Babes in the Bush

‘It seems odd that I shall perhaps never see this house again,’ said Major Glendinning, slowly and reflectively. ‘I was beginning to be very fond of it, and had made up my mind to buy a place for a stud farm and settle near it. But why think of it now, or of anything else? “What is decreed by Allah is decreed,” as saith the Moslem. Who am I to complain of the universal fate?’

But as the strong man spoke there was an involuntary tremor in his voice, a contraction of the muscles, as when the dumb, tortured frame quivers under the surgeon’s knife.

‘Oh, how glad I am that you all came to-day,’ said Annabel, as they walked in; ‘that is, if a girl is permitted to express her pleasure at the arrival of gentlemen. Perhaps I should have said “how fortunate a coincidence.” But, as a fact, all our horses are in to-day, and we were just wondering if we could make up a riding-party after lunch. Mr. Churbett, I can order you to come, because you never have any work to do; not like some tiresome people who will go home late at night or early in the morning.’

‘I never get credit for my labours, Miss Annabel. I’m too good-natured and easily intimidated – by ladies. But did you never hear of my memorable journey with cattle from Gundagai to the coast, all in the depth of winter; and – and – in fact – several other exploring enterprises?’

‘What, really, Mr. Churbett? Then I recant. But I thought you managed the station from your verandah, sitting in a large cane chair, with a pile of books on the floor.’

‘An enemy hath done this,’ said Mr. Churbett impressively. ‘Miss Annabel, I never shall be exonerated till you immortalise The She-oaks with your presence at a muster. Then, and then only, can you dimly shadow forth the deeds that the knight Frederico Churbetto, with his good steed Grey Surrey, is capable of achieving.’

‘“I wadna doot,” as Andrew says; and indeed, Mr. Churbett, I should like very much to see all the galloping and watch you and your stock-riders at work. You must ask mamma. Only, the present question is, can we have a canter down to the lake side?’

‘We shall be truly thankful,’ said Hamilton. ‘I can answer for it. We did not know the good fortune in store for us when we started.’

‘Oh, thanks, thanks! Consider everything nice said on both sides. But what have you done to Major Glendinning? He looks so serious.’

‘Oh, he’s all right,’ said Hamilton, thinking it best to suffer their friend to make his explanations personally. ‘Indian warriors, you know, are apt to suffer from old wounds. Change of weather, I think.’

‘Poor fellow!’ said Annabel. ‘It seems hard that if one is not killed in battle, he should have to suffer afterwards. However, we must cheer him up. I will go and put my habit on.’

The afternoon was fine, so after a preliminary saddling-up, the whole party filed off, apparently in high spirits. The roads in one direction were always sound, while by ascending slightly one of the spurs of the range a grand view was always obtainable.

Rosamond rode foremost, as she generally did, by right of the exceptional walking of Fergus. She was accompanied by Forbes, whose hackney had been selected after great research, his friends averred, in order that he might rank as the next fastest pacer in those parts. Argyll and Wilfred brought up the rear, occasionally joining company with Annabel and Fred Churbett. The Major and Beatrice went next behind the leaders. The couples preserved the order in which they set out, with the exception of the inroad upon Fred and Annabel’s eager colloquies, which were not deeply sentimental. That amiable personage complained that no one scrupled to break in upon his tête-à-têtes. He ‘thought he should have to grow a moustache and call some one out, in order to inspire respect.’

Major Glendinning had made frequent visits to Warbrok, and familiar intercourse having naturally resulted from his intimacy with their friends at Benmohr, the family had come to look upon him as one of their particular set. Of a nature constitutionally reserved, and more specially self-contained from long residence as a military autocrat in one of the provinces of Northern India, he had read and thought more deeply than men of his class are apt to do. In proportion, therefore, to his general reticence was his satisfaction in unlocking his stores of experience when he met with congenial minds.

A few chance questions on the part of Beatrice Effingham, after his first introduction to the family, had discovered to him that she was better informed as to the administration of Northern India than most people. Hence grew up between them a common ground of interest in which he could expatiate and explain. And his listener was never tired of hearing from an eye-witness and an actor the true story of the splendours and tragedies of that historic land.

The real reason of this research, apart from the hunger for literary pabulum, which at all times possessed Beatrice, was an affectionate interest in the life of an uncle, who, after entering upon a brilliant career, had perished through the treachery of a native Rajah. His adventures had fascinated the romantic girl from early childhood; hence she had loved to verify every detail of the circumstances under which the star of the ill-fated Raymond Effingham had faded into darkness.

By those indescribable degrees of advance, of which the heart can note the progress, but rarely the first approach, a friendship between the Major and the thoughtful girl became so apparent as to be the subject of jesting remark. When, therefore, he had announced his intention of settling in the neighbourhood, a thrill of unusual force invaded the calm pulses of Beatrice Effingham. Had his retirement from the service, from the profession he loved so well, some reason in which her future was concerned? If so, if he settled down on one of the adjoining properties, could any union be more consonant with her every feeling, taste, and aspirations than with one whom, in every way, she could so fully respect and admire, whose deeds in that wonderland of her fancies were written on the records of his country’s fame? It was a dream too bright for reality. And though it would occasionally disturb the even tenor of Beatrice’s hours in the library, her well-regulated mind refused to dwell upon possibilities as yet unsanctioned.

When, therefore, Major Glendinning promptly availed himself of the opportunity afforded by the ride to the lake to constitute himself her escort; when, after a few commonplace observations, she observed that his countenance, though more grave than was usual in her presence, had yet an expression of fixed resolve, an indefinable feeling of expectation, almost amounting to dread, took possession of her, and it was with a beating heart and changing cheek that she listened.

‘I take advantage of this opportunity, Miss Beatrice, to say the words which must be said before we part.’

‘Part!’ said the girl, shaking in every limb, though she bravely struggled against her emotions and tried to impart firmness to her voice. ‘Then you are going to leave us for India? Have you been ordered back suddenly?’

‘That is as it may be,’ said the soldier; and as he spoke their eyes met. His face wore a look of unalterable decision, yet so fraught was it with misery, even despair, that she instinctively felt that Fate had dealt her a remorseless stroke. ‘I have heard this day,’ he continued, ‘what has altered the chief purpose of my life – has killed my every hope. I return to India by the next ship.’

‘You have heard terribly bad news,’ she answered very softly. ‘I see it in your face. I need not tell you how we shall all sympathise with you; how grieved we shall be at your departure.’

Here the womanly instinct of the consoler proved stronger than that of the much-vaunted ruler of courts and camps, inasmuch as Beatrice lost sight of her personal feelings in bethinking herself how she could aid the strong man, whose features bore evidence of the agony which racked every nerve and fibre.

‘I feel deeply grateful for your sympathy. I knew you would bestow it. No living man needs it more. This morning I rode out fuller of pleasant anticipation than I can recall, prepared to take a step which I hoped would result in my life’s happiness. I had arranged for an extension of leave, after which I intended to sell out and live in this neighbourhood, which for many reasons – for every reason – I have found so delightful.’

‘And your plans are altered?’

This query was made in tones studiously free from all trace of interest or disapproval, although the beating heart and throbbing brain of the girl almost prevented utterance.

‘I have this day – this day only – you will do me the justice hereafter to believe – heard a statement, unhappily too true, which clears up the mystery which has rested upon me from my birth. That cloud has been removed. But behind it lies a foul blot, a dark shadow of dishonour, which I deemed could never have rested on the name of Walter Glendinning.’

‘Dishonour!’ echoed Beatrice. ‘Impossible! How can that be?’

‘It is as I say – deep and ineradicable,’ groaned out the unhappy man. ‘You will hear more from your brother. All is known to him and your friends of Benmohr. Enough that I have no personal responsibility. But it is a burden that I must carry till the day of a soldier’s death. You will believe me when I say that my honour demands that I quit Australia – to me so dear, yet so fatal. The years that may remain to me belong to my country.’

‘I feel,’ said the girl, with kindling eye and a pride of bearing which equalled his own, ‘that you are doing what your high sense of honour, of duty, demands. I can but counsel you to take them, for guide and inspiration. I know not the doom which has fallen on you, but I can bid you God-speed, and pray for you evermore.’

‘You have spoken my inmost thoughts. God help us that it should be so. But I were disloyal to every thought and aspiration of my nature if I stooped to link the life of another, as God is my witness and judge, to my tarnished name. We must part – never, perhaps, to meet on earth – but, Beatrice, dearest and only loved – may I not call you so? – I who now look upon your face, and hear your voice for the last time – you will think in your happy home of one who tore the heart from his bosom, which a dark fate forbade him to offer you. When you hear that Walter Glendinning died a soldier’s death, give a tear to his memory – to his fate who scorned death, but could not endure dishonour.’

Neither spoke for some moments. The girl’s tears flowed fast as she gazed before her, while both rode steadily onward. The man’s form was bowed, and his set features wore the livid aspect of him who has received a death-wound but strives to hide the inward agony. Slowly, mechanically, they rode side by side along the homeward track, in the rear of the others until the entrance gate was reached. Then, as if by mutual impulse, they turned towards each other, and their eyes met in one long sorrowful glance. Such light has shone in the eyes of those who parted ere now, sanctified by a martyr’s hope – a martyr’s death.

‘We shall meet,’ she said, ‘no more on earth; but oh, if you value my love, cherish the thought of a higher life – of a better world, where no false human pride, no barrier of man’s cruelty or injustice may sever us. I hold the trust which my heart, if not my lips, confessed. Till then, farewell, and may a merciful God keep our lives unstained until the day of His coming.’

She drew the glove from her hand hurriedly. It fell at his horse’s feet. He dismounted hastily, and placed it in his bosom, and raising her ice-cold hand to his lips, pressed it with fervour. Then accompanying her to the hall door, he committed her to the charge of Wilfred, who, with his mother and sister, stood on the verandah, took a hurried leave of the family, regretting that he was compelled, by sudden summons, to rejoin his regiment, and with his friends, who with ready tact made excuse for returning, took the familiar track to Benmohr.

Few words were spoken on the homeward road, which was traversed at a pace that tried the mettle of the descendants of Camerton. That night the friends sat late, talking earnestly. It was long after midnight before they separated. On the following day Major Glendinning and his father met at a spot half-way between The Chase and Benmohr, the interview being arranged by Hamilton, who rode over and persuaded the old man to accompany him. What passed between them was never known, but ere that night was ended the Major was far on his way to Sydney, which he reached in time to secure a passage in the good ship Governor Bourke, outward bound for China. In the course of the week Mr. Effingham received a letter in explanation of the circumstances, signed Owen Walter Glendinning, declaring his unworthiness to aspire to his daughter’s hand, as well as his inability to remain in the country after the mystery of his birth had been so unexpectedly revealed to him. He held himself pledged to act in the matter after the expiration of a year in accordance with what Mr. Effingham, acting as the guardian of his daughter’s happiness, might consider in the light of an honourable obligation. A bank draft drawn in favour of Thomas Stewart Glendinning was enclosed, with an intimation that an annual payment would be forwarded for his use henceforth during the writer’s life.

The first cloud which the Effinghams had descried since their arrival in Australia had appeared in the undimmed horizon. The breath of evil, which knows no bound nor space beneath the sun, had rested on them. Habitually taking deeper interest in the subjective issues of life than in its material transaction, they were proportionately depressed. All that maternal love and the most tender sisterly affection could give was lavished upon the sufferer. Her well-disciplined mind, strengthened by culture and purified by religion, gradually acquired equilibrium. But it was long ere the tranquil features of Beatrice Effingham recovered their wonted expression; and a close observer could have detected the trace of an inward woe in the depths of her erstwhile clear, untroubled eyes.

In his answer to the letter which he had received, Mr. Effingham ‘fully agreed with the course which his friend had taken, and the determination which he had expressed. Looking at the situation, which he deplored with his whole heart, he was unable to see any other mode of action open to him as a man of honour. Deeply prejudicial as had been the issue to the happiness of his beloved daughter, he could not ask him (Major Glendinning) to swerve by one hair’s-breadth from the path which he had laid down for himself. His wishes would be attended to with respect to the bank draft forwarded for the use of the person named, but he would suggest that Mr. Sternworth should be chosen as the recipient of future remittances. He would, in conclusion, wish him the fullest measure of success and distinction which his profession offered, with, if not happiness, the inward satisfaction known to those who marched ever in the vanguard of honourable duty. In this wish he was warmly seconded by every member of the family.’

Old Tom, after notice of his intention to leave the employment, presented himself before his master, dressed and accoutred as for a journey, leading Boney and followed by the uncompromising Crab. His effects were fastened in a roll in front of his saddle, his coiled stockwhip was pendent from the side-buckle. All things, even to the fixed look upon the weather-beaten features, betokened a settled resolution.

‘I’m going to lave the ould place, Captain,’ he said; ‘and it’s sorry I am this day to quit the family and the lake and the hounds, where I laid it out to lave the ould bones of me. I’m wishin’ the divil betther divarshion than to bother with the family saycrets of the likes o’ me. Sure he has lashins of work in this counthry, without disturbin’ the last days of poor ould Tom Glendinning – and he sure of me, anyhow. My heart’s bruk, so it is.’

‘Hush, Tom,’ said his employer. ‘We can understand Major Glendinning’s feelings. But, after all, it is his duty to acknowledge the ties of nature. I have no doubt that after a time he will become – er – used to the relationship.’

‘D – n the relationship!’ burst out the old man menacingly. ‘Ah, an’ sure I ax yer pardon, yer honour, for the word; but ’tis wild I am that the Major, a soldier and a rale gintleman every inch of him, that’s fought for the Queen and skivered them infernal blackamoors in the Injies, should be given out as the son of a blasted ould rapparee like me. It was asy knowing when I seen that look on him when he heard the name, but how could I drame that my son could have turned into a king’s officer – all as one as the best of the land? If I had known it for sartain, before he axed me, I’d have lived beside him as a common stock-rider for years, if he’d come here, and he’s niver have known no more than the dead. It’s a burning shame and a sin, that’s what it is!’

‘It may have been unfortunate,’ said Mr. Effingham; ‘but I can never regard it as wrong that a father and a son should come to know of the tie which binds them to each other.’

‘And why not, I ask ye?’ demanded the old man savagely. ‘What good has it done aither of us? It’s sent him back, with a sore heart, to live among them black divils and snakes and tigers, a murdtherin’ hot counthry it is by all accounts, when he might have bought a place handy here and bred horses and cattle – sure he’s an iligant rider and shoots beautiful, don’t he now? I wonder did he take them gifts after me?’ said the old man, with the first softened expression and a half sigh. ‘Sure, if I could have plazed myself with lookin’ at him and he not to know, I wouldn’t say but that I might have listened to Parson Sternworth and – and – repinted, – yes, repinted, – after all that’s come and gone! And now I’m on the ould thrack agin, with tin divils tearin’ at me, and who knows what will happen.’

‘There’s no need for you to lead a wandering life, or indeed, to work at all, even if you leave the district,’ said Mr. Effingham. ‘I have a sum in my hands, forwarded by the Major, sufficient for all your wants.’

‘I’ll not touch a pinny of it!’ cried out the old man; ‘sure it’s blood money, no less, his life, anyway, that will pay for this! Didn’t I see his eye, when he shook hands with me, and begged my pardon for his pride, and asked me to bless him —me!’ – and here the old man laughed derisively, a sound not pleasant to hear. ‘If there’s fighting where he’s going, and he lives out the year, it will be because lead and cowld steel has no power to harm a man that wants to die. Mr. Effingham, I’ll never touch it; and why would I? Sure the drink’ll kill me, fast enough, without help.’

‘But why go away? I am so grieved that, after your faithful service, you should leave in such a state of mind.’

‘Maybe I’ll do ye more sarvice before I die, but I must get into the far-out runs, or I’ll go mad thinking of him. It was my hellish timper that let the words out so quick, or he’d never have known till his dying day. Maybe the rheumatiz was to blame, that keeps burning in the bones of me like red-hot iron, till I couldn’t spake a civil word to the blessed Saviour Himself. Anyhow, it’s done now; but of all I ever did – and there’s what would hang me on the list – I repint over that, the worst, and will till I die. Good-bye, sir. God bless the house, and thim that’s in it.’

The old man remounted his wayworn steed with more agility than his appearance promised, and taking the track which led southward, went slowly along the road without turning his head or making further speech. The dog rose to his feet and trotted after him. In a few moments the characteristic trio passed from sight.

‘Mysterious indeed are the ways of Providence!’ thought Effingham, as he turned towards the house. ‘Who would ever have thought that the fortunes of this strange old man would ever have been associated with me or mine. I feel an unaccountable presentiment, as if this incident, inexplicable as it is, were but the forerunner of evil!’

CHAPTER XIX

BLACK THURSDAY

Autumn and winter passed in the ordinary succession of regular duties and peaceful employments, now become easy and habitual. These the expatriated family had learned to love. The departure of the old stock-rider was felt as a temporary inconvenience, but the brothers with Dick Evans’s aid and counsel felt themselves qualified to supply his place, and decided not to employ a successor.

Guy, indeed, had grown into a stalwart youngster, taller and broader than his elder brother; so much had the pure air, the healthful bush life, the regular exercise and occasional labour demanded by the station exigencies done for his development. He was apt at all the minor rural accomplishments – could ride the unbroken colts, which their own stud now produced, and was well acquainted with the ways and wanderings of outlying cattle. The lore of the Waste, in which old Dick was so able an instructor, was now his. He could plait a hide-rope, make bullock-yokes, noose and throw the unbranded cattle, drive a team, split and put up ‘fencing stuff’; in many ways do a man’s work, when needed, as efficiently as his preceptor. Dick prophesied that he would become ‘a great bushman’ in years to come. Indeed, by tales of ‘taking up new country’ and of the adventurous branches of station life, he had fostered a thirst for more extended and responsible action which gave his parents some uneasiness.

He had begun to acquire the Australian boy’s contempt for the narrow bounds involved by a residence on ‘purchased land.’ He impatiently awaited the day when he should be able to sally forth, with a herd of his own and the necessary equipment, to seek his fortune amid romantic, unexplored wilds. He began to lose interest in the daily round of home duties; and though from long habit and an affectionate nature, as yet dutifully obedient to his parents’ bidding, he more than once confessed that he longed for independent action.

The season was ‘setting in dry.’ There had been no rain for months. Around Lake William and near that wide expanse of water an appearance of verdure was preserved by the more marshy portion of the great flats. Amid these the cattle daily revelled and fed. They might have been seen grouped in large droves far out on the promontories, or wading amid the shallowing reed-beds which fringed the shore, long after the sun had set, and the breathless night, boding of storms which came not, had closed in.

Among the neighbours this state of matters by no means passed without observation and remark. Nought save desultory discussion ensued. Except O’Desmond, no one had been long enough in the colony to have had experience of abnormal seasons. Curiously, he was the one who took the more despondent view of matters, from which men augured ill.

‘I hope to heaven that we are not going to have a repetition of 1827,’ he said; ‘one experience of that sort is enough to last a man for his lifetime.’

‘Was it so very awful?’ said Hamilton, the conversation taking place at Benmohr, at which convenient rendezvous Wilfred and Churbett had encountered that gentleman. ‘One fancies that the ancient colonists were not fertile in expedients.’

‘No doubt we have much to learn from the accomplished gentlemen who have done us the honour to invest in our colony of late years,’ said O’Desmond grandly, with a bow of the regency; ‘but if you had seen what I have, you would not undervalue the danger. I don’t care to talk about it. Only if this year ends badly, I shall leave Badajos to my old couple and the overseer, muster my stock, and start into the wilderness without waiting for another.’

‘What direction shall you take?’ said Hamilton.

‘Due south, until I strike the head waters of the Sturt and the Warburton. These I shall follow down, and make my depôt wherever I discover a sufficiently tempting base.’

‘It has quite the heroic ring about it,’ said Wilfred. ‘But for certain reasons, I would like to follow you. How about provisions?’

‘I take a year’s supply of rations and clothing. We drive our meat before us.’

‘And the blacks?’

‘I know all that can be known about them,’ said O’Desmond. ‘They recognise chiefs among the white men. If one does not fear them, they are to be dealt with like children.’

‘You will find it hard to quit your pleasant life at Badajos for the desert,’ said Wilfred.