Rolf Boldrewood
Babes in the Bush
Christabel glided away, whereupon Bob Clarke faced round squarely and confronted his host.
‘Mr. Rockley, I came here to-night to tell you two things. I apologise for being so late, but I only heard you were leaving yesterday. I have ridden a hundred miles to-day.’
‘Just like you,’ said Rockley; ‘and why the deuce didn’t you make them send you in supper all this time? You look as if you hadn’t saved yourself any more than your horse.’
Truth to tell, Master Bob was rather pale, and his eyes looked unnaturally bright as he bent them upon the speaker.
‘Plenty of time afterwards, sir,’ he said; ‘the business was important. First of all, Mr. Hampden has given me a partnership, and I am going to take up country in Port Phillip under the firm of Hampden and Clarke. The cattle are drafted and started – five hundred head of picked Herefords – Joe Curle is with them, and young Warner. I’m going by sea to be ready for them when they come over.’
‘I’m sincerely glad to hear it, my dear Bob,’ said Rockley in his most cordial manner – one peculiar to him when he had become aware of something to another man’s advantage. ‘Why, you had better come down with us this week in the Mary Anne. I’ve chartered her, and she is crammed full, but, of course, I can give any one a passage. I can’t tell you how glad I am. Mrs. Rockley!’ he cried out as that well-beloved matron appeared and held out her hand with a smile of good omen to the not fully reassured Bob, ‘are we never to have anything to eat to-night? Here’s Bob Clarke has ridden a hundred and fifty miles, and dying of hunger before your eyes; but, of course, of course’ – here he changed into a tragic tone of injury – ‘if I’m not to be master in my own house – ’
Mrs. Rockley, with her placid countenance, only relieved by a glance at Wilfred, swiftly withdrew, and Rockley, to whom it had suddenly occurred as he looked at Wilfred that complications might arise from his subjecting his daughter to the perilous companionship of a sea-voyage with so noted a detrimental as Bob Clarke, looked like a hound that had outrun the scent, desirous of trying back, but not quite certain of his line.
‘Well, Bob, I am sure you will do well in Port Phillip; you have had lots of experience, and no man can work harder when he likes, I will say that for you; but it’s a fast place, a very fast place, I tell you, sir; and if you give yourself up to that confounded racing and steeplechasing, I know what will come of it.’
‘Mr. Rockley,’ said Bob again, with the air of a man who steadies his horse at a rasper, ‘I came to ask you for your daughter. I know I’ve not done much so far, but she likes me, and I feel I shall be successful in life or go to the devil – according to your answer this night.’
Mr. Rockley looked first at one and then at the other of his young friends in much astonishment. This surprise was so great that for once he was unable to give vent to his ideas.
Before he could gather self-possession, Wilfred Effingham spoke. ‘My dear Rockley, from circumstances which have come to my knowledge, but which I am in honour bound not to reveal, I can assure you that your daughter’s happiness is deeply concerned in my friend Clarke’s proposal. As a friend of the family – who takes the deepest interest in her future welfare – let me beg of you to give the matter your most favourable consideration.’
Mr. Rockley’s face passed through the phases of wild astonishment and strong disapproval before he replied. It had then relaxed into one of humorous enlightenment.
‘I see how it is. That monkey, Christabel, has enlisted you on her side. Well, I tell you both that I should have preferred Wilfred Effingham as my son-in-law. I am not going to hide my opinion on that or any other subject. But as she has made her choice, I will not – I say I will not – make her life miserable. Not that I have any objection to you, Bob, my boy, except on the score of that confounded horse-racing. It’s very well in its way. No man enjoys a race more than I do; but it’s not the thing for a young fellow who has his way to make in the world.’
‘I’ll never own another race-horse,’ quoth Bob, with desperate self-renunciation, ‘as long as I live, if – ’
‘Oh yes, you will,’ said Mr. Rockley, with superior forecast; ‘but what I want you to do is to promise not to go head and shoulders into it for the next few years, when you’ll have all your work cut out for you, if you want to be a man and make a home for your wife and family. Well, it’s done now, and here’s my hand, my boy; you’ve got a good little girl, if she is a pretty one. But take my advice, don’t give her too much of her own way at the beginning. Show that you intend to be master from the start, put her down if she shows temper; when she gives in, you can be as kind to her as you like afterwards. Better that than for her to have the whip-hand. Women don’t understand moderation. That was always my way, wasn’t it, Bessie?’ he inquired, appealing to Mrs. Rockley, who having entered the room had come in for this piece of practical advice, delivered in a loud tone of voice. ‘I’ve been giving your future son-in-law – there he is; I know he is a favourite of yours; you needn’t say he isn’t – a useful piece of advice, which I hope he’ll have the sense to act up to. Supper ready in the next room? I fancy we’re all in want of a little refreshment; what do you think, Bob?’
That gentleman had private ideas upon the subject, but did not disclose them further than by looking over at Mrs. Rockley, and giving practical effect to the suggestion.
The partie carré enjoyed a cheerful but not very conversational repast. Wilfred and Bob Clarke felt more disposed to drink than to eat. Neither had much to say, so Rockley had it all his own way with Port Phillip speculations, advice to Bob Clarke of where to go for first-class cattle country, and how to manage economically for the first few years. Mrs. Rockley was tired, but found a few reassuring words for the anxious Bob, explaining that Christabel had a headache, but would be sure to be quite well in the morning. She also indicated her sympathy with Wilfred, and her approval of his generosity in backing up his rival’s claim. This, she assured him, she nor Christabel would ever forget.
Finally, Mr. Rockley looked at his watch in the midst of a suggestion to buy more cattle on Hampden’s account and take up two or three runs, inasmuch as it was all one trouble and not much more expense; when, discovering that it was past midnight, he broke up the parliament. Wilfred made his final adieus, and at daylight was fast leaving the town behind him, on his way to The Chase, accompanied by divers ‘companions of Sintram,’ in the guise of vain regret and dull despair, with also (though not unalloyed) a curious sense of relief.
Taking the most philosophical view of the subject, the after-taste of refusal by a woman is rarely exceeded in this life for corroding bitterness. The non-preference of oneself, to the average suitor, fills the individual, unless he be free from every tinge of vanity, with wrath and disgust. In vain the proverbial salve is applied by superficial comforters. The foiled fisherman will not be consoled. He will throw away his flies and burn his rod. Henceforth he and angling have parted for ever. Such in effect for a while is the lament of most men who have the evil hap to pin so much of their present and prospective happiness upon one cast – and lose it. The proud man suffers deeply, in secret. The selfish man mourns for the loss of personal gain. The true and manly lover is shaken to the centre of his being. The vain man is wroth exceedingly with childish anger; furious that any woman should disdain him —him! The susceptible, fickle suitor, who promptly bears his incense to another shrine, is to be envied, if not commended. But
To each his sufferings, all are men,
Condemned alike to groan.
Who loves vainly is stricken with a poisoned arrow. The wound rankles in the flesh of every son of Adam, oft producing anguish, even unto death, long after the apparent hurt is healed.
Wilfred Effingham was not more than ordinarily vain. He had not been, in so many words, rejected. Indeed, he had been nearly accepted. But he could not disguise from himself that it amounted to much the same thing. Yet he reflected that he had cause to be thankful that the girl had not been permitted to complete the measure of her self-deception – to promise her hand where she could not truly have given her heart. Better far, a thousand times, that this should have happened beforehand, he thought, ‘than that I should have seen after marriage the look that came into her eyes when they rested on Bob Clarke.’
He did not admit that permanent injury to his health would result from this defeat. It was not a crushing disaster, from which he could never rally. Rather was it a sharp repulse, useful in teaching caution. Brave men, great men, had profited by blows like this ere now. He would retire within his entrenchments – would perhaps be the better fitted to take the field in a future campaign.
A necessity lay upon him of acquainting his family with a portion, at any rate, of such momentous events. He did not go too deeply into his feelings for Christabel Rockley, yet permitted his mother and sisters to perceive that all probability of her appearing at The Chase as Mrs. Effingham, junior, was swept away by arrangement with Bob Clarke – duly ratified by the irrevocable if reluctant consent of Mr. Rockley.
His condition of mind was, doubtless, closely gauged by his relatives. With instinctive delicacy they ministered indirectly to his hurt spirit. While not displeased that the lovely Christabel had not appropriated the beloved, their Wilfred, they never permitted him to perceive how widely their estimate differed from his own. They counselled steady occupation, and led him to take pleasure once more in intellectual pursuits.
A diversion, happily, was effected in due time. He commenced to discover that his mental appetite had returned – that he could read once more and even laugh occasionally at the conceits of authors, much indeed as if his heart had not been broken. Then letters with good news from Beatrice and her father arrived. The voyage had been safe and speedy. On their arrival they had found the Colonel – such was his present rank – better than their fears had led them to expect. Ghastly and numerous, in all truth, were his still unhealed wounds; his state of weakness pitiable to see. But the fever from which he had suffered had left him. And when the eyes of the sick soldier met those of Beatrice Effingham, beaming upon him with a world of love and tenderness, all felt that a stage on the way to recovery had been reached. Such, too, came to be the opinion of the doctor and nurse, a portion of whose duties the two ladies had assumed.
Then letters came from the new country, via Port Phillip: – ‘The climate was more moist than that of New South Wales, but the water never failed, and the grass was beyond all description. Immigrants from all the world were pouring in fast; the place bade fair to be another Britain. Money was being made rapidly. Stock were any price you chose to ask. A cattle trade was springing up with Tasmania. Argyll thought he would go home for a couple of years, leaving Hamilton in charge. Fred Churbett was in great form, fully convinced that he was intended for a dweller in the waste places of the earth. He felt so happy and contented that he didn’t think he would take a free passage to England, with a season box at the Royal Opera, if it were offered to him.’
As for Guy, all written symbols were inadequate to express the length, breadth, and depth of his happiness under the new and romantic conditions. The cattle were doing splendidly – no one would know them. And no wonder – the feed was unparalleled. He had got up two good slab huts, a stock-yard, and a calf-pen. They were now splitting rails for a horse paddock.
The Port Phillip news (from Guy) became presently more sensational. The Benmohr people, with Ardmillan, Churbett, and the rest, had arranged to leave their stations for a while, and come to Yass for Christmas. A better time to get away might never come. There was no chance of bush-fires. The blacks were quiet. The cattle were thoroughly broken in; you couldn’t drive them off the runs if you tried. There was nothing to do this year but brand calves. So they would turn up before Christmas Day.
He didn’t think he would have been able to get away, but Jack Donnelly had offered to look after the run in his absence, and with old Tom there, no harm could come to the cattle. A couple of months would see them back, and he really thought they deserved a holiday.
Such intelligence had power to renovate the morale of the whole household, from Mrs. Effingham – who, in good sooth, had with difficulty kept up a reasonably cheerful appearance, in default of her absent husband and daughter – down to Mrs. Evans, expectant of the errant Dick.
Jeanie and Andrew were overjoyed at the tidings, and Duncan was at once despatched to Benmohr to acquaint Mrs. Teviot and Wullie with the glorious news, in case they had not as yet received a letter. But they had; and Mrs. Teviot threatened Duncan with the broom for daring to think ‘her gentlemen wadna acquent her the vara meenute they kenned they could win hame to Benmohr.’
Comes then a letter from Sternworth. News had been received from O’Desmond, who had discovered a splendid tract of country beyond the lower Oxley marshes, hitherto considered impassable, and after remaining upon it during the winter and spring, was coming back to Badajos. He too hoped to arrive before Christmas. The long-vacant homes of the district would be again filled up, thank God!
‘Won’t it be delightful to see dear Guy again,’ said Annabel, ‘and to have the old house full once more, with friends and neighbours. I must kiss one of them. Mr. Churbett, I think. You would not object to that, mamma, would you?’
‘He would not,’ said Wilfred. ‘I don’t wonder that you and Rosamond are delighted at the chance of seeing their faces again. It seems hard that fate should have decided to separate us. Either they should have remained here, or we should have pulled up stakes, like Rockley, and migrated there.’
‘There is another friend coming that I shall be charmed to welcome – whom, like Annabel, I shall be ready to embrace, and indeed shall kiss on the spot.’
‘Is my last belief in womanhood to be uprooted?’ exclaimed Wilfred languidly. ‘Is my immaculate sister Rosamond actually going to join the “fast” division?’
‘You need not be alarmed,’ she replied. ‘It is only Vera Fane; and I did not speak of her visit before, because I was not sure she would be able to come.’
‘Vera Fane!’ said Wilfred. ‘How does she happen to come our way? I thought she was in Sydney. Didn’t some one say she was going to be married?’
‘Oh, to that handsome cousin, Reginald, that came from England, via Melbourne, the other day. You heard that, did you? So did we, and were agonised at the thought of losing her for good. But she is coming up here at mamma’s invitation, given long ago, to stay with us over January. Her father won’t be at Black Mountain till then; he can’t leave Norman, who has had a bad time with scarlet fever.’
‘Well, you will have another lady in the house to fill Beatrice’s place, and help to amuse your guests. She is quite equal to a pair of ordinary young ladies in the matter of rational conversation, perhaps more.’
‘So Mr. Argyll thinks, evidently,’ said Annabel; ‘he paid her the greatest attention once he met her over here. I know she thinks him very clever and distinguished-looking. They would suit one another famously.’
‘I don’t think so at all,’ said Wilfred shortly. ‘But I must get away to my work.’
CHAPTER XXVI
THE RETURN FROM PALESTINE
Matters had been pleasant enough in the early days at Lake William, and the Benmohr men considered that nothing could be more perfect than their old life there. But this new region was so much more extensive, with a half-unknown grandeur, rendering existence more picturesque and exciting in every way. There were possibilities of fortunes being made, of cities being built, of a great Dominion in the future – vast though formless visions, which dwarfed the restricted aims of the elder colony. Such aspirations tended to dissuade them from residing permanently in their former homesteads.
But they were coming back for a last visit – a long farewell. There were friends to see, adventures to relate, transactions to arrange. A pleasant change from their wild-wood life, an intoxicating novelty; but once experienced, they must depart to return no more.
The absentees did not await Christmas proper, but arrived beforehand, having tempted the main in the yacht Favourite, sailing master Commodore Kirsopp, R.N., from Melbourne. Such passengers as Ned White, Jack Fletcher, Tom Carne, and Alick Gambier offered such an irresistible combination.
Once more the homesteads around Lake William appeared to awaken and put on their former hospitable expression. Mrs. Teviot had scrubbed and burnished away at Benmohr, until when ‘her gentlemen’ arrived, welcomed with tears of joy, they declared themselves afraid to take possession of their own house, so magnificently furnished and spotlessly clean did it appear to them after their backwoods experience.
Mr. Churbett stood gazing at his books in speechless admiration (he averred) for half an hour; afterwards inspecting his stable and Grey Surrey’s loose-box with feelings of wonder and appreciation. Neil Barrington declared that he was again a schoolboy at home for the holidays, not a day older than fourteen, and thereupon indulged himself in so many pranks and privileges proper to his assumed age that Mrs. Teviot scolded him for a graceless laddie, and threatened to box his ears, particularly when he kissed her assistant, an apple-cheeked damsel lured from one of the neighbouring farms in order to help in her work at this tremendous crisis.
Guy Effingham was hardly recognisable, so his sisters declared, in the stalwart youngster who galloped up to The Chase in company with Gerald O’More, whom he had invited to spend Christmas in his father’s house. There was the old mischievous, merry expression of the eyes, the frank smile for those he loved; but all save his forehead was burned several shades darker, and a thick-coming growth of whisker and moustache had changed the boyish lineaments and placed in their stead the sterner regard of manhood.
Gerald O’More had also sustained a change. His manner was more subdued, and his spirits, though ready as of old to respond to the call of mirth, did not seem to be so irrepressible. He had altered somewhat in figure and face, having lost the fulness which marks the newly-arrived colonist, and along with the British fairness of complexion, sacrificed to the Australian sun, had put away the half-inquiring, half-critical tone of manner that characterises the immigrant Briton for his first year in Australia. He now ranked as the soldier who had shared in the toil, the bivouac, the marches of the campaign; no longer a recruit or supernumerary.
‘He has never been so jolly since poor Hubert’s death,’ whispered Guy to Rosamond in their first confidential talk. ‘He thought it was his fault that the poor chap wasn’t able to defend himself. But he’ll get over it in time. A better-hearted fellow couldn’t be. He’s a stunning bushman now, and a tiger to work.’
‘What’s “a tiger to work”?’ asked Rosamond, laughing. ‘I must make you pay a forfeit for inelegant expressions, as I used to do in old school-days.’
‘I should never have known half as much,’ said the boy, as he turned to his sister with a look of deepest love and admiring respect, ‘if it hadn’t been for you, Rosamond. How early you used to get up on those winter mornings, and how Blanche and I and Selden hated the sound of that bell! But there’s nothing like it,’ he added with a tone of manly decision. ‘I polished off a fellow about the date of the battle of Crecy in great style the other day. You would have been quite proud of me.’
‘You keep up your reading, then, dear Guy, and don’t forget your classics, though you are in the bush? When you go to England, some day, you must show our friends that we do more than gallop after cattle and chop down trees in Australia.’
‘Oh, we have great reading at night, I can tell you; only those tallow candles are such a nuisance. I’ve got a new friend, a Cambridge fellow, just out from home, on the other side of me, and he’s a regular encyclopædia. So, between him and the Benmohr people, I shan’t rust much.’
‘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.
