Howard Effingham returned to his household filled with sad thought. He had seen ruined men of all sorts and kinds before; had known many who, with every social aid and endowment, had chosen to tread the path of degradation. But there was, to his mind, an element of unusual pathos in this acquiescent yet resentful debasement of a noble nature. In the hall he met Wilfred and Guy. Contrasting their frank, untroubled countenances with that of the ill-fated son of his predecessor his heart swelled with thankfulness.
‘What a long talk you have been having with our dark friend,’ said Wilfred. ‘Does he want a situation as stock-rider? or has he a project requiring the aid of a little capital? He doesn’t look like an enthusiast.’
‘Nor is he one,’ answered the father briefly. ‘He is an unhappy man, whom you will compassionate when I tell you that he is Hubert Warleigh—the Colonel’s youngest son.’
‘Good heavens!’ cried Wilfred. ‘Who said there was no romance in a new country? I thought he was a fine-looking fellow, with something uncommon about him. What a history!’
‘What a dreadful, what an astonishing thing!’ exclaimed Annabel, who, having an appetite for novelty, and seldom being so absorbed in her household duties as to escape early notice of such, had joined the group. ‘To think that that sunburned, roughly-dressed man, carrying a bundle with his blanket and all kinds of things, should be a gentleman, the son of an old officer; just like Wilfred and Guy here! To be sure, he was handsome, in spite of his disguise; and did you notice what splendid black eyes he had? Poor fellow, poor fellow! Why didn’t you make him stay, papa?’
‘My child! I did try to persuade him; I promised to see what we could do for him. My heart yearned to the youngster, thinking that if, in the bounds of possibility, any child of mine was in such evil case, so might some father’s heart turn to him in his need. But he only said it was too late, with a kind of proud regret. Yet I think he was grateful, for he wrung my hand at parting, said it had done him good to speak with me, and if he could ever do us a service I might count upon him.’
In the dreamy days of the late summer one and all derived great solace and enjoyment from the Lake William Book Club, now become, thanks to Mr. Churbett’s brother in London, a working institution. That gentleman had forwarded a well-selected assortment, comprising the newest publications of the day, in various departments of literature, not forgetting a judicious sprinkling of fiction. The books brought out by the family, neither few nor of humble rank, had been read and re-read until they were known by heart. This fresh storehouse of knowledge was, for the first time in their lives, truly appreciated.
Mr. Churbett had employed himself in his solitary hours in covering with strong white paper and carefully entitling each volume. These he divided into ‘sets,’ comprising, say, a modicum of history, travel, biography, or science, with a three-volume novel. The sets being duly numbered, a sketch circuit was calculated, and proper arrangements made. He, for instance, forwarded a set to Benmohr, whence they were enjoined to forward them at the expiration of a month to The Chase; at the same time receiving a fresh supply from headquarters. O’Desmond sent them on to the Snowdens, to be despatched by them to Mr. Hampden at Wangarua. So it came to pass that when the twelfth subscriber forwarded the first-mentioned set to its original dwelling-place at Mr. Churbett’s, the year had completed its cycle, and each household had had ample, but not over-abundant, time to thoroughly master the contents of their dole of literature.
The autumn month of March was chiefly characterised by the rural population of the district, as being the season in which was held the Annual Yass Race Meeting. This tournament was deservedly popular in an English-speaking community. There was no wife, widow, or maid, irrespectively of the male representatives, who did not feel a mild interest in the Town Plate, the delightfully dangerous Steeplechase, and finally in the ‘Ladies’ Bag.’ This thrilling event comprised a collection of fancy-work—slippers, embroidered smoking-caps, and gorgeous cigar-cases, suitable for masculine use or ornament.