page 101

Chapter VI. The Pic-Nic.

John Grey was not a man much given to holiday-keeping, for he was "diligent in his business," and in a general way regarded holidays as mere interruptions. But there was one day upon which he regularly closed his office and devoted himself most heartily to pleasure, and that was the anniversary of his wedding-day. I do not believe that any commercial temptation could have induced him to neglect that annual festival. Upon that day he and his wife, his sons and his daughters, his manservants, and his maidservants, and the stranger within his gates, made merry and rejoiced exceedingly. The usual programme was a pic-nic in the morning, and a dance in the evening.

Dwellers in the interior of any country take their holidays by the side of the glittering, dancing, health-inspiring ocean. Dwellers by the sea-side make for the leafy solitudes of the forest.

Therefore, on the great family anniversary, in the year 1861, John Grey and his surroundings—(to Anglicise a Gallicism)—got into a railway carriage at Spencer-street, and sped into the country.⁸³

When the voyager enters Hobson's Bay, one of the page 102objects which first attracts his attention is a squarely set mountain bounding the Northern horizon. To the unpractised eye, and upon a clear day, it seems only a few miles distant. This is an optical delusion, resulting from the wonderfully diaphanous atmosphere, wherewith Australia generally, and Victoria in particular, are favoured. The mountain whereof I speak is known by the very applicable name of Mount Macedon;⁸⁴ so designated by Sir Thomas Mitchell, in pursuance of a train of thought, which induced him to confer on the next inland range the name of Macedonia's greatest monarch.⁸⁵

Thitherward the Grey family bent their way. At Sunbury they left the train, and—some in wheeled vehicles of the primitive formation, others in saddle—started across country for the selected spot.

A wild glade, ("gully," the colonists call it,) where the long trailing branches of the "weeping gum" afforded shelter from the mid-day heat; where "peppermint trees" shed their balsamic odours; where golden and silver "wattles" scattered May-blossom fragrance, and the wild "sarsaparilla" climbed the stems to mingle its gorgeous purple bloom with their silken yellow tassels.⁸⁶ A little creek daundered lovingly amidst reeds and sedges, to fall into a miniature pool; and resting therein awhile, stole forth to murmur on its devious way till again absorbed into the quiet bosom of another broad expanse, wherein its brattle ceased. And so, from pond to pond, the stream, born of the mountain, sped on to join the river, the river to mingle with the sea, the sea to vaporize the atmosphere, the atmosphere to supply the streamlet in page 103the mountain. Eternity is represented by a circle without beginning or end. Is life—animate or inanimate—other than endless? I remember a country churchyard, upon the rich green grass of which the Rector fed his sheep (quadrupedal, be it understood), and fine fat sheep were they. I was only a boy at the time; but since I have become a man, I have often self-debated the question,—Whether, in eating the Rector's mutton, I may not have unconsciously absorbed some portions of the tissues of my grandmother, who—peace to her ashes!—was buried in that very luxurious pasture.

By the side of the creek, the Grey party—metaphorically speaking—pitched their tent. Of course they lit a bush fire. They rolled huge logs into it, and piled branches of the odoriferous gum-trees on it, till it blazed high up into the brilliant atmosphere. Not that warmth was requisite, for the sun shone from a clear blue sky. But it was the proper thing to do under the circumstances, and they did it with a will, and with much hilarity. And they generally did "the days we went a-gipseying, a long time ago," after the fashion of Old England.⁸⁷

On such a day, of course Cousin Will was there; as also were several other persons, who—having nothing to do with this story—I shall not introduce to the reader.

Bar one!—as the horsey men put it.

The "one," in this instance, was a tall handsome specimen of an Irishman; and his name was Justin M'Carthy. He was the owner—always subject to the tender mercies of the Bank of New Guinea—of Tamboura Station in Gippsland, and the (nominal) pos-page 104sessor of a smiling homestead, and of "cattle on a thousand hills."

I have specified this "one," because he was indirectly the means of bringing matters to an issue between Will Enderby and Florence Melmoth. The gallant Irishman constituted himself the cavalier servente of the young widow, who sooth to say, seemed not ill-pleased with his attentions.⁸⁸ Rather she encouraged them, and smiled sweetly upon him, and brought to bear upon him the dangerous artillery of her eyes—all greatly to the discomfiture of poor Will, whom she snubbed, mercilessly, and, I fear I must add, maliciously. Mabel Grey, on the other hand, was in that mood which is sometimes sarcastically described as "gushing," and "dear Will'd" that young man to an extent that frightened, whilst it soothed him.

Soothed him by its implied flattery, its open avowed love for him; frightened him by forcing him to analyze his heart and, for the first time, seriously to consider his relations towards these two women—so diverse in themselves and in their belongings. Long years after, when Will looked back upon the events of that day, it seemed to him that angels had battled with demons for his soul; and the demons were very near gaining the final victory. As the widow and the maiden sat beside each other on the grass they might not inaptly be compared to the Spirits of Good and Evil;—so bold, so wily, so sensuous the one,—so fair, so innocent, so pure the other.

Did he propose to himself to break his plighted troth to Mabel and to take to his heart the governess? His cousin's tears, her mother's reproaches, his bene-page 105factor's anger,—could he brave these for the vain trick of Florence Melmoth's smiles? He dared not pursue the thought. At one time—partly swayed by resentment, partly influenced by the goodness which lay dormant within him—he half resolved to return to his first allegiance, and to whistle down the wind all traitorous thoughts and sensations. But the next moment he was enthralled by a glance of the lustrous eyes; and the wondrous fascinations of the enchantress resumed their perilous sway.

It was the "Scene in a Wood near Athens" over again;—Demetrius pursuing Hermia, and Helen pursuing Demetrius.⁸⁹