So, as again the summer days drew near, word came that matters had so moulded themselves that Hubert and Willoughby were on the homeward track. The “home station” of Delamere and Dacre had been sold to Messrs. Jinks and Newboy with thirty-three thousand sheep at a satisfactory price (vide the Aramac Arrow), as the energetic proprietors had concluded to concentrate their capital upon their magnificent newly taken up property of Glastonbury.
Mr. Delamere was to locate himself thereon, in the absence of his partner, while Donald Greenhaugh would be left in charge of Windāhgil Downs, now pretty well in working order. Hubert and Willoughby would come down from Rockhampton by steamer to Sydney, and might be expected to be home in a month or six weeks at farthest. This promise they faithfully carried out, and by a remarkable coincidence, Mr. Barrington Hope arranged to have a short holiday, and come up to Windāhgil with them.
There is a little true happiness in the world, however hard-hearted materialists and cynical poets affect to deny the fact. There might have been an approximation in other young persons’ lives; to the state of blissful content in which the two families were steeped to the lips on the arrival of the long-absent heroes, but no conceivable satisfaction here below could have exceeded it.
The Colonel kept walking round his son, taking in every personal detail with unflagging interest for hours and hours, as Miss Dacre averred; she was positive he never took his eyes off him, except when he retired to bed, for a whole week afterwards.
Laura and Linda declared Hubert had grown bigger, taller, handsomer, older—in short, had in every way improved. Miss Dacre, when called upon to confirm the decision, seemed to have a slight difficulty in putting her opinion into suitable form, but it was understood to be on the whole favourable. At any rate, the object of all this affectionate interest had reason so to believe.
Mr. Barrington Hope was surprised to find both home stations alive and kicking—so to speak—after the terrific ordeal which they had undergone. But, as he remarked, understocking was a more scientific mode of management than most squatters would allow. It was many a year since the paddocks on either station had looked so well. As to the non-wool-bearing inhabitants, he was lost in astonishment at their brilliant appearance after the deprivation of so many of the comforts of life.
“We were sorely tempted to go away to Sydney during the worst part of the drought,” said Laura. “Father gave us leave at the end of one terrible month, when we had not tasted milk, butter, or any decent meat. But as Mr. Dacre and Hubert were living on salt beef and ‘pig’s face’ (Mesembryanthemum) when last heard from, and risking their lives as well—moreover, as Rosalind wouldn’t hear of leaving the Colonel—we determined to bear our share of discomfort also.”
“I declare I grew quite nice and thin,” said Linda, who was sometimes uneasy about a possibly redundant figure; “mine was just what the old novelists used to call ‘a slight, but rounded form.’ Laura and poor Rosalind fell off dreadfully, though. No vegetables either. We were reduced to eating an onion one day with positive relish. Father said it was medicinally necessary.”
“Good heavens, if I had had the least idea that matters were so bad,” said Mr. Hope, glancing at Laura with a look of the tenderest compassion, “I should have insisted upon everybody migrating to Sydney, and come up in person to take charge, or done something desperate. I should indeed.”
“That would have been a last resource,” said Hubert, laughing. “Fancy the Austral Agency Company, with the manager ruralising at such a time! That would have caused a financial earthquake, which would have been more serious than the absence of milk and butter and a short supply of vegetables. Never mind, it was only a temporary inconvenience—much to be lamented, doubtless—but everybody looks very nice, notwithstanding.”