No sympathy had he, a man of strictly modern ideas, with what he called the mediæval humbug of duelling. He looked upon the policeman as the proper exponent of such proceedings. Could he have but guessed where this discreditable anachronism, according to his principles, was being perpetrated, all concerned would have found themselves in the body of Yass gaol, in default of sufficient sureties to keep the peace. The news, however, did not leak out until afterwards, owing to the discretion of the persons concerned, and the fortunate absence of serious results. When it did become matter of public comment, his imperial majesty was furious. He abused every one concerned in unmeasured terms; swore he would never speak to Argyll or Forbes again, and would have Hampden struck off the Commission of the Peace. As for Fred Churbett, he considered him the worst of the lot, because of his deceitful, diabolical amiability, which permitted him to assist in such infamous bloodthirsty designs unsuspectedly. Not one of them should ever darken his doors again. He would never subscribe another shilling to the Yass Races; indeed, he believed he would sell out, wind up his business, and leave that part of the colony altogether.
However, not receiving intimation of this infraction of the law until matters were somewhat stale, the status in quo was undisturbed. The whole of the company, with the exception of the few who were in the secret, were similarly innocent; so the air remained unclouded. An afternoon walk to Fern-tree Hollow, a shady defile which lay a couple of miles from the town, was the accepted Sunday stroll.
Every one turned up to say farewell, thinking it a more suitable time than on the hurried, packing, saddling, harnessing-up, bill-paying morrow. Then once more the work of the hard world would recommence. The idyll had been sung to the last stanza. The nymphs would seek their forest retreats, the listening fauns would disappear amid the leaves. The rites of that old world deity ‘Leisure,’ now sadly circumscribed, had been honoured and ended. This was the last day, almost the last hour, when Phyllis could be expected to listen to soft sighings, or Neæra to be seen in proximity to the favouring shade.
As they strolled homewards, in the evening, with a troubled sunset and a cooler breeze, as if in sympathy with the imminent farewell, the scraps of conversation which might have been gathered were characteristic. Something more than half-confidences were occasionally interchanged, and semi-sentimental speculations not wholly wanting.
At the close of the evening, and the end of the stroll, every one, of course, went to the Maison Rockley, and comforted their souls with supper, Sunday being an early dinner day, as in all well-regulated British families. Conversations which had not been satisfactorily concluded had here a chance of definite ending, as the guests somehow seemed unwilling to separate when the probability of meeting again was uncertain or remote.
With the exception of a little music, there was no attempt at other than conversational occupation, which indeed appeared to suffice fully for the majority of the guests. And though ordinary topics gradually introduced themselves, and Rockley, in the freedom of the verandah, reiterated his opinions to Mr. Effingham upon the iniquities of the land law, a subdued tone pervaded, half unconsciously, the various groups, as of members of one family about to separate for a hazardous expedition.
‘I feel terribly demoralised,’ said Mrs. Snowden, ‘after all this dissipation; it is like a visit to Paris must have been to Madame Sevigné, after a summer in the provinces. Like her, we shall have to take to letter-writing when we go home to keep ourselves alive. The poultry are my great stand-by for virtuous occupation. They suffer, I admit, from these fascinating trips to Yass; for the last time I returned I found two hens sitting upon forty-five eggs. Now what philosophy could support that?’
‘Whose philosophy, that of the hens?’ inquired Hamilton, who, with his observant companion, had been mildly reviewing the confidentially occupied couples. ‘It looks to me like a case of overweening feminine ambition on their part.’
‘It was all the fault of that careless Charlotte Lodore who was staying with me—a cousin of mine, and a dreadful girl to read. She was so deeply interested in some new book that she left the poor fowls to their own devices, and never thought about adjusting their “clutches”—that’s the expression—until I returned. If you could have seen our two faces as we gazed at the pile of addled eggs you would have been awed. I was so angry.’
As for Wilfred, he concluded an æsthetic conversation with Miss Fane by trusting that she would be enabled to accept his mother’s invitation, and pay them a visit at Warbrok Chase before the winter set in.