“Well,” said Laura, putting on a Scheherazade expression of
countenance, “it appears that Miss Dacre, having been used to be
good to the poor of the village near where they lived in England,
could not get on without them. Much to her surprise, she found them
scarce in the neighbourhood of Wantabalree. Mr. Dealerson did not
‘believe in’ poor people, and generally ‘fed out,’ ‘blocked,’ or
bought out small holders. At length, in one of her rides, she came
upon an old couple living in a miserable hut, the man feeble and
half-blind, both apparently destitute; their one little girl was
barefooted and in rags. They told a pitiful story of having been
deceived in the matter of a free selection—which, of course, she
couldn’t understand—and deserted by their children. Charmed by their
evident poverty and artless expressions of gratitude, she gave them
what silver she had, and promised them employment.”
“Her intention was good,” said Hubert. “I can guess the kind of
people they were; but it speaks well for her kindness of heart.”
“Nothing could be kinder, I am sure; but I grieve to say, she rushed
into a declamation (she confessed) about the hardness of colonists’
hearts—who would let so deserving a couple almost die of hunger in a
land of plenty.”
“As to that,” said Hubert, “very few people suffer from hunger in
Australia, except when they decline work. Even then, they manage to
live on their friends. How did the story end?”
“Well, she formed a plan for persuading these delightful poor to
migrate to Wantabalree, where they were to be fed and furnished with
light work. Fortunately for her peace of mind, when she told her
father and brother, they made inquiries among the neighbours. Then
they found out that the old man was one of the most artful and
successful sheep-stealers in the district, and had even been tried
for graver crimes. The money she gave him he invested in rum, under
the influence of which he beat his wife and turned his little
daughter out of doors.”
“And what effect had this discovery on her philanthropy, for of
course it was old Jimmy Doolan—a man the police have been trying to
get hold of for years—as slippery as a fox and as savage as a wolf?”
“She had to recant; to admit that perhaps, on the whole, the
characters of people were known and appreciated by those amongst
whom they lived. Still, she said there was a want of systematic
benevolence in the neighbourhood, and that she would rather be
deceived occasionally, than sink into a state of cold indifferentism
towards her fellow creatures.”
“It’s really quite pathetic,” said Hubert. “One feels drawn towards
a girl of such tendencies as if she were a nice child. It seems hard
that a few years of colonial experience should deprive her of such
tender illusions.”
“I don’t think anything will tone her down into anything
uninteresting, if you mean that,” said Linda; “she has too much high
principle and refinement.”
“She will learn to act judiciously in time, as mother does, for
instance,” said Laura. “She’s always bestowing father’s substance
upon some poor creature or other; but she finds out the right sort
of people, and the proper when and where.”
Before long a return visit occurred from Wantabalree, from which
place Willoughby Dacre drove his sister to Windāhgil about a week
after the conversation above recorded.
The brother and sister made their appearance in a vehicle of
unpretending appearance, being, indeed, no other than the
spring-cart which was “given in” ostentatiously by Mr. Dealerson,
along with furniture and other station requisites. Willoughby,
having managed to rig up leading harness, had accomplished a tandem
with two of the best-looking horses on the station, so that the
turn-out was not wholly plebeian.
Much mutual delight was expressed by the girls, and various
experiences interchanged which had occurred since their last
meeting. The young men went off together to put up the horses, and
took advantage of the opportunity to have a little sheep-talk.
“How are you getting on so far?” said Hubert. “Shaking down a bit, I
suppose. Does your father approve of bush life?”
“Oh, he finds himself most comfortable,” answered Willoughby. “He
has a snug morning room with a fire, and plenty of books and papers.
He says he never expected to enjoy himself so much in the bush. He
takes a great interest in the garden too. The fruit trees and vines
are really something to look at.”
“I don’t doubt it,” said Hubert. “The house and grounds, stabling
and out-offices are about the best in the district. Well, I hope
you’ll all live there many years to enjoy them.”
“I hope so too,” said Willoughby; “but excuse me if I say that you
don’t seem to expect it. Now, why is it that, as everything is so
good in its way, the sheep well-bred, everybody says, and looking so
well now, that you regard the investment as a bad one? You are not
alone in that opinion either, though the other neighbours don’t
speak so honestly.”
“My prophecy of evil may not come off, after all. This is an
uncertain country as to weather, and weather with us is everything.
But if the rain holds off, you’ll see what I mean. You have about
two-thirds too many sheep on the run. That is all.”
“What can we do?”
“Well, nothing just at present. In a general way, sell off surplus
stock as soon as you can do so profitably. But in a dry season
everybody wishes to sell, and few care to buy except at the lowest
prices. However, I’ll put you up to the likeliest dodges when the
time comes.”
“Thanks very much. I can’t help feeling anxious from time to time
when I think that our all is embarked in this undertaking. I thought
it was so safe and solid, and never dreamed that there could be such
a swindle worked when all looked fair outside. The governor was
rash, I must say. It’s a way of his. But we must fight our way out
of the scrape, now we’re in it.”
“That’s the only thing to be done, and not to lose heart. There are
always chances and changes with stock in Australia. Fortunes are
always to be made.”
“And to be lost, it seems. You are just going to invest in
Queensland, I hear. Isn’t that a long way off?”
“It’s never too far off if the country’s good,” said Hubert. “Runs
are cheap there now, but they are always rising in value. I intend
to send a lot of our Windāhgil sheep out there as soon as we get
settled.”
“If we hadn’t spent all our money,” said the young Englishman
regretfully, “we might have bought a run there too. However, it
can’t be helped, as we said before. I shall be glad to hear from you
when you get there.”
“Any information I can give shall be at your service, as well as all
possible assistance,” said Hubert, warmly. “Always depend upon that.
But it’s early in the day to talk about such things. We shall see
more clearly what to do as the occasion arises. And now, we had
better join the ladies.”
It was settled after a rather animated discussion that the visitors
were not to return to Wantabalree that night. In vain they pleaded
household tasks, station exigencies, the anxiety which Colonel Dacre
was certain to experience at their absence. All these reasons were
treated as mere excuses. There couldn’t be much housekeeping for one
person, especially as they had, for a wonder, a decent cook. The
station could wait, the less work done among the sheep at present,
the better; while it was extracted in cross-examination that Colonel
Dacre had told them that if they did not return, he should conclude
they had stayed at Windāhgil. So the truce was definitely arranged,
the horses turned into the river paddock, the young men went out for
a drive in Hubert’s buggy to inspect a dam “at the back,” concerning
which young Dacre had expressed some interest, while the three
girls, after a ramble in the garden, settled down to a good steady
afternoon’s needlework and an exhaustive discussion of bush life,
and Australian matters generally.
“What a famous, light-running, easy trap this is of yours!” said
Dacre, as they spun over the smooth, sandy bush track, Whalebone and
Whipcord, an exceptionally fast pair of horses, slipping along at
half-speed.
“Yes,” said Hubert. “It’s the best thing of the kind that’s made, I
believe. I bought this to take out with me to the new country. I
think it is economical to have a vehicle of this sort. There are
many bits of station work that a buggy comes in for, and you save
horseflesh. I wonder you don’t get one for your sister.”
“Well, we found the tax-cart at the station, and Rosalind’s such a
terrific economist that she wouldn’t hear of us buying a carriage,
as she calls it, for her. But I really must go in for a buggy, if
it’s only on the governor’s account. He’s not so young as he was,
and riding knocks him about, I can see. But how fast your horses
are! I didn’t think Australian horses went in for trotting much.
None of ours do.”
“Australian horses (and men and women too, as I think I have
mentioned before),” remarked Hubert with suspicious mildness,
“resemble those in other parts of the world, though the contrary is
asserted. Some are good, others bad. Some of them—the horses, I now
allude to—can trot. Others cannot. This pair, for instance”—(here he
tightened his reins, and in some imperceptible fashion gave a
signal, which they answered to by putting up their heads and
bursting into sixteen miles an hour)—“can do a mile in very fair
time for non-professionals.”
“So I see,” replied the young Englishman. “I wish I was not so hasty
in forming impressions; however, I shall be cured of that in time.
But it is awfully trying to hold your tongue when everything is new
and exciting, and to talk cautiously is foreign to the Dacre
nature.”
“‘_Experientia_ does it,’ as we used to say at school,” laughed
Hubert. “You’ll be chaffing new arrivals in a couple of years
yourself. The regulation period is about that time, and I don’t
think you’ll take so long as some people.”
“That’s a compliment to my general intelligence,” said Dacre. “I
suppose I ought to feel grateful. But one can’t help a slight
feeling of soreness, you know, that after being regularly educated
for a colonial life, as I was, and coached in all the necessary
carpentering, blacksmithing, agriculture, and so on, I should find
myself so utterly ignorant and helpless here.”
“Come, come,” said Hubert; “you do yourself injustice. It won’t take
more than a year to make a smart bushman of you, I can see. But I
suppose it’s something like going into a strange country to hunt.
You remember that when Mr. Sawyer went to the Shires he felt under a
disadvantage at first.”
“Yes, but you wouldn’t, or M’Intosh, or any of the other fellows
I’ve seen; that’s what makes me so savage with myself. You’d know
your way about; people wouldn’t discover, unless you told them, that
you had lived in England all your days, while we fellows, who came
out here certainly thinking ourselves as good all round as any one
we were likely to find, are always exposing our ignorance, getting
laughed at, or taken in, and are marked for immigrants and tyros as
far as we can be seen.”
“I observe your point, and it is a little aggravating,” replied
Hubert. “But after all, it is a compliment to our mother country
that we make it our business from childhood to know all about her
history and traditions, manners and customs, from a thousand
accurate chronicles. Our usages, modelled upon hers and religiously
handed down by our parents, are identical, or as nearly so as we can
make them. But our country and our trifling yet marked departures
from English standards have found few close observers, accurate
descriptions, and fewer narrators still. There is hardly any way of
getting acquainted with us, except by actual experience.”
“It looks like it,” assented his friend, reluctantly; “but I mourn
over the fond illusions Rosalind and I are doomed to lose before we
complete our apprenticeship. Hope we may acquire others not less
satisfactory. The outlook at Wantabalree at present might be
brighter too, if what you told my father comes to pass.”
“It may not happen after all, or it may be parried and averted. All
manner of chances may arise in your interest. So do not _think_ of
desponding,” said Hubert. “One of the special characteristics of
Australians is, that they _never despair_.”
“Never know when they are beat, in fact,” said Dacre, with a
returning smile. “Well that is a genuine English trait at any rate,
so I must support the credit of my country.”
* * * * *
The dam was inspected and the principle of the “by-wash” explained
to Dacre, who showed an aptitude and readiness to comprehend the
necessary detail which favourably impressed Hubert.
The free horses pulled more on the homeward track than coming out,
and elicited high commendation.
“They certainly are superb goers, and this is the poetry of motion,”
Dacre exclaimed, as, sending out their eight legs as if they
belonged to one horse, the well-matched pair made the light, yet
strong vehicle spin over the level road with an ease and velocity
which no two-wheeled trap ever approached. “I shall be unhappy till
I set up a buggy and a pair of trotters—all the good resolutions to
spend nothing that could be helped made at the beginning of the
month notwithstanding.”
“It’s false economy to go without a buggy,” said Hubert. “Tell your
father I said so. And that is easily demonstrable. It saves
horse-flesh, enables you to carry feed in a dry season, and has
other useful and agreeable qualities.”
The tea, for which they were just in time to dress, was an
agreeable, not to say hilarious, meal. The Miss Stamfords, it would
seem, had been admitting their visitor into all kinds of occult
mysteries of domestic management. How they arranged when they were
short of a servant, without a cook or a housemaid, or indeed, as
occasionally happened, though not for any protracted period, when
they had no servant at all.
Miss Dacre was astonished to find what a complete and practical
knowledge these soft-appearing, graceful damsels displayed with many
branches of household lore, and how many hints they were able to
offer for her acceptance, all of which tended to lighten the labours
of bush housekeeping, which she had already found burdensome.
From Mrs. Stamford, on opening the relief question, it was
discovered that she had various humble friends and pensioners, all
of whom she helped, after a fashion which encouraged them to be
industrious and self-supporting; others again received advice in the
management of their families, the treatment of their children, the
choice of trades for their sons, and of service for their daughters.
In a number of humble homes, and by all the neighbouring settlers,
this gentle, low-voiced woman was regarded as the _châtelaine_ of
the manor, the good angel of the neighbourhood, the personage to
whom all deferred, whose virtues all imitated at a distance, and
whom to disappoint or to pain was a matter more deeply regretted
than the actual shortcoming which had led to reproof.
And all this work had been done—this sensible system of true
Christian benevolence and aid was in full flow and operation—without
one word being said by the agents themselves which gave a hint of
the energy, contrivance, and self-denial manifestly necessary for
such results. All things were done silently, unobtrusively; no one
spoke of them, or seemed to think them other than matters of course.
This was a phase of colonial life which struck the eager critic of
the new land with something like dismay. Was it possible in this
strange country that there might be yet other instances of human
love and charity efficiently performed with equal thoroughness and
absence of demonstration? If so, had she not been making herself
somewhat ridiculous in assuming hurriedly that there were so many
niches in Australian temples sacred to heroic effort which were
unfilled before she arrived.
In spite of the slight feeling of soreness which the knowledge
caused her, the general influence of the symposium, separated as she
had been for some weeks from companions of her own sex and social
standing, was unusually exhilarating. Her naturally genial
temperament led her, therefore, to laugh secretly at her own
miscalculation and discomfiture as a very good and choice joke
indeed.
However, she was less explanatory than her brother had been,
preferring inferential admission, after the manner of her sex. This
concession to the wisdom of the colonists exhibited itself in
unaffected good humour and affectionate cordiality towards her
comparatively recent friends.
She joined cheerily in all the amusements and occupations of the
evening. She sang and played, praising the performances of the
Stamford girls and the new songs they had brought back with them
from the metropolis. She talked flowers and greenhouse with her
hostess, and had a slight political tilt with Mr. Stamford. In all
these subjects she exhibited sound teaching as well as a careful
theoretical training. Nothing could be more modest and less
assertive than her general manner, at the same time that a wider
range of thought, consequent upon European travel and extended
social experience, was unconsciously apparent. When the Windāhgil
family retired for the night, Mr. Stamford expressed his opinion to
his wife, in the sanctity of the matrimonial chamber, that he had
never met a finer girl in his life before, and that he was delighted
that they should have such a neighbour; while Hubert, in the
smoking-room, whither he had retired with his young friend at a late
period of the evening, _may have_ meditated upon the command “to
love thy neighbour as thyself,” but forbore to commit himself by
unguarded expression.
On the next day, after a mirthful and consolatory breakfast—a trifle
later than usual, inasmuch as the three maidens sat talking so late
that the morning slumbers were prolonged—the new neighbours
departed. Fresh expressions of approval and surprise were exhibited
by this English guest at the home-baked bread, the butter, the
honey, the incomparable home-cured bacon, and other triumphs of
domestic economy.
“I have enjoyed myself as I never expected to do in the bush,” she
said; “I thought there would be nothing but devotion to ‘duty, stern
daughter of the voice of God.’ I never dreamed that so much of the
poetry of life was attainable. You have taught me a lesson” (this
was in confidence to Laura at parting) “for which I shall be all the
better henceforth. I am not too old or too conceited to learn, at
any rate.”
“You have nothing very much to learn,” replied Laura; “we may be
mutually advantageous to one another, that’s all, if we make an
agreement to put as much friendship and as little ceremony into our
intercourse as possible. It will not be long before we come over to
stay a night at Wantabalree, before poor Hubert starts for
Queensland, I grieve to say, and then you must comfort us in our
loneliness.”
“Papa will be quite charmed to see you again. If you had heard all
the fine things he said about you and Linda, you would have thought
he was looking out for a step-mamma for me. But he is purely
theoretical in that department, I am thankful to say, and now good
bye, and _au revoir_!”
The promised visit was paid, and a renewal of friendship and good
offices ratified, while the days passed on and the period of
Hubert’s stay with his family drew near to a close. The
long-expected, long-dreaded day arrived for his departure to the
land of adventure, and, alas! of danger—it could not be concealed.
All preparations for the momentous event were at length completed,
and once more the family assembled at the railway terminus at
Mooramah to bid farewell to the son and brother—the mainstay, the
hope of Windāhgil. Deep and unaffected was the grief, although
outward manifestations were heroically suppressed.
The warning bell sounded, the last adieux were said, and, as the
train moved off, relentless, irrevocable as fate—the fair summer day
gloomed, while the family party drove sadly back to their home, from
which the sunshine seemed to have been suddenly withdrawn.
Such are the partings in this world of chequered joy and sorrow—of
light and shadow. What prayers were that night offered up to the
All-wise Dispenser of events for the safety, the success, the
return—ah, me!—of the absent wayfarer—for him might the fervid
sunbeams of the inner deserts—be tempered—for him might the fierce
denizens of the wild be placated—for him might the terrible
uncertainty of flood and field be guided for good! The sisters wept
themselves to sleep in each other’s arms, while the mother’s face
was sad with unuttered grief, and the father’s brow grave for many a
day after this long-remembered parting.
But Time, the healer, brought to them, as to others, the successive
stages of calm resignation, of renewed hope. The post brought
tidings of a safely concluded voyage, of accomplished land travel.
At longer intervals, of promising investment, of successful
exploration, of permanent settlement in the land of promise, of the
occupation of pastures new in a region richly gifted by nature, and
needing but the gradual advance of civilisation to be promoted to a
profitable and acknowledged status.
Lastly, a despatch arrived of an eminently satisfactory nature, from
Mr. Barrington Hope, confirming the latest advices from “the
wandering heir.” “Mr. Hubert Stamford had more than justified all
the expectations formed of his energy and business aptitude. He had
purchased, at a comparatively small outlay, a lightly-stocked and
very extensive station upon the border of the settled country.
Leaving Mr. Delamere and a manager of proved ability in charge, he
had pushed on, and after a toilsome journey, happily accomplished
without accident or loss, had discovered and taken up, under the
Queensland regulations, which are most favourable to pioneers, an
immense tract of well-watered, pastoral country of the best quality.
They had received from their correspondents the highest commendation
of the value of the property now secured and registered in the name
of Delamere and Stamford. Windāhgil Downs was a proverb in the
mouths of the pioneer squatters of the colony, and the Laura and
Linda rivers were duly marked upon the official map at the
Surveyor-General’s office as permanent and important watercourses.
“The Austral Agency Company had the fullest confidence in the
prospects of the firm, and any reasonable amount of capital would be
forthcoming for necessary expenses in stocking up and legally
occupying the magnificent tract of pastoral country referred to.”
A private letter accompanied this formally-worded official
communication, informing Mr. and Mrs. Stamford that the writer
proposed to avail himself of their kind invitation to visit
Windāhgil at Christmas, when he would be enabled to utilise a
long-promised leave of absence for a few weeks.
It may be imagined, but can with difficulty be even sketched
faintly, with what feelings of joy and gratitude this precious
intelligence was received at Windāhgil; the happiness, too deep for
words, of the parents; the wild, ecstatic triumph of the sisters;
the elation of the servants and station hands, which communicated
itself to the inhabitants of the surrounding sub-district, all of
whom were included in the general glory of the event and unfeignedly
happy at the news of Hubert’s brilliant success.
“He deserves it all. I never thought but he’d come to good, and show
’em all the way if he got a chance,” was the general comment of the
humbler partisans. “He was always the poor man’s friend, was Master
Hubert; and now he’s going to be at the top of the tree, and it’s
where he ought to be. He’s a good sort, and always was. There wasn’t
a young man within a day’s ride of Mooramah as was fit to be named
in the same day with him.”
“Oh! Laura, isn’t it splendid, delicious, divine?” exclaimed Linda,
dancing round her sister and mother with inexpressible delight. (Mr.
Stamford had retired to compose his feelings in the garden.) “Oh!
dear, this world’s a splendid place of abode, after all, though I’ve
had terrible doubts lately. Wasn’t it fortunate we had strength of
mind to let dear, darling Hubert go, though it nearly broke our
hearts? I was certain some of my heart-strings cracked—really I
was—but now I feel better than ever, quite _young_, indeed! Oh! how
grateful we ought to be!”
“You were not the only one who suffered, were you, dear?” said
Laura, looking dreamily into the distance, beyond the gleaming
river, now indeed reduced to nearly its old dimensions. “Our prayer
has been answered. Some day we shall see our hero returning
‘bringing his sheaves with him.’ Oh! happy day! Mother, what shall
we do to relieve our feelings? I feel as if I could not bear it
unless we did something.”
“Suppose we drive over to Wantabalree?” suggested Linda. “Father
always enjoys a chat with the Colonel, and that dear, good Rosalind
is always so nice and sympathising about Hubert. I wonder if she
cares for him the _least little_ bit? But she’d die before she let
anybody know, and Hubert was so disagreeable, he refused to give me
the least hint. What do you think, mother?”
“I think nothing at all, my dear child. In all these matters, it is
the wisest course neither to think nor to speak prematurely. But I
daresay your father would drive us over, if we asked him, and we
could stay a night there. As you say, a chat with the Colonel always
does him good.”