The Ghost Camp
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But the difficulty was to find all these virtues, personal recommendations, gifts and graces, centred in one individual. The popular verdict so declared it. And if the “classes and the masses” in Tasmania had been polled as to his fitness for any post of eminence, from the vice-regal administrator of the government downward, every man, woman and child in the island would have gone “solid” for “Dicky Dereker.”
Of this resistless, all-conquering sway, Mr. Blount was shortly to have proof and confirmation, had such been needed. Sooth to say, he felt more than slight misgivings; indeed, something near to what is called an accusing conscience, with respect to his marked attentions to and quasi-friendship for Laura Claremont on the occasion of his last visit to Hollywood Hall. He was then (it may be stated for the defence) in the somewhat perilous position of having been warned off, as he considered it, by the family at Marondah, and was thus unprovided with an attraction of counterbalancing interest. “Full many a heart is caught on the rebound,” and doubtless the sympathetic manner and intellectual superiority of Laura Claremont, combined with her personal endowments, constituted a strong case for the unattached, unprotected stranger. When he returned to Tasmania, bringing his bride with him radiant with the overflowing happiness of the recent honeymoon, would the sympathetic “friend” in whose society he had so openly delighted look coldly upon him? Would her friends and compatriots combine to denounce him as an unworthy trifler, who, after paying compromising attentions, not only “rode away,” but married a former flame, not even permitting a decent interval to elapse between his preference for the old love and desertion of the new?
Much troubled by these considerations he had even thought over an indirect way of breaking the news, in a non-committal way, to the young lady, and her (perhaps) justly incensed family and friends.
But qui s’excuse s’accuse recurred to his mind with painful promptitude. So, fortunately (as it turned out), he decided to trust to time and chance for extrication from the dilemma. For, as he was entering the hospitable portal of the Tasmanian Club, with a view to luncheon and the later news items, he was joined by Claude Clinton, who at once questioned him as to subscriptions for the forthcoming ball, given by the members and players of the polo club. “How many tickets shall I send you? They’re a guinea for men and half as much for ladies; and have you heard the last engagement? No? It was only given out this morning. Laura Claremont has made up her mind at last; Dick Dereker is the happy man!”
“Send me a dozen tickets,” said Mr. Blount, who felt like John Bunyan after his burden of sins had been removed. “They have my heartiest congratulations.”
“All right,” said the omnipotent Secretary for Home Affairs; “by the way, wasn’t the fair Laura rather a friend of yours? The Tenby girls thought you were making strong running at the Hollywood Ball.”
“Every man of sense and taste must admire Miss Claremont,” he replied with diplomatic gravity, masking, however, emotions of such intensity that he had some difficulty in preserving calmness. “I was no exception to the rule, that was all.”
“Perhaps it helped to bring Master Dick to the scratch – the affair has been going on for years; if so, you did her a service. Dick is a splendid fellow, but when a man has a whole island to pick from he feels inclined to dally with a decision. However, they are to be married at once – before the House meets – not to let the honeymoon interfere with his legislative duties.”
“I am delighted to hear it,” Mr. Blount affirmed, with such evident sincerity that Mr. Clinton departed to overtake his multifarious duties, with the conviction that he was a fine, large-hearted, generous personage, as well in the matter of ball subscriptions as in the more romantic passages of life’s mystery. The young lady referred to had not come down to the naval ball for reasons of her own, or otherwise, the Squire’s health requiring her attendance upon him at the Hall. Such, at any rate, was the explanation given by the family friends: – “Dear Laura was so attached to her father, and so self-denying and conscientious in the discharge of her duties.”
Some of the frivolous division, perhaps a trifle impatient of perpetual proclamation of “Aristides the Just,” hinted that there is such a device known to the female heart – inscrutable as are its myriad emotions and minor tendencies – as the encouragement of a fervent admirer, up to a certain point, for the stimulation of a laggard lover, the adorer No. 2 being known in the unstudied phrase as the “runner up.” However that may have been, Mr. Blount took care to communicate the momentous intelligence to his wife and sister-in-law immediately upon his arrival at home. Mrs. Blount, with natural curiosity, expressed a wish to see this wonderful Laura Claremont – whom everybody praised and indeed referred to as one of the few girls in the island worthy of Dick Dereker. “I suspect you flirted with her on that driving tour – and at the ball too – you lost your card, I remember. Now confess!”
“She is a very fine girl – dark, and stately-looking. Every one admires her, but as for comparing her, et cetera, the idea is preposterous.”
“He hadn’t got our letters then, poor fellow!” said Imogen, who, fortunately, was not of a jealous disposition. “So if he made ever such a little swerve from what is called the path of duty I suppose I must forgive him. You won’t do so again, sir, I’ll see to that!”
“I hope you and Miss Claremont will be great friends. She is just the sort of woman you would like. I’ll make a point of introducing you at the Polo Ball. Here are the tickets, and a few to spare.”
“You have been most generous,” said Mrs. Bruce. “I’ll keep three for Edward, myself, and a friend, if one turns up. I daresay we shall find one or two.”
“No, take half; I bought them for the family. Perhaps some of the Upper Sturt people may turn up.”
“Quite likely,” said Imogen; “perhaps even from Bunjil! Oh, dear! what fun that would be!”
“I know what you are laughing at,” said her sister. “Do you see her joke, Val?”
“Not in the least. Let us share it, Mrs. Bruce.”
“It is a good joke,” said that merry matron, going off again into fits of laughter; “but I shall not tell you just yet. It is a secret.”
The male relative looked puzzled, admitting that the solution was beyond him; at which stage it seemed destined to remain.
CHAPTER XI
A description of “the season” in Hobart, whether regarded as a summer land for tourists, a safe run ashore for the men and officers of the South Pacific “fleet in being” detailed at Hobart, or as an object lesson for untravelled inhabitants – would seem to consist mainly of a record of recreational events. A list of picnics and pleasure parties, driving and fishing excursions, with pedestrian rambles – chiefly by day, but occasionally au clair de la lune.
The rivers named after Messrs. Brown and Huon, long dead celebrities, received more than their share of patronage, it would seem, in the entertainment of reckless revellers, whose polo meets and gymkhanas alternated with the legitimate annual races and steeplechases.
There must have been business transactions, but they were eluded or postponed – the only exception being the Great Silver Bonanza, which kept its bond-slaves hard at work, by means of remuneration on the higher scale. Night and day, work proceeded with the regularity of one of its own steam-engines. The Hobart weather was delightful – occasionally threatening rain but chiefly relenting, and ending towards the close of day with soft and cooling sea breezes, which refreshed the pleasure-driven crowds to the inmost fibre of the nervous system.
In all these ingenious projects for lessening the strain upon the minds and bodies of ordinary humanity the officers and men of H.M. Royal Navy were conspicuously effective. At all aristocratic entertainments “Man-of-War Jack” was utilised to keep the gangways clear, to hold the rope of division in the ball-room, and otherwise, as “the handy man,” in spotless array, to display his disciplined alertness. Even the naval Church parade was attended by the fair ones of perhaps the last night’s entertainment. On each Sunday morning, therefore, boat-loads of worshippers, in silk or muslin, might be descried crossing the waters of the harbour, rowed by an ample crew, under the charge of an all-important middy, to the flag-ship or frigate, where divine service was celebrated by the Chaplain of the Fleet, or other amphibious clergyman, provided by the Lords of the Admiralty.
In this sense, perhaps, the gay season of Hobart constituted a social federation of the Australasian States, when other matters, not of ephemeral weight, might be suitably discussed. From the wave-beaten isles of New Zealand, where the mountain-crested billows rolled on their stormy march from the ice-fields of the ultimate pole, to the mangrove-bordered marshes of Northern Queensland; from the “Never-Never country” and the “back blocks”; from “the Gulf” and the buffalo lands of Essington and Darwin, came languid, fever-stricken squatters, to breathe the cool air of this southern Lotus Land, differing among themselves in minor respects as to manner, accent, stature and ordinary habitude, but in heart and brain, British to the core. Roving sons of the Great Mother Land, holding God’s Commission of the strong hand, the steadfast brain, to occupy the Waste Places of the earth and develop their inborn trend towards justice and mercy, law and order. With such inherited gifts, going forth conquering, and to conquer, to weld into one solid, enduring fabric, the Empire of Britain. Thus, handing down to their children’s children lands of freedom “broad-based upon the people’s will,” where equal laws administered with moderation and mercy are to be the heritage of England’s sons. The Greater Britains of the South, for all time; and whether in peace or war, loyal, self-contained, immovable, one and indivisible.
The great event of the season was to be the Polo Ball, looked forward to with almost feverish eagerness, not only by the young men and maidens of the Happy Isle, but by the large important contingents from abroad, which exceeded in number, and social value, those of any previous year. Hence applications for tickets were beyond all calculation.
Requests, even entreaties poured in, almost until the opening of the doors of the great hall secured for the function. Claude Clinton was, as he said, “walked off his legs,” having indeed hardly time to dress and eat his dinner, while the committee, who had the onerous and responsible task of deciding upon the fitness of applicants, had to improvise a late sitting, so as not to disappoint the arrivals by the train from Launceston, just landed from the New Zealand Company’s extra service boat, the Rotorua. The funds of the Club, however, would be benefited to such an extent, that the secretary and committee worked loyally till the last moment, and when Mr. Clinton had given a last authoritative order, and made a final inspection of the decorations, he sat down to his dinner at the Travellers’ Club, and drank his pint of champagne with a conviction that everything had been done to deserve success, and that the issue lay with Fate.
Imogen had condescended to inform her relations that a friend of hers had arrived from Melbourne, who, having made up her mind at the last moment, would dress and join their party after dining at the Orient Hotel, where rooms had been secured for her previously.
She had written confidentially to Mr. Clinton and had her name properly submitted to and passed by the committee. All was arranged, and she would go under Imogen’s chaperonage to the ball, and perhaps stay with them all night.
“What is her name? Do I know her, Imogen?” inquired her husband. “You are very mysterious, my dear!”
“You have seen her, she tells me, but I am not certain whether you will recognise her. She comes from some place near Adelong in New South Wales; her people used to live in Tumut.”
“Then the probability is that she will be good-looking,” said Mr. Blount. “Some of the handsomest girls I ever saw came from that sequestered spot. However, we must wait till she shows up. Was she a schoolfellow of yours?”
“No, not exactly, but I knew her when she was younger. You will know all about her when the time comes. I feel desperately hungry, after this exciting day. Oh, I hear the dinner gong.”
The dinner was not unduly prolonged, as any one of experience in the anxieties and precautions which precede such an important function will understand. So that after an adjournment to the drawing-room, when, about nine o’clock, the maid delivered a message, sotto voce, to Mrs. Imogen, who forthwith left the room, everyone revolved great expectations. These were chiefly realised, when the hostess reappeared, accompanied by a tall, handsome, exceedingly well-dressed girl, who blushed and smiled, as she was introduced to the company as “Miss Maguire of Warranbeen.” “Very pleased to meet you, Miss Maguire,” began Blount, but, with a sudden alteration of tone and manner, “Why, it’s Sheila! by all the Powers, what a transformation!” as Mrs. Bruce shook her warmly by the hand, while Imogen stood by her charge, apparently charmed with the metamorphosis which leisure, the use and reputation of “money” had effected in the unformed country girl, so lately the “maid of the Inn,” at the secluded village of Bunjil, on the Upper Sturt.
“You didn’t know me, Mr. Blount, I could see that. I had half a mind to ask you what you’d like for breakfast. I’m turned into a young lady, nowadays, you see! And Mrs. Blount, in her great kindness, persuaded me to come to the ball to-night, with her and Mrs. Bruce. I’ve been to the Show Ball at Wagga, and one or two in Tumut, by way of a start. But this is such a grand affair; I feel frightened.”
“I am sure, Sheila, you have no cause to be,” said Mrs. Bruce, reassuringly; “you native girls can all dance – it seems an instinct; your dress is charming, and you will gather confidence as the ball goes on – and your card is filled. You are a mysterious stranger, for the present. That alone will be an attraction. We’ll see to your introductions; and there are naval men in profusion.”
“I like sailors,” said Sheila, “they are so unaffected and jolly, put on no side” (she had been at a country ball at the age of sixteen, to which the officers of a man-of-war, then in Sydney, had been bidden by a liberal-minded squatter, who had invited the whole of the “township” inhabitants, in one act, and a great success it was), for Sheila bore about with her for all time the memory of two polkas, a waltz, and a galop danced with the Honourable Mr. de Bracy, midshipman of the period, to their mutual satisfaction and enjoyment.
“I think you will have your share of partners, Sheila,” said her hostess; “you certainly do credit to your dressmaker, and the Upper Sturt complexion will give you a chance with these Tasmanian girls, who are justly celebrated for theirs.”
“What a transformation!” said Blount to his wife, before they put on their wraps. “I never could have believed it. Of course she has fined down since the Bunjil days. I believe old Barney sold a Queensland station, with 30,000 head of cattle, just before the seasons turned dry. So she and her sister are considerable heiresses. She has, as you see, self-possession, and sense enough to avoid anything outré.”
“You’ll see she’ll get on quite well – make a success, indeed. People say money isn’t everything; but it goes a long way in this, or any other country, especially combined with looks, and other good qualities. You had better dance the opening set of lancers with her for a start.”
Mrs. Imogen’s predictions were verified. There was a certain amount of romantic interest attached to the fresh-looking, handsome stranger, reputed wealthy, and who danced so well. “Came, too” (people said), “with that nice, high-bred-looking Mrs. Bruce and the bride.” She danced the first lancers with Mr. Blount, and while exhibiting familiarity with the figures, moved with the graceful indifference which has succeeded the erstwhile precision with which the “steps” were anciently performed. Mr. Blount managed to secure an early waltz, and the naval men coming by shiploads, as it appeared to her, Sheila’s programme was filled in no time.
That there could not have been a better ball, all the authorities combined to declare. The ever-successful secretary and plenipotentiary had once more covered himself with glory; the arrangements were perfect, the supper was “a dream,” and when Sheila found herself taken in by the Captain of the flag-ship, the Admiral and the Governor being in the immediate vicinity, she wondered whether she was likely to fall down in a fit, or if some other kind of death would result from such an overflowing flood of triumphant, ecstatic bliss.
However, she did not die, or indeed was she likely to perish of nervous excitement consequent on pure, unadulterated pleasure; the early bush-training, together with a naturally good constitution, would always preserve her from such an untimely fate.
Imogen was carefully, prudently, introduced to Miss Laura Claremont, who prophesied that they would be great friends, and invited her and her sister to Hollywood. Both of which Imogen accepted conditionally on her husband’s – she laid a slight emphasis upon that very possessive word – “on her husband’s not being hurried away by Mr. Frampton to that horrid Zeehan.” The Upper Sturt party, as we may for convenience describe them, got their full share of partners it may be believed, being all of the age when, if there be an ear for music, and a terpsichorean taste “what time the raving polka spins adown the rocking floor,” with good music, suitable partners, and a smooth surface, nothing much better among the lighter enjoyments of life is to be found. With Miss Claremont Blount had danced before, when their steps appeared to suit extremely well. On this occasion, he saw no reason why he should deny himself the fleeting indulgence of once more gliding and sliding about with her in the accepted fashion.
She graciously acceded to his request for an after supper dance, and in one of the partly deserted side-rooms they came to a mutual understanding, which each felt was more or less needed.
“I owe you a few words,” she said, “if our friendship is to continue – and I should be sorry for it to end abruptly. It appears to me that we were both in an exceptional state of mind when we met at Hollywood for the first time, and if something had not happened – which did happen – one of us would have felt a right to blame the other.”
“You have stated the position most fairly,” he said.
“I hope you don’t think I am so logical,” she replied, “as to be deficient in feeling. Believe me when I tell you” – and here her dark eyes glowed with a transient gleam of hidden fire, which he had never before noticed in them – “I don’t exaggerate when I say that it was a fateful crisis, such as I had never before experienced.”
“It was most truly a supreme moment in my destiny,” he replied, as she faltered and then stopped, overcome by emotion.
“But, let me go on, I entreat, to make open and full confession, for I can never recur to the subject, and I trust you to make a similar promise.”
“It is given,” said Blount in all sincerity.
“Then,” said Miss Claremont, “I will not deny that I was attracted to you at our first meeting, more, perhaps, than towards any man whom I had ever met, with one exception. You were different from any one with whom I had previously come into contact. This impression was confirmed as we saw more of each other. I recognised your mental qualities. I approved highly of your opinions, your personal attributes and general character appealed to me strongly. My heart was in an unsettled state; I was weary of waiting, and began to doubt whether Richard Dereker, with whom I had been in love ever since I could remember, intended to declare himself. I am not believed to be impulsive, but, under certain conditions, am very much so.”
“All women are,” interjected Blount.
“Possibly; but let me finish;” and she hurried on – her voice changed from the deliberate calmness with which she usually spoke, to a hurried monotone – “If you had proposed to me that night, I should have consented, I believe. But your departure next morning gave me time to reflect; saved me, most likely, both of us, from life-long incompleteness, which, to a woman at least, means settled unhappiness. Then, just after you left, my fairy prince ‘made up his mind,’ as people say, and I am the happiest girl in Tasmania. I need not ask about your feeling – it is written in large print over both of you, and – here she comes! I don’t wonder.”
“I was in a most forlorn and wretched state,” said Blount, “when you took pity on me and healed my wounds by your sympathetic kindness. Never think you could have done me an injury – and you must let me say, even under our changed conditions, that I should not have been a life-long sufferer. But, as in your case, the fairy princess was persuaded of her knight’s fidelity; the falsehoods set about by enemies were disproved, and the castle rang with troubadour ballads, and the usual merry-making, when the ‘traitours and faitours’ were put in their proper places; and so the incident is closed, and in all gratitude and enduring friendship it is a case of ‘as you were.’”
“Yes; I know, I know,” said the fair Laura; “no more protestations, or else your wife will require explanations, too. Who is the very handsome damsel she has with her?”
“Well; a great friend of mine, who stood by me staunchly in my tribulations and rendered me timely aid. She is a New South Wales heiress. I will tell you about her another time.”
“We have been looking for you, Miss Claremont,” said Imogen. “I was anxious to introduce my friend, Miss Maguire, a friend of my husband’s, too, who did him important service at a critical juncture without which (between you and me) things might have turned out differently.”
“Mr. Blount gave me to understand as much,” said Miss Claremont, “and I am most happy to welcome any friend of yours or his to our island home. I hope you have enjoyed yourself, Miss Maguire?”
“More than I ever did in my life before,” said Sheila, with such evident sincerity, that no one could help smiling. “I think the people here are the kindest and pleasantest I ever met. I have often heard of Hobart hospitality, but never expected to find it anything like this.”
“I hope we shall continue to deserve such a good character. Strangers do generally approve of us, and there is no doubt we are always delighted to see them. I suppose we ought to make a move, Mrs. Blount, I see Richard looking out anxiously for me. We must all go and thank Claude Clinton if he isn’t dead with fatigue. We owe a great deal to him.”
“That we do,” said Sheila, naïvely, “he told me he had been hard at work since daylight, arranging thousands of things. Poor fellow! I quite pitied him. I was nearly offering to help with the supper – I am supposed to be clever in that line.”
“You might have come off as well as the girl who volunteered to take the parlourmaid’s place when her sister was short of one at a big dinner, and afterwards married a baronet with ten thousand a year, who thought she said ‘Sherry, sir?’ so nicely!”
“I see Claude Clinton over there,” interposed Blount, who thought the situation was becoming critical. “He’ll be fast asleep if we don’t go and pelt him with congratulations. Say something nice to him, Sheila!”
“That I will,” said she, with effusion, “I quite love him for his kind-heartedness.”
“You’re not the only grateful one,” said Miss Claremont, “but you’ll have to wait your turn. Dick must make a speech, and we’ll all say Amen.”
“I’ll do anything if you’ll come home,” said that gentleman. “You girls would stay till daylight, I believe. Claude, my boy! come here and be publicly thanked. These ladies have constituted themselves a deputation and wish to assure you that this is the best ball they ever were at in their lives; that it wouldn’t have been half as good but for you; that they will be everlastingly grateful for the perfect arrangements you have made. Miss Maguire can’t express her feelings in words, but is most anxious to – ”