# In Bad Company, and other Stories/A Transformation Scene

A TRANSFORMATION SCENE
'Look alive, boys,' said Hugh Tressider; 'we must slog on for the next hour or two. Pitch dark, and going to be a wet night; but if we don't lose the road we shall pull Barallan before bedtime. There we're sure of a yard and a welcome. A night's sleep won't do us any harm.'
'A night's sleep? Dashed if I've had any for a week,' growled the head stock-rider. 'I'm fit to drop off my bloomin' moke this minute; and he's just the size to kick me for falling. Them blessed B.R. cattle's like a mob of kangaroos for breaking and rushin' if so much as a 'possum squeals or a stick breaks. But I know Mr. Bayard's is a regular stunning place to stop at. Gentle or simple, it's all one to him. He's a gentleman as is a gentleman; and every workin' man in the district 'll say the same.'
'All right, Joe; then stir up those lads and the black-fellow a bit; don't let the tail cattle struggle, whatever you do. I'll go on with the lead; my old horse will keep the track.'
'What a thundering wild night it's going to be,' said the drover to himself as he threaded his way through the thick-growing timber, skirting the half-seen wildish herd, which, but a week from the pastures where they had been bred, were still troublesome and prone to break back at the smallest opportunity. The rain, which had held off during the gusty, stormy day, now carne down in driving sleety showers, ice-cold, and wetting to the skin the dogged, silent horsemen, who, by the nature of things, were incompletely clothed for resisting so serious a downfall. The cattle, beginning to low with discomfort and uneasiness, were with difficulty restrained from facing towards the opposite point of the compass, away from ​the blinding storm, which now drove full in their teeth. To those unacquainted with the skill, acquired by long experience in this particular occupation, it would have seemed little short of a miracle that four men and a black boy, who had also the special care of a pack-horse, could guide six hundred head of unwilling, half-wild cattle through a thickly-timbered country on so dark a night, with rain and storm to complicate matters withal.
But it was possible. It was done well and effectively. The leader's horse, an Arab-looking grey, visible from time to time, denoted each turn and direction of the road. The quick eyes of the stock-riders were seldom at fault, and detecting each straggling animal, they were instant to urge a wheel before separation from the main body took place. The gregarious habit of cattle was in their favour, as also their indisposition to straggle over-much in the darkness. When they were doubtful, the piercing organ of the man of the woods was called into play. His decision was prompt and unerring.
It was, 'Me see 'um two fellows cow and that one red bullock yan along a gully, likit picaninny way. You hold 'em, this one pack-horse, me fetch 'um.' And back they came accordingly. One hour, then another, had slowly passed. The rain had ceased, but the heavens were ebon black and murky. Still rode the man, who had first spoken, at the head of the great drove, which, lowing from time to time, kept plodding monotonously forward, at other times silent and all but soundless as a procession of ghostly beeves, escorted by a company of spectre horsemen.
Wet and weary, chilled to the bone, too dispirited to speak—indeed conversation would have been difficult under the circumstances of compulsory separation—the jaded stock-riders moved on; the rain-drops showering from the leaves as they brushed from time to time under the low-growing shrubs and sapling eucalyptus, the horses' feet sinking deeply in the clay and decomposed gravel of the forest; or splashing shoulder-deep through the mountain streams that crossed their track; their watchful outlook strained and concentrated to the fullest, each man at his allotted station. It was a phase of Australian backwoods life not always credited to the much-enduring bushman.
'By George! this is a hard life,' soliloquised the weary pioneer, for such he had been in more than one colony, as he ​sat, stiff, sore, and aching in every limb, upon his game but over-tired horse. 'Hold up, old man, you haven't had the saddle off your back nor I my clothes for the last six-and-thirty hours; but another half-hour will see you in a good paddock and me in Barallan parlour, with the cattle safe inside of post and rails, if we haven't taken a wrong track. Only for Bandah we should have followed the old Bundoorah road, a mile back, and found ourselves in the middle of a howling scrub, with a strong chance of losing these confounded B.R. cattle, the worst herd to drive in the district, and no more likelihood of bed or supper than if we were afloat on a raft.'
And here the travel-worn bushman, sodden and soaked, splashed and sleepy as he was, laughed aloud at the absurdity of the conceit
Managing to light his pipe again by sheltering the match with his shut hand against the night-wind, in a manner peculiar to backwoods Australians, he was silent for a while. Then recommenced: 'Yes, a hard life, this of mine; work and anxiety by day and by night, wet and dry, hot or cold, burnt up and scorched in the summer, half drowned and starved with cold in the winter, and all for what? Just for a decent living, with little enough chance of putting by anything for a rainy day—I mean for a dry season,' he added, with another laugh. 'Well, though it is a hard life, I wouldn't exchange it for everyday work in a merchant's office, in a bank, or a Government department. These may be very well for some people, but they wouldn't suit Hugh Tressider at all. Give me the open air for it! And then, hard as the occasional rubs are, you have the benefit of contrast, and enjoy it all the more, as I shall a good supper and a good bed, which I'm morally certain to drop in for to-night. What a trump that Arnold Bayard is! If all squatters were like him, travelling would be a luxury and a privilege. Besides, I have the comfort of thinking—and it does keep me from being a peg too low at times—that all my hard work has not been for my own advantage, and that I have benefited others. Bless all their hearts! How I wish I could do more for them. Was that a dog's bark? Yes, by Jove! and there's the Barallan paddock fence on the left; it makes a wing to the stock-yard. Right you are, old man' (to his horse); 'we can't go wrong now; we'll go back, and help a bit with the tail.'
​Making back to the next horseman, Tressider shook up the leg-weary but still game and willing hackney, and finding his way to the rear, informed all hands of the change in their immediate prospects, with the certainty of a speedy entrance into a haven of rest and refection. The intelligence had a distinctly stimulating effect. The pace of the drove was perceptibly quickened. Men, dogs, and horses seemed to have acquired new life and spirit. In less than half an hour the cattle were safely bestowed in a capacious stock- yard, the gates carefully secured, and the whole party dismounted before the outbuildings of Barallan Station.
Though it had been dark for four hours by the watches of the night, it was not more than half-past ten by the clock. Lights were still visible in the principal building, and a glowing fire in the men's kitchen showed that the cook was all alive, or had very lately retired.
A tall man with an abundant beard now advanced, and looked earnestly in the face of Tressider as he advanced to meet him. 'Oh, it's you, old man!' he said, in a voice every intonation of which bespoke kindly, unequivocal welcome. 'I expected you yesterday. What a drenching you must have had this miserable day. Mrs. Bayard has gone to bed, but there's nothing to prevent you and me from being comfortable for another hour. Of course the cattle are in the yard?'
'Yes.'
'Well, look here, you fellows, put your horses through that wicket-gate. Capital feed inside, and not too big a paddock. Joe hasn't turned in yet. He'll soon have supper ready for you. And, hold on, when you've turned out your horses, come up to the back door of the house. A glass of grog all round won't hurt any of you this cold night.'
'Thank you, Mr. Bayard,' was the reply from the oldest stock-rider.
In fifteen minutes at the outside Hugh Tressider was enabled to realise the justice of his proposition, that from the great contrasts of existence the essence of pleasure is extracted. His waterproof valise had furnished a complete change of dry garments, arrayed in which he was seated before a blazing fire, subsequent to the absorption of a glass of hot grog. A substantial meal was imminent, and as he watched the neat-handed Phyllis deftly covering that hospitable board, he was ​confirmed in the opinion that life had but few avenues of higher enjoyment open to him.
Arnold Bayard, the owner of the station, a wealthy and much-respected magnate in the land, had a particular fancy for this young fellow, whom he watched enjoying himself after his day, or indeed days, of toil and travail, with paternal benevolence.
'A deuced hard-working, honourable, well-principled young fellow,' he was wont to say. 'Every one ought to do him a good turn. I wish all the young ones were like him. His father, Captain Tressider, an old Waterloo veteran, bought that farm of theirs, on the Upper Hunter, instead of a station in the old days, and ruined himself trying to grow oranges and olives, and all that rot, instead of sheep and cattle. When he died, Hugh was left with his mother and the little brothers and sisters to look after. Quite a boy himself, too. He buckled to it then, and it has been all against collar with him ever since. Working like a nigger, and living like one, too, sometimes, but he has managed to keep them going, and pay for their education, though he came off rather short himself. Never mind that; I say he is as true a gentleman as ever stepped, and some day he must come out right. The Tressiders are high enough in point of birth. There's a title, too, in the family, I'm told, if the next heir at home were cleared off, but of course Hugh's too practical a fellow ever to bother his head about that.'
Thus far, Mr. Bayard. But this was only to strangers. Most of the people in the district knew so much, and honoured Hugh Tressider accordingly. Nobody could be poorer; no one could work harder. But curious as it may seem to those people who persist in manufacturing a stage Australia for themselves,—which is as like the country as the English milord of the Porte St. Martin, with his boule-dogue, his top-coat, and the ever-present 'god-dam,' to the real aristocrat,—there are few places where gentle birth and the manners which chiefly accompany that accidental circumstance are more truly honoured. So it will not be considered as anything very wonderful by Australians that Hugh Tressider, though only a drover by occupation, who received a certain sum per head for the conveying of large lots of cattle from one part of the colonies to another, known to be the son of a retired military officer, to be proverbially just, true, and self-respecting in all ​his dealings, was held in high estimation accordingly, and took rank socially with the best people, many of whom could have counted a thousand pounds to his every ten.
Hugh slept the sleep of the just that night, it may be confidently stated—the delicious, dreamless, utter repose of the fatigued worker; a luxury which the dwellers in high places of the earth very seldom taste. The dawn of a winter's morning had, however, but faintly commenced to tinge the lowering sky when he instinctively arose, and dressing with expedition proceeded to stir up his men and make preparations for an early start. The hut cook, an official whose position rarely permits of morning slumbers, was already up, and had the fire lighted which was to boil the huge breakfast-kettle. A restricted toilette suffices for road-hands in winter time. In half an hour the horses were saddled, a breakfast of beef-steak, damper, and hot tea disposed of, the packer fully accoutred, and all was ready for the road.
'Now boys,' says Tressider, 'I'll count the cattle out of the yard. There won't be another chance for a while. We've had a good night of it, thanks to Mr. Bayard. Let them feed for an hour or two, as soon as they steady to the road, and I'll overtake you somewhere about the Burnt Hut Flat.'
Having counted out his herd, which he was gratified to find turned out the correct number of six hundred and twenty-three—a matter which might well have otherwise resulted after the darkling difficulties of the previous night—and seen them straggle out over the wet green grass, the young man betook himself with a light heart back to the 'big house,' which he reached just in time for the family breakfast.
Here were assembled all the olive branches—from Melanie, aged sixteen, and giving promise of general captivation, to a roly-poly three-year-old boy, who ruled the household despotically, and sat on Hugh's knee, with wide wondering eyes scanning his features, as if seriously considering whether they had met in a former state of existence.
'Very glad to see you, Mr. Tressider,' said the lady of the house, a handsome, hospitable matron, as became the chatelaine of Barallan and the wife of Arnold Bayard; she couldn't well have been otherwise. 'We were afraid that you were going to be one of the mysterious guests who come after every one is in bed, and go away before they get up.'
​'Like the avenger of blood in Anne of Geierstein, mother,' put in Melanie, with her hand on her parent's arm. 'There is something so weird about cattle-men. They always seem to be doing their work at unearthly hours, or beside watch-fires, like the people in the German legends.'
'And don't they have to light fires when they travel with sheep?' asked Jack, aged fourteen. 'Girls don't know anything about stock, do they, father?'
'They know as much as some boys who forget to fasten gates, and let the weaners "box" after a day's hard drafting,' returned Mr. Bayard with mildly reproachful emphasis. Here Mr. Jack subsided, while a certain tremulous movement of the lip showed the effect of the reminder.
'Never mind, poor old man! he'll remember next time. I'm sure he was as sorry as any one,' said the tender mother, giving a squeeze to the boy's hand. 'And now, breakfast is quite ready. You had better sit here, Mr. Tressider, and you can tell me how they all were at Rimandah, and who won the tennis match.'
'By the way,' said the Master, seating himself in a contemplative way before a noble round of beef, 'there is an English newspaper and a letter for you in the smoking-room; came yesterday. We were so busy yarning over the fire last night that I forgot to tell you.'
'They'll keep till after breakfast,' said Hugh calmly. 'There isn't a soul out of Australia that I care two straws about. I suppose some one has sent me a Times with nothing in it that can possibly concern me. Thanks I will take some chicken-pie. I can fall back upon corned beef on the road, though one never seems to tire of it.'
'How are they all on the Allyn?' said Mr. Bayard. 'Have you heard from home lately?'
'Oh, doing quite splendidly,' said the young man, his face lighting up with an expression of tenderness which transfigured the weather-beaten features and imparted a pathetic lustre to his dark-grey eyes. 'Elinor was improving in her drawing—going to be quite an artist. Fairy was taking lessons in singing; she always had a wonderful voice. Bob was head of his class at school, and was safe for a scholarship if he kept up the pace. Mother was stronger than she had been for years. I shall get back there at Christmas time if I've luck ​on this journey, and we're going to be no end jolly. The Armordens are coming over from Braid wood, and we shall be as happy as kings—much happier, indeed, by late accounts.'
'I'm sure you deserve it,' said Mrs. Bayard half-unconsciously to herself. 'But what a terrible day you must have had of it yesterday. It never ceased raining here. It is perishing weather even now. However you can endure your life in such a season as this, astonishes me.'
'We get used to it, Mrs. Bayard, like the eels, you know. Somebody must do it, or who would buy the Barallan cattle, and get them to market?'
'Yes, I see; but I can't bear to think of nice people—of one's friends, you know—sitting in the saddle through these long, dismal, bitter nights, or watching by fires in the forest, like demons or ghosts.'
'That's the pleasantest part of it, I assure you. When the virtuous drover has eaten his supper, made up his fire, and lighted his pipe, he feels—well, nearly as comfortable as Mr. Bayard here when he has locked up the house and put out the lamp for the night. It doesn't always rain, either.'
'Here are your letters and paper, Mr. Tressider,' said Melanie, who had quietly arisen from the breakfast-table; 'I was afraid dad would forget them again. Hadn't you better open them? I would if I had letters from England.'
'You have my permission,' said the lady of the house. 'Some people are dreadfully cold-blooded about letters. Fancy a woman leaving her letters unread all this time!'
'Theirs are pleasanter than ours,' murmured the recipient. 'That is, generally speaking. Ha! This seems a different hand from the last correspondent. I thought I knew the old fellow's writing well.'
With the sleepless curiosity of youth, Melanie and Jack had kept their eyes fixed upon their friend's face. To their great and unaffected surprise they observed him to flush all over, bronzed cheek and forehead, and afterwards to turn deadly pale. The letter slipped from his nerveless hand, and his eyes assumed such a fixed and strange expression, that the young people were alarmed. Mr. and Mrs. Bayard, with averted heads, were discussing matters of family interest, and so had escaped the bit of melodrama.
Mr. Bayard was recalled by Melanie's eager tones—
​'Oh, father! Mr. Tressider's taken ill. He's had some bad news in his letter.'
'Why, old fellow, what is it?' inquired Bayard, turning to him with a face of sincere concern. 'Anything gone wrong at home? I didn't know you heard from relatives in the old country.'
Hugh Tressider stood up and looked at his good friend with a staid and serious expression, not by any means habitual. 'All is well; better than well, my dear Mr. Bayard. I know it will rejoice your kind heart. But it was rather sudden, and as unexpected as an order to become Governor-General. I'm Lord Trewartha, that's all; and there's Trewartha Castle, with not much of an income yet, but a fair sum in cash at my credit to support the dignity. More will fall in when another relative dies. It rather knocked me over at first. The thought of all I could do for the girls and Bob, and the poor Mother who has slaved her soul out all these years for us, was too much for me—my heart struck work for a minute or so. I nearly fainted. There's the letter.'
'And you're a lord?—Lord Trewartha—a real live lord!' said Melanie and Jack, each taking hold of a hand, and jumping up and down with wild excitement and the exuberant, unselfish joy of youth. 'Oh, what fun! Isn't it splendid? And will people have to say, "Yes, my lord," and "No, my lord," and "If your lordship please"? Of course you will send these crawling B.R. cattle to Jericho.' This last was Master Jack's suggestion.
'I shall carry out my engagements, even if I were made a marquis,' said Hugh, recovering his spirits, 'which I read somewhere is ever so much higher than a baron. And you are all to call me Hugh, without Mr. or anything. That is all the difference. Otherwise I shall leave you nothing in my will. And now I must go and have a smoke with your father, or I shall have a fit.'
It was all true. Is true. For the matter of that, something very like it happened only the other day under nearly similar circumstances. Hugh Tressider will never more need to undertake to drive cattle from Kiandra (let us say) to the Paroo, or from Mount Cornish to Adelaide, at per head. Elinor and Fairy will have such private lessons and masters ​and general embellishment that they will do more than pass muster among their European kinsfolk. Bob will graduate at Oxford or Cambridge, and if ever he revisits Australia—as being a younger brother he probably will—it will be impossible to tell him, at first sight, from the imported Anglo-Saxon aristocrat.
And Hugh Tressider, what of him? As he smokes his pipe that evening by the camp-fire—one of the last of the series he is likely to warm himself by—what avenues of enjoyment, hitherto undreamed of, seem lengthening out into vast and endless grandeur, like the Sphinx-guarded paths of Egyptian cities, all ending in wondrous palaces, purple-draped and gold-illumined! The hard and homely present nearly faded out of sight; only by an effort could he recall himself to the rude primeval surroundings he was so soon to quit for ever. A peer of England! A man of fortune! The heir of an ancient name! Free to meet and mingle with the world's best and fairest, bravest and most exalted, on terms of freedom and equality. His foot slipped into a pool of ice-cold water amid the tussocks of frosted grass as he thought of all this, and with a light laugh at the incongruity of his situation and prospects, he resumed his walk around the recumbent drove.
At no distant date the Tressider family sailed for England, when doubtless most of the good things in keeping with their altered fortunes were duly dispensed to and appreciated by them.