Plain Living

This adjustment of ways and means he found nearly as difficult in its way as the former trial. He often smiled to himself as he found what an amount of conscientious reluctance to accept the unwonted plenty he was compelled to combat. Did he effect a surprise of a few rare plants for his flower-loving wife, she would calculate the railway charges, and ask gravely if he was sure he could afford it. Did he order a new riding-habit for Laura, a hat or a summer dress for Linda, they were sure they could make the old ones do for another season. It was interesting to watch the conflict between the natural, girlish eagerness for the new and desirable and the inner voice which had so long cried “refrain, refrain!” in that sorely tried household.

However, in spite of their virtuous resistance, by the exercise of a little diplomacy, Harold Stamford had his way. The garden was dug over, the trees were pruned, the parterre refilled with choice varieties of the old loved flowers that the drought had slain. Even a bush-house and a fernery were managed – put up indeed by the man who had been temporarily retained as gardener, and whom Mrs. Stamford, deeply as she appreciated the enjoyment of once more beholding trim alleys and well-tended beds, could not help regarding in the light of a superfluity.

Then there was the American buggy, a wonderful vehicle, in which so many journeys had been made over roads that were rough or smooth, ways that were short or long, as need was, wherein all the family had been closely packed in the days of their childhood, still strong and serviceable, but woefully deficient in paint and varnish. This family friend, and a friend in need had it been, found its way to the coachmaker’s, whence it issued resplendent, nearly as distinguished in appearance, Mrs. Stamford conceded, as when, in the earlier days of their wedded life, they had been secretly proud of their handsome carriage and well-matched, fast-trotting pair.

“It quite brought back,” she averred, “the old days of love in a cottage, with all their precious memories.”

Gradually, and unobtrusively, was the master of the establishment enabled to compass these and other desirable repairs and refittings. All things that had become shabby were dismissed or replaced after the same piecemeal manner. As time wore on, the process ceased to alarm his wife or children, more especially as, aided by the bounteous season and Hubert’s ceaseless energy, the general prosperity of the station was marked and gratifying.

The increase of the stock was unexampled. The anxious, toilsome period of shearing was passed successfully.

The new washpen answered beyond the most sanguine anticipation. The clip was heavy, and “got up” so as almost to resemble raw silk – a pardonable exaggeration – so free from dust and all contamination had sleepless vigilance and care on Hubert’s part “turned it out.” The crop was as “high as the fence,” Maurice averred, and the haystack, consequently, a colossal and imposing pile of fragrant fodder. The spring was sufficiently showery to lay the dust and keep the matted grass green at the roots. Water was abundant, both “out back” as well as on the frontage. “All went merry as a marriage bell,” and when the last high-piled waggon-load had moved slowly away, on which was imprinted “Windāhgil, First Combing, 348,” with other suggestive and satisfactory legends, Mr. Stamford put his arm round his wife’s waist, and remarked, “My dear, I think a trip to Sydney would do you and the girls so much good. As I am compelled to see Mr. Hope on business, we may as well all go together.”

CHAPTER VII

The thrill of pleasure with which this proposal was received showed itself in the flushing cheeks and brightened eyes of Laura and her sister – while upon Mrs. Stamford’s features an almost pathetic expression appeared, as of a revelation of joy sudden and unhoped-for. “You are so kind, Harold; but, oh! are you prudent? Think of the expense – new dresses, new everything, indeed! Why it seems an age since I saw Sydney!”

“Think of the clip, Mrs. Stamford,” retorted her husband. “Think of the lambs, think of the fat sheep ready for market. Your journey to town will be the merest trifle of expenditure compared to what we can lawfully and reasonably afford. I speak in sober earnest. Besides, the Intercolonial Exhibition is open. The girls may never have such another chance. Hubert must stay at home for fear of bush fires. He shall have his holiday when we return. So, girls, the great Windāhgil migration is settled.”

The departure for the metropolis of a family that has long dwelt in the “bush,” or veritable far country division of Australian life, is an event of no ordinary magnitude.

Not that the conditions of their rural life are so widely different from those in England. There is the country town within reasonable distance, to which visits are by no means infrequent. There reside the clergymen, lawyers, doctors, bankers, teachers, and tradespeople, the chief component parts of rural society – as in England. There are also various retired non-combatants, decayed gentry and others, the poor and proud section – as in Europe. The squirearchy is represented by large-acred, wealthy personages, who have either acquired or inherited estates, exceeding ten- or twenty-fold in value those of average proprietors – as in Europe. These great people are frequently absent, but contribute fairly by a higher scale of expenditure, often comprising picture-galleries, and valuable collections of objets d’art, generally to the mental advancement of the neighbourhood. It is not to be supposed, either, that they are for the most part uneducated or unrefined.

It follows, therefore, that even when deprived of access to metropolitan luxuries, the families of rural colonists are not wholly without intellectual privileges, invariable as has been the custom of the British novelist to depict them as living a rude, unpolished, and wholly unlettered life.

In ordinary seasons it is the custom for squatters of a certain rank to visit the sea coast with their families once a year, if not oftener. The pleasures of city life are then moderately partaken of, fresh ideas are acquired, old tastes are indulged; friendships are contracted, repaired, or revived. Mental and physical benefits unspecified are acquired, and after a few weeks’ absence the country family returns, much contented with their experiences, but perfectly resigned to await the changing year’s recurrence ere such another momentous journeying takes place.

But when, as at Windāhgil, a succession of untoward seasons brings the family ark well-nigh to wreck and ruin, it is obvious that no such holiday-making can be thought of. “Certainly not this year, perhaps not next year,” says Paterfamilias, sorrowfully, but firmly. Then doubtless all the reserves are called up; steady, instructive reading must take the place of travel, old acquaintances whose minds, so to speak, have been read through and through, and dog’s-eared besides, must perforce be endured through lack of charmingly-new fresh romantically-respectful strangers. The old dresses are turned and returned, freshly trimmed, and their terms of service lengthened by every economical device, pathetic in the patience and true homely virtue displayed. But though all these substitutes and makeshifts are availed of, the time does pass a little wearily and monotonously.

But now the “route was given,” the delightful signal had sounded. The sudden change of ideas necessitated by the announcement of Mr. Stamford was at first bewildering to his wife, and nearly in an equal degree to his daughters.

Calculation and arrangement were required; much forecasting as to where they were to go first, when they could possibly be ready to start, maternal doubts as to what poor Hubert would do in their absence, as the maids would necessarily return to their friends. These weighty considerations absorbed so much time and thought that it was generally agreed to be a species of miracle by which the family found themselves safely packed in the waggonette one memorable Monday on the way to Mooarmah railway station, the luggage having been sent on in the early morning.

“Poor dear Hubert, it seems so selfish to leave him at home by himself,” said Laura; “I think one of us ought to have stayed to keep house for him.”

“It’s not too late now,” said Linda. “Which is it to be? Shall we toss up? I’m quite ready, if I lose.”

“No! I will stay,” said Laura. “I’m the eldest.”

“I think I will stop after all,” said Mrs. Stamford. “You two girls are due for a little enjoyment, and it does not matter so much about me.”

“You will do nothing of the sort,” said Mr. Stamford, with rather more emphasis than usual. “Your mother wants a change as much as any of us. It’s very good of you girls to be ready to remain, and it pleases me, my dears. But Hubert is man enough to look after himself, as well as the station, for a month or two. When our holiday is up, his will begin.”

“As if I would have let anybody stop,” said Hubert, “let alone the dear mater; bless her old heart! And how am I going to do when I go to the ‘Never-Never’ country, do you suppose – and I must have a turn there some day – if you all coddle me up so?”

“I hope you never will go to that dreadful new country,” said Mrs. Stamford, half-tearfully. “Didn’t you read that shocking account of the poor fellow who died of thirst by the telegraph line the other day, besides that nice young Belford who was killed by the blacks?”

“Accidents will happen,” said Hubert. “The British Empire wouldn’t be what it is, if every mother kept her boy at home so that she could see him, while she knitted his warm socks. Windāhgil is paying fairly now, but there’s no fortune to be made here, is there, governor?”

“I didn’t know that you were growing discontented with your lot, my boy,” said the father, looking admiringly at his first-born; “but there’s time enough to think about all that. I’ll see when we are all settled at home again. There goes the bell; we must take our places. God bless you, my boy!”

The following morning found the Stamford family comfortably deposited in one of the hotels which in Sydney combine proximity to the sea with perfect accessibility from all city centres. Bath and breakfast had removed all traces of fatigue or travelling discomfort. Laura, with her sister, was standing at a window which overlooked the sea, wild with delight at the unaccustomed glory of the ocean.

“Oh! what a lovely, lovely sight!” cried Linda. “Look at that glorious bay, with those white-winged boats flying across it like sea-gulls – it’s an old simile, I know, but it always sounds nice. Look at the rocks and promontories, beaches and islands! And there, a great ocean liner is moving majestically along, as if she was going to steam up to the verandah. Wouldn’t it be nice if she did! I wonder what the people would be like? Oh! I shall expire with joy and wonder if I stay here much longer.”

“Then put on your bonnet, and come to George Street with me,” said Mrs. Stamford. “I want to do a little quiet shopping before lunch. Laura can stay with her father. He is going to take her to see the Grandisons.”

“Oh! how nice; I haven’t seen a real shop,” said Linda, “like Palmer’s and David Bowen’s, you know, since I was a little girl. That will tone the excitement down a little, or give it a new direction. Oh, I do feel so happy! Do you think it will last, mother? It can’t be any better in England – or Fairyland. The world does not offer anything superior to my present feeling of perfect – yes, perfect happiness. Don’t let us go to the opera for a week yet, till I have had time to subside. I feel like a glass of champagne; I should effervesce over. La! la, la, la! la, la, la! la, la!” And here the excited girl waltzed into her bed-room to the tune of “The Venetia.”

When Mrs. Stamford and her youngest daughter departed on their shopping expedition, the latter declaring that she felt the greatest difficulty in restraining herself from bursting into song from pure gladsomeness of heart, her father betook himself in a cab with Laura to Mr. Grandison’s house, where he proposed to leave her with her cousin Josie till his return in the evening. Laura was little less inwardly delighted with her general surroundings than Linda, but not being so highly demonstrative, she forbore to testify her pleasure by bodily movement. Yet was her heart filled with innocent joy and honest admiration as she surveyed the unwonted scene.

As their carriage wound slowly up one of the steep ascents by which, on leaving the city proper, the more fashionable suburbs are reached, her dark eyes sparkled and her fair cheek glowed while she pointed out the fresh combination of sea and shore.

“Oh, father!” she said, “when you look on this, does it not seem strange that any one should choose to live away from the sea? I should spend half my time on the beach! What changeful beauty! What new wonders arise, even from this tiny outlook! Nothing can be more delicious than this harbour, with gardens and lawns down to the very ends of the promontories. The dear little bays too, like fairy pictures, with smooth shores, and a big rock with an archway here and there. And oh! the Heads! Grand and majestic, are they not? – frowning above the restless deep like eternal ocean portals. I can see billows, I declare. How vast and awe-striking! I am really thankful we haven’t been to Sydney all these bad seasons. A day like this is worth a year of common life.”

“That’s an extravagant price to pay for a day’s pleasure, pussy,” said her father fondly, as he watched the fire of enthusiasm glow in the girl’s bright eyes, which seemed to dilate and sparkle at intervals as if the glory of the grand vision had been transfused into her very blood. “You will count your years, as other people count their money, much more carefully as you grow older. But I trust, pet, that you will have long years of happiness before you, and that this is not the only one of earth’s precious things that you will enjoy.”

“What a divine pleasure travel must be!” said she, gazing steadfastly before her, as if looking out on a new world of wonder and enchantment. “Think of seeing, with one’s own very eyes, the cities and battle-fields of the earth, the shrines of the dead, immortal past! Oh! to see Rome and Venice, Athens and the Greek Isles, even dear old England with Saxon ruins and Norman castles. I wonder it does not kill people.”

“Happiness is rarely fatal, though the sensation of sudden joy is often overpowering,” remarked Mr. Stamford with a quiet smile, as he recalled his own recent experience. “But I hope you and Linda will qualify yourselves by study for an intelligent appreciation of the marvels of the Old World. That is,” – he added – “in the event of your being fortunate enough to get there. ‘We colonists have a great deal to learn in art and literature,’ as Lord Kimberley was pleased to say the other day. We must show that we are not altogether without a glimmering of taste and attainment.”

“That is the fixed British idea about all colonists,” said Laura with indignation. “I suppose Lord Kimberley thinks we do nothing but chop down trees and gallop about all day long. Well, one mustn’t boast, but we have been getting on with our French and Italian lately, and Linda’s sketches show something more than amateur work, I think.”

When they drew up at Chatsworth, and the cabman was opening the gold and bronze-coloured iron gates, Laura’s ecstasies broke out anew.

“Oh! father, do look; did you ever see such a beautiful place? Look at the gravel, look at the flowers, look at the sea which makes a background for the whole picture! Look at that purple mass of Bougainvillea covering all one side of the house. Why the lawn is like a big billiard table! It is a morsel of Fairyland. How happy they must be in such a lovely home!”

“Humph!” said Mr. Stamford, “perhaps the less we say about that the better. The people that live in the best houses do not always lead the pleasantest lives. But it certainly is a show place.”

It was truly difficult to overpraise the Chatsworth house and grounds. Nature had been bountiful, and every beauty was heightened, every trifling defect corrected by art.

The gravel of which the drive was composed was in itself a study – its dark red colour, its perfect condition, daily raked and rolled as it was to the smoothness of a board. Rare shrubs and massed flowers bordered the accurately defined tiled edges. The bright blue blossoms of the Jacaranda, the scarlet stars of the Hibiscus, the broad purple and green leaves of the Coleus, the waving, restless spires of the pine, the rustling, delicate banana fronds – all these and a host of tropical plants which the mild Sydney winter suffers to flourish in the open air, were here. Fountains, tennis-grounds, and shaded walks, all were to be found in the tiny demesne, every yard of which had been measured and calculated so as to produce the largest amount of effect and convenience.

The hot-house and green-houses were under the care of an autocratic Scotch gardener, who treated Mr. Grandison’s suggestions with silent contempt, and obeyed or defied Mrs. Grandison’s orders as to fruit or flowers entirely as it seemed good to him.

Mrs. Grandison was at home. The footman admitted so much, as he asked the country cousins into a morning room – a most grand apartment to their eyes; nevertheless, Mrs. Grandison’s countenance – she was there alone – wore a clouded and dissatisfied expression. She relaxed considerably, though with an effort, as her visitors were announced, and came forward to greet them warmly enough.

“So glad to see you, Mr. Stamford. It was nice of you to bring Laura. Why you look as fresh as a rose, child! How do you manage to have such a complexion in a hot district? I tell Josie she is getting as pale as a ghost, and yellow too. The fact is, she goes out too much, and this Sydney climate is enough to age any one. She hasn’t been down to breakfast yet – naughty girl – but she was at the Moreton’s ball last night. Mrs. Watchtower took her, and she didn’t get home till past four o’clock.”

“I suppose Grandison’s in town,” said Mr. Stamford.

“Oh! yes; he goes in regularly every day, though I often tell him I don’t know what he has to do. He lunches at his club; you’ll find him there at one o’clock. He says it’s dull enough there, but nothing to what it would be if he stopped at home. Not very complimentary, is it? But men are all alike; they like to get away from their wives and families.”

“I’ve brought mine with me, you see, this time; so I don’t fall under your disapproval.”

“Oh! I do think you’re pretty good, as men go, though there’s no knowing. But, Laura, you’d better go up to Josie’s room, if you want to have a talk, or else you may have to wait. Now, Mr. Stamford, when will you all come and dine? To-day you’ll be tired – to-morrow or next day, which shall it be – and we’ll have somebody to make it a little lively for the girls?”

“Thank you. I think the day after to-morrow, if it is equally convenient,” said Stamford. “And now I must go, as I have some business to attend to. I will leave Laura, with your permission, and call for her as I return in the afternoon.”

“Oh! yes, by all means. Josie will enjoy a long talk with her. What a fine girl she has grown, and so handsome too! She wants dressing a bit. But how does she manage to get all that fine bloom in the bush? I thought Windāhgil was a hot place, yet Laura looks as fresh as a milkmaid.”

“She is a good girl, and has had very little dissipation. We lead very simple lives in the bush, you know. My daughters are very unsophisticated as yet.”

“That’s all very well, but being simple doesn’t give beauty or style, and Laura seems to have a very fair share of both. You let her come to the Assembly Ball next week that all the girls are talking about, and see what a sensation she’ll make.”

“If there’s a ball while we are down I should not think of denying the girls a legitimate pleasure, though Linda is rather young yet; but I think you flatter Laura.”

“Not a bit. It’s her fresh, natural manner that will strike everybody, and the way all her face seems to speak without words. Her eyes are perfectly wonderful. Why didn’t you tell us she was such a beauty, and had a charming manner?”

“To my mind, it’s rather a disadvantage than otherwise – the beauty – not the manner, of course,” said Mr. Stamford philosophically. “I beg you won’t inform her of the fact, though I really don’t think she’d believe you, my dear Mrs. Grandison. But I must go now, so good-bye for the present.”

“It is nearly lunch time now,” said Mrs. Grandison; “you may as well stay, and go to town afterwards.” But Mr. Stamford pleaded “urgent private affairs,” and notwithstanding the temptress – who began to look forward to a lonely meal, with the two girls chatting in the bed-room, and was fain to fall back on even a middle-aged squatter – he sought his cab.

Mr. Stamford looked at his watch; it wanted more than half an hour to one o’clock. He bade his cabman drive briskly, and was landed at the palatial offices of the Austral Agency Company in reasonable time. He dashed into Barrington Hope’s sanctuary with something like boyish enthusiasm. That gentleman raised his head from a pile of accounts, and to Mr. Stamford’s eyes looked even more careworn and fagged than at his last visit.

“How are you, Mr. Stamford?” he said, with a sudden brightening up of the weary features. “But I needn’t ask. You’re a different man from what you were when our acquaintance commenced. And no wonder. Talk about physicians! Rain is the king of them all. Tell me a healer, a preserver like him! What a grand season you have had, to be sure – the precursor of many others, I hope. The Windāhgil wool brought a high price, didn’t it? Splendidly got up; every one said so. Bought for the French market. It made a character for the brand, if one was wanted. But all this is gossip. You wanted to say something on business.”

“Not now,” said Mr. Stamford; “‘sufficient for the day,’ and so on. We only reached Sydney this morning. But I have a piece of very particular business. I want you to come down and dine with us, en famille, at Batty’s this evening. Brought my wife and daughters down. They’re anxious to make your acquaintance.”

“Delighted, I’m sure. I hope the ladies will find Sydney amusing. There’s nothing going on particularly, except a Bachelors’ Ball next week, of which I happen to be a steward. Perhaps you will allow me to send you invitations.”

“I can answer for their being accepted,” said Mr. Stamford, “as far as my daughters are concerned. Their parents are rather old to do more than look on. But I will promise to do that energetically. And now I will not bother you longer. You have a stiff bit of work before you there. Don’t knock yourself up, that’s all. There’s such a thing as overdoing these confounded figure columns, and when a cogwheel goes, Nature’s workshop provides no duplicate.”

“I understand you,” said Hope, pressing his hand with a quick gesture to his forehead. “I have felt rather run down lately. The business has been increasing at a tremendous rate, too. I must take a holiday before long, though I don’t quite see my way.”

“Come and see us at Windāhgil,” said Mr. Stamford warmly. “The fresh bush air and a gallop on horseback will set you right again. That’s all you want. We must talk about it. In the meantime, adieu.” And Mr. Stamford vanished.

He reached his hotel in time for lunch, where he found Mrs. Stamford and Linda, who had returned from their expedition into the heart of the kingdom of finery.

Linda declared that she had never comprehended the subject before – never was aware that she knew nothing, so to speak, of this all-engrossing subject, so important in all its details to womanhood. “I can quite imagine people with lots of money going to any lengths in the way of dress,” she said. “The variety is so charming, and the milliners are so persuasive. How that dear little girl at Farmer’s tried to get me to take the silk dress. Didn’t she, mother?”

“I was afraid she would succeed at one time, my dear; you appeared to be hesitating.”

“I should have liked it, of course. Such a lovely lilac. It suited my complexion perfectly, she said; but I knew my allowance wouldn’t stand it, and you have been so good, my dear old dad. I don’t want you and mother to think I can’t resist temptation.”