Mr. Rockley was equally hearty and complimentary as to the live stock. Didn’t think he had ever seen finer cows, finer grass; he believed Mr. Effingham, if he went on as he was doing, would make a fortune by dairying. If old Colonel Warleigh had not been ignorant of rural matters, and his elder sons infernal low-lived scoundrels, a fortune would have been made before at Warbrok. Nothing could have prevented that family from becoming rich, with this estate for a home farm, and two splendid stations on Monaro, but the grossest mismanagement, incompetence, and vicious tendencies—he might say depravity—of course, he meant on the part of the young men. The Colonel was indiscreet—in fact, a d——d old fool—but everybody respected him.
The three gentlemen completed the round of the establishment, during which progress their mutual friend had praised the stock-yard, the wheat stack, the lake, the garden, and had pretty well exhausted his cigar-case. It was high noon in Warbrok, and the shelter of the broad verandah, which he eulogised by declaring it to be the finest verandah he had ever been under in his life, was distinctly grateful.
Upon his introduction to Mrs. Effingham and the young ladies, he was afflicted with an inability to express adequately his respectful admiration of the whole party. Everything elicited a cordial panegyric. It was apparent, even without the aid of a few guarded observations from Harley Sternworth, that Mr. Rockley’s compliments arose from no weak intention of flattery, no foolish fondness or indiscriminate praise. It was simply the outpouring of a spring of benevolence which brimmed over in an important organ, which, for greater convenience in localising the emotions, is known as the heart. Longing to do good to all mankind, with perceptions of rare insight and keenness, much of Mr. Rockley’s philanthropy was necessarily confined to words. But when the opportunity arrived of translating good wishes into good deeds, few—very few—of the sons of men embarked in that difficult negotiation with half the pleasure, patience, and thoroughness of William Rockley.
The friends had not intended to stay the night, the time of a business man being limited, but upon invitation being pressingly made, first by Mrs. Effingham and then by the young ladies, one after another, Mr. Rockley declared that he couldn’t resist such allurements, but that they must make a cruelly early start and get back to Yass to breakfast next day. He believed they would see him there often. Mrs. Rockley had not had the pleasure of calling upon Mrs. Effingham, because she had been away in Sydney visiting her children at school, as well as an aunt who was very ill—was always ill, he added impatiently. But she would drive over and see them, most likely next week; and whenever Mrs. Effingham and the young ladies came to Yass, or the Captain and his sons, they must make his house their home—indeed, he would be deeply offended if he heard of their going to an hotel.
‘Well, really I’m afraid——’
‘My dear sir,’ interrupted Mr. Rockley, ‘of course you meant what you said about the need of recreation for young people. Your sons have not had any since you came here, except an odd slap at a flock of ducks—and these Lake William birds are pretty shy. Then the ladies have hardly seen any one in the district, except the half-dozen men that have been to call. Don’t you suppose it’s natural that they should like to know the world they’ve come to live in?’
‘We are such a large party, Mr. Rockley,’ said Mrs. Effingham, who felt the necessity of being represented at this important council. ‘It is extremely kind of you, but——’
‘But look here, Mrs. Effingham,’ interrupted Mr. Rockley with fiery impatience, so evidently habitual that she could not for a moment consider it to be disrespectful, ‘don’t you think it probable, in the nature of things, that you may visit Yass—which is your county town, remember—at the time of the races? All the world will be going. It’s a time of year when there is nothing to do—as the parson here will tell you. There will be balls, picnics, and parties for the young ladies—everything, in fact. You must go, you see that, surely? You’ll be the only family of position in the country-side that won’t be there. And if you go and don’t make my house your home, instead of a noisy, rackety hotel, why—I’ll never speak to one of you again.’
Here Mr. Rockley closed his rapidly delivered address, with a look of stern determination, which almost frightened Mrs. Effingham.
‘You will really offend my good friend and his most amiable and hospitable lady if you do not accept his invitation,’ said Mr. Sternworth. ‘It is hardly an ordinary race-meeting so much as a periodical social gathering, of which a little racing (as in most English communities, and there never was one more thoroughly British than this) is the ostensible raison d’être.’