Babes in the Bush

by Rolf Boldrewood

It so turned out that, on this particular morning, he had found time, for once in a way, to give his daughter an earnest lecture about her ridiculous fancy, as he termed it, for Bob Clarke; a young fellow who, without any harm in him, would never come to much, or make any money worth speaking of, seeing that he was far too fond of those confounded horses, out of which no man had ever extracted anything but ruin, in Australia. That they had never heard a word from him for ever so long; most probably he was flirting away in Tasmania, and did not cast a thought upon her. And here was Wilfred Effingham, than whom he did not know a finer fellow anywhere—steady, clever, a man of family, and in every way desirable. If he liked her, Christabel—he couldn’t say whether he did or not, he had no time to trouble about such rubbish—why didn’t she take him, and have done with it, and settle down creditably for the rest of her life, instead of wasting her time and vexing her friends?—and so on—and so on.

Christabel wept piteously during this paternal admonition, delivered, as usual, with a loud voice and a fierce expression of countenance, but had gone away reflecting that although she was, so to speak, badly treated in this instance, yet, as she had succeeded in getting her own way all her life, she probably might enjoy a reasonable portion of it in the future.

Meanwhile, being fairly malleable and of the texture which is bent by circumstances, she began to consider, when alone in her room, whether there was not something of reason in her father’s arguments. Here she was placed in the position of only having to accept. Of the true nature of Wilfred’s feelings she herself had little doubt. There is something, too, not wholly without temptation to the female heart in the unconditional surrender of the lover, then and there urging his suit. There may be also a wild impulse to accept the inevitable, and thus for ever extinguish the uneasiness of anxiety and suspended judgment.

Then, Wilfred Effingham was very good-looking—fair perhaps in complexion, and she did not admire fair men, but brown-bearded, well-featured, manly. All the girls voted him ‘so nice-looking,’ and the men invariably spoke of him as a good fellow. He was well off; he would have The Chase some day, and she would be the great lady of the Yass district, with her carriage and her servants; could entertain really well. She would also, beyond doubt, be envied by all her schoolfellows and girl friends.

The prospect was tempting. She thought of Bob’s dark eyes, and their passionate look when he last said good-bye. She thought of the happy days when he rode at her bridle-rein, and would lean over to whisper the cheery nonsense that amused her. She thought of the thrill at her heart, the strange deadness in every pulse, when The Outlaw went down, and they lifted Bob up, pale and motionless; of her joy when he appeared next day on the course, with his arm in a sling, but with eyes as bright and smile as pleasant as ever. These were dangerous memories. But they were boy and girl then. Now she was a woman, who must think of prudence and the wishes of her parents.

Then Bob would be poor for many a day, if, indeed, he ever rose to fortune. Through her heart passed the uneasy dread, which gently-nurtured women have, of the unlovely side of poverty, of shifts and struggles, of work and privation—of a small house and bad servants, of indifferent dresses, and few thereof. Such thoughts came circling up, like birds of evil aspect and omen, ready to cluster round the corse of the slain Eros.

Les absens sont toujours torts, says the worldly adage. In his absence, the advocacy for Bob Clarke was perhaps less brave and persistent than it would otherwise have been. The girl strove to harden her heart, by clinging to the prudent side of the case, and recalling her father’s angry denunciations of any other course than an affirmative reply to Wilfred Effingham, should he this night tell her the real purport of his constant visits.

He himself had resolved to risk his fate on this last throw of the dice, and so far everything assisted his plans. Mr. Rockley was in an unusually genial frame of mind at dinner—cordial, of course, as ever, but unnaturally patient under contradiction and the delays consequent upon the cook’s unsettled condition. Mrs. Rockley excused herself after that meal as having household matters to arrange. But Christabel, whose domestic responsibilities had always been of the faintest, was at liberty to remain and entertain Mr. Effingham and her father, indeed she was better out of the way at the present crisis. Wilfred had no thought of leaving early in order to accommodate his friends in their presumed state of bustle and derangement, for it was one of those rare households where visitors never seem to be in the way. None of the feminine heads of departments were fussy, anxious, ‘put out,’ or had such pressing cares that visitors came short of consideration.

Mrs. Rockley’s talent for organisation was such that no one seemed in a hurry, yet nothing was left undone. The house was nearly always full of inmates and visitors, male and female, with or without children. Still, wonder of wonders, there was never any awkwardness or failure of successful entertainment. Rockley, personally, scoffed at the idea of being responsible for the slightest share of household management. He merely exacted the most complete punctuality, cookery, house-room and attendance for the ceaseless flow of guests, the cost of which he furnished, to do him justice, ungrudgingly. Whatever might need to be done next day (if the whole family, indeed, had been ordered for execution, as Horace Bower said), William Rockley would have dined and conversed cheerfully over his wine, suggested a little music (for the benefit of others), smoked his cigar in the verandah, and mocked at the idea of any guest being incommoded by the probably abrupt translation of the family, or going away a moment before the regulation midnight hour.

Therefore, when Rockley told him that he hoped he was not going to run away a moment before the usual time for any nonsensical idea of being in the way because they were starting for Port Phillip on the next day (what the deuce had that got to do with it, he should like to know?), Wilfred fully comprehended the bona fides of the request, and prepared himself to make the most of a tête-à-tête with Miss C. Rockley, if such should be on the cards.