Before the Windāhgil party returned on the following day a council
of war was held, at the conclusion of which the Colonel’s face
assumed a very different expression from that which it habitually
wore. The four men met in his study, where the accounts, assets, and
liabilities were laid before the financial authority, who scanned
them with keen and practised eye.
After what appeared to the others, and especially to Willoughby and
his father, an astonishingly short examination, he raised his head
and asked these pertinent questions: “I see your next bill, £12,437
14_s._ 10_d._, falls due in March,” he said. “After that, there is
nothing more to be met but station expenses for another year,
against which there will, of course, be the wool clip. You have
54,786 sheep, more or less, on the run. Is that so?”
“Half of which are to die this winter, Hubert says. Oh, yes—they’re
all in the paddocks,” replied the younger Dacre, in a tone of
reckless despair, while the Colonel’s face set with steadfast
resolve, yet showed by the twitching of his lips how severe was the
repression of feeling—how tense the strain of anxiety.
“Never mind about that just yet,” said Barrington Hope. “We’ll see
into the available assets first. About this next bill, Colonel; how
do you propose to meet it?”
“By the sale of sheep, I suppose. There is no other way. And if this
drought comes to pass I am informed they will be next to valueless.
How is the next one—of equal amount, and another still, to be paid?
In such a case I see nothing but ruin staring me in the face. Good
God! that I should have brought my poor children to such a pass!”
Here the brave soldier, who had fought with cheerful courage on more
than one battle-field, when comrades lay dead and dying around
him—who had been the first man across the breach when the rebel
artillery were mowing down his regiment like swathes of meadow grass
at Delhi, appeared quite unmanned.
“It will never do to give up the fight before the end of the day,
Colonel,” said Mr. Hope, gently. “As a military man, you must know
that reserves may come up at any moment. I will promise to give you
a decided answer at the end of our colloquy. But we must move
according to the rules of war.”
“You must pardon me, my dear sir,” said the Colonel, with a faint
smile. “I trust not to embarrass the court again; but the fact is, I
am a child in commercial affairs, and the probable loss of my
children’s whole fortune touches me too acutely.”
“Have _you_ any advice to offer, Hubert?” queried Hope. “I
understand we are all here on terms of friendly equality.”
“Yes, I have,” said the young man, with an air of decision. “You can
judge of its value. All the Windāhgil sheep, with the exception of a
couple of flocks of studs, start for our Queensland country in
January. The dry belt likely to be affected by the coming drought is
a narrow one not more than two hundred miles wide, and as the sheep
are fairly strong now, though they won’t remain so, they should
cross that with trifling loss. Donald Greenhaugh, a first-class man,
has agreed to go in charge. Sheep are sheep over there now for
stocking up new country, and we can sell to advantage what we do not
want for Windāhgil Downs. The larger the number sent in one overland
journey like this, the smaller the expense of droving per head. I
propose that Wantabalree should be cleared in the same way.
Willoughby can go in charge of his own sheep, and we can share the
expense.”
“I see nothing to prevent your idea from being carried out,” said
Mr. Hope. “I am aware that sheep of good quality, as the Wantabalree
sheep proverbially are, are scarce, and saleable at high rates, in
the new country. The main thing will be to have a first-class road
overseer.”
“Greenhaugh has been out with an exploring party over all that
country,” said Hubert; “and as a head drover is worth his weight in
gold. A sober, steady fellow, too, and a good hand with men. No
better bushman anywhere.”
“I’m ready to start next week,” said Willoughby, with the fire of
ardent youth in his kindling eye. “I never expected to have such a
chance. But—” and here his face became grave and thoughtful—“what do
you say, father? Will you and Rosalind be able to get on without
me?”
“We must try, my boy. The time will pass heavily, I doubt not; but,”
and here he walked over to Hubert, and put his hand on his firm
shoulder, “your father did not grudge you in the path of honourable
ambition, nor can I be more selfish. God bless you both, my boys!
and bring you safe back once more to gladden our hearts. It seems to
me as if Providence had decided this issue, and that I have little
hand in it.”
“I wish now to understand, Colonel Dacre,” said Hope; “if, upon
their arrival in Queensland, you will place 20,000 sheep in our
hands for sale—at such prices as may be then ruling—and whether by
the terms of your mortgage to Mr. Dealerson—who has of course, taken
care to tie you up as tightly as he could—you have the power of
disposing of so many.”
“It so happens that I have permission to reduce the stock—I believe
that’s the expression—by just such a number,” said the Colonel more
cheerfully; “and I most willingly invest you with the power of
disposing of them.”
“Then I will take upon myself to state that the Austral Agency
Company will guarantee to take up your bill next coming due, and to
provide you with funds to carry you over the next shearing, when we
may perhaps make a more complete and satisfactory arrangement.”
The Colonel gazed at Mr. Hope with an expression as of one not fully
realising the effect of the words he heard with his outward ears.
Then suddenly stepping forward, he stretched out his hand, and
taking that of the younger man wrung it silently.
He retreated to his chair, where he sat down with an expression of
relief too deep for words. He then left, apparently, all further
transactions of the interview in the hands of the “coming race.”
They began to go into detail a little, as if about _un fait
accompli_, Hubert, more particularly, talking rapidly, in order to
cover any appearance of awkwardness on the part of his hosts.
“You know,” he said, “that by doing this travelling business, we
‘hedge,’ so to speak, instead of standing to lose on the double
event of a dry season and a panic in the money market, more than any
of us can afford. If the weather breaks in February, of course we
needn’t have started, but we can’t lose anything, as our sheep will
be regularly run after when we get them over, and at high prices
too. They talk of maiden ewes being worth a pound from the shears,
and anything else fifteen shillings, while if it holds dry for three
or four months here, sheep will have to be given away, or next thing
to it.”
“I suppose I shall have to hire a lot of shepherds,” said
Willoughby; “that will be a nuisance, won’t it?”
“If I were you I’d leave all that to Greenhaugh; he’s accustomed to
these fellows, and knows how to talk to them on the road, which you
don’t. You’d better, ostensibly, be second in command of the
expedition. You won’t have much responsibility, and will be able to
pick up heaps of experience. All you will have to find will be your
own horses. He’ll arrange everything else and keep the accounts of
rations and wages, which you and I can settle when you get there.”
“I suppose there’s a strong probability of a drought setting in,”
said Mr. Hope; “if not, you will be rather premature.”
“The more I see of the weather signs, the more certain I am that we
are on the edge of another drought, perhaps worse than the last,”
said Hubert. “You’ll see that a great many people will hang on,
expecting it to break up; then, making sure of getting the ‘tail
end’ of the tropical rains, and generally trusting to the doctrine
of chances until their sheep get too weak to travel, and then—--”
“And what then?” asked Willoughby. “I haven’t had the pleasure of
witnessing a dry season as yet.”
Hubert smiled grimly. “You will thank your stars the Wantabalree
sheep cleared out in time. You would never have forgotten it as long
as you lived. Some squatters will lose half their stock, some
two-thirds, some even more. A man told me he lost a hundred thousand
sheep in the last drought. But _he_ could afford it.”
“If it’s going to be so bad, what will your governor and mine do
with the sheep we leave behind, for we must leave some.”
“They will have all the grass and water to themselves, which will
give them a chance, and then, if it gets very cruel, they must cut
scrub and oak for them.”
“Cut the trees down!” said Willoughby, with astonishment. “I never
heard of such a thing!”
“You’ll find out everything in time,” said Hubert. “‘The brave old
oak’ has an antipodean signification here. I don’t know what we
should do without him in a dry time. I’ve known sheep kept in good
condition that hadn’t seen grass for eighteen months.”
Before the drive back, which took place after lunch, in the midst of
pathetic leave-takings between the Windāhgil girls and Miss Dacre,
the latter young lady took an opportunity of expressing to Hubert
her sincere gratitude for his organisation of the opportune alliance
which was, so to speak, to raise the siege of Wantabalree.
“It has made dearest papa quite young again,” she said. “For weeks
he has not been able to sleep at night, but used to get up and go
wandering up and down the garden. I really began to fear for his
reason. And now he seems quite a different man. I am so happy myself
at the change for the better, that I cannot feel properly sorry that
dear Willoughby is going away from us.”
“He is going among friends, at any rate, Miss Dacre,” said Hubert,
pressing the young lady’s hand warmly in the agitation of the
moment. “He will be well looked after, rely upon it. I feel certain
it will be for everybody’s benefit in the long run.”
“I shall always think that you and that good genius, Mr. Hope, have
stood between us and ruin,” said she, and here her bright, steadfast
eyes were somewhat dimmed. “If papa does not say all that is in his
heart, believe me that we are not ungrateful.”
“_Nothing_ could ever lead me to think that,” said Hubert meeting
her eyes with a glance which expressed more than that simple
sentence, if freely translated. “Whatever happens, I am more than
repaid by your approval.”
By this time Whalebone and Whipcord, harnessed up and having their
heads turned homeward, began to exhibit signs of impatience, which
caused Linda to call out to Hubert that she was sure Whipcord would
throw himself down and break the pole if they didn’t start at once,
which appalling contingency cut short the interview, to Hubert’s
secret indignation. This expressed itself in letting them out with a
will and quitting Wantabalree at the rate of fourteen miles an hour.
Some people would have felt nervous at proceeding along a winding,
narrow bush road, well furnished with stumps, at such an express
train rate, but the sure hand and steady eye of Hubert Stamford, in
combination with the light mouths and regular if speedy movement of
the well-matched horses, engendered the most absolute confidence in
his driving.
“What do you think of bush life generally, Mr. Hope?” said
Laura—after the first rush of the excitable goers had steadied into
a twelve-mile-an-hour trot—“and how do you like Wantabalree?”
“I think the Wantabalree people perfect in their own way, worthy to
be neighbours of Windāhgil,” he added with a slight inclination of
his head. “A man could live there very happily, ‘with one fair
spirit to be his minister,’ if Miss Dacre would condescend to the
office. It’s a lovely verandah to read in. It would be like the days
of Thalaba, while it lasted.”
“And why should it not last?” demanded Laura. “The bush appears to
me the place of all others where the feelings and emotions are the
most permanent and deep-seated.”
Barrington Hope fixed his eyes upon her as she spoke with a gaze
wistful and almost melancholy in its earnestness.
“Can anything endure that is fair, joyous, dreamlike, in this
uncertain life of ours?” he said. “Is the ideal existence realised
for most of us, or, if so, does it continue? You are more fortunate
than I in your experiences, if such is your belief.”
“Surely you have no reason to talk of despondency,” said she,
turning towards him her bright face, in which the summer-time seemed
idealised. “You, who have made a success in your profession, and
whom everybody talks of with—with, I won’t say admiration, it might
make you conceited—but high approval.”
“I have done fairly well, I _suppose_,” he said. “I may take it as
the natural consequence of twenty years’ hard, unrelieved work. I
have coined my brain, my very heart’s blood, for it; and I will not
say but that I have had my reward in a proved success and high
consideration. But, at times, a feeling comes over me of unrest and
of doubt, well-nigh despair, as to the reality of human
happiness—the value of success—against which I can scarcely defend
myself.”
“You have been working too hard lately. Reaction has set in. In old
days Hubert used to suffer so, occasionally doubting whether life
was worth living, &c. But with men it is generally a temporary
ailment. You must take life easily for the next few weeks, and, like
the old farm labourer in the village church, ‘think about
nothing’—Linda and I must cultivate part-singing, and improve our
acquaintance with Wagner, now that we have the benefit of your
criticism.”
“It is a passing weakness, I suppose,” he said; “still, you would
wonder at its intensity. But I didn’t come here to bore you with my
whims and fancies. One thing I shall carry away as a pleasant
souvenir—that Hubert and I have been able to lighten the load on
poor old Colonel Dacre’s heart.”
“I _am_ charmed beyond measure,” said Laura. “Hubert told me
something—though he is such a close creature when he is speaking
about himself that I could get next to nothing out of him.
Willoughby will be able to get the sheep away to Queensland, I
suppose, with ours, and they may not be ruined after all.”
“They will have a struggle, but I really believe the station will
pull through with Hubert’s assistance and advice. If anything
serious does happen at Wantabalree, it will not be for want of all
the aid that an energetic young friend can furnish. I can see as
much as that.”
“And so can I,” said Laura; “he could find no better or sweeter
reason if he looked for a century.”
Linda and Hubert, according to their wont and usage, were embarked
in such an animated argument that it is probable they did not hear
this last confidential reference; more especially as—perhaps for the
greater convenience of separate converse—the speakers’ voices had
become somewhat lowered, and Hubert’s attention was partly taken up
with his horses.
The twenty miles were accomplished in less than two hours. The
horses in as hard condition upon the now partially-dried summer
grasses as if they had been stabled, apparently treated the drive as
the merest trifle, trotting off down the paddock, when released from
harness, apparently as free from fatigue as if they had not gone a
mile.
“I must say your bush horses surprise me,” said Mr. Hope. “They are
like Arabs of the desert for speed and hardihood.”
“These two are a little out of the common,” said Hubert; “not
plentiful here or anywhere else.”
* * * * *
The merry Christmastide was nearly spent—a season fully enjoyed in
those newer Englands, which are growing fast and blooming fair
beneath the Southern Cross, in despite of the red summer sun, and
brown crisp pastures—a blessed time of rest from toil, “surcease of
sorrow,” gathering of friends and kinsfolk. Barrington Hope had
thoroughly enjoyed his holiday; more, he averred than on any
previous vacation of his life. There had been walks, drives and
rides, picnics to the limestone caves in the vicinity, where vast
halls were explored by the light of torches, stalactites brought
home in triumph, and wondrous depths of gloom and primæval chaos
penetrated; fishing parties on the river, where, although the water
trickled faintly over the gravelly shallows, the wide reaches were
deep and sport-permitting. Occasional visits to Mooramah township,
their communication with the outer world, helped to fill up the
term, and drive away the dreadful thought, uppermost in the hearts
of the Windāhgil family, that Hubert was so soon to leave them for
the far north land.
As soon as Christmas was well over the serious work of the year—only
interrupted by this “truce of God”—began again with even greater
energy; the industrial battle, never long pretermitted in Australia,
raged furiously. So there was great mustering on Windāhgil and
Wantabalree. Counting of sheep and tar-branding of the same with the
travelling “T,” hiring of shepherds and “knock about” men. Purchase
of rations, tools, horses, drays, harness, hobbles, “bells, bells,
bells”—as Linda quoted—in short, the thousand and one road
requisites for a long overland journey.
Towards the end of January Mr. Donald Greenhaugh arrived, riding one
serviceable horse, and leading another, whereon, disposed over a
pack saddle, was all his worldly wealth deposited. A keen-eyed, mild
voiced Scottish-Australian, sun-bronzed, and lean as an Arab, who
looked as if the desert sun had dried all superfluous moisture out
of his wiry frame, he superintended the preparations at Windāhgil in
a quiet, superior sort of way, occasionally offering suggestions,
but chiefly leaving Hubert to manage matters as he thought fit. He
also found time to go over to Wantabalree, where he remained a week,
meeting with apparently greater exercise for his generalship.
At length the great day of departure arrived. The first flock of two
thousand took the road through the north Windāhgil gate, followed by
a second, at a decent interval, until the whole thirty thousand
sheep passed out. Next day the advanced guard of the Wantabalree
contingent showed themselves—Greenhaugh having decided to keep a
day’s march between them. Forty thousand of these came by. The fat
and saleable sheep of both stations had been retained. After these
had been sold in the autumnal markets there would be but a small and
manageable balance on either station.
The Colonel came as far as Windāhgil, and even a stage further, with
his daughter, to see his boy off. They were dreadfully downhearted
and saddened in appearance as they called at Windāhgil on their
homeward route, but cheered up a little under the attentions of
sympathising friends. Hubert had remained behind, not choosing to
follow for another week. He was already beginning to assume the air
of a large operator and successful explorer. “Greenhaugh can do all
that business as well or better than I can,” he said. “It’s no use
paying a man and doing the work yourself; I can catch them up easily
before they get to Banda.”
“Then we might have had Willoughby for another week,” said Miss
Dacre, with a slightly reproachful air.
“I don’t suppose it would have made much difference,” admitted
Hubert; “but it is perhaps as well that he made the start with the
sheep. He has a larger lot to look after; I don’t know but that it’s
as well to have the wrench at once, and get it over—like a double
tooth, you know.”
“It’s the most philosophical way to look at it,” said the girl,
smiling through her tears, “and no tongue can tell the comfort it
has been to us to know that matters are in a comparatively
favourable train. I must not weary you with protestations, but papa
and I can never adequately express our gratitude.”
“That could be done easily enough,” thought the young man; but he
said: “At present it’s only a case of good intentions; we must wait
to see how they turn out. How will you and the Colonel get on by
yourselves?”
“Better than I at first thought; Willoughby left us our working
overseer, who will do excellently to look after a smaller number of
sheep. It will just give papa exercise, and occupation to help him
to manage them, he says. Laura and Linda must be good neighbours,
and perhaps Mr. Stamford will come over now and then and indulge
papa with a game of whist.”
“I will undertake everything,” said Hubert, “for our people, but you
and the Colonel must reciprocate. If both families make common cause
till ‘Johnny comes marching home’—I mean Willoughby—you will find
the time pass more quickly than you anticipate.”
* * * * *
Those last days of a pleasant holiday time, what an element of
sadness pervades them. How swiftly they fly! Ah, me! The flowers
fade, the sky clouds over as if at the touch of an untoward
magician. The land of faery recedes—the region of plain prose, of
arduous effort, and heroic but dreary self-abnegation looms
painfully near. Much, however, of this sombre aspect of the
inevitable is relieved in early youth by the kindly glamour of high
hope, and the ardent imagination of the as yet successful aspirant.
For him the forest gloom is but the high road to the castle of the
enchanted princess; the sternest tourney is more than recompensed by
the smiles of his queen of beauty; the burning summer day, the drear
winter night, but aids to fortune and accessories to boundless
wealth.
So, for Barrington Hope and Hubert Stamford, the tranquil days came
and went, scarce tinged with melancholy, till the fateful morn of
departure arrived; before noon Windāhgil was left desolate and
forsaken of its heroes. Hubert fared forth along the north-west
trail, bound for the sea-like plains of the Lower Warroo, where the
wild orange flowers bloom on their lonely sand islands, bright with
glossy-leaved shrubs; where the emu rears her brood undisturbed
under the sad-hued myall, that waves her slender streamers and
whispers ghost-like at midnight to the pitiless desert moon.
Mr. Barrington Hope, on the other hand, betook himself by rail to
the metropolis, to plunge once more, with the eagerness of a strong
swimmer, into the great ocean of speculative finance, which there
“heaves and seethes alway.” But before he departed he had transacted
a rather important interview, in which Laura Stamford was the person
chiefly interested; had, indeed, promised to revisit Windāhgil
before the winter ended.