Plain Living

In Hubert Stamford’s case the initiatory stage was now accomplished. The journey, more or less eventful to home-keeping youths – the first really accredited visit to the metropolis since his manhood, with all things made easy for him, was now about to take place. Imagination commenced to conjure up the various wonders and witcheries which he was about to encounter, as well as the campaign of business which he hoped to plan out and engineer definitely, if not finally.

Much revolving these pleasing and, in a sense, profitable thoughts, the night became reasonably far advanced. It then occurred to him that, as he intended to have a long day before him in Sydney, he might as well prepare for it by an orthodox allowance of sleep; so, commending himself and those never-forgotten idols of his heart to the mercy of the All-wise, All-seeing Father of this wondrous world, he wrapped himself in his rug and fell asleep.

When he awoke the train was speeding down the long incline which divides the mountain world of rock and dell-rifted peak and alpine summit, from the lowlands of the Nepean River. A few more miles – another hour. Farms and home-steadings, orangeries and orchards, vineyards and cornfields, alternated with wide pastures, dank with river fogs and morning dew, darksome jungles of eucalyptus which the axe of the woodman had as yet spared. Yet another terminus, suburbs, smoke, a distant view of the great sea, a turmoil of railway sheds, carriages, tramcars, and cabs – Sydney!

Comfortably established at Batty’s Hotel, to the management of which he had taken the trouble to telegraph for a room, and received with that pleasing welcome accorded to the guest who is known to spend liberally and pay promptly, Hubert found the situation, as he surveyed the harbour from the balcony with after-breakfast feelings, to be one of measureless content mingled with sanguine anticipation.

Oh! precious spring-time of life! Blest reflex of the golden days of Arcady. What might we not have done with thy celestial hours, strewn with diamonds and rubies more precious than the fabled valley of the Arabian voyager, had we but have divined their value. For how much is it now too late? The scythe-bearer, slow, passionless, pitiless, has passed on. The irrevocable winged hours have fled. Opportunity, fleet nymph with haunting eyes and shining hair, has disappeared in the recesses of the charmed forest, and we, gazing hopelessly on the shore of life’s ocean, hear from afar the hollow murmur of the maelstrom of Fate – the rhythmic cadence of the tideless waves of eternity.

Hubert Stamford, more fortunate, had all the world before him; moreover, nothing to do but elect, with the aid of a sufficiency of cash, leisure and introductions, to what particular pleasures he should devote the cheerful day. He revolved in his mind several kinds of entertainments of which he would like to partake, but finally resolved to present himself at the office of the Austral Agency Company, having a great desire to see the wonderful Barrington Hope, of whom he had heard so much, as also to sound him as to a Queensland stock speculation. He would leave a card for Mr. Grandison at his club. If no engagement turned up he would take a steamer to Manly Beach, and afterwards go to the theatre.

Having mapped out the day to his satisfaction, Hubert betook himself to the Austral Agency Company’s offices, by the splendour of which he was much struck, and sent in his card.

He was not suffered to remain long in the outer office, but was promptly ushered into the manager’s room and confronted with the head of the department in person. Doubtless it was a mutual pleasure. Hubert was impressed with the autocrat’s appearance, the manner, as well as the reserve of power which in every word and gesture Barrington Hope displayed. The latter, on the other hand, did full justice to the bold, sincere countenance, the manly, muscular figure of his young visitor. Reading between the lines, he saw there written quenchless energy and love of adventure, yet shrewd forecast.

“This youngster is not like other men,” Mr. Hope said to himself, after the first direct, searching gaze. “He only wants opportunity, encouragement, and the backing-up of capital to become a successful speculator. He has enterprise, undying pluck, persistent energy, and still sufficient apprehensiveness to shield him from disaster. We must send him along. He will do well for himself and the company. His complexion and features are different – but how like he is to his sister!”

Much of this he may have thought, but merely said, “Mr. Hubert Stamford, I am sincerely glad to make your acquaintance. Having had the pleasure of knowing your family, I was really anxious to meet you. I venture to predict that we shall become friends and allies. I trust you left all well at Windāhgil, and that the season continues favourable.”

“Perfectly well, thank you,” said Hubert. “My father desired to be particularly remembered to you. My sisters have not yet left off describing their pleasant visit to Sydney. The season is a trifle dry, but otherwise everything that can be desired.”

“Thanks very much! Tell your sisters when you write that a great melancholy fell upon me when they left. We had been so much together in town, fortunately for me.”

“I have been waiting for an opportunity to thank you for the assistance you gave us at a very critical time,” said Hubert. “My father has, I daresay, told you all we thought about it. But I always determined to speak for myself on the subject.”

“It was a speculation, a purely business risk, which I undertook,” replied Mr. Hope. “I told your father so at the time. That it has resulted so favourably, is of course, most satisfactory.”

“I see your point. All the same, it was more than fortunate for us, and for Windāhgil, that you happened to take that precise commercial risk at that particular time. It is, besides, more agreeable to work financially with some people than others. And now, will you come and lunch with me, so that we may have a talk?”

“I am really sorry,” said Mr. Hope, looking at his watch, “but shall not have five minutes to spare till five o’clock, when I should like to consult you on a business matter. If, afterwards, you will dine with me at the club, at seven sharp, I will talk as much as you like.”

“That will do as well, indeed better,” said Hubert, “as the day will be over, which is a great advantage if one is to enjoy oneself. I have a call or two to make, so adieu for the present!” Making a direct point for the club which Mr. Grandison ornamented, Hubert was fortunate in discovering that gentleman just emerging from the strangers’ room with an elderly gentleman, whom Hubert recognised as Colonel Dacre.

“How are you, Hubert, my boy?” said Grandison. “What a man you’ve grown! Nothing like bush air. Father quite well? Mother and the girls? Glad to hear it. Let me introduce you to Colonel Dacre, soon to be a neighbour of yours at Wantabalree.”

“I’m very sorry for it,” blurted out Hubert. “That is, in one sense, as I told Colonel Dacre before. I said then, and think now, that he made a bad bargain. That apart, I am, of course, delighted to hear that he is coming with his family to live so near us.”

“Oh! indeed; I didn’t know you had met before.”

The Colonel bowed, and looking slightly embarrassed, for a veteran, before so youthful a soldier as Hubert, said, “I ought to thank Mr. Stamford and his father for their sincere and kindly advice about my purchase. I did not take it wholly, and indeed acted on my own judgment and that of other friends in buying Wantabalree. But I shall always feel grateful for their well-meant counsel.”

“Why, how is this, Hubert?” said Mr. Grandison with an important air. “You seem to have been very decided on the subject. My friend Barterdale, under whose financial advice Colonel Dacre acted, says he is credibly informed that it is a most paying purchase. And Dealerson says it is the best bargain of the day.”

“For him, no doubt; but Dealerson is a liar and a rogue,” said Hubert, bluntly. “I will tell him so to his face, if ever I meet him. As for Mr. Barterdale, he keeps Dealerson’s account, and perhaps may not wish to offend a good customer. The Colonel has been deceived and robbed, that’s all! And having said enough, perhaps more than is polite, I shall not speak another word about the affair, except to assure Colonel Dacre that all Windāhgil is at his service in the way of neighbourly assistance.”

“Thanks very much!” said the Colonel, looking rather crestfallen; “but have you heard” Hubert felt quite ashamed of his savage sentence as he remarked the old gentleman’s humility of tone – “the price I have sold the fat sheep at?”

“No,” replied Hubert, “I can’t say that I have; but, assuming that the wool does as well you are still in a dangerous position, with an overcrowded run. However, I sincerely trust that it may be otherwise.”

“And so do I,” said Mr. Grandison; “but you’ve done your duty, my boy, and Providence must do the rest. Colonel Dacre is coming to lunch with me. Here’s the phaeton, jump in and you will see Mrs. Grandison and Josie, besides another young lady that you haven’t before met.”

“I asked Mr. Hope to lunch,” said Hubert; “but as he can’t come I am free. And so, if Colonel Dacre isn’t offended by my plain speaking, I shall be most happy.”

At luncheon Mrs. Grandison appeared with the fair Josie, who welcomed Hubert so warmly that he began to think that he was mistaken in the opinion he had previously formed of both these ladies. Certainly, in his boyhood, they had expressed remarkably little interest in his welfare. But being slow to think evil, he took himself severely to task, and decided that Mrs. Grandison was a warm-hearted matron, and Josie a very attractive-looking girl.

At that moment a young lady entered the room and apologised to Mrs. Grandison in so sweet a voice, and with so much natural grace of manner, for being late that his too susceptible heart was immediately led captive. Miss Josie’s charms receded to a register below zero, where they remained as unalterably fixed as the “set fair” in an aneroid barometer in a drought.

“Allow me to introduce our cousin, Mr. Hubert Stamford,” said the elder lady; “Miss Dacre, I think you are to be neighbours in the bush.”

“I am happy to meet Mr. Stamford,” said the young lady, bestowing a gaze on Hubert so honest, kindly, and yet questioning, that his subjection was complete. “Though, from what papa tells me, it is not his fault that we are not in some other district.”

“I was acting against my own interest – against all our interests,” Hubert said, rather nervously. “Believe me that the whole family were most anxious to have you as neighbours. So you must give me credit for honesty of intention.”

“I shall never doubt that, from all I hear,” said Miss Dacre. “Papa is rather sanguine, I am afraid.”

“And perhaps I am not sufficiently so,” said Hubert; “It’s all over now. Let us find a pleasanter subject. When do you think of going up?”

“Oh! next week at farthest. Are we not, papa?”

The Colonel nodded. “I’m enthusiastically fond of the country. I hear there’s such a nice cottage, quite a pretty garden, a flowing stream, a mountain, cows and pigs, and chickens, a fair library – in fact, almost an English home. You’ll admit that, I hope, Mr. Stamford?”

“I’ll admit anything,” said Hubert; “the homestead’s the best in the district. My mother and sisters will be charmed to put you au fait in all matters of bush housekeeping. And now, Josie, are you going to the opera on Thursday night, and would you like a cavalier?”

“We were thinking of it,” said she. “Mother was doubtful, and father doesn’t care about opera. If you can get some one else, I have no doubt Mrs. Stopford would be glad to act as chaperon, and Miss Dacre and I would go – if she would like it?”

“Oh! above all things,” said that young lady; “I am always ready to hear opera. And I hear you have a very good company here. I was stupid enough, when I left England, to think I should never hear Italian opera again. I feel ashamed.”

“We are not quite barbarians, nor yet copper-coloured,” said Josie; “though I am afraid we Sydney girls can’t boast of our complexions.”

“I am quite ready to make recantation of all my errors,” said Miss Dacre. “I suppose it need not be done publicly, in a white sheet. I am divided between that and writing to the Times.”

“I believe you will make the best bush-woman possible,” said the Colonel, with an admiring glance. “Only we both have so much to unlearn. I didn’t expect to see a room like this, for instance, or such appointments,” he continued, raising a glass of claret pensively to his lips.

“It’s rather a bad thing for us, pappy, as we have to live in the real bush, don’t you think? We must forget it all as soon as possible.”

“It won’t make the least difference to you, my dear,” said Mrs. Grandison. “If you had seen Hubert’s sisters here you would have been – well – astonished to see such girls come out of the bush. For some reasons I begin really to think it would be better for all of us to live there.” Here she glanced reflectively at Josie, who looked scarcely as self-possessed as usual.

“I shall not say another word about bush matters,” said Hubert. “They will keep. When Miss Dacre comes up she will judge for herself. If my opinion is requested, I shall be happy to give it, but shall not volunteer advice. Will your brother travel up with you, Miss Dacre?”

“Willoughby went to stay a few days with a ship friend, who lives near Penrith, I think it is, but he is quite as enthusiastic as I am about beginning life in earnest. He will be in town again on Friday.”

“Come and dine with us on Saturday, then, Hubert,” said Mrs. Grandison, and I’ll ask Mr. Hope and one or two of your rude bush pioneers. Josie, can’t you get a couple of young ladies for Hubert’s benefit and to show Mr. Dacre?”

“I don’t think Hubert wants any more young ladies,” said Josie mischievously; “but I’ll ask the Flemington girls to come in – one of them plays marvellously and the other sings. Her voice is very like Parepa’s.”

CHAPTER XIII

The dinner was a success, the party to the opera having gone off without a drawback to the unbroken joyousness of the affair. The Misses Flemington came and performed such musical feats as were expected of them, and Miss Dacre admitted that she had not heard a voice unprofessional for years to equal May Flemington’s. She wondered, indeed, what she could have been thinking of to imagine that when she came to Australia all artistic luxuries were to be banished from her thoughts.

“The fact is,” she said, “we are frightfully narrow and prejudiced in England. We know a great deal about France, Germany and the Continent generally, because we are always running backwards and forwards. But of our own countrymen in Australia and New Zealand we know next to nothing. I was going to say as little as about Timbuctoo, but we do really know something about Africa, because the missionaries tell us, and we have returned evangelists from Borioboolah Gha, even from Fiji and New Zealand. But of Australia we know nothing.”

“When you go home again, Miss Dacre,” said Hubert, “you will be able to do battle for us, I see. We must make you Agent-General, or Ambassadress, if any such post is vacant. I am sure you will do us justice.”

“Indeed I shall, but I feel ashamed of the ludicrous notions which I brought out with me. No one would think of going down to Yorkshire and saying, ‘I suppose you have nothing newer in songs than “The days when we went gipsying,”’ or asking the Edinburgh people if they had ever seen a bicycle. But really men and women who have had ‘advantages,’ as they are called, do come out here (five weeks from England) and expect to see you living a sort of Fenimore Cooper life, cutting down trees, ‘trailing’ your enemies, and sleeping in wigwams or huts only once removed.”

“Perhaps a portion of this is natural enough,” said Hubert, “we are a long way from town.”

“No, it is not natural,” said Miss Dacre; “because have not so many of our friends come out for generations past? And then for us to think that their sons and daughters were to grow up as clods and belles sauvages!”

“It will all come right in time,” said Hubert. “It doesn’t hurt us, if it pleases them, always excepting people” – here he bowed – “whom we don’t want to have wrong impressions about us. Wait till you get fairly settled at Wantabalree, Miss Dacre, and you’ll lose a few more illusions.”

“Oh! but I don’t want to lose all of them,” replied the young lady. “Some of them are so nice, that I want to retain them in full freshness. I am going to keep pigs and poultry and send wonderful hams to England to show our people what we can do. I am going to be a great walker, and write letters about my impressions to the magazines. I am sure they will do good. Then I shall have a good collection of books, and grow quite learned, besides making myself acquainted with all the people round about, and doing good among the poor. I am certain there is a great field for an energetic person like myself.”

“True!” replied Hubert reflectively. “Australians are rarely energetic, and your programme is excellent. I fully agree with all your plans and ideas, but I am only afraid there may be difficulties in the way of carrying them out.”

“You really are most disappointing people – you colonists.” Here Hubert held up his finger warningly.

“Oh! I forgot. I am not to call you colonists, but to talk to you as if you were like everybody else – is not that so? Well – but you do disappoint me. There is an air of guarded toleration, or mild disapproval, which I observe among all of you when I begin to talk of carrying out reforms. You are very polite, I admit; but tell me now, why should I not? Surely one does not come all this way to do only what everyone else does!”

Josie laughed. Hubert looked sympathetic, but did not offer an explanation. Then Mrs. Grandison took up the running. “My dear, you are quite right in wishing to do everything in your power in the way of good; it is what every girl ought to strive after. It would keep them out of mischief, and so on. But where you English people – when you first come out, not afterwards – differ a little from us is that you are all going to set us benighted colonists right, and to improve us in a great many ways. You say, “I only want to do my duty – just as one would do in England,” but the idea is that you can improve things ever so much.”

“Well, perhaps there may be a feeling that a good deal appears to be left undone; but the intention is to do our duty in that state of life, &c.”

“Quite true,” assented Mrs. Grandison; “but remember what you said, that so many of the best people of the old country had come out here. May not they and their children have worked to some purpose, with results like the Miss Flemington’s music and singing?”

“Well, that does seem probable, but a great deal remains undone; you must admit that, surely?”

“I am afraid many of us are not up to the mark in our duties, but the same kind of persons would perhaps have done no better in an English county. But I could show you people who pass their lives in doing good – who hardly do anything else, in fact.”

“And for what is not done,” said Hubert, who had been regarding Mrs. Grandison’s defence of Australian institutions with a slightly surprised air, “there is commonly some reason, though not visible to a newly arrived young lady like yourself.”

“Thank you, Mr. Stamford. But why did you not call me a ‘new chum’ while you were about it? I know you all look down on us.”

“We do not call ladies ‘new chums,’” said Hubert gravely, bowing slightly at the same time. “And I really must decline any more passages of arms about my native land. I hope you will like it, and us too on further acquaintance. I will hand you over to my sisters, who will argue the point with you at any length, and if you can inoculate each other with your different opinions, it will be mutually advantageous.” With which diplomatic recommendation Mr. Hubert Stamford looked at his watch and bowed himself out. “I mustn’t be late for this appointment with Barrington Hope,” he told himself. “It is important enough, and though I could sit and argue with that nice, fresh, enthusiastic Miss Dacre all day, yet ‘business is business.’”

From which latter proverb, it may be inferred that Mr. Stamford, junior, although by no means averse to the proper and gallant attendance upon ladies which every man of his age should hold to be a part of his knightly devoir, was yet in the main a practical youth, likely in the long run to win his spurs in the modern tourney of pastoral commerce.

After thinking over the points of the coming conference, he signalled to a hansom cabby, and was taken up by that modern benefactor of the late, the imprudent, and the unlucky, and whirled swiftly to the offices of the Austral Agency Company. Here Mr. Hope had arranged to meet a Mr. Delamere, who was anxious to acquire a pastoral property in the new country, Queensland, just opened and in every man’s mouth. This gentleman had but lately arrived from England. In a kind of way he was consigned to the company by one of the English directors, who happened to be his uncle.

Mr. Delamere, senior, had known the colonies in former years, and being fully aware that high hope and lofty purpose, even when combined with an available capital, do not altogether make up for total inexperience of all Australian pastoral matters, had besought the manager of the Melbourne branch of the Austral Agency Company to advise the cadet of his house.

“I am aware, my dear Thornton,” he wrote, “that in a general way it is thought better that a newly arrived young gentleman should work out his own destiny in Australia – that after repeated falls and losses he learns to run alone, and may be trusted henceforth to move more circumspectly than if he had been ‘shepherded’ from the first. But I dissent from this theory. The falls are often serious; after some losses there is nothing left. I prefer a partner, such a one as I had myself thirty years ago if possible. There ought to be a few well-bred youngsters knocking about who know everything that can be known about stations and stock but are held back for want of capital. Such a one could supply the experience, while Frank Delamere would find the capital. The old joke used to be that in two or three years the new arrival had acquired all the experience and the colonist all the cash. This reads smartly, but is false enough, like many bons mots both in the Old World and the New. Where was there ever a better man than my old overseer, Jock Maxwell, afterwards partner, and now deservedly pastoral magnate? He could work twice as hard as I ever did; he knew station life ab ovo. He was honest to a fault. He – but I always prose when I get on this topic. It is enough to say that I had sufficient sense to form this estimate of his character and act upon it, ‘whereby,’ as Captain Cuttle has it, I am now writing from Greyland Manor, near Glastonbury Thorn, instead of being a white slave in a counting house, or the half-pay pauper generally known as a retired military officer.

“Therefore – a convenient, if illogical expression – I charge you to procure a good steady ‘pardner’ for Frank, who will see that his ten thousand, perhaps more, if need be, is not wasted or pillaged before he cuts his wisdom teeth as a bushman. Draw at sight, when investments are made with your consent. – Yours ever sincerely,

“Robert Delamere.”

#/

This was the business on which the three men met on this day at the Austral Agency Company’s office. Before this momentous interview a certain amount of preliminary work had been done. Letters and ‘wires’ had circulated freely between Windāhgil, Sydney and Melbourne, from which city the newly-fledged intending purchaser had recently been summoned. Permission had been reluctantly granted by Mr. Stamford, who foresaw years of separation from the son and heir, who had never cost him an anxious moment as to his conduct. The affair was tearfully discussed by Mrs. Stamford and the girls, who thought life would no longer be worth living at Windāhgil when Hubert’s merry voice and unfailing good spirits were withdrawn.

“Why do people want to change and alter things – to go away and bring sorrow and misery and destruction – no, I mean desolation – on those they love?” demanded Linda. “And we are all so happy here! It seems cruel of Hubert to take it into his head to go to Queensland – all among blacks, and fever, and sunstroke, and everything.” Here she got to the end of her list of probable disasters, and though sensible that her climax was not effective, was fain to conclude, “Don’t you think it’s too bad, mother?”