Convalescent at last—A Run to Australia—Set out for the Interior—The Scenery—A Queer Mistake—Frank’s Cousins.
Poor Frank Willoughby—for two long weeks his spirit hovered ’twixt life and death. It was a happy hour for his friends when he was pronounced out of danger; and for Frank himself, when he was told that he had nothing now to do in the world but just to get well again. For many weeks longer he had to lie on his back, however. But he was in that weak, dreamy kind of a state, that he did not mind the confinement. Every morning Chisholm brought him all the news, and read to him for hours. But how shall I describe the joy he felt the first day he went out for exercise? This getting well after a long illness in a foreign land is a pleasure that few ever know; but the joys of convalescence are sufficient reward to the invalid for all he has previously suffered.
Frank was borne about in a palanquin. He wondered whether he would ever again bestride a fiery steed, and go bounding along over the plains, as had been his wont. But he grew so rapidly strong and well, after he began to walk, that he ceased to wonder at anything; and when he and his friends embarked on board a saucy clipper bound for distant Australia, he felt nearly as strong as ever he was in his life.
Frank had cousins in Australia. They farmed sheep or something, Frank was not quite sure it mightn’t be kangaroos; but they were good people, and had ornithorynchus soup and cockatoo pie for dinner as often as not, with cold black swan on the sideboard. So one of the boys had written him to say. Frank had the letter in his portfolio, and showed it to Lyell, and there was a deal of laughing over it. If I had that letter now I would just print it in extenso, to save myself the trouble of writing this chapter. Such a glowing account of Australian life was surely never penned before; and, if it could only be credited, what a life of wild adventure Frank’s cousins must have led! Here were wonderful stories about emigrants and convicts, and settlers and savages, serpents and snakes, mixed up with emus, and kangaroos, and cockatoos, and any amount of other oos. And here were tales about bushrangers, and bush-riding, and buck-jumpers, and bullock-hunters; and the allusions to woomeras, and spears, and boomerangs, were as numerous as though they had been sprinkled in from a pepper-box.
Frank was himself again long ere the clipper reached Sydney, but he felt doubly himself when, a few days afterwards, mounted on a goodly horse, with valise strapped on the saddle, he and his friends, with guides and guards, left the smoke of Sydney far behind them, and cantered merrily away bushwards.
It was a long journey to the station or village where Frank’s cousins lived. It took them quite a week to get there. They travelled principally in the morning, and again at eventide, resting in the shade near their hobbled horses, during the time the sun was high.
They had not gone far from the capital ere they plunged into a deep, dark, silent forest—silent save for the strangely monotonous song of the cicala, and so for miles, and so for many leagues. Our heroes felt they would have given anything to listen, sometimes, to the cry of a bird, or even the howl of a wild beast. The inns at which they stayed at nights were rough in the extreme, but they soon got worse, then they gave them up, and preferred camping out, and whenever of an evening they reached some open glade, there they took up their abode. But forests grew less dense at last, and the scenery most charming. The blue gum-trees, with stripes of pendent bark, that Fred and Frank used to admire and marvel at, gave place to lighter timber. By night the whole air was alive with strange sounds and strange sights, especially when the camp was near the water. The snoring sound of the bull-frog, the cry of the flying fox and opossum, mingled with the cooing of wild birds.
