‘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.’