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"My brother and I, we never hit it off, somehow. So when my father died
I cleared. You don't remember his funeral, I suppose? No, no--that was
before your time. They hung the church all over with black
broadcloth of the best. That was the way in those days, and the cloth
was the parson's perquisite. The funeral hangings used to keep him in
coats and trousers. And they used to deal out long silk hat-scarves to
all the mourners--silk that would stand alone, as they say--and the
wives made mantles and aprons of them. They went down from mother to
daughter, like the best china and family spoons. That's how women took
care of their clothes when I was young. They didn't want new frocks and
fallals every week, like some folks I could name." And he pinched his
daughter's ear.
"Talk to Deb, father," said Mary. "I have not had a new frock for a
great many weeks."
"Aye, Deb's the one! That girl's got to marry a millionaire, or I don't
know where she'll be."
Almost Mrs Urquhart's words! And, like hers, they pricked sharply into
the feelings of our young man. His eyes went a-roaming once more, to
discover the white gown afar off, trailing unheeded along a dusty
garden path. The old man saw it too, and his genial countenance clouded
over.
"Well," he continued, after a thoughtful pause, "poor old Billy Dalzell
and I, we emigrated together. He had a devil of a stepfather, and no
home to speak of. We were mates at school, and we made up our minds to
start out for ourselves. You remember the Dalzells of the Grange, of
course?"
"I can't say that I do, sir."
"Well, they're gone now. Billy's father went the pace, and the
mortgagees sold him up; and if his mother hadn't given him a bit when
we started, Billy wouldn't have had a penny. She pawned all she
could lay her hands on for him, we found out afterwards--Billy was cut
up about that--and got ill-used by Heggarty for it when he found it
out. She was a fool, that woman. Everybody could see what Heggarty was,
except her. Old Dalzell was a gentleman, anyhow, with all his faults."
The white dress drew nearer, and its grey tweed companion. The host was
once more wasting his story on deaf ears. "So we started off; and when
we got here we went in together. He had enough to buy a mob of cattle
and a dray and team, and so had I. We loaded up with all the
necessaries, and hired three good men, and travelled till we found
country. Took us about five months. At last we came here, and put our
pegs in, and I started off to Melbourne for the license--ten pounds,
and leave to renew at the end of the year--and here I've stuck ever
since. Billy, he took up other land, and got married, and died, poor
chap! And that's his boy over there," pointing with his pipe--"and
he'll never be the man his father was, if he lives to a hundred."
The person referred to was he in the grey tweed, who sauntered with
such assurance at white-robed Deborah's side. He was a tall, graceful
and most distinguished-looking young fellow; but Guthrie Carey was
prepared to believe heartily the statement that Dalzell junior would
never be the man his father was.
"You shall see the identical hut," Mr Pennycuick kindly promised. "Down
by the creek, where those big willows are--I planted them myself. Not
good enough for a dog-kennel, my daughters say; but the best thing I
can wish for them is that they may be as happy in their good
houses as I was in that old shanty--aye, in spite of many a hard time
I had there, with blacks and what not. We cut the stuff, Billy and I,
and set the whole thing up; and all our furniture was our
sleeping-bunks and a few stools and a table. We washed in a tin bowl on
a block outside the door. Not so particular about tubbing and clean
shirts in those days. Our windows were holes of a handy size for gun
barrels, and the shutters we put up o' nights were squares of bark hung
on to nails by strips of green hide. Many's the time I've woke to see
one of 'em tilted up, and a pair of eyes looking in--sometimes
friends, sometimes foes; we were ready for either. When Billy went, and
I thought I'd get married too, then I built a better house--brick this
time, and workmen from Melbourne to do it; that's it over there, now
the kitchens and store-rooms--and imported furniture--er--I am not
boring you, I hope?"
"Oh, dear, no! I am deeply interested."
"Well, Billy and I"--the tale seemed interminable--"Billy and I, we
gave sixty pounds apiece for our stock horses, and the same for a ton
of flour; and went right over Ballarat without knowing it. Camped
there, sir, and didn't see the gold we must actually have crunched
under our boot heels. And Billy had misfortunes, and died poor as a
rat. It was in the family. Mrs D. was all right, though. She used to
send a brother of hers to Melbourne market with her cattle, and cash
being scarce, he would sometimes have to take land deeds for them, and
she'd be wild with him for it. But what was the consequence? Those bits
of paper that she thought so worthless that it's a wonder she
took the trouble to save them, gave her city lots that turned out as
good as gold mines. She sold too soon, or she'd have made millions--
and died of a broken heart, they say, when she found out that mistake.
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Cambridge, Ada, 1844-1926 - Sisters