‘We must buy you out, Kinghart, that is the whole of it,’ said Ardmillan, ‘and direct your energies into some other channel. If you go on proving the existence of gold and black diamonds under these heedless feet of ours the social edifice will totter. Hamilton will abandon his agriculture, Argyll his stock-keeping, Churbett his reading and early rising, Mrs. Teviot will leave off cheese-making, Forbes will cease to contradict—in short, the whole Warbrok and Benmohr world will come to an end.’
‘It is a very pleasant world, and I am sorry to have hinted at the flood which will some day sweep over it,’ said Mr. Kinghart; ‘but what is written is written, and indelibly, when the pages are tables of stones, set up from the foundation of the world.’
Most enjoyable and still well remembered were the days which followed this memorable discussion. A succession of rides, drives, and excursions followed, in which Mr. Kinghart pointed out wonders in the world of botany, which caused Rosamond to look upon him as a sage of stupendous experiences.
To Howard Effingham the presence of Major Glendinning was an unalloyed pleasure. Familiar chiefly with service in other parts of the world, he was never tired of listening or questioning. Varied necessarily were incidents of warfare conducted against the wild border tribes of Hindostan with her hordes of savage horsemen. Such campaigns necessarily partook of the irregular modes of combat of the foe. Without attaching importance to his own share of distinction, their guest permitted his hearers to learn much of the picturesque and splendid successes of the British arms in the historic land of Ind.
For himself, his manner had a strange tinge of softness and melancholy. At one time his mien was that of the stern soldier, proud of the thoroughness with which a band of marauders had been extirpated, or the spirit of a dissolute native ruler broken. Scarcely had the tale been told when a settled sadness would overspread his face, as if in pity for the heathens’ spoil and sorrow. To his hearers, far from war’s alarms, there was a strong, half-painful fascination in these tales of daring, heightened by the frequent presence of death in every shape of hot-blooded carnage or military execution.
‘How difficult it is to imagine,’ said Beatrice one day, suddenly arousing herself, after staring with dilated eyeballs at the Major, who had been recounting a realistic incident for Guy’s special edification (how the Ranee of Jeypore had hanged a dozen of his best troopers, and of the stern reprisal which he was called upon to make), ‘that you, actually sitting here quietly with us, are one and the same person who was chief actor in these fearful doings. What a wonderful change it must be for you.’
‘Let me assure you,’ said the Major, ‘that it is a most pleasant change. I am tired of soldiering, and my health is indifferent. I almost think that if I could fish out this old uncle of mine, I should be content to settle in the bush, and take to rural life for the rest of my days.’
‘Don’t you think you would find it awfully dull?’ said Annabel; ‘you would despise all our life so much. Unless there happened to be an outbreak of bushrangers, you might never have a chance of killing any one again, as long as you lived.’
‘I could manage without that excitement. I have had enough, in all conscience, to last a lifetime. The climate of your country suits us old Indians so well. If I were once fairly established, I think I could rear horses and cattle, especially the former, with great contentment.’
‘There is no one of your name in this part of the country,’ said Guy, ‘except our old stock-rider, Tom. He’s such a queer old fellow. I remember asking him what his surname was one day, and he told me it was Glendinning. He’s away now, mustering at Wangarua.’