TOM GLENDINNING, STOCK-RIDER
‘Come in at once, this moment, and tell us all about everybody,’ said
Annabel; ‘tea is nearly ready, and we are hungry for news, and even just
a little gossip. Have you enjoyed yourself and seen many new people?
What a fine thing it is to be a man!’
‘I have seen all the world, like the little bird that flew over the
garden wall. I have enjoyed myself very much, have bought a few horses
and many cattle, also spent a very pleasant evening at Benmohr. Where
shall I begin?’
‘Oh, about the people of course; you can come to the other things later
on. People are the only topics of interest to us. And oh, what do you
think? We have seen strangers too. More wonderful still, a lady. What
will you give me if I describe her to you?’
‘Don’t feel interested in a sketch of a lady visitor,’ said Wilfred. ‘A
description of a good cheese-press, if you could find one, would be
nearer the mark.’
‘You would not speak in that way if you had seen Mrs. Snowden,’ said
Rosamond, ‘unless you are very much changed.’
‘She is a wonder, and a paragon, of course; did she grow indigenously?’
‘She’s so sweet-looking,’ said Annabel impetuously; ‘she rode such a
nice horse too, very well turned out, as you would say. She talks French
and German; she has travelled, and been everywhere. And yet they have
only a small station, and she sometimes has to do housework—there now!’
‘What a wonderful personage! And monsieur—is he worthy of so much
perfection?’
‘He’s a gentlemanlike man, rather good-looking, who made himself
agreeable. Rosamond has been asked to go and stay with them. Really, the
place seems _full_ of nice people. Did you see or hear of any more?’
‘Yes; now I come to think of it, I heard of two more, great friends of
Argyll and Hamilton and of Mr. Churbett, whom I saw there. Their names
are D’Oyley; Bryson, the younger brother, is a poet; at any rate these
are some of his verses which Mr. Churbett handed to me _apropos_ of our
lives here, shutting out all thoughts but the austerely practical. Yes;
I haven’t lost them.’
‘So you talk of cheese-presses and bring home poetry! Is that your idea
of the practical? I vote that Rosamond reads them out while we are
having tea. Gracious! Ever so many verses.’
‘They seem original; and not so many of one’s neighbours could write
them in any part of the world,’ said Rosamond. ‘I will read them out, if
Annabel will promise not to interrupt in the midst of the most pathetic
part.’
‘I am all attention,’ said Annabel, throwing herself into an easy-chair.
‘I wonder what sort of a man Mr. D’Oyley is, and what coloured eyes he
has. I like to know all about authors.’
‘Never saw him; go on, Rosamond,’ said Wilfred, and the elder sister,
thus adjured, commenced—
A FRAGMENT
Deem we our waking dreams
But shadows from the deep;
And do the offspring of the mind
In barrenness descend
To an eternal sleep?
Each print of Beauty’s feet
Leads upward to her throne;
For every thought by conscience bless’d,
Benignant virtue yields
A jewel from her zone.
* * * * *
The rainbow hath its cloud,
The seasons gird the sphere,
We know their time and place, but thou,
Whence art thou, Child of Light,
And what thy mission here?
Like meteor stars that stream
Adown the dark obscure,
Didst thou descend from angel homes,
To bless with angel joys
Abodes less bright and pure?
Thy beauty and thy love
May mortal transports share,
Aspire with quivering wings to reach
The spirits of thy thought
That breathe celestial air.
Thou art no child of Earth.
Earth’s fairest children weep
That o’er affection’s sweetest lyre,
By phantom minstrels stirred,
Unhallowed strains will sweep.
While zephyr-wings may guard,
The rose its bloom retains;
The autumn blast o’er sere leaves wails;
Upon the naked stem
The thorn alone remains.
* * * * *
The sun-rays scattered far
Seek now the parent breast,
In gentler glory gathering o’er
The floating isles that speck
The landscape of the West.
Mute visitants! their smiles
A fleeting welcome bear,
Light on thy form the glad beams play,
And mingling with its folds
Curl down thy golden hair.
Methinks, as standing thus
Against the glowing sky,
That shadowy form, faint-tinged with gold,
And raptured face, recall
A dream of days gone by.
Glimpses of shadows past,
That boyhood’s mind pursued,
In curious wonder shaping forth
Its visions of the pure,
The beautiful, the good.
Till, like the moon’s full orb
Above the silent sea,
One Form expanding bright arose,
And fancy’s mirror showed
An image like to thee.
Of headlong hopes that spurned
The curb of destiny,
When my soul asked what most it craved,
Still, still, the mirror showed
An image like to thee.
‘I think they are beautiful and uncommon,’ said Annabel decidedly; ‘only
I don’t understand what he means.’
‘Obscurity is a quality he has in common with distinguished latter-day
poets,’ said Wilfred. ‘Commencing with the ideal, he has finished with
the real and personal, as happens much in life. I think “A Fragment” is
refined, thoughtful, and truly poetic in feeling.’
‘So do I,’ agreed Rosamond. ‘Mr. Bryson D’Oyley is no every-day
squatter, I was going to say, but as all our neighbours seem to be
distinguished people, we must agree that he is fully up to the average
of cattlemen, as they call themselves.’
‘I _must_ tell Mrs. Snowden about the cheese-press simile. You will be
ready to commit suicide after you have seen her.’
‘Then I must keep out of her way. Rosamond, suppose you sing something.
I have not heard a piano since I left.’
‘Mrs. Snowden tried it, and sang “Je n’aimerai, jamais.” Her voice was
not wonderful, but it is easy to see what thorough training she has
had.’
‘There is a forfeit for any one who mentions Mrs. Snowden again this
evening,’ said Mrs. Effingham. ‘We must not have her spread out over our
daily life, fascinating as I grant her to be. Beatrice and Annabel have
been learning a new duet, which they will sing after Rosamond. I think
you will like it, and this is such a charming room to sing in.’
‘That’s one advantage belonging to this old house,’ said Rosamond, ‘our
music-room is perfect. It is quite a pleasure to hear one’s voice in it;
and when we _do_ furnish the dining-room, if we are ever inclined to
give a party—a most unlikely thing at present—it is large enough to hold
all the people in the district.’
* * * * *
During the following week the men of the family occupied themselves in
branding and regulating the new cattle. A portion of these, having young
calves at foot, were at once amalgamated with the dairy herd. This being
accomplished, it was apparent that some division must be made between
the old and the new cattle. There were too many of them to be mixed up
in one herd, and the steers, in close quarters, were not good for the
health of the cows and smaller cattle. From all this it resulted that
the oracle (otherwise Dick), being consulted, made response that a
stock-rider must be procured who would look after all the cattle, other
than the milch kine, and ‘break them into the Run.’
Wilfred was inclined to be opposed to this project, but reflected that
if any were lost, it would soon amount to more than a man’s wages; also,
that the labour of the dairy, with the rapid increase of the O’Desmond
cattle, was becoming heavier, and required all Guy’s and Andrew’s
attention to keep it in order.
‘For what time would a stock-rider be required?’ he asked.
‘Why, you see, sir,’ said Dick, ‘these here cattle, if they’re not
watched for the next three months, may give us the slip, and be back
among the ranges, at Mick’s place, where they was bred, afore you could
say Jack Robinson. You and I couldn’t leave the dairy, and the calves
coming so fast, if we was never to see ’em again.’
‘I understand,’ said Wilfred; ‘but how are we to pick up a stock-rider
such as you describe? I suppose we shall have to pay him forty or fifty
pounds a year.’
‘I don’t know as we should, sir. There’s a man, if we could get hold on
him, as would jest do for the work and the place. I heard of him being
in Yass last week, finishing his cheque, and if you’ll let me away
to-morrow, I’ll fetch him back with me next day, most likely. He’ll come
reasonable for wages; he used to live here, in the old Colonel’s time,
and knows every inch of the country.’
‘Very well, Dick, you can go. I daresay we can manage the dairy for a
day.’
On the next morning, after milking-time, Mr. Richard Evans presented
himself in review order, when, holding his mare by the bridle, he asked
for the advance of two pounds sterling, for expenses, and so on.
‘You see, I want a pair of boots, Mr. Wilfred, and I may as well get ’em
in Yass while I’m about it.’
‘Oh, certainly,’ assented Wilfred, thinking that he never saw the
veteran look more respectable. ‘The air of Warbrok agrees with you,
Dick; I never saw you look better.’
‘Work allers did agree with me, sir,’ he answered modestly, unhitching
his bridle with a slight appearance of haste, as Mrs. Evans came
labouring up and glanced suspiciously at the notes which he placed in
his pocket.
‘I hope he’ll look as well when he comes back,’ said she, with a meaning
glance; ‘but if he and that old rascal Tom gets together, they’ll ——’
‘Never you mind, old woman,’ interrupted Dick, riding off, ‘you look
after them young pigs and give ’em the skim milk reg’lar. Tom
Glendinning and I’ll be here to-morrow night, if I can find him.’
Mrs. Evans raised her hand in what might be accepted as a warning or a
threatening gesture, and Wilfred, wondering at the old woman’s manner,
betook himself to his daily duties.
‘A grumbling old creature,’ he soliloquised. ‘I don’t wonder that Dick
is glad to get away from her tongue. She ought to be pleased that he
should have a holiday occasionally.’
On the morning following Richard Evans’s departure, extra exertion was
entailed upon Wilfred and Guy, as also upon Andrew Cargill, by reason of
their having to divide the milking of his proportion of the cows among
them. As Dick was a rapid and exhaustive operator, his absence was felt,
if not regretted. As they returned from the troublesome task, a full
hour later than usual, Wilfred consoled himself by the thought that the
next day would find this indispensable personage at his post.
‘I wadna hae thocht,’ confessed Andrew, ‘that the auld, rough-tongued
carle’s absence could hae made siccan a camstairy. But he’s awfu’ skeely
wi’ thae wild mountain queys, and kens brawly hoo tae daiker them. It’s
no said for naught that the children o’ the warld are wiser in their
generation than the children o’ licht. He’ll be surely back the morn’s
morn.’
Explaining Dick’s eminence in the milking-yard by this classification,
and undoubtedly including himself in the latter category, Andrew betook
himself to an outer apartment, where the scrupulous Jeanie had provided
full means of ablution.
The next day passed without the appearance of the confidential retainer.
Another, and yet another. In default of his aid, Wilfred exerted himself
to the utmost and succeeded in getting through the ordinary work; yet a
sense of incompleteness pervaded the establishment. Ready-witted,
tireless, and perfect in all the minor attainments of Australian country
life, Dick was a man to be missed in a hundred ways in an establishment
like Warbrok Chase.
New cows had calved and required milking for the first time. One of them
had shown unexpected ferocity; indeed, knocking over Andrew, and
disabling his right arm.
‘The old fellow may have had an accident,’ suggested Mr. Effingham; ‘I
suppose such things occur on these wild roads; or he _may_ have indulged
in an extra glass or two.’
‘I said as much to that old wife of his,’ said Wilfred, ‘but she
grumbled something about the devil taking care of his own; he would be
back when he had had his “burst”—whatever that means—and that he and
that old villain Tom Glendinning would turn up at the end of this week
or next, whenever their money was done.’
‘Why, if there isn’t old Dick coming along the road now,’ said Guy;
‘that’s his mare, anyhow, I know the switch of her tail. There’s a man
on a grey horse with him.’
In truth, as the two horsemen came nearer along the undulating forest
road, it became apparent that their regretted Richard, and no other, was
returning to his family and friends. His upright seat in the saddle
could be plainly distinguished as he approached on the old bay mare. The
London dealer’s phrase of a ‘good ride and drive horse’ held good in her
case, as she came along at her usual pace of a quick-stepping walk, with
her head down and her hind legs brought well under her at every stride.
The other horseman rode behind, not caring apparently to quicken the
unmistakable ‘stockman’s jog’ of his wiry, high-boned grey horse. His
lounging seat was in strong contrast to his companion’s erect bearing,
but it told of the stock-rider’s long days and nights passed in the
saddle. Not unlike the courser of Mazeppa was his hardy steed in more
than one respect.
Shaggy and swift and strong of limb,
All Tartar-like he carried him.
The Arab blood, which old Tom’s charger displayed, prevented any
particular shagginess; but in the bright eye, the lean head, the sure
unfaltering step, as well as in the power of withstanding every kind of
climate, upon occasion, upon severely restricted sustenance, ‘Boney’
might have vied with the Hetman’s, or any other courser that
... grazed at ease
Beside the swift Borysthenes.
Such in appearance, and so mounted, were the horsemen who now
approached. Their mode of accost was characteristic. Dick rode up
straight till within a few paces of his employer, when he briskly
dismounted, and stood erect, making the ordinary salute.
The effects of the week’s dissipation were plainly visible in the
veteran’s countenance, gallant as were his efforts to combine
intrepidity with the respectful demeanour of discipline. A bruise under
one eye, with other discolorations, somewhat marred the effect of his
steady gaze, while a tremulous muscular motion could not be concealed.
‘How is this, Evans?’ said his commander; ‘you have broken your leave,
and put us to much inconvenience; what have you been doing with yourself
all this time?’
‘Got drunk, Captain!’ replied the veteran, with military brevity, and
another salute of regulation correctness.
‘I am sorry to hear it, Richard,’ said Mr. Effingham. ‘You appear to
have had a skirmish also, and to have suffered in engagement. I daresay
it will act as a caution to you for the future.’
‘Did me a deal of good—begging your honour’s pardon—though I didn’t
ought to have promised to come back next day. I was that narvous at
breakfast afore I went that I couldn’t scarce abear to hear the old
woman’s voice. I’ll be as right as a Cheshire recruit till Christmas
now. But I’ve done the outpost duty I was told off for, and brought Tom
Glendinning. He’s willin’ to engage for ten shillin’ a week and his
keep, and his milkin’s worth that any day.’
The individual addressed moved up his elderly steed, and touching his
hat with a faint flavour of the gentleman’s servant habitude long past,
fixed upon the group the gleaming eyes which surmounted his hollow
cheek. The face itself was bronzed, well-nigh blackened out of all
resemblance to that of a white man. Trousers of a kind of fustian,
buttressed with leather under the knees and other places (apparently for
resisting the friction involved by a life in the saddle), protected his
attenuated limbs. The frame of the man was lean and shrunken. He had a
worn and haggard look, as if labour, privation, and the indulgence of
evil passions had wrecked the frail tenement of a soul. Yet was there a
wiry look about the figure—a dauntless glitter in the keen eyes which
told that their possessor could yet play a man’s part on earth before he
went to his allotted place. A footsore dog with a rough coat and no
particular tail had by this time limped up to the party and lay down
under the horses’ feet.
‘Are you willing to engage with me on the terms mentioned by Richard
Evans?’ asked Mr. Effingham. ‘You are acquainted with this place, I
believe?’
‘I was here,’ answered the ancient stock-rider, ‘when the Colonel first
got a grant of Warbrok from the Crown. A lot of us Government men was
sent up with the overseer, Ben Grindham, to clear a paddock for corn,
where all that horehound grows now. We had a row over the rations—he
drove us like niggers, and starved us to boot (more by token, it’s
little we had to ate)—and big Jim Baker knocked his head in with an axe,
blast him! He was always a fool. I seen him carried to the old hut where
you see them big stones—part of the chimney, they wor.’
‘Good heavens!’ said Wilfred. ‘And what was done?’
‘Jim was hanged, all reg’lar, as soon as they could get him back to
Sydney. We was all “turned in to Government,”’ said the chronicler.
‘After a bit, the Colonel got me back for groom, so I stayed here till
my time was out. I know the old place (I had ought to), every rod of it,
back to the big Bindarra.’
‘You can milk well, I believe?’
‘He can do most things, sir,’ said Dick, comprehensively guaranteeing
his friend, and mounting his mare, he motioned to the old fellow, who
had just commenced to emit a derisive chuckle from his toothless gums,
to follow him. ‘If you’ll s’cuse us now, sir, we’ll go home and get
freshened up a bit. Tom won’t be right till he’s had a sleep. He’s
hardly had his boots off for a week. You’ll see us at the yard in the
morning all right, sir, never fear.’
‘Well, I’m glad you’ve come back, Dick,’ said Guy; ‘we’ve missed you
awfully. The heifers are too much for Andrew. However, it’s all right
now, so the sooner you get home and make yourself comfortable the
better.’
This suggestion, as the ancient prodigals ambled away together, caused
old Dick to grin doubtfully. ‘I’ve got to have it out with my old woman
yet, sir.’
Whatever might have occurred in the progress of a difficult explanation
with Mrs. Evans, the result was so far satisfactory that on the
following morning, when Wilfred went down to the milking-yard, he found
the pair in full possession of the situation, while the number of calves
in companionship with their mothers, as well as the state of the
brimming milk-cans, testified to the early hour at which work had
commenced.
Dick had regained his easy supremacy, as with a mixture of fearlessness
and diplomacy he exercised a Rarey-like influence over the wilder cows,
lately introduced to the milking-yard.
His companion, evidently free of the guild, was causing the milk to come
streaming out of the udder of a newly calved heifer, as if by the mere
touch of his fingers, the bottom of his bucket rattling the while like a
small-sized hailstorm.
Greeting the old man cheerfully, and making him a compliment on his
milking, Wilfred was surprised at the alteration in his appearance and
manner.
The half-reckless, defiant tone was replaced by a quiet bearing and
respectful manner. The expression of the face was changed. The eyes,
keen and restless, had lost their savage gleam. An alert step, a ready
discharge of every duty, with the smallest details of which he seemed
instinctively acquainted, had succeeded the lounging bearing of the
preceding day. Wilfred thought he had never seen a man so markedly
changed in so short a time.
‘You both seem improved, Dick. I suppose the morning air has had
something to do with it.’
‘Yes, sir—thank God,’ said he, ‘I’m always that fresh after a good
night’s sleep, when I’ve had a bit of a spree, that I could begin again
quite flippant. Old Tom had a goodish cheque this time, and was at it a
week afore I came in. _He looked_ rather shickerry. But he’s as right as
a toucher now, and you won’t lose no calves while _he’s_ here, I’ll go
bail. He can stay in my hut. My old woman and he knowed one another
years back, and she’ll cook and wash for him, though they do growl a bit
at times.’
It soon became apparent, making due deductions for periodical
aberrations, that Mr. Effingham possessed in Dick Evans and Tom
Glendinning two rarely efficient servitors. They knew everything, they
did everything; they never required to be reminded of any duty
whatsoever, being apparently eager to discover matters for the advantage
of the establishment, in which they appeared to take an interest not
inferior to that of the proprietor. Indeed, they not infrequently
volunteered additional services for their employer’s benefit.
The season had now advanced, until the fervid height of midsummer was
near, and still no hint of aught but continuous prosperity was given to
the emigrant family.
Though the sun flamed high in the unspecked firmament, yet from time to
time showers of tropical suddenness kept the earth cool and moist,
refreshing the herbage, and causing the late-growing maize to flourish
greenly, in the dark unexhausted soil. Their wheat crop had been reaped
with but little assistance from any but the members and retainers of the
family. And now a respectable stack occupied jointly, with one of oaten
hay, the modest stack-yard, or haggard, as old Tom called it.
The cheese operations developed, until row upon row of rich
orange-coloured cheeses filled the shelves of the dairy.
The garden bore token of Andrew’s industry in the pruned and renovated
fruit trees, which threw out fresh leaves and branches; while the moist
open season had been favourable to the ‘setting’ of a much more than
ordinary yield of fruit. The crops of vegetables, of potatoes, of other
more southern esculents looked, to use Andrew’s phrase, ‘just
unco-omon.’ Such vegetables, Dick confessed, had not been seen in it
since the days of the Colonel, who kept two gardeners and a spare boy or
two constantly at work. Gooseberries, currants, and the English fruits
generally, were coming on, leading to the belief that an extensive jam
manufacture would once more employ Jeanie and the well-remembered copper
stew-pan—brought all the way from Surrey.
The verandah was once more a ‘thing of beauty’ in its shade of ‘green
gloom.’ The now protected climbers had glorified the wreathed pillars;
again gay with the purple racemes of the Wistaria and the deep orange
flowers of the _Bignonia venusta_. The lawn was thickly carpeted with
grass; the gravelled paths were raked and levelled by Andrew, whenever
he could gain an hour’s respite from dairy and cheese-room.
The increase of the cattle had been of itself considerable, while the
steers of the Donnelly contingents fattened on the newly matured
grasses, which now commenced to send forth that sweetest of all summer
perfumes, the odour of the new-mown meadows.
The small but gay parterres, which the girls and Mrs. Effingham kept,
with some difficulty, free from weeds, were lovely to the eye as
contrasted with the bright green sward of the lawn.
The wildfowl dived and flew upon the lake, furnishing forth for a
while—as in obedience to Mr. Effingham’s wishes a close season was
kept—unwonted supplies to the larder.
All the minor living possessions of the family appeared to bask and
revel in the sunshine of the general prosperity. The greyhounds,
comfortably housed and well fed, had reared a family, and were
commencing to master the science of killing kangaroos without exposing
themselves to danger.
The Jersey cow, Daisy, had produced a miniature copy of herself, in a
fawn-coloured heifer calf, while her son, ‘The Yerl of Jersey,’ as
Andrew had christened him, had become a thick-set, pugnacious, important
personage, pawing the earth, and bellowing unnecessarily, as if sensible
of the exalted position he was destined to take, as a pure bred Jersey
bull, under two years of age, at the forthcoming Yass Agricultural Show.
As the days grew longer, and the daily tasks of labour became less
exciting in the neighbourhood, as well as at Warbrok Chase, much
occasional visiting sprang up. The stable was once more capable of
modest entertainment, though far from emulating the hospitalities of the
past, when, in the four-in-hand drag of the reigning regiment, the
fashionables of the day thought worth while to rattle over the unmade
roads for the pleasure of a week’s shooting on the lake by day, with the
alternative of the Colonel’s peerless claret by night. Andrew’s boy,
Duncan, a solemn lad of fourteen, whom his occasionally impatient sire
used to scold roundly, was encouraged to be in attendance to receive the
stranger cavalry.
For one afternoon, Fred Churbett’s Grey Surrey, illustrious as having
won the Ladies’ Bag two years running at the Yass Races, and, as such,
equal in provincial turf society to a Leger winner, would canter
daintily up to the garden gate, followed perhaps at no great interval by
Charlie Hamilton’s chestnut, Red Deer, in training for the Yass Maiden
Plate, and O’Desmond’s Wellesley, to ensure whose absolute safety he
brought his groom. On the top of all this Captain and Mrs. Snowden would
arrive, until the dining-room, half filled with the fashion of the
district, did not look too large after all.
By degrees, rising to the exigencies of his position, Wilfred managed to
get hold of a couple of ladies’ horses, by which sensible arrangement at
least three of the family were able to enjoy a ride together, also to
return Mrs. Snowden’s call, and edify themselves with the conversation
of that amusing woman of the world.
And the more Mr. Effingham and his sons saw of the men composing the
little society which shared with them the very considerable district in
which they resided, the more they had reason to like and respect them.
* * * * *
The blessed Christmastide was approaching. How different was it in
appearance from the well-remembered season in their own beloved home! A
thousand reminiscences came rushing across the fields of memory, as the
Effinghams thought of the snow-clad hedges, the loaded roofs, the
magical stillness of the frost-arrested air. Nor were all the features
of the season attractive. Heavy wraps, closed doors, through which, in
spite of heaped-up fires, keen draught and invisible chills would
intrude; the long evenings, the dark afternoons, the protracted nights,
which needed all the frolic spirits of youth, the affection of home
life, and the traditional revelry of the season to render endurable.
How different were all things in this strange, far land!
Such soft airs, such fresh, unclouded morns, such far-reaching views
across the purple mountains, such breeze-tossed masses of forest
greenery, such long, unclouded days were theirs, in this the first
midsummer of what Annabel chose to call ‘Australia Felix.’
‘I should have just the same feeling,’ she said, ‘if I lived in the
desert under favourable circumstances. Not the horrid sandy, simoomy
part of it, of course. But some of those lovely green spots, where there
is a grey walled-in town, an old, old well, thousands of years old, and
such lovely horses standing at the doors of the tents. Why can’t we have
our horses broken in to stand like that, instead of having to send
Duncan for them, who takes hours? And then we could ride out by
moonlight and _feel_ the grand silence of the desert; and at sunset the
grey old chiefs and the maidens and the camels and the dear little
children would come to the village well, like Rebekah or Rachel—which
was it? I shall go to Palestine some day, and be a Princess, like Lady
Hester Stanhope. This is only the first stage.’