The dinner was a success, the party to the opera having gone off
without a drawback to the unbroken joyousness of the affair. The
Misses Flemington came and performed such musical feats as were
expected of them, and Miss Dacre admitted that she had not heard a
voice unprofessional for years to equal May Flemington’s. She
wondered, indeed, what she could have been thinking of to imagine
that when she came to Australia all artistic luxuries were to be
banished from her thoughts.
“The fact is,” she said, “we are frightfully narrow and prejudiced
in England. We know a great deal about France, Germany and the
Continent generally, because we are always running backwards and
forwards. But of our own countrymen in Australia and New Zealand we
know next to nothing. I was going to say as little as about
Timbuctoo, but we do really know something about Africa, because the
missionaries tell us, and we have returned evangelists from
Borioboolah Gha, even from Fiji and New Zealand. But of Australia we
know nothing.”
“When you go home again, Miss Dacre,” said Hubert, “you will be able
to do battle for us, I see. We must make you Agent-General, or
Ambassadress, if any such post is vacant. I am sure you will do us
justice.”
“Indeed I shall, but I feel ashamed of the ludicrous notions which I
brought out with me. No one would think of going down to Yorkshire
and saying, ‘I suppose you have nothing newer in songs than “The
days when we went gipsying,”’ or asking the Edinburgh people if they
had ever seen a bicycle. But really men and women who have had
‘advantages,’ as they are called, do come out here (five weeks from
England) and expect to see you living a sort of Fenimore Cooper
life, cutting down trees, ‘trailing’ your enemies, and sleeping in
wigwams or huts only once removed.”
“Perhaps a portion of this is natural enough,” said Hubert, “we are
a long way from town.”
“No, it is not natural,” said Miss Dacre; “because have not so many
of our friends come out for generations past? And then for us to
think that their sons and daughters were to grow up as clods and
_belles sauvages_!”
“It will all come right in time,” said Hubert. “It doesn’t hurt us,
if it pleases them, always excepting people”—here he bowed—“whom we
don’t want to have wrong impressions about us. Wait till you get
fairly settled at Wantabalree, Miss Dacre, and you’ll lose a few
more illusions.”
“Oh! but I don’t want to lose all of them,” replied the young lady.
“Some of them are so nice, that I want to retain them in full
freshness. I am going to keep pigs and poultry and send wonderful
hams to England to show our people what we can do. I am going to be
a great walker, and write letters about my impressions to the
magazines. I am sure they will do good. Then I shall have a good
collection of books, and grow quite learned, besides making myself
acquainted with all the people round about, and doing good among the
poor. I am certain there is a great field for an energetic person
like myself.”
“True!” replied Hubert reflectively. “Australians are rarely
energetic, and your programme is excellent. I fully agree with all
your plans and ideas, but I am only afraid there may be difficulties
in the way of carrying them out.”
“You really are most disappointing people—you colonists.” Here
Hubert held up his finger warningly.
“Oh! I forgot. I am not to call you colonists, but to talk to you as
if you were like everybody else—is not that so? Well—but you _do_
disappoint me. There is an air of guarded toleration, or mild
disapproval, which I observe among all of you when I begin to talk
of carrying out reforms. You are very polite, I admit; but tell me
now, why should I not? Surely one does not come all this way to do
only what everyone else does!”
Josie laughed. Hubert looked sympathetic, but did not offer an
explanation. Then Mrs. Grandison took up the running. “My dear, you
are quite right in wishing to do everything in your power in the way
of good; it is what every girl ought to strive after. It would keep
them out of mischief, and so on. But where you English people—when
you first come out, not afterwards—differ a little from us is that
you are all going to set us benighted colonists right, and to
improve us in a great many ways. You say, “I only want to do my
duty—just as one would do in England,” but the idea is that you can
improve things ever so much.”
“Well, perhaps there may be a feeling that a good deal appears to be
left undone; but the intention is to do our duty in that state of
life, &c.”
“Quite true,” assented Mrs. Grandison; “but remember what you said,
that so many of the best people of the old country had come out
here. May not they and their children have worked to some purpose,
with results like the Miss Flemington’s music and singing?”
“Well, that does seem probable, but a great deal remains undone; you
must admit that, surely?”
“I am afraid many of us are not up to the mark in our duties, but
the same kind of persons would perhaps have done no better in an
English county. But I could show you people who pass their lives in
doing good—who hardly do anything else, in fact.”
“And for what is not done,” said Hubert, who had been regarding Mrs.
Grandison’s defence of Australian institutions with a slightly
surprised air, “there is commonly some reason, though not visible to
a newly arrived young lady like yourself.”
“Thank you, Mr. Stamford. But why did you not call me a ‘new chum’
while you were about it? I know you all look down on us.”
“We do not call ladies ‘new chums,’” said Hubert gravely, bowing
slightly at the same time. “And I really must decline any more
passages of arms about my native land. I hope you will like it, and
us too on further acquaintance. I will hand you over to my sisters,
who will argue the point with you at any length, and if you can
inoculate each other with your different opinions, it will be
mutually advantageous.” With which diplomatic recommendation Mr.
Hubert Stamford looked at his watch and bowed himself out. “I
mustn’t be late for this appointment with Barrington Hope,” he told
himself. “It is important enough, and though I could sit and argue
with that nice, fresh, enthusiastic Miss Dacre all day, yet
‘business is business.’”
From which latter proverb, it may be inferred that Mr. Stamford,
junior, although by no means averse to the proper and gallant
attendance upon ladies which every man of his age should hold to be
a part of his knightly devoir, was yet in the main a practical
youth, likely in the long run to win his spurs in the modern tourney
of pastoral commerce.
After thinking over the points of the coming conference, he
signalled to a hansom cabby, and was taken up by that modern
benefactor of the late, the imprudent, and the unlucky, and whirled
swiftly to the offices of the Austral Agency Company. Here Mr. Hope
had arranged to meet a Mr. Delamere, who was anxious to acquire a
pastoral property in the new country, Queensland, just opened and in
every man’s mouth. This gentleman had but lately arrived from
England. In a kind of way he was consigned to the company by one of
the English directors, who happened to be his uncle.
Mr. Delamere, senior, had known the colonies in former years, and
being fully aware that high hope and lofty purpose, even when
combined with an available capital, do not altogether make up for
total inexperience of all Australian pastoral matters, had besought
the manager of the Melbourne branch of the Austral Agency Company to
advise the cadet of his house.
“I am aware, my dear Thornton,” he wrote, “that in a general way it
is thought better that a newly arrived young gentleman should work
out his own destiny in Australia—that after repeated falls and
losses he learns to run alone, and may be trusted henceforth to move
more circumspectly than if he had been ‘shepherded’ from the first.
But I dissent from this theory. The falls are often serious; after
some losses there is nothing left. I prefer a partner, such a one as
I had myself thirty years ago if possible. There ought to be a few
well-bred youngsters knocking about who know everything that can be
known about stations and stock but are held back for want of
capital. Such a one could supply the experience, while Frank
Delamere would find the capital. The old joke used to be that in two
or three years the new arrival had acquired all the experience and
the colonist all the cash. This reads smartly, but is false enough,
like many _bons mots_ both in the Old World and the New. Where was
there ever a better man than my old overseer, Jock Maxwell,
afterwards partner, and now deservedly pastoral magnate? He could
work twice as hard as I ever did; he knew station life _ab ovo_. He
was honest to a fault. He—but I always prose when I get on this
topic. It is enough to say that I had sufficient sense to form this
estimate of his character and act upon it, ‘whereby,’ as Captain
Cuttle has it, I am now writing from Greyland Manor, near
Glastonbury Thorn, instead of being a white slave in a counting
house, or the half-pay pauper generally known as a retired military
officer.
“Therefore—a convenient, if illogical expression—I charge you to
procure a good steady ‘pardner’ for Frank, who will see that his ten
thousand, perhaps more, if need be, is not wasted or pillaged before
he cuts his wisdom teeth as a bushman. Draw at sight, when
investments are made with your consent.—Yours ever sincerely,
“ROBERT DELAMERE.”
#/
This was the business on which the three men met on this day at the
Austral Agency Company’s office. Before this momentous interview a
certain amount of preliminary work had been done. Letters and
‘wires’ had circulated freely between Windāhgil, Sydney and
Melbourne, from which city the newly-fledged intending purchaser had
recently been summoned. Permission had been reluctantly granted by
Mr. Stamford, who foresaw years of separation from the son and heir,
who had never cost him an anxious moment as to his conduct. The
affair was tearfully discussed by Mrs. Stamford and the girls, who
thought life would no longer be worth living at Windāhgil when
Hubert’s merry voice and unfailing good spirits were withdrawn.
“Why do people want to change and alter things—to go away and bring
sorrow and misery and destruction—no, I mean desolation—on those
they love?” demanded Linda. “And we are all so happy here! It seems
cruel of Hubert to take it into his head to go to Queensland—all
among blacks, and fever, and sunstroke, and everything.” Here she
got to the end of her list of probable disasters, and though
sensible that her climax was not effective, was fain to conclude,
“Don’t you think it’s too bad, mother?”
“We shall feel dear Hubert’s absence deeply, bitterly, I grant,”
said the fond mother; “but he is animated by the very natural desire
of all high-spirited young men to improve the fortunes of the
family, and to distinguish himself in a career which is open to
all.”
“But the danger, mother!” said Laura, in a low voice; “you remember
poor young Talbot, whom the blacks killed last month, and Mr.
Haldane, who died of fever. Suppose—oh! suppose—--”
“Suppose the house fell down and killed, us all,” said Mr. Stamford,
rather testily, for the purpose of hiding his own inward disquiet,
which, though not expressed, was as deeply felt as that of his wife
and daughters. “It’s no use talking in that way, as if a young man
had never gone out into the world before. Boys go to sea and into
the army every day of the year. People must make up their minds to
it. It is a grand opportunity, Mr. Hope says, and may not occur
again.”
“I shall hate Mr. Hope,” said Linda, “if he has induced Hubert to go
into this speculation along with some one no one knows, into a
country which half the people, it seems to me, never come back from.
But I suppose those mercantile men don’t care.”
“You mustn’t be unjust, Linda,” interposed Laura. “Whatever Mr. Hope
has done has been in Hubert’s interest, we may feel sure. He has
always been most friendly to the family. And you must remember that
Hubert has been lately always pining to go to Queensland, and
talking about wasting his life here in this old settled district.”
“What’s the use of being miserable if you can’t be unjust to some
one?” retorted Linda. “If you felt as deeply as I do, Laura, you
wouldn’t talk in that cold-blooded way. I can see the whole thing.
Mr. Hope and his company are anxious to establish a great station
property out in Queensland, or Kimberley, or King George’s Sound, or
wherever it is, and they have pitched upon poor Hubert as a likely
victim for the sacrifice. That’s the whole thing! They’re regular
Molochs, and Mr. Hope is the officiating High Priest—nothing else. I
wonder how he’d look with a garland of oak leaves, like the Druid in
_Norma_?” Here Linda’s feelings, brought to a climax by a smile
which she detected on Laura’s countenance at her _mélange_ of
metaphors, became too much for her, and pressing her handkerchief to
her eyes, she retreated to her bedroom.
All the high contracting parties having sent in unqualified assent,
it but remained for Mr. Hope to introduce the young men to each
other—the representatives of the Parent Land and that Greater
Britain which has now in the South and West attained such vast
proportions; also to reduce to writing the terms of an agreement by
which the two men bound themselves to work together for their joint
benefit as graziers, explorers, stock and station proprietors for
the fixed term of five years.
Mr. Delamere was to place to the credit of the new firm of Delamere
and Stamford the sum of ten thousand pounds, which would be amply
sufficient for the purchase of stock, the taking up, or even
securing at second-hand, the requisite areas of Crown lands in new
or partially settled country.
Hubert Stamford, on the other hand, “did agree and contract to
personally manage and conduct the details of the joint concern—to
superintend the management of stock, the hiring of station hands,
the purchase of stores, and whatever work, either of exploration,
travel, or management, might be found necessary, for which he was,
in consideration of such personal knowledge and experience of the
management of stock and stations by him acquired, to be placed and
held to be the possessor of one-third share of the said property and
of the profits of said stock and stations.”
These provisions and declarations were embodied in an agreement,
which was drawn up by the company’s solicitor and submitted by him
to Mr. Worthington for inspection and approval.
That gentleman, as instructed, wrote to Mr. Stamford, senior, who,
it would appear, made some subsequent communication to him, inasmuch
as Mr Hope received a letter signed Worthington, Wardell and Co.,
which briefly but clearly stated that his friend and client, Mr.
Stamford, of Windāhgil, approved generally of the terms of the
agreement entered into by his son and Mr. Delamere, and that he was
quite willing that he should enter into such an arrangement, and
that Mr. Hope, of the Austral Agency Company, had his full
confidence and trust. But that he desired his son to place a
proportionate sum of ready money to the credit of the firm, and not
to enter it wholly upon the outlay of another. And therefore that he
had placed in Mr. Worthington’s hands securities to the value of
five thousand pounds, which sum they were ready to pay over on Mr.
Hope’s order to that effect.
Upon the receipt of this letter, Mr. Hope at once proposed that the
share of the profits to which Mr. Hubert Stamford was entitled under
the agreement should be altered to one half, inasmuch as his
superior knowledge and experience would be in value to the interest
of the other moiety of the ten thousand pounds to be advanced by Mr.
Delamere, and would thus equalise matters. This was at once agreed
to, on the part of Mr. Delamere and the Melbourne manager of the
company acting in his interests, upon which the agreement was
“signed, sealed, and delivered.”
Nothing now remained but for Hubert to pay a farewell visit to
Windāhgil, for the purpose of settling up what personal business he
might have, to take leave of the family, and then to journey into a
far country after the fashion of the princes, prodigals, and younger
sons of historic ages.
Place and time being appointed for the newly-joined partners to meet
and take ship for their destination, Hubert Stamford commenced all
requisite preparation for a start homewards.
He had no further heart for the pleasures of Sydney—the ordinary
distractions of a young man palled upon him. He felt like a general
whose army is about to march for the imminent battle—like a soldier
picked for a forlorn hope, or an advanced guard. The meaner
pleasures revolted him. Balls and picnics, theatres and concerts,
were but the straws and _débris_ of life’s ocean. The argosy which
carried his fortunes was about to sail with canvas spread and
streamers flying. Would she return gold-laden, or would the cold
ocean engulf her as so many other fairer barks which, “youth at the
prow and pleasure at the helm,” had sailed away through the _ingens
aequor_, and returned nevermore? Was it to be so with him?
Might it be a proved success, a wider experience with the praise of
all men, the joyful tears and triumph of those who loved him? Or
that other thing? Who could tell? He could only resolve to do and to
dare worthily, whatever might befall, for their dear sakes.
Miss Dacre, with her father and brother, had left town for
Wantabalree, being anxious to be settled in their new abode. The
Colonel, distrusting more deeply day by day the wisdom of his
purchase, had become restless and uneasy; he wanted to see with his
own eyes how things went on, and to justify himself, if possible,
for the investment, at which more than one disinterested critic had
shaken his head. Willoughby Dacre, an ardent inexperienced
youngster, who thought Australian squatter life made up wholly of
galloping about on horseback, and lying under shady trees eating
tropical fruits, was also impatient to be in the thick of the
half-Arab life he pictured to himself.
Rosalind Dacre, though the chief doubter and dissentient, was yet
eager to see with her own eyes this land of promise, which was,
according to Hubert, to fail so woefully in performance, and also to
put in practice her own ideas of “the gentle life” as possible in
Australia; at the same time to comfort her father and aid in the
household management.
For all these reasons the Dacre family had departed; and Hubert,
calling at their hotel, found to his surprise and slight
dissatisfaction, that they had gone the day before, a note of the
Colonel’s alone remaining _en souvenir_, in which he thanked him for
his well-meant, valuable advice, and trusted they would meet in the
neighbourhood of their respective stations.
For some unexplained reason Hubert read this trivial note several
times, and then tearing it up in a reflective manner, walked slowly
towards his own hostelry.
“When do you think of leaving, Hubert?” said Mr. Hope, as they were
talking over districts and markets, land laws and tenures, railways
and syndicates, all more or less bearing on the great pastoral
central idea. “When shall you go home?”
“On Friday, I think. I am getting tired of town, and everything is
fully arranged.”
“Everything is settled that needs settling, and nothing more can be
done until you young men manage to get pretty far back, and make
your first deal in new country. It’s a gloriously exciting,
adventurous kind of life, this starting to take up new country. I
often wish I’d taken to it myself in youth, instead of this branch
of the business.”
“Living in town seems a pleasant life enough,” said Hubert. “You
have all sorts of things that we people in the bush have to do
without.”
“And we need them all,” said the elder man. “This office life is one
eternal grind, month after month, year after year. But I don’t wish
to complain. I suppose all men get ‘hypped’ sometimes.”
“I never do,” laughed Hubert; “the day’s never long enough for me;
but I suppose I soon should if I lived all the year round in town.
It’s being so much in the open air that saves one. But why don’t you
clear out to Windāhgil for a change? Come home with me. The governor
and my mother are always expecting you to send them word you’re
coming.”
“I wish to heaven I could,” said the man of the city, looking
enviously at Hubert’s cheery countenance and unworn features; “but I
can’t find the time at present. However, I promise to turn up at
Mooramah—isn’t that your railway town?—some time before Christmas. I
shall count the days till I can, I assure you.”
“I shall be away then, I am sorry to say,” said Hubert. “I should
like to have taken you all over the old place. There are one or two
decent views, and rides and drives no end. However, the girls and
the young brothers know them as well as I do; you must get them to
do the honours. Oh! I forgot, too—you can drive them over to the
Dacres’. But you mustn’t put it off too long. Still, they can’t be
ruined within a year or eighteen months, anyhow.”
“And perhaps not then,” said Mr. Hope, with a smile. “Friends might
intervene judiciously, you know. It won’t be Mr. Dealerson’s fault
if they pull through, however.”
“No, hang him! However, there must be Dealersons in the world, I
suppose. They act as a kind of foil to honest men, and serve as
transparencies to show roguery in all its glory. Well, good-bye till
then. We may meet before Delamere and I start for the ‘Never-Never’
country.”
* * * * *
When Hubert Stamford beheld his sisters and his younger brother, who
had driven to Mooramah to meet him, he felt more like a stranger and
pilgrim than he ever expected to feel in that familiar spot. He was
there with them, but not of them, as it were. He was to stay a month
or so at Windāhgil—only a month at the dear old place where he had
lived ever since he could remember anything; he was to go over all
the familiar scenes once more, and then—to leave it, certainly for
years, perhaps for ever. After the first warm greeting the girls
looked inquiringly at him; the tears came into Laura’s eyes. “Oh,
how happy we are to see you, our own dear Hubert; but to think you
are going away so soon nearly breaks my heart!” she said.
“He looks wonderfully well. Town life—not too much—always refines
people,” said Linda, with an air of tender criticism; “but I think
there’s a hard look about his eyes. I suppose it’s making up his
mind to this grand new speculation.”
“You see exactly the same Hubert Stamford that went away, you little
analysing duffer, but is it my fault that I have had to move with
the rest of the world? Do you want me to stay at home and become a
superior sort of ‘cockatoo,’ and are you and Laura—if it is to come
to that—prepared to remain at Windāhgil for the rest of your lives?”
“I wish I could,” groaned Laura; “but as you say, we must move with
the rest of the world. Still these separations are heart-breaking.
You needn’t mind us overmuch, dear; but we are women, remember, and
you must let us have our cry out. It does us good, and relieves the
overcharged heart.”
“Very well, I consent. But you must manage it all to-day. To-morrow
must be sunshine, and only blue sky appear till I depart. But
there’s a whole month or more yet. Think of that! We can be ever so
happy all that time. Now, to change the subject. Have you seen
anything of the Dacres?”
“That means Miss Dacre, I suppose,” said Linda. “Oh, yes; we went to
call almost directly we heard they were up. Said we thought they
might want something. That was how we described our curiosity.”
“And what do you think of her?”
“She’s a dear, sweet creature, and Laura and I have agreed that if
you don’t fall in love with her, your taste isn’t as good as we
believed it to be.”
“She’s very nice,” said Hubert, with society nonchalance; “but I’ve
got something else to do besides falling in love for the next three
or four years. Besides, she mightn’t condescend to a humble colonist
like me. But tell me, Laura, what was there about her that you were
struck with chiefly?”
“Several things,” said Laura, reflectively. “She is a high-caste,
cultured girl in every respect, though she is so fresh, and natural,
and plain in all her ways, that people who are always looking out
for the airs and graces of the Lady Clara Vere de Vere species might
be disappointed in her.”
“All that I can understand and generally agree with,” said Hubert.
“What next?”
“She is awfully energetic,” continued Laura. “Of course, there are
plenty of girls in this country that are, but she never seems to
have any notion of repose from the time she gets up, which is early,
till bed-time. She reads and writes and does her housekeeping, and
walks, and rides and drives, and what she calls visits the poor (oh,
there is quite a good story about that, which I must tell you!), all
with unvarying industry.”
“She is a newly imported broom,” said Hubert, “and naturally sweeps
with effectiveness. It will slow down a little with time. But it’s a
fault on the right side. Tell us the story, Laura dear.”