Babes in the Bush

‘Your friend seems a most genial and sterling person, Harley,’ said Mr. Effingham, as they indulged in a final stroll up the verandah, after the general departure. ‘Is he always so complimentary?’

‘He can be extremely the reverse, upon occasion; but he is, perhaps, the man of all others in whose good feeling I have the most undoubting faith. Under that impetuous, explosive manner, the outcome of a fervid, uncompromising nature, he carries an extraordinary talent for affairs, and one of the most generous hearts ever granted to mortal man. He has the soul of the Caliph Haroun Alraschid, and has secretly done more good deeds, to my knowledge, in this district than all the rest of us put together. His correct taste has enabled him to appreciate all my dear children here. From this time forth you may reckon upon a powerful, untiring friend in William Rockley.’

‘I know one friend, Harley,’ said Effingham as their hands met in a parting grasp, ‘who has been more than a brother to me in my hour of need. We can never divide the gratitude which is your due from me and mine.’

‘Pooh! pooh! a man wants more friends than one, especially in Australia, where a season of adversity – which means a dry one – may be hanging over him; and a better one than William Rockley will be to you, henceforth, no man ever saw or heard of. Good-night!’

So passed the happy days of the first early summer-time at Warbrok – days which knew no change until the great festival of Christmas approached, which closes the year in all England’s dependencies with hallowed revelry and honoured mirth. Christmas was imminent. The 20th of December had arrived; a day of mingled joy and sorrow, as more freshly, vividly came back the buried memories of old days, the echo of the lost chimes of English Christmas bells. But in spite of such natural feelings, the advent of Christmas was not suffered to pass without tokens of gladness and services of thanksgiving.

It had been decided to invite Messrs. Hamilton and Argyll, with Mr. Churbett and Mr. Forbes, to join the modest family festivities on this occasion. Old Tom had been duly despatched with the important missives, and the invitations were frankly accepted.

On the 24th of December, therefore, late in the afternoon, which is the regulation hour for calling in Australian country society, the visitor being aware that he is expected to stay all night, and not desiring, unless he is very young, to have more than an hour to dispose of before dinner, the gentlemen aforesaid rode up. They had met by appointment and made the expedition together.

‘Fancy this being Christmas Day!’ exclaimed Annabel, as – the time-honoured greetings being uttered – the whole party disposed themselves comfortably around the breakfast-table. ‘And what a lovely fresh morning! Not a hot-wind day, as old Dick said it would be. It makes me shiver when I think of how we were wrapped up this time last year.’

‘Are you certain it is Christmas, Miss Annabel?’ said Fred Churbett; ‘I doubt it, because of the absence of holly and snow, and old women and school children, and waits and the parish beadle – all the belongings of our forefathers. There must be some mistake. The sun is too fast, depend upon it. I must write to the Times.’

‘Old Dick brought a load of scarlet-flowering bushes from the hills yesterday,’ said Rosamond, ‘with which he solemnly decorated his hut and our verandah pillars. He wished to make Andrew a present of a few branches as a peace-offering, but he declined, making some indignant remark about Prelatism or Erastianism, which Dick did not understand.’

At eleven o’clock A.M. a parade of the ‘full strength of the regiment,’ as Effingham phrased it, was ordered. Chairs, with all things proper, and a reading-desk, had been arranged on the south side of the wide verandah.

To this gathering-point the different members of the establishment had been gradually converging, arrayed in garments, which, if varying from the fashion-plates of the day, were neat, suitable, and of perfect cleanliness. Mrs. Evans’s skill as a laundress, which was in the inverse ratio to her mildness of disposition, enabled Dick to appear in white duck trousers and a shirt-front which distanced all rivalry. They contrasted strongly with the unbroken tint of brick-dust red presented by his face and throat, the latter encircled by an ancient military stock. Mrs. Evans was attired with such splendour that it was manifest she had sacrificed comfort to fashion.

‘Old Tom’ had donned, as suitable for the grandeur and solemnity of the occasion, a well-worn pair of cord breeches, the gift of some employer of sporting tendencies, which, ‘a world too wide for his shrunk shanks,’ were met at the knee by carefully polished boots, the long-vanished tops being replaced by moleskin caps. A drill overshirt, fastened at the waist with a broad leather belt, from which depended a tobacco-pouch, completed this effective costume. The iron-grey hair was carefully combed back from his withered countenance; his keen eyes gleamed from their hollow orbits, imparting an appearance of mysterious vitality to the ancient stock-rider.

Andrew and Jeanie, of course, attended, the latter dressed with the good taste which always characterised her, and the former having in charge the sturdy silent Duncan, with their younger offspring. Of these, Jessie bade fair to furnish a favourable type of the ‘fair-haired lassie’ so frequently met with in the ballads of her native land, while Colin, the second boy, was a clever, confident youngster, in whose intelligence Andrew secretly felt pride, though he repressed with outward sternness all manifestations of the same.

Andrew himself, it must be stated, appeared under protest, holding that ‘thae Yerastian, prelatic festivals,’ in his opinion, ‘were no warranted by the General Assembly o’ the Kirk o’ Scotland, natheless, being little mair than dwellers in the wilderness, it behoved a’ Christians, though they should be but a scattered remnant in the clefts o’ the rocks, to agree in bearing testimony to the Word.’

Across the broad verandah the members of the family, with their visitors, were seated, behind them the retainers. A table covered with a cloth was placed before Mr. Effingham, with the family Bible and a prayer-book of the Church of England.

As he made commencement, and with the words, ‘When the wicked man turneth away,’ the congregation stood up, it was a matter of difficulty with Mrs. Effingham to restrain her tears. How the well-remembered sentences seemed to smite the rock of her well-guarded emotions as with the rod of the Prophet! She trembled lest the spring should break forth from her o’erburdened heart, whelming alike prudence and the sense of fitness. The eyes of the girls were dewy, as they recalled the white-robed, long-remembered pastor, the ivy-covered church, storied with legend and memorial of their race, the villagers, the friends of their youth, the unquestioned security of position, long guaranteed by habit and usage, apparently unalterable. And now, where stood they, while the sacred words proceeded from the lips of the head of the household, whom they had followed to this far land?

In a ‘lodge in the wilderness,’ a speck in a ‘boundless contiguity of shade,’ with its unfamiliar adjuncts and a company of strangers – pilgrims and wayfarers – even as they. For a brief interval the suddenly realised picture of distance and isolation was so real, the momentary pang of bitterness so keenly agonising, that more than one sob was heard, while Annabel, whose feelings were less habitually under control, threw her arms round Jeanie’s neck (who had nursed her as a babe) and wept unrestrainedly.

No notice was taken of this natural outburst of emotion. Jeanie, with unobtrusive tenderness and unfailing tact, comforted the weeping girl. Solemnly the words of the service sounded from her father’s lips, while the ordinary responses concealed the occasional sobs of the mourner for home and native land. She had unconsciously translated the unspoken words of more disciplined hearts.

Gradually, as the service continued, the influences of the scene exercised a healing power upon the group – the fair, golden day, the tender azure of the sky, the wandering breeze, the waters of the lake lapping the shore, the whispering of the waving trees, even the hush of

Beautiful silence all around,Save wood-bird to wood-bird calling,

commenced insensibly to soothe the hearts of the exiles. Gradually their faces recovered serenity, and as the repetitions of belief and trust, of submission to a Supreme Benevolence, were repeated, that ‘peace which passeth all understanding,’ an indwelling guest with some, a memory, a long-forgotten visitant with others, appeared for a space to have enveloped the little company on that day assembled at Warbrok.

The simply-conducted service was verging on conclusion when a stranger appeared upon the track from the high road. In bushman’s dress, and carrying upon his back the ordinary knapsack (or ‘swag’) of the travelling labourer, he strode along the path at a pace considerably higher in point of speed than is usual with men who, as a class, being confident of free quarters at every homestead, see no necessity for haste. A tall, powerfully-built man, his sun-bronzed countenance afforded no clue to his social qualification.

Halting at the garden gate, he stood suddenly arrested as he comprehended the occupation of the assembled group. He looked keenly around, then easing the heavy roll by a motion of his shoulders, awaited the final benediction.

‘What is your business with me?’ said Mr. Effingham, closing his book, and regarding with interest the stranger, whose bold dark eyes roved around, now over the assembled company, now over the buildings and offices, and lastly settled with half-admiration, half-diffidence, on the bright faces of the girls. ‘I have no employment here at present. Perhaps you would like to stay to-night. You are heartily welcome.’

‘Come along o’ me, young man,’ interposed Dick Evans, as promptly divining the wayfarer’s habitudes. ‘Come along o’ me; you’ll have a share of our Christmas dinner, and you might come by a worse.’

‘All right,’ replied the stranger cheerfully, and with a nod of acknowledgment to Mr. Effingham he jerked back his personal effects into their position and strode after his interlocutor, who, with old Tom Glendinning, quitted the party, leaving Mrs. Evans to follow at her convenience.

‘Fine soldier that man would have made,’ said Mr. Effingham, as he marked the well-knit frame, the elastic step of the stranger. ‘I wonder what his occupation is?’

‘Horse-breaker, bullock-driver, station hand of some sort,’ said Argyll indifferently. ‘Just finished a job of splitting, probably, or is bringing his shearing cheque to get rid of in Yass.’

‘He appeared to have seen better days, poor fellow,’ said Mrs. Effingham, ever compassionate. ‘I noticed a wistful expression in his eyes when he first came up.’

‘I thought he looked proud and disdainful,’ said Annabel, ‘and when old Dick said “come along,” I half expected him to reply indignantly. But he went off readily enough. I wonder if he’s a gentleman in disguise?’

‘Or a bushranger,’ suggested Churbett. ‘Donohoe is “out” just now, and is said to have a new hand with him. These gentry have been occasionally entertained, like angels, unawares.’

‘What a shocking idea!’ exclaimed Annabel. ‘You have no sentiment, Mr. Churbett. How would you like to be suspected by everybody if you were reduced to poverty? He is very handsome, at any rate.’

‘Fred would be too lazy to walk, that is one thing certain, Miss Annabel,’ said Hamilton. ‘He would prefer to take the situation of cook or hut-keeper at a quiet station, where there were no children. Fancy his coming up, touching his hat respectfully, and saying, “I suppose you haven’t a berth about the kitchen as would suit a pore man, Miss?”’

Here the speaker gave so capital an imitation of Mr. Churbett’s accented tone in conversation that everybody laughed, including the subject of the joke, who said it was just like Hamilton’s impudence, but that other people occasionally had mistakes made as to their station in life. What about old MʻCallum sending him and Argyll to pass the night in the men’s hut?

‘The old ruffian!’ said Argyll, surprised out of his usual serenity, ‘I had two minds to knock him down; another, to tell him he was an ignorant savage; and a fourth, to camp under a gum-tree.’

‘What did you do finally?’ asked Rosamond, much interested. ‘What an awkward position to be placed in.’

‘The night happened to be wet,’ explained Hamilton; ‘we had ridden far, and were so hungry – no other place of abode within twenty miles; so – it was very unheroic – but we had to put our pride in our pockets, and sleep, or rather stay, in an uncomfortable hut, with half-a dozen farm-servants.’

‘What a bore!’ said Wilfred. ‘Did he know your names? It seems inconceivable.’

‘The real truth was,’ said Mr. Churbett, volunteering an explanation, ‘that the old man, taking umbrage somewhere at what he considered our friend Hamilton’s superfine manners and polite habit of banter, had vowed to serve him and Argyll out if ever they came his way. This was how he carried out his dark and dreadful oath.’

‘What a terrible person!’ exclaimed Annabel, opening her eyes. ‘Were you very miserable, Mr. Hamilton?’

‘Sufficiently so, I am afraid, to have made our friend chuckle if he had known. We had to ride twenty miles before we saw a hair-brush again, and Argyll, I must say, looked dishevelled.’

A simultaneous inclination to laughter seized the party, as they gazed with one accord at Argyll’s curling locks.

‘I should think that embarrassments might arise,’ said Mr. Effingham, ‘from the habit of claiming hospitality when travelling here. There are inns, I suppose, but they are infrequent.’

‘Not so many mistakes are made as one might think,’ explained Churbett. ‘Squatters’ names are widely known, even out of their districts, and every one accepts a night’s lodging frankly, as he expects to give one in return.’

‘But how can we know whether the stranger be a gentleman, or even a respectable person?’ said Mrs. Effingham. ‘One would be so sorry to be unkind, and yet might be led into entertaining undesirable guests.’

‘Every gentleman should send in his card,’ said Argyll, ‘if he wishes to be received, or give his name and address to the servant. People who will not so comply with the usages of society have no right to consideration.’

‘But suppose people are not well dressed,’ said Wilfred, ‘or are outwardly unlike gentlemen, what are you to do? It would be annoying to make mistakes in either way.’

‘When people are not dressed like gentlemen,’ said Hamilton, ‘you may take it for granted that they have forfeited their position, or are contented to be treated as steerage passengers, so to speak. In such cases the safer plan, as far as my experience goes, is to permit them to please themselves. I had a good look at our friend yonder, as he came up, and I have a shrewd suspicion that he belongs to the latter category.’

‘Poor young man!’ said Mrs. Effingham. ‘Couldn’t anything be done for him? Think of a son of ours being placed in that position!’

‘He is making himself comfortable with old Dick Evans, most likely, however unromantic it may appear,’ said Churbett. ‘He will enjoy his dinner – I daresay he hasn’t had many good ones lately – have a great talk with Dick and the old stock-rider, and smoke his pipe afterwards with much contentment.’

‘But a gentleman, if he be a gentleman, never could lower himself to such surroundings, surely?’ queried Rosamond. ‘It is not possible.’

‘Oh yes, it is,’ said Beatrice. ‘Because, you remember, Sergeant Bothwell was more comfortable in the butler’s room with old John Gudyill than he would have been with Lady Bellenden and her guests, though she longed to entertain him suitably, on account of his royal blood.’

‘Miss Beatrice, I congratulate you on your familiarity with dear Sir Walter,’ said Argyll. ‘It is a case perfectly in point, because Francis Stewart, otherwise Bothwell, had at one time mixed in the society of the day, and must have had the manners befitting his birth. Nevertheless in his lapsed condition he preferred the sans gêne of his inferiors. There are many such in Australia, who “have sat at good men’s feasts,” but are now, unfortunately, more at ease in the men’s hut.’

‘Of course you’ve heard of Carl Hotson, the man they used to call “the Count”?’ said Hamilton. ‘No? He lived at Carlsruhe, on the other side of the range, near the Great South Gap, where every one was obliged to pass, and (there being no inn) stay all night. Now “the Count” was a fastidious person of literary tastes. He chafed against entertaining a fresh batch of guests every night. “Respectable persons – aw – I am informed, but – aw – I don’t keep an hotel!” Unwilling to be bored, and yet anxious not to be churlish, he took a middle course. He invented “the stranger’s hut,” which has since obtained in other parts of the country.’

‘Whatever was that?’ asked Guy.

‘He had a snug cottage built at a short distance from the road. Into this dwelling every traveller, without introduction, was ushered. A good dinner, with bed and breakfast, was supplied. His horse was paddocked, and in the morning the guest, suitably entertained, but ignorant of the personnel of the proprietor, as in a castle of romance, was free to depart.’

‘And a very good idea it was,’ said Mr. Effingham. ‘I can imagine one becoming tired of casual guests.’

‘Some people were not of that opinion,’ said Mr. Forbes, ‘declaring it to be in contravention of the custom of the country. One evening Dr. Portman, an elderly gentleman, of majestic demeanour, came to Carlsruhe. He relied on a colonial reputation to procure him unusual privileges, but not receiving them, wrote a stiff note to Mr. Hotson, regretting his inability to thank him personally for his peculiar hospitality, and enclosing a cheque for a guinea in payment of the expense incurred.’

‘What did “the Count” say to that?’

‘He was equal to the occasion. The answer was as follows: —

‘Sir – I have received a most extraordinary letter signed J.D. Portman, enclosing a cheque for one guinea. The latter document I have transmitted to the Treasurer of the Lunatic Asylum. – Obediently yours,

Carl Hotson.’

The Christmas dinner, which included a noble wild turkey, a fillet of veal, a baron of beef, with two brace of black duck, as well as green peas, cauliflowers, and early potatoes from the now productive garden, was a great success. Cheerful and contented were those who sat around the board. Merry and well-sustained was the flow of badinage, which kept the young people amused and amusing. In the late afternoon the guests excused themselves, and left for home, alleging that work commenced early on the morrow, and that they were anxious as to the results of universal holiday-making.

CHAPTER IX

HUBERT WARLEIGH, YR., OF WARBROK

Next morning early, Mr. Effingham was enjoying the fresh, cool air when Dick marched up to him.

‘Well, Evans,’ said Effingham, ‘Christmas Day is over. Tell me, were you able to abstain?’

‘Believe me, I got drunk, sir,’ answered the veteran, ‘but I’m all right now till New Year’s Day.’

‘I am afraid that your constitution will suffer, Evans, if you continue these regular – or rather irregular – excesses.’

‘Can’t say for that, sir. Been drunk every Christmas since the year as I ’listed in the old rigiment; but I wanted to tell you about that young man as was in our hut last night. Do you know who he is, sir?’

‘No, indeed, Evans! I suspected he was no ordinary station-hand.’

‘Well, no, sir; that’s the youngest of the old Colonel’s sons. Him as they used to call “Gyp” Warleigh. He was allers fond of ramblin’ and campin’ out, from a boy, gipsy fashion. When the Colonel died, he went right away to some of the far-out stations beyond Monaro, and never turned up for years. Old Tom knowed him at once, but didn’t let on.’

‘Poor fellow! How hard that he should have come back to his father’s house penniless and poorly clad. I wonder if we could find him employment here?’

‘H – m! I don’t know, sir; we haven’t much to keep hands goin’ at this season, but you can see him yourself. I daresay he’ll come up to thank you afore he goes.’

Dick’s conjecture proved true, inasmuch as before the breakfast bell rang the prodigal walked up to the garden gate.

This time he underwent a more careful examination, the result of which was to impress the master of the house in a favourable manner. Though dressed much as before, there was some improvement in his appearance. He came forward now, with the advantage conferred by rest and good entertainment. His regular features, as Mr. Effingham now thought, showed plainly the marks of aristocratic lineage. The eyes, especially, were bold and steadfast, while his figure, hardened by the toils of a backwoods life, in its grand outline and muscular development, aroused the admiration of a professional connoisseur. The bronzed face had lost its haggard expression, and it was with a frank smile that he raised his hat slightly and said, ‘Good-morning, sir. I have come to thank you for your kindness and hospitality.’

‘I am pleased to have been enabled to afford it,’ said the master of the establishment; ‘but is there nothing more that I can do for your father’s son?’

The man started; a frown set the lower part of his face in rigid sternness. After a moment’s pause the cloud-like expression cleared, and with softened voice he said:

‘I see they have told you. I thought the old stock-rider knew me; he was here before we lived at Warbrok. Yes, it is all true. I am Hubert Warleigh.’

Mr. Effingham’s impulsive heart was stirred within him, at these words, to a degree which he himself would hardly have admitted. The actual presentment of this cadet of an old family – once the object of a mother’s care, a mother’s prayers – fallen from his position and compelled to wander over the country, meanly dressed and carrying a burden in this hot weather, touched him to the heart. He walked up to the speaker, and laying his hand upon his arm, said in tones of deep feeling:

‘My dear fellow, will you let me advise you, as I should thank any Christian man to do for my son in like need? Stay with us for a time. I may be able to assist you indirectly, if not otherwise. At the worst, the hospitality of this house – of your old home – is open to you as long as you please to accept it.’

‘You are kind – too kind, sir,’ said the wanderer, while his bold eyes softened, and for a moment he turned his face towards the lake. ‘The old place makes me feel like a boy again. But it will never do —it’s too late. You don’t know the ways of this country yet, and you might come to repent being so soft – I mean so good-natured.’

‘I will take the risk,’ persisted Effingham. ‘Let me see you restored to your proper standing in society, and following any occupation befitting a gentleman, and I shall hold myself fully repaid.’

The stranger smiled, half-sadly, half-humorously, as he seated himself on a fence-rail.

‘That is not so easy as you think, sir,’ he said. ‘Though there’s very few people in this country would bother about trying. When a fellow’s been rambling about the bush, working and living with the men, for years and years, it is not so easy to turn him into a gentleman again. Worst of all when he’s come short of education, and has half-forgotten how to behave himself before ladies. Ladies! I swear, when I saw your daughters, looking like rosebuds in the old verandah, I felt like a blackfellow.’

‘That a feeling of – of rusticity – would be one of the consequences of a roving life, I can understand; but you are young – a mere boy yet. Believe one who has seen something of the world, that the awkwardness you refer to would soon disappear were you once more among your equals.’

‘Too late – too late!’ said the man gloomily. ‘Gyp Warleigh must remain in the state he has brought himself to. I know him better than you do, worse luck! There’s another reason why I’m afraid to trust myself in a decent house.’

‘Good heavens!’ said Effingham. ‘Then what is that? You surely have not – ’

‘Taken to the bush? Not yet; but it’s best to be straight. I learned the trick of turning up my little finger too early and too well; and though I’m right enough for months when I’m far in the bush, or have had a spell of work, I’m helpless when the drinking fit comes on me. I must have it, if I was to die twenty times over. And the worst of it is, I can feel it coming creeping on me for weeks beforehand; I can no more fight it off than a man who’s half-way down a range can stop himself. But it’s no use talking – I must be off. How well the old place looks! It’s a grand season, certainly.’