‘No; did you, though?’ echoed Mr. Churbett compassionately. ‘I confess to feeling inclined to cry when I came up to Murson Creek and saw the hut I was to live in for the first year. But one’s feelings get wonderfully altered after a while.’
‘And are you quite resigned, that is contented, to give up operas and picture galleries, clubs and travel, all the pleasant parts of English life?’ asked Rosamond.
‘It was hard at first, Miss Effingham; but here I have independence, with the prospect of a fortune. In England such was not the case, particularly the independence. Operas and other memories recall a fairy realm which I may yet re-enter. Meantime, I ride about all day, work now and then, smoke and read at night, and if not exactly happy, am decently cheerful.’
‘What the world calls pleasure you never see, I suppose?’ said Beatrice philosophically.
‘Do we not? I forgot one compensation in our virtuous, self-denying lives. Once a year, at least, we have races in Yass, which is our metropolis. Then we all meet together, as a solemn, social obligation. Pilgrimage to Mecca, and so on. Very few true believers absent. Balls, picnics, any amount of dancing, flirtation, what not. Enough to last for the rest of the year. After a week or two we go home sorrowfully, staying at each other’s houses on the way, to let down the excitement by degrees.’
‘Where do the ladies come from?’ asked Annabel. ‘I suppose there are very few?’
‘Very few!’ said Mr. Churbett in tones of horror. ‘Ever so many. Is it possible you have never heard, even in Europe, of the beautiful Miss Christabel Rockley, the fascinating Mrs. Snowden, the talented Mrs. Porchester? Ladies! They abound, or how should we remain civilised? Yass is well known to be the home of all the graces. Could O’Desmond retain his grand seigneur air but for the advantage of refined association? I wish I could take you round, Miss Effingham, on an introductory tour. What a book we could write of our experiences!—“Travels and Sketches in the Upper Strata of the Social System of the Yass District, by Miss Annabel Effingham, illustrated by F. Churbett, F.R.Y.A.S.S., Fellow of the Royal Yass Analytical Squatting Society,” reads well.’
‘Quite delicious,’ said Annabel. ‘But everything that is nice is improper, so, of course, I shouldn’t be let go. Not even Rosamond, who is prudence personified. I’m afraid there is no more liberty for poor women in a new country than an old one. That is the bell—I was sure of it. Mr. Churbett, allow me to invite you to dinner—an early one, which is about the extent of my privileges.’
Mr. Churbett accepted the invitation, as he no doubt would have acceded to any proposition emanating from the speaker even less manifestly beneficial. He kept the whole party amused, and lingered until he declared he should have to gallop Grey Surrey all the way home to get there before dark.
‘He’s like me,’ he explained, upon being charged with cruelty; ‘he only does a day’s work now and then, and he doesn’t mind it when it does come.’