‘Well, Howard, for the young people’s sake, we really must think of it,’ said Mrs. Effingham, answering, lest her husband, in distrust of a colonial gathering, might definitely decline. ‘There will be time enough to apprise Mrs. Rockley before the event.’
‘My wife will write to you when I get home,’ said Mr. Rockley, ‘and explain matters more fully than I can do.—Everything goes off pleasantly at our annual holiday, doesn’t it, Harley?’
‘So much so, that in my office of priest I have never had occasion to enter my protest. The people need a respite from the toils and privations of their narrow home world, almost more than we do.’
The evening passed most pleasantly. The parson and the soldier talked over old army days. While Mr. Rockley, who had been a squatter before finally settling down at Yass as principal merchant and banker, gave Wilfred and Guy practical advice. Then he assured Mrs. Effingham that at any time when she or the young ladies required change, they had only to write to Mrs. Rockley—or come, indeed, without writing—and make their house a home for as long as ever it suited them. Subsequently he declared that he had never heard any music in the least degree to be compared to the duet which Rosamond and Annabel executed for his especial benefit. He charmed Mrs. Effingham by telling her that her son Wilfred was the most promising and sensible young man he had ever noticed as a beginner in the bush, and must infallibly do great things. Lastly, he begged that he might be provided with a cup of coffee at daylight, as, if he and Mr. Sternworth were not at Yass by breakfast-time, dreadful things might happen to the whole district. Annabel declared that she would get up and make it for him herself. Their visitors then retired for the night, all hands being in a high state of mutual appreciation.
‘Your friend seems a most genial and sterling person, Harley,’ said Mr. Effingham, as they indulged in a final stroll up the verandah, after the general departure. ‘Is he always so complimentary?’
‘He can be extremely the reverse, upon occasion; but he is, perhaps, the man of all others in whose good feeling I have the most undoubting faith. Under that impetuous, explosive manner, the outcome of a fervid, uncompromising nature, he carries an extraordinary talent for affairs, and one of the most generous hearts ever granted to mortal man. He has the soul of the Caliph Haroun Alraschid, and has secretly done more good deeds, to my knowledge, in this district than all the rest of us put together. His correct taste has enabled him to appreciate all my dear children here. From this time forth you may reckon upon a powerful, untiring friend in William Rockley.’
‘I know one friend, Harley,’ said Effingham as their hands met in a parting grasp, ‘who has been more than a brother to me in my hour of need. We can never divide the gratitude which is your due from me and mine.’
‘Pooh! pooh! a man wants more friends than one, especially in Australia, where a season of adversity—which means a dry one—may be hanging over him; and a better one than William Rockley will be to you, henceforth, no man ever saw or heard of. Good-night!’
So passed the happy days of the first early summer-time at Warbrok—days which knew no change until the great festival of Christmas approached, which closes the year in all England’s dependencies with hallowed revelry and honoured mirth. Christmas was imminent. The 20th of December had arrived; a day of mingled joy and sorrow, as more freshly, vividly came back the buried memories of old days, the echo of the lost chimes of English Christmas bells. But in spite of such natural feelings, the advent of Christmas was not suffered to pass without tokens of gladness and services of thanksgiving.
It had been decided to invite Messrs. Hamilton and Argyll, with Mr. Churbett and Mr. Forbes, to join the modest family festivities on this occasion. Old Tom had been duly despatched with the important missives, and the invitations were frankly accepted.