Babes in the Bush

‘Why should not Guy “tail” the cows, as you call it?’ suggested Wilfred, pleased with the idea that they would be able to provide labour from their own community. ‘It would do him no harm.’

‘Perhaps the young gentleman mightn’t like it,’ said Dick, with deep respect. ‘It’s dull work, every day, like.’

‘Oh, he must like it!’ decided Wilfred, with the despotic elder brother tone. ‘We have come out here to work, and he must take his share. He may find it dull for a time; but he can shoot a little and amuse himself, as long as he doesn’t come home without them, like Little Bo-peep. What would a boy cost?’

‘About six or eight shillings a week, and his rations, sir, which would come to as much again. But the young master needn’t stay out after four o’clock.’

‘Then we make a saving at once of say sixteen shillings a week. Guy never earned so much in his life before. He will be quite proud of his value in the labour market. You and I can begin splitting and fencing at once.’

‘But we shall want some more cattle, sir,’ suggested Dick.

‘More cattle!’ said Wilfred in amazement, to whom a hundred head was an awe-striking number. ‘What for?’

‘Why, to eat! It don’t do to buy meat every time you want a roast or a steak. Cheapest to kill your own. If we was to buy a mob of common cattle, they’d cost nothing to speak of; the bullocks soon fatten, and the cows would breed you up a fair mixed herd in no time.’

‘Well, but we have these cattle you have just let out,’ pleaded Wilfred, looking admiringly at the red, white, and roan shorthorn crosses, which, spreading over the rich meadow, were feeding quietly, as if reared there.

‘Them’s all very well, sir; but it’ll be years before you kill a bullock out of that lot; they’ve got to come, all in good time. But the quiet steers, and the worst of the cows, in a mixed herd, will be fat before you can look round, in a season like this, and your beef won’t cost you above a penny a pound.’

It was decided that Guy was to ‘tail’ or herd the new cows at present. Upon this duty being named to him, he made no objection – rather seemed to like it.

‘I suppose as long as I don’t lose them I can do anything I like,’ he said; ‘hunt ’possums, shoot, ferret out ferns for Rosamond, or even read.’

‘The more you lets the cattle alone the better, Mr. Guy,’ said Dick. ‘As long as they don’t sneak away from you, you can’t take it too easy. There’s fine feed all roads now, and after the first hour or two they’ll fill theirselves and lie down like working bullocks. But you’ll want a horse.’

‘That I shall,’ said the boy, beginning to take up the fashions of the bush, and to rebel at the idea of going on foot, as if mankind was a species of centaur.

‘Must have more horses too, sir,’ announced Dick, with a calm air of ask and have.

‘How many?’ returned Wilfred uncomplyingly; ‘it seems we shall want more horses – we haven’t any, certainly – more cattle, more tillage, more yards, more paddocks; it will soon come to wanting more money, and where to get that I don’t know.’

‘Horses are dirt cheap, sir, just now, and can’t be done without, nohow. You’ll want a cob for the Captain to potter about on, a couple of hacks for yourself, one apiece for Mr. Guy and the young ladies – they’d like a canter now and then afore Christmas. I hear Mick Donnelly’s selling off, to clear out for Monaro. You couldn’t do better than ride over and see his lot; they’ll be pretty sure to live on our grass, if any of the neighbours gets ’em, and you may as well have that profit out of ’em yourself.’

The conversation having come to an end, Mr. Evans was about to move after his cattle, now indulging in a pretty wide spread, when a horseman joining them, greeted Wilfred.

‘Good-morning, sir,’ said the stranger, with loud, peculiar, but not unpleasant voice, having a note of culture too. ‘Glad to make your acquaintance; Mr. Effingham, I believe? We’re neighbours, on the south, about ten miles from Benmohr. You haven’t seen a chestnut pony about, branded 2C? He used to run here in Hunt’s time. Why, hang me! if he isn’t coming up to show himself!’

The chestnut pony which had borne Wilfred so successfully in the journey for the new cattle now trotted up, having followed Evans’s mare, to which animal he had attached himself, after the manner of horses, prone to contract sudden friendships.

Wilfred, about to disclaim any knowledge of the strange gentleman’s chestnut, not dreaming that the estray which had come in so handily could be his property, and as yet not given to reading at a glance 2C or other hieroglyph, felt rather nonplussed, more especially when he noticed the stranger’s eye attracted to the saddle-mark on the pony’s fat back.

‘I must confess to having ridden your horse, if he be so, a short journey. We were not aware of his ownership, and I had no horse of my own. I trust you will forgive the liberty.’

‘He has rather nice paces. How did you like him?’ inquired the stranger urbanely, much as if he had a favour conferred upon him. ‘I’ll run him into the yard now with your permission, and lead him home.’

‘Pray come in, and allow me to introduce you to my people,’ said Wilfred, satisfied, from the stranger’s bearing, that he was a desirable acquaintance. ‘With the exception of Mr. O’Desmond, from whom I bought these cattle, we have not seen a neighbour yet.’

‘Know them all in time,’ said the stranger; ‘no great shakes, some of them, when you do know them. My name’s Churbett, by the bye – Fred Churbett, of The Oaks; cattle station on Banksia Creek, used to be called She-oak Flat – had to change it. Nice cattle O’Desmond let you have; got good stock, but makes you pay for them.’

‘How you have improved the old place!’ continued Mr. Churbett, as they approached the house. ‘Who would believe that so much could have been made of it? Never saw it in the palmy days of Colonel Warleigh, though. Seems to have run in the military line of ownership. The old boy kept up great state. Four-in-hand always to Yass, they say. Coachman, butler, lots of servants – convicts, of course. Awful temper; cursed freely, drank ditto. Sons not behindhand, improved upon the paternal sins – gambling, horse-racing, Old Harry generally. Had to clear out and sell. Great pull for the district having a family straight from “home” settled in it.’

‘I trust the advantage will be mutual,’ said Wilfred. ‘We hope to be neighbourly when we are quite settled. But you will understand that it has taken us a little time to shake down.’

‘Thought of that,’ said Mr. Churbett, ‘or should have had the pleasure of calling before. Trotted over to look up master “Traveller” for the muster, or should have waited another week.’

Mr. Churbett’s horses having been disposed of, he was duly introduced. He proved if anything a greater success than Mr. O’Desmond. He was musical, and the sight of the piano immediately brought up talk about the last opera he had heard in London. He was also a great reader, and after touching upon half a score of authors, promised to bring over a new book which he had just got up from town.

‘Really,’ said Annabel innocently, ‘this is a surprise. I never dreamed of getting a new book in the bush. Why, it only came out just before we left. I was longing to read it; but, of course, we were too miserable and worried. How can it have got here so quickly?’

‘Just the same way that we did, I suppose,’ said Beatrice – ‘in a ship. You forget the time that has passed since we landed.’

‘Still, it is a pleasant surprise. I shouldn’t wonder, perhaps we may get some new music soon. But I should as soon have thought of a book-club in the moon.’

‘Talking of book-clubs,’ said Churbett, ‘we are trying to get up one; I hope you will join. With twelve members, and a moderate subscription, we can import a very fair lot of books every year. A brother of mine in London can choose them for us; I am to be librarian. The books are divided into sets, which each subscriber sends on in turn.’

Annabel clapped her hands. ‘How delightful! Wilfred, of course, will join. Fancy, dear, clean new books every month. Really, life is becoming quite intoxicating, and I thought we should die of dulness and ennui.’

‘No; did you, though?’ echoed Mr. Churbett compassionately. ‘I confess to feeling inclined to cry when I came up to Murson Creek and saw the hut I was to live in for the first year. But one’s feelings get wonderfully altered after a while.’

‘And are you quite resigned, that is contented, to give up operas and picture galleries, clubs and travel, all the pleasant parts of English life?’ asked Rosamond.

‘It was hard at first, Miss Effingham; but here I have independence, with the prospect of a fortune. In England such was not the case, particularly the independence. Operas and other memories recall a fairy realm which I may yet re-enter. Meantime, I ride about all day, work now and then, smoke and read at night, and if not exactly happy, am decently cheerful.’

‘What the world calls pleasure you never see, I suppose?’ said Beatrice philosophically.

‘Do we not? I forgot one compensation in our virtuous, self-denying lives. Once a year, at least, we have races in Yass, which is our metropolis. Then we all meet together, as a solemn, social obligation. Pilgrimage to Mecca, and so on. Very few true believers absent. Balls, picnics, any amount of dancing, flirtation, what not. Enough to last for the rest of the year. After a week or two we go home sorrowfully, staying at each other’s houses on the way, to let down the excitement by degrees.’

‘Where do the ladies come from?’ asked Annabel. ‘I suppose there are very few?’

‘Very few!’ said Mr. Churbett in tones of horror. ‘Ever so many. Is it possible you have never heard, even in Europe, of the beautiful Miss Christabel Rockley, the fascinating Mrs. Snowden, the talented Mrs. Porchester? Ladies! They abound, or how should we remain civilised? Yass is well known to be the home of all the graces. Could O’Desmond retain his grand seigneur air but for the advantage of refined association? I wish I could take you round, Miss Effingham, on an introductory tour. What a book we could write of our experiences! – “Travels and Sketches in the Upper Strata of the Social System of the Yass District, by Miss Annabel Effingham, illustrated by F. Churbett, F.R.Y.A.S.S., Fellow of the Royal Yass Analytical Squatting Society,” reads well.’

‘Quite delicious,’ said Annabel. ‘But everything that is nice is improper, so, of course, I shouldn’t be let go. Not even Rosamond, who is prudence personified. I’m afraid there is no more liberty for poor women in a new country than an old one. That is the bell – I was sure of it. Mr. Churbett, allow me to invite you to dinner – an early one, which is about the extent of my privileges.’

Mr. Churbett accepted the invitation, as he no doubt would have acceded to any proposition emanating from the speaker even less manifestly beneficial. He kept the whole party amused, and lingered until he declared he should have to gallop Grey Surrey all the way home to get there before dark.

‘He’s like me,’ he explained, upon being charged with cruelty; ‘he only does a day’s work now and then, and he doesn’t mind it when it does come.’

Resisting all invitation to stop for the night, on the plea that the effort necessary in his case must be made some time and might as well be undergone now, he departed in the odour of high consideration, if not of sanctity.

In order that no opportunities might be lost, Wilfred commenced the habit of rising at dawn and joining Dick at the stock-yard, where the old man had initiated a dairy, with the aid of the few cows of the O’Desmond brand which had produced calves. Here he was attended by Andrew, who sturdily proceeded to take his share of the work, in spite of Dick’s sarcastic attitude. He evidently considered the dairy to be his province, and regarded Andrew as an interloper.

‘Na, na, Maister Wilfred,’ said Andrew, ‘I hae been acquent in my time wi’ a’ manner o’ kye, and had a collie following me these thretty years. It’s no because we’re in a new land that I’m to turn my back on ilka occupa-ation that will bring in profit to the laird and his bairns. Jeanie can mak’ as sweet butter as ever a gudewife in Lothian, and we hae to depend maistly on the butter-keggies, for what I see.’

‘You’ll find that garden of yours, when the weeds come up, quite enough for one, I’m thinking. There’s enough of us here, if Mr. Wilfred takes to it kind, as he seems to do. But if you’re such a dab hand at milking, you can tek that red cow that’s come in this morning.’

‘And a gra-and show o’ milk she has,’ quoth Andrew, ‘maist unco-omon!’

Dick commenced, with a stolid expression, to arrange the slip-rails, which apparently took time to adjust. Andrew, meanwhile, proud of the opportunity of exhibiting his familiarity with the art and science of milking, moved the red cow into one of the bails, or stalls, in which cows are ordinarily milked in Australia.

Sitting upon a three-legged stool, he commenced his ancient and classical task. He had succeeded in, perhaps, drawing a pint from the over-full udder of the red cow aforesaid, when she suddenly raised her hind leg and caught him with such emphasis that man and milk, pail and stool, went clattering down into the corner of the yard.

‘Gude save us!’ exclaimed Andrew, picking himself up, and rubbing his person, while he collected all that was recoverable of the scattered properties. ‘What garred the fell beastie act sae daft-like. I hae milket a hunner coos, and ne’er was whummled like yon.’

‘Perhaps they was Scotch cows, and understood your talk, Mr. Cargill,’ said Dick, with great politeness, covering a grim enjoyment; ‘but in this country we mostly leg-ropes cows when we bail ’em up, for fear of accidents.’

‘Weel, I winna say that these queys, being brocht up in a mair savage fashion than in bonnie Scotland, wadna need head and heel fastenings. But, ma certie, they would glower in my part of the country, gin ye tied a coo’s leg like a thrawn ox at the smithy.’

‘I suppose “we must do at Rome, etc.,” and all the rest of it, Andrew,’ said Wilfred. ‘Here, Dick, make a beginning with your cow, and Andrew and I will put a leg-rope on this one. Never too late to mend. I’ll back Andrew to hold his own yet in the milking-yard, or anywhere else.’

Old Dick, having satisfied his grudge by compassing the downfall of Andrew, whom he had shrewdly guessed never to have been accustomed to a leg-rope, condescended to instruct Wilfred in the proper way to knot it. The cows were eventually milked secundum artem, and when the full buckets, foaming over with creamy fluid, stood on a bench outside the yard, Wilfred saw with distinct gratification the first dividend from the cattle investment.

‘We must calculate now, Andrew,’ he said, as they walked over to the house, ‘how much butter can be made from the milk of these cows. It is a small matter, of course; but multiplied by ten – as we shall have at least fifty cows in milk, Dick says, before Christmas – it will not be so bad.’

‘After conseederin’ the matter maist carefully,’ said Andrew, ‘I am free to give it as ma deleeberate opeenion that gin the pasture keeps aye green and plenteous we may mak’ baith butter and cheese o’ the best quality. As to price, I canna yet say, havin’ nae knowledge o’ the mairkets.’

‘Well, we have made a beginning, Andrew, and that is a great matter. If we can only pay current expenses, without employing more hands, we shall be doing well, I consider.’

‘We must work gey and close at the first gang aff, Maister Wilfred, and then dinna ye fear. Wi’ the Lord’s blessing, we’ll be spared to set up our horn on high, as weel as thae prood Amalekites, that have had the first grip o’ this gra-and Canaan. I was doon yestreen and lookit at the field o’ victual – the paddock, as yon auld carle ca’s it. It’s maist promising – forbye ordinar’ – maist unco-omon.’

Among the list of indispensable investments which Dick Evans had urged upon Wilfred, but which he had not at present thought it necessary to undertake, were another lot of cattle, a dozen horses (more or less), and some kind of taxed cart, or light vehicle. Apparently these would be advantageous and profitable, but Wilfred had determined to be most sparing in all outlay, lest the reserve fund of the family should come to a premature end.

On this day it seemed that the advanced guard of the neighbouring gentry had commenced to lay formal siege to Warbrok Chase. On his return to the house in the afternoon, Wilfred descried two good-looking horses hanging up to the garden fence, and upon entering the sitting-room beheld their owners in amicable converse with his mother and sisters. He was promptly introduced to Mr. Argyll and Mr. Charles Hamilton. Both men were well, even fashionably dressed, and bore about them the nameless air which stamps the holder of a degree in the university of society.

‘We should have called before,’ said Mr. Argyll, a tall fair-haired man, whose quick glancing blue eye and mobile features betrayed natural impetuosity, kept under by training; ‘but my partner here is such an awfully hard-working fellow, that he would not quit the engineering with which he was busied, to visit the Queen of Sheba, if she had just settled in the neighbourhood.’

‘I was not aware,’ said Mr. Hamilton coolly, and with an air of settled conviction upon his regular and handsome features, ‘of the extent of my sacrifice to duty. I may venture to assure Mrs. Effingham that my neighbourly duties for the future will not be neglected.’

‘I hope not,’ said Mrs. Effingham; ‘for, now that the excitement of settling in such a very different world has passed away, we begin to feel rather lonely – may I say dull?’

‘No, mamma,’ said Rosamond, ‘you must not say that. We are all so fully occupied, from morning to dusk, that we have no time to be dull.’

‘Oh, but we cannot get on without society,’ remarked Annabel. ‘I feel in the highest spirits as long as there is so much to do, that there is no time for thinking; indeed, I hate to have a moment to myself. But in the afternoons, when papa and the boys are out, I begin to realise our solitary position, and the feeling becomes oppressive.’

‘Very naturally too,’ said Mr. Argyll. ‘But as yet you have no idea of the social resources which you will be able to draw upon when you are acquainted with everybody.’

‘And who is everybody?’ asked Beatrice. ‘How can we be sociable if people don’t come to see us? Suppose you tell us who are the nice people of the district, and we shall be able to enjoy them in anticipation.’

‘You will see most of them within the month; but I shrink from describing them. Charles, you are afraid of nobody, suppose you give us a catalogue raisonné.’

‘Certainly, if Miss Effingham wishes it,’ assented Mr. Hamilton, who had the imperturbable look which goes with a temperament difficult to surprise or intimidate. ‘I shall have great pleasure in trotting out our friends for her information. We have been here only three years, so in case of mistakes you must be considerate.’

‘Oh, we shall be most discreet,’ said Annabel; ‘besides, we have no acquaintance yet to chatter to – that’s the best guarantee for prudence.’

‘I think I may take your solemn affirmation not to betray me,’ said Mr. Hamilton, looking admiringly into Annabel’s lovely eyes, ‘and even then I would face the risk. First, there is Captain Snowden with his wife. He was in the navy, I think; he has rather more of the sailor about him than – what shall I say? – the courtier, though he can be very agreeable when he likes. Madame is extremely lady-like, clever, travelled, what not. You must see her and judge for yourself.’

‘Are there any more ladies?’ asked Rosamond. ‘They possess an absorbing interest for us.’

‘Ever so many more,’ laughed Hamilton. ‘Mrs. Porchester, who is rather a “blue”; Mrs. Egremont, who is a beauty; the Misses Carter, who are good-nature itself. The others, I think, you must find out by degrees. In Yass there are some very nice families, particularly that of Mr. Rockley. He is the leading merchant in these parts, and rules like a benevolent despot. His wife is hospitable and amiable beyond compare; his daughter, Miss Christabel, dangerously beautiful. I must leave something to the imagination.’

‘I assure you we are most grateful to you as it is,’ said Mrs. Effingham. ‘It is really encouraging to find that there are so many charming people in the neighbourhood. We should hardly consider them in the same county at home; but here they don’t seem to mind riding any distance.’

‘I am mistaken,’ said Hamilton, ‘if you do not find people riding wonderful distances to visit Warbrok. We are less than twenty miles away, I am thankful to say, so you will see us as often as you care for. By the way,’ turning to Wilfred, ‘did I hear you say you were going to Donnelly’s sale? If you buy stock there, you had better stay a night at Benmohr on your return. It is just a fair stage.’

‘Thanks. I shall be most happy. Do you think it a good idea to invest at Donnelly’s?’

‘If I were in your place I should buy all his cattle and a few horses. They can’t fail to be a profitable purchase, as you seem to have any amount of grass. But we must be going. We shall expect you at Benmohr the day after the sale. Mrs. Effingham, I shall do myself the honour of another visit, after you have been able to verify my portraitures.’

‘What gentlemanlike young men!’ said Mrs. Effingham, when the guests were fairly away. ‘I am so sorry that your papa was out. He would have been so pleased. Mr. Argyll seems so clever, and Mr. Hamilton is very handsome – both wonderfully well dressed for the bush.’

‘I should say Mr. Argyll was disposed to be sarcastic,’ said Rosamond; ‘and I am mistaken if he has not a fierce temper. He told us he was a Highlander, which accounts for it.’

‘Mr. Hamilton is one of the nicest-looking men I have seen for a long time,’ said Annabel; ‘what splendid eyes he has! He is very particular about his gloves too; gives time and reflection to his toilet, I should say.’

‘I have heard Dick say that he is the hardest-working squatter in the district,’ said Wilfred. ‘He is devoted to ploughing, digging, navvy-work, horse-breaking – “all manner of slavery,” as Dick says.’

‘Who would have thought it!’ exclaimed Mrs. Effingham in tones of astonishment. ‘From his appearance I should have thought that he was afraid to soil those white hands of his.’

‘The best-dressed people are not the most backward at work or fighting,’ said Wilfred.

‘But how can he keep his hands white,’ inquired Annabel with a great appearance of interest, ‘if he really works like a labourer?’

‘Perhaps he works in gloves; a man can get through a great deal of work in a pair of old riding-gloves, and his hands be never the worse. There is something about those two men that I like extremely. Mr. Argyll puts me in mind of Fergus MʻIvor with that fiery glance; he looks as if he had a savage temper, well held in.’

‘They are both very nice, and I hope you will make real friends of them, Wilfred,’ said Mrs. Effingham. ‘Might I also suggest that, as it is evidently practicable to dress like a gentleman and work hard, a certain young man should be more careful of his appearance?’

‘I deserve that, I know, old lady,’ said her son laughingly; ‘but really there is a temptation in the wilderness to costume a little. I promise you to amend.’

‘Our circle of acquaintance is expanding,’ said Beatrice; ‘certainly it has the charm of variety. Mr. O’Desmond is Irish, Mr. Churbett from London, our last visitors Scots – one Highland, one Lowland. All differing among themselves too. I am sure we shall be fully occupied; it will be a task of some delicacy tenir de salon, if we ever have them here at a party.’

‘A party!’ said Mrs. Effingham; ‘don’t think of it for years to come, child. It would be impossible, inappropriate in every way.’

‘But there’s no harm, mamma, surely, in thinking of it,’ pleaded Annabel. ‘It encourages one to keep alive, if nothing else.’

CHAPTER VI

AN AUSTRALIAN YEOMAN

A week of laborious work preceded the day when circumstances permitted Wilfred and his serving-man to ride forth for the purpose of attending the sale of Mr. Michael Donnelly’s stock and effects. Formerly known as ‘Willoughby’s Mick,’ he had, during an unpretending career as stock-rider for that gentleman, accumulated a small herd of cattle and horses, with which to commence life on a grazing farm near Yass. Here, by exercise of the strictest economy as to personal expenses, as well as from the natural increase of stock, he had, during a residence of a dozen years, amassed a considerable property. Yet on his holding there was but scant evidence of toil or contrivance. A few straggling peach trees represented the garden. The bark-roofed slab hut which he found when he came had sufficed for the lodging of himself and wife, with nearly a dozen children. The fences, not originally good, were now ruinous. The fields, suffered to go out of cultivation, lay fallow and unsightly, only half-cleared of tree-stumps. The dress of this honest yeoman had altered for the worse since the hard-riding days of ‘Willoughby’s Mick.’ The healthy boys and girls were more or less ragged; the younger ones barefooted. The saddles and cart harness were patched with raw hide, or clumsily repaired. The cow-shed was rickety; the calves unsheltered. Yet with all this apparent decay and disorder, any one, judging from appearances, who had put down Michael Donnelly as an impoverished farmer, would have been egregiously deceived. His neighbours knew that his battered old cabbage-tree hat covered a head with an unusual amount of brains. Uneducated and bush-bred, he possessed intuitive powers of calculation and forecast frequently denied to cultured individuals. Early in life he had appropriated the fact, that in this land of boundless pasturage, profitable up to a certain point, without the necessity of one farthing of expenditure, the multiplication of stock was possible to any conceivable extent. Once make a commencement with a few cows, and it was a man’s own fault if he died without more cattle than he could count. Hadn’t Johnny Shore begun that way? Walked over to Monaro with half-a-crown in his pocket. He saved his wages for a few years and got the needful start.