Babes in the Bush

‘What a delightful creature!’ said Annabel. ‘Didn’t some one say before we left home that there were no gentlemen in Australia – only “rough colonists”? I suppose that English girls will call us “rough colonists” when we’ve been here a few years. Why, he’s like – oh, I know now – he’s the very image of the Knight of Gwynne. Fancy lighting on a facsimile of that charming old dear – of course Mr. Desmond is not nearly so old. He’s not young though, and takes great care of himself, you can see.’

‘He’s not so very old, Annabel,’ said Beatrice mischievously. ‘That is the kind of man I should advise you to marry. Not a foolish boy of five-and-twenty.’

‘Thank you, Beatrice,’ said Annabel, with dignity. ‘I’ll think over it and let you know. I don’t think it’s probable I should ever marry any one only a little older than myself. What could he know? I should laugh at him if he was angry. But Wilfred is going over to Badajos, or whatever is the name of the O’Desmond’s place, to-morrow, so he can bring us back a full, true, and particular account of everything, and whether Rosamond, or you, dear, would be the fitter helpmate for him. I’m too young and foolish at present, and might be more so – that is, foolish, not young, of course.’

‘I notice that the air of this climate seems to have a peculiar effect upon young people’s tongues,’ said the soft voice of Mrs. Effingham. ‘They seem to run faster here than in England.’

Mr. Desmond’s property, Badajos, was nearly twenty miles from Warbrok Chase. As it had been clearly settled that Wilfred should go there on the following day, arrangements had to be made. Dick must accompany him for the double purpose of confirming any selection of cattle. That veteran cheerfully endorsed the idea, averring that now the yard was all but finished, and the fencing stuff drawn in, leave of absence could be well afforded. He therefore put on a clean check shirt, and buckled a pea-jacket in front of his saddle, which he placed upon his old mare, and was ready for the road.

Provided with a stock-whip, taken from his miscellaneous possessions, with lighted pipe and trusty steed, his features wore the expression of anticipated happiness, which distinguishes the schoolboy out for a holiday. He passed Andrew Cargill with an air of easy superiority, as that conscientious labourer, raising his moistened brow as he delved at the long-untilled beds, could not refrain from a look of astonishment at this new evidence of universal capacity, as he marked Dick’s easy seat and portentous whip.

He muttered, ‘I wadna doot but that the auld graceless sorrow can ride through braes and thickets, and crack yon muckle clothes-line they ca’ a stock-wheep like ony lad. The de’il aye makes his peets o’ masterfu’ men, wae’s me.’

A difficulty arose as to Wilfred’s steed. Mr. Sternworth had declined the delicate task of remount agent. Thus The Chase was temporarily unprovided with horseflesh. However, Dick Evans was not a man to be prevented from carrying out a pleasant expedition for want of a horse to ride. Sallying out early, he had run in a lot of the ownerless animals, always to be found in the neighbourhood of unstocked pastures. Choosing from among them a sensible-looking cob, and putting Wilfred’s English saddle and bridle on him, he led him up to the garden gate, where he stood with his ordinary air of deep respectability.

‘I was just wondering how in the world I was to get a horse,’ said Wilfred. ‘I see you have one. Did you borrow, or buy, or steal one for my use?’

‘I’ve been many a year in this country, Mr. Wilfred, without tekkin’ other people’s property, and I’m too old to begin now. But there’s 2C on this chestnut pony’s near shoulder. I’m nigh sure it’s Bill Chalker’s colt, as he lost two years ago, and told me to keep him in hand, if ever I came acrost him.’

‘Then I may ride him without risk of being tried for horse-stealing, or lynched, if they affect that here,’ said Wilfred gaily. ‘I shouldn’t care to do it in England, I know.’

‘Things is quite different on the Sydney Side,’ said Mr. Evans with mild dogmatism.

Wilfred did not consider this assertion to be conclusive, but time pressing, and the ready-saddled horse inviting his approval, he compounded with his conscience by taking it for granted that people were not particular as to strayed horses. The fresh and spirited animal, which had not been ridden for months, but was (luckily for his rider) free from vice, snorted and sidled, but proceeded steadily in the main. He soon settled down to the hand of a fair average horseman.

Noticing fresh objects of interest in each flowering shrub, in the birds that flew overhead, or the strange animals that ever and again crossed their path, about each and all of which his retainer had information to offer, the time did not hang heavily on hand. They halted towards evening before a spacious enclosure, having passed through which, they came upon a roomy cottage, surrounded by a trim orchard, and backed up by farm buildings.

‘Here’s Badajos, Mr. Wilfred,’ said his guide. ‘And a better kept place there ain’t in the whole country side.’

‘Welcome to Badajos, Mr. Effingham,’ said the proprietor. ‘William, take this gentleman’s horse; you know your way, Dick. We’ll defer business till the morning. I have had the cattle yarded, ready for drafting; to-morrow you can choose the nucleus of a good herd. I shall be proud to put you in the way of cattle-farming in the only true way to succeed – by commencing with females of the right kind.’

As Wilfred followed his entertainer into the house, he felt unaffectedly surprised at the appearance of elegance mingled with comfort which characterised the establishment. The rooms were not large, but arranged with an attention of detail which he had not expected to find in a bush dwelling. The furniture was artistically disposed. Books and periodicals lay around. High-class engravings, with a few oil-paintings, which recalled Wilfred Effingham’s past life, hung on the walls. Couches and lounges, of modern fashion, looked inviting, while a Broadwood piano stood in the corner of the drawing-room, into which he followed his host.

‘I am a bachelor, more’s the pity,’ said Mr. O’Desmond; ‘but there’s no law against a little comfort in the wilderness. Will you take some refreshment now? Or would you like to be shown to your room?’

Wilfred accepted the latter proposal. In a very comfortable chamber he proceeded to divest himself of the traces of the road, after a leisurely and satisfactory fashion. He had barely regained the drawing-room, when a gong sounded with a melodiously reminiscent clang.

The dinner was after the fashion of civilised man. Soup and fish, fresh from a neighbouring stream, with meritorious entrées and entremets, showed skill beyond that of an ordinary domestic. While the host, who had sufficiently altered his attire for comfort, without committing the bêtise of out-dressing a guest, as he recommended a dry sherry, or passed the undeniable claret, seemed an embodied souvenir of London, Paris, Vienna, of that world of fortune and fashion which Wilfred was vowed to forsake for ever. Next morning the sun and Mr. W. Effingham arose simultaneously. Dick Evans had anticipated both, and was standing at ease near the stable.

‘This place is worth looking at, sir. You don’t see nothing to speak of out of order – tidy as a barrack-yard.’

Wonderfully trim and orderly was the appearance of all things. The enclosure referred to was neatly gravelled, and showed not a vagrant straw. The garden was dug, raked, and pruned into orderly perfection. The servants’ quarters, masked by a climber-covered trellis, were ornamental and unostentatious. The dog-kennels, tenanted by pointers, greyhounds, collies, and terriers, were snug and spacious. The stables were as neat as those of a London dealer. It was a show establishment.

‘Mr. O’Desmond’s servants must be attached to him, to work so well,’ said Wilfred.

‘Humph!’ replied the veteran, ‘he makes ’em toe the line pretty smart, and quite right too,’ he added, with a grim setting of his under jaw. ‘He was in the colony afore there was many free men in it. Shall we walk down to the milking-yard, sir?’

The full-uddered shorthorn cows, with their fragrant breath and mild countenances, having been admired in their clean, paved milking-yard, a return was made towards the cottage. As they neared the garden, O’Desmond rode briskly up to the stable door, and dismounting, threw the reins to a groom, who stood ready as a sentinel.

‘The top of the morning to you, Mr. Effingham; I trust you slept well? I have had a canter of a few miles, which will give me an appetite for breakfast. I rode over to the drafting-yards, to make sure that the cattle were there, according to orders. Everything will be in readiness, so that you can drive easily to Warbrok to-night. You can manage that, Dick, can you not?’

‘Easy enough, if you’ll send a boy with us half-way, Mr. O’Desmond,’ replied Dick. ‘You see, sir, Mr. Effingham’s rather new to cattle-driving, and if the young heifers was to break back, we might lose some of them.’

‘Quite right, Dick; you are always right where stock are concerned – that is, the driving of them,’ he added. ‘I look to you to stay with Mr. Effingham till his dairy herd is established. I shall then have the pleasure of adding his name to that of the many gentlemen in this district whose fortunes I have helped to make.’

‘Quite true, sir,’ assented Dick heartily. ‘The Camden sheep and the Badajos cattle and horses are known all over the country by them as are judges. But you don’t want me to be praising on ’em up – they speak for themselves.’

Breakfast over, as faultless a repast as had been the dinner, it became apparent that Mr. O’Desmond held punctuality nearly in as high esteem as comfort. His groom stood ready in the yard with his own and Wilfred’s horses saddled, the shining thorough-bred, which he called his hackney, offering a strong contrast to the unkempt though well-conditioned animal which his guest bestrode.

As they rode briskly along the winding forest track, Wilfred, observing the quality of his host’s hackney, the silver brightness of his bit and stirrup-irons, the correctness of his general turn-out, remembering also the completeness of the establishment and the character of the hospitality he had enjoyed, doubted within himself whether, in course of time, the owner of Warbrok Chase might ever attain to such a pinnacle of colonial prosperity.

‘How incredible this would all appear to some of my English friends!’ he thought. ‘I can hardly describe it without the fear of being supposed to exaggerate.’

‘Here we are,’ said O’Desmond, reining up, and dismounting at a substantial stock-yard, while a lad instantly approached and took his horse. ‘I have ordered the heifers and young cows to be placed in this yard. We can run them through before you. You can make your choice, and reject any animals below the average.’

‘They look rather confused at present,’ answered Wilfred; ‘but I suppose Dick here understands how to separate them.’

‘I’ll manage that, never you fear, sir – that is, if you and Mr. O’Desmond have settled about the price.’

‘I may state now,’ remarked that gentleman, ‘that the price, four pounds per head, mentioned to me on your account by your agent is a liberal one, as markets go. I shall endeavour to give you value in kind.’

‘It’s a good price,’ asserted Dick; ‘but Mr. O’Desmond’s cattle are cheaper at four pounds all round than many another man’s about here at fifty shillings. If he lets me turn back any beast I don’t fancy, we’ll take away the primest lot of cattle to begin a dairy with as has travelled the line for years.’

‘I will give you my general idea of the sort of cattle I prefer,’ said Wilfred, not minded to commence by leaving the whole management in any servant’s hands, ‘then you can select such as appear to answer the description.’

‘All right, sir,’ quoth Mr. Evans, mounting the fence. ‘I suppose you want ’em large-framed cattle, good colours, looking as if they’d run to milk and not to beef, not under three, and not more than five year old, and putty quiet in their looks and ways.’

‘That is exactly the substance of what I was going to say to you,’ said Wilfred, with some surprise. ‘It will save me the trouble of explaining.’

‘We may as well begin, sir,’ said Dick, addressing himself to the proprietor. Then, in quite another tone, ‘Open the rails, boys; look sharp, and let ’em into the drafting-yards.’

The cattle were driven through a succession of yards after such a fashion that Wilfred was enabled to perceive how the right of choice could be exercised. By the time the operation was concluded he felt himself to be inducted into the art and mystery of ‘drafting.’ Also, he respected himself as having appreciably helped to select and separate the one hundred prepossessing-looking kine which now stood in a separate yard, recognised as his property.

‘You will have no reason to be dissatisfied with your choice,’ said O’Desmond. ‘They look a nice lot. I always brand any cattle before they leave my yard. You will not object to a numeral being put on them before they go? It will assist in their identification in case of any coming back.’

‘Coming back! – come back twenty miles?’ queried Wilfred, with amazement. ‘How could they get back such a distance?’

‘Just as you would – by walking it, and a hundred to the back of that. So I think, say, No. 1. brand – they are A1 certainly – will be a prudent precaution.’

‘Couldn’t do a better thing,’ assented Dick. ‘We’ll brand ’em again when we go home, sir; but if we lost ’em anyway near the place, they’d be all here before you could say Jack Robinson.’

A fire was quickly lighted, the iron brands were heated, the cows driven by a score at a time into a narrow yard, and for the first time in his life Wilfred saw the red-hot iron applied to the hide of the live animal. The pain, like much evil in this world, if intense, was brief; the cows cringed and showed disapproval, but soon appeared to forget. The morning was not far advanced when Wilfred Effingham found himself riding behind a drove, or ‘mob’ (as Dick phrased it), of his own cattle.

‘There goes the best lot of heifers this day in the country,’ said the old man, ‘let the others be where they may. Mr. O’Desmond’s a rare man for givin’ you a good beast if you give him a fair price; you may trust him like yourself, but he’s a hard man and bitter enough if anybody tries to take advantage of him.’

‘And quite right too, Dick. I take Mr. O’Desmond to be a most honourable man, with whom I shouldn’t care to come to cross purposes.’

‘No man ever did much good that tried that game, sir. He’s a bad man to get on the wrong side of.’

CHAPTER V

‘CALLED ON BY THE COUNTY’

When the important drove reached Warbrok, great was the excitement. Wilfred’s absence was the loss of Hamlet from the play; his return the signal for joy and congratulation. The little commonwealth was visibly agitated as the tired cattle trailed along the track to the stock-yard, with Dick sitting bolt upright in his saddle behind them, and Wilfred essaying to crack the inconveniently long whip provided for him.

The girls made their appearance upon the verandah; Andrew looked forth as interested, yet under protest. Guy walked behind, and much admired the vast number and imposing appearance of the herd; while Captain and Mrs. Effingham stood arm in arm at a safe distance appreciating the prowess of their first-born.

‘Now, sir,’ quoth the ready Dick, ‘we’ll put ’em in the yard and make ’em safe to-night; to-morrow, some one will have to tail ’em.’

‘Tail them?’ said Wilfred. ‘Some of their ears have been scolloped, I see; but surely it is not necessary to cut their tails in a hot climate like this?’

‘S’cuse me, sir,’ said Dick respectfully, ‘I wouldn’t put the knife to them for pounds; “tailing” means shepherdin’.’

‘And what does “shepherding” mean? I thought shepherds were only for sheep?’

‘Well, sir, I never heerd talk of shepherdin’ at home, but it’s a currency word for follerin’ anything that close, right agin’ their tails, that a shepherd couldn’t be more careful with his sheep; so we talk of shepherdin’ a s’picious c’rakter, or a lot of stock, or a man that’s tossicated with notes stickin’ out of his pocket, or a young woman, or anything that wants lookin’ after very partickler.’

‘Now I understand,’ said Wilfred. ‘It’s not a bad word, and might be used in serious matters.’

‘No mistake about that, sir. Now the yard’s finished off and topped up, we’ll soon be able to make a start with the dairy. There’ll be half-a-dozen calves within the week, and more afore the month’s out. There’s nothin’ breaks in cows to stop like their young calves; you’ll soon see ’em hanging about the yard as if they’d been bred here, ’specially as the feed is so forrard. There’s no mistake, a myst season do make everything go pleasant.’

When the cattle were in the yard, and the slip rails made safe by having spare posts put across them, Wilfred unsaddled his provisional mount and walked into the house in a satisfactory mental condition.

‘So, behold you of return!’ quoted Rosamond, running to meet him, and marching him triumphantly into the dining-room, where all was ready for tea. ‘The time has been rather long. Papa has been walking about, not knowing exactly what to do, or leave undone; Guy shooting, not over-successfully. The most steadily employed member of the household, and the happiest, I suppose, has been Andrew, digging without intermission the whole time.’

‘I wish we could dig too, or have some employment found for us,’ said Annabel; ‘girls are shamefully unprovided with real work, except stocking-mending. Jeanie won’t let us do anything in the kitchen, and really, that is the only place where there is any fun. The house is so large, and echoing at night when the wind blows. And only think, we found the mark of a pistol bullet in the dining-room wall at one end, and there is another in the ceiling!’

‘How do you know it was a pistol shot?’ inquired Wilfred. ‘Some one threw a salt-cellar at the butler in the good old times.’

‘Perhaps it was fired in the good old times; perhaps it killed some one – how horrible! Perhaps he was carried out through the passage. But we know it was a shot, because Guy poked about and found the bullet flattened out.’

‘Well, we must ask Evans; very likely old Colonel Warleigh fired pistols in his mad fits. He used to sit, they say, night after night, drinking and cursing by himself after his wife died and his sons left him. No one dared go near him when his pistols were loaded. But we need not think of these things now, Annabel. He is dead and gone, and his sons are not in this part of the country. So I see you have had flower-beds made while I was away. I declare the wistaria and bignonia are breaking into flower. How gorgeous they will look!’

‘Yes, mamma said she could not exist without flowers any longer, so we persuaded Andrew, much against his will, – for he said “he was just fair harassed wi’ thae early potatoes,” – to dig these borders. Guy helped us to transplant and sow seeds, so we shall have flowers of our own once more.’

‘We shall have everything of our own in a few years if we are patient,’ said Wilfred; ‘and you damsels don’t want trips to watering-places, and so on. This life is better than Boulogne, or the Channel Islands, though it may be a trifle lonely.’

‘Boulogne! A thousandfold,’ said Rosamond. ‘Here we have life and hope. Those poor families we used to see there looked liked ghosts and apparitions of their old selves. You remember watching them walking down drearily to see the packet come in – the girls dowdy or shabby, the old people hopeless and apathetic, the sons so idle and lounging? I shudder when I think how near we were to such horrors ourselves. The very air of Australia seems to give one fresh life. Can anything be finer than this sunset?’

In truth, the scene upon which her eyes rested might have cheered a sadder heart than that of the high-hearted maiden who now, with her arm upon her brother’s shoulder, directed his gaze to the far empurpled hills, merging their violet cloud masses and orange-gold tints in the darkening eve. The green pastures, relieved by clumps of heavy-foliaged trees, glowed emerald bright against the dark-browed mountain spur. The dying sun-rays fell in fire-flakes of burning gold on the mirrored silver of the lake. Wrapped in soft tremulous mist lay the hills upon the farther shore, vast with the subtle effect of limitless distance. At such times one could dream with the faith of older days – that Earth, the universal mother, loved her children, and breathed forth in growth of herb and flower her smiling welcome.

That night, as the Effinghams sat around their table, an unconscious feeling of thankfulness swelled each heart. The parents saw assurance of a well-provided suitable home for the little troop, the probable disbanding of which had cost such sad forebodings. The sons, strong in the faith of youth, saw a future of adventure, well-rewarded labour, perhaps brilliant success. The girls felt that their lives would not be henceforth deprived of the social intercourse which had once been an ordinary condition of existence.

‘How did you fare at Mr. O’Desmond’s, my son? What kind of an establishment does he keep?’ inquired Mrs. Effingham.

‘You will all be rather astonished,’ answered Wilfred mysteriously. ‘What should you think, Annabel? You are a good hand at guessing.’

‘Let me think. He is very aristocratic and dignified, yet he might live in a hut. Men are so independent of rooms or houses, almost of looking-glasses. Now a woman in a poky little place always shows it in her dress. I should say he lives in a comfortable cottage, and has everything very complete.’

‘And you would be right. We shall have to mind our manners and dinners when he comes again. He lives like a club bachelor, and is as well lodged as – let us say – a land steward on an absentee nobleman’s estate.’

‘You must be romancing, Wilfred,’ said Beatrice. ‘Where could he get the luxuries that such a great man as you have described could procure? What a wonderful difference a few thousand miles makes! We think ourselves not so much worse, essentially, than we were in England; but we must be deteriorating.’

‘Don’t talk nonsense, my dear Beatrice,’ said Rosamond. ‘Is it not a little vulgar to attach so much weight to externals? As long as we are doing our duty, why should there be any deterioration? It will be our own fault if we adopt a lower level of manners.’

‘Oh, but how can any one expect to be the same in colonial society?’ exclaimed Annabel. ‘See how insignificant even the “best people” are out here. Why, I was reading yesterday about a “country baronet,” and even a “well-meaning, unfashionable countess,” being looked down upon – positively laughed at – in England. Now think what tremendous potentates they would be out here! I’m sure that proves what I say.’

‘Your propositions and proofs are worthy of one another, my dear,’ said Wilfred. ‘But as to society, I shan’t be sorry when more of our neighbours call.’

‘Now that the house is fit to receive them I shall be pleased, my dear son, to see the people of the land. I am sure I hope there are some nice ones.’

Wilfred rose early next morning to indulge himself with another look at the new cattle. He was only just in time, as Dick had breakfasted, caught his horse, and was about to let out the imprisoned drove.

‘I’ll tail ’em for the first few days, sir,’ he said, ‘till I give ’em the way of camping under them big trees near the little swamp. It will make a first-rate camp for ’em, and learn ’em to run handy to the place. After that we must get some sort of a lad to foller ’em. It won’t pay you to keep me at blackfellow’s work.’

‘What’s that?’ inquired Wilfred.

‘Why, simple work like this, that any black boy could do, if he didn’t give his mind to ’possums. Besides, we wants a horse-yard, and a bit of a paddock, and another field cleared, to plough for next year.’

‘That seems a good deal of work to carry on, Richard. Won’t it take more hands? Remember, we must go economically to work. My father is by no means a rich man.’

‘That’s quite right, sir; no one should run themselves out of pocket, high or low. But if we had some one to go with these cows till the calves come, and that won’t be long, you and I could do what work I’ve chalked out.’