“They say so. Doctors are always changing their theories. I prefer a climate that’s moderately cosy myself. But we must have our smoke, and you girls can talk to us, if you keep to low tones and modulated expressions.”
Blount would have vowed to renounce tobacco for the rest of his natural life if but Miss Imogen would sit by him. The moon had risen, flooding the dark woods and river pools with silver radiance. Could they but continue to listen dreamily to the rhythmic murmur of the stream, the softly-sighing, complaining sound of the trailing willows as from time to time the river current lifted them—what had life to compare with such sensations? However, this idyllic joy was in its nature fleeting, as it became apparent that the frosty air “was really too keen for reasonable people who had colds to consider and babies.” So Mrs. Bruce, thus remonstrating, arose, and with two words, “Come, Imogen!” made for one of the French windows which opened from the drawing-room to the verandah. When they entered that comfortable, well-furnished apartment—a handsome Blüthner piano stood open, with music conveniently close—Mr. Bruce quasi-paternally ordered Imogen to sing, in order that he might judge what progress she had made during the half year.
So they had a song, another, several indeed to finish up with. Mr. Blount admitted a slight knowledge of music, and even took a creditable second in one of Miss Carrisforth’s songs. The night wore on, until just before ten o’clock, a neat maid brought in a tray with glasses, and the wherewithal to fill the same. The ladies declining refreshment, said good-night, and left Mr. Bruce and his guest to have their final smoke, hoping that they would not sit up too late, as they must feel tired after their long day’s ride.
The night was glorious, the moon, nearly at its full, had floated into the mid-heaven. The cloudless, dark blue sky seemed to be illumined with star clusters and planets of greater lustre than in ordinary seasons. As they smoked silently, Blount listening to the river gurgling and rippling over its pebbly shallows, the sharp contrast of his surroundings with those he had so lately quitted, indeed even with those during the penultimate sojourn at Bunjil, struck him so forcibly that he could hardly repress a smile.
However he merely remarked—“Australia is certainly a land of wonders—my friends in England will not believe half my adventures when I tell them.”
“I can quite understand that,” replied his host. “When I returned to my native place, after ten years’ absence, mine showed signs of utter disbelief in my smaller experiences, while hazardous tales were swallowed without hesitation.”
Mr. Blount rose early and was rewarded by a view of the dawnlight suffusing the eastern horizon with pale opaline tints, gradually increasing in richness and variety of colouring. Roseate golden clouds were marshalled around the summit of the snow-crowned alp, and even the darksome forest aisles responded to the divine informing waves of light and life.
He was aroused from reverie as he gazed upon the wondrous apparition by resounding whips and the roll of hoofs, as the station horses were being run into the yard. The cob was easily distinguished by his cropped tail and mane, while, refreshed by rest and freedom, he galloped and kicked up his heels, as if he had been reared in the bush, instead of in a suburban paddock. Mr. Blount also witnessed his being caught and conveyed to the stable, in company with Mr. Bruce’s favourite hackney, and another distinguished-looking animal. With respect to the last-named, Paddy said that one “belong’n Miss Immie,” volunteering further information to this effect.
“My word! that one missy ride fustrate.” Storing this encomium in his mind, Mr. Blount repaired to his apartment, where he made all ready for departure, resolving not to remain longer away from his associates in the “Lady Julia,” however great the temptation.