Babes in the Bush

‘I am delighted to hear it. I hope you will have an Oxford man on your other side, as you call it. A literary atmosphere is everything for young people. Who is your other neighbour?’

‘Jack Donnelly, and not half a bad fellow either. Though his father can’t read or write, he knows Latin, but not Greek, and he’s awfully fond of reading. You should hear the arguments he and Cavendish have – the Cambridge man, I mean.’

‘What do they argue about?’

‘Oh, everything – England and Ireland, Conservative and Democratic government, native Australians and Britishers. They’re always at it. Jack’s a clever fellow, and very quick; awfully good-looking too. You should see him ride. Cavendish says he’ll make his mark some day – he’s full of ambition.’

‘It is very creditable of him to try. If his father had not cared for his children in that way, he might never have risen above his own grade. Young gentlemen, too, should maintain the position which they have inherited. Don’t lose sight of that.’

‘That’s what Hamilton’s always saying; he’s a wonderful fellow himself. See him in town, you’d think he never had his hands out of kid gloves, and yet he can keep time with the best working man we have, at any rough work.’

‘You cannot have a better model, my dear Guy. Mamma and I are so thankful that you are among men who would do honour to any country.’

Great was the joy expressed and many were the congratulations which passed on both sides when the explorers returned. They had so much to tell about the new home, so much to admire in the old one. It was a suburb of Paradise in their eyes, with its cultured aspect and gracious inhabitants, after the untamed wilderness.

They were never tired of praising their former homes and neighbours. If, by some Arabian Nights arrangement, they could transport them bodily to the new colony, complete happiness, for once in this imperfect world, would be attained.

The Benmohrs found their apartments in apparently the same state of faultless order in which they had quitted them. No smallest article had been moved or changed. A velveteen shooting-jacket, which Argyll remembered hanging up just as he started, was the very object which greeted his eyes when he awakened after the first night in his own bed.

The worst of it was that the breaking up of all this comfort and domesticity would be so painful. The climate had changed permanently (people always jump to this conclusion in Australia directly they begin to forget the last drought), and was simply Elysian. The lake was full; once more they listened to the music of its tiny surges. But for choice, the new country was about ten times more valuable. The pleasant old station homesteads must go. However, they were here now for a spell of pure enjoyment, not to bother their heads with the future.

Money was plentiful, the gods be praised! Everything was couleur de rose; they would revel in ease and enjoyment with a free spirit until Christmas was over. The cares of this world might then have their innings, but by no means till the New Year chimes called them to new duties. There was nothing now but such pleasant rides and drives; lingering rambles, after the heat of the day; expeditions into Yass, where they were fêted as if they had included the South Pole in their discoveries. Mr. Sternworth alluded to their return in his sermon, drawing tears from his congregation when he spoke of the strong, brave man they would never see more, whom many there present had known from childhood. But he had died as a Warleigh should die, doing his duty gallantly, and giving his life to save that of a comrade.

Before the third week of December had passed, another sensational arrival was chronicled. O’Desmond drove through the town on his way to Badajos in his four-in-hand, looking as if he had encountered no discomforts to speak of. His horses were in high condition; the bits and brasses were faultlessly polished; the drag hardly looked as if it had been a thousand miles from a coach-builder, much less covered up with boughs during the deadly summer of the waste.

But observers noted that Harry O’Desmond, upright and well set up as ever, was thinner and older-looking; that, although he received their greetings with his old stately cordiality, there was an expression upon his worn and darkened countenance rarely imprinted save by dread wayfaring through the Valley of the Shadow —

So had it been with him, in truth. Passing the farthest known explorations, his party came into a waste and torrid region, indescribably dread and hopeless. There, apparently, no rain had fallen for years. The largest trees had perished from desiccation of the soil; even the wild animals had died or migrated. The few they encountered were too weak to flee or resist. For weeks they had undergone fearful privations; had tasted the tortures of thirst and hunger, well-nigh unto death.

With men weakened and disheartened, O’Desmond knew that to linger was death. With a picked party of his long-tried followers he pushed on, leaving just sufficient to support life with the depôt. On the very last day which exhausted nature could have granted them they passed the barriers of the Land of Despair. They saw before them – such are the wondrous contrasts of the Australian waste – a land of water-pools and pastures, of food and fruit.

But simultaneously with their glimpse of the haven of relief came the view of a numerous, athletic party of blacks, clustered near the river-bank. For war or hunting, this section of the tribe had surely been detailed. There were no women or children visible – a bad sign, as the sinking hearts of the emaciated wayfarers well knew. They were brave enough under ordinary circumstances of fight or famine. But this bore too hardly upon human nature, coming, as it did, after the toils and privations of the terrible desert.

But there was one heart among the fainting crew which neither hunger, thirst, nor the shadow of coming death had power to daunt. Aware that with savages a bold yet friendly bearing is the acme of diplomacy, O’Desmond decided upon his course.

The chief stood before his leading braves, doubtful if not hostile.

Suddenly recollecting that among his private stores, faithfully distributed, upon which alone they had been subsisting of late, was a package of loaf sugar, the idea flashed across his mind of tempting the palate of the savage.

Raising a handful of lumps of the rare and precious commodity, he advanced cheerfully and presented them to the leader, who regarded them distrustfully. His retinue stared with pitiless eyes at the wasted white weaklings. It was the supreme moment. Life and death swayed in the scales.

Harry O’Desmond so recognised it, under his forced smile, as he lifted one of the smaller fragments to his lips, and with great appearance of relish began to masticate. Slowly and heedfully did the chief likewise. The charm worked. The flavour of the far-borne product, for which so many of the men of his colour had died in slavery, subjugated the heathen’s palate. He smiled, and motioned the others to advance. O’Desmond followed up his advantage. Every remaining grain was distributed. In a few minutes each warrior was licking his lips appreciatively. A treaty of alliance, offensive and defensive, was as good as signed.

That day the starving wanderers feasted on fish and flesh, brought in profusion by their new comrades. They had never seen a white man before, and were, like many of the first-met tribes, not indisposed to be peaceful.

When shown the encampment, the clothes, the equipment, the strange beasts, they pointed to the sky, snapping their fingers in wonder as they marked the leader’s height and stalwart frame, but made no attempt to raid the treasures of the white ‘medicine man.’

So the expedition was made free of a waste kingdom, bisected by the deep-flowing stream of the Moora-warra, with its plains and forests, its lagoons and reed-brakes. And for long years after, until O’Desmond sold out the full-stocked runs for the high prices of the day, never was shot fired or spear lifted in anger between the dwellers on the Big River.

Wilfred had called at Badajos to congratulate their old friend. Upon his return he found that the household had received an important addition. Dr. Fane had ridden over with his daughter from Yass, and was with difficulty persuaded to rest for a few days at The Chase before returning to Black Mountain. Like most people who lead uneventful lives, he was in a hurry to get home, though compelled to admit that he had nothing particular to do when he got there.

The Parson had stolen a day, he said, and driven over with them, proud of the honour, he further stated, of taking charge of Miss Fane’s impedimenta, which, though the most reasonable of damsels in that respect, could not be carried upon Emigrant. That accomplished palfrey she had brought over chiefly for the pleasure of having him to ride while at The Chase. Besides, his presence saved her a world of anxiety, as when they were separated she was always imagining that he had got out of his paddock, been stolen, or fallen lame, such accidents being proper to valuable horses in Australia.

So when Wilfred arrived he found every one in most cheerful and animated vein. Argyll was describing the features of the new country to Dr. Fane, who was deeply interested in its geological aspect; his daughter, apparently, had found the narrative, interspersed as it was with ‘moving incidents by flood and field,’ equally entertaining.

Mr. Sternworth, with Rosamond beside him, was questioning Hamilton about the spiritual welfare of the infant settlement of Melbourne; promising, moreover, a handsome subscription to St. James’s, the new Church of England, at that time in course of erection. Gerald O’More, with Fred Churbett and Neil Barrington, was having an animated, not to say noisy, conversation with Annabel. Peals of laughter, of which a large proportion was contributed by the young lady, were the first sounds that met his ear upon entering the room. All seemed so capable of mutual entertainment, without his aid, countenance, or company, that he was sensible of a soupçon of pique as he surveyed the festive scene.

However, he cordially welcomed Miss Fane and her father to The Chase, mentally remarking that he had never seen that young lady look so well before, or had thought her half so handsome. Her response did much to clear his brow and banish from his heart all unworthy feelings. The steadfast gaze was frank and kindly as of yore. She appeared unaffectedly pleased to see him again.

‘You know you belong to the band of heroes whom we have felt so proud to honour upon their return,’ she said. ‘Papa has a famous classical parallel, I know, for your exploits and safe arrival at Lake William. He did explain it to me, but I have forgotten. Mr. Sternworth, what is it?’

‘Never mind, Vera,’ replied the old gentleman, ‘I never talk Latin in the presence of young ladies. I can always find something more amusing to say. You must sing us those new songs you brought from Sydney. That would be more appropriate, wouldn’t it, Mrs. Effingham?’

‘I don’t know much Latin, you unkind old godfather, but what I do know I am not in the least ashamed of.’

‘Argyll’s making the pace pretty good, isn’t he, Fred,’ remarked Neil Barrington, ‘with that nice Miss Fane? She’s the only “model girl” I ever took to. I’m her humble slave and adorer. But I never expected to have the great MacCallum More for my rival. Did you ever see him hard hit before, Fred?’

‘Never, on the word of a gentleman-pioneer,’ rejoined Mr. Churbett. ‘It’s this exploration, new country, perils-of-the-wilderness business that has done it. “None but the brave deserve the fair.” We are the brave, sir, in this fortunate instance. We have solved the mystery of the unconquered Bogongs. We have gazed at the ocean outlets of the Great Lakes. We have proved ourselves to be the manner of men that found empires. Under the circumstances heroes always hastened to contract matrimonial alliances. Cortez did it. Dunois did it. William of Argyll is perilously near the Great Hazard. And I, Frederick de Churbett, am hugely minded to do likewise, if that confounded Irishman would only leave off his nonsense and let a fellow get a word in edgeways.’

Mr. Churbett had reason for complaint, inasmuch as Gerald O’More, when his national gallantry was kindled to action, appeared determined to permit ‘no rival near the throne,’ as he successively devoted himself to Annabel, Rosamond, and Miss Fane, or indeed occasionally kept all engaged in conversation and entertainment at the self-same time. It became difficult to discover, for a while, so rapid as well as brilliant were his evolutions, whom he intended to honour with his exclusive admiration. At length, however, those who were in the position of calm spectators had no doubt but that Annabel, with whom he kept up a ceaseless flow of badinage and raillery, was the real attraction. If so, he was likely to find a rival in the sarcastic Ardmillan, with whom he had more than once bade fair to pass from jest to earnest. For the cooler Scot was in the habit of waiting until he saw his antagonist upon the horns of a dilemma, or luring him on to the confines of a manifest absurdity. This he would explode, blowing his rival’s argument into the air, and graciously explaining his triumph to the surrounding fair.

Such was the satisfaction which filled the heart of Mrs. Effingham, that but for the absence of her husband and daughter she would certainly have gone the daring length of giving a party. But the absence of her husband was, to the conscience of the matron, an insuperable objection. No amount of specious argument or passionate appeal could alter her determination.

‘My dears, it would be wrong,’ she quietly replied, in answer to Annabel’s entreaty and Rosamond’s sober statement that there could not be any objection on the point of etiquette. ‘Suppose anything should happen to your father or Beatrice about the time – travelling is so very uncertain – we should never have another happy moment.’

So the project, much to Annabel’s openly expressed and Rosamond’s inwardly felt disappointment, was given up. However, Mrs. Effingham relented so far as to say that, although her principles forbade her to give a party, there could be nothing indecorous in asking their friends to dine with them on Christmas Day, when the time for dear Guy’s departure for the station would, alas! be drawing nigh.

This was a grand concession, and all kinds of preparations were made for the celebration of the festival. In the meanwhile, as there was next to nothing doing on any of the stations, what between riding-parties, chance visits, special arrivals for the purpose of bringing over new books or new music, it seemed as if The Chase had been changed into the caravanserai of the district. It would have been difficult to tell whether the neighbours lived more of their time with the Effinghams or at their own stations.

During this exciting season Wilfred Effingham was commencing to experience the elaborated torture of seeing the woman he now discovered to be his chief exemplar made love to by another man, apparently with prospects of success. When he set himself to work seriously to please, William Argyll was rarely known to fail. The restless spirit was stilled. The uncontrollable temper was lulled, like the wave of a summer sea. All the powers of a rare intellect, the stores of a cultivated mind, were displayed. Brave, athletic, of a striking personal appearance, if not regularly handsome, he was a man to whom few women could refuse interest, whom none could scorn. Besides all this, he was the heir to a fine estate in his native land.

When, therefore, day by day, he devoted himself in almost exclusive attendance to the appropriation of Miss Fane, keeping close to her bridle-rein in all excursions, monopolising her in the evenings, and holding æsthetic talks, in which she apparently took equal interest, the general conclusion arrived at was that Miss Fane was only awaiting a decorous interval to capitulate in due form.

Yet Wilfred was constrained to confess that however much he may have deserved such punishment, there was no change in her manner towards him. When he touched upon any of their old subjects of debate, he found she had not forgotten the points on which they had agreed or differed, and was ready, as of old, to maintain her opinions.

She seemed pleased to linger over reminiscences of those days and the confidences then made.

‘Nobody would know Black Mountain now,’ she said. ‘Since we have grown rich, comparatively speaking, from “the providential rise in the price of store cattle” (as one auctioneer called it), papa has indulged me by making all kinds of additions, and I suppose we must say improvements – new fences, new furniture, new stables, plants in the garden, books in the library. Money is the latter-day magician certainly.’

‘And you are proportionately happier, of course,’ said Wilfred.

‘Frankly,’ said Miss Fane, ‘I am, just at present. I feel like one of Napoleon’s generals, who were ennobled and enriched after having risen from the ranks. No doubt they enjoyed their new dignities immensely. If they didn’t, their wives did. I won’t say we were roturiers, but we were very, very poor. And it is so nice now to think we can dress as well as other people, and have the ordinary small luxuries of our position, without troubling about the everlasting ways and means.’

‘We are much alike in our experiences,’ answered Wilfred. ‘We should soon have been absolutely ruined – the ways and means would have simply been obliterated.’

‘I suppose so; but I never could believe in the poverty of any of you Lake William people. You seemed to have everything you could possibly want. The best part of our present good fortune is, that the boys are at a good school, while papa can buy as many new books as he can coax me, in mercy to his eyesight, to let him read. So I can say that we are quite happy.’

‘I wonder you don’t think of going to Europe. Dr. Fane could easily sell at a high price now; and then, fancy “the kingdoms of the earth and the glory of them.”’

‘You are quoting the Tempter, which is not quite respectful to me – for once; but there is a reason why papa cannot bear the thought of leaving our dear, lonely old home. My poor mother was buried there, and his heart with her. For me, I have from childhood imbibed his feelings for the place of her grave.’

Rosamond here approached, and carried off her friend upon some mission of feminine importance. Wilfred, feeling that the conversation had taken a direction of melancholy which he could not fathom or adequately respond to, rejoined his other guests. But he could not help dwelling upon the fact that his conversations with Miss Fane seemed so utterly different from those with any other woman. Before the first sentences were well exchanged, one or other apparently struck the keynote, which awakened sympathetic chords, again vibrating amid harmonious echoes and semi-tones.

To complete the universal jubilation, Mr. O’Desmond, in acknowledgment of the interest which the inhabitants of the district had shown in his safe return, announced his intention of giving an entertainment at Badajos on New Year’s Day, at which amusements would be provided for his humbler neighbours as well as for the gentry of the district. He had ridden over to The Chase, and entreated Mrs. Effingham’s advice as to decorations and dispositions. It was to be a very grand affair. No one who knew O’Desmond doubted but that, having undertaken such a project, he would carry it out with elaborate completeness. So that, among the young people and general population of the district, the Badajos Revels were looked forward to with intense expectation.

‘What will the general plan of arrangement be?’ said Fred Churbett to Hamilton. ‘Something in the Elizabethan style, with giants, salvage-men, and dwarfs, speeches and poetical addresses to the Queen of the land, whoever she may be? Anyhow, he is going to spend a lot of money about it. I hear the preparations are tremendous.’

‘In that case it will form a telling relief to the general lack of variety in these affairs,’ said Hamilton. ‘Every one has made such a heap of money now, that it hardly matters what is spent, in reason. We shall have to turn to hard work again in January. I wonder whether the old boy has fallen in love, like everybody else, and is going to make his proposals with what he considers to be “befitting accessories.”’

‘Shouldn’t wonder at all,’ said Fred. ‘It appears to me that we are beginning to enter upon a phase of existence worthy of Boccaccio, without the plague – and the – perhaps unreserved narratives. It certainly is the realm of Faerye at present. The turning out into the world of fact will come rather hard upon some of us.’

So matters passed on, materially unchanged, until the actual arrival of Christmas Day, on which sacred commemoration Mr. Sternworth, who had been temporarily relieved by the Dean of Goulburn, stayed with them at The Chase for a week, and performed services to a reasonable-sized congregation in the dining-room, which was completely filled by the family, with friends and humble neighbours. On the evening before, too, which invested the service with additional feelings of hope and thankfulness, most satisfactory letters had been received from India. Mr. Effingham told how —

‘The Colonel was recovering rapidly. His medical attendant advised a visit of at least two years to Europe. As the cold weather season had set in, he might take his passage. Beatrice and he were to be married before he left. He (Mr. Effingham) would sail for Australia directly the ceremony was over. Indeed, he was tired of India, and now that the Colonel, poor fellow, was recovering, would have been bored to death had it not been for his menagerie. Then followed a list of profitable and unprofitable beasts, birds, and even fishes, which, if he could transport successfully to The Chase, would make him a happy man for the rest of his life. People might say he was amusing himself, but the profits of some of his ventures would in days to come be enormous. For instance, take the Cashmere goats, of which he had succeeded in getting a small flock. The fine hair or “pushta,” combed from near the skin, in contrast to the coarse outer fleece, was worth a guinea a pound. A shawl manufactured from it sold for a fabulous sum. These animals would thrive (he felt certain) in Australia; and then what would be the consequence? Why, the merino industry would be dwarfed by it – positively dwarfed!’

The family of this sanguine gentleman did not go the whole length of his conclusions, having found that some unexpected factor commonly interfered with the arithmetical working out of his projects. But they were delighted to think they should shortly see his face again. And Beatrice was to receive the reward of her unchanged love and devotion! She would have, dear girl, a lifelong claim to care for the health and happiness of him whom she had, as the Surgeon-General averred, ‘raised up from the dead.’

Files of Indian papers showed that on every side honours and decorations had been heaped upon the gallant and now fortunate soldier. Here was one of the mildest extracts —

‘Colonel Glendinning, V.C., has been made a Companion of the Bath. He will probably be knighted. But will the country tolerate this tardy and barren honour? Of his stamp are the men who have more than once saved India. If the present Government, instead of making promotions at the bidding of parliamentary interest, would appoint a proved leader as Commander-in-Chief, Hindostan might be tranquil once more and Russia overawed.’

CHAPTER XXVII

THE DUEL IN THE SNOW

Just before the commencement of the stupendous festivities of Badajos, a letter arrived, by which the parson was informed that Mr. Rockley, having business at Yass, had resolved to run up from Port Phillip and see them all. Mr. St. Maur, who had an equally good excuse, would accompany him.

This was looked upon as either a wondrous coincidence or a piece of pure, unadulterated good luck. When the hearty and sympathetic accents of William Rockley were once more heard among them, everybody was as pleased as if he, personally, had been asked to welcome a rich uncle from India.

‘I never dreamed of seeing St. Maur in these parts,’ said Neil Barrington. ‘He’s such a tremendous swell in Melbourne that I doubted his recognising us again. What business can he possibly have up here?’