About a week after this conversation Hubert dropped the local paper
he was reading in the evening with such a sudden exclamation that
his mother and sisters looked up in mild astonishment.
“‘Well I’m gormed!’ as Dan Peggotty has it!” he said at length.
“Nothing will ever surprise me again as long as there is such a crop
of fools in the world—no wonder that rogues like Dealerson flourish!
After all I said too! Listen to this! headed ‘Important Sale of
Station.—We have much pleasure in noticing that our energetic and
popular neighbour, Mr. Dealerson, has completed the sale of his
well-known station, Wantabalree, with fifty-four thousand six
hundred sheep of a superior character, to Colonel Dacre, a gentleman
lately arrived from England. Furniture, stores, station, horses and
cattle given in. The price is said to be satisfactory.’ Well, the
devil helps some people,” said Hubert. “How that poor gentleman
could have run into the snare blindfold after the talking to father
and I gave him, I can’t make out. Mark my words; he’s a dead man
(financially) unless it’s going to rain for years.”
“Dealerson is a very astute man,” remarked Mr. Stamford, musingly.
“As a persuasive talker he has few equals. Fine, frank, engaging
manner too. Bold and ready-witted; I think I can see how he managed
it.”
“Well I can’t see—can’t make it out at all,” said Hubert, “unless he
is a mesmerist.”
“No doubt he made the most of being on bad terms with Windāhgil. He
would rake up that old story of the disputed sheep; tell it his own
way; get that fellow Ospreigh, who always goes about with him, to
back him up; also make small concessions such as furniture and
working plant; talk about the house and garden—they would be
attractive to a new arrival; and if Colonel Dacre is at all
impulsive—and I think he is—he has thus landed him. I wonder what
the Colonel will think of Dealerson about three years from this
time?”
“I’ll tell him what _I_ think of him, the next time we meet in
public,” said Hubert, squaring his shoulders, while a dangerous
light came into his eyes. “If he could be tempted into giving me the
lie, I should like to have the pleasure of thrashing him.”
“Gently, my boy!” said Mr. Stamford; “we must not set up ourselves
as the redressers of wrongs for Lower Mooramah, Few people are in a
position to discharge the duties of that appointment. I honour your
righteous indignation all the same, and trust you will always retain
an honest scorn of wrong and wrongdoers.”
“I should hope so,” said Laura. “I can’t imagine Hubert holding his
tongue discreetly or passing by on the other side. There are a good
many Levites in this part of the world, I am afraid.”
“Oh, my gracious!” said Linda, who was reading a closely-written
letter; “think of this! Isn’t his name Colonel John Dacre, late of
the 75th Regiment? There is one redeeming feature about the affair,
at all events.”
“What can that be?” said Laura and Hubert both together.
“Why! there’s a distressed damsel in the case. If I didn’t know
better, I should think Hubert must have heard about her. Listen to
this!” And she read aloud:—“‘I hear that you are to have delightful
neighbours. I was told that Colonel Dacre was going to settle in
your neighbourhood. He has bought Wantabalree station—young Groves
told me last night. He is a widower, handsome and middle-aged. But I
don’t mean him. He has an only daughter, also a son. Think of that!
Jane Robinson met her at Mrs. Preston’s, where she is staying. She
says she is most sweet—handsome, though not objectionable in the
beauty-girl line, clever, sensible, distinguished-looking, &c. Take
care of Hubert, if you don’t want to lose him for good and all.’
That’s from Nellie Conway. Oh! isn’t that lovely?” and here Linda
held the letter aloft, and danced for joy.
“I don’t see what difference it makes,” said Hubert, gloomily,
“except that there are three people to be ruined instead of one. You
girls are always thinking of marriage and giving in marriage.”
“Now don’t be provoking, Hubert,” said Laura, coaxingly; “we know
somebody who is not always thinking about cattle and sheep. Now,
listen to me. How long will it take for Mr. Dealerson to ruin them?”
“About three years,” said Hubert; “depends on the terms. Of course
he’s got all the Colonel’s cash, but he would take long-dated bills
rather than let him slip. Say three—three and a half—that’s the very
outside month.”
“That means that we are to have the society and companionship of the
very nice girl for three or four years,” said Laura; “we can ask her
here for the last six months, you know, I really think, Hubert, it
won’t turn out such a bad investment for the Colonel after all.”
“You’d better marry him out of pity,” said Hubert; “get father to
endorse his bills, and that will effectually finish up the Stamford
family as well—stock, lock, and barrel.”
“I’ll complete the tragedy by marrying Mr. Dealerson,” said Linda,
“whom I shall afterwards poison, then come on to the stage and
repent in white satin in my last agonies, having by mistake taken
some out of the same glass. What a charming melodrama! Who says
there are no Australian romances possible in real life?”
“No; but nonsense apart,” said Laura, “I intend to make a friend of
Miss Dacre; she will be rather lonely. There are no decent people
within twenty miles of Wantabalree. You must drive us over to call
directly we hear that they have arrived at the station. It is a
pleasant house, and the garden is lovely, to give Mr. Dealerson his
due.”
“You girls generally manage to persuade everybody to do as you
like,” said Hubert, making believe to be sulky still, but putting
his arm round Laura’s waist. “It’s a pity you didn’t tackle the
Colonel about not buying the beastly place, instead of father and
me. He’d have dropped it like a shot most likely.”
“Don’t you worry yourself any more about it,” said Linda. “You have
been ‘faithful’ to the Colonel—as Mrs. Christianson always says—and
done the honest and disagreeable. Now let it rest.”
“You’re bordering on a Levite,” retorted her brother. “However, it
was always the fashionable side.”
About a fortnight after the return of the family party, when most of
the books had been read, when all the songs had been sung, when
every conceivable incident that had happened in Sydney had been
described and dilated on, after every new phase of intellectual
growth in the three young minds had been stated and reviewed, Hubert
Stamford relinquished his charge of Windāhgil, and departed for the
metropolis on his long-expected holiday. Not without tears shed by
his female relatives did he leave Windāhgil, that true and sacred
home in every sense of the word—a family abiding place consecrated
by fervent, unselfish love, which had grown and deepened since
childhood’s hour with every opening year. How could they think
without a sudden pang of the possibility of an accident—of one of
the everyday mischances in this age of rushing, resistless forces
harnessed to the car of man’s feverish need—depriving them for ever
of the sight of that pleasant face, those frank, kind eyes, that
manly form! Such might happen—_had_ happened. Therefore, there were
averted heads, fast falling tears, as the signal sounded, and the
punctual, pitiless steam-giant bore away the hope of Windāhgil from
the little platform at Mooramah.
“Poor, dear Hubert!” said Linda, sneezing violently, and then wiping
her eyes; “it seems ridiculous to cry, when he’s going away to enjoy
himself so much, and deserves it so well; but, somehow, one can’t
help it. There is a great relief in tears. I think they are
specially adapted to the feminine temperament, a nice, comforting
sort of protest against circumstances. Dear me! how lonely we shall
be to-night.”
“I really believe father was afraid he would ‘give way’ too, as
Nurse Allen used to say,” said Laura, “and that was the reason he
declined to come. Never mind; we shall have a telegram to-morrow. He
must have been much more lonely when we departed. Fancy you or me at
home, Linda, and all the rest of the family away!”
When Hubert Stamford had got over the first feeling of parting with
those whom he loved better than his own life, the change of place
and scene which the fast-speeding mail train rapidly furnished
commenced to raise his youthful spirits. After all, _ce n’est que le
premier pas qui coûte_. Ah, but that first step! Some people never
can accomplish it, for things good as well as evil, and a whole
world of delights and dangers remain unexplored.
In Hubert Stamford’s case the initiatory stage was now accomplished.
The journey, more or less eventful to home-keeping youths—the first
really accredited visit to the metropolis since his manhood, with
all things made easy for him, was now about to take place.
Imagination commenced to conjure up the various wonders and
witcheries which he was about to encounter, as well as the campaign
of business which he hoped to plan out and engineer definitely, if
not finally.
Much revolving these pleasing and, in a sense, profitable thoughts,
the night became reasonably far advanced. It then occurred to him
that, as he intended to have a long day before him in Sydney, he
might as well prepare for it by an orthodox allowance of sleep; so,
commending himself and those never-forgotten idols of his heart to
the mercy of the All-wise, All-seeing Father of this wondrous world,
he wrapped himself in his rug and fell asleep.
When he awoke the train was speeding down the long incline which
divides the mountain world of rock and dell-rifted peak and alpine
summit, from the lowlands of the Nepean River. A few more
miles—another hour. Farms and home-steadings, orangeries and
orchards, vineyards and cornfields, alternated with wide pastures,
dank with river fogs and morning dew, darksome jungles of eucalyptus
which the axe of the woodman had as yet spared. Yet another
terminus, suburbs, smoke, a distant view of the great sea, a turmoil
of railway sheds, carriages, tramcars, and cabs—Sydney!
* * * * *
Comfortably established at Batty’s Hotel, to the management of which
he had taken the trouble to telegraph for a room, and received with
that pleasing welcome accorded to the guest who is known to spend
liberally and pay promptly, Hubert found the situation, as he
surveyed the harbour from the balcony with after-breakfast feelings,
to be one of measureless content mingled with sanguine anticipation.
Oh! precious spring-time of life! Blest reflex of the golden days of
Arcady. What might we not have done with thy celestial hours, strewn
with diamonds and rubies more precious than the fabled valley of the
Arabian voyager, had we but have divined their value. For how much
is it now too late? The scythe-bearer, slow, passionless, pitiless,
has passed on. The irrevocable winged hours have fled. Opportunity,
fleet nymph with haunting eyes and shining hair, has disappeared in
the recesses of the charmed forest, and we, gazing hopelessly on the
shore of life’s ocean, hear from afar the hollow murmur of the
maelstrom of Fate—the rhythmic cadence of the tideless waves of
eternity.
Hubert Stamford, more fortunate, had all the world before him;
moreover, nothing to do but elect, with the aid of a sufficiency of
cash, leisure and introductions, to what particular pleasures he
should devote the cheerful day. He revolved in his mind several
kinds of entertainments of which he would like to partake, but
finally resolved to present himself at the office of the Austral
Agency Company, having a great desire to see the wonderful
Barrington Hope, of whom he had heard so much, as also to sound him
as to a Queensland stock speculation. He would leave a card for Mr.
Grandison at his club. If no engagement turned up he would take a
steamer to Manly Beach, and afterwards go to the theatre.
Having mapped out the day to his satisfaction, Hubert betook himself
to the Austral Agency Company’s offices, by the splendour of which
he was much struck, and sent in his card.
He was not suffered to remain long in the outer office, but was
promptly ushered into the manager’s room and confronted with the
head of the department in person. Doubtless it was a mutual
pleasure. Hubert was impressed with the autocrat’s appearance, the
manner, as well as the reserve of power which in every word and
gesture Barrington Hope displayed. The latter, on the other hand,
did full justice to the bold, sincere countenance, the manly,
muscular figure of his young visitor. Reading between the lines, he
saw there written quenchless energy and love of adventure, yet
shrewd forecast.
“This youngster is not like other men,” Mr. Hope said to himself,
after the first direct, searching gaze. “He only wants opportunity,
encouragement, and the backing-up of capital to become a successful
speculator. He has enterprise, undying pluck, persistent energy, and
still sufficient apprehensiveness to shield him from disaster. We
must send him along. He will do well for himself and the company.
His complexion and features are different—but how like he is to his
sister!”
Much of this he may have thought, but merely said, “Mr. Hubert
Stamford, I am sincerely glad to make your acquaintance. Having had
the pleasure of knowing your family, I was really anxious to meet
you. I venture to predict that we shall become friends and allies. I
trust you left all well at Windāhgil, and that the season continues
favourable.”
“Perfectly well, thank you,” said Hubert. “My father desired to be
particularly remembered to you. My sisters have not yet left off
describing their pleasant visit to Sydney. The season is a trifle
dry, but otherwise everything that can be desired.”
“Thanks very much! Tell your sisters when you write that a great
melancholy fell upon me when they left. We had been so much together
in town, fortunately for me.”
“I have been waiting for an opportunity to thank you for the
assistance you gave us at a very critical time,” said Hubert. “My
father has, I daresay, told you all we thought about it. But I
always determined to speak for myself on the subject.”
“It was a speculation, a purely business risk, which I undertook,”
replied Mr. Hope. “I told your father so at the time. That it has
resulted so favourably, is of course, most satisfactory.”
“I see your point. All the same, it was more than fortunate for us,
and for Windāhgil, that you happened to take that precise commercial
risk at that particular time. It is, besides, more agreeable to work
financially with some people than others. And now, will you come and
lunch with me, so that we may have a talk?”
“I am really sorry,” said Mr. Hope, looking at his watch, “but shall
not have five minutes to spare till five o’clock, when I should like
to consult you on a business matter. If, afterwards, you will dine
with me at the club, at seven sharp, I will talk as much as you
like.”
“That will do as well, indeed better,” said Hubert, “as the day will
be over, which is a great advantage if one is to enjoy oneself. I
have a call or two to make, so adieu for the present!” Making a
direct point for the club which Mr. Grandison ornamented, Hubert was
fortunate in discovering that gentleman just emerging from the
strangers’ room with an elderly gentleman, whom Hubert recognised as
Colonel Dacre.
“How are you, Hubert, my boy?” said Grandison. “What a man you’ve
grown! Nothing like bush air. Father quite well? Mother and the
girls? Glad to hear it. Let me introduce you to Colonel Dacre, soon
to be a neighbour of yours at Wantabalree.”
“I’m very sorry for it,” blurted out Hubert. “That is, in one sense,
as I told Colonel Dacre before. I said then, and think now, that he
made a bad bargain. That apart, I am, of course, delighted to hear
that he is coming with his family to live so near us.”
“Oh! indeed; I didn’t know you had met before.”
The Colonel bowed, and looking slightly embarrassed, for a veteran,
before so youthful a soldier as Hubert, said, “I ought to thank Mr.
Stamford and his father for their sincere and kindly advice about my
purchase. I did not take it wholly, and indeed acted on my own
judgment and that of other friends in buying Wantabalree. But I
shall always feel grateful for their well-meant counsel.”
“Why, how is this, Hubert?” said Mr. Grandison with an important
air. “You seem to have been very decided on the subject. My friend
Barterdale, under whose financial advice Colonel Dacre acted, says
he is credibly informed that it is a most paying purchase. And
Dealerson says it is the best bargain of the day.”
“For _him_, no doubt; but Dealerson is a liar and a rogue,” said
Hubert, bluntly. “I will tell him so to his face, if ever I meet
him. As for Mr. Barterdale, he keeps Dealerson’s account, and
perhaps may not wish to offend a good customer. The Colonel has been
deceived and robbed, that’s all! And having said enough, perhaps
more than is polite, I shall not speak another word about the
affair, except to assure Colonel Dacre that all Windāhgil is at his
service in the way of neighbourly assistance.”
“Thanks very much!” said the Colonel, looking rather crestfallen;
“but have you heard” Hubert felt quite ashamed of his savage
sentence as he remarked the old gentleman’s humility of tone—“the
price I have sold the fat sheep at?”
“No,” replied Hubert, “I can’t say that I have; but, assuming that
the wool does as well you are still in a dangerous position, with an
overcrowded run. However, I sincerely trust that it may be
otherwise.”
“And so do I,” said Mr. Grandison; “but you’ve done your duty, my
boy, and Providence must do the rest. Colonel Dacre is coming to
lunch with me. Here’s the phaeton, jump in and you will see Mrs.
Grandison and Josie, besides another young lady that you haven’t
before met.”
“I asked Mr. Hope to lunch,” said Hubert; “but as he can’t come I am
free. And so, if Colonel Dacre isn’t offended by my plain speaking,
I shall be most happy.”
At luncheon Mrs. Grandison appeared with the fair Josie, who
welcomed Hubert so warmly that he began to think that he was
mistaken in the opinion he had previously formed of both these
ladies. Certainly, in his boyhood, they had expressed remarkably
little interest in his welfare. But being slow to think evil, he
took himself severely to task, and decided that Mrs. Grandison was a
warm-hearted matron, and Josie a very attractive-looking girl.
At that moment a young lady entered the room and apologised to Mrs.
Grandison in so sweet a voice, and with so much natural grace of
manner, for being late that his too susceptible heart was
immediately led captive. Miss Josie’s charms receded to a register
below zero, where they remained as unalterably fixed as the “set
fair” in an aneroid barometer in a drought.
“Allow me to introduce our cousin, Mr. Hubert Stamford,” said the
elder lady; “Miss Dacre, I think you are to be neighbours in the
bush.”
“I am happy to meet Mr. Stamford,” said the young lady, bestowing a
gaze on Hubert so honest, kindly, and yet questioning, that his
subjection was complete. “Though, from what papa tells me, it is not
his fault that we are not in some other district.”
“I was acting against my own interest—against all our interests,”
Hubert said, rather nervously. “Believe me that the whole family
were most anxious to have you as neighbours. So you must give me
credit for honesty of intention.”
“I shall never doubt that, from all I hear,” said Miss Dacre. “Papa
is rather sanguine, I am afraid.”
“And perhaps I am not sufficiently so,” said Hubert; “It’s all over
now. Let us find a pleasanter subject. When do you think of going
up?”
“Oh! next week at farthest. Are we not, papa?”
The Colonel nodded. “I’m enthusiastically fond of the country. I
hear there’s such a nice cottage, quite a pretty garden, a flowing
stream, a mountain, cows and pigs, and chickens, a fair library—in
fact, almost an English home. You’ll admit that, I hope, Mr.
Stamford?”
“I’ll admit anything,” said Hubert; “the homestead’s the best in the
district. My mother and sisters will be charmed to put you _au fait_
in all matters of bush housekeeping. And now, Josie, are you going
to the opera on Thursday night, and would you like a cavalier?”
“We were thinking of it,” said she. “Mother was doubtful, and father
doesn’t care about opera. If you can get some one else, I have no
doubt Mrs. Stopford would be glad to act as chaperon, and Miss Dacre
and I would go—if she would like it?”
“Oh! above all things,” said that young lady; “I am always ready to
hear opera. And I hear you have a very good company here. I was
stupid enough, when I left England, to think I should never hear
Italian opera again. I feel ashamed.”
“We are not quite barbarians, nor yet copper-coloured,” said Josie;
“though I am afraid we Sydney girls can’t boast of our complexions.”
“I am quite ready to make recantation of all my errors,” said Miss
Dacre. “I suppose it need not be done publicly, in a white sheet. I
am divided between that and writing to the _Times_.”
“I believe you will make the best bush-woman possible,” said the
Colonel, with an admiring glance. “Only we both have so much to
unlearn. I didn’t expect to see a room like this, for instance, or
such appointments,” he continued, raising a glass of claret
pensively to his lips.
“It’s rather a bad thing for us, pappy, as we have to live in the
real bush, don’t you think? We must forget it all as soon as
possible.”
“It won’t make the least difference to you, my dear,” said Mrs.
Grandison. “If you had seen Hubert’s sisters here you would have
been—well—astonished to see such girls come out of the bush. For
some reasons I begin really to think it would be better for all of
us to live there.” Here she glanced reflectively at Josie, who
looked scarcely as self-possessed as usual.
“I shall not say another word about bush matters,” said Hubert.
“They will keep. When Miss Dacre comes up she will judge for
herself. If my opinion is requested, I shall be happy to give it,
but shall not volunteer advice. Will your brother travel up with
you, Miss Dacre?”
“Willoughby went to stay a few days with a ship friend, who lives
near Penrith, I think it is, but he is quite as enthusiastic as I am
about beginning life in earnest. He will be in town again on
Friday.”
“Come and dine with us on Saturday, then, Hubert,” said Mrs.
Grandison, and I’ll ask Mr. Hope and one or two of your rude bush
pioneers. Josie, can’t you get a couple of young ladies for Hubert’s
benefit and to show Mr. Dacre?”
“I don’t think Hubert wants any more young ladies,” said Josie
mischievously; “but I’ll ask the Flemington girls to come in—one of
them plays marvellously and the other sings. Her voice is very like
Parepa’s.”