BOB CLARKE ONCE MORE WINS ON THE POST
The homeward-bound horsemen had no difficulty about the road, well
marked as it was by the travelling stock. There was also, as now, a mail
service from Sydney. They met the mailman about half-way. He was riding
one horse and leading another; he had often to camp out without fire,
for fear of blacks. In due time they reached the site of the border town
of Albury, on the broad waters of the Murray, all unknowing of the great
wine-cellars its grapes were yet to fill, with reisling, muscat, and
hermitage in mammoth butts, rivalling that of Heidelberg. Much less did
they forecast the iron horse one day to rush forward, breathing woe and
disquiet to the shy dryad of the river oaks, by the gleaming stream and
the still depths of the reed-fringed lagoons.
Rude were the ways by which they travelled from the Murray to the
Murrumbidgee River, by way of Gundagai, the great meadows of which were
then undevastated by flood. Thence to Bowning, and so on to Yass, in
which city the travellers were greeted with enthusiasm. The next morning
saw the younger far on his way to The Chase.
What a change had taken place since the exodus—that memorable departure!
But one little year had passed away, and what a transformation!
With the season everything had changed; all Australia was altered. Life
itself was so different from that day when, half-despairingly, they rode
behind their famished cattle, and turned their faces to the wilderness.
Now it had been crossed; the promised land won—a land of milk and honey
as far as they were concerned—of olives and vineyards—all the biblical
treasures—no doubt looming in the future.
For this prosperity the discovery of Port Phillip was accountable,
conjointly with the lavish, exuberant season. The glorious land of
mountain and stream, valley and meadow, laden with pastoral wealth and
bursting with vegetation, had been in a manner gifted to them by the
gallant, ill-fated Hubert Warleigh. They were all revelling in the
intensity of life, forming stations, buying and selling, speculating and
calculating, and where was he? Lying at rest beneath the sombre shade of
the forest giant, far from even the tread of the men of his race. Left
to moulder away, with the fallen denizens of the primeval forest; to
fade from men’s minds even as the echo of the surges, as the spring
songs of the joyous birds!
It seemed increasingly hard to realise. As he approached the well-known
track that led from the main road to Warbrok he could see the very tree
near which he had waved a farewell at their first meeting. There was the
gate through which they had ridden on the occasion of his second visit,
when he had been received on terms of equality by the whole family.
‘How glad I am now that we did that!’ Wilfred told himself. ‘We tried
our best to raise him from the slough into which he had fallen, and from
no selfish motive; how little we thought to be so richly repaid! One
often intends a kindness to some one who dies before it is fulfilled.
Then there is unavailing, perhaps lifelong regret. Here it was not so,
thank God! And now, home at last——’
* * * * *
Of that happy first evening what description can be given that faintly
shall suggest the atmosphere of love and gratitude that enveloped the
family, as once more Wilfred sat among them in the well-remembered room?
Speech even died away, in that all might revel in an uninterrupted view
of the returned wanderer. How improved, though bronzed and
weather-beaten, he was after his wayfaring!
‘And to think that Wilfred has returned safe from those dreadful blacks!
And oh, poor dear Hubert Warleigh! That fine young man, so lately in
this room with us, full of health and strength, and now to know that he
is dead—killed by savages—it is too dreadful!’
‘Mamma! mamma!’ said Annabel, sobbing aloud, ‘don’t speak of it. I can’t
bear it.’
Here she arose and left the room.
‘She is very sensitive, dear child,’ said Mrs. Effingham. ‘I do not
wonder at her feeling the poor fellow’s death. I can’t help thinking
about him, as if he were in some way more than an acquaintance.’
‘You have come back to a land of plenty, my son,’ said Mr. Effingham,
‘as you have doubtless observed. If you had known that such rain was to
fall, it might have saved you all the journey.’
‘My dear sir,’ answered Wilfred, ‘don’t flatter yourself that, myself
excepted, one of our old society will be contented to live here again.
The land we have reached opens out such an extensive field that no sane
man would think of staying away from it. Rockley will follow, and half
Yass, I believe. No one will be left but you and I and the Parson.’
‘What an exodus! It amounts to a misfortune,’ said Rosamond. ‘It seems
as if the foundations of society were loosened. We shall never be so
happy and contented again.’
‘We never may,’ said Wilfred; ‘but we shall be ever so much richer, if
that is any compensation. Stock of all kinds are fetching fabulous
prices in Port Phillip. By the bye, how is Dr. Fane? His store cattle
are now worth more than the Benmohr fat cattle used to be.’
‘We had Vera here for a whole month,’ said Rosamond. ‘She is the dearest
and best girl in the whole world, I believe, and so handsome we all
think her. She said her father had sold a lot of cattle at a fine price,
and if he didn’t spend all the money in books, they would be placed in
easy circumstances.’
As Wilfred paced the verandah, smoking the ante-slumber pipe—a habit he
had rather confirmed during his journeyings and campings—he could not
but contrast the delicious sense of peaceful stillness with much of the
life he had lately led. All was calm repose—amid the peaceful landscape.
No possibility here of the wild shout—the midnight onset—as little,
perhaps, of lawless deeds as in their half-forgotten English home. A
truly luxurious relief, after the rude habitudes and painful anxieties
of their pioneer life.
The night’s sound sleep seemed to have concentrated the repose of a
week, when Wilfred awoke to discover that all outer life was painted in
rose tints. That portion of the herd which had been left behind had
profited by the unshared pasturage to such an extent that they resembled
a fresh variety. Daisy and her progeny looked nearly as large as
shorthorns, and extreme prices had been offered for them, old Andrew
averred, by the cattle-dealers that now overspread the land.
A field of wheat, by miraculous means ploughed and harrowed, since the
Hegira, promised an abundant crop.
‘Weel, aweel!’ said Andrew, who now appeared bearing two overflowing
buckets of milk, ‘ye have been graciously spared to return from yon
fearsome wilderness, like Ca-aleb and Joshua. And to think o’ that puir
laddie, juist fa’en a prey to thae Amalekites, stricken through wi’ a
spear, like A-absolom! Maist unco-omon—ane shall be taen and the t’ither
left. It’s a gra-and country, I’m hearin’.’
‘The finest country you ever set eyes on, Andrew. The Chase seems a mere
farm after it. If it was not for the family, I should soon pack up and
go back there.’
‘I wadna doot. Rovin’ and rampa-agin’ aboot the waste places o’ the
yearth is aye easy to learn. But ye’ll ken yer duty to yer forebears and
the young leddies, Maister Wilfred, no’ to tak’ them frae this
douce-like hame.’
‘Oh yes, I know,’ said Wilfred. ‘Of course I shall stay here, and shall
be very happy and make lots of money again. All the same, it’s a
wonderful new country. Half the people here will be wanting to get away
when they hear about it. But how did you get this fine crop of wheat put
in without working bullocks? I’m afraid, Andrew, you must have been
taking a leaf out of Dick Evans’s book, and using other people’s
cattle.’
‘Weel, aweel!’ said Andrew, looking doubtful, ‘I winna deny that there
micht be some makin’ free wi’ ither folks’ beasties. But they were juist
fair savin’ their lives wi’ oor grass parks, and when the rain fell, it
was a case o’ needcessity to till the land, noo that the famine was
past.’
With regard to the ‘fatal maid,’ Wilfred Effingham had much difficulty
in reaching a determination worthy of a man who prided himself upon
acting on logically defensible grounds. He was by no means too certain,
either, that he could lay claim to Miss Christabel’s undivided
affections. So much of her heart as she had to give, he suspected was
bestowed upon Bob Clarke. If that were so, she would cling to him with
the headlong hero-worship with which a woman invests the lover of her
girlhood, more particularly if he happens to be ill-provided with this
world’s goods.
The result of all this introspection was that Wilfred, like many other
men, sought refuge in delay. There was no need of forcing on the
decision. He had work to do at home for months to come. And the marriage
question might be advantageously postponed.
Unpacking his valise after breakfast, he produced a number of
newspapers, the which, as being better employed, he had not opened. Now,
in the leisure of the home circle, the important journals were
disclosed. Each one, provincially hungry for news, seized upon one of
the messengers from the outer world. ‘Ha!’ said Wilfred suddenly, ‘what
is this? Colonel Glendinning, of the Irregular Horse, desperately
wounded. Wonderful gallantry displayed by him. Chivalrous sortie from
cantonments. Why, this must be our Major, poor fellow!’
He was interrupted by a faint cry from Beatrice, and looking round he
saw that she had grown deadly pale. He had just time to catch her
fainting form in his arms. But she was not a girl who easily surrendered
herself to her emotions. Rousing herself, she looked around with a
piteous yet resolved expression, and with an effort collected her mental
forces.
‘Mother,’ she said, ‘I must go where _he_ is. Tell my father that I have
always deferred to his wishes, but that now I _must_ join him—I feel
responsible for his life. Had I but conquered my pride, a word from me
would have kept him here. And now he is dying—after deeds of reckless
daring. But I must go; I will die with him, if I cannot save him.’
‘Dearest Beatrice, there is no need to excite yourself,’ said the fond
yet prudent mother. ‘You have only to go to your father. He will consent
to all that is reasonable. I myself think it is your duty to go. Major
Glendinning is severely wounded, but good nursing may bring him round. I
wish you had a companion.’
‘Where could you have a better one than Mrs. Snowden?’ cried Annabel
hastily. ‘She said she half thought of going home by India, and I know
she does not care which route she takes. She has been there before, and
knows all about the route. If papa would only make up his mind to go,
half the trouble would be off his mind, and he would enjoy the voyage.’
‘There could not be a more favourable time, my dear sir,’ said Wilfred
in the family council at a later hour. ‘I shall be here now. It is a
matter of life and death to poor Beatrice as well as to the Colonel. You
had better arrange to start by the first vessel, and to bring back some
Arab horses on your return.’
‘It is the only thing to be done,’ said Rosamond, who had just returned
from her sister’s room. ‘I wouldn’t answer for Beatrice’s reason if she
is compelled to wait here. She has repressed her feelings until now, and
the reaction is terrible. It is most fortunate that Mrs. Snowden is
ready to leave Australia.’
Subjected to the family pressure, aided by the promptings of his own
heart, Mr. Effingham was powerless to resist. The acclimatisation
question was artfully brought up. He at once yielded, and before the
evening was over, a letter was in the mail-bag, requesting their Sydney
agent to take passages by the first outward-bound boat for India, and to
advise by post, or special messenger, if necessary.
Beatrice, informed of this determination, gradually recovered that
calmness allied to despair which simulates resignation. She busied
herself unweariedly in preparation for the voyage, cherishing the hope
of soothing the last hours of her lover, if indeed it was denied her, to
watch over his return to the world of love and hope.
Mrs. Snowden arrived on the following day, and cordially acceded to the
proposition made to her, to share the adventures of the voyage and of
Indian travel.
‘If you knew,’ she said, ‘how grateful I feel for the opportunity of
changing the scene of my sorrows and being of use to my friends after
this lonely life of mine, you would not thank me. I would go many a mile
by sea or land to nurse the Major myself. Between me and Beatrice he
will be well looked after.’
All circumstances seemed favourably shaped for the errand of mercy. A
ship was about to sail for China, whence the opium clippers might be
trusted for a swift run to the historic land. Almost before the news of
the intended journey had reached Yass, so that the parson could drive
over and express his entire concurrence with the arrangement, the little
party had set out for Sydney.
* * * * *
In the fulness of time the very last evening, before the Rockley family
left Yass, arrived. All the party from The Chase had been in to say
good-bye, and had returned. Some mysterious business kept Wilfred in
town, and that special evening he of course spent at Rockley Lodge.
For it was not to be supposed that, on that momentous evening, the
family declined to see their friends. In the ‘Maison Rockley’ the head
of the house was so absorbed in his business pursuits that, except at
dinner-time, and for an hour after, he could hardly be said to possess
any family life whatever. He was grateful, therefore, for the presence
of such friends who would take the burden of domesticity, in part, off
his hands, and made no scruple of expressing, in the family circle, his
thanks for such services.
It so turned out that, on this particular morning, he had found time,
for once in a way, to give his daughter an earnest lecture about her
ridiculous fancy, as he termed it, for Bob Clarke; a young fellow who,
without any harm in him, would never come to much, or make any money
worth speaking of, seeing that he was far too fond of those confounded
horses, out of which no man had ever extracted anything but ruin, in
Australia. That they had never heard a word from him for ever so long;
most probably he was flirting away in Tasmania, and did not cast a
thought upon her. And here was Wilfred Effingham, than whom he did not
know a finer fellow anywhere—steady, clever, a man of family, and in
every way desirable. If he liked her, Christabel—he couldn’t say whether
he did or not, he had no time to trouble about such rubbish—why didn’t
she take him, and have done with it, and settle down creditably for the
rest of her life, instead of wasting her time and vexing her
friends?—and so on—and so on.
Christabel wept piteously during this paternal admonition, delivered, as
usual, with a loud voice and a fierce expression of countenance, but had
gone away reflecting that although she was, so to speak, badly treated
in this instance, yet, as she had succeeded in getting her own way all
her life, she probably might enjoy a reasonable portion of it in the
future.
Meanwhile, being fairly malleable and of the texture which is bent by
circumstances, she began to consider, when alone in her room, whether
there was not something of reason in her father’s arguments. Here she
was placed in the position of only having to accept. Of the true nature
of Wilfred’s feelings she herself had little doubt. There is something,
too, not wholly without temptation to the female heart in the
unconditional surrender of the lover, then and there urging his suit.
There may be also a wild impulse to accept the inevitable, and thus for
ever extinguish the uneasiness of anxiety and suspended judgment.
Then, Wilfred Effingham was very good-looking—fair perhaps in
complexion, and she did not admire fair men, but brown-bearded,
well-featured, manly. All the girls voted him ‘so nice-looking,’ and the
men invariably spoke of him as a good fellow. He was well off; he would
have The Chase some day, and she would be the great lady of the Yass
district, with her carriage and her servants; could entertain _really_
well. She would also, beyond doubt, be envied by all her schoolfellows
and girl friends.
The prospect was tempting. She thought of Bob’s dark eyes, and their
passionate look when he last said good-bye. She thought of the happy
days when he rode at her bridle-rein, and would lean over to whisper the
cheery nonsense that amused her. She thought of the thrill at her heart,
the strange deadness in every pulse, when The Outlaw went down, and they
lifted Bob up, pale and motionless; of her joy when he appeared next day
on the course, with his arm in a sling, but with eyes as bright and
smile as pleasant as ever. These were dangerous memories. But they were
boy and girl then. Now she was a woman, who must think of prudence and
the wishes of her parents.
Then Bob would be poor for many a day, if, indeed, he ever rose to
fortune. Through her heart passed the uneasy dread, which
gently-nurtured women have, of the unlovely side of poverty, of shifts
and struggles, of work and privation—of a small house and bad servants,
of indifferent dresses, and few thereof. Such thoughts came circling up,
like birds of evil aspect and omen, ready to cluster round the corse of
the slain Eros.
_Les absens sont toujours torts_, says the worldly adage. In his
absence, the advocacy for Bob Clarke was perhaps less brave and
persistent than it would otherwise have been. The girl strove to harden
her heart, by clinging to the prudent side of the case, and recalling
her father’s angry denunciations of any other course than an affirmative
reply to Wilfred Effingham, should he this night tell her the real
purport of his constant visits.
He himself had resolved to risk his fate on this last throw of the dice,
and so far everything assisted his plans. Mr. Rockley was in an
unusually genial frame of mind at dinner—cordial, of course, as ever,
but unnaturally patient under contradiction and the delays consequent
upon the cook’s unsettled condition. Mrs. Rockley excused herself after
that meal as having household matters to arrange. But Christabel, whose
domestic responsibilities had always been of the faintest, was at
liberty to remain and entertain Mr. Effingham and her father, indeed she
was better out of the way at the present crisis. Wilfred had no thought
of leaving early in order to accommodate his friends in their presumed
state of bustle and derangement, for it was one of those rare households
where visitors never seem to be in the way. None of the feminine heads
of departments were fussy, anxious, ‘put out,’ or had such pressing
cares that visitors came short of consideration.
Mrs. Rockley’s talent for organisation was such that no one seemed in a
hurry, yet nothing was left undone. The house was nearly always full of
inmates and visitors, male and female, with or without children. Still,
wonder of wonders, there was never any awkwardness or failure of
successful entertainment. Rockley, personally, scoffed at the idea of
being responsible for the slightest share of household management. He
merely exacted the most complete punctuality, cookery, house-room and
attendance for the ceaseless flow of guests, the cost of which he
furnished, to do him justice, ungrudgingly. Whatever might need to be
done next day (if the whole family, indeed, had been ordered for
execution, as Horace Bower said), William Rockley would have dined and
conversed cheerfully over his wine, suggested a little music (for the
benefit of others), smoked his cigar in the verandah, and mocked at the
idea of any guest being incommoded by the probably abrupt translation of
the family, or going away a moment before the regulation midnight hour.
Therefore, when Rockley told him that he hoped he was not going to run
away a moment before the usual time for any nonsensical idea of being in
the way because they were starting for Port Phillip on the next day
(what the deuce had that got to do with it, he should like to know?),
Wilfred fully comprehended the _bona fides_ of the request, and prepared
himself to make the most of a _tête-à-tête_ with Miss C. Rockley, if
such should be on the cards.
So it came to pass that while Mr. Rockley and Wilfred were lounging in
the Cingalese arm-chairs, which still adorned the verandah, Christabel
betook herself to the piano, whence she evoked a succession of dreamy
nocturnes and melancholy reveries which sighed through the hushed night
air as though they were the wailings of the Lares and Penates mourning
for their dispossession.
‘Bowerdale hasn’t turned up,’ said Rockley abruptly. ‘The _Rebecca_ has
never been heard of. She sailed the day we left Melbourne. Queer things
presentiments. You remember his saying he felt hypped, don’t you?’
‘Yes, quite well. What an awful pity that he should have persisted in
going by her—after your warning, too!’
‘Didn’t like to lose his passage-money, poor fellow!’ continued the
sympathising Rockley. ‘I’d have settled that for him quick enough, but
he wasn’t the sort of man to let any one pay for him. Leaves a wife and
children too. Well, we must see what can be done. Fortune of war might
have been our case if I hadn’t taken Jackson’s measure so closely.’
‘Happy to think you did,’ said Wilfred, with natural gratitude. ‘If you
had not been so determined about the matter, I should have risked the
sea-voyage. I was tired of land-travelling.’
‘We should all have been with “Davy Jones” now. No cigars, eh? This
claret’s better than salt water? I suppose we all have our work to do in
this world; mine is not half done yet; yours scarcely begun. By Jove! I
forgot to leave word at the office about my Sydney address—where to send
all the confounded packages, about a thousand of them. I’ll run down and
see that put straight. Don’t you go till I come back. Tell Mrs. Rockley
she must have a little supper ready for us.’
Rockley lighted a fresh cigar and plunged into the night, while Wilfred
lost no time in repairing to the piano, which he managed to persuade the
fair performer to quit for the verandah, under the assumption that the
room was warm, and the night air balmy in comparison.
For a while they walked to and fro on the cool freestone pavement,
talking on indifferent subjects, while Wilfred gazed steadfastly into
the girl’s marvellous eyes, ever and anon flashing under the soft
moon-rays, as if he could read her very soul. She was dressed that
evening in a pale-hued Indian muslin, which but partly veiled the
exquisite graces of her form. How well he remembered it in after-days!
There was a languor in her movements, a soft cadence in the tone of her
voice, a quicker sympathy in her replies to his low-toned speech, which
in some indefinable manner encouraged him to hope. He drew the lounges
together, and telling her she needed rest, sat by her side.
‘You are really going away,’ he said; ‘no more last farewells, and
Heaven knows when we shall meet again. I feel unutterably mournful at
the idea of parting from your mother, Mr. Rockley—and—yourself. My
sisters were in the depths of despair yesterday. I don’t think it
affects _you_ in the least.’
‘Why should you think I am hard hearted?’ asked the girl as she raised
herself slightly, and leaning her face on her hand, curving the while
her lovely rounded arm, looked up in his face with the pleading look of
a spoiled child. ‘Do you suppose it is so pleasant to me to leave our
home, where I have lived all my life, and travel to a new place where we
know nobody—that is, hardly any one?’
‘How we all—how I,’ said Wilfred, ‘shall miss these pleasant evenings!
How many a one have I spent in your father’s house since we first met! I
can safely say that I have never been so kindly treated under any roof
in the whole world. As to your father, my dear old governor has always
been too good, but I scarcely think he could do more for me than Mr.
Rockley has done.’
‘Papa is always kind, that is, to people whom he likes,’ said Christabel
with an absent indifference, as if Mr. Rockley’s philanthropy and
irritability, his energy and his hospitality, were qualities of much the
same social value.
At that moment the moonbeam was darkened by a passing cloud, and Wilfred
drew nearer to the girl until he could almost feel her breath upon his
hair, and hear her heart palpitate beneath the delicate fabric of her
dress.
‘Christabel,’ he said, ‘ask your heart this night whether I am right in
hoping that you will not accompany your parents to this rude settlement.
Here you are known, honoured—yes, loved! Why leave one who would cherish
you while life lasted?’
Christabel Rockley spoke not nor moved, but she cast her eyes down, till
in the clear light the long dark lashes could be seen fringing her
cheek. Her bosom heaved—she made no sign.
‘Christabel,’ he murmured, ‘darling Christabel, I have long loved you,
fondly, passionately. One word will make me the happiest of living men.
Bow but your head in token that you grant my prayer, and I will take it
as a sign from Heaven. Stay with my mother till she embraces you as a
loved daughter. Only say the word. Will you try to return, in your own
good time, my deep, my unalterable love?’
She raised her head and looked fixedly at him as he stood there, the
embodiment of love’s last appeal, in the direct path of the moon’s rays.
His face and form, instinct with strong emotion, seemed glorified by the
flood of light in which it was encircled.
‘I can hardly tell,’ she said. ‘I have been trying to think—asking
myself if I can give you my heart, and this pale face of mine, that you
set so much value on—foolish boy! I think I may, in a little while, if
you will bear with me, but I would rather not say, for good and all,
just at this moment. You _will_ give me more time, won’t you? Ah! what
is that?’ she suddenly broke off, with almost a shriek, as the roll of
horse-hoofs smote clearly through the still night air upon the senses,
almost upon the overwrought hearts of the listeners. ‘Who can it be?
Surely it isn’t papa riding back on the warehouse-keeper’s cob?’
Not so. The hoofs of no mortal cob ever rang upon turf or roadway with
the long, regular strokes of the steed of the coming horseman.
‘A thoroughbred horse!’ said Wilfred. ‘Tired, too, by his rolling
stride. Whoever can it be at this time of night?’
Then he saw Christabel’s pale cheek faintly flush. How lovely was the
warmer tint as it stole from cheek to brow, while her eye sparkled
afresh like a lamp relumed. ‘Only one person is likely to come here
to-night to say good-bye to us,’ she almost whispered. ‘I did not think
he would take the trouble. Oh, it can’t be——’
As she spoke, the clattering hoofs ceased abruptly at the garden gate. A
hasty step was heard on the gravel, and Bob Clarke, pale as death and
haggard with fatigue, stood before them.
‘I swore I would say good-bye,’ he said. ‘So I am here, you see. I have
ridden a hundred miles to do it. Ha! Effingham! Back from Port Phillip?
Christabel Rockley, answer me—am I too late?’
‘Oh, Bob!’ she cried, and as she spoke she rose and stood by his side,
taking one hand in both of hers. ‘You are not too late. But you will
have to forgive me, and you, too, Wilfred Effingham, for being a silly
girl that did not know her own mind. It would have served you right,
Master Bob, and it will be a lesson to you not to put off important
business. If Desborough had gone lame—I suppose it is he, poor fellow,
that you have nearly ridden to death—you would have lost Christabel
Rockley for good and all, whatever she may be worth. I was not sure, and
papa was angry. But I am now—_I am now_. Oh, Bob, my dear old Bob, I
will wait for you till I am a hundred if you don’t make a fortune
before!’
Bob Clarke looked doubtfully from one face to the other, scrutinising
Wilfred’s with a fierce, questioning glance. But as their eyes met he
saw that which quenched all jealous fears.
‘My dear fellow,’ said Wilfred, coming forward and holding out his hand,
‘you have had your usual luck and “won on the post.” I congratulate you
heartily, on my honour, as a man and a gentleman. Christabel has freely
told you that but for your opportune arrival her hand might have been
disposed of differently. You won’t wonder that any man should do his
best to win her. But from my soul I can now rejoice that it was not so;
that I have been spared the discovery, when too late, that her heart was
yours—yours alone. Look upon me now as your lifelong friend. Let us keep
our own counsel, and all will go well.’
‘Wilfred Effingham has spoken like himself,’ said Christabel, whose
features were now illuminated with the pure light of love that knows
neither doubt nor diffidence in the presence of the beloved one. ‘You
see, I should have had some excuse, Bob, if I had thrown you over, you
procrastinating old stupid. Why did you leave me doubting and wondering
all this time? However, I shall have plenty of time to scold you. Here
comes papa at last.’
At this simple announcement the three faces changed as the well-known
step of Mr. Rockley was heard—firm, rapid, aggressive. But the girl’s
features, at first troubled, gradually assumed a steadfast look. Bob
Clarke raised his head, and drew himself up as if scanning the line of
country. Wilfred Effingham’s countenance wore the abstracted look of one
raised by unselfish aims above ordinary considerations.
‘I thought I should never get away from that confounded old idiot,’ Mr.
Rockley commenced. ‘Why, Bob Clarke! where have you sprung from? We
heard you had gone to Port Phillip, or Adelaide, or somewhere; very glad
to see you, wherever you came from. Better stay to-night; we can give
you a bed. Why the deuce didn’t you take your horse round to the stable
instead of letting the poor devil stand tied up at the gate after the
ride he seems to have had? Christabel, perhaps you’ll tell them to bring
in supper. I feel both hungry and thirsty—giving directions, directions,
till I’m hoarse.’
Christabel glided away, whereupon Bob Clarke faced round squarely and
confronted his host.
‘Mr. Rockley, I came here to-night to tell you two things. I apologise
for being so late, but I only heard you were leaving yesterday. I have
ridden a hundred miles to-day.’
‘Just like you,’ said Rockley; ‘and why the deuce didn’t you make them
send you in supper all this time? You look as if you hadn’t saved
yourself any more than your horse.’
Truth to tell, Master Bob _was_ rather pale, and his eyes looked
unnaturally bright as he bent them upon the speaker.
‘Plenty of time afterwards, sir,’ he said; ‘the business was important.
First of all, Mr. Hampden has given me a partnership, and I am going to
take up country in Port Phillip under the firm of Hampden and Clarke.
The cattle are drafted and started—five hundred head of picked
Herefords—Joe Curle is with them, and young Warner. I’m going by sea to
be ready for them when they come over.’
‘I’m sincerely glad to hear it, my dear Bob,’ said Rockley in his most
cordial manner—one peculiar to him when he had become aware of something
to another man’s advantage. ‘Why, you had better come down with us this
week in the _Mary Anne_. I’ve chartered her, and she is crammed full,
but, of course, I can give any one a passage. I can’t tell you how glad
I am. Mrs. Rockley!’ he cried out as that well-beloved matron appeared
and held out her hand with a smile of good omen to the not fully
reassured Bob, ‘are we never to have anything to eat to-night? Here’s
Bob Clarke has ridden a hundred and fifty miles, and dying of hunger
before your eyes; but, of course, of course’—here he changed into a
tragic tone of injury—‘if I’m not to be master in my own house——’
Mrs. Rockley, with her placid countenance, only relieved by a glance at
Wilfred, swiftly withdrew, and Rockley, to whom it had suddenly occurred
as he looked at Wilfred that complications might arise from his
subjecting his daughter to the perilous companionship of a sea-voyage
with so noted a detrimental as Bob Clarke, looked like a hound that had
outrun the scent, desirous of trying back, but not quite certain of his
line.
‘Well, Bob, I am sure you will do well in Port Phillip; you have had
lots of experience, and no man can work harder when he likes, I will say
that for you; but it’s a fast place, a very fast place, I tell you, sir;
and if you give yourself up to that confounded racing and
steeplechasing, I know what will come of it.’
‘Mr. Rockley,’ said Bob again, with the air of a man who steadies his
horse at a rasper, ‘I came to ask you for your daughter. I know I’ve not
done much so far, but she likes me, and I feel I shall be successful in
life or go to the devil—according to your answer this night.’
Mr. Rockley looked first at one and then at the other of his young
friends in much astonishment. This surprise was so great that for once
he was unable to give vent to his ideas.
Before he could gather self-possession, Wilfred Effingham spoke. ‘My
dear Rockley, from circumstances which have come to my knowledge, but
which I am in honour bound not to reveal, I can assure you that your
daughter’s happiness is deeply concerned in my friend Clarke’s proposal.
As a friend of the family—who takes the deepest interest in her future
welfare—let me beg of you to give the matter your most favourable
consideration.’
Mr. Rockley’s face passed through the phases of wild astonishment and
strong disapproval before he replied. It had then relaxed into one of
humorous enlightenment.
‘I see how it is. That monkey, Christabel, has enlisted you on her side.
Well, I tell you both that I should have preferred Wilfred Effingham as
my son-in-law. I am not going to hide my opinion on that or any other
subject. But as she has made her choice, I will not—I say I will
not—make her life miserable. Not that I have any objection to you, Bob,
my boy, except on the score of that confounded horse-racing. It’s very
well in its way. No man enjoys a race more than I do; but it’s not the
thing for a young fellow who has his way to make in the world.’
‘I’ll never own another race-horse,’ quoth Bob, with desperate
self-renunciation, ‘as long as I live, if——’
‘Oh yes, you will,’ said Mr. Rockley, with superior forecast; ‘but what
I want you to do is to promise not to go head and shoulders into it for
the next few years, when you’ll have all your work cut out for you, if
you want to be a man and make a home for your wife and family. Well,
it’s done now, and here’s my hand, my boy; you’ve got a good little
girl, if she is a pretty one. But take my advice, don’t give her too
much of her own way at the beginning. Show that you intend to be master
from the start, _put her down_ if she shows temper; when she gives in,
you can be as kind to her as you like afterwards. Better that than for
her to have the whip-hand. Women don’t understand moderation. That was
always my way, wasn’t it, Bessie?’ he inquired, appealing to Mrs.
Rockley, who having entered the room had come in for this piece of
practical advice, delivered in a loud tone of voice. ‘I’ve been giving
your future son-in-law—there he is; I know he is a favourite of yours;
you needn’t say he isn’t—a useful piece of advice, which I hope he’ll
have the sense to act up to. Supper ready in the next room? I fancy
we’re all in want of a little refreshment; what do you think, Bob?’
That gentleman had private ideas upon the subject, but did not disclose
them further than by looking over at Mrs. Rockley, and giving practical
effect to the suggestion.
The _partie carré_ enjoyed a cheerful but not very conversational
repast. Wilfred and Bob Clarke felt more disposed to drink than to eat.
Neither had much to say, so Rockley had it all his own way with Port
Phillip speculations, advice to Bob Clarke of where to go for
first-class cattle country, and how to manage economically for the first
few years. Mrs. Rockley was tired, but found a few reassuring words for
the anxious Bob, explaining that Christabel had a headache, but would be
sure to be quite well in the morning. She also indicated her sympathy
with Wilfred, and her approval of his generosity in backing up his
rival’s claim. This, she assured him, she nor Christabel would ever
forget.
Finally, Mr. Rockley looked at his watch in the midst of a suggestion to
buy more cattle on Hampden’s account and take up two or three runs,
inasmuch as it was all one trouble and not much more expense; when,
discovering that it was past midnight, he broke up the parliament.
Wilfred made his final adieus, and at daylight was fast leaving the town
behind him, on his way to The Chase, accompanied by divers ‘companions
of Sintram,’ in the guise of vain regret and dull despair, with also
(though not unalloyed) a curious sense of relief.
Taking the most philosophical view of the subject, the after-taste of
refusal by a woman is rarely exceeded in this life for corroding
bitterness. The non-preference of oneself, to the average suitor, fills
the individual, unless he be free from every tinge of vanity, with wrath
and disgust. In vain the proverbial salve is applied by superficial
comforters. The foiled fisherman will not be consoled. He will throw
away his flies and burn his rod. Henceforth he and angling have parted
for ever. Such in effect for a while is the lament of most men who have
the evil hap to pin so much of their present and prospective happiness
upon one cast—and lose it. The proud man suffers deeply, in secret. The
selfish man mourns for the loss of personal gain. The true and manly
lover is shaken to the centre of his being. The vain man is wroth
exceedingly with childish anger; furious that any woman should disdain
him—_him_! The susceptible, fickle suitor, who promptly bears his
incense to another shrine, is to be envied, if not commended. But
To each his sufferings, all are men,
Condemned alike to groan.
Who loves vainly is stricken with a poisoned arrow. The wound rankles in
the flesh of every son of Adam, oft producing anguish, even unto death,
long after the apparent hurt is healed.
Wilfred Effingham was not more than ordinarily vain. He had not been, in
so many words, rejected. Indeed, he had been nearly accepted. But he
could not disguise from himself that it amounted to much the same thing.
Yet he reflected that he had cause to be thankful that the girl had not
been permitted to complete the measure of her self-deception—to promise
her hand where she could not truly have given her heart. Better far, a
thousand times, that this should have happened beforehand, he thought,
‘than that I should have seen after marriage the look that came into her
eyes when they rested on Bob Clarke.’
He did not admit that permanent injury to his health would result from
this defeat. It was not a crushing disaster, from which he could never
rally. Rather was it a sharp repulse, useful in teaching caution. Brave
men, great men, had profited by blows like this ere now. He would retire
within his entrenchments—would perhaps be the better fitted to take the
field in a future campaign.
A necessity lay upon him of acquainting his family with a portion, at
any rate, of such momentous events. He did not go too deeply into his
feelings for Christabel Rockley, yet permitted his mother and sisters to
perceive that all probability of her appearing at The Chase as Mrs.
Effingham, junior, was swept away by arrangement with Bob Clarke—duly
ratified by the irrevocable if reluctant consent of Mr. Rockley.
His condition of mind was, doubtless, closely gauged by his relatives.
With instinctive delicacy they ministered indirectly to his hurt spirit.
While not displeased that the lovely Christabel had not appropriated the
beloved, their Wilfred, they never permitted him to perceive how widely
their estimate differed from his own. They counselled steady occupation,
and led him to take pleasure once more in intellectual pursuits.
A diversion, happily, was effected in due time. He commenced to discover
that his mental appetite had returned—that he could read once more and
even _laugh_ occasionally at the conceits of authors, much indeed as if
his heart had not been broken. Then letters with good news from Beatrice
and her father arrived. The voyage had been safe and speedy. On their
arrival they had found the Colonel—such was his present rank—better than
their fears had led them to expect. Ghastly and numerous, in all truth,
were his still unhealed wounds; his state of weakness pitiable to see.
But the fever from which he had suffered had left him. And when the eyes
of the sick soldier met those of Beatrice Effingham, beaming upon him
with a world of love and tenderness, all felt that a stage on the way to
recovery had been reached. Such, too, came to be the opinion of the
doctor and nurse, a portion of whose duties the two ladies had assumed.
Then letters came from the new country, _via_ Port Phillip:—‘The climate
was more moist than that of New South Wales, but the water never failed,
and the grass was beyond all description. Immigrants from all the world
were pouring in fast; the place bade fair to be another Britain. Money
was being made rapidly. Stock were any price you chose to ask. A cattle
trade was springing up with Tasmania. Argyll thought he would go home
for a couple of years, leaving Hamilton in charge. Fred Churbett was in
great form, fully convinced that he was intended for a dweller in the
waste places of the earth. He felt so happy and contented that he didn’t
think he would take a free passage to England, with a season box at the
Royal Opera, if it were offered to him.’
As for Guy, all written symbols were inadequate to express the length,
breadth, and depth of his happiness under the new and romantic
conditions. The cattle were doing splendidly—no one would know them. And
no wonder—the feed was unparalleled. He had got up two good slab huts, a
stock-yard, and a calf-pen. They were now splitting rails for a horse
paddock.
The Port Phillip news (from Guy) became presently more sensational. The
Benmohr people, with Ardmillan, Churbett, and the rest, had arranged to
leave their stations for a while, and come to Yass for Christmas. A
better time to get away might never come. There was no chance of
bush-fires. The blacks were quiet. The cattle were thoroughly broken in;
you couldn’t drive them off the runs if you tried. There was nothing to
do this year but brand calves. So they would turn up before Christmas
Day.
He didn’t think he would have been able to get away, but Jack Donnelly
had offered to look after the run in his absence, and with old Tom
there, no harm could come to the cattle. A couple of months would see
them back, and he really thought they deserved a holiday.
Such intelligence had power to renovate the morale of the whole
household, from Mrs. Effingham—who, in good sooth, had with difficulty
kept up a reasonably cheerful appearance, in default of her absent
husband and daughter—down to Mrs. Evans, expectant of the errant Dick.
Jeanie and Andrew were overjoyed at the tidings, and Duncan was at once
despatched to Benmohr to acquaint Mrs. Teviot and Wullie with the
glorious news, in case they had not as yet received a letter. But they
had; and Mrs. Teviot threatened Duncan with the broom for daring to
think ‘her gentlemen wadna acquent her the vara meenute they kenned they
could win hame to Benmohr.’
Comes then a letter from Sternworth. News had been received from
O’Desmond, who had discovered a splendid tract of country beyond the
lower Oxley marshes, hitherto considered impassable, and after remaining
upon it during the winter and spring, was coming back to Badajos. _He_
too hoped to arrive before Christmas. The long-vacant homes of the
district would be again filled up, thank God!
‘Won’t it be delightful to see dear Guy again,’ said Annabel, ‘and to
have the old house full once more, with friends and neighbours. I _must_
kiss one of them. Mr. Churbett, I think. You would not object to that,
mamma, would you?’
‘_He_ would not,’ said Wilfred. ‘I don’t wonder that you and Rosamond
are delighted at the chance of seeing their faces again. It seems hard
that fate should have decided to separate us. Either they should have
remained here, or we should have pulled up stakes, like Rockley, and
migrated there.’
‘There is another friend coming that I shall be charmed to welcome—whom,
like Annabel, I shall be ready to embrace, and indeed _shall_ kiss on
the spot.’
‘Is my last belief in womanhood to be uprooted?’ exclaimed Wilfred
languidly. ‘Is my immaculate sister Rosamond actually going to join the
“fast” division?’
‘You need not be alarmed,’ she replied. ‘It is only Vera Fane; and I did
not speak of her visit before, because I was not sure she would be able
to come.’
‘Vera Fane!’ said Wilfred. ‘How does she happen to come our way? I
thought she was in Sydney. Didn’t some one say she was going to be
married?’
‘Oh, to that handsome cousin, Reginald, that came from England, _via_
Melbourne, the other day. You heard that, did you? So did we, and were
agonised at the thought of losing her for good. But she is coming up
here at mamma’s invitation, given long ago, to stay with us over
January. Her father won’t be at Black Mountain till then; he can’t leave
Norman, who has had a bad time with scarlet fever.’
‘Well, you will have another lady in the house to fill Beatrice’s place,
and help to amuse your guests. She is quite equal to a pair of ordinary
young ladies in the matter of rational conversation, perhaps more.’
‘So Mr. Argyll thinks, evidently,’ said Annabel; ‘he paid her the
_greatest_ attention once he met her over here. I know she thinks him
very clever and distinguished-looking. They would suit one another
famously.’
‘I don’t think so at all,’ said Wilfred shortly. ‘But I must get away to
my work.’