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 Chapter Eight: Project Management

PROBLEM SUMMARY 33. General linear programming model

formulation (8–4)
1. Gantt chart construction and analysis 34. General linear programming model
2. Gantt chart construction and analysis formulation
3. Gantt chart and network construction and 35. Project crashing, linear programming model
analysis formulation
4. Network analysis 36. Project crashing, computer (8–12)
5. Network, earliest and latest event times, slack 37. Project crashing, computer (8–6)
(8–4)
6. Network, earliest and latest event times, slack SOLUTIONS TO PROBLEMS
7. Network, earliest and latest event times, slack
8. Network, earliest and latest event times, slack 1.
9. Network, earliest and latest event times, slack
10. Network construction and analysis
11. Network analysis
12. Network analysis
13. Network analysis (8–6)
14. Network analysis, probability analysis
15. Network analysis, probability analysis
16. Network analysis (8–8)
2.
17. Probability analysis (8–13)
18. Network analysis, probability analysis
19. Network analysis, probability analysis
20. Network analysis, probability analysis
21. Probability analysis (8–8 and 8–16)
22. Network analysis
23. Network analysis, probability analysis
24. Network construction, probability analysis
25. Network construction, probability analysis
26. Network construction and analysis Activity Slack (weeks)
27. Network construction, probability analysis 1 12
28. Network construction, probability analysis 2 0
29. Network construction, probability analysis 3 12
30. Network construction, probability analysis 4 4
31. Project crashing, linear programming model 5 0
formulation
6 4
32. Project crashing, linear programming model
formulation 7 0

8-1
Copyright © 2016 Pearson Education, Inc.
3. 4.

Paths: 2→5→7
10 + 4 + 2 = 16
Activity Slack (weeks) 2→4→6→7
1 0 10 + 5 + 3 + 2 = 20*
2 1 1→3→6→7
3 0 7 + 6 + 3 + 2 = 18
4 10 5.
5 1 Activity Time ES EF LS LF Slack
6 0 1 7 0 7 2 9 2
7 9 2 10 0 10 0 10 0
8 0 3 6 7 13 9 15 2
9 11 4 5 10 15 10 15 0
5 4 10 14 14 18 4
6 3 15 18 15 18 0
7 2 18 20 18 20 0

Paths: 1→3→7
4 + 8 + 2 = 14
1→3→6→8
4 + 8 + 5 + 6 = 23*
1→4→8
4 + 3 + 6 = 13 Critical path activities have no slack
2→5→8 Critical path = 2 − 4 − 6 − 7 = 20
7 + 9 + 6 = 22
2→9
7 + 5 = 12

8-2
Copyright © 2016 Pearson Education, Inc.
6.

Critical path = 2 − 6 − 9 − 11 − 12 = 38 months

7.

Critical path = 1 − 3 − 8 = 34 weeks

8-3
Copyright © 2016 Pearson Education, Inc.
8.

Critical path = 1 − 3 − 7 − 8 − 10 − 12 = 15 days

9.
Activity Time ES EF LS LF Slack
1 8 0 8 4 12 4
2 12 0 12 0 12 0
3 3 0 3 9 12 9
4 9 12 21 12 21 0
5 3 3 6 18 21 15
6 2 3 5 19 21 16
7 12 21 33 40 52 19
8 7 21 28 46 53 25
9 30 21 51 23 53 2
10 21 21 42 21 42 0
11 20 33 53 52 72 19
12 5 51 56 53 58 2
13 16 42 58 42 58 0
14 17 58 75 58 75 0
15 5 58 63 70 75 12
16 6 53 59 72 78 19
17 3 75 78 75 78 0

Critical path = 2 − 4 − 10 − 13 − 14 − 17
Project completion time = 78 wk.

8-4
Copyright © 2016 Pearson Education, Inc.
10.

Critical path = a − b − f − h = 15 weeks

11.
Activity a m b t ES EF LS LF Slack σ2
1 6 10 15 10.16 0 10.16 0 10.16 0 2.25
2 2 7 16 7.66 0 7.66 18.00 25.66 18.00 5.43
3 4 8 11 7.83 0 7.83 14.33 22.16 14.33 1.35
4 3 10 15 9.66 10.16 19.83 16.00 25.66 5.83 4.00
5 7 9 20 10.50 10.16 20.66 10.16 20.66 0 4.67
6 4 12 15 11.16 10.16 21.33 20.50 31.66 10.33 3.35
7 3 6 9 6.00 19.83 25.83 25.66 31.66 5.83 1.00
8 5 9 16 9.50 7.83 17.33 22.16 31.66 14.33 3.35
9 3 20 35 19.66 20.66 40.33 20.66 40.33 0 28.41
10 4 12 16 11.33 7.83 19.16 29.00 40.33 21.16 4.00
11 2 9 14 8.66 25.83 34.50 31.66 40.33 5.83 4.00
Expected project completion time = 40.33 wk
σ = 5.95
Critical path = 1 − 5 − 9

8-5
Copyright © 2016 Pearson Education, Inc.
12.

Critical path = a − d − g − k = 33 weeks

σ = 3.87

13.
Activity a m b t ES EF LS LF Slack σ2
1 4 8 12 8.00 0 8.00 3.66 11.66 3.66 1.77
2 6 10 15 10.16 0 10.16 0 10.16 0 2.25
3 2 10 14 9.33 0 9.33 8.33 17.66 8.33 4.00
5 3 6 9 6.00 8.00 14.00 11.66 17.66 3.66 1.00
4 1 4 13 5.00 8.00 13.00 22.33 27.33 14.33 4.00
6 3 6 18 7.50 10.16 17.66 10.16 17.66 0 6.25
7 2 8 12 7.66 9.33 17.00 22.33 30.00 13.00 2.76
8 9 15 22 15.16 17.66 32.83 21.66 36.83 4.00 4.67
9 5 12 21 12.33 17.66 30.00 17.66 30.00 0 7.08
10 7 20 25 18.66 13.00 31.66 27.33 46.00 14.33 9.00
11 5 6 12 6.83 30.00 36.83 30.00 36.83 0 1.35
12 3 8 20 9.16 36.83 46.00 36.83 46.00 0 8.01

8-6
Copyright © 2016 Pearson Education, Inc.
 e. Critical path = 2 − 6 − 9 − 11 − 12
f. Expected project completion time = 46 mo
σ2 = 25 mo
14.

Earliest Earliest Latest Latest

Activity Start Finish Start Finish Slack Variance
a 0 1.833 0.000 1.833 0 0.028
b 1.833 3.833 1.833 3.833 0 0.111
c 3.833 9.667 3.833 9.667 0 0.694
d 3.833 5.833 10.667 12.667 6.833
e 5.833 6.833 12.667 13.667 6.833
f 3.833 6.000 11.500 13.667 7.667
g 9.667 13.667 9.667 13.667 0 0.444
h 1.833 5.667 10.667 14.500 8.833
i 13.667 16.667 14.500 17.500 0.833
j 13.667 17.500 13.667 17.500 0 0.250
k 17.500 23.83333 17.5 23.83333 0 1
l 23.833 29.667 23.833 29.667 0 0.694
m 29.667 32.833 29.667 32.833 0 0.250
Mean 32.833
Variance 3.472
Std. dev 1.863
Critical path = a − b − c − g − j − k − l − m
Note that 6 months equal 26 weeks.
x−μ 26 − 32.83
Z= = = −4.97
σ 1.86
P(x ≤ 26) = 0
x−μ 52 − 32.83
Z= = = 10.31
σ 1.86
P(x ≤ 52) = 1.00

8-7
Copyright © 2016 Pearson Education, Inc.
15.

Earliest Earliest Latest Latest

Activity Start Finish Start Finish Slack Variance
a 0.000 2.000 -1E-14 2 0 0.111
b 2.000 5.000 2E+00 5 0 0.111
c 5.000 7.000 3E+01 30 23
d 5.000 19.333 2E+01 36.333 17
e 5.000 12.000 5E+00 12 0 1
f 5.000 12.000 29.333 36.333 24.333
g 12.000 36.333 12 36.333 0 5.444
h 7.000 13.333 30 36.333 23
i 36.333 48.667 36.333 48.667 0 1
j 48.667 61.333 48.667 61.333 0 4
k 61.333 63.333 61.333 63.333 0 0.111
l 63.333 67.167 63.333 67.167 0 0.25
m 67.167 69.333 67.167 69.333 0 0.25
n 69.333 71.167 69.333 71.167 0 0.028
Mean 71.167
Variance 12.306
Std. dev 3.508
Critical path = a − b − e − g − i − j − k − l − m − n
x−μ 52 − 71.167
Z= = = −5.46
σ 3.508
P(x ≤ 52) = 0
78 − 71.167
Z= = 1.95
3.508
P(x ≤ 78) = .5000 + .4744 = .9744

8-8
Copyright © 2016 Pearson Education, Inc.
16.
Activity a m b t ES EF LS LF Slack σ2
1 1 2 6 2.50 0 2.50 0 2.50 0 0.694
2 1 3 5 3.00 2.50 5.50 7.50 10.50 5.00 0.436
3 3 5 10 5.50 2.50 8.00 2.50 8.00 0 1.35
4 3 6 14 6.83 2.50 9.33 2.66 9.50 0.16 3.35
7 1 1.5 2 1.50 8.00 9.50 8.00 9.50 0 0.026
6 2 3 7 3.50 8.00 11.50 9.00 12.50 1.00 0.689
5 2 4 9 4.50 8.00 12.50 10.50 15.00 2.50 1.35
8 1 3 5 3.00 9.50 12.50 9.50 12.50 0 0.436
9 1 1 5 1.66 12.50 14.16 15.33 17.00 2.83 0.436
10 2 4 9 4.50 12.50 17.00 12.50 17.00 0 1.35
11 1 2 3 2.00 12.50 14.50 15.00 17.00 2.50 0.109
12 1 1 1 1.00 17.00 18.00 17.00 18.00 0 0
e. Critical path = 1 − 3 − 7 − 8 − 10 − 12
f. Expected project completion time = 18 Mo
σ = 1.97 Mo

17.

18.

8-9
Copyright © 2016 Pearson Education, Inc.
 Standard
Activity Time ES EF LS LF Slack Deviation
Project 23 1.70
a 3 0 3 0 3 0 0.667
b 3.167 0 3.167 7.667 10.833 7.667 0.5
c 4.167 0 4.167 6.667 10.833 6.667 0.833
d 2.833 3 5.833 3 5.833 0 0.5
e 5 5.833 10.833 5.8333 10.833 0 1
f 1.833 10.833 12.667 15.167 17 4.333 0.167
g 5.833 10.833 16.667 10.833 16.667 0 0.833
h 3.833 12.667 16.5 17 20.833 4.333 0.5
i 4.167 16.667 20.833 16.667 20.833 0 0.5
j 2.167 20.833 23 20.833 23 0 0.5
Critical path = a − d − e − g − i − j = 23 days
What is the probability for the project to be completed in 21 days?
x−μ
Z=
σ
21 − 23
Z= = −1.18
1.7
P(x ≤ 21) = .119

19.

8-10
Copyright © 2016 Pearson Education, Inc.
 Standard
Activity Time ES EF LS LF Slack Deviation
Project 160.833 8.54
a 24.833 0 24.833 45.5 70.333 45.5 2.167
b 22.833 0 22.833 47.5 70.333 47.5 2.5
c 40.167 0 40.167 0 40.167 0 5.167
d 30.833 40.167 71 40.167 71 0 4.167
e 21 24.833 45.833 70.333 91.3333 45.5 3
f 17.167 71 88.167 71 88.167 0 2.5
g 11.833 88.167 100 88.167 100 0 2.167
h 19.167 45.833 65 91.333 110.5 45.5 2.5
i 15.167 45.833 61 95.333 110.5 49.5 2.167
j 10.5 100 110.5 100 110.5 0 1.167
k 28 110.5 138.5 110.5 138.5 0 3.333
l 10.167 110.5 120.667 128.333 138.5 17.8333 1.5
m 7 138.5 145.5 148 155 9.5 1
n 14.333 138.5 152.833 146.5 160.833 8 1.667
o 14.5 138.5 153 138.5 153 0 2.167
p 4.167 138.5 142.667 156.667 160.833 18.1667 0.5
q 5.833 145.5 151.333 155 160.833 9.5 0.5
r 7.833 153 160.833 153 160.833 0 0.833
Critical path: c − d − f − g − j − k − o − r
Project duration = 160.83
x−μ 180 − 160.83
Z= = = 2.24
σ 8.54
P(x ≤ 180 minutes) = .5000 + .4875 = .9875
20.

8-11
Copyright © 2016 Pearson Education, Inc.
Activity a m b t ES EF LS LF Slack σ2
a 1 2 3 2.00 0 2.00 7.33 9.33 7.33 1.09
b 2 5 8 5.00 0 5.00 0 5.00 0 1.00
c 1 3 5 3.00 0 3.00 8.66 11.66 8.66 0.436
d 4 10 25 11.50 2.00 13.50 9.33 20.83 7.33 12.25
e 3 7 12 7.16 2.00 9.16 13.66 20.83 11.66 2.25
f 10 15 25 15.83 5.00 20.83 5.00 20.83 0 6.25
g 5 9 14 9.16 3.00 12.16 11.66 20.83 8.66 2.25
h 2 3 7 3.50 13.50 17.00 22.66 26.16 9.16 0.689
i 1 4 6 3.83 20.83 24.66 22.33 26.16 1.50 .689
j 2 5 10 5.33 20.83 26.16 20.83 26.16 0 1.77
k 2 2 2 2 26.16 28.16 26.16 28.16 0 0
c. Critical path = b − f − j − k 21.
d. Expected project completion time
= 28.17 weeks.
σ = 3.00
e.

8-12
Copyright © 2016 Pearson Education, Inc.
22.

Earliest Activity Critical Path

Activity Earliest Start Finish Latest Start Latest Finish Slack Variance
a 0.00 7.00 0.00 7.00 0.00 1.00
b 7.00 18.50 7.00 18.50 0.00 2.25
c 18.50 23.50 21.33 26.33 2.83
d 23.50 30.83 26.33 33.67 2.83
e 18.50 27.33 18.50 27.33 0.00 3.36
f 27.33 33.67 27.33 33.67 0.00 1.00
g 33.67 42.83 33.67 42.83 0.00 2.25
h 42.83 49.50 42.83 49.50 0.00 1.00
i 49.50 63.83 49.50 63.83 0.00 2.78
j 63.83 86.67 63.83 86.67 0.00 6.25
k 86.67 104.83 86.67 104.83 0.00 4.69
Critical Path = a – b – e – f – g – h –i – j - k
Project Completion Time = 104.83
Project variance = 24.58
Project std. dev. = 4.96

8-13
Copyright © 2016 Pearson Education, Inc.
23.

Activity a m b t ES EF LS LF Slack σ2
1 1 3 5 3.00 0 3.00 7.50 10.50 7.50 0.436
2 4 6 10 6.33 0 6.33 14.66 21.00 14.66 1.00
3 20 35 50 35.00 0 35.00 0 35.00 0 25.00
4 4 7 12 7.33 3.00 10.33 10.50 17.83 7.50 1.77
5 2 3 5 3.16 10.33 13.50 17.83 21.00 7.50 0.25
6 8 12 25 13.50 13.50 27.00 23.33 36.83 9.83 8.01
7 10 16 21 15.83 13.50 29.33 21.00 36.83 7.50 3.35
8 5 9 15 9.33 13.50 22.83 27.50 36.83 14.00 2.76
10 6 8 14 8.66 10.33 19.00 41.16 49.83 30.83 1.77
9 1 2 2 1.83 35.00 36.83 35.00 36.83 0 0.029
11 5 8 12 8.16 35.00 43.16 49.16 57.83 14.16 1.36
12 5 10 15 10.00 36.83 46.83 44.00 54.00 7.16 2.77
13 4 7 10 7.00 36.83 43.83 36.83 43.83 0 1.00
14 5 7 12 7.50 19.00 26.50 49.83 57.33 30.83 1.36
15 5 9 20 10.16 43.83 54.00 43.83 54.00 0 6.25
16 1 3 7 3.33 54.00 57.33 54.00 57.33 0 1.00
Critical path = 3 − 9 − 13 − 15 − 16
Expected project completion time = 57.33 days
σ2 = 33.279
σ = 5.77
x−μ 67 − 57.33
Z= =
σ 5.77
P(x ≤ 67) = 0.9535
24.

8-14
Copyright © 2016 Pearson Education, Inc.
 Activity ES EF LS LF Slack Variance
a 0 5.33 0 5.33 0 1
b 5.33 10.33 15 20 9.67 1
c 5.33 9.17 13.67 17.5 8.33 0.69
d 5.33 11.67 5.33 11.67 0 1
e 10.33 17.83 27.5 35 17.17 2.25
f 10.33 19.83 20 29.5 9.67 3.36
g 9.17 21.17 17.5 29.5 8.33 7.11
h 9.17 18.33 22.33 31.5 13.17 1.36
i 11.67 19.17 24 31.5 12.33 3.36
j 11.67 26 11.67 26 0 5.44
k 21.17 34 29.5 42.33 8.33 3.36
l 19.17 30 31.6 42.33 12.33 2.25
m 17.83 25.17 35 42.33 17.17 1.78
n 26 34.5 26 34.5 0 4.69
o 34.5 42.33 34.5 42.33 0 4.69
Critical path = a − d − j − n − o
Expected project completion time = 42.3 weeks
σ = 4.10
Since probability is 0.90, Z = 1.29
x − 42.3
129 =
4.10
x − 42.3 = 5.29
x = 47.59
To be 90 percent certain of delivering the part on time, RusTech should probably specify at least 47.59
or 48 weeks in the contract bid.

25.

8-15
Copyright © 2016 Pearson Education, Inc.
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Richard Evans, hand me over the chart of the country,” I should have
to tell him that he hadn’t got the counter-sign.’
‘And quite right too, Evans,’ interposed Mr. Effingham, ‘to keep up
your good old habits in a new country. Discipline is the soul of the
army.’
‘I was allers taught that, sir,’ replied Dick, with an air of military
reminiscence which would have befitted a veteran of the Great
Frederick. ‘But when we reaches Warbrok my agreement’s out with
the Parson, and Miss can order me about all day.’
In spite of Annabel’s asseverations that the party would never reach
the spot indicated, and that she believed there never was any such
place, but that Dick would lead them into a trackless forest and
abandon them, the journey ended about the time specified. A
rugged track, indeed, one afternoon tried their patience. The horses
laboured, the docile cow limped and lagged, the girls complained,
while Andrew’s countenance became visibly elongated.
At length Dick Evans’s wooden facial muscles relaxed, as halting on
the hardly-gained hill-top he pointed with his whip-handle, saying
simply, ‘There’s Warbrok! So the young ladies and gentlemen can
see for theirselves.’
How eagerly did the whole party gaze upon the landscape, which
now, in the clear light of the Southern eve, lay softly in repose
before them!
The character of the scenery had changed with the wondrous
suddenness peculiar to the land in which they had come to dwell. A
picture set in a frame of forest and unfriendly thickets! Now before
their eyes came with magical abruptness a vision of green slopes,
tall groves, and verdurous meadows. It was one of nature’s forest
parks. Traces of the imperfect operations of a new country were
visible, in felled timber, in naked, girdled trees, in unsightly fences.
But nature was in bounteous mood, and had heightened the contrast
with the barren region they had over-passed, by a flushed
abundance of summer vegetation. This lavish profusion of herb and
leaf imparted a richness of colouring, a clearness of tone, which in a
less favourable season of the year Warbrok must perceptibly have
lacked.
‘Oh, what a lovely, lovely place!’ cried Annabel, transported beyond
herself as she stood on tip-toe and gazed rapturously at the scene.
‘Those must be the Delectable Mountains. Dick, you are a Christian
hero [the old man smiled deprecatingly], I forgive you on the spot.
And there is the house, a real house with two storeys—actually two
—I thought there were only cottages up the country—and an
orchard; and is that a blue cloud or the sea? We must have turned
round again. Surely it can’t be our lake? That would be too heavenly,
and those glorious mountains beyond!’
‘That’s Lake William, miss, called after His Gracious Majesty King
William the Fourth,’ explained Dick, accurate and reverential.
‘Fourteen miles long and seven broad. You’ll find the house big
enough, but it’s a long way from being in good order; and it’s a
mercy there’s a tree alive in the orchard.’
‘Oh, never mind, we’ll soon put things to rights, won’t we, mamma?
And what splendid creatures those old trees will be when they come
out in leaf. I suppose it’s too early in the spring yet?’ continued she.
‘Dead—every one of ’em, miss,’ explained their conductor. ‘They’ve
been ring-barked, more’s the pity. They was beauties when I knowed
’em fust, before the blessed tenants was let ruinate everything about
the place. I wonder there’s a stone of the house standing, that I do.
And now, sir, we’ll get on, and the young ladies can have tea in their
own parlour, if my old woman’s made a fire, accordin’ to orders.’
The hearts of the more reflective portion of the party were too full
for comment, so Annabel’s chatter was allowed to run on unchecked.
A feeling of despondency had been gradually stealing over Howard
Effingham and his wife, as for the two last stages they had pictured
to themselves the toil of building up a home amid the barren
solitudes, such as, in their innocence, they thought their new
property might resemble. Now, here was a spot in which they might
live out their lives with cheerful and contented minds, thankful that
‘their lines had fallen in pleasant places’; having reason to hope that
their children might dwell in peace and prosperity after them.
‘We can never be sufficiently grateful to your dear old friend,’ said
Mrs. Effingham. ‘If he had not in the first place written you that
letter, Howard, and afterwards acted upon his opinion so boldly,
what might have been our fate?’
‘He always used to look after me when we were in the regiment,’
said her husband acquiescingly; ‘I daresay he’ll find a similar
pleasure in taking charge of us now. Fortunately for you and the
girls, he never married.’
A few miles only needed to be traversed before Mr. Evans
triumphantly drove his team through the gate of the dilapidated
garden fence surrounding the front of a large old-fashioned stone
mansion, with wide verandah and lofty balcony, supported upon
freestone pillars. A stout, elderly woman of decided aspect opened
the creaking hall door, and casting a searching glance at Mr. R.
Evans, made the strangers welcome.
‘I’m sure I’m very glad to see you, my lady,’ said she, bobbing an
antiquated curtsey, ‘and you, sir, and the young ladies and
gentlemen. I’ve done all I could to clean up the old barrack of a
house; it was that lonesome, and made me frighted with ghosts, as I
thought I’d never live to see you all; and Dick here, I knew there
was no certainty of, as might have gone to Timor, or the Indies, and
never let on a word about it. Please you to come in, my lady.’
‘My old woman’s temper is none of the best, Captain,’ said Dick,
stating the fact with philosophical calmness, ‘but I’ll warrant she’s
cleaned up as much as any two, and very bad it wanted it when
Parson Sternworth brought us over.’
Now that a nearer view was afforded of the demesne and dwelling,
it was evident that the place had been long abandoned to natural
decay and sordid neglect. The fences were rotten, gapped, or fallen;
the orchard, though the aged trees were high out of the reach of
browsing cattle, had been used as a convenient species of stock
paddock; the climbers, including a magnificent bignonia and a
wistaria, the great laterals of which had erstwhile clothed the
verandah pillars with beauty and bloom, were broken and twisted. In
the rear of the building all the broken bottles and bones of the land
appeared to be collected; while, with windows broken, shutters
hanging on a single hinge, doors closing with difficulty, or impossible
to open, all things told of the recklessness of ruined owners.
Still, in despite of all deficiencies, the essentials of value could not be
overlooked. The house, though naked and desolate of aspect, was
large and commodious, promising in its shingled roof and massive
stone walls protection against the heat of summer, the cold of
winter. The deep black mould needed but ordinary culture to
respond generously. The offices might be mouldering and valueless,
but the land was there, thinly timbered, richly grassed, well adapted
for stock of all kinds. And though the gaunt limbs of the girdled trees
looked sadly unpicturesque between the front of the house and the
lake shore, some had been left untouched, and the grass was all the
more richly swarded. The lake itself was a grand indisputable fact. It
was deep and fresh, abounding in water-fowl, a priceless boon to
dwellers in a climate wherein a lack of rivers and permanent
reservoirs is unhappily a distinguishing characteristic.
Let it not be supposed that Wilfred and his mother, the girls and
Jeanie were outside the house all this time. Very promptly had Dick
unloaded the household stores, pressing all able-bodied persons,
including his wife, into the service, until the commissariat was safely
bestowed under shelter. His waggon was taken to the rear, his
horses unharnessed, and he himself in a marvellously short space of
time enjoying a well-earned pipe, and advising Andrew to bestow
Daisy’s calf in a dilapidated but still convertible calf-pen, so that his
mother might graze at ease, and yet be available for the family
breakfast table in the morning.
‘The grass here is fust-rate,’ he said, in a tone of explanation to
Andrew. ‘There’s been a lot of rain in spring. It’s a pity but we had a
few good cows to milk. It would be just play for you and me and the
young master in the mornings. Teach him to catch hold like and
learn him the use of his hands.’
‘Him milk!’ exclaimed Andrew, in a tone of horrified contempt. ‘And
yet—I dinna say but if it’s the Lord’s will the family should ha’ been
brocht to this strange land, it may be no that wrang that he should
labour, like the apostles, “working with his hauns.” There’s guid
warrant for’t.’
Meanwhile, inside the house important arrangements were
proceeding. The sitting-room, a great, bare apartment, had an
ample fireplace, which threw out a genial warmth from glowing logs.
There was a large, solid cedar table, which Mrs. Evans had rubbed
and polished till the dark red grain of the noble wood was clearly
visible. Also a dozen real chairs, as Annabel delightedly observed,
stood around, upon which it was possible to enjoy the long-disused
comfort of sitting down. Of this privilege she promptly availed
herself.
The night-draperies were disposed in the chief bedchamber, though
until the arrival of the furniture it was apparent that the primitive
sleeping accommodation of the road would need to be continued.
Mr. Effingham and his sons were luxuriously billeted in another
apartment, where, after their axle-tree experiences, they did not pity
themselves.
Andrew and his family were disposed of in the divisions of the
kitchen, which, in colonial fashion, was a detached building in the
rear. Mr. and Mrs. Evans had, on their previous entry on the
premises, located themselves in an outlying cottage (or hut, as they
called it), formerly the abode of the dairyman, where their
possessions had no need of rearrangement. Even the dogs had
quarters allotted to them, in the long range of stabling formerly
tenanted by many a gallant steed in the old extravagant days of the
colony, when unstinted hospitality and claret had been the proverbial
rule at Warbrok.
‘Oh dear!’ exclaimed Annabel from her chair, ‘what a luxurious
feeling it is to be once more in a home of one’s own! Though it’s a
funny old place and must have been a tempting refuge for ghosts
wandering in search of quarters. And then to think that to-morrow
morning we shall not have to move on, for ever and ever. I was
beginning to get the least bit tired of it; were not you, mamma?
Though I would have died sooner than confess it.’
‘Words cannot describe how thankful I am, my dear child,’ said her
mother, ‘that we have had the good fortune to end this land journey
so well. It is the first one of the kind I ever undertook, and I trust it
will be the last. But let us remember in our prayers to-night whose
hand has shielded us from the perils of the deep, and whatever
dangers we may have escaped upon the land.’
‘I feel as if we had all been acting a charade or an extended tableau
vivant,’ said Rosamond. ‘Like you, Annabel, dear, I am not sorry that
the theatricals are over, though the play has been a success so far. It
has no more nights to run, fortunately for the performers. Our
everyday life will commence to-morrow. We must enter upon it in a
cheerful, determined spirit.’
‘I cannot help fancying,’ said Beatrice, ‘that colonial travellers enjoy
an unnecessary amount of prestige, or some experiences must differ
from ours. We might have had a Dick who would have lost his
horses or overturned the waggon, and bushrangers (there are
bushrangers, for I saw in a paper that Donohoe and his gang had
“stuck-up,” whatever that means, Mr. Icely’s drays and robbed them)
might have taken us captive. We have missed the romance of
Australian life evidently.’
Howard Effingham felt strangely moved as he walked slowly forth at
dawn. He watched the majestic orb irradiate the mist-shrouded
turrets of the great mountain range which lay to the eastward.
Endless wealth of colour was evoked by the day-god’s kiss, softly,
stealingly, suffusing the neutral-tinted dome, then with magical
completeness flashing into supernal splendour. The dew glistened
upon the vernal greensward. The pied warbler rolled his richest
notes in flute-like carol. The wild-fowl, on the glistening mirror of the
lake, swam, dived, or flew in playful pursuit. The bracing air was
unspeakably grateful to Howard Effingham’s rurally attuned senses.
Amid this bounty of nature in her less sophisticated aspects, his
heart swelled with the thought that much of the wide champaign,
the woodland, and the water, over which his eye roamed
wonderingly, called him master. He saw, with the quick projection of
a sanguine spirit, his family domiciled once more with comfort and
security. And not without befitting dignity, so long despaired of. He
prized the ability to indulge again the disused pursuits of a country
life. Though in a far land, among strange people, separated by a
whole ocean from the scenes of his youth and manhood, he now felt
for the first time since the great disaster that contentment, even
happiness, was possible. Once more he felt himself a country
gentleman, or at the least an Australian squire. With the thought he
recalled the village chimes in their lost home, and his wife’s
reference of every circumstance of life to the special dispensation of
a benign, overruling Providence occurred to him. With unconscious
soliloquy he exclaimed, ‘I have not deserved this; God be merciful to
me a sinner!’
Dick Evans, with his horses, now appeared upon the scene, bells,
hobbles, and all. He bore every appearance of having been up at
least two hours.
‘What a wonderful old fellow that is!’ said Wilfred, who had joined
his father; ‘day or night seems alike to him. He is always hard at
work at something or other—always helpful and civil, apparently
good at a score of trades, yet military as a pipe-clayed belt. Mr.
Sternworth admitted that he had faults, but up to this time we have
never discovered them.’
‘If he has none, he is such an old soldier as I have never met,’ said
his father mildly. ‘Longer acquaintance will, I suppose, abate his
unnatural perfection. But, in any case, we must keep him on until we
are sufficiently acclimatised to set up for ourselves.’
‘Quite so, sir! We cannot have our reverend mentor always at beck
and call. We want some one here who knows the country and its
ways. Guy and I will soon pick up the lie of the land, as he calls it,
but at present we are all raw and ignorant together.’
‘Then we had better engage him at once. I suppose he can tell us
the proper wages.’
‘Very possibly; but now I think of it, sir, hadn’t you better delegate
the executive department to me? Of course to carry out your
instructions, but you might do worse than appoint me your
responsible minister.’
‘My boy!’ said Effingham, grasping his son’s hand, ‘I should have
made the suggestion if you had not anticipated me. I cheerfully yield
the management to you, as you will have the laborious part of the
work. Many things will need to be done, for which I am unfit, but
which you will gradually master. I fully trust you, both as an example
to Guy and Selden, and the guardian of your mother and sisters.’
‘As God will help me in my need, they will need no other,’ replied the
eldest son. ‘So far I have led a self-indulgent life. But the spur of
necessity (you must admit) has been wanting. Now the hour has
come. You never refused me a pleasure; trust me to fulfil every
duty.’
‘I never have doubted it, my boy! I always knew that higher qualities
were latent in your nature. As you say, the hour has come. We were
never laggards when the trumpet-call sounded. And now, let us join
the family party.’
As they reached the house, from which they had rambled some
distance, the sun was two hours high, and the smoke issuing from
the kitchen chimney denoted that culinary operations were in
progress. At that moment a serviceable-looking dogcart, drawn by a
wiry, roan horse, trotted briskly along the track from the main road,
and in drawing up, displayed in the driver the welcome presentment
of the Rev. Harley Sternworth.
‘How do, Howard? How are you, Wilfred, my boy? Welcome to
Warbrok—to Warbrok Chase, that is. I shall learn it in time. Very
proper addendum; suits the country, and gratifies the young ladies’
taste. Thought I’d catch you at your first breakfast. Here, Dick, you
old rascal—that is, you deserving veteran—take Roanoke.’
The somewhat decided features of the old army chaplain softened
visibly as, entering the bare uncarpeted apartment, he descried Mrs.
Effingham and her daughters sitting near the breakfast table,
evidently awaiting the master of the house. His quick eye noticed at
once the progress of feminine adaptation, as well as the marked air
of comfort produced with such scanty material.
He must surely have been gratified by the sensation he produced.
The girls embraced him, hanging upon his words with eagerness, as
on the accents of the recovered relative of the melodrama. Mrs.
Effingham greeted him with an amount of warmth foreign to her
usual demeanour. The little ones held up their faces to be kissed by
‘Uncle Harley.’
‘We are just going to have our first breakfast,’ said Annabel. ‘Sit
down this very minute. Haven’t we done wonders?’
Indeed, by the fresh, morning light, the parlour already looked
homelike and attractive. The breakfast table, ‘decored with napery,’
as Caleb Balderstone phrased it, had a delicately clean and
appetising appearance. A brimming milk jug showed that the
herbage of Warbrok had not been without its effect upon their
fellow-passenger from the Channel Islands. A goodly round of beef,
their last roadside purchase, constituted the pièce de résistance. A
dish of eggs and bacon, supplied by Mrs. Evans, whose poultry
travelled with her everywhere, and looked upon the waggon as their
home, added to the glory of the repast. A large loaf of fresh bread,
baked by the same useful matron, stood proudly upon a plate, near
the roadside tea equipage, and a kettle like a Russian samovar. Nor
was artistic ornamentation wholly absent. Annabel had fished up a
broken vase from a lumber room, which, filled with the poor
remnants of the borders, ‘where once a garden smiled,’ and
supplemented with ‘wild buttercups and very nearly daisies,’ as she
described the native flora, made an harmonious contribution.
Before commencing the meal, as Mr. Effingham took his seat at the
head of his own table once more, humble as were the surroundings,
his wife glanced at the youngest darling, Blanche. She ran across to
a smaller table covered with a rug, and thence lifting off a volume of
some weight, brought it to their guest. His eyes met those of his old
comrade and of her his life’s faithful companion. The chaplain’s eyes
were moistened, in despite of his efforts at composure. What
recollections were not summoned up by the recurrence of that
simple household observance? His voice faltering, at first, with
genuine emotion, Harley Sternworth took the sacred volume, and
read a portion, before praying in simple phrase, that the Great Being
who had been pleased to lead the steps of His servants to this far
land, would guide them in all their ways, and prosper the work of
their hands in their new home. ‘May His blessing be upon you all,
and upon your children’s children after you, in this the land of our
adoption,’ said the good priest, as he arose in the midst of the
universal amen.
‘Do you know that it was by no means too warm when I left Yass at
daylight this morning? This is called a hot climate. But in our early
summer we have frosts sometimes worthy of Yorkshire. Yesterday
there was rather a sharp one. We shall have rain again soon.’
‘Oh, I hope not,’ said Annabel. ‘This is such lovely, charming weather.
So clear and bright, and not at all too warm. I should like it to last
for months.’
‘Then, my dear young lady, we should all be ruined. Rain rarely does
harm in this country. Sometimes there are floods, and people who
live on meadowlands suffer. But the more rain the merrier, in this
country at least. It is a land of contradictions, you know. Your Lake
William, here, will never overflow, so you may be easy in your
minds, if it rains ever so hard.’
‘And what does my thoughtful young friend, Rosamond, think of the
new home?’ inquired the old gentleman, looking at her with
affectionate eyes.
‘She thinks, Uncle Sternworth, that nothing better for us all could
have been devised in the wide world, unless the Queen had ordered
her Ministers to turn out Sir Percy de Warrenne and put us in
possession of Old Court. Even that, though Sir Percy is a graceless
kinsman, might not have been so good for us, as making a home for
ourselves here, out of our own heads, as the children say.’
‘And you are quite satisfied, my dear?’
‘More than satisfied. I am exulting and eager to begin work. In
England I suffered sometimes from want of occupation. Here, every
moment of the day will be well and usefully employed.’
‘And Miss Beatrice also approves?’
‘Miss Beatrice says,’ replied that more difficult damsel, who was
generally held to be reserved, if not proud, ‘she would not have
come to Australia if it could have been helped. But having come,
supposes she will not make more useless lament than other people.’
‘Beatrice secretly hates the country, I know she does,’ exclaimed
Annabel, ‘and it is ungrateful of her, particularly when we have such
a lovely place, with a garden, and a lake, and mountains and
sunsets, and everything we can possibly want.’
‘I am not so imaginative as to expect to live on mountains and
sunsets, and I must confess it will take me a long time to become
accustomed to the want of nearly all the pleasures of life, but I
suppose I shall manage to bear up my share of the family burdens.’
‘You have always done so hitherto, my dear,’ said Mrs. Effingham;
‘but you are not fond of putting forward your good deeds—hardly
sufficiently so, as I tell you.’
‘Some one has run away with Beatrice’s share of vanity,’ said
Rosamond. ‘But we must not stay talking all the morning. I am chief
butler, and shall have to be chief baker too, perhaps, some day. I
must break up the meeting, as every one has apparently
breakfasted.’
‘And I must have a serious business conversation with your father
and Wilfred,’ said Mr. Sternworth. ‘Where is the study—the library, I
mean? Not furnished yet! Well, suppose we adjourn to the ex-
drawing-room. It’s a spacious apartment, where the late tenant, a
practical man, used to store his maize. There is a deal table, for I
put it there myself. Guy, you may as well ask Dick Evans to show you
the most likely place for wild-fowl. Better bring chairs, Wilfred. We
are going to have a “sederunt,” as they say in Scotland.’
 CHAPTER IV
MR HENRY O’DESMOND OF BADAJOS

‘Now, Howard, my young friend!’ said the worthy man, as they

settled themselves at a small table, near a noble mantelpiece of
Australian gray marble, curiously marked with the imprints of the
fossil encrinite, ‘I address you as I used to do in our army days, for,
with regard to money matters, I feel sure you are as young as ever.
In the first place, I must render an account of my stewardship.
Observe, here is the conveyance to you and your heirs for ever of
the estate of Warbrok, a Crown grant to Colonel Rupert Falkland
Warleigh, late of Her Majesty’s 80th Regiment, dated as far back as
1805, comprising 5174 acres, 1 rood, 3 perches, by him devised in
equal shares to his sons—Randal, Clement, and Hubert. It was not
entailed, as were most of the early grants. They fell away from the
traditions of the family, and lived reckless, dissipated lives. Their
education was neglected—perhaps not the best example exhibited to
them by the old Colonel—he was always a gentleman though—what
wonder the poor boys went wrong? They came to be called the
“Wild Warleighs of Warbrok.” At last the end came. Hopelessly in
debt, they were forced to sell. Here are their signatures, duly
attested. Your purchase money, at the rate of 10s. per acre—a low
price, but ready money was very scarce in the colony at the time—
amounted to £2587:5s., mentioned as the consideration. Out of your
draft for £3000 remained, therefore, £412:15s.; expenses and
necessary farm work done, with wages to Dick Evans and his wife,
have amounted to £62:7s. This includes the ploughing and sowing of
a paddock—a field you would call it—of 20 acres of wheat, as the
season had to be availed of. I hand you a deposit receipt for
£350:8s., lodged to your credit in the Bank of New Holland, at Yass,
where I advise you to place the rest of your capital, and I thereby
wash my hands of you, pecuniarily, for the present.’
‘My dear old friend,’ said Effingham, ‘it is not for the first time that
you have pulled me through a difficulty, though never before did we
face one like this. But how comes it that I have money to receive? I
thought the draft of £3000 would barely suffice to pay for the
estate.’
‘You must know that I transacted this piece of business through a
solicitor, a shrewd man of business, who kept my counsel, making
no sign until the property was put up to auction. The terms being
cash, he had a decided advantage, and it was not known until after
the sale, for whom he had purchased. So the Warleighs having
retired, we must see what the Effinghams will make of it.’
‘There will be no riotous living, at any rate,’ said Wilfred; ‘and now,
as you have done with the Governor, please advise me as to our
future course. I am the duly-appointed overseer—I believe that is
the proper title—and intend to begin work this very day.’
‘Couldn’t do better. We may as well call Dick Evans into council. He
was hired by me at 18s. per week, with board and lodging. For this
wage he engaged to give his own and wife’s services, also those of
his team and waggon. The wages are under the ordinary rate, but
he explained that his horses would get fat here, and that he liked
being employed on a place like Warbrok, and under an ex-officer in
Her Majesty’s service. I should continue the engagement for a few
months, at all events; you will find him most useful.’
‘Up to this time he has been simply perfect,’ said Wilfred. ‘It’s a
pleasure to look at such an active worker—so respectful, too, in his
manner.’
‘Our experience of the Light Infantry man, Howard,’ said Mr.
Sternworth, ‘must prevent us from fully endorsing Wilfred’s opinion,
but Dick Evans is a good man; at all country work better, indeed,
than most of his class. Let us hear what he says.’
Probably anticipating some such summons he was not far off, having
returned from showing Guy a flock of wild-fowl. He walked into the
room and, saluting, stood at ease, as if such a thing as a chair had
never been by him encountered in the whole course of existence.
‘Corporal Evans!—pshaw! that is, Dick,’ said the worthy ex-military
priest, ‘I have sent for you to speak to Captain Effingham, and Mr.
Wilfred, who is to be farm manager and stock overseer. I have told
them that you are the very man for the place, when you behave
yourself.’ Here the keen grey eyes looked somewhat sternly at Mr.
Evans, who put on a look of mild surprise. ‘Are you willing to hire for
six months at the same rate of wages, with two rations, at which I
engaged you? You will work your team, I know, reasonably; and
Mrs. Evans will wash and help the ladies in any way she can?’
‘Well, Mr. Chaplain, the wages is not too high,’ replied Evans, ‘but I
like the place, and my horses knows the run, and does well here.
You know I like to serve a gentleman, ’specially one that’s been in
the service. I’ll stay on at the same rate for six months.’
‘Well, that’s settled. Now, let us have a talk about requirements. How
to use the grass to the best advantage?’
‘There’s no better place in the country-side for dairying,’ said Dick,
addressing himself to his clerical employer, as alone capable of
understanding the bearings of the case; ‘it’s a wonderful fine season,
and there’s a deal of grass going to waste. There’s stray cattle
between here and the other end of the lake as will want nothing
better than to clear it all off, as they’re used to do, if we’re soft
enough to let ’em. Many a good pick they’ve had over these Warbrok
flats, and they naturally looks for it again, ’specially as there’s a new
gentleman come as don’t know the ways of the country. Now, what I
should do, if I was the master, would be to buy two or three
hundred mixed cattle—there’s a plenty for sale just now about Yass
—and start a dairy. We might make as much butter between now
and Christmas as would pay middlin’ well, and keep other people’s
cattle from coming on the place and eating us out of house and
home, in a manner of speakin’.’
‘Good idea, Richard,’ said Mr. Sternworth; ‘but how about the yard
and cowshed? It’s nearly all down, and half-rotten. Mr. Effingham
doesn’t want to engage fencers and splitters, and have all the
country coming here for employment.’
‘There’s no call for that, sir,’ said the many-sided veteran. ‘I had a
look at the yard this morning. If I had a man to help me for a
fortnight I’ll be bound to make it cattle-proof with a load of posts
and rails, that I could run out myself, only we want a maul and
wedges.’
‘I’ll be your man,’ said Wilfred, ‘if that’s all that’s necessary. I may as
well learn a trade without delay. Andrew can help, too, I daresay.’
‘He’s not much account,’ quoth Dick disdainfully. ‘He thinks he knows
too much already. These new hands—no offence to you, sir—is more
in the way than anything else. But if you’ll buckle to, sir, we’ll soon
make a show.’
‘I know a stock agent who can get the exact cattle you want,’ said
Mr. Sternworth. ‘He told me that Mr. O’Desmond had a hundred
young cows and heifers for sale. They are known to be a fine breed
of cattle.’
‘The best in the country,’ said Dick. ‘Old Harry O’Desmond never had
any but right down good horses, cattle, and sheep at Badajos, and if
we give a little more for them at the start it will be money saved in
the end. He’s the man to give us an extra good pick, when he knows
they’re for an officer and a gentleman.’
‘Our friend Richard has aristocratic notions, you observe,’ said the
parson, smiling. ‘But Harry O’Desmond is just the man to act as he
says. You will do well to treat with him.’
‘Only too happy,’ said Effingham. ‘Everything arranges itself with
surprising ease, with your aid. Is this kind of settling made easy to
go on for ever? It was almost a pity we took the voyage at all. You
might have made our fortunes, it seems to me, as a form of
recreation, and left us to receive the profits in England.’
‘And how am I to be paid, you heedless voluptuary, may I ask, if not
by the presence of your charming family? Since I’ve seen them I
wouldn’t have had the colony lose them for twice the value of the
investment. Besides, seriously, if the seasons change or a decline
takes place in the stock market you’ll need all your brains and
Wilfred’s to keep the ship afloat. Never lose sight of the fact that this
is an uncertain land, with a more uncertain climate.’
‘It’s all right if you don’t overstock, sir,’ spoke the practical Richard.
‘But Mr. Sternworth’s right. I mind the ’27 drought well. We was
forced to live upon kangaroo soup, rice, and maize meal, with
marshmallers and “fat hen” for a little salad. But they say the
climate’s changed like, and myster than it used to be.’
‘Climates never change in their normal conditions,’ said Sternworth
positively. ‘Any assertion to the contrary is absurd. What has been
will be again. Let us make such provision as we can against droughts
and other disasters, and leave the rest to Providence, which has
favoured this land and its inhabitants so far.’
‘The fences seem dilapidated. Ought they not to be repaired at
once?’ said Wilfred.
‘By degrees, all in good time,’ said the old gentleman testily. ‘We
must not go deeply into “improvements,” as they are called here,
lest they run away with our money at the commencement of affairs.
Dick will explain to you that the cattle can be kept in bounds without
fencing for a time. And now I feel half a farmer and half an
exhausted parson. So I think I must refresh myself with another look
at the lady part of the establishment, have a mouthful of lunch, and
start for home.’
‘It’s a murder you didn’t take to farming, sir, like Parson Rocker,’ said
Dick, with sincere regret in his tones. ‘You’d ha’ showed ’em whether
sojer officers can’t make money, though the folks here don’t think
so.’
‘I have my own work, Richard,’ said the old gentlemen. ‘It may be
that there is occasionally rather more of the church militant about
me than is prudent. But the town and neighbourhood of Yass will be
the better for old Harley Sternworth’s labours before we say farewell
to one another.’
‘I can now leave you all with perfect confidence,’ he said after lunch,
as Dick Evans brought Roanoke and the dogcart to the door. ‘The
next time I come I must bring an old friend to pay his respects, but
that will not be till the furniture has arrived. I foresee you will make
astonishing changes, and turn The Chase into the show mansion of
the district. I must bring you some of my “Souvenirs de Malmaison”
and “Madame Charles.” “The Cloth of Gold” and others I see you
have. I am prouder of my roses than of my sermons, I think. I don’t
know which require most care in pruning. Good-bye, my dear
friends!’
The roan tossed his head, and set off at such a pace along the
grass-grown track which led to the main ‘down the country’ road, as
the highway from Yass to Sydney was provincially termed, that it
was easy to see he had been making a calculation as to the
homeward route. The girls looked after the fast-receding vehicle for
a while before recommencing their household tasks. Howard
Effingham and his wife walked to and fro along the pleasant sun-
protected colonnade of the south verandah. When they separated,
little had been said which was free from praise of their tried friend,
or from thankfulness to the Almighty Disposer of events, who had
shown them His mercy in the day of need.
This eventful colloquy concluded, settled daily employment
commenced for all the denizens of The Chase. They rose early, and
each one attended to the duties allotted by special arrangement.
Breakfast over, Wilfred shouldered an axe and marched off with Dick
Evans to some forest tree, to be converted into posts and rails for
the fast-recovering dairy-yard.
Andrew had betaken himself to the renovation of the orchard and
garden with grateful persistence, as he recalled his earlier feats at
the English home of the family, duly thankful for the opportunity of
exercising his energies in a direction wherein he could show himself
capable.
‘It’s gra-and soil,’ he was pleased to observe, ‘and I hae nae doot
whatever that I shall be able to grow maist unco-omon vegetables,
gin I had some food—that is, manure—to gie the puir things. The
trees are sair negleckit and disjaskit, but they’ll come round wi’ care
and the knife. The spring is a thocht advanced, as that auld carle
Evans has gi’en me to understand. I winna say he’s no auld farrand
wi’ a’ the “bush” ways, as they ca’ them, but he’s an awfu’ slave o’
Satan wi’ his tongue—just fearsome. But gin ye’ll put me a fence
round this bit park, Maister Wilfred, I’ll show yon folks here that auld
Andrew Cargill can grow prize kail in baith hemispheres.’
‘We are going to split some palings before we are done,’ said
Wilfred, smiling at the old man’s rounding off of his sentence. ‘Then
we’ll pull this old fence down and take in more ground, so that you
may exercise your landscape gardening talent.’
‘This bit garden will keep my body employed and my thochts frae
unprofitable wanderings, brawly, during this season o’ inexperience.
Ye see, Maister Wilfred, it wadna become me, as a pairson o’
reflection, to da-ash presumptuously into a’ matters o’ practice, but
they canna haud me to obsairve and gather up the ootcome of thae
bush maitters, and bide my time a wee, till the day comes when I
can take my place at the laird’s right hand ance mair.’
‘No one will be better pleased than I shall be, Andrew,’ said Wilfred,
heartily grasping the hand of his faithful servitor. ‘I’ll no deny that he
kens maist things befitting a dweller in the wilderness. The de’il’s
aye guid at gifts to his ain folk. But, wae’s me, he’s lightsome and
profane abune a’ belief.’
The great event of the year, after all, was the arrival of the drays
with the heavy luggage and the furniture reserved from sale.
Joy and thankfulness all too deep for words greeted the welcome
wains, promptly unladen, and their inestimable contents brought into
the shelter of the wide verandah before unpacking.
‘I never could have believed,’ said Mrs. Effingham, ‘that anything in
Australia could have had the power to afford me so much pleasure.
The refurnishing of our house at The Chase never produced half
such pleasure as I now feel at the prospect of seeing the old tables
and chairs, the sideboard, and my dear old davenport again.’
‘And the piano!’ cried Annabel. ‘What a luxury to us, who have been
tuneless and songless all these months! Even the morning “scales”
would have been better than nothing. I shall really go in for steady
practising—I know I never did before. There is nothing like being
starved a little.’
‘Starving seems to agree with you in a bodily sense,’ said Rosamond,
‘if I may judge from certain alterations of dresses. But you are right
in believing that it gives a wonderful relish for mental food. Look at
these two lovely boxes of books. The library was sold, but here are
many of our old favourites. How I shall enjoy seeing their faces
again!’
‘I am certain Jeanie must have stolen a quantity of things after the
sale,’ asserted Beatrice, who had been examining the externals of
the packages; ‘bedding and curtains, and every kind of thing likely to
be useful. I expect my room will be so like the one at the old Chase
that I shall never find out the difference of a morning, till I go
downstairs and see the verandahs.’
‘There are no verandahs in England,’ said Guy, who was one of the
‘fatigue party,’ as Dick expressed it. ‘They ought to take a hint from
the colonies—stunning places they make on a wet day, or a hot one,
I can tell you.’
‘Where shall we tek this sideboard, mem?’ said Dick Evans, with his
ultra-respectful, family-servant intonation.
‘Into the dining-room, of course,’ screamed the delighted Annabel.
‘Why, every room in the house will be furnished more or less; it will
be quite a palace.’
Willing hands abounded, Mr. Evans in person superintending the
opening of the cases, taking care to draw nails in order to fit the
boards for future usefulness, so that, very shortly, the whole English
shipment was transferred to its final Australian resting-place.
Robinson Crusoe, when he had made the last successful raft-
passage and transhipment from the Guinea trader before she went
down, could not have been more grateful than our deported friends
when the litter and the cases and Dick and Andrew were cleared off,
and they were free to gloat over their precious property.
How different the rooms looked! There was an air of comfort and
refinement about the well-preserved furniture which was
inexpressibly comforting to the ex-dwellers in tents. The large rooms
looked perhaps a shade too bare, but in warm climates an Indian
non-obtrusion of upholstering is thought becoming. The well-
remembered tones of the piano, which glorified an unoccupied
corner of the drawing-room, echoed through that spacious
apartment, now provided with a carpet almost as good as new,
which Jeanie’s provident care had abstracted from the schoolroom at
The Chase. The dear old round table was there, ‘out of mother’s
morning-room; the engravings from father’s study, particularly those
favourite ones of “The fighting Temeraire” and “Talavera”—all were
here. When the climbers grew up over the verandah pillars, shading
the front windows with the purple masses of the wistaria, there
might be a prettier room in Sydney, but in the bush they were sure it
was unsurpassed.’
Nor were Andrew and Jeanie devoid of personal interest in the
arrival of the treasure-waggons. Certain garden tools and agricultural
implements, dear to Andrew’s practical soul, now gladdened his
eyes, also a collection of carefully packed seeds. Besides all these, a
rigorously select list of necessaries in good order and preservation,
once the pride of his snug cottage, came to hand. For days after this
arrival of the Lares and Penates, the work of rearrangement
proceeded unceasingly. Mrs. Effingham and Rosamond placed and
replaced each article in every conceivable position. Annabel played
and sang unremittingly. Jeanie rubbed and polished, with such
anxious solicitude, that table and chair, wardrobe and sideboard,
shone like new mahogany. Beatrice had possessed herself of the
bookcase, and after her morning share of housekeeping work was
performed, read, save at dinner, without stopping until it was time to
go for that evening walk which the sisters never omitted.
Once it fell upon a day that a gentleman rode up in leisurely fashion
towards the entrance gate. He was descried before he came within a
hundred yards, and some trepidation ensued while the question was
considered as to who should take his horse, and how that valuable
animal should be provided for.
Mr. Effingham, Guy, and Wilfred were away at the stock-yard, which
by this time was reported to be nearly in a state of efficiency.
Andrew had disappeared temporarily. The gentleman, for such
plainly was his rank, was a stalwart, distinguished-looking
personage, sitting squarely, and with something of military pose in
his saddle. He was mounted upon a handsome, carefully-groomed
hackney. He reined up at the dilapidated garden fence, and after
looking about and seeing no appearance of an entrance gate, as
indeed that portal had been long blocked up by rails, gathered up his
reins, and clearing the two-railed fence with practised ease, rode
along the grass-grown path to the front door of the house. At the
same moment Dick Evans, who had just arrived with a load of
palings, appeared from the rear, and took his horse.
The stranger briskly dismounted, and knocked at the hall door with
the air of a man who was thoroughly acquainted with the locale. He
bowed low to Mrs. Effingham who opened it.
‘Permit me to make myself known as Henry O’Desmond, one of your
neighbours, my dear madam,’ said he, with the high-bred air of a
man of the world of fashion, who possesses also the advantage of
being an Irishman. ‘I presume I am addressing Mrs. Effingham. I
have anticipated the proper time for paying my respects; but there
has been a matter of business named by my agent, in which I hope
to be able to serve Captain Effingham. He is quite well, I trust?’
Mrs. Effingham explained that her husband had been perfectly well
that morning; furthermore, if Mr. O’Desmond would give them the
pleasure of his company to lunch, he would be enabled to make his
acquaintance.
That gentleman bowed with an air of heartfelt gratitude, and
asserted that it would give him the sincerest gratification to have
such an opportunity of meeting Captain Effingham, to which he had
looked forward, since hearing of the good fortune that was about to
befall the district, from his respected friend the Rev. Mr. Sternworth.
Being introduced to the young ladies, Mr. O’Desmond, a handsome,
well-preserved man, promptly demonstrated that he was capable of
entertaining himself and them until his host should think fit to arrive.
Indeed, when Mrs. Effingham, who had left the room for reasons
connected with the repast, returned, having captured her husband,
and superintended his toilet, she found her daughters and their
guest considerably advanced in acquaintance.
‘Oh, papa,’ said Annabel, ‘Mr. O’Desmond says there’s such a lovely
view about ten miles from here—a ravine full of ferns, actually full of
them; and a waterfall—a real one! It is called Fern-tree Gorge; and
he has invited us all to a picnic there some day.’
‘Very happy to make Mr. O’Desmond’s acquaintance,’ said Effingham,
advancing with a recollection of old days strong upon him. ‘We are
hardly aware yet in what consists the proper proportion of work and
play in Australia; and in how much of the latter struggling colonists
can indulge. We shall be very grateful for information on the subject.’
‘And right welcome you are, my dear sir, to both, especially to the
latter. They’ll tell you that Harry O’Desmond is not unacquainted with
work during the twenty years he has spent in this wild country. But
for fun and recreation he’ll turn his back on no man living.’
‘Here is my lieutenant, and eldest son; permit me to introduce him.
He is burning to distinguish himself in the practical line.’
‘Then he couldn’t have a better drill instructor than my old
acquaintance, Dick Evans—wonderfully clever in all bush work, and
scrupulous after his own fashion. But, see here now, I came partly
to talk about cows, till the young ladies put business clean out of my
head. I’m told you want to buy cattle, Mr. Wilfred; if you’ll mount
your horse and take old Dick with you to-morrow morning, he’ll
show you the way to Badajos, and I’ll pick you the best hundred
cows this day in the country.’
This was held to be an excellent arrangement, and lunch being now
proclaimed, a temporary cessation of all but society talk took place.
Every one being in the highest spirits, it was quite a brilliant
symposium. It was a novel luxury to be again in the society of a
pleasant stranger, well read, travelled, and constitutionally
agreeable. O’Desmond sketched with humour and spirit the
characteristic points of their nearest neighbours; slightly satirised the
local celebrities in their chief town of Yass; and finally departed,
having earned for himself the reputation of an agreeable, well-bred
personage; a perfect miracle of a neighbour, when ill-hap might have
made him equally near and unchangeably disagreeable.
‘What a delightful creature!’ said Annabel. ‘Didn’t some one say
before we left home that there were no gentlemen in Australia—only
“rough colonists”? I suppose that English girls will call us “rough
colonists” when we’ve been here a few years. Why, he’s like—oh, I
know now—he’s the very image of the Knight of Gwynne. Fancy
lighting on a facsimile of that charming old dear—of course Mr.
Desmond is not nearly so old. He’s not young though, and takes
great care of himself, you can see.’
‘He’s not so very old, Annabel,’ said Beatrice mischievously. ‘That is
the kind of man I should advise you to marry. Not a foolish boy of
five-and-twenty.’
‘Thank you, Beatrice,’ said Annabel, with dignity. ‘I’ll think over it and
let you know. I don’t think it’s probable I should ever marry any one
only a little older than myself. What could he know? I should laugh
at him if he was angry. But Wilfred is going over to Badajos, or
whatever is the name of the O’Desmond’s place, to-morrow, so he
can bring us back a full, true, and particular account of everything,
and whether Rosamond, or you, dear, would be the fitter helpmate
for him. I’m too young and foolish at present, and might be more so
—that is, foolish, not young, of course.’
‘I notice that the air of this climate seems to have a peculiar effect
upon young people’s tongues,’ said the soft voice of Mrs. Effingham.
‘They seem to run faster here than in England.’
Mr. Desmond’s property, Badajos, was nearly twenty miles from
Warbrok Chase. As it had been clearly settled that Wilfred should go
there on the following day, arrangements had to be made. Dick must
accompany him for the double purpose of confirming any selection
of cattle. That veteran cheerfully endorsed the idea, averring that
now the yard was all but finished, and the fencing stuff drawn in,
leave of absence could be well afforded. He therefore put on a clean
check shirt, and buckled a pea-jacket in front of his saddle, which he
placed upon his old mare, and was ready for the road.
Provided with a stock-whip, taken from his miscellaneous
possessions, with lighted pipe and trusty steed, his features wore
the expression of anticipated happiness, which distinguishes the
schoolboy out for a holiday. He passed Andrew Cargill with an air of
easy superiority, as that conscientious labourer, raising his moistened
brow as he delved at the long-untilled beds, could not refrain from a
look of astonishment at this new evidence of universal capacity, as
he marked Dick’s easy seat and portentous whip.
He muttered, ‘I wadna doot but that the auld graceless sorrow can
ride through braes and thickets, and crack yon muckle clothes-line
they ca’ a stock-wheep like ony lad. The de’il aye makes his peets o’
masterfu’ men, wae’s me.’
A difficulty arose as to Wilfred’s steed. Mr. Sternworth had declined
the delicate task of remount agent. Thus The Chase was temporarily
unprovided with horseflesh. However, Dick Evans was not a man to
be prevented from carrying out a pleasant expedition for want of a
horse to ride. Sallying out early, he had run in a lot of the ownerless
animals, always to be found in the neighbourhood of unstocked
pastures. Choosing from among them a sensible-looking cob, and
putting Wilfred’s English saddle and bridle on him, he led him up to
the garden gate, where he stood with his ordinary air of deep
respectability.
‘I was just wondering how in the world I was to get a horse,’ said
Wilfred. ‘I see you have one. Did you borrow, or buy, or steal one for
my use?’
‘I’ve been many a year in this country, Mr. Wilfred, without tekkin’
other people’s property, and I’m too old to begin now. But there’s 2C
on this chestnut pony’s near shoulder. I’m nigh sure it’s Bill Chalker’s
colt, as he lost two years ago, and told me to keep him in hand, if
ever I came acrost him.’
‘Then I may ride him without risk of being tried for horse-stealing, or
lynched, if they affect that here,’ said Wilfred gaily. ‘I shouldn’t care
to do it in England, I know.’
‘Things is quite different on the Sydney Side,’ said Mr. Evans with
mild dogmatism.
Wilfred did not consider this assertion to be conclusive, but time
pressing, and the ready-saddled horse inviting his approval, he
compounded with his conscience by taking it for granted that people
were not particular as to strayed horses. The fresh and spirited
animal, which had not been ridden for months, but was (luckily for
his rider) free from vice, snorted and sidled, but proceeded steadily
in the main. He soon settled down to the hand of a fair average
horseman.
Noticing fresh objects of interest in each flowering shrub, in the
birds that flew overhead, or the strange animals that ever and again
crossed their path, about each and all of which his retainer had
information to offer, the time did not hang heavily on hand. They
halted towards evening before a spacious enclosure, having passed
through which, they came upon a roomy cottage, surrounded by a
trim orchard, and backed up by farm buildings.
‘Here’s Badajos, Mr. Wilfred,’ said his guide. ‘And a better kept place
there ain’t in the whole country side.’
‘Welcome to Badajos, Mr. Effingham,’ said the proprietor. ‘William,
take this gentleman’s horse; you know your way, Dick. We’ll defer
business till the morning. I have had the cattle yarded, ready for
drafting; to-morrow you can choose the nucleus of a good herd. I
shall be proud to put you in the way of cattle-farming in the only
true way to succeed—by commencing with females of the right kind.’
As Wilfred followed his entertainer into the house, he felt
unaffectedly surprised at the appearance of elegance mingled with
comfort which characterised the establishment. The rooms were not
large, but arranged with an attention of detail which he had not
expected to find in a bush dwelling. The furniture was artistically
disposed. Books and periodicals lay around. High-class engravings,
with a few oil-paintings, which recalled Wilfred Effingham’s past life,
hung on the walls. Couches and lounges, of modern fashion, looked
inviting, while a Broadwood piano stood in the corner of the
drawing-room, into which he followed his host.
‘I am a bachelor, more’s the pity,’ said Mr. O’Desmond; ‘but there’s no
law against a little comfort in the wilderness. Will you take some
refreshment now? Or would you like to be shown to your room?’
Wilfred accepted the latter proposal. In a very comfortable chamber
he proceeded to divest himself of the traces of the road, after a
leisurely and satisfactory fashion. He had barely regained the
drawing-room, when a gong sounded with a melodiously reminiscent
clang.
The dinner was after the fashion of civilised man. Soup and fish,
fresh from a neighbouring stream, with meritorious entrées and
entremets, showed skill beyond that of an ordinary domestic. While
the host, who had sufficiently altered his attire for comfort, without
committing the bêtise of out-dressing a guest, as he recommended a
dry sherry, or passed the undeniable claret, seemed an embodied
souvenir of London, Paris, Vienna, of that world of fortune and
fashion which Wilfred was vowed to forsake for ever. Next morning
the sun and Mr. W. Effingham arose simultaneously. Dick Evans had
anticipated both, and was standing at ease near the stable.
‘This place is worth looking at, sir. You don’t see nothing to speak of
out of order—tidy as a barrack-yard.’
Wonderfully trim and orderly was the appearance of all things. The
enclosure referred to was neatly gravelled, and showed not a
vagrant straw. The garden was dug, raked, and pruned into orderly
perfection. The servants’ quarters, masked by a climber-covered
trellis, were ornamental and unostentatious. The dog-kennels,
tenanted by pointers, greyhounds, collies, and terriers, were snug
and spacious. The stables were as neat as those of a London dealer.
It was a show establishment.
‘Mr. O’Desmond’s servants must be attached to him, to work so well,’
said Wilfred.
‘Humph!’ replied the veteran, ‘he makes ’em toe the line pretty
smart, and quite right too,’ he added, with a grim setting of his
under jaw. ‘He was in the colony afore there was many free men in
it. Shall we walk down to the milking-yard, sir?’
The full-uddered shorthorn cows, with their fragrant breath and mild
countenances, having been admired in their clean, paved milking-
yard, a return was made towards the cottage. As they neared the
garden, O’Desmond rode briskly up to the stable door, and
dismounting, threw the reins to a groom, who stood ready as a
sentinel.
‘The top of the morning to you, Mr. Effingham; I trust you slept well?
I have had a canter of a few miles, which will give me an appetite
for breakfast. I rode over to the drafting-yards, to make sure that
the cattle were there, according to orders. Everything will be in
readiness, so that you can drive easily to Warbrok to-night. You can
manage that, Dick, can you not?’
‘Easy enough, if you’ll send a boy with us half-way, Mr. O’Desmond,’
replied Dick. ‘You see, sir, Mr. Effingham’s rather new to cattle-
driving, and if the young heifers was to break back, we might lose
some of them.’
‘Quite right, Dick; you are always right where stock are concerned—
that is, the driving of them,’ he added. ‘I look to you to stay with Mr.
Effingham till his dairy herd is established. I shall then have the
pleasure of adding his name to that of the many gentlemen in this
district whose fortunes I have helped to make.’
‘Quite true, sir,’ assented Dick heartily. ‘The Camden sheep and the
Badajos cattle and horses are known all over the country by them as
are judges. But you don’t want me to be praising on ’em up—they
speak for themselves.’
Breakfast over, as faultless a repast as had been the dinner, it
became apparent that Mr. O’Desmond held punctuality nearly in as
high esteem as comfort. His groom stood ready in the yard with his
own and Wilfred’s horses saddled, the shining thorough-bred, which
he called his hackney, offering a strong contrast to the unkempt
though well-conditioned animal which his guest bestrode.
As they rode briskly along the winding forest track, Wilfred,
observing the quality of his host’s hackney, the silver brightness of
his bit and stirrup-irons, the correctness of his general turn-out,
remembering also the completeness of the establishment and the
character of the hospitality he had enjoyed, doubted within himself
whether, in course of time, the owner of Warbrok Chase might ever
attain to such a pinnacle of colonial prosperity.
‘How incredible this would all appear to some of my English friends!’
he thought. ‘I can hardly describe it without the fear of being
supposed to exaggerate.’
‘Here we are,’ said O’Desmond, reining up, and dismounting at a
substantial stock-yard, while a lad instantly approached and took his
horse. ‘I have ordered the heifers and young cows to be placed in
this yard. We can run them through before you. You can make your
choice, and reject any animals below the average.’
‘They look rather confused at present,’ answered Wilfred; ‘but I
suppose Dick here understands how to separate them.’
‘I’ll manage that, never you fear, sir—that is, if you and Mr.
O’Desmond have settled about the price.’
‘I may state now,’ remarked that gentleman, ‘that the price, four
pounds per head, mentioned to me on your account by your agent is
a liberal one, as markets go. I shall endeavour to give you value in
kind.’
‘It’s a good price,’ asserted Dick; ‘but Mr. O’Desmond’s cattle are
cheaper at four pounds all round than many another man’s about
here at fifty shillings. If he lets me turn back any beast I don’t fancy,
we’ll take away the primest lot of cattle to begin a dairy with as has
travelled the line for years.’
‘I will give you my general idea of the sort of cattle I prefer,’ said
Wilfred, not minded to commence by leaving the whole management
in any servant’s hands, ‘then you can select such as appear to
answer the description.’
‘All right, sir,’ quoth Mr. Evans, mounting the fence. ‘I suppose you
want ’em large-framed cattle, good colours, looking as if they’d run
to milk and not to beef, not under three, and not more than five year
old, and putty quiet in their looks and ways.’
‘That is exactly the substance of what I was going to say to you,’
said Wilfred, with some surprise. ‘It will save me the trouble of
explaining.’
‘We may as well begin, sir,’ said Dick, addressing himself to the
proprietor. Then, in quite another tone, ‘Open the rails, boys; look
sharp, and let ’em into the drafting-yards.’
The cattle were driven through a succession of yards after such a
fashion that Wilfred was enabled to perceive how the right of choice
could be exercised. By the time the operation was concluded he felt
himself to be inducted into the art and mystery of ‘drafting.’ Also, he
respected himself as having appreciably helped to select and
separate the one hundred prepossessing-looking kine which now
stood in a separate yard, recognised as his property.
‘You will have no reason to be dissatisfied with your choice,’ said
O’Desmond. ‘They look a nice lot. I always brand any cattle before
they leave my yard. You will not object to a numeral being put on
them before they go? It will assist in their identification in case of
any coming back.’
‘Coming back!—come back twenty miles?’ queried Wilfred, with
amazement. ‘How could they get back such a distance?’
‘Just as you would—by walking it, and a hundred to the back of that.
So I think, say, No. 1. brand—they are A1 certainly—will be a prudent
precaution.’
‘Couldn’t do a better thing,’ assented Dick. ‘We’ll brand ’em again
when we go home, sir; but if we lost ’em anyway near the place,
they’d be all here before you could say Jack Robinson.’
A fire was quickly lighted, the iron brands were heated, the cows
driven by a score at a time into a narrow yard, and for the first time
in his life Wilfred saw the red-hot iron applied to the hide of the live
animal. The pain, like much evil in this world, if intense, was brief;
the cows cringed and showed disapproval, but soon appeared to
forget. The morning was not far advanced when Wilfred Effingham
found himself riding behind a drove, or ‘mob’ (as Dick phrased it), of
his own cattle.
‘There goes the best lot of heifers this day in the country,’ said the
old man, ‘let the others be where they may. Mr. O’Desmond’s a rare
man for givin’ you a good beast if you give him a fair price; you may
trust him like yourself, but he’s a hard man and bitter enough if
anybody tries to take advantage of him.’
‘And quite right too, Dick. I take Mr. O’Desmond to be a most
honourable man, with whom I shouldn’t care to come to cross
purposes.’
‘No man ever did much good that tried that game, sir. He’s a bad
man to get on the wrong side of.’
 CHAPTER V
‘CALLED ON BY THE COUNTY’

When the important drove reached Warbrok, great was the

excitement. Wilfred’s absence was the loss of Hamlet from the play;
his return the signal for joy and congratulation. The little
commonwealth was visibly agitated as the tired cattle trailed along
the track to the stock-yard, with Dick sitting bolt upright in his saddle
behind them, and Wilfred essaying to crack the inconveniently long
whip provided for him.
The girls made their appearance upon the verandah; Andrew looked
forth as interested, yet under protest. Guy walked behind, and much
admired the vast number and imposing appearance of the herd;
while Captain and Mrs. Effingham stood arm in arm at a safe
distance appreciating the prowess of their first-born.
‘Now, sir,’ quoth the ready Dick, ‘we’ll put ’em in the yard and make
’em safe to-night; to-morrow, some one will have to tail ’em.’
‘Tail them?’ said Wilfred. ‘Some of their ears have been scolloped, I
see; but surely it is not necessary to cut their tails in a hot climate
like this?’
‘S’cuse me, sir,’ said Dick respectfully, ‘I wouldn’t put the knife to
them for pounds; “tailing” means shepherdin’.’
‘And what does “shepherding” mean? I thought shepherds were only
for sheep?’
‘Well, sir, I never heerd talk of shepherdin’ at home, but it’s a
currency word for follerin’ anything that close, right agin’ their tails,
that a shepherd couldn’t be more careful with his sheep; so we talk
of shepherdin’ a s’picious c’rakter, or a lot of stock, or a man that’s
tossicated with notes stickin’ out of his pocket, or a young woman,
or anything that wants lookin’ after very partickler.’
‘Now I understand,’ said Wilfred. ‘It’s not a bad word, and might be
used in serious matters.’
‘No mistake about that, sir. Now the yard’s finished off and topped
up, we’ll soon be able to make a start with the dairy. There’ll be half-
a-dozen calves within the week, and more afore the month’s out.
There’s nothin’ breaks in cows to stop like their young calves; you’ll
soon see ’em hanging about the yard as if they’d been bred here,
’specially as the feed is so forrard. There’s no mistake, a myst season
do make everything go pleasant.’
When the cattle were in the yard, and the slip rails made safe by
having spare posts put across them, Wilfred unsaddled his
provisional mount and walked into the house in a satisfactory mental
condition.
‘So, behold you of return!’ quoted Rosamond, running to meet him,
and marching him triumphantly into the dining-room, where all was
ready for tea. ‘The time has been rather long. Papa has been
walking about, not knowing exactly what to do, or leave undone;
Guy shooting, not over-successfully. The most steadily employed
member of the household, and the happiest, I suppose, has been
Andrew, digging without intermission the whole time.’
‘I wish we could dig too, or have some employment found for us,’
said Annabel; ‘girls are shamefully unprovided with real work, except
stocking-mending. Jeanie won’t let us do anything in the kitchen,
and really, that is the only place where there is any fun. The house is
so large, and echoing at night when the wind blows. And only think,
we found the mark of a pistol bullet in the dining-room wall at one
end, and there is another in the ceiling!’
‘How do you know it was a pistol shot?’ inquired Wilfred. ‘Some one
threw a salt-cellar at the butler in the good old times.’
‘Perhaps it was fired in the good old times; perhaps it killed some
one—how horrible! Perhaps he was carried out through the passage.
But we know it was a shot, because Guy poked about and found the
bullet flattened out.’
‘Well, we must ask Evans; very likely old Colonel Warleigh fired
pistols in his mad fits. He used to sit, they say, night after night,
drinking and cursing by himself after his wife died and his sons left
him. No one dared go near him when his pistols were loaded. But
we need not think of these things now, Annabel. He is dead and
gone, and his sons are not in this part of the country. So I see you
have had flower-beds made while I was away. I declare the wistaria
and bignonia are breaking into flower. How gorgeous they will look!’
‘Yes, mamma said she could not exist without flowers any longer, so
we persuaded Andrew, much against his will,—for he said “he was
just fair harassed wi’ thae early potatoes,”—to dig these borders.
Guy helped us to transplant and sow seeds, so we shall have flowers
of our own once more.’
‘We shall have everything of our own in a few years if we are
patient,’ said Wilfred; ‘and you damsels don’t want trips to watering-
places, and so on. This life is better than Boulogne, or the Channel
Islands, though it may be a trifle lonely.’
‘Boulogne! A thousandfold,’ said Rosamond. ‘Here we have life and
hope. Those poor families we used to see there looked liked ghosts
and apparitions of their old selves. You remember watching them
walking down drearily to see the packet come in—the girls dowdy or
shabby, the old people hopeless and apathetic, the sons so idle and
lounging? I shudder when I think how near we were to such horrors
ourselves. The very air of Australia seems to give one fresh life. Can
anything be finer than this sunset?’
In truth, the scene upon which her eyes rested might have cheered
a sadder heart than that of the high-hearted maiden who now, with
her arm upon her brother’s shoulder, directed his gaze to the far
empurpled hills, merging their violet cloud masses and orange-gold
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