Rolf Boldrewood
Babes in the Bush
CHAPTER IX
HUBERT WARLEIGH, YR., OF WARBROK
Next morning early, Mr. Effingham was enjoying the fresh, cool air when Dick marched up to him.
‘Well, Evans,’ said Effingham, ‘Christmas Day is over. Tell me, were you able to abstain?’
‘Believe me, I got drunk, sir,’ answered the veteran, ‘but I’m all right now till New Year’s Day.’
‘I am afraid that your constitution will suffer, Evans, if you continue these regular – or rather irregular – excesses.’
‘Can’t say for that, sir. Been drunk every Christmas since the year as I ’listed in the old rigiment; but I wanted to tell you about that young man as was in our hut last night. Do you know who he is, sir?’
‘No, indeed, Evans! I suspected he was no ordinary station-hand.’
‘Well, no, sir; that’s the youngest of the old Colonel’s sons. Him as they used to call “Gyp” Warleigh. He was allers fond of ramblin’ and campin’ out, from a boy, gipsy fashion. When the Colonel died, he went right away to some of the far-out stations beyond Monaro, and never turned up for years. Old Tom knowed him at once, but didn’t let on.’
‘Poor fellow! How hard that he should have come back to his father’s house penniless and poorly clad. I wonder if we could find him employment here?’
‘H – m! I don’t know, sir; we haven’t much to keep hands goin’ at this season, but you can see him yourself. I daresay he’ll come up to thank you afore he goes.’
Dick’s conjecture proved true, inasmuch as before the breakfast bell rang the prodigal walked up to the garden gate.
This time he underwent a more careful examination, the result of which was to impress the master of the house in a favourable manner. Though dressed much as before, there was some improvement in his appearance. He came forward now, with the advantage conferred by rest and good entertainment. His regular features, as Mr. Effingham now thought, showed plainly the marks of aristocratic lineage. The eyes, especially, were bold and steadfast, while his figure, hardened by the toils of a backwoods life, in its grand outline and muscular development, aroused the admiration of a professional connoisseur. The bronzed face had lost its haggard expression, and it was with a frank smile that he raised his hat slightly and said, ‘Good-morning, sir. I have come to thank you for your kindness and hospitality.’
‘I am pleased to have been enabled to afford it,’ said the master of the establishment; ‘but is there nothing more that I can do for your father’s son?’
The man started; a frown set the lower part of his face in rigid sternness. After a moment’s pause the cloud-like expression cleared, and with softened voice he said:
‘I see they have told you. I thought the old stock-rider knew me; he was here before we lived at Warbrok. Yes, it is all true. I am Hubert Warleigh.’
Mr. Effingham’s impulsive heart was stirred within him, at these words, to a degree which he himself would hardly have admitted. The actual presentment of this cadet of an old family – once the object of a mother’s care, a mother’s prayers – fallen from his position and compelled to wander over the country, meanly dressed and carrying a burden in this hot weather, touched him to the heart. He walked up to the speaker, and laying his hand upon his arm, said in tones of deep feeling:
‘My dear fellow, will you let me advise you, as I should thank any Christian man to do for my son in like need? Stay with us for a time. I may be able to assist you indirectly, if not otherwise. At the worst, the hospitality of this house – of your old home – is open to you as long as you please to accept it.’
‘You are kind – too kind, sir,’ said the wanderer, while his bold eyes softened, and for a moment he turned his face towards the lake. ‘The old place makes me feel like a boy again. But it will never do —it’s too late. You don’t know the ways of this country yet, and you might come to repent being so soft – I mean so good-natured.’
‘I will take the risk,’ persisted Effingham. ‘Let me see you restored to your proper standing in society, and following any occupation befitting a gentleman, and I shall hold myself fully repaid.’
The stranger smiled, half-sadly, half-humorously, as he seated himself on a fence-rail.
‘That is not so easy as you think, sir,’ he said. ‘Though there’s very few people in this country would bother about trying. When a fellow’s been rambling about the bush, working and living with the men, for years and years, it is not so easy to turn him into a gentleman again. Worst of all when he’s come short of education, and has half-forgotten how to behave himself before ladies. Ladies! I swear, when I saw your daughters, looking like rosebuds in the old verandah, I felt like a blackfellow.’
‘That a feeling of – of rusticity – would be one of the consequences of a roving life, I can understand; but you are young – a mere boy yet. Believe one who has seen something of the world, that the awkwardness you refer to would soon disappear were you once more among your equals.’
‘Too late – too late!’ said the man gloomily. ‘Gyp Warleigh must remain in the state he has brought himself to. I know him better than you do, worse luck! There’s another reason why I’m afraid to trust myself in a decent house.’
‘Good heavens!’ said Effingham. ‘Then what is that? You surely have not – ’
‘Taken to the bush? Not yet; but it’s best to be straight. I learned the trick of turning up my little finger too early and too well; and though I’m right enough for months when I’m far in the bush, or have had a spell of work, I’m helpless when the drinking fit comes on me. I must have it, if I was to die twenty times over. And the worst of it is, I can feel it coming creeping on me for weeks beforehand; I can no more fight it off than a man who’s half-way down a range can stop himself. But it’s no use talking – I must be off. How well the old place looks! It’s a grand season, certainly.’
‘You have had adventures here in the old days,’ said Effingham, willing to lead him into conversation. ‘Had you a fight with bush-rangers in the dining-room ever?’
‘Then the bullet-marks are there yet?’ said the stranger carelessly. ‘Well, there was wild work at Warbrok when that was done, but bushrangers had no say in it. It was the old governor who blazed away there. He was always a two-bottle man, was the governor, and after poor mother died he scarcely ever went to bed sober. Randal and Clem were terrible wild chaps, or they might have kept matters together. I was the youngest, and let do pretty much as I liked. I never learned anything except to read and write badly. Always in the men’s huts, I picked up all the villainy going before I was fourteen. But about those bullet-marks in the wall.’
‘I feel deeply interested, believe me; and if you would permit me to repair the neglect you have experienced, something may yet be done.’
‘You don’t know men of my sort, Captain, or you wouldn’t talk in that way. Not that I haven’t a feeling towards you that I’ve never had since poor mother died, and told me to be a good boy, as she stroked my hair for the last time. But how could I? What chance is there for a lad in the bush, living as we did in those days? I remember Randal’s coming home from Bathurst races – he’d go any distance to a race meeting. He was like a madman. It was then that the row came about with the governor, when they nearly shot one another.’
‘Nearly shot one another! Good heavens! How could that happen?’
‘After the cellar racket Randal had the sense to stay away at Monaro and work at our station there for months. He could work when he liked, and a smarter man among stock never handled a slip-rail. But he had to come home at last. The governor talked to him most polite. Hoped he’d stay to dinner. He drank fair; they were well into the fourth bottle when the row began. He told us afterwards that the old man, instead of flying into a rage, as usual, was bitter and cool, played with him a bit, but finished up by saying that “though it was the worst day’s work he ever did to come to this accursed country, he hardly expected his eldest son would turn out a burglar and a thief.”
‘Randal was off his head by this time – been ‘a bit on’ before he came – swore he wouldn’t stand that from any man, not even his own father. The old man glared at him like a tiger, and fetching out the loaded duelling pistols, which people always had handy in those days, gave him one, and they stood up at different ends of the long room.
‘We heard the shots and rushed in. There was Randal holding on by the wall, swaying about, and, pointing to the ceiling, saying, as well as he could, “Fired in the air! by – ! fired in – the – air!” Sure enough, there was the mark of his bullet in the ceiling, but the other one had hit the wall, barely an inch from Randal’s head.’
‘What an awful affair! How your father must have rejoiced that he was spared the guilt of such a crime.’
‘I don’t know about that; all he said next day was, that his hand must have been shaky, or he would have rid the world of an infernal scoundrel, who had disgraced his family and was no son of his. He never spoke to him again.’
‘Miserable father – lost son! What became of your brothers, may I ask, since you have told me so much?’
‘Randal was in a vessel coming back from Adelaide with an exploring party. He’d been lushing pretty heavy, and they thought he must have gone overboard one night in a fit of the horrors. Anyhow, he was never seen alive afterwards. Poor Clem – he wasn’t half as bad as Randal, only easy led – died at the Big River: was shepherding when we last heard of him. I’m all that’s left of the Warleighs. Some fine day you’ll hear of me being drowned crossing a river, or killed by the blacks, or broke my neck off a horse; and a good job too. I must be off now. It’s years since I’ve said as much to any one.’
‘But why – why not stay and commence a happier career? Scores of men have done so, years after your age. You will have encouragement from every member of my family.’
‘Family!’ answered the outcast, with a bitter smile. ‘Am I fit to associate with ladies? Why, even while I’m speaking to you I can hardly open my mouth without an oath or a rough word. No! It might have been once; it’s years too late now. But I thank you all the same; and if ever a chance comes in my way of doing your people a good turn, you may depend your life on Gyp Warleigh. Good-bye, sir!’
As he rose to his feet, squaring his shoulders and towering to the full height of his stature, Mr. Effingham instinctively held out his hand. Closing his own upon it for one moment in an iron grasp, the wanderer strode forth upon his path, and was lost behind a turn in the timber.
Howard Effingham returned to his household filled with sad thought. He had seen ruined men of all sorts and kinds before; had known many who, with every social aid and endowment, had chosen to tread the path of degradation. But there was, to his mind, an element of unusual pathos in this acquiescent yet resentful debasement of a noble nature. In the hall he met Wilfred and Guy. Contrasting their frank, untroubled countenances with that of the ill-fated son of his predecessor his heart swelled with thankfulness.
‘What a long talk you have been having with our dark friend,’ said Wilfred. ‘Does he want a situation as stock-rider? or has he a project requiring the aid of a little capital? He doesn’t look like an enthusiast.’
‘Nor is he one,’ answered the father briefly. ‘He is an unhappy man, whom you will compassionate when I tell you that he is Hubert Warleigh – the Colonel’s youngest son.’
‘Good heavens!’ cried Wilfred. ‘Who said there was no romance in a new country? I thought he was a fine-looking fellow, with something uncommon about him. What a history!’
‘What a dreadful, what an astonishing thing!’ exclaimed Annabel, who, having an appetite for novelty, and seldom being so absorbed in her household duties as to escape early notice of such, had joined the group. ‘To think that that sunburned, roughly-dressed man, carrying a bundle with his blanket and all kinds of things, should be a gentleman, the son of an old officer; just like Wilfred and Guy here! To be sure, he was handsome, in spite of his disguise; and did you notice what splendid black eyes he had? Poor fellow, poor fellow! Why didn’t you make him stay, papa?’
‘My child! I did try to persuade him; I promised to see what we could do for him. My heart yearned to the youngster, thinking that if, in the bounds of possibility, any child of mine was in such evil case, so might some father’s heart turn to him in his need. But he only said it was too late, with a kind of proud regret. Yet I think he was grateful, for he wrung my hand at parting, said it had done him good to speak with me, and if he could ever do us a service I might count upon him.’
In the dreamy days of the late summer one and all derived great solace and enjoyment from the Lake William Book Club, now become, thanks to Mr. Churbett’s brother in London, a working institution. That gentleman had forwarded a well-selected assortment, comprising the newest publications of the day, in various departments of literature, not forgetting a judicious sprinkling of fiction. The books brought out by the family, neither few nor of humble rank, had been read and re-read until they were known by heart. This fresh storehouse of knowledge was, for the first time in their lives, truly appreciated.
Mr. Churbett had employed himself in his solitary hours in covering with strong white paper and carefully entitling each volume. These he divided into ‘sets,’ comprising, say, a modicum of history, travel, biography, or science, with a three-volume novel. The sets being duly numbered, a sketch circuit was calculated, and proper arrangements made. He, for instance, forwarded a set to Benmohr, whence they were enjoined to forward them at the expiration of a month to The Chase; at the same time receiving a fresh supply from headquarters. O’Desmond sent them on to the Snowdens, to be despatched by them to Mr. Hampden at Wangarua. So it came to pass that when the twelfth subscriber forwarded the first-mentioned set to its original dwelling-place at Mr. Churbett’s, the year had completed its cycle, and each household had had ample, but not over-abundant, time to thoroughly master the contents of their dole of literature.
The autumn month of March was chiefly characterised by the rural population of the district, as being the season in which was held the Annual Yass Race Meeting. This tournament was deservedly popular in an English-speaking community. There was no wife, widow, or maid, irrespectively of the male representatives, who did not feel a mild interest in the Town Plate, the delightfully dangerous Steeplechase, and finally in the ‘Ladies’ Bag.’ This thrilling event comprised a collection of fancy-work – slippers, embroidered smoking-caps, and gorgeous cigar-cases, suitable for masculine use or ornament.
The coveted prize was fabricated by the fair hands of the dames and damsels of the district. The race was confined to amateurs, and those only were permitted to compete who had received invitations from the Secretary of the Ladies’ Committee.
Great interest was taken, it may be supposed, in the carrying-off of this trophy, and many a youthful aspirant might be seen ‘brushing with hasty step the dew away,’ as he reviewed at dawn his training arrangements with a face of anxiety, such as might become the owner of a Derby favourite.
By direct or devious ways the echoes of battle-cries, proper to the approaching fray, commenced to reach The Chase. Faintly interested as had been the family in the probable pleasures of such an assemblage, they could not remain wholly insensible. With each succeeding week tidings and murmurs of the Carnival swelled into sonorous tone. One day a couple of grooms, leading horses sheeted and hooded, of which the satin skins and delicate limbs bore testimony to their title to blue blood, would pass by on their way to Yass; or Mr. Churbett would ride over with the latest news, declaring that Grey Surrey was in such condition that no horse in the district had a chance with him, though Hamilton’s No Mamma had notoriously been in training for a month longer. Also, that the truly illustrious steeplechaser, The Cid, had been stabled at Badajos for the night; but that, in his opinion, he could not be held at his fences, and if so, St. Andrew would make such an exhibition of him as would astonish his backers and the Tasmanian division generally. Then Mrs. Snowden would arrive to lunch, and among other items of intelligence volunteer the information that the ball, which the Racing Club Committee was pledged to give this year, would exceed in magnificence all previous entertainments. Borne on the wings of the weekly post there came a missive from Mrs. Rockley, reminding Mrs. Effingham of her promise to come and bring her daughters for the race week, assuring her that rooms at Rockley Lodge awaited them, and that wilful child Christabel was prepared to die of grief in the event of anything preventing their having the pleasure of their company.
Then Bob Clarke was, after all, to ride The Cid. He was the only man that could hold him at his fences. So there would be such a set-to between him and St. Andrew, with Charlie Hamilton up, as had never been seen in the district. The western division were going to back The Cid to the clothes on their back. Hamilton was a cool hand across country, and a good amateur jock wherever you put him up, but Bob Clarke, who had had his early training among the stiff four-railers and enclosed pasture-lands of Tasmania, was an extraordinary horseman, and had a way of getting a beaten horse over his last fences which stamped him as the man to put your money on.
It was not in human nature altogether to disregard current opinions, which, in default of more important public events, swayed the pastoral community as well as the dwellers in the rural townships. The Effinghams gradually abandoned themselves to the stream, and decided to accept Mrs. Rockley’s invitation for the lady part of the family. To this end Wilfred made a flying visit to the town, where he had been promptly taken in custody by Mr. Rockley and lodged in safe keeping at his hospitable mansion.
He returned with what Beatrice called a rose-coloured description of the whole establishment; notably of the marvellous beauty of Christabel Rockley, the only daughter.
‘Why, you haven’t seen girls for I don’t know how long,’ said Annabel, ‘except us, of course – and you don’t see any beauty in fair people – so how can you tell? The first young woman with a pale face and dark eyes is a vision of loveliness, of course. Wait till we go to Yass, and you will hear a proper description.’
‘Women are always unsympathetic about one another,’ he retorted. ‘That’s the reason one can hardly trust the best woman’s portrait of her friend.’
‘And men are so credulous,’ said Beatrice. ‘I wonder any sensible woman has the patience to appropriate one. See how they admire the merest chits with the beauty of a china doll, and so very, very little more brains. There is a nice woman, I admit, here and there, but a man doesn’t know her when he sees her.’
‘All this is premature,’ said the assaulted brother, trying to assume an air of philosophical serenity. ‘I know nothing about Miss Christabel save and except that she is “beautiful exceedingly,” like the dame in Coleridge. But you will find Mr. Rockley’s the nicest house to stay in, or I much mistake, that you have been in of late years, and, in a general way, you will enjoy yourselves more than you expect.’
‘I expect great things,’ said Annabel, ‘and I intend to enjoy myself immensely. Fancy, what a pleasure it will be to me to see quantities of new people! Even Rosamond confessed to me that she felt interested in our coming glimpse of Australian society. We have been a good deal shut up, and it will do us good; even Beatrice will fall across a new book or a fresh character to read, which comes to much the same thing. I prefer live characters myself.’
‘And I prefer the books,’ said Beatrice; ‘there’s such a dreadful amount of time lost in talking to people, very often, about such wretched commonplaces. You can’t skip their twaddle or gossip, and you can in a book.’
