So at Windāhgil and Wantabalree the calm, uneventful bush life went
on as usual. That life so peaceful, so wholesome for the spirit, so
chiefly free from the sharp cares and anxieties of city
existence—where the eye is refreshed daily with nature pictures, at
once grand and consoling. The early morn, so fair and fresh, when
the sun first glorifies the pale mists of dawn, changing all the
Orient with magic suddenness to opaline hues and golden flame. The
green gloom, the august solitude of the boundless forest, the
glowing sunshine which pierces even its inmost recesses at midday;
the wavering shadows, born of the inconstant breeze; the tender eve
when a solemn hush falls alike on stream and valley, on
mountain-side or wildwood glade, and all the ancient majesty of
night awes the senses. For the Windāhgil family, the placid days
came and went, lightened, as of old, by the regularity of customary
home duties, by books and music, by walks along the rippling river,
by rides and drives through the winding forest paths. Occasional
expeditions to Wantabalree made salutary change for all. As the
summer months wore on—as the days lengthened, and the mid-day heat
became intense; as the fiercer sun rays commenced to wither the bush
herbage of the river meadows, the many-hued wild flowers of heath
and hill; as the watercourses, fed by spring showers, commenced to
trickle faintly—there was a tendency to complain of the tyrant
Summer, and yet to long for the Christmas-tide as a period of mirth
and enjoyment—this year invested with a special charm.
For had not a telegram from some unknown, unknowable place, and
costing quite a small fortune, arrived, which stated that Hubert,
the _bien aimé_, would return at Christmas—actually return? “Like
the prodigal,” as Linda said, “only that it was the reverse in
everything except the coincidence of its being ‘from a far
country.’”
“The coincidence being so very slight, Linda,” said her mother,
“perhaps it would have been as well to refrain from Scriptural
parallel altogether. Don’t you think so, Miss Dacre? I had given up
expecting him after his last letter, in which he said there were
insuperable difficulties in the way.”
“He has managed to surmount the insuperable apparently,” said Linda.
“Hubert always was a wonderful boy for accomplishing things just at
the last moment. I don’t think I ever knew him beaten by anything he
made up his mind to do, though he used to leave things rather too
long.”
“That is one of Hubert’s worst points—or rather, most pronounced
weaknesses,” said Laura; “he won’t be wise in time except on what he
thinks are occasions of importance. It seems a defect with people of
energy and resource. For instance, I can’t imagine Hubert saying he
will cross a river or accomplish a journey and failing to carry out
his purpose, whatever happened. He is one of those people who seem
made for difficulties.”
“But difficulties which come upon the unprepared are apt to be
disastrous,” said Miss Dacre; “for my part, I am strongly in favour
of taking every imaginable precaution before the time of need.”
“The principle is good, but it doesn’t apply to Hubert,” said Linda,
still unconvinced. “Difficulties and impossibilities only stimulate
his resources, which are innumerable. When another man would lie
down and die, he would be quite in his element, ordering, inventing,
combining, and finally pulling through triumphantly.”
“It must be interesting to watch such a _tour de force_,” said Miss
Dacre; “but I prefer the generalship which surveys the field, and
places the battle in advance. Hit or miss, conquerors find their
Moscow some day.”
“Hubert has made a glorious campaign this time,” said Laura. “What a
day of days it will be when he shows his brown face at Mooramah
again! Doesn’t it seem an age since he went away, Rosalind?”
“I am sure papa and Willoughby will be very glad to see him again,”
said she. “I know they wish to have his advice about the sheep and
the season. They are getting quite anxious.”
* * * * *
No! The engine did not break down. The steamer with the Chinese
name, from the far north, the _Ly-wang-foo_, did not founder or take
fire. The floods did not sweep away the railway bridges. There was
not even an earthquake. All these phenomena and abnormal occurrences
were, in Linda’s opinion, almost certain to happen because Hubert
was coming home to spend Christmas with the family, and envious Fate
would be certain to interfere. Everything had gone so prosperously
hitherto that Destiny must be propitiated by sacrifice. Mr.
Barrington Hope was coming up also, as he had looked forward to a
holiday—of course _he_ would be disappointed, and so on.
Wonderful to relate, a few days before Christmas, again the family
trap was in requisition, driven by one of the boys.
The door of the first-class carriage opened, and a bronzed,
Indian-officer-looking man stepped out. The boys at first did not
know him. But when a tall, broad-shouldered gentleman, who followed
him, proposed to send a porter for their luggage, the younger boy
shouted out—“Why, it’s Hubert! Hubert! What a lark! We didn’t know
him. Why you _have_ changed! You’re ever so much thinner, and your
eyes are larger, and your face browner. What have you done to
yourself? We’ve come for you and Mr. Hope. Is this him?”
“Yes, this is he, Master Maurice. Your grammar appears to have stood
still, though you have grown such a big fellow. See about the
luggage, and have it put in the buggy; it will hold it all, unless
it has got smaller. Well, how are mother and father and Laura, and
Linda, and Waterking, and everybody? Why didn’t they come?”
“Well—they thought they’d be hugging you before all the people, and
they’d better wait and do it at home. So they sent me and Val with
the buggy. You’d better drive.”
“That is my intention, Maurice. I prefer to drive, though I know you
can handle the reins. But tell me about Windāhgil. What is the grass
like? Had much rain?”
“Only enough for sprinkling the garden these three months. I heard
old Jerry, the shepherd, tell Paddy Nolan that he thought it was
going to set in dry—the west wind was always blowing. _We’ve_ lots
of feed yet.”
“Old Jerry is a good judge of the weather at Mooramah; he’s been
watching it these fifty years. And how are they at Wantabalree?”
“Very poor, almost starving.”
“What?” said Hubert. And then laughing at the boy’s strictly
pastoral ideas, he said—“You mean the sheep in the paddocks, I
suppose.”
“Yes, of course; they’re getting as bare as your hand. What they’ll
do with all those sheep in another month or two nobody knows. Half
of ’em’ll die before winter.”
“You seem to take a practical view of things, Maurice,” said Mr.
Hope. “Are matters as bad as all that?”
“Well, I’m about a good deal, and I can’t help seeing. It’s a pity,
too; they’re so nice, all of them.”
* * * * *
Hubert at home again! After all the doubts, fears, delays. Maurice
had not exaggerated the amount of hugging, as he disrespectfully
expressed it, which the returning hero had to undergo, and which
would probably have created a stoppage on Mooramah platform. Mr.
Hope stood by with a tolerant air, and even made some light remark
to Miss Dacre as to their being left out of the extremely warm
greetings which prevailed. A very short time, however, was suffered
to elapse before all due apologies were made to their guests, and
the cordiality of Laura’s manner perhaps caused Barrington Hope to
overlook any overweening measure of love bestowed upon the
long-absent brother.
“How her eyes sparkled, how her cheek glowed, how she seemed to
devour the young fellow with her eyes!” he said to himself. And he
argued favourably, knowing something of womankind, of the probable
devotion to her husband should she ever condescend to endow mortal
man with that supreme and sacred title.
It was in vain to expect much general conversation that day. If the
visitors had been less sympathetic persons they might easily have
been aggrieved at the predominance of Hubert’s personal adventures,
opinions and experiences in all subsequent intercourse.
For the moment, everybody thought him much altered and changed,
wasted even in frame, sunburned, blackened by exposure, but, on the
whole, improved. There was a determination in his expression which
had not so habitually marked his features before—a look as of a man
who has confronted the grim hazards of the waste—who has dared the
odds which in the desert land of the savage are arrayed against him;
dared them only to conquer. It was the face of the conscript after
the campaign and the battle-field. If there was less than the old
measure of schoolboy gaiety and frolicsome spirits, there was an
added infusion of the dignity of the man.
Then his adventures. He must relate some of them. Even Miss Dacre
joined in this request. Like the knife-grinder, “story he had none
to tell,” but could not escape owning to having been laid up in a
bark hut with fever and ague, that had pulled him down so; nearly
drowned in crossing a flooded river; had a brush with the blacks,
who rose up from the tall grass all round him; horse speared under
him, and so on. All this, though Hubert made light of it with
characteristic modesty, seemed to his hearers of the nature of
thrilling and exciting romance.
“Hubert must feel like a troubadour of the Middle Ages,” said Linda,
“reciting before the lady of the castle and her maidens. It must
have been an awful temptation to improvise situations, and I dare
say they did. Fancy if we had no books, and were dependent entirely
upon wandering minstrels!”
“It mightn’t be altogether such a bad thing, Miss Linda,” said
Barrington Hope. “A handsome young troubadour would be more
entertaining than a dry book, or even an indifferent novel.”
“It wouldn’t be such a bad trade for the unemployed,” said Laura;
“but I suspect neither their manners nor their education would be
found suitable.”
“Some of the swagmen in Queensland would fill the requirements so
far,” said Hubert. “I have seen more than one ‘honourable’ on the
tramp. Only it would not do to trust them too near the sideboard.”
“What a pathetic picture,” said Miss Dacre; “fancy the son of a peer
trudging along the road, with his knapsack on his back, actually
begging from door to door!”
“It is not regarded as begging in outside country,” said Hubert. “It
is the recognised mode of locomotion for labourers and artisans.”
“And can they not procure steady employment?” said Miss Dacre, in a
tone of deep anxiety. “Surely it only needs some one to take an
interest in them, and give them good advice. Now, don’t smile in
that provoking way, Mr. Stamford, or I shall think you have brought
back unimpaired one of your least amiable traits.”
“Forgive me, Miss Dacre, for presuming on my part to hint that you
do not appear to be cured of what I supposed you would have learned
by this time to distrust—an unlimited trust in your less favoured
fellow creatures. The men of whom I speak live at free quarters when
they travel, are occasionally received on equal terms, and are paid,
when they condescend to do work, at the ordinary high rate of wages,
viz., from thirty shillings to two pounds per week, with board and
lodging.”
“And are they not encouraged to save this? They could soon put by
quite a small fortune.”
“Their misfortune is that they never _do_ save. They invariably
gamble or drink—generally the latter—till all is gone. Once lapsed,
they follow the habits of the uneducated working man with curious
fidelity.”
“What a terrible condition! What a terrible country where such
things can take place!”
“On the contrary; it is the best land attainable by the confirmed
prodigal. In England, I take it, the dissipated, improvident men of
their order go rapidly and thoroughly to the bad, passing swiftly
out of knowledge. Here they have intervals of wholesome labour and
compulsory sobriety, which recruit the constitution and give them
opportunity for repentance, if they ever _do_ repent.”
While this conversation was proceeding, Mr. Stamford and Barrington
Hope had been having a quiet semi-business talk, and this being
concluded, Miss Dacre was persuaded to open the piano, after which
Mr. Hope gave them some of the latest _Parsifal_ morceaux fresh from
Bayreuth, where he had a musical correspondent, having spent there
some of the days of his youth. Music now absorbed all attention for
the rest of the evening, everybody being more or less of an amateur;
and even Hubert showing that he had not been wholly without the
region of sweet sounds by bringing back and displaying two new
songs.
“Who played the accompaniments for you, Hubert?” said Linda.
“Somebody did, or you couldn’t have learnt them so well.”
“Do you suppose there are no ladies in the ‘Never-Never’ country?”
said he. “Quite a mistake. People of culture abound.”
The next day was adjudged by common consent to be spent at
Wantabalree. Miss Dacre was anxious to get home, and would by no
means consent to stay another day at Windāhgil. Mr. Hope thought he
would like to see Wantabalree, of which celebrated station he had
heard so much, and to pay his respects to the Colonel. So it was
arranged that Hubert should drive Miss Dacre and Linda, while Laura
went under Mr. Hope’s guidance in the Windāhgil trap. Mr. and Mrs.
Stamford elected to stay at home to take care of the house, and talk
quietly over Hubert’s return, personal appearance, prospects, and
generally interesting belongings.
Arrived at Wantabalree, the Colonel met them with his usual
courteous and hospitable manner. He congratulated Hubert on his safe
return from Queensland, and hoped he had not taken up all the good
country, as it seemed to him that other people would have to
migrate, if the season did not improve.
“Not for another year or two, Colonel, at any rate,” said Hubert,
cheerily; “you’ve plenty of water here, and Willoughby must do a
little ‘travelling’; anything’s better than throwing up the sponge.”
“I see little else for it,” said the Colonel, who had come to wear
an anxious expression. Miss Dacre grew grave as she marked her
father’s face, but she controlled herself with an effort, as it
seemed to Hubert, and telling Linda to go into the drawing-room and
admire her flowers, followed her guests. The men remained outside
and lounged into the stable yard, where the horses and traps were
being arranged, looking about them, and chatting on indifferent
subjects before going to the house.
“What a pretty situation you have here!” said Hope. “The
accomplished Mr. Dealerson, of whom I have heard so much, must have
been a man of taste. How picturesquely the creek winds round the
point near that splendid willow; the elevation is just sufficient,
and the flat seems made on purpose for a few fields and the
fruit-garden. The view of the distant mountain-range completes the
landscape. Capital stabling too.”
“Oh! confound him!” growled Willoughby; “he was sharp enough to see
that a smart homestead like this was just the thing to catch
‘new-chum’ buyers. It’s not bad in its way, but I hate the whole
thing so, when I think of the price we shall have to pay for it,
that I could burn the house down with pleasure.”
“I don’t know so much about that,” said Hope; “it doesn’t do to be
hasty in realising in stock matters any more than in purchasing. You
and Hubert had better have a good talk over accounts before I leave,
and if he can suggest anything, perhaps we may manage to tide over
for a while. He’s quite a rising man of business, I assure you.”
“I wish to heaven the governor had remained in Sydney with my
sister, and sent me out to Queensland with him,” said the young man;
“but it’s too late to think of that now. We must make the best of
it. But I won’t stand grumbling here all day, Mr. Hope. Come in and
we’ll see if there’s any lunch to be had. ‘Sufficient for the day,’
and so on?”
Hubert had found his way into the drawing-room before this colloquy
had ended, and was looking over a collection of Venetian photographs
which Miss Dacre had collected during their last visit to that city
of the sea.
“I wonder if I shall ever see the Lion of St. Mark again?” she said.
“I feel as if we were in another planet.”
“It is difficult to say where we shall all be in a few years’ time,“
said Hubert. ”_I_ am not going to stay here all my life. But you
won’t run away from Australia just yet, Miss Dacre?”
“I should think not,” she replied, cheerfully; “matters don’t look
like it at present. The doubt in my mind is whether we shall ever be
able to leave it. I don’t say that I am dissatisfied, but I should
like to see the Old World again before I die.”
“When Willoughby has made his fortune, or other things come to pass,
you will be able to go home and do all sorts of fascinating travel,”
said Hubert. “We must look forward.”
“I feel certain you are not laughing at me, Mr. Stamford,” she said,
fixing her eyes upon him with a wistful expression; “but if I did
not know you so well I should suspect it.”
“Nothing, of course, is farther from my thoughts,” said the young
man, meeting the gaze with equal directness; “but I really see no
reason to doubt your seeing Europe within the next five years, so
many changes take place in this Australian world of ours.”
“Hardly such a change as that,” she replied, smiling apparently at
the absurdity of the idea; “and now I think I hear the luncheon
bell. You must have thought I meant to starve you all.”
That no intention of this kind had actuated the fair hostess was
made apparent as they were ushered into the dining-room, a large and
handsome apartment wherein the furniture and appointments were in
keeping with the general plan of the house. Everybody was in capital
spirits; youth and hope were in the ascendant in the majority of the
party, and as their conversation became general, everybody seemed as
joyous as if Wantabalree were the best paying and the most fortunate
station in the district.
“What a lovely place this is altogether!” said Linda. “Mr. Dealerson
must have had some good in him after all. If father and Hubert had
not been so prejudiced against him, he might have married and
settled in the district. I believe he’s not so bad-looking.”
“I should never have come to see you, for one,” said Hubert, “if you
had been the lucky girl that carried off such a prize. But I should
like to have condemned him to work out this place, with its present
stock, in a dry season; that would have been a truly appropriate
punishment for his iniquities. The ancients used to think of fitting
fellows in another world in their own line. But this savours of
shop. Willoughby, did you get any snipe this spring?”
“Made two or three capital bags, but they went off as soon as the
weather got dry. Hares are getting plentiful too, and I was going to
get up a couple of greyhounds, but all that sort of thing’s knocked
on the head now.”
“Oh! nonsense; you mustn’t give up your shooting. ‘Never allow your
business to interfere with your pleasure’; we have little enough
recreation in Australia. You should have seen the brown quail in the
Mitchell grass in our new country. I used to put up bevies of them
looking like partridges. I must take some setters up next time.”
“Isn’t the heat very dreadful up there?” inquired Miss Dacre.
“Rather tropical,” said Hubert; “but there is a freshness in the air
that carries you through. The mosquitoes and sandflies, are perhaps
the worst evils. But with a good pisé house, which you could shut up
and keep cool, they might be greatly reduced.”
“Then the blacks; they seem nearly as bad as the North American
Indians?”
“Not quite. I suspect ‘Sitting Bull’ or ‘Red Cloud’ would have given
us a deal more trouble. Not but what we have to be careful. The best
way, I find, is to treat them with perfect justice, to keep your
word with them for good or evil. They learn to respect you in the
end. After a while we shall have no trouble with them.”
During the afternoon, which was devoted to nothing in particular, a
very agreeable arrangement which leaves guests at liberty to amuse
themselves as they feel inclined, Hubert found himself in Miss
Dacre’s company at the end of the lower walk of the orchard which
followed the winding bank of the creek.
The bank was high at this particular spot, having been partially
worn away by flood waters, leaving a wide, low shore at the opposite
side. A deep pool had been formed, which now gleamed and sparkled in
the lowered sun rays. A grand weeping-willow, self-planted, perhaps,
in the earliest days of the occupation of the station, shaded it
with trailing green streamers.
“Wantabalree is certainly the show station of the district,” said
Hubert. “You were fortunate in some respects in having so pleasant a
home in which to make your first Australian experiences.”
“I have been very happy here,” said she; “but that will make it all
the more painful to leave, as I fear we shall be obliged to do at no
distant period. I do not so much care for my own sake, but it will
be discouraging to Willoughby, and my father is certain to feel the
change more than any of us.”
“Matters look bad, and we are going to have another dry season, I
believe,” replied Hubert. “I don’t like these westerly winds, and
clouds coming up without rain. Still there is hope.”
“But had we not a drought two years before—just before my father
made this purchase?”
“Quite true, but of late years, unfortunately, that has been no
reason why another should not follow in quick succession. It is
rather unfair of _Madre Natura_, but there is no help for it.”
“And what shall you do at Windāhgil, for I suppose we shall all be
in the same boat?”
“I shall persuade my father to start every sheep he has, with the
exception of the best flock, for my new country. The Wantabalree
sheep had better take the road too. I must have a talk to
Willoughby.”
“Oh, I do so wish you would, Mr. Stamford. I am sure he and papa are
growing very troubled about our prospects. Willoughby and I can bear
all that may come, but it will be a terrible blow to poor papa.”
“Miss Dacre, if you will permit me to confide in you—I have been
concocting a little plot. If carried out it may—I say only it
may—perhaps serve to improve the aspect of things. If you thought
the Colonel would like to consult with me and Willoughby about the
coming difficulty, I should be very glad to make the attempt.”
“Nothing would give my father more pleasure, and, indeed, tend to
relieve his mind. I feel certain he has been anxious to consult you,
Mr. Stamford, but hardly likes to begin the subject.”
“We must have a council of war then, which will include Mr.
Barrington Hope. He is a tower of strength, as I know by experience,
and it’s a piece of luck his being here now.”
“We should be grateful to you all the days of our lives, you may be
sure, whatever happens, for the interest you have always shown in
our welfare. If your advice had been taken in the first instance,
all would have been well.” And here the young lady looked at Hubert
with such an approving expression of countenance, that he felt as if
he could throw up the new country and devote himself to the
Sisyphean task of getting Wantabalree out of debt, if only she would
promise to repay him by an occasional smile such as this one, the
memory of which he felt certain would haunt him for an indefinite
period.
“I can’t, of course, guarantee success, but I think I see my way
towards lightening the ship and getting steerage way on her.” This
nautical simile had probably been derived from his late maritime
experiences, and was, perhaps, not altogether appropriate; but Miss
Dacre was evidently not by any means in a critical frame of mind,
for she again looked approvingly at him, and then led the way to the
verandah, where Laura and Willoughby, Mr. Hope and Linda, were
apparently having such an animated conversation that they seemed to
be trying who could make the most noise.
The principal contention was whether a town or country life was the
more wholesome and enjoyable. Laura and Willoughby were in favour of
rural felicity, while Linda and Mr. Hope brought all the arguments
they could think of in favour of cities—greater stimulation of the
intellect, removal of prejudice, leaning towards altruism; in fact,
higher general development of the individual. When Miss Dacre
arrived, she, being appealed to, in the capacity of referee,
unhesitatingly gave her decision in favour of a country life,
stating her arguments so clearly that she completely turned the
scale, besides causing Hubert the keenest enjoyment by, as he
supposed, thus laying bare her own predilections.
After this contest of wits the Colonel appeared on the scene, having
returned from his usual afternoon’s ride; and Hubert, with some
address, managed to interest him in a discussion on station
management, and the probable profits of agriculture, listening with
deference to his senior’s ideas and suggestions.