THE RETURN FROM PALESTINE
Matters had been pleasant enough in the early days at Lake William, and
the Benmohr men considered that nothing could be more perfect than their
old life there. But this new region was so much more extensive, with a
half-unknown grandeur, rendering existence more picturesque and exciting
in every way. There were possibilities of fortunes being made, of cities
being built, of a great Dominion in the future—vast though formless
visions, which dwarfed the restricted aims of the elder colony. Such
aspirations tended to dissuade them from residing permanently in their
former homesteads.
But they were coming back for a last visit—a long farewell. There were
friends to see, adventures to relate, transactions to arrange. A
pleasant change from their wild-wood life, an intoxicating novelty; but
once experienced, they must depart to return no more.
The absentees did not await Christmas proper, but arrived beforehand,
having tempted the main in the yacht _Favourite_, sailing master
Commodore Kirsopp, R.N., from Melbourne. Such passengers as Ned White,
Jack Fletcher, Tom Carne, and Alick Gambier offered such an irresistible
combination.
Once more the homesteads around Lake William appeared to awaken and put
on their former hospitable expression. Mrs. Teviot had scrubbed and
burnished away at Benmohr, until when ‘her gentlemen’ arrived, welcomed
with tears of joy, they declared themselves afraid to take possession of
their own house, so magnificently furnished and spotlessly clean did it
appear to them after their backwoods experience.
Mr. Churbett stood gazing at his books in speechless admiration (he
averred) for half an hour; afterwards inspecting his stable and Grey
Surrey’s loose-box with feelings of wonder and appreciation. Neil
Barrington declared that he was again a schoolboy at home for the
holidays, not a day older than fourteen, and thereupon indulged himself
in so many pranks and privileges proper to his assumed age that Mrs.
Teviot scolded him for a graceless laddie, and threatened to box his
ears, particularly when he kissed her assistant, an apple-cheeked damsel
lured from one of the neighbouring farms in order to help in her work at
this tremendous crisis.
Guy Effingham was hardly recognisable, so his sisters declared, in the
stalwart youngster who galloped up to The Chase in company with Gerald
O’More, whom he had invited to spend Christmas in his father’s house.
There was the old mischievous, merry expression of the eyes, the frank
smile for those he loved; but all save his forehead was burned several
shades darker, and a thick-coming growth of whisker and moustache had
changed the boyish lineaments and placed in their stead the sterner
regard of manhood.
Gerald O’More had also sustained a change. His manner was more subdued,
and his spirits, though ready as of old to respond to the call of mirth,
did not seem to be so irrepressible. He had altered somewhat in figure
and face, having lost the fulness which marks the newly-arrived
colonist, and along with the British fairness of complexion, sacrificed
to the Australian sun, had put away the half-inquiring, half-critical
tone of manner that characterises the immigrant Briton for his first
year in Australia. He now ranked as the soldier who had shared in the
toil, the bivouac, the marches of the campaign; no longer a recruit or
supernumerary.
‘He has never been so jolly since poor Hubert’s death,’ whispered Guy to
Rosamond in their first confidential talk. ‘He thought it was his fault
that the poor chap wasn’t able to defend himself. But he’ll get over it
in time. A better-hearted fellow couldn’t be. He’s a stunning bushman
now, and a tiger to work.’
‘What’s “a tiger to work”?’ asked Rosamond, laughing. ‘I must make you
pay a forfeit for inelegant expressions, as I used to do in old
school-days.’
‘I should never have known half as much,’ said the boy, as he turned to
his sister with a look of deepest love and admiring respect, ‘if it
hadn’t been for you, Rosamond. How early you used to get up on those
winter mornings, and how Blanche and I and Selden hated the sound of
that bell! But there’s nothing like it,’ he added with a tone of manly
decision. ‘I polished off a fellow about the date of the battle of Crecy
in great style the other day. You would have been quite proud of me.’
‘You keep up your reading, then, dear Guy, and don’t forget your
classics, though you are in the bush? When you go to England, some day,
you must show our friends that we do more than gallop after cattle and
chop down trees in Australia.’
‘Oh, we have great reading at night, I can tell you; only those tallow
candles are such a nuisance. I’ve got a new friend, a Cambridge fellow,
just out from home, on the other side of me, and he’s a regular
encyclopædia. So, between him and the Benmohr people, I shan’t rust
much.’
‘I am delighted to hear it. I hope you will have an Oxford man on your
other side, as you call it. A literary atmosphere is everything for
young people. Who is your other neighbour?’
‘Jack Donnelly, and not half a bad fellow either. Though his father
can’t read or write, he knows Latin, but not Greek, and he’s awfully
fond of reading. You should hear the arguments he and Cavendish have—the
Cambridge man, I mean.’
‘What do they argue about?’
‘Oh, everything—England and Ireland, Conservative and Democratic
government, native Australians and Britishers. They’re always at it.
Jack’s a clever fellow, and very quick; awfully good-looking too. You
should see him ride. Cavendish says he’ll make his mark some day—he’s
full of ambition.’
‘It is very creditable of him to try. If his father had not cared for
his children in that way, he might never have risen above his own grade.
Young gentlemen, too, should maintain the position which they have
inherited. Don’t lose sight of that.’
‘That’s what Hamilton’s always saying; he’s a wonderful fellow himself.
See him in town, you’d think he never had his hands out of kid gloves,
and yet he can keep time with the best working man we have, at any rough
work.’
‘You cannot have a better model, my dear Guy. Mamma and I are so
thankful that you are among men who would do honour to any country.’
Great was the joy expressed and many were the congratulations which
passed on both sides when the explorers returned. They had so much to
tell about the new home, so much to admire in the old one. It was a
suburb of Paradise in their eyes, with its cultured aspect and gracious
inhabitants, after the untamed wilderness.
They were never tired of praising their former homes and neighbours. If,
by some Arabian Nights arrangement, they could transport them bodily to
the new colony, complete happiness, for once in this imperfect world,
would be attained.
The Benmohrs found their apartments in apparently the same state of
faultless order in which they had quitted them. No smallest article had
been moved or changed. A velveteen shooting-jacket, which Argyll
remembered hanging up just as he started, was the very object which
greeted his eyes when he awakened after the first night in his own bed.
The worst of it was that the breaking up of all this comfort and
domesticity would be so painful. The climate had changed permanently
(people always jump to this conclusion in Australia directly they begin
to forget the last drought), and was simply Elysian. The lake was full;
once more they listened to the music of its tiny surges. But for choice,
the new country was about ten times more valuable. The pleasant old
station homesteads must go. However, they were here now for a spell of
pure enjoyment, not to bother their heads with the future.
Money was plentiful, the gods be praised! Everything was _couleur de
rose_; they would revel in ease and enjoyment with a free spirit until
Christmas was over. The cares of this world might then have their
innings, but by no means till the New Year chimes called them to new
duties. There was nothing now but such pleasant rides and drives;
lingering rambles, after the heat of the day; expeditions into Yass,
where they were fêted as if they had included the South Pole in their
discoveries. Mr. Sternworth alluded to their return in his sermon,
drawing tears from his congregation when he spoke of the strong, brave
man they would never see more, whom many there present had known from
childhood. But he had died as a Warleigh should die, doing his duty
gallantly, and giving his life to save that of a comrade.
Before the third week of December had passed, another sensational
arrival was chronicled. O’Desmond drove through the town on his way to
Badajos in his four-in-hand, looking as if he had encountered no
discomforts to speak of. His horses were in high condition; the bits and
brasses were faultlessly polished; the drag hardly looked as if it had
been a thousand miles from a coach-builder, much less covered up with
boughs during the deadly summer of the waste.
But observers noted that Harry O’Desmond, upright and well set up as
ever, was thinner and older-looking; that, although he received their
greetings with his old stately cordiality, there was an expression upon
his worn and darkened countenance rarely imprinted save by dread
wayfaring through the Valley of the Shadow——
So had it been with him, in truth. Passing the farthest known
explorations, his party came into a waste and torrid region,
indescribably dread and hopeless. There, apparently, no rain had fallen
for years. The largest trees had perished from desiccation of the soil;
even the wild animals had died or migrated. The few they encountered
were too weak to flee or resist. For weeks they had undergone fearful
privations; had tasted the tortures of thirst and hunger, well-nigh unto
death.
With men weakened and disheartened, O’Desmond knew that to linger was
death. With a picked party of his long-tried followers he pushed on,
leaving just sufficient to support life with the depôt. On the _very
last_ day which exhausted nature could have granted them they passed the
barriers of the Land of Despair. They saw before them—such are the
wondrous contrasts of the Australian waste—a land of water-pools and
pastures, of food and fruit.
But simultaneously with their glimpse of the haven of relief came the
view of a numerous, athletic party of blacks, clustered near the
river-bank. For war or hunting, this section of the tribe had surely
been detailed. There were no women or children visible—a bad sign, as
the sinking hearts of the emaciated wayfarers well knew. They were brave
enough under ordinary circumstances of fight or famine. But this bore
_too_ hardly upon human nature, coming, as it did, after the toils and
privations of the terrible desert.
But there was one heart among the fainting crew which neither hunger,
thirst, nor the shadow of coming death had power to daunt. Aware that
with savages a bold yet friendly bearing is the acme of diplomacy,
O’Desmond decided upon his course.
The chief stood before his leading braves, doubtful if not hostile.
Suddenly recollecting that among his private stores, faithfully
distributed, upon which alone they had been subsisting of late, was a
package of loaf sugar, the idea flashed across his mind of tempting the
palate of the savage.
Raising a handful of lumps of the rare and precious commodity, he
advanced cheerfully and presented them to the leader, who regarded them
distrustfully. His retinue stared with pitiless eyes at the wasted white
weaklings. It was the supreme moment. Life and death swayed in the
scales.
Harry O’Desmond so recognised it, under his forced smile, as he lifted
one of the smaller fragments to his lips, and with great appearance of
relish began to masticate. Slowly and heedfully did the chief likewise.
The charm worked. The flavour of the far-borne product, for which so
many of the men of his colour had died in slavery, subjugated the
heathen’s palate. He smiled, and motioned the others to advance.
O’Desmond followed up his advantage. Every remaining grain was
distributed. In a few minutes each warrior was licking his lips
appreciatively. A treaty of alliance, offensive and defensive, was as
good as signed.
That day the starving wanderers feasted on fish and flesh, brought in
profusion by their new comrades. They had never seen a white man before,
and were, like many of the first-met tribes, not indisposed to be
peaceful.
When shown the encampment, the clothes, the equipment, the strange
beasts, they pointed to the sky, snapping their fingers in wonder as
they marked the leader’s height and stalwart frame, but made no attempt
to raid the treasures of the white ‘medicine man.’
So the expedition was made free of a waste kingdom, bisected by the
deep-flowing stream of the Moora-warra, with its plains and forests, its
lagoons and reed-brakes. And for long years after, until O’Desmond sold
out the full-stocked runs for the high prices of the day, never was shot
fired or spear lifted in anger between the dwellers on the Big River.
Wilfred had called at Badajos to congratulate their old friend. Upon his
return he found that the household had received an important addition.
Dr. Fane had ridden over with his daughter from Yass, and was with
difficulty persuaded to rest for a few days at The Chase before
returning to Black Mountain. Like most people who lead uneventful lives,
he was in a hurry to get home, though compelled to admit that he had
nothing particular to do when he got there.
The Parson had stolen a day, he said, and driven over with them, proud
of the honour, he further stated, of taking charge of Miss Fane’s
impedimenta, which, though the most reasonable of damsels in that
respect, could not be carried upon Emigrant. That accomplished palfrey
she had brought over chiefly for the pleasure of having him to ride
while at The Chase. Besides, his presence saved her a world of anxiety,
as when they were separated she was always imagining that he had got out
of his paddock, been stolen, or fallen lame, such accidents being proper
to valuable horses in Australia.
So when Wilfred arrived he found every one in most cheerful and animated
vein. Argyll was describing the features of the new country to Dr. Fane,
who was deeply interested in its geological aspect; his daughter,
apparently, had found the narrative, interspersed as it was with ‘moving
incidents by flood and field,’ equally entertaining.
Mr. Sternworth, with Rosamond beside him, was questioning Hamilton about
the spiritual welfare of the infant settlement of Melbourne; promising,
moreover, a handsome subscription to St. James’s, the new Church of
England, at that time in course of erection. Gerald O’More, with Fred
Churbett and Neil Barrington, was having an animated, not to say noisy,
conversation with Annabel. Peals of laughter, of which a large
proportion was contributed by the young lady, were the first sounds that
met his ear upon entering the room. All seemed so capable of mutual
entertainment, without his aid, countenance, or company, that he was
sensible of a _soupçon_ of pique as he surveyed the festive scene.
However, he cordially welcomed Miss Fane and her father to The Chase,
mentally remarking that he had never seen that young lady look so well
before, or had thought her half so handsome. Her response did much to
clear his brow and banish from his heart all unworthy feelings. The
steadfast gaze was frank and kindly as of yore. She appeared
unaffectedly pleased to see him again.
‘You know you belong to the band of heroes whom we have felt so proud to
honour upon their return,’ she said. ‘Papa has a famous classical
parallel, I know, for your exploits and safe arrival at Lake William. He
did explain it to me, but I have forgotten. Mr. Sternworth, what is it?’
‘Never mind, Vera,’ replied the old gentleman, ‘I never talk Latin in
the presence of young ladies. I can always find something more amusing
to say. You must sing us those new songs you brought from Sydney. That
would be more appropriate, wouldn’t it, Mrs. Effingham?’
‘I don’t know much Latin, you unkind old godfather, but what I do know I
am not in the least ashamed of.’
‘Argyll’s making the pace pretty good, isn’t he, Fred,’ remarked Neil
Barrington, ‘with that nice Miss Fane? She’s the only “model girl” I
ever took to. I’m her humble slave and adorer. But I never expected to
have the great MacCallum More for my rival. Did you ever see him hard
hit before, Fred?’
‘Never, on the word of a gentleman-pioneer,’ rejoined Mr. Churbett.
‘It’s this exploration, new country, perils-of-the-wilderness business
that has done it. “None but the brave deserve the fair.” _We_ are the
brave, sir, in this fortunate instance. We have solved the mystery of
the unconquered Bogongs. We have gazed at the ocean outlets of the Great
Lakes. We have proved ourselves to be the manner of men that found
empires. Under the circumstances heroes always hastened to contract
matrimonial alliances. Cortez did it. Dunois did it. William of Argyll
is perilously near the Great Hazard. And I, Frederick de Churbett, am
hugely minded to do likewise, if that confounded Irishman would only
leave off his nonsense and let a fellow get a word in edgeways.’
Mr. Churbett had reason for complaint, inasmuch as Gerald O’More, when
his national gallantry was kindled to action, appeared determined to
permit ‘no rival near the throne,’ as he successively devoted himself to
Annabel, Rosamond, and Miss Fane, or indeed occasionally kept all
engaged in conversation and entertainment at the self-same time. It
became difficult to discover, for a while, so rapid as well as brilliant
were his evolutions, whom he intended to honour with his exclusive
admiration. At length, however, those who were in the position of calm
spectators had no doubt but that Annabel, with whom he kept up a
ceaseless flow of badinage and raillery, was the real attraction. If so,
he was likely to find a rival in the sarcastic Ardmillan, with whom he
had more than once bade fair to pass from jest to earnest. For the
cooler Scot was in the habit of waiting until he saw his antagonist upon
the horns of a dilemma, or luring him on to the confines of a manifest
absurdity. This he would explode, blowing his rival’s argument into the
air, and graciously explaining his triumph to the surrounding fair.
Such was the satisfaction which filled the heart of Mrs. Effingham, that
but for the absence of her husband and daughter she would certainly have
gone the daring length of giving a party. But the absence of her husband
was, to the conscience of the matron, an insuperable objection. No
amount of specious argument or passionate appeal could alter her
determination.
‘My dears, it would be wrong,’ she quietly replied, in answer to
Annabel’s entreaty and Rosamond’s sober statement that there could not
be any objection on the point of etiquette. ‘Suppose anything should
happen to your father or Beatrice about the time—travelling is so very
uncertain—we should never have another happy moment.’
So the project, much to Annabel’s openly expressed and Rosamond’s
inwardly felt disappointment, was given up. However, Mrs. Effingham
relented so far as to say that, although her principles forbade her to
give a party, there could be nothing indecorous in asking their friends
to dine with them on Christmas Day, when the time for dear Guy’s
departure for the station would, alas! be drawing nigh.
This was a grand concession, and all kinds of preparations were made for
the celebration of the festival. In the meanwhile, as there was next to
nothing doing on any of the stations, what between riding-parties,
chance visits, special arrivals for the purpose of bringing over new
books or new music, it seemed as if The Chase had been changed into the
caravanserai of the district. It would have been difficult to tell
whether the neighbours lived more of their time with the Effinghams or
at their own stations.
During this exciting season Wilfred Effingham was commencing to
experience the elaborated torture of seeing the woman he _now_
discovered to be his chief exemplar made love to by another man,
apparently with prospects of success. When he set himself to work
seriously to please, William Argyll was rarely known to fail. The
restless spirit was stilled. The uncontrollable temper was lulled, like
the wave of a summer sea. All the powers of a rare intellect, the stores
of a cultivated mind, were displayed. Brave, athletic, of a striking
personal appearance, if not regularly handsome, he was a man to whom few
women could refuse interest, whom none could scorn. Besides all this, he
was the heir to a fine estate in his native land.
When, therefore, day by day, he devoted himself in almost exclusive
attendance to the appropriation of Miss Fane, keeping close to her
bridle-rein in all excursions, monopolising her in the evenings, and
holding æsthetic talks, in which she apparently took equal interest, the
general conclusion arrived at was that Miss Fane was only awaiting a
decorous interval to capitulate in due form.
Yet Wilfred was constrained to confess that however much he may have
deserved such punishment, there was no change in her manner towards him.
When he touched upon any of their old subjects of debate, he found she
had not forgotten the points on which they had agreed or differed, and
was ready, as of old, to maintain her opinions.
She seemed pleased to linger over reminiscences of those days and the
confidences then made.
‘Nobody would know Black Mountain now,’ she said. ‘Since we have grown
rich, comparatively speaking, from “the providential rise in the price
of store cattle” (as one auctioneer called it), papa has indulged me by
making all kinds of additions, and I suppose we must say
improvements—new fences, new furniture, new stables, plants in the
garden, books in the library. Money is the latter-day magician
certainly.’
‘And you are proportionately happier, of course,’ said Wilfred.
‘Frankly,’ said Miss Fane, ‘I am, just at present. I feel like one of
Napoleon’s generals, who were ennobled and enriched after having risen
from the ranks. No doubt they enjoyed their new dignities immensely. If
they didn’t, their wives did. I won’t say we were _roturiers_, but we
were very, _very_ poor. And it is so nice now to think we can dress as
well as other people, and have the ordinary small luxuries of our
position, without troubling about the everlasting ways and means.’
‘We are much alike in our experiences,’ answered Wilfred. ‘We should
soon have been absolutely ruined—the ways and means would have simply
been obliterated.’
‘I suppose so; but I never could believe in the poverty of any of you
Lake William people. You seemed to have everything you could possibly
want. The best part of our present good fortune is, that the boys are at
a good school, while papa can buy as many new books as he can coax me,
in mercy to his eyesight, to let him read. So I can say that we are
quite happy.’
‘I wonder you don’t think of going to Europe. Dr. Fane could easily sell
at a high price now; and then, fancy “the kingdoms of the earth and the
glory of them.”’
‘You are quoting the Tempter, which is not quite respectful to me—for
once; but there is a reason why papa cannot bear the thought of leaving
our dear, lonely old home. My poor mother was buried there, and his
heart with her. For me, I have from childhood imbibed his feelings for
the place of her grave.’
Rosamond here approached, and carried off her friend upon some mission
of feminine importance. Wilfred, feeling that the conversation had taken
a direction of melancholy which he could not fathom or adequately
respond to, rejoined his other guests. But he could not help dwelling
upon the fact that his conversations with Miss Fane seemed so utterly
different from those with any other woman. Before the first sentences
were well exchanged, one or other apparently struck the keynote, which
awakened sympathetic chords, again vibrating amid harmonious echoes and
semi-tones.
To complete the universal jubilation, Mr. O’Desmond, in acknowledgment
of the interest which the inhabitants of the district had shown in his
safe return, announced his intention of giving an entertainment at
Badajos on New Year’s Day, at which amusements would be provided for his
humbler neighbours as well as for the gentry of the district. He had
ridden over to The Chase, and entreated Mrs. Effingham’s advice as to
decorations and dispositions. It was to be a _very_ grand affair. No one
who knew O’Desmond doubted but that, having undertaken such a project,
he would carry it out with elaborate completeness. So that, among the
young people and general population of the district, the Badajos Revels
were looked forward to with intense expectation.
‘What will the general plan of arrangement be?’ said Fred Churbett to
Hamilton. ‘Something in the Elizabethan style, with giants, salvage-men,
and dwarfs, speeches and poetical addresses to the Queen of the land,
whoever she may be? Anyhow, he is going to spend a lot of money about
it. I hear the preparations are tremendous.’
‘In that case it will form a telling relief to the general lack of
variety in these affairs,’ said Hamilton. ‘Every one has made such a
heap of money now, that it hardly matters what is spent, in reason. We
shall have to turn to hard work again in January. I wonder whether the
old boy has fallen in love, like everybody else, and is going to make
his proposals with what he considers to be “befitting accessories.”’
‘Shouldn’t wonder at all,’ said Fred. ‘It appears to me that we are
beginning to enter upon a phase of existence worthy of Boccaccio,
without the plague—and the—perhaps unreserved narratives. It certainly
is the realm of Faerye at present. The turning out into the world of
fact will come rather hard upon some of us.’
* * * * *
So matters passed on, materially unchanged, until the actual arrival of
Christmas Day, on which sacred commemoration Mr. Sternworth, who had
been temporarily relieved by the Dean of Goulburn, stayed with them at
The Chase for a week, and performed services to a reasonable-sized
congregation in the dining-room, which was completely filled by the
family, with friends and humble neighbours. On the evening before, too,
which invested the service with additional feelings of hope and
thankfulness, most satisfactory letters had been received from India.
Mr. Effingham told how—
‘The Colonel was recovering rapidly. His medical attendant advised a
visit of at least two years to Europe. As the cold weather season had
set in, he might take his passage. Beatrice and he were to be married
before he left. He (Mr. Effingham) would sail for Australia directly the
ceremony was over. Indeed, he was tired of India, and now that the
Colonel, poor fellow, was recovering, would have been bored to death had
it not been for his menagerie. Then followed a list of profitable and
unprofitable beasts, birds, and even fishes, which, if he could
transport successfully to The Chase, would make him a happy man for the
rest of his life. People might say he was amusing himself, but the
profits of some of his ventures would in days to come be _enormous_. For
instance, take the Cashmere goats, of which he had succeeded in getting
a small flock. The fine hair or “pushta,” combed from near the skin, in
contrast to the coarse outer fleece, was worth a guinea a pound. A shawl
manufactured from it sold for a fabulous sum. These animals would thrive
(he felt certain) in Australia; and then what would be the consequence?
Why, the merino industry would be dwarfed by it—positively dwarfed!’
The family of this sanguine gentleman did not go the whole length of his
conclusions, having found that some unexpected factor commonly
interfered with the arithmetical working out of his projects. But they
were delighted to think they should shortly see his face again. And
Beatrice was to receive the reward of her unchanged love and devotion!
She would have, dear girl, a lifelong claim to care for the health and
happiness of him whom she had, as the Surgeon-General averred, ‘raised
up from the dead.’
Files of Indian papers showed that on every side honours and decorations
had been heaped upon the gallant and now fortunate soldier. Here was one
of the mildest extracts—
‘Colonel Glendinning, V.C., has been made a Companion of the Bath. He
will probably be knighted. But will the country tolerate this tardy and
barren honour? Of his stamp are the men who have more than once saved
India. If the present Government, instead of making promotions at the
bidding of parliamentary interest, would appoint a _proved leader_ as
Commander-in-Chief, Hindostan might be tranquil once more and Russia
overawed.’