Babes in the Bush

‘You are young enough yet for anything; there is time enough and to spare for you to improve yourself. So don’t be downhearted. As I said before, your looks and your family name will carry you through anything.’

‘If I thought so,’ said the younger son, ‘I might do something, even now, to mend matters. And you really think that a man of my age could make himself as good at books as some of the men we have just met, for instance?’

‘I have known men beginning late in life,’ said Wilfred, ‘who passed stiff examinations, and when they commenced they could do little but read and write. Now you are steady and have full control over yourself, have you not?’

‘God knows!’ said his companion drearily. ‘I won’t go so far as that; but I haven’t touched a drop of anything since your father shook hands with me at Warbrok, and I don’t intend, for seven years at any rate. I knelt down as soon as I was out of sight, and swore a solemn oath against anything stronger than tea. And so far I’ve kept it.’

Much surprised were all at The Chase when Wilfred and his companion rode up, and after a hurried introduction, passed on together to the former’s bedroom.

The young ladies endeavoured as much as possible to prevent themselves from gazing too uninterruptedly at the interesting quasi-stranger; but found it to be a difficult task.

In despite of the educational defects and social disabilities of Hubert Warleigh, there was about him a grandly unconscious, imperturbable expression, like that of an Indian chief, which suited well his splendid figure and bronzed features. He quietly addressed his host and answered a few questions with but little change of countenance, and it was only after an unusually playful sally on the part of Annabel that he relaxed into a frank smile, which showed an unblemished set of teeth, under his drooping moustache.

‘I feel as if he had been taken in battle, and we were holding him in captivity,’ said that sportive maiden, after the girls had retired to Mrs. Effingham’s room for their final talk.

‘All stern of look and strong of limbThe chieftain gazed around;And silently they looked on himAs on a lion bound.

He has just that sort of air – very picturesque, of course – for he is the handsomest man I ever saw; don’t you think so, Rosamond? I suppose he can read and write? What a cruel shame to have brought him up like that? Fancy Selden reared in such a way, mamma?’

‘I can hardly fancy such a thing, my dear imaginative child,’ said the mother. ‘But how thankful we ought to be that we have been able to keep dear Selden at school, even in this trying time.’

Mr. Effingham, who attributed the change which had taken place in Hubert Warleigh’s habits in some measure to his own exhortation, was very pleased and proud. He welcomed the young man into his family circle with warmth, and in every way endeavoured to neutralise the gêne of the position by drawing him out upon topics in which his personal experience told to advantage.

He constrained him to repeat the tale of his exploration, and dwelt with great interest upon his sojourn with the blacks, which, he said, deserved a place in one of Fenimore Cooper’s novels.

Annabel wanted to know whether there were any young men in the tribe who at all resembled Uncas. But Hubert had never heard of Chingachgook or of his heroic son. Magua and Hawkeye were as unknown to his unfurnished mind as the personages of the Nibelungen-Lied. So they were compelled to avoid quotations in their conversation, and only to use the cheapest form of English which is made. It was a matter of regret to these kind-hearted people when they made any allusion which they perceived to be as the word of an unknown tongue to the stranger within their gates. His half-puzzled, half-pained look was piteous to see. It was like that of some dumb creature struggling for speech, or blindly feeling for a half-familiar object.

To the artless benevolence of youth it would have been interesting to remedy the deficiencies of a nature originally rich and receptive, but void and barren from lack of ordinary culture. Mrs. Effingham, however, compelled to regard things from a matron’s point of view, was not sorry to think that this picturesque, neglected orphan would in a few days quit their abode for a long journey.

As the time drew near, and preparations were proceeded with, a great sadness commenced to overspread The Chase. Wilfred had never been absent for any lengthened period before, nor Guy for more than a week under any pretence whatever. He was frantic with delight at the change of plan.

‘I’m so glad that “Gyp” Warleigh is going with us, even if he hadn’t found this new district. Dick says he’s the best bushman in the country, and can go straight through a scrub and come out right the other side, without sun or compass or anything, just like a blackfellow. You see what a place I’ll have across the mountains after a year or two.’

‘I wish it was not so far and so dangerous, my child, as I am sure it must be,’ said Mrs. Effingham, stroking the boy’s fair brow, as she looked sadly at the eager face, bright with the unquestioning hopes of youth. ‘You will enjoy the travel and adventure and even the risk, but think how anxious your poor mother and sisters will be!’

‘Oh, I’ll write by every chance,’ said Guy, anxious as a page who sees the knights buckle on armour for the first skirmish, not to be deprived of his share of the fray. ‘There will be lots of opportunities by people coming back.’

‘What! from a place just discovered?’ said his mother, with a gentle incredulity.

‘Ah, but Dick says if it’s half as fine as Hubert Warleigh calls it – not that he’s a man to say a word more than it deserves – that it will be rushed like all new settlements with hundreds of people, and there will be a town and a post-office and all kinds of humbug in no time. People move faster in Australia than in that slow old Surrey.’

‘You mustn’t say a word against our dear old home, my boy,’ said his mother, playfully threatening him, ‘or I shall fear your being turned into a backwoodsman, or at any rate something different from an English gentleman, and that would break my heart. But I hope plenty of tradespeople and farmers, and persons of all kinds, will come to your Eldorado. It will make it all the safer, and more comfortable for you all.’

‘Farmers, mother!’ said the boy indignantly. ‘What are you thinking of? We don’t want any poking farmers there, taking up the best of the flats and the waterholes after we have found the country and fought the blacks for them. We can keep it well enough with our rifles. All I want is a good large run, and not to see a soul near it except my own stock-riders for years to come.’

‘You are going to be quite a mediæval baron, Guy,’ said Annabel, who had stolen up and taken his hand in hers, the three hearts beating closely in unison. ‘I suppose you will set up a dungeon for refractory vassals.’

‘I am sure he will be a good boy, and remember his mother’s teachings when she is far away,’ said the fond parent, as the tears filled her eyes, looking at the fair, bright-eyed face which she might never see more after the last wave of her hand – the last fond, lingering farewell, which was so soon to be.

Well it is for the young and strong, who go laughing and shouting into the battle of life, as if there were no ambuscades, defeats, weary retreats, or hopeless resistance. Well for the sailor boy, who leaps on to the deck as if there were no wreck or tempest, fatal mermaid or dead men’s bones, beneath the smiling, inconstant wave! They have at least their hour of hot-blooded fight and stubborn resistance to relentless Destiny. But, ah me! how fares it with those who are left behind, condemned to dreary watchings, for tidings that come not – to sickening fears, that all too soon resolve themselves into the reality of doom? These are the earth’s true martyrs – the fond mother – the devoted wife – the loving sisters – the saddened father. Theirs the torture and the stake, sacrificed to which they are in some form or other, while life lasts.

CHAPTER XXI

A GREEN HAND

Matters were well advanced for the road. The thousand-and-one trifles that are so easily forgotten before the commencement of a long journey, and so sorely missed afterwards, were nearly completed under the tireless tendance of Dick Evans. The three young men were chatting in the verandah, after a long day’s drafting, when a strange horseman came ‘up from the under world.’

‘I wonder who it is,’ said Guy. ‘Not any of the Benmohr people, for they have no time to spare until they come to say good-bye. I should say all the other fellows were too hard at work. It’s a chance if Churbett and the D’Oyleys will be ready for a fortnight. He looks like a gentleman. It must be a stranger.’

‘It is a gentleman, as you say,’ replied Hubert Warleigh, ‘and not long from home, by the cut of his jib.’

‘How can you tell?’ asked Wilfred. ‘He is a tall man and has a gun, certainly, which last favours your theory.’

‘I see,’ said Hubert, ‘a valise strapped to the back of his saddle; holsters for pistols, and top-boots. He is a “new chum,” safe enough; besides, when he got to the slip-rails, he took the top one down first.’

‘You must be right,’ said Wilfred, smiling. ‘I used to disgrace myself with the slip-rail business. Who in the world can it be? He has come at the wrong time for being shown round, unless he wants an exploring tour.’

The horseman rode up in a leisurely and deliberate fashion; a tall, fresh-complexioned man, whose blue eyes and dark hair reminded Wilfred of many things, and a half-forgotten clime. The lower part of the stranger’s face was concealed by a thick but not fully-grown beard; and as he advanced, with a look of great solemnity, and inquired whether he had the honour to see Mr. Wilfred Effingham, that gentleman, for the life of him, could not remember where he had set eyes upon him before.

‘That is my name,’ said Wilfred. ‘Will you allow us to take your horse, and to say that we are very glad to see you? Guy, take this gentleman’s horse to the stable.’

‘I thank you kindly. I believe that I have a letter of introduction somewhere to you, sir, from an acquaintance of mine in Ireland – a dissipated, good-for-nothing fellow, one Gerald O’More. I thought it might be as useful in Australia as the writing of a better man.’

‘Gerald O’More was a friend of mine,’ said Wilfred coldly, with a frown unseen by the stranger, busily engaged in unfastening his multifarious straps and buckles. ‘There must be some mistake about the reputation.’

‘It’s little matter,’ said the stranger coolly. ‘There’s hundreds in Ireland it would suit to the letter, and proud of it they’d be. Maybe it was Tom Ffrench I was thinking of – but it’s all as one. It’s thinking he was of coming out here himself, the same squireen.’

‘I wish to Heaven he had,’ said Wilfred, with so hearty an accentuation that the stranger raised his head, apparently struck by the sudden emotion of his tone. ‘There is no man living I would as soon see this moment.’

‘So this wild counthry hasn’t knocked all the heart out of ye, Wilfred, me boy,’ said the stranger, holding out his hand, while such a smile rippled over his face as only a son of mirth-loving Erin can produce. ‘And so ye didn’t know your old chum because he had a trifle of hair on his face, and he coming ten thousand miles to make an afternoon call. I trust the ladies are well this fine weather, and haven’t had their bonnets spoiled by the rain lately.’

Wilfred gazed for one moment at the now well-known features, the bright fun-loving eyes, the humorous curves of the lips, and then grasping both hands, shook them till his stalwart visitor rocked again.

‘Gerald, old man!’ he exclaimed in tones of the wildest astonishment, ‘is it you in the flesh? and how in the name of everything magical did you ever manage to leave green Rathdown and come out to this burned-up land of ours? But you are as welcome as a week’s rain – I can’t say more than that. To think that a beard should have altered your face so! But I had no more thought of seeing you here than our old host of Castle Blake.’

‘True for you! What a brick he was! God be with the days we spent there together, Will. Maybe we’ll see them again, who knows? Didn’t I find my way here like an Indian of the woods? ’Tis a great bushman I’ll make, entirely. And, in truth, there’s no life would suit me better. An Irishman’s a born colonist, half made before he leaves old Ireland. Was that your young brother that I used to make popguns for? What a fine boy he has grown!’

‘Yes, that was Guy; he’s anxious, like you, to be a bold bushman. Let me introduce my friend Mr. Warleigh, the leader of an expedition we are all bound upon next week.’

‘Very glad to meet Mr. Warleigh, I’m sure, and I hope he’ll be kind enough to accept me as a supernumerary – cook’s mate, or anything in the rough-and-ready line. I’m ready to ship in any kind of craft.’

‘You don’t mean to say you would like to go with us, Gerald? We are bound for “a dissolute region, inhabited by Turks,” as your illustrious countryman expressed it. For Turks read blacks, – in their way just as bad.’

‘Pardon me, my dear fellow, for the apparent disrespect; but you don’t fancy people come out to this unfurnished territory of yours to amuse themselves? What else did I come for but to work and make money, do you suppose?’

‘Now I won’t have any explanations till I’ve shown you to my mother and the girls. How astonished they will be!’

They were certainly astonished. So much so, indeed, that Mr. O’More began to ask why it should be so much more surprising that he came than themselves.

‘But we were ruined,’ said Annabel, ‘and would not have had anything to eat soon, or should have had to go to Boulogne – fancy what horror!’

‘And am I, Gerald O’More, such a degenerate Irish gentleman that I can’t be ruined as nately and complately as any ancestor that ever frightened a sub-sheriff?’ (Here they all laughed at his serio-comic visage.) ‘In sober earnest, I was ruined, not entirely by my own fault, but so handily that when the old place was sold there was nothing left over but the lodge at Luggie-law, where you and I used to fish and shoot and drink potheen, Wilfred, in cold evenings.’

‘Why not live there, then? I’m sure we were snug enough.’

‘Why not?’ said O’More – and as he spoke his features assumed a sterner, more elevated expression – ‘because I wouldn’t turn myself into a poor gentleman, with a few hangers-on, and a career contemptibly limited either for good or evil. No! I’d seen many a good fellow, once the genial sportsman and boon companion, change into the lounger and sot. So I packed my gun and personal possessions, put the lodge in my pocket, and here I am, with all the world of Australia before me.’

‘A manly resolve,’ said Mr. Effingham, ‘and I honour you for it, my dear boy. You find us in the midst of a disastrous season, but those who know the land say that the next change must be for the better. You will like all our friends, and enjoy the free life of the bush before you are a month at it. Australia is said, also – though we have not found such to be the case lately – to be an easy country to make money in.’

‘So I have found already,’ said O’More.

‘How?’ said everybody in a breath. ‘You can’t have had any experience in money-making as yet.’

‘Indeed have I,’ said the newly-arrived one. ‘Why, the first day I came to Sydney I bought a half-broke, well-bred colt for a trifle, and as I came through Yass I exchanged him for the horse I am now riding and a ten-pound note.’

‘What a wonderful new chum you must be!’ said Guy impulsively. ‘I’ve heard of lots that lost nearly all the cash they had the first month, but never of one who made any. You will be as rich as Mr. Rockley soon.’

‘Amateur horse-dealing doesn’t always turn out so well. But I always buy a good horse when I see him. I shall get infatuated about this country; it suits me down to the ground.’

The evening was passed in universal hilarity. Mr. O’More’s spirits appeared to rise in the inverse proportion to the distance which separated him from the Green Isle. Every one was delighted with his naïveté and resolves to do great things in the way of exploration. The expedition he regarded as an entertainment for his special benefit, declaring that if it had not been finally settled he would have got one up on his own account.

As good luck would have it, the Benmohr cattle escaped from the mustering paddock after they had been collected, and having ‘made back’ to fastnesses, which they had been permitted to occupy in consideration of the season, took some days in recapturing. So that yet another week of respite, to everybody’s expressed disgust but secret relief, was granted. Besides, Fred Churbett was not quite ready – he seldom was – and the D’Oyleys were just as well pleased to scrape up a few more of their outliers. There remained then ‘a little season of love and laughter’ for Mr. Gerald O’More to utilise in improving the acquaintance.

And he was just the man to do this. He won old Dick’s good-will by the hearty energy with which he threw himself into the small labours which, of course – for who ever knew an overland journey quite provided for, or a ship’s cargo stowed away, on the appointed day of its departure? – remained to be got through. He had devoted himself en amateur to the duties of third mate on the voyage out, and, being a yachtsman of experience, entitled himself to the possession of a certificate, should he ever require, as he thought seriously was on the cards, to work his way home. In matters connected with ropes and fastenings he showed an easy superiority. Sailors are proverbially the most valued hands in Australia, from their aptitude to make the best kind of bushmen. Their adaptiveness to every kind of labour, grounded on the need for putting out their strength at the orders of a despotic superior, is a fine training for bush life. Having nautical tendencies superadded to recent experiences, Gerald O’More fulfilled these conditions, and was rated accordingly.

‘He’s the makings of a fust-rate settler, that young gentleman is,’ said Dick Evans. ‘He’s a man all over, and can ketch hold anywhere. He’s got that pluck and bottom as he don’t know his own strength.’

His exuberant spirits by no means exhausted themselves during the labour of the day, when in check shirt and A.B. rig he was in the forefront of the drafting, branding, loading, or packing which still went on. In the evening, after a careful toilette, he was equally tireless in his society duties, and kept all the lady part of the family entertained by his varied conversation, his songs, jokes, and tales of many lands. He struck up a great alliance with Annabel, who declared that he was a delightful creature, specially sent by Providence to raise their spirits in this trying hour.

It was well enough to talk lightly of the Great Expedition, but as the day approached for the actual setting out of the Crusade, deep gloom settled upon the inmates of The Chase.

Wilfred Effingham had never before quitted home upon any more danger-seeming journey than a continental trip or a run over to Ireland. He was passionately devoted to his mother and sisters, whom at that period of his life he regarded as the chief repositories, not only of all the virtues, but of all the ‘fine shades’ of the higher feminine character. By no means deficient of natural admiration for the unrelated daughters of Eve, he regarded his sisters with a love such as only that relation can furnish. With them he was ever thoughtful, fond, and chivalrous. For their comfort and advantage he was capable of any sacrifice. Rosamond, nearest to him in age, had been from childhood his close companion, and for her he would have laid down his life. These feelings were reciprocated to the fullest extent.

And now he was going away – the dutiful son, the fond brother, the kindly, cheerful companion – away on a hazardous journey into an unknown, barbarous region, exposed to the dangers of Australian forest wayfaring. Guy, too, was on the march – the frank, fearless boy, idolised, as is the younger son ofttimes, with the boundless love with which the mother strains the babe to her bosom.

He was the last of all, yet noneO’er his lone grave may weep.

He was not the very last, Selden and Blanche coming after, as was pointed out to Mrs. Effingham, when her tears flowed at Selden’s accidental quotation from ‘The Graves of a Household,’ for these lines referred to one beneath the lone, lone sea, and even in the recesses of the bushland mourning over his grave would be possible.

‘Oh, my darling,’ said the tender mother, ‘do not jest on such a subject. How could I live were either of you to die in the wilderness? Why did this terrible season come to rob me of my sons? But promise me, promise me, both of you, as you love your mother, not to run unnecessary risks. Danger, ah me! I know there must be, but you will think of your poor mother, and of your father and sisters, and not needlessly court danger. Guy, you will promise me?’

‘Don’t be so frightened, mother,’ said the younger son. ‘I won’t go running after risks and dangers. Why, it’s ten to one nobody gets hurt. There are only blacks; and there’s no water to drown us, that’s one consolation.’

When did generous youth perceive the possibility of danger until forced upon him by sudden stroke of fate? ‘Whom the gods love die young’ is true in one sense, inasmuch as they escape the melancholy anticipations which cloud the joys of maturer life. For them trains never collide, nor coaches upset; sword-strokes are parried, and bullets go wide; ships founder not; disease is only for the feeble; they are but the old who die!

Wilfred more truly understood the matron’s tender dread, and her reasons.

‘Don’t fret, my darling mother,’ he said as he clasped her hand, ‘I’ll look after Guy. You know he obeys me cheerfully, so far; and you know I am pretty careful. I will see he does nothing rash, and he will be always under my eye.’

‘Remember, dear, I trust him to you,’ said Mrs. Effingham, returning her son’s fond clasp, but not wholly reassured, being of the opinion that what Wilfred considered careful avoidance of danger other people characterised as unflinching though not impetuous determination to get through or over any given obstacle.

Off at last! The tearful breakfast is over. The long string of cattle has poured out of the mustering paddock gates, followed by Hubert Warleigh, with Duncan Cargill and Selden, who were permitted to help drive during the first stage; Mr. O’More, in cords and top-boots, with a hunting-crop in his hand, wisely declining a stock-whip for the present. His horse bears a cavalry headstall bridle, with a sliding bridoon rein – ‘handy for feeding purposes,’ he says. He has yet to learn that, after a week’s cattle-driving, most horses may be trusted to graze with the reins beneath their feet, which they will by no means tread upon or run off with.

A couple of brown-faced youngsters, natives of Yass, have been hired, as road hands and to be generally useful, for the term of one year. These young persons are grave and silent of demeanour; have been ‘among cattle’ all their lives, and no exception can be taken to their horsemanship. They afford an endless fund of amusement to O’More, who forces them into conversation on various topics, and tries to imitate their soft-voiced, drawling monotone.

Dick Evans drives the horse-dray, destined to go no farther than the Snowy River, after which the camp equipment will be carried on pack-horses, the road being closed to wheels. They are now being driven with the cattle, accoutred with their pack-saddles and light loads to accustom them to the exercise.

Dick has had a characteristic parting with Mrs. Evans, who saw him prepare to depart without outward show of emotion.

‘Now mind you behave yourself, Evans, while you’re away, and don’t be running off to New Zealand, or the Islands, or anywheres.’

‘All right, old woman,’ said Dick, cracking his whip. ‘You’ll be so precious fond of me when I come back that we shan’t have a row for a year afterwards.’

‘No fear; not if you was to stop away five year!’ retorted his spouse, with decision. ‘Take care as I don’t marry again afore you come back, if you hang it out too long.’

‘Marry away and don’t mind me, old woman,’ returned the philosophical Dick; ‘I shan’t interfere with the pore feller. Leave us the old mare, that’s all. A good ’oss, that you can’t put wrong in saddle or harness, ain’t met with every day.’