Rolf Boldrewood
Babes in the Bush
‘I hope Jeanie will have a nice dinner for us,’ said Annabel. ‘But we need never be afraid of the dear old thing not doing everything she ought to have done. She knew we were coming home to-day, and she will be ready and prepared for a prince, if we had picked up a stray one at Yass. Home, sweet home! How glad I am! There is nothing like dissipation for making one feel truly virtuous.’
Of a truth, there is always something sacred and precious connected in the minds of the widely scattered families of the Anglo-Saxon race about the very name of ‘home!’ There was no one of the Effinghams whose heart was not stirred as they rode and drove up to the hall door, and saw the kindly, loving face of Jeanie, the seriously satisfied countenance of Andrew, and even the silent Duncan, quite excited for him, as he stood ready to assist with the horses. The garden in the neighbourhood of the entrance gate was trim and neat, while showers had preserved the far-stretching verdure which glorifies the country in whatever hemisphere. No great time was consumed in unsaddling. Guy personally superintended the stabling of St. Maur’s horse, while Wilfred conducted him to one of the spare rooms. Dick Evans, always handy in emergencies, turned up in time to dispose of the tandem. And in less than half an hour Effingham and his new acquaintance were walking up and down the verandah awaiting the dinner-bell, much refreshed and comforted, and in a state of mind fitted for admiring the landscape.
‘How fortunate you seem to have been in falling across such a family residence,’ said St. Maur. ‘You might have been for years in the country and never heard of anything half so good. What a lovely view of the lake; and first-class land, too, it seems to be.’
‘We owe our good fortune in great part, or I may say altogether, to my old friend Sternworth. But for him we should never have seen Australia, or have been stumbling about in the dark after we did come here. And if it were possible to need any other aid or advice, I feel certain Mr. Rockley would insist on giving it. I must say that the soil of Australia produces more friends in need to the square mile than any other I know.’
‘It may be overrated in that respect,’ said St. Maur, smiling; ‘but you are in no danger of overrating Rockley’s benevolence or his miraculous ways and means of carrying out his intentions. As for Mr. Sternworth, he is the “Man of Ross” – or rather of Yass —
To all the country dear,
and passing rich on not exactly ‘forty pounds a year,’ but the Australian equivalent. If he introduces any more such desirable colonists we must have him made rural Dean. You are satisfied with your investment, I take it?’
‘So much so, that I look forward with the keenest relish to the many changes and improvements [here his visitor gave a slight involuntary motion of dissent] which I trust to carry out during the next few years. Everything is reassuring in a money-making aspect, so I trust not to be indiscreet in developing the property.’
‘My dear sir, nothing can be more proper than that we should carry out plans for the improvement of our estates, after they have shown annual profit balances for years. But to spend money on improvements in Australia before you have a reserve fund is – pardon my frankness – held to be imprudent.’
‘But surely a property well improved must pay eventually better than one where, as at present, all the stock are permitted to roam almost in a state of nature?’
‘When you come to talk of stock paying, my dear sir, you must bear in mind that it is not the finest animal that yields the most profit, but the one on which, at a saleable age, you have expended the least money.’
The evening passed most pleasantly, with just sufficient reference to the experiences of the week to render the conversation entertaining. In the morning their guest departed, and with him the last associations of the memorable race meeting, leaving the family free to pursue the calm pursuits of their ordinary life.
Wilfred found himself freshly invigorated and eager to take up again occupations connected with the policy of the establishment. He praised Dick Evans and old Tom warmly for the exact order in which he found all departments, not forgetting a word of approval for Andrew, of whose good conduct, however, he was assured under all possible circumstances.
As the season passed on, it seemed as though the family of the Effinghams had migrated to one of the poets’ isles —
Happy with orchard lawns,
Where never wind doth blow or tempest rave —
so flawless were all the climatic conditions, upon which their well-being depended.
Pleasant it was, after the day’s work was done, when the family gathered round the substantial fire which, red-glowing with piled-up logs, thoroughly warmed but did not oppressively heat the lofty room. Then came truly the season of
Rest, and affection, and stillness.
Although a certain reaction was apparent after the stupendous adventures and experiences of the race meeting, yet moderate social intercourse survived. Mr. Churbett was the first of the personages from the outer world who presented himself, and the historiette of the duel having leaked out, he had to undergo a grave lecture and remonstrance from Mrs. Effingham, which, as he said afterwards, reminded him so of his own mother that it brought the tears into his eyes.
Mr. Argyll, luckily for his peace of mind, had occasion to go to Sydney, otherwise, not to mention chance reviewers and critics, it is hard to imagine how he could have protected himself against the uncompromising testimony which Mrs. Teviot felt herself compelled to take up against him.
‘Spillin’ the bluid o’ the Lord’s anointed; no that Maister Hampden was mair than a magistrate, but still it is written, ‘they bear not the sword in vain.’ And oh, it’s wae to think if Hampden’s bullet had juist gane thro’ the heart o’ Maister Argyll, and his mither, that gracious lady, wearyin’ for him by the bonny hills o’ Tarbert! And that Maister Churbett, I wadna hae thocht it. I could fell him.’
Howard Effingham, in a general way, disapproved of duelling, but as a soldier and a man of the world was free to confess that, as society was constituted, such an ultimatum could not be dispensed with. He was happy to hear no casualty had occurred. His own opinion, judging from what he had seen of colonial society, was that the men composing it were an exceptionally reasonable set of people, whose lives, from circumstances, were of exceptional value to the community at large as well as to their families. In the older countries of Europe, where duelling had formerly flourished, the direct converse of this proposition often obtained. He believed that in course of time the practice of duelling would become so unnecessary, even unfashionable, as to be practically obsolete.
Mr. Hampden did not belong to their ‘side of the country’ (or neighbourhood); thus he was necessarily left to receive his share of admonition from his wife, and such of his personal friends who cared to volunteer reproof or remonstrance. There were those who smiled sardonically at this view of the case.
CHAPTER XV
THE LIFE STORY OF TOM GLENDINNING
During one of the long rides which Wilfred was obliged to take from time to time with Tom Glendinning, it occurred to him to ask about his previous history. The old man was unusually well; that is, free from rheumatism and neuralgia. The demons which tortured his irritable temper were at rest. For a wonder, Tom was communicative.
‘Sure there’s little use in knowin’ the finds and the kills and blank days of a toothless old hound like meself. I’m broken-mouthed enough to know better; but the oulder some gets, the wickeder they are. Maybe it’s because there’s little hope for them. I was born in the north of Ireland, where my people was dacent enough. Linen factories they had – no less. My great grandfather came from Scotland, my father was dead, and my uncle that I lived with was the sourest old miser that ever the Black North turned out. I was a wild slip of a youngster always, like a hawk among barn-door fowl. My mother came from the West. It was her blood I had, and it ran too free and merry in thim days. She was dead too, but I loved her people. I liked the sporting notions of ’em, and took to their ways, their fights, their fairs and the very brogue, just to spite my uncle and his canting breed.
‘I hated everything they liked, and liked everything they hated. I was flogged and locked up for runnin’ away from school. Why should I stay in and larn out of a dog’s-eared book when the hounds met within five Irish miles of me? I was always with them when I could slip off – sleepin’ in the stables, helpin’ the grooms, doin’ anything so they’d let me stay about the stables and kennel. I could ride any hunter they had at exercise and knew every fox-covert in the neighbourhood, every hare’s form, besides being able to tie a fly and snare rabbits. When I was twelve years old I ran away and made my way down to Mayo, to my mother’s people – God be with them all their days! I was happy then.’
‘I suppose you were, indeed,’ said Wilfred.
‘Why wouldn’t I be? My mother’s brother was but a small farmer, but he was a king’s ayqual for kind-heartedness, divilment and manliness. He could follow the hounds on foot for a ten-mile run. He was the best laper, wrestler, hurler, and stick-fighter in the barony. The sort of man I could have died for. More by token, he took to me at once when I stumbled in sore-footed and stiff like a stray puppy. I was the “white-headed boy” for my dead mother’s sake.’
‘You had all you could wish for, then.’
‘I had. I was a fool, too, but sure I didn’t know it. ’Tis that same makes all the differ. The Squire took a fancy to me, after I rode a five-year-old for him over the ox-fences one day. I was made dog-boy, afterwards third whip; and sure, when I had on the cord breeches and the coat with the hunt button, I was prouder than the king. There was no divilment in all the land I wasn’t in; but I didn’t drink in thim days, and I knew my work well. Whin I was twenty-two a fit took me to go to Belfast and see the ould place again.’
‘Did you wish to ask for your uncle’s blessing?’
‘Not if I was stritched for it! But my cousin Mary! sure I could never get her out of my head, and thim black eyes of hers. She kissed me the night I ran away, and the taste of her lips and the sweet look of her eyes could never lave me. I can see her face now. I wonder where is she? And will I see her again when I go to my place!’
The old man turned away his head; his voice was still for some moments. Were there tears in those evil-glowing eyes, that never lowered before mortal man or quailed under the shadow of death? Who shall say? Wilfred played with his bridle-rein. When the henchman spoke next he gazed resolutely before him, towards the far purple mountain peak; his voice once more was strong and clear.
‘Whin I seen her again she was a woman grown, but her eyes were the same, and her heart was true to the wild boy that was born to ruin all that was nigh or kind to him. The old man scowled at me. There was little love between us.
‘“So you’ve grown into a useless man instead of a disobedient lad,” he said. “Why didn’t ye stay among the rebels and white-boys of the West? It’s the company that fits ye well; you’ll have the better chance of being hanged before you’re older. Change your name before it’s a by-word and a disgrace to honest folks.”
‘I swore then I’d make him repent his words, and that if I was hanged my name should be known far and wide. I went back to the wild West. But if I did I gave him good raison to curse me to his dyin’ day. I soothered over Mary to marry me, and the day after we were well on the way to Athlone.’
‘Surely then you had a happy life before you, Tom?’
‘True for you. If I wasn’t happy, no man ever was. But the divil was too strong in me. I was right for the first year. I loved my work with the hounds, and the master – rest his sowl – used to say there wasn’t a whip west of Athlone could hold a candle to me. He gave me a snug cottage. Mary was a great favourite entirely with the ladies of the house. For that year – that one blessed year of my life – I was free from bad ways. Within the year Mary had a fine boy in her arms – the moral of his father, every one said – and as she smiled on me, I felt as if what the priest said about being good and all the rest of it, might be true, after all.’
‘And what made the change, Tom?’
‘The ould story – restlessness, bad company, and saycret societies. I got mixed up in one, that I joined before I was married, more for the fun of the night walks and drillin’s and rides than anything else. The oath once taken – a terrible oath it was, more by token – I thought shame of breakin’ it. It’s little I’d care now for a dozen like it. The end of it was, one night I must go off with a mob of young fools, like myself, to frighten a strong farmer who had taken the land over a poor man’s head. I didn’t know then that the best kindness for a strugglin’ holder there, was to hunt him out of the overstocked land to this place, or America, or the West Indies. Anyhow, we burned a stack. After I left, the boys were foolish and bate him. He took to his bed and died – divil mend him! Two days afterwards I was arrested on a warrant, and lodged in the county gaol. ’Twas the first time I heard a prison lock turn behind me. Not the last, by many a score times.
‘I had no chance at the Assizes. A girl swore to me as Huntsman Tom. Five of thim was hanged. I got off with transportation. I was four miles away whin they were heard batin’ Doran. I asked the Judge to hang me with the rest. He said it couldn’t be done. Mary came every day to see me, poor girleen; she liked to show me the boy; but I could see her heart was broke, though she tried to smile – such a smile – for my sake. I desarved what I got, maybe. But if I’d been let off then, as there’s a God in heaven I’d have starved rather than have done a wrong turn agin as long as I lived. If them judges knew a man’s heart, would they let one off, wonst in a way? Mary was with me every day, wet or dry, on board the prison ship till she sailed. Is there angels come to hell, I wonder, to see the wretches in torment? If they do, they’ll look like her, as she stood on the deck and trembled whin the chained divils that some calls men filed by. She looked at me with her soft eyes, till I grew mad, and told her roughly to go home and take the child with her. Then she dropped on her knees and cried, and kissed my hands with the irons on them and the face of me, like a madwoman. She lifted the baby to me for a minute, and it held out its hands. I kissed its wheeshy soft face, and she was gone out of my sight – out of my life – for ever.’
‘How did you like the colony?’
‘Well enough at the first. I worked well, and did what I was tould. It was all the relafe there was. I made sure I should get my freedom in a few years. The first letther I got was from my old uncle. Mary was dead! He said nothin’ about the child, but he would bring it up, and never wished to hear my name again. This changed me into a rale divil, no less. All that was bad in me kem out. I was that desperate that I defied the overseers, made friends with the biggest villians among the prisoners, and did everything foolish that came into my head. I was punished, and the worse I was trated the worse I grew. I was chained and flogged and starved and put into dark cells. ’Tis little satisfaction they got of me, for I grew that savage and stubborn that I was all as one as a wild baste, only wickeder. If ye seen my back now, after the triangles, scarred and callused from shoulder to flank! I was marked out for Norfolk Island; ye’ve heard tell of that place?’
Wilfred nodded assent.
‘That hell!’ screamed the old man, ‘where men once sent never came back. Flogged and chained; herded like bastes, when the lime that they carried off to the boats burned holes in their naked flesh, wading through the surf with it! But I forgot, there was one way to get back to Sydney.’
‘And what way was that?’
‘You could always kill a man – one of your mates – only a prisoner – sure, it couldn’t matter much!’ said the old man with a dreadful laugh; ‘but ye were sent up to Sydney in the Government brig, and tried and hanged as reg’lar as if ye wor a free man and owned a free life. There was thim there thin that thought the pleasure trip to Sydney and the comfort of a new gaol and a nate condimned cell all to yourself, well worth a man’s blood, and a sure rope when the visit was over. Ha! ha!’
He laughed long and loud. The sound was so unnatural that Wilfred fancied if their talk had occurred by a lonely camp in a darksome forest at midnight, instead of under the garish light of day, he might have imagined faint unearthly cries and moans strangely mingled with that awful laughter.
‘Thim was quare times; but I didn’t go to ‘the island hell’ after all. An up-country settler came to the barracks to pick a groom, as an assigned servant – so they called us. He was a big, bold-lookin’ man, and as I set my eyes on him, I never looked before me or on the floor as most of thim did.
‘“What’s that man?” he said. “I like the look of him; he’s got plenty of devil in him; that’s my sort. He can ride, by the look of his legs. I’m just starting up-country.”
‘They wouldn’t give me to him at first; said I was too bad to go loose. But he had friends in high places, and they got me assigned to him. Next day we started for a station. When I felt a horse between my legs I began to have the feelings of a man again. He gave me a pistol to carry, too. Bushrangers wor on the road then, and he carried money.’
‘“You can fight or not, as you like, Tom,” he said, “if we meet any of the boys; but if you show cur, back you go to the barracks.”
‘“Sooner to hell,” says I. I felt that I would go through fire and water for him. He trated me liked a man!’
‘And did you meet any bushrangers?’ said Wilfred.
‘We did then – the Tinker’s gang – three of them, and a boy. They bailed us up in a narrow place. I took steady aim and shot the Tinker dead. As well him as me – not that I cared a traneen for my life. My master dropped a second man; the other one and the boy bolted for their lives.
‘“Well done, Tom!” says my master, when it was all over. “You were a good cavalry man lost” – he was in the Hussars, no less, at home. “We don’t part asy, I can tell you. You deserve your freedom, and you’ll get it.”
‘He was betther than his word. I got a conditional pardon, not to go beyond the colonies. Sure I had little taste for lavin’ them. I stayed with him till he died; the next place I went to was Warbrok, as I tould ye the first day I seen you.’
‘Did you ever hear what became of your child?’
‘Ne’er a one of me knows, nor cares. If he’s turned out well, the less he knows of me the better. If he’s gone to the dogs, there’s scoundrels enough in the country already. But I nigh forget tellin’ ye, I made money once by dalin’ in cattle, and every year I sent home £50, thinkin’ it might do good to the child.’
‘And do you know if it went safe?’
‘Sure I got a resate for every pound of it, just as if a lawyer had written it, thankin’ me, but never sayin’ a word about the boy, but that it would be used for his larning.’
‘And what made you leave it off?’
‘I didn’t lave it off. They sent back the last of it without a word or message. That made me wild, and I started drinkin’, and never cried crack till it was gone. I began to wander about and take billets as a stock-rider. ’Tis the way I’ve lived iver since. If it wasn’t for the change and wild life now and thin – fightin’ them divils of blacks, gallopin’ after wild cattle, and campin’ out where no white man had been before – I’d been dead with the drink long ago. But something keeps me; something tells me I can’t die till I’ve seen one from the ould country. Who it is, I can’t tell. Sometimes I see Mary in my drames, holdin’ up the child like the last day I seen her. I’d have put a bullet through me, when I was in “the horrors,” only for thim drames. I shall go when my time comes. It’s little I’d care if it was in the night that’s drawin’ on.’
Here he rode on for some minutes without speaking, then continued in an altered voice:
‘See here now, Mr. Wilfred, it’s little I thought to say to mortial man the things I’ve let out of my heart this blessed day. But my feeling to you and your father is the same as I had to my first master – the heavens be his bed! If he’d always been among such people here – rale gintry – that cared for him and thought to help him, Tom Glendinning would maybe have been a different man. But the time’s past. I’m like a beaten fox, nigh run down; and I’ll never die in my bed, that much I know. You won’t spake to me agen about this. My heart’s burstin’ as it is; and – I’ll maybe drop – if it comes on me again – like it – does – now – ’
He pressed his hand closely, fiercely, upon the region of the heart. He grew deadly pale, and shook as if in mortal agony; his face was convulsed as he bowed himself upon the saddle-bow, and Wilfred feared he was about to fall from his horse. But he slowly regained his position, and quivering like one who had been stretched upon the rack, guided his horse along the homeward path.
‘’Tis spasms of the heart, the doctor tould me it was,’ he gasped at length. ‘They’d take me off some day, before you could light a match, “if I didn’t keep aisy and free from trouble,”’ he said. ‘Maybe they will, some day; maybe something else will be too quick for them. It’s little I care. Close up, Mr. Wilfred, we’re late for home, and I’d like to regulate thim calves before it’s dark.’
Much Wilfred mused over the history of the strange old man who had now become associated with their fortunes.
‘What a life!’ thought he. ‘What a tragedy!’ How changed from the days when he followed the Mayo hounds; reckless then, perhaps, and impatient of control, but an unweaned child in innocence compared to his present condition. And yet he possessed qualities which, under different treatment might have led to honour and distinction.
As far as personal claims to distinction were concerned, few districts in which the Effinghams could have been located, would have borne comparison with the vicinity of Lake William. It abounded, as we have told, in younger sons of good family, whom providence would appear to have thus guided but a few years before their own migration. This fortunate concurrence they had themselves often noted, and fully did they appreciate the congenial companionship.
Besides the local celebrities, few tourists of note passed along the southern road without being intercepted by the hospitality of one or other household. These captives of their bow and spear were shared honourably. When the Honourable Cedric Rotherwood, who had letters to Mr. Effingham, was quartered for a month at The Chase, fishing, shooting, and kangaroo-hunting, the Benmohr men and their allies were entreated to imagine there was a muster at The Chase every Saturday, and to rendezvous in force accordingly. A strong friendship accordingly was struck up between the young men. The Honourable Cedric was only five-and-twenty, and years afterwards, when Charlie Hamilton went home with one station in his pocket, and two more paying twenty per cent per annum upon the original outlay, his Lordship, having then come into his kingdom, had him down at Rotherwood Hall, and gave him such mounts in the hunting field, and such corners in the battues, not to mention a run over to his Lordship’s deer forest in the Highlands, that Charlie, on befitting occasions, refers to that memorable visit with enthusiasm (and at considerable length, say his friends) even unto this day.
Against this court card, socially marked for the Effinghams’ fortune, one day turned up a couple of trumps, which might be thought to have made a certainty of the odd trick in favour of Benmohr. Charles Hamilton, coming home after a day’s ploughing, found two strangers in the sitting-room, one of whom, a quiet plainly dressed personage, shut up a book at his entrance, and begged to introduce his friend and travelling companion, Major Glendinning, ‘who (his own name Kinghart) had brought a letter from a mutual friend, he believed, Mr. Machell of Langamilli. The Major had been good enough to accompany him, being anxious to see the country.’
‘Delighted to see you, I’m sure,’ said Hamilton, pocketing the letter unread. ‘I hope Mrs. Teviot gave you some refreshment. I seldom come home before dark, now the days are getting short.’
‘The old lady did the honours, I assure you,’ said the Major, ‘but we preferred awaiting dinner, as we had tiffin on the road. As for Kinghart, he found an old edition in your book-case which was meat and drink to him.’
‘In that case, if you will allow me, I will ask you to excuse me till the bell rings, as dressing is a serious business after my clay furrows.’
Hamilton had time to look at Willie Machell’s letter, in which he found Mr. Kinghart described as an out-and-out brick, though reserved at first, and unreasonably fond of books. Played a goodish game of whist, too. Henry Kinghart was brother to the famous clergyman and writer of that name, and was so deuced clever that, if there had been any material for fiction in this confounded country, which there was not, he shouldn’t be surprised if he wrote a book himself some day. As for the Major, he was invaluable. He (Machell) had met him at the Australian Club, and brought him up forcibly from Sydney. He was the best shot and horseman he ever saw, and fought no end with his regiment of Irregular Horse in India. Siffter, N.I., who denied everybody’s deeds but his own, admitted as much. Relative in Australia – cattle-station manager or something – that he wanted to look up. He (Hamilton) was not to keep them all the winter at Benmohr, as he (Machell) was deucedly dull without them.
Mr. Kinghart fully answered his warranty, inasmuch as he volunteered little in the way of remark, and fastening upon one or two rare books in the Benmohr collection, hardly looked up till Mrs. Teviot came in with the bedroom candles. The Major seemed indisposed to literature, but had seen so much, and indeed had transacted personally so large a share of modern history in Indian military service, that Hamilton, who, like most Scottish gentlemen, had a brother in the line there and several cousins in the Civil Service, was deeply interested. He had been in every battle of note since the commencement of the Mahratta war, and
A scar on his brown cheek revealed
A token true of ‘Moodkee’ field.
Without a shade of self-consciousness he replied to Hamilton’s eager questionings, whom he found to be (from his brother’s letters) accurately informed about the affairs of Northern India.
Unfortunately for Mr. Kinghart’s studies, Neil Barrington and Bob Ardmillan turned up next morning – two men who would neither be quiet themselves, nor suffer other mortals to enjoy repose. Part of the day was spent in shooting round the borders of the dam, when the Major topped Ardmillan’s bag, who was considered the crack shot of the neighbourhood. In the afternoon, there being many horses, colts and others, in the stables, Neil proposed an adjournment to the leaping-bar, an institution peculiar to Benmohr, for educating the inexperienced steeds to jump cleverly with the aid of a shifting bar enwrapped in brambles.
At this entertainment the Major showed himself to be no novice, riding with an ease of seat and perfection of hand, to which, doubtless, years of pig-sticking and tent-pegging had contributed.
In the evening whist was suggested, when Mr. Kinghart showed that his studies had by no means prevented his paying due attention to an exacting and jealous mistress. The exigencies of the game thawed his reserve, and in his new character he was pronounced by the volatile Neil and the shrewd satirist Bob Ardmillan to be a first-rate fellow. He displayed with some dry humour the results of a habit of close observation; in addition, a chance allusion served to reveal such stores of classical lore, that Argyll’s absence was deplored by Neil Barrington, who believed that his friend, who was always scolding him for not keeping up his classics, would have been for once out-quoted.
Of course such treasures of visitors could not be allowed to lie hid, and after a few allusions to the family at The Chase had paved the way, Mr. Kinghart and the Major were invited to accompany Hamilton on a visit (which he unblushingly asserted to be chiefly on business) to that popular homestead on the next ensuing Saturday.
The Effingham family were devoted admirers of the elder and Kinghart, had but recently read and discussed Eastward Ho, Dalton, Rocke and other products of the large, loving mind which was then stirring the hearts of the most generous portion of English society. It may be conjectured with what secret triumph, veiled under an assumption of formal politeness, Hamilton introduced Major Glendinning and Mr. Henry Kinghart.
‘Will you think me curious if I ask whether you are related to the Rector of Beverly?’ inquired Rosamond soon after preliminaries had come to an end. ‘You must pardon our enthusiasm, but life in the provinces seems as closely concerned with authors as with acquaintances or friends, almost more so.’
‘My brother Charles would feel honoured, I assure you, Miss Effingham, if he knew the interest he has aroused in this far-off garrison of the Norseman he so loves to celebrate,’ said the stranger, with a pleasant smile. ‘I wish, for a hundred reasons, that he could be here to tell you so. How he would enjoy roaming over this land of wonders!’
Rosamond’s eyes sparkled with an infrequent lustre. Here was truly a miraculous occurrence. A brother – actually a brother – of the great, the noble, the world-renowned Charles Kinghart, with whose works they had been familiar ever since they could read; most of whose characters were to them household words!
