The Ghost Camp

“Of course not. (Chorus) ‘For he’s etc. etc.’”

“Isn’t it rather early for a song?” queried Mrs. Bruce.

“Not at all, when two such voices as yours and Mrs. Blount’s are available, and this is such a grand room to sing in. Music after breakfast – when you’ve nothing to do afterwards, is simply delicious.”

“Well, only one verse – Sheila and I will join in,” said Mrs. Bruce. “If Edward comes in, he’ll think we’re going out of our minds.”

The tribute to Mr. Clinton’s merits having been rendered with feeling, Sheila’s fresh voice holding a good position, the council went on to strict business.

“The drags first,” said Mr. Herbert, “the affair must be started properly – now, who are there? There’s Gerald Branksome from W.A., he can drive, I know – he won the tandem race at the Polo Gymkhana, and the Victoria Cross race at Hurlingham last year. He can be guaranteed. There’s Jim Allanson just down from Sydney, a well-known whip, I’ve seen him drive to Randwick from the Union Club. The Quorn Hall drag with its four greys will take some beating. I wired to Dick Dereker, he’ll turn up. Jack, are you good for the brake, with that off leg of yours? It’s a responsible position.”

“Count me in,” said that gentleman, who had been to San Francisco; “Joe Bowman will help with the brake business.”

“That’s good enough,” said Herbert, “Joe will keep an eye on you going down hill. I’ll have one, if I have to wire to Melbourne for a team, that makes the half-dozen, doesn’t it? I daresay there’ll be another or two by and by. Buggies, tandem carts, and private carriages may be left to their own discretion, or that of their owners – there’ll be no lack of them, I daresay.”

Once the great event was decided upon, neither difficulties nor delays were considered worthy of notice. The date was fixed: the invitations were sent out next morning. The social status of the entertainment being exceptional, no one dreamed of refusing. Rumours of the scale of magnificence upon which it was to be carried out commenced to circulate – for one of the conditions of unparalleled advantage in such affairs, an unrestricted bank balance, was in this case notorious.

Money being no object to these youthful Monte Christos, they were able to indulge, therefore, all the fancies of generous dispositions, with excited imaginations. No expense was spared; no thoughtful kindness omitted. A large proportion of the hackney carriages and other livery stable vehicles were secured. As at a contested election, they plied from the General Post-Office to the Hermitage, with free transit for all holders of invitation cards. The arrangements were complete and successful, beyond all previous holiday experiences, and when Charlie Herbert took the lead with an impressive team, and the belle of Hobart on the box seat of his drag, life, it may be confidently stated, had few richer moments, or more dazzling triumphs in store for him.

If he did not quote “let Fate do her worst,” there could be no doubt that he felt, deep down in his heart, the delicious, ever new, ever fresh sentiment of the poet.

Next in order came Edward Bruce, with Sheila on the box beside him, wild with joy and the excitement of such a position, of which, except in a dream fairy tale, she had never realised the possibility. Imogen, beside her, had insisted on relinquishing the place of honour. “No, Sheila, my dear! My fortune is told, your turn has yet to come, and you have all our best wishes, you know.”

“You are too good, Miss Imogen, Mrs. Blount, I mean! Really I don’t know what I am saying.”

“Well, you’re looking your best to-day, Sheila! Your dress couldn’t be better, and this lovely day has sent all the roses to your cheeks. Why, you might pass for a Tasmanian girl, really – and we know what that means.”

“Now, you girls!” said Edward Bruce, in accents of veiled command, “keep your eyes about you, going down this hill. It’s trying with a heavy load, and I’ve heard of accidents. Imogen, put your foot on the brake that side, and give me the least bit of help. Now, we’re on the level again. Isn’t that view of the sea lovely?”

Reginald Vernon Harcourt, R.N., Flag Lieutenant of H.M.S. Orlando, was understood to be of that opinion, as he leaned forward from his seat in the body of the coach, immediately behind the two young women aforesaid, and remarked as much. This was not the only statement he made before the procession pulled up at the Sandy Bay Hotel, at the base of the hill immediately below the Hermitage. And it did not go unnoted, that, being favourably situated for talking to Sheila over her right shoulder, he made prompt use of the position, as a naval strategist of experience, while Imogen and Jack Clarke similarly situated, did not appear to be quite so eager for conversation.

The enumeration of the drags and traps following would resemble that of the Greek ships at the siege of Troy. It will be sufficient to say that Mr. Dereker’s grey team was held to be the best, as to matching and style; Dick Dereker, the most finished exponent of the coaching science – worthy of the great annual pageant in Hyde Park. There were a few dissentients, who thought the Quorn Hall team and drag faultless. But the opposition votes were too powerful. He was “Dick Dereker,” therefore unapproachable in love, war, sport, and every other form of manly excellence. There was nothing more to be said. His name settled the matter.

As it happened, nothing could possibly have been more deliciously perfect than the weather. Warm, without oppressive heat or sultry feeling, the faint sea breeze, the murmuring lazy surge-roll, completed the magic spell, which invited to sensuous enjoyment, the happy possessors of unworn youth – in which class, the greater proportion of the guests were fortunately included.

The day, the season, the environment and attendant circumstances being propitious, so was the gathering, which was beyond all precedent successful. All the four-in-hands had turned up; there was such a crowd at the General Post-Office, that traffic was temporarily impeded. But that did not matter in Hobart, as it certainly would have done in Melbourne or Sydney – where indignation would have been aroused. The Tasmanian population is kindly and forbearing, especially to the stranger within their gates, through whom, in the season, it must be admitted, their revenues are substantially benefited. So, as the four-in-hands passed in single file down Davey Street, cheers rent the air, and hearty popular enthusiasm was evoked. The hill below the Hermitage was long and steep, so it was arranged that the drags and carriages were to be left at the hotel, where adequate accommodation had been provided, as well for the horses, as for the grooms and drivers to them appertaining. The walk up hill was neither long nor unduly fatiguing; providing also for reasonable deviations into the forest paths, whence more extended views might be enjoyed, or confidential communications exchanged. This arrangement seemed to suit the majority of the guests, who might, without loss of time, have been seen scattered over the sides and summit of the forest hill. At the sound of the great Chinese gong, a fragment of loot from the Summer Palace at Pekin, in the half-forgotten Chinese war, a strong converging force prepared to invest the Hermitage. Here were seen tables on trestles in the principal room, laden with all the good things which a very active, well-paid caterer had been able to collect. Haunches of venison, barons of beef, saddles of mutton, turkeys of great size and amplitude, wild fowl of all descriptions, lake trout, fresh salmon (frozen), grouse and pheasant, from the same miraculous arrangement, rendered the choice of viands difficult, and the taste of the most fastidious “gourmet,” easy to satisfy. With the popping of the first champagne corks, the conversation began to strike the note of cheerfulness proper to the occasion, after which the “crescendo” was maintained at an uninterruptedly joyous, even vivacious level.

Speeches were sternly deprecated; an immediate adjournment to the beach was proposed and promptly carried out. The shining sands invited to every kind of game and dance suitable to an open air revel. Sets of lancers were formed; games such as “twos and threes,” “oranges and lemons,” “hide and seek,” found enthusiastic supporters, while those pairs who had anything particular to say to each other found quiet paths and shady nooks in the forest fringe, which lay so conveniently close to the beaches and headlands.

There was, apparently, no lack of mutual entertainment, or necessity for the givers of the feast to invent fresh frolics, for, just as the low sun gave warning, and the last game of “rounders” came to an end – in which, by the way, Sheila, who was as active as a mountain colt, had particularly distinguished herself – the recall bugle was sounded. A late afternoon tea was served, and a descent made to the lower level, where the drags, carriages, buggies and dog-carts stood, with horses harnessed up, ready to start. Among these last-mentioned vehicles was one, a dog-cart, which was originally intended to accommodate more than one pair. The driver regretted his inability to take up a third person for want of room. It subsequently came out that, being a youth of foresight, he had removed the back seat before leaving Hobart, holding the ancient averment, “two’s company, three’s none,” still to be in force and acceptation. However, after the inevitable amount of bustle and occasional contention of ostlers, all the teams were duly mustered and loaded up in the same order as before.

There were, of course, certain reconstructions, among which it was noted that Mrs. Blount had relinquished her seat next to Miss Maguire, in favour of the Flag-Lieutenant of the Orlando, alleging preference for the higher seat behind, as by this removal she commanded a more extensive view of the glorious landscape, spread out by sea and shore, below and around. Sheila and Lieutenant Harcourt did not appear to be so deeply interested in scenery – at least, on this occasion – as they kept their heads down mostly, and spoke, though uninterruptedly, in rather a low tone during the homeward drive.

On one occasion, however, they looked up suddenly as a fresh young voice commenced the opening verse of a well-known song, and before the magical couplet of “The ship is trim and ready, and the jolly days are done,” was well over, the whole of the occupants of the drag, as well as those of the one immediately behind, joined in with tremendous enthusiasm, until, when the comprehensive statement that “They all love Jack” was reached, the very sea-gulls on the beach were startled, and flapped away with faint cries of remonstrance. Then, for one moment, the Flag-Lieutenant and Sheila looked into one another’s eyes, and read there something not wholly subversive of the sentiment.

The moon had risen, illumining the broad estuary, over which, in shimmering gleams, lustrous lines of fairy pathways stretched to the silvery mist of the horizon; star-fretted patches of lambent flame traversed the wavelets, which ever and anon raised a glittering spray upward, while from time to time the low but distinct rhythmic roll of the surges fell on the ear. Higher and higher rose the moon in the dark blue, cloudless sky – the surroundings were distinctly favourable to those avowals which the moon has, from time immemorial, had under her immediate favour and protection. If some of the merry maidens of the day’s festa listened to vows more ardent than are born of the prosaic duties of every-day life, what wonder? Next morning there was great excitement at the clubs, and among all the inner circles of Hobart society. Two engagements were “given out,” one being that of Lieutenant Vernon Harcourt, of the Orlando, to Miss Sheila Maguire, of Tumut Park, New South Wales, and the other of Mr. Charles Herbert, and a young lady to whom he had long been attached, though circumstances had hitherto delayed his declaration. Suspicions had been aroused as to Mr. Jack Clarke and another fair maid, but nothing was as yet “known for a fact.” Of course, little was done on the day following this stupendous entertainment. Everybody was too tired, or declared themselves to be so. The members of the Polo Club got up a scratch match, however, just to “shake off the effects of a late sitting at whist.”

A few ladies rode out to this affair, the ground being situated picturesquely on the bank of the broad Derwent. Among these Dianas was Sheila, riding a handsome thoroughbred, and escorted by Mr. Bruce, also exceptionally well mounted. Mr. Harcourt was observed to join them from time to time, when his “quarter” was up at polo. He was the show player of the fleet; always in a foremost position at the gymkhana. In this particular match, Sheila was observed to take great interest, turning pale, indeed, on one occasion when he was knocked off his horse in a violent passage at arms.

His opponent was adjudged to have been in the wrong, and well scolded by the captain of his side; the game went on, and Sheila recovered her roses – her spirits also, sufficiently to join in the cheering when Lieutenant Harcourt’s side won the match by a goal and two behinds.

Both of the engagements met with general approbation. The Tasmanian young lady and her lover belonged to (so to speak) “county” families, known from childhood to all the squirearchy of the island – always general favourites. So everybody congratulated sincerely and wished them luck. The over-sea couple were, of course, strangers, and under other circumstances, local jealousy might have been aroused by a girl from another colony carrying off a handsome naval officer, always a prize in colonial cities. But Sheila’s simple, kindly, unaffected manner had commended her to even the severe critics of her own sex, the more sensible members excusing his invidious preference among so many good-looking, well-turned-out damsels, something after this fashion:

“You see, he’s only a lieutenant; it may be years before he gets a ship. He couldn’t afford to marry yet, without money. They say she has tons of it, and she is certainly very good-looking, and nice in her manner. So Mr. Harcourt hasn’t done himself so badly.” One person was slightly dissatisfied. That was his captain. “He is my sailing-master, and a very good one, too,” he said, in an ill-used tone of voice. “He’ll always be thinking of her now, and counting the days till he can leave the service. Suppose the ship runs on a rock, I get my promotion stopped, and all because of this confounded girl.” Different point of view!

As for Sheila and her lieutenant, they were perfectly, genuinely, unmistakably happy. They were both young, she just twenty, he not quite arrived at thirty. He was a rising man in his profession, and Sheila’s money, which was, very properly, to be settled upon herself, would allow them to live most comfortably while he was on shore; besides aiding – as money always does, directly or indirectly – in his promotion. So the immediate prospect was bright. Sheila declared that she had always loved sailors since that eventful ball, where she had joined in the dance on equal terms with the nobility of Britain. What a fortunate girl she was, to have such friends; and how much more fortunate she had become since!

This memorable picnic, often referred to in after years, was considered to be virtually, if not officially declared, the closing event of the season. The fleet was to sail in a week or ten days for “the islands,” a comprehensive term for a general look round the lands and seas of the South Pacific, in the interests of British subjects. They would be back in Sydney in three or four months, at the end of which time – a terrifically long and wearisome period Sheila thought – she and her sailor were to be married. The Admiral’s ship and officers would then return to England, after a month’s stay in Hobart and Sydney – the time of his commission having expired – and another Admiral, with another flag-lieutenant, would replace them. Sheila would also go to England, but not in the Orlando, modern regulations having put a stop to that pleasing privilege. But she could take passage in a P. and O. steamer, leaving about the same time, and be in England ready to receive him in a pretty house of their own – their very own – where they would be as happy as princes – happier indeed than some! After the departure of the fleet, a certain calmness – not exactly a dullness, but bordering on something of that nature – began to settle upon the Isle of Rest and Recreation. The Queenslanders, the New South Wales division, the Victorians, South Australians, and New Zealanders were taking their passages. Edward Bruce began to get more and more fidgety – he was certain that he was wanted at the station; really, if his wife and Imogen could not make up their minds to leave, he must go home and leave them to follow.

Matters were in this unsettled state, when suddenly in the cable column appeared the startling announcement, “The Earl of Fontenaye died suddenly yesterday, at Lutterworth, soon after hearing the news of his eldest son’s death at Malta from an accident at polo. The title and estates devolve upon the younger son, the Honourable Robert Valentine Blount, at present in Australia.”

This news, it may well be imagined, was received with mingled feelings by the people most nearly concerned. The Earl had been in failing health for years past; but as a confirmed invalid, had not aroused apprehension of a sudden termination to his succession of ailments. Blount and his father had been on excellent terms; their only serious disagreement had been on the subject of the younger son’s unreasonable wandering – as the old man termed it – to far countries and among strange people. He had not gone the length of prohibition, however, and his last letter had assured the errant cadet of his father’s satisfaction at his marriage, and of his anxiety to welcome the bride to the home of their race. Now all this was over. Blount would never behold the kind face lighting up with the joy of recognition, or have the pride of presenting Imogen in all her grace and beauty to the head of his ancient house. His brother Falkland too, who used to laugh at his pilgrimages, as he called them, and ask to be shown his staff and scrip, with the last news of the Unholy Land, as he persisted in naming Australia. What good chums they were, and had always been! His brother had never married; in that respect only withstanding his father’s admonitions, but promising an early compliance. Now, of course, in default of a baby heir Blount was Lord Fontenaye, the inheritor of one of the oldest historic titles and estates of the realm – a position to which he had never dreamed of succeeding; the thought of which, if it had ever crossed his mind, was dismissed as equivalent in probability to the proverbial “Château en Espagne.” Perhaps his most powerful consolation, independently of the change involved in becoming an English nobleman, with historical titles and a seat in the House of Lords, was the contemplation of Imogen as Lady Fontenaye.

To her, the feeling at first was painful rather than otherwise. She sympathised too deeply in all her husband’s mental conditions, not to share his grief for the sudden loss of a father and brother to whom he had been warmly attached. He would never be able to tell that father now how deeply he regretted the careless disregard of his feelings and opinions. Nor could he share with his brother, in the old home, those sports to which both had been so attached since boyhood’s day. The pride of proving that in a far land, and among men of his own blood, he had been able to carve out a fortune for himself, and to acquire an income, far from inconsiderable even in that land of great fortunes: even this satisfaction was now denied him. Imogen too, dreading always an inevitable separation from her sister, felt now that their absences must necessarily be greater, more lengthened, until at last a correspondence by letter at intervals would be all that was left to them of the happy old days in which they had so delighted.

Why could not Fate indeed have left them where they were, provided with a good Australian fortune, which they could have spent, and enjoyed among their own people, where Valentine would have, in time, become an Australian country gentleman, bought a place on the Upper Sturt, and lived like a king, going of course to Hobart in the summer, and running down to Melbourne now and then? Why indeed should they have this greatness thrust upon them?

So when Imogen was called upon by various friends, ostensibly to inquire, but really to see “how she took it,” and whether she showed any foreshadowing of the dignities, and calmness of exalted rank, they were surprised to see from red eyes, and other signs, that the young woman upon whom all these choice gifts had been showered had evidently been having what is known in feminine circles, as “a good cry,” and was far from being uplifted by the rank and fame to which she had been promoted.

This state of matters was considered to be so unwise, unnatural, and in a sense ungrateful, to the Giver of all good gifts, that they set themselves to rate her for the improper state of depression into which she had allowed herself to fall. She was enjoined to think of her duty to society, her rank, her position among the aristocracy of the proudest nobility in the world. Of course it was natural for her husband to be grieved at the death of his father and his brother. But time would soften that sorrow, and as she had never seen them, it would not be expected of her to go into deep mourning or to wear it very long. In the face of these, and other practical considerations, Imogen felt that there would be a flavour of affectation in the appearance of settled grief, and allowed her friends to think that they had succeeded in clearing away shadows. But she confided to Mrs. Bruce, in the confidence of the retiring hour, that Val and she would always look back to their quiet days at Marondah, and their holiday, lotus-eating season in Hobart, as part of the real luxuries and enjoyments of their past life.

“However, you will have to come and see me at Fontenaye! – how strangely it sounds – with Edward and the dear children, and we must get Mr. Tregonwell to make something happen to the Tasmanian Comstock, so that we will come out like a shot. But, oh! my dear old Australia! how I shall grieve at parting with you for ever!”

Then the sisters kissed, and wept in each other’s arms, and were comforted – so women are soothed in time of trial. On the next morning Imogen appeared at breakfast with an unruffled countenance, talking soberly to her husband and brother-in-law about the wonderful change in their future lives, and their departure by the next mail steamer.

This, of course, was imperative. The situation became urgent. Mr. Bruce agreed to remain until the P. and O. Rome, R.M.S. came for her load of so many thousand cases of Tasmanian apples, and with incidental passengers steamed away for Albany, Colombo, Aden, Cairo, and the East – that gorgeous, shadowy name of wonder and romance. Then would the Australian family return to their quiet home by the rippling, winding waters of the Sturt, and the English division return to become an integral portion of the rank and fashion, the “might, majesty and dominion” of the world-wide Empire which has stood so many assaults, and which still unfurls to every wind of Heaven the “flag that’s braved a thousand years, the battle and the breeze.”

It came to pass during one of the necessary conversations relative to the voyage, that Lord Fontenaye said to her ladyship, “Does anything occur to you, relative to Sheila Maguire, my dear Imogen?”

“Indeed, I have been thinking about her a great deal, lately,” said the youthful countess. “She can’t be married until Lieutenant Harcourt and the fleet return from the Islands. Till then, she will have to stay in Hobart.”

“Won’t that be a little awkward for her? She has no friends, that is to say, intimate friends, over here – though, of course, we could get her efficient chaperonage – eh?”

“I know what you are thinking of, Val! It would be the very thing – and oh! how kind of you.”

“What am I thinking of, and why am I so kind – have I married a thought reader, my dear Imogen?”

“Why, of course, you are intending to ask her to go home with us, and to be married from Fontenaye. It is a splendid idea. It would be unspeakably nice for her, and she would be such a help and comfort to me, on our travels.”