by Henry Lawson
The Babies in the Bush.
'Oh, tell her a tale of the fairies bright-- That only the Bushmen know-- Who guide the feet of the lost aright, Or carry them up through the starry night, Where the Bush-lost babies go.'
He was one of those men who seldom smile. There are many in theAustralian Bush, where drift wrecks and failures of all stations andprofessions (and of none), and from all the world. Or, if they do smile,the smile is either mechanical or bitter as a rule--cynical. They seldomtalk. The sort of men who, as bosses, are set down by the majority--andwithout reason or evidence--as being proud, hard, and selfish,--'toomean to live, and too big for their boots.'
But when the Boss did smile his expression was very, very gentle, andvery sad. I have seen him smile down on a little child who persisted insitting on his knee and prattling to him, in spite of his silence andgloom. He was tall and gaunt, with haggard grey eyes--haunted grey eyessometimes--and hair and beard thick and strong, but grey. He was notabove forty-five. He was of the type of men who die in harness, withtheir hair thick and strong, but grey or white when it should be brown.The opposite type, I fancy, would be the soft, dark-haired, blue-eyedmen who grow bald sooner than they grow grey, and fat and contented, anddie respectably in their beds.
His name was Head--Walter Head. He was a boss drover on the overlandroutes. I engaged with him at a place north of the Queensland border totravel down to Bathurst, on the Great Western Line in New South Wales,with something over a thousand head of store bullocks for the Sydneymarket. I am an Australian Bushman (with city experience)--a rover, ofcourse, and a ne'er-do-well, I suppose. I was born with brains and athin skin--worse luck! It was in the days before I was married, and Iwent by the name of 'Jack Ellis' this trip,--not because the policewere after me, but because I used to tell yarns about a man named JackEllis--and so the chaps nicknamed me.
The Boss spoke little to the men: he'd sit at tucker or with his pipeby the camp-fire nearly as silently as he rode his night-watch round thebig, restless, weird-looking mob of bullocks camped on the duskystarlit plain. I believe that from the first he spoke oftener and moreconfidentially to me than to any other of the droving party. There was asomething of sympathy between us--I can't explain what it was. It seemedas though it were an understood thing between us that we understood eachother. He sometimes said things to me which would have needed a deal ofexplanation--so I thought--had he said them to any other of the party.He'd often, after brooding a long while, start a sentence, and break offwith 'You know, Jack.' And somehow I understood, without being able toexplain why. We had never met before I engaged with him for this trip.His men respected him, but he was not a popular boss: he was too gloomy,and never drank a glass nor 'shouted' on the trip: he was reckoned a'mean boss', and rather a nigger-driver.
He was full of Adam Lindsay Gordon, the English-Australian poet whoshot himself, and so was I. I lost an old copy of Gordon's poems on theroute, and the Boss overheard me inquiring about it; later on he askedme if I liked Gordon. We got to it rather sheepishly at first, butby-and-by we'd quote Gordon freely in turn when we were alone in camp.'Those are grand lines about Burke and Wills, the explorers, aren'tthey, Jack?' he'd say, after chewing his cud, or rather the stem of hisbriar, for a long while without a word. (He had his pipe in his mouth asoften as any of us, but somehow I fancied he didn't enjoy it: an emptypipe or a stick would have suited him just as well, it seemed to me.)'Those are great lines,' he'd say--
'"In Collins Street standeth a statue tall-- A statue tall on a pillar of stone-- Telling its story to great and small Of the dust reclaimed from the sand-waste lone.
*****
Weary and wasted, worn and wan, Feeble and faint, and languid and low, He lay on the desert a dying man, Who has gone, my friends, where we all must go."
That's a grand thing, Jack. How does it go?-- "With a pistol clenched in his failing hand, And the film of death o'er his fading eyes, He saw the sun go down on the sand,"'--
The Boss would straighten up with a sigh that might have been half a yawn-- '"And he slept and never saw it rise,"' --speaking with a sort of quiet force all the time. Then maybe he'd stand with his back to the fire roasting his dusty leggings, with his hands behind his back and looking out over the dusky plain.
'"What mattered the sand or the whit'ning chalk, The blighted herbage or blackened log, The crooked beak of the eagle-hawk, Or the hot red tongue of the native dog?"
They don't matter much, do they, Jack?'
'Damned if I think they do, Boss!' I'd say.
'"The couch was rugged, those sextons rude, But, in spite of a leaden shroud, we know That the bravest and fairest are earth-worms' food Where once they have gone where we all must go."'
Once he repeated the poem containing the lines--
'"Love, when we wandered here together, Hand in hand through the sparkling weather-- God surely loved us a little then."
Beautiful lines those, Jack.
"Then skies were fairer and shores were firmer, And the blue sea over the white sand rolled-- Babble and prattle, and prattle and murmur'--
How does it go, Jack?' He stood up and turned his face to the light, butnot before I had a glimpse of it. I think that the saddest eyes on earthare mostly women's eyes, but I've seen few so sad as the Boss's werejust then.
It seemed strange that he, a Bushman, preferred Gordon's sea poems tohis horsey and bushy rhymes; but so he did. I fancy his favourite poemwas that one of Gordon's with the lines--
'I would that with sleepy soft embraces The sea would fold me, would find me rest In the luminous depths of its secret places, Where the wealth of God's marvels is manifest!'
He usually spoke quietly, in a tone as though death were in camp; butafter we'd been on Gordon's poetry for a while he'd end it abruptlywith, 'Well, it's time to turn in,' or, 'It's time to turn out,' or he'dgive me an order in connection with the cattle. He had been a well-to-dosquatter on the Lachlan river-side, in New South Wales, and had beenruined by the drought, they said. One night in camp, and after smokingin silence for nearly an hour, he asked--
'Do you know Fisher, Jack--the man that owns these bullocks?'
'I've heard of him,' I said. Fisher was a big squatter, with stationsboth in New South Wales and in Queensland.
'Well, he came to my station on the Lachlan years ago without a penny inhis pocket, or decent rag to his back, or a crust in his tucker-bag, andI gave him a job. He's my boss now. Ah, well! it's the way of Australia,you know, Jack.'
The Boss had one man who went on every droving trip with him; hewas 'bred' on the Boss's station, they said, and had been with himpractically all his life. His name was 'Andy'. I forget his other name,if he really had one. Andy had charge of the 'droving-plant' (a tiltedtwo-horse waggonette, in which we carried the rations and horse-feed),and he did the cooking and kept accounts. The Boss had no head forfigures. Andy might have been twenty-five or thirty-five, or anything inbetween. His hair stuck up like a well-made brush all round, and his biggrey eyes also had an inquiring expression. His weakness was girls, orhe theirs, I don't know which (half-castes not barred). He was, I think,the most innocent, good-natured, and open-hearted scamp I ever met.Towards the middle of the trip Andy spoke to me one night alone in campabout the Boss.
'The Boss seems to have taken to you, Jack, all right.'
'Think so?' I said. I thought I smelt jealousy and detected a sneer.
'I'm sure of it. It's very seldom HE takes to any one.'
I said nothing.
Then after a while Andy said suddenly--
'Look here, Jack, I'm glad of it. I'd like to see him make a chum ofsome one, if only for one trip. And don't you make any mistake about theBoss. He's a white man. There's precious few that know him--precious fewnow; but I do, and it'll do him a lot of good to have some one to yarnwith.' And Andy sa
id no more on the subject for that trip.
The long, hot, dusty miles dragged by across the blazing plains--bigclearings rather--and through the sweltering hot scrubs, and we reachedBathurst at last; and then the hot dusty days and weeks and months thatwe'd left behind us to the Great North-West seemed as nothing,--as Isuppose life will seem when we come to the end of it.
The bullocks were going by rail from Bathurst to Sydney. We were all onelong afternoon getting them into the trucks, and when we'd finished theboss said to me--
'Look here, Jack, you're going on to Sydney, aren't you?'
'Yes; I'm going down to have a fly round.'
'Well, why not wait and go down with Andy in the morning? He's goingdown in charge of the cattle. The cattle-train starts about daylight. Itwon't be so comfortable as the passenger; but you'll save your fare, andyou can give Andy a hand with the cattle. You've only got to have alook at 'em every other station, and poke up any that fall down in thetrucks. You and Andy are mates, aren't you?'
I said it would just suit me. Somehow I fancied that the Boss seemedanxious to have my company for one more evening, and, to tell the truth,I felt really sorry to part with him. I'd had to work as hard as anyof the other chaps; but I liked him, and I believed he liked me. He'dstruck me as a man who'd been quietened down by some heavy trouble, andI felt sorry for him without knowing what the trouble was.
'Come and have a drink, Boss,' I said. The agent had paid us off duringthe day.
He turned into a hotel with me.
'I don't drink, Jack,' he said; 'but I'll take a glass with you.'
'I didn't know you were a teetotaller, Boss,' I said. I had not beensurprised at his keeping so strictly from the drink on the trip; but nowthat it was over it was a different thing.
'I'm not a teetotaller, Jack,' he said. 'I can take a glass or leaveit.' And he called for a long beer, and we drank 'Here's luck!' to eachother.
'Well,' I said, 'I wish I could take a glass or leave it.' And I meantit.
Then the Boss spoke as I'd never heard him speak before. I thought forthe moment that the one drink had affected him; but I understood beforethe night was over. He laid his hand on my shoulder with a grip like aman who has suddenly made up his mind to lend you five pounds. 'Jack!'he said, 'there's worse things than drinking, and there's worse thingsthan heavy smoking. When a man who smokes gets such a load of trouble onhim that he can find no comfort in his pipe, then it's a heavy load.And when a man who drinks gets so deep into trouble that he can find nocomfort in liquor, then it's deep trouble. Take my tip for it, Jack.'
He broke off, and half turned away with a jerk of his head, as ifimpatient with himself; then presently he spoke in his usual quiettone--
'But you're only a boy yet, Jack. Never mind me. I won't ask you to takethe second drink. You don't want it; and, besides, I know the signs.'
He paused, leaning with both hands on the edge of the counter, andlooking down between his arms at the floor. He stood that way thinkingfor a while; then he suddenly straightened up, like a man who'd made uphis mind to something.
'I want you to come along home with me, Jack,' he said; 'we'll fix you ashake-down.'
I forgot to tell you that he was married and lived in Bathurst.
'But won't it put Mrs Head about?'
'Not at all. She's expecting you. Come along; there's nothing to see inBathurst, and you'll have plenty of knocking round in Sydney. Come on,we'll just be in time for tea.'
He lived in a brick cottage on the outskirts of the town--anold-fashioned cottage, with ivy and climbing roses, like you see in someof those old settled districts. There was, I remember, the stump of atree in front, covered with ivy till it looked like a giant's club withthe thick end up.
When we got to the house the Boss paused a minute with his hand on thegate. He'd been home a couple of days, having ridden in ahead of thebullocks.
'Jack,' he said, 'I must tell you that Mrs Head had a great trouble atone time. We--we lost our two children. It does her good to talk to astranger now and again--she's always better afterwards; but there's veryfew I care to bring. You--you needn't notice anything strange. And agreewith her, Jack. You know, Jack.'
'That's all right, Boss,' I said. I'd knocked about the Bush too long,and run against too many strange characters and things, to be surprisedat anything much.
The door opened, and he took a little woman in his arms. I saw by thelight of a lamp in the room behind that the woman's hair was grey, andI reckoned that he had his mother living with him. And--we do have oddthoughts at odd times in a flash--and I wondered how Mrs Head and hermother-in-law got on together. But the next minute I was in the room,and introduced to 'My wife, Mrs Head,' and staring at her with botheyes.
It was his wife. I don't think I can describe her. For the first minuteor two, coming in out of the dark and before my eyes got used to thelamp-light, I had an impression as of a little old woman--one of thosefresh-faced, well-preserved, little old ladies--who dressed young, worefalse teeth, and aped the giddy girl. But this was because of Mrs Head'simpulsive welcome of me, and her grey hair. The hair was not so grey asI thought at first, seeing it with the lamp-light behind it: it was likedull-brown hair lightly dusted with flour. She wore it short, andit became her that way. There was something aristocratic about herface--her nose and chin--I fancied, and something that you couldn'tdescribe. She had big dark eyes--dark-brown, I thought, though theymight have been hazel: they were a bit too big and bright for me, andnow and again, when she got excited, the white showed all round thepupils--just a little, but a little was enough.
She seemed extra glad to see me. I thought at first that she was a bitof a gusher.
'Oh, I'm so glad you've come, Mr Ellis,' she said, giving my hand agrip. 'Walter--Mr Head--has been speaking to me about you. I've beenexpecting you. Sit down by the fire, Mr Ellis; tea will be readypresently. Don't you find it a bit chilly?' She shivered. It was a bitchilly now at night on the Bathurst plains. The table was set for tea,and set rather in swell style. The cottage was too well furnishedeven for a lucky boss drover's home; the furniture looked as if it hadbelonged to a tony homestead at one time. I felt a bit strange at first,sitting down to tea, and almost wished that I was having a comfortabletuck-in at a restaurant or in a pub. dining-room. But she knew a lotabout the Bush, and chatted away, and asked questions about the trip,and soon put me at my ease. You see, for the last year or two I'dtaken my tucker in my hands,--hunk of damper and meat and a clasp-knifemostly,--sitting on my heel in the dust, or on a log or a tucker-box.
There was a hard, brown, wrinkled old woman that the Heads called'Auntie'. She waited at the table; but Mrs Head kept bustling roundherself most of the time, helping us. Andy came in to tea.
Mrs Head bustled round like a girl of twenty instead of a woman ofthirty-seven, as Andy afterwards told me she was. She had the figure andmovements of a girl, and the impulsiveness and expression too--a womanlygirl; but sometimes I fancied there was something very childish abouther face and talk. After tea she and the Boss sat on one side of thefire and Andy and I on the other--Andy a little behind me at the cornerof the table.
'Walter--Mr Head--tells me you've been out on the Lachlan river, MrEllis?' she said as soon as she'd settled down, and she leaned forward,as if eager to hear that I'd been there.
'Yes, Mrs Head. I've knocked round all about out there.'
She sat up straight, and put the tips of her fingers to the side of herforehead and knitted her brows. This was a trick she had--she often didit during the evening. And when she did that she seemed to forget whatshe'd said last.
She smoothed her forehead, and clasped her hands in her lap.
'Oh, I'm so glad to meet somebody from the back country, Mr Ellis,'she said. 'Walter so seldom brings a stranger here, and I get tired oftalking to the same people about the same things, and seeing the samefaces. You don't know what a relief it is, Mr Ellis, to see a new faceand talk to a stranger.'
'I can quite understand that, M
rs Head,' I said. And so I could. I neverstayed more than three months in one place if I could help it.
She looked into the fire and seemed to try to think. The Bossstraightened up and stroked her head with his big sun-browned hand, andthen put his arm round her shoulders. This brought her back.
'You know we had a station out on the Lachlan, Mr Ellis. Did Walter evertell you about the time we lived there?'
'No,' I said, glancing at the Boss. 'I know you had a station there;but, you know, the Boss doesn't talk much.'
'Tell Jack, Maggie,' said the Boss; 'I don't mind.'
She smiled. 'You know Walter, Mr Ellis,' she said. 'You won't mind him.He doesn't like me to talk about the children; he thinks it upsets me,but that's foolish: it always relieves me to talk to a stranger.' Sheleaned forward, eagerly it seemed, and went on quickly: 'I've beenwanting to tell you about the children ever since Walter spoke to meabout you. I knew you would understand directly I saw your face. Thesetown people don't understand. I like to talk to a Bushman. You know welost our children out on the station. The fairies took them. Did Walterever tell you about the fairies taking the children away?'
This was a facer. 'I--I beg pardon,' I commenced, when Andy gave me adig in the back. Then I saw it all.
'No, Mrs Head. The Boss didn't tell me about that.'
'You surely know about the Bush Fairies, Mr Ellis,' she said, her bigeyes fixed on my face--'the Bush Fairies that look after the little onesthat are lost in the Bush, and take them away from the Bush if they arenot found? You've surely heard of them, Mr Ellis? Most Bushmen have thatI've spoken to. Maybe you've seen them? Andy there has?' Andy gave meanother dig.
'Of course I've heard of them, Mrs Head,' I said; 'but I can't swearthat I've seen one.'
'Andy has. Haven't you, Andy?'
'Of course I have, Mrs Head. Didn't I tell you all about it the lasttime we were home?'
'And didn't you ever tell Mr Ellis, Andy?'
'Of course he did!' I said, coming to Andy's rescue; 'I remember it now.You told me that night we camped on the Bogan river, Andy.'
'Of course!' said Andy.
'Did he tell you about finding a lost child and the fairy with it?'
'Yes,' said Andy; 'I told him all about that.'
'And the fairy was just going to take the child away when Andy found it,and when the fairy saw Andy she flew away.'
'Yes,' I said; 'that's what Andy told me.'
'And what did you say the fairy was like, Andy?' asked Mrs Head, fixingher eyes on his face.
'Like. It was like one of them angels you see in Bible pictures, MrsHead,' said Andy promptly, sitting bolt upright, and keeping his biginnocent grey eyes fixed on hers lest she might think he was tellinglies. 'It was just like the angel in that Christ-in-the-stable picturewe had at home on the station--the right-hand one in blue.'
She smiled. You couldn't call it an idiotic smile, nor the foolishsmile you see sometimes in melancholy mad people. It was more of a happychildish smile.
'I was so foolish at first, and gave poor Walter and the doctors a lotof trouble,' she said. 'Of course it never struck me, until afterwards,that the fairies had taken the children.'
She pressed the tips of the fingers of both hands to her forehead, andsat so for a while; then she roused herself again--
'But what am I thinking about? I haven't started to tell you about thechildren at all yet. Auntie! bring the children's portraits, will you,please? You'll find them on my dressing-table.'
The old woman seemed to hesitate.
'Go on, Auntie, and do what I ask you,' said Mrs Head. 'Don't befoolish. You know I'm all right now.'
'You mustn't take any notice of Auntie, Mr Ellis,' she said with asmile, while the old woman's back was turned. 'Poor old body, she's abit crotchety at times, as old women are. She doesn't like me to gettalking about the children. She's got an idea that if I do I'll starttalking nonsense, as I used to do the first year after the children werelost. I was very foolish then, wasn't I, Walter?'
'You were, Maggie,' said the Boss. 'But that's all past. You mustn'tthink of that time any more.'
'You see,' said Mrs Head, in explanation to me, 'at first nothing woulddrive it out of my head that the children had wandered about until theyperished of hunger and thirst in the Bush. As if the Bush Fairies wouldlet them do that.'
'You were very foolish, Maggie,' said the Boss; 'but don't think aboutthat.'
The old woman brought the portraits, a little boy and a little girl:they must have been very pretty children.
'You see,' said Mrs Head, taking the portraits eagerly, and giving themto me one by one, 'we had these taken in Sydney some years before thechildren were lost; they were much younger then. Wally's is not a goodportrait; he was teething then, and very thin. That's him standing onthe chair. Isn't the pose good? See, he's got one hand and one littlefoot forward, and an eager look in his eyes. The portrait is very dark,and you've got to look close to see the foot. He wants a toy rabbit thatthe photographer is tossing up to make him laugh. In the next portraithe's sitting on the chair--he's just settled himself to enjoy the fun.But see how happy little Maggie looks! You can see my arm where I washolding her in the chair. She was six months old then, and little Wallyhad just turned two.'
She put the portraits up on the mantel-shelf.
'Let me see; Wally (that's little Walter, you know)--Wally was five andlittle Maggie three and a half when we lost them. Weren't they, Walter?'
'Yes, Maggie,' said the Boss.
'You were away, Walter, when it happened.'
'Yes, Maggie,' said the Boss--cheerfully, it seemed to me--'I was away.'
'And we couldn't find you, Walter. You see,' she said to me, 'Walter--MrHead--was away in Sydney on business, and we couldn't find his address.It was a beautiful morning, though rather warm, and just after thebreak-up of the drought. The grass was knee-high all over the run. Itwas a lonely place; there wasn't much bush cleared round the homestead,just a hundred yards or so, and the great awful scrubs ran back from theedges of the clearing all round for miles and miles--fifty or a hundredmiles in some directions without a break; didn't they, Walter?'
'Yes, Maggie.'
'I was alone at the house except for Mary, a half-caste girl we had, whoused to help me with the housework and the children. Andy was out on therun with the men, mustering sheep; weren't you, Andy?'
'Yes, Mrs Head.'
'I used to watch the children close as they got to run about, becauseif they once got into the edge of the scrub they'd be lost; but thismorning little Wally begged hard to be let take his little sister downunder a clump of blue-gums in a corner of the home paddock to gatherbuttercups. You remember that clump of gums, Walter?'
'I remember, Maggie.'
'"I won't go through the fence a step, mumma," little Wally said. Icould see Old Peter--an old shepherd and station-hand we had--I couldsee him working on a dam we were making across a creek that ran downthere. You remember Old Peter, Walter?'
'Of course I do, Maggie.'
'I knew that Old Peter would keep an eye to the children; so I toldlittle Wally to keep tight hold of his sister's hand and go straightdown to Old Peter and tell him I sent them.'
She was leaning forward with her hands clasping her knee, and telling meall this with a strange sort of eagerness.
'The little ones toddled off hand in hand, with their other handsholding fast their straw hats. "In case a bad wind blowed," as littleMaggie said. I saw them stoop under the first fence, and that was thelast that any one saw of them.'
'Except the fairies, Maggie,' said the Boss quickly.
'Of course, Walter, except the fairies.'
She pressed her fingers to her temples again for a minute.
'It seems that Old Peter was going to ride out to the musterers' campthat morning with bread for the men, and he left his work at the damand started into the Bush after his horse just as I turned back into thehouse, and before the children got near him. They either followedhim f
or some distance or wandered into the Bush after flowers orbutterflies----' She broke off, and then suddenly asked me, 'Do youthink the Bush Fairies would entice children away, Mr Ellis?'
The Boss caught my eye, and frowned and shook his head slightly.
'No. I'm sure they wouldn't, Mrs Head,' I said--'at least not from whatI know of them.'
She thought, or tried to think, again for a while, in her helplesspuzzled way. Then she went on, speaking rapidly, and rathermechanically, it seemed to me--
'The first I knew of it was when Peter came to the house about an hourafterwards, leading his horse, and without the children. I said--Isaid, "O my God! where's the children?"' Her fingers fluttered up to hertemples.
'Don't mind about that, Maggie,' said the Boss, hurriedly, stroking herhead. 'Tell Jack about the fairies.'
'You were away at the time, Walter?'
'Yes, Maggie.'
'And we couldn't find you, Walter?'
'No, Maggie,' very gently. He rested his elbow on his knee and his chinon his hand, and looked into the fire.
'It wasn't your fault, Walter; but if you had been at home do you thinkthe fairies would have taken the children?'
'Of course they would, Maggie. They had to: the children were lost.'
'And they're bringing the children home next year?'
'Yes, Maggie--next year.'
She lifted her hands to her head in a startled way, and it was some timebefore she went on again. There was no need to tell me about the lostchildren. I could see it all. She and the half-caste rushing towardswhere the children were seen last, with Old Peter after them. Thehurried search in the nearer scrub. The mother calling all the timefor Maggie and Wally, and growing wilder as the minutes flew past. OldPeter's ride to the musterers' camp. Horsemen seeming to turn up in notime and from nowhere, as they do in a case like this, and no matterhow lonely the district. Bushmen galloping through the scrub in alldirections. The hurried search the first day, and the mother mad withanxiety as night came on. Her long, hopeless, wild-eyed watch throughthe night; starting up at every sound of a horse's hoof, and readingthe worst in one glance at the rider's face. The systematic work of thesearch-parties next day and the days following. How those days do flypast. The women from the next run or selection, and some from the town,driving from ten or twenty miles, perhaps, to stay with and try tocomfort the mother. ('Put the horse to the cart, Jim: I must go to thatpoor woman!') Comforting her with improbable stories of children who hadbeen lost for days, and were none the worse for it when they werefound. The mounted policemen out with the black trackers. Search-partiescooeeing to each other about the Bush, and lighting signal-fires. Thereckless break-neck rides for news or more help. And the Boss himself,wild-eyed and haggard, riding about the Bush with Andy and one or twoothers perhaps, and searching hopelessly, days after the rest had givenup all hope of finding the children alive. All this passed before me asMrs Head talked, her voice sounding the while as if she were in anotherroom; and when I roused myself to listen, she was on to the fairiesagain.
'It was very foolish of me, Mr Ellis. Weeks after--months after, Ithink--I'd insist on going out on the verandah at dusk and calling forthe children. I'd stand there and call "Maggie!" and "Wally!" untilWalter took me inside; sometimes he had to force me inside. Poor Walter!But of course I didn't know about the fairies then, Mr Ellis. I wasreally out of my mind for a time.'
'No wonder you were, Mrs Head,' I said. 'It was terrible trouble.'
'Yes, and I made it worse. I was so selfish in my trouble. But it's allright now, Walter,' she said, rumpling the Boss's hair. 'I'll never beso foolish again.'
'Of course you won't, Maggie.'
'We're very happy now, aren't we, Walter?'
'Of course we are, Maggie.'
'And the children are coming back next year.'
'Next year, Maggie.'
He leaned over the fire and stirred it up.
'You mustn't take any notice of us, Mr Ellis,' she went on. 'Poor Walteris away so much that I'm afraid I make a little too much of him when hedoes come home.'
She paused and pressed her fingers to her temples again. Then she saidquickly--
'They used to tell me that it was all nonsense about the fairies, butthey were no friends of mine. I shouldn't have listened to them, Walter.You told me not to. But then I was really not in my right mind.'
'Who used to tell you that, Mrs Head?' I asked.
'The Voices,' she said; 'you know about the Voices, Walter?'
'Yes, Maggie. But you don't hear the Voices now, Maggie?' he askedanxiously. 'You haven't heard them since I've been away this time, haveyou, Maggie?'
'No, Walter. They've gone away a long time. I hear voices now sometimes,but they're the Bush Fairies' voices. I hear them calling Maggie andWally to come with them.' She paused again. 'And sometimes I think Ihear them call me. But of course I couldn't go away without you, Walter.But I'm foolish again. I was going to ask you about the other voices, MrEllis. They used to say that it was madness about the fairies; but then,if the fairies hadn't taken the children, Black Jimmy, or the blacktrackers with the police, could have tracked and found them at once.'
'Of course they could, Mrs Head,' I said.
'They said that the trackers couldn't track them because there was raina few hours after the children were lost. But that was ridiculous. Itwas only a thunderstorm.'
'Why!' I said, 'I've known the blacks to track a man after a week'sheavy rain.'
She had her head between her fingers again, and when she looked up itwas in a scared way.
'Oh, Walter!' she said, clutching the Boss's arm; 'whatever have I beentalking about? What must Mr Ellis think of me? Oh! why did you let metalk like that?'
He put his arm round her. Andy nudged me and got up.
'Where are you going, Mr Ellis?' she asked hurriedly. 'You're not goingto-night. Auntie's made a bed for you in Andy's room. You mustn't mindme.'
'Jack and Andy are going out for a little while,' said the Boss.'They'll be in to supper. We'll have a yarn, Maggie.'
'Be sure you come back to supper, Mr Ellis,' she said. 'I really don'tknow what you must think of me,--I've been talking all the time.'
'Oh, I've enjoyed myself, Mrs Head,' I said; and Andy hooked me out.
'She'll have a good cry and be better now,' said Andy when we got awayfrom the house. 'She might be better for months. She has been fairlyreasonable for over a year, but the Boss found her pretty bad when hecame back this time. It upset him a lot, I can tell you. She has turnsnow and again, and always ends up like she did just now. She gets alonging to talk about it to a Bushman and a stranger; it seems to do hergood. The doctor's against it, but doctors don't know everything.'
'It's all true about the children, then?' I asked.
'It's cruel true,' said Andy.
'And were the bodies never found?'
'Yes;' then, after a long pause, 'I found them.'
'You did!'
'Yes; in the scrub, and not so very far from home either--and in afairly clear space. It's a wonder the search-parties missed it; but itoften happens that way. Perhaps the little ones wandered a long way andcame round in a circle. I found them about two months after they werelost. They had to be found, if only for the Boss's sake. You see, ina case like this, and when the bodies aren't found, the parents neverquite lose the idea that the little ones are wandering about the Bushto-night (it might be years after) and perishing from hunger, thirst,or cold. That mad idea haunts 'em all their lives. It's the same, Ibelieve, with friends drowned at sea. Friends ashore are haunted for along while with the idea of the white sodden corpse tossing about anddrifting round in the water.'
'And you never told Mrs Head about the children being found?'
'Not for a long time. It wouldn't have done any good. She was ravingmad for months. He took her to Sydney and then to Melbourne--to the bestdoctors he could find in Australia. They could do no good, so he soldthe station--sacrificed everything, and took her to Eng
land.'
'To England?'
'Yes; and then to Germany to a big German doctor there. He'd offer athousand pounds where they only wanted fifty. It was no good. Shegot worse in England, and raved to go back to Australia and find thechildren. The doctors advised him to take her back, and he did. He spentall his money, travelling saloon, and with reserved cabins, and anurse, and trying to get her cured; that's why he's droving now. She wasrestless in Sydney. She wanted to go back to the station and wait theretill the fairies brought the children home. She'd been getting the fairyidea into her head slowly all the time. The Boss encouraged it. But thestation was sold, and he couldn't have lived there anyway without goingmad himself. He'd married her from Bathurst. Both of them have gotfriends and relations here, so he thought best to bring her here. Hepersuaded her that the fairies were going to bring the children here.Everybody's very kind to them. I think it's a mistake to run away from atown where you're known, in a case like this, though most people do it.It was years before he gave up hope. I think he has hopes yet--aftershe's been fairly well for a longish time.'
'And you never tried telling her that the children were found?'
'Yes; the Boss did. The little ones were buried on the Lachlan river atfirst; but the Boss got a horror of having them buried in the Bush, sohe had them brought to Sydney and buried in the Waverley Cemetery nearthe sea. He bought the ground, and room for himself and Maggie when theygo out. It's all the ground he owns in wide Australia, and once he hadthousands of acres. He took her to the grave one day. The doctors wereagainst it; but he couldn't rest till he tried it. He took her out, andexplained it all to her. She scarcely seemed interested. She read thenames on the stone, and said it was a nice stone, and asked questionsabout how the children were found and brought here. She seemed quitesensible, and very cool about it. But when he got her home she was backon the fairy idea again. He tried another day, but it was no use; sothen he let it be. I think it's better as it is. Now and again, at herbest, she seems to understand that the children were found dead, andburied, and she'll talk sensibly about it, and ask questions in a quietway, and make him promise to take her to Sydney to see the gravenext time he's down. But it doesn't last long, and she's always worseafterwards.'
We turned into a bar and had a beer. It was a very quiet drink. Andy'shouted' in his turn, and while I was drinking the second beer athought struck me.
'The Boss was away when the children were lost?'
'Yes,' said Andy.
'Strange you couldn't find him.'
'Yes, it was strange; but HE'LL have to tell you about that. Very likelyhe will; it's either all or nothing with him.'
'I feel damned sorry for the Boss,' I said.
'You'd be sorrier if you knew all,' said Andy. 'It's the worst troublethat can happen to a man. It's like living with the dead. It's--it'slike a man living with his dead wife.'
When we went home supper was ready. We found Mrs Head, bright andcheerful, bustling round. You'd have thought her one of the happiest andbrightest little women in Australia. Not a word about children or thefairies. She knew the Bush, and asked me all about my trips. She toldsome good Bush stories too. It was the pleasantest hour I'd spent for along time.
'Good night, Mr Ellis,' she said brightly, shaking hands with me whenAndy and I were going to turn in. 'And don't forget your pipe. Here itis! I know that Bushmen like to have a whiff or two when they turnin. Walter smokes in bed. I don't mind. You can smoke all night if youlike.'
'She seems all right,' I said to Andy when we were in our room.
He shook his head mournfully. We'd left the door ajar, and we could hearthe Boss talking to her quietly. Then we heard her speak; she had a veryclear voice.
'Yes, I'll tell you the truth, Walter. I've been deceiving you, Walter,all the time, but I did it for the best. Don't be angry with me, Walter!The Voices did come back while you were away. Oh, how I longed for youto come back! They haven't come since you've been home, Walter. Youmust stay with me a while now. Those awful Voices kept calling me, andtelling me lies about the children, Walter! They told me to kill myself;they told me it was all my own fault--that I killed the children. Theysaid I was a drag on you, and they'd laugh--Ha! ha! ha!--like that.They'd say, "Come on, Maggie; come on, Maggie." They told me to come tothe river, Walter.'
Andy closed the door. His face was very miserable.
We turned in, and I can tell you I enjoyed a soft white bed after monthsand months of sleeping out at night, between watches, on the hard groundor the sand, or at best on a few boughs when I wasn't too tired to pullthem down, and my saddle for a pillow.
But the story of the children haunted me for an hour or two. I've neversince quite made up my mind as to why the Boss took me home. Probablyhe really did think it would do his wife good to talk to a stranger;perhaps he wanted me to understand--maybe he was weakening as he grewolder, and craved for a new word or hand-grip of sympathy now and then.
When I did get to sleep I could have slept for three or four days, butAndy roused me out about four o'clock. The old woman that they calledAuntie was up and had a good breakfast of eggs and bacon and coffeeready in the detached kitchen at the back. We moved about on tiptoe andhad our breakfast quietly.
'The wife made me promise to wake her to see to our breakfast and sayGood-bye to you; but I want her to sleep this morning, Jack,' said theBoss. 'I'm going to walk down as far as the station with you. She madeup a parcel of fruit and sandwiches for you and Andy. Don't forget it.'
Andy went on ahead. The Boss and I walked down the wide silent street,which was also the main road; and we walked two or three hundred yardswithout speaking. He didn't seem sociable this morning, or any waysentimental; when he did speak it was something about the cattle.
But I had to speak; I felt a swelling and rising up in my chest, and atlast I made a swallow and blurted out--
'Look here, Boss, old chap! I'm damned sorry!'
Our hands came together and gripped. The ghostly Australian daybreak wasover the Bathurst plains.
We went on another hundred yards or so, and then the Boss said quietly--
'I was away when the children were lost, Jack. I used to go on a howlingspree every six or nine months. Maggie never knew. I'd tell her I had togo to Sydney on business, or Out-Back to look after some stock. Whenthe children were lost, and for nearly a fortnight after, I was beastlydrunk in an out-of-the-way shanty in the Bush--a sly grog-shop. The oldbrute that kept it was too true to me. He thought that the story of thelost children was a trick to get me home, and he swore that he hadn'tseen me. He never told me. I could have found those children, Jack. Theywere mostly new chums and fools about the run, and not one of the threepolicemen was a Bushman. I knew those scrubs better than any man in thecountry.'
I reached for his hand again, and gave it a grip. That was all I coulddo for him.
'Good-bye, Jack!' he said at the door of the brake-van. 'Good-bye,Andy!--keep those bullocks on their feet.'
The cattle-train went on towards the Blue Mountains. Andy and I satsilent for a while, watching the guard fry three eggs on a plate over acoal-stove in the centre of the van.
'Does the boss never go to Sydney?' I asked.
'Very seldom,' said Andy, 'and then only when he has to, on business.When he finishes his business with the stock agents, he takes a run outto Waverley Cemetery perhaps, and comes home by the next train.'
After a while I said, 'He told me about the drink, Andy--about his beingon the spree when the children were lost.'
'Well, Jack,' said Andy, 'that's the thing that's been killing him eversince, and it happened over ten years ago.'
A Bush Dance.
