“How about the opera, balls, the Cup Day itself, at your age too?” interposed Blount.
“All very well in their way. But society in town seems one unmeaning round with the same people you meet always. One gets dead tired of it all. I must have gipsy blood in me, I think, for the gay greenwood has a fascination, which I feel, but can’t explain.”
During dinner, Blount found Mrs. Bruce most agreeable, and, indeed, entertaining. He learned something too about the neighbours, none of whom were nearer than ten miles. Some, indeed, much farther off. It was also explained to him that the region of the Upper Sturt was not all rock and forest, swamp and scrub, but that there were rich tablelands at “the back,” which might be north or north-east. Also that the country became more open “down the river,” as well as, in a sense, more civilised, “though we don’t call ourselves very barbarous,” she added, with a smile.
“Barbarous, indeed!” repeated the guest, with well-acted indignation. “You seem to me to have all the accessories, and more of them than we in that old-fashioned country called England. Here you have books, papers, all the comforts and many of the luxuries of the Old Land, besides a free, unfettered existence, independence, and no earthly annoyance or danger.”
“I am not so sure about the last items,” said Mrs. Bruce. “Ned has been worrying himself lately about a gang of men who call themselves miners, but are more than suspected to be cattle-stealers. He has missed valuable animals lately.”
“You surprise me!” replied Blount, with a shocked expression. “The bush people whom I have come across have appeared to be such simple, hard-working fellows. But surely Mr. Bruce doesn’t apprehend danger from gold-diggers or drovers? They are so civil and well-mannered too.”
“Their manners are good enough; better, people tell us, than those of the same class at home. But they are not always to be trusted, and are revengeful when thwarted in their bad practices. Edward has more than once been warned to be more careful about riding alone near their haunts in the ranges, though he always goes armed.”
“But surely none of the ‘mountain men,’ as I have heard them called, would lie in wait for Mr. Bruce, or any other proprietor, even if he was unpopular, which I feel certain Mr. Bruce is not?”
“There is no saying. Blood has been shed in these mountains before now, peaceful as they appear. However, Edward never stirs out in that direction without his rifle, and you have seen him shoot. He has no fear, but I cannot feel free from anxiety myself. And now I think we must go into the drawing-room, or wrap up and sit in the verandah while you men smoke; what do you say, Imogen?”
“I vote for the verandah. There’s no wind, and the moon is nearly full. It’s tolerably cool; but dry cold never hurts any one. Indeed, it’s said to be the new cure for chest ailment at Davos Platz, isn’t it, Edward?”