THE DUEL
In Ireland’s good old days, before the decline of unlimited hospitality
and claret, debt, duelling, and devilment generally, when the Court of
Encumbered Estates was not, the whole duty of man apparently being
transacted with an enviable scorn of ready-money payments, no doubt
exists, that after such a race week as we have essayed to recall, more
than one gentleman’s hackney would have gone home without him, unless
the pistol practice was worse than usual.
As it was, a contretemps _did_ occur, which could not be settled without
the intervention of seconds. These gentlemen decided that a meeting must
take place. It chanced after this wise. As will happen in all lands,
there had arisen a veiled but distinct antagonism between two men who
aspired to social leadership. These were William Argyll and John
Hampden.
The former, haughtily impatient of opposition, was prone to follow out
likes and dislikes, with the enthusiasm of his Highland blood. Culture,
travel, and the drill of society had but modified his natural
temperament. Under provocation it was as untamed as that of any son of
MacCallum Mohr who had never quitted the paternal glen. He undervalued
the opinions of his Australian-born neighbours who had not, like
himself, enjoyed the advantages of travel. Hasty in word or deed,
habituated to high consideration from the dwellers near his paternal
estate, he was careless to a fault about giving offence.
Hampden, though a proud and self-respecting man, was singularly
imperturbable of demeanour. Open-minded, generous, interested in every
idea calculated to advance the welfare of his native land, his position
was high and unquestioned. In his own part of the country he was
respected by his equals and reverenced by his inferiors to a degree
uncommon, but by no means unknown in Australia. The people were much in
the habit of resorting to him for aid or counsel in their difficulties.
And whatever Mr. Hampden said in such cases carried with it the weight
and authority of law. His decisions, indeed, were more often quoted,
more rarely disputed, than those of any bench of magistrates in the
land.
Although cautious in forming his opinions and chary of expressing them,
John Hampden was noted as one who never gave back an inch from any
position which he assumed. This trait chafed the choleric Argyll, who
had also a considerable ‘following’—admirers of his attainments, and
dominated by his unrelaxing though generous despotism. It therefore
happened that, in public matters, Argyll and Hampden were mostly
observed to take different sides.
Before the race meeting there arose a dispute, common enough in those
days, between the stock-riders of the two establishments as to the
ownership of certain calves at the annual muster of Mount Wangarua. Some
ill-considered remarks of Argyll’s, reflecting on Hampden’s management,
were repeated with additions. Allusion had been made to ‘indiscriminate
branding,’ than which nothing could have been more uncalled for. A
scrupulously exact man in such matters, many a poor man had reason to
bless the day when his few head of strayed cattle found their way into
the herds which bore the J.H. brand. Rarely was it placed on an animal
without satisfactory proof of ownership. However, ‘accidents will occur
in the best regulated (cattle) families,’ and so had come to pass the
mistake, fully explained afterwards, upon which Argyll had commented
unfavourably.
The opportunity afforded for withdrawing his hasty expressions was not
availed of. So after a formal interview, the alternative was reached
which, by the laws of society in that early day, compelled a resort to
the pistol.
Of course, this ultimatum, though known to a few intimate friends, was
carefully concealed from the general public. The rivals met without
suspicious coldness, were seen at the ordinary gatherings, and bore
themselves as became the average pleasure-seekers of the hour. But the
meeting had been fixed for the Monday following the race week, and it
was agreed that the principals, with their seconds, should visit a
certain secluded spot on the homeward route of Hampden’s party, and
there arrange their difficulty.
Both men were known to be good shots; with rifle and pistol (not yet had
Colonel Colt impressed his revolving signet on the age) Hampden was
known to have few equals. But no surprise was manifested when it was
announced on the eventful Monday that Hampden and his friend Neville,
together with Forbes, Argyll, and Churbett, had departed at daylight and
taken the same road. Every one was in the confused state of mind which
is prone to succeed a season of indulgence. There were bills to pay,
clothes to pack, resolutions as to improvement to be made by those who
had exceeded their usual limit in love, loo, or liquor. So that, except
an expression of astonishment that any reason whatever should have had
power to take Fred Churbett out of his bed at such an abnormal hour,
little was said.
As they rode through the silent streets of the sleepy town, a moaning
breeze betokened that the exceptionally fine weather they had enjoyed
was about to change for the worse.
To Fred Churbett, as he rode along with a young surgeon impressed in
case of accident, the day seemed chilly, the fitful wind boding, the
darkening sky gloomy and drear. ‘What if one of these men, in all the
pride of manhood, so lately rejoicing in the sport in which they had
been jointly engaged, should never leave the Granite Glen alive? What a
mockery was this life of ours! And for what? for a careless word—a hasty
jest—for this might a man go down to the dark unknown, with all his sins
upon his head. A melancholy ending to their pleasant days and joyous
nights!’
These cheerless meditations were probably compounded in equal
proportions of bilious indigestion and natural regret. Fred’s inner man
had come off indifferently under a regimen of late hours and mixed
refreshments; so much so, that he had professed his intention, when he
returned to the peaceful shades of The She-oaks, ‘to lie on his back for
a month and live on blue-pill.’ Such thoughts would not have occurred to
him had he been engaged as principal. But as a mere spectator of a
mortal combat they were impressively urgent.
Besides all this, Hampden was a married man—had a wife and half-a-dozen
boys and girls at Mount Wangarua. When he thought that a messenger might
ride up through the far-famed meadows, where the white-faced Herefords
lay thick on the clover sward the summer through, to tell the expectant
wife that the husband—the father, the pattern country gentleman—would
return no more! Fred felt as if he must strike up everybody’s sword, as
in old melodramas, and call upon them in the name of God and man to
desist from a deed at once puerile and immoral.
But like a dream when morning breaks, and princess and noble, castle and
dragon flee into the shadow-land, whence they came, so his purpose
vanished into thin air, as they suddenly debouched upon the Granite
Glen, and he saw by the set faces of the men, as they dismounted, how
unavailing would be all interference.
With sudden revulsion of feeling, he prepared to act his part. Motioning
the young surgeon to follow him to the little creek which rippled
plaintively over the grey blocks, shaded by the funereal, sighing
casuarina, they took charge of the horses of the combatants. Forbes and
Neville each produced one of the oblong cases ‘which no gentleman could
be without’ in those days. Twelve paces were stepped by Forbes, in
deference to his similar experiences. The principals took their ground.
Fred Churbett scanned narrowly, at the moment, the faces he knew so
well. On Argyll’s he saw the look of vehement resolve which he had seen
a hundred times before, while his eyes glowed with angry light. Fred
knew that whenever any one alluded to Hampden’s alleged expression,
‘that he was a hot-blooded Highlander, accustomed to rule semi-savages,
and who did not know how to conduct himself among gentlemen,’ or words
to that effect, Argyll could not be held accountable for his actions.
When the passion fit was over, a more accomplished, courteous gentleman
did not live—generous to a fault, winning, nay, fascinating, of manner
to all with whom he came into contact.
Hampden’s face, on the other hand, bore its usual serious expression,
with no shadow of change o’er the mild, contemplative gaze. He looked,
as he always appeared to those who knew him, as if he were thinking out
the subject on hand with painstaking earnestness in the interests of
truth.
Duels were always rare in Australia. Now they are unknown. Society
appears to manage without them in disputes affecting the honour of
individuals. Whether manners have suffered in consequence, is a point
upon which opinions have differed. It had so chanced that Hampden had
never stood ‘on the ground’ before, although in skirmishes with the wild
tribes of his native land it was well known that his cool intrepidity
and unerring aim had more than once saved life.
On this occasion an observer of character might have believed that he
was more closely occupied in analysing his own and his adversary’s
sensations than in attending to his personal interest.
That opinion would have been modified, when the critic observed him
raise his hand with quiet precision at the signal. He fired with
instinctive rapidity, and at the falling handkerchief two reports rang
out.
As each man preserved his position unaltered, a sigh of relief broke
from Fred Churbett. The features of Hampden had not in the slightest
degree altered their expression. The eager observer even thought he
detected a tendency to the slow, humorous smile which was wont to be his
substitute for laughter, as Argyll threw down his weapon with a hasty
exclamation, while a red line on his pistol arm showed that the accuracy
of Hampden’s aim had not been altered by the nature of his target.
‘You are hit, Argyll?’ said Churbett, starting forward. ‘For God’s sake,
stop this mummery! I know Hampden regrets anything inconsiderate he may
have said.’
The brow of Argyll was black with suppressed fury.
‘A d——d graze, can’t you see, sir?’ he said, as he reluctantly pulled up
his coat-sleeve for the inspection of the surgeon. ‘The matter cannot
stop here. An apology at this stage would be absurd. I am in Mr.
Forbes’s hands, I believe.’
That gentleman had already walked gravely forward to meet Mr. Neville,
who, with equal seriousness of demeanour, conferred with his
antagonistic diplomate. Words were exchanged, ending with an ominous
shaking of the head on Forbes’s part. The seconds, having courteously
bowed, departed to their former positions. There they placed pistols in
the hands of the opponents, and took their stations. Even at this stage
the manner of the two men remained as essentially apart as their
constitutions. Argyll stood chafing with impatience, while Hampden’s
eyes wandered calmly over the whole scene—the valley, the little stream,
the threatening sky—as if considering the chances of the season.
As the pistols were handed to them, Argyll took his weapon with a quick
gleam of the eye, which spoke of inward strife, while Hampden accepted
his mechanically and proceeded to gaze fixedly at Argyll, as if prepared
to give the matter his serious attention.
At the signal he raised his hand as before, but one report only startled
the birds on the adjacent tree-tops. Hampden held his pistol in the
steady hand which so few had ever known to swerve from a deadly aim, and
then, elevating the muzzle, fired carelessly into space.
‘We should have improved in our shooting,’ he said, ‘as we went on;
Argyll’s second shot was not so wide as the first. He has spoiled my
coat collar.’
‘By Jove!’ ejaculated Neville, ‘rather a near thing. This must end the
matter; I’ll be no party to another shot.’
‘I have no objection to state _now_,’ said Hampden, ‘that I regret the
expressions used by me. I beg unreservedly to withdraw them.’
After a short colloquy between Argyll and Forbes, the latter came
forward, and with great precision of intonation thus delivered himself.
‘I have much pleasure in stating, on the part of my principal, that
while accepting Mr. Hampden’s handsome apology and retractation, he
desires to recognise cordially his generous behaviour.’
Only the Spartan laws of the duello, inexorably binding upon all men
soever of a certain rank in society, prevented Fred Churbett from
throwing his hat into the air at this termination of the affair.
As each party moved off in opposite directions, after Argyll had, rather
against his will, submitted to having his arm bandaged, _secundum
artem_, Hampden said to Neville:
‘What mockeries these affairs are! I could have shot Argyll “as dead as
a herring.” It’s better as it is, though.’
‘It’s a good thing his last shot wasn’t an inch or two _inside_ your
collar instead of out,’ said Neville gravely. ‘After all, as you say,
these things are mockeries, and worse. Suppose he _had_ drilled you, and
I was on my way to tell Mrs. Hampden that her husband would never return
to her?’
‘But _you_ wouldn’t be able to have given the sad intelligence, old
fellow,’ said Hampden; ‘you would have been fleeing from justice, or
surrendering yourself. Deuced troublesome affair to all concerned,
except the departed. But a man must live or die, in accordance with the
rules of society. After all, there’s nearly as much chance of breaking
one’s neck mustering over that lava country of ours as being snuffed out
in this way. Life’s a queer lottery at best.’
‘H—m, ha!’ said Neville, ‘great deal to be got out of the subject; don’t
feel in the humour for enlarging on it just now. What a good fellow that
Churbett is! He had a mind to read the Riot Act himself.’
An angry man ye may opine,
Was he, the proud Count Palatine!
And dire would have been the wrath of our provincial potentate, William
Rockley, had he but known on Sunday morning what deeds were about to be
enacted within his social and magisterial jurisdiction.
No sympathy had he, a man of strictly modern ideas, with what he called
the mediæval humbug of duelling. He looked upon the policeman as the
proper exponent of such proceedings. Could he have but guessed where
this discreditable anachronism, according to his principles, was being
perpetrated, all concerned would have found themselves in the body of
Yass gaol, in default of sufficient sureties to keep the peace. The
news, however, did not leak out until afterwards, owing to the
discretion of the persons concerned, and the fortunate absence of
serious results. When it did become matter of public comment, his
imperial majesty was furious. He abused every one concerned in
unmeasured terms; swore he would never speak to Argyll or Forbes again,
and would have Hampden struck off the Commission of the Peace. As for
Fred Churbett, he considered him the worst of the lot, because of his
deceitful, diabolical amiability, which permitted him to assist in such
infamous bloodthirsty designs unsuspectedly. Not one of them should ever
darken his doors again. He would never subscribe another shilling to the
Yass Races; indeed, he believed he would sell out, wind up his business,
and leave that part of the colony altogether.
However, not receiving intimation of this infraction of the law until
matters were somewhat stale, the _status in quo_ was undisturbed. The
whole of the company, with the exception of the few who were in the
secret, were similarly innocent; so the air remained unclouded. An
afternoon walk to Fern-tree Hollow, a shady defile which lay a couple of
miles from the town, was the accepted Sunday stroll.
Every one turned up to say farewell, thinking it a more suitable time
than on the hurried, packing, saddling, harnessing-up, bill-paying
morrow. Then once more the work of the hard world would recommence. The
idyll had been sung to the last stanza. The nymphs would seek their
forest retreats, the listening fauns would disappear amid the leaves.
The rites of that old world deity ‘Leisure,’ now sadly circumscribed,
had been honoured and ended. This was the last day, almost the last
hour, when Phyllis could be expected to listen to soft sighings, or
Neæra to be seen in proximity to the favouring shade.
As they strolled homewards, in the evening, with a troubled sunset and a
cooler breeze, as if in sympathy with the imminent farewell, the scraps
of conversation which might have been gathered were characteristic.
Something more than half-confidences were occasionally interchanged, and
semi-sentimental speculations not wholly wanting.
At the close of the evening, and the end of the stroll, every one, of
course, went to the Maison Rockley, and comforted their souls with
supper, Sunday being an early dinner day, as in all well-regulated
British families. Conversations which had not been satisfactorily
concluded had here a chance of definite ending, as the guests somehow
seemed unwilling to separate when the probability of meeting again was
uncertain or remote.
With the exception of a little music, there was no attempt at other than
conversational occupation, which indeed appeared to suffice fully for
the majority of the guests. And though ordinary topics gradually
introduced themselves, and Rockley, in the freedom of the verandah,
reiterated his opinions to Mr. Effingham upon the iniquities of the land
law, a subdued tone pervaded, half unconsciously, the various groups, as
of members of one family about to separate for a hazardous expedition.
‘I feel terribly demoralised,’ said Mrs. Snowden, ‘after all this
dissipation; it is like a visit to Paris must have been to Madame
Sevigné, after a summer in the provinces. Like her, we shall have to
take to letter-writing when we go home to keep ourselves alive. The
poultry are my great stand-by for virtuous occupation. They suffer, I
admit, from these fascinating trips to Yass; for the last time I
returned I found two hens sitting upon forty-five eggs. Now what
philosophy could support that?’
‘Whose philosophy, that of the hens?’ inquired Hamilton, who, with his
observant companion, had been mildly reviewing the confidentially
occupied couples. ‘It looks to me like a case of overweening feminine
ambition on their part.’
‘It was all the fault of that careless Charlotte Lodore who was staying
with me—a cousin of mine, and a dreadful girl to read. She was so deeply
interested in some new book that she left the poor fowls to their own
devices, and never thought about adjusting their “clutches”—that’s the
expression—until I returned. If you could have seen our two faces as we
gazed at the pile of addled eggs you would have been awed. I _was_ so
angry.’
As for Wilfred, he concluded an æsthetic conversation with Miss Fane by
trusting that she would be enabled to accept his mother’s invitation,
and pay them a visit at Warbrok Chase before the winter set in.
‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure, really,’ said she, ‘but I
seldom manage to leave home, except to see a relation in Sydney, or when
our good friends Mr. and Mrs. Rockley insist on my coming here. But for
them, papa would hardly consent to my visiting in the country at all.’
There was evidently some constraint in the manner of the girl’s
explanation, and Wilfred did not press for the solution, trusting to
time and the frank candour with which every one discussed every other
person’s affairs in the neighbourhood.
Miss Fane took an opportunity of quitting her seat and joining Mrs.
Effingham and Beatrice, with whom, much to Wilfred’s satisfaction, she
maintained a friendly and confidential talk until the little party
commenced to disperse. He discovered at the same time that Christabel
Rockley and Bob Clarke had exhausted their powers of mutual fascination
for the present, so he could not forgo the temptation of hastening,
after the manner of moths of all ages, to singe his wings in a farewell
flutter round the fatal Christabel. That enchantress smiled upon him,
and rekindled his regrets with a spare gleam or two from out her
wondrous eyes, large as must have been the consumption of soul-felt
glances during the evening; yet such is the insatiable desire for
conquest that she listened responsively to his warm acknowledgments of
the pleasure they had enjoyed during the week, nearly all of which was
attributable to the great kindness of Mrs. Rockley and the hospitality
of her father. ‘He should _never_ forget it. The remembrance would last
him all his life,’ and so on, and so on.
* * * * *
On Monday morning business in its severest sense set in for the world of
Yass, its belongings, and dependencies. Before dawn all professionals
connected with race-horses were hard at work with the silent energy
which characterises the breed. Jockeys and trainers, helpers and boys,
were steadily employed, each in his own department, strapping, packing,
or saddling up with a taciturn solemnity of mien, as if racing had been
abolished by Act of Parliament, and no further rational enjoyment was to
be hoped for in a ruined world. Correspondingly, the tide of labour and
rural commerce swelled and deepened. Long teams of bullocks slowly
traversed the main street, with the heavy, indestructible dray of the
period, filled with loads of hay, wheat, maize, oats, or flour. Farmers
jogged along in spring-carts, or on rough nags; the shops were open and
busy, while the miscellaneous establishment of Rockley and Company,
which accommodated with equal ease an order for a ton of sugar or a
pound of nails, a hundred palings, or sawn timber for a bridge, was, as
usual, crowded with every sort of client and customer, in need of every
kind of merchandise, advice, or accommodation.
Shortly after breakfast, therefore, Black Prince pranced proudly up
before his wheeler to the door of Rockley House, looking—but by no means
likely to carry out that impropriety—as if he was bent upon running away
every mile of the homeward journey. Portmanteaus and, it must be
admitted, parcels of unknown size and number (for when did women ever
travel forth, much less return, without supplementary packages?) were at
length conveniently bestowed.
Adieus and last words—the very last—were exchanged with their kind
hostess and her angelic daughter, who had vowed and promised to visit
The Chase at an early period. Rockley had betaken himself to his
counting-house hours before. Fergus and Allspice were once more honoured
with the weight of their respective mistresses, and the little cortège
departed. Our cavalier had, we know, been prevented by a pressing
engagement from accompanying them on the homeward route; but it was not
to be supposed that two young ladies like Rosamond and Beatrice were to
be permitted to ride through the forest glades escorted merely by
relations. Most fortunately Mr. St. Maur happened to be visiting his
friend O’Desmond, combining business and pleasure, for a few days. As
his road lay past The Chase, he was, of course, only too happy to join
their party.
Annabel Effingham thought that Bertram St. Maur was perhaps the prince
and seigneur of their by no means undistinguished circle of
acquaintances. A tall, handsome man, with a natural air of command, he
was by Blanche and Selden, immediately after they had set eyes on him,
declared to be the image of a Norman King in their History of England,
and invested accordingly with grand and mysterious attributes. A
well-known explorer, in the first days of his residence in Australia he
had preferred the hazards of discovery to the slower gains of ordinary
station life. He was therefore looked upon as the natural chief and
leader in his own border district, a position which, with head and hand,
he was well qualified to support.
The homeward journey was quickly performed, a natural impatience causing
the whole party to linger as little as possible on the road. Once more
they reached the ascent above their home, from which they could look
down upon the green slopes, the tranquil lake, the purple hills, of the
well-known landscape. The afternoon had kept fine; the change from the
busy town, the late scene of their dissipation, was not unpleasing.
‘I am pleased to think that you young people have enjoyed yourselves,’
said Mrs. Effingham, ‘and so, I am sure, has papa. It has been a change
for him; but, oh, if you knew how delighted I am to see home again!’
‘So am I; so are we all,’ said Annabel. ‘I for one will never say a word
against pleasure, for I have enjoyed myself tremendously. But “enough is
as good as a feast.” We have had a grand holiday, and like good children
we shall go back cheerfully to our lessons—that is, to our housekeeping,
and dear old Jeanie.’
‘Your mother is right in thinking that I enjoyed myself,’ said Mr.
Effingham. ‘I found most pleasant acquaintances, and had much
interesting talk about affairs generally. It does a man good, when he is
no longer young, to meet men of the same age and to exchange ideas. But
I must say that the pleasure was of an intense and compressed
description; it ought to last you young people for a year.’
‘_Half a year_,’ said Annabel, ‘I really think it might. _We_ met
improving acquaintances too,—though I am popularly supposed not to care
about sensible conversation,—Miss Fane, for instance. We shared a room,
and I thought her a delightful, original, clever creature, and so good
too. Can’t we have her over here, mamma? She lives at a place called
Black Mountain, ever so far away, and can hardly ever leave home,
because she has little brothers to teach, and all the housekeeping to
do. I am sorry she is so far off.’
‘So am I, Annabel. We should all like to see more of her.’
‘I think that there were an unusual number of pretty girls,’ continued
Annabel. ‘As for Christabel Rockley, I could rave about her as much as
if I were a man. She is a lovely creature, and as good-natured and
unselfish as a child.’
‘I must say,’ said Mr. Effingham, ‘that for hospitality in the largest
sense of the word, I never saw anything to surpass that of our friends.
I knew Ireland well when I was young, but even that proverbially
generous land seems to me to be outdone by our Australian friends.’
‘I hope Jeanie will have a nice dinner for us,’ said Annabel. ‘But we
need never be afraid of the dear old thing not doing everything she
ought to have done. She knew we were coming home to-day, and she will be
ready and prepared for a prince, if we had picked up a stray one at
Yass. Home, sweet home! How glad I am! There is nothing like dissipation
for making one feel truly virtuous.’
Of a truth, there is always something sacred and precious connected in
the minds of the widely scattered families of the Anglo-Saxon race about
the very name of ‘home!’ There was no one of the Effinghams whose heart
was not stirred as they rode and drove up to the hall door, and saw the
kindly, loving face of Jeanie, the seriously satisfied countenance of
Andrew, and even the silent Duncan, quite excited for him, as he stood
ready to assist with the horses. The garden in the neighbourhood of the
entrance gate was trim and neat, while showers had preserved the
far-stretching verdure which glorifies the country in whatever
hemisphere. No great time was consumed in unsaddling. Guy personally
superintended the stabling of St. Maur’s horse, while Wilfred conducted
him to one of the spare rooms. Dick Evans, always handy in emergencies,
turned up in time to dispose of the tandem. And in less than half an
hour Effingham and his new acquaintance were walking up and down the
verandah awaiting the dinner-bell, much refreshed and comforted, and in
a state of mind fitted for admiring the landscape.
‘How fortunate you seem to have been in falling across such a family
residence,’ said St. Maur. ‘You might have been for years in the country
and never heard of anything half so good. What a lovely view of the
lake; and first-class land, too, it seems to be.’
‘We owe our good fortune in great part, or I may say altogether, to my
old friend Sternworth. But for him we should never have seen Australia,
or have been stumbling about in the dark after we did come here. And if
it were possible to need any other aid or advice, I feel certain Mr.
Rockley would insist on giving it. I must say that the soil of Australia
produces more friends in need to the square mile than any other I know.’
‘It may be overrated in that respect,’ said St. Maur, smiling; ‘but you
are in no danger of overrating Rockley’s benevolence or his miraculous
ways and means of carrying out his intentions. As for Mr. Sternworth, he
is the “Man of Ross”—or rather of Yass—
To all the country dear,
and passing rich on not exactly ‘forty pounds a year,’ but the
Australian equivalent. If he introduces any more such desirable
colonists we must have him made rural Dean. You are satisfied with your
investment, I take it?’
‘So much so, that I look forward with the keenest relish to the many
changes and improvements [here his visitor gave a slight involuntary
motion of dissent] which I trust to carry out during the next few years.
Everything is reassuring in a money-making aspect, so I trust not to be
indiscreet in developing the property.’
‘My dear sir, nothing can be more proper than that we should carry out
plans for the improvement of our estates, after they have shown annual
profit balances for years. But to spend money on improvements in
Australia _before_ you have a reserve fund is—pardon my frankness—held
to be imprudent.’
‘But surely a property well improved must pay eventually better than one
where, as at present, all the stock are permitted to roam almost in a
state of nature?’
‘When you come to talk of stock paying, my dear sir, you must bear in
mind that it is not the finest animal that yields the most profit, but
the one on which, at a saleable age, you have _expended the least
money_.’
The evening passed most pleasantly, with just sufficient reference to
the experiences of the week to render the conversation entertaining. In
the morning their guest departed, and with him the last associations of
the memorable race meeting, leaving the family free to pursue the calm
pursuits of their ordinary life.
Wilfred found himself freshly invigorated and eager to take up again
occupations connected with the policy of the establishment. He praised
Dick Evans and old Tom warmly for the exact order in which he found all
departments, not forgetting a word of approval for Andrew, of whose good
conduct, however, he was assured under all possible circumstances.
As the season passed on, it seemed as though the family of the
Effinghams had migrated to one of the poets’ isles—
Happy with orchard lawns,
Where never wind doth blow or tempest rave—
so flawless were all the climatic conditions, upon which their
well-being depended.
Pleasant it was, after the day’s work was done, when the family gathered
round the substantial fire which, red-glowing with piled-up logs,
thoroughly warmed but did not oppressively heat the lofty room. Then
came truly the season of
Rest, and affection, and stillness.
Although a certain reaction was apparent after the stupendous adventures
and experiences of the race meeting, yet moderate social intercourse
survived. Mr. Churbett was the first of the personages from the outer
world who presented himself, and the historiette of the duel having
leaked out, he had to undergo a grave lecture and remonstrance from Mrs.
Effingham, which, as he said afterwards, reminded him so of his own
mother that it brought the tears into his eyes.
Mr. Argyll, luckily for his peace of mind, had occasion to go to Sydney,
otherwise, not to mention chance reviewers and critics, it is hard to
imagine how he could have protected himself against the uncompromising
testimony which Mrs. Teviot felt herself compelled to take up against
him.
‘Spillin’ the bluid o’ the Lord’s anointed; no that Maister Hampden was
mair than a magistrate, but still it is written, ‘they bear not the
sword in vain.’ And oh, it’s wae to think if Hampden’s bullet had juist
gane thro’ the heart o’ Maister Argyll, and his mither, that gracious
lady, wearyin’ for him by the bonny hills o’ Tarbert! And that Maister
Churbett, I wadna hae thocht it. I could fell him.’
Howard Effingham, in a general way, disapproved of duelling, but as a
soldier and a man of the world was free to confess that, as society was
constituted, such an ultimatum could not be dispensed with. He was happy
to hear no casualty had occurred. His own opinion, judging from what he
had seen of colonial society, was that the men composing it were an
exceptionally reasonable set of people, whose lives, from circumstances,
were of exceptional value to the community at large as well as to their
families. In the older countries of Europe, where duelling had formerly
flourished, the direct converse of this proposition often obtained. He
believed that in course of time the practice of duelling would become so
unnecessary, even unfashionable, as to be practically obsolete.
Mr. Hampden did not belong to their ‘side of the country’ (or
neighbourhood); thus he was necessarily left to receive his share of
admonition from his wife, and such of his personal friends who cared to
volunteer reproof or remonstrance. There were those who smiled
sardonically at this view of the case.