He had no further heart for the pleasures of Sydney—the ordinary distractions of a young man palled upon him. He felt like a general whose army is about to march for the imminent battle—like a soldier picked for a forlorn hope, or an advanced guard. The meaner pleasures revolted him. Balls and picnics, theatres and concerts, were but the straws and débris of life’s ocean. The argosy which carried his fortunes was about to sail with canvas spread and streamers flying. Would she return gold-laden, or would the cold ocean engulf her as so many other fairer barks which, “youth at the prow and pleasure at the helm,” had sailed away through the ingens aequor, and returned nevermore? Was it to be so with him?
Might it be a proved success, a wider experience with the praise of all men, the joyful tears and triumph of those who loved him? Or that other thing? Who could tell? He could only resolve to do and to dare worthily, whatever might befall, for their dear sakes.
Miss Dacre, with her father and brother, had left town for Wantabalree, being anxious to be settled in their new abode. The Colonel, distrusting more deeply day by day the wisdom of his purchase, had become restless and uneasy; he wanted to see with his own eyes how things went on, and to justify himself, if possible, for the investment, at which more than one disinterested critic had shaken his head. Willoughby Dacre, an ardent inexperienced youngster, who thought Australian squatter life made up wholly of galloping about on horseback, and lying under shady trees eating tropical fruits, was also impatient to be in the thick of the half-Arab life he pictured to himself.
Rosalind Dacre, though the chief doubter and dissentient, was yet eager to see with her own eyes this land of promise, which was, according to Hubert, to fail so woefully in performance, and also to put in practice her own ideas of “the gentle life” as possible in Australia; at the same time to comfort her father and aid in the household management.
For all these reasons the Dacre family had departed; and Hubert, calling at their hotel, found to his surprise and slight dissatisfaction, that they had gone the day before, a note of the Colonel’s alone remaining en souvenir, in which he thanked him for his well-meant, valuable advice, and trusted they would meet in the neighbourhood of their respective stations.
For some unexplained reason Hubert read this trivial note several times, and then tearing it up in a reflective manner, walked slowly towards his own hostelry.
“When do you think of leaving, Hubert?” said Mr. Hope, as they were talking over districts and markets, land laws and tenures, railways and syndicates, all more or less bearing on the great pastoral central idea. “When shall you go home?”
“On Friday, I think. I am getting tired of town, and everything is fully arranged.”
“Everything is settled that needs settling, and nothing more can be done until you young men manage to get pretty far back, and make your first deal in new country. It’s a gloriously exciting, adventurous kind of life, this starting to take up new country. I often wish I’d taken to it myself in youth, instead of this branch of the business.”
“Living in town seems a pleasant life enough,” said Hubert. “You have all sorts of things that we people in the bush have to do without.”