Queensland Cousins

by Eleanor Luisa Haverfield

  CHAPTER II.

  BOB.

  Eustace was right: their father would not have gone to Brisbane hadit not been necessary; but this was not because Mr. Orban wastroubled by any fears for the safety of his family. He had lived solong in North Queensland that he was used to the solitude, andthought nothing of the dangers surrounding them. It distressed himto have to go away simply because he knew that his wife would beterribly nervous without him. Fifteen years in the colony had notaccustomed her to the loneliness of their position.

  Besides the two engineers, and the field manager, Mr. Ashton, whoall lived at the foot of the hill, the Orbans had no whiteneighbours nearer than five miles off. The field hands werecoloured men of some five or six different races, chiefly Chineseor Malays--the good-for-nothing riff-raff of their own countriescome to seek a living elsewhere.

  There was no society, no constant dropping in of friends, nothingto relieve the monotony of daily life. But none of this did Mrs.Orban mind; she was always busy and content by day. It was only ofthe night-time she was afraid, when strange-voiced creatures werenever silent an hour, weird cries from the scrub pierced the air,and there arose from the plantation below wild sounds, sometimes ofrevelry over a feast, the beating of tom-toms, and wailing ofvoices as the natives conducted their heathen worship, or indulgedin noisy quarrels likely to end in bloodshed between antagonistictribes.

  But though for some reasons the coolies were not pleasantneighbours, the house on the hill had nothing to fear from them.Their worst feature was their utter uselessness in any real danger,coming from quite another quarter. Though they might serve himsolely for their own benefit, and were for the most part thievesand rogues, the coolies had no desire to harm the white manpersonally.

  But wandering stealthily through the woods, homeless and lawless,is a race that hates the white man--the aborigines of Australia.Civilization has driven them farther and farther north, for theAustralian black-fellows cannot be tamed and trained--theirnature is too wild and fierce to be kept within bounds exceptby fear and crushing. They are treacherous and savage, and mostrepulsive in appearance. Though spoken of as black, they arereally chocolate-brown, but so covered with hair as to be verydusky.

  Being very cunning in their movements, it is always difficult toknow where they are, and there are often such long lapses betweenthe times they are heard of, that most people forget theirexistence as a matter of any importance. But Mr. Orban knew thathis wife was haunted by a very constant horror of them--a dreadlest one night the blacks should make a raid upon their plantation,as they had been known to do upon other white men's dwellings.

  What neither Mr. nor Mrs. Orban realized was how much Eustace andNesta knew of certain terrible events happening from time to timein just such isolated homes as their own. It was from the two youngwhite maidservants the children heard tales they listened to with akind of awful enjoyment by day, but which were remembered at nightwith a shudder. The creaking of the wooden house in which theylived as the boards contracted after the tropical heat of day, andthe weird sounds rising from the plantation below, held a hundredterrors to be ashamed of in the morning.

  Eustace and Nesta never spoke of these night panics to any one,least of all to each other--they seemed so silly when broaddaylight proved there had been absolutely nothing to be cowardlyabout.

  By some unspoken rule Peter was never allowed to hear thesestories. He was always considered so very much younger than Eustaceand Nesta that even the servants had the sense not to frighten him.So Peter's spirits were not damped by the thought of their father'sdeparture, and he knew nothing of the queer little tiff that hadtaken place between Eustace and Nesta.

  It is very odd how people can quarrel over a matter upon which theyare perfectly agreed; but they frequently do, especially when ithas anything to do with fear.

  Nesta went to bed that night still in the sulks, with an air of"You'll be sorry some day" about her every attitude. Eustace seemedinseparable from his book, and disinclined to talk. He went heavilyto bed, more troubled than ever because, though his mother wasunusually merry, making much of all the presents from England, andshowing great interest in them, he saw she was very white, andthere was still a strange look about her eyes. He suspected hergaiety to be only put on for their amusement, and he felt sorrierand sorrier for her.

  But a good night's rest did wonders for both children, and theycame in to breakfast in better humours. Nesta forgot to be tragicwhen she heard her father and mother discussing what materialshould be brought from Brisbane for the girls' new dresses. Newclothes were a rare event for the Orban children, and always causeda good deal of excitement.

  Eustace had been up early, and everything looked so calm, peaceful,and ordinary about the place that he was inclined to be more thanhalf ashamed of his outburst the day before. "After all," heargued, "nothing ever has happened to us--why should it now? Theblack-fellows have never come this way. Why should they, justbecause father is away? How could they get to know of his going?Besides, the plantation isn't so awfully far off."

  He had stood on the veranda and stared down at the sugar mill lyingat the foot of the hill, where Robertson and Farley lived; at Mr.Ashton's house, and all the familiar, odd-shaped huts in which thecoolies lived. It was all just as he had seen it every day of hislife, and nothing had ever happened--why, indeed, should it now?

  Mrs. Orban's interest in the new dresses was certainly notfeigned.

  "Now, Jack," she was saying as Eustace entered the room,"don't--don't go and ask for dusters. It is that pretty pink andblue check zephyr I want--pink for Becky, and blue for Nesta."

  "Well, dear, you must confess it is just like duster stuff--now,isn't it?" demanded Mr. Orban with a laugh.

  "O daddy, not a bit!" Nesta exclaimed. "What a horrid thought!"

  "Some of mother's dusters are very pretty, young woman," said herfather. "I wouldn't mind having shirts made of them myself."

  "I should object very much," Mrs. Orban said with a laugh; "youwould look like a coolie. But let us talk sense again."

  Talking sense meant talking business, which on this occasion wasthe making out of a list of really rather dull things wanted in thehouse.

  Daily life begins early on a sugar plantation. It was now onlyhalf-past six, and the house had been astir since half-past four;the children playing, Mrs. Orban working about the house, and Mr.Orban away down on the plantation. The comparative cool of themorning was the best time for any sort of activity. Later, as thefierce December sun rose higher, even the children became listlessand disinclined to race about.

  After breakfast, when Mr. Orban went back to work, Mrs. Orban gavethe children lessons--the only teaching they had ever had. Ateleven Mr. Orban returned for early dinner.

  To our English ideas the routine seems strange; but the Orbanchildren were used to it, and had no realization of how differentwas life in their parents' old home. It did not seem at all funnyeven to the twins to have tea at five, and go to bed at half-pastsix or seven. They were generally very ready for sleep by then,after their long, exhausting day.

  "I say, father," Eustace said suddenly, after a long meditationwhile business was being discussed, "I can stay up to dinner withmother when you are away--can't I? It will be awfully dull for herif I don't."

  "And me too," said Nesta, who never allowed it to be forgottenthat, being the same age as Eustace, she claimed the sameprivileges.

  "Rot," said Eustace; "you're only a girl."

  "And me too," chimed in Peter.

  "Oh, you silly baby," said Eustace impatiently, "what good wouldyou do?"

  Peter's delicate face became scarlet.

  "I could play games with mother quite as well as you," he said withan angry frown.

  "Mother doesn't want amusing like that to keep her from beingdull," Eustace declared. "She wants somebody who can talk sensiblylike father, and be grown up."

  Nesta gave a little derisive laugh.

  "Like father!" she repeated; "that is funny. I suppose yo
u thinkyou could be just like him. Why don't you ask him to let you smokeone of his pipes at once?"

  "Don't be silly, Nesta," Eustace retorted.

  "It's you who are silly," Nesta said, "thinking only boys can begrown up or of any use."

  "When you have quite done snapping each other's heads off,"interposed their father in his deep, quiet voice, "perhaps you willallow me to speak. As a matter of fact, the mother thinks of goingto bed with the cocks and hens herself."

  "To bed with the cocks and hens!" repeated Peter, with anexpression of blank surprise in his blue eyes.

  Now the cocks and hens many of them roosted under the house, whichwas built on pillars, and set some distance above the ground. Itwas not an attractive spot at any time, for here there also livedmany strange creatures, snakes amongst them.

  "Well, not exactly in the henhouse, Peter," said his father, with atwinkle in his eyes. "I dare say she will sleep as usual in her ownbedroom. I was referring more to the hour at which she says shemeans to go to bed--not very long after you."

  "Still you will have dinner--won't you, mummie?" Eustace said.

  "Certainly," Mrs. Orban answered with a smile; "and I don't thinkit would be a bad plan for you and Nesta to stay up for it, if youwill promise not to get up quite so early in the morning. We willhave dinner directly after Peter and Becky are in bed; but we won'tsit up late ourselves, any of us."

  Mrs. Orban certainly showed no signs of nervousness to-day; thestrained expression had left her eyes; she was laughing and talkingquite naturally.

  "I suppose," thought Eustace, "she was partly upset by the parcelfrom England."

  "Father," Nesta exclaimed, "I'm certain I hear a horse coming upthe hill. Who can it be at this time of day?"

  "Don't know, I'm sure," said her father; "it might be one of adozen people. You had better go and sing out 'friend or foe' overthe veranda; but I dare say it isn't a horse at all. More probablyit is old Hadji with the mail bag that ought to have come with theparcel yesterday."

  But the three elder children had disappeared out on to the verandaand were leaning over, straining their eyes down the road thatwound up the hill from the plain.

  It was a very rough road, with ruts in it sometimes two or threefeet deep. During the rains little better than a bog, it was nowburnt hard as flint.

  There was nothing to be seen though a mile of road was visible,lost now and then among bends; but the children listenedbreathlessly, and at last Eustace said,--

  "It is two horses and a four-wheel buggy, and it has only justbegun the hill. Let's go in and tell father."

  "Oh, what a bother it is so far off!" Nesta exclaimed, with a sighof impatience. "We shall have to wait ages to find out who it is."

  "Who do you think it can be, father?" Peter asked, as Eustaceexplained what he believed to be coming.

  "How should I know?" Mr. Orban answered with mock seriousness.

  "It might be a magician with milk-white steeds, or a fairygodmother, Peter, in a coach made out of pumpkins," said Mrs.Orban.

  "O mother!" Peter cried impatiently, "don't be silly--"

  The sentence was never completed; it finished in a howl of mingledpain and rage.

  "What on earth is the matter now?" asked Mr. Orban.

  "Eustace ki-ki-kicked me," stormed Peter, making a dive at hisbrother with doubled fists; but his father caught him and held himpinioned.

  "I can pretty well guess why," said the big man severely. "If hehadn't, I should have spanked you myself. How dare you say 'don'tbe silly' to your mother?"

  Peter hung his head.

  "I didn't mean--" he began.

  "I should just think you didn't mean it," said his father. "You'llkindly remember you've no right by birth to be a cad, and it iscaddish for a gentleman to speak like that to a lady--whether he isten years old or a hundred."

  "Besides," said Eustace, looking furiously at the small culprit,"mother couldn't be silly if she tried."

  Peter's humbled expression changed.

  "It wasn't for you to kick me," he spluttered resentfully; "I'llkick you back."

  "Oh, if you like to be a donkey," began Eustace in a lordly tone.

  "Who was donkey first?" demanded Peter.

  "I guess," said Nesta, who was accustomed to these scenes, "thebuggy may be in sight at the first bend by now. I'm going to look."

  Eustace followed.

  "Well, Peter, what comes next?" asked Mr. Orban, without letting gothe child's wrists.

  Peter looked over his shoulder towards his mother--the blue eyeswere swimming with tears, there was a choke in his voice.

  "I'm sorry, mummie," he gasped.

  The next moment he was clasped in his mother's arms, there was amanful struggle with gathering tears, and then like an arrow from abow Peter was off to the veranda with every intention of thumpingEustace soundly. But the news that greeted him there put the recentfray right out of his mind.

  "It is a buggy, Peter," said Nesta, "and I believe Bob Cochrane isdriving it."

  Now the Cochranes were the Orbans' nearest neighbours--the familythat lived only five miles away. It consisted of a father andmother and this young fellow Robert, who was six-and-twenty, theidol and greatest admiration of the Orban children's hearts. Intheir eyes there was nothing Bob could not do; his shooting, hisdriving and riding, his jokes, his ways--everything about him waswonderful. A visit from Bob was a splendid event, no matter whatthe hour of the day.

  Bob had a sister who was about the twins' age, and Nesta's onlyfriend.

  "It looks just like Bob's driving," said Eustace.

  Then they waited with eager faces, too excited to speak, tillsuddenly they all cried at once,--

  "It is Bob--it is--it is--it is!"

  Mr. and Mrs. Orban came out on to the veranda, Becky toddlingbehind.

  "There is no doubt about it," said Mr. Orban as he watched thejolting, bumping carriage toiling up the terribly steep hill thatwas almost too much for the horses, fine beasts though they were.

  "How strange of him to come in the buggy instead of riding, as heis alone," said Mrs. Orban.

  "Yes," chimed in Nesta, "that was just what I was thinking. Bobalways--always rides, excepting--"

  She paused to think whether she had ever seen Bob driving before,and Eustace finished her sentence for her.

  "Excepting when he doesn't," he said.

  "Goose," said Nesta tartly.

  "Or, more correctly speaking, 'gander,'" said Mr. Orban. "Well, weneedn't squeeze our heads to a pulp trying to guess what we shalllearn from Bob without the slightest trouble in another twentyminutes at most."

  When Bob Cochrane came within earshot he was greeted with such achorus of yells that not a single word could he hear of what thechildren were trying to say. He grinned back good-humouredly,waved, and whipping up his horses, came as fast as he could underthe veranda. Then he gathered the meaning of the noise.

  "What have you come for, Bob?" shouted the three.

  "What have I come for?" he repeated, with his particular laughwhich had a way of setting every one else off laughing too as arule. "Well, upon my word, that is a nice polite way to greet achap. I had better be off again."

  He was big, fair-haired, and gray-eyed, not handsome, but far toomanly for that to matter. As Manuel the Manila boy ran round thehouse to take charge of the horses, Bob got down from the buggy andsprang up the veranda steps in contradiction of his own words. Hewas surrounded at the top by the children, all talking at once.Without an attempt at answering, he picked up Becky, who adored himwith the rest, and passed on to Mr. and Mrs. Orban.

  "I apologize for the disorder," Mr. Orban said, "but they have beenworking themselves up into a fever of expectation ever since theyfirst heard the buggy wheels. Seriously though, I hope nothing iswrong at home. Your mother isn't ill, is she? You haven't come tofetch the wife as nurse, or anything?"

  Such friendly acts as these were the common courtesies of theirsimple colonial life. But Bob only laughed now.

>   "Oh, nothing wrong at all," he replied. "Mater is right enough; itis only Trix who is the trouble now. She doesn't seem to pick upafter that last bout of fever, and she is so awfully depressed andlonely, mother thought if you would let me take a couple of thechildren--Nesta and another--back with me for a week, it mightbrighten the kiddy up. Could you spare them, Mrs. Orban?"

  "With pleasure," began Mrs. Orban readily, when Nesta started asort of war-dance with accompanying cries of delight.

  "When you have quite done!" said Bob, with a solemn stare thatquelled the disturbance after a moment. "I shan't have an ear tohear with by the time I get home, at this rate. Well, who is theother one to be? You, Eustace?"

  Eustace coloured deeply. There was nothing he would have likedbetter. To go to the Highlands, as the Cochranes' plantation wascalled, was the greatest pleasure that could have been offeredhim--the treat had only come his way about twice in his life. Itmeant so much--rides with Bob, shooting with Bob, long ramblesalways with his hero.

  "I should like to awfully," he said, and stopped, lookingbeseechingly at his father.

  "Why, what's the matter, old chap?" asked Bob in a kindly voice."You're as limp as if all the starch had been boiled out of you.Come along if you want to, of course. Peter can come another time,if it's afraid of being selfish that you are."

  "But it isn't that," Eustace said with difficulty. "I mean I can't.You see, father is going away, and I couldn't leave mother."

  Bob darted a quick look at Mr. Orban.

  "Are you really going away?" he asked--"any distance, I mean?"

  "Unfortunately, yes," Mr. Orban said gravely. "I have to be awayabout a fortnight or three weeks. I go the day after to-morrow."

  Bob looked serious.

  "Oh, I say," he said, "I'm sorry."

  To Nesta, standing there in the sunshine, with a great big pleasureahead of her, the words conveyed nothing beyond a civil sympathywith the annoyance it must be to Mr. Orban to have to go away onbusiness. To Eustace, who must stay behind, there was somethingunderlying those few words that brought back all the fears of theday before.

  "It is a nuisance, but it can't be helped," Mr. Orban said;"business won't wait."

  "I am sorry," repeated Bob, with that same strange solemnity,"because I can't offer to come and stay here while you are away.Father is going away too, and of course I couldn't leave the materand Trix. If only it hadn't happened just now--"

  "It is very good of you to think of it, Bob," said Mrs. Orban, "butof course we shall be perfectly safe. I think I would rather youtook Peter, though," she added in a lower tone. "Eustace is morecompanionable. I can spare one of the twins, but not both at once."

  "Of course," agreed Bob.

  He was strangely unlike his usual cheerful self, but he rousedhimself, as every one seemed to be looking at him, and added,"Could the children be ready to go back with me soon?"

  "Stay till the heat is over, and drive home in the cool with them,"suggested Mr. Orban. "I'll say good-bye for the present; I'm due atthe plantation."

  Eustace was left alone with Bob, for the others went with theirmother to watch her preparations for their departure.

  "Well, old man," questioned Bob from the depths of a cane chair,where he had flung himself for a quiet smoke, "what's up?"

  Eustace stood staring at him.

  "I say," he said with some difficulty, "it's beastly about fathergoing, isn't it?"

  "Rather," said Bob carelessly. "Mrs. Orban will feel awfully dull."

  "That isn't the worst of it," said the lad mysteriously.

  "Really?" questioned Bob indifferently, as he packed his pipe withgreat apparent interest.

  "You know it isn't, Bob," Eustace broke out desperately.

  "Do I?" questioned Bob lazily, but with a shrewd glance at thethin, pale face before him. "Why, what's the trouble?"

  "It's the black-fellows," Eustace said in a half whisper.

  Bob raised his eyebrows a little, and was again attentive to hispipe.

  "Indeed?" he said; "what about them?"

  "They are all round us in the scrub; you never know where theyare," Eustace said with a gulp.

  "They always are, and one never does," said Bob lightly. "I don'tsee that it matters. Are you in a funk about them?"

  The cool question brought crimson to Eustace's cheeks.

  "No," he said sturdily, "but they are a fearfully low grade lot,and--and they have done some awful things in lonely places, out ofrevenge, on white people."

  Bob looked up sharply.

  "What do you know about it?" he asked in a voice that soundedalmost stern.

  "The servants--Kate and Mary--have told us stories," Eustaceexplained.

  "Oh, they have, have they?" Bob positively snorted in indignation."Then they deserve to be sacked."

  He was silent a long time, puffing out volumes of smoke, then hesaid suddenly,--

  "Look here, Eustace, don't get stupid and frightened about theblack-fellows. Your father has never done them any harm; they havenothing to revenge here, for he hasn't interfered with any ofthem."

  "But Kate says that doesn't matter," Eustace said dismally. "Shesays they have a deadly hatred against all white people."

  "Kate is an ignorant goose," growled Bob; "much she can know aboutit! Why, my father has had black-fellows in his employment foryears, and they've been all right. Don't you listen to Kate'snonsense."

  There was silence awhile, then Bob went on,--

  "But I tell you what I'll do, if it will be any comfort to Mrs.Orban. I'll come over nearly every day and hang about the place asif I were living here. How would that do?"

  "I should like it, of course, and I believe mother would," said theboy slowly.

  "Of course you would be all right anyhow," Bob said bracingly.

  "Of course," repeated Eustace with less certainty, hesitated, thenwent on haltingly, "but supposing--of course I believe you,Bob--but just only supposing one night some black-fellows did turnup, what should you do?"

  "I should shoot them," Bob said promptly.

  "But if you were me?" questioned Eustace.

  "Oh, if I were you," repeated Bob thoughtfully. "Well, of course,you wouldn't shoot them--they wouldn't be scared enough of a chapyour size. On the whole, I think if I were you I should scoot downthe hill as hard as I could go for Robertson, Farley, and Ashton.They would soon settle matters."

  "But that would be leaving mother to face them alone," objectedEustace.

  Bob stared solemnly for one moment, then broke into a laugh.

  "Cheer up, old boy," he exclaimed; "you look as if you had a wholetribe at your heels this minute. Why, what has happened to you? Ithought you had more spirit than to be scared by a pack of sillymaids' stories."

  The laugh was so genuine, the look in Bob's eyes so quizzical, thatEustace felt suddenly abashed, and as if he had been making astupid fuss about nothing. With all his heart he wished he had notmentioned the subject to Bob--Bob whose opinion he valued above allothers, except, perhaps, his own father's.