‘Then I may ride him without risk of being tried for horse-stealing, or lynched, if they affect that here,’ said Wilfred gaily. ‘I shouldn’t care to do it in England, I know.’
‘Things is quite different on the Sydney Side,’ said Mr. Evans with mild dogmatism.
Wilfred did not consider this assertion to be conclusive, but time pressing, and the ready-saddled horse inviting his approval, he compounded with his conscience by taking it for granted that people were not particular as to strayed horses. The fresh and spirited animal, which had not been ridden for months, but was (luckily for his rider) free from vice, snorted and sidled, but proceeded steadily in the main. He soon settled down to the hand of a fair average horseman.
Noticing fresh objects of interest in each flowering shrub, in the birds that flew overhead, or the strange animals that ever and again crossed their path, about each and all of which his retainer had information to offer, the time did not hang heavily on hand. They halted towards evening before a spacious enclosure, having passed through which, they came upon a roomy cottage, surrounded by a trim orchard, and backed up by farm buildings.
‘Here’s Badajos, Mr. Wilfred,’ said his guide. ‘And a better kept place there ain’t in the whole country side.’
‘Welcome to Badajos, Mr. Effingham,’ said the proprietor. ‘William, take this gentleman’s horse; you know your way, Dick. We’ll defer business till the morning. I have had the cattle yarded, ready for drafting; to-morrow you can choose the nucleus of a good herd. I shall be proud to put you in the way of cattle-farming in the only true way to succeed—by commencing with females of the right kind.’
As Wilfred followed his entertainer into the house, he felt unaffectedly surprised at the appearance of elegance mingled with comfort which characterised the establishment. The rooms were not large, but arranged with an attention of detail which he had not expected to find in a bush dwelling. The furniture was artistically disposed. Books and periodicals lay around. High-class engravings, with a few oil-paintings, which recalled Wilfred Effingham’s past life, hung on the walls. Couches and lounges, of modern fashion, looked inviting, while a Broadwood piano stood in the corner of the drawing-room, into which he followed his host.
‘I am a bachelor, more’s the pity,’ said Mr. O’Desmond; ‘but there’s no law against a little comfort in the wilderness. Will you take some refreshment now? Or would you like to be shown to your room?’
Wilfred accepted the latter proposal. In a very comfortable chamber he proceeded to divest himself of the traces of the road, after a leisurely and satisfactory fashion. He had barely regained the drawing-room, when a gong sounded with a melodiously reminiscent clang.
The dinner was after the fashion of civilised man. Soup and fish, fresh from a neighbouring stream, with meritorious entrées and entremets, showed skill beyond that of an ordinary domestic. While the host, who had sufficiently altered his attire for comfort, without committing the bêtise of out-dressing a guest, as he recommended a dry sherry, or passed the undeniable claret, seemed an embodied souvenir of London, Paris, Vienna, of that world of fortune and fashion which Wilfred was vowed to forsake for ever. Next morning the sun and Mr. W. Effingham arose simultaneously. Dick Evans had anticipated both, and was standing at ease near the stable.