ACT IV
About a year afterwards—Mr. Polyblock in library,
also Mr. Gayters.
Mr. P. (walks up and down). Well, I feel regularly stumped and dried out. Haven't felt so bad since the '68 drought. I don't know what's comin' over the country. This young Colonial experiencer stands up agin' me like a bulldog ant in front of a team of bullocks! My gal, Dulcie, as I've spent thousands on—and where's there a gal like her, high or low?—is turned that stupid and ungrateful that she's crying her eyes out; and who for? Why, a low feller with only a half-section of land to his name—worse than a boundary-rider, I call him! Damme! I'll dummy all round him—eat him up that close that he won't have grass for a bandicoot. I'm that miserable as I could go and drownd myself in that creek afore the door. Blast that infernal Land Act and them as made it! It'll ruin the country and every man of property in it. Well (turns angrily to Gayters), what do you want?
Gayters (hesitatingly). Mr. Overdew has just sent his reporter for ten thousand sheep, sir; wants to know if you'll let him take them through the Run, along the back track.
Mr. P. (with concentrated wrath). Tell him if he dares to go one yard off his half-mile from the main-frontage road I'll pound every hoof of his grass-stealin', hungry, loafin' sheep, as is the dead image of their owner—if he does own 'em, and not the bank. Tell him that, and mind you shepherd him slap through the boundary gate.
Gayters. Of course, sir; cert'nly, sir. Anything else, sir?
Mr. P. (with sudden fury). Only, you stand gapin' there another minute and I'll knock yer through my study winder!
Gayters. Cert'nly, sir; of course, sir.
[Exit hastily.
Mr. Cecil Egremont on his selection, discovered chopping
down a tree.
(Speaks.) I am more than ever confirmed in my opinion that this is the most extraordinary, puzzling, topsy-turvy country in the whole world. I might just as well have remained in North Devon for all the good I am likely to do. I could have taken a farm there, and—well—probably have managed to pay the rent. I have bought a farm here, become a free-holder—that most enviable position, at least in England—and now when I've got it I don't know what to do with it. Old Polyblock's sheep eat right up to my boundary, and beyond it too. I gather there's not much to be done with three hundred and twenty acres in a dry season. My wheat is prematurely yellow; my potatoes won't come up! I must fence my farm in; that will cost—at six shillings a rod—let me see—how much? (Sits down on log and begins to cipher in pocket-book.)
Dulcie (who has ridden closely up in the meantime, and is watching him, coughs slightly). Don't let me interrupt you, but you seem absorbed in thought. Is it about the value of the tree, or some other abstruse calculation?
Egremont (jumps up hastily). Oh, my dearest Dulcie! neither, that is, both—really I hardly know what I am about at present. I was working to distract my mind. I suppose it's always right to cut down a tree?
Dulcie. Nonsense! About the worst thing you could do. Sinful waste of time. Do you suppose father made his money in that way? The pencil and pocket-book look more like it. We say in Australia that a man's head ought to be good enough to save his hands. Are your birth, breeding, and education only equal to a pound a week? Because you can buy a man's work for that—all the year round.
Egremont. But I thought all the early colonists worked with their hands, tended their sheep, drove bullocks and all that—the books say so.
Dulcie. Nonsense! The people who know, don't write books—very seldom at least. The people who write books, don't know. That's the English of it. But I came through the township and I've brought your post. Here's a letter and a newspaper.
Egremont. Heaven be thanked and my Guardian Angel! That's you, my dearest Dulcie. Oh, that I had you always to be near me—to protect me from the ways of this wicked Australian world!
Dulcie. H—m! You want some one, I do believe. I might consider over the contract, but my tender—ahem!—wouldn't be accepted at present. Father's going on like an old 'rager' bullock, all by himself in the strangers' yard. But hadn't you better open your letter?
Egremont. Then you do take an interest in me? After this I fear nothing. Why will you not consent to trust your future welfare to my guidance?
Dulcie (scornfully). A likely thing! Trust a free selector! Not if I know it!!! Why, what would become of us? Perhaps you'd like to see me lifting the top off a camp-oven—on a fire, under that black stump there—whilst you were—chopping—down—a—tree! ha! ha! No! (surveying her well-fitting riding-habit—her thoroughbred horse, and stroking her gloves) I seem to like this sort of thing better. I must drag on for a while with my allowance from poor old dad.
Egremont (with lofty resolve). You are heartless, Dulcie—devoid of natural affection. You laugh at my inexperience, you sneer at my poverty—let us part for ever. Go back to your father's mansion and leave me to my fate. I feel that I shall succeed, perhaps make a fortune, in the end.
Dulcie (Aside—It will be a precious long time first! What a dear, noble fellow he is—I hate to bully him!) Aloud—Come, Cecil (winningly), you mustn't be cross. I am only a poor simple girl brought up in the bush (I wonder what he is then?), but of course I know more about stock and land than you do. If we are not to be married (you see I love you a little) till you make enough to buy the ring out of this calf-paddock of yours, we may wait till we're grey! But why don't you open the letter? It might contain something of importance.
Egremont (partly mollified). I'm afraid not; merely an entreaty to return from this wild country, where there are no people fit for me to associate with, where I may starve, or be killed by blacks or wild beasts—that's the general tone of my letters of late. Ha! What is this? (Reads—Your poor Uncle Humphrey died last week; he was on bad terms with our side of the house, and has not spoken to your father for forty years; but he has left you £20,000, for which you will receive a bank-draft by this mail. Of course you will come home at once!) Of course, of course! Oh! eh! Dulcie dear? Now I shall build a house here, plant a garden, make a lakelet, sow artificial grasses, fence and subdivide,—in fact, make a paradise of these desolate, bare acres. Eventually it will be highly remunerative. But when my house is completed and furnished in accordance with modern art, you will come there to be my queen and its most brilliant ornament? (looks entreatingly at her).
Dulcie (with expression of horror). What! improve a selection? Spend thousands of pounds on it? Build a really good house and ask me to live there! Did you ever hear of Tarban Creek?
Egremont. Not that I can recall—an aboriginal name, I presume. I have caught the name of Curbin, I think. Is that a similar watercourse?
Dulcie (restraining herself). It's hardly worth explaining—a little joke of mine. But to come to business. Suppose I show you a way to invest your money—to get twenty per cent for it in a few years, at the same time to make father think you a clever, rising man—an opinion which, ahem! he does not hold at present—and lastly, to cause him to give his consent to our marriage, (coaxingly) what should you say then? Would you be willing to do what I told you?
Egremont. I always thought you as clever as you were beautiful, my own dearest Dulcie! Take me with all that is mine and do what you will.
Dulcie. Very nice—indeed flattering! How long will it last, I wonder? 'Now you lisdens do me' (as our German gardener used to say) and you will hear something to your advantage. But first promise to do what I ask—you will promise? (looking entreatingly and archly at him).
Egremont. On my honour; on the cross of my ancestor's sword—he was a Crusader.
Dulcie. The first is enough; I am afraid you are inclined to be a Crusader too, as far as romantic enthusiasm goes—still it's a fault on the right side, and will be cured by colonial and other experience. Firstly, you must sell this selection.
Egremont. What! sell my farm—my home—my first venture in this new world?
Dulcie. Stuff and nonsense! It's poor dad's Run, to begin with, and you ought never to have touched it! You wouldn't, either, if you'd known how hard he worked for it before I was born.
Egremont (meditatively). How could it be his; or, if so, how did the Government sell it to me? (Placing his hand to his forehead) I never shall understand the Land Act of this country. But don't ask me to sell my—my—birthright!
Dulcie (decisively). You've promised me, and you must sell it. Of course if you prefer living here by yourself as a 'hatter'—for I'll never come into it—you may keep it.
Egremont. (Aside—A hatter!—is that a legal term in this most perplexing Act? What can she mean? However, I surrender unconditionally.) To whom shall I sell it?
Dulcie. That's a good boy and he shall be rewarded. Go into the township and ask for the office of Mr. Bonus Allround, the lawyer; offer it to him, and he'll give you a cheque for it. How much has it cost you? Thousands by this time, I suppose.
Egremont. Really more than any one would suppose. Firstly, the deposit, five shillings per acre—and seed wheat—and other things.
Dulcie. Oh, of course, I forgot! Well, value all your improvements, loss of time, etc. You have lost plenty of time, you know, talking to me. We won't say yet whether you mightn't have done worse. But put it all down, every shilling; add your own time at a pound a week—you're not quite worth that, but he'll pass it to get the land. He'll pay you the money sharp, and all you have to do is to sign a transfer.
Egremont. Seems simple enough—only turn myself out of house and home. Well, after that little step?
Dulcie. Go to Sydney as soon as you can. I see Banda Plains Run is in the market, with only a few head of cattle—two thousand, I think. I've heard father talk about the place by the hour; he thinks no end of it—says he never saw better fattening country.
Egremont (doubtingly). Am I to go to him?
Dulcie. Not yet, goose! When you're in Sydney, call on Messrs. Drawwell and Backer—get Banda Plains as cheap as you can, but buy at all risks. Give them their price at last; then come back and tell dad what you've done. He can't eat you.
Egremont. He looked as if he would last time, without salt! But I will go straight to Sydney and do your bidding. Drawwell and Backer, Stock Agents, Pitt Street, Sydney, that's the address (notes in pocket-book).
Dulcie. You're getting quite a man of business. If you're so much improved in an hour, what will you be in a year? Really, I'm quite proud of my handiwork. And oh, one thing, dearest! don't forget—it's most important (impressively)—have your hair cut by Adger! You see it is a little long (touches his hair)—thinking of your woes, I suppose? But we respect the fashions in Australia, though you mightn't think it. You'd better not be eccentric.
Egremont (laughs). Anything else, Miss Polyblock? I see the foreshadowing of an oligarchy. But it will be a benevolent despotism, I trust?
Dulcie. Bless me! how late it is! The sun is quite low. I shall have to ride fast. Don't you lose a moment either.
Egremont. Trust me; but—one minute—as a reward for my unquestioning obedience, don't you think——
[Comes close as if to whisper—kisses her, and exit.
ACT V
Mr. Polyblock (discovered walking up and down the library). Well, I don't know as ever I spent a more miserable month. Dulcie don't take no interest in the things as used to amuse her. I don't know what's come to the gal. If I could see my way at all, and thought this young chap was steady and sensible—likely to get on—I might push him; but—a free selector—a half-section, crawling duffer as won't have grass for a milker nor credit for a bag of flour in another year—No! I couldn't think of it. It's enough to make a man turn agin his own flesh and blood. (Knocking heard.) Who's that?
Maid. A gentleman wants to see you, sir.
Mr. Polyblock. Who is it? That chap as was going to buy the Weejoglag store-cattle, p'raps?
Enter Cecil Egremont, dressed in tweeds.
Mr. Polyblock. Oh, it's you, Mr. Eggermont! (Aside—How well the feller looks! Holds up his head too! Dashed if he ain't a fine, upstanding, good-looking chap when he's turned out decent! He looked more like a shearer when I seen him last.) Well, sir! what can I do for you? Sheep been trespassing, I suppose?
Egremont. No, Mr. Polyblock, such is not the case. Nor will it matter to me in future. I have sold my land.
Mr. Polyblock. Sold the s'lection! You don't say so! Who to? who to? Mr. Eggermont, why didn't you come to me, if you wanted to part with it? I'd have given you anything in reason.
Egremont. You must pardon me for reminding you, Mr. Polyblock, that your manner was not reassuring at our last interview.
Mr. Polyblock. Perhaps not—rather hasty, I know. Mustn't mind an old man; but who's got the s'lection?
Egremont. I disposed of it to Mr. Allround in the township, from whom I received a cheque, paying me in full for all improvements and loss of time.
Mr. Polyblock. Bonus Allround! Good shot! It's all right—you've sold to me through him—he's my agent. I should have been sold, my word! if any other buyer had come in there. And now what are you a-goin' to do? You're a man of capital now, you know!
Egremont. I was fortunate enough to have a moderate legacy left me by an uncle just before I went to Sydney. While there, under advice, I invested eight thousand pounds in a run called Banda Plains, on the Queensland border. They tell me it's a good purchase. There are two thousand cattle, besides horses.
Mr. Polyblock. Good purchase, sir! It's the best thing in the market. Banda Plains, with only two thousand head of cattle—it's a gift—a reg'lar gift! Your fortune's made.
Egremont. It gratifies me to hear you say so, Mr. Polyblock—most deeply, I assure you. And now, sir, perhaps you will reconsider your rather strongly-expressed refusal to me of your daughter's hand?
Dulcie (who has opened the door softly and stolen into the room). Oh, dad, you don't want to break your poor Dulcie's heart! I do love him so!
Mr. Polyblock (clearing his throat and speaking in a parliamentary tone of voice). Ahem! I am not aware, Mr. President, that there's anything in the Land Act or Regulations against the daughter of a M.L.C. marryin' a squatter—a squatter, you observe, Mr. Eggermont. Had the party been a selector; but I won't dwell on a subject too painful to a parent's feelin's. Take her, my boy! And a better gal, tho' I say it—good, game, and good-lookin'—she's all that and more—never——'
Dulcie (moving up to Egremont and placing her hand on his shoulder). Never gave advice to a struggling free selector. Is that what you were going to say, daddy? Never mind—he had sense enough to take it. Hadn't you, Cecil dear?
Mr. Polyblock. Seems to me he's free selected on a pastoral holding to some purpose, you monkey. Is there any clause about that in the new Land Act, I wonder, as they're makin' such a bother about? Anyway, I'm the happiest lessee in the unsettled districts, now this little matter's settled satisfactory. And tell you what, Dulcie (Gayters comes in here—looks rather blank), I'll send Gayters out to Banda Plains to take delivery and wire into the bullockin' for a bit. It'll do him good—he's been takin' it too easy lately; and as it happens to be Christmas time, we'll get the transfer business put through by the Rev. Mr. Robinson at the township, and, Cecil, my boy! give us your hand (puts Dulcie's into it). There now, you can take up this additional conditional selection. It won't want improvin', that's one thing. Ha! ha! I'm that full of happiness that I can get a joke out of the Land Act—Rum-ty-idity—fol-de-rol (dances round the room).
Cecil puts his arm round Dulcie; they look tenderly into
each other's faces.
CURTAIN FALLS