Babes in the Bush

The Town Plate – a locally important and much-discussed event – having been run, and won, after an exciting struggle, by Mr. O’Desmond’s Bennilong, a fine old thoroughbred, who still retained the pace, staying power, and ability to carry weight, which had long made him the glory of the Badajos stud and the pride of the Yass district, preparations for lunch on an extensive scale took place.

The horses of the different vehicles, as well as the hackneys, were now in various ways secured, the more provident owners having brought halters for the purpose. Mrs. Rockley and Mrs. Bower, with other ladies, had arranged to join forces in the commissariat department, the result of which was a spread of such comprehensive dimensions that it required the efforts of the younger men for nearly half an hour to unpack and set forth the store of edibles and the array of liquors of every kind and sort.

Rich and rare the viands were,Diversified the plate,

inasmuch as each family had sent forth such articles as, while available for immediate use, would cause less household mourning if reported wounded or missing. But the great requisities of an al fresco entertainment were fully secured. An ample cold collation, with such relays of the beloved Bass and such wines of every degree as might have served the need of a troop of dragoons. The last adjuncts had been forwarded by the male contingent, under a joint and several responsibility.

Eventually the grand attack was commenced by the impetuous Rockley, who, arming himself with a gleaming carver, plunged the weapon into the breast of a gigantic turkey, in the interests of Mrs. Effingham, who sat on his right hand.

After this assaut d’armes the fray commenced in good earnest. The ladies had been provided with seats from the vehicles, overcoats, rugs, and all manner of envelopes, which could be procured, down to a spare suit of horse-clothing. Shawls and cloaks were brought into requisition, but the genial season had left the sward in a highly available condition, and with a cool day, a pleasant breeze, the shade of a few noble eucalypti, fortunately spared, nothing was wanting to the arrangements. As the devoted efforts of the younger knights and squires provided each dame and damsel with the necessary aliment, as the champagne corks commenced to fusilade with the now sustained, now dropping fire of a brisk affair of outposts, the merry interchange of compliments, mirthful badinage, and it may be eloquent glances become no less rapid and continuous.

Our Youth! our Youth! that spring of springs.It surely is one of the blessedest thingsBy Nature ever invented!

sang Tom Hood, and who does not echo the joyous, half-regretful sentiment. How one revelled in the$1‘$2’$3at the casual concourse of youthful spirits, where the poetic sentiment was inevitably heightened by the mere proximity of beauty. Surely it is well, ere the bright sky of youth is clouded by Care or gloomed by the storm-signal of Fate, to revel in the sunshine, to slumber in the haunted shade. So may we gaze fondly on our chaplet of roses, withered, alas! but fragrant yet, long ere the dread summons is heard which tells that life’s summer is ended, and the verdant alleys despoiled.

Another race or two, of inferior interest, was looked for, and then the party would take the road for town, concluding the day’s entertainment with a full-sized dance at the expansive abode of Mr. Rockley, which would combine all contingents.

The next day’s more exciting programme included the steeplechase, to be run after lunch. In this truly memorable event some of the best cross-country horses in Australia were to meet, including those sensational cracks, The Cid and St. Andrew, each representing rival stables, rival colonies. The former with Bob Clarke up, the latter with Charles Hamilton; each the show horseman of his district, and backed by his party to the verge of indiscretion.

The less heroic melodramas having been acted out with more or less contentment to performers, there was a general return to boot and saddle, previous to the leisurely progress homeward from the day’s festivities. This, as the hours were passing on towards the shadowy twilight, was not one of the least pleasant incidents of the day’s adventures.

The road skirted the great plain which bounded the racecourse, and as the westering sun flamed gorgeous to his pyre, fancy insensibly glided from the realism of the present to the desert mysteries of the past.

‘Oh, what a sunset!’ said Christabel Rockley, whom fate and the impatience of her horse had placed under the control of Mr. Argyll. ‘How grand it is! I never see sunset over the plains from our verandah without thinking of the desert and the Israelites, camels, and pillared palaces. Is it like that? How I should love to travel!’

‘The desert is not so unlike that plain, or any plain in Australia,’ explained Argyll (who had seen the Arab’s camel kneel, and watched the endless line of the Great Caravan wind slowly over the wind-blown hollows), ‘inasmuch as it is large and level; but the vast, awe-striking ruins, such as Luxor or Palmyra – records of a vanished race – these we can only dream of.’

‘Oh, how wonderful, how entrancing it must be,’ said Miss Christabel, ‘to see such enchanted palaces! Fancy us standing on a fallen column, in a city of the dead, with those dear picturesque Arabs. Oh, wouldn’t it be heavenly! And you must be there to explain it all to me, you know!’

As the girl spoke, with heightened colour, and the eager, half-girlish tones, so full of melody in the days of early womanhood, as the great dark eyes emitted a wondrous gleam, raised pleadingly to her companion’s face, even the fastidious Argyll held brief question whether life would not be endurable in the grand solitudes of the world, ‘with one (such) fair spirit to be his minister.’

‘My dear Miss Christabel,’ he made answer, ‘I should be charmed to be your guide on such an expedition. But if you will permit me to recommend you a delightful book, called – ’

Here he was interrupted by the deeply-interested fair one, who, pointing with her whip to the advanced guard of the party, now halted and drawn to the side of the road, said hurriedly, ‘Whatever are they going to do, Mr. Argyll? Oh, I see – Bob Clarke’s going to jump King of the Valley over Dean’s fence. It’s ever so high, and the King is such a wretch to pull. I hope he won’t get a fall.’

This seemingly abrupt transition from the land of romance to that of reality was not perhaps so wide a departure in the spirit as in the letter. The age of chivalry is not past; but the knights who wear khaki suits in place of armour, and bear the breech-loader in preference to the battle-axe, have to resort to means of proving their prowess before their ladies’ eyes other than by splintering of lances and hacking at each other in the sword-play of the tournament.

The King of the Valley was a violent, speedy half-bred. His owner was anxious to know whether he was clever enough over rails, to have a chance for the coming steeplechase. An unusual turn of speed he undoubtedly possessed, and, if steadied, the superstition was that the King could jump anything. But the question was – so hot-blooded and reckless was he when he saw his fence – could he be controlled so as to come safely through a course of three miles and a half of post and rail fencing, new, stiff and uncompromising?

To the cool request, then, that he would give him a schooling jump over Dean’s fence, which some men might have thought unreasonable, Bob Clarke, with a smile of amusement, instantly acceded, and making over his hackney to a friend, mounted the impatient King, shortened his stirrups, and then and there proceeded to indulge him with the big fence.

Then had occurred the sudden halt and general attitude of expectation which Miss Rockley had noted, and with which she had so promptly sympathised. Bob Clarke was a slight, graceful youngster, with regular features, dark hair and eyes, and a mild expression, much at variance with the dare-devilry which was his leading characteristic. Passionately fond of field sports, he had ridden more steeplechases, perhaps, than any man in Australia of his age. He had been carried away ‘for dead’ more than once; had broken an arm, several ribs, and a collar-bone – this last more than once. These injuries had taken place after the horse had fallen, for of an involuntary departure from the saddle no one had ever accused him.

As he gathered up his reins and quietly took the resolute animal a short distance back from the fence, unbroken silence succeeded to the flow of mirthful talk. The fence looked higher than usual; the close-grained timber of the obstinate eucalyptus was uninviting. The heavy posts and solid rails, ragged-edged and sharply defined, promised no chance of yielding. As the pair had reached the moderate distance considered to be sufficient for the purpose, Bob turned and set the eager brute going at the big dangerous leap. With a wild plunge the headstrong animal made as though to race at the obstacle with his usual impetuosity. Now was seen the science of a finished rider; with lowered hand and closely fitting seat, making him for a time a part of the fierce animal he rode, Bob Clarke threw the weight of his body and the strength of his sinewy frame into such a pull as forced the powerful brute to moderate his pace. Such, however, was his temper when roused, that the King still came at his fence much too fast, ‘reefing’ with lowered head and struggling stride – an unfavourable state of matters for measuring his distance. As he came within the last few yards of the fence more than one lady spectator turned pale, while a masculine one, sotto voce, growled out, ‘D – n the brute! he’ll smash himself and Bob too.’

As the last half-dozen strides were reached, however, the rusé hero of many a hard fought fray ‘over the sticks,’ suddenly slackening his grasp of the reins, struck the King sharply over the head with his whip, thus causing him to throw up his muzzle and take a view of his task. In the next moment the horse rose from rather a close approach, and with a magnificent effort just cleared the fence. A cheer from every man present showed the general relief.

‘Oh, how beautifully he rides!’ said the fair Christabel, whose cheek had perhaps lost a shade of its wild-rose tint. ‘No one looks so well on horseback as Mr. Clarke. Don’t you think he’s very handsome?’

‘Not a bad-looking young fellow at all, and certainly rides well,’ said Argyll, without enthusiasm. ‘I daresay he has done little else all his lifetime, like your friends the Arabs. Watch him as he comes back again.’

The margin by which he had escaped a fall had been estimated by the experienced Bob, who, taking advantage of a field heavy from early ploughing, gave King of the Valley a deserved breather before he brought him back.

By the time they were within a reasonable distance of the fence, the excited animal had discovered that he had a rider on his back. As he came on at a stretching gallop, he was seen to be perfectly in hand. Nearing the jump, it surprised no experienced spectator to see him shorten stride and, ‘taking off’ at the proper distance, sail over the stiff top rail, ‘with (as his gratified owner said) a foot to spare, and Bob Clarke sitting on him, with his whip up, as easy as if he was in a blooming arm-chair.’

‘There, Champion,’ said the victor as he resumed his hackney. ‘He can jump anything you like. But if you don’t have a man up who can hold him, he’ll come to grief some day.’

A few trials and experiments of a like nature were indulged in by the younger cavaliers before they reached town, most of which were satisfactory, with one exception, in which the horse by a sudden and wily baulk sent his rider over the fence, and calmly surveyed the obstacle himself.

Another dance, at which everybody who had been at the races, and who was du monde, finished worthily the day so auspiciously commenced. Wilfred Effingham, who had declared himself rather fatigued at the first entertainment, and had at that festival asserted that it would do for a week, now commenced to enjoy himself con amore– to sun himself in the light of Christabel Rockley’s eyes, and to badiner with Mrs. Snowden, as if life was henceforth to be compounded of equal quantities of race meetings by day and dances by night.

‘I suppose you are a little tired, Miss Rockley,’ he said, ‘after the riding and the picnic and the races; it is rather fatiguing.’

‘Tired!’ echoed the Australian damsel in astonishment. ‘Why should I be tired? What is the use of giving in before the week is half over? I shall have lots of time to rest and enjoy the pleasure of one’s own society after you have all gone. It will be dull enough then for a month or two.’

‘But are there any more festivities in progress?’ he asked with some surprise.

‘Any more? Why, of course, lots and quantities. You English people must be made of sugar or salt. Why, there’s the race ball to-morrow night, at which everybody will be present – the band all the way from Sydney. The race dinner the next night – only for you gentlemen, of course, we shall go to bed early. Then Mrs. Bower’s picnic on Saturday, with a dance here till twelve o’clock – I must get the clock put back, I think. And Sunday – ’

‘Sunday! haven’t you any entertainment provided for Sunday?’

‘Well, no; not exactly. But everybody will go to church in the morning, and Mr. Sternworth will preach us one of his nice sensible sermons – they do me so much good – about not allowing innocent pleasures to take too great hold upon our hearts. In the afternoon we are all going for a long, long walk to the Fern-tree Dell. You’ll come, won’t you? It’s such a lovely place. And on Monday – ’

‘Of course we shall begin all over again on Monday; keep on dancing, racing, and innocently flirting, like inland Flying Dutchmen, for ever and ever, as long as we hold together. Isn’t that the intention?’

‘Now you’re beginning to laugh at me. It will be serious for some of us when you all go away. Don’t you think so, now?’ (Here the accompaniment was a look of such distracting pathos that Wilfred was ready to deliver an address on ‘Racing considered as the chief end of man,’ without further notice.) ‘No; on Monday morning you are all to pay your bills at the Budgeree – those that have money enough, I mean; not that it matters – Bowker will wait for ever, they say. Then you go back to your stations, and work like good boys till the next excuse for coming into Yass, and that finishes up the week nicely, doesn’t it?’

‘So nicely that I believe there is a month of ordinary life compressed into it – certainly as far as enjoyment goes. I shall never forget it as long as I live – never forget some of the friends I have made here during the brightest, happiest time of my life, especially – ’

‘Look at that ridiculous Mr. Tarlton dancing the pas seul!’ exclaimed Miss Christabel, not quite disposed to enter upon Wilfred’s explanation of his sensations. ‘Do you know, I think quadrilles are rather a mistake after all. I should like dances to be made up of nothing but valses and galops.’

‘Life would be rather too rapid, I am afraid, if we carried that principle out. Don’t you think Mrs. Snowden is looking uncommonly well to-night?’

‘She always dresses so well that no one looks better.’

CHAPTER XII

STEEPLECHASE DAY

In despite of the mirthful converse continued around him, during the small hours, and the complicated condition of his emotions, Wilfred Effingham slept so soundly that the breakfast bell was needed to arouse him. He felt scarcely eager for the fray; but after a shower-bath and that creditable morning meal ever possible to youth, his feelings concerning the problems of life and the duties of the hour underwent a change for the better.

Charles Hamilton, Bob Clarke, and the turf contingent generally had been out at daylight, personally inspecting the steeds that were to bear them to victory and a modest raking in of the odds or otherwise. How much ‘otherwise’ is there upon the race-courses of the world! How often is the favourite amiss or ‘nobbled,’ the rider ‘off his head,’ the certainty a ‘boil over’! Alas, that it should be so! That man should barter the sure rewards of industry for the feverish joys, the heart-shaking uncertainties, the death-like despair which the gambling element, whether in the sport or business of life, inevitably brings in its train!

‘Why, this is life,’ sneers the cynic; ‘you are describing what ever has been, is, and shall be, the worship of the great god “Chance.” The warrior and the statesman, the poet and the priest, the people especially, have from all time placed their lives and fortunes on a cast, differently named, it is true. And they will do so to the end.’

Such causticities scarcely apply to the modest provincial meeting which we chronicle, inasmuch as little money changed hands. What cash was wagered would have been treated with scorn by the layers of the odds and inventors of ‘doubles,’ those turf triumphs or tragedies. Nevertheless, the legitimate excitement of the steeplechase, three and a half miles over a succession of three-railed fences, with the two ‘hardest’ men in the Southern District up, would be a sight to see.

Independently of the exciting nature of the race, an intercolonial element was added. Bob Clarke and his steed were natives of Tasmania; the cool climate and insular position of which have been thought to be favourable to human and equine development. Much colour for the supposition was recognised by the eager gazers of Mr. Bob Clarke and his gallant bay, The Cid.

The former was evidently born for a career of social success. Chivalrous and energetic, with a bright smile, a pleasant manner, his popularity was easy of explanation.

In a ball room, where his modesty was in the inverse ratio to his iron-nerved performances across country, he was a rival not to be despised. Among men he was voted ‘an out-and-out good fellow,’ or a gentlemanlike, manly lad, from whatever side emanated the criticism.

The Cid was a grand horse, if not quite worthy of the exaggerated commendation which his admirers bestowed. A handsome, upstanding animal, bright bay, with black points, he had a commanding-looking forehand, ‘that you could hardly see over,’ as a Tasmanian turfite observed, besides a powerful quarter, with hips, the same critic was pleased to observe, ‘as wide as a fire-place.’ In his trials he was known to have taken leaps equal in height to anything ever crossed by a horse. But a stain in his blood occasionally showed out, in a habit of baulking. Of this peculiarity he gave no notice whatever, sometimes indulging it at the commencement, sometimes at the end of a race, to the anguish of well-wishers and the dismay of backers. A determined rider was therefore indispensable. As on this occasion the only man in the country-side ‘who could ride him as he ought to be ridden,’ according to popular belief, was up, who had also trained him for this particular race, little apprehension was felt as to the result.

Not less confident were the friends of St. Andrew, a different animal in appearance, but of great merit in the eyes of judges. Not so large as his celebrated antagonist, he had the condensed symmetry of the racehorse. Boasting the blue blood of Peter Fin (imported) on his mother’s side, his Camerton pedigree on the other, entitled him to be ticketed ‘thorough-bred as Eclipse.’ A compact and level horse, with the iron legs of the tribe, every muscle stood out, beautifully developed by a careful preparation. His dark chestnut satin coat, his quiet, determined air, the unvarying cleverness with which he performed in private, together with the acknowledged excellence of his rider, rendered the Benmohr division confident of victory.

The others which made up the race were fine animals, but were not entrusted to any great extent with the cash or the confidence of the public. Of these the most formidable was a scarred veteran named Bargo, who had gone through or over many a fence in many a steeplechase. His rider being, like himself, chiefly professional, they were both undoubted performers. But though the old chaser would refuse nothing, his pace had declined through age. It was understood that he was entered on the chance of the two cracks destroying each other, in which case Bargo would be a ‘moral.’

The remaining ones, with the exception of King of the Valley, were chiefly indebted for their entry to the commendable gallantry of aspiring youth. It was something to turn out in ‘the colours’ and other requisites of costume before an admiring crowd; something, doubtless, to see a cherry cheek deepen or pale at the thought of the chances of the day; something to try a local favourite in good company. All honour to the manly and honest-hearted feeling!

Of these, briefly, it may be stated that Currency Lass was a handsome chestnut mare with three white legs, and much of the same colour distributed over her countenance. She was fast, and jumped brilliantly, if she could be prevailed upon not to take off too near to her fences, or ridiculously far off, or to pump all the breath out of her body by unnecessary pulling. The regulation of these tendencies provided a task of difficulty for the rider.

Wallaby and Cornstalk were two useful, hunter-looking bays, which would have brought a considerably higher price in the old land than they were ever likely to do here.

The course had been arranged so that the horses should start near the stand, and going across country take a circuitous course, but eventually finishing at the stand after negotiating a sensational last fence. This was not thought to be good management, but the enclosures admitted of no other arrangement.

The morning’s racing having been got through, everybody adjourned to lunch, it being decided that the important event should take place at three o’clock, after which the excitement of the day might be considered to be over. In spite of the approaching contest, which doubtless contained an element of danger, as it was known that the riders of the two cracks would ‘go at each other for their lives,’ not less than the usual amount of mirth and merriment was observable. The two chief actors were altogether impervious to considerations involving life and limb, although they had seen and suffered what might have made some men cautious.

Bob Clarke had been more than once ‘carried away for dead’ from under a fallen horse, while Charles Hamilton had won a steeplechase after having employed the morning in tracking a friend who had gone out to ‘school’ a young horse, and whom the search-party discovered lying dead under a log fence.

The ladies exhibited a partisanship which they were at no pains to conceal. Bets (in gloves) ran high; while the danger of the imminent race rendered a fair cheek, here and there, less brilliant of hue, and dimmed the sparkle of bright eyes.

‘Oh, I hope no one will get hurt,’ said Christabel Rockley; ‘these horrid fences are so high and stiff. Why can’t they have all flat races? They’re not so exciting, certainly, but then no one can get killed.’

‘Accidents occur in these, you know,’ said Mrs. Snowden, philosophically; ‘and, after all, if the men like to run a little risk while we are looking on, I don’t see why we should grudge them the pleasure.’

‘It seems very unfeeling,’ says the tender-hearted damsel. ‘I shall feel quite guilty if any one is hurt to-day. Poor Mrs. Malahyde, Bob Clarke’s sister, is dreadfully anxious; the tears keep coming into her eyes. She knows how reckless he can be when he’s determined to win.’

‘I fancy Mr. Hamilton’s St. Andrew will win,’ said Mrs. Snowden; ‘he is better bred, they say, and he looks to me so well-trained. What do you think, Mr. Effingham?’

‘I am a thick and thin supporter of the Benmohr stable,’ said Wilfred. ‘The Cid is a grand horse, but my sympathies are with St. Andrew.’

‘I’ll bet a dozen pairs of gloves The Cid wins,’ said Miss Christabel impetuously, looking straight at Mrs. Snowden. ‘He can beat anything in the district when he likes; Mr. Hamilton rides beautifully, but Bob can make any horse win.’

‘My dear child, you are quite a “plunger,”’ said Mrs. Snowden. ‘Doubtless, they will cover themselves with glory. I’m afraid they can’t both win.’

At this moment one of the heroes joined the speakers, sauntering up with a respectful expression of countenance, proper to him who makes a request of a fair lady.