‘Horses are dirt cheap, sir, just now, and can’t be done without, nohow. You’ll want a cob for the Captain to potter about on, a couple of hacks for yourself, one apiece for Mr. Guy and the young ladies – they’d like a canter now and then afore Christmas. I hear Mick Donnelly’s selling off, to clear out for Monaro. You couldn’t do better than ride over and see his lot; they’ll be pretty sure to live on our grass, if any of the neighbours gets ’em, and you may as well have that profit out of ’em yourself.’
The conversation having come to an end, Mr. Evans was about to move after his cattle, now indulging in a pretty wide spread, when a horseman joining them, greeted Wilfred.
‘Good-morning, sir,’ said the stranger, with loud, peculiar, but not unpleasant voice, having a note of culture too. ‘Glad to make your acquaintance; Mr. Effingham, I believe? We’re neighbours, on the south, about ten miles from Benmohr. You haven’t seen a chestnut pony about, branded 2C? He used to run here in Hunt’s time. Why, hang me! if he isn’t coming up to show himself!’
The chestnut pony which had borne Wilfred so successfully in the journey for the new cattle now trotted up, having followed Evans’s mare, to which animal he had attached himself, after the manner of horses, prone to contract sudden friendships.
Wilfred, about to disclaim any knowledge of the strange gentleman’s chestnut, not dreaming that the estray which had come in so handily could be his property, and as yet not given to reading at a glance 2C or other hieroglyph, felt rather nonplussed, more especially when he noticed the stranger’s eye attracted to the saddle-mark on the pony’s fat back.
‘I must confess to having ridden your horse, if he be so, a short journey. We were not aware of his ownership, and I had no horse of my own. I trust you will forgive the liberty.’
‘He has rather nice paces. How did you like him?’ inquired the stranger urbanely, much as if he had a favour conferred upon him. ‘I’ll run him into the yard now with your permission, and lead him home.’
‘Pray come in, and allow me to introduce you to my people,’ said Wilfred, satisfied, from the stranger’s bearing, that he was a desirable acquaintance. ‘With the exception of Mr. O’Desmond, from whom I bought these cattle, we have not seen a neighbour yet.’
‘Know them all in time,’ said the stranger; ‘no great shakes, some of them, when you do know them. My name’s Churbett, by the bye – Fred Churbett, of The Oaks; cattle station on Banksia Creek, used to be called She-oak Flat – had to change it. Nice cattle O’Desmond let you have; got good stock, but makes you pay for them.’
‘How you have improved the old place!’ continued Mr. Churbett, as they approached the house. ‘Who would believe that so much could have been made of it? Never saw it in the palmy days of Colonel Warleigh, though. Seems to have run in the military line of ownership. The old boy kept up great state. Four-in-hand always to Yass, they say. Coachman, butler, lots of servants – convicts, of course. Awful temper; cursed freely, drank ditto. Sons not behindhand, improved upon the paternal sins – gambling, horse-racing, Old Harry generally. Had to clear out and sell. Great pull for the district having a family straight from “home” settled in it.’
‘I trust the advantage will be mutual,’ said Wilfred. ‘We hope to be neighbourly when we are quite settled. But you will understand that it has taken us a little time to shake down.’
‘Thought of that,’ said Mr. Churbett, ‘or should have had the pleasure of calling before. Trotted over to look up master “Traveller” for the muster, or should have waited another week.’
Mr. Churbett’s horses having been disposed of, he was duly introduced. He proved if anything a greater success than Mr. O’Desmond. He was musical, and the sight of the piano immediately brought up talk about the last opera he had heard in London. He was also a great reader, and after touching upon half a score of authors, promised to bring over a new book which he had just got up from town.
‘Really,’ said Annabel innocently, ‘this is a surprise. I never dreamed of getting a new book in the bush. Why, it only came out just before we left. I was longing to read it; but, of course, we were too miserable and worried. How can it have got here so quickly?’
‘Just the same way that we did, I suppose,’ said Beatrice – ‘in a ship. You forget the time that has passed since we landed.’
‘Still, it is a pleasant surprise. I shouldn’t wonder, perhaps we may get some new music soon. But I should as soon have thought of a book-club in the moon.’
‘Talking of book-clubs,’ said Churbett, ‘we are trying to get up one; I hope you will join. With twelve members, and a moderate subscription, we can import a very fair lot of books every year. A brother of mine in London can choose them for us; I am to be librarian. The books are divided into sets, which each subscriber sends on in turn.’
Annabel clapped her hands. ‘How delightful! Wilfred, of course, will join. Fancy, dear, clean new books every month. Really, life is becoming quite intoxicating, and I thought we should die of dulness and ennui.’
‘No; did you, though?’ echoed Mr. Churbett compassionately. ‘I confess to feeling inclined to cry when I came up to Murson Creek and saw the hut I was to live in for the first year. But one’s feelings get wonderfully altered after a while.’
‘And are you quite resigned, that is contented, to give up operas and picture galleries, clubs and travel, all the pleasant parts of English life?’ asked Rosamond.
‘It was hard at first, Miss Effingham; but here I have independence, with the prospect of a fortune. In England such was not the case, particularly the independence. Operas and other memories recall a fairy realm which I may yet re-enter. Meantime, I ride about all day, work now and then, smoke and read at night, and if not exactly happy, am decently cheerful.’
‘What the world calls pleasure you never see, I suppose?’ said Beatrice philosophically.
‘Do we not? I forgot one compensation in our virtuous, self-denying lives. Once a year, at least, we have races in Yass, which is our metropolis. Then we all meet together, as a solemn, social obligation. Pilgrimage to Mecca, and so on. Very few true believers absent. Balls, picnics, any amount of dancing, flirtation, what not. Enough to last for the rest of the year. After a week or two we go home sorrowfully, staying at each other’s houses on the way, to let down the excitement by degrees.’
‘Where do the ladies come from?’ asked Annabel. ‘I suppose there are very few?’
‘Very few!’ said Mr. Churbett in tones of horror. ‘Ever so many. Is it possible you have never heard, even in Europe, of the beautiful Miss Christabel Rockley, the fascinating Mrs. Snowden, the talented Mrs. Porchester? Ladies! They abound, or how should we remain civilised? Yass is well known to be the home of all the graces. Could O’Desmond retain his grand seigneur air but for the advantage of refined association? I wish I could take you round, Miss Effingham, on an introductory tour. What a book we could write of our experiences! – “Travels and Sketches in the Upper Strata of the Social System of the Yass District, by Miss Annabel Effingham, illustrated by F. Churbett, F.R.Y.A.S.S., Fellow of the Royal Yass Analytical Squatting Society,” reads well.’
‘Quite delicious,’ said Annabel. ‘But everything that is nice is improper, so, of course, I shouldn’t be let go. Not even Rosamond, who is prudence personified. I’m afraid there is no more liberty for poor women in a new country than an old one. That is the bell – I was sure of it. Mr. Churbett, allow me to invite you to dinner – an early one, which is about the extent of my privileges.’
Mr. Churbett accepted the invitation, as he no doubt would have acceded to any proposition emanating from the speaker even less manifestly beneficial. He kept the whole party amused, and lingered until he declared he should have to gallop Grey Surrey all the way home to get there before dark.
‘He’s like me,’ he explained, upon being charged with cruelty; ‘he only does