CHAPTER XXV

BOB CLARKE ONCE MORE WINS ON THE POST

The homeward-bound horsemen had no difficulty about the road, well marked as it was by the travelling stock. There was also, as now, a mail service from Sydney. They met the mailman about half-way. He was riding one horse and leading another; he had often to camp out without fire, for fear of blacks. In due time they reached the site of the border town of Albury, on the broad waters of the Murray, all unknowing of the great wine-cellars its grapes were yet to fill, with reisling, muscat, and hermitage in mammoth butts, rivalling that of Heidelberg. Much less did they forecast the iron horse one day to rush forward, breathing woe and disquiet to the shy dryad of the river oaks, by the gleaming stream and the still depths of the reed-fringed lagoons.

Rude were the ways by which they travelled from the Murray to the Murrumbidgee River, by way of Gundagai, the great meadows of which were then undevastated by flood. Thence to Bowning, and so on to Yass, in which city the travellers were greeted with enthusiasm. The next morning saw the younger far on his way to The Chase.

What a change had taken place since the exodus—that memorable departure! But one little year had passed away, and what a transformation!

With the season everything had changed; all Australia was altered. Life itself was so different from that day when, half-despairingly, they rode behind their famished cattle, and turned their faces to the wilderness.

Now it had been crossed; the promised land won—a land of milk and honey as far as they were concerned—of olives and vineyards—all the biblical treasures—no doubt looming in the future.

For this prosperity the discovery of Port Phillip was accountable, conjointly with the lavish, exuberant season. The glorious land of mountain and stream, valley and meadow, laden with pastoral wealth and bursting with vegetation, had been in a manner gifted to them by the gallant, ill-fated Hubert Warleigh. They were all revelling in the intensity of life, forming stations, buying and selling, speculating and calculating, and where was he? Lying at rest beneath the sombre shade of the forest giant, far from even the tread of the men of his race. Left to moulder away, with the fallen denizens of the primeval forest; to fade from men’s minds even as the echo of the surges, as the spring songs of the joyous birds!

It seemed increasingly hard to realise. As he approached the well-known track that led from the main road to Warbrok he could see the very tree near which he had waved a farewell at their first meeting. There was the gate through which they had ridden on the occasion of his second visit, when he had been received on terms of equality by the whole family.

‘How glad I am now that we did that!’ Wilfred told himself. ‘We tried our best to raise him from the slough into which he had fallen, and from no selfish motive; how little we thought to be so richly repaid! One often intends a kindness to some one who dies before it is fulfilled. Then there is unavailing, perhaps lifelong regret. Here it was not so, thank God! And now, home at last——’

* * * * *

Of that happy first evening what description can be given that faintly shall suggest the atmosphere of love and gratitude that enveloped the family, as once more Wilfred sat among them in the well-remembered room? Speech even died away, in that all might revel in an uninterrupted view of the returned wanderer. How improved, though bronzed and weather-beaten, he was after his wayfaring!

‘And to think that Wilfred has returned safe from those dreadful blacks! And oh, poor dear Hubert Warleigh! That fine young man, so lately in this room with us, full of health and strength, and now to know that he is dead—killed by savages—it is too dreadful!’

‘Mamma! mamma!’ said Annabel, sobbing aloud, ‘don’t speak of it. I can’t bear it.’

Here she arose and left the room.

‘She is very sensitive, dear child,’ said Mrs. Effingham. ‘I do not wonder at her feeling the poor fellow’s death. I can’t help thinking about him, as if he were in some way more than an acquaintance.’

‘You have come back to a land of plenty, my son,’ said Mr. Effingham, ‘as you have doubtless observed. If you had known that such rain was to fall, it might have saved you all the journey.’

‘My dear sir,’ answered Wilfred, ‘don’t flatter yourself that, myself excepted, one of our old society will be contented to live here again. The land we have reached opens out such an extensive field that no sane man would think of staying away from it. Rockley will follow, and half Yass, I believe. No one will be left but you and I and the Parson.’

‘What an exodus! It amounts to a misfortune,’ said Rosamond. ‘It seems as if the foundations of society were loosened. We shall never be so happy and contented again.’

‘We never may,’ said Wilfred; ‘but we shall be ever so much richer, if that is any compensation. Stock of all kinds are fetching fabulous prices in Port Phillip. By the bye, how is Dr. Fane? His store cattle are now worth more than the Benmohr fat cattle used to be.’

‘We had Vera here for a whole month,’ said Rosamond. ‘She is the dearest and best girl in the whole world, I believe, and so handsome we all think her. She said her father had sold a lot of cattle at a fine price, and if he didn’t spend all the money in books, they would be placed in easy circumstances.’

As Wilfred paced the verandah, smoking the ante-slumber pipe—a habit he had rather confirmed during his journeyings and campings—he could not but contrast the delicious sense of peaceful stillness with much of the life he had lately led. All was calm repose—amid the peaceful landscape. No possibility here of the wild shout—the midnight onset—as little, perhaps, of lawless deeds as in their half-forgotten English home. A truly luxurious relief, after the rude habitudes and painful anxieties of their pioneer life.

The night’s sound sleep seemed to have concentrated the repose of a week, when Wilfred awoke to discover that all outer life was painted in rose tints. That portion of the herd which had been left behind had profited by the unshared pasturage to such an extent that they resembled a fresh variety. Daisy and her progeny looked nearly as large as shorthorns, and extreme prices had been offered for them, old Andrew averred, by the cattle-dealers that now overspread the land.

A field of wheat, by miraculous means ploughed and harrowed, since the Hegira, promised an abundant crop.

‘Weel, aweel!’ said Andrew, who now appeared bearing two overflowing buckets of milk, ‘ye have been graciously spared to return from yon fearsome wilderness, like Ca-aleb and Joshua. And to think o’ that puir laddie, juist fa’en a prey to thae Amalekites, stricken through wi’ a spear, like A-absolom! Maist unco-omon—ane shall be taen and the t’ither left. It’s a gra-and country, I’m hearin’.’

‘The finest country you ever set eyes on, Andrew. The Chase seems a mere farm after it. If it was not for the family, I should soon pack up and go back there.’

‘I wadna doot. Rovin’ and rampa-agin’ aboot the waste places o’ the yearth is aye easy to learn. But ye’ll ken yer duty to yer forebears and the young leddies, Maister Wilfred, no’ to tak’ them frae this douce-like hame.’

‘Oh yes, I know,’ said Wilfred. ‘Of course I shall stay here, and shall be very happy and make lots of money again. All the same, it’s a wonderful new country. Half the people here will be wanting to get away when they hear about it. But how did you get this fine crop of wheat put in without working bullocks? I’m afraid, Andrew, you must have been taking a leaf out of Dick Evans’s book, and using other people’s cattle.’

‘Weel, aweel!’ said Andrew, looking doubtful, ‘I winna deny that there micht be some makin’ free wi’ ither folks’ beasties. But they were juist fair savin’ their lives wi’ oor grass parks, and when the rain fell, it was a case o’ needcessity to till the land, noo that the famine was past.’

With regard to the ‘fatal maid,’ Wilfred Effingham had much difficulty in reaching a determination worthy of a man who prided himself upon acting on logically defensible grounds. He was by no means too certain, either, that he could lay claim to Miss Christabel’s undivided affections. So much of her heart as she had to give, he suspected was bestowed upon Bob Clarke. If that were so, she would cling to him with the headlong hero-worship with which a woman invests the lover of her girlhood, more particularly if he happens to be ill-provided with this world’s goods.

The result of all this introspection was that Wilfred, like many other men, sought refuge in delay. There was no need of forcing on the decision. He had work to do at home for months to come. And the marriage question might be advantageously postponed.

Unpacking his valise after breakfast, he produced a number of newspapers, the which, as being better employed, he had not opened. Now, in the leisure of the home circle, the important journals were disclosed. Each one, provincially hungry for news, seized upon one of the messengers from the outer world. ‘Ha!’ said Wilfred suddenly, ‘what is this? Colonel Glendinning, of the Irregular Horse, desperately wounded. Wonderful gallantry displayed by him. Chivalrous sortie from cantonments. Why, this must be our Major, poor fellow!’

He was interrupted by a faint cry from Beatrice, and looking round he saw that she had grown deadly pale. He had just time to catch her fainting form in his arms. But she was not a girl who easily surrendered herself to her emotions. Rousing herself, she looked around with a piteous yet resolved expression, and with an effort collected her mental forces.

‘Mother,’ she said, ‘I must go where _he_ is. Tell my father that I have always deferred to his wishes, but that now I _must_ join him—I feel responsible for his life. Had I but conquered my pride, a word from me would have kept him here. And now he is dying—after deeds of reckless daring. But I must go; I will die with him, if I cannot save him.’

‘Dearest Beatrice, there is no need to excite yourself,’ said the fond yet prudent mother. ‘You have only to go to your father. He will consent to all that is reasonable. I myself think it is your duty to go. Major Glendinning is severely wounded, but good nursing may bring him round. I wish you had a companion.’

‘Where could you have a better one than Mrs. Snowden?’ cried Annabel hastily. ‘She said she half thought of going home by India, and I know she does not care which route she takes. She has been there before, and knows all about the route. If papa would only make up his mind to go, half the trouble would be off his mind, and he would enjoy the voyage.’

‘There could not be a more favourable time, my dear sir,’ said Wilfred in the family council at a later hour. ‘I shall be here now. It is a matter of life and death to poor Beatrice as well as to the Colonel. You had better arrange to start by the first vessel, and to bring back some Arab horses on your return.’

‘It is the only thing to be done,’ said Rosamond, who had just returned from her sister’s room. ‘I wouldn’t answer for Beatrice’s reason if she is compelled to wait here. She has repressed her feelings until now, and the reaction is terrible. It is most fortunate that Mrs. Snowden is ready to leave Australia.’

Subjected to the family pressure, aided by the promptings of his own heart, Mr. Effingham was powerless to resist. The acclimatisation question was artfully brought up. He at once yielded, and before the evening was over, a letter was in the mail-bag, requesting their Sydney agent to take passages by the first outward-bound boat for India, and to advise by post, or special messenger, if necessary.

Beatrice, informed of this determination, gradually recovered that calmness allied to despair which simulates resignation. She busied herself unweariedly in preparation for the voyage, cherishing the hope of soothing the last hours of her lover, if indeed it was denied her, to watch over his return to the world of love and hope.

Mrs. Snowden arrived on the following day, and cordially acceded to the proposition made to her, to share the adventures of the voyage and of Indian travel.

‘If you knew,’ she said, ‘how grateful I feel for the opportunity of changing the scene of my sorrows and being of use to my friends after this lonely life of mine, you would not thank me. I would go many a mile by sea or land to nurse the Major myself. Between me and Beatrice he will be well looked after.’

All circumstances seemed favourably shaped for the errand of mercy. A ship was about to sail for China, whence the opium clippers might be trusted for a swift run to the historic land. Almost before the news of the intended journey had reached Yass, so that the parson could drive over and express his entire concurrence with the arrangement, the little party had set out for Sydney.

* * * * *

In the fulness of time the very last evening, before the Rockley family left Yass, arrived. All the party from The Chase had been in to say good-bye, and had returned. Some mysterious business kept Wilfred in town, and that special evening he of course spent at Rockley Lodge.

For it was not to be supposed that, on that momentous evening, the family declined to see their friends. In the ‘Maison Rockley’ the head of the house was so absorbed in his business pursuits that, except at dinner-time, and for an hour after, he could hardly be said to possess any family life whatever. He was grateful, therefore, for the presence of such friends who would take the burden of domesticity, in part, off his hands, and made no scruple of expressing, in the family circle, his thanks for such services.

It so turned out that, on this particular morning, he had found time, for once in a way, to give his daughter an earnest lecture about her ridiculous fancy, as he termed it, for Bob Clarke; a young fellow who, without any harm in him, would never come to much, or make any money worth speaking of, seeing that he was far too fond of those confounded horses, out of which no man had ever extracted anything but ruin, in Australia. That they had never heard a word from him for ever so long; most probably he was flirting away in Tasmania, and did not cast a thought upon her. And here was Wilfred Effingham, than whom he did not know a finer fellow anywhere—steady, clever, a man of family, and in every way desirable. If he liked her, Christabel—he couldn’t say whether he did or not, he had no time to trouble about such rubbish—why didn’t she take him, and have done with it, and settle down creditably for the rest of her life, instead of wasting her time and vexing her friends?—and so on—and so on.

Christabel wept piteously during this paternal admonition, delivered, as usual, with a loud voice and a fierce expression of countenance, but had gone away reflecting that although she was, so to speak, badly treated in this instance, yet, as she had succeeded in getting her own way all her life, she probably might enjoy a reasonable portion of it in the future.

Meanwhile, being fairly malleable and of the texture which is bent by circumstances, she began to consider, when alone in her room, whether there was not something of reason in her father’s arguments. Here she was placed in the position of only having to accept. Of the true nature of Wilfred’s feelings she herself had little doubt. There is something, too, not wholly without temptation to the female heart in the unconditional surrender of the lover, then and there urging his suit. There may be also a wild impulse to accept the inevitable, and thus for ever extinguish the uneasiness of anxiety and suspended judgment.

Then, Wilfred Effingham was very good-looking—fair perhaps in complexion, and she did not admire fair men, but brown-bearded, well-featured, manly. All the girls voted him ‘so nice-looking,’ and the men invariably spoke of him as a good fellow. He was well off; he would have The Chase some day, and she would be the great lady of the Yass district, with her carriage and her servants; could entertain _really_ well. She would also, beyond doubt, be envied by all her schoolfellows and girl friends.

The prospect was tempting. She thought of Bob’s dark eyes, and their passionate look when he last said good-bye. She thought of the happy days when he rode at her bridle-rein, and would lean over to whisper the cheery nonsense that amused her. She thought of the thrill at her heart, the strange deadness in every pulse, when The Outlaw went down, and they lifted Bob up, pale and motionless; of her joy when he appeared next day on the course, with his arm in a sling, but with eyes as bright and smile as pleasant as ever. These were dangerous memories. But they were boy and girl then. Now she was a woman, who must think of prudence and the wishes of her parents.

Then Bob would be poor for many a day, if, indeed, he ever rose to fortune. Through her heart passed the uneasy dread, which gently-nurtured women have, of the unlovely side of poverty, of shifts and struggles, of work and privation—of a small house and bad servants, of indifferent dresses, and few thereof. Such thoughts came circling up, like birds of evil aspect and omen, ready to cluster round the corse of the slain Eros.

_Les absens sont toujours torts_, says the worldly adage. In his absence, the advocacy for Bob Clarke was perhaps less brave and persistent than it would otherwise have been. The girl strove to harden her heart, by clinging to the prudent side of the case, and recalling her father’s angry denunciations of any other course than an affirmative reply to Wilfred Effingham, should he this night tell her the real purport of his constant visits.

He himself had resolved to risk his fate on this last throw of the dice, and so far everything assisted his plans. Mr. Rockley was in an unusually genial frame of mind at dinner—cordial, of course, as ever, but unnaturally patient under contradiction and the delays consequent upon the cook’s unsettled condition. Mrs. Rockley excused herself after that meal as having household matters to arrange. But Christabel, whose domestic responsibilities had always been of the faintest, was at liberty to remain and entertain Mr. Effingham and her father, indeed she was better out of the way at the present crisis. Wilfred had no thought of leaving early in order to accommodate his friends in their presumed state of bustle and derangement, for it was one of those rare households where visitors never seem to be in the way. None of the feminine heads of departments were fussy, anxious, ‘put out,’ or had such pressing cares that visitors came short of consideration.

Mrs. Rockley’s talent for organisation was such that no one seemed in a hurry, yet nothing was left undone. The house was nearly always full of inmates and visitors, male and female, with or without children. Still, wonder of wonders, there was never any awkwardness or failure of successful entertainment. Rockley, personally, scoffed at the idea of being responsible for the slightest share of household management. He merely exacted the most complete punctuality, cookery, house-room and attendance for the ceaseless flow of guests, the cost of which he furnished, to do him justice, ungrudgingly. Whatever might need to be done next day (if the whole family, indeed, had been ordered for execution, as Horace Bower said), William Rockley would have dined and conversed cheerfully over his wine, suggested a little music (for the benefit of others), smoked his cigar in the verandah, and mocked at the idea of any guest being incommoded by the probably abrupt translation of the family, or going away a moment before the regulation midnight hour.

Therefore, when Rockley told him that he hoped he was not going to run away a moment before the usual time for any nonsensical idea of being in the way because they were starting for Port Phillip on the next day (what the deuce had that got to do with it, he should like to know?), Wilfred fully comprehended the _bona fides_ of the request, and prepared himself to make the most of a _tête-à-tête_ with Miss C. Rockley, if such should be on the cards.

So it came to pass that while Mr. Rockley and Wilfred were lounging in the Cingalese arm-chairs, which still adorned the verandah, Christabel betook herself to the piano, whence she evoked a succession of dreamy nocturnes and melancholy reveries which sighed through the hushed night air as though they were the wailings of the Lares and Penates mourning for their dispossession.

‘Bowerdale hasn’t turned up,’ said Rockley abruptly. ‘The _Rebecca_ has never been heard of. She sailed the day we left Melbourne. Queer things presentiments. You remember his saying he felt hypped, don’t you?’

‘Yes, quite well. What an awful pity that he should have persisted in going by her—after your warning, too!’

‘Didn’t like to lose his passage-money, poor fellow!’ continued the sympathising Rockley. ‘I’d have settled that for him quick enough, but he wasn’t the sort of man to let any one pay for him. Leaves a wife and children too. Well, we must see what can be done. Fortune of war might have been our case if I hadn’t taken Jackson’s measure so closely.’

‘Happy to think you did,’ said Wilfred, with natural gratitude. ‘If you had not been so determined about the matter, I should have risked the sea-voyage. I was tired of land-travelling.’

‘We should all have been with “Davy Jones” now. No cigars, eh? This claret’s better than salt water? I suppose we all have our work to do in this world; mine is not half done yet; yours scarcely begun. By Jove! I forgot to leave word at the office about my Sydney address—where to send all the confounded packages, about a thousand of them. I’ll run down and see that put straight. Don’t you go till I come back. Tell Mrs. Rockley she must have a little supper ready for us.’

Rockley lighted a fresh cigar and plunged into the night, while Wilfred lost no time in repairing to the piano, which he managed to persuade the fair performer to quit for the verandah, under the assumption that the room was warm, and the night air balmy in comparison.

For a while they walked to and fro on the cool freestone pavement, talking on indifferent subjects, while Wilfred gazed steadfastly into the girl’s marvellous eyes, ever and anon flashing under the soft moon-rays, as if he could read her very soul. She was dressed that evening in a pale-hued Indian muslin, which but partly veiled the exquisite graces of her form. How well he remembered it in after-days! There was a languor in her movements, a soft cadence in the tone of her voice, a quicker sympathy in her replies to his low-toned speech, which in some indefinable manner encouraged him to hope. He drew the lounges together, and telling her she needed rest, sat by her side.

‘You are really going away,’ he said; ‘no more last farewells, and Heaven knows when we shall meet again. I feel unutterably mournful at the idea of parting from your mother, Mr. Rockley—and—yourself. My sisters were in the depths of despair yesterday. I don’t think it affects _you_ in the least.’

‘Why should you think I am hard hearted?’ asked the girl as she raised herself slightly, and leaning her face on her hand, curving the while her lovely rounded arm, looked up in his face with the pleading look of a spoiled child. ‘Do you suppose it is so pleasant to me to leave our home, where I have lived all my life, and travel to a new place where we know nobody—that is, hardly any one?’

‘How we all—how I,’ said Wilfred, ‘shall miss these pleasant evenings! How many a one have I spent in your father’s house since we first met! I can safely say that I have never been so kindly treated under any roof in the whole world. As to your father, my dear old governor has always been too good, but I scarcely think he could do more for me than Mr. Rockley has done.’

‘Papa is always kind, that is, to people whom he likes,’ said Christabel with an absent indifference, as if Mr. Rockley’s philanthropy and irritability, his energy and his hospitality, were qualities of much the same social value.

At that moment the moonbeam was darkened by a passing cloud, and Wilfred drew nearer to the girl until he could almost feel her breath upon his hair, and hear her heart palpitate beneath the delicate fabric of her dress.

‘Christabel,’ he said, ‘ask your heart this night whether I am right in hoping that you will not accompany your parents to this rude settlement. Here you are known, honoured—yes, loved! Why leave one who would cherish you while life lasted?’

Christabel Rockley spoke not nor moved, but she cast her eyes down, till in the clear light the long dark lashes could be seen fringing her cheek. Her bosom heaved—she made no sign.

‘Christabel,’ he murmured, ‘darling Christabel, I have long loved you, fondly, passionately. One word will make me the happiest of living men. Bow but your head in token that you grant my prayer, and I will take it as a sign from Heaven. Stay with my mother till she embraces you as a loved daughter. Only say the word. Will you try to return, in your own good time, my deep, my unalterable love?’

She raised her head and looked fixedly at him as he stood there, the embodiment of love’s last appeal, in the direct path of the moon’s rays. His face and form, instinct with strong emotion, seemed glorified by the flood of light in which it was encircled.

‘I can hardly tell,’ she said. ‘I have been trying to think—asking myself if I can give you my heart, and this pale face of mine, that you set so much value on—foolish boy! I think I may, in a little while, if you will bear with me, but I would rather not say, for good and all, just at this moment. You _will_ give me more time, won’t you? Ah! what is that?’ she suddenly broke off, with almost a shriek, as the roll of horse-hoofs smote clearly through the still night air upon the senses, almost upon the overwrought hearts of the listeners. ‘Who can it be? Surely it isn’t papa riding back on the warehouse-keeper’s cob?’

Not so. The hoofs of no mortal cob ever rang upon turf or roadway with the long, regular strokes of the steed of the coming horseman.

‘A thoroughbred horse!’ said Wilfred. ‘Tired, too, by his rolling stride. Whoever can it be at this time of night?’

Then he saw Christabel’s pale cheek faintly flush. How lovely was the warmer tint as it stole from cheek to brow, while her eye sparkled afresh like a lamp relumed. ‘Only one person is likely to come here to-night to say good-bye to us,’ she almost whispered. ‘I did not think he would take the trouble. Oh, it can’t be——’

As she spoke, the clattering hoofs ceased abruptly at the garden gate. A hasty step was heard on the gravel, and Bob Clarke, pale as death and haggard with fatigue, stood before them.

‘I swore I would say good-bye,’ he said. ‘So I am here, you see. I have ridden a hundred miles to do it. Ha! Effingham! Back from Port Phillip? Christabel Rockley, answer me—am I too late?’

‘Oh, Bob!’ she cried, and as she spoke she rose and stood by his side, taking one hand in both of hers. ‘You are not too late. But you will have to forgive me, and you, too, Wilfred Effingham, for being a silly girl that did not know her own mind. It would have served you right, Master Bob, and it will be a lesson to you not to put off important business. If Desborough had gone lame—I suppose it is he, poor fellow, that you have nearly ridden to death—you would have lost Christabel Rockley for good and all, whatever she may be worth. I was not sure, and papa was angry. But I am now—_I am now_. Oh, Bob, my dear old Bob, I will wait for you till I am a hundred if you don’t make a fortune before!’

Bob Clarke looked doubtfully from one face to the other, scrutinising Wilfred’s with a fierce, questioning glance. But as their eyes met he saw that which quenched all jealous fears.

‘My dear fellow,’ said Wilfred, coming forward and holding out his hand, ‘you have had your usual luck and “won on the post.” I congratulate you heartily, on my honour, as a man and a gentleman. Christabel has freely told you that but for your opportune arrival her hand might have been disposed of differently. You won’t wonder that any man should do his best to win her. But from my soul I can now rejoice that it was not so; that I have been spared the discovery, when too late, that her heart was yours—yours alone. Look upon me now as your lifelong friend. Let us keep our own counsel, and all will go well.’

‘Wilfred Effingham has spoken like himself,’ said Christabel, whose features were now illuminated with the pure light of love that knows neither doubt nor diffidence in the presence of the beloved one. ‘You see, I should have had some excuse, Bob, if I had thrown you over, you procrastinating old stupid. Why did you leave me doubting and wondering all this time? However, I shall have plenty of time to scold you. Here comes papa at last.’

At this simple announcement the three faces changed as the well-known step of Mr. Rockley was heard—firm, rapid, aggressive. But the girl’s features, at first troubled, gradually assumed a steadfast look. Bob Clarke raised his head, and drew himself up as if scanning the line of country. Wilfred Effingham’s countenance wore the abstracted look of one raised by unselfish aims above ordinary considerations.

‘I thought I should never get away from that confounded old idiot,’ Mr. Rockley commenced. ‘Why, Bob Clarke! where have you sprung from? We heard you had gone to Port Phillip, or Adelaide, or somewhere; very glad to see you, wherever you came from. Better stay to-night; we can give you a bed. Why the deuce didn’t you take your horse round to the stable instead of letting the poor devil stand tied up at the gate after the ride he seems to have had? Christabel, perhaps you’ll tell them to bring in supper. I feel both hungry and thirsty—giving directions, directions, till I’m hoarse.’

Christabel glided away, whereupon Bob Clarke faced round squarely and confronted his host.

‘Mr. Rockley, I came here to-night to tell you two things. I apologise for being so late, but I only heard you were leaving yesterday. I have ridden a hundred miles to-day.’

‘Just like you,’ said Rockley; ‘and why the deuce didn’t you make them send you in supper all this time? You look as if you hadn’t saved yourself any more than your horse.’

Truth to tell, Master Bob _was_ rather pale, and his eyes looked unnaturally bright as he bent them upon the speaker.

‘Plenty of time afterwards, sir,’ he said; ‘the business was important. First of all, Mr. Hampden has given me a partnership, and I am going to take up country in Port Phillip under the firm of Hampden and Clarke. The cattle are drafted and started—five hundred head of picked Herefords—Joe Curle is with them, and young Warner. I’m going by sea to be ready for them when they come over.’

‘I’m sincerely glad to hear it, my dear Bob,’ said Rockley in his most cordial manner—one peculiar to him when he had become aware of something to another man’s advantage. ‘Why, you had better come down with us this week in the _Mary Anne_. I’ve chartered her, and she is crammed full, but, of course, I can give any one a passage. I can’t tell you how glad I am. Mrs. Rockley!’ he cried out as that well-beloved matron appeared and held out her hand with a smile of good omen to the not fully reassured Bob, ‘are we never to have anything to eat to-night? Here’s Bob Clarke has ridden a hundred and fifty miles, and dying of hunger before your eyes; but, of course, of course’—here he changed into a tragic tone of injury—‘if I’m not to be master in my own house——’

Mrs. Rockley, with her placid countenance, only relieved by a glance at Wilfred, swiftly withdrew, and Rockley, to whom it had suddenly occurred as he looked at Wilfred that complications might arise from his subjecting his daughter to the perilous companionship of a sea-voyage with so noted a detrimental as Bob Clarke, looked like a hound that had outrun the scent, desirous of trying back, but not quite certain of his line.

‘Well, Bob, I am sure you will do well in Port Phillip; you have had lots of experience, and no man can work harder when he likes, I will say that for you; but it’s a fast place, a very fast place, I tell you, sir; and if you give yourself up to that confounded racing and steeplechasing, I know what will come of it.’

‘Mr. Rockley,’ said Bob again, with the air of a man who steadies his horse at a rasper, ‘I came to ask you for your daughter. I know I’ve not done much so far, but she likes me, and I feel I shall be successful in life or go to the devil—according to your answer this night.’

Mr. Rockley looked first at one and then at the other of his young friends in much astonishment. This surprise was so great that for once he was unable to give vent to his ideas.

Before he could gather self-possession, Wilfred Effingham spoke. ‘My dear Rockley, from circumstances which have come to my knowledge, but which I am in honour bound not to reveal, I can assure you that your daughter’s happiness is deeply concerned in my friend Clarke’s proposal. As a friend of the family—who takes the deepest interest in her future welfare—let me beg of you to give the matter your most favourable consideration.’

Mr. Rockley’s face passed through the phases of wild astonishment and strong disapproval before he replied. It had then relaxed into one of humorous enlightenment.

‘I see how it is. That monkey, Christabel, has enlisted you on her side. Well, I tell you both that I should have preferred Wilfred Effingham as my son-in-law. I am not going to hide my opinion on that or any other subject. But as she has made her choice, I will not—I say I will not—make her life miserable. Not that I have any objection to you, Bob, my boy, except on the score of that confounded horse-racing. It’s very well in its way. No man enjoys a race more than I do; but it’s not the thing for a young fellow who has his way to make in the world.’

‘I’ll never own another race-horse,’ quoth Bob, with desperate self-renunciation, ‘as long as I live, if——’

‘Oh yes, you will,’ said Mr. Rockley, with superior forecast; ‘but what I want you to do is to promise not to go head and shoulders into it for the next few years, when you’ll have all your work cut out for you, if you want to be a man and make a home for your wife and family. Well, it’s done now, and here’s my hand, my boy; you’ve got a good little girl, if she is a pretty one. But take my advice, don’t give her too much of her own way at the beginning. Show that you intend to be master from the start, _put her down_ if she shows temper; when she gives in, you can be as kind to her as you like afterwards. Better that than for her to have the whip-hand. Women don’t understand moderation. That was always my way, wasn’t it, Bessie?’ he inquired, appealing to Mrs. Rockley, who having entered the room had come in for this piece of practical advice, delivered in a loud tone of voice. ‘I’ve been giving your future son-in-law—there he is; I know he is a favourite of yours; you needn’t say he isn’t—a useful piece of advice, which I hope he’ll have the sense to act up to. Supper ready in the next room? I fancy we’re all in want of a little refreshment; what do you think, Bob?’

That gentleman had private ideas upon the subject, but did not disclose them further than by looking over at Mrs. Rockley, and giving practical effect to the suggestion.

The _partie carré_ enjoyed a cheerful but not very conversational repast. Wilfred and Bob Clarke felt more disposed to drink than to eat. Neither had much to say, so Rockley had it all his own way with Port Phillip speculations, advice to Bob Clarke of where to go for first-class cattle country, and how to manage economically for the first few years. Mrs. Rockley was tired, but found a few reassuring words for the anxious Bob, explaining that Christabel had a headache, but would be sure to be quite well in the morning. She also indicated her sympathy with Wilfred, and her approval of his generosity in backing up his rival’s claim. This, she assured him, she nor Christabel would ever forget.

Finally, Mr. Rockley looked at his watch in the midst of a suggestion to buy more cattle on Hampden’s account and take up two or three runs, inasmuch as it was all one trouble and not much more expense; when, discovering that it was past midnight, he broke up the parliament. Wilfred made his final adieus, and at daylight was fast leaving the town behind him, on his way to The Chase, accompanied by divers ‘companions of Sintram,’ in the guise of vain regret and dull despair, with also (though not unalloyed) a curious sense of relief.

Taking the most philosophical view of the subject, the after-taste of refusal by a woman is rarely exceeded in this life for corroding bitterness. The non-preference of oneself, to the average suitor, fills the individual, unless he be free from every tinge of vanity, with wrath and disgust. In vain the proverbial salve is applied by superficial comforters. The foiled fisherman will not be consoled. He will throw away his flies and burn his rod. Henceforth he and angling have parted for ever. Such in effect for a while is the lament of most men who have the evil hap to pin so much of their present and prospective happiness upon one cast—and lose it. The proud man suffers deeply, in secret. The selfish man mourns for the loss of personal gain. The true and manly lover is shaken to the centre of his being. The vain man is wroth exceedingly with childish anger; furious that any woman should disdain him—_him_! The susceptible, fickle suitor, who promptly bears his incense to another shrine, is to be envied, if not commended. But

To each his sufferings, all are men, Condemned alike to groan.

Who loves vainly is stricken with a poisoned arrow. The wound rankles in the flesh of every son of Adam, oft producing anguish, even unto death, long after the apparent hurt is healed.

Wilfred Effingham was not more than ordinarily vain. He had not been, in so many words, rejected. Indeed, he had been nearly accepted. But he could not disguise from himself that it amounted to much the same thing. Yet he reflected that he had cause to be thankful that the girl had not been permitted to complete the measure of her self-deception—to promise her hand where she could not truly have given her heart. Better far, a thousand times, that this should have happened beforehand, he thought, ‘than that I should have seen after marriage the look that came into her eyes when they rested on Bob Clarke.’

He did not admit that permanent injury to his health would result from this defeat. It was not a crushing disaster, from which he could never rally. Rather was it a sharp repulse, useful in teaching caution. Brave men, great men, had profited by blows like this ere now. He would retire within his entrenchments—would perhaps be the better fitted to take the field in a future campaign.

A necessity lay upon him of acquainting his family with a portion, at any rate, of such momentous events. He did not go too deeply into his feelings for Christabel Rockley, yet permitted his mother and sisters to perceive that all probability of her appearing at The Chase as Mrs. Effingham, junior, was swept away by arrangement with Bob Clarke—duly ratified by the irrevocable if reluctant consent of Mr. Rockley.

His condition of mind was, doubtless, closely gauged by his relatives. With instinctive delicacy they ministered indirectly to his hurt spirit. While not displeased that the lovely Christabel had not appropriated the beloved, their Wilfred, they never permitted him to perceive how widely their estimate differed from his own. They counselled steady occupation, and led him to take pleasure once more in intellectual pursuits.

A diversion, happily, was effected in due time. He commenced to discover that his mental appetite had returned—that he could read once more and even _laugh_ occasionally at the conceits of authors, much indeed as if his heart had not been broken. Then letters with good news from Beatrice and her father arrived. The voyage had been safe and speedy. On their arrival they had found the Colonel—such was his present rank—better than their fears had led them to expect. Ghastly and numerous, in all truth, were his still unhealed wounds; his state of weakness pitiable to see. But the fever from which he had suffered had left him. And when the eyes of the sick soldier met those of Beatrice Effingham, beaming upon him with a world of love and tenderness, all felt that a stage on the way to recovery had been reached. Such, too, came to be the opinion of the doctor and nurse, a portion of whose duties the two ladies had assumed.

Then letters came from the new country, _via_ Port Phillip:—‘The climate was more moist than that of New South Wales, but the water never failed, and the grass was beyond all description. Immigrants from all the world were pouring in fast; the place bade fair to be another Britain. Money was being made rapidly. Stock were any price you chose to ask. A cattle trade was springing up with Tasmania. Argyll thought he would go home for a couple of years, leaving Hamilton in charge. Fred Churbett was in great form, fully convinced that he was intended for a dweller in the waste places of the earth. He felt so happy and contented that he didn’t think he would take a free passage to England, with a season box at the Royal Opera, if it were offered to him.’

As for Guy, all written symbols were inadequate to express the length, breadth, and depth of his happiness under the new and romantic conditions. The cattle were doing splendidly—no one would know them. And no wonder—the feed was unparalleled. He had got up two good slab huts, a stock-yard, and a calf-pen. They were now splitting rails for a horse paddock.

The Port Phillip news (from Guy) became presently more sensational. The Benmohr people, with Ardmillan, Churbett, and the rest, had arranged to leave their stations for a while, and come to Yass for Christmas. A better time to get away might never come. There was no chance of bush-fires. The blacks were quiet. The cattle were thoroughly broken in; you couldn’t drive them off the runs if you tried. There was nothing to do this year but brand calves. So they would turn up before Christmas Day.

He didn’t think he would have been able to get away, but Jack Donnelly had offered to look after the run in his absence, and with old Tom there, no harm could come to the cattle. A couple of months would see them back, and he really thought they deserved a holiday.

Such intelligence had power to renovate the morale of the whole household, from Mrs. Effingham—who, in good sooth, had with difficulty kept up a reasonably cheerful appearance, in default of her absent husband and daughter—down to Mrs. Evans, expectant of the errant Dick.

Jeanie and Andrew were overjoyed at the tidings, and Duncan was at once despatched to Benmohr to acquaint Mrs. Teviot and Wullie with the glorious news, in case they had not as yet received a letter. But they had; and Mrs. Teviot threatened Duncan with the broom for daring to think ‘her gentlemen wadna acquent her the vara meenute they kenned they could win hame to Benmohr.’

Comes then a letter from Sternworth. News had been received from O’Desmond, who had discovered a splendid tract of country beyond the lower Oxley marshes, hitherto considered impassable, and after remaining upon it during the winter and spring, was coming back to Badajos. _He_ too hoped to arrive before Christmas. The long-vacant homes of the district would be again filled up, thank God!

‘Won’t it be delightful to see dear Guy again,’ said Annabel, ‘and to have the old house full once more, with friends and neighbours. I _must_ kiss one of them. Mr. Churbett, I think. You would not object to that, mamma, would you?’

‘_He_ would not,’ said Wilfred. ‘I don’t wonder that you and Rosamond are delighted at the chance of seeing their faces again. It seems hard that fate should have decided to separate us. Either they should have remained here, or we should have pulled up stakes, like Rockley, and migrated there.’

‘There is another friend coming that I shall be charmed to welcome—whom, like Annabel, I shall be ready to embrace, and indeed _shall_ kiss on the spot.’

‘Is my last belief in womanhood to be uprooted?’ exclaimed Wilfred languidly. ‘Is my immaculate sister Rosamond actually going to join the “fast” division?’

‘You need not be alarmed,’ she replied. ‘It is only Vera Fane; and I did not speak of her visit before, because I was not sure she would be able to come.’

‘Vera Fane!’ said Wilfred. ‘How does she happen to come our way? I thought she was in Sydney. Didn’t some one say she was going to be married?’

‘Oh, to that handsome cousin, Reginald, that came from England, _via_ Melbourne, the other day. You heard that, did you? So did we, and were agonised at the thought of losing her for good. But she is coming up here at mamma’s invitation, given long ago, to stay with us over January. Her father won’t be at Black Mountain till then; he can’t leave Norman, who has had a bad time with scarlet fever.’

‘Well, you will have another lady in the house to fill Beatrice’s place, and help to amuse your guests. She is quite equal to a pair of ordinary young ladies in the matter of rational conversation, perhaps more.’

‘So Mr. Argyll thinks, evidently,’ said Annabel; ‘he paid her the _greatest_ attention once he met her over here. I know she thinks him very clever and distinguished-looking. They would suit one another famously.’

‘I don’t think so at all,’ said Wilfred shortly. ‘But I must get away to my work.’