the race meeting constituents seemed
to possess it, as they turned out after breakfast on Friday morning,
apparently ready to commence another week’s racing by day, and dancing
by night, if the gods permitted.
About a dozen horses were qualified to start for the Ladies’ Bag.
Hamilton had one, Forbes had one, Bob Clarke (of course) another, so
that the two stables would again be well represented. O’Desmond, who did
not ride himself, had a likely young horse in, and there were several
others with some sort of provincial reputation. There was the great Grey
Surrey, and lastly that ‘dark,’ unassuming, dangerous Mendicant of
Greyford’s with Mr. Wilfred Effingham up.
That gentleman had never ridden a race before, but was a fair
cross-country rider before he saw Australia, and since then the riding
of different sorts of horses had, of course, tended to improve both seat
and hands. He was aware of the principles of race-riding, and though Bob
Clarke, Hamilton, Forbes, and Churbett had semi-professional skill, he
yet trusted, with the befitting courage of youth, to hold his own in
that tilt-yard.
He had borrowed a set of colours, and looking at himself in the glass
arrayed as in the traditional races of England, was not dissatisfied
with his appearance. He found himself wondering whether he should be
regarded with indulgence by the critical eyes of Miss Christabel, or
indeed the penetrating orbs of Miss Fane. Was there a chance of his
winning? Would it not be a triumph if, in spite of the consummate
horsemanship of Hamilton and Bob Clarke, the reputation of Grey Surrey,
he should win the prize? The thought was intoxicating. He dared not
indulge it. He partially enveloped himself in an overcoat, which
concealed the glories of his black and scarlet racing-jacket, the only
silken garment which the modern cavalier is permitted to wear (how
differently they ruffled it in the days of the second Charles!), and
hied him to the course.
Here he was met by congratulations on all sides.
‘Glad to see you’ve taken to the amateur jock line, Effingham,’ said
Churbett. ‘There’s a world of fun in it, though it involves early
rising. It’s awfully against the grain with me, but I assure you I look
forward to it every year now. It _compels_ me to take exercise.’
‘That view of racing never struck me before,’ said Wilfred. ‘But when
we’re at Yass, you know, one must follow the fashion.’
‘Especially when certain people look interested. Aha! Effingham, you’re
an awfully prudent card; but we’re all alike, I expect.’
‘Pooh, pooh! why shouldn’t I take a turn at the pigskin as well as you
and the others?’ said Wilfred, evading the impeachment; ‘and this sort
of thing is awfully catching, you know.’
‘Very catching, indeed,’ assented Mr. Churbett. ‘Is that Miss Fane on
the brown horse next to Mrs. Snowden? Ladylike-looking girl, isn’t she?
Suppose we go and get a bet out of her?’
Following up this novel idea they rode over to the little group, where
Mr. Churbett was assailed with all sorts of compliments and inquiries
about the state and prospects of Grey Surrey.
‘I think the articles should have been selected with reference to your
complexion, Mr. Churbett,’ said Mrs. Snowden; ‘you seem so certain of
carrying it off. I know blue is your favourite colour, and I made my
smoking-cap and slippers of the last fashionable shade on purpose.’
‘Always considerate, Mrs. Snowden,’ said the object of this compliment,
as a smile became general at this allusion to Fred’s auburn-tinted hair.
‘You must have been thinking of Snowden, who resembles me in that way,
and the _very_ early days when you used to work slippers for him.’
‘Really I forget whether I ever did much in that line for Snowden. It
must have been centuries ago.’
‘Oh, but I don’t agree with that at all,’ said the fair Christabel.
‘Suppose some one with dark hair wins it, then he would have to go about
with all sorts of unbecoming trash. Let every one be guided by their own
taste.’
‘I daresay a few trifles that will look well on Bob Clarke will be found
in the bag,’ said Hamilton. ‘I heard something about a gorgeous crimson
and gold smoking-cap. I wonder if anybody has been studying _my_
complexion? If Effingham wins, you will all be thrown out.’
‘Then you _are_ going to ride, Mr. Effingham?’ said the fair Christabel,
with a smile so irresistible that it fully repaid him for his troubles
and misgivings. ‘I am sure I hope you will win, though I’m afraid,
between Grey Surrey, No Mamma, and Bolivar, you haven’t a good chance.’
‘I wouldn’t be too certain about that,’ said Miss Fane, who had
recognised Wilfred with a pleasant, cordial greeting, and whom he
thought looking uncommonly well in her habit, and indisputably well
mounted. ‘Don’t be alarmed by these great reputations. A little bird
told me about Mendicant, and I’ll take the odds (in gloves), which are
eight to one, I believe, that he’s first or second.’
This daring proposal brought rejoinders and wagers upon the head of the
fair turfite, who quietly accepting a few of the latter, declared that
her book was full, but was not to be dislodged from her position.
Wilfred felt much encouraged, and proportionately grateful to the fair
friend who had stood by him and his unknown steed. So he registered a
vow to remember her in the future—to like and respect and approve of
her—in short, to pay her all those guarded tributes which men in early
life keep for the benefit of women they admire, trust, and look up to,
but alas! do not love.
Among his few well-wishers must be classed Wilfred’s sisters and mother,
who, honestly pleased to see him ‘respeckit like the lave,’ as Andrew
would have said, secretly thought that he looked handsomer and better
turned out when mounted than almost anybody else in the race—in fact,
nearly as well as Bob Clarke. But even these partial critics could not
assert to themselves, when they saw Master Bob come sailing past the
stand upon Bolivar, a dark bay thoroughbred, looking like a brown satin
angel (Bolivar, not Bob), as one enthusiastic damsel observed, that he
equalled in appearance and get-up that inimitable workman. Still, he
looked very nice, they lovingly thought, and of Wilfred’s clear
complexion, brown hair, well-knit frame, and animated countenance other
fair spectators held a like opinion.
Grey Surrey came next, ‘terrible’ for a mile, and owing to his Arab
ancestry, a better stayer than might have been thought from his violent
manners. His rider’s admirably fitting nether garments, the wrinkles of
his boots, the shading of his tops, were accurate to a degree. His
bright blue colours had many a time been in the van. Kindly and affable
in the widest sense, with a vein of irresistible comic humour, he was
the most popular squatter in his district—a man of whom none thought
evil—to whom none would dream of doing harm more than to the unweaned
child. To a rare though not too sedulously cultivated intellect Fred
Churbett joined the joyous disposition of a moderate viveur, the soul of
a poet, and the heart of a woman. But the gold held not the due
proportion of alloy—too often, alas! the case with the finer natures.
The comprehensive cheer which the whole assemblage instinctively gave
showed their appreciation. From the crowd (not so many as on the
previous day, but still were the people not wholly unrepresented) rose
cries of ‘Well done, Mr. Churbett! Hope you’ll win again. Grey Surrey
and The She-oaks for ever!’
And as the silky flowing mane glistened in the sun, while the proud
favourite arched his neck and with wide nostril and flashing eye trod
the turf with impatient footstep, as might his Arab ancestors have
spurned the sands of Balk or Tadmor, every friend he had on the course,
which comprehended all the ladies, all the gentlemen, all the
respectable and most of the disrespectable persons, thought that if Fred
Churbett and Grey Surrey did not win yet another victory, there must be
something reprehensible about turf matters generally.
Probably, in order that the ladies might have a liberal allowance of
sport in recompense for their contributions, and partly in compliance
with the undeveloped turf science of the day, the fashion of ‘heats’ had
always been the rule of this race. Thus, when Grey Surrey came in
leading by a length, with Bolivar and No Mamma racing desperately for
second place, every one of experience stated that the third, or even the
fourth, would be the deciding heat if Bolivar or No Mamma was good
enough to ‘pull it off’ from the brilliant Surrey. Wilfred had adopted
the advice he had received from Mr. Greyford, and while keeping a fair
place, had taken care to save his sluggish steed. He nevertheless
managed to come through the ruck without apparent effort during the last
part of the running, and finished an unpretending fifth.
On delivering over his horse to Mr. Greyford’s trainer, he was gratified
to find that he had won that official’s unqualified approval by his
style of riding. ‘There isn’t a mark on him, sir,’ he said; ‘and that’s
the way to take him for the first couple of heats. Mendicant’s a lazy
’oss, and an uncommon queer customer to wind up. But if Surrey don’t win
the next heat—and I think Mr. Forbes’s No Mamma will give him all he can
do to get his nose in front—it’s this old duffer’s race, as safe as if
the rest was boiled.’
‘But how about Bolivar?’
‘Well, sir, Bolivar and No Mamma are a-cuttin’ their own throats the way
they’re a-bustin’ theirselves for second place, and if you go at
whatever wins the third heat from _the_ jump, and take it easy the next
’un, you’ll have this ’ere bag to a moral.’
Returning from this diplomatic colloquy to the vortex of society,
Wilfred found himself to be already an object of interest in sporting
circles. Much advice was tendered to him, and counsels offered as to his
future plan of action, but as these were mostly contradictory, he
thought himself justified in holding his tongue and abiding by the
professional opinion of the stable.
Before the final heat he found Fireball Bill walking the veteran up and
down, with a serious and thoughtful countenance. ‘Look ’ere, sir, don’t
you make too sure of this ’ere ’eat afore you’ve won it. The old ’oss
seems right enough; he’s bound to win if he stands up, but I don’t like
the way he puts down that near foreleg. It’s allers been a big anxiety
to me. He might go away as sound as a roach and crack up half-way round.
But you make the pace from the jump, and keep ’em goin’, or else one on
’em ’ll do yer at the bloomin’ post.’
‘What chance is there of that?’
‘Every chance, sir. You mind me. I’m a man as has follered racing since
I was the height of a corn-bin, and I knows the ways on ’em. Mr. Clarke
ain’t easy beat, nor Mr. Hamilton neither. They’ll go off steady, yer
see, as if there was no use tryin’ to pass yer, along o’ their havin’
busted their ’orses in them ’eats as went afore.’
‘And a very natural idea. It seems a pity to knock them about, after all
they’ve done.’
‘We’ve got _to win this race_, sir, and a race ain’t won till the
numbers is up. Now, Mr. Bob Clarke’s dart is jest this. If he sees you
don’t keep the old ’orse on his top, he and Mr. Hamilton will wait on
yer, savin’ their own ’orses till they come to the straight. Then
they’ll go at you with a rush, and there’s no hamatoor in Australia can
take as much out of a horse in the last ten strides as Bob Clarke.
_You’re_ caught afore the old ’orse can get on to his legs, and the race
is snatched out of the fire by nothin’ but ridin’ and head-work, and
we’re—smothered!’
‘Beaten and laughed at! I understand clearly, Bill. I shall always think
you have had more to do with the winning of the race than I have.’
‘That’s all right, sir, but keep it dark. All this is confidential-like
between the trainer and the gen’leman as rides. There goes the bell
again. I can hear Mr. Rockley cussin’ all the way from where he stands.
Here’s your ’orse, sir; you’ve got to win, or kill him!’
Delivering over the unsuspecting Mendicant with this sound professional
but scarcely humane injunction, Fireball Bill gazed after his charge,
and scrutinised the leg he suspected him of ‘favouring.’ ‘He’s right!’
he finally exclaimed, after anxious deliberation; ‘but if I hadn’t
primed the cove, ’e’d a’ lost that race, sure’s my name’s William
Scraper.’
Wilfred rode on his way in dignified fashion, as befitting the position
of probable winner, but in his heart a feeling of thankfulness to the
old trainer by whose advice he had escaped a catastrophe. What a
mortification it would have been; how the vane of public opinion would
have veered round! He trembled to think of it; and as he drew up after
the others, he hardened his heart, resolved that no artifice of the turf
should mar his triumph that day.
His rivals went off with an assumption of indifference, as if merely
going round for form’s sake; but he took the old horse by the head and
sent him away as if he was riding against Time from end to end. His two
chief antagonists—for O’Desmond had very properly withdrawn his
colt—waited at a reasonable rate of speed until it became apparent that
Mendicant’s rider had no intention of altering his pace. Then they set
to, and by the way they came up, showed how accurate was Fireball Bill’s
calculation.
Suddenly, and without a sign of premeditation, Bob Clarke took his horse
by the head, and with one of his many desperate efforts, sent him up so
suddenly to the flank of Mendicant, that Wilfred thought the race was
lost in good earnest.
But as he heard the approaching hoofs, he too commenced to ‘do the
impossible,’ and found that, though nearly level, Bolivar was unable to
improve his position, while Mendicant, answering whip and spur,
gradually drew in advance, as the winning post and the judge’s stand
(and, as it seemed to Wilfred, half Yass at gaze) came to meet him. A
few strides, a deafening shout, a rally of whips, and the race is over.
But the long, lean head had never been overlapped; and as he pulls up,
head down and distinctly ‘proppy,’ half-a-dozen men struggle for the
honour of leading Mendicant into the weighing-yard, and his rider knows
that he has won. Bolivar, with distended nostril and heaving flank,
follows next, with Bob Clarke sitting languidly on his back, and looking
nearly as exhausted as his horse; while No Mamma, eased at the distance,
drags in, as if she had had enough of it for some time to come. Wilfred
takes his saddle and mechanically goes to scale. ‘Weight!’ says Mr.
Rockley decisively, and all is over.
In all turf contests, bitter disappointments, deep and lasting
mortifications, sharpened by loss and inconvenience, occur. But when
there comes a real triumph, the sweets of success are rich of flavour.
Wilfred was the hero of the occasion, Fortune’s latest favourite,
impossible to be deposed until next year. No newer victor could
therefore take away the savour and memorial of his triumph, as, to a
certain extent, he had now done from Bob Clarke.
Such is the inconsistency of human nature that, although the
steeplechase required about ten times the amount of horsemanship,
besides nerve, experience, and a host of qualities unneeded in a flat
race, Wilfred found himself the observed of all observers, and could not
but discern that his rivals were temporarily in the shade.
He lost no time in bestowing himself into his ordinary raiment and
joining the homeward-bound crowd, secure of the smiles which ladye fair
never refuses to bestow upon the knight who has worthily done his
devoir.
Christabel Rockley congratulated him warmly upon his good fortune, and
then turned to console Bob Clarke, a process which apparently involved
more time and explanation, so much so that Wilfred changed his locale,
under pretence of looking after his mother and sisters, and soon found
himself in more sympathetic company.
He saw that Miss Fane had become a great friend and associate of his
sister Rosamond, so quickly are lifelong alliances cemented among young
ladies. Mrs. Snowden was also in the neighbourhood, and among them he
was flattered to his heart’s content.
‘I was sure you were going to win it from the first,’ said Mrs. Snowden,
as if stating an incontestable fact. ‘I said to Mrs. Rockley, “How cool
Mr. Effingham looks! Depend upon it, he has ridden in good company
before.”’
‘I never bet anything more substantial than gloves,’ said Miss Fane,
with a gleam of mischief in her eyes; ‘but I can quite understand the
gambling spirit now. I longed to put a five-pound note papa gave me at
parting on Mendicant. Dreadfully wicked, wasn’t it? But I should have
won fifty or sixty pounds, perhaps a hundred. I have made a small
fortune, however, in gloves.’
‘I shall always think that you were the cause of my winning, Miss Fane,’
said Wilfred, looking most grateful. ‘No one else believed in me, except
these girls here,’ looking at his sisters.
‘We are prejudiced,’ said Rosamond, ‘and will remain so to the end of
the chapter. But I thought you were fighting against odds, with such
champions as Mr. Hamilton and Mr. Clarke. Now you have won the tilt and
are the favoured knight. Is the queen of beauty to give you the victor’s
wreath?—and who is she?’
‘Oh, Christabel the peerless, of course,’ said Miss Fane. ‘And I think
her the prettiest creature in the world—that is, for a dark beauty, of
course,’ looking at Annabel, who now came up. ‘It’s a case of honours
divided, all the men say.’
‘I wonder how we shall settle down in our peaceful homes again,’ said
Beatrice, ‘after all these wild excitements and thrilling incidents. I
feel as if we were leaving the first or second volume of a novel.’
‘Why the first or second,’ said Miss Fane, ‘and not the third?’
‘Because there’s no possibility of our story being complete in one
volume. There are materials for romances here, but the _dénouement_ is
wanting. Every one will go home again on Monday; the actors and
actresses will throw on their wrappers, the lights will be put out, the
theatre shut up, and no piece announced until next year. There is
something theatrical about all pleasure. This indeed is real melodrama,
with plenty of scene-shifting, comedy in proper proportion, leading
actors, and a hint of tragedy in the last act.’
For the Effinghams this had been a completely new experience. Without
complications of the affections, except in Wilfred’s case, a wider
estimate of Australian country life had been afforded to them. Besides
the squirearchy of the land, they had met specimens of the best of the
younger sons whom England’s ancient houses still send, year by year, to
carry her laws, her arts, her ambition, and her energy to the most
distant of her possessions. These include, literally, the ends of the
earth, where they may aid in the heroic work of colonisation, planting
the germs of nations, and raising the foundations of empires. Such men
they had among their immediate neighbours. Still it was pleasant to know
that others of the same high nature and standard of culture, the
Conquistadors of the South, were distributed over the entire continent.
Moreover, they had fallen across several perfect feminine treasures, as
Annabel declared them to be—friends and acquaintances, most rare and
valuable. Nothing could have exceeded the hospitality and thoughtful
kindness of the ladies of the Rockley family. Mrs. Rockley had been
unwearied in providing for the comfort of her guests, and in that
congenial employment partaking as well in her own person of a reasonable
share of the pleasures of the continuous _festa_, underwent such
fatigue, that nothing but an unruffled temper, with great natural
advantages of constitution, prevented her from breaking down hopelessly
before the week was over. As it was, though there was a slight look of
weariness, an air of responsibility, in the morning, the least occasion
sufficed to bring the ever-cordial smile to the kind face, when all
gravity of mien instantly disappeared.