Babes in the Bush. Rolf Boldrewood
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.’
‘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