Babes in the Bush

‘You have had adventures here in the old days,’ said Effingham, willing to lead him into conversation. ‘Had you a fight with bush-rangers in the dining-room ever?’

‘Then the bullet-marks are there yet?’ said the stranger carelessly. ‘Well, there was wild work at Warbrok when that was done, but bushrangers had no say in it. It was the old governor who blazed away there. He was always a two-bottle man, was the governor, and after poor mother died he scarcely ever went to bed sober. Randal and Clem were terrible wild chaps, or they might have kept matters together. I was the youngest, and let do pretty much as I liked. I never learned anything except to read and write badly. Always in the men’s huts, I picked up all the villainy going before I was fourteen. But about those bullet-marks in the wall.’

‘I feel deeply interested, believe me; and if you would permit me to repair the neglect you have experienced, something may yet be done.’

‘You don’t know men of my sort, Captain, or you wouldn’t talk in that way. Not that I haven’t a feeling towards you that I’ve never had since poor mother died, and told me to be a good boy, as she stroked my hair for the last time. But how could I? What chance is there for a lad in the bush, living as we did in those days? I remember Randal’s coming home from Bathurst races – he’d go any distance to a race meeting. He was like a madman. It was then that the row came about with the governor, when they nearly shot one another.’

‘Nearly shot one another! Good heavens! How could that happen?’

‘After the cellar racket Randal had the sense to stay away at Monaro and work at our station there for months. He could work when he liked, and a smarter man among stock never handled a slip-rail. But he had to come home at last. The governor talked to him most polite. Hoped he’d stay to dinner. He drank fair; they were well into the fourth bottle when the row began. He told us afterwards that the old man, instead of flying into a rage, as usual, was bitter and cool, played with him a bit, but finished up by saying that “though it was the worst day’s work he ever did to come to this accursed country, he hardly expected his eldest son would turn out a burglar and a thief.”

‘Randal was off his head by this time – been ‘a bit on’ before he came – swore he wouldn’t stand that from any man, not even his own father. The old man glared at him like a tiger, and fetching out the loaded duelling pistols, which people always had handy in those days, gave him one, and they stood up at different ends of the long room.

‘We heard the shots and rushed in. There was Randal holding on by the wall, swaying about, and, pointing to the ceiling, saying, as well as he could, “Fired in the air! by – ! fired in – the – air!” Sure enough, there was the mark of his bullet in the ceiling, but the other one had hit the wall, barely an inch from Randal’s head.’

‘What an awful affair! How your father must have rejoiced that he was spared the guilt of such a crime.’

‘I don’t know about that; all he said next day was, that his hand must have been shaky, or he would have rid the world of an infernal scoundrel, who had disgraced his family and was no son of his. He never spoke to him again.’

‘Miserable father – lost son! What became of your brothers, may I ask, since you have told me so much?’

‘Randal was in a vessel coming back from Adelaide with an exploring party. He’d been lushing pretty heavy, and they thought he must have gone overboard one night in a fit of the horrors. Anyhow, he was never seen alive afterwards. Poor Clem – he wasn’t half as bad as Randal, only easy led – died at the Big River: was shepherding when we last heard of him. I’m all that’s left of the Warleighs. Some fine day you’ll hear of me being drowned crossing a river, or killed by the blacks, or broke my neck off a horse; and a good job too. I must be off now. It’s years since I’ve said as much to any one.’

‘But why – why not stay and commence a happier career? Scores of men have done so, years after your age. You will have encouragement from every member of my family.’

‘Family!’ answered the outcast, with a bitter smile. ‘Am I fit to associate with ladies? Why, even while I’m speaking to you I can hardly open my mouth without an oath or a rough word. No! It might have been once; it’s years too late now. But I thank you all the same; and if ever a chance comes in my way of doing your people a good turn, you may depend your life on Gyp Warleigh. Good-bye, sir!’

As he rose to his feet, squaring his shoulders and towering to the full height of his stature, Mr. Effingham instinctively held out his hand. Closing his own upon it for one moment in an iron grasp, the wanderer strode forth upon his path, and was lost behind a turn in the timber.

Howard Effingham returned to his household filled with sad thought. He had seen ruined men of all sorts and kinds before; had known many who, with every social aid and endowment, had chosen to tread the path of degradation. But there was, to his mind, an element of unusual pathos in this acquiescent yet resentful debasement of a noble nature. In the hall he met Wilfred and Guy. Contrasting their frank, untroubled countenances with that of the ill-fated son of his predecessor his heart swelled with thankfulness.

‘What a long talk you have been having with our dark friend,’ said Wilfred. ‘Does he want a situation as stock-rider? or has he a project requiring the aid of a little capital? He doesn’t look like an enthusiast.’

‘Nor is he one,’ answered the father briefly. ‘He is an unhappy man, whom you will compassionate when I tell you that he is Hubert Warleigh – the Colonel’s youngest son.’

‘Good heavens!’ cried Wilfred. ‘Who said there was no romance in a new country? I thought he was a fine-looking fellow, with something uncommon about him. What a history!’

‘What a dreadful, what an astonishing thing!’ exclaimed Annabel, who, having an appetite for novelty, and seldom being so absorbed in her household duties as to escape early notice of such, had joined the group. ‘To think that that sunburned, roughly-dressed man, carrying a bundle with his blanket and all kinds of things, should be a gentleman, the son of an old officer; just like Wilfred and Guy here! To be sure, he was handsome, in spite of his disguise; and did you notice what splendid black eyes he had? Poor fellow, poor fellow! Why didn’t you make him stay, papa?’

‘My child! I did try to persuade him; I promised to see what we could do for him. My heart yearned to the youngster, thinking that if, in the bounds of possibility, any child of mine was in such evil case, so might some father’s heart turn to him in his need. But he only said it was too late, with a kind of proud regret. Yet I think he was grateful, for he wrung my hand at parting, said it had done him good to speak with me, and if he could ever do us a service I might count upon him.’

In the dreamy days of the late summer one and all derived great solace and enjoyment from the Lake William Book Club, now become, thanks to Mr. Churbett’s brother in London, a working institution. That gentleman had forwarded a well-selected assortment, comprising the newest publications of the day, in various departments of literature, not forgetting a judicious sprinkling of fiction. The books brought out by the family, neither few nor of humble rank, had been read and re-read until they were known by heart. This fresh storehouse of knowledge was, for the first time in their lives, truly appreciated.

Mr. Churbett had employed himself in his solitary hours in covering with strong white paper and carefully entitling each volume. These he divided into ‘sets,’ comprising, say, a modicum of history, travel, biography, or science, with a three-volume novel. The sets being duly numbered, a sketch circuit was calculated, and proper arrangements made. He, for instance, forwarded a set to Benmohr, whence they were enjoined to forward them at the expiration of a month to The Chase; at the same time receiving a fresh supply from headquarters. O’Desmond sent them on to the Snowdens, to be despatched by them to Mr. Hampden at Wangarua. So it came to pass that when the twelfth subscriber forwarded the first-mentioned set to its original dwelling-place at Mr. Churbett’s, the year had completed its cycle, and each household had had ample, but not over-abundant, time to thoroughly master the contents of their dole of literature.

The autumn month of March was chiefly characterised by the rural population of the district, as being the season in which was held the Annual Yass Race Meeting. This tournament was deservedly popular in an English-speaking community. There was no wife, widow, or maid, irrespectively of the male representatives, who did not feel a mild interest in the Town Plate, the delightfully dangerous Steeplechase, and finally in the ‘Ladies’ Bag.’ This thrilling event comprised a collection of fancy-work – slippers, embroidered smoking-caps, and gorgeous cigar-cases, suitable for masculine use or ornament.

The coveted prize was fabricated by the fair hands of the dames and damsels of the district. The race was confined to amateurs, and those only were permitted to compete who had received invitations from the Secretary of the Ladies’ Committee.

Great interest was taken, it may be supposed, in the carrying-off of this trophy, and many a youthful aspirant might be seen ‘brushing with hasty step the dew away,’ as he reviewed at dawn his training arrangements with a face of anxiety, such as might become the owner of a Derby favourite.

By direct or devious ways the echoes of battle-cries, proper to the approaching fray, commenced to reach The Chase. Faintly interested as had been the family in the probable pleasures of such an assemblage, they could not remain wholly insensible. With each succeeding week tidings and murmurs of the Carnival swelled into sonorous tone. One day a couple of grooms, leading horses sheeted and hooded, of which the satin skins and delicate limbs bore testimony to their title to blue blood, would pass by on their way to Yass; or Mr. Churbett would ride over with the latest news, declaring that Grey Surrey was in such condition that no horse in the district had a chance with him, though Hamilton’s No Mamma had notoriously been in training for a month longer. Also, that the truly illustrious steeplechaser, The Cid, had been stabled at Badajos for the night; but that, in his opinion, he could not be held at his fences, and if so, St. Andrew would make such an exhibition of him as would astonish his backers and the Tasmanian division generally. Then Mrs. Snowden would arrive to lunch, and among other items of intelligence volunteer the information that the ball, which the Racing Club Committee was pledged to give this year, would exceed in magnificence all previous entertainments. Borne on the wings of the weekly post there came a missive from Mrs. Rockley, reminding Mrs. Effingham of her promise to come and bring her daughters for the race week, assuring her that rooms at Rockley Lodge awaited them, and that wilful child Christabel was prepared to die of grief in the event of anything preventing their having the pleasure of their company.

Then Bob Clarke was, after all, to ride The Cid. He was the only man that could hold him at his fences. So there would be such a set-to between him and St. Andrew, with Charlie Hamilton up, as had never been seen in the district. The western division were going to back The Cid to the clothes on their back. Hamilton was a cool hand across country, and a good amateur jock wherever you put him up, but Bob Clarke, who had had his early training among the stiff four-railers and enclosed pasture-lands of Tasmania, was an extraordinary horseman, and had a way of getting a beaten horse over his last fences which stamped him as the man to put your money on.

It was not in human nature altogether to disregard current opinions, which, in default of more important public events, swayed the pastoral community as well as the dwellers in the rural townships. The Effinghams gradually abandoned themselves to the stream, and decided to accept Mrs. Rockley’s invitation for the lady part of the family. To this end Wilfred made a flying visit to the town, where he had been promptly taken in custody by Mr. Rockley and lodged in safe keeping at his hospitable mansion.

He returned with what Beatrice called a rose-coloured description of the whole establishment; notably of the marvellous beauty of Christabel Rockley, the only daughter.

‘Why, you haven’t seen girls for I don’t know how long,’ said Annabel, ‘except us, of course – and you don’t see any beauty in fair people – so how can you tell? The first young woman with a pale face and dark eyes is a vision of loveliness, of course. Wait till we go to Yass, and you will hear a proper description.’

‘Women are always unsympathetic about one another,’ he retorted. ‘That’s the reason one can hardly trust the best woman’s portrait of her friend.’

‘And men are so credulous,’ said Beatrice. ‘I wonder any sensible woman has the patience to appropriate one. See how they admire the merest chits with the beauty of a china doll, and so very, very little more brains. There is a nice woman, I admit, here and there, but a man doesn’t know her when he sees her.’

‘All this is premature,’ said the assaulted brother, trying to assume an air of philosophical serenity. ‘I know nothing about Miss Christabel save and except that she is “beautiful exceedingly,” like the dame in Coleridge. But you will find Mr. Rockley’s the nicest house to stay in, or I much mistake, that you have been in of late years, and, in a general way, you will enjoy yourselves more than you expect.’

‘I expect great things,’ said Annabel, ‘and I intend to enjoy myself immensely. Fancy, what a pleasure it will be to me to see quantities of new people! Even Rosamond confessed to me that she felt interested in our coming glimpse of Australian society. We have been a good deal shut up, and it will do us good; even Beatrice will fall across a new book or a fresh character to read, which comes to much the same thing. I prefer live characters myself.’

‘And I prefer the books,’ said Beatrice; ‘there’s such a dreadful amount of time lost in talking to people, very often, about such wretched commonplaces. You can’t skip their twaddle or gossip, and you can in a book.’

CHAPTER X

A PROVINCIAL CARNIVAL

The last week of March at length arrived, by which time the nights had grown perceptibly colder, and the morning air was by no means so mild as to render wraps unnecessary.

No rain had fallen for some weeks, though before that time there had been a succession of showers; so that, there being no dust, while the weather was simply perfect, the grass green, and the sky cloudless, a more untoward time might have been selected for recreation.

It was indeed the carnival of a community of uncompromising toilers, as were, in good sooth, the majority of the inhabitants of the town and district of Yass.

Not without misgiving did Wilfred consent to leave the homestead entirely to itself. Yet he told himself that, while the farm and dairy were in the hands of such capable persons as Dick Evans, old Tom, and Andrew, without some kind of social or physical earthquake, no damage could occur.

Dick, in spite of his love of excitement, did not care to attend this race meeting. Aware of his weakness, he was unwilling to enter on a fresh bout of dissipation before the effects of the last one had faded from recollection. ‘I looks to have a week about Michaelmas,’ said he, as gravely as if he had been planning a hunting or fishing excursion, ‘then I reckon to hold on till after harvest, or just afore Christmas comes in. Two sprees a year is about the right thing for a man that knows himself. I don’t hold with knockin’ about bars and shanties.’

Crede old Tom, the last Yass races had chiefly impressed themselves on his mind as a festivity wherein he spent ‘thirty-seven pounds ten in six days, and broke his collar-bone riding a hurdle race. Whether he was getting older he could not say, but he felt as if he did not care to go in just now. He was going to keep right till next Christmas, when, of course, any man worth calling a man would naturally go in for a big drink.’

For far other reasons, and in widely differing language, did Andrew Cargill protest his disinclination to join revelries which, based on the senseless sport of horse-racing, he felt to be indefensible, immoral, and worthy only of the heathen, who were so unsparingly extirpated by the children of Israel. ‘I haena words to express my scorn for thae fearless follies, and I thocht that the laird and the mistress wad ha’ had mair sense than to gang stravaigin’ ower the land like a wheen player-bodies to gie their coontenance to siccan snares o’ Beelzebub. It’s juist fearsome.’

Conflict of opinion in this case resulted in similarity of action, inasmuch as the two unregenerates, conscious that their hour was not yet come, conducted themselves with the immaculate propriety nowhere so apparent as in those Australian labourers who are confessedly saving themselves up for a ‘burst.’

Nothing could have been descried upon this lower earth more deeply impressive than the daily walk of these two ancient reprobates, as Andrew, in his heart, always designated them.

The sun never saw them in bed. Old Tom had his morning smoke while tracking the nightly wandering dairy cows long before that luminary concerned himself with the inhabitants of the district. As day was fairly established, the cows were in the yard, and the never-ending work of milking commenced. Andrew’s northern perseverance was closely taxed to keep pace in the daily duties of the farm with these two swearing, tearing old sinners.

All preliminaries having been concluded, which Mrs. Effingham declared fell but little short of those which preceded their emigration, the grand departure was made for their country town in what might justly be considered to be high state and magnificence.

First of all rode Rosamond and Beatrice on their favourite palfreys. Touching the stud question, Wilfred and Guy had gradually developed the love of horses, which is inseparable from Australian country life. The indifferent nags upon which the girls had taken their early riding lessons had, by purchase or exchange, been replaced by superior animals. Rosamond, whose nerve was singularly good, and whose ‘hands’ had reached a finish rarely accorded to the gentler sex, was the show horsewoman of the family, being entrusted with the education of anything doubtful before the younger girls were suffered to risk the mount. She rode a slight, aristocratic-looking dark bay, of a noble equine family, which, like themselves, had not long quitted the shores of Britain. Discharged from a training-stable upon the charge of unfitness to ‘stay,’ he had fallen into unprofessional hands, from which Wilfred had rescued him, giving in exchange a fat stock-horse and a trifle more ‘boot’ than he was ready to acknowledge. He had been right in thinking that in the delicate head, the light arched neck, the rarely oblique shoulder, the undeniable look of blood, he saw sufficient guarantee for a peerless light-weight hackney. This in despite of a general air of height rather than stability, which caused the severe critics of Benmohr and The She-oaks to speak of him as being unduly ‘on the leg.’

There are some metals which compensate in quality for lack of weight and substance; so among horses we find those which, indomitable of spirit and tireless of muscle, are capable of wearing out their more solidly-built compeers. To such a class belonged ‘dear Fergus,’ as Rosamond always called the matchless hackney with which Wilfred had presented her. Gay and high-couraged, temperate, easy, safe, fast, with a walk and canter utterly unapproachable, the former, indeed, assimilating to the unfair speed of a ‘pacer,’ while the latter was free, floating, graceful, and elastic as that of the wild deer, he was a steed to dream of, to love and cherish in life, to mourn over in death. Many an hour, in the gathering twilight, by the shores of the lake, had Rosamond revelled in, mounted upon this pink of perfection, when Wilfred jumped upon a fresh horse after his day’s work and called upon his sister to come for her evening ride. How anxiously, after the lingering, glaring afternoon, did Rosamond watch for the time which brought the chief luxury of the day, when she lightly reined the deer-like Fergus as he sped through the twilight shadows, over the greensward by the lake shore.

Beatrice had also her favourite, which, though of different style and fashion, was yet an undeniable celebrity. A small iron-grey mare, scarce above pony height, was Allspice, with a great flavour of the desert-born, from which she traced her descent, in the wide nostril, high croup, and lavish action. Guy picked her up at a cattle muster, where he was amazed at seeing the ease with which she carried a thirteen-stone stock-rider through the ceaseless galloping of a day’s ‘cutting-out.’ Asking permission to get on her back, he at once discovered her paces, and never rested till he had got her in exchange for a two-year-old colt of his own, which had attracted the attention of Frank Smasher, the stock-rider in question. Frank, returning with him to Warbrok, roped the colt, the same day putting the breaking tackle on him, and within a week was cutting out cattle, on the Sandy Camp, with no apparent inferiority to the oldest stock-horse there.

Whether Allspice had been broken in after this Mexican fashion is not known, but as she could walk nearly as fast as Fergus, trot fourteen miles an hour, and canter ‘round a cheese-plate,’ if you elected to perform that feat, we must consider that she was otherwise trained in youth, or inherited the talent which dispenses with education. The light hand and light weight to which she was now subjected apparently suited her taste. After a few trials she was voted by the family and all friendly critics to be only inferior to the inimitable Fergus.

Mr. Churbett had volunteered to come over the evening before and accompany the young ladies, as otherwise Guy would have been their only cavalier, Wilfred being absorbed in the grave responsibility of the dogcart and its valuable freight.

This sporting vehicle contained Mrs. Effingham and Annabel, together with an amount of luggage, easily calculable when the possibility of a few picnics, a couple of balls, and any number of impromptu dances are mentioned. Mr. Effingham also, and his sons, found it necessary upon this occasion to look up portions of their English outfit, which they had long ceased to regard as suited for familiar wear.

The light harness work of the family had been hitherto performed by a single horse, a sensible half-bred animal, and a fair trotter withal. On this occasion Wilfred had persuaded himself that a second horse was indispensable. After divers secret councils among the young men, it ended in Mr. Churbett’s Black Prince, the noted tandem leader of the district, being sent over. He was docile, as well as distinguished-looking, so all went well, in spite of Mrs. Effingham’s doubts, fears, and occasional entreaties, and Annabel’s plaintive cries when a nervous ‘sideling’ was passed, or a deeper creek than usual forded.

‘Oh, what a pretty place Rockley Lodge is – a nice, roomy bungalow; and how trim the garden looks!’

‘Apparently inhabited,’ said Annabel, ‘and rather affected by visitors, I should say. I can see horses fastened to the garden fence, a carriage at the door, and a dogcart coming round from the back, as well as two side-saddle horses. So this is Mr. Rockley’s place! He said it was just a little way from the town; and there – Mr. Churbett and Rosamond are turning in at the entrance gate.’

Duellist, having gone off in his training, thereafter not unwillingly retained for hackney purposes, evidently knew his way to the place, for he marched off at once, along the track which turned to the white gate. Followed by the tandem, with Beatrice and Guy bringing up the rear, the whole party drew up before the hall door.

Mr. Churbett, giving his horse to a hurried groom, who made his appearance from the offices, assisted Rosamond to dismount, by which time a youthful-looking personage, whom the Effinghams took to be Miss Christabel, but who turned out to be her mother, advanced with an air of unfeigned welcome, and greeted the visitors.