In ordinary seasons it is the custom for squatters of a certain rank to visit the sea coast with their families once a year, if not oftener. The pleasures of city life are then moderately partaken of, fresh ideas are acquired, old tastes are indulged; friendships are contracted, repaired, or revived. Mental and physical benefits unspecified are acquired, and after a few weeks’ absence the country family returns, much contented with their experiences, but perfectly resigned to await the changing year’s recurrence ere such another momentous journeying takes place.
But when, as at Windāhgil, a succession of untoward seasons brings the family ark well-nigh to wreck and ruin, it is obvious that no such holiday-making can be thought of. “Certainly not this year, perhaps not next year,” says Paterfamilias, sorrowfully, but firmly. Then doubtless all the reserves are called up; steady, instructive reading must take the place of travel, old acquaintances whose minds, so to speak, have been read through and through, and dog’s-eared besides, must perforce be endured through lack of charmingly-new fresh romantically-respectful strangers. The old dresses are turned and returned, freshly trimmed, and their terms of service lengthened by every economical device, pathetic in the patience and true homely virtue displayed. But though all these substitutes and makeshifts are availed of, the time does pass a little wearily and monotonously.
But now the “route was given,” the delightful signal had sounded. The sudden change of ideas necessitated by the announcement of Mr. Stamford was at first bewildering to his wife, and nearly in an equal degree to his daughters.
Calculation and arrangement were required; much forecasting as to where they were to go first, when they could possibly be ready to start, maternal doubts as to what poor Hubert would do in their absence, as the maids would necessarily return to their friends. These weighty considerations absorbed so much time and thought that it was generally agreed to be a species of miracle by which the family found themselves safely packed in the waggonette one memorable Monday on the way to Mooarmah railway station, the luggage having been sent on in the early morning.
“Poor dear Hubert, it seems so selfish to leave him at home by himself,” said Laura; “I think one of us ought to have stayed to keep house for him.”
“It’s not too late now,” said Linda. “Which is it to be? Shall we toss up? I’m quite ready, if I lose.”
“No! I will stay,” said Laura. “I’m the eldest.”
“I think I will stop after all,” said Mrs. Stamford. “You two girls are due for a little enjoyment, and it does not matter so much about me.”
“You will do nothing of the sort,” said Mr. Stamford, with rather more emphasis than usual. “Your mother wants a change as much as any of us. It’s very good of you girls to be ready to remain, and it pleases me, my dears. But Hubert is man enough to look after himself, as well as the station, for a month or two. When our holiday is up, his will begin.”
“As if I would have let anybody stop,” said Hubert, “let alone the dear mater; bless her old heart! And how am I going to do when I go to the ‘Never-Never’ country, do you suppose—and I must have a turn there some day—if you all coddle me up so?”