Babes in the Bush

The Benmohr people, who knew something of everything and did not suffer their knowledge to decay for lack of practice, were devoted to fencing. Their lumber-room was half an armoury, holding a great array of foils, wire masks, single-sticks, and boxing-gloves. With these and a little pistol practice the dulness of many a wet afternoon had been enlivened. Perhaps in their trials of skill those with the foils were most popular.

This was Argyll’s favourite pastime. A leading performer with all other weapons, he had a passion for fencing, for which his mountain-born activity pre-eminently fitted him. Effingham, a pupil of the celebrated Grisier, was thought to be nearly, if not quite his match. And more than once Argyll’s hasty temper had blazed out as Wilfred had ‘touched him’ with a succession of rapid hits, or sent the foil from his hand by one of the artifices of the fencing school. Now, however, a trial would be afforded, the issue of which would be final and decisive. To each the requisite notice had been given, and each had accepted the chances of the contest. No one in future would be able to assert that this or that man was the better swordsman.

A larger gathering took place at luncheon than could have been expected. Many were the reasons assigned for the punctuality with which all the ladies showed up. Fred Churbett, indeed, openly declared that the gladiator element was becoming dangerously developed, and that it would be soon necessary to shed blood in good earnest, to enjoy a decent reputation with the ladies of the land.

‘I saw O’Desmond’s people making astounding changes in the anterior of the amphitheatre, Miss Annabel, from my bedroom window this morning. I should not be surprised at the arena being changed to an African forest, with a live giraffe and a Lion Ride, after Freiligrath. Do you remember the doomed giraffe? How

 
With a roar the lion springs
On her back now. What a race-horse!’
 

‘I should not be surprised at anything,’ said Annabel. ‘Badajos is becoming an Enchanted Castle. How we shall endure our daily lives again, I can’t think. Every one is going home to-morrow, so perhaps the spell will be broken. Heigh-ho! When are we to be allowed to take our seats? I shall fall asleep if they put it off too long.’

‘At three o’clock precisely the herald’s horn will be blown, and we shall see what we shall see. I hope Argyll will be in a good temper, or terrible things may happen.’

‘What is this about Mr. Argyll’s temper?’ said Miss Fane. ‘Is he so much more ferocious than all the rest of you? I am sure that I have seen nothing of it.’

‘Only my nonsense, Miss Fane,’ said Fred, instantly retreating from his position. ‘The best-hearted, most generous fellow possible. Impetuous and high-spirited, you know. Highlanders and Irishmen – all the world, in fact, except that modern Roman, the Anglo-Saxon – are inclined to be choleric. Ha! there goes the bugle.’

All were ready, indeed impatient, for the commencement. Many acquaintances had indeed ridden out from Yass, and reinforced the spectators. Mr. Rockley had appeared at lunch – scarcely in the best of tempers – and had given vent to his opinion that it was quite time for this foolery to be over. Not that he made this suggestion to O’Desmond personally.

When the entrances were thrown open, and the spectators pressed into their seats with something of the impatience which in days of old seems to have characterised the frequenters of the amphitheatre, a cry of delighted surprise broke from the startled guests.

In order to reproduce the accessories of the imaginary conflict with fidelity of detail, O’Desmond has spared no trouble. The Bois de Boulogne had been simulated by the artifice of transplanting whole trees, especially those which more closely resembled European evergreens. These had been mingled with others stripped of their foliage, by which deciduous deception the illusion of a northern winter was preserved. A coating of milk-white river sand had been strewn over the arena, imparting the appearance of the snow, in which the now historical masqueraders fought their celebrated duel. By filling up the openings left for windows, and excluding the sun from the roof as much as possible, an approach to the dim light proper to a Parisian December morning was produced. As hackney-coaches appeared, one at either end of the arena, and driving in, took their stations under trees, preparatory to permitting their sensational fares to alight, the burst of applause both from those familiar with the original picture, and others who were overcome by the realism of the scene, was tremendous. And when forth stepped from one of the carriages a Red Huron Indian, and with stately steps took up his position as second, to so great and painful a pitch rose the excitement among the ladies that ‘the boldest held’ her ‘breath for a time.’

Pierrot now, with elastic springing gait, moved lightly forward towards his antagonist, a reckless Debardeur, who looked as if he had been dancing a veritable ‘Galop d’Enfer’ before he quitted the ‘Bal d’Opera.’ Each performed an elaborate salute as they took their ground. The seconds measured their swords punctiliously.

As the enthusiasm of the crowd broke forth in remark and exclamation, before the first passes were interchanged, Harry O’Desmond himself made his appearance among the ladies, and took his seat between Rosamond Effingham and Miss Fane, prepared to receive the shower of congratulations at once poured upon him.

‘Yes, I have taken a little trouble; but I am amply repaid, Miss Effingham, if I have succeeded in adding to the amusement of my lady friends. For those I have the honour to address’ – and here the gallant impresario looked as if the lady beside him had but to ask for a Sultan’s circlet, to have it tossed in her lap – ‘what sacrifices would I not make?’

‘Our distinguished host is becoming desperate,’ thought Rosamond. ‘I wonder who she is? I am nearly certain it is Vera Fane. He and the Doctor are great friends. Now I think of it, he said the other day that she was, with one exception, the pearl of the district. Mamma, too, has been hinting at something. A nice lady neighbour at Badajos would be indeed a treasure.’

‘What an exciting piece of sword-play this will be, Mr. O’Desmond,’ she said. ‘One cannot help thinking that there is something real about it. And I have an uneasy feeling that I cannot account for, such as I should call a presentiment, if all were not so perfectly safe. What do you say, Vera?’

‘I say it is a most astonishing picture of a real duel. I ought to enjoy it very much, only that, like you, I feel a depression such as I have never had before. Oh, now they are beginning! Really it is quite a relief.’

‘I must take a foil with the winner,’ said O’Desmond, ‘if you think it is so serious, just to see if I have forgotten my Parisian experiences. It reminds one of the Quartier Latin, and the students’ pipes – long hair and duels – daily matters of course. Ha! a wonderfully quick carte and counter-carte. There is something stirring in the clink of steel, all the world over, is there not, Miss Effingham?’

The pictured scene was accurately reproduced. Each man, with his second, fantastically arrayed. The nearer combatant, in his loose garb, had his sword-arm bared to the elbow, for the greater freedom required with the weapon. Four other men, picturesquely attired, were present. Of these, two stood near to him whose back was towards the part of the theatre where the Effinghams and Miss Fane were sitting.

The contest proceeded with curious similitude to an actual encounter. Attack and defence, feint and challenge, carte, tierce, ripeste, staccato, all the subtle and delicate manœuvres of which the rapier combat is susceptible, had been employed, to the wonder and admiration of the spectators.

It was evident, before they had exchanged a dozen passes, that the men were most evenly matched. Much doubt was expressed as to who would prove the victor.

Latterly, Wilfred, who, with equal tenacity and vigilance, had the cooler head, commenced to show by small but sure signs that he was gaining an advantage. Step by step he drew his antagonist nearer to him, and employing his favourite thrust, after a brilliant parry, touched him several times in succession. At each palpable hit the spectators gave a cheer, which evidently disturbed Argyll’s fiery temperament. He bit his lip, his brow contracted, but no token, excepting these and a burning spot on his cheek, showed the inward conflict. Suddenly he sprang forward with panther-like activity, and for one second Wilfred’s eye and hand were at fault, as, with a lightning lunge, Argyll delivered full upon his adversary’s chest a thrust, so like the real thing that, though the foil (as the spectators imagined) passed outside, the hilt of the mimic weapon rapped sharply, as if he had been run through the body. At the same moment he sank down, and was scarcely saved from falling, while Argyll, impatiently drawing back his weapon, threw it down and turned as if to leave the scene – half urged by his second – as was the successful combatant in the weird picture.

‘Why – how wonderfully our brave combatants have imitated the originals, Mr. O’Desmond?’ said Rosamond, with unfeigned admiration. ‘The Debardeur sinks slowly from the arms of his second to the ground; his sword-point strikes the earth; his comrade and the Capuchin bend over him. They act the confusion of a death-scene well. His antagonist casts down his blood-stained sword – why, it looks red – and hurries from the spot.’

‘Yes,’ O’Desmond continued, ‘everything is now concluded happily, successfully, triumphantly, may I say; it needs but, dearest Miss Effingham, that I should offer you – ’ What Mr. O’Desmond was minded to offer his fair neighbour can never be known, for at that moment a shriek, so wild and despairing, rent the air, that all conversation, ordinary and extraordinary, ceased.

More astonishing still, Miss Fane sprang from her seat, and rushing into the arena with the speed of frenzy, knelt by the side of the defeated combatant, and with every endearing epithet supported his head, wringing her hands in agony as she gazed on the motionless form beside her.

O’Desmond, leaping down without a thought of his late interesting employment, gave one glance at the fallen sword, another at the fallen man, and divined the situation.

‘By – !’ he said, ‘the button has come off the foil, and the poor boy is run through the body. He’ll be a dead man by sundown.’

‘Not so sure of that; keep the people back while I examine him,’ said Mr. Sternworth, pushing suddenly to the front. ‘Stand back!’ he cried with the voice of authority. ‘How can I tell you what’s wrong with him if you don’t give him air? Miss Fane, I entreat you to be calm.’

He lowered his voice and spoke in softened tones, for he had seen a look in Vera Fane’s face which none had ever marked there before. As she knelt by the side of the wounded man, from whose hurt the blood was pouring fast, in a bright red stream; as with passionate anxiety she gazed into his face, while her arms supported him in his death-like faint, her whole countenance betrayed the unutterable tenderness with which a woman regards her lover.

The spectators stood assembled around the ill-fated combatant. Great and general was the consternation.

The nature of the mischance – the loss of the button which guards the fencer in all exercises with the foil – was patent enough to those acquainted with small-sword practice. But a large proportion of the crowd, with no previous experience of such affairs, could with difficulty be got to believe that Argyll had not used unjustifiable means to the injury of his antagonist. These worthy people were for his being arrested and held to bail. His personal friends resented the idea. Words ran high; until indeed, at one time, it appeared as if a form of civic broil, common in the middle ages, would be revived with undesirable accuracy.

Now, alas! the festive aspect of the scene was abruptly changed. O’Desmond’s grief at this most untoward ending to his entertainments was painful to witness. Argyll’s generous nature plunged him into a state of deep contrition for his passionate action.

The women, one and all, were so shocked and excited by the sight of blood and the rumour, which quickly gained credence, that Wilfred Effingham was dying, that tearful lamentations and hysterical cries were heard in all directions. Nor indeed until it was authoritatively stated by the medical practitioner of the district, who was luckily present, that Mr. Effingham having been run through the body, had therefore received a dangerous but not necessarily fatal wound, was consolation possible.

This gentleman, however, later on would by no means commit himself to a definite opinion. ‘Without doubt it was a critical case. Though the cœliac axis had been missed, by a miracle, the vasa-vasorum blood-vessel had suffered lesion. The left subclavian artery had been torn through, yet, from its known power of contraction, he trusted that the interior lining would be closed, when further loss of blood would cease. Of course, unfavourable symptoms might supervene at any moment – at any moment. At present the patient was free from pain. Quiet – that is, absolute rest – was indispensable. With no exciting visits, and – yes – with the closest attention and good nursing, a distinctly favourable termination might be – ahem – hoped for.’

But an early doom, either alone or with all the aids that affection, friendship, ay or devoted love, could bring, was not written in the book of fate against Wilfred Effingham’s name. In the course of a week the popular practitioner alluded to had the pleasure of informing the anxious inhabitants of the Yass district ‘that the injury having, as he had the honour to diagnose, providentially not occurred to the trunk artery, the middle coat of the smaller blood-vessel had, from its elastic and contractile nature, after being torn by the partially blunted end of the foil, caused a closure. In point of fact, the injury had yielded to treatment. He would definitely pledge himself, in fact, that the patient was bordering upon convalescence. In a week or two he would be ready to support a removal to The Chase, where doubtless his youth, temperate habit, and excellent constitution would combine to produce a complete recovery.’

These agreeable predictions were fulfilled to the letter. Yet was there another element involved in the case, which was thought to have exercised a powerful influence, if, indeed, it was not the chief factor in his recovery. The vision of sudden death which had passed before the eyes of the guests at Badajos had surprised the secret of Vera Fane’s heart. Of timid, almost imperceptible growth, the faint budding commencement of a girl’s fancy had, all in silence and secrecy, ripened into the fragrant blossom of a woman’s love. Pure, devoted, imperishable, such a sentiment is proof against the anguish of non-requital, the attacks of rivalry, even the ruder shocks of falsehood or infidelity. Let him, then, to whom, all unworthy, such a prize is allotted by a too indulgent destiny, sacrifice to the kind deities, and be thankful. It may have been – was doubtless – urged by Miss Fane’s admirers, that ‘that fellow Effingham was not half good enough for her, more especially after his idiotic affair with Christabel Rockley’; but, pray, which of us, to whom the blindly swaying Eros has been gracious, is not manifestly overrated, nay, made to blush for shortcomings from his early ideal?

So must it ever be in the history of the race – were the secrets of all hearts known. Let us be consoled that we are not conspicuously inferior to our neighbours, and chiefly strive, in spite of that mysterious Disappointment – poor human nature – to gain some modest eminence. Let Wilfred Effingham, then, enjoy his undeserved good fortune, comme nous autres, assured that with such companionship he will be stronger to battle for the right while life lasts.

‘How could you forgive me?’ he said, at the close of one of the happy confidences which his returning strength rendered possible. ‘I should never have dared to ask you after my folly.’

‘Women love but once – that is, those who are worthy of the name,’ she said softly. ‘I had unwisely, it would seem, permitted my heart to stray. It passed into the possession of one who – well, scarce valued sufficiently the simple offering. But you do now, dearest, do you not? I will never forgive you, or rather, on second thoughts, I will forgive you, if hereafter you love any other woman but me.’

‘You are an angel. Did I say so before? Never mind. Truth will bear repetition.’

Old Tom Glendinning commenced to fail in health soon after the permanent settlement of the district; his detractors averred, because the blacks left off spearing the cattle and took to station work. He lived long enough to hear of General Glendinning’s marriage, at which he expressed great satisfaction, coupled with the hope that the Major (as he always called him) would return to India, ‘av it was only to have another turn at thim murdtherin’ nay-gurs, my heavy curse on thim, from Bingal to Galantapee.’

He was carefully nursed by Mrs. Evans, who had at length followed her husband to the new country, after repeated assurances that it was impossible for him to return to Lake William, but that she might please herself.

They buried the old stock-rider, in accordance with his last wishes, on an island in the lake, within sight of Guy’s homestead, near his ancient steed Boney, who had preceded him in decease. The dog Crab survived him but a few weeks, and was carefully interred at his feet. It was noticed that no black of any description whatever, young or old, male or female, wild or tame, would ever set foot on the green, wave-washed islet afterwards.

Andrew and Jeanie, after a few years, retired to a snug farm within easy distance of The Chase, at which place, for one reason or other, they spent nearly as much time as at home. Andrew’s aid was continually invoked in agricultural emergencies, more particularly when business called Wilfred away; while Jeanie’s invaluable counsel and reassuring presence, when the inmates of Mrs. Wilfred’s nursery developed alarming symptoms, was so largely in request that Andrew more than once remarked that ‘he didna ken but what he saw far mair o’ his auld dame before he had a hame o’ his ain. But she had aye ta’en a’ her pleasure in life at ither folk’s bedsides. Maist unco-omon!’

Duncan, having once enjoyed an independent life in the new country, could not be induced to return to The Chase. He saved his money, and with national forecast commenced business in the rising township of Warleigh. Of this settlement he became in time the leading alderman (the burgesses obtained a municipality in the after-time), and rose finally to be mayor.

The Melbourne Argus printed in extenso Mr. Cargill’s address to the electors of West Palmerston when a candidate for a vacancy in the Legislative Council. It was certain he would be returned at the head of the poll, doubtless to represent a Liberal Ministry before long. May there never be invited a less worthy personage to the councils of the land than the Hon. Duncan Cargill, M.L.C.

Mr. Rockley, after his return to Port Phillip, hurled himself with his accustomed energy at every kind of investment. Not satisfied with extensive mercantile transactions, he bought agricultural lands, the nucleus of a fine estate. In Parliament he made such vigorous, idiomatic onslaughts upon the Government of the day as led the Speaker occasionally to suggest modification. He developed Warleigh, the town to which he had originally attached himself, wonderfully, and besides aiding all struggling settlers in the bad times, which arrived, as he had prophesied, close on the heels of inflation and over-trading. In a general way he benefited by good advice, friendly intercourse, and substantial assistance, everybody with whom he came into contact. As a magistrate, a perfect Draco (in theory), he was never known to remit a fine for certain offences. It was whispered, nevertheless, that he had many a time been known to pay such out of his own pocket.

It is comforting to those who honour liberality and unselfishness to know that he amassed a large fortune. He continued to invest from time to time in land, the management of which chiefly served to occupy his mind in declining years. When the grave closed over the warm heart and eager spirit of William Rockley, men said that he left no fellow behind him. There are still those who believe him to have been unsurpassed for energy of mind and body, with a clear-headed forecast in affairs, joined to the warm sympathy which rendered it impossible to omit a kindness or forgo a benefit.

The larger portion of the estate was willed to Christabel and her husband, but from the number of junior Clarkes of all sorts and sizes who fill the commodious family drag, a considerable subdivision of landed property will probably take place in another generation. Bob Clarke adopted easily the position of country gentleman. He no longer rides steeple-chases, but his four-in-hand team is certainly superior in blood, bone, matching, and appointments to anything south of the line.

But little remains to tell. Our small community reached that stage when, as with nations, the less history needed the better for their happiness. As to this last apocryphal commodity (as some have deemed), Wilfred Effingham avers that Vera and he have such a large supply on hand that he is troubled in spirit only by the thought that something in the nature of evil must happen, were it only in accordance with the law of averages.

The Port Phillip investments paid so well that, upon the sale of Benmohr by Argyll and Hamilton, he purchased that ever-memorable historic station. Mrs. Teviot and Wullie remained in possession almost as long as they lived, but never could be brought to regard Mr. Effingham in any other light than that of a neighbour and a visitor of ‘their gentlemen.’ He was often reminded of the muddy winter evening when he first arrived.

Dean Sternworth – thus promoted – lives on, growing still more wonderful roses, and experiencing an access of purest pleasure when a Marie Van Houte or Souvenir de Malmaison excites the envy of the district.

Marrying, christening, and, indeed, burying the inhabitants of Yass – for death also is in Arcadia – his unobtrusive path is daily trodden, ‘and, sure the Eternal Master found, his single talent well employed.’

Among his chief and enduring pleasures are his monthly visits to Lake William to perform service in the freestone church, which has been erected by the Effingham family and their neighbours on a spot easy of general access. On such occasions Dr. Fane is generally found at The Chase, where the friends argue by the hour together. Such a period of continuous mutual entertainment must it have been that, on one occasion, was familiarly referred to by Master Hubert Warleigh Effingham as lasting ‘till all was blue.’

Howard Effingham has once more been placed by circumstances in the enviable position of a man who has nothing in this world to attend to but his favourite hobby, to which he is sufficiently attached to devote every moment of his spare time to it. That fortunate ex-militaire has now few other foes to consider than the native cat (dasyura), the black cormorant, and the dingo.

It must be confessed that they give him more trouble than ever – in his youth – did the Queen’s enemies. The cormorants eat his young fish, and when the captain extracted from the dead body of one of them no less than six infantine trout, the tears (so his grandson averred) came into his eyes. The partridges, even the gold and silver pheasants were not sacred from the native cat. An occasional dingo makes his appearance, wandering from Black Mountain (the doctor was always an indifferent ‘poisoner,’ says the parson), and a brace of gazelle fawns have never been sufficiently accounted for. But the exhibition of strychnine crystals provides a solution, and the land has peace.

On the whole, progress has been made. The furred, feathered, or finned emigrants are steadily increasing; fair shooting can soon be allowed, and extermination will be impossible.

Between ourselves, a leash of foxes were turned loose in the gibba-gunyahs, near which the first dingo was killed, by the Lake William hounds, and Jack Barker swore (only he ‘stretches’ so) that he saw the vixen feeding five cubs – one with a white tag to his brush (Jack is always circumstantial), with the biggest buck ’possum he ever saw.

The Lake William hounds have long been back in their kennels. John Hampden makes a point of attending the first meet, and O’Desmond (whose heart was not broken, or was at least successfully repaired by his subsequent marriage) is a steady supporter, as of yore.

But somehow the whole affair doesn’t feel so jolly as when Argyll and Hamilton, Ardmillan and Forbes, Fred Churbett and Neil, Malahyde and Edward Belfield – all the ‘Benmohr mob’ in fact – were safe for every meet.

Perhaps, though with enthusiasts his steady march is disregarded, old Time may possibly have had something to do with the decrease of enthusiasm. Mrs. Wilfred does not approve of her husband riding so hard as in the brave days of old. She herself, from circumstances, is often absent, and scarcely enjoys lending Emigrant, still nearly as good as ever, to lady visitors. A heavy autumn shower, too, acted unfavourably upon the health of the M.F.H., and explained practically what lumbago most closely resembles.

Still Howard Effingham, nobly loyal to his ideal, presses gallantly forward to the realisation of his hopes. The coming year will see an opening meet of the Lake William hounds, such as, in one respect, at least, was never ridden to in Australia before.

On some grey-hued, red-dawning May morn, freshly recalling, like the verse of an old song, how many a hunting day of yore, will he view a fox away from the upper corner of the ti-tree covert, on the rocky spur of the yellow-box range – a real fox – as red, as wiry, with as white a tag to his brush as ever a straight-goer that stretched across the pastures before the Pytchley or the Quorn. Nevertheless Australian born and bred.

Standing in his stirrups, he watches the leading hounds pour through the paddock fence, the remainder settling to the scent, or at silent speed sweeping over the forest parks that border the lake meadows. Rosamond St. Maur is far away, alas! and Fergus out at grass; but Major-General Sir Walter Glendinning, on leave from India, is trying the speed of the best Arab in the Mofussil. Mrs. O’Desmond is watching her husband anxiously, Guy is home from Port Phillip, with Bob Clarke and Ardmillan, each on a horse ‘fit to go for a man’s life,’ and wild with frolic spirits. Mrs. Vera Effingham is out, and, as luck would have it, ready and willing to remind Emigrant of old Black Mountain days. John Hampden, taking The Caliph by the head, now snow white, but still safe across timber, echoes back Wilfred’s ‘Forrard, forrard, away!’ as he sails off with the lead, and forgetting his wife and family, feels perfectly, ecstatically happy. Then, and then only, will Howard Effingham acknowledge that he has at length achieved the position of which he has so often dreamed – then will he hold himself to be in real, completest earnest – an Australian Squire.

THE END