CHAPTER XXVII_Babes in the Bush

THE DUEL IN THE SNOW

Just before the commencement of the stupendous festivities of Badajos, a

letter arrived, by which the parson was informed that Mr. Rockley,

having business at Yass, had resolved to run up from Port Phillip and

see them all. Mr. St. Maur, who had an equally good excuse, would

accompany him.

This was looked upon as either a wondrous coincidence or a piece of

pure, unadulterated good luck. When the hearty and sympathetic accents

of William Rockley were once more heard among them, everybody was as

pleased as if he, personally, had been asked to welcome a rich uncle

from India.

‘I never dreamed of seeing St. Maur in these parts,’ said Neil

Barrington. ‘He’s such a tremendous swell in Melbourne that I doubted

his recognising us again. What business can he possibly have up here?’

‘Perhaps he is unwilling to risk a disappointment at the game which will

be lost or won before January, “for want of a heart to play,”’ said

Ardmillan. ‘He may follow suit, like others of this worshipful company.

Hearts are trumps this deal, unless I mistake greatly.’

‘Didn’t we hear that he had been left money, or made a fortune by town

allotments down there? Anyhow he’s going home, I believe; so this will

be his last visit to Yass for some time.’

‘If we make money at the pace which we have been going for the last

year, we shall all be able to go home,’ pronounced Ardmillan. ‘Yet,

after all the pleasant days that we have seen here and at Benmohr, the

thought is painful. This influx of capital will break up our jolly

society more completely than the drought. In that case we should have

had to cling to a sinking ship, or take to the boats; now, the vessel is

being paid off, and the crew scattered to the four winds.’

‘Sic transit,’ echoed Neil lugubriously. ‘I forget the rest; but

wherever we go, and however well lined our pockets may be, it is a

chance if we are half as happy again in our lives as we have been in

this jolly old district.’

* * * * *

Christmas had come and gone. The Badajos Revels were imminent. Rockley

and St. Maur had declared for remaining until they were over, in despite

of presumably pressing engagements.

‘I believe old Harry O’Desmond would have made a personal matter of it

if we had left him in the lurch,’ said Mr. Rockley. ‘He spoke rather

stiffly, St. Maur, when you said all Melbourne was waiting to know the

result of our deputation to the Governor-General, and that they would be

loth to take the excuse of a country picnic.’

‘The old boy’s face was grim,’ said St. Maur; ‘but I had made up my mind

to remain. I like to poke him up—he is so serious and stately. But we

should not have quarrelled about such a trifle.’

In the meantime, terrific preparations were made for the fête; one to be

long remembered in the neighbourhood. O’Desmond’s magnificence of idea

had only been held down, like most men of his race and nature, by the

compulsion of circumstances. Now, he had resolved to give a free rein to

his taste and imagination. It was outlined, in his mind, as a

recognition of the enthusiasm which had greeted his return to the

district in which he had lived so long. This had touched him to the

heart. Habitually repressive of emotion, he would show them, in this

form, how he demonstrated the feelings to which he denied utterance.

In his carefully considered programme, he had by no means restricted

himself to a single day or to the stereotyped gaieties of music and the

dance. On this sole and exemplary occasion, the traditional glories of

Castle Desmond would be faintly recalled, the profuse, imperial

hospitalities of which had lent their share to his present sojourn near

the plains of Yass. Several days were to be devoted to the reception of

all comers. Each was to have its special recreation; to include picnics

and private theatricals, with dresses and costumes from a metropolitan

establishment. A dinner to the gentry, tradespeople, and yeomen of the

district; to be followed by a grand costume ball in a building

constructed for the purpose, to which all ‘the county’ would be invited.

‘What a truly magnificent idea!’ said Rosamond Effingham, a short time

before the opening day, as they all sat in the verandah at The Chase,

after lunch and a hard morning’s work at preparations. ‘But will not our

good friend and neighbour ruin himself?’

‘Bred in the bone,’ said Gerald O’More. ‘Godfrey O’Desmond, this man’s

great-grandfather, gave an entertainment which put a mortgage on the

property from that day to this. Had a real lake of claret, I believe.

Regular marble basin, you know. Gold and silver cups of the Renaissance,

held in the hands of fauns, nymphs, and satyrs—that kind of

thing—hogsheads emptied in every morning. Everything wonderful, rich,

and more extravagant than a dream. Nobody went to bed for a fortnight,

they say. Hounds met as usual. A score of duels—half-a-dozen men left on

the sod. County asleep for a year afterwards.’

‘The estate never raised its head again, anyhow,’ said Mr. Rockley, ‘and

no wonder. An extravagant, dissolute, murdering old scoundrel, as they

say old Godfrey was, that deserved seven years in the county gaol for

ruining his descendants and debauching the whole country-side. And do

you believe me, when I mentioned as much to old Harry one day, he was

deuced stiff about it; said we could not understand the duties of a man

of position in those days. I believe now, on my solemn word, that he’d

be just as bad, this day, if he got the chance. I daren’t say another

word to him, and I’ve known him these twenty years.’

‘Let us hope there won’t be so much claret consumed,’ said Miss Fane. ‘I

believe deep drinking is no longer fashionable. I should be grieved if

Mr. O’Desmond did anything to injure his fortune. It may be only a

temporary aberration (to which all Irishmen are subject, Mr. O’More),

and then our small world will go on much as before.’

‘If we could induce a sufficient number of Australian ladies to colonise

Ireland,’ said O’More, bowing, ‘as prudent and as fascinating as Miss

Fane,’ he continued, with a look at Annabel, ‘we might hope to change

the national character. It only wants a dash of moderation to make it

perfect. But we may trust to O’Desmond’s colonial experience to save him

from ruin.’

* * * * *

Thus the last hours of the fortunate, still-remembered year of 1840

passed away. A veritable jubilee, when the land rejoiced, and but few of

the inhabitants of Australia found cause for woe. Great were the anxious

speculations, however, as to weather. In a _fête champêtre_, everything

depends upon that capricious department. And this being ‘a first-class

season,’ unvarying cloudlessness could by no means be predicted.

The malign divinities must have been appeased by the sacrifices of the

drought. A calm and beauteous summer morn, warm, but tempered by the

south sea-breeze, bid the children of the Great South Land greeting.

The New Year opened radiantly as a season of joy and consolation. The

whole district was astir from earliest hours; the preparations for the

momentous experiences of the day were utterly indescribable, save by a

Homeric Company of Bards (limited).

As the sun rose higher,

From Highland, Lowland, Border, Isle,

How shall I name their separate style,

Each chief of rank and fame,

with his ‘following,’ appeared before the outer gates of Badajos, where

such a number were gathered as would almost have sufficed to storm the

historic citadel, in the breach of which Captain O’Desmond had fallen,

and from which the estate had been named.

The first day had been allotted to a liberally rendered lawn party,

which was to include almost the whole available population of town and

district, invited by public proclamation as well as by special

invitation. Indeed, it had been notified through the press that, on New

Year’s Day, Mr. O’Desmond would be ‘at home’ prepared to receive _all_

his friends who desired to personally congratulate him upon his return

from the interior.

Never was there such a muster before, since the first gum-tree was

felled, within sight of Yass Plains. An uninterrupted procession wound

its way steadily on from the town, from all the country roads, down

gullies, and across flats and marshes. Every farm sent its

representative. So did every shop in the town, every station in the

district. Not a woman in the land had apparently remained at home. Who

minded the infant children on the 1st of January 1840 will always remain

an unsolved mystery.

The arrangements had been carefully considered by a past-master of

organisation; and they did not break down under the unprecedented

strain. As the horsemen and horsewomen, tax-carts, dog-carts, carriages,

tandems, waggons and bullock-drays even, arrived at the outer gate, they

were met by ready servitors, who directed them, through a cunningly

devised system of separate lanes, to temporarily constructed enclosures,

where they were enabled to unharness and otherwise dispose of their

draught animals and vehicles.

Sheds covered with that invaluable material the bark of the eucalyptus

had been erected, and hay provided, as for the stabling of a regiment of

cavalry; while small paddocks, well watered and with grass ‘up to their

eyes’ (as the stock-riders expressed it), suited admirably those not

over-particular rovers, who, having turned loose their nags, placed

their saddles and bridles in a place of security, and thus

disembarrassed themselves of anxiety for the day.

When these arrangements had been satisfactorily made, they were guided

towards the river-meadow, on a slope overlooking which the homestead and

outbuildings were situated. Here was clustered an encampment of tents

and booths, of every size and shape, and apparently devoted to as many

various classes of amusement and recreation.

The short grass of the river flat, as it was generally called, was

admirably adapted for the present purposes and intentions. The

propitious season, with its frequent showers, had furnished a fair

imitation of English turf, both in verdure and in thickness of sward,

the latter quality much assisted by the stud flock of the famed Badajos

merinoes.

* * * * *

The concluding day of the memorable Badajos Revels, the unrivalled

and immortal performance, had arrived. The last act was about to be

called on. All the arrangements had been more than successful. The

sports and pastimes had gone through without hitch or contention.

The populace was enthusiastic in praise of the liberality which had

ministered so lavishly to their amusement. The aristocracy were no

less unanimous in their approbation. That battues, the picnics, the

costume ball, had been, beyond all description, delightful,

fascinating, well carried out, in such perfect taste—extraordinary

good form—intoxicating—heavenly—utterly, indescribably delicious;

the adjectives and superlatives varying with the age, position, sex,

or character of the speaker.

And now the modern miracle-play was to finish with a presentment, unique

and marvellous beyond belief. The main body of guests and revellers had

departed soon after daylight. ‘Conclamatum est, Poculatum est,’ said a

young Irish priest. ‘I shall have to go into “retreat” if Father Mahony

gets word of me at the ball. Wasn’t I Lord Edward Fitzgerald to the

life? But I durstn’t stay away an hour longer from my flock.’ Many were

the half-repentant, homeward-bound wayfarers who held similar opinions.

And the continuous passage of the fords of the Yass River might have

suggested to the Scots, by birth or extraction, King James’ army after

Flodden—

Tweed’s echoes heard the ceaseless plash,

While many a broken band,

Disordered through her currents dash,

To gain the Scottish land.

There was not, it is true, such need for haste, but the pace at which

the shallower fords were taken might have suggested it.

However, a considerable proportion of the house parties and guests of

the neighbouring families, with such of the townspeople and others whose

time was not specially valuable, remained for the closing spectacle.

Much curiosity was aroused as to the nature of it.

‘Perhaps you can unfold the mystery of this duel which we are all taking

about,’ said Annabel to St. Maur, with whom she had been discussing the

costumes of the ball.

‘I happen to be in O’Desmond’s confidence,’ he replied; ‘so we may

exchange secrets. Many years ago, in Paris, he fell across an old

picture representing a fatal duel between Masks, after a ball. So he

pitched upon it for representation, as a striking if rather weird

interlude.’

‘What a strange idea! How unreal and horrible. Fancy any of the people

here going out to fight a duel. Is any one killed?’

‘Of course, or there wouldn’t be half the interest. He proposes to dress

the characters exactly like those in the picture, and, indeed, brought

up the costumes from town with him. Your brother, by a coincidence,

adopted one—that of a Red Indian. It will do for his second.’

‘Thoroughly French, at any rate, and only for the perfect safety of the

thing would be horrible to look at. However, we must do whatever Mr.

O’Desmond tells us, for _years_ to come. I shall be too sleepy to be

much shocked, that’s one thing. But what are they to fight with?

Rapiers?’

‘With foils, which, of course you know, are the same in appearance, only

with a button on the end which prevents danger from a thrust.’

‘Wilfred, my boy!’ had said O’Desmond, making a progress through the

ball-room on the preceding night, ‘you look in that Huron dress as if

you had neglected to scalp an enemy, and were grieving over the

omission. Do the ladies know those odd-looking pieces of brown leather

on the breast fringe are _real scalps_? I see they are. You will get no

one to dance with you. But my errand is a selfish one. You will make a

principal man in that “Duel after the Masquerade” which I have set my

heart upon getting up to-morrow.’

‘But in this dress?’

‘My dear fellow, that is the very thing. Curiously, one of the actors in

that weird duel scene is dressed as a Huron or Cherokee. You know Indian

arms and legends, even names, were fashionable in Paris when

Chateaubriand made every one weep with his Atala and Chactas? You could

not have been more accurately dressed, and you will lay me under lasting

obligation by taking the foils with Argyll, and investing your second

with this dress.’

‘With Argyll!’ echoed Wilfred with an accent of surprise.

‘I know he is called the surest fencer in our small world, but I always

thought you more than his match. He never, to my mind, liked your thrust

in tierce.’

‘You are right,’ said Wilfred. ‘Grisier thought me perfect in that. I

shall meet him with pleasure. If only to show him—— Bah! I am getting so

infected with the spirit of your Masquerade that one would think it a

real duel. Command me, however.’

‘A thousand thanks. Not later than three to-morrow afternoon. The ladies

will not forgive us if we are not punctual.’

From Wilfred Effingham’s expression of relief one might have thought

that he had received good tidings. Yet, what was it after all—what could

it lead to? A mock duel; a mere fencing match. What was there to clear

his visage and lighten his heart in such a game as this?

A trifle, doubtless. But William Argyll was to be his antagonist.

Towards him he had been unconsciously nurturing a causeless resentment,

which threatened to drift into hatred. Argyll was sunning himself daily

(he thought) in the smiles of Vera Fane, pleased with the position and

confident of success. And though she, from time to time, regarded

Wilfred with glances of such kindly regard that he was well-nigh tempted

to confess his past sins and his present love, he had resolutely kept

aloof.

Why should he court repulse, and only be more hopelessly humiliated? Did

not all say—could he not see—that Miss Fane was merely waiting for

Argyll’s challenge to the citadel of her heart to own its conquest and

surrender?

The Benmohr people, who knew something of everything and did not suffer

their knowledge to decay for lack of practice, were devoted to fencing.

Their lumber-room was half an armoury, holding a great array of foils,

wire masks, single-sticks, and boxing-gloves. With these and a little

pistol practice the dulness of many a wet afternoon had been enlivened.

Perhaps in their trials of skill those with the foils were most popular.

This was Argyll’s favourite pastime. A leading performer with all other

weapons, he had a passion for fencing, for which his mountain-born

activity pre-eminently fitted him. Effingham, a pupil of the celebrated

Grisier, was thought to be nearly, if not quite his match. And more than

once Argyll’s hasty temper had blazed out as Wilfred had ‘touched him’

with a succession of rapid hits, or sent the foil from his hand by one

of the artifices of the fencing school. Now, however, a trial would be

afforded, the issue of which would be final and decisive. To each the

requisite notice had been given, and each had accepted the chances of

the contest. No one in future would be able to assert that this or that

man was the better swordsman.

A larger gathering took place at luncheon than could have been expected.

Many were the reasons assigned for the punctuality with which all the

ladies showed up. Fred Churbett, indeed, openly declared that the

gladiator element was becoming dangerously developed, and that it would

be soon necessary to shed blood in good earnest, to enjoy a decent

reputation with the ladies of the land.

‘I saw O’Desmond’s people making astounding changes in the anterior of

the amphitheatre, Miss Annabel, from my bedroom window this morning. I

should not be surprised at the arena being changed to an African forest,

with a live giraffe and a Lion Ride, after Freiligrath. Do you remember

the doomed giraffe? How

With a roar the lion springs

On her back now. What a race-horse!’

‘I should not be surprised at anything,’ said Annabel. ‘Badajos is

becoming an Enchanted Castle. How we shall endure our daily lives again,

I can’t think. Every one is going home to-morrow, so perhaps the spell

will be broken. Heigh-ho! When are we to be allowed to take our seats? I

shall fall asleep if they put it off too long.’

‘At three o’clock precisely the herald’s horn will be blown, and we

shall see what we shall see. I hope Argyll will be in a good temper, or

terrible things may happen.’

‘What is this about Mr. Argyll’s temper?’ said Miss Fane. ‘Is he so much

more ferocious than all the rest of you? I am sure that _I_ have seen

nothing of it.’

‘Only my nonsense, Miss Fane,’ said Fred, instantly retreating from his

position. ‘The best-hearted, most generous fellow possible. Impetuous

and high-spirited, you know. Highlanders and Irishmen—all the world, in

fact, except that modern Roman, the Anglo-Saxon—are inclined to be

choleric. Ha! there goes the bugle.’

All were ready, indeed impatient, for the commencement. Many

acquaintances had indeed ridden out from Yass, and reinforced the

spectators. Mr. Rockley had appeared at lunch—scarcely in the best of

tempers—and had given vent to his opinion that it was quite time for

this foolery to be over. Not that he made this suggestion to O’Desmond

personally.

When the entrances were thrown open, and the spectators pressed into

their seats with something of the impatience which in days of old seems

to have characterised the frequenters of the amphitheatre, a cry of

delighted surprise broke from the startled guests.

In order to reproduce the accessories of the imaginary conflict with

fidelity of detail, O’Desmond has spared no trouble. The Bois de

Boulogne had been simulated by the artifice of transplanting whole

trees, especially those which more closely resembled European

evergreens. These had been mingled with others stripped of their

foliage, by which deciduous deception the illusion of a northern winter

was preserved. A coating of milk-white river sand had been strewn over

the arena, imparting the appearance of the snow, in which the now

historical masqueraders fought their celebrated duel. By filling up the

openings left for windows, and excluding the sun from the roof as much

as possible, an approach to the dim light proper to a Parisian December

morning was produced. As hackney-coaches appeared, one at either end of

the arena, and driving in, took their stations under trees, preparatory

to permitting their sensational fares to alight, the burst of applause

both from those familiar with the original picture, and others who were

overcome by the realism of the scene, was tremendous. And when forth

stepped from one of the carriages a Red Huron Indian, and with stately

steps took up his position as second, to so great and painful a pitch

rose the excitement among the ladies that ‘the boldest held’ her ‘breath

for a time.’

Pierrot now, with elastic springing gait, moved lightly forward towards

his antagonist, a reckless Debardeur, who looked as if he had been

dancing a veritable ‘Galop d’Enfer’ before he quitted the ‘Bal d’Opera.’

Each performed an elaborate salute as they took their ground. The

seconds measured their swords punctiliously.

As the enthusiasm of the crowd broke forth in remark and exclamation,

before the first passes were interchanged, Harry O’Desmond himself made

his appearance among the ladies, and took his seat between Rosamond

Effingham and Miss Fane, prepared to receive the shower of

congratulations at once poured upon him.

‘Yes, I _have_ taken a little trouble; but I am amply repaid, Miss

Effingham, if I have succeeded in adding to the amusement of my lady

friends. For those I have the honour to address’—and here the gallant

_impresario_ looked as if the lady beside him had but to ask for a

Sultan’s circlet, to have it tossed in her lap—‘what sacrifices would I

not make?’

‘Our distinguished host is becoming desperate,’ thought Rosamond. ‘I

wonder who _she_ is? I am nearly certain it is Vera Fane. He and the

Doctor are great friends. Now I think of it, he said the other day that

she was, with one exception, the pearl of the district. Mamma, too, has

been hinting at something. A nice lady neighbour at Badajos would be

indeed a treasure.’

‘What an exciting piece of sword-play this will be, Mr. O’Desmond,’ she

said. ‘One cannot help thinking that there is something real about it.

And I have an uneasy feeling that I cannot account for, such as I should

call a presentiment, if all were not so perfectly safe. What do you say,

Vera?’

‘I say it is a most astonishing picture of a real duel. I ought to enjoy

it very much, only that, like you, I feel a depression such as I have

never had before. Oh, now they are beginning! Really it is quite a

relief.’

‘I must take a foil with the winner,’ said O’Desmond, ‘if you think it

is so serious, just to see if I have forgotten my Parisian experiences.

It reminds one of the Quartier Latin, and the students’ pipes—long hair

and duels—daily matters of course. Ha! a wonderfully quick carte and

counter-carte. There is something stirring in the clink of steel, all

the world over, is there not, Miss Effingham?’

The pictured scene was accurately reproduced. Each man, with his second,

fantastically arrayed. The nearer combatant, in his loose garb, had his

sword-arm bared to the elbow, for the greater freedom required with the

weapon. Four other men, picturesquely attired, were present. Of these,

two stood near to him whose back was towards the part of the theatre

where the Effinghams and Miss Fane were sitting.

The contest proceeded with curious similitude to an actual encounter.

Attack and defence, feint and challenge, carte, tierce, ripeste,

staccato, all the subtle and delicate manœuvres of which the rapier

combat is susceptible, had been employed, to the wonder and admiration

of the spectators.

It was evident, before they had exchanged a dozen passes, that the men

were most evenly matched. Much doubt was expressed as to who would prove

the victor.

Latterly, Wilfred, who, with equal tenacity and vigilance, had the

cooler head, commenced to show by small but sure signs that he was

gaining an advantage. Step by step he drew his antagonist nearer to him,

and employing his favourite thrust, after a brilliant parry, touched him

several times in succession. At each palpable hit the spectators gave a

cheer, which evidently disturbed Argyll’s fiery temperament. He bit his

lip, his brow contracted, but no token, excepting these and a burning

spot on his cheek, showed the inward conflict. Suddenly he sprang

forward with panther-like activity, and for one second Wilfred’s eye and

hand were at fault, as, with a lightning lunge, Argyll delivered full

upon his adversary’s chest a thrust, so like the real thing that, though

the foil (as the spectators imagined) passed outside, the hilt of the

mimic weapon rapped sharply, as if he had been run through the body. At

the same moment he sank down, and was scarcely saved from falling, while

Argyll, impatiently drawing back his weapon, threw it down and turned as

if to leave the scene—half urged by his second—as was the successful

combatant in the weird picture.

‘Why—how wonderfully our brave combatants have imitated the originals,

Mr. O’Desmond?’ said Rosamond, with unfeigned admiration. ‘The Debardeur

sinks slowly from the arms of his second to the ground; his sword-point

strikes the earth; his comrade and the Capuchin bend over him. They act

the confusion of a death-scene well. His antagonist casts down his

blood-stained sword—why, it _looks_ red—and hurries from the spot.’

‘Yes,’ O’Desmond continued, ‘everything is now concluded happily,

successfully, triumphantly, may I say; it needs but, dearest Miss

Effingham, that I should offer you——’ What Mr. O’Desmond was minded to

offer his fair neighbour can never be known, for at that moment a

shriek, so wild and despairing, rent the air, that all conversation,

ordinary and extraordinary, ceased.

More astonishing still, Miss Fane sprang from her seat, and rushing into

the arena with the speed of frenzy, knelt by the side of the defeated

combatant, and with every endearing epithet supported his head, wringing

her hands in agony as she gazed on the motionless form beside her.

O’Desmond, leaping down without a thought of his late interesting

employment, gave one glance at the fallen sword, another at the fallen

man, and divined the situation.

‘By ——!’ he said, ‘_the button has come off the foil_, and the poor boy

is run through the body. He’ll be a dead man by sundown.’

‘Not so sure of that; keep the people back while I examine him,’ said

Mr. Sternworth, pushing suddenly to the front. ‘Stand back!’ he cried

with the voice of authority. ‘How can I tell you what’s wrong with him

if you don’t give him air? Miss Fane, I entreat you to be calm.’

He lowered his voice and spoke in softened tones, for he had seen a look

in Vera Fane’s face which none had ever marked there before. As she

knelt by the side of the wounded man, from whose hurt the blood was

pouring fast, in a bright red stream; as with passionate anxiety she

gazed into his face, while her arms supported him in his death-like

faint, her whole countenance betrayed the unutterable tenderness with

which a woman regards her lover.

The spectators stood assembled around the ill-fated combatant. Great and

general was the consternation.

The nature of the mischance—the loss of the button which guards the

fencer in all exercises with the foil—was patent enough to those

acquainted with small-sword practice. But a large proportion of the

crowd, with no previous experience of such affairs, could with

difficulty be got to believe that Argyll had not used unjustifiable

means to the injury of his antagonist. These worthy people were for his

being arrested and held to bail. His personal friends resented the idea.

Words ran high; until indeed, at one time, it appeared as if a form of

civic broil, common in the middle ages, would be revived with

undesirable accuracy.

Now, alas! the festive aspect of the scene was abruptly changed.

O’Desmond’s grief at this most untoward ending to his entertainments was

painful to witness. Argyll’s generous nature plunged him into a state of

deep contrition for his passionate action.

The women, one and all, were so shocked and excited by the sight of

blood and the rumour, which quickly gained credence, that Wilfred

Effingham was dying, that tearful lamentations and hysterical cries were

heard in all directions. Nor indeed until it was authoritatively stated

by the medical practitioner of the district, who was luckily present,

that Mr. Effingham having been run through the body, had therefore

received a dangerous but not necessarily fatal wound, was consolation

possible.

This gentleman, however, later on would by no means commit himself to a

definite opinion. ‘Without doubt it was a critical case. Though the

cœliac axis had been missed, by a miracle, the vasa-vasorum blood-vessel

had suffered lesion. The left subclavian artery had been torn through,

yet, from its known power of contraction, he trusted that the interior

lining would be closed, when further loss of blood would cease. Of

course, unfavourable symptoms might supervene at any moment—at any

moment. At present the patient was free from pain. Quiet—that is,

absolute rest—was indispensable. With no exciting visits, and—yes—with

the closest attention and good nursing, a distinctly favourable

termination might be—ahem—hoped for.’

But an early doom, either alone or with all the aids that affection,

friendship, ay or devoted love, could bring, was not written in the book

of fate against Wilfred Effingham’s name. In the course of a week the

popular practitioner alluded to had the pleasure of informing the

anxious inhabitants of the Yass district ‘that the injury having, as he

had the honour to diagnose, providentially not occurred to the trunk

artery, the middle coat of the smaller blood-vessel had, from its

elastic and contractile nature, after being torn by the partially

blunted end of the foil, caused a closure. In point of fact, the injury

had yielded to treatment. He would definitely pledge himself, in fact,

that the patient was bordering upon convalescence. In a week or two he

would be ready to support a removal to The Chase, where doubtless his

youth, temperate habit, and excellent constitution would combine to

produce a complete recovery.’

These agreeable predictions were fulfilled to the letter. Yet was there

another element involved in the case, which was thought to have

exercised a powerful influence, if, indeed, it was not the chief factor

in his recovery. The vision of sudden death which had passed before the

eyes of the guests at Badajos had surprised the secret of Vera Fane’s

heart. Of timid, almost imperceptible growth, the faint budding

commencement of a girl’s fancy had, all in silence and secrecy, ripened

into the fragrant blossom of a woman’s love. Pure, devoted,

imperishable, such a sentiment is proof against the anguish of

non-requital, the attacks of rivalry, even the ruder shocks of falsehood

or infidelity. Let him, then, to whom, all unworthy, such a prize is

allotted by a too indulgent destiny, sacrifice to the kind deities, and

be thankful. It may have been—was doubtless—urged by Miss Fane’s

admirers, that ‘that fellow Effingham was not half good enough for her,

more especially after his idiotic affair with Christabel Rockley’; but,

pray, which of us, to whom the blindly swaying Eros has been gracious,

is not manifestly overrated, nay, made to blush for shortcomings from

his early ideal?

So must it ever be in the history of the race—were the secrets of all

hearts known. Let us be consoled that we are not conspicuously inferior

to our neighbours, and chiefly strive, in spite of that mysterious

Disappointment—poor human nature—to gain some modest eminence. Let

Wilfred Effingham, then, enjoy his undeserved good fortune, _comme nous

autres_, assured that with such companionship he will be stronger to

battle for the right while life lasts.

‘How could you forgive me?’ he said, at the close of one of the happy

confidences which his returning strength rendered possible. ‘I should

never have dared to ask you after my folly.’

‘Women love but once—that is, those who are worthy of the name,’ she

said softly. ‘I had unwisely, it would seem, permitted my heart to

stray. It passed into the possession of one who—well, scarce valued

sufficiently the simple offering. But you do _now_, dearest, do you not?

I will never forgive you, or rather, on second thoughts, I _will_

forgive you, if hereafter you love any other woman but me.’

‘You are an angel. Did I say so before? Never mind. Truth will bear

repetition.’

* * * * *

Old Tom Glendinning commenced to fail in health soon after the permanent

settlement of the district; his detractors averred, because the blacks

left off spearing the cattle and took to station work. He lived long

enough to hear of General Glendinning’s marriage, at which he expressed

great satisfaction, coupled with the hope that the Major (as he always

called him) would return to India, ‘av it was only to have another turn

at thim murdtherin’ nay-gurs, my heavy curse on thim, from Bingal to

Galantapee.’

He was carefully nursed by Mrs. Evans, who had at length followed her

husband to the new country, after repeated assurances that it was

impossible for him to return to Lake William, but that she might please

herself.

They buried the old stock-rider, in accordance with his last wishes, on

an island in the lake, within sight of Guy’s homestead, near his ancient

steed Boney, who had preceded him in decease. The dog Crab survived him

but a few weeks, and was carefully interred at his feet. It was noticed

that no black of any description whatever, young or old, male or female,

wild or tame, would ever set foot on the green, wave-washed islet

afterwards.

Andrew and Jeanie, after a few years, retired to a snug farm within easy

distance of The Chase, at which place, for one reason or other, they

spent nearly as much time as at home. Andrew’s aid was continually

invoked in agricultural emergencies, more particularly when business

called Wilfred away; while Jeanie’s invaluable counsel and reassuring

presence, when the inmates of Mrs. Wilfred’s nursery developed alarming

symptoms, was so largely in request that Andrew more than once remarked

that ‘he didna ken but what he saw far mair o’ his auld dame before he

had a hame o’ his ain. But she had aye ta’en a’ her pleasure in life at

ither folk’s bedsides. Maist unco-omon!’

Duncan, having once enjoyed an independent life in the new country,

could not be induced to return to The Chase. He saved his money, and

with national forecast commenced business in the rising township of

Warleigh. Of this settlement he became in time the leading alderman (the

burgesses obtained a municipality in the after-time), and rose finally

to be mayor.

The _Melbourne Argus_ printed _in extenso_ Mr. Cargill’s address to the

electors of West Palmerston when a candidate for a vacancy in the

Legislative Council. It was certain he would be returned at the head of

the poll, doubtless to represent a Liberal Ministry before long. May

there never be invited a less worthy personage to the councils of the

land than the Hon. Duncan Cargill, M.L.C.

Mr. Rockley, after his return to Port Phillip, hurled himself with his

accustomed energy at every kind of investment. Not satisfied with

extensive mercantile transactions, he bought agricultural lands, the

nucleus of a fine estate. In Parliament he made such vigorous, idiomatic

onslaughts upon the Government of the day as led the Speaker

occasionally to suggest modification. He developed Warleigh, the town to

which he had originally attached himself, wonderfully, and besides

aiding all struggling settlers in the bad times, which arrived, as he

had prophesied, close on the heels of inflation and over-trading. In a

general way he benefited by good advice, friendly intercourse, and

substantial assistance, everybody with whom he came into contact. As a

magistrate, a perfect Draco (in theory), he was never known to remit a

fine for certain offences. It was whispered, nevertheless, that he had

many a time been known to pay such out of his own pocket.

It is comforting to those who honour liberality and unselfishness to

know that he amassed a large fortune. He continued to invest from time

to time in land, the management of which chiefly served to occupy his

mind in declining years. When the grave closed over the warm heart and

eager spirit of William Rockley, men said that he left no fellow behind

him. There are still those who believe him to have been unsurpassed for

energy of mind and body, with a clear-headed forecast in affairs, joined

to the warm sympathy which rendered it impossible to omit a kindness or

forgo a benefit.

The larger portion of the estate was willed to Christabel and her

husband, but from the number of junior Clarkes of all sorts and sizes

who fill the commodious family drag, a considerable subdivision of

landed property will probably take place in another generation. Bob

Clarke adopted easily the position of country gentleman. He no longer

rides steeple-chases, but his four-in-hand team is certainly superior in

blood, bone, matching, and appointments to anything south of the line.

But little remains to tell. Our small community reached that stage when,

as with nations, the less history needed the better for their happiness.

As to this last apocryphal commodity (as some have deemed), Wilfred

Effingham avers that Vera and he have such a large supply on hand that

he is troubled in spirit only by the thought that something in the

nature of evil _must_ happen, were it only in accordance with the law of

averages.

The Port Phillip investments paid so well that, upon the sale of Benmohr

by Argyll and Hamilton, he purchased that ever-memorable historic

station. Mrs. Teviot and Wullie remained in possession almost as long as

they lived, but never could be brought to regard Mr. Effingham in any

other light than that of a neighbour and a visitor of ‘their gentlemen.’

He was often reminded of the muddy winter evening when he first arrived.

Dean Sternworth—thus promoted—lives on, growing still more wonderful

roses, and experiencing an access of purest pleasure when a Marie Van

Houte or Souvenir de Malmaison excites the envy of the district.

Marrying, christening, and, indeed, burying the inhabitants of Yass—for

death also is in Arcadia—his unobtrusive path is daily trodden, ‘and,

sure the Eternal Master found, his single talent well employed.’

Among his chief and enduring pleasures are his monthly visits to Lake

William to perform service in the freestone church, which has been

erected by the Effingham family and their neighbours on a spot easy of

general access. On such occasions Dr. Fane is generally found at The

Chase, where the friends argue by the hour together. Such a period of

continuous mutual entertainment must it have been that, on one occasion,

was familiarly referred to by Master Hubert Warleigh Effingham as

lasting ‘till all was blue.’

Howard Effingham has once more been placed by circumstances in the

enviable position of a man who has nothing in this world to attend to

but his favourite hobby, to which he is sufficiently attached to devote

every moment of his spare time to it. That fortunate ex-militaire has

now few other foes to consider than the native cat (dasyura), the black

cormorant, and the dingo.

It must be confessed that they give him more trouble than ever—in his

youth—did the Queen’s enemies. The cormorants eat his young fish, and

when the captain extracted from the dead body of one of them no less

than six infantine trout, the tears (so his grandson averred) came into

his eyes. The partridges, even the gold and silver pheasants were not

sacred from the native cat. An occasional dingo makes his appearance,

wandering from Black Mountain (the doctor was always an indifferent

‘poisoner,’ says the parson), and a brace of gazelle fawns have never

been sufficiently accounted for. But the exhibition of strychnine

crystals provides a solution, and the land has peace.

On the whole, progress has been made. The furred, feathered, or finned

emigrants are steadily increasing; fair shooting can soon be allowed,

and extermination will be impossible.

Between ourselves, a leash of foxes were turned loose in the

gibba-gunyahs, near which the first dingo was killed, by the Lake

William hounds, and Jack Barker swore (only he ‘stretches’ so) that he

saw the vixen feeding five cubs—one with a white tag to his brush (Jack

is always circumstantial), with the biggest buck ’possum he ever saw.

The Lake William hounds have long been back in their kennels. John

Hampden makes a point of attending the first meet, and O’Desmond (whose

heart was not broken, or was at least successfully repaired by his

subsequent marriage) is a steady supporter, as of yore.

But somehow the whole affair doesn’t feel so jolly as when Argyll and

Hamilton, Ardmillan and Forbes, Fred Churbett and Neil, Malahyde and

Edward Belfield—all the ‘Benmohr mob’ in fact—were safe for every meet.

Perhaps, though with enthusiasts his steady march is disregarded, old

Time may possibly have had something to do with the decrease of

enthusiasm. Mrs. Wilfred does not approve of her husband riding so hard

as in the brave days of old. She herself, from circumstances, is often

absent, and scarcely enjoys lending Emigrant, still _nearly_ as good as

ever, to lady visitors. A heavy autumn shower, too, acted unfavourably

upon the health of the M.F.H., and explained practically what lumbago

most closely resembles.

Still Howard Effingham, nobly loyal to his ideal, presses gallantly

forward to the realisation of his hopes. The coming year will see an

opening meet of the Lake William hounds, such as, in _one_ respect, at

least, was never ridden to in Australia before.

On some grey-hued, red-dawning May morn, freshly recalling, like the

verse of an old song, how many a hunting day of yore, will he view a

_fox_ away from the upper corner of the ti-tree covert, on the rocky

spur of the yellow-box range—a _real_ fox—as red, as wiry, with as white

a tag to his brush as ever a straight-goer that stretched across the

pastures before the Pytchley or the Quorn. Nevertheless _Australian born

and bred_.

Standing in his stirrups, he watches the leading hounds pour through the

paddock fence, the remainder settling to the scent, or at silent speed

sweeping over the forest parks that border the lake meadows. Rosamond

St. Maur is far away, alas! and Fergus out at grass; but Major-General

Sir Walter Glendinning, on leave from India, is trying the speed of the

best Arab in the Mofussil. Mrs. O’Desmond is watching her husband

anxiously, Guy is home from Port Phillip, with Bob Clarke and Ardmillan,

each on a horse ‘fit to go for a man’s life,’ and wild with frolic

spirits. Mrs. Vera Effingham is out, and, as luck would have it, ready

and willing to remind Emigrant of old Black Mountain days. John Hampden,

taking The Caliph by the head, now snow white, but still safe across

timber, echoes back Wilfred’s ‘Forrard, forrard, away!’ as he sails off

with the lead, and forgetting his wife and family, feels perfectly,

ecstatically happy. Then, and then only, will Howard Effingham

acknowledge that he has at length achieved the position of which he has

so often dreamed—then will he hold himself to be in real, completest

earnest—an Australian Squire.

THE END

_Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, _Edinburgh_

------------------------------------------------------------------------

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------------------------------------------------------------------------

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enjoyable.”

_LITERATURE._—“A capital picture of official life in Burma.”

_DAILY TELEGRAPH._—“Emphatically of a nature to make us ask for more

from the same source.... Those who appreciate a story without any

sensational incidents, and written with keen observation and great

distinction of style, will find it delightful reading.... Cannot fail to

please its readers.”

_SPECTATOR._—“Mr. Lowis’s story is pleasant to read in more senses

than one. It is not only clever and wholesome, but printed in a type so

large and clear as to reconcile us to the thickness of the volume.”

_ATHENÆUM._—“The author writes in a clear, attractive style, and

succeeds in maintaining the reader’s interest from the first page to the

last.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Crown 8vo. 6s.

OFF THE HIGH ROAD

By ELEANOR C. PRICE

AUTHOR OF “YOUNG DENYS,” “IN THE LION’S MOUTH,“ ETC.

_ATHENÆUM._—“A pleasant tale.”

_SPEAKER._—“A charming bit of social comedy, tinged with just a

suspicion of melodrama.... The atmosphere of the story is so bright and

genial that we part from it with regret.”

_DAILY TELEGRAPH._—“At once ingenious, symmetrical, and

entertaining.... Miss Price’s fascinating romance.”

_LITERATURE._—“A simple, but very pleasant story.”

_SPECTATOR._—“The notion of an orphan heiress, the daughter of an

Earl, and the cynosure of two London seasons, flying precipitately from

her guardians, who are endeavouring to force her into a match with a man

she detests, and hiding herself under an assumed name in a remote rural

district of the Midlands, is an excellent motive in itself, and gains

greatly from the charm and delicacy of Miss Price’s handling.”

_ACADEMY._—“A quiet country book in the main, with more emotion than

action, and continuous interest.”

Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s.

THE PRIDE OF JENNICO

_BEING A MEMOIR OF_

CAPTAIN BASIL JENNICO

By EGERTON CASTLE

_ACADEMY._—“A capital romance.”

_COUNTRY LIFE._—“This story of the later years of the eighteenth

century will rank high in literature. It is a fine and spirited romance

set in a slight but elegant and accurate frame of history. The book

itself has a peculiar and individual charm by virtue of the stately

language in which it is written.... It is stately, polished, and full of

imaginative force.”

_LIVERPOOL DAILY MERCURY._—“The book is written in a strong and terse

style of diction with a swift and vivid descriptive touch. In its grasp

of character and the dramatic nature of its plot it is one of the best

novels of its kind since Stevenson’s _Prince Otto_.”

Crown 8vo. 6s.

STORIES FROM AMERICAN HISTORY

BUCCANEERS AND PIRATES

OF OUR COASTS

By FRANK R. STOCKTON

AUTHOR OF “RUDDER GRANGE”

_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY_

GEORGE VARIAN AND B. WEST CLINEDINST

_PALL MALL GAZETTE._—“A fine book.... They are exciting reading....

Eminently informing.”

_ACADEMY._—“Mr. Frank R. Stockton is always interesting, whether he

writes for young or old.”

Crown 8vo. 6s.

HER MEMORY

By MAARTEN MAARTENS

AUTHOR OF “MY LADY NOBODY,” ETC.

_DAILY TELEGRAPH._—“Full of the quiet grace and literary excellence

which we have now learnt to associate with the author.”

_DAILY NEWS._—“An interesting and characteristic example of this

writer’s manner. It possesses his sobriety of tone and treatment, his

limpidity and minuteness of touch, his keenness of observation.... The

book abounds in clever character sketches.... It is very good.”

_ST. JAMES’S GAZETTE._—“There is something peculiarly fascinating in

Mr. Maarten Maartens’s new story. It is one of those exquisitely told

tales, not unhappy, nor tragic, yet not exactly ‘happy,’ but full of the

pain—as a philosopher has put it—that one prefers, which are read, when

the reader is in the right mood, with, at least, a subdued sense of

tears, tears of pleasure.”

_ATHENÆUM._—“Maarten Maartens has never written a brighter social

story, and it has higher qualities than brightness.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Crown 8vo. 6s.

THE

ADVENTURES OF FRANCOIS

_Foundling, Thief, Juggler, and Fencing Master

during the French Revolution_

By S. WEIR MITCHELL, M.D.

AUTHOR OF “HUGH WYNNE,” ETC.

_DAILY TELEGRAPH._—“It is delightfully entertaining throughout, and

throws much instructive light upon certain subordinate phases of the

great popular upheaval that convulsed France between 1788 and 1794....

Recounted with unflagging vivacity and inexhaustible good humour.”

_DAILY MAIL._—“This lively piece of imagination is animated throughout

by strong human interest and novel incident.”

Sixth Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s.

CHARACTERISTICS

By S. WEIR MITCHELL, M.D. LL.D. (Harvard)

AUTHOR OF “THE ADVENTURES OF FRANCOIS”

_SPECTATOR._—“Very well worth reading.”

_ST. JAMES’S GAZETTE._—“This charming book.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Crown 8vo. 6s.

“WAR TO THE KNIFE”

OR TANGATA MAORI

By ROLF BOLDREWOOD

_SPEAKER._—“A stirring tale.... We are inclined to think that _War to

the Knife_ is the best story we have had from Mr. Boldrewood since he

gave us the inimitable _Robbery under Arms_.”

_ACADEMY._—“A stirring romance.”

_OUTLOOK._—“Anyone who likes a good story, combined with any amount of

information on strange lands, should get this book.”

Crown 8vo. 6s.

ROMANCE OF CANVAS TOWN

_AND OTHER STORIES_

By ROLF BOLDREWOOD

CONTENTS

A ROMANCE OF CANVAS TOWN—THE FENCING OF WANDAROONA: A RIVERINA

REMINISCENCE—THE GOVERNESS OF THE POETS—OUR NEW COOK: A TALE OF THE

TIMES—ANGELS UNAWARES

_DAILY TELEGRAPH._—“Eminently readable, being written in the breezy,

happy-go-lucky style which characterizes the more recent fictional works

of the author of that singularly earnest and impressive romance,

_Robbery under Arms_.”

_DAILY MAIL._—“As pleasant as ever.”

_GLASGOW HERALD._—“They will repay perusal.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Crown 8vo. 6s.

THE FOREST LOVERS

A ROMANCE

By MAURICE HEWLETT

_SPECTATOR._—“_The Forest Lovers_ is no mere literary _tour de force_,

but an uncommonly attractive romance, the charm of which is greatly

enhanced by the author’s excellent style.”

_DAILY TELEGRAPH._—“Mr. Maurice Hewlett’s _Forest Lovers_ stands out

with conspicuous success.... He has compassed a very remarkable

achievement.... For nearly four hundred pages he carries us along with

him with unfailing resource and artistic skill, while he unrolls for us

the course of thrilling adventures, ending, after many tribulations, in

that ideal happiness towards which every romancer ought to wend his

tortuous way.... There are few books of this season which achieve their

aim so simply and whole-heartedly as Mr. Hewlett’s ingenious and

enthralling romance.”

Crown 8vo. 6s.

THE

GOSPEL OF FREEDOM

By ROBERT HERRICK

AUTHOR OF “THE MAN WHO WINS,” “LITERARY LOVE LETTERS, AND