The thrill of pleasure with which this proposal was received showed
itself in the flushing cheeks and brightened eyes of Laura and her
sister—while upon Mrs. Stamford’s features an almost pathetic
expression appeared, as of a revelation of joy sudden and
unhoped-for. “You are so kind, Harold; but, oh! are you prudent?
Think of the expense—new dresses, new everything, indeed! Why it
seems an age since I saw Sydney!”
“Think of the clip, Mrs. Stamford,” retorted her husband. “Think of
the lambs, think of the fat sheep ready for market. Your journey to
town will be the merest trifle of expenditure compared to what we
can lawfully and reasonably afford. I speak in sober earnest.
Besides, the Intercolonial Exhibition is open. The girls may never
have such another chance. Hubert must stay at home for fear of bush
fires. He shall have his holiday when we return. So, girls, the
great Windāhgil migration is settled.”
The departure for the metropolis of a family that has long dwelt in
the “bush,” or veritable far country division of Australian life, is
an event of no ordinary magnitude.
Not that the conditions of their rural life are so widely different
from those in England. There is the country town within reasonable
distance, to which visits are by no means infrequent. There reside
the clergymen, lawyers, doctors, bankers, teachers, and
tradespeople, the chief component parts of rural society—as in
England. There are also various retired non-combatants, decayed
gentry and others, the poor and proud section—as in Europe. The
squirearchy is represented by large-acred, wealthy personages, who
have either acquired or inherited estates, exceeding ten- or
twenty-fold in value those of average proprietors—as in Europe.
These great people are frequently absent, but contribute fairly by a
higher scale of expenditure, often comprising picture-galleries, and
valuable collections of _objets d’art_, generally to the mental
advancement of the neighbourhood. It is not to be supposed, either,
that they are for the most part uneducated or unrefined.
It follows, therefore, that even when deprived of access to
metropolitan luxuries, the families of rural colonists are not
wholly without intellectual privileges, invariable as has been the
custom of the British novelist to depict them as living a rude,
unpolished, and wholly unlettered life.
In ordinary seasons it is the custom for squatters of a certain rank
to visit the sea coast with their families once a year, if not
oftener. The pleasures of city life are then moderately partaken of,
fresh ideas are acquired, old tastes are indulged; friendships are
contracted, repaired, or revived. Mental and physical benefits
unspecified are acquired, and after a few weeks’ absence the country
family returns, much contented with their experiences, but perfectly
resigned to await the changing year’s recurrence ere such another
momentous journeying takes place.
But when, as at Windāhgil, a succession of untoward seasons brings
the family ark well-nigh to wreck and ruin, it is obvious that no
such holiday-making can be thought of. “Certainly not this year,
perhaps not next year,” says Paterfamilias, sorrowfully, but firmly.
Then doubtless all the reserves are called up; steady, instructive
reading must take the place of travel, old acquaintances whose
minds, so to speak, have been read through and through, and
dog’s-eared besides, must perforce be endured through lack of
charmingly-new fresh romantically-respectful strangers. The old
dresses are turned and returned, freshly trimmed, and their terms of
service lengthened by every economical device, pathetic in the
patience and true homely virtue displayed. But though all these
substitutes and makeshifts are availed of, the time _does_ pass a
little wearily and monotonously.
But now the “route was given,” the delightful signal had sounded.
The sudden change of ideas necessitated by the announcement of Mr.
Stamford was at first bewildering to his wife, and nearly in an
equal degree to his daughters.
Calculation and arrangement were required; much forecasting as to
where they were to go first, when they could possibly be ready to
start, maternal doubts as to what poor Hubert would do in their
absence, as the maids would necessarily return to their friends.
These weighty considerations absorbed so much time and thought that
it was generally agreed to be a species of miracle by which the
family found themselves safely packed in the waggonette one
memorable Monday on the way to Mooarmah railway station, the luggage
having been sent on in the early morning.
“Poor dear Hubert, it seems so selfish to leave him at home by
himself,” said Laura; “I think one of us ought to have stayed to
keep house for him.”
“It’s not too late now,” said Linda. “Which is it to be? Shall we
toss up? I’m quite ready, if I lose.”
“No! I will stay,” said Laura. “I’m the eldest.”
“I think I will stop after all,” said Mrs. Stamford. “You two girls
are due for a little enjoyment, and it does not matter so much about
me.”
“You will do nothing of the sort,” said Mr. Stamford, with rather
more emphasis than usual. “Your mother wants a change as much as any
of us. It’s very good of you girls to be ready to remain, and it
pleases me, my dears. But Hubert is man enough to look after
himself, as well as the station, for a month or two. When our
holiday is up, his will begin.”
“As if I would have let anybody stop,” said Hubert, “let alone the
dear mater; bless her old heart! And how am I going to do when I go
to the ‘Never-Never’ country, do you suppose—and I must have a turn
there some day—if you all coddle me up so?”
“I hope you never will go to that dreadful new country,” said Mrs.
Stamford, half-tearfully. “Didn’t you read that shocking account of
the poor fellow who died of thirst by the telegraph line the other
day, besides that nice young Belford who was killed by the blacks?”
“Accidents will happen,” said Hubert. “The British Empire wouldn’t
be what it is, if every mother kept her boy at home so that she
could see him, while she knitted his warm socks. Windāhgil is paying
fairly now, but there’s no fortune to be made here, is there,
governor?”
“I didn’t know that you were growing discontented with your lot, my
boy,” said the father, looking admiringly at his first-born; “but
there’s time enough to think about all that. I’ll see when we are
all settled at home again. There goes the bell; we must take our
places. God bless you, my boy!”
The following morning found the Stamford family comfortably
deposited in one of the hotels which in Sydney combine proximity to
the sea with perfect accessibility from all city centres. Bath and
breakfast had removed all traces of fatigue or travelling
discomfort. Laura, with her sister, was standing at a window which
overlooked the sea, wild with delight at the unaccustomed glory of
the ocean.
“Oh! what a lovely, lovely sight!” cried Linda. “Look at that
glorious bay, with those white-winged boats flying across it like
sea-gulls—it’s an old simile, I know, but it always sounds nice.
Look at the rocks and promontories, beaches and islands! And there,
a great ocean liner is moving majestically along, as if she was
going to steam up to the verandah. Wouldn’t it be nice if she did! I
wonder what the people would be like? Oh! I shall expire with joy
and wonder if I stay here much longer.”
“Then put on your bonnet, and come to George Street with me,” said
Mrs. Stamford. “I want to do a little quiet shopping before lunch.
Laura can stay with her father. He is going to take her to see the
Grandisons.”
“Oh! how nice; I haven’t seen a real shop,” said Linda, “like
Palmer’s and David Bowen’s, you know, since I was a little girl.
That will tone the excitement down a little, or give it a new
direction. Oh, I _do_ feel so happy! Do you think it will last,
mother? It can’t be any better in England—or Fairyland. The world
does not offer anything superior to my present feeling of
perfect—yes, perfect happiness. Don’t let us go to the opera for a
week yet, till I have had time to subside. I feel like a glass of
champagne; I should effervesce over. La! la, la, la! la, la, la! la,
la!” And here the excited girl waltzed into her bed-room to the tune
of “The Venetia.”
When Mrs. Stamford and her youngest daughter departed on their
shopping expedition, the latter declaring that she felt the greatest
difficulty in restraining herself from bursting into song from pure
gladsomeness of heart, her father betook himself in a cab with Laura
to Mr. Grandison’s house, where he proposed to leave her with her
cousin Josie till his return in the evening. Laura was little less
inwardly delighted with her general surroundings than Linda, but not
being so highly demonstrative, she forbore to testify her pleasure
by bodily movement. Yet was her heart filled with innocent joy and
honest admiration as she surveyed the unwonted scene.
As their carriage wound slowly up one of the steep ascents by which,
on leaving the city proper, the more fashionable suburbs are
reached, her dark eyes sparkled and her fair cheek glowed while she
pointed out the fresh combination of sea and shore.
“Oh, father!” she said, “when you look on this, does it not seem
strange that any one should choose to live away from the sea? I
should spend half my time on the beach! What changeful beauty! What
new wonders arise, even from this tiny outlook! Nothing can be more
delicious than this harbour, with gardens and lawns down to the very
ends of the promontories. The dear little bays too, like fairy
pictures, with smooth shores, and a big rock with an archway here
and there. And oh! the Heads! Grand and majestic, are they
not?—frowning above the restless deep like eternal ocean portals. I
can see billows, I declare. How vast and awe-striking! I am really
thankful we haven’t been to Sydney all these bad seasons. A day like
this is worth a year of common life.”
“That’s an extravagant price to pay for a day’s pleasure, pussy,”
said her father fondly, as he watched the fire of enthusiasm glow in
the girl’s bright eyes, which seemed to dilate and sparkle at
intervals as if the glory of the grand vision had been transfused
into her very blood. “You will count your years, as other people
count their money, much more carefully as you grow older. But I
trust, pet, that you will have long years of happiness before you,
and that this is not the only one of earth’s precious things that
you will enjoy.”
“What a divine pleasure travel must be!” said she, gazing
steadfastly before her, as if looking out on a new world of wonder
and enchantment. “Think of seeing, with one’s own very eyes, the
cities and battle-fields of the earth, the shrines of the dead,
immortal past! Oh! to see Rome and Venice, Athens and the Greek
Isles, even dear old England with Saxon ruins and Norman castles. I
wonder it does not kill people.”
“Happiness is rarely fatal, though the sensation of sudden joy is
often overpowering,” remarked Mr. Stamford with a quiet smile, as he
recalled his own recent experience. “But I hope you and Linda will
qualify yourselves by study for an intelligent appreciation of the
marvels of the Old World. That is,”—he added—“in the event of your
being fortunate enough to get there. ‘We colonists have a great deal
to learn in art and literature,’ as Lord Kimberley was pleased to
say the other day. We must show that we are not altogether without a
glimmering of taste and attainment.”
“That is the fixed British idea about all colonists,” said Laura
with indignation. “I suppose Lord Kimberley thinks we do nothing but
chop down trees and gallop about all day long. Well, one mustn’t
boast, but we have been getting on with our French and Italian
lately, and Linda’s sketches show something more than amateur work,
I think.”
When they drew up at Chatsworth, and the cabman was opening the gold
and bronze-coloured iron gates, Laura’s ecstasies broke out anew.
“Oh! father, do look; did you ever see such a beautiful place? Look
at the gravel, look at the flowers, look at the sea which makes a
background for the whole picture! Look at that purple mass of
_Bougainvillea_ covering all one side of the house. Why the lawn is
like a big billiard table! It is a morsel of Fairyland. How happy
they must be in such a lovely home!”
“Humph!” said Mr. Stamford, “perhaps the less we say about that the
better. The people that live in the best houses do not always lead
the pleasantest lives. But it certainly is a show place.”
It was truly difficult to overpraise the Chatsworth house and
grounds. Nature had been bountiful, and every beauty was heightened,
every trifling defect corrected by art.
The gravel of which the drive was composed was in itself a study—its
dark red colour, its perfect condition, daily raked and rolled as it
was to the smoothness of a board. Rare shrubs and massed flowers
bordered the accurately defined tiled edges. The bright blue
blossoms of the _Jacaranda_, the scarlet stars of the _Hibiscus_,
the broad purple and green leaves of the _Coleus_, the waving,
restless spires of the pine, the rustling, delicate banana
fronds—all these and a host of tropical plants which the mild Sydney
winter suffers to flourish in the open air, were here. Fountains,
tennis-grounds, and shaded walks, all were to be found in the tiny
demesne, every yard of which had been measured and calculated so as
to produce the largest amount of effect and convenience.
The hot-house and green-houses were under the care of an autocratic
Scotch gardener, who treated Mr. Grandison’s suggestions with silent
contempt, and obeyed or defied Mrs. Grandison’s orders as to fruit
or flowers entirely as it seemed good to him.
Mrs. Grandison was at home. The footman admitted so much, as he
asked the country cousins into a morning room—a most grand apartment
to their eyes; nevertheless, Mrs. Grandison’s countenance—she was
there alone—wore a clouded and dissatisfied expression. She relaxed
considerably, though with an effort, as her visitors were announced,
and came forward to greet them warmly enough.
“So glad to see you, Mr. Stamford. It was nice of you to bring
Laura. Why you look as fresh as a rose, child! How do you manage to
have such a complexion in a hot district? I tell Josie she is
getting as pale as a ghost, and yellow too. The fact is, she goes
out too much, and this Sydney climate is enough to age any one. She
hasn’t been down to breakfast yet—naughty girl—but she was at the
Moreton’s ball last night. Mrs. Watchtower took her, and she didn’t
get home till past four o’clock.”
“I suppose Grandison’s in town,” said Mr. Stamford.
“Oh! yes; he goes in regularly every day, though I often tell him I
don’t know what he has to do. He lunches at his club; you’ll find
him there at one o’clock. He says it’s dull enough there, but
nothing to what it would be if he stopped at home. Not very
complimentary, is it? But men are all alike; they like to get away
from their wives and families.”
“I’ve brought mine with me, you see, this time; so I don’t fall
under your disapproval.”
“Oh! I do think you’re pretty good, as men go, though there’s no
knowing. But, Laura, you’d better go up to Josie’s room, if you want
to have a talk, or else you may have to wait. Now, Mr. Stamford,
when will you all come and dine? To-day you’ll be tired—to-morrow or
next day, which shall it be—and we’ll have somebody to make it a
little lively for the girls?”
“Thank you. I think the day after to-morrow, if it is equally
convenient,” said Stamford. “And now I must go, as I have some
business to attend to. I will leave Laura, with your permission, and
call for her as I return in the afternoon.”
“Oh! yes, by all means. Josie will enjoy a long talk with her. What
a fine girl she has grown, and so handsome too! She wants dressing a
bit. But how does she manage to get all that fine bloom in the bush?
I thought Windāhgil was a hot place, yet Laura looks as fresh as a
milkmaid.”
“She is a good girl, and has had very little dissipation. We lead
very simple lives in the bush, you know. My daughters are very
unsophisticated as yet.”
“That’s all very well, but being simple doesn’t give beauty or
style, and Laura seems to have a very fair share of both. You let
her come to the Assembly Ball next week that all the girls are
talking about, and see what a sensation she’ll make.”
“If there’s a ball while we are down I should not think of denying
the girls a legitimate pleasure, though Linda is rather young yet;
but I think you flatter Laura.”
“Not a bit. It’s her fresh, natural manner that will strike
everybody, and the way all her face seems to speak without words.
Her eyes are perfectly wonderful. Why didn’t you tell us she was
such a beauty, and had a charming manner?”
“To my mind, it’s rather a disadvantage than otherwise—the
beauty—not the manner, of course,” said Mr. Stamford
philosophically. “I beg you won’t inform her of the fact, though I
really don’t think she’d believe you, my dear Mrs. Grandison. But I
must go now, so good-bye for the present.”
“It is nearly lunch time now,” said Mrs. Grandison; “you may as well
stay, and go to town afterwards.” But Mr. Stamford pleaded “urgent
private affairs,” and notwithstanding the temptress—who began to
look forward to a lonely meal, with the two girls chatting in the
bed-room, and was fain to fall back on even a middle-aged
squatter—he sought his cab.
Mr. Stamford looked at his watch; it wanted more than half an hour
to one o’clock. He bade his cabman drive briskly, and was landed at
the palatial offices of the Austral Agency Company in reasonable
time. He dashed into Barrington Hope’s sanctuary with something like
boyish enthusiasm. That gentleman raised his head from a pile of
accounts, and to Mr. Stamford’s eyes looked even more careworn and
fagged than at his last visit.
“How are you, Mr. Stamford?” he said, with a sudden brightening up
of the weary features. “But I needn’t ask. You’re a different man
from what you were when our acquaintance commenced. And no wonder.
Talk about physicians! Rain is the king of them all. Tell me a
healer, a preserver like him! What a grand season you have had, to
be sure—the precursor of many others, I hope. The Windāhgil wool
brought a high price, didn’t it? Splendidly got up; every one said
so. Bought for the French market. It made a character for the brand,
if one was wanted. But all this is gossip. You wanted to say
something on business.”
“Not now,” said Mr. Stamford; “‘sufficient for the day,’ and so on.
We only reached Sydney this morning. But I have a piece of very
particular business. I want you to come down and dine with us, _en
famille_, at Batty’s this evening. Brought my wife and daughters
down. They’re anxious to make your acquaintance.”
“Delighted, I’m sure. I hope the ladies will find Sydney amusing.
There’s nothing going on particularly, except a Bachelors’ Ball next
week, of which I happen to be a steward. Perhaps you will allow me
to send you invitations.”
“I can answer for their being accepted,” said Mr. Stamford, “as far
as my daughters are concerned. Their parents are rather old to do
more than look on. But I will promise to do that energetically. And
now I will not bother you longer. You have a stiff bit of work
before you there. Don’t knock yourself up, that’s all. There’s such
a thing as overdoing these confounded figure columns, and when a
cogwheel goes, Nature’s workshop provides no duplicate.”
“I understand you,” said Hope, pressing his hand with a quick
gesture to his forehead. “I _have_ felt rather run down lately. The
business has been increasing at a tremendous rate, too. I must take
a holiday before long, though I don’t quite see my way.”
“Come and see us at Windāhgil,” said Mr. Stamford warmly. “The fresh
bush air and a gallop on horseback will set you right again. That’s
all you want. We must talk about it. In the meantime, adieu.” And
Mr. Stamford vanished.
He reached his hotel in time for lunch, where he found Mrs. Stamford
and Linda, who had returned from their expedition into the heart of
the kingdom of finery.
Linda declared that she had never comprehended the subject
before—never was aware that she knew nothing, so to speak, of this
all-engrossing subject, so important in all its details to
womanhood. “I can quite imagine people with lots of money going to
any lengths in the way of dress,” she said. “The variety is so
charming, and the milliners are so persuasive. How that dear little
girl at Farmer’s tried to get me to take the silk dress. Didn’t she,
mother?”
“I was afraid she would succeed at one time, my dear; you appeared
to be hesitating.”
“I should have liked it, of course. Such a lovely lilac. It suited
my complexion perfectly, she said; but I knew my allowance wouldn’t
stand it, and you have been so good, my dear old dad. I don’t want
you and mother to think I can’t resist temptation.”
“Act on steady principles through life, my dear, and you will never
regret it. I don’t say the silk dresses and other suitable vanities
may not come in time, but not just yet, not yet for my little girls.
And now for the reward of merit. Mr. Hope is coming to dine with us
this evening, so you and Laura must entertain him pleasantly.”
“Oh, what a delightful surprise! Sydney is full of them. Of course I
knew we should see him some time or other, but perhaps not for ever
so long, unless he called. I wonder if he will be like my impression
of him? Does Laura know of it?”
“Not until I go for her, unless you would like to send her a
telegram; but I think she will have full time for preparation.”
“What a pity it will be if they keep her at Chatsworth! They are
sure to want to. But don’t you give in, if they do ever so much.”
“There will be the less necessity for that, my dear Linda, as we are
all to dine there on the day after to-morrow. They can feast their
eyes on Laura and all the family then.”
“That is surprise number two. A real dinner-party! It will be my
first invitation to one. I hope I shall behave well, and not upset
my wine-glass or do anything dreadful. I shall be looking at the
butler or the hostess, or the attractive guests, I know, and break
something. I think I shall begin to practise calm dignity to-night,
mother. Don’t you think it a good opportunity?”
“If my little girl remembers what she has always been taught,” said
the fond mother, looking at the girlish, eager face, bright with the
hues of early womanhood, “and will not think about herself, or the
effect she is likely to produce, she will do very well. I don’t
think we shall have cause to be ashamed of her. And now for a little
luncheon. My appetite is really quite surprising.”
After lunch Mr. Stamford betook himself to the Archaic Club, where
it was tolerably certain his friend would be found, for an hour or
two. By the way, how very few married men return to their homes,
even those of abounding leisure, before it is time to dress for
dinner. They will sit yawning at a club, when they have nothing to
do, where they care for nobody, and don’t go in for reading or even
play billiards, until the late afternoon, when there is just time to
catch a cab or train to reach home in the gathering twilight.
How, then, can these things be? The solution of this and other
social problems must be left to the coming philosophical student,
who will analyse and depict the causes of all seeming anomalies.