Part 2

A ball is a great event here, and it was a thousand pities it rained so dreadfully, as no one dreamed of stopping away, and most of the guests had to walk, and the rain made everything rather soppy and wretched. We had a carriage, but it was only intended for fine weather, and the driver conceived the brilliant idea of sheltering us from the pelting storm by rigging up a sort of tilt-cart cover. But this cover was merely of brown Holland, and only prevented us from putting up any umbrellas. So we got drenched, and though I am afraid I felt rather cold and cross when we came back home to the little inn, about midnight, I was obliged to sit down on the edge of my bed and have a good laugh at my cap. You would have laughed too, you unkind boy, if you had seen it! The poor thing had been a smart evening cap with flowers on it when I went out, and now it was a funny little limp rag of lace with no particular shape, only some odd bits of wet gummy silk and muslin and wire still clinging to it. The flowers had turned into these queer bits of stuff, and all the colour which had been on them had been washed out on to the lace, which looked exactly like the rag Louis wipes his paint-brushes on when he is colouring a battle-piece! But the best of the joke was next morning (still pouring) when Catherine came in and I pointed to it. She was speechless with horror, and could not see any joke in it at all. But when I showed it after breakfast to father and Louis, they were greatly amused, and teased Catherine a good deal about having one cap less to pack up.

There is still “no hurry” I am told, so I shall have time to tell you about the natives. A good many of them collected yesterday in front of the hotel to see papa, and there was one big old man who called himself their king. His crown, by the way, consisted of the rim of a very ancient straw hat, of which he was extremely proud. They are generally wretched and squalid looking, but each of these men was wrapped in a good warm dark blanket, and were receiving rations of flour and tea and tobacco, as they needed them. Money must not be given because they are sure to spend it in rum. So the only return your father could make for all their rapturous greeting, and the performances I’m going to tell you about, was to order double rations of flour to be issued, and to send them lots of tobacco.

During the one fine hour yesterday I heard a good deal of laughing and calling “Guvna,” and I went out on the balcony of the hotel to see what the cheerful noise meant; there I saw a circle of natives squatting on the patch of grass across the road. They set up a great shout of “Guvna” when they saw me, but still it was not me whom they wanted, and I had to go in and make Pater leave his writing and come out to look on, for it was he whom they were calling for. I need hardly say that Louis, already the proud possessor of a native spear, was looking on in rapt delight, and that the puppy kept frisking round the circle, now challenging the wretched curs of dogs, belonging to the natives, to single combat, and the next moment protesting against the whole performance by barking furiously.

The first “act” was supposed to represent kangaroo hunting; and you never saw anything so clever as the way the native made himself look exactly like a kangaroo. I am sure no other human being could possibly have imitated an animal so closely. Branches of trees had been stuck into the ground to represent a forest or “bush,” as they call it here, and presently the supposed kangaroo hopped cautiously out into the open, looking warily about him, and began to feed. I thought Louis would have had a fit from delight when the kangaroo, still nibbling a bit of grass, sat up and scratched himself, exactly like a real creature, turning his head from side to side. And he did well to be cautious; for now from the shelter of the branches a hunter comes stealing slowly out. He is crouching low and carrying a light spear in his right hand; his faithful dog, watching every movement of his finger, is creeping behind him. The instant the kangaroo stops feeding, the hunter darts like a swallow behind the supposed tree, and the dog also is not to be seen anywhere. However, after carefully looking round, sniffing the air and perplexedly scratching his ear, the kangaroo makes up his mind that it is all perfectly safe. He finds a little water and laps it with great delight, and as the grass about the spot may fairly be supposed to be damp and green, he shows his delight at the good feed he has come across, and proceeds to roll on the ground. But not for long, he is evidently uneasy, and after cautiously looking round begins to move off, first with slow hops, turning his head anxiously about, and then—too late, for the spear comes flying through the air—with quick convulsive bounds; but the spear is quivering in his side, and the dog, something like a gaunt greyhound, is fast gaining on him, and in another moment has pulled him down, and the hunter runs up to finish the poor kangaroo with a second spear. Both he and the dog, however, have to take care to keep out of the way of the wounded animal’s hind legs, for he is kicking vigorously.

It was really admirably done, and the dog entered into the spirit of the little play, and acted as well as the natives. Louis begged for it all over again, of course, but a couple more men stepped out, and began stalking an emeu. That had to be differently arranged, for the emeu lives on vast sandy plains, so all the branches were pulled up and the emeu was supposed to be discovered slowly wandering over a desolate bare country, looking for his breakfast. The clever part of this performance was the way the man huddled himself up in his blanket to make the hunchy body of the great bird, and then put up one lean bare arm for the neck, and the hand, crooked at the wrist, was twisted anxiously from side to side, just as an emeu would turn his head. There were no trees, only low bushes here and there, so the hunter pulled up one of these bushes and carried it in his hand, crouching low down behind it, and whenever the emeu turned his head that way, hunter and bush became as still as possible, and after a good look at the bush,—which certainly was not so near, the emeu thought, when he last saw it,—the big bird would go on feeding, kicking up the sand, or turning over a stone to search for something under it. You must know the emeu has nearly as good a digestion as the ostrich, and can eat anything. This was a longer performance, for it is very difficult to get near the emeu, so many disappointments were supposed to occur; the emeu, after glancing suspiciously at the bush, would move, with swift easy strides, farther away, and the poor hunter must then begin all over again. I don’t really know how long this pantomime might have gone on, if the rain had not recommenced; so the emeu relaxed his watchfulness, the hunter crept quite close holding his bush before him, then dropped it and flung a “kylie” (as they call it here, but it is nearly the same thing as the boomerang of the other colonies), which hit the bird’s head and stunned him, allowing the hunter to run up and finish him with a light club. It seems the emeu is very easily killed, so it was quite true to nature that so slight a weapon could kill so big a bird.

A message came at noon to say that the captain of the little coasting steamer thought we might venture out to sea, for the wind showed signs of moderating, and your father is anxious to get up to Perth, nearly 350 miles up the coast, as soon as possible. Another reason for hurry is that the two little seaports on the way, the Vasse and Bunbury, have been making themselves gay these two days past, with flags and arches, and getting feasts ready; and they are constantly sending distracted telegrams to ask when the governor will arrive, for if it had not been for this tremendous gale we should have started long ago. So we go on board and start, leaving Catherine and Louis, and Monsieur Puppy, to come overland in a comfortable covered carriage, with a pair of steady old horses, and a careful driver. They will take about five days on the way, for by land it is about 256 miles, chiefly through thick forests. The roads are bad after the rain, but if the weather becomes fine it will be better for them than another voyage.

LETTER III.

Perth, _3d June_.

We only arrived last night, tired and jaded and worn, but a good sleep and a bright lovely morning has already taken the sting out of the memory of all our seafaring troubles.

I am afraid we were in too great a hurry to start that Thursday morning upon which I last wrote. We got on board easily, and then steamed right out into a terrific sea. And it rained! you could not tell which was the spray dashing up, and which was the rain pouring down. The little steamer pushed bravely on, and managed to keep her head the right way, but that was about all she could manage. The weather became worse and worse every hour, the nearer we crept, fighting every knot of distance against the freshening wind, and huge tumbling waves, to Cape Leewin. This means the Cape of the Lioness, and one can easily fancy what a knocking about the old Dutch navigators must have got just hereabouts, when they christened the bold headland by such a fierce name.

I remained on deck, huddled up with every sort of rug and covering, but not even a huge tarpaulin, thrown over me and my chair by the kind captain, could keep me either dry or warm. So, after the top of a big sea had jumped on deck, and washed across, nearly carrying me overboard with it, I thought it would, at all events, be drier and warmer down below, so I lurched and tumbled and struggled down the tiny companion into my wee cabin. I assure you it felt as if we were inside a cockle shell, the way the poor little steamer was tossed about like a cork on the waves. She must have been a capital sea-boat, for not a drop of water found its way down below, and she bobbed about like a duck, still fighting her way slowly on round that terrible Leewin. To say that we were all ill—to say that we could not keep in any one position for half a minute at a time, but had to hold on tight to whatever was nearest in order to keep ourselves in our berths at all, is but to give you a very faint idea of our misery! One could not help laughing at the way our clothes and bags and boxes behaved! I derived some faint amusement from watching the antics of my bonnet. As for picking it up myself, or caring what became of it, I was far too ill for such an exertion. The stewardess used to totter and tumble into my cabin whenever she could, and she always seemed shocked and disappointed to find this bonnet in some strange and unexpected place, no matter how carefully she had secured it. No peg could keep it for five minutes, even when tied on, nor would it stay in a berth, and more than once it rolled right out into the saloon, and it was constantly found among the glasses and bottles in the bar. Everything else slid about, but nothing was so lively as that bonnet, and not even its being occasionally trodden on by your father—who lurched in from time to time during that dreadful long night to ask how I was getting on, and to tell me how wretched he felt—could keep it at all quiet in one place.

Then I have an absurd memory of stopping somewhere (that was in the middle of the second night), and hearing that we had reached some place, and that a deputation had come on board to welcome Pater! The ship seemed comparatively quiet, for we had got into some kind of a harbour, but the sea still ran high, and there was not much difference in the motion. I thought the gentlemen who ventured out to the ship on that dark stormy night must have been extremely brave as well as polite. My wee cabin was only separated from the saloon by a jalousie, so I could hear everything; and, faint and ill as I felt, it was impossible to help laughing. First of all some one said, in a tone of surprise, “Why, here’s a bonnet!” (I think that was at the foot of the companion ladder), and when I had finished a furtive hysterical giggle at that, I was set off again by the absurd contrast between the polite speeches of the Governor and his Private Secretary, and the weak and quavering voices in which they were uttered. It was too comic, also, when I caught a glimpse through the swaying curtain before my door, of their tall dressing-gowned figures, and pale woebegone faces. I could only thank the Fates that _I_ had not to get up and receive a deputation! What finally made me laugh till I cried, was hearing some one, in a strong, bluff, _land_ voice, ask one of our gentlemen how he liked Western Australia? And if you could have heard the dejected, weak, sea-sick voice, in which the wretched voyager answered, “Oh, very much, indeed; I think it is _delightful_!” and then came a hearty “that’s right,” in reply. Whenever I could even think of anything except keeping myself in my berth, I felt thankful that poor little Louis and Catherine were not with us.

About mid-day on Saturday, that was the day before yesterday, we at last got under lee of the land, and the wind moderated and the sun shone out again, and it was once more a bright and sunny afternoon when the _Otway_ slowly warped herself up to the pier at Freemantle, and we could see more arches and flags, and a guard of honour, and crowds of people. When at last the little gangway was fixed there was quite a rush of officials and other gentlemen and ladies on board to welcome your father. Everybody seemed very kind and nice, and so sorry that the passage had been such a rough one. I felt weak and exhausted and could hardly stand; but it was delightful to feel one had got to the end of the long, long voyage at last, and everybody looked so cordial and cheery that I took courage to keep up, besides being much revived by the sight and smell of an enormous and beautiful nosegay which one of the ladies brought me. After a little we landed and walked through lanes of pleasant-looking civil people until we got to a place made gay with flags and flowers and red cloth; then came speeches of welcome and some champagne, and everybody drank everybody else’s health, and so on to the railway station and into the special train in waiting (which had been made bright with boughs and bouquets), and up to Perth in less than an hour.

The Perth Railway Station looked really extremely pretty, with its red carpets and green boughs, and rosettes of red geranium, and a very great many people were there, besides lots of ladies and children. One sweet, pretty little boy came forward with a bouquet as big as himself for me, and I was so pleased that I could not help stooping down and giving him a kiss, for he made me think of all of you when you were little, only “Harold” was ever so much prettier! So now I had two big nosegays to carry, and my hands were quite filled with flowers. We drove as quickly as possible to Government House, for your father had to put on his uniform and go to the Town Hall to be sworn in, and we were obliged to make great haste, for it was fast growing dark. But there was just time to drink a cup of tea, standing all ready in the drawing-room, before we had to get into the carriage again and drive through the decorated streets. The big clock struck five as we arrived, to find an immense crowd inside and outside the handsome building which is the Perth Town Hall, and where the Mayor, in his robes, waited to receive us. Everything seemed very well arranged, and we were taken to our places without any difficulty. Then began all sorts of ceremonies which it would not interest you to hear about, and indeed of which I can hardly remember anything, for the whole place, platform and all, seemed to be swaying about like the deck of the _Otway_. Just as father took his oath the artillery outside boomed out the salute, and I feebly thought how glad I was not to be in the carriage with the very prancing horses!

It was delicious to get back to a blazing fire and a good dinner, and it was great fun looking all over the large and handsome house which is to be our new home. As we were sitting down to dinner a telegram arrived from Louis and Catherine to say they had reached a place called Kojonup, and were going to sleep there that night, having got so far quite safely and with beautiful weather. You may imagine how glad I was to have news of them. I feared they might be rain-bound at some little roadside inn.

LETTER IV.

Government House, Perth, _18th June_.

It is actually a whole fortnight since my last letter, but you can hardly fancy how busy I have been. The big boxes arrived safely, and we have had such an unpacking and settling! Hanging up pictures, changing the furniture about in the ridiculous way one does in a new house, and finding out all sorts of pretty walks and views in the garden. It is really a charming house, and though it looks very large from outside, it is not really too big, even for our modest establishment. The rooms are of a beautiful shape and size, besides being very conveniently arranged; and the verandahs or cloisters, as they are called, give shade and privacy to the sitting-rooms, besides making a nice place to walk in of a wet afternoon. The garden is extremely pretty, with its sloping terraces down to the waters’ edge, of which the broad estuary of the Swan River makes a fine expanse. The river here is as wide as a lake, with low wooded shores opposite, and a ruined mill gleaming out from among the trees. Of a calm still day, when every leaf and twig is mirrored in the water, it is beautiful; but it often rises into quite big waves with white crests.

What I most delight in out of doors is a good-sized paddock, green with couch-grass which, they tell me, lasts all summer; nice stables and poultry houses stand in the middle of it, and there is lots of room for my cows and chickens and pigs. We must not expect many flowers in the garden, for it is midwinter; but quantities of geraniums are in blossom, and they seem to grow almost wild in this sandy soil, the violets too are in profusion, that delicious sort called the “Blue Czar.” The turf is very green, and I have already seen a great many different sorts of trees from different climates and places all growing happily together, such as oaks and oleanders, gum trees and olives, bananas and willows. There are also several large fig trees, as well as peach, apricot, apple, pear, and almond trees, and I am sure Louis will have what he calls “a good time” in the summer among the fruit.

I cannot find any raspberry, gooseberry, or currant bushes, but large beds of strawberries slope down nearly to the water’s edge; and I ought certainly to tell you about the long arcades of vines which stretch in every direction, quite bare at this time of year, except for a russet leaf here and there. The varieties of grapes growing all over the garden appear to be endless, trained on espaliers as well as over these long arcades; and I can see from my window clumps of bamboo, and big tufts of handsome pampas grass and of the New Zealand flax. It is all extremely pretty, and we are delighted with our new home, I assure you. There are nice walks too about Perth, if it ever comes to pass that I have time to go out for a walk, but as yet I am much too tired by the afternoon for anything except a cup of tea and a rest when it has grown really too dark to settle things any more.