Babes in the Bush

There was evidently some constraint in the manner of the girl’s explanation, and Wilfred did not press for the solution, trusting to time and the frank candour with which every one discussed every other person’s affairs in the neighbourhood.

Miss Fane took an opportunity of quitting her seat and joining Mrs. Effingham and Beatrice, with whom, much to Wilfred’s satisfaction, she maintained a friendly and confidential talk until the little party commenced to disperse. He discovered at the same time that Christabel Rockley and Bob Clarke had exhausted their powers of mutual fascination for the present, so he could not forgo the temptation of hastening, after the manner of moths of all ages, to singe his wings in a farewell flutter round the fatal Christabel. That enchantress smiled upon him, and rekindled his regrets with a spare gleam or two from out her wondrous eyes, large as must have been the consumption of soul-felt glances during the evening; yet such is the insatiable desire for conquest that she listened responsively to his warm acknowledgments of the pleasure they had enjoyed during the week, nearly all of which was attributable to the great kindness of Mrs. Rockley and the hospitality of her father. ‘He should never forget it. The remembrance would last him all his life,’ and so on, and so on.

On Monday morning business in its severest sense set in for the world of Yass, its belongings, and dependencies. Before dawn all professionals connected with race-horses were hard at work with the silent energy which characterises the breed. Jockeys and trainers, helpers and boys, were steadily employed, each in his own department, strapping, packing, or saddling up with a taciturn solemnity of mien, as if racing had been abolished by Act of Parliament, and no further rational enjoyment was to be hoped for in a ruined world. Correspondingly, the tide of labour and rural commerce swelled and deepened. Long teams of bullocks slowly traversed the main street, with the heavy, indestructible dray of the period, filled with loads of hay, wheat, maize, oats, or flour. Farmers jogged along in spring-carts, or on rough nags; the shops were open and busy, while the miscellaneous establishment of Rockley and Company, which accommodated with equal ease an order for a ton of sugar or a pound of nails, a hundred palings, or sawn timber for a bridge, was, as usual, crowded with every sort of client and customer, in need of every kind of merchandise, advice, or accommodation.

Shortly after breakfast, therefore, Black Prince pranced proudly up before his wheeler to the door of Rockley House, looking – but by no means likely to carry out that impropriety – as if he was bent upon running away every mile of the homeward journey. Portmanteaus and, it must be admitted, parcels of unknown size and number (for when did women ever travel forth, much less return, without supplementary packages?) were at length conveniently bestowed.

Adieus and last words – the very last – were exchanged with their kind hostess and her angelic daughter, who had vowed and promised to visit The Chase at an early period. Rockley had betaken himself to his counting-house hours before. Fergus and Allspice were once more honoured with the weight of their respective mistresses, and the little cortège departed. Our cavalier had, we know, been prevented by a pressing engagement from accompanying them on the homeward route; but it was not to be supposed that two young ladies like Rosamond and Beatrice were to be permitted to ride through the forest glades escorted merely by relations. Most fortunately Mr. St. Maur happened to be visiting his friend O’Desmond, combining business and pleasure, for a few days. As his road lay past The Chase, he was, of course, only too happy to join their party.

Annabel Effingham thought that Bertram St. Maur was perhaps the prince and seigneur of their by no means undistinguished circle of acquaintances. A tall, handsome man, with a natural air of command, he was by Blanche and Selden, immediately after they had set eyes on him, declared to be the image of a Norman King in their History of England, and invested accordingly with grand and mysterious attributes. A well-known explorer, in the first days of his residence in Australia he had preferred the hazards of discovery to the slower gains of ordinary station life. He was therefore looked upon as the natural chief and leader in his own border district, a position which, with head and hand, he was well qualified to support.

The homeward journey was quickly performed, a natural impatience causing the whole party to linger as little as possible on the road. Once more they reached the ascent above their home, from which they could look down upon the green slopes, the tranquil lake, the purple hills, of the well-known landscape. The afternoon had kept fine; the change from the busy town, the late scene of their dissipation, was not unpleasing.

‘I am pleased to think that you young people have enjoyed yourselves,’ said Mrs. Effingham, ‘and so, I am sure, has papa. It has been a change for him; but, oh, if you knew how delighted I am to see home again!’

‘So am I; so are we all,’ said Annabel. ‘I for one will never say a word against pleasure, for I have enjoyed myself tremendously. But “enough is as good as a feast.” We have had a grand holiday, and like good children we shall go back cheerfully to our lessons – that is, to our housekeeping, and dear old Jeanie.’

‘Your mother is right in thinking that I enjoyed myself,’ said Mr. Effingham. ‘I found most pleasant acquaintances, and had much interesting talk about affairs generally. It does a man good, when he is no longer young, to meet men of the same age and to exchange ideas. But I must say that the pleasure was of an intense and compressed description; it ought to last you young people for a year.’

‘Half a year,’ said Annabel, ‘I really think it might. We met improving acquaintances too, – though I am popularly supposed not to care about sensible conversation, – Miss Fane, for instance. We shared a room, and I thought her a delightful, original, clever creature, and so good too. Can’t we have her over here, mamma? She lives at a place called Black Mountain, ever so far away, and can hardly ever leave home, because she has little brothers to teach, and all the housekeeping to do. I am sorry she is so far off.’

‘So am I, Annabel. We should all like to see more of her.’

‘I think that there were an unusual number of pretty girls,’ continued Annabel. ‘As for Christabel Rockley, I could rave about her as much as if I were a man. She is a lovely creature, and as good-natured and unselfish as a child.’

‘I must say,’ said Mr. Effingham, ‘that for hospitality in the largest sense of the word, I never saw anything to surpass that of our friends. I knew Ireland well when I was young, but even that proverbially generous land seems to me to be outdone by our Australian friends.’

‘I hope Jeanie will have a nice dinner for us,’ said Annabel. ‘But we need never be afraid of the dear old thing not doing everything she ought to have done. She knew we were coming home to-day, and she will be ready and prepared for a prince, if we had picked up a stray one at Yass. Home, sweet home! How glad I am! There is nothing like dissipation for making one feel truly virtuous.’

Of a truth, there is always something sacred and precious connected in the minds of the widely scattered families of the Anglo-Saxon race about the very name of ‘home!’ There was no one of the Effinghams whose heart was not stirred as they rode and drove up to the hall door, and saw the kindly, loving face of Jeanie, the seriously satisfied countenance of Andrew, and even the silent Duncan, quite excited for him, as he stood ready to assist with the horses. The garden in the neighbourhood of the entrance gate was trim and neat, while showers had preserved the far-stretching verdure which glorifies the country in whatever hemisphere. No great time was consumed in unsaddling. Guy personally superintended the stabling of St. Maur’s horse, while Wilfred conducted him to one of the spare rooms. Dick Evans, always handy in emergencies, turned up in time to dispose of the tandem. And in less than half an hour Effingham and his new acquaintance were walking up and down the verandah awaiting the dinner-bell, much refreshed and comforted, and in a state of mind fitted for admiring the landscape.

‘How fortunate you seem to have been in falling across such a family residence,’ said St. Maur. ‘You might have been for years in the country and never heard of anything half so good. What a lovely view of the lake; and first-class land, too, it seems to be.’

‘We owe our good fortune in great part, or I may say altogether, to my old friend Sternworth. But for him we should never have seen Australia, or have been stumbling about in the dark after we did come here. And if it were possible to need any other aid or advice, I feel certain Mr. Rockley would insist on giving it. I must say that the soil of Australia produces more friends in need to the square mile than any other I know.’

‘It may be overrated in that respect,’ said St. Maur, smiling; ‘but you are in no danger of overrating Rockley’s benevolence or his miraculous ways and means of carrying out his intentions. As for Mr. Sternworth, he is the “Man of Ross” – or rather of Yass —

To all the country dear,

and passing rich on not exactly ‘forty pounds a year,’ but the Australian equivalent. If he introduces any more such desirable colonists we must have him made rural Dean. You are satisfied with your investment, I take it?’

‘So much so, that I look forward with the keenest relish to the many changes and improvements [here his visitor gave a slight involuntary motion of dissent] which I trust to carry out during the next few years. Everything is reassuring in a money-making aspect, so I trust not to be indiscreet in developing the property.’

‘My dear sir, nothing can be more proper than that we should carry out plans for the improvement of our estates, after they have shown annual profit balances for years. But to spend money on improvements in Australia before you have a reserve fund is – pardon my frankness – held to be imprudent.’

‘But surely a property well improved must pay eventually better than one where, as at present, all the stock are permitted to roam almost in a state of nature?’

‘When you come to talk of stock paying, my dear sir, you must bear in mind that it is not the finest animal that yields the most profit, but the one on which, at a saleable age, you have expended the least money.’

The evening passed most pleasantly, with just sufficient reference to the experiences of the week to render the conversation entertaining. In the morning their guest departed, and with him the last associations of the memorable race meeting, leaving the family free to pursue the calm pursuits of their ordinary life.

Wilfred found himself freshly invigorated and eager to take up again occupations connected with the policy of the establishment. He praised Dick Evans and old Tom warmly for the exact order in which he found all departments, not forgetting a word of approval for Andrew, of whose good conduct, however, he was assured under all possible circumstances.

As the season passed on, it seemed as though the family of the Effinghams had migrated to one of the poets’ isles —

Happy with orchard lawns,Where never wind doth blow or tempest rave —

so flawless were all the climatic conditions, upon which their well-being depended.

Pleasant it was, after the day’s work was done, when the family gathered round the substantial fire which, red-glowing with piled-up logs, thoroughly warmed but did not oppressively heat the lofty room. Then came truly the season of

Rest, and affection, and stillness.

Although a certain reaction was apparent after the stupendous adventures and experiences of the race meeting, yet moderate social intercourse survived. Mr. Churbett was the first of the personages from the outer world who presented himself, and the historiette of the duel having leaked out, he had to undergo a grave lecture and remonstrance from Mrs. Effingham, which, as he said afterwards, reminded him so of his own mother that it brought the tears into his eyes.

Mr. Argyll, luckily for his peace of mind, had occasion to go to Sydney, otherwise, not to mention chance reviewers and critics, it is hard to imagine how he could have protected himself against the uncompromising testimony which Mrs. Teviot felt herself compelled to take up against him.

‘Spillin’ the bluid o’ the Lord’s anointed; no that Maister Hampden was mair than a magistrate, but still it is written, ‘they bear not the sword in vain.’ And oh, it’s wae to think if Hampden’s bullet had juist gane thro’ the heart o’ Maister Argyll, and his mither, that gracious lady, wearyin’ for him by the bonny hills o’ Tarbert! And that Maister Churbett, I wadna hae thocht it. I could fell him.’

Howard Effingham, in a general way, disapproved of duelling, but as a soldier and a man of the world was free to confess that, as society was constituted, such an ultimatum could not be dispensed with. He was happy to hear no casualty had occurred. His own opinion, judging from what he had seen of colonial society, was that the men composing it were an exceptionally reasonable set of people, whose lives, from circumstances, were of exceptional value to the community at large as well as to their families. In the older countries of Europe, where duelling had formerly flourished, the direct converse of this proposition often obtained. He believed that in course of time the practice of duelling would become so unnecessary, even unfashionable, as to be practically obsolete.

Mr. Hampden did not belong to their ‘side of the country’ (or neighbourhood); thus he was necessarily left to receive his share of admonition from his wife, and such of his personal friends who cared to volunteer reproof or remonstrance. There were those who smiled sardonically at this view of the case.

CHAPTER XV

THE LIFE STORY OF TOM GLENDINNING

During one of the long rides which Wilfred was obliged to take from time to time with Tom Glendinning, it occurred to him to ask about his previous history. The old man was unusually well; that is, free from rheumatism and neuralgia. The demons which tortured his irritable temper were at rest. For a wonder, Tom was communicative.

‘Sure there’s little use in knowin’ the finds and the kills and blank days of a toothless old hound like meself. I’m broken-mouthed enough to know better; but the oulder some gets, the wickeder they are. Maybe it’s because there’s little hope for them. I was born in the north of Ireland, where my people was dacent enough. Linen factories they had – no less. My great grandfather came from Scotland, my father was dead, and my uncle that I lived with was the sourest old miser that ever the Black North turned out. I was a wild slip of a youngster always, like a hawk among barn-door fowl. My mother came from the West. It was her blood I had, and it ran too free and merry in thim days. She was dead too, but I loved her people. I liked the sporting notions of ’em, and took to their ways, their fights, their fairs and the very brogue, just to spite my uncle and his canting breed.

‘I hated everything they liked, and liked everything they hated. I was flogged and locked up for runnin’ away from school. Why should I stay in and larn out of a dog’s-eared book when the hounds met within five Irish miles of me? I was always with them when I could slip off – sleepin’ in the stables, helpin’ the grooms, doin’ anything so they’d let me stay about the stables and kennel. I could ride any hunter they had at exercise and knew every fox-covert in the neighbourhood, every hare’s form, besides being able to tie a fly and snare rabbits. When I was twelve years old I ran away and made my way down to Mayo, to my mother’s people – God be with them all their days! I was happy then.’

‘I suppose you were, indeed,’ said Wilfred.

‘Why wouldn’t I be? My mother’s brother was but a small farmer, but he was a king’s ayqual for kind-heartedness, divilment and manliness. He could follow the hounds on foot for a ten-mile run. He was the best laper, wrestler, hurler, and stick-fighter in the barony. The sort of man I could have died for. More by token, he took to me at once when I stumbled in sore-footed and stiff like a stray puppy. I was the “white-headed boy” for my dead mother’s sake.’

‘You had all you could wish for, then.’

‘I had. I was a fool, too, but sure I didn’t know it. ’Tis that same makes all the differ. The Squire took a fancy to me, after I rode a five-year-old for him over the ox-fences one day. I was made dog-boy, afterwards third whip; and sure, when I had on the cord breeches and the coat with the hunt button, I was prouder than the king. There was no divilment in all the land I wasn’t in; but I didn’t drink in thim days, and I knew my work well. Whin I was twenty-two a fit took me to go to Belfast and see the ould place again.’

‘Did you wish to ask for your uncle’s blessing?’

‘Not if I was stritched for it! But my cousin Mary! sure I could never get her out of my head, and thim black eyes of hers. She kissed me the night I ran away, and the taste of her lips and the sweet look of her eyes could never lave me. I can see her face now. I wonder where is she? And will I see her again when I go to my place!’

The old man turned away his head; his voice was still for some moments. Were there tears in those evil-glowing eyes, that never lowered before mortal man or quailed under the shadow of death? Who shall say? Wilfred played with his bridle-rein. When the henchman spoke next he gazed resolutely before him, towards the far purple mountain peak; his voice once more was strong and clear.

‘Whin I seen her again she was a woman grown, but her eyes were the same, and her heart was true to the wild boy that was born to ruin all that was nigh or kind to him. The old man scowled at me. There was little love between us.

‘“So you’ve grown into a useless man instead of a disobedient lad,” he said. “Why didn’t ye stay among the rebels and white-boys of the West? It’s the company that fits ye well; you’ll have the better chance of being hanged before you’re older. Change your name before it’s a by-word and a disgrace to honest folks.”

‘I swore then I’d make him repent his words, and that if I was hanged my name should be known far and wide. I went back to the wild West. But if I did I gave him good raison to curse me to his dyin’ day. I soothered over Mary to marry me, and the day after we were well on the way to Athlone.’

‘Surely then you had a happy life before you, Tom?’

‘True for you. If I wasn’t happy, no man ever was. But the divil was too strong in me. I was right for the first year. I loved my work with the hounds, and the master – rest his sowl – used to say there wasn’t a whip west of Athlone could hold a candle to me. He gave me a snug cottage. Mary was a great favourite entirely with the ladies of the house. For that year – that one blessed year of my life – I was free from bad ways. Within the year Mary had a fine boy in her arms – the moral of his father, every one said – and as she smiled on me, I felt as if what the priest said about being good and all the rest of it, might be true, after all.’

‘And what made the change, Tom?’

‘The ould story – restlessness, bad company, and saycret societies. I got mixed up in one, that I joined before I was married, more for the fun of the night walks and drillin’s and rides than anything else. The oath once taken – a terrible oath it was, more by token – I thought shame of breakin’ it. It’s little I’d care now for a dozen like it. The end of it was, one night I must go off with a mob of young fools, like myself, to frighten a strong farmer who had taken the land over a poor man’s head. I didn’t know then that the best kindness for a strugglin’ holder there, was to hunt him out of the overstocked land to this place, or America, or the West Indies. Anyhow, we burned a stack. After I left, the boys were foolish and bate him. He took to his bed and died – divil mend him! Two days afterwards I was arrested on a warrant, and lodged in the county gaol. ’Twas the first time I heard a prison lock turn behind me. Not the last, by many a score times.

‘I had no chance at the Assizes. A girl swore to me as Huntsman Tom. Five of thim was hanged. I got off with transportation. I was four miles away whin they were heard batin’ Doran. I asked the Judge to hang me with the rest. He said it couldn’t be done. Mary came every day to see me, poor girleen; she liked to show me the boy; but I could see her heart was broke, though she tried to smile – such a smile – for my sake. I desarved what I got, maybe. But if I’d been let off then, as there’s a God in heaven I’d have starved rather than have done a wrong turn agin as long as I lived. If them judges knew a man’s heart, would they let one off, wonst in a way? Mary was with me every day, wet or dry, on board the prison ship till she sailed. Is there angels come to hell, I wonder, to see the wretches in torment? If they do, they’ll look like her, as she stood on the deck and trembled whin the chained divils that some calls men filed by. She looked at me with her soft eyes, till I grew mad, and told her roughly to go home and take the child with her. Then she dropped on her knees and cried, and kissed my hands with the irons on them and the face of me, like a madwoman. She lifted the baby to me for a minute, and it held out its hands. I kissed its wheeshy soft face, and she was gone out of my sight – out of my life – for ever.’

‘How did you like the colony?’

‘Well enough at the first. I worked well, and did what I was tould. It was all the relafe there was. I made sure I should get my freedom in a few years. The first letther I got was from my old uncle. Mary was dead! He said nothin’ about the child, but he would bring it up, and never wished to hear my name again. This changed me into a rale divil, no less. All that was bad in me kem out. I was that desperate that I defied the overseers, made friends with the biggest villians among the prisoners, and did everything foolish that came into my head. I was punished, and the worse I was trated the worse I grew. I was chained and flogged and starved and put into dark cells. ’Tis little satisfaction they got of me, for I grew that savage and stubborn that I was all as one as a wild baste, only wickeder. If ye seen my back now, after the triangles, scarred and callused from shoulder to flank! I was marked out for Norfolk Island; ye’ve heard tell of that place?’

Wilfred nodded assent.

‘That hell!’ screamed the old man, ‘where men once sent never came back. Flogged and chained; herded like bastes, when the lime that they carried off to the boats burned holes in their naked flesh, wading through the surf with it! But I forgot, there was one way to get back to Sydney.’

‘And what way was that?’

‘You could always kill a man – one of your mates – only a prisoner – sure, it couldn’t matter much!’ said the old man with a dreadful laugh; ‘but ye were sent up to Sydney in the Government brig, and tried and hanged as reg’lar as if ye wor a free man and owned a free life. There was thim there thin that thought the pleasure trip to Sydney and the comfort of a new gaol and a nate condimned cell all to yourself, well worth a man’s blood, and a sure rope when the visit was over. Ha! ha!’

He laughed long and loud. The sound was so unnatural that Wilfred fancied if their talk had occurred by a lonely camp in a darksome forest at midnight, instead of under the garish light of day, he might have imagined faint unearthly cries and moans strangely mingled with that awful laughter.

‘Thim was quare times; but I didn’t go to ‘the island hell’ after all. An up-country settler came to the barracks to pick a groom, as an assigned servant – so they called us. He was a big, bold-lookin’ man, and as I set my eyes on him, I never looked before me or on the floor as most of thim did.

‘“What’s that man?” he said. “I like the look of him; he’s got plenty of devil in him; that’s my sort. He can ride, by the look of his legs. I’m just starting up-country.”

‘They wouldn’t give me to him at first; said I was too bad to go loose. But he had friends in high places, and they got me assigned to him. Next day we started for a station. When I felt a horse between my legs I began to have the feelings of a man again. He gave me a pistol to carry, too. Bushrangers wor on the road then, and he carried money.’