Rolf Boldrewood
Babes in the Bush
As for Bob Clarke, seeing that it was impossible to adopt his last method of simplifying matters, he persuaded Miss Rockley to gallop up the creek with him, on the off-chance of finding a crossing, which they did eventually, but so far up that they were nearly thrown out altogether.
We cannot claim for the sheep-killing denizen of the Australian waste, mysteriously placed on our continent a century in advance of the merino, the wondrous powers of Reynard the Great. But in the pace which enables him to bring to shame an inferior greyhound, and in the endurance which keeps him ahead of a fair pack of foxhounds, as well as in his ardent love of poultry, he undoubtedly does resemble ‘the little tyrant of the fields.’
The distance the black dingo had already come was considerable, the pace decidedly good. The long slopes, all with an upward tendency, began to tell. When the fence of the home-paddock was reached, the farther corner of which impinged upon a steep spur of the main range, the bolt of the gallant quarry was nearly shot.
He was viewed by Tom crawling under the lower rail; an enthusiastic view-holloa rang out from the old man. One more fence and a kill was certain, unless his last effort sufficed to land him within reach of one of the ‘gibbah-gunyahs’ (or rock caves) which the aboriginals and their canine friends had inhabited apparently from remote ages.
As the field ranged up to the horse-paddock fence, it was seen to be by no means so moderate a task as the other post and rails. Old Dick, who had superintended its erection, had been careful that it should be one of the best pieces of work in the district, – substantial, of full height, and with solid posts nearly two feet in the ground. Hence it loomed before the hunt fully four feet six inches in height, with top-rails which forbade all chance of cracking or carrying out.
Fortunately for the ladies and a large proportion of the sterner sex, who would have to ‘jump or go home,’ Wilfred knew of ‘slip-rails’ a little more than a hundred yards from where the quick eyes of old Tom had marked the dingo steal through.
‘I have no doubt you would try it, Miss Fane,’ said Wilfred, who marked with admiration the game sparkle in his companion’s eye, as her gaze ranged calmly over the barrier; ‘but it is a high, stiff fence, and dangerous for a lady. At any rate, as your temporary guardian, I must forbid your taking it, if you would defer to my control.’
‘Certainly, oh, certainly, and many thanks,’ said the girl, blushing slightly; ‘it is very good of you to take care of me. But what are we to do? We can’t miss the finish after this delightful run.’
‘Certainly not. Do you see the road to the right of us? There is a slip-rail on the track, which I fancy will be patronised. Follow me.’
Slip-rails are contemned by advanced pastoralists, but they stood the Lake William Hunt in good stead on this occasion. As they rode to the opening, Miss Fane said:
‘Pray leave the middle rail up. It will be the last jump, and I daresay the other ladies will agree with me.’
‘Very well,’ said Wilfred. ‘I need not get off.’
Riding up to the fence, he lifted out the shifting end of the stout round rail, and, allowing it to fall to the ground, cantered back to his fair companion.
‘Now then,’ she said, ‘see how prettily you will take this, Master Emigrant! It is quite stiff, though not very high.’
In truth the rail, as high as a sheep-hurdle, was slightly hog-backed, and strong enough to have capsized a buffalo.
‘You will go first, of course,’ said Wilfred, turning his horse’s head in the same direction.
The nice old hackney, albeit his best years had been spent as a stock-horse amid the unfair country of the Black Mountain run, was within a shade of thoroughbred. He went at the jump with his hind legs well under him, and, rising at exactly the proper moment, popped over with so little effort or disturbance of seat that Miss Fane might have held a glass of water in her whip-hand.
If she had turned her head she might not have been so self-possessed; for, the moment her back was turned, Wilfred Effingham, foreseeing that the talent would be sure to ride this, the only sensational fence of the run, turned his horse’s head to the big three-railer.
He rode an upstanding chestnut five-year-old, which he had selected as a colt from the Benmohr stud. For some time past he had employed himself in ‘making’ him, a pleasant task to a lover of horses. He had given the resolute youngster much schooling over logs, rails, and any kind of fence which came handy, avoiding those which were not unyielding. He was aware that no more dangerous idea can be contracted by a timber-jumper, than that he can break through anything, the first new fence that he meets being likely fatally to undeceive him. He flattered himself that Troubadour, from repeated raps, would take care to rise high enough over any fence.
At the moment he set him going he saw Argyll and Churbett, with Hampden, St. Maur, and all the ‘no denial’ division converging on the slip-rails, having witnessed Miss Fane’s disappearance through them.
Whether Troubadour was over-anxious to regain Emigrant, cannot be known. But he went at the fence too fast, hit the top-rail a tremendous bang, and rolled over into the paddock, narrowly escaping a somersault across his master.
He, however, was lucky enough to be thrown, by the mere impetus of the fall, clear of his horse. Jumping to his feet with the alacrity of youth, he caught the bridle-rein of the astonished Troubadour, who stood staring and shaking, just in time to see The Caliph sail over the high fence with a great air of ease and authority, followed by the others, among whom Churbett’s horse hit the fence hard, ‘but no fall.’ The ladies followed Miss Fane’s example and negotiated the middle rail successfully, as Wilfred jumped into his saddle, and sending his spurs into the unlucky Troubadour, rejoined his charge without further delay.
That young lady had pulled up, and was looking at the scene of the disaster with an anxious expression. Her face had assumed a paler hue, and her hands fidgeted with the bridle-rein.
‘I am so glad you are not hurt,’ she said. ‘I thought all sorts of things till I saw you get up and mount.’
‘Thank you very much,’ said Wilfred, with a grateful inflection in his voice. ‘It was very awkward of Troubadour; but accidents will happen, and it will teach him to lift his legs another time. But we must ride for it now; we have been in the front so far. Ha! the hounds are turning to us; they will have Master Dingo before he reaches the cliffs.’
Another mile and the dark quadruped, still at a stretching wolf-gallop, was decidedly nearer the leading hounds, whose bristles began to rise, ominous of blood. Old Tom, waving his cap, cheered them on as he rode rejoicingly forward on the wiry, unflinching grey. Slower and more laboured became the pace of the aboriginal canine. Before him was the cliff, upon the lower tier of which, could he have crawled, lay sanctuary. But in vain he scans eagerly the frowning masses of sandstone, denuded by the storms of ages. In vain he glances fiercely back at the remorseless pack, showing his glittering teeth. His doom is sealed. With a half-turn and a vicious snap, in which his teeth meet like a steel-trap through Cruiser’s neck, he confronts destiny. The next moment there is a confused heap of struggling, tearing hounds, a few seconds of dumb, despairing resistance, and the mothers of the herd are avenged.
Miss Fane turns away her head and joins the group of ‘first families,’ by this time enabled to be in respectably at the death.
Old Tom in due time appeared with the brush of the dingo, which he held on high for inspection. It was not unlike that of the true Reynard, though larger and fuller. It had also a white tag. The old man, advancing to Miss Fane’s side, thus spoke:
‘The Masther said I was to give ye the brush, Miss; it’s well ye desarve it. Sure I’d like to have seen ye with the Blazers. My kind sarvice to ye, and wishin’ ye the hoith of good fortune.’
‘Well done, Tom!’ said Argyll, ‘you have made a very neat speech; and we all congratulate Miss Fane upon her very spirited riding to-day. As you say, she well deserves the brush, and I hope she will grace many more of our meets.’
‘We must send the “cap” round for the huntsman, Tom,’ said Hampden, ‘who found such a straight-goer for the first run of the Lake William Hounds, and hit off the scent so neatly after the check.’
As he spoke he lifted it from the old man’s grey head, and placing a sovereign in it, rode along the ranks. He returned it with such a collection of coin as the old man, long accustomed to cheques and ‘orders,’ had not seen for years.
‘It’s fortunate the fox – the dingo, I mean,’ said Wilfred, ‘chose to make for the cliffs, instead of the other end of the lake. We should have had a terrible distance to ride home, though not in the dark, as one often was in the old country. Now, you must all come in, as we are so near The Chase. We can put up everybody who hasn’t pressing work to do at home.’
The day was done. The hunt was over, with the first pack of hounds that had ever been followed amid the green pastures which bordered the Great Lake. It was by no means the last. And indeed a hunter, bred and broken by one of the very men who then aided to establish that traditional sport, was fated, when shipped to England, to be one of the few well up in the quickest thing that the Pytchley saw that season, to be chronicled in Bell, and to win enduring renown for Australian horses and Australian riders. But that day, with much of Fate’s glad or sorrowful doings, was far in the unborn future. So the band of friends and neighbours returned to The Chase, pleased with themselves, with the day, and the feats performed, and above all, congratulating Squire Effingham upon the triumphant opening meet of the season.
Not all the meets were so well attended. But the grand fact remained that, at regular intervals, dawn saw the dappled beauties trooping forth at the heels of old Tom and the Master across the dewy meadows, beneath the century-old trees of the primeval forest. Still rang out the music, dear to Howard Effingham’s soul, when the scent lay well in the soft, cloudy, autumnal mornings. Still were there, occasionally, incidents of hunting spirit and feats of horsemanship worthy of the traditional glories of the ne’er-forgotten Fatherland.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE MAJOR DISCOVERS HIS RELATIVE
After the inauguration, hunting became an organised and well-supported recreation among the dwellers within the influence of the social wavelets of the lake. The Benmohr firm found, on the whole – though the stabling of hunters was not unaccompanied by expense – that it brought their stud prominently before the public. Hence they found ready sale, at an ascending scale of prices, for all the colts they could turn out. Strangers came for the hunting, and made purchases. The hounds, too, meeting regularly once a week during the winter months, exercised a repressive influence upon the dingos, so much so, that M.F.H. (not being a sheep-owner) began seriously to think of preserving these much-maligned yet indispensable animals.
So widely spread and honourably mentioned was the fame of the Lake William Hunt Club, that His Vice-regal Highness the Governor himself more than once deigned to partake of the hospitality of The Chase, bringing with him aides-de-camp and private secretaries, pleasant of manner, and refreshing as such to the souls of the daughters of the house.
Meanwhile Wilfred worked away at the serious business of the estate, only taking occasional interest in these extraneous pleasures; grumbling, moreover, at the expense, indirect or otherwise, that the kennel necessitated.
However, it must be said in justice to him, that it was rarely he was betrayed into impatience with regard to an occupation which, with other branches of acclimatised field sports, had become the mainstay of his father’s interest in life.
‘Really,’ Mr. Effingham would say, ‘in a few years – say about eighteen hundred and forty-five or thereabouts – I believe we shall be nearly as secure of decent sport as we were in old England. The Murray cod are increasing in the lake. I have brown trout, dace, and tench in the little river. There are almost too many rabbits; and as to hares, pheasants, and partridges, we can invite half-a-dozen guns next season, without fear of consequences. I have been offered deer from Tasmania. With the inducement of a stag-hunt and a haunch of venison, I don’t see why we shouldn’t finish our season right royally. Depend upon it, New South Wales only wants enterprise, in the department of field sports, to become one of the finest countries under the sun.’
There was no doubt that in the eyes of an observer not endowed with the apprehensive temperament which numbers so many successful men amongst its possessors, the appearance of matters generally at The Chase justified reasonable outlay.
Wilfred had made a few guarded investments – all successful so far. What, for instance, could pay better than the purchase of the quiet, dairy steers from the small farmers in the autumn, when grass and cash were scarce, to fatten them in the lake paddocks? Adjacent freeholds, from time to time in the market, were added to the snug estate of The Chase. True, he could not always find the cash at call for these tempting bargains – (is there anything so enticing as the desire to add farm to farm and house to house, as in the old, old days of Judah?) – but Mr. Rockley was ready to endorse his bill, which, with his credit at the Bank of New Holland, was as good as cash.
Thus passed the time until the close of the hunting season, before which Major Glendinning had returned and apparently taken up his abode in the neighbourhood, in great request at all the stations, and earning for himself daily the character of a thorough sportsman. He purchased a couple of horses from the Benmohr stud, on which, from time to time, he performed such feats across country as caused it to be surmised that, in the event of his settling in the neighbourhood, Bob Clarke would find a rival.
He spoke highly of the standard as to blood and bone of the horses bred in the district, openly stating that, in the event of the proprietors being minded to establish a system of shipment to India, they might expect extraordinary prices for their best horses, while the medium ones would be worth double or treble their colonial value.
Mr. Rockley, after reckoning up expenses, together with the rather serious item of risk of loss on ship-board, decided that there was a handsome margin. He finished by declaring that in the following spring, which would be in time for the cool season at Calcutta, he would send a dozen horses of his own breeding, and join them in a cargo from the district.
The idea was adopted. Preparations were made by handling and stable-feeding as many of the saleable horses as could be spared. O’Desmond was a warm supporter of the movement. He offered to find from his long-established stud fully half the number necessary for the undertaking. The Major, who was compelled to revisit India once more, if but for the last time, had agreed to accompany the emigrants, and to see them safely into the stables of old Sheik Mahommed, the great Arab horse-dealer.
‘Fancy getting a hundred or two for our colts!’ said Hamilton. ‘Not more than they are worth when you come to think of their breeding. I look upon the Camerton stock as the very best horses in New South Wales, probably in Australia. But of course we never expect more than a third of such prices in these markets.’
‘The Major deserves a statue,’ said Argyll, ‘inscribed – “Ad centurionem fortissimum, qui, equis canibusque gaudens, primus in Indis et in Nova Cambria erat.”’
‘Very neat and classical,’ affirmed Fred Churbett. ‘I intend to send Duellist. I should be sure to get three hundred for him, shouldn’t I? He’s a sweet hack, but the price is tempting. I daresay I could pick up another one up to my weight.’
‘A horse of Duellist’s blood, size, and fashion would sell for that sum any day in Calcutta,’ assented the Major. ‘He would be a remarkable horse anywhere, and I need not tell you, would fetch more as a park hack in London.’
‘Would we were both there!’ murmured Fred softly. ‘I fancy I see myself on him doing Rotten Row. I have half a mind to go with you to Calcutta, Major. If the trade develops we might make money a little faster than at present, and have our fling in the old country before these locks are tinged with grey,’ melodramatically patting his auburn chevelure.
‘It might be a desirable change,’ said Forbes. ‘Many people are said to improve in appearance as they grow older.’
‘But not in mildness of disposition, James,’ retorted Churbett. ‘A tendency to flat contradiction and aggressive argument has rarely been known to abate with advancing years. But this is wide of the Indian Remount Association. I don’t see why we shouldn’t offer to ship and sell on commission. Many people in the district breed a good nag and don’t know what to do with him afterwards. Suppose we consult the Squire about it. He’s not a business man, but he knows India well.’
It was agreed that they should make up a party, consisting of Forbes, Churbett, the Major, and Argyll, to ride over to The Chase that afternoon. This was always a popular proceeding if any colour of business, news, or sport could be discovered for the visit.
As they were nearing the gate of the home-paddock, they encountered Wilfred Effingham, accompanied by his old stock-rider, bringing in a draft of cattle. They amused themselves watching the efficient aid rendered by the dog, and remarked incidentally the fiery impatience and clever horsemanship of old Tom, who, roused by the difficulty of driving some of the outlying younger cattle, was flying round the drove upon old Boney at a terrific pace.
‘How well that old vagabond rides!’ said Fred Churbett, as Tom came racing down the range after a perverse heifer, forcing her along at the very top of her speed, with Boney’s opened mouth just at her quarter, at which, with ears laid back and menacing teeth, he reached over from time to time, the old man’s whip meanwhile rattling over her in a succession of pistol-cracks, while he audibly devoted her to the infernal deities.
‘There, thin, may the divil take ye for a cross-grained, contrairy, brindle-hided baste of a scrubber; may I niver if I don’t have ye in the cask the first time yer bones is dacently covered!’ he wrathfully ejaculated, as Boney stopped dead at the rear of the drove, into which the alarmed heifer shot with the velocity of a shell.
As they rode up to Wilfred and his man, Major Glendinning addressed the old stock-rider:
‘By the way, Tom, do you happen to know any one of your own name in this part of the country – or elsewhere in the colony, as you have been such a traveller?’
‘The divil a know I know,’ replied Tom (who was in one of his worst humours, and at such times had little control over himself), ‘of any man but Parson Glendinning that lives on the Hunter River, and he’s a Scotchman and never seen “the black North” at all. But what raison have ye to ask me? I’m Tom Stewart Glendinning, the stock-rider, and barrin’ that I was “lagged” and was a fool to myself all my life long, I’ve no call to be ashamed of my name, more than another man.’
As he spoke the old man raised himself in his saddle and looked steadily, even fiercely, into the eyes of his interlocutor, who in turn, half astonished, half irritated at the old man’s manner, frowned as he returned the gaze with military sternness of rebuke.
Wilfred came up with the intention of rating his follower for his acerbity, but as he marked the fixed expression of the two men, something prevented him interposing. A similar feeling took possession of the others, as they stopped speaking and unconsciously constituted themselves an audience during this peculiar colloquy. Did a shadow of doubt, a half-acknowledged idea cross the minds of the spectators, as they watched the two men whose paths in life lay so wide apart? Was it the fire which burned with sudden glow, at that moment, in the eyes of both speakers, as they confronted each other, the chance similarity of their aquiline features, closely compressd lips, and knitted brows? Whatever the unseen influence, it was simultaneous, as it awed to silence men, at no time easy to control, and placed them in a position of mesmeric domination.
The Major rapidly, but with strangely husky intonation, then said:
‘Under that name did you send to Simon Glendinning, in the county of Derry, certain sums of money?’
‘I did thin; and why wouldn’t I, if it was my own? It was asy made in thim days; the country was worth living in, – not like now, overstocked with “jimmies” and foreign trash.’
‘You sent that money, as I was informed,’ continued the Major, persistently unheeding the old man’s petulance, ‘for the benefit of a child, a nephew of your own, whom you desired to provide for?’
‘Nephew be hanged! The boy was my son, Owen Walter Glendinning by name. Maybe he’s dead and gone this many a day, for I niver heard tale or tidings of him since. It’s as well for him and betther. ’Tis little use I see in draggin’ on life in this world at all, unless you’ve great luck intirely. But what call have ye to be cross-examinin’ me – like a lawyer – about my family affairs, and what makes the colour lave yer face like a dead man’s? Who are ye at all?’
‘I am Owen Walter Glendinning! It was for me that your money was used. I am – your – son!’
As he spoke an ashen hue overspread the bronzed cheek, and the strong man swayed in his saddle as if he would have fallen to the ground. His lips were clenched, and every feature bore the impress of the agony that strains nature’s every capacity. As for the spectators, they looked upon the actors in this life drama, of which the catastrophe had been so unexpectedly sprung upon them, with silent respect accorded to those beyond human aid. Words would have been worse than useless. They could but look, but sit motionless on their horses, but school every feature to passive recipiency, until the end should come.
‘God in Heaven!’ cried the old man; ‘do you tell me so? May the tongue be blistered that spoke the word! It was a lie I tould you – lies – lies – I tell ye; sure ye don’t belave a word of it?’
Then he looked at the despairing face of the soldier with wistful entreaty and bitter regret, piteous to behold.
‘It is too late; it is useless to declare that you misled me. You have betrayed the truth, which in pity for my unworthy pride you attempt to conceal.’
‘It’s all a lie – a lie – a hellish lie!’ screamed the old man, transported with rage and regret. ‘What you, my son! You! Major Glendinning, a fine gintleman, and a soldier every inch of ye, the ayquals of the best gintry in the land and they proud of ye, the son of a drunken old convict stock-rider! I tell ye it can’t be. I swear it’s a lie. I knew the man ye spake of. He’s dead now, but he was book-larned and come of an old family. I heard tell of his sending home money to his nephew in the North, and our names being the same I just said it out of divilment. Sure I’d cut my throat if I thought I’d be the manes of harmin’ ye. Why don’t ye curse me? Why don’t ye tell thim gintlemen I’m a lyin’ old villain? They know me well. Here, I’ll swear on my bended knees, by the blessed Virgin and all the saints, there’s no word of truth in what I said.’
As old Tom raved, implored, and blasphemed, cursing at once his own folly and evil hap, his face writhed with the working of inward feeling. His features were deadly pale, well-nigh livid; the tears ran down his furrowed cheeks, while his eyes blazed with an unearthly light. As he fell on his knees and commenced his oath of renunciation the calm tones of the Major were again heard.
‘All this is vain and useless. Get up, and listen to reason. That you are my – my father, I have now not the slightest reason to doubt. Your knowledge of the name, of the annual sum sent, is sufficient evidence; if these facts were not ample, the resemblance of feature is to me at this moment, as doubtless to our good friends here, unmistakable. Fate has brought about this meeting, why, I dare not question. You are too excited to listen now’ – here the old man made as though he would burst in with a torrent of imprecations on the childish absurdity of the speaker – ‘but we shall meet again before I leave for India.’
‘May we niver meet again on God’s earth! ’Tis yerself that’s to blame if this divil’s blast gets out. Sure the Benmohr gintlemen and Mr. Churbett won’t let on. Mr. Wilfred’s close enough. Kape your saycret, and divil a soul need hear of the sell ould Tom gave ye. My sarvice to ye, Major!’
Here the old man mounted and devoted his energies to the cattle. Wilfred moved forward, by no means sorry that the strange scene had concluded.
‘Look here, Effingham, I will ride on to The Chase and make my adieus; as well now as another time. I return at once to India. You understand my position, I feel sure.’
He rode forward with a more upright seat, a firmer hand upon his bridle-rein, and that stern lighting of the eyes that may be seen when, and when only —
Bridle-reins are gathered up,
And sabres blaze on high,
ere each man spurs to the death feast, wherein his own name has, perchance, been sounded on a shadowy roll-call by a phantom herald.
Hamilton urged his horse alongside of the Major and held out his hand. Their eyes met as each wrung the proffered palm. But no word was spoken. Argyll and Churbett rode slightly ahead. Before long they reached the gate of The Chase, which, with its peculiar fastening, their horses began to know pretty well, either sidling steadily up or commencing to gambade at the very sight of it, in token of detestation, as did Grey Surrey.
‘It seems odd that I shall perhaps never see this house again,’ said Major Glendinning, slowly and reflectively. ‘I was beginning to be very fond of it, and had made up my mind to buy a place for a stud farm and settle near it. But why think of it now, or of anything else? “What is decreed by Allah is decreed,” as saith the Moslem. Who am I to complain of the universal fate?’
But as the strong man spoke there was an involuntary tremor in his voice, a contraction of the muscles, as when the dumb, tortured frame quivers under the surgeon’s knife.
‘Oh, how glad I am that you all came to-day,’ said Annabel, as they walked in; ‘that is, if a girl is permitted to express her pleasure at the arrival of gentlemen. Perhaps I should have said “how fortunate a coincidence.” But, as a fact, all our horses are in to-day, and we were just wondering if we could make up a riding-party after lunch. Mr. Churbett, I can order you to come, because you never have any work to do; not like some tiresome people who will go home late at night or early in the morning.’
‘I never get credit for my labours, Miss Annabel. I’m too good-natured and easily intimidated – by ladies. But did you never hear of my memorable journey with cattle from Gundagai to the coast, all in the depth of winter; and – and – in fact – several other exploring enterprises?’
‘What, really, Mr. Churbett? Then I recant. But I thought you managed the station from your verandah, sitting in a large cane chair, with a pile of books on the floor.’
‘An enemy hath done this,’ said Mr. Churbett impressively. ‘Miss Annabel, I never shall be exonerated till you immortalise The She-oaks with your presence at a muster. Then, and then only, can you dimly shadow forth the deeds that the knight Frederico Churbetto, with his good steed Grey Surrey, is capable of achieving.’
‘“I wadna doot,” as Andrew says; and indeed, Mr. Churbett, I should like very much to see all the galloping and watch you and your stock-riders at work. You must ask mamma. Only, the present question is, can we have a canter down to the lake side?’
‘We shall be truly thankful,’ said Hamilton. ‘I can answer for it. We did not know the good fortune in store for us when we started.’
‘Oh, thanks, thanks! Consider everything nice said on both sides. But what have you done to Major Glendinning? He looks so serious.’
‘Oh, he’s all right,’ said Hamilton, thinking it best to suffer their friend to make his explanations personally. ‘Indian warriors, you know, are apt to suffer from old wounds. Change of weather, I think.’
‘Poor fellow!’ said Annabel. ‘It seems hard that if one is not killed in battle, he should have to suffer afterwards. However, we must cheer him up. I will go and put my habit on.’
The afternoon was fine, so after a preliminary saddling-up, the whole party filed off, apparently in high spirits. The roads in one direction were always sound, while by ascending slightly one of the spurs of the range a grand view was always obtainable.
Rosamond rode foremost, as she generally did, by right of the exceptional walking of Fergus. She was accompanied by Forbes, whose hackney had been selected after great research, his friends averred, in order that he might rank as the next fastest pacer in those parts. Argyll and Wilfred brought up the rear, occasionally joining company with Annabel and Fred Churbett. The Major and Beatrice went next behind the leaders. The couples preserved the order in which they set out, with the exception of the inroad upon Fred and Annabel’s eager colloquies, which were not deeply sentimental. That amiable personage complained that no one scrupled to break in upon his tête-à-têtes. He ‘thought he should have to grow a moustache and call some one out, in order to inspire respect.’
Major Glendinning had made frequent visits to Warbrok, and familiar intercourse having naturally resulted from his intimacy with their friends at Benmohr, the family had come to look upon him as one of their particular set. Of a nature constitutionally reserved, and more specially self-contained from long residence as a military autocrat in one of the provinces of Northern India, he had read and thought more deeply than men of his class are apt to do. In proportion, therefore, to his general reticence was his satisfaction in unlocking his stores of experience when he met with congenial minds.
