Local critics were not lacking around Mooramah, as in other places.
They failed not to make unfavourable comments upon Hubert’s decided
course of action. They were pleased to say “that young man was going
too fast”—was leading his father into hazardous speculations; all
this new country that such a fuss was made about was too far off to
pay interest upon the capital for years and years to come; the
Austral Agency Company had better mind what they were about, or they
would drop something serious if they went on backing every boy that
wanted to take up outside country, instead of making the most of
what his family had and helping his parents at home. As for young
Dacre, he would most likely get his sheep eaten by the blacks and
himself speared, as he knew nothing about the bush, and hardly could
tell the difference between a broken-mouthed ewe and a weaner.
Besides, the season might “turn round” after all—there was plenty of
time for rain yet. Most likely it would come in February, as it had
often done before. Travelling sheep was a most expensive game, and
you were never done putting your hand in your pocket.”
Thus argued the unambitious, stay-at-home, easy-going section of
society which obtains in rural Australia in almost the same
proportion and degree that it does in English counties. In the
older-settled portions of the land one may discern the same tendency
to over-crowding the given area with unnecessary adults, procuring
but a bare subsistence, narrowing with each generation as in
Britain, where sons of proprietors are too often contented to sink
somewhat in the social scale rather than forego the so-called
“comforts” of civilised life. The poorly-paid curate, the Irish
squireen, “Jock, the Laird’s brother,” and the French _hobereau_, so
cordially hated by the peasantry before the Revolution, are examples
of this class.
And, in the older-settled portions of Australia are to be found far
too many men of birth and breeding who are contented to abide in the
enjoyment of the small amenities of country town life, to sink down
to the positions of yeomen, farmers, and tenants, rather than turn
their faces to the broad desert as their fathers did before them,
and carve out for themselves, even at the cost of peril and
privation, a heritage worthy of a race of sea kings and conquerors.
Hubert Stamford did not belong, by any means, to the contented
mediocrities. Willoughby Dacre was a kindred spirit. So the two
young men fared cheerfully forth across the dusty, thirsty zone,
beyond which lay the Promised Land. Hard work and wearisome it was,
in a sense, but held nothing to daunt strong men in the full vigour
of early manhood. The days were hot, and Willoughby’s English skin
peeled off in patches for the first week or two from the exposed
portions of his person. But cooler airs came before midnight, and
the appetites of both after long days in the saddle were surprising.
The sheep, being in good condition at starting, bore the forced
marches, which were necessary, fairly well. Donald Greenhaugh seemed
to know every creek, water-course, and spring in the whole country.
And on one fine day Willoughby pulled up his horse, and in a tone of
extreme surprise exclaimed, “Why, there’s grass!” pointing to a fine
green tuft of the succulent _Bromus Mitchelli_. It was even so. They
had struck the “rain line,” marked as with a measuring tape.
Henceforth all was peace and plenty with the rejoicing flocks, which
grew strong and even fat as they fed onward through a land of
succulent herbage and full-fed streams.
“Well, Willoughby, old man; what do you think of this?” asked Hubert
one evening, as they sat on a log before their tent and watched the
converging flocks feeding into camp; marked also the fantastic
summits of isolated volcanic peaks which stood like watch-towers
amid a grass ocean waving billowy in the breeze. “Do you think we
did well to cut the painter? How do you suppose all these sheep
would have looked at Windāhgil and Wantabalree?”
“They’ve had no rain yet,” said Willoughby. “In that letter I got at
the last township we passed, the governor said there hadn’t been a
shower since I left. It’s nearly three months now, and we should
hardly have had a sheep to our name by this time.”
“There’ll be some awful losses in the district,” said Hubert. “Men
_will_ put off clearing out till too late. My own idea is that this
will be a worse drought all down the Warroo than the last one. Our
people will make shift to feed the few sheep we have left, thank
goodness! And we have enough here to stock more than one run or two
either. Windāhgil Downs will carry a hundred thousand sheep if it
will ten. All we have to do now is to breed up. That’s plain
sailing.”
“I wish we had some Wantabalree Downs ready to take up,” said
Willoughby, regretfully. “If we hadn’t those beastly bills yet to
pay, we might have done something in that way too.”
“Wait till we’ve settled a bit, and have landed the sheep all safe,”
said Hubert. “That will be stage the first. After we ‘see’ that, we
must ‘go one better.’ Barrington Hope is a good backer, and outside
country is to be had cheap just now.”
Events—in that sort of contrary way which occasionally obtains in
this world—went far to justify the bold policy of this confident
young man, who quietly ignored his elders, and to confound the wise,
represented by the cautious croakers who stayed at home and
disparaged him.
There had occurred a drought of crushing severity but three years
since, and only one “good”—that is, rainy season had intervened, so
rendering it unlikely, and in a sense unreasonable and outrageous,
as one exasperated impeacher of Providence averred, that another
year of famine should so soon succeed. Nevertheless, the rain came
not. The long, hot summer waned. Autumn lingered with sunny days and
cold nights. Winter too, with hard frosts, with black wailing winds,
that seemed to mourn over the dead earth and its dumbly dying
tribes. _But no rain!_ No rain! The havoc which then devastated all
the great district watered by the Warroo and its tributaries was
piteous, and terrible to behold.
Rich and poor, small and great, owners of stock fared alike. A herd
of five thousand head of cattle died on Murragulmerang to the last
beast. Eight thousand at Wando. John Stokes, Angus Campbell, Patrick
Murphy, struggling farmers, lost every milch cow, every sheep, every
horse. They were too short of cash to travel. Their small pastures
of a few hundred acres were as dust and ashes. Too careless to
provide a stock of hay and straw, selling all when prices were good,
and “chancing it,” they lost hoof and horn. Mammoth squatters were
short—fifty thousand sheep—seventy thousand—a hundred thousand.
Smaller graziers with fifteen or twenty thousand, lost two-thirds,
three-fourths, four-fifths, as the case may be. Ruin and desolation
overspread the land. Waggon loads of bales stripped from the skins
of starved sheep—“dead wool” as it was familiarly called—were seen
unseasonably moving along the roads in all directions.
From all this death and destruction Hubert’s family and the
Wantabalree people had been preserved, as they now gratefully
remembered, by his prompt yet well-considered action. Harold
Stamford, as he watched his stud flocks, fairly nourished and
thriving from constant change of pasture which the empty paddocks
permitted, thanked God in his heart for the son who had always been
the mainstay of his father’s house, while the Colonel was never
weary of invoking blessings on Hubert’s head, and wishing that it
had been his lot to have been presented with a Commission in the
Imperial army, in which so bold and cool a subaltern would have been
certain to have distinguished himself.
“Better as it is, father,” said Miss Dacre; “he might have sold out
and lost his money in a bad station. Except for the honour and
glory, I think squatting is the better profession, after all; if
Willoughby only turns out successful, I shall think Australia the
finest country in the world.”
“We shall have to live in it, my darling, for a long time, as far as
I see, so we may as well think so,” said the Colonel. “Suppose we
drive over to Windāhgil, and have another rubber of whist? Stamford
plays a sound game, though he’s too slow with his trumps; and Laura
has quite a talent for it—such a memory too!”
* * * * *
Many games of whist were played. Much quiet interchange of hopes and
fears, discussions of small events and occurrences, such as make up
the sum of rural daily life, had taken place between the two
families ere the famine year ended. It left a trail of ruin, not
wholly financial. Old properties had been sold, high hopes laid low,
never to arise; strong hearts broken. “Mourning and lamentation and
woe” had followed each month, and still Nature showed no sign of
relenting pity.
Through all this devastation the life of the dwellers at Windāhgil
had been comparatively tranquil; if not demonstratively joyous, yet
free from serious mishap or anxiety. The tidings from the far
country were eminently satisfactory, and as regular as circumstances
would permit.
“Windāhgil Downs” was quoted as one of the crack stations of North
Queensland, and in order to devote his whole attention to that
principality in embryo, Hubert had sold his share in the first
station purchased to Willoughby on long credit. All the Wantabalree
sheep were there, and doing splendidly. Mr. Delamere and Willoughby
were sworn friends, and whenever Hubert could get a chance to “come
in” Delamere would take his place at Windāhgil Downs, and leave
Willoughby in charge at the home station. Added to this, Mr. Hope
had “taken over” the Wantabalree account, and saw no difficulty in
providing for future payment and working expenses.
This was good news in every sense of the word. The Colonel became so
exceedingly cheerful and sanguine, that his daughter again asserted
that he must be thinking of a stepmother for her. In which behalf
she implored Laura and Linda to continue their complaisance towards
him, lest he should in despair go farther afield, and so be
appropriated by some enterprising “daughter of Heth.”
“That is all very well,” said Linda; “I suppose it’s a quiet way of
warning us off. But here we are living in a kind of pastoral
nunnery, with no society to speak of, and nothing to do. The
atmosphere’s pervaded with _bouquet de merino_, for though ours are
all right, I feel certain I can catch the perfume of Mr. Dawdell’s
dead sheep across the river. Now, why shouldn’t I take compassion on
the Colonel? I like mature men, and can’t bear boys. I should rather
enjoy ordering a superior girl like you about. Wouldn’t it be grand,
Laura?”
“I have no doubt Rosalind will grant you her full permission,” said
Laura, “if you think such a little chit as you is likely to attract
a man like Colonel Dacre.”
“Little chit, indeed!” said Linda, indignantly. “That’s the _very
reason_. It would be my youth, and freshness, and general stupidity
(in the ways of the world) that would attract him. Oh, dear! think
of the white satin, too! I should look so lovely in white satin with
a Honiton lace veil and a train.” Then Linda began to walk up and
down the room in a stately manner, which created a burst of laughter
and general hilarity.
Now that fortune had taken it into her head to be kind, she, like
other personages of her sex, became almost demonstrative in her
attentions. Every letter from Queensland contained news of a
gratifying and exhilarating nature. Hubert had heard of some
“forfeited” country, of which he had informed Willoughby, who,
having gone out with the requisite number of sheep, blackfellows,
and shepherds, had “taken it up.” He expected in a year or so to
sell a portion of it, there being about a thousand square miles
altogether, and thus help to clear off the Wantabalree account. As
soon as they got it into working order they would sell Delamere and
Dacre’s home station, with twenty thousand sheep, and put all their
capital into Glastonbury, as Mr. Delamere had chosen to name the new
property.
Hubert had several times been offered a high price for Windāhgil
Downs, but he was not disposed to sell on any terms, being bent on
stocking it up and improving it, so as fully to develop its
capacity. “Some day, when the projected railway from Roma comes
through, we’ll have a syndicate formed to buy it,” Hubert said. “In
the meantime, there’s a few thousand acres of freehold to pick up
round old Windāhgil.”
“All this was very well,” said the dwellers in the old homes; “but
were the young men going to stay away for ever? They might just as
well be in England. Surely, now that the season had changed and
everything was going on so prosperously, they could afford two or
three months’ time to see their relatives.”
This view of the case was pressed upon Hubert’s attention in several
of Laura’s letters. Linda went so far as to threaten that she would,
in default of Hubert’s paying attention to her next letter, invent
an admirer of distinguished appearance for Miss Dacre, which
harrowing contingency might serve to bring back the wanderer.
But there be many important, and, indeed, indispensable duties in
new country. Men are scarce. Responsibilities are heavy. Risks
abound. The captain and the first mate cannot leave the ship, be the
inducements ever so great, until the anchor is down. Some day,
however, the commander dons his shore-going “togs,” frock coat, tall
hat, gloves, and all the rest of it, and goes in for a little
well-earned enjoyment.
So, as again the summer days drew near, word came that matters had
so moulded themselves that Hubert and Willoughby were on the
homeward track. The “home station” of Delamere and Dacre had been
sold to Messrs. Jinks and Newboy with thirty-three thousand sheep at
a satisfactory price (_vide_ the _Aramac Arrow_), as the energetic
proprietors had concluded to concentrate their capital upon their
magnificent newly taken up property of Glastonbury.
Mr. Delamere was to locate himself thereon, in the absence of his
partner, while Donald Greenhaugh would be left in charge of
Windāhgil Downs, now pretty well in working order. Hubert and
Willoughby would come down from Rockhampton by steamer to Sydney,
and might be expected to be home in a month or six weeks at
farthest. This promise they faithfully carried out, and by a
remarkable coincidence, Mr. Barrington Hope arranged to have a short
holiday, and come up to Windāhgil with them.
There _is_ a little true happiness in the world, however
hard-hearted materialists and cynical poets affect to deny the fact.
There might have been an approximation in other young persons’
lives; to the state of blissful content in which the two families
were steeped to the lips on the arrival of the long-absent heroes,
but no conceivable satisfaction here below could have exceeded it.
The Colonel kept walking round his son, taking in every personal
detail with unflagging interest for hours and hours, as Miss Dacre
averred; she was positive he never took his eyes off him, except
when he retired to bed, for a whole week afterwards.
Laura and Linda declared Hubert had grown bigger, taller, handsomer,
older—in short, had in every way improved. Miss Dacre, when called
upon to confirm the decision, seemed to have a slight difficulty in
putting her opinion into suitable form, but it was understood to be
on the whole favourable. At any rate, the object of all this
affectionate interest had reason so to believe.
Mr. Barrington Hope was surprised to find both home stations alive
and kicking—so to speak—after the terrific ordeal which they had
undergone. But, as he remarked, understocking was a more scientific
mode of management than most squatters would allow. It was many a
year since the paddocks on either station had looked so well. As to
the non-wool-bearing inhabitants, he was lost in astonishment at
their brilliant appearance after the deprivation of so many of the
comforts of life.
“We were sorely tempted to go away to Sydney during the worst part
of the drought,” said Laura. “Father gave us leave at the end of one
terrible month, when we had not tasted milk, butter, or any decent
meat. But as Mr. Dacre and Hubert were living on salt beef and
‘pig’s face’ (_Mesembryanthemum_) when last heard from, and risking
their lives as well—moreover, as Rosalind wouldn’t hear of leaving
the Colonel—we determined to bear our share of discomfort also.”
“I declare I grew quite nice and thin,” said Linda, who was
sometimes uneasy about a possibly redundant figure; “mine was just
what the old novelists used to call ‘a slight, but rounded form.’
Laura and poor Rosalind fell off dreadfully, though. No vegetables
either. We were reduced to eating an onion one day with positive
relish. Father said it was medicinally necessary.”
“Good heavens, if I had had the least idea that matters were so
bad,” said Mr. Hope, glancing at Laura with a look of the tenderest
compassion, “I should have insisted upon everybody migrating to
Sydney, and come up in person to take charge, or done something
desperate. I should indeed.”
“That would have been a last resource,” said Hubert, laughing.
“Fancy the Austral Agency Company, with the manager ruralising at
such a time! That would have caused a financial earthquake, which
would have been more serious than the absence of milk and butter and
a short supply of vegetables. Never mind, it was only a temporary
inconvenience—much to be lamented, doubtless—but everybody looks
very nice, notwithstanding.”
“I suppose we can put up with the old place for a few weeks longer?”
interposed Mr. Stamford. “After Christmas, as we’ve all been such
good boys and girls, I think we’re due for another trip to Sydney. I
want to see the pantomime, for one. Miss Dacre requires change of
air. I’m not sure that the climate of Tasmania or Melbourne wouldn’t
brace us all up after the rather—well, not particularly exciting
life we’ve had for the last year.”
“Oh! you dear old father,” said Linda; “you’re a man of the most
original ideas and splendid ingenuity. You’ve divined our inmost
thoughts intuitively.”
With such a prospect before them, the members of both families
endured the unmistakably warm weather which generally precedes
Christmas with philosophical composure. Indeed, so extremely
contented were they with the existing state of affairs, that Linda
vowed it was hardly worth while going away at all. This unnaturally
virtuous state of mind was, however, combated by the majority, who
possibly had reasons of their own for desiring to wander for a
season far from their usual surroundings, for early in the first
week of the new year the _Mooramah Independent, and Warroo, Eyall,
and Bundaburhamah Advertiser_ contained this wildly interesting
announcement:—
“MARRIAGES.
“On the 3rd January, by the Rev. Edward Chalfont, at St. John’s
Church, Mooramah, Hubert, eldest son of Harold Stamford, Esq., of
Windāhgil, to Rosalind, only daughter of Lieutenant-Colonel Rupert
Dacre, of Wantabalree, late of H.M. 83rd Regiment. At the same time
and place, Barrington, second son of Commander Collingwood Hope,
R.N., to Laura, eldest daughter of Harold Stamford, Esq., of
Windāhgil.”
These momentous events were not wholly unexpected. It may be
imagined how the church at Mooramah was crowded on that day. It was
not a particularly small one either, having been built mainly
through the exertions of an energetic young clergyman, who did not
allow himself to be discouraged by the fact that a considerable debt
thereon still remained unpaid. So there was not a seat, or half a
seat, to be had inside, while a much larger congregation than usual
stood around the porch and entrance doors. School children strewed
flowers on the pathway of the happy brides, and none of the usual
ceremonies were omitted.
As it had not rained for three months, and apparently was not likely
to do so for three more, the old-word proverb, “happy is the bride
that the sun shines on,” received most literal fulfilment. However,
the near prospect of ocean breeze and plashing wavelets sustained
them amid the too ardent sun rays. Hubert, as a local celebrity,
came in for a certain amount of guarded approval, and, in spite of
the misgivings with which his Napoleonic policy had been regarded,
it was conceded that “he looked twice the man” since his departure
for foreign parts. Rosalind Dacre quietly, though becomingly,
dressed, on that account was thought to have scarcely paid due and
befitting regard to her serious and sacred duty as a bride. But as
to Laura, there was no thought of dispraise or any, the faintest,
doubt. Universally admired and beloved, the flower of a family not
less popular than respected in the district, each one in that
crowded building seemed to take a personal pride in her day of
maiden triumph. Barrington Hope, radiantly happy and enjoying the
prestige of a distinguished stranger, also received the highest
compliments of the spectators by being declared to be worthy of the
belle of Mooramah.
The happy couples departed by train to Melbourne, _en route_ for
Tasmania, that favoured isle where the summer of Britain is
reproduced with the improved conditions of assured fine weather, and
a less inconvenient proximity to the Pole. There annually do the
desert-worn pilgrims from the tropic north and central wastes of the
Australian continent resort for coolness, greenery, and agreeable
society, as to the garden of Armida. Thus, in those rare intervals
when they were not engaged in gazing on the perfections of their
brides, were Hubert Stamford and Barrington Hope enabled to indulge
in a little pioneer talk, and to listen to far-off echoes from the
wild scenes which the former had so lately quitted.
Mr. and Mrs. Stamford, with Linda, remained for a few days longer
before they took wing for the metropolis, leaving behind the Colonel
and Willoughby, who elected to remain at home in charge of both
stations. They arrived in Sydney just in time to take leave of their
friends, the Grandisons. Chatsworth had been let for a term of
years, and preparations were complete for their going to live upon
one of the station properties.
“The fact is, my dear fellow,” said Mr. Grandison, “that my wife and
I have resolved to take these younger children up into the bush and
live there quietly with them till their education is finished. We
must try if possible to bring them up in an atmosphere untainted by
fashionable folly and excitement. It has been the ruin (at least, I
think so) of the older ones. Now that Josie has married—--”
“What! Josie married?” exclaimed Mr. Stamford. “I never heard of it.
You astonish me!”
“Married, indeed,” said Mrs. Grandison, who now joined them; “and a
pretty match she has made of it. Not that there’s anything against
the young man—he’s two or three years younger than she is—except
that he’s rather stupid, and hasn’t an idea of anything, except
billiards and betting, that I can discover. As he’s only a clerk in
an insurance office, he has just enough to keep himself and not a
penny for a wife, unless what her parents give her.”
“The sort of young fellow I never shall be able to take the
slightest interest in,” said Mr. Grandison; “not bad-looking, I
suppose, but quite incapable of raising himself a single step by his
own exertions, or aspiring to anything beyond a sufficiency of
cigars and an afternoon lounge in George Street.”
“Of course you tried to prevent the marriage,” said Mrs. Stamford;
“but it’s too late now to do anything but make the best of it, for
poor Josie’s sake.”
Mr. Grandison turned away his head as his wife said, in a tone of
deep feeling, “The silly girl went and was married before the
Registrar. She knew we could not approve of it, and took that means
of being beforehand with us. Her father won’t see her yet; but of
course she’ll have an allowance, and we must help them if he keeps
steady. But it nearly broke our hearts, you may believe.”
“We see all these things too late,” said her husband, with a sigh,
which he tried bravely to repress. “If we had brought our children
up with other ideas, or placed before them higher objects of
ambition, a different result might have been reached. Over and over
again have I cursed the day when we left the bush for good—for good,
indeed!—and came to live in this city of shams. Not worse than other
places, I believe; but all this artificial town life, while not too
good for older people, is ruin and destruction for young ones. What
a fortunate man you’ve been, Stamford, though, in our selfish grief,
I’ve forgotten to congratulate you.”
“It is the goodness of God,” he replied, warmly grasping the hand
which was silently held out to him. “My children have never given me
a moment’s anxiety. We have been sheltered, too, from the
temptations of the world, and so far from the ‘deceitfulness of
riches.’ I can never be sufficiently thankful.”
“That won’t last long,” said Mr. Grandison, with an effort to be
cheerful. “People tell me that Windāhgil Downs is going to be the
finest sheep property west of the Barcoo, and Hubert’s reputation as
a pioneer is in everybody’s mouth now. He managed to pull the
Colonel’s investment out of the fire. Well paid for it too, by all I
hear! Give our love to Laura. She must live in Sydney, I suppose,
now she’s married a business man. A rising fellow, Barrington Hope,
and one of the smartest operators we have. Heigho! time’s up. We
shall meet again some day I hope, when I have a better story to tell
you.”
Mrs. Stamford was sincerely grieved to hear of this latest
misfortune of the Grandison family. She could hardly forgive Josie
for the insincerity and ingratitude with which she had acted.
“However,” said the kindly matron in continuation, “perhaps it is
not so bad as they are disposed to think. They’re dreadfully
disappointed, of course. If the young man’s character is good, he
may get on, and of course Mr. Grandison will help them by and by. It
will do Josie good to have a house of her own to look after, and to
be obliged to save and contrive. The girl’s heart is not naturally
bad, I believe; but she has been spoilt by over-indulgence and
extravagance ever since she was a baby. A poor marriage may be the
best thing that ever happened to her. Oh! Harold, should we not be
deeply grateful for the mercy of Providence in so ordering our lives
that until lately we have never had any money to spare, and
self-denial has been compulsory?”
“H’m,” said Mr. Stamford, musingly; “no doubt, no doubt! Too much
money is one form of danger, of moral death, which the devil must
regard with great, great complacency. Few people take that view,
though.”
“I am very glad we have never been tried in that way,” said Mrs.
Stamford, simply, looking up into her husband’s face. “I have pitied
you, darling, when I have seen you tormented and anxious about money
matters, but we have always been very happy among ourselves, even
when things were at their worst. There is no chance now, I suppose,
of our affairs going wrong? These Queensland stations are quite
safe!”
“Quite safe, my dearest wife,” answered Harold Stamford, with a pang
of remorse at his heart, as he imprinted a kiss on the fond face
which had never looked into his save with truth and love shining in
her clear eyes. “‘Safe as a bank,’ or suppose we say as Australian
debentures. I don’t mind affirming that nothing, humanly speaking,
could materially injure our investments now.”
“I am glad to hear that, for the dear children’s sake,” she
answered. “If their future is secured, that is everything.”
* * * * *
Before the close of the summer, a naval squadron cruising in
Australian waters, strange to say, happened to need partial
refitting in Sydney Harbour, and, entering that picturesque haven,
anchored as usual in Farm Cove. In one of the delicious sea-girdled
nooks of Neutral Bay, it so chanced that Mr. Stamford had rented a
furnished villa for the season. The ladies were wont to use the
telescope in close inspection of any strange vessel that approached.
Wonderful to relate, it appeared that the frigate which on a
previous occasion had been the ocean home of Lieutenant Fitzurse was
even now among the graceful war-hawks which, after battling with
storm and tempest, were, so to speak, furling their pinions under
Linda’s excited gaze.
There may or may not be a new system of marine telegraphy, but the
fact comes within my experience that naval men have exceptionally
prompt means of discovery, upon arrival in port, whether the ladies
of their acquaintance are in town, and if so, where they abide.
It so chanced, therefore, that, upon the following afternoon, a gig
left H.M.S. _Vengeful_, and with eight able seamen pulled straight
for the Dirrāhbah jetty, landing the lieutenant and a brother
officer, who, making their call in due form, betrayed great anxiety
for the health of Mr. and Mrs. Stamford and the young ladies during
their long absence from Sydney. They were also politely astonished
at the news of Miss Stamford’s and Hubert’s marriages. Indeed, the
recital of the family news (presumably) as conveyed by Linda to Mr.
Fitzurse in full, during an examination of the green-house, lasted
so long that Mrs. Stamford looked several times from the window, and
the gallant tars in the boat referred to the protracted absence of
their superior officers in unqualified Saxon terms.
* * * * *
What more is left to tell? It would appear that there might have
been a previously implied, if unspoken confession between the young
people. Reference being permitted to Stamford _père_, and
satisfactory credentials forthcoming, it was arranged that an
“engagement” should be officially allowed, hope being cautiously
held out by that wary diplomatist that, in the event of the coveted
“step” being attained, the full concession might be thought about.
Which decision gave unqualified satisfaction, Linda being, as she
averred, willing to wait for years; indeed rather glad on the whole,
that separation and delay were necessary, so that she might have
time to think over and thoroughly enjoy her unparalleled happiness.
With the autumn came the returning travellers, Hubert declaring that
he dared not stay away another week from the Downs; frightful
consequences might happen; Mr. Hope and Laura preparing to inhabit
the comfortable abode which, for a few years to come, they had
agreed, would be commensurate with their means. Something was said
about Mrs. Hubert Stamford remaining at Wantabalree with her father
while her husband went forth again on his task of subduing the
waste. But that young woman replied promptly, with the opening words
of an ancient family record, “Where thou goest, I will go.” In
reference to the possibly rude architecture of their abode, she
declared “that if Hubert had only a packing case to live in, she,
being his wife, thought it her duty to live there with him.”
After this, of course, there was no more to be said, and the
_Catterthun_, sailing soon afterwards for the uttermost northern
port, had in her passenger list the names of Mr. and Mrs. Hubert
Stamford and servant.
* * * * *
From this time forth the star of Stamford family was manifestly in
the ascendant; for not only did their undertakings flourish and the
sons and daughters of the house “grow in favour with God and man,”
but everyone bound to them by the ties of kindred or friendship
prospered exceedingly. The debt on Wantabalree was cleared off in
due time, while the “Glastonbury Thorn” seemed to have taken deep
root in the northern wilds of the far land to which it had been
carried, and to bring a blessing upon the dwellers around its sacred
stem. The Colonel lived rather a solitary existence at the home
station after Willoughby had departed again for the north, but he
got into the way of going to Sydney for the summer, where the
Australian Club afforded him congenial society, with a certainty of
comradeship at the nightly whist table.
Mr. and Mrs. Hubert Stamford returned after a year’s absence, the
latter, though having lost something of her English freshness of
complexion, by no means delicate of health, and very proud of the
infant Harold, whose steadfast eyes and bold brow marked him out as
a future pioneer. Neither were sorry to abide with the Colonel for a
season, and Hubert threw out hints about “the far north” being too
hot for any white woman, although Rosalind would rather die than
admit it. “She’s the pluckiest little woman in the world, I
believe,” he said. “Didn’t she wash and cook for me and Donald the
whole month we were without a servant? I believe she’d have kept the
station accounts too, if we’d have let her. But I don’t want to run
risks.”
Mr. and Mrs. Stamford, being more impartial observers, were of
opinion that a change would be beneficial to both the young people.
Hubert was too thin to satisfy the maternal eye. She believed that
he had never properly got over that horrid fever and ague attack.
“And of course Hubert would never give in; but really as the boy had
done so well, wouldn’t it be a nice time for them to run home for a
year or two? The station was settling down, and as Mr. Greenhaugh
had been taken into partnership, surely he could manage things for a
time? It would benefit Hubert in every way, and as he had never been
‘home,’ of course they would like him to see a little of the world.”
Something of this sort may have occurred to Mr. Stamford, but he had
refrained in order to permit his more cautious helpmate to propose
the extravagant notion. He shook his head oracularly, said he would
think over it, and if it was decided—mind, if after due
consideration it turned out to be feasible—he thought it would do
Barrington and Laura a great deal of good too. Barrington would
knock himself up if they didn’t mind. He was such a terribly
constant worker, and so conscientious that he did not permit himself
the relaxation that other men in his position would have claimed.
“What a splendid idea!” exclaimed Mrs. Stamford; “my dear Harold,
you always seem to hit upon the exact thing we have all been
thinking of but have hesitated about mentioning. It will be the
saving of Barrington, and as for Laura, the great dream of her life
will be fulfilled. I know she almost pines for Rome and Florence,
but she told me once she did not think they could afford it for some
years to come.”
“_I_ can afford it, though,” said Mr. Stamford, with pardonable
exultation. “Things have prospered with us lately. And what have we
to think of in this world but our children’s happiness? Barrington
shall have a cheque for a thousand the day their passage is taken.
As for Hubert, he can draw one for himself now, thank God! without
interviewing his banker.”
Mrs. Stamford was an economical and intelligent woman as to her
household accounts, but she had the vague idea of “business” common
to her sex. She knew in a general way from her son and husband that
the stations were all paying and improving in value. So she accepted
the situation without further inquiry. When her husband, therefore,
spoke of drawing so large a cheque for travelling expenses, she was
not alarmed as she would once have been at the idea of paying a
tenth part of the amount, but regarded the apparent profusion of
money in the family as a consequence of the higher standard of
pastoral property which they had been so wonderfully guided to
reach. “Hitherto has the Lord helped us,” she quoted softly to
herself. “May His mercy be around our paths and shield those who are
dear to us from every evil!”
The news that a trip to the old country was not only possible but
considered expedient, and in a sense necessary, came with the effect
of a delightful surprise upon both couples. Hubert had, in a hazy,
contemplative way been revolving the idea, but had not thought it
likely that it could be arranged in less than three or four years.
But now, brought face to face with the idea, he found it to be
unexpectedly practicable. There was no very complicated work or
management necessary for two or three years. Donald Greenhaugh, who
had now a fourth share, was fully able to superintend the ordinary
station work. Fencing, branding the increase and selling the fat
stock, were operations which he could conduct as well as—in a sense
better—than Hubert could himself. In case “anything happened to
him”—and such things have occurred ere now, disastrously for the
absentee partner—there was Willoughby, with whom he could leave a
power of attorney, on the spot. All that was wanted was to increase
the cattle herd from five thousand head to twenty, and that would
not half stock the runs. The sheep of course were right. One man of
experience could see to that process nearly as well as another.
Barrington Hope too, urged by his wife, who was fully of opinion
that he worked too hard, also that a purely sedentary life was
drawing fresh lines upon his brow, and prematurely ageing
him—pressed firmly his claim for a lengthened vacation. To that end
a relieving manager was appointed to take his place during his
absence. When he found that Mr. Stamford’s liberality was about to
take such a pleasing form, he was indeed surprised as well as
gratified. That gentleman felt it necessary to make a slight
explanation as to his private means, but he merely mentioned that he
was now possessed of certain family funds not available at the time
of their first acquaintance, and could therefore well afford the
outlay.
As for Laura, it seemed as if the old days of nursery tales had come
back. The fairy godmother had arisen and gifted her with the precise
form of happiness previously as impossible as a slice of the moon.
It had long been the wish of her heart to behold, to wander amid,
those historic relics, those wondrous art creations, those hallowed
spots with which her reading and her imaginative faculty had
rendered her so familiar. It was her favourite dream for middle
life. When years of self-denial and steady industry had wrought out
the coveted independence, _then_ the journey into the land of
ancient fame, of wonder, mystery, and romance, was to be their
reward. But to think of its being vouchsafed to them in their youth,
before the stern counsel of middle age, with its slower
heart-currents, had warned them that the years were slowly
advancing, fated to carry with them the best treasures of life.
And oh, gracious destiny! in the full tide of youthful feeling, of
the joyous exalting sense of happiness born of the unworn heart of
youth, _now_ to bestow on them these all-priceless luxuries! It was
more than wonderful—it was magical. Who were they to have so much
undeserved happiness showered upon them? Hubert and Rosalind would
join them, perhaps to part in England for a while. But they would
roam the Continent together, they could in company gaze upon the
dead giantess Rome; the city by the sea, even Venice; resting under
the shade of German pine forests, they could listen to weird legends
beneath the shadow of the Hartz Mountains. Oh! joy, glory, peace
unspeakable! What an astonishing change in their life-history! And
to think that in less than a month—so it had been ordered—they would
be saying farewell to the land of their birth!
It was felt by the Colonel and Willoughby to be an unfair stroke of
destiny that Rosalind, the chief joy and glory of their life, should
be spirited away to Europe. But her father also considered that,
when in Queensland, she was virtually as far from his ken, while the
pleasures and advantages procurable from the former locality bore no
comparison with the latter. There was an unspoken wish also on the
part of the elder relatives that the Australian contingent should
enjoy the inestimable advantage of beholding with their own eyes the
wonders of the other hemisphere, of forming an alliance by personal
experience with the glory and the loveliness, the literature and art
of the ancient world, to endure in memory’s treasure-house till
life’s latest hour.