CHAPTER VIII.
HOW RACHEL MET "HIM."
ADELONGA at about nine o'clock on the morning of the race day would have presented to the eye of the distinguished traveller—who, however, did not happen to be there, though he was a pretty constant visitor—a thoroughly typical Australian scene; typical, that is to say, of one distinct phase of Australian life. It was the enchanting weather of the country to begin with; which, say what grumblers will, is not to be matched, one month with another, in all the wide world—clear, fresh and sunshiny, with an air at once so delicate and so invigorating that none but exceptionally unhappy mortals could help feeling glad to be alive to breathe it.
There had been a cold mist overnight, which was now melting away before the sun in shining white fleeces that swathed the hollows and shoulders of the hills behind the house, long after the upper slopes and peaks had stood sharp and clear in their own forest garments against a sky as pure as a sapphire and as blue as wild forget-me-nots.
All the shrubberies that hemmed in the great garden—all the smooth-shaven wide lawns where croquet hoops still lingered—all the lovely waves and festoons of creepers that flowed over and curtained the verandah eaves—all the bright box borders, and all the gay flowerbeds—glistened with a sort of etherealised hoar-frost, and were greener than painter's palette could express in this early spring time.
The rambling, old, one-storied house, with its endless roofs and gables, was the very type and pattern of that most charming of all bush houses, the bush house par excellence; cottage in design, palace in the careful finish and elaboration of all its appointments, which, when its owner is rich and cultured, marks the latest of many developments—such as becomes, unhappily, rarer every year, and will soon have disappeared entirely.
Columns of white smoke rose from half a dozen chimneys, testifying to the noble logs that blazed away within; while French windows, sash windows, lattice casements, and doors of all sorts stood open to the morning sun and the delicious morning air. Behind the house rose a screen of budding orchard trees, flushed here and there with peach and almond blossoms. Before the house, on the wide gravelled drive, where never weed presumed to show its head, stood an open break, large, but of light American build, round which most of the family and several servants were congregated, while four powerful horses fidgetted to be starting, the wheelers only being attached at present.
Mr. Thornley stood in the break, superintending the bestowal of luncheon hampers, and shouting cheerily, but with that touch of imperiousness which indicated a man who had been a master all his life, to the servants below him. Mrs. Thornley, looking slight and girlish, stood on the steps of one of the numerous front doors, wrapped in a shawl. She had wished very much to go to the races too, and to take the nurse and baby for the further glorification of the occasion; but her husband had forbidden her to think of anything so foolish, and she had ceased to do so accordingly, with an abject meekness that would have greatly disgusted Mrs. Reade.