# The Author's Daughter/Chapter 13

CHAPTER XIII.
BUSHING IT.
"If we don't get to Gundabook to-m'ght we will be badly off for supper, and there is no water to be got that I know of," said Allan Lindsay, after they had ﬁnished the provisions they had taken with them. "I don't like the wind coming up so strong. I would fain have allowed the horses a longer Spell, but I think we must push on."
"There is thunder in the air," said Amy, in a low voice.
"I hope we will get forward before it comes on," said Allan; "I know you cannot hear being out in it. So, Mr. Lufton, get Isabel's horse and . I will mount Amy. Riding habits are very pretty, girls, and you both look very well in them, but they are a great encumbrance at times. Could you not tuck them up a little,so as to leave you more freedom? Keep close ​to me, Amy; I know Brownie, and Mr. Lufton does not"
Amy was losing her self-possession at the idea of a thunderstorm coming on; she had never been out in one since the fatal day when she lost her father. Mr. Lufton did not think there was any chance of such a thing; but Allan quickened the pace of the party as much as he thought the horses could bear, and never took his eye off Amy and Brownie. After about twelve miles' journey through a dense scrub, the wind shiﬁed, and the sky became suddenly black, and one distant roll of thunder was heard.
"Let us stop here—let us get down at once," said Amy. "I'll camp here all night rather than ride through the storm that is coming. If you want to go on, go without me, and come back for me to-morrow. Oh Allan, help me off Brownie."
"Why, Amy, there is nothing to be alarmed at," said Allan.
"There really is not," said Lufton; "there will be little or no thunder and it is very distant."
"But I am alarmed—unreasonably alarmed—do let me get down."
Her piteous pleading had no ﬂinty hearts to move. Though all the rest of the party were ​very anxious to reach Gundabook that night, and saw no reason why they should not, they dismounted. Amy was in general so reasonable and so accommodating that they knew her terror must be real and great, and they gave way to her and endeavoured to soothe her fears. Allan hobbled the horses so that they could not wander far from the place, and they prepared to spend the night in the scrub without supper, bed, or breakfast, and with the chance of a ducking.
"If it rains hard you will all be drenched to the skin, and there are no hollow trees to take shelter in, even if it was safe on account of the lightning," said Allan.
"And my beautiful new habit will be spoiled, and that will be a sad pity," said Amy. "I wish I was not such a coward, but I cannot venture on horseback again till this is over. There is the thunder again. Oh dear! oh dear!" and she took Allan's hand and clung close to him for protection.
They sat huddled together for an hour, in which the storm continued. There was a little rain, but not so much as might have been expected. Amy rejoiced that her habit was not ruined by the wet. But the night closed over them before she could make up her mind to ​mount Brownie again, and there appeared to be nothing to be done but bushing it.
"I don't quite like the idea of the young ladies being out all night without food or shelter. We men think nothing of it, but it is different with ladies, and so near Gundabook as we ale—within an hour's ride," said Mr. Lufton.
"A good hour and a half's now that it is so dar," said Allan.
"I am sure that your horse could carry you in an hour, Allan," said Mr. Lufton.
"He might perhaps, but Brownie and Prince Charlie are both tired. However, if you would venture, Amy, there is a little moonlight."
"Oh! no, don't ask me; I don't mind camping out here, but I am afraid of journeying in the dark."
"If I were not as blind as a mole in the dark," said Lufton, "I would think nothing of pushing on to Gundabook and returning with some provisions and wrappings that Mrs. Copeland would be glad to furnish me with, for it is wretched to have nothing but the damp ground to lie on. I know Copeland has a splendid wallaby rug that he would send."
"A wallaby rug ten miles off is likely to keep us very warm," said Isabel, shivering a little in the cold night air. "We will make the best of our ​own blanket and dream of the rug. Why, Amy, you are colder than I am."
"I'll ride across at once," said Allan, "George will give me a fresh horse, and I will be back in two hours."
"Oh! don't go," said Amy; "you may lose the tracks, and then where shall we be?"
"You will be where I leave you," said Allan, laughing; "it is where I will be that is the question; but I am too practised a bushman to lose myself in such a track as this. Mr. Lufton, take good care of the girls for two hours, for I will not be longer than that away. I don't think there will be any more thunder or rain."
Amy remonstrated, but Isabel rather urged her brother to go, so that he took his own way, and set off for Gundabook. Here was a most interesting and romantic situation for Mr. Lufton. Two very ﬁne girls, both under seventeen, altogether placed under his protection for two hours and probably for longer; night coming on fast, and absolute silence and seclusion for miles around. He could not have fancied anything happening so congenial to his tastes or so opportune for his hopes.
But he had not been long left in charge when he Wished Allan back again. He fancied that it ​was because there were two young ladies, and that he could have managed to entertain on; but it really was the solitarlness and the dreariness of the situation that baffled him. Talk very suitable for a picnic party in fine weather with abundance of provisions was felt to be scarcely the kind of conversation to offer to two frightened girls in a dark night in the wilds, who had neither fire nor candle nor supper. He could only say there was no cause for alarm about Allan, which Isabel, as well as Amy, began to express as soon as he had really gone, and try to exaggerate the necessity of providing something more comfortable for them.
"I am sure I wish you had not put the notion into Allan's head, Mr. Lufton," said Isabel "It is all very well for you to,say you would have gone off, when you knew hat you would have been of no use; but if anything happens to .411n.n, I'll blame myself for evermore that I took up your notion."
"Nothing will happen to Allan, except that he'll perhaps get his supper an hour and a half before us," said Mr. Luffon, testily.
"That's a very likely thing," said Isabel, "Allan is not the one to think about his own supper when we are waiting for ou like an Englishman." ​"Englishman or Scotchman, there could be no harm in his taking something to eat while Copeland gets him a horse ready," said Mr. Lufton.
"You may think so, but Allan will help to get the horse for himself; and I am sure I wish he was back here with it. If we had not stopped at Richlands last night, we might have easily got forward before the weather changed," said Isabel.
"Then we should have been obliged to camp out last night in all probability instead of this," urged Lufton.
"But it was a far better night, and we would never have thought of sending Allan away," said Isabel.
"It is rather hard that I should be reproached for obtaining you good quarters for one night, because the weather has prevented us from reaching our destination to-day. I appeal to you, Miss Staunton. Is not your fair friend too hard upon me?" said Lufton.
"The fault is all mine," said Amy; "I am ashamed of myself for being such a coward."
"No, it is not your fault at all, for you begged Allan to stay, and if he were only here, I'd not mind a pin for the night or the cold or anything. Do strike another match and look at the time, ​Mr. Lufton. If he is coming at all he ought to be here now," said Isabel.
"I have only three or four left in my box," said Mr. Lufton. "I think you had better not make me look every five minutes. It can do no good, and it will not be safe to be without the means of striking a light in case of the worst."
It seemed a long time after Mr. Lufton had expended the last match he dared, which showed that Allan had been gone for nearly three hours, before the girls heard the tramp of hoofs in the silence, and both of them had been worked up to a great pitch of excitement and alarm.
"I hope you have been keeping up the girls' spirits, Mr. Lufton," said Allan, when he had reached the camping-place, "for I have been longer than I expected. My own horse was tired, and this one felt aggrieved at being taken out at night, and I could not get him to go half so fast as I expected." .
"We thought you had missed the tracks," said Amy, "and were very much afraid about you."
"We have been very miserable," said Isabel, "and as dull as we could be."
"I am surprised at that, when I left you in such good keeping. I thought girls could not be dull in Mr. Lufton's company," said Allan.
​"I am sure he has not been the least entertaining," said Isabel; "has he, Amy 'I"
"It has been dull for Mr. Lufton as well as for us," said Amy, apologetically. "I Wish I was not so much to blame for the uncomfortable night we are likely to pass."
"Oh! the worst is over now," said Isabel. "Allan has come loaded with provisions and with that beautiful rug; I don't wonder at the horse taking it leisurely."
And under the combined feelings of relief at Allan's return and the comfortable sensations which the food and mappings gave rise to, the party recovered their spirits. No meal was ever more heartily enjoyed than this supper, so far fetched and wearied for, though it was groped for in the dark, and eaten in the most unsophisticated manner. Perhaps the solitude had never echoed with such laughter as that with which our young people seasoned their supper. Mr. Lufton recovered his spirits and his temper, and proposed an appropriate toast in a neat speech to their better luck next day, which was drunk in Branxholm wine out of a broken wine-glass by the whole company in succession.
The novelty of the situation kept Amy awake longer than her fatigue. The sky cleared and the dew fell heavily. She watched the moon ​set in the west and the stars slowly revolving in the heavens. It was something to recollect all her life, this night in the bush, wrapped in the great wallaby rug with Isabel. It was more like being on shipboard than else. She recollected well falling asleep one evening in the tropics on deck, and waking to be startled by the sight of the blue sky and the shining stars; but there she had her father by her side. He had never left her for a moment while she slept. At last with the thought of him in her mind she dropped off to sleep. It was broad daylight when she awoke on hearing a sharp unusual sound. Allan stood near, and she saw he was intent on something. Isabel started up too, and asked what was the matter.
"Nothing particular, only you had better get up, and let us get as fast as we can to Gundabook," said Allan, coolly.
"But there is something particular," said Isabel. "What is it, Allan? a snake? have you killed it?'
"Yes, but not a bad one, nothing to make a fuss about; I knocked it on the head with my heavy whip-handle. I dare say it would have done you no harm, but I did not like to see it so near you. I'll take it away, and you can get up in security, for I don't think either of you like ​the look of a dead snake." And Allan carried off the dead reptile.
Mr. Lufton could not help wondering at the promptitude and skill of the blow, and at the light account Allan gave of it. He did not know much of snakes, and was suspicious of all the tribe, but he believed this to be a venomous one.
The expression of thankfulness that passed over Allan's face when he turned to Mr. Lufton shewed that the creature had been really considered dangerous by him.
"I mean to manage better when we return," he said in a low voice; "there must be no camping out in that journey, Mr. Lufton."
It was a hurried breakfast that the party took before starting, more with the idea of not carrying back or wasting the provisions Allan had fetched than from hunger, for they were all eager to reach their journey's end. Now in daylight the few miles seemed no distance at all, and as they went along they saw a great improvement in the appearance of the country. Both George and Jessie had come some distance on the road to meet them, and their welcome was as hearty as they could expect. Mr. Lufton was almost sorry that he had not kept Gundabook, now it looked so promising, and complimented Mr. Copeland on his success.
​The Copelands felt Mr. Lufton's visit rather an intrusion, because they wanted a quiet family conclave to discuss the invitation to return to England to help the old gentleman with the farm of Millmount, and, besides, they had a jealousy of Mr. Lufton on Allan's account Allan had heard the subject of Mr. Copeland's letter hurriedly broached on the preceding evening, and he had himself such strong ideas on the subject of a son's duty by his father that he was disposed to think George should go, though the family at Branxholm would miss him and Jessie greatly.
When Amy had her ﬁrst opportunity of speaking quietly to Jessie, she told her of Mrs. Troubridge's offer. Jessie saw how favourable such a situation at Richlands would be for Mr. Lufton's pretensions, and eagerly interrupted her by Saying.
"But you refused it, though it was very well meant, no doubt. You know they cannot spare you from Branxholm. How would the get on without you?"
"That is what I felt, and I said to Mrs. Troubridge that I could not leave you But yet, don't be angry with me, but tell me plainly if you think it wrong; I do sometimes wish to be among different people. I don't mean Mrs. Troubridge in particular, though she was very ​kind, but when I was at Bulletin I met with Mr. Prince, who used to teach the Hammonds, and talking with him brought up so many things to remind me of dear papa. I could not help thinking that if he had lived things would have been so different for me. I do miss him so to look up to. Don't be angry, for I do respect and like your good father and mother, and Allan and you, and all of you, but—"
"Yes, Amy, it is very natural that you should think so. But if you were to go into the world and take your right place, there you might learn to despise the plain homely people you are now at home with."
"No, never to despise them, never! It is only a passing thought, perhaps. I have promised Mrs. Troubridge a visit if Mrs. Lindsay will spare me; she is going to call at Branxholm to persuade them to part with me."
"Mr. Lufton is always talking about Mrs. Troubridge; I suppose he is often at Richlands?"
"I suppose so, but you never saw such a stupid person as he is to, travel with. We had such a disaster yesterday because he would light a fire, when any one might have seen the danger of it; and at night when we were so anxious about Allan, the only comfort he offered us was, that Allan was staying to take a good supper ​with you. It seemed to us as if he never would come back. And of course it was Allan that killed the snake this morning."
"Then you were not very much taken with Bulletin, or with its owner?"
"Oh! Bulletin is not to be compared with Branxholm. I am quite sorry now I had my portrait taken there, especially as Mr. Lufton takes so much credit for it. There are to be views taken at Branxholm,' and if possible portraits of your father and mother, before we return."
"Oh! I am so glad" said Jessie, "for I will prize them very much if I go to England; as I am likely to do."
"You going to England?" said Amy with a tone of regret.
"Yes, Mr. and Mrs. Copeland urge it so earnestly that I do not think I can oppose it, as George's heart seems to be for the move. I am a little feared about how I will get on with a strange father-in-law and mother-in-law, for they are set on George and me taking up our abode in the house. And my being both Scotch and colonial will put me at a disadvantage with them, for I will have to learn their ways and to unlearn my own, and you know I am not very notice-taking. But if we have to go I'll do my ​best; George thinks there is no fear of me, but his opinion of my capacity is downright extravagant. I'm sure there never was a man easier to please than him, and he gives me credit for it,
as if he was the most cantankerous being in the world."
"Are you then really going to the farm—to Millmount, on the Stanmore property?" said Amy eagerly.
" There's no great permanence on these English farms like what my father speaks of in Scotland. George does not think his father has got a lease, but the old Squire does not turn out the tenants so long as they pay their rent ."
"But suppose the old Squire were dead, would the young Squire—this Mr. Anthony Derrick that George speaks of—make any change?"
I don't know; I fancy Mr. Copeland thinks that now he is growing old, the squire would be more likely to keep him on if he had a young active son to help with the farm, and he cannot hear the notion of leaving Millmount."
"Then you may see that young Mr. Derrick; you will be sure to see him," said Amy.
"He does not go much amongst the tenantry, I hear; but then he has been at college, and ​abroad, and down to the south of England with his grandfather."
"But you will hear about him," said Amy eagerly. "Do ﬁnd out for me how he is liked, and his sister too, Edith Derrick: I wonder if she is at all like me."
"Then are you nearly related to these great people?" said Jessie.
"Very nearly; they are my mother's children."
"Your mother's children!—your brother and sister! Why did not you write to them instead of to that aunt who was so profuse in her thanks to that dear Mrs. Lindsay?'"
"I do not know that they ever heard of me. All mamma's friends, all Mr. Derrick's friends, and papa's friends, too, were so displeased at her marriage with papa that we never saw anything of them, or got any letters from them. But Mrs. Evans came to see papa after mamma died, and that is the reason I wrote to her."
"George says he heard no ill of young Mr. Anthony," said Jessie, thoughtfully; "but if I see him I'll tell you what I think of him."
"I wonder if I ought to have written. I do not feel as if I could do it now; but if you could in some way or other mention my name and who my father was before him, you could discover, ​I think, whether he had ever heard about
"Oh, Amy! you are wearying of Branxholm," said Jessie.
"No, no; if he asks about me tell him I am very happy and quite independent. Don't speak as if I was in any need of anything from him. Though I said I missed something, don't think that I would prefer a life among people who, though related closely to me, are absolute strangers to me, and who might think themselves very generous and benevolent in giving me a home, to the life I have at Branxholm. But I long to get a friendly letter, though it might be a short one, from my brother or my sister;and I should like to be able to write to them, and tell them about dear mamma, and what she said about them when she died."
"And that's all you think is likely to come of it if I go home, and if the Copelands are still at Millmount, and if I see the young Squire, and if I have the chance of speaking about it," said Jessie, thoughtfully.
"A good many ifs," said Amy, "for such a small result. But you can scarcely imagine how I long after a little thing from these unknown relatives. You have your father and mother and ​brothers and sisters, and friendly uncles and aunt;and cousins."
"And yet all seems nothing to me in comparison with George," said Jessie; "that is to say, if he thinks it right to take me away from them I will not say a word against it, though for my own part I know I'll think long for a sight of Branxholm and of the faces there. I might never see my father or mother more in this world. I'll trust to your letters about them, Amy, to let me know how they keep in health, and how they get on without us; that is to say, if we do go, for you think it no trouble to go into particulars. I am sure George and me laughed as if we'd never stop at your account of Phemie's first baking, and the way she said if the pastry was not light it was well-tasted, and my mother's saying that with the best of ﬂour and the best of butter she would be clever if she made it ill-tasted. And all that about Hughie's shooting, too; none of the others would think it worth While to write these things, but they carry me back to Branxholm, and I'll need them all the more if I leave the colony altogether."
Amy promised to be very minute in her epistles in such a case; and though her mind was strangely preoccupied with the idea that Jessie might soon actually see her brother and sister ​she suffered herself to be taken round the place, and looked at the improvements along with the others. Fortified with Allan's opinion, George now spoke as if his going to England was a settled thing; and Isabel was full of indignation at the idea.
"I know what will be he upshot," said she. "Allan will have to come here, and Jamie will be so set up about taking his place a Branxholm that he'll be more tiresome and provoking than ever. Him and me's,for ever quarrelling about something or other. Don't look a me so, Amy; I can say it better when I like; but he and I are for ever quarrelling' sounds just like a book, does it not, Ms Lufton?"
"I am afraid you do not stand much in awe of your teacher, M Isabel But a truce to pedantry—what do you quarrel about" said Mr. Lufton.
"Not much, but then neither of us will give in; we are both rather dour."
"Dour I surely that is not English, Miss Staunton?" said Mr. Lufton. "It is a capital word, English or not English," said Isabel, "and I read in one of Amy's books that when a Scotch word expresses one's meaning best you should be free to use it."
​"I suppose it means stubborn," said Mr. Lufton.
"No, for that is something wicked—a stubborn and rebellious son was to be killed in the Scriptures; but my father is rather dour, and Jamie and me take after him, and Allan's near hand as dour as my father."
"I suppose, then, it means not easily convinced that you are in the wrong, Miss Isabel," said Lufton, who began to ﬁnd that this young Lindsay was lively and agreeable.
"Something like that. It's not easy to get a notion into our heads, and it's far harder to drive it out of them. But the provoking about Jamie is that he never will get angry though he is so aggravating and the more I speak to him the worse he grows. Allan and Jessie are the only ones that know how to manage him, and they'll both be gone from Branxholm soon, it's likely. I wish George and Jessie would consider our father and mother a little, and not be so much taken up with his."
"It is the way of the world," said Mr. Lufton; "you'll do the very same when you are married —:just what your husband wishes."
"'No; just catch me doing that! I mean to have every bit of my own way than," said Isabel.
"Oh! it's very fine talking beforehand, but ​you know you must promise and vow to obey, Miss Isabel," said Mr. Lufton.
"No, indeed! I'll get a good-natured minister like the one that married my father and mother. He always left out the Word 'obey,' for, as he said, he did not know what bargain the couple had made between themselves, and he saw no good in interfering with it; and, what is more, he thought that if the wife was willing to obey, and the husband could make her do it, she'd submit to his orders whether she promised to do it or not, and if she had made up her mind to the contrary, all the vows under heaven would not make her submissive. That's what I call a sensible man! he gave plenty of good advice and cautioning at weddings and christenings, my mother said, but he neither questioned folk too hard nor made them promise more than he thought they were likely to perform."
"And the word was really left out in the marriage service?" said Mr. Lufton, with an Englishman's incredulity as to any latitude taken in such things by an officiating clergyman. "I shall want more evidence of such a strange exception to the rule."
"It really was," said Allan; "both my father and mother assert the fact."
"Well, with or wit-ma the vow, Mrs. Lindsay ​is a model wife. I cannot think how she brought you up with such notions of matrimonial duties, Miss Isabel. But if you really wan to keep Allan at home I should be very glad to take Gundabook off your father's hands rather than that it should make such a division of your family."
"Now that it is so improved!" said Isabel, who did not want for the family shrewdness; "but you'll have to convince my father, and, as I told you, that is no easy mater, for what he begins he always carries out; and if i were necessary for Gundabook that he should go there himself, he'd go and make no words about i No; you had better try to drive George Copeland off his notions about England if you want to be a friend of the family."
"Of course if I did repurchase Gundabook I should compensate your father for his improvements; and Copeland has really done a great deal, both for the house and the
"He is very handy, George, I'll say that for him, though I've a very black crow to pick with him just now. But even if you offered what you thought a long price for the improvements I don't think you would come near up to my fathers notion of what they are worth," said
"You ought to think your sister very lucky to ​be taken to England. It is the thing that we all aim at. You see how Mrs. Hammond's ambition could not be satisﬁed in Australia I am sure, Miss Staunton, though you are saying nothing about it, that you are rather envying than pitying Mrs. Copeland."
"Not for leaving her father and mother," said Amy, roused from her reverie.
"But there are some things to be found in England that you must regret and long for," urged Mr. Lufton.
"Some things; yes, there are many things," said Amy.
"I know there are many things," said Lufton. "My visit to England has been long delayed, but I hope to accomplish it ere long. Every letter I get from home, every newspaper I read, only shows me how much one misses in these wilds."
A little sigh from Amy encouraged Mr. Lufton; there was no doubt that she regretted her native land, and be (Mr. Lufton) was much more likely to gratify her wishes than any one she knew.
The fortnight that was to be spent at Gundabook was abridged, and the stay of Allan and the girls was full of business and cares. Mr. Lufton remained only a few days, and pressed the travellers to take the same route on their return; ​but time was precious, and they took the road by Grant's station, which George and Jessie had done.
Mr. and Mrs. Lindsay were greatly disconcerted by George Copeland's change of plans for life. They had hoped, by coming out to Australia, to be able to keep their children near them for their lives, and that had been one main reason for emigrating. The scatterings of Scottish families of all ranks, and especially in Hugh Lindsay's own rank, are far and wide, and often result in lifelong separations. As he had accumulated property in the colony, Mr. Lindsay had felt that there was room enough on his own land for his sons and his daughters; and be dealt fairly and kindly by them all, so that there was little inducement for them to go far from him. But here was another father and mother claiming a son to whom his eldest and his favourite daughter was irrevocably bound, and against whom he had no. right to claim her. Little as the old man showed his affection in words, it was very evident that this departure of Jessie cost him a great deal—more even than it cost her mother. She, good woman, had left home and kindred to go to the ends of the earth with him, and would cheerfully do it again with or for him, and she knew that Jessie accepted this trial as one of the ​conditions of her marriage. Not but what Mrs. Lindsay, as usual, had more to say of the hardships of parting with Jessie than her husband had, but she relieved herself in that way.
As for Allan's going to Gundabook, she had still more objections to make to that than to George's leaving it. Jamie might have a trial there. So long as he was at Branxholm he did not take his fair share of the work, but trusted too much to Allan or to Harry Weir. Besides, Allan was the most skilled with the plough, and with the reaping machine, and had most knowledge about the garden; and if things went wrong at Branxholm that would be worse than if there were losses at Gundabook. George Copeland had given the out-station a capital start, and Jamie was a year and a half older than when it was undertaken. Donald was steady enough, and his wife a quiet, civil body, though not over clean; but better men than Jamie had had no better company. Jamie himself was very willing to go, and there was no occasion why Allan should be sent from work of far more consequence.
The mother's arguments had their effect, and the younger brother went to Gundabook, while the youngest of the family, Hughie, was taken from the school, where his mother said he was ​only losing his time, and employed in those departments which Jamie had' taken, with a promise that if he did well, and if he wished it, he should be sent back to Adelaide in a year. But Hughie took kindly to the work, and never asked to return to any learning.
When George and Jessie had sailed for London, Amy had many hopes, and fears, and doubts as to whether she was right in to remind her brother and sister of her existence; but as many months passed before she could hear at all, and several more before the Derricks came to live at Stanmore, she heard little or nothing except the same indistinct rumours that had reached her before from Mr. and Mrs. Copeland's letters. Gradually she gave herself up to the idea that nothing was ever to come of it, and ceased to speak of the matter even to It, had always been a very distasteful subject to him, and he was not sorry when she dropped it.