Just as dinner was announced, the carriage behind the grand three
hundred guinea browns—perhaps the best pair in Sydney—rolled up to
the door. Mrs. Grandison and Miss Josie fluttered down the stairs a
few minutes afterwards in the full glory of evening costume. As host
and guest stood in the hall, the lady of the house vouchsafed a
slight explanation, mingled with faint regret that the latter was
not coming with them.
“You know, Mr. Stamford, this is one of that dear Ketten’s last
recitals. We really could not afford to miss it—especially as our
friends, the Cranberrys, will be there. Lady C. sent a private
message to Josie that she _must_ go. I wanted to stop, for we really
are miserable about that wicked boy Carlo; but Josie said it
couldn’t make any difference to him, and why should we punish
ourselves because he chose to be selfish and extravagant.”
Mr. Stamford could not wholly assent to these philosophical
propositions. He thought of what Laura’s pleasure in hearing the
musical magnate would have been on the same evening that Hubert had
been declared a defaulter as to play debts, and was socially, if not
legally, under a cloud.
He simply bowed coldly. Then he saw the pained maternal expression
in Mrs. Grandison’s face, in spite of her worldliness and frivolity,
and his heart smote him.
“My dear Mrs. Grandison,” he said, taking her hand, “I feel for you
most deeply.”
Then suddenly came a voice from the carriage, in which Miss Josie
had ensconced herself. “Mamma, I shall catch cold if we wait one
moment longer. Hadn’t you better postpone your interesting talk with
Mr. Stamford?”
Mrs. Grandison started, and then recovering herself, shook Mr.
Stamford’s hand. “You will talk it over with Robert, won’t you? You
are old friends, you know. Don’t let him be too hard on poor Carlo.
I’m sure he has a good heart. Pray come and see us again before you
leave.”
The portly form of his hostess moved off at a swifter rate than her
appearance denoted. The footman banged the carriage door, and the
grand equipage rattled out over the mathematically accurate curves
of the drive. The dinner gong commenced to resound after a warlike
and sudden fashion, and caused Mr. Stamford to betake himself
hurriedly to the drawing-room. There he found Mr. Grandison standing
by the fire-place in a meditative position.
Mr. Grandison turned at his friend’s entrance. “Seen Mrs. Grandison?
Has she told you about it? Well, they’re gone now, and we can talk
it over quietly. Come in to dinner. I’ve no appetite, God knows! but
I want something to steady my nerves.”
The dinner, somewhat restricted for the occasion, was extremely
good, though his host ate little, confining himself to a cutlet and
some wonderful brown sherry. Not until the dessert was placed before
them and they were alone did he begin the subject which lay so near
to his heart.
“Of course I know, Stamford, that young fellows like my boy can’t be
expected to live in a town like Sydney upon a screwy allowance—at
any rate not if they are to be seen in good company. Therefore I’ve
always said to Carlo, ‘Let me see you make your mark, and live like
a gentleman. That’s all I ask of you, and you sha’n’t want for a
hundred or two.’ I hadn’t got it to spend when I was his age—you
know that, Harold; but if I like my youngster to be a bit different
in some things, that’s my own affair, isn’t it, as long as I am
willing to pay for it? Well that’s all right, you say. Take some of
this claret, it won’t hurt you. It’s my own importation from
Bordeaux. Of course I didn’t want the boy to slave in an office, nor
yet to live in the bush year after year with nothing but station
hands to talk to. If Mrs. Grandison had done what I wanted her to
do, while the children were young, and lived quietly at Banyule, it
might have been different. There we could have had everything
comfortable; nearly as good as here. It would have been better for
me, and them too, I expect. But she wouldn’t see it, and that’s why
we’ve always lived in town.”
“Still,” interposed Stamford, “though you have been well enough off
to afford to live where you pleased, I can’t imagine why Carlo
should not keep the course and run straight, even in Sydney, like
other young men of his age.”
Mr. Grandison sighed and filled his glass. “Some do, and some don’t,
that’s about the size of it. I don’t know why the lad shouldn’t have
enjoyed himself in reason like young Norman McAllister, Jack
Staunton, Neil O’Donnell, and others that we know. They’ve always
had lots of money, too; they’ve been home to the Old Country and
knocked about by themselves, and I never heard that they’ve got into
rows or overrun the constable. How my boy should have made such a
fool of himself with a father that’s always stuck well to him, I
can’t think. I’m afraid we’ve thought too much of his swell friends’
names and families, and not enough of their principles. I’ve told my
wife that before now.”
“But what has he done?” asked Stamford. “If it’s a matter of a few
thousands, you can settle that easily enough—particularly now we’ve
had rain,” continued he, introducing the pleasantry as a slight
relief to his friend’s self-reproachful strain.
“Yes, of course, I can do that, thank God! rain or no rain, though
it made a matter of thirty thousand profit to me on those back
Dillandra blocks—more than that. I shouldn’t care if the money was
all; but this is how it is. I may as well bring it straight out. It
seems that Carlo and Captain Maelstrom (d—--n him!—I never liked a
bone in his body) and some others were playing loo last week with a
young fellow whose father had just died and left him a lot of money.
The stakes ran up high—a deal higher than the club committee would
have allowed if they’d known about it. Well, just at first they had
it all their own way. This young chap was a long way to the
bad—thousands, they say. Then the luck turned, and after that they
never held a card. He played a bold game, and the end of it was that
Carlo and the Captain were ten thousand out, and of course neither
of them able to pay up. The Captain managed to get time, but Carlo,
like a fool, went straight off and said nothing about it. He was
afraid to come to me, it seems, as we’d had a row last time; so he
did the very worst thing he could have done and cleared out to
Tasmania. We got a letter yesterday. He’s over there now.” Here Mr.
Grandison fairly groaned, and looked piteously in his old friend’s
face.
“Well, well! but after all,” said Mr. Stamford, “of course it’s bad
enough, gambling—high stakes and folly generally; but if you pay up,
things will be much as they were, and it will be a lesson to him.”
“I hope it may be, but the worst of it is,” went on Mr. Grandison,
“that the whole thing came out, and there was a regular _exposé_.
The young fellow, Newlands, made a disturbance when he wasn’t paid,
swore he’d horsewhip Carlo whenever he met him, and went on
tremendously. Then the committee of the club took it up and talked
of expelling Maelstrom and him for playing for stakes above the
proper limit, and if the affair’s raked up it’s possible they will.
I paid up in full, of course, as soon as I could get to know the
amount. Newlands apologised very properly and all that. But the
mischief’s done! Carlo can’t show his face in Sydney for I don’t
know how long. All our hopes about his turning steady and settling
down are disappointed. It’s a round sum of money to throw away for
nothing, and worse than nothing. And what to do with the boy I don’t
know.”
“It certainly _is_ a hard case for his parents,” said Mr. Stamford,
thoughtfully. “I scarcely know what to advise. A year or two on a
station, or a turn at exploring in the far north used to be thought
a remedy, or, at any rate, to hold out reasonable hope of amendment
by change of scene and fresh interests, but—--”
“But that wouldn’t suit Carlo. He hates bush life—can’t live away
from excitement—and I’m afraid, if I sent him away against his will,
he’d take to drinking, or do something worse still. I’m at my wits’
end. He seems to have got it into his head that I’m to provide for
him under any circumstances, and the consequence is he never thinks
of doing anything for himself.”
“How do you think travel would act upon him? He has never seen the
Old World, ‘the kingdoms of the earth and the glory of them.’ Surely
that would rouse sufficient enthusiasm to counteract the meaner
pleasures?”
“Carlo would never get further than Paris if I trusted him alone.
However, I shall have to try it, I suppose. The long and the short
of it will be that we shall be obliged to move _en famille_. I can’t
send him by himself after what has happened.”
“I really do think it is the best thing you can do. You can afford
it easily. Station property is likely to look up for a few years
now. You have excellent managers, and it will most likely benefit
the other young people. I don’t see any objection; indeed everything
seems in favour of it.”
“Of course we can do it,” said his friend, doubtfully; “but I didn’t
intend to leave for a year or two yet—until we could have entered
Cecil at one of the universities, and, in fact, made other
arrangements. But Carlo is the master of the situation at present—he
must be, as usual, considered before everything and everybody. Well,
I’m much obliged to you, Stamford; indeed I feel most grateful; it
has been a great relief to my mind to be able to talk the matter
over with you quietly, and I really believe this idea of yours of
travel abroad will suit everybody. Mrs. Grandison and Josie will be
wild with delight, I feel sure.”
“I hope you will all have reason to be satisfied with the results of
the step; and now, as it is getting late, I will say good night.”
“Good night, and thank you very much, old fellow! By the way, this
rain has reached your part of the world, I see; I suppose your
affairs are improving a bit now—look brighter, eh!”
“I have been enabled to make satisfactory arrangements lately,” said
Stamford, shortly. “I have placed my account with the Austral Agency
Company and we got on very well.”
“Ah, indeed. Rising man, that Barrington Hope. I wish—but it’s no
use wishing. Well, good night again! Nothing like being independent
of the banks; that’s always the safest line!”
“Safest indeed,” thought his guest as he walked down the gravel
drive, just in time to miss the blazing lamps and chariot wheels
of Mrs. Grandison’s equipage, which bore herself and her daughter
back from the hall where the _maestro_ had been delighting the
_crême de la crême_ of fashionable musical Sydney. “Safest indeed;
but how is one to manage it with droughty seasons, and markets
practically closed? I think Master Bob might have asked that
question before. But his own troubles have been greater than mine,
poor fellow—greater, ah, a thousandfold. What bribe, indeed, would
tempt me to change places with him? However, we must hope for the
best, though I am afraid Carlo will only substitute Baden Baden
for Bent Street. Miserable boy!”
* * * * *
The sacrifice at the altar of friendship being duly performed, Mr.
Stamford addressed himself to the arrangements necessary for a
speedy return to the home which he had quitted under such depressing
conditions. How different were the sensations with which he set
about preparing for departure from those which he had good reason to
fear would have overshadowed his return journey! “The sad companion,
ghastly Care,” had retired, indefinitely banished, as far as human
foresight could discover.
All difficulties, all doubt as to ways and means, had vanished. The
kind hand of Providence had been specially exerted for his benefit.
He hardly recognised in himself the sanguine individual that had
replaced his boding, desponding entity, tortured by vain regrets and
undefined dread; hopeless of succour alike from God and man!
He went about his business with alacrity and a cheerful enjoyment of
life that even surprised himself. He seemed to have renewed his
youth. Tastes and fancies which had long been relegated to the realm
of the impossible reappeared like the wild-wood flowers of his own
land after the gracious rainfall of which he had received tidings.
He was now enabled to indulge them in moderation with a clear
conscience.
And he savoured them with a relish akin to that of the returned
traveller after perils by land and sea, of the desert-worn pilgrim
who sees again the green fields and rippling brooks of the
fatherland which he had despaired of again beholding.
What a novel joy was it to him to awake at midnight—at early dawn—to
realise with returning consciousness that safety, comfort,
honourable independence were to be the portion of his loved ones
henceforward and for ever! What a relief to turn again to his
pillow, and sink into untroubled slumber with a heart filled with
gratitude—with peace unutterable!
One of his first expeditions in the shopping line was to the chief
book mart, an establishment where he previously had been wont to
linger but for short intervals, regarding with a melancholy interest
the rows of new, enticing works, into the pages of which he hardly
dared to look. Now he boldly produced a list of standard authors,
magazines, works of travel, science, autobiography, fiction, what
not; commanded that they should be packed in a suitable case and
forwarded to the railway station to his address. How he relished the
actual writing of a cheque for the amount! How the thought of being
able to enjoy them with an untroubled mind, in the peaceful evenings
at Windāhgil, caused his spirits to rise, his heart to expand!
Hubert’s modest commission was not forgotten, nor the less-developed
literary needs of Maurice and Ned, while at a neighbouring
establishment he chose a collection of music, vocal and
instrumental, which would keep Laura and Linda moderately well
employed for a twelvemonth. A new piano the girls must have, but not
yet, not all at once, whispered Prudence. He must not show his hand
too suddenly. All in good time. And, as a young professional of the
period ran his fingers lightly over the notes of a lovely Erard
semi-grand, Mr. Stamford almost waltzed out of the shop, to the
seductive strains of “Auf Wiedersehn.” His last and crowning exploit
was to procure, after, perhaps, rather more personal exertion and
loss of dignity than were expended on the foregoing transactions,
the services of a well-recommended, capable female domestic, whose
scruples at going so far into the bush he combated by a liberal rate
of wages, and a promise to pay her return fare if she remained for
twelve months in his service. After all this Mr. Stamford paid a
farewell visit to Mr. Barrington Hope, with whom he arranged for
shearing supplies, and, finally, at the close of an exciting day, he
found himself in the mail-train in a state of high contentment, in
charity with all men, and honestly grateful to that Almighty Ruler
who had uplifted him from those dark depths, at the remembrance of
which he still shuddered.
At a reasonably early hour on the following day the unpretending
architecture of Mooramah emerged from the forest hills which
encompass that rising township, and there was Hubert sure enough,
with the well-worn buggy and the good old horses, still high in
bone, though, like himself, much improved in spirits and demeanour.
“Why, governor!” quoth that young man, after an affectionate
greeting and the gradual absorption into the recesses of the buggy
of the tolerably heavy miscellaneous luggage of his parent,
“you’re quite another man. Let me look at you. Fashionable and
distinguished-looking, I declare! Thought you were a gentleman
from England. Mother and the girls won’t know you. I suppose it’s
the rain, and Mr. Barrington—what’s his name, Hope or Faith, isn’t
it? He seems to have lots of the latter requisite, doesn’t he? We
ought to have made his acquaintance years ago. And this is the new
servant, I suppose. Very glad to see you, Mary Jane. Not Mary
Jane? Isabella; well, that sounds nicer—country looks grand,
doesn’t it? Old Mooramah’s quite another place. But I can’t take
my eyes off you, governor! You look ten years younger.”
“I feel so, my boy, I assure you. Things have gone well, I needn’t
tell you. I found Mr. Hope a most satisfactory person to do business
with. And of course the rain has crowned everything.”
“Satisfactory! I should think he was! Smartest man we’ve ever worked
with. I closed with old Saville, and bought six thousand Riverina
ewes bred at Broongal. Sent a wire to him, had his answer, and
nailed them before dark. I believe I could make a half-a-crown
profit a head on the whole lot. That’s something like business, if
you like.”
“And you’re sure you’ll have grass enough for them and our own, too!
It doesn’t do to run risks, you know, Hubert!”
“Grass!” retorted the young man scornfully. “Wait till you see the
old place. Now that the stock are all off the frontage, the prairie
grass and trefoil are coming up like a hayfield. Why, we sha’n’t be
able to _see_ the sheep in it at shearing time. Don’t the old horses
go differently? They’re picking up hand over hand, though of course
they’ve not had time to lay on flesh yet. The sheep are quicker
about it, and they look wonderful. You’d hardly know the dry flocks.
We’re not far from the river, now; it’s just crossable again. Wait
till you come to the outer gate. But it’s all alike. I feel almost
too happy. If I hadn’t had a good lot of hardish work just at first,
I think I should have gone off my head.”
Harold Stamford put his hand on the boy’s shoulder, and looked with
loving pride into his clear eyes and bold, frank brow. “God in His
mercy be thanked for our prosperity, my son!” he said. “May He keep
us in health of body and mind, and long preserve us to each other. I
feel, also, as if my cup was almost too full. May He aid us to enjoy
and use wisely the benefits He has conferred on us!”
The young man turned and wrung his father’s hand silently.
“Great Heaven!” thought Mr. Stamford to himself, as he noted the
clear bronzed cheek, the manly, frank impression, the muscular frame
of his first-born, the whole figure instinct with the splendid
health and graceful vigour of early manhood when developed to
maturity amid the wholesome influences of a country life. “What a
contrast does he present to Carlo Grandison! Surely I am wise in
shielding him from the disturbing forces, the crowding temptations,
with which wealth besets mankind. I dislike every aspect of
deception, but surely the postponing the dangerous knowledge, which
would relieve these children from all necessity for self-denial, is
a justifiable exercise of my discretion as the head of the
household. It will, it must, I feel convinced, be for their ultimate
advantage.”
By the time the train of reflection induced by this consideration
had come to an end, the river was forded—tolerably high indeed; so
much so as to cause the new domestic some natural misgivings, but
the strong, temperate horses breasted the swirling current, and
landed them safely, under Hubert’s experienced guidance, upon the
pebbly beach of the farther shore.
“So far, so good,” said the charioteer; “we couldn’t have done that
yesterday, and it’s not every pair of horses that would fancy all
that rushing and bubbling of the stream. Don’t you remember Mr.
Round nearly making a mess of it last year at night in this very
place, with the governess and all the children too? He had a pretty
bad quarter of an hour after he broke his pole. Now look at the
grass, that’s something like, isn’t it?”
Mr. Stamford had seen such things before in his pastoral
experience. Not for the first time did he look upon the marvellous
transformation wrought in “dry country” by forty-eight hours’
rain. But he could not avoid an exclamation of surprise when he
gazed around him. Was this the same place—the same country even,
which he had driven over so lately to catch the train, with the
self-same pair of horses too?
Then the river trickled in a thin rivulet from one pond to another
in the wide, half-dry bed of the stream; then the dusty banks were
lined with dead sheep; the black-soiled alluvial flat was innocent
of grass in root or stalk or living herbage as the trampled dust of
a stockyard. Now a thick, green carpet of various verdure covered
all the great meadow as far as eye could see, and brought its bright
green border to the very verge of the sand and shingle of the river
shore.
The half-flood which had resulted from the rainfall nearer the
source had swept away the carcases of the sheep and cattle and
deposited all saddening souvenirs of the drought amid the reed beds
of the lower Mooramah. All was spring-like and splendidly luxuriant,
though as yet but in the later autumn season. It was a new land, a
new climate, a region recovered from the waste.