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diff --git a/27174-0.txt b/27174-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d4d915f --- /dev/null +++ b/27174-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,10810 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of Captain Jim, by Mary Grant Bruce + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you +will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before +using this eBook. + +Title: Captain Jim + +Author: Mary Grant Bruce + +Release Date: November 6, 2008 [eBook #27174] +[Most recently updated: September 18, 2022] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: Wendy Verbruggen + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CAPTAIN JIM *** + + + + +Captain Jim + +by Mary Grant Bruce + + +WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED + +LONDON AND MELBOURNE + +1919 + +MADE IN ENGLAND + +PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN + +BY EBENEZER BAYLIS AND SON, LTD., THE + +TRINITY PRESS, WORCESTER, AND LONDON + + + + +Contents + + CHAPTER I. John O’Neill’s Legacy + CHAPTER II. The Home for Tired People + CHAPTER III. Of London and Other Matters + CHAPTER IV. Settling In + CHAPTER V. How the Cook-Lady Found her Level + CHAPTER VI. Kidnapping + CHAPTER VII. The Thatched Cottage + CHAPTER VIII. Assorted Guests + CHAPTER IX. Homewood Gets Busy + CHAPTER X. Australia in Surrey + CHAPTER XI. Cheero! + CHAPTER XII. Of Labour and Promotion + CHAPTER XIII. The End of a Perfect Day + CHAPTER XIV. Carrying On + CHAPTER XV. Prisoners and Captives + CHAPTER XVI. Through the Darkness + CHAPTER XVII. Lights Out + CHAPTER XVIII. The Watch on the Rhine + CHAPTER XIX. Reveille + CHAPTER XX. All Clear + + + + +CAPTAIN JIM + + + + +CHAPTER I +JOHN O’NEILL’S LEGACY + + +“Queer, isn’t it?” Jim said. + +“Rather!” said Wally. + +They were sitting on little green chairs in Hyde Park. Not far off +swirled the traffic of Piccadilly; glancing across to Hyde Park Corner, +they could see the great red motor-’buses, meeting, halting, and then +rocking away in different directions, hooting as they fled. The roar of +London was in their ears. + +It was a sunny morning in September. The Park was dotted in every +direction with shining perambulators, propelled by smart nurses in +uniform, and tenanted by proud little people, fair-haired and rosy, and +extremely cheerful. Wally liked the Park babies. He referred to them +collectively as “young dukes.” + +“They all look so jolly well tubbed, don’t they?” he remarked, straying +from the subject in hand. “Might be soap advertisements. Look, there’s +a jolly little duke in that gorgeous white pram, and a bigger sized +duke trotting alongside, with a Teddy-bear as big as himself. Awful +nice kids.” He smiled at the babies in the way that made it seem +ridiculous that he should be grown-up and in uniform. + +“They can’t both be dukes,” said Jim literally. “Can’t grow more than +one in a family; at least not at the same time, I believe.” + +“Oh, well, it doesn’t matter—and anyhow, the one in the pram’s a +duchess,” returned Wally. “I say, the duke’s fallen in love with you, +Jim.” + +“The duke,” a curly-haired person in a white coat, hesitated on the +footpath near the two subalterns, then mustering his courage, came +close to Jim and gravely presented him with his Teddy-bear. Jim +received the gift as gravely, and shook hands with the small boy, to +his great delight. + +“Thanks, awfully,” he said. “It’s a splendid Teddy, isn’t it?” + +The nurse, greatly scandalized, swooped down upon her charge, exhorting +him to be ashamed, now, and not worry the gentleman. But the “duke” +showed such distress when Jim attempted to return the Teddy-bear that +the matter had to be adjusted by distracting his attention in the +direction of some drilling soldiers, while Wally concealed the toy +under the embroidered rug which protected the plump legs of the +“duchess”—who submitted with delighted gurgles to being tickled under +the chin. They withdrew reluctantly, urged by the still horrified +nurse. + +“See what it is to be beautiful and have the glad eye!” jeered Wally. +“Dukes never give _me_ Teddy-bears!” + +“It’s my look of benevolent age,” Jim said, grinning. “Anyhow, young +Wally, if you’ll stop beguiling the infant peerage, and attend to +business, I’ll be glad. We’ll have Norah and Dad here presently.” + +“I’m all attention,” said his friend. “But there’s nothing more to be +said than that it _is_ rum, is there? And we said that.” + +“Norah gave me a letter from poor old O’Neill to show you,” Jim said. +“I’ll read it, if you like.” + +The merriment that was never very far from Wally Meadows’ eyes died out +as his chum unfolded a sheet of paper, closely written. + +“He wrote it in the hotel in Carrignarone, I suppose?” he asked gently. + +“Yes; just after dinner on the night of the fight. You see, he was +certain he wasn’t coming back. Anyhow, this is what he says: + + +“My Dear Norah,— + +“If I am alive after to-night you will not get this letter: it is only +to come to you if I shall have ‘gone West.’ And please don’t worry if I +do go West. You see, between you all you have managed almost to make me +forget that I am just an apology for a man. I did not think it could be +done, but you have done it. Still, now and then I remember, and I know +that there will be long years after you have all gone back to that +beloved Australia of yours when there will be nothing to keep me from +realizing that I am crippled and a hunchback. To-night I have the one +chance of my life of living up to the traditions of O’Neills who were +fighting men; so if, by good luck, I manage to wing a German or two, +and then get in the way of an odd bullet myself, you mustn’t grudge my +finishing so much more pleasantly than I had ever hoped to do. + +“If I do fall, I am leaving you that place of mine in Surrey. I have +hardly any one belonging to me, and they have all more money than is +good for them. The family estates are entailed, but this is mine to do +as I please with. I know you don’t need it, but it will be a home for +you and your father while Jim and Wally are fighting, if you care for +it. And perhaps you will make some use of it that will interest you. I +liked the place, as well as I could like any place outside Ireland; and +if I can look back—and I am very sure that I shall be able to look +back—I shall like to see you all there—you people who brought the sun +and light and laughter of Australia into the grey shadows of my +life—who never seemed to see that I was different from other men. + +“Well, good-bye—and God keep you happy, little mate. + +“Your friend, +“John O’Neill.” + + +Jim folded the letter and put it back in his pocket, and there was a +long silence. Each boy was seeing again a strip of Irish beach where a +brave man had died proudly. + +“Different!” Wall said, at last, with a catch in his voice. “He wasn’t +different—at least, only in being a jolly sight better than most +fellows.” + +Jim nodded. + +“Well, he had his fight, and he did his bit, and, seeing how he felt +about things, I’m glad for his sake that he went out,” he said. “Only +I’m sorry for us, because it was a pretty big thing to be friends with +a man like that. Anyhow, we won’t forget him. We wouldn’t even without +this astonishing legacy of Norah’s.” + +“Have you any particulars about it?” Wally asked. + +“Dad got a letter from O’Neill too—both were sent to his lawyers; he +must have posted them himself that evening in Carrignarone. Dad’s was +only business. The place is really left to him, in trust for Norah, +until she comes of age; that’s so that there wouldn’t be any legal +bother about her taking possession of it at once if she wants to. Poor +old Norah’s just about bowled over. She felt O’Neill’s death so +awfully, and now this has brought it all back.” + +“Yes, it’s rough on Norah,” Wally said. “I expect she hates taking the +place.” + +“She can’t bear the idea of it. Dad and I don’t much care about it +either.” + +Wally pondered. + +“May I see that letter again?” he asked presently. + +Jim Linton took out the letter and handed it to his friend. He filled +his pipe leisurely and lit it, while Wally knitted his brows over the +sheet of cheap hotel paper. Presently he looked up, a flash of +eagerness in his keen brown eyes. + +“Well, I think O’Neill left that place to Norah with a purpose,” he +said. “I don’t believe it’s just an ordinary legacy. Of course, it’s +hers, all right; but don’t you think he wanted something done with it?” + +“Done with it?” + +“Yes. Look here,” Wally put a thin forefinger on the letter. “Look what +he says—‘Perhaps you will make some use of it that may interest you.’ +Don’t you think that means something?” + +“I believe it might,” Jim said cautiously. “But what?” + +Wally hesitated. + +“Well, he was just mad keen on the War,” he said. “He was always +planning what he could do to help, since he couldn’t fight,—at least, +since he thought he couldn’t,” the boy added with a sigh. “I wonder he +hadn’t used it himself for something in connexion with the War.” + +“He couldn’t—it’s let,” Jim put in quickly. “The lawyers wrote about it +to Dad. It’s been let for a year, and the lease expires this month—they +said O’Neill had refused to renew it. That rather looks as if he had +meant to do something with it, doesn’t it?” + +Wally nodded vigorously. + +“I’ll bet he did. Now he’s left it to Norah to carry on. You see, they +told us his own relations weren’t up to much. I expect he knew they +wouldn’t make any use of it except for themselves. Why, it’s as clear +as mud, Jim! O’Neill knew that Norah didn’t actually need the place, +and that she and your father wanted to be near you and still help the +war themselves. They didn’t like working in London—Norah’s too much of +a kid, and your father says himself he’s not trained. Now they’ve got a +perfectly ripping chance!” + +“Oh, bless you, Wally!” said a thankful voice behind them. + +The boys sprang to their feet. Behind them stood a tall girl with a +sun-tanned face and straight grey eyes—eyes that bore marks of tears, +of which Norah for once was unashamed. Her brown curls were tied back +with a broad black ribbon. She was very slender—“skinny,” Norah would +have said—but, despite that she was at what is known as “the awkward +age,” no movement of Norah Linton’s was ever awkward. She moved with +something of the unconcerned grace of a deer. In her blue serge coat +and skirt she presented the well-groomed look that was part and parcel +of her. She smiled at the two boys, a little tremulously. + +“Hallo!” said her brother. “We didn’t hear you—where did you spring +from?” + +“Dad dropped me at the Corner—he had to go on to Harrods,” Norah +answered. “I came across the grass, and you two were so busy talking +you didn’t know I was there. I couldn’t help hearing what you said, +Wally.” + +“Well, I’m glad you did,” Wally answered, “But what do you think +yourself, Nor?” + +“I was just miserable until I heard you,” Norah said. “It seemed too +awful to take Sir John’s house—to profit by his death. I couldn’t bear +it. But of course you’re right. I do think I was stupid—I read his +letter a dozen times, but I never saw it that way.” + +“But you agree with Wally, now?” Jim asked. + +“Why, of course—don’t you? I suppose I might have had the sense to see +his meaning in time, but I could only think of seeming to benefit by +his death. However, as long as one member of the family has seen it, +it’s all right.” She flashed a smile at Wally. “I’m just ever so much +happier. It makes it all—different. We were such—” her voice +trembled—“such good chums, and now it seems as if he had really trusted +us to carry on for him.” + +“Of course he did,” Wally said. “He knew jolly well you would make good +use of it, and it would help you, too, when Jim was away.” + +“Jim?” said that gentleman. “Jim? What are you leaving yourself out +for? Aren’t you coming? Got a Staff job at home?” + +“I’m ashamed of you, Wally,” said Norah severely. “Of course, if you +don’t _want_ to belong——!” Whereat Wally Meadows flushed and laughed, +and muttered something unintelligible that nevertheless was quite +sufficient for his friends. + +It was not a thing of yesterday, that friendship. It went back to days +of small-boyhood, when Wally, a lonely orphan from Queensland, had been +Jim Linton’s chum at the Melbourne Grammar School, and had fallen into +a habit of spending his holidays at the Linton’s big station in the +north of Victoria, until it seemed that he was really one of the +Billabong family. Years had knitted him and Jim and Norah into a firm +triumvirate, mates in the work and play of an Australian cattle-run; +watched over by the silent grey man whose existence centred in his +motherless son and daughter—with a warm corner in his affections for +the lithe, merry Queensland boy, whose loyalty to Billabong and its +people had never wavered since his childhood. + +Then, just as Jim had outgrown school and was becoming his father’s +right-hand man on the station, came the world-upheaval of the European +War, which had whisked them all to England. Business had, at the +moment, summoned Mr. Linton to London; to leave Norah behind was not to +be thought of, and as both the boys were wild to enlist, and Wally was +too young to be accepted in Australia—though not in England—it seemed +that the simplest thing to do was to make the pilgrimage a general one, +and let the chums enlist in London. They had joined a famous British +regiment, obtaining commissions without difficulty, thanks to cadet +training in Australia. But their first experience of war in Flanders +had been a short one: they were amongst the first to suffer from the +German poison-gas, and a long furlough had resulted. + +Mr. Linton and Norah had taken them to Ireland as soon as they were fit +to travel; and the bogs and moors of Donegal, coupled with +trout-fishing, had gone far to effect a cure. But there, unexpected +adventure had awaited them. They had made friends with Sir John +O’Neill, the last of an old North of Ireland family: a half-crippled +man, eating out his heart against the fate that held him back from an +active part in the war. Together they had managed to stumble on an +oil-base for German submarines, concealed on the rocky coast; and, luck +and boldness favouring them, to trap a U-boat and her crew. It had been +a short and triumphant campaign—skilfully engineered by O’Neill; and he +alone had paid for the triumph with his life. + +John O’Neill had died happily, rejoicing in for once having played the +part of a fighting man; but to the Australians his death had been a +blow that robbed their victory of all its joy. They mourned for him as +for one of themselves, cherishing the memory of the high-souled man +whose spirit had outstripped his weak body. Jim and Wally, from +exposure on the night of the fight, had suffered a relapse, and +throat-trouble had caused their sick-leave to be extended several +times. Now, once more fit, they were back in London, expecting to +rejoin their regiment immediately. + +“So now,” Jim said, “the only question is, what are you going to do +with it?” + +“I’m going to think hard for a day,” said Norah. “So can you two; and +we’ll ask Dad, of course.” + +“And then Dad will tell you what to do,” said Jim, grinning. + +“Yes of course he will. Dad always has splendid ideas,” said Norah, +laughing. “But we won’t have any decision for a day, because it’s a +terribly big thing to think of. I wish I was grown up—it must be easier +to settle big questions if you haven’t got your hair down your back!” + +“I don’t quite see what your old curly mop has to do with it, but +anyhow, you needn’t be in a hurry to put it up,” said her brother. +“It’s awful to be old and responsible, isn’t it Wally?” To which Wally +responded with feeling, “Beastly!” and endeavoured to look more than +nineteen—failing signally. + +“Let’s go and look at the Row,” Norah said. + +“Dad will find us all right, I suppose?” Jim hesitated. + +“Why, he couldn’t miss you!” said Norah, laughing. “Come on.” + +Even when more than a year of War had made uniform a commonplace in +London streets, you might have turned to look at Jim and Wally. Jim was +immensely tall; his chum little less so; and both were lean and +clean-shaven, tanned to a deep bronze, and stamped with a look of +resolute keenness. In their eyes was the deep glint that comes to those +who have habitually looked across great spaces. The type has become +familiar enough in London now, but it generally exists under a slouch +hat; and these lads were in British uniform, bearing the badges of a +famous marching regiment. At first they had hankered after the cavalry, +being much more accustomed to ride than to walk: but as the armies +settled down into the Flanders mud it became increasingly apparent that +this was not to be a horseman’s war, and that therefore, as Wally put +it, if they wanted to be in the fun, they had better make up their +minds to paddle with the rest. The amount of “fun” had so far been a +negligible quantity which caused them some bitterness of spirit. They +earnestly hoped to increase it as speedily as might be, and to give the +Hun as much inconvenience as they could manage in the process. + +They strolled across the grass to the railings, and looked up and down +the tan ribbon of Rotten Row. Small boys and girls, on smart ponies and +woolly Shetlands, walked or trotted sedately; or occasionally galloped, +followed by elderly grooms torn between pride and anxiety. Jim and +Wally thought the famous Row an over-rated concern; failing to realize, +from its war aspect, the Row of other days, crammed from fence to fence +with beautiful horses and well-turned-out riders, and with half the +world looking on from the railings. Nowadays the small boys and girls +had it chiefly to themselves, and could stray from side to side at +their own sweet will. A few ladies were riding, and there was a +sprinkling of officers in khaki; obviously on Army horses and out for +exercise. Now and then came a wounded man, slowly, on a reliable cob or +sturdy pony—bandages visible, or one arm in a sling. A few people sat +about, or leaned on the fences, watching; but there was nothing to +attract a crowd. Every one looked business-like, purposeful; clothes +were plain and useful, with little frippery. The old glitter and +splendour of the Row was gone: the London that used to watch it was a +London that had forgotten how to play. + +Beyond the Row, carriages, drawn by beautiful pairs of horses, +high-stepping, with harness flashing in the sunlight, drove up and +down. Some contained old ladies and grey-haired men; but nearly all +bore a load of wounded soldiers, with sometimes a tired-faced nurse. + +“There’s that nice old Lady Ellison—the one that used to take Jim and +me out when we were in hospital,” Wally said, indicating a carriage +with a magnificent pair of bays. “She was an old dear. My word, I’d +like to have the driving of those horses—in a good light buggy on the +Billabong track!” + +“So would I,” Jim assented. “But I’d take those beastly bearing-reins +off before I started.” + +“Yes,” said Norah eagerly. “Poor darlings, how they must hate them! +Jim, I wish we’d struck London when the coaches used to be seen.” + +“Rather!” said Jim. “Anstruther used to tell me about them. Coaches +bigger than Cobb & Co.’s, and smart as paint, with teams of four so +matched you could hardly tell which was which—and educated beyond +anything Australians could dream about. There was one man—poor chap, +Anstruther said he was drowned in the _Lusitania_—who had a team of +four black cobs. I think Anstruther used to dream about them at night; +he got poetical and incoherent when he tried to describe ’em.” + +“Fancy seeing a dozen or so of those coaches swinging down Piccadilly +on a fine morning!” said Wally. “That would be something to tell black +Billy about, Norah!” + +“He’d only say Plenty!” said Norah, laughing. “Look—there’s Dad!” + +They turned to meet a tall grey man who came swinging across the grass +with a step as light as his son’s. David Linton greeted them with a +smile. + +“I knew I should find you as near as you could get to the horses,” he +said. “This place is almost a rest-cure after Harrod’s; I never find +myself in that amazing shop without wishing I had a bell on my neck, so +that I couldn’t get lost. And I always take the wrong lift and find +myself among garden tools when all I want is collars.” + +“Well, they have lifts round every corner: you want a special +lift-sense not to take the wrong one,” Norah defended him. + +“Yes, and when you ask your way anywhere in one of these fifty-acre +London shops they say, ‘Through the archway, sir,’ and disappear: and +you look round you frantically, and see about seventeen different +archways, and there you are,” Wally stated. “So you plunge into them +all in turn, and get hopelessly lost. But it’s rather fun.” + +“I’d like it better if they didn’t call me ‘Moddam,’” said Norah. +“‘Shoes, Moddam? Certainly, Moddam; first to the right, second to the +left, lift Number fifteen, fifth floor and the attendant will direct +you!’ Then you stagger into space, wishing for a wet towel round your +head!” + +“I could almost believe,” said her father, regarding her gravely, “that +you would prefer Cunjee, with one street, one general store, one +blacksmith’s, and not much else at all.” + +“Why, of course I do,” Norah laughed. “At least you can’t get lost +there, and you haven’t got half a day’s journey from the oatmeal place +to the ribbon department: they’ll sell you both at the same counter, +and a frying-pan and a new song too! Think of the economy of time and +boot-leather! And Mr. Wilkins knows all about you, and talks to you +like a nice fat uncle while he wraps up your parcels. And if you’re on +a young horse you needn’t get off at all—all you have to do is to +coo-ee, and Mr. Wilkins comes out prepared to sell you all his shop on +the footpath. If _that_ isn’t more convenient than seventeen archways +and fifty-seven lifts, then I’d like to know what is!” + +“Moddam always had a great turn of eloquence, hadn’t she?” murmured +Wally, eyeing her with respect. Whereat Norah reddened and laughed, and +accused him of sentiments precisely similar to her own. + +“I think we’re all much the same,” Jim said. “London’s all very well +for a visit. But just imagine what it would be if we didn’t know we +were going back to Billabong some day!” + +“What a horrible idea!” Norah said. “But we are—when the old War’s +over, and the Kaiser has retired to St. Helena, and the Huns are busy +building up Belgium and France. And you’ll both be captains, if you +aren’t brigadiers, and all Billabong will expect to see you come back +in uniform glittering with medals and things.” + +“I like their chance!” said Wally firmly. + +“Anyhow, we’ll all go back; and that’s all that matters,” said Norah. +Her eyes dwelt wistfully on the two tall lads. + +“And meanwhile,” said Jim, “we’ll all go down to Fuller’s and have +morning tea. One thing, young Norah, you won’t find a Fuller’s in +Cunjee!” + +“Why would I be trying?” Norah asked cheerfully. “Sure isn’t there +Brownie at Billabong?” + +“Hear, hear!” agreed Wally. “When I think of Brownie’s pikelets——” + +“Or Brownie’s scones,” added Norah. “Or her sponge-cakes.” + +“Or Brownie’s tea-pot, as large and as brown as herself,” said Mr. +Linton—“then London is a desert. But we’ll make the best of it for the +present. Come along to Fuller’s.” + + + + +CHAPTER II +THE HOME FOR TIRED PEOPLE + + +“To begin with,” said Jim—“what’s the place like?” + +“Eighty acres, with improvements,” answered his father. “And three +farms—all let.” + +“Daddy, you’re like an auctioneer’s advertisement,” Norah protested. +“Tell us what it is _like_—the house, I mean.” + +“We’ll run down and see it soon,” said Mr. Linton. “Meanwhile, the +lawyers tell me it’s a good house, Queen Anne style——” + +“What’s that?” queried Jim. + +“Oh, gables and things,” said Wally airily. “Go on, sir, please.” + +“Standing in well-timbered park lands,” said Mr. Linton, fishing a +paper out of his pocket, and reading from it. “Sorry, Norah, but I +can’t remember all these thrills without the lawyers’ letter. Lounge +hall, four reception rooms——” + +“Who are you going to receive, Nor?” + +“Be quiet,” said Norah, aiming a cushion at the offender. “Not you, if +you’re not extra polite!” + +“Be quiet, all of you, or I will discontinue this penny reading,” said +Mr. Linton severely. “Billiard-room, thirteen bedrooms, three baths (h. +and c.)——” + +“Hydraulic and condensed,” murmured Wally. Jim sat upon him with silent +firmness, and the reading was unchecked. + +“Excellent domestic offices, modern drainage, central heating, electric +plant, Company’s water——” + +“What on earth——?” said Jim. + +“I really don’t know,” said his father. “But I suppose it means you can +turn taps without fear of a drought, or they wouldn’t put it. Grounds +including shady old-world gardens, walled kitchen garden, stone-flagged +terrace, lily pond, excellent pasture. Squash racquet court.” + +“What’s that?” asked Norah. + +“You play it with pumpkins,” came, muffled, from beneath Jim. “Let me +up, Jimmy—I’ll be good.” + +“That’ll be something unusual,” said Jim, rising. “Yes, Dad?” + +“Stabling, heated garage, thatched cottage. Fine timber. Two of the +farms let on long leases; one lease expires with lease of house. All in +excellent order. I think that’s about all. So there you are, Norah. And +what are you going to do with it?” + +It was the next morning, and the treacherous September sunshine had +vanished, giving place to a cold, wet drizzle, which blurred the +windows of the Lintons’ flat in South Kensington. Looking down, nothing +was to be seen but a few mackintoshed pedestrians, splashing dismally +along the wet, grey street. Across the road the trees in a little, +fenced square were already getting shabby, and a few leaves fluttered +idly down. The brief, gay English summer had gone; already the grey +heralds of the sky sounded the approach of winter, long and cold and +gloomy. + +“I’ve been thinking terribly hard,” Norah said. “I don’t think I ever +lay awake so long in my life. But I can’t make up my mind. Of course it +must be some way of helping the War. But how? We couldn’t make it a +hospital, could we?” + +“I think not,” said her father. “The hospital idea occurred to me, but +I don’t think it would do. You see you’d need nurses and a big staff, +and doctors; and already that kind of thing is organized. People well +established might do it, but not lone Australians like you and me, +Norah.” + +“How about a convalescent home?” + +“Well, the same thing applies, in a less degree. I believe, too, that +they are all under Government supervision, and I must admit I’ve no +hankering after that. We wouldn’t be able to call our souls our own; +and we’d be perpetually irritated by Government under-strappers, +interfering with us and giving orders—no, I don’t think we could stand +it. You and I have always run our own show, haven’t we, Norah—that is, +until Jim came back to boss us!” He smiled at his tall son. + +There was a pause. + +“Well, Dad—you always have ideas,” said Norah, in the voice of one who +waits patiently. + +Mr. Linton hesitated. + +“I don’t know that I have anything very brilliant now,” he said. “But I +was thinking—do you remember Garrett, the fellow you boys used to tell +us about? who never cared to get leave because he hadn’t any home.” + +“Rather!” said the boys. “Fellow from Jamaica.” + +“He was an awfully sociable chap,” Wally added, “and he didn’t like +cities. So London bored him stiff when he was alone. He said the +trenches were much more homelike.” + +“Well, there must be plenty of people like that,” said Mr. Linton. +“Especially, of course, among the Australians. Fellows to whom leave +can’t mean what it should, for want of a home: and without any ties +it’s easy for them to get into all sorts of mischief. And they should +get all they can out of leave, for the sake of the War, if for nothing +else: they need a thorough mental re-fitting, to go back fresh and +keen, so that they can give the very best of themselves when the work +begins again.” + +“So you think of making Sir John’s place into a Home for Tired people?” +said Norah, excitedly. “Dad, it’s a lovely plan!” + +“What do you think, Jim?” asked Mr. Linton. + +“Yes, I think it’s a great idea,” Jim said slowly. “Even the little bit +of France we had showed us what I told you—that you’ve got to give your +mind a spring-cleaning whenever you can, if you want to keep fit. I +suppose if people are a bit older they can stick it better—some of +them, at least. But when you’re in the line for any time, you sometimes +feel you’ve just _got_ to forget things—smells and pain, and—things you +see.” + +“Well, you’d forget pretty soon at a place like the one you’ve been +reading about,” said Wally. “Do you remember, Jim, how old poor old +Garrett used to look? He was always cheery and ragging, and all that +sort of thing, but often he used to look like his own grandfather, and +his eyes gave you the creeps. And he couldn’t sleep.” + +“’M!” said Jim. “I remember. If Garrett’s still going, will you have +him for your first patient, Nor? What will you call them, by the +way—guests? patients? cases?” + +“Inmates,” grinned Wally. + +“Sounds like a lunatic asylum,” rejoined Jim. “How about lodgers? Or +patrons?” + +“They’ll be neither, donkey,” said Norah pleasantly. “Just Tired +People, I think. Oh, Dad, I want to begin!” + +“You shouldn’t call your superiors names, especially when I have more +ideas coming to me,” said Jim severely. “Look here—I agree with Dad +that you couldn’t have a convalescent home, where you’d need nurses and +doctors; but I do think you might ask fellows on final sick-leave, like +us—who’d been discharged from hospitals, but were not quite fit yet. +Chaps not really needing nursing, but not up to much travelling, or to +the racket and fuss of an hotel.” + +“Yes,” said Wally. “Or chaps who had lost a limb, and were trying to +plan out how they were going to do without it.” His young face looked +suddenly grave; Norah remembered a saying of his once before—“I don’t +in the least mind getting killed, but I don’t want Fritz to wing me.” +She moved a little nearer to him. + +“That’s a grand idea—yours too, Jimmy,” she said. “Dad, do you think +Sir John would be satisfied?” + +“If we can carry out our plan as we hope, I think he would,” Mr. Linton +said. “We’ll find difficulties, of course, and make mistakes, but we’ll +do our best, Norah. And if we can send back to the Front cheery men, +rested and refreshed and keen—well, I think we’ll be doing our bit. And +after the War? What then?” + +“I was thinking about that, too,” said Norah. “And I got a clearer +notion than about using it now, I think. Of course,”—she hesitated—“I +don’t know much about money matters, or if you think I ought to keep +the place. You see, you always seem to have enough to give us +everything we want, Dad. I won’t need to keep it, will I? I don’t want +to, even if I haven’t got much money.” + +“I’m not a millionaire,” said David Linton, laughing. “But—no, you +won’t need an English income, Norah.” + +“I’m so glad,” said Norah. “Then when we go back to Billabong, Dad, +couldn’t we turn it all into a place for partly-disabled +soldiers,—where they could work a bit, just as much as they were able +to, but they’d be sure of a home and wouldn’t have any anxiety. I don’t +know if it could be made self—self—you know—earning its own living——” + +“Self-supporting,” assisted her father. + +“Yes, self-supporting,” said Norah gratefully. “Perhaps it could. But +they’d all have their pensions to help them.” + +“Yes, and it could be put under a partly-disabled officer with a wife +and kids that he couldn’t support—some poor beggar feeling like +committing suicide because he couldn’t tell where little Johnny’s next +pair of boots was coming from!” added Jim. “That’s the most ripping +idea, Norah! What do you think, Dad?” + +“Yes—excellent,” said Mr. Linton. “The details would want a lot of +working-out, of course: but there will be plenty of time for that. I +would like to make it as nearly self-supporting as possible, so that +there would be no idea of charity about it.” + +“A kind of colony,” said Wally. + +“Yes. It ought to be workable. The land is good, and with +poultry-farming, and gardening, and intensive culture, it should pay +well enough. We’ll get all sorts of expert advice, Norah, and plan the +thing thoroughly.” + +“And we’ll call it ‘The O’Neill Colony,’ or something like that,” said +Norah, her eyes shining. “I’d like it to carry on Sir John’s name, +wouldn’t you, Dad?” + +“Indeed, yes,” said David Linton. “It has some sort of quiet, +inoffensive name already, by the way—yes, Homewood.” + +“Well, that sounds nice and restful,” said Jim. “Sort of name you’d +like to think of in the trenches. When do we go to see it, Dad?” + +“The lawyers have written to ask the tenants what day will suit them,” +said his father. “They’re an old Indian Army officer and his wife, I +believe; General Somers. I don’t suppose they will raise any objection +to our seeing the house. By the way, there is another important thing: +there’s a motor and some vehicles and horses, and a few cows, that go +with the place. O’Neill used to like to have it ready to go to at any +time, no matter how unexpectedly. It was only when War work claimed him +that he let it to these people. He was unusually well-off for an Irish +landowner; it seems that his father made a heap of money on the Stock +Exchange.” + +“Horses!” said Norah blissfully. + +“And a motor.” + +“That will be handy for bringing the Tired People from the station,” +said she. “Horses that one could ride, I wonder, Daddy?” + +“I shouldn’t be surprised,” said her father, laughing. “Anyhow, I +daresay you will ride them.” + +“I’ll try,” said Norah modestly. “It sounds too good to be true. Can I +run the fowls, Daddy? I’d like that job.” + +“Yes, you can be poultry-expert,” said Mr. Linton. “As for me, I shall +control the pigs.” + +“You won’t be allowed to,” said Wally. “You’ll find a cold, proud +steward, or bailiff, or head-keeper or something, who would die of +apoplexy if either of you did anything so lowering. You may be allowed +to ride, Norah, but it won’t be an Australian scurry—you’ll have to be +awfully prim and proper, and have a groom trotting behind you. With a +top-hat.” He beamed upon her cheerfully. + +“Me!” said Norah, aghast. “Wally, don’t talk of such horrible things. +It’s rubbish, isn’t it, Dad?” + +“Grooms and top-hats don’t seem to be included in the catalogue,” said +Mr. Linton, studying it. + +“Bless you, that’s not necessary,” said Jim. “I mean, you needn’t get +too bucked because they’re not. Public opinion will force you to get +them. Probably Nor will have to ride in a top-hat, too.” + +“Never!” said Norah firmly. “Unless you promise to do it too, Jimmy.” + +“My King and Country have called me,” said Jim, with unction. +“Therefore I shall accompany you in uniform—and watch you trying to +keep the top-hat on. It will be ever so cheery.” + +“You won’t,” said Norah. “You’ll be in the mud in Flanders——” and then +broke off, and changed the subject laboriously. There were few subjects +that did not furnish more or less fun to the Linton family; but Norah +never could manage to joke successfully about even the Flanders mud, +which appeared to be a matter for humorous recollection to Jim and +Wally. Whenever the thought of their return to that dim and terrible +region that had swallowed up so many crossed her vision, something +caught at her heart and made her breath come unevenly. She knew they +must go: she would not have had it otherwise, even had it been certain +that they would never come back to her. But that they should not—so +alive, so splendid in their laughing strength—the agony of the thought +haunted her dreams, no matter how she strove to put it from her by day. + +Jim saw the shadow in her eyes and came to her rescue. There was never +a moment when Jim and Norah failed to understand each other. + +“You’ll want a good deal of organization about that place, Dad,” he +said. “I suppose you’ll try to grow things—vegetables and crops?” + +“I’ve been trying to look ahead,” said Mr. Linton. “This is only the +second year of the War, and I’ve never thought it would be a short +business. It doesn’t seem to me that England realizes war at all, so +far; everything goes on just the same—not only ‘business as usual,’ but +other things too: pleasure, luxuries, eating, clothes; everything as +usual. I reckon that conscription is bound to come, and before the Hun +gets put in his place nearly every able-bodied man in these islands +will be forced to help in the job.” + +“I think you’re about right,” Jim said. + +“Well, then, other things will happen when the men go. Food will get +scarcer—the enemy will sink more and more ships; everything that the +shops and the farmers sell will get dearer and dearer, and many things +will cease to exist altogether. You’ll find that coal will run short; +and live stock will get scarce because people won’t be able to get +imported food stuffs that they depend on now. Oh, it’s my idea that +there are tight times coming for the people of England. And that, of +course, means a good deal of anxiety in planning a Home for Tired +People. Tired People must be well fed and kept warm.” + +“Can’t we do it, Daddy?” queried Norah, distressed. + +“We’re going to try, my girl. But I’m looking ahead. One farm comes in +with the house, you know. I think we had better get a man to run that +with us on the shares system, and we’ll grow every bit of food for the +house that we can. We’ll have plenty of good cows, plenty of fowls, +vegetables, fruit; we’ll grow potatoes wherever we can put them in, and +we’ll make thorough provision for storing food that will keep.” + +“Eggs—in water glass,” said Norah. “And I’ll make tons of jam and +bottle tons of fruit and vegetables.” + +“Yes. We’ll find out how to preserve lots of things that we know +nothing about now. I don’t in the least imagine that if real shortage +came private people would be allowed to store food; but a house run for +a war purpose might be different. Anyhow, there’s no shortage yet, so +there’s no harm in beginning as soon as we can. Of course we can’t do +very much before we grow things—and that won’t be until next year.” + +“There’s marmalade,” said Norah wisely. “And apple jam—and we’ll dry +apples. And if the hens are good there may be eggs to save.” + +“Hens get discouraged in an English winter, and I’m sure I don’t blame +them,” said Jim, laughing. “Never mind, Nor, they’ll buck up in the +spring.” + +“Then there’s the question of labour,” said Mr. Linton. “I’m inclined +to employ only men who wouldn’t be conscripted: partially-disabled +soldiers or sailors who could still work, or men with other physical +drawbacks. Lots of men whose hearts are too weak to go ‘over the top’ +from the trenches could drive a plough quite well. Then, if +conscription does come, we shall be safe.” + +“I’ll like to do it, too,” said Norah. “It would be jolly to help +them.” + +“Of course, it will cut both ways,” Mr. Linton said. “There should be +no difficulty in getting men of the kind—poor lads, there are plenty of +disabled ones. I’m inclined to think that the question of women +servants will be more difficult.” + +“Well, I can cook a bit,” said Norah—“thanks to Brownie.” + +“My dear child,” said her father, slightly irritated—“you’ve no idea of +what a fairly big English house means, apart from housekeeping and +managing. We shall need a really good housekeeper as well as a cook; +and goodness knows how many maids under her. You see the thing has got +to be done very thoroughly. If it were just you and the boys and me +you’d cook our eggs and bacon and keep us quite comfortable. But it +will be quite another matter when we fill up all those rooms with Tired +People.” + +“I suppose so,” said Norah meekly. “But I can be useful, Daddy.” + +He patted her shoulder. + +“Of course you can, mate. I’m only afraid you’ll have too much to do. I +must say I wish Brownie were here instead of in Australia.” + +“Dear old Brownie, wouldn’t she love it all!” said Norah, her eyes +tender at the thought of the old woman who had been nurse and mother, +and mainspring of the Billabong house, since Norah’s own mother had +laid her baby in her kind arms and closed tired eyes so many years ago. +“Wouldn’t she love fixing the house! And how she’d hate cooking with +coal instead of wood! Only nothing would make Brownie bad-tempered.” + +“Not even Wal and I,” said Jim. “And I’ll bet we were trying enough to +damage a saint’s patience. However, as we can’t have Brownie, I suppose +you’ll advertise for some one else, Dad?” + +“Oh, I suppose so—but sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,” +returned Mr. Linton. “I’ve thought of nothing but this inheritance of +Norah’s all day, and I’m arriving at the conclusion that it’s going to +be an inheritance of something very like hard work!” + +“Well, that’s all right, ’cause there shouldn’t be any loafers in +war-time,” Norah said. She looked out of the window. “The rain is +stopping; come along, everybody, and we’ll go down Regent Street on a +’bus.” To do which Norah always maintained was the finest thing in +London. + +They went down to see Norah’s inheritance two days later. A quick train +from London dropped them at a tiny station, where the stationmaster, a +grizzled man apparently given over to the care of nasturtiums, directed +them to Homewood. A walk of a mile along a wide white road brought them +to big iron gates, standing open, beside a tiny lodge with +diamond-paned windows set in lattice-work, under overhanging eaves; and +all smothered with ivy out of which sparrows fluttered busily. The +lodgekeeper, a neat woman, looked at the party curiously: no doubt the +news of their coming had spread. + +From the lodge the drive to the house wound through the park—a wide +stretch of green, with noble trees, oak, beech and elm; not towering +like Norah’s native gum-trees, but flinging wide arms as though to +embrace as much as possible of the beauty of the landscape. Bracken, +beginning to turn gold, fringed the edge of the gravelled track. A few +sheep and cows were to be seen, across the grass. + +“Nice-looking sheep,” said Mr. Linton. + +“Yes, but you wouldn’t call it over-stocked,” was Jim’s comment. Jim +was not used to English parks. He was apt to think of any grass as +“feed,” in terms of so many head per acre. + +The drive, well-gravelled and smoothly rolled, took them on, sauntering +slowly, until it turned in a great sweep round a lawn, ending under a +stone porch flung out from the front of the house. A wide porch, almost +a verandah; to the delighted eyes of the Australians, who considered +verandah-less houses a curious English custom, verging on lunacy. Near +the house it was shut in with glass, and furnished with a few lounge +chairs and a table or two. + +“That’s a jolly place!” Jim said quickly. + +The house itself was long and rambling, and covered with ivy. There +were big windows—it seemed planned to catch all the sunlight that could +possibly be tempted into it. The lawn ended in a terrace with a stone +balustrade, where one could sit and look across the park and to woods +beyond it—now turning a little yellow in the sunlight, and soon to glow +with orange and flame-colour and bronze, when the early frosts should +have painted the dying leaves. From the lawn, to right and left, ran +shrubberies and flower-beds, with winding grass walks. + +“Why, it’s lovely!” Norah breathed. She slipped a hand into her +father’s arm. + +Jim rang the bell. A severe butler appeared, and explained that General +and Mrs. Somers had gone out for the day, and had begged that Mr. +Linton and his party would make themselves at home and explore the +house and grounds thoroughly: an arrangement which considerably +relieved the minds of the Australians, who had rather dreaded the +prospect of “poking about” the house under the eyes of its tenants. The +butler stiffened respectfully at the sight of the boys’ uniforms. It +appeared presently that he had been a mess-sergeant in days gone by, +and now regarded himself as the personal property of the General. + +“Very sorry they are to leave the ’ouse, too, sir,” said the butler. “A +nice place, but too big for them.” + +“Haven’t they any children?” Norah asked. + +“Only the Captain, miss, and he’s in Mesopotamia, which is an ’orrible +’ole for any gentleman to be stuck in,” said the butler with a fine +contempt for Mesopotamia and all its works. “And the mistress is tired +of ’ousekeeping, so they’re going to live in one of them there family +’otels, as they call them.” The butler sighed, and then, as if +conscious of having lapsed from correct behaviour, stiffened to +rigidity and became merely butler once more. “Will you see the ’ouse +now, sir?” + +They entered a wide hall in which was a fireplace that drew an +exclamation from Norah, since she had not seen so large a one since she +left Billabong. This was built to take logs four feet long, to hold +which massive iron dogs stood in readiness. Big leather armchairs and +couches and tables strewn with magazines and papers, together with a +faint fragrance of tobacco in the air, gave to the hall a comforting +sense of use. The drawing-room, on the other hand, was chillingly +splendid and formal, and looked as though no one had ever sat in the +brocaded chairs: and the great dining room was almost as forbidding. +The butler intimated that the General and his wife preferred the +morning-room, which proved to be a cheery place, facing south and west, +with a great window-recess filled with flowering plants. + +“This is jolly,” Jim said. “But so would the other rooms be, if they +weren’t so awfully empty. They only want people in them.” + +“Tired people,” Norah said. + +“Yes,” Wally put in. “I’m blessed if I think they would stay tired for +long, here.” + +There was a long billiard-room, with a ghostly table shrouded in +dust-sheets; and upstairs, a range of bedrooms of all shapes and sizes, +but all bright and cheerful, and looking out upon different aspects of +park and woodland. Nothing was out of order; everything was plain, but +care and taste were evident in each detail. Then, down a back +staircase, they penetrated to outer regions where the corner of Norah’s +soul that Brownie had made housewifely rejoiced over a big, bright +kitchen with pantries and larders and sculleries of the most modern +type. The cook, who looked severe, was reading the _Daily Mail_ in the +servants’ hall; here and there they had glimpses of smart maids, +irreproachably clad, who seemed of a race apart from either the cheery, +friendly housemaids of Donegal, or Sarah and Mary of Billabong, who +disliked caps, but had not the slightest objection to helping to put +out a bush-fire or break in a young colt. Norah tried to picture the +Homewood maids at either task, and failed signally. + +From the house they wandered out to visit well-appointed stables with +room for a dozen horses, and a garage where a big touring car +stood—Norah found herself quite unable to realize that it belonged to +her! But in the stables were living things that came and nuzzled softly +in her hand with inquiring noses that were evidently accustomed to +gifts of sugar and apples, and Norah felt suddenly, for the first time, +at home. There were two good cobs, and a hunter with a beautiful lean +head and splendid shoulders; a Welsh pony designed for a roomy tub-cart +in the coach house; and a good old stager able for anything from +carrying a nervous rider to drawing a light plough. The cobs, the groom +explained, were equally good in saddle or harness; and there was +another pony, temporarily on a visit to a vet., which Sir John had +liked to ride. “But of course Killaloe was Sir John’s favourite,” he +added, stroking the hunter’s soft brown muzzle. “There wasn’t no one +could show them two the way in a big run.” + +They tore themselves with difficulty from the stables, and, still +guided by the butler, who seemed to think he must not let them out of +his sight, wandered through the grounds. Thatched cottage, orchard, and +walled garden, rosery, with a pergola still covered with late blooms, +lawns and shrubberies. There was nothing very grand, but all was +exquisitely kept; and a kind of still peace brooded over the beauty of +the whole, and made War and its shadows seem very far away. The farms, +well-tilled and prosperous-looking, were at the western side of the +park: Mr. Linton and Jim talked with the tenant whose lease was +expiring while Norah and Wally sat on an old oak log and chatted to the +butler, who told them tales of India, and asked questions about +Australia, being quite unable to realize any difference between the +natives of the two countries. “All niggers, I calls them,” said the +butler loftily. + +“That seems a decent fellow,” said Mr. Linton, as they walked back +across the park. “Hawkins, the tenant-farmer, I mean. Has he made a +success of his place, do you know?” + +“’Awkins ’as an excellent name, sir,” replied the butler. “A good, +steady man, and a rare farmer. The General thinks ’ighly of ’im. ’E’s +sorry enough that ’is lease is up, ’Awkins is.” + +“I think of renewing it, under slightly different conditions,” Mr. +Linton observed. “I don’t wish to turn the man out, if he will grow +what I want.” + +“Well, that’s good news,” said the butler heartily. “I’m sure +’Awkins’ll do anything you may ask ’im to, sir.” A sudden dull flush +came into his cheeks, and he looked for a moment half-eagerly at Mr. +Linton, as if about to speak. He checked himself, however, and they +returned to the house, where, by the General’s orders, coffee and +sandwiches awaited the visitors in the morning-room. The butler flitted +about them, seeing to their comfort unobtrusively. + +“If I may make so bold as to ask, sir,” he said presently, “you’ll be +coming to live here shortly?” + +“As soon as General Somers leaves,” Mr. Linton answered. + +The man dropped his voice, standing rigidly to attention. + +“I suppose, sir,” he said wistfully, “you would not be needing a +butler?” + +“A butler—why. I hadn’t thought of such a thing,” said Mr. Linton, +laughing. “There are not very many of you in Australia, you know.” + +“But indeed, sir, you’ll need one, in a place like this,” said the +ex-sergeant, growing bold. “Every one ’as them—and if you would be so +kind as to consider if I’d do, sir? I know the place, and the General +’ud give me a good record. I’ve been under him these fifteen years, but +he doesn’t need me after he leaves here.” + +“Well——” said Mr. Linton thoughtfully. “But we shan’t be a small +family—we mean to fill this place up with officers needing rest. We’re +coming here to work, not to play.” + +“Officers!” said the ex-sergeant joyfully. “But where’d you get any one +to ’elp you better, sir? Lookin’ after officers ’as been my job this +many a year. And I’d serve you faithful, sir.” + +Norah slipped her hand into her father’s arm. + +“We really would need him, I believe, Daddy,” she whispered. + +“You would, indeed, miss,” said the butler gratefully. “I could valet +the young gentlemen, and if there’s any special attention needed, I +could give it. I’d do my very utmost, miss. I’m old to go out looking +for a new place at my time of life. And if you’ve once been in the +Army, you like to stay as near it as you can.” + +“Well, we’ll see,” Mr. Linton said guardedly. “I’ll probably write to +General Somers about you.” At which the butler, forgetting his +butlerhood, came smartly to attention—and then became covered with +confusion and concealed himself as well as he could behind a +coffee-pot. + +“You might do much worse,” Jim remarked, on their way to the station. +“He looks a smart man—and though this place is glorious, it’s going to +take a bit of running. Keep him for a bit, at any rate, Dad.” + +“I think it might be as well,” Mr. Linton answered. He turned at a bend +in the drive, to look back at Homewood, standing calm and peaceful in +its clustering trees. “Well, Norah, what do you think of your +property?” + +“I’m quite unable to believe it’s mine,” said Norah, laughing. “But I +suppose that will come in time. However, there’s one thing quite +certain, Dad—you and I will have to get very busy!” + + + + +CHAPTER III +OF LONDON AND OTHER MATTERS + + +Jim and Wally dropped lightly from the footboard of a swift motor-’bus, +dodged through the traffic, and swung quickly down a quiet side-street. +They stopped before a stone house, where, from a window above, Norah +watched their eager faces as Jim fitted his latchkey and opened the +door. She turned back into the room with a little sigh. + +“There they are, Dad. And they’re passed fit—I know.” + +David Linton looked up from the elbow-splint he was making. + +“Well, it had to come, mate,” he said. + +“Yes, I know. But I hoped it wouldn’t!” said poor Norah inconsistently. + +“You wouldn’t like them not to go,” said her father. And then cheery +footsteps clattered up the stairs, and the boys burst in. + +“Passed!” shouted Jim. “Fit as fiddles!” + +“When?” Norah asked. + +“This day week. So we’ll have nice time to settle you into Homewood and +try those horses, won’t we?” + +“Yes, rather!” said Norah. “Were they quite satisfied with your arm, +Wally?” + +“Yes, they say it’s a lovely arm,” said that gentleman modestly. “I +always knew it, but it’s nice to have other people agreeing with me! +And they say our lungs are beautiful too; not a trace of gas left. +And—oh, you tell them, Jim!” + +“And we’re not to go out yet,” said Jim, grinning widely. “Special +Lewis-gun course at Aldershot first, and after that a bombing course. +So there you are.” He broke off, his utterance hindered by the fact +that Norah had suddenly hugged him very hard, while David Linton, +jumping up, caught Wally’s hand. + +“Not the Front, my dear boys!” + +“Well, not yet,” said Wally, pumping the hand, and finding Norah’s +searching for his free one. “It’s pretty decent, isn’t it? because +every one knows there will be plenty of war at the Front yet.” + +“Plenty indeed,” said Mr. Linton. + +“I say, buck up, old chap,” said Jim, patting Norah’s shoulder very +hard. “One would think we were booked for the trenches to-night!” + +“I wouldn’t have made an ass of myself if you had been,” said Norah, +shaking back her curls and mopping her eyes defiantly. “I was prepared +for that, and then you struck me all of a heap! Oh, Jimmy, I am glad! +I’d like to hug the War Office!” + +“You’re the first person I ever heard with such sentiments,” returned +her brother. “Most people want to heave bombs at it. However, they’ve +treated us decently, and no mistake. You see, ever since June we’ve +kept bothering them to go out, and then getting throat-trouble and +having to cave in again; and now that we really are all right I suppose +they think they’ll make sure of us. So that’s that.” + +“I would have been awfully wild if they hadn’t passed us,” Wally said. +“But since they have, and they’ll put us to work, I don’t weep a bit at +being kept back for awhile. Lots of chaps seem to think being at the +Front is heavenly, but I’m blessed if I can see it that way. We didn’t +have very much time there, certainly, but there were only three +ingredients in what we did have—mud, barbed wire, and gas.” + +“Yes, and it’s not much of a mixture,” said Jim. “All the same, it’s +got to be taken if necessary. Still, I’m not sorry it’s postponed for a +bit; there will be heaps of war yet, and meanwhile we’re just learning +the trade.” He straightened his great shoulders. “I never felt so +horribly young and ignorant as when I found grown-up men in my charge +in France.” + +“Poor old Jimmy always did take his responsibilities heavily,” said +Wally, laughing. + +Mr. Linton looked at his big son, remembering a certain letter from his +commanding officer which had caused him and Norah to glow with pride; +remembering, also, how the men on Billabong Station had worked under +“Master Jim.” But he knew that soldiering had always been a serious +business to his boy. Personal danger had never entered into Jim’s mind; +but the danger of ignorant handling of his men had been a tremendous +thing to him. Even without “mud, barbed-wire, and gas” Jim was never +likely to enjoy war in the light-hearted way in which Wally would +certainly take it under more pleasant conditions. + +“Well—we’ve a week then, boys,” he said cheerfully, “and no anxieties +immediately before us except the new cook-ladies.” + +“Well, goodness knows they are enough,” Norah said fervently. + +“Anything more settled?” Jim asked. + +“I have an ecstatic letter from Allenby.” Allenby was the ex-sergeant. +“He seems in a condition of trembling joy at the prospect of being our +butler; and, what is more to the point, he says he has a niece whom he +can recommend as a housemaid. So I have told him to instal her before +we get to Homewood on Thursday. Hawkins has written a three-volume list +of things he will require for the farm, but I haven’t had time to study +it yet. And Norah has had letters from nineteen registry-offices, all +asking for a deposit!” + +The boys roared. + +“That makes seventy-one, doesn’t it, Nor?” Wally asked. + +“Something like it,” Norah admitted ruefully. “And the beauty of it is, +not one of them will guarantee so much as a kitchenmaid. They say sadly +that ‘in the present crisis’ it’s difficult to supply servants. They +don’t seem to think there’s any difficulty about paying them +deposit-fees.” + +“That phrase, ‘in the present crisis,’ is the backbone of business +to-day,” Mr. Linton said. “If a shop can’t sell you anything, or if +they mislay your property, or sell your purchase to some one else, or +keep your repairs six months and then lose them, or send in your +account with a lot of items you never ordered or received, they simply +wave ‘the present crisis’ at you, and all is well.” + +“Yes, but they don’t regard it as any excuse if you pay too little, or +don’t pay at all,” Jim said. + +“Of course not—that wouldn’t be business, my son,” said Wally, +laughing. “The one department the Crisis doesn’t hit is the one that +sends out bills.” He turned to Norah. “What about the cook-lady, Nor?” + +“She’s safe,” said Norah, sighing with relief. “There’s an awfully +elegant letter from her, saying she’ll come.” + +“Oh, that’s good business!” Jim said. For a fortnight Norah had had the +unforgettable experience of sitting in registry-offices, attempting to +engage a staff for Homewood. She had always been escorted by one or +more of her male belongings, and their extreme ignorance of how to +conduct the business had been plain to the meanest intelligence. The +ex-sergeant, whose spirit of meekness in proposing himself had been in +extraordinary contrast to the condescending truculence of other +candidates, had been thankfully retained. There had at times seemed a +danger that instead of butler he might awake to find himself +maid-of-all-work, since not one of the applicants came up to even +Norah’s limited standard. Finally, however, Mr. Linton had refused to +enter any more registry-offices or to let Norah enter them, describing +them, in good set terms as abominable holes; and judicious advertising +had secured them a housekeeper who seemed promising, and a cook who +insisted far more on the fact that she was a lady than on any ability +to prepare meals. The family, while not enthusiastic, was hopeful. + +“I hope she’s all right,” Norah said doubtfully. “I suppose we can’t +expect much—they all tell you that nearly every servant in England has +‘gone into munitions,’ which always sounds as though she’d get fired +out of a trench-mortar presently.” + +“Some of those we saw might be benefited by the process,” said Mr. +Linton, shuddering at memories of registry-offices. + +“Well, what about the rest?—haven’t you got to get a kitchenmaid and +some more housemaids or things?” queried Jim vaguely. + +“I’m not going to try here,” said Mr. Linton firmly. “Life is too +short; I’d sooner be my own kitchenmaid than let Norah into one of +those offices again. Allenby’s niece will have to double a few parts at +first, and I’ve written to Ireland—to Mrs. Moroney—to see if she can +find us two or three nice country girls. I believe she’ll be able to do +it. Meanwhile we’ll throw care to the winds. I’ve told Allenby to order +in all necessary stores, so that we can be sure of getting something to +eat when we go down; beyond that, I decline to worry, or let Norah +worry, about anything.” + +“Then let’s go out and play,” cried Norah, jumping up. + +“Right!” said the boys. “Where?” + +“Oh, anywhere—we’ll settle as we go!” said Norah airily. She fled for +her hat and coat. + +So they went to the Tower of London—a place little known to the +English, but of which Australians never tire—and spent a blissful +afternoon in the Armoury, examining every variety of weapons and +armament, from Crusaders’ chain-mail to twentieth-century rifles. There +is no place so full of old stories and of history—history that suddenly +becomes quite a different matter from something you learn by the +half-page out of an extremely dull book at school. This is history +alive, and the dim old Tower becomes peopled with gay and gallant +figures clad in shining armour, bent on knightly adventures. There you +see mail shirts of woven links that slip like silken mesh through the +fingers, yet could withstand the deadliest thrust of a dagger; maces +with spiked heads, that only a mighty man could swing; swords such as +that with which Coeur-de-Lion could slice through such a mace as though +it were no more than a carrot—sinuous blades that Saladin loved, that +would sever a down cushion flung in the air. Daggers and poignards, +too, of every age, needle-pointed yet viciously strong, with +exquisitely inlaid hilts and fine-lined blades; long rapiers that +brought visions of gallants with curls and lace stocks and silken hose, +as ready to fight as to dance or to make a poem to a fair lady’s +eyebrow. Helmets of every age, with visors behind which the knights of +old had looked grimly as they charged down the lists at “gentle and +joyous passages of arms.” Horse-armour of amazing weight—“I always +pictured those old knights prancing out on a thirteen-stone hack, but +you’d want a Suffolk Punch to carry that ironmongery!” said Wally. So +through room after room, each full of brave ghosts of the past, looking +benevolently at the tall boy-soldiers from the New World; until at +length came closing-time, and they went out reluctantly, across the +flagged yard where poor young Anne Boleyn laid her gentle head on the +block; where the ravens hop and caw to-day as their ancestors did in +the sixteenth century when she walked across from her grim prison that +still bears on its wall a scrawled “Anne.” A dull little prison-room, +it must have been, after the glitter and pomp of castles and +palaces—with only the rugged walls of the Tower Yard to look upon from +the tiny window. + +“And she must have had such a jolly good time at first,” said Wally. +“Old Henry VIII was very keen on her, wasn’t he? And then she was only +his second wife—by the time he’d had six they must have begun to feel +themselves rather two-a-penny!” + +They found a ’bus that took them by devious ways through the City; the +part of London that many Londoners never see, since it is another world +from the world of Bond Street and Oxford Street, with their newness and +their glittering shops. But to the queer folk who come from overseas, +it is the real London, and they wander in its narrow streets and link +fingers with the past. Old names look down from the smoke-grimed walls: +Black Friars and White Friars, Bread Street, St. Martin’s Lane, +Leadenhall Street, Temple Bar: the hurrying crowd of to-day fades, and +instead come ghosts of armed men and of leather-jerkined ’prentices, +less ready to work than to fight; of gallants with ruffs, and fierce +sailor-men of the days of Queen Bess, home from the Spanish Main with +ships laden with gold, swaggering up from the Docks to spend their +prize-money as quickly as they earned it. Visions of dark nights, with +link-boys running beside chair-bearers, carrying exquisite ladies to +routs and masques: of foot-pads, slinking into dark alleys and doorways +as the watch comes tramping down the street. Visions of the press-gang, +hunting stout lads, into every tavern, whisking them from their +hiding-places and off to the ships: to disappear with never a word of +farewell until, years later, bronzed and tarred and strange of speech, +they returned to astounded families who had long mourned them as dead. +Visions of Queen Bess, with her haughty face and her red hair, riding +through the City that adored her, her white palfrey stepping daintily +through the cheering crowd: and great gentlemen beside her—Raleigh, +Essex, Howard. They all wander together through the grey streets where +the centuries-old buildings tower overhead: all blending together, a +formless jumble of the Past, and yet very much alive: and it does not +seem to matter in the least that you look down upon them from a +rattling motor-’bus that leaves pools of oil where perchance lay the +puddle over which Raleigh flung his cloak lest his queen’s slipper +should be soiled. Very soon we shall look down on the City from +airships while conductors come and stamp our tickets with a bell-punch: +but the old City will be unchanged, and it will be only we who look +upon it who will pass like shadows from its face. + +The Australians left their ’bus in Fleet Street, and dived down a +narrow lane to a low doorway with the sign of the _Cheshire Cheese_—the +old inn with sanded floor and bare oak benches and tables, where Dr. +Johnson and his followers used to meet, to dine and afterwards to smoke +long churchwarden pipes and talk, as Wally said, “such amazing fine +language that it made you feel a little light-headed.” It is to be +feared that the Australians had not any great enthusiasm for Dr. +Johnson. They had paid a visit of inspection to the room upstairs where +the great man used to take his ease, but not one of them had felt any +desire to sit in his big armchair. + +“You don’t understand what a chance you’re scorning,” Mr. Linton had +said, laughing, as his family turned from the seat of honour. “Why, +good Americans die happy if they can only say they have sat in Dr. +Johnson’s chair!” + +“_I_ think he was an ill-mannered old man!” quoth Norah, with her nose +tilted. Which seemed to end the matter, so far as they were concerned. + +But if the Billabong family took no interest in Dr. Johnson, they had a +deep affection for the old inn itself. They loved its dim rooms with +their blackened oak, and it was a never-ending delight to watch the +medley of people who came there for meals: actors, artists, literary +folk, famous and otherwise; Americans, foreigners, Colonials; +politicians, fighting men of both Services, busy City men: for +everybody comes, sooner or later, to the old _Cheshire Cheese_. Being +people of plain tastes they liked the solid, honest meals—especially +since increasing War-prices were already inducing hotels and +restaurants everywhere to disguise a tablespoonful of hashed oddments +under an elegant French name and sell it for as much money as a dinner +for a hungry man. Norah used to fight shy of the famous “lark-pudding” +until it was whispered to her that what was not good beef steaks in the +dish was nothing more than pigeon or possibly even sparrow! after which +she enjoyed it, and afterwards pilgrimaged to the kitchen to see the +great blue bowls, as big as a wash-hand basin, in which the puddings +have been made since Dr. Johnson’s time, and the great copper in which +they are boiled all night. Legend says that any one who can eat three +helpings of lark-pudding is presented with all that remains: but no one +has ever heard of a hero able to manage his third plateful! + +Best of all the Billabong folk loved the great cellars under the inn, +which were once the cloisters of an old monastery: where there are +unexpected steps, and dim archways, and winding paths where it is very +easy to imagine that you see bare-footed friars with brown habits and +rope girdles pacing slowly along. There they bought quaint brown jars +and mustard-pots of the kind that are used, and have always been used, +on the tables above. But best of all were the great oaken beams above +them, solid as England itself, but blackened and charred by the Great +Fire of 1666. Norah used to touch the burned surface gently, wondering +if it was not a dream—if the hand on the broken charcoal were really +her own, more used to Bosun’s bridle on the wide plains of Billabong! + +There were not many people in the room as they came in this evening, +for it was early; dinner, indeed, was scarcely ready, and a few +customers sat about, reading evening papers and discussing the war +news. In one corner were an officer and a lady; and at sight of the +former Jim and Wally saluted and broke into joyful smiles. The officer +jumped up and greeted them warmly. + +“Hullo, boys!” he said. “I’m delighted to see you. Fit again?—you look +it!” + +“Dad, this is Major Hunt,” Jim said, dragging his father forward. “You +remember, of our regiment. And my sister, sir. I say, I’m awfully glad +to see you!” + +“Come and meet my wife,” said Major Hunt. “Stella, here are the two +young Australians that used to make my life a burden!” + +Everybody shook hands indiscriminately, and presently they joined +forces round a big table, while Jim and Wally poured out questions +concerning the regiment and every one in it. + +“Most of them are going strong,” Major Hunt said—“we have a good few +casualties, of course, but we haven’t lost many officers—most of them +have come back. I think all your immediate chums are still in France. +But I’ve been out of it myself for two months—stopped a bit shrapnel +with my hand, and it won’t get better.” He indicated a bandaged left +hand as he spoke, and they realized that his face was worn, and deeply +lined with pain. “It’s stupid,” he said, and laughed. “But when are you +coming back? We’ve plenty of work for you.” + +They told him, eagerly. + +“Well, you might just as well learn all you can before you go out,” +Major Hunt said. “The war’s not going to finish this winter, or the +next. Indeed, I wouldn’t swear that my six-year-old son, who is +drilling hard, won’t have time to be in at the finish!” At which Mrs. +Hunt shuddered and said, “Don’t be so horrible, Douglas!” She was a +slight, pretty woman, cheery and pleasant, and she made them all laugh +by her stories of work in a canteen. + +“All the soldiers used to look upon us as just part of the furniture,” +she said. “They used to rush in, in a break between parades, and give +their orders in a terrible hurry. As for saying “Please—well——” + +“You ought to have straightened them up,” said Major Hunt, with a +good-tempered growl. + +“Ah, poor boys, they hadn’t time! The Irish regiments were better, but +then it isn’t any trouble for an Irishman to be polite; it comes to him +naturally. But those stolid English country lads can’t say things +easily.” She laughed. “I remember a young lance-corporal who used often +to come to our house to see my maid. He was terribly shy, and if I +chanced to go into the kitchen he always bolted like a rabbit into the +scullery. The really terrible thing was that sometimes I had to go on +to the scullery myself, and run him to earth among the saucepans, when +he would positively shake with terror. I used to wonder how he ever +summoned up courage to speak to Susan, let alone to face the foe when +he went to France!” + +“That’s the sort that gets the V.C. without thinking about it,” said +Major Hunt, laughing. + +“I was very busy in the Canteen one morning—it was a cold, wet day, and +the men rushed us for hot drinks whenever they had a moment. Presently +a warrior dashed up to the counter, banged down his penny and said +‘Coffee!’ in a voice of thunder. I looked up and caught his eye as I +was turning to run for the coffee—and it was my lance-corporal!” + +“What did you do?” + +“We just gibbered at each other across the counter for a moment, I +believe—and I never saw a face so horror-stricken! Then he turned and +fled, leaving his penny behind him. Poor boy—I gave it to Susan to +return to him.” + +“Didn’t you ever make friends with any of them, Mrs. Hunt?” Norah +asked. + +“Oh yes! when we had time, or when they had. But often one was on the +rush for every minute of our four-hour shifts.” + +“Jolly good of you,” said Jim. + +“Good gracious, no! It was a very poor sort of war-work, but busy +mothers with only one maid couldn’t manage more. And I loved it, +especially in Cork: the Irish boys were dears, and so keen. I had a +great respect for those boys. The lads who enlisted in England had all +their chums doing the same thing, and everybody patted them on the back +and said how noble they were, and gave them parties and speeches and +presents. But the Irish boys enlisted, very often, dead against the +wishes of their own people, and against their priest—and you’ve got to +live in Ireland to know what _that_ means.” + +“The wonder to me was, always, the number of Irishmen who did enlist,” +said Major Hunt. “And aren’t they fighters!” + +“They must be great,” Jim said. “You should hear our fellows talk about +the Dublins and the Munsters in Gallipoli.” His face clouded: it was a +grievous matter to Jim that he had not been with those other Australian +boys who had already made the name of Anzac ring through the world. + +“Yes, you must be very proud of your country,” Mrs. Hunt said, with her +charming smile. “I tell my husband that we must emigrate there after +the war. It must be a great place in which to bring up children, +judging by all the Australians one sees.” + +“Possibly—but a man with a damaged hand isn’t wanted there,” Major Hunt +said curtly. + +“Oh, you’ll be all right long before we want to go out,” was his wife’s +cheerful response. But there was a shadow in her eyes. + +Wally did not notice any shadow. He had hero-worshipped Major Hunt in +his first days of soldiering, when that much-enduring officer, a Mons +veteran with the D.S.O. to his credit, had been chiefly responsible for +the training of newly-joined subalterns: and Major Hunt, in his turn, +had liked the two Australian boys, who, whatever their faults of +carelessness or ignorance, were never anything but keen. Now, in his +delight at meeting his senior officer again, Wally chattered away like +a magpie, asking questions, telling Irish fishing-stories, and other +stories of adventures in Ireland, hazarding wild opinions about the +war, and generally manifesting a cheerful disregard of the fact that +the tired man opposite him was not a subaltern as irresponsible as +himself. Somehow, the weariness died out of Major Hunt’s eyes. He began +to joke in his turn, and to tell queer yarns of the trenches: and +presently, indeed, the whole party seemed to be infected by the same +spirit, so that the old walls of the _Cheshire Cheese_ echoed laughter +that must have been exceedingly discouraging to the ghost of Dr. +Johnson, if, as is said, that unamiable maker of dictionaries haunts +his ancient tavern. + +“Well, you’ve made us awfully cheerful,” said Major Hunt, when dinner +was over, and they were dawdling over coffee. “Stella and I were +feeling rather down on our luck, I believe, when you appeared, and now +we’ve forgotten all about it. Do you always behave like this, Miss +Linton?” + +“No, I have to be very sedate, or I’d never keep my big family in +order,” said Norah, laughing. “You’ve no idea what a responsibility +they are.” + +“Haven’t I?” said he. “You forget I have a houseful of my own.” + +“Tell me about them,” Norah asked. “Do you keep them in order?” + +“We say we do, for the sake of discipline, but I’m not too sure about +it,” said Mrs. Hunt. “As a matter of fact, I am very strict, but +Douglas undoes all my good work. Is it really true that he is strict in +the regiment, Mr. Jim?” + +Jim and Wally shuddered. + +“I’d find it easier to tell you if he wasn’t here,” Jim said. “There +are awful memories, aren’t there, Wal?” + +“Rather!” said Wally feelingly. “Do you remember the day I didn’t +salute on parade?” + +“I believe your mangled remains were carried off the barrack-square,” +said Jim, with a twinkle. “I expect I should have been one of the +fatigue-part, only that was the day I was improperly dressed!” + +“What, you didn’t come on parade in a bath-towel, did you?” his father +asked. + +“No, but I had a shoulder-strap undone—it’s nearly as bad, isn’t it, +sir?” Jim grinned at Major Hunt. + +“If I could remember the barrack-square frown, at the moment, I would +assume it,” said that officer, laughing. “Never mind, I’ll deal with +you both when we all get back.” + +“You haven’t told me about the family,” Norah persisted. “The family +you are strict with, I mean,” she added kindly. + +“You have no more respect for a field-officer than your brother has,” +said he. + +“Whisper!” said Mrs. Hunt. “He was only a subaltern himself before the +war!” + +Her husband eyed her severely. + +“You’ll get put under arrest if you make statements liable to excite +indiscipline among the troops!” he said. “Don’t listen to her, Miss +Linton, and I’ll tell you about the family she spoils. There’s +Geoffrey, who is six, and Alison, who’s five—at least I think she’s +five, isn’t she, Stella?” + +“Much you know of your babies!” said his wife, with a fine scorn. +“Alison won’t be five for two months.” + +“Hasn’t she a passion for detail!” said her husband admiringly. “Well, +five-ish, Miss Linton. And finally there’s a two-year-old named +Michael. And when they all get going together they make rather more +noise than a regiment. But they’re rather jolly, and I hope you’ll come +and see them.” + +“Oh, do,” said Mrs. Hunt. “Geoff would just love to hear about +Australia. He told me the other day that when he grows up he means to +go out there and be a kangaroo!” + +“I suppose you know you must never check a child’s natural ambitions!” +Mr. Linton told her gravely. + +“Was that your plan?” she laughed. + +“Oh, my pair hadn’t any ambitions beyond sitting on horses perpetually +and pursuing cattle!” said Mr. Linton. “That was very useful to me, so +I certainly didn’t check it.” + +“H’m!” said Jim, regarding him inquiringly. “I wonder how your theory +would have lasted, Dad, if I’d grown my hair long and taken to +painting?” + +“That wouldn’t have been a natural ambition at all, so I should have +been able to deal with it with a clear conscience,” said his father, +laughing. “In any case, the matter could safely have been left to +Norah—she would have been more than equal to it.” + +“I trust so,” said Norah pleasantly. “_You_ with long hair, Jimmy!” + +“It’s amazing—and painful—to see the number of fellows who take long +hair into khaki with them,” said Major Hunt. “The old Army custom was +to get your hair cut over the comb for home service and under the comb +for active service. Jolly good rule, too. But the subaltern of the New +Army goes into the trenches with locks like a musician’s. At least, too +many of him does.” + +“Never could understand any one caring for the bother of long hair,” +said Jim, running his hand over his dark, close-cropped poll. “I say, +isn’t it time we made a move, if we’re going to a show?” He looked +half-shyly at Mrs. Hunt. “Won’t you and the Major come with us? It’s +been so jolly meeting you.” + +“Good idea!” said Mr. Linton, cutting across Mrs. Hunt’s protest. “Do +come—I know Norah is longing to be asked to meet the family, and that +will give you time to fix it up.” He over-ruled any further objections +by the simple process of ignoring them, whereupon the Hunts wisely gave +up manufacturing any more: and presently they had discovered two taxis, +Norah and her father taking Mrs. Hunt in the first, leaving the three +soldiers to follow in the second. They slid off through the traffic of +Fleet Street. + +“We really shouldn’t let you take possession of us like this,” said +Mrs. Hunt a little helplessly. “But it has been so lovely to see +Douglas cheerful again. He has not laughed so much for months.” + +“You are anxious about his hand?” David Linton asked. + +“Yes, very. He has had several kinds of treatment for it, but it +doesn’t seem to get better; and the pain is wearing. The doctors say +his best chance is a thorough change, as well as treatment, but we +can’t manage it—the three babies are expensive atoms. Now there is a +probability of another operation to his hand, and he has been so +depressed about it, that I dragged him out to dinner in the hope of +cheering him up. But I don’t think I should have succeeded if we hadn’t +met you.” + +“It was great luck for us,” Norah said. “The boys have always told us +so much of Major Hunt. He was ever so good to them.” + +“He told me about them, too,” said Mrs. Hunt. “He liked them because he +said he never succeeded in boring them!” + +“Why, you couldn’t bore Jim and Wally!” said Norah, laughing. Then a +great idea fell upon her, and she grew silent, leaving the conversation +to her companions as the taxi whirred on its swift way through the +crowded streets until they drew up before the theatre. + +In the vestibule she found her father close to her and endeavoured to +convey many things to him by squeezing his arm very hard among the +crowd, succeeding in so much that Mr. Linton knew perfectly well that +Norah was the victim of a new idea—and was quite content to wait to be +told what it was. But there was no chance of that until the evening was +over, and they had bade farewell to the Hunts, arranging to have tea +with them next day: after which a taxi bore them to the Kensington +flat, and they gathered in the sitting-room while Norah brewed coffee +over a spirit-lamp. + +“I’m jolly glad we met the Hunts,” Jim said. “But isn’t it cruel luck +for a man like that to be kept back by a damaged hand!” + +“Rough on Mrs. Hunt, too,” Wally remarked. “She looked about as seedy +as he did.” + +“Daddy——!” said Norah eagerly. + +David Linton laughed. + +“Yes, I knew you had one,” he said, “Out with it—I’ll listen.” + +“They’re Tired People,” said Norah: and waited. + +“Yes, they’re certainly tired enough,” said her father. “But the +children, Norah? I don’t think we could possibly take in little +children, considering the other weary inmates.” + +“No, I thought that too,” Norah answered eagerly. “But don’t you +remember the cottage, Daddy? Why shouldn’t they have it?” + +“By Jove!” said Jim. “That jolly little thatched place?” + +“Yes—it has several rooms. They could let their own house, and then +they’d save heaps of money. It would get them right out of London; and +Mrs. Hunt told me that London is the very worst place for him—the +doctors said so.” + +“That is certainly an idea,” Mr. Linton said. “It’s near enough to +London for Hunt to run up for his treatment. We could see that they +were comfortable.” He smiled at Norah, whose flushed face was dimly +visible through the steam of the coffee. “I think it would be rather a +good way to begin our job, Norah.” + +“It would be so nice that it doesn’t feel like any sort of work!” said +Norah. + +“I think you may find a chance of work; they have three small children, +and not much money,” said her father prophetically. + +“I say, I hope the Major would agree,” Jim put in. “I know he’s +horribly proud.” + +“We’ll kidnap the babies, and then they’ll just have to come,” Norah +laughed. + +“Picture Mr. Linton,” said Wally happily, “carrying on the good work by +stalking through London with three kids sticking out of his +pockets—followed by Norah, armed with feeding-bottles!” + +“Wounded officer and wife hard in pursuit armed with shot guns!” +supplemented Jim. “I like your pacifist ideas of running a home for +Tired People, I must say!” + +“Why, they would forget that they had ever been tired!” said Norah. “I +think it’s rather a brilliant notion—there certainly wouldn’t be +another convalescent home in England run on the same lines. But you’re +not good on matters of detail—people don’t have feeding-bottles for +babies of that age.” + +“I’m not well up in babies,” said Wally. “Nice people, but I like +somebody else to manage ’em. I thought bottles were pretty safe until +they were about seven!” + +“Well, we’ll talk it over with the Hunts to-morrow—the cottage, not the +bottles,” Mr. Linton said. “Meanwhile, it’s bed-time, so good-night, +everybody.” He dispersed the assembly by the simple process of +switching off the electric light—smiling to himself as Jim and Norah +two-stepped, singing, down the tiny corridor in the darkness. + +But the mid-day post brought a worried little note from Mrs. Hunt, +putting off the party. Her husband had had a bad report on his hand +that morning, and was going into hospital for an immediate operation. +She hoped to fix a day later on—the note was a little incoherent. Norah +had a sudden vision of the three small Hunts “who made rather more +noise than a regiment” rampaging round the harassed mother as she tried +to write. + +“Perhaps it’s as well—we’ll study the cottage, and make sure that it’s +all right for them,” said her father. “Then we’ll kidnap them. +Meanwhile we’ll go and send them a big hamper of fruit, and put some +sweets in for the babies.” A plan which was so completely after Norah’s +heart that she quite forgot her disappointment. + + + + +CHAPTER IV +SETTLING IN + + +They bade good-bye to the flat early next morning and went down to +Homewood through a dense fog that rolled up almost to the carriage +windows like masses of white wool. At the station the closed carriage +waited for them, with the brown cobs pawing the ground impatiently. +General Somers’ chauffeur had gone with his master, and so far they had +not succeeded in finding a substitute, but the groom and coachman, who +were also gardeners in their spare time, considered themselves part and +parcel of the place, and had no idea of changing their home. + +“The cart for the luggage will be here presently, sir,” Jones, the old +coachman, told Mr. Linton. So they left a bewildering assortment of +suit-cases and trunks piled up on the platform in the care of an +ancient porter, and packed themselves into the carriage. Norah was wont +to say that the only vehicle capable of accommodating her three long +men-folk comfortably was an omnibus. The fog was lifting as they rolled +smoothly up the long avenue; and just as they came within sight of the +house a gleam of pale sunlight found its way through the misty clouds +and lingered on the ivy-clad gables. The front door was flung wide to +welcome them: on the steps hovered the ex-sergeant, wearing a discreet +smile. Behind him fluttered a print dress and a white apron, presumably +worn by his niece. + +“I say, Norah, don’t you feel like the Queen of Sheba entering her +ancestral halls?” whispered Wally wickedly, as they mounted the steps. + +“If she felt simply horrible, then I do!” returned Norah. “I suppose +I’ll get used to it in time, but at present I want a hollow log to +crawl into!” + +Allenby greeted them respectfully. + +“We did not know what rooms you would like, sir,” he said. “They are +all practically ready, of course. My niece, miss, thought you might +prefer the blue bedroom. Her name is Sarah, miss.” + +“We don’t want the best rooms—the sunniest, I mean,” Norah said. “They +must be for the Tired People, mustn’t they, Dad?” + +“Well, there are no Tired People, except ourselves, at present,” said +her father, laughing. “So if you have a fancy for any room, you had +better take it, don’t you think?” + +“Well, we’ll tour round, and see,” said Norah diplomatically, with +mental visions of the sudden “turning-out” of rooms should weary guests +arrive. “It might be better to settle down from the first as we mean to +be.” + +“A lady has come, miss,” said Allenby. “I understood her to say she was +the cook, but perhaps I made a mistake?” He paused, questioningly, his +face comically puzzled. + +“Oh—Miss de Lisle?” + +“Yes, miss.” + +“Oh, yes, she’s the cook,” said Norah. “And the housekeeper—Mrs. +Atkins?” + +“No one else has arrived, miss.” + +“Well, I expect she’ll come,” said Norah. “At least she promised.” + +“Miss de Lisle, miss, asked for her kitchenmaid.” + +“There isn’t one, at present,” said Norah, feeling a little desperate. + +“Oh!” said Allenby, looking blank. “I—I am afraid, miss, that the lady +expects one.” + +“Well, she can’t have one until one comes,” said Mr. Linton. “Cheer up, +Norah, I’ll talk to Miss de Lisle.” + +“I’ll be the kitchenmaid, if necessary,” said Wally cheerfully. “What +does one do?” + +Allenby shuddered visibly. + +“My niece, I am sure, will do all she can, sir,” he said. His gaze +dwelt on Wally’s uniform; it was easy to see him quailing in spirit +before the vision of an officer with a kitchen mop. “Perhaps, miss, if +you would like to see the rooms?” + +They trooped upstairs, the silent house suddenly waking to life with +the quick footsteps and cheery voices. The big front bedrooms were at +once put aside for future guests. Norah fell in love with, and promptly +appropriated, a little room that appeared to have been tucked into a +corner by the architect, as an afterthought. It was curiously shaped, +with a quaint little nook for the bed, and had a big window furnished +with a low cushioned seat, wide enough for any one to curl up with a +book. Mr. Linton and the boys selected rooms principally remarkable for +bareness. Jim had a lively hatred for furniture; they left him +discussing with Allenby the question of removing a spindle-legged +writing table. Mr. Linton and Norah went downstairs, with sinking +hearts, to encounter Miss de Lisle. + +On the way appeared Sarah; very clean and starched as to dress, very +pink and shiny as to complexion. Her hair was strained back from her +forehead so tightly it appeared to be pulling her eyes up. + +“Oh, Sarah,” said Mr. Linton, pausing. + +“Yes, sir,” said Sarah meekly. + +“You may be required to help the cook for a few days until we—er—until +the staff is complete,” said her employer. “Your uncle tells me you +will have no objection.” + +“It being understood, sir, as it is only tempory,” said Sarah firmly. + +“Oh, quite,” said Mr. Linton hurriedly. + +“And of course I will help you with the housework, Sarah,” put in +Norah. + +Sarah looked more wooden than before. + +“Thank you, miss, I’m sure,” she returned. + +They went on. + +“Doesn’t she make you feel a worm!” said Norah. + +“This is a terrible business, Norah!” said Mr. Linton fervently. “I +didn’t guess what Brownie was saving me from, all these years.” + +They found Miss de Lisle in the kitchen, where an enormous range glowed +like a fiery furnace, in which respect Miss de Lisle rather resembled +it. She was a tall, stout woman, dressed in an overall several sizes +too small for her. The overall was rose-coloured, and Miss de Lisle was +many shades deeper in hue. She accepted their greetings without +enthusiasm, and plunged at once into a catalogue of grievances. + +“The butler tells me there is no kitchenmaid,” she boomed wrathfully. +“And I had not expected such an antiquated range. Nor could I possibly +manage with these saucepans”—sweeping a scornful hand towards an array +which seemed to the hapless Lintons to err only on the side of +magnificence. “There will be a number of necessary items. And where am +I to sit? You will hardly expect me to herd with the servants.” + +“It would be rough on them!” rose to Norah’s lips. But she prudently +kept the reflection to herself. + +“To sit?” echoed Mr. Linton. “Why, I really hadn’t thought of it.” His +brow cleared. “Oh—there is the housekeeper’s room.” + +“And who is the housekeeper? Is she a lady?” + +“She hasn’t said so, yet,” said Mr. Linton. It was evident that he +considered this a point in the absent housekeeper’s favour. Miss de +Lisle flamed anew. + +“I cannot sit with your housekeeper,” she averred. “You must remember, +Mr. Linton, that I told you when engaging with you, that I expected +special treatment.” + +“And _you_ must remember,” said Mr. Linton, with sudden firmness, “that +we ourselves have not been half an hour in the house, and that we must +have time to make arrangements. As for what you require, we will see +into that later.” + +Miss de Lisle sniffed. + +“It’s not what I am accustomed to,” she said. “However, I will wait. +And the kitchenmaid?” + +“I can’t make a kitchenmaid out of nothing,” said Mr. Linton gloomily. +“I hope to hear of one in a day or two; I have written to Ireland.” + +“To Ireland!” ejaculated Miss de Lisle in accents of horror. “My dear +sir, do you know what Irish maids are like?” + +“They’re the nicest maids I know,” said Norah, speaking for the first +time. “And so kind and obliging.” + +“H’m,” sniffed the cook-lady. “But you are not sure of obtaining even +one of these treasures?” + +“Well, we’ll all help,” said Norah. “Sarah will give you a hand until +we get settled, and my brother and Mr. Meadows and I can do anything. +There can’t be such an awful lot of work!” She stopped. Miss de Lisle +was regarding her with an eye in which horror and amazement were +mingled. + +“But we don’t _do_ such things in England!” she gasped. “Your brother! +And the other officer! In my kitchen, may I ask?” + +“Well, one moment you seem afraid of too much work, and the next, of +too much help,” said Norah, laughing. “You’d find them very useful.” + +“I trust that I have never been afraid of work,” said Miss de Lisle +severely. “But I have my position to consider. There are duties which +belong to it, and other duties which do not. My province is cooking. +Cooking. And nothing else. Who, I ask, is to keep my kitchen clean?” + +“Me, if necessary,” said a voice in which Allenby the butler was +clearly merged in Allenby the sergeant. “Begging your pardon, sir.” He +was deferential again—save for the eye with which he glared upon Miss +de Lisle. “I think, perhaps, between me and Sarah and—er—this lady, we +can arrange matters for the present without troubling you or Miss +Linton.” + +“Do,” said his employer thankfully. He beat a retreat, followed by +Norah—rather to Norah’s disappointment. She was beginning to feel +warlike, and hankered for the battle, with Allenby ranged on her side. + +“I’m going to love Allenby,” she said with conviction, as they gained +the outer regions. + +“He’s a trump!” said her father. “But isn’t that a terrible woman, +Norah!” + +“Here’s another, anyhow,” said Norah with a wild inclination to giggle. + +A dismal cab halted at a side entrance, and the driver was struggling +with a stout iron trunk. The passenger, a tall, angular woman, was +standing in the doorway. + +“The housekeeper!” breathed Mr. Linton faintly. “Do you feel equal to +her, Norah?” He fled, with disgraceful weakness, to the billiard-room. + +“Good morning,” Norah said, advancing. + +“Good morning,” returned the newcomer, with severity. “I have rung +three times.” + +“Oh—we’re a little shorthanded,” said Norah, and began to giggle +hopelessly, to her own dismay. Her world seemed suddenly full of +important upper servants, with no one to wait on them. It was rather +terrible, but beyond doubt it was very funny—to an Australian mind. + +The housekeeper gazed at her with a sort of cold anger. + +“I’m afraid I don’t know which is your room,” Norah said, recovering +under that fish-like glare. “You see, we’ve only just come. I’ll send +Allenby.” She hurried off, meeting the butler in the passage. + +“Oh, Allenby,” she said; “it’s the housekeeper. And her trunk. Allenby, +what does a housekeeper do? She won’t clean the kitchen for Miss de +Lisle, will she?” + +“I’m afraid not, miss,” said Allenby. His manner grew confidential; had +he not been so correct a butler, Norah felt that he might have patted +her head. “Now look, miss,” he said. “You just leave them women to me; +I’ll fix them. And don’t you worry.” + +“Oh, thank you, Allenby,” said Norah gratefully. She followed in her +father’s wake, leaving the butler to advance upon the wrathful figure +that yet blocked the side doorway. + +In the billiard-room all her men-folk were gathered, looking guilty. + +“It’s awful to see you all huddling together here out of the storm!” +said Norah, laughing. “Isn’t it all terrible! Do you think we’ll ever +settle down, Daddy?” + +“Indeed, I wouldn’t be too certain,” responded Mr. Linton gloomily. +“How did you get on, Norah? Was she anything like Miss de Lisle? That’s +an appalling woman! She ought to stand for Parliament!” + +“She’s not like Miss de Lisle, but I’m not sure that she’s any nicer,” +said Norah. “She’s very skinny and vinegarish. I say, Daddy, aren’t we +going to have a wild time!” + +“Well, if she and the cook-lady get going the encounter should be worth +seeing,” remarked Jim. “Talk about the Kilkenny cats!” + +“I only hope it will come off before we go,” said Wally gleefully. “We +haven’t had much war yet, have we, Jim? I think we deserve to see a +little.” + +“I should much prefer it in some one else’s house,” said Mr. Linton +with haste. “But it’s bound to come, I should think, and then I shall +be called in as referee. Well, Australia was never like this. Still, +there are compensations.” + +He went out, returning in a moment with a battered hat of soft grey +felt. + +“Now you’ll be happy!” said Norah, laughing. + +“I am,” responded her father. He put on the hat with tender care. “I +haven’t been so comfortable since I was in Ireland. It’s one of the +horrors of war that David Linton of Billabong has worn a stiff bowler +hat for nearly a year!” + +“Never mind, no one in Australia would believe it unless they saw it +photographed!” said Jim soothingly. “And it hasn’t had to be a top-hat, +so you really haven’t had to bear the worst.” + +“That is certainly something,” said his father. “In the dim future I +suppose you and Norah may get married; but I warn you here and now that +you needn’t expect me to appear in a top-hat. However, there’s no need +to face these problems yet, thank goodness. Suppose we leave the +kitchen to fight it out alone, and go and inspect the cottage?” + +It nestled at the far side of a belt of shrubbery: a cheery, thatched +place, with wide casement windows that looked out on a trim stretch of +grass. At one side there was actually a little verandah! a sight so +unusual in England that the Australians could scarcely believe their +eyes. Certainly it was only a very tiny verandah. + +Within, all was bright and cheery and simple. The cottage had been used +as a “barracks” when the sons of a former owner had brought home boy +friends. Two rooms were fitted with bunks built against the wall, as in +a ship’s cabin: there was a little dining-room, plainly furnished, and +a big sitting-room that took up the whole width of the building, and +had casement windows on three sides. There was a roomy kitchen, from +which a ladder-like staircase ascended to big attics, one of which was +fitted as a bedroom. + +“It’s no end of a jolly place,” was Jim’s verdict. “I don’t know that I +wouldn’t rather live here than in your mansion, Norah; but I suppose it +wouldn’t do.” + +“I think it would be rather nice,” Norah said. “But you can’t, because +we want it for the Hunts. And it will be splendid for them, won’t it, +Dad?” + +“Yes, I think it will do very well,” said Mr. Linton. “We’ll get the +housekeeper to come down and make sure that it has enough pots and pans +and working outfit generally.” + +“And then we’ll go up to London and kidnap Mrs. Hunt and the babies,” +said Norah, pirouetting gently. “Now, shall we go and see the horses?” + +They spent a blissful half-hour in the stables, and arranged to ride in +the afternoon—the old coachman was plainly delighted at the absence of +a chauffeur, and displayed his treasures with a pride to which he had +long been a stranger. + +“The ’orses ’aven’t ’ad enough to do since Sir John used to come,” he +said. “The General didn’t care for them—an infantry gent he must have +been—and it was always the motor for ’im. We exercised ’em, of course, +but it ain’t the same to the ’orses, and don’t they know it!” + +“Of course they do.” Norah caressed Killaloe’s lean head. + +“You’ll hunt him, sir, won’t you, this season?” asked Jones anxiously. +“The meets ain’t what they was, of course, but there’s a few goes out +still. The Master’s a lady—Mrs. Ainslie; her husband’s in France. He’s +’ad the ’ounds these five years.” + +“Oh, we’ll hunt, won’t we, Dad?” Norah’s face glowed as she lifted it. + +“Rather!” said Jim. “Of course you will. What about the other horses, +Jones? Can they jump?” + +“To tell you the truth, sir,” said Jones happily, “there’s not one of +them that can’t. Even the cobs ain’t too bad; and the black pony that’s +at the vet.’s, ’e’s a flyer. ’E’ll be ’ome to-morrow; the vet. sent me +word yesterday that ’is shoulder’s all right. Strained it a bit, ’e +did. Of course they ain’t made hunters, like Killaloe; but they’re +quick and clever, and once you know the country, and the short cuts, +and the gaps, you can generally manage to see most of a run.” He sighed +ecstatically. “Eh, but it’ll be like old times to get ready again on a +hunting morning!” + +The gong sounded from the house, and they bade the stables a reluctant +good-bye. Lunch waited in the morning-room; there was a pleasant +sparkle of silver and glass on a little table in the window. And there +was no doubt that Miss de Lisle could cook. + +“If her temper were as good as her pastry, I should say we had found a +treasure,” said Mr. Linton, looking at the fragments which remained of +a superlative apple-pie. “Let’s hope that Mrs. Moroney will discover a +kitchenmaid or two, and that they will induce her to overlook our other +shortcomings.” + +“I’m afraid we’ll never be genteel enough for her,” said Norah, shaking +her curly head. “And the other servants will all hate her because she +thinks they aren’t fit for her to speak to. If she only knew how much +nicer Allenby is!” + +“Or Brownie,” said Wally loyally. “Brownie could beat that pie with one +hand tied behind her.” + +Allenby entered—sympathy on every line of his face. + +“The ’ousekeeper—Mrs. Atkins—would like to see you, sir. Or Miss +Linton. And so would Miss de Lisle.” + +But Miss de Lisle was on his heels, breathing threatenings and +slaughter. + +“There must be some arrangement made as to my instructions,” she +boomed. “Your housekeeper evidently does not understand my position. +She has had the impertinence to address me as ‘Cook.’ Cook!” She paused +for breath, glaring. + +“But, good gracious, isn’t it your profession?” asked Mr. Linton. + +Miss de Lisle fairly choked with wrath. Wally’s voice fell like oil on +a stormy sea. + +“If I could make a pie like that I’d _expect_ to be called ‘Cook,’” +said he. “It’s—it’s a regular poem of a pie!” Whereat Jim choked in his +turn, and endeavoured, with signal lack of success, to turn his emotion +into a sneeze. + +Miss de Lisle’s lowering countenance cleared somewhat. She looked at +Wally in a manner that was almost kindly. + +“War-time cookery is a makeshift, not an art,” she said. “Before the +war I could have shown you what cooking could be.” + +“That pie wasn’t a makeshift,” persisted Wally. “It was a dream. I say, +Miss de Lisle, can you make pikelets?” + +“Yes, of course,” said the cook-lady. “Do you like them?” + +“I’d go into a trap for a pikelet,” said Wally, warming to his task. +“Oh, Norah, do ask Miss de Lisle if she’ll make some for tea!” + +“Oh, do!” pleaded Norah. As a matter of stern fact, Norah preferred +bread-and-butter to pikelets, but the human beam in the cook-lady’s eye +was not to be neglected. “We haven’t had any for ages.” She cast about +for further encouragement for the beam. “Miss de Lisle, I suppose you +have a very special cookery-book?” + +“I make my own recipes,” said the cook-lady with pride. “But for the +war I should have brought out my book.” + +“By Jove, you don’t say so!” said Jim. “I say, Norah, you’ll have to +get that when it comes out.” + +“Rather!” said Norah. “I wonder would it bother you awfully to show me +some day how to make meringues? I never can get them right.” + +“We’ll see,” said Miss de Lisle graciously. “And would you really like +pikelets for tea?” + +“Please—if it wouldn’t be too much trouble.” + +“Very well.” Jim held the door open for the cook-lady as she marched +out. Suddenly she paused. + +“You will see the housekeeper, Mr. Linton?” + +“Oh, certainly!” said David Linton hastily. The door closed; behind it +they could hear a tread, heavy and martial, dying away. + +“A fearsome woman!” said Mr. Linton. “Wally, you deserve a medal! But +are we always to lick the ground under the cook’s feet in this +fashion?” + +“Oh, she’ll find her level,” said Jim. “But you’d better tell Mrs. +Atkins not to offend her again. Talk to her like a father, Dad—say she +and Miss de Lisle are here to run the house, not to bother you and +Norah.” + +“It’s excellent in theory,” said his father sadly, “but in practice I +find my tongue cleaving to the roof of my mouth when these militant +females tackle me. And if you saw Mrs. Atkins you would realize how +difficult it would be for me to regard her as a daughter. But I’ll do +my best.” + +Mrs. Atkins, admitted by the sympathetic Allenby, proved less fierce +than the cook-lady, although by no stretch of imagination could she +have been called pleasant. + +“I have never worked with a cook as considered herself a lady,” she +remarked. “It makes all very difficult, and no kitchen-maid, and am I +in authority or am I not? And such airs, turning up her nose at being +called Cook. Which if she is the cook, why not be called so? And going +off to her bedroom with her dinner, no one downstairs being good enough +to eat with her. I must say it isn’t what I’m used to, and me lived +with the first families. _Quite_ the first.” Mrs. Atkins ceased her +weary monologue and gazed on the family with conscious virtue. She was +dressed in dull black silk, and looked overwhelmingly respectable. + +“Oh, well, you must put up with things as they are,” said Mr. Linton +vaguely. “Miss de Lisle expects a few unusual things, but apparently +there is no doubt that she can do her work. I hope to have more maids +in a few days; if not”—a brilliant idea striking him—“I must send you +up to London to find us some, Mrs. Atkins.” + +“I shall be delighted, sir,” replied the housekeeper primly. “And do I +understand that the cook is to have a separate sitting-room?” + +“Oh, for goodness’ sake, ask Allenby!” ejaculated her employer. “It +will have to be managed somewhere, or we shall have no cook!” + + + + +CHAPTER V +HOW THE COOK-LADY FOUND HER LEVEL + + +Two days later, the morning mail brought relief—not too soon, for there +was evidence that the battle between the housekeeper and the cook-lady +could not be much longer delayed, and Sarah was going about with a face +of wooden agony that gave Norah a chilly feeling whenever she +encountered her. Allenby alone retained any cheerfulness; and much of +that was due to ancient military discipline. Therefore Mrs. Moroney’s +letter was hailed with acclamation. “Two maids she can recommend, bless +her heart!” said Mr. Linton. “She doesn’t label their particular +activities, but says they’ll be willing to do anything at all.” + +“That’s the kind I like,” said Norah thankfully. + +“And their names are Bride Kelly and Katty O’Gorman; doesn’t that bring +Killard and brown bogs back to you? And—oh, by Jove!” + +“What is it?” demanded his family, in unison. + +“This is what it is. ‘I don’t know would your honour remember Con +Hegarty, that was shofer to Sir John at Rathcullen, and a decent boy +with one leg and he after coming back from the war. He have no job +since Sir John died, and he bid me tell you he’d be proud to drive a +car for you, and to be with ye all. And if he have only one leg itself +he’s as handy as any one with two or more. Sir John had him with him at +Homewood, and he knows the car that’s there, and ’tis the way if you +had a job for him he could take the two girls over when he went, and he +used to travelling the world.’ That’s all, I think,” Mr. Linton ended. + +“What luck!” Jim ejaculated. “We couldn’t have a better chauffeur.” + +“I wonder we never thought of Con,” said his father. “A nice boy; I’d +like to have him.” + +“So would I,” added Norah. “When will you get them, Dad?” + +“I’ll write at once and send a cheque for their fares,” said her +father. “I’ll tell them to send me a telegram when they start.” He rose +to leave the room. “What are you going to do this morning, children?” + +“We’re all turning out the cottage,” Norah answered promptly. “I +haven’t told Sarah; she disapproves of me so painfully if I do any +work, and hurts my feelings by always doing it over again, if possible. +At the same time, she looks so unhappy about working at all, and sighs +so often, that I don’t feel equal to telling her that the cottage has +to be done. So Jim and Wally have nobly volunteered to help me.” + +“Don’t knock yourself up,” said her father. “Will you want me?” + +“No—unless you like to come as a guest and sit still and do nothing. My +two housemaids and I can easily finish off that little job. There’s not +really a great deal to do,” Norah added; “the place is very clean. Only +one likes to have everything extra nice when Tired People come.” + +“Well, I’m not coming to sit still and do nothing,” said her father +firmly, “so I’ll stay at home and write letters.” He watched them from +the terrace a little later, racing across the lawn, and smiled a +little. It was so unlikely that this long-legged family of his would +ever really grow up. + +The house was very quiet that morning. Mrs. Atkins and Miss de Lisle +having quarrelled over the question of dinner, had retreated, the one +to the housekeeper’s room, the other to the kitchen. Sarah went about +her duties sourly. Allenby was Sarah’s uncle, and, as such, felt some +duty to her, which he considered he had discharged in getting her a +good place; beyond that, Sarah frankly bored him, and he saw no reason +to let her regard him as anything else than a butler. “Bad for +discipline, too!” he reflected. Therefore Allenby was lonely. He read +the _Daily Mail_ in the seclusion of his pantry, and then, strolling +through the hall, with a watchful eye alert lest a speck of dust should +have escaped Sarah, he saw his master cross the garden and strike +across the park in the direction of Hawkins’ farm. Every one else was +out, Allenby knew not where. An impulse for fresh air fell upon him, +and he sauntered towards the shrubbery. + +Voices and laughter came to him from the cottage. He pushed through the +shrubs and found himself near a window; and, peeping through, received +a severe shock to his well-trained nerves. Norah, enveloped in a huge +apron, was energetically polishing the kitchen tins; the boys, in their +shirt-sleeves, were equally busy, Wally scrubbing the sink with Monkey +soap, and Jim blackleading the stove. It was very clear that work was +no new thing to any of the trio. Allenby gasped with horror. + +“Officers, too!” he ejaculated. “What’s the world coming to, I wonder!” +He hesitated a moment, and then walked round to the back door. + +“May I come in, please, miss?” + +“Oh, come in, Allenby,” Norah said, a little confused. “We’re busy, you +see. Did you want anything?” + +“No, miss, thank you. But really, miss—I could ’ave got a woman from +the village for you, to do all this. Or Sarah.” + +“Sarah has quite enough to do,” said Norah. + +“Indeed, Sarah’s not killed with work,” said that damsel’s uncle. “I +don’t like to see you soilin’ your ’ands, miss. Nor the gentlemen.” + +“The gentlemen are all right,” said Wally cheerfully. “Look at this +sink, now, Allenby; did you ever see anything better?” + +“It’s—it’s not right,” murmured Allenby unhappily. He threw off his +black coat suddenly, and advanced upon Jim. “If you please, sir, I’ll +finish that stove.” + +“That you won’t,” said Jim. “Thanks all the same, Allenby, but I’m +getting used to it now.” He laughed. “Besides, don’t you forget that +you’re a butler?” + +“I can’t forget that you’re an officer, sir,” said Allenby, wretchedly. +“It’s not right: think of the regiment. And Miss Norah. Won’t you let +me ’elp sir?” + +“You can clean the paint, Allenby,” said Norah, taking pity on his +distressed face. “But there’s really no need to keep you.” + +“If you’d only not mind telling any of them at the ’ouse what I was +doing,” said the butler anxiously. “It ’ud undermine me position. +There’s that Miss de Lisle, now—she looks down on everybody enough +without knowin’ I was doin’ any job like this.” + +“She shall never know,” said Jim tragically, waving a blacklead brush. +“Now I’m off to do the dining-room grate. If you’re deadly anxious to +work, Allenby, you could wash this floor—couldn’t he, Norah?” + +“Thanks very much, sir,” said Allenby gratefully, “I’ll leave this +place all right—just shut the door, sir, and don’t you bother about it +any more.” + +“However did you dare, Jim?” breathed Norah, as the cleaning party +moved towards the dining-room. “Do you think a butler ever washed a +floor before?” + +“Can’t say,” said Jim easily. “I’m regarding him more as a sergeant +than a butler, for the moment—not that I can remember seeing a sergeant +wash a floor, either. But he seemed anxious to help, so why not let +him? It won’t hurt him; he’s getting disgracefully fat. And there’s +plenty to do.” + +“Heaps,” said Wally cheerily. “Where’s that floor-polish, Nor? These +boards want a rub. What are you going to do?” + +“Polish brass,” said Norah, beginning on a window-catch. “When I grow +up I think I’ll be an architect, and then I’ll make the sort of house +that women will care to live in.” + +“What sort’s that?” asked Jim. + +“I don’t know what the outside will be like. But it won’t have any +brass to keep clean, or any skirting-boards with pretty tops to catch +dust, or any corners in the rooms. Brownie and I used to talk about it. +All the cupboards will be built in, so’s no dust can get under them, +and the windows will have some patent dodge to open inwards when they +want cleaning. And there’ll be built-in washstands in every room, with +taps and plugs——” + +“Brass taps?” queried Wally. + +“Certainly not.” + +“What then?” + +“Oh—something. Something that doesn’t need to be kept pretty. And then +there will be heaps of cupboard-room and heaps of shelf-room—only all +the shelves will be narrow, so that nothing can be put behind anything +else.” + +“Whatever do you mean?” asked Jim. + +“She means dead mice—you know they get behind bottles of jam,” said +Wally kindly. “Go on, Nor, you talk like a book.” + +“Well, dead mice are as good as anything,” said Norah lucidly. “There +won’t be any room for their corpses on _my_ shelves. And I’ll have some +arrangement for supplying hot water through the house that doesn’t +depend on keeping a huge kitchen fire alight.” + +“That’s a good notion,” said Jim, sitting back on his heels, blacklead +brush in hand. “I think I’ll go architecting with you, Nor. We’ll go in +for all sorts of electric dodges; plugs in all the rooms to fix to +vacuum cleaners you can work with one hand—most of ’em want two men and +a boy; and electric washing-machines, and cookers, and fans and all +kinds of things. And everybody will be using them, so electricity will +have to be cheap.” + +“I really couldn’t help listening to you,” said a deep voice in the +doorway. + +Every one jumped. It was Miss de Lisle, in her skimpy red +overall—rather more flushed than usual, and a little embarrassed. + +“I hope you don’t mind,” she said. “I heard voices—and I didn’t think +any one lived here. I knocked, but you were all so busy you didn’t hear +me.” + +“So busy talking, you mean,” laughed Wally. “Terrible chatterboxes, Jim +and Norah; they never get any work done.” A blacklead brush hurtled +across the room: he caught it neatly and returned it to the owner. + +“But you’re working terribly hard,” said the cook-lady, in +bewilderment. “Is any one going to live here?” + +Norah explained briefly. Miss de Lisle listened with interest, nodding +her head from time to time. + +“It’s a beautiful idea,” she said at length. “Fancy now, you rescuing +those poor little children and their father and mother! It makes me +feel quite sentimental. Most cooks are sentimental, you know: it’s such +a—a warm occupation,” she added vaguely. “When I’m cooking something +that requires particular care I always find myself crooning a love +song!” At which Wally collapsed into such a hopeless giggle that Jim +and Norah, in little better case themselves, looked at him in horror, +expecting to see him annihilated. To their relief, Miss de Lisle +grinned cheerfully. + +“Oh, yes, you may laugh!” she said—whereupon they all did. “I know I +don’t look sentimental. Perhaps it’s just as well; nobody would want a +cook with golden hair and languishing blue eyes. And I do cook so much +better than I sing! Now I’m going to help. What can I do?” + +“Indeed, you’re not,” said Norah. “Thanks ever so, Miss de Lisle, but +we can manage quite well.” + +“Now, you’re thinking of what I said the other day,” said Miss de Lisle +disgustedly. “I know I did say my province was cooking, and nothing +else. But if you knew the places I’ve struck. Dear me, there was one +place where the footman chucked me under the chin!” + +It was too much for the others. They sat down on the floor and shrieked +in unison. + +“Yes, I know it’s funny,” said Miss de Lisle. “I howled myself, after +it was all over. But I don’t think the footman ever chucked any one +under the chin again. I settled him!” There was a reminiscent gleam in +her eye: Norah felt a flash of sympathy for the hapless footman. + +“Then there was another house—that was a duke’s—where the butler +expected me to walk out with him. That’s the worst of it: if you behave +like a human being you get that sort of thing, and if you don’t you’re +a pig, and treated accordingly.” She looked at them whimsically. +“Please don’t think me a pig!” she said. “I—I shall never forget how +you held the door open for me, Mr. Jim!” + +“Oh, I say, don’t!” protested the unhappy Jim, turning scarlet. + +“Now you’re afraid I’m going to be sentimental, but I’m not. I’m going +to polish the boards in the passage, and then you can give me another +job. Lunch is cold to-day: I’ve done all the cooking. Now, please +don’t—” as Norah began to protest. “Dear me, if you only knew how nice +it is to speak to some one again!” She swooped upon Wally’s tin of +floor-polish, scooped half of its contents into the lid with a +hair-pin, commandeered two cloths from a basketful of cleaning matters, +and strode off. From the passage came a steady pounding that spoke of +as much “elbow-grease” as polish being applied. + +“Did you ever!” said Jim weakly. + +“Never,” said Wally. “I say, I think she’s a good sort.” + +“So do I. But who’d have thought it!” + +“Poor old soul!” said Norah. “She must be most horribly dull. But after +our first day I wouldn’t have dared to make a remark to her unless +she’d condescended to address me first.” + +“I should think you wouldn’t,” said Wally. “But she’s really quite +human when she tucks her claws in.” + +“Oh, my aunt!” said Jim, chuckling. “I’d give a month’s pay to have +seen the footman chuck her under the chin!” They fell into convulsions +of silent laughter. + +From the passage, as they regained composure, came a broken melody, +punctuated by the dull pounding on the floor. Miss de Lisle, on her +knees, had become sentimental, and warbled as she rubbed. + +_“‘I do not ask for the heart of thy heart.’”_ + +“Why wouldn’t you?” murmured Wally, with a rapt expression. “Any one +who can make pikelets like you——” + +“Be quiet, Wally,” grinned Jim. “She’ll hear you.” + +“Not she—she’s too happy. Listen.” + +“‘All that I a-a-sk for is all that may be, +All that thou ca-a-a-rest to give unto me! +I do not ask’”—— + + +Crash! Bang! Splash! + +“Heavens, what’s happened!” exclaimed Jim. + +They rushed out. At the end of the passage Miss de Lisle and the +irreproachable Allenby struggled in a heap—in an ever-widening pool of +water that came from an overturned bucket lying a yard away. The family +rushed to the rescue. Allenby got to his feet as they arrived, and +dragged up the drenched cook-lady. He was pale with apprehension. + +“I—I—do beg your pardon, mum!” he gasped. “I ’adn’t an idea in me ’ead +there was any one there, least of all you on your knees. I just come +backin’ out with the bucket!” + +“I say, Miss de Lisle, are you hurt?” Jim asked anxiously. + +“Not a bit, which is queer, considering Allenby’s weight!” returned +Miss de Lisle. “But it’s—it’s just t-too funny, isn’t it!” She broke +into a shout of laughter, and the others, who had, indeed, been choking +with repressed feeling, followed suit. Allenby, after a gallant attempt +to preserve the correct demeanour of a butler, unchanged by any +circumstance, suddenly bolted into the kitchen like a rabbit. They +heard strange sounds from the direction of the sink. + +“But, I say, you’re drenched!” said Jim, when every one felt a little +better. + +Miss de Lisle glanced at her stained and dripping overall. + +“Well, a little. I’ll take this off,” she said, suiting the action to +the word, and appearing in a white blouse and grey skirt which suited +her very much better than the roseate garment. “But my floor! And I had +it so beautifully polished!” she raised her voice. “Allenby! What are +you going to do about this floor?” + +“Indeed, mum, I’ve made a pretty mess of it,” said Allenby, +reappearing. + +“You have, indeed,” said she. + +“But I never expected to find you ’ere a-polishin’,” said the +bewildered ex-sergeant. + +“And I certainly never expected to find the butler scrubbing!” retorted +Miss de Lisle; at which Allenby’s jaw dropped, and he cast an appealing +glance at Jim. + +“This is a working-bee,” said Jim promptly. “We’re all in it, and no +one else knows anything about it.” + +“Not Mrs. Atkins, I hope, sir,” said Allenby. + +“Certainly not. As for Sarah, she’s out of it altogether.” + +Allenby sighed, a relieved butler. + +“I’ll see to the floor, sir,” he said. “It’s up to me, isn’t it? And +polish it after. I can easy slip down ’ere for a couple of hours after +lunch, when you’re all out ridin’.” + +“Then I really had better fly,” said Miss de Lisle. “I am pretty wet, +and there’s lunch to think about.” She looked at them in friendly +fashion. “Thank you all very much,” she said—and was gone, with a kind +of elephantine swiftness. + +The family returned to the dining-room, leaving Allenby to grapple with +the swamp in the passage. + +“Don’t we have cheery adventures when we clean house!” said Wally +happily. “I wouldn’t have missed this morning for anything.” + +“No—it _has_ been merry and bright,” Jim agreed. “And isn’t the +cook-lady a surprise-packet! I say, Nor, do you think you’d find a +human side to Mrs. Atkins if we let Allenby fall over her with a bucket +of water?” + +“’Fraid not,” said Norah. + +“You can’t find what doesn’t exist,” said Wally wisely. “Mrs. Atkins is +only a walking cruet—sort of mixture of salt and vinegar.” + +They told the story to Mr. Linton over the luncheon-table, after +Allenby had withdrawn. Nevertheless, the butler, listening from his +pantry to the shouts of laughter from the morning-room, had a fairly +good idea of the subject under discussion, and became rather pink. + +“It’s lovely in another way,” Norah finished. “For you see, I thought +Miss de Lisle wasn’t human, but I was all wrong. She’s rather a dear +when you come to know her.” + +“Yes,” said her father thoughtfully. “But you’ll have to be careful, +Norah; you mustn’t make any distinctions between her and Mrs. Atkins. +It doesn’t matter if Miss de Lisle’s pedigree is full of dukes and +bishops—Mrs. Atkins is the upper servant, and she’ll resent it if you +put Miss de Lisle on a different footing to herself.” + +“Yes, I see,” said Norah, nodding. “I’ll do my best, Dad.” + +Miss de Lisle, however, played the game. She did not encounter Norah +often, and when she did it was in Mrs. Atkins’ presence: and on these +occasions she maintained an attitude of impersonal politeness which +made it hard to realize that she and the butler had indeed bathed +together on the floor of the cottage. She found various matters in her +little sitting-room: an easy-chair, a flowering pot-plant, a pile of +books that bore Norah’s name—or Jim’s; but she made no sign of having +received them except that Norah found on her table at night a twisted +note in a masculine hand that said “Thank you.—C. de L.” As for Mrs. +Atkins, she made her silent way about the house, sour and watchful, her +green eyes rather resembling those of a cat, and her step as stealthy. +Norah tried hard to talk to her on other matters than housekeeping, but +found her so stolidly unresponsive that at last she gave up the +attempt. Life, as she said to Wally, was too short to woo a +cruet-stand! + +The week flew by swiftly, every moment busy with work and plans for the +Tired People to come. Mrs. Atkins, it was plain, did not like the +scheme. She mentioned that it would make a great deal of work, and how +did Norah expect servants in these days to put up with unexpected +people coming at all sorts of hours? + +“But,” said Norah, “that’s what the house is _for_. My father and I +would not want a houseful of servants if we didn’t mean to have a +houseful of people. What would we do with you all?” At which Mrs. +Atkins sniffed, and replied haughtily that she had been in a place +where there was only one lady, and _she_ kept eleven servants. + +“More shame for her,” said Norah. “Anyhow, we explained it all to you +when we engaged you, Mrs. Atkins. If we weren’t going to have people +here we should still be living in London, in a flat. And if the +servants won’t do their work, we shall just have to get others who +will.” Which was a terrible effort of firmness for poor Norah, who +inwardly hoped that Mrs. Atkins did not realize that she was shaking in +her shoes! + +“Easier said than done, in war-time,” said the housekeeper morosely. +“Servants don’t grow on gooseberry-bushes now, and what they don’t +expect——! Well, _I_ don’t know what the world’s coming to.” But Norah, +feeling unequal to more, fled, and, being discovered by Wally and Jim +with her head in her hands over an account-book, was promptly taken out +on Killaloe—the boys riding the cobs, which they untruthfully persisted +that they preferred. + +Then came Tuesday morning: with early breakfast, and the boys once more +in khaki, and Jones, in the carriage, keeping the browns moving in the +chill air. Not such a hard parting as others they had known since for +the present there was no anxiety: but from the days when Jim used to +leave Billabong for his Melbourne boarding-school, good-bye morning had +been a difficult one for the Lintons. They joked through it in their +usual way: it was part of the family creed to keep the flag flying. + +“Well, you may have us back at any time as your first Tired People,” +said Wally, his keen face looking as though it never could grow weary. +“Machine-gun courses must be very fatiguing, don’t you think, Jim?” + +“Poor dears!” said Norah feelingly. “We’ll have a special beef-tea diet +for you, and bath-chairs. Will they send you in an ambulance?” + +“Very likely, and then you’ll be sorry you were so disrespectful, won’t +she, Mr. Linton?” + +“I’m afraid you can’t count on it,” said that gentleman, laughing. +“Norah’s bump of respect isn’t highly developed, even for me. You’ll +write soon, Jim, and tell us how you get on—and what your next +movements are.” + +“Rather,” answered Jim. “Don’t let the lady of the house wear off all +her curls over the accounts, will you, Dad? I’d hate to see her bald!” + +“I’ll keep an eye on her,” said his father. “Now, boys; it’s time you +were off.” + +They shook hands with Allenby, to his secret gratification. He closed +the carriage door upon them, and stood back at attention, as they drove +off. From an upper window—unseen, unfortunately—a figure in a red +overall leaned, waving a handkerchief. + +The train was late, and they all stamped about the platform—it was a +frosty morning. + +“Buck up, old kiddie,” said Jim. “We’ll be home in no time. And look +after Dad.” + +“Yes—rather!” said Norah. “Send me all your socks when they want +darning—which is every week.” + +“Right.” They looked at each other with the blank feeling of having +nothing to say that comes on station platforms or on the decks of ships +before the final bell rings. Then the train came in sight, the elderly +porter, expectant of a tip, bustled mightily with suit-cases and +kit-bags, and presently they were gone. The two brown faces hung out of +the carriage-window until the train disappeared round a curve. + +Norah and her father looked at each other. + +“Well, my girl,” said he. “Now I suppose we had better begin our job.” + +They went out to the carriage. Just as they were getting in, the +ancient porter hurried after them. + +“There’s some people come by that train for you, sir.” + +The Lintons turned. A thin man, with sad Irish eyes, was limping out of +the station. Behind him came two girls. + +“Why, it’s Con!” Norah cried. + +“It is, miss,” said the chauffeur. “And the gerrls I have with +me—Bridie and Katty.” + +“But you didn’t write,” Mr. Linton said. + +“Well, indeed, I was that rushed, an’ we gettin’ off,” said Con. “But I +give Patsy Burke the money and towld him to send the wire. But ’tis the +way with Patsy he’ll likely think it’ll do in a day or two as well as +any time.” And as a matter of fact, the telegram duly arrived three +days later—by which time the new arrivals had shaken down, and there +seemed some prospect of domestic peace in the Home for Tired People. + + + + +CHAPTER VI +KIDNAPPING + + +Mrs. Hunt came slowly down the steps of a Park Lane mansion, now used +as an officers’ hospital. She was tired and dispirited; her steps +dragged as she made her way towards Piccadilly. Beneath her veil her +pretty face showed white, with lines of anxiety deepening it. + +An officer, hurrying by, stopped and came eagerly to speak to her. + +“How are you, Mrs. Hunt? And how’s the Major?” + +“Not very well,” said Mrs. Hunt, answering the second part of the +question. “The operation was more successful than any he has had yet, +but there has been a good deal of pain, and he doesn’t seem to pick up +strength. The doctors say that his hand now depends a good deal upon +his general health: he ought to live in the country, forget that +there’s a war on, and get thoroughly fit.” She sighed. “It’s so easy +for doctors to prescribe these little things.” + +“Yes—they all do it,” said the other—a captain in Major Hunt’s +regiment. “May I go to see him, do you think?” + +“Oh, do,” Mrs. Hunt answered. “It will cheer him up; and anything that +will do that is good. He’s terribly depressed, poor old boy.” She said +good-bye, and went on wearily. + +It was a warm afternoon for October. Norah Linton and her father had +come up to London by an early train, and, after much shopping, had +lunched at a little French restaurant in Soho, where they ate queer +dishes and talked exceedingly bad French to the pretty waitress. It was +four o’clock when they found themselves at the door of a dingy building +in Bloomsbury. + +“Floor 3, the Hunts’ flat, Daddy,” said Norah, consulting a note-book. +“I suppose there is a lift.” + +There was a lift, but it was out of order; a grimy card, tucked into +the lattice of the doorway, proclaimed the fact. So they mounted flight +after flight of stairs, and finally halted before a doorway bearing +Major Hunt’s card. A slatternly maid answered their ring. + +“Mrs. Hunt’s out,” she said curtly. “Gorn to see the Mijor.” + +“Oh—will she be long?” + +“Don’t think so—she’s gen’lly home about half-past four. Will yer +wait?” + +Norah looked at her father. + +“Oh yes, we’ll wait,” he said. They followed the girl into a narrow +passage, close and airless, and smelling of Irish stew. Sounds of +warfare came from behind a closed door: a child began to cry loudly, +and a boy’s voice was heard, angry and tired. + +The maid ushered the visitors into a dingy little drawing-room. Norah +stopped her as she was departing. + +“Could I see the children?” + +The girl hesitated. + +“They’re a bit untidy,” she said sullenly. “I ain’t had no time to +clean ’em up. There ain’t no one to take them for a walk to-day.” + +“Oh, never mind how untidy they are,” said Norah hastily. “Do send them +in.” + +“Oh, all right,” said the girl. “You’ll tell the missus it was you +arsked for ’em, won’t yer?” + +“Yes, of course.” + +She went out, and the Lintons looked at each other, and then at the +hopeless little room. The furniture was black horsehair, very shiny and +hard and slippery; there was a gimcrack bamboo overmantel, with much +speckled glass, and the pictures were of the kind peculiar to London +lodging-houses, apt to promote indigestion in the beholder. There was +one little window, looking out upon a blank courtyard and a dirty +little side-street, where children played and fought incessantly, and +stray curs nosed the rubbish in the gutters in the hope of finding +food. There was nothing green to be seen, nothing clean, nothing +pleasant. + +“Oh, poor kiddies!” said Norah, under her breath. + +The door opened and they came in; not shyly—the London child is seldom +shy—but frankly curious, and in the case of the elder two, with +suspicion. Three white-faced mites, as children well may be who have +spent a London summer in a Bloomsbury square, where the very pavements +sweat tar, and the breathless, sticky heat is as cruel by night as by +day. A boy of six, straight and well-grown, with dark hair and eyes, +who held by the hand a small toddling person with damp rings of golden +hair: behind them a slender little girl, a little too shadowy for a +mother’s heart to be easy; with big brown eyes peeping elfishly from a +cloud of brown curls. + +The boy spoke sullenly. + +“Eva told us to come in,” he said. + +“We wanted you to take care of us,” said Norah. “You see, your mother +isn’t here.” + +“But we can’t have tea,” said the boy. “Eva says she isn’t cleaned up +yet, and besides, there’s no milk, and very likely Mother’ll forget the +cakes, she said.” + +“But we don’t want tea,” said Norah. “We had a big lunch, not so long +ago. And besides, we’ve got something nicer than tea. It’s in his +pocket.” She nodded at her father, who suddenly smiled in the way that +made every child love him, and, fishing in his pocket drew out a square +white box—at sight of which the baby said delightedly, “Choc!” and a +kind of incredulous wonder, rather pitiful to see, came into the eyes +of Geoffrey and his sister. + +“There’s a very difficult red ribbon on this,” said Mr. Linton, +fumbling with it. “I can’t undo it.” He smiled at little Alison. “You +show me how.” + +She was across the room in a flash, the baby at her heels, while +Geoffrey made a slow step or two, and then stopped again. + +“But you don’t undone it ’tall,” she said. “It sticks on top. You +breaks this paper”—pointing to the seal—“and then it undones himself.” + +“You’re quite right,” said Mr. Linton, as the lid came off. “So it +does. How did you know?” + +“We did have lots of boxes when we lived with the wegiment,” said the +small girl; “but now the wegiment’s in Fwance, and Daddy doesn’t have +enough pennies for chocs.” Her busy fingers tossed aside tissue paper +and silver wrapping, until the brown rows of sweets were revealed. Then +she put her hands by her sides. + +“Is we to have some?” + +“Oh, you poor little soul!” said David Linton hurriedly, and caught her +up on his knee. He held the box in front of her. + +“Now, which sort do you think is best for weeshy boys like that?” he +asked, indicating the baby, who was making silent dives in the +direction of the box. “And which do you like?—and Geoffrey?” + +“Michael likes these.” She fished one out carefully, and Michael fell +upon it, sitting on the carpet that he might devour it at his ease. +“And Geoff and me—oh, we likes any ’tall.” + +“Then you shall have any at all.” He held out his free hand. “Come on, +Geoff.” And the boy, who had hesitated, digging one foot into the +carpet, suddenly capitulated and came. + +“Are you an officer?” he asked presently. + +“No, I’m too old,” said David Linton. “But I have a big son who is +one—and another boy too.” + +“What’s their regiment?” + +“The same as your father’s.” + +“Truly?” A sparkle came into the boy’s eyes. “I’m going to be in it +some day.” + +“Of course you will—and Michael too, I suppose. And then you’ll fight +the Germans—that is, if there are any left.” + +“Daddy says there won’t be. But I keep hoping there’ll be just a few +for me and Michael.’ + +“Alison wants some too,” said that lady. “Wants to kill vem wiv my +wevolver.” + +“A nice young fire-eater, you are,” said Mr. Linton, laughing. + +“Girls can’t kill Germans, silly,” said Geoffrey scornfully. “They have +to stop at home and make bandages.” To which his sister replied calmly, +“Shan’t: I’m going to kill forty ’leven,” with an air of finality which +seemed to end the discussion. Norah checked any further warlike +reflections by finding a new layer of sweets as attractive as those on +top, and the three heads clustered over the box in a pleasant anxiety +of selection. + +The carriages on the Tube railway had been very stuffy that afternoon. +Mrs. Hunt emerged thankfully from the crowded lift which shot up the +passengers from underground. She came with slow step into the dusty +street. The flat was not far away: that was one comfort. But she sighed +impatiently as she entered the building, to be confronted with the “Not +Working” legend on the lift. + +“Little wretch!” she said, alluding to the absent lift-boy. “I’m sure +he’s only playing pitch-and-toss round the corner.” She toiled up the +three long flights of stairs—her dainty soul revolting at their unswept +dinginess. Stella Hunt had been brought up in a big house on a +wind-swept Cumberland fell, and there was no day in crowded Bloomsbury +when she did not long for the clean open spaces of her girlhood. + +She let herself into the flat with her latch-key. Voices came to her +from the sitting-room, with a gurgle of laughter from little Michael. +She frowned. + +“Eva should not have let the children in there,” she thought anxiously. +“They may do some damage.” She opened the door hurriedly. + +No one noticed her for a moment, David Linton, with Alison on one knee +and Geoffrey on the other, was deep in a story of kangaroo-hunting. On +the floor sat Norah, with Michael tucked into her lap, his face +blissful as she told on his fat fingers the tale of the little pigs who +went to market. The box of chocolates was on the table, its scarlet +ribbon making a bright spot of colour in the drab room. The mother +looked for a minute in silence, something of the weariness dying out of +her eyes. + +Then Geoffrey looked up and saw her—a slight figure, holding a paper +bag. + +“Hallo!” he said. “I’m glad you didn’t forget the cakes, ’cause we’ve +got people to tea!” + +Mr. Linton placed his burden on the hearthrug, and got up. + +“How are you, Mrs. Hunt? I hope you don’t mind our taking possession +like this. We wanted to get acquainted.” + +“I could wish they were cleaner,” said Mrs. Hunt, laughing, as she +shook hands. “I’ve seldom seen three grubbier people. Geoff, dear, +couldn’t Eva have washed your face?” + +“She said she hadn’t time,” said Geoffrey easily. “We tried to wash +Michael, but he only got more streaky.” + +“Oh, please don’t mind, Mrs. Hunt,” Norah pleaded. “They’ve been such +darlings!” + +“I’m afraid I don’t mind at all,” said Mrs. Hunt, sitting down +thankfully. “I’ve been picturing my poor babies tired to death of not +being out—and then to come home and find them in the seventh heaven——” +She broke off, her lip quivering a little. + +“You’re just as tired as you can be,” said Norah. “Now you’re going to +rest, and Geoff will show me how to get tea.” + +“Oh, I couldn’t let you into that awful little kitchen,” said Mrs. Hunt +hastily. “And besides—I’m awfully sorry—I don’t believe the milkman has +been yet.” + +“I could go to the milk-shop round the corner with a jug,” said +Geoffrey anxiously. “Do let’s, Mother.” + +“Is there one?” Norah asked. “Now, Mrs. Hunt, do rest—make her put her +feet up on the sofa, Dad. And Geoff and I will go for milk, and I’ll +ask Eva to make tea. Can she?” + +“Oh, of course she _can_” said Mrs. Hunt, ceasing to argue the point. +“But she’s never fit to be seen.” + +“That doesn’t matter,” said David Linton masterfully. “We’ve seen her +once, and survived the shock. Just put your feet up, and tell me all +about your husband—Norah will see to things.” + +Eva, however, was found to have risen to the situation. She had used +soap and water with surprising effect, and now bloomed in a fresh cap +and an apron that had plainly done duty a good many times, but, being +turned inside out, still presented a decent front to the world. She +scorned help in preparing tea, but graciously permitted Norah to wash +the three children and brush their hair, and indicated where clean +overalls might be found. Then, escorted by all three, Norah sallied +forth, jug in hand, and found, not only the milk-shop, but another +where cakes and scones so clamoured to be bought that they all returned +laden with paper bags. Eva had made a huge plate of buttered toast; so +that the meal which presently made its appearance on the big table in +the drawing-room might well have justified the query as to whether +indeed a war were in progress. + +Mrs. Hunt laughed, rather mirthlessly. + +“I suppose I ought to protest—but I’m too tired,” she said. “And it is +very nice to be taken care of again. Michael, you should have +bread-and-butter first.” + +“Vere isn’t any,” said Alison with triumph. + +Norah was tucking a feeder under Michael’s fat chin. + +“Now he’s my boy for a bit—not yours at all, Mrs. Hunt,” she said, +laughing. “Forget them all: I’m going to be head nurse.” And Mrs. Hunt +lay back thankfully, and submitted to be waited on, while the shouts of +laughter from the tea-table smoothed away a few more lines from her +face, and made even Eva, feasting on unaccustomed cakes in the kitchen, +smile grimly and murmur, “Lor, ain’t they ’avin’ a time!” + +Not until tea was over, and the children busy with picture books that +had come mysteriously from another of his pockets, did David Linton +unfold his plan: and then he did it somewhat nervously. + +“We want to take you all out of this, Mrs. Hunt,” he said. “There’s a +little cottage—a jolly little thatched place—close to our house that is +simply clamouring to have you all come and live in it. I think it will +hold you all comfortably. Will you come?” + +Mrs. Hunt flushed. + +“Don’t talk to poor Bloomsbury people of such heavenly things as +thatched cottages,” she said. “We have this horrible abode on a long +lease, and I don’t see any chance of leaving it.” + +“Oh, never mind the lease—we’ll sub-let it for you,” said Mr. Linton. +He told her briefly of John O’Neill’s bequest to Norah. + +“I want you to put it out of your head that you’re accepting the +slightest favour,” he went on. “We feel that we only hold the place in +trust; the cottage is there, empty, and indeed it is you who will be +doing us the favour by coming to live in it.” + +“Oh—I couldn’t,” she said breathlessly. + +“Just think of it, Mrs. Hunt!” Norah knelt down by the hard little +horsehair sofa. “There’s a big lawn in front, and a summer-house where +the babies could play, and a big empty attic for them on wet days, and +heaps of fresh milk, and you could keep chickens; and the sitting-room +catches all the sun, and when Major Hunt comes out of the hospital it +would be so quiet and peaceful. He could lie out under the trees on +fine days on a rush lounge; and there are jolly woods for him to walk +in.” The poor wife caught her breath. “And he’d be such tremendous +company for Dad, and I know you’d help me when I got into difficulties +with my cook-lady. There’s a little stream, and a tiny lake, and——” + +“When is we goin’, Muvver?” + +The question was Alison’s, put with calm certainty. She and Geoffrey +had stolen near, and were listening with eager faces. + +“Oh, my darling, I’m afraid we can’t,” said Mrs. Hunt tremulously. + +“But the big girl says we can. When is we going?” + +“Oh, Mother!” said Geoffrey, very low. “Away from—_here_!” He caught +her hand. “Oh, say we’re going, Mother—darling!” + +“Of course she’ll say it,” David Linton said. “The only question is, +how soon can you be ready?” + +“Douglas is terribly proud,” Mrs. Hunt said. “I am afraid I couldn’t be +proud. But he will never accept a favour. I know it would be no use to +ask him.” + +“Then we won’t ask him,” said David Linton calmly. “When does he leave +the hospital?” + +“This day week, if he is well enough.” + +“Then we’ll have you comfortably installed long before that. We won’t +tell him a thing about it: on the day he’s to come out I’ll go for him +in the motor and whisk him down to Homewood before he realizes where +he’s going. Now, be sensible, Mrs. Hunt”—as she tried to speak. “You +know what his state is—how anxious you are: you told me all about it +just now. Can you, in justice to him, refuse to come?—can you face +bringing him back here?” + +Geoffrey suddenly burst into sobs. + +“Oh, don’t Mother!” he choked. “You know how he hates it. And—trees, +and grass, and woods, and——” He hid his face on her arm. + +“An’ tsickens,” said Alison. “An’ ackits to play in.” + +“You’re in a hopeless minority, you see, Mrs. Hunt,” said Mr. Linton. +“You’ll have to give in.” + +Mrs. Hunt put her arms round the two children who were pressing against +her in their eagerness: whereupon Michael raised a wrathful howl and +flung himself bodily upon them, ejaculating: “Wants to be hugged, too!” +Over the three heads the mother looked up at her visitors. + +“Yes, I give in,” she said. “I’m not brave enough not to. But I don’t +know what Douglas will say.” + +“I’ll attend to Douglas,” said Mr. Linton cheerfully. “Now, how soon +can you come?” He frowned severely. “There’s to be no question of +house-cleaning here—I’ll put in people to do that. You’ll have your +husband to nurse next week, and I won’t have you tiring yourself out +beforehand. So you have only to pack.” + +“Look, Mrs. Hunt,” Norah was flushed with another brilliant idea. “Let +us take the babies down to-day—I’m sure they will come with me. Then +you and Eva will have nothing to do but pack up your things.” + +“Oh, I couldn’t——” Mrs. Hunt began. + +“Ah yes, you could.” She turned to the children. “Geoff, will you all +come with my Daddy and me and get the cottage ready for Mother?” + +Geoffrey hesitated. + +“Would you come soon, Mother?” + +“I—I believe if I had nothing else to do I could leave the flat +to-morrow,” Mrs. Hunt said, submitting. “Would you all be happy, +Geoff?—and very good?” + +“Yes, if you’d hurry up and come. You’ll be a good kid, Alison, won’t +you?” + +“’Ess,” said Alison. “Will I see tsickens?” + +“Ever so many,” Norah said. “And Michael will be a darling: and we’ll +all sleep together in one big room, and have pillow-fights!” + +“You had certainly better come soon, before your family’s manners +become ruined, Mrs. Hunt,” said Mr. Linton, laughing. “Then you can +really manage to get away to-morrow? Very well—I’ll call for you about +five, if that will do.” + +“Yes; that will give me time to see Douglas first.” + +“But you won’t tell him anything?” + +“Oh, no: he would only worry. Of course, Mr. Linton, I shall be able to +get up to see him every day?” + +“We’re less than an hour by rail,” he told her. “And the trains are +good. Now I think you had better pack up those youngsters, and I’ll get +a taxi.” + +Norah helped to pack the little clothes, trying hard to remember +instructions as to food and insistence on good manners. + +“Oh, I know you’ll spoil them,” said Mrs. Hunt resignedly. “Poor mites, +they could do with a bit of spoiling: they have had a dreary year. But +I think they will be good: they have been away with my sister +sometimes, and she gives them a good character.” + +The children said good-bye to their mother gaily enough: the ride in +the motor was sufficient excitement to smooth out any momentary dismay +at parting. Only Geoffrey sat up very straight, with his lips tightly +pressed together. He leaned from the window—Norah gripping his coat +anxiously. + +“You’ll be true-certain to come to-morrow, Mother?” + +“I promise,” she said. “Good-bye, old son.” + +“Mother always keeps her promises, so it’s all right,” he said, leaning +back with a little smile. Alison had no worries. She sang “Hi, diddle, +diddle!” loud and clear, as they rushed through the crowded streets. +When a block in the traffic came, people on ’buses looked down, smiling +involuntarily at the piping voice coming from the recesses of the taxi. +As for Michael, he sat on Norah’s knee and sucked his thumb in complete +content. + +Jones met them at the end of the little journey. His lips involuntarily +shaped themselves to a whistle of amazement as the party filed out of +the station, though to the credit of his training be it recorded that +no sound came. Geoffrey caught his breath with delight at the sight of +the brown cobs. + +“Oh-h! Are they yours?” + +“Yes—aren’t they dears?” responded Norah. + +The boy caught her hand. + +“Oh—could I _possibly_ sit in front and look at them?” + +Norah laughed. + +“Could he, Jones? Would you take care of him?” + +“’E’d be as safe as in a cradle, Miss Norah,” said Jones delightedly. +“Come on up, sir, and I’ll show you ’ow to drive.” Mr. Linton swung him +up, smiling at the transfigured little face. Norah had already got her +charges into the carriage: a porter stowed away their trunk, and the +horses trotted off through the dusk. + +“I didn’t ever want to get out,” Geoffrey confided to Norah, as they +went up the steps to the open door of Homewood. “That kind man let me +hold the end of the reins. And he says he’ll show me more horses +to-morrow.” + +“There’s a pony too—we’ll teach you to ride it,” said Mr. Linton. +Whereat Geoffrey gasped with joy and became speechless. + +“Well—have you got them all tucked up?” asked Mr. Linton, when Norah +joined him in the morning-room an hour later. + +“Oh, yes; they were so tired, poor mites. Bride helped me to bathe +them, and we fed them all on bread and milk—with lots of cream. Michael +demanded “Mummy,” but he was too sleepy to worry much. But; Dad—Geoff +wants you badly to say ‘good-night.’ He says his own Daddy always says +it to him when he’s in bed. Would you mind?” + +“Right,” said her father. He went upstairs, with Norah at his heels, +and tiptoed into the big room where two of his three small guests were +already sleeping soundly. He looked very tall as he stood beside the +little bed in the corner. Geoff’s bright eyes peeped up at him. + +“It was awful good of you to come,” he said sleepily. “Daddy does. He +says, ‘Good night, old chap, and God bless you.’” + +“Good night, old chap, and God bless you,” said David Linton gravely. +He held the small hand a moment in his own, and then, stooping, brushed +his forehead with his lips. + +“God bless you,” said Geoff’s drowsy voice. “I’m going—going to ride +the pony . . . to-morrow.” His words trailed off in sleep. + + + + +CHAPTER VII +THE THATCHED COTTAGE + + +But for the narrow white beds, you would hardly have thought that the +big room was a hospital ward. In days before all the world was caught +into a whirlpool of war it had been a ballroom. A famous painter had +made the vaulted ceiling an exquisite thing of palest blush-roses and +laughing Cupids, tumbling among vine-leaves and tendrils. The white +walls bore long panels of the same design. There were no fittings for +light visible: when darkness fell, the touch of a button flooded the +room with a soft glow, coming from some unseen source in the carved +cornice. The shining floor bore heavy Persian rugs, and there were +tables heaped with books and magazines; and the nurses who flitted in +and out were all dainty and good to look at. All about the room were +splendid palms in pots; from giants twenty feet high, to lesser ones +the graceful leaves of which could just catch the eye of a tired man in +bed—fresh from the grim ugliness of the trenches. It was the palms you +saw as you came in—not the beds here and there among them. + +A good many of the patients were up this afternoon, for this was a ward +for semi-convalescents. Not all were fully dressed: they moved about in +dressing-gowns, or lay on the sofas, or played games at the little +tables. One man was in uniform: Major Hunt, who sat in a big chair near +his bed, and from time to time cast impatient glances at the door. + +“Wish we weren’t going to lose you, Major,” said a tall man in a purple +dressing-gown, who came up the ward with wonderful swiftness, +considering that he was on crutches. “But I expect you’re keen to go.” + +“Oh, yes; though I’ll miss this place.” Major Hunt cast an appreciative +glance down the beautiful room. “It has been great luck to be here; +there are not many hospitals like this in England. But—well, even if +home is only a beastly little flat in Bloomsbury it _is_ home, and I +shall be glad to get back to my wife and the youngsters. I miss the +kids horribly.” + +“Yes, one does,” said the other. + +“I daresay I’ll find them something of a crowd on wet days, when they +can’t get out,” said Major Hunt, laughing. “The flat is small, and my +wretched nerves are all on edge. But I want them badly, for all that. +And it’s rough on my wife to be so much alone. She has led a kind of +wandering life since war broke out—sometimes we’ve been able to have +the kids with us, but not always.” He stretched himself wearily. “Gad! +how glad I’ll be when the Boche is hammered and we’re able to have a +decent home again!” + +“We’re all like that,” said the other man. “I’ve seen my youngsters +twice in the last year.” + +“Yes, you’re worse off than I am,” said Major Hunt. He looked +impatiently towards the door, fidgeting. “I wish Stella would come.” + +But when a nurse brought him a summons presently, and he said good-bye +to the ward and went eagerly down to the ground-floor (in an electric +lift worked by an earl’s daughter in a very neat uniform), it was not +his wife who awaited him in a little white-and-gold sitting-room, but a +very tall man, looking slightly apologetic. + +“Your wife is perfectly well,” said David Linton, checking the quick +inquiry that rose to the soldier’s lips. “But I persuaded her to give +me the job of calling for you to-day: our car is rather more +comfortable than a taxi, and the doctor thought it would be a good +thing for you to have a little run first.” + +Major Hunt tried not to look disappointed, and failed signally. + +“It’s awfully good of you,” he said courteously. “But I don’t believe +I’m up to much yet—and I’m rather keen on getting home. If you wouldn’t +mind going there direct.” + +David Linton cast an appealing look at the nurse, who had accompanied +her patient. She rose to the occasion promptly. + +“Now, Major Hunt,” she protested. “Doctor’s orders! You promised to +take all the exercise you could, and a run in the car would be the very +thing for you.” + +“Oh, very well.” Major Hunt’s voice was resigned. David Linton leaned +towards him. + +“I’ll make it as short as I can,” he said confidentially. They said +good-bye, and emerged into Park Lane, where the big blue motor waited. + +“Afraid you must think me horribly rude,” said the soldier, as they +started. “Fact is, I’m very anxious to see my youngsters: I don’t know +why, but Stella wouldn’t bring them to the hospital to see me this last +week. But it’s certainly jolly to be out again.” He leaned back, +enjoying the comfort of the swift car. “I suppose—” he hesitated—“it +would be altogether too much trouble to go round by the flat and pick +up my wife and Geoff. They would love a run.” + +“Oh! Ah! The flat—yes, the flat!” said David Linton, a little wildly. +“I’m afraid—that is, we should be too early. Mrs. Hunt would not expect +us so soon, and she—er—she meant to be out, with all the children. +Shopping. Fatted calf for the prodigal’s return, don’t you know. +Awfully sorry.” + +“Oh, it’s quite all right,” said Major Hunt, looking rather amazed. +“Only she doesn’t generally take them all out. But of course it doesn’t +matter.” + +“I’ll tell you what,” said his host, regaining his composure. “We’ll +take all of you out to-morrow—Mrs. Hunt and the three youngsters as +well as yourself. The car will hold all.” + +Major Hunt thanked him, rather wearily. They sped on, leaving the +outskirts of London behind them. Up and down long, suburban roads, +beyond the trail of motor-’buses, until the open country gleamed before +them. The soldier took a long breath of the sweet air. + +“Gad, it’s good to see fields again!” he said. Presently he glanced at +the watch on his wrist. + +“Nearly time to turn, don’t you think?” he said. “I don’t want Stella +to be waiting long.” + +“Very soon,” said Mr. Linton. “Just a little more country air. The +chauffeur has his orders: I won’t keep you much longer.” + +He racked his brains anxiously for a moment, and then plunged into a +story of Australia—a story in which bushrangers, blacks and bushfires +mingled so amazingly that it was impossible not to listen to it. Having +once secured his hapless guest’s attention, he managed to leave the +agony of invention and to slide gracefully to cattle-mustering, about +which it was not necessary to invent anything. Major Hunt became +interested, and asked a few questions; and they were deep in a +comparison of the ways of handling cattle on an Australian run and a +Texan ranch, when the car suddenly turned in at a pair of big iron +gates and whirled up a drive fringed with trees. Major Hunt broke off +in the middle of a sentence. + +“Hallo! Where are we going?” + +“I have to stop at a house here for an instant,” said Mr. Linton. “Just +a moment; I won’t keep you.” + +Major Hunt frowned. He was tired; the car was wonderfully comfortable, +but the rush through the keen air was wearying to a semi-invalid, and +he was conscious of a feeling of suppressed irritation. He wanted to be +home. The thought of the hard little sofa in the London flat suddenly +became tempting—he could lie there and talk to the children, and watch +Stella moving about. Now they were miles into the country—long miles +that must be covered again before he was back in Bloomsbury. He bit his +lips to restrain words that might not seem courteous. + +“I should really be very grateful if——” + +He stopped. The car had turned into a side-avenue—he caught a glimpse +of a big, many-gabled house away to the right. Then they turned a +corner, and the car came to a standstill with her bonnet almost poking +into a great clump of rhododendrons. There was a thatched cottage +beside them. And round the corner tore a small boy in a sailor suit, +with his face alight with a very ecstasy of welcome. + +“Daddy! Oh, Daddy!” + +“Geoff!” said Major Hunt amazedly. “But how?—I don’t understand.” + +There were other people coming round the corner: his wife, tall and +slender, with her eyes shining; behind her, Norah Linton, with Alison +trotting beside her, and Michael perched on one shoulder. At sight of +his father Michael drummed with his heels to Norah’s great discomfort, +and uttered shrill squeaks of joy. + +“Come on,” said Geoffrey breathlessly, tugging at the door. “Come on! +they’re all here.” + +“Come on, Hunt,” said David Linton, jumping out. “Let me help you—mind +your hand.” + +“I suppose I’ll wake up in a moment,” said Major Hunt, getting out +slowly. “At present, it’s a nice dream. I don’t understand anything. +How are you, Miss Linton?” + +“You don’t need to wake up,” said his wife, in a voice that shook a +little. Her brave eyes were misty. “Only, you’re home.” + +“It’s the loveliest home, Daddy!” Geoff’s hand was in his father’s, +pulling him on. + +“There’s tsickens!” said Alison in a high pipe. “An’ a ackit wiv toys.” + +“She means an attic,” said Geoffrey scornfully. “Come on, Daddy. We’ve +got such heaps to show you.” + +Somehow they found themselves indoors. Norah and her father had +disappeared; they were all together, father, mother, and babies, in a +big room flooded with sunlight: a room covered with a thick red matting +with heavy rugs on it; a room with big easy-chairs and gate-legged +tables, and a wide couch heaped with bright cushions, drawn close to an +open casement. There was a fire of logs, crackling cheerily in the wide +fireplace: there were their own belongings—photographs, books, his own +pipe-rack and tobacco-jar: there were flowers everywhere, smiling a +greeting. Tea-cups and silver sparkled on a white-cloth; a copper +kettle bubbled over a spirit-lamp. And there were his own people +clinging round him, welcoming, holding him wherever little hands could +grasp: the babies fresh, clean, even rosy; his wife’s face, no longer +tired. And there was no Bloomsbury anywhere. + +Major Hunt sat down on the sofa, disentangled Michael from his leg, and +lifted him with his good arm. + +“It isn’t a dream, really, I suppose, Stella?” he said. “I won’t wake +up presently? I don’t want to.” + +“No; it’s just a blessed reality,” she told him, smiling. “Hang up +Daddy’s cap, Geoff: steady, Alison, darling—mind his hand. Don’t worry +about anything, Douglas—only—you’re home.” + +“I don’t even want to ask questions,” said her husband, in the same +dazed voice. “I find one has no curiosity, when one suddenly gets to +heaven. We won’t be going away from heaven, though, will we?” + +“No—we’re permanent residents,” she told him, laughing. “Now get quite +comfy; we’ll all have tea together.” + +“Tea’s is lovely here,” confided Alison to him. “They’s cweam—an’ +cakes, _evewy_ day. An’ the tsickens make weal eggs, in nesses!” + +“And I can ride. A pony, Daddy!” Geoffrey’s voice was quivering with +pride. He stood by the couch, an erect little figure. + +“Why, he’s grown—ever so much!” said Major Hunt. “They’ve all grown; +you too, my little fat Michael. I left white-faced babies in that +beastly flat. And you too——” She bent over him. “Your dear eyes have +forgotten the old War!” he said, very low. + +There was a heavy knock at the door. Entered Eva, resplendent in a +butterfly cap and an apron so stiffly starched that it stood away +resentfully from her figure. By no stretch of imagination could Eva +ever have been called shy; but she had a certain amount of awe for her +master, and found speech in his presence a little difficult. But on +this occasion it was evident that she felt that something was demanded +of her. She put her burden of buttered toast on a trivet in the fender, +and said breathlessly: + +“’Ope I see yer well, sir. And _ain’t_ this a nice s’prise!” + +“Thank you, Eva—yes,” said Major Hunt. + +Whereat, the handmaiden withdrew, her heavy tread retreating to the +kitchen to the accompaniment of song. + +“Ow—Ow—_Ow_, it’s a lovely War!” + +“I didn’t know her for a moment,” Major Hunt said, laughing. “You see, +she never had less than six smuts on her face in Bloomsbury. She’s +transformed, like all of you in this wonderful dream.” + +“Tea isn’t a dream,” said his wife. She made it in the silver tea-pot, +and they all fluttered about him, persuading him to eat: and made his +tea a matter of some difficulty, since all three children insisted on +getting as close to him as possible, and he had but one good hand. He +did not mind. Once, as his wife brought him a refilled cup, she saw him +lean his face down until it rested for a moment on the gold rings of +Michael’s hair. + +It was with some anxiety that Norah and her father went to call on +their guest next morning. + +“What will we do if he’s stiff-necked and proud, Dad?” Norah asked. “I +simply couldn’t part with those babies now!” + +“Let’s hope he won’t be,” said her father. “But if the worst comes to +worst, we could let him pay us a little rent for the place—we could +give the money to the Red Cross, of course.” + +“’M!” said Norah, wrinkling her nose expressively. “That would be +horrid—it would spoil all the idea of the place.” + +But they found Major Hunt surprisingly meek. + +“I daresay that if you had propounded the idea to me at first I should +have said ‘No’ flatly,” he admitted. “But I haven’t the heart to +disturb them all now—and, frankly, I’m too thankful. If you’ll let me +pay you rent——” + +“Certainly not!” said Mr. Linton, looking astonished and indignant. “We +don’t run our place on those lines. Just put it out of your head that +we have anything to do with it. You’re taking nothing from us—only from +a man who died very cheerfully because he was able to do five minutes’ +work towards helping the War. He’s helping it still if his money makes +it easier for fellows like you; and I believe, wherever he is, he knows +and is glad.” + +“But there are others who may need it more,” said Hunt weakly. + +“If there are, I haven’t met them yet,” Mr. Linton responded. He +glanced out of the window. “Look there now, Hunt!” + +Norah had slipped away, leaving the men to talk. Now she came riding up +the broad gravel path across the lawn, on the black pony: leading the +fat Welsh pony, with Geoffrey on his back. The small boy sat very +straight, with his hands well down. His flushed little face sought +anxiously for his father’s at the window. + +Major Hunt uttered a delighted exclamation. + +“I didn’t know my urchin was so advanced,” he said. “Well done, old +son!” He scanned him keenly. “He doesn’t sit too badly, Mr. Linton.” + +“He’s not likely to do so, with Norah as his teacher. But Norah says he +doesn’t need much teaching, and that he has naturally good hands. She’s +proud of him. I think,” said Mr. Linton, laughing, “that they have +visions of hunting together this winter!” + +“I must go out and see him,” said the father, catching up his cap. Mr. +Linton watched him cross the lawn with quick strides: and turned, to +find Mrs. Hunt at his elbow. + +“Well—he doesn’t look much like an invalid, Madam!” he said, smiling. + +“He’s not like the same man,” she said, with grateful eyes. “He slept +well, and ate a huge breakfast: even the hand is less painful. And he’s +so cheery. Oh, I’m so thankful to you for kidnapping us!” + +“Indeed, it’s you that we have to thank,” he told her. “You gave us our +first chance of beginning our job.” + + + + +CHAPTER VIII +ASSORTED GUESTS + + +“I beg your pardon—is this Homewood?” + +Norah, practising long putts at a hole on the far side of the terrace, +turned with a start. The questioner was in uniform, bearing a captain’s +three stars. He was a short, strongly-built young man, with a square, +determined face. + +“Yes, this is Homewood,” she answered. “Did you—have you come to see my +father?” + +“I wrote to him last week,” the officer said—“from France. It’s Miss +Linton, isn’t it? I’m in your brother’s regiment. My name is Garrett.” + +“Oh—I’ve heard Jim speak of you ever so many times,” she cried. She put +out her hand, and felt it taken in a close grasp. “But we haven’t had +your letter. Dad would have told me if one had come.” + +Captain Garrett frowned. + +“What a nuisance!” he ejaculated. “Letters from the front are apt to +take their time, but I did think a week would have been long enough. I +wrote directly I knew my leave was coming. You see—your brother told +me——” He stopped awkwardly. + +Intelligence suddenly dawned upon Norah. + +“Why, you’re a Tired Person!” she exclaimed, beaming. + +“Not at all, I assure you,” replied he, looking a trifle amazed. Norah +laughed. + +“I don’t mean quite that,” she said—“at least I’ll explain presently. +But you _have_ come to stay, haven’t you?” + +“Well—your brother was good enough to——” He paused again. + +“Yes, of course. Jim told you we wanted you to come. This is the Home +for Tired People, you see; we want to get as many of you as we can and +make you fit. And you’re our very first in the house, which will make +it horribly dull for you.” + +“Indeed, it won’t,” said Garrett gallantly. + +“Well, we’ll do our best for you. I’m so very sorry you weren’t met. +Did you leave your luggage at the station?” + +“Yes. You’re quite sure it’s convenient to have me, Miss Linton? I +could easily go back to London.” + +“Good gracious, no!” said Norah. “Why, you’re a godsend! We weren’t +justifying our name. But you _will_ be dull to-day, because Dad has +gone to London, and there’s only me.” Norah’s grammar was never her +strong point. “And little Geoff Hunt was coming to lunch with me. Will +it bore you very much to have a small boy here?” + +“Rather not!” said Garrett. “I like them—got some young brothers of my +own in Jamaica.” + +“Well, that’s all right. Now come in, and Allenby will show you your +room. The car will bring your things up when it goes to meet Dad.” + +Norah had often rehearsed in her own mind what she would do when the +first Tired Person came. The rooms were all ready—“in assorted sizes,” +Allenby said. Norah had awful visions of eight or ten guests arriving +together, and in her own mind characterized the business of allotting +them to their rooms as a nasty bit of drafting. But the first guest had +tactfully come alone, and there was no doubt that he deserved the blue +room—a delightful little corner room looking south and west, with +dainty blue hangings and wall-paper, and a big couch that beckoned +temptingly to a tired man. Captain Garrett had had fourteen months in +France without a break. He had spent the previous night in the +leave-train, only pausing in London for a hasty “clean-up.” The +lavender-scented blue room was like a glimpse of Heaven to him. He did +not want to leave it—only that downstairs Jim Linton’s sister awaited +him, and it appeared that the said sister was a very jolly girl, with a +smile like her brother’s cheerful grin, and a mop of brown curls +framing a decidedly attractive face. Bob Garrett decided that there +were better things than even the blue room, and, having thankfully +accepted Allenby’s offer of a hot tub, presently emerged from the +house, much improved in appearance. + +This time Norah was not alone. A small boy was with her, who greeted +the newcomer with coolness, and then suddenly fell upon him excitedly, +recognizing the badge on his collar. + +“You’re in Daddy’s regiment!” he exclaimed. + +“Am I?” Garrett smiled at him. “Who is Daddy?” + +“He’s Major Hunt,” said Geoff; and had the satisfaction of seeing the +new officer become as eager as he could have wished. + +“By Jove! Truly, Miss Linton?—does Major Hunt live here? I’d give +something to see him.” + +“He lives just round the corner of that bush,” said Norah, laughing. +She indicated a big rhododendron. “Is he at home, Geoff?” + +“No—he’s gone to London,” Geoff answered. “But he’ll be back for tea.” + +“Then we’ll go and call on Mrs. Hunt and ask her if we may come to +tea,” Norah said. They strolled off, Geoff capering about them. + +“I don’t know Mrs. Hunt,” Garrett said. “You see I only joined the +regiment when war broke out—I had done a good bit of training, so they +gave me a commission among the first. I didn’t see such a lot of the +Major, for he was doing special work in Ireland for awhile; but he was +a regular brick to me. We’re all awfully sick about his being smashed +up.” + +“But he’s going to get better,” Norah said cheerfully. “He’s ever so +much better now.” + +They came out in front of the cottage, and discovered Mrs. Hunt playing +hide-and-seek with Alison and Michael—with Alison much worried by +Michael’s complete inattention to anything in the shape of a rule. +Michael, indeed, declined to be hid, and played on a steady line of his +own, which consisted in toddling after his mother whenever she was in +sight, and catching her with shrill squeaks of joy. It was perfectly +satisfactory to him, but somewhat harassing to a stickler for detail. + +Mrs. Hunt greeted Garrett warmly. + +“Douglas has often talked about you—you’re from Jamaica, aren’t you?” +she said. “He will be so delighted that you have come. Yes, of course +you must come to tea, Norah. I’d ask you to lunch, only I’m perfectly +certain there isn’t enough to eat! And Geoff would be so disgusted at +being done out of his lunch with you, which makes me think it’s not +really your society he wants, but the fearful joy of Allenby behind his +chair.” + +“I don’t see why you should try to depress me,” Norah laughed. “Well, +we’ll all go for a ride after lunch, and get back in time for tea, if +you’ll put up with me in a splashed habit—the roads are very muddy. You +ride, I suppose, Captain Garrett?” + +“Oh, yes, thanks,” Garrett answered. “It’s the only fun I’ve had in +France since the battalion went back into billets: a benevolent gunner +used to lend me a horse—both of us devoutly hoping that I wouldn’t be +caught riding it.” + +“Was it a nice horse?” Geoffrey demanded. + +“Well, you wouldn’t call it perfect, old chap. I think it was suffering +from shell-shock: anyhow, it had nerves. It used to shake all over when +it saw a Staff-officer!” He grinned. “Or perhaps I did. On duty, that +horse was as steady as old Time: but when it was alone, it jumped out +of its skin at anything and everything. However, it was great exercise +to ride it!” + +“We’ll give him Killaloe this afternoon, Geoff,” said Norah. “Come on, +and we’ll show him the stables now.” + +They bade _au revoir_ to Mrs. Hunt and sauntered towards the stables. +On the way appeared a form in a print frock, with flying cap and +apron-strings. + +“Did you want me, Katty?” Norah asked. + +“There’s a tallygrum after coming, miss, on a bicycle. And the boy’s +waiting.” + +Norah knitted her brows over the sheet of flimsy paper. + +“There’s no answer, Katty, tell the boy.” She turned to Garrett, +laughing. “You’re not going to be our only guest for long. Dad says +he’s bringing two people down to-night—Colonel and Mrs. West. Isn’t it +exciting! I’ll have to leave you to Geoff while I go and talk to the +housekeeper. Geoff, show Captain Garrett all the horses—Jones is at the +stables.” + +“Right!” said Geoffrey, bursting with importance. “Come along, Captain +Garrett. I’ll let you pat my pony, if you like!” + +Mrs. Atkins looked depressed at Norah’s information. + +“Dear me! And dinner ordered for three!” she said sourly. “It makes a +difference. And of course I really had not reckoned on more than you +and Mr. Linton.” + +“I can telephone for anything you want,” said Norah meekly. + +“The fish will not be sufficient,” said the housekeeper. “And other +things likewise. I must talk to the cook. It would be so much easier if +one knew earlier in the day. And rooms to get ready, of course?” + +“The big pink room with the dressing-room,” Norah said. + +“Oh, I suppose the maids can find time. Those Irish maids have no idea +of regular ways: I found Bride helping to catch a fowl this morning +when she should have been polishing the floor. Now, I must throw them +out of routine again.” + +Norah suppressed a smile. She had been a spectator of the spirited +chase after the truant hen, ending with the appearance of Mrs. Atkins, +full of cold wrath; and she had heard Bride’s comment afterwards. “Is +it her, with her ould routheen? Yerra, that one wouldn’t put a hand to +a hin, and it eshcapin’!” + +“Yes,” said Mrs. Atkins. “Extraordinary ways. Very untrained, I must +say.” + +“But you find that they do their work, don’t they?” Norah asked. + +“Oh, after a fashion,” said the housekeeper, with a sniff—unwilling to +admit that Bride and Katty got through more work in two hours than +Sarah in a morning, were never unwilling, and accepted any and every +job with the utmost cheerfulness. “Their ways aren’t my ways. Very +well, Miss Linton. I’ll speak to the cook.” + +Feeling somewhat battered, Norah escaped. In the hall she met Katty, +who jumped—and then broke into a smile of relief. + +“I thought ’twas the Ould Thing hersilf,” she explained. “She’d ate the +face off me if she found me here again—’tis only yesterday she was +explaining to me that a kitchenmaid has no business in the hall, at +all. But Bridie was tellin’ me ye’ve the grandest ould head of an Irish +elk here, and I thought I’d risk her, to get a sight of it.” + +“It’s over there,” Norah said, pointing to a mighty pair of horns on +the wall behind the girl. Katty looked at it in silence. + +“It’s quare to think of the days when them great things walked the +plains of Ireland,” she said at length. “Thank you, miss: it done me +good to see it.” + +“How are you getting on, Katty?” Norah asked. + +“Yerra, the best in the world,” said Katty cheerfully. “Miss de Lisle’s +that kind to me—I’ll be the great cook some day, if I kape on watchin’ +her. She’s not like the fine English cooks I’ve heard of, that ’ud no +more let you see how they made so much as a pudding than they’d fly +over the moon. ’Tis Bridie has the bad luck, to be housemaid.” + +Norah knew why, and sighed. There were moments when her housekeeper +seemed a burden too great to be borne. + +“But Mr. Allenby’s very pleasant with her, and she says wance you find +out that Sarah isn’t made of wood she’s not so bad. She found that out +when she let fly a pillow at her, and they bedmaking,” said Katty, with +a joyous twinkle. “’Tis herself had great courage to do that same, +hadn’t she, now, miss?” + +“She had, indeed,” Norah said, laughing. The spectacle of the stiff +Sarah, overwhelmed with a sudden pillow, was indeed staggering. + +“And then, haven’t we Con to cheer us up if we get lonely?” said Katty. +“And Misther Jones and the groom—they’re very friendly. And the money +we’ll have to send home! But you’d be wishful for Ireland, no matter +how happy you’d be.” + +The telephone bell rang sharply, and Norah ran to answer it. It was +Jim. + +“That you, Nor?” said his deep voice. “Good—I’m in a hurry. I say, can +you take in a Tired Person to-night?” + +Norah gasped. + +“Oh, certainly!” she said, grimly. “Who is it, Jimmy? Not you or +Wally?” + +“No such luck,” said her brother. “It’s a chap I met last night; he’s +just out of a convalescent home, and a bit down on his luck.” His voice +died away in a complicated jumble of whir and buzz, the bell rang +frantically, and Norah, like thousands of other people, murmured her +opinion of the telephone and all its works. + +“Are you there?” she asked. + +“B-z-z-z-z-z!” said the telephone. + +Norah waited a little, anxiously debating whether it would be more +prudent to ring up herself and demand the last speaker, or to keep +quiet and trust to Jim to regain his connexion. Finally, she decided to +ring: and was just about to put down the receiver when Jim’s voice +said, “Are you there?” in her ear sharply, and once more collapsed into +a whir. She waited again, in dead silence. At last she rang. Nothing +happened, so she rang again. + +“Number, please?” said a bored voice. + +“Some one was speaking to me—you’ve cut me off,” said Norah +frantically. + +“I’ve been trying to get you for the last ten minutes. You shouldn’t +have rung off,” said the voice coldly. “Wait, please.” + +Norah swallowed her feelings and waited. + +“Hallo! Hallo! Hallo!—oh, _is_ that you, Norah?” said Jim, his tone +crisp with feeling. “Isn’t this an unspeakable machine! And I’m due in +three minutes—I must fly. Sure you can have Hardress? He’ll get to you +by the 6.45. Are you all well? Yes, we’re all right. Sorry, I’ll get +told off horribly if I’m late. Good-bye.” + +Norah hung up the receiver, and stood pondering. She wished the +telephone had not chosen to behave so abominably; only the day before +Wally had rung her up and had spent quite half an hour in talking +cheerful nonsense, without any hindrance at all. Norah wished she knew +a little more about her new “case”; if he were very weak—if special +food were needed. It was very provoking. Also, there was Mrs. Atkins to +be faced—not a prospect to be put off, since, like taking Gregory’s +Powder, the more you looked at it the worse it got. Norah stiffened her +shoulders and marched off to the housekeeper’s room. + +“Oh, Mrs. Atkins,” she said pleasantly, “there’s another officer coming +this evening.” + +Mrs. Atkins turned, cold surprise in her voice. + +“Indeed, miss. And will that be all, do you think?” + +“I really don’t know,” said Norah recklessly. “That depends on my +father, you see.” + +“Oh. May I ask which room is to be prepared?” + +“The one next Captain Garrett’s, please. I can do it, if the maids are +too busy.” + +Mrs. Atkins froze yet more. + +“I should very much rather you did not, miss, thank you,” she said. + +“Just as you like,” said Norah. “Con can take a message for anything +you want; he is going to the station.” + +“Thank you, miss, I have already telephoned for larger supplies,” said +the housekeeper. The conversation seemed to have ended, so Norah +departed. + +“What did she ever come for?” she asked herself desperately. “If she +didn’t want to housekeep, why does she go out as a housekeeper?” +Turning a corner she met the butler. + +“Oh, Allenby,” she said. “We’ll have quite a houseful to-night!” She +told him of the expected arrivals, half expecting to see his face fall. +Allenby, on the contrary, beamed. + +“It’ll be almost like waiting in Mess!” he said. “When you’re used to +officers, miss, you can’t get on very well without them.” He looked in +a fatherly fashion at Norah’s anxious face. “All the arrangements made, +I suppose, miss?” + +“Oh, yes, I think they’re all right,” said Norah, feeling anything but +confident. “Allenby—I don’t know much about managing things; do you +think it’s too much for the house?” + +“No, miss, it isn’t,” Allenby said firmly. “Just you leave it all to +me, and don’t worry. Nature made some people bad-tempered, and they +can’t ’elp it. I’ll see that things are all right; and as for dinner, +all that worries Miss de Lisle, as a rule, is, that she ain’t got +enough cooking to do!” + +He bent the same fatherly glance on her that evening as she came into +the hall when the hoot of the motor told that her father and his +consignment of Tired People were arriving. Norah had managed to forget +her troubles during the afternoon. A long ride had been followed by a +very cheerful tea at Mrs. Hunt’s, from which she and Garrett had +returned only in time for Norah to slip into a white frock and race +downstairs to meet her guests. She hoped, vaguely, that she looked less +nervous than she felt. + +The hall door opened, letting in a breath of the cold night air. + +“Ah, Norah—this is my daughter, Mrs. West,” she heard her father’s +voice; and then she was greeting a stout lady and a grey-haired +officer. + +“Dear me!” said the lady. “I expected some one grown up. How brave! +Fancy you, only—what is it—a flapper! And don’t you hate us all very +much? _I_ should, I’m sure!” + +Over her shoulder Norah caught a glimpse of her father’s face, set in +grim lines. She checked a sudden wild desire to laugh, and murmured +something civil. + +“Our hostess, Algernon,” said the stout lady, and Norah shook hands +with Colonel West, who was short and stout and pompous, and said +explosively, “Haw! Delighted! Cold night, what?”—which had the effect +of making his hostess absolutely speechless. Somehow with the +assistance of Allenby and Sarah, the newcomers were “drafted” to their +rooms, and Norah and her father sought cover in the morning-room. + +“You look worn, Daddy,” said his daughter, regarding him critically. + +“I feel it,” said David Linton. He sank into an armchair and felt +hurriedly for his pipe. “Haven’t had a chance of a smoke for hours. +They’re a little trying, I think, Norah.” + +“Where did you get them?” Norah asked, perching on the arm of his +chair, and dropping a kiss on the top of his head. + +“From the hospital where the boys were. Colonel West has been ill +there. Brain-fever, Mrs. West says, but he doesn’t look like it. +Anyhow, they’re hard up, I believe; their home is broken up and they +have five or six children at school, and a boy in Gallipoli. They +seemed very glad to come.” + +“Well, that’s all right,” said Norah practically. “We can’t expect to +have every one as nice as the Hunts. But they’re not the only ones, +Dad: Captain Garrett is here, and Jim is sending some one called +Hardress by the 6.45—unfortunately the telephone didn’t allow Jim to +mention what he is! I hope he isn’t a brigadier.” + +“I don’t see Jim hob-nobbing to any extent with brigadiers,” said her +father. “I say, this is rather a shock. Four in a day!” + +“Yes, business is looking up,” said Norah, laughing. “Captain Garrett +is a dear—and he can ride, Dad. I had him out on Killaloe. I’m a little +uneasy about the Hardress person, because he’s just out of a +convalescent home, and Jim seemed worried about him. But the telephone +went mad, and Jim was in a hurry, so I didn’t get any details.” + +“Oh, well, we’ll look after him. How is the household staff standing +the invasion?” + +“Every one’s very happy except Mrs. Atkins, and she is plunged in woe. +Even Sarah seems interested. I haven’t dared to look at Miss de Lisle, +but Allenby says she is cheerful.” + +“Has Mrs. Atkins been unpleasant?” + +“Well,” said Norah, and laughed, “you wouldn’t call her exactly a +bright spot in the house. But she has seen to things, so that is all +that counts.” + +“I won’t have that woman worry you,” said Mr. Linton firmly. + +“I won’t have _you_ worried about anything,” said Norah. “Don’t think +about Mrs. Atkins, or you won’t enjoy your tea. And here’s Allenby.” + +“Tea!” said Mr. Linton, as the butler entered, bearing a little tray. +“I thought I was too late for such a luxury—but I must say I’m glad of +it.” + +“I sent some upstairs, sir,” said Allenby, placing a little table near +his master. “Just a little toast, sir, it being so late. And if you +please, miss, Miss de Lisle would be glad if you could spare a moment +in the kitchen.” + +The cook-lady, redder than ever, was mixing a mysterious compound in a +bowl. Katty, hugely important, darted hither and thither. A variety of +savoury smells filled the air. + +“I just wanted to tell you,” said Miss de Lisle confidentially, “that +I’m making a special _souffle_ of my own, and Allenby will put it in +front of you. Promise me”—she leaned forward earnestly—“to use a thin +spoon to help it, and slide it in edgeways as gently as—as if you were +stroking a baby! It’s just a _perfect_ thing—I wouldn’t sleep to-night +if you used a heavy spoon and plunged it in as if it was a +suet-pudding!” + +“I won’t forget,” Norah promised her, resisting a wild desire to laugh. + +“That’s a dear,” said the cook-lady, disregarding the relations of +employer and employed, in the heat of professional enthusiasm. “And +you’ll help it as quickly as possible, won’t you? It will be put on the +table after all the other sweets. Every second will be of importance!” +She sighed. “A _souffle_ never gets a fair chance. It ought, of course, +to be put on a table beside the kitchen-range, and cut within two +seconds of leaving the oven. With a _hot_ spoon!” She sighed +tragically. + +“We’ll do our best for it,” Norah promised her. “I’m sure it will be +lovely. Shall I come and tell you how it looked, afterwards?” + +Miss de Lisle beamed. + +“Now, that would be very kind of you,” she said. “It’s so seldom that +any one realizes what these things mean to the cook. A _souffle_ like +this is an inspiration—like a sonata to a musician. But no one ever +dreams of the cook; and the most you can expect from a butler is, ‘Oh, +it cut very nice, ma’am, I’m sure. Very nice!’” She made a despairing +gesture. “But some people would call Chopin ‘very nice’!” + +“Miss de Lisle,” said Norah earnestly, “some day when we haven’t any +guests and Dad goes to London, we’ll give every one else a holiday and +you and I will have lunch here together. And we’ll have that _souffle_, +and eat it beside the range!” + +For a moment Miss de Lisle had no words. + +“Well!” she said at length explosively. “And I was so horrible to you +at first!” To Norah’s amazement and dismay a large tear trickled down +one cheek, and her mouth quivered like a child’s. “Dear me, how foolish +I am,” said the poor cook-lady, rubbing her face with her overall, and +thereby streaking it most curiously with flour. “Thank you very much, +my dear. Even if we never manage it, I won’t forget that you said it!” + +Norah found herself patting the stalwart shoulder. + +“Indeed, we’ll manage it,” she said. “Now, don’t you worry about +anything but that lovely _souffle_.” + +“Oh, the _souffle_ is assured now,” said Miss de Lisle, beating her +mixture scientifically. “Now I shall have beautiful thoughts to put +into it! You have no idea what that means. Now, if I sat here mixing, +and thought of, say, Mrs. Atkins, it would probably be as heavy as +lead!” She sighed. “I believe, Miss Linton, I could teach you something +of the real poetry of cooking. I’m sure you have the right sort of +soul!” + +Norah looked embarrassed. + +“Jim says I’ve no soul beyond mustering cattle,” she said, laughing. +“We’ll prove him wrong, some day, Miss de Lisle, shall we? Now I must +go: the motor will be back presently.” She turned, suddenly conscious +of a baleful glance. + +“Oh!—Mrs. Atkins!” she said feebly. + +“I came,” said Mrs. Atkins stonily, “to see if any help was needed in +the kitchen. Perhaps, as you are here, miss, you would be so good as to +ask the cook?” + +“Oh—nothing, thank you,” said Miss de Lisle airily, over her shoulder. +Mrs. Atkins sniffed, and withdrew. + +“That’s done it, hasn’t it?” said the cook-lady. “Well, don’t worry, my +dear; I’ll see you through anything.” + +A white-capped head peeped in. + +“’Tis yersilf has all the luck of the place, Katty O’Gorman!” said +Bride enviously. “An’ that Sarah won’t give me so much as a look-in, +above: if it was to turn down the beds, itself, it’s as much as she’ll +do to let me. Could I give you a hand here at all, Miss de Lisle? God +help us, there’s Miss Norah!” + +“If ’tis the way you’d but let her baste the turkey for a minyit, she’d +go upstairs reshted in hersilf,” said Katty in a loud whisper. “The +creature’s destroyed with bein’ out of all the fun.” + +“Oh, come in—if you’re not afraid of Mrs. Atkins,” said Miss de Lisle. +Norah had a vision of Bride, ecstatically grasping a basting-ladle, as +she made her own escape. + +Allenby was just shutting the hall-door as she turned the corner. A +tall man in a big military greatcoat was shaking hands with her father. + +“Here’s Captain Hardress, Norah.” + +Norah found herself looking up into a face that at the first glance she +thought one of the ugliest she had ever seen. Then the newcomer smiled, +and suddenly the ugliness seemed to vanish. + +“It’s too bad to take you by storm this way. But your brother wouldn’t +hear of anything else.” + +“Of course not,” said Mr. Linton. “My daughter was rather afraid you +might be a brigadier. She loses her nerve at the idea of pouring tea +for anything above a colonel.” + +“Indeed, a colonel’s bad enough,” said Norah ruefully. “I’m accustomed +to people with one or two stars: even three are rather alarming!” She +shot a glance at his shoulder, laughing. + +“I’m sure you’re not half as alarmed as I was at coming,” said Captain +Hardress. “I’ve been so long in hospital that I’ve almost forgotten how +to speak to any one except doctors and nurses.” His face, that lit up +so completely when he smiled, relapsed into gloom. + +“Well, you mustn’t stand here,” Norah said. “Please tell me if you’d +like dinner in your room, or if you’d rather come down.” She had a +sudden vision of Mrs. West’s shrill voice, and decided that she might +be tiring to this man with the gaunt, sad face. + +Hardress hesitated. + +“I think you’d better stay upstairs,” said David Linton. “Just for +to-night—till you feel rested. I’ll come and smoke a pipe with you +after dinner, if I may.” + +“I should like that awfully,” said Hardress. “Well, if you’re sure it +would not be too much trouble, Miss Linton——?” + +“It’s not a scrap of trouble,” she said. “Allenby will show you the +way. See that Captain Hardress has a good fire, Allenby—and take some +papers and magazines up.” She looked sadly after the tall figure as it +limped away. He was not much older than Jim, but his face held a world +of bitter experience. + +“You mustn’t let the Tired People make you unhappy, mate,” said her +father. He put his arm round her as they went into the drawing-room to +await their guests. “Remember, they wouldn’t be here if they didn’t +need help of some sort.” + +“I won’t be stupid,” said Norah. “But he has such a sorry face, Dad, +when he doesn’t smile.” + +“Then our job is to keep him smiling,” said David Linton practically. + +There came a high-pitched voice in the hall, and Mrs. West swept in, +her husband following at her heels. To Norah’s inexperienced eyes, she +was more gorgeous than the Queen of Sheba, in a dress of sequins that +glittered and flashed with every movement. Sarah, who had assisted in +her toilette, reported to the kitchen that she didn’t take much stock +in a dress that was moulting its sequins for all the world like an old +hen; but Norah saw no deficiencies, and was greatly impressed by her +guest’s magnificence. She was also rather overcome by her eloquence, +which had the effect of making her feel speechless. Not that that +greatly mattered, as Mrs. West never noticed whether any one else +happened to speak or remain silent, so long as they did not happen to +drown her own voice. + +“Such a lovely room!” she twittered. “_So_ comfortable. And I feel sure +there is an exquisite view. And a fire in one’s bedroom—in war-time! +Dear me, I feel I ought to protest, only I haven’t sufficient moral +courage; and those pine logs are _too_ delicious. Perhaps you are +burning your own timber?—ah, I thought so. That makes it easier for me +to refrain from prodding up my moral courage—ha, ha!” + +Norah hunted for a reply, and failed to find one. + +“And you are actually Australians!” Mrs. West ran on. “_So_ +interesting! I always do think that Australians are so original—so +quaintly original. It must be the wild life you lead. So unlike dear, +quiet little England. Bushrangers, and savage natives, and gold-mining. +How I should like to see it all!” + +“Oh, you would find other attractions as well, Mrs. West,” Mr. Linton +told her. “The ‘wild life in savage places’ phase of Australian history +is rather a back number.” + +“Oh, quite—quite,” agreed his guest. “We stay-at-homes know so little +of the other side of the world. But we are not aloof—not uninterested. +We recognize the fascination of it all. The glamour—yes, the glamour. +Gordon’s poems bring it all before one, do they not? Such a true +Australian! You must be very proud of him.” + +“We are—but he wasn’t an Australian,” said Mr. Linton. The lady sailed +on, unheeding. + +“Yes. The voice of the native-born. And your splendid soldiers, too!—I +assure you I thrill whenever I meet one of the dear fellows in the +street in London. So tall and stern under their great slouch-hats. +Outposts of Empire, that is what I say to myself. Outposts here, in the +heart of our dear little Surrey! Linking the ends of the earth, as it +were. The strangeness of it all!” + +Garrett, who had made an unobtrusive entrance some little time before, +and had been enjoying himself hugely in the background, now came up to +the group on the hearthrug and was duly introduced. + +“Lately from France, did you say?” asked Mrs. West. “Yesterday! Fancy! +Like coming from one world into another, is it not, Captain Garrett? To +be only yesterday ’mid the thunder of shot and shell out yonder; and +to-night in——” + +“In dear little Surrey,” said Garrett innocently. + +“Quite. Such a peaceful county—war seems so remote. You must tell me +some of your experiences to-morrow.” + +“Oh, I never have any,” said Garrett hastily. + +“Now, now!” She shook a playful forefinger at him. “I was a mother to +my husband’s regiment, Captain Garrett, I assure you. Quite. I used to +say to all our subalterns, ‘Now, remember that this house is open to +you at any time.’ I felt that they were so far from their own homes. +‘Bring your troubles to me,’ I would say, ‘and let us straighten them +out together.’” + +“And did they?” Garrett asked. + +“They understood me. They knew I wanted to help them. And my husband +encouraged them to come.” + +“Takes some encouragin’, the subaltern of the present day, unless it’s +to tennis and two-step,” said Colonel West. + +“But such dear boys! I felt their mothers would have been so glad. And +our regiment had quite a name for nice subalterns. There is something +so delightful about a subaltern—so care-free.” + +“By Jove, yes!” said Colonel West. “Doesn’t care for anything on +earth—not even the adjutant!” + +“Now, Algernon——” But at that moment dinner was announced, and the rest +of the sentence was lost—which was an unusual fate for any remark of +Mrs. West’s. + +It was Norah’s first experience as hostess at her father’s +dinner-table—since, in this connexion, Billabong did not seem to count. +No one could ever have been nervous at Billabong. Besides, there was no +butler there: here, Allenby, gravely irreproachable, with Sarah and +Bride as attendant sprites, seemed to intensify the solemnity of +everything. However, no one seemed to notice anything unusual, and +conversation flowed apace. Colonel West did not want to talk: such +cooking as Miss de Lisle’s appeared to him to deserve the compliment of +silence, and he ate in an abstraction that left Garrett free to talk to +Norah; while Mrs. West overwhelmed Mr. Linton with a steady flow of +eloquence that began with the soup and lasted until dessert. Then Norah +and Mrs. West withdrew leaving the men to smoke. + +“My dear, your cook’s a poem,” said Mrs. West, as they returned to the +drawing-room. “_Such_ a dinner! That _souffle_—well, words fail me!” + +“I’m so glad you liked it,” Norah said. + +“It melted in the mouth. And I watched you help it; your face was so +anxious—you insinuated the spoon with such an expression—I couldn’t +describe it——” + +Norah burst out laughing. + +“I could,” she said. “The cook was so anxious about that _souffle_, and +she said to do it justice it should be helped with a hot spoon. So I +told Allenby to stand the spoon in a jug of boiling water, and give it +to me at the very last moment. He was holding it in the napkin he had +for drying it, I suppose, and he didn’t know that the handle was nearly +red-hot. But I did, when I took it up!” + +“My dear child!” exclaimed Mrs. West. “So your expression was due to +agony!” + +“Something like it,” Norah laughed. “It was just all I could do to hold +it. But the _souffle was_ worth it, wasn’t it? I must tell Miss de +Lisle.” + +“Miss de Lisle? Your cook?” + +“Yes—it sounds well, doesn’t it?” said Norah. “She’s a dear, too.” + +“She is certainly a treasure,” said Mrs. West. “Since the regiment went +out I have been living in horrible boarding-houses, where they +half-starve you, and what they do give you to eat is so murdered in the +cooking that you can hardly swallow it. Economical for the management, +but not very good for the guests. But one must take things as they +come, in this horrible war.” She paused, the forced smile fading from +her lips. Somehow Norah felt that she was sorry for her: she looked +suddenly old, and worn and tired. + +“Come and sit in this big chair, Mrs. West,” she said. “You must have +had a long day.” + +“Well, quite,” said Mrs. West. “You see, I went to take my husband from +the hospital at twelve o’clock, and then I found that your father had +made this delightful arrangement for us. It seemed too good to be true. +So I had to send Algernon to his club, and I rushed back to my +boarding-house and packed my things: and then I had to do some +shopping, and meet them at the station. And of course I never could get +a taxi when I wanted one. I really think I am a little tired. This +seems the kind of house where it doesn’t matter to admit it.” + +“Of course not—isn’t it a Home for Tired People?” Norah laughed. Sarah +entered with coffee, and she fussed gently about her guest, settling +her cushions and bringing her cup to her side with cream and sugar. + +“It’s very delightful to be taken care of,” said Mrs. West, with a +sigh. The affected, jerky manner dropped from her, and she became more +natural. “My children are all boys: I often have been sorry that one +was not a girl. A daughter must be a great comfort. Have you any +sisters, my dear?” + +“No. Just one brother—he’s in Captain Garrett’s regiment.” + +“And you will go back to Australia after the war?” + +“Oh, yes. We couldn’t possibly stay away from Australia,” Norah said, +wide-eyed. “You see, it’s home.” + +“And England has not made you care any less for it?” + +“Goodness, no!” Norah said warmly. “It’s all very well in its way, but +it simply can’t hold a candle to Australia!” + +“But why?” + +Norah hesitated. + +“It’s a bit hard to say,” she answered at length. “Life is more +comfortable here, in some ways: more luxuries and conveniences of +living, I mean. And England is beautiful, and it’s full of history, and +we all love it for that. But it isn’t our own country. The people are +different—more reserved, and stiffer. But it isn’t even that. I don’t +know,” said Norah, getting tangled—“I think it’s the air, and the +space, and the freedom that we’re used to, and we miss them all the +time. And the jolly country life——” + +“But English country life is jolly.” + +“I think we’d get tired of it,” said Norah. “It seems to us all play: +and in Australia, we work. Even if you go out for a ride there, most +likely there is a job hanging to it—to bring in cattle, or count them, +or see that a fence is all right, or to bring home the mail. Every one +is busy, and the life all round is interesting. I don’t think I explain +at all well; I expect the real explanation is just that the love for +one’s own country is in one’s bones!” + +“Quite!” said Mrs. West. “Quite!” But she said the ridiculous word as +though for once she understood, and there was a comfortable little +silence between them for a few minutes. Then the men came in, and the +evening went by quickly enough with games and music. Captain Garrett +proved to be the possessor of a very fair tenor, together with a knack +of vamping not unmelodious accompaniments. The cheery songs floated out +into the hall, where Bride and Katty crouched behind a screen, torn +between delight and nervousness. + +“If the Ould Thing was to come she’d have the hair torn off of us,” +breathed Katty. “But ’tis worth the rishk. Blessed Hour, haven’t he the +lovely voice?” + +“He have—but I’d rather listen to Miss Norah,” said Bride loyally. +“’Tisn’t the big voice she do be having, but it’s that happy-sounding.” + +It was after ten o’clock when Norah, having said good-night to her +guests and shown Mrs. West to her room, went softly along the corridor. +A light showed under Miss de Lisle’s doorway, and she tapped gently. + +The door opened, revealing the cook-lady’s comfortable little +sitting-room, with a fire burning merrily in the grate. The cook-lady +herself was an extraordinarily altered being, in a pale-blue kimono +with heavy white embroidery. + +“I hoped you would come,” she said. “Are you tired? Poor child, what an +evening! I wonder would you have a cup of cocoa with me here? I have it +ready.” + +She waved a large hand towards a fat brown jug standing on a trivet by +the grate. There was a tray on a little table, bearing cups and saucers +and a spongecake. Norah gave way promptly. + +“I’d love it,” she said. “How good of you. I was much too excited to +eat dinner. But the _souffle_ was just perfect, Miss de Lisle. I never +saw anything like it. Mrs. West raved about it after dinner.” + +“I am glad,” said the cook-lady, with the rapt expression of a +high-priestess. “Allenby told me how you arranged for a hot spoon. It +was beautiful of you: beautiful!” + +“Did he tell you how hot it was?” Norah inquired. They grew merry over +the story, and the spongecake dwindled simultaneously with the cocoa in +the jug. + +“I must go,” Norah said at last. “It’s been so nice: thank you ever so, +Miss de Lisle.” + +“It’s I who should thank you for staying,” said the big woman, rising. +“Will you come again, some time?” + +“Rather! if I may. Good-night.” She shut the door softly, and scurried +along to her room—unconscious that another doorway was a couple of +inches ajar, and that through the space Mrs. Atkins regarded her +balefully. + +Her father’s door was half-open, and the room was lit. Norah knocked. + +“Come in,” said Mr. Linton. “You, you bad child! I thought you were in +bed long ago.” + +“I’m going now,” Norah said. “How did things go off, Daddy?” + +“Quite well,” he said. “And my daughter made a good hostess. I think +they all enjoyed themselves, Norah.” + +“I think so,” said she. “They seemed happy enough. What about Captain +Hardress, Dad?” + +“He seemed comfortable,” Mr. Linton answered. “I found him on a couch, +with a rug over him, reading. Allenby said he ate a fair dinner. He’s a +nice fellow, Norah; I like him.” + +“Was he badly wounded, Dad?” + +“He didn’t say much about himself. I gathered that he had been a long +while in hospital. But I’m sorry for him, Norah; he seems very down on +his luck.” + +“Jim said so,” remarked Norah. “Well, we must try to buck him up. I +suppose Allenby will look after him, Dad, if he needs anything?” + +“I told him to,” said Mr. Linton, with a grin. “He looked at me coldly, +and said, ‘I ’ope, sir, I know my duty to a wounded officer.’ I believe +I found myself apologizing. There are times when Allenby quite fails to +hide his opinion of a mere civilian: I see myself sinking lower and +lower in his eyes as we fill this place up with khaki: Good-night, +Norah.” + + + + +CHAPTER IX +HOMEWOOD GETS BUSY + + +“Good morning, Captain Hardress.” + +Hardress turned. He was standing in the porch, looking out over the +park towards the yellowing woods. + +“Good morning, Miss Linton. I hope you’ll forgive me for being so lazy +as to stay in bed for breakfast. You’ll have to blame your butler: he +simply didn’t call me. The first thing I knew was an enormous tray with +enough breakfast for six men—and Allenby grinning behind it.” + +“You stay in bed to breakfast here, or get up, just as you feel +inclined,” Norah said. “There aren’t any rules except two.” + +“Isn’t that a bit Irish?” + +“Not exactly, because Jim says even those two may be broken. But I +don’t agree to that—at least, not for Rule 2.” + +“Do tell me them,” he begged. + +“Rule 1 is, ‘Bed at ten o’clock.’ That’s the one that may be broken +when necessary. Rule 2 is, ‘Please do just what you feel like doing.’ +That’s the one I won’t have broken—unless any one wants to do things +that aren’t good for them. Then I shall remember that they are +patients, and become severe.” + +“But I’m not a patient.” + +“No—but you’re tired. You’ve got to get quite fit. What would you like +to do? Would you care to come for a ride?” + +Hardress flushed darkly. + +“Afraid I can’t ride.” + +“Oh—I’m sorry,” said Norah, looking at him in astonishment. This lean, +active-looking fellow with the nervous hands certainly looked as though +he should be able to ride. Indeed, there were no men in Norah’s world +who could not. But, perhaps—— + +“What about a walk, then?” she inquired. “Do you feel up to it?” + +Again Hardress flushed. + +“I thought your brother would have explained,” he said heavily. “I +can’t do anything much, Miss Linton. You see, I’ve only one leg.” + +Norah’s grey eyes were wide with distress. + +“I didn’t know,” she faltered. “The telephone was out of order—Jim +couldn’t explain. I’m so terribly sorry—you must have thought me +stupid.” + +“Not a bit—after all, it’s rather a compliment to the shop-made +article. I was afraid it was evident enough.” + +“Indeed it isn’t,” Norah assured him. “I knew you limped a little—but +it wasn’t very noticeable.” + +“It’s supposed to be a special one,” Hardress said. “I’m hardly used to +it yet, though, and it feels awkward enough. They’ve been experimenting +with it for some time, and now I’m a sort of trial case for that brand +of leg. The maker swears I’ll be able to dance with it: he’s a hopeful +soul. I’m not.” + +“You ought to try to be,” Norah said. “And it really must be a very +good one.” She felt a kind of horror at talking of it in this +cold-blooded fashion. + +“I think most of the hopefulness was knocked out of me,” Hardress +answered. “You see, I wanted to save the old leg, and they tried to: +and then it was a case of one operation after another, until at last +they took it off—near the hip.” + +Norah went white. + +“Near the hip!” Her voice shook. “Oh, it couldn’t be—you’re so big and +strong!” + +Hardress laughed grimly. + +“I used to think it couldn’t be, myself,” he said. “Well, I suppose one +will get accustomed to it in time. I’m sorry I distressed you, Miss +Linton—only I thought I had better make a clean breast of it.” + +“I’m glad you did.” Norah had found control of her voice and her wits: +she remembered that this maimed lad with the set face was there to be +helped, and that it was part of her job to do it. Her very soul was +wrung with pity, but she forced a smile. + +“Now you have just got to let us help,” she said. “We can’t try to make +forget it, I know, but we can help to make the best of it. You can +practise using it in all sorts of ways, and seeing just what you can do +with it. And, Captain Hardress, I know they do wonders now with +artificial legs: Dad knew of a man who played tennis with his—as bad a +case as yours.” + +“That certainly seems too good to be true,” said Hardress. + +“I don’t know about that,” said Norah eagerly. “Your leg must be very +good—none of us guessed the truth about it. When you get used to it, +you’ll be able to manage all sorts of things. Golf, for +instance—there’s a jolly little nine-hole course in the park, and I +know you could play.” + +“I had thought golf might be a possibility,” he said. “Not that I ever +cared much for it. My two games were polo and Rugby football.” + +“I don’t know about Rugby,” said Norah thoughtfully. “But of course +you’ll play polo again. Some one was writing in one of the papers +lately, saying that so many men had lost a leg in the war that the +makers would have to invent special riding-legs, for hunting and polo. +I know very well that if Jim came home without a leg he’d still go +mustering cattle, or know the reason why! And there was the case of an +Irishman, a while ago, who had no legs at all—and he used to hunt.” + +“By Jove!” said Hardress. “Well, you cheer a fellow up, Miss Linton.” + +“You see, I have Jim and Wally,” said Norah. “Do you know Wally, by the +way?” + +“Is that Meadows?—oh yes, I met him with your brother.” + +“Well, he’s just like my brother—he nearly lives with us. And from the +time that they joined up we had to think of the chance of their losing +a limb. Jim never says anything about it, but I know Wally dreads it. +Dad and I found out all we could about artificial limbs, and what can +be done with them, so that we could help the boys if they had bad luck. +They are all right, so far, but of course there is always the chance.” + +Hardress nodded. + +“We planned that if bad luck came we would try to get them to do as +much as possible. Of course an arm is worse: to lose a leg is bad +enough, goodness knows—but it’s better than an arm.” + +“That’s one of the problems I’ve been studying,” Hardress said grimly. + +“Oh, but it is. And with you—why, in a few years no one will ever guess +that you have anything wrong. It’s luck in one way, because a leg +doesn’t make you conspicuous, and an arm does.” + +“That’s true,” he said energetically. “I have hoped desperately that +I’d be able to hide it; I just couldn’t stick the idea of people +looking at me.” + +“Well, they won’t,” said Norah. “And the more you can carry on as +usual, the less bad it will seem. Now, let’s plan what you can tackle +first. Can you walk much?” + +“Not much. I get tired after about fifty yards.” + +“Well, we’ll do fifty yards whenever you feel like it, and then we’ll +sit down and talk until you can go on again.” She hesitated. “You—it +doesn’t trouble you to sit down?” + +“Oh, no!” said Hardress, laughing for the first time. “It’s an awfully +docile leg!” + +“Then, can you drive? There’s the motor, and a roomy tub-cart, and the +carriage.” + +“Yes—I can drive.” + +“Oh, I say!” cried Norah inelegantly, struck by a brilliant idea. “Can +you drive a motor?” + +“No, I can’t! I’m sorry.” + +“I’m not. Con will teach you—it will give you quite a new interest. +Would you like to learn?” + +“By Jove, I would,” he said eagerly. “You’re sure your father won’t +mind my risking his car?” + +“Dad would laugh at such a foolish question,” said Norah. “We’ll go and +see Con now—shall we? it’s not far to the stables. You might have a +lesson at once.” + +“Rather!” he said boyishly. “I say, Miss Linton, you are a brick!” + +“Now about golf,” Norah said, as they moved slowly away, Hardress +leaning heavily on his stick. “Will you try to play a little with me? +We could begin at the practice-holes beyond the terrace.” + +“Yes, I’d like to,” he said. + +“And billiards? We’ll wait for a wet day, because I want you to live in +the open air as much as possible. I can’t play decently, but Captain +Garrett is staying here, and Jim and Wally come over pretty often.” + +“You might let me teach _you_ to play,” he suggested. “Would you care +to?” + +“Oh, I’d love it,” said Norah, beaming. The beam, had he known it, was +one of delight at the new ring in her patient’s voice. Life had come +back to it: he held his head erect, and his eyes were no longer +hopeless. + +“And riding?” she hesitated. + +“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t believe I could even get on.” + +“There’s a steady old pony,” Norah said. “Why not practise on him? He +stands like a rock. I won’t stay and look at you, but Con could—you see +he’s lost a leg himself, so you wouldn’t mind him. I’m sure you’ll find +you can manage—and when you get confidence we’ll go out together.” + +“Well, you would put hope into—into a dead codfish!” he said. “Great +Scott, if I thought I could get on a horse again!” + +Norah laughed. + +“We’re all horse-mad,” she said. “If I were—like you, I know that to +ride would be the thing that would help me most. So you have just got +to.” They had arrived at the stables, where Con had the car out and was +lovingly polishing its bonnet. + +“Con, can you teach Captain Hardress to drive?” + +“Is it the car?” asked Con. “And why not, miss?” + +“Can I manage it, do you think?” asked Hardress. “I’ve only one leg.” + +“’Tis as many as I have meself,” returned Con cheerfully. “And I’m not +that bad a driver, am I, Miss Norah?” + +“You’re not,” Norah answered. “Now I’ll leave you to Con, Captain +Hardress: I suppose you’ll learn all about the car before you begin to +drive her. Con can run you round to the house afterwards, if you’re +tired. The horses are in the stables, too, if you’d care to look at +them.” + +“Jones have the brown pair out, miss,” said Con. “But the others are +all here.” + +“Well, you can show them to Captain Hardress, Con. I want him to begin +riding Brecon.” + +She smiled at Hardress, and ran off, looking back just before the +shrubberies hid the stable-yard. Hardress was peering into the bonnet +of the car, with Con evidently explaining its inner mysteries; just as +she looked, he straightened up, and threw off his coat with a quick +gesture. + +“_He_’s all right,” said Norah happily. She hurried on. + +The Tired People were off her hands for the morning. Colonel and Mrs. +West had gone for a drive; Captain Garrett was playing golf with Major +Hunt, who was developing rapidly in playing a one-armed game, and was +extremely interested in his own progress. It was the day for posting to +Australia, and there was a long letter to Brownie to be finished, and +one to Jean Yorke, her chum in Melbourne. Already it was late; in the +study, her father had been deep in his letters for over an hour. + +But as she came up to the porch she saw him in the hall. + +“Oh—Norah,” he said with relief. “I’ve been looking for you. Here’s a +letter from Harry Trevor, of all people!” + +“Harry!” said Norah delightedly. “Oh, I’m so glad! Where is he, Dad?” + +“He’s in London—this letter has been wandering round after us. We ought +to have had it days ago. Harry has a commission now—got it on the +field, in Gallipoli, more power to him: and he’s been wounded and sent +to England. But he says he’s all right.” + +“Oh, won’t Jim and Wally be glad!” Harry Trevor was an old +school-fellow whom Fate had taken to Western Australia; it was years +since they had met. + +“He has two other fellows with him, he says; and he doesn’t know any +one in London, nor do they. His one idea seems to be to see us. What +are we to do, Norah? Can we have them here?” + +“Why we _must_ have them,” Norah said. She made a swift mental +calculation. “Yes—we can manage it.” + +“You’re sure,” asked her father, evidently relieved. “I was afraid it +might be too much for the house; and I would be very sorry to put them +off.” + +“Put off Australians, even if one of them wasn’t Harry!” ejaculated +Norah. “We couldn’t do it! How will you get them, Dad?” + +“I’ll telephone to their hotel at once,” said her father. “Shall I tell +them to come to-day?” + +“Oh, yes. You can arrange the train, Dad. Now I’ll go and see Mrs. +Atkins.” + +“’Tis yourself has great courage entirely,” said her father, looking at +her respectfully. “I’d rather tackle a wild buffalo!” + +“I’m not sure that I wouldn’t,” returned Norah. “However, she’s all the +buffalo I’ve got, so I may as well get it over.” She turned as she +reached the door. “Tell old Harry how glad we are, Dad. And don’t you +think you ought to let Jim know?” + +“Yes—I’ll ring him up too.” And off went Norah, singing. Three +Australians—in “dear little Surrey!” It was almost too good to be true. + +But Mrs. Atkins did not think so. She was sorting linen, with a sour +face, when Norah entered her sanctum and made known her news. The +housekeeper remained silent for a moment. + +“Well, I don’t see how we’re to manage, miss,” she said at length. “The +house is pretty full as it is.” + +“There is the big room with two single beds,” Norah said. “We can put a +third bed in. They won’t mind being together.” + +Mrs. Atkins sniffed. + +“It isn’t usual to crowd people like that, miss.” + +“It won’t matter in this case,” said Norah. + +“Did you say Australians, miss?” asked the housekeeper. “Officers?” + +“One is an officer.” + +“And the others, miss?” + +“I don’t know—privates, very possibly,” said Norah. “It doesn’t +matter.” + +“Not matter! Well, upon my word!” ejaculated Mrs. Atkins. “Well, all I +can say, miss, is that it’s very funny. And how do you think the maids +are going to do all that extra work?” + +Norah began to experience a curious feeling of tingling. + +“I am quite sure the maids can manage it,” she said, commanding her +voice with an effort. “For one thing, I can easily help more than I do +now.” + +“We’re not accustomed in this country to young ladies doing that sort +of thing,” said Mrs. Atkins. Her evil temper mastered her. “And your +pet cook, the fine lady who’s too grand to sit with me——” + +Norah found her voice suddenly calm. + +“You mustn’t speak to me like that, Mrs. Atkins,” she said, marvelling +at her own courage. “You will have to go away if you can’t behave +properly.” + +Mrs. Atkins choked. + +“Go away!” she said thickly. “Yes, I’ll go away. I’m not going to stay +in a house like this, that’s no more and no less than a boarding-house! +You and your friend the cook can——” + +“Be quiet, woman!” said a voice of thunder. Norah, who had shrunk back +before the angry housekeeper, felt a throb of relief as Allenby strode +into the room. At the moment there was nothing of the butler about +him—he was Sergeant Allenby, and Mrs. Atkins was simply a refractory +private. + +“I won’t be quiet!” screamed the housekeeper. “I——” + +“You will do as you’re told,” said Allenby, dropping a heavy hand on +her shoulder. “That’s enough, now: not another word. Now go to your +room. Out of ’ere, or I’ll send for the police.” + +Something in the hard, quiet voice filled Mrs. Atkins with terror. She +cast a bitter look at Norah, and then slunk out of the room. Allenby +closed the door behind her. + +“I’m very sorry, miss,” he said—butler once more. “I hope she didn’t +frighten you.” + +“Oh, no—only she was rather horrible,” said Norah. “Whatever is the +matter with her, Allenby? I hadn’t said anything to make her so +idiotic.” + +“I’ve been suspecting what was the matter these last three days,” said +Allenby darkly. “Look ’ere, miss.” He opened a cupboard, disclosing +rows of empty bottles. “I found these ’ere this morning when she was in +the kitchen: I’d been missing bottles from the cellar. She must have +another key to the cellar-door, ’owever she managed it.” + +There came a tap at the door, and Mr. Linton came in—to have the +situation briefly explained to him. + +“I wouldn’t have had it happen for something,” he said angrily. “My +poor little girl, I didn’t think we were letting you in for this sort +of thing.” + +“Why, you couldn’t help it,” Norah said. “And she didn’t hurt me—she +was only unpleasant. But I think we had better keep her out of Miss de +Lisle’s way, or she might be hard to handle.” + +“That’s so, miss,” said Allenby. “I’ll go and see. ’Ard to ’andle! I +should think so!” + +“See that she packs her box, Allenby,” said Mr. Linton. “I’ll write her +cheque at once, and Con can take her to the station as soon as she is +ready. She’s not too bad to travel, I suppose?” + +“She’s not bad at all, sir. Only enough to make her nasty.” + +“Well, she can go and be nasty somewhere else,” said Mr. Linton. “Very +well, Allenby.” He turned to Norah, looking unhappy. “Whatever will you +do, my girl?—and this houseful of people! I’d better telephone Harry +and put his party off.” + +“Indeed you won’t,” said Norah, very cheerfully. “I’ll manage, Dad. +Don’t you worry. I’m going to talk to Miss de Lisle.” + +The cook-lady was not in the kitchen. Katty, washing vegetables +diligently, referred Norah to her sitting-room, and there she was +found, knitting a long khaki muffler. She heard the story in silence. + +“So I must do just the best I can, Miss de Lisle,” Norah ended. “And +I’m wondering if you think I must really advertise for another +housekeeper. It didn’t seem to me that Mrs. Atkins did much except give +orders, and surely I can do that, after a little practice.” Norah +flushed, and looked anxious. “Of course I don’t want to make a mess of +the whole thing. I know the house must be well run.” + +“Well,” said Miss de Lisle, knitting with feverish energy, “I couldn’t +have said it if you hadn’t asked me, but as you have, I would like to +propose something. Perhaps it may sound as if I thought too much of +myself, but with a cook like me you don’t need a housekeeper. I have a +conscience: and I know how things ought to be run. So my proposal is +this, and you and your father must just do as you like about it. Why +not make me cook-housekeeper?” + +“Oh, but could you?” Norah cried delightedly. “Wouldn’t it be too much +work?” + +“I don’t think so—of course I’m expecting that you’re going to help in +supervising things. I can teach you anything. You see, Katty is a +treasure. I back down in all I ever thought about Irish maids,” said +the cook-lady, parenthetically. “And she makes me laugh all day, and I +wouldn’t be without her for anything. Give me a smart boy in the +kitchen for the rough work; then Katty can do more of the plain +cooking, which she’ll love, and I shall have more time out of the +kitchen. Now what do you say?” + +“Me?” said Norah. “I’d like to hug you!” + +“I wish you would,” said Miss de Lisle, knitting more frantically than +ever. “You see, this is the first place I’ve been in where I’ve really +been treated like a human being. You didn’t patronize me, and you +didn’t snub me—any of you. But you laughed with me; and it was a mighty +long time since laughing had come into my job. Dear me!” finished Miss +de Lisle—“you’ve no idea how at home with you all I’ve felt since +Allenby fell over me in the passage!” + +“We loved you from that minute,” said Norah, laughing. “Then you think +we can really manage? You’ll have to let me consult with you over +everything—ordering, and all that: because I do want to learn my job. +And you won’t mind how many people we bring in?” + +“Fill the house to explosion-point, if you like,” said Miss de Lisle. +“If you don’t have a housekeeper you’ll have two extra rooms to put +your Tired People in. What’s the good of a scheme like this if you +don’t run it thoroughly?” + +She found herself suddenly hugged, to the no small disadvantage of the +knitting. + +“Oh, I’m so happy!” Norah cried. “Now I’m going to enjoy the Home for +Tired People: and up till now Mrs. Atkins has lain on my soul like a +ton of bricks. Bless you, Miss de Lisle! I’m going to tell Dad.” Her +racing footsteps flew down the corridor. + +But Miss de Lisle sat still, with a half smile on her rugged face. Once +she put her hand up to the place where Norah’s lips had brushed her +cheek. + +“Dear me!” she murmured. “Well, it’s fifteen years since any one did +_that_.” Still smiling, she picked up the knitting. + + + + +CHAPTER X +AUSTRALIA IN SURREY + + +The three Australians came that afternoon; and, like many Australians +in the wilds of London with a vague idea of distances, having given +themselves good time to catch their train, managed to catch the one +before it; and so arrived at Homewood unheralded and unsung. Norah and +Captain Hardress, who had been knocking golf-balls about, were crossing +the terrace on their way to tea when the three slouched hats caught +Norah’s eye through the trees of the avenue. She gasped, dropped her +clubs, and fled to meet them. Hardress stared: then, perceiving the +newcomers, smiled a little and went on slowly. + +“I’d like to see her doing a hundred yards!” he said. + +The three soldiers jumped as the flying figure came upon them, round a +bend in the drive. Then one of them sprang forward. + +“Harry!” said Norah. + +“My word, I am glad to see you!” said Harry Trevor, pumping her hand. +“I say, Norah, you haven’t changed a bit. You’re just the same as when +you were twelve—only that you’ve grown several feet.” + +“Did you expect to find me bald and fat?” Norah laughed. “Oh, Harry, we +are glad to see you!” + +“Well, you might have aged a little,” said he. “Goodness knows _I_ +have! Norah, where’s old Jim?” + +“He’s at Aldershot—but you can be certain that he’ll be here as soon as +he possibly can—and Wally too.” + +“That’s good business.” He suddenly remembered his friends, who were +affecting great interest in the botanical features of a beech-tree. +“Come here, you chaps; Norah, this is Jack Blake—and Dick Harrison. +They’re awfully glad to see you, too!” + +“Well, you might have let us say it for ourselves, digger,” said the +two, shaking hands. “We were just going to.” + +“It’s lovely to have you all,” said Norah. She looked over the +three—all tall fellows, lean and bronzed, with quiet faces and deep-set +eyes, Blake bore a sergeant’s stripes; Dick Harrison’s sleeve modestly +proclaimed him a lance-corporal. + +“We’ve been wandering in that funny old London like lost sheep,” Blake +said. “My word, that’s a lonesome place, if you don’t happen to know +any one in it. And people look at you as if you were something out of a +Zoo.” + +“They’re not used to you yet,” said Norah. “It’s the hat, as much as +anything.” + +“I don’t know about that,” Harry said. “No, I think they’d know we came +out of a different mob, even if we weren’t branded.” + +“Perhaps they would—and you certainly do,” Norah answered. “But come on +to the house. Dad is just as anxious to see you as any one.” + +Indeed, as they came in sight of the house, David Linton was seen +coming with long strides to meet them. + +“Hardress told me you had suddenly turned into a Marathon runner at the +sight of three big hats!” he said. “How are you, Harry? It’s an age +since we saw you.” + +“Yes, isn’t it?” Harry shook hands warmly, and introduced his friends. +“You haven’t changed either, Mr. Linton.” + +“I ought to be aging—only Norah won’t hear of it,” said Mr. Linton, +laughing. “She bullies me more hopelessly than ever, Harry.” + +“She always did,” Trevor agreed. “Oh, I want to talk about Billabong +for an hour! How’s Brownie, Nor? and Murty O’Toole? and Black Billy? +How do you manage to live away from them?” + +“It isn’t easy,” Norah answered. “They’re all very fit, only they want +us back. We can’t allow ourselves to think of the day that we’ll get +home, or we all grow light-headed.” + +“It will be no end of a day for all of us,” said Harrison. “Think of +marching down Collins Street again, with the crowd cheering us—keeping +an eye out for the people one knew! It was fairly beastly marching up +it for the last time.” + +“It’s not Collins Street I want, but a bit of the Gippsland track,” +said Jack Blake. “You know, Dick, we took cattle there last year. Over +the Haunted Hills—aren’t they jolly in the spring!—and down through the +scrub to Morwell and Traralgon. I’d give something to see that bit of +country again.” + +“Ah, it’s all good country,” David Linton said. Then they were at the +house, and a buzz of conversation floated out to them from the hall, +where tea was in progress. + +“Your father simply made me promise to go on without you,” said Mrs. +West, as Norah made her apologies. “I said it was dreadful, but he +wouldn’t listen to me. And there are your friends! Dear me, how large +they are, and so brown! Do introduce them to me: I’m planning to hear +all about Australia. And a sergeant and lance-corporal! Isn’t it +romantic to see them among us, and quite at their ease. _Don’t_ tell +them I’m a Colonel’s wife, my dear; I would hate them to feel +embarrassed!” + +“I don’t think you need worry,” said Norah, smiling to herself. She +brought up the three newcomers and introduced them. They subsided upon +a sofa, and listened solemnly while Mrs. West opened all her +conversational batteries upon them. Norah heard the opening—“I’ve read +such a _lot_ about your charming country!” and felt a throb of pity for +the three wanderers from afar. + +Hardress came towards her with a cup of tea, his limb a little more +evident. + +“You’re tired,” she said, taking it from him. “Sure you haven’t done +too much?” + +“Not a bit,” he said. “I’m a little tired, but it’s the best day I have +had for many a month. I don’t know when I enjoyed anything as much as +my motor-lesson this morning.” + +“Con says you’ll be able to drive in Piccadilly in no time,” said +Norah. + +“He’s hopeful,” Hardress said, laughing. “Particularly as we never +started the car at all—he made me learn everything I could about it +first. And did he tell you I rode Brecon?” + +“No! How did you get on?” asked Norah delightedly. + +“Well, I literally got on very badly—at first. The shop leg didn’t seem +to understand what was wanted of it at all, and any steed but Brecon +would have strongly resented me. But he stood in a pensive attitude +while I tried all sorts of experiments. In fact, I think he went to +sleep!” + +“I told you you could rely on Brecon,” Norah smiled. “What happened +then?” + +“Oh—I got used to myself, and found out the knack of getting on. It’s +not hard, with a steady horse, once you find out how. But I think +Brecon will do me very well for awhile.” + +“Oh, we’ll soon get you on to Brunette,” Norah said. “You’d enjoy her.” + +“Is that the black pony?” + +“Yes—and she’s a lovely hack. I’m going to hunt her in the winter: she +jumps like a deer.” + +“She looked a beauty, in the stable,” Hardress said. “She ought to make +a good polo-pony.” He sighed. “I wonder if I’ll really ever play polo +again.” + +“Of course you will,” Norah told him. “This morning you didn’t think +you would ever get on a horse again.” + +“No, I certainly didn’t. You have put an extraordinary amount of hope +into me: I feel a different being.” He stopped, and a smile crept into +his eyes. “Listen—aren’t your friends having a time!” + +“Life must be so exciting on your great cattle ranches,” Mrs. West was +saying. “And the dear little woolly lambs on the farms—such pets!” + +“We understood you people over here prefer them frozen,” Blake said +gently. “So we send ’em that way.” + +Norah choked over her tea. She became aware that Colonel West was +speaking to her, and tried to command her wits—hearing, as she turned, +Mrs. West’s shrill pipe—“And what _is_ a wheat-belt? Is it something +you wear?” Norah would have given much to hear Blake’s reply. + +“Delightful place you have here!” barked the Colonel. “Your father and +I have been spending an agricultural afternoon; planning all the things +he means to do on that farm—Hawkins’, isn’t it? But I suppose you don’t +take much interest in that sort of thing? Dances and frocks more in +your line—and chocolates, eh, what?” + +“Then you’ve changed her in England,” said Harry Trevor suddenly. “Is +it dances now, Norah? No more quick things over the grass after a +cross-grained bullock? Don’t say you’ve forgotten how to use a +stockwhip!” + +“It’s hung up at Billabong,” Norah said laughing. “But you wait until I +get back to it, that’s all!” + +“Dear me!” said Mrs. West. “And you do these wonderful things too! I +always longed to do them as a girl—to ride over long leagues of plain +on a fiery mustang, among your lovely eucalyptus trees. And do you +really go out with the cowboys, and use a lasso?” + +“She does,” said Harry, happily. + +“Your wild animals, too,” said Mrs. West. “It’s kangaroos you ride down +with spears, is it not? And wallabies. We live in dear, quiet little +England, but we read all about your wonderful life, and are oh! so +interested.” + +“What a life!” said Dick Harrison, under his breath. + +“Quite. You know, I had a great friend who went out as A.D.C. to one of +your Governors. He had to return after a month, because his father died +and he came into the baronetcy, but some day he means to write a book +on Australia. That is why I have always, as it were, kept in touch with +your great country. I seem to know it so well, though I have never seen +it.” + +“You do, indeed,” said Blake gravely. “I wish we knew half as much +about yours.” + +“Ah, but you must let us show it to you. Is it not yours, too? Outposts +of Empire: that is what I call you: outposts of Empire. Is it not that +that brought you to fight under our flag?” + +“Oh, rather,” said Blake vaguely. “But a lot of us just wanted a look +in at the fun!” + +“Well—you got a good deal for a start,” said Garrett. + +“Yes—Abdul gave us all we wanted on his little peninsula. But he’s not +a bad fighting-man, old Abdul; we don’t mind how often we take tea with +him. He’s a better man to fight than Fritz.” + +“He could pretty easily be that,” Garrett said. “It’s one of the worst +grudges we owe Fritz—that he’s taken all the decency out of war. It +used to be a man’s game, but the Boche made it one according to his own +ideas—and everybody knows what they are.” + +“Yes,” said Hardress. “I suppose the Boche will do a good deal of +crawling to get back among decent people after the war; but he’ll never +live down his poison-gas and flame-throwers.” + +“And wouldn’t it have been a gorgeous old war if he’d only fought +clean!” said Garrett longingly. They drew together and talked as +fighting men will—veterans in the ways of war, though the eldest was +not much over one-and-twenty. + +The sudden hoot of a motor came from the drive, far-off; and then +another, and another. + +“Some one’s joy-riding,” said Harry Trevor. + +The hooting increased, and with it the hum of a racing car. The gravel +outside the porch crunched as it drew up; and then came cheery voices, +and two long figures in great coats dashed in: Jim and Wally, +eager-eyed. + +“Dad! Norah! Where’s old Harry?” + +But Harry was grasping a hand of each, and submitting to mighty pats on +the back from their other hands. + +“By Jove, it’s great to see you! Where did you come from, you old +reprobate? Finished Johnny Turk?” + +Gradually the boys became aware that there were other people in the +hall, and made apologies—interrupted by another burst of joy at +discovering Garrett. + +“You must think us bears,” said Jim, with his disarming smile, to Mrs. +West. “But we hadn’t seen Trevor for years, and he’s a very old chum. +It would have been exciting to meet him in Australia; but in +England—well!” + +“However did you manage to come?” Norah asked, beaming. + +“Oh, we got leave. We’ve been good boys—at least, Wally was until we +got your message this morning. Since then he has been wandering about +like a lost fowl, murmuring, ‘Harry! _My_ Harry!’” + +“Is it me?” returned Wally. “Don’t believe him, Nor—it was all I could +do to keep him from slapping the C.O. on the back and borrowing his car +to come over.” + +“I don’t doubt it,” Norah laughed. “Whose car did you borrow, by the +way?” + +“Oh, we hired one. It was extravagant, but we agreed that it wasn’t +every day we kill a pig!” + +“Thank you,” said Harry. “Years haven’t altered your power of putting a +thing nicely!” He smote Wally affectionately. “I say, you were a kid +when I saw you last: a kid in knickerbockers. And look at you now!” + +“Well, you were much the same,” Wally retorted. “And now you’re a +hardened old warrior—I’ve only played at it so far.” + +“But you were gassed, weren’t you?” + +“Yes—but we hadn’t had much war before they gassed us. That was the +annoying part.” + +“Well, didn’t you have a little private war in Ireland? What about that +German submarine?” + +“Oh, that was sheer luck,” said Wally joyfully. “_Such_ a lark—only for +one thing. But we don’t consider we’ve earned our keep yet.” + +“Oh, well, you’ve got lots of time,” Harry said. “I wonder if they’ll +send any of us to France—it would be rather fun if we got somewhere in +your part of the line.” + +“Yes, wouldn’t it?” Then Jack Blake, who had been at school with the +boys, came up with Dick Harrison, and England ceased to exist for the +five Australians. They talked of their own country—old days at school; +hard-fought battles on the Melbourne Cricket Ground; boat-racing on the +Yarra; Billabong and other stations; bush-fires and cattle-yarding; +long days on the road with cattle, and nights spent watching them under +the stars. All the grim business of life that had been theirs since +those care-free days seemed but to make their own land dearer by +comparison. Not that they said so, in words. But they lingered over +their talk with an unspoken delight in being at home again—even in +memory. + +Norah slipped away, regretfully enough, after a time: her +responsibilities as housekeeper weighed upon her, and she sought Miss +de Lisle in the kitchen. + +“What, your brother and Mr. Wally? How delightful!” ejaculated the +cook-lady. “That’s what I call really jolly. Their rooms are always +ready, I suppose?” + +“Oh, yes,” Norah said. “I’ve told Bride to put sheets on the beds.” + +“Then that’s all right. Dinner? My dear, you need never worry about a +couple extra for dinner in a household of this size. Just tell the +maids to lay the table accordingly, and let me know—that is all you +need do.” + +“Mrs. Atkins had destroyed my nerve!” said Norah, laughing. “I came +down to tell you with the same scared feeling that I had when I used to +go to her room. My very knees were shaking!” + +“Then you’re a very bad child, if you _are_ my employer!” returned Miss +de Lisle. “However, I’ll forgive you: but some time I want you to make +a list for me of the things those big boys of yours like most: I might +just as well cook them as not, when they come. And of course, when they +go out to France, we shall have to send them splendid hampers.” + +“That will be a tremendous comfort,” Norah said. “You’re a brick, Miss +de Lisle. We used to send them hampers before, of course, but it seemed +so unsatisfactory just to order them at the Stores: it will be ever so +much nicer to cook them things. You _will_ let me cook, won’t you?” + +“Indeed I will,” said Miss de Lisle. “We’ll shut ourselves up here for +a day, now and then, and have awful bouts of cookery. How did you like +the potato cakes at tea, by the way?” + +“They were perfect,” Norah said. “I never tasted better, even in +Ireland.” At which Katty, who had just entered with a saucepan, blushed +hotly, and cast an ecstatic glance at Miss de Lisle. + +“I don’t suppose you did,” remarked that lady. “You see, Katty made +them.” + +“Wasn’t she good, now, to let me, Miss Norah?” Katty asked. “There’s +them at home that towld me I’d get no chance at all of learning under a +grand cook here. ’Tis little the likes of them ’ud give you to do in +the kitchen: if you asked them for a job, barring it was to wash the +floor, they’d pitch you to the Sivin Divils. ‘Isn’t the scullery good +enough for you?’ they’d say. ‘Cock you up with the cooking!’ But Miss +de Lisle isn’t one of them—and the cakes to go up to the drawing-room +itself!” + +“Well, every one liked them, Katty,” Norah said. + +“Yerra, hadn’t I Bridie watching behind the big screen with the crack +in it?” said the handmaid. “She come back to me, and she says, ‘They’re +all ate,’ says she: ‘’tis the way ye had not enough made,’ she says. I +didn’t know if ’twas on me head or me heels I was!” She bent a look of +adoration upon Miss de Lisle, who laughed. + +“Oh, I’ll make a cook of you yet, Katty,” she said. “Meanwhile you’d +better put some coal on the fire, or the oven won’t be hot enough for +my pastry. Is it early breakfast for your brother and Mr. Wally, Miss +Linton?” + +“I’m afraid so,” Norah said. “Jim said they must leave at eight +o’clock.” + +“Then that means breakfast at seven-thirty. Will you have yours with +them?” + +“Oh yes, please—if it’s not too much trouble.” + +“Nothing’s a trouble—certainly not an early breakfast,” said Miss de +Lisle. “Now don’t worry about anything.” + +Norah went back to the hall—to find it deserted. A buzz of voices came +from the billiard-room; she peeped in to find all the soldiers talking +with her father listening happily in a big chair. No one saw her: she +withdrew, and went in search of Mrs. West, but failed to find her. +Bride, encountered in her evening tour with cans of hot water, reported +that ’twas lying down she was, and not wishful for talk: her resht was +more to her. + +“Then I may as well go and dress,” Norah said. + +She had just finished when a quick step came along the corridor, and +stopped at her door. Jim’s fingers beat the tattoo that was always +their signal. + +“Come in, Jimmy,” Norah cried. + +He came in, looming huge in the dainty little room. + +“Good business—you’re dressed,” he said. “Can I come and yarn?” + +“Rather,” said Norah, beaming. “Come and sit down in my armchair. This +electric heater isn’t as jolly to yarn by as a good old log fire, but +still, it’s something.” She pulled her chair forward. + +“Can’t you wait for me to do that—bad kid!” said Jim. He sat down, and +Norah subsided on the rug near him. + +“Now tell me all about everything,” he said. “How are things going?” + +“Quite well—especially Mrs. Atkins,” said Norah. “In fact she’s gone!” + +Jim sat up. + +“Gone! But how?” + +Norah told him the story, and he listened with joyful ejaculations. + +“Well, she was always the black spot in the house,” he remarked. “It +gave one the creeps to look at her sour face, and I’m certain she was +more bother to you than she was worth.” + +“Oh, I feel twenty years younger since she went!” Norah said. “And it’s +going to be great fun to housekeep with Miss de Lisle. I shall learn +ever so much.” + +“So will she, I imagine,” said Jim, laughing. “Put her up to all the +Australian ways, and see if we can’t make a good emigrant of her when +we go back.” + +“I might,” Norah said. “But she would be a shock to Brownie if she +suggested putting her soul into a pudding!” + +“Rather!” said Jim, twinkling. “I say, tell me about Hardress. Do you +like him?” + +“Oh, yes, ever so much.” She told him of her morning’s work—indeed, by +the time the gong boomed out its summons from the hall, there was very +little in the daily life of Homewood that Jim had not managed to hear. + +“We’re always wondering how you are getting on,” he said. “It’s jolly +over there—the work is quite interesting, and there’s a very nice lot +of fellows: but I’d like to look in at you two and see how this show +was running.” He hesitated. “It won’t be long before we go out, Nor, +old chap.” + +“Won’t it, Jimmy?” She put up a hand and caught his. “Do you know how +long?” + +“A week or two—not more. But you’re not to worry. You’ve just got to +think of the day when we’ll get our first leave—and then you’ll have to +leave all your Tired People and come and paint London red.” He gave a +queer laugh. “Oh, I don’t know, though. It seems to be considered the +right thing to do. But I expect we’ll just amble along here and ask you +for a job in the house!” + +“Why, you’ll be Tired People yourselves,” said Norah. “We’ll have to +look after you and give you nourishment at short intervals.” + +“We’ll take that, if it’s Miss de Lisle’s cooking. Now don’t think +about this business too much. I thought I’d better tell you, but +nothing is definite yet. Perhaps I’d better not tell Dad.” + +“No, don’t; he’s so happy.” + +“I wish I didn’t have to make either of you less happy,” Jim said in a +troubled voice. “But it can’t be helped.” + +“No, I know it can’t, Jimmy. Don’t you worry.” + +“Dear old chap,” said Jim, and stood up. “I had better go and make +myself presentable before the second gong goes.” He paused. “You’re all +ready aren’t you? Then you might go down. Wally will be wandering round +everywhere, looking for you.” + + + + +CHAPTER XI +CHEERO! + + +It was ten days later that the summons to France came—ten days during +which the boys had managed to make several meteoric dashes over to +Homewood for the night, and had accomplished one blissful week-end, +during which, with the aid of their fellow-countrymen, they had brought +the household to the verge of exhaustion from laughter. Nothing could +damp their spirits: they rode and danced, sang and joked, and, +apparently, having no cares in the world themselves, were determined +that no one else should have any. The Hunt family were drawn into the +fun: the kitchen was frequently invaded, and Miss de Lisle declared +that even her sitting-room was not sacred—and was privately very +delighted that it was not. Allenby began to develop a regrettable lack +of control over his once stolid features; Sarah herself was observed to +stuff her apron into her mouth and rush from the dining-room on more +than one occasion. And under cover of his most energetic fooling Jim +Linton watched his father and sister, and fooled the more happily +whenever he made them laugh. + +They arrived together unexpectedly on this last evening, preferring to +bring their news rather than give it by telephone; and found, instead +of the usual cheery tea-party in the hall, only silence and emptiness. +Allenby, appearing, broke into a broad smile of pleasure as he greeted +them. + +“Every one’s out, Mr. Jim.” + +“So it seems,” Jim answered. “Where are they?” + +“Not very far, sir,” Allenby said. “Mrs. ’Unt has them all to tea with +her to-day.” + +“Oh, we’ll go over, Wal,” Jim said. “Come and make yourself pretty: +you’ve a splash of mud on your downy cheek.” At the foot of the stairs +he turned. “We’re off to-morrow, Allenby.” + +Allenby’s face fell. + +“To France, sir?” + +Jim nodded. + +“The master and Miss Norah will be very sorry, sir. If I may say so, +the ’ole ’ousehold will be sorry.” + +“Thanks, Allenby. We’ll miss you all,” Jim said pleasantly. He sprang +upstairs after Wally. + +Mrs. Hunt’s sitting-room was already dangerously crowded—there seemed +no room at all for the two tall lads for whom Eva opened the door ten +minutes later. A chorus of welcome greeted them, nevertheless. + +“This is delightful,” said Mrs. Hunt. “I’m sure I don’t know how you’re +going to fit in, but you must manage it somehow. If necessary we’ll all +stand up and re-pack ourselves, but I warn you it is risky: the walls +may not stand it!” + +“Oh, don’t trouble, Mrs. Hunt,” Jim said. “We’re quite all right.” Both +boys’ eyes had sought Norah as they entered: and Norah, meeting the +glance, felt a sudden pang at her heart, and knew. + +“My chair is ever so much too big for me,” she said. “You can each have +an arm.” + +“Good idea!” said Wally, perching on the broad arm of the easy-chair +that swallowed her up. “Come along, Jim, or we’ll be lop-sided!” + +“We put Norah in the biggest chair in the room, and everybody is +treating her with profound respect,” Mrs. Hunt said. “This is the first +day for quite a while that she hasn’t been hostess, so we made her +chief guest, and she is having a rest-cure.” + +“If you treat Norah with respect it won’t have at all a restful effect +on her,” said Wally. “I’ve tried.” To which Norah inquired, “When?” in +a voice of such amazement that every one laughed. + +“Misunderstood as usual,” said Wally pathetically. “It really doesn’t +pay to be like me and have a meek spirit: people only think you are a +worm, and trample on you. Come here, Geoff, and take care of me:” and +Geoffrey, who adored him, came. “Have you been riding old Brecon +lately?” + +“’M!” said Geoffrey, nodding. “I can canter now!” + +“Good man! Any tosses?” + +“Well, just one,” Geoffrey admitted. “He cantered before I had gotted +ready, and I fell off. But it didn’t hurt.” + +“That’s right. You practise always falling on a soft spot, and you need +never worry.” + +“But I’d rather practise sticking on,” said Geoffrey. “It’s nicer.” + +“You might practise both,” said Wally. “You’ll have plenty of both, you +know.” He laughed at the puzzled face. “Never mind, old chap. How are +the others, and why aren’t they here?” + +“They’re too little,” Geoffrey said loftily. “Small childrens don’t +come in to tea, at least not when there’s parties. I came, ’cause +Mother says I’m getting ’normous.” + +“So you are. Are the others quite well?” + +“Oh yes,” Geoffrey answered, clearly regarding the question as foolish. +“They’re all right. Alison’s got a puppy, and Michael’s been eating +plate-powder. His mouf was all pink.” + +“What’s that about my Michael,” demanded Mrs. Hunt. “Oh yes—we found +him making a hearty meal of plate-powder this morning. Douglas says it +should make him very bright. I’m thankful to say it doesn’t seem to be +going to kill him.” + +“Michael never will realize that there is a war on,” said Major Hunt, +aggrieved. “I found him gnawing the strap of one of my gaiters the +other day.” + +“You shouldn’t underfeed the poor kid,” said Wally. “It’s clear that +he’s finding his nourishment when and how he can. Isn’t there a Society +for dealing with people like you?” + +“There is,” said Jim solemnly. “It’s called the Police Force.” + +“You’re two horrible boys!” said their hostess, laughing. “And my +lovely fat Michael!—he’s getting so corpulent he can hardly waddle. He +and the puppy are really very like each other; both of them find it +easier to roll than to run.” She cast an inquiring eye round the room: +“Some more tea, Norah?” + +“No, thank you, Mrs. Hunt.” Norah’s voice sounded strange in her own +ears. She wanted to get away from the room, and the light-hearted +chatter . . . to make sure, though she was sure already. The guns of +France seemed to sound very near her. + +The party broke up after a while. Jim and Wally lingered behind the +others. + +“Will you and the Major come over this evening, Mrs. Hunt? We’re off +to-morrow.” + +“Oh—I’m sorry.” Mrs. Hunt’s face fell. “Poor Norah!” + +“Norah will keep smiling,” said Jim. “But I’m jolly glad you’re so near +her, Mrs. Hunt. You’ll keep an eye on them, won’t you? I’d be awfully +obliged if you would.” + +“You may be very sure I will,” she said. “And there will be a +tremendous welcome whenever you get leave.” + +“We won’t lose any time in coming for it,” Jim said. “Blighty means +more than ever it did, now that we’ve got a real home. Then you’ll come +to-night?” + +“Of course we will.” She watched them stride off into the shrubbery, +and choked back a sigh. + +Norah came back to them through the trees. + +“It’s marching orders, isn’t it?” + +“Yes, it’s marching orders, old kiddie,” Jim answered. They looked at +each other steadily: and then Norah’s eyes met Wally’s. + +“When?” she asked. + +“To-morrow morning.” + +“Well——” said Norah; and drew a long breath. “And I haven’t your last +week’s socks darned! That comes of having too many responsibilities. +Any buttons to be sewn on for either of you?” + +“No, thanks,” they told her, greatly relieved. She tucked a hand into +an arm of each boy, and they went towards the house. David Linton came +out hurriedly to meet them. + +“Allenby says——” he began. He did not need to go further. + +“We were trotting in to tell you,” said Jim. + +“We’ll be just in time to give the Boche a cheery Christmas,” said +Wally. “Norah, are you going to send us a Christmas hamper? With a +pudding?” + +“Rather!” Norah answered. “And I’ll put a lucky pig, and a button, and +a threepenny-bit in it, so you’d better eat it with care, or you may +damage your teeth. Miss de Lisle and I are going to plan great parcels +for you; she’s going to teach me to cook all sorts of things.” + +“After which you’ll try them on the dogs—meaning us,” Jim said, +laughing. “Well, if we don’t go into hospital after them, we’ll let you +know.” + +They came into the house, where already the news of the boys’ going had +spread, and the “Once-Tired’s,” as Wally called their guests, were +waiting to wish them luck. Then everybody faded away unobtrusively, and +left them to themselves. They went into the morning-room, and Norah +darned socks vigorously while the boys kept up a running fire of cheery +talk. Whatever was to come they would meet it with their heads up—all +four. + +They made dinner a revel—every one dressed in their best, and +“playing-up” to their utmost, while Miss de Lisle—the only person in +the house who had wept—had sent up a dinner which really left her very +little extra chance of celebrating Peace, when that most blessed day +should come. Over dessert, Colonel West rose unexpectedly, and made a +little speech, proposing the health of the boys, who sat, for the first +time, with utterly miserable faces, restraining an inclination to get +under the table. + +“I am sure,” said the Colonel, “that we all wish the—ah—greatest of +luck to our host’s sons—ah, that is, to his son and to—ah—his—ah——” + +“Encumbrance,” said Wally firmly. + +“Quite,” said the Colonel, without listening. “We know they +will—ah—make things hot for the Boche—ah—whenever they get a chance. +I—we—hope they will get plenty of chances: and—ah—that we will see +them—ah—back, with decorations and promotion. We will miss them—ah—very +much. Speaking—ah—personally, I came here fit for nothing, and +have—ah—laughed so much that I—ah—could almost believe myself a +subaltern!” + +The Tired People applauded energetically, and Mrs. West said +“Quite—quite!” But there was something like tears in her eyes as she +said it. + +The Hunts arrived after dinner, and they all woke the house with +ringing choruses—echoed by Allenby in his pantry, as he polished the +silver; and Garrett sang a song which was not encored because something +in his silver tenor made a lump come into Norah’s throat; and there was +no room for that, to-night, of all nights. Jack Blake sang them a +stockrider’s song, with a chorus in which all the Australians joined; +and Dick Harrison recited “The Geebung Polo Club,” without any +elocutionary tricks, and brought down the house. Jim had slipped out to +speak to Allenby: and presently, going out, they found the hall +cleared, and the floor waxed for dancing. They danced to gramophone +music, manipulated by Mr. Linton: and Norah and Mrs. Hunt had to divide +each dance into three, except those with Jim and Wally, which they +refused to partition, regardless of disconsolate protests from the +other warriors. It was eleven o’clock when Allenby announced stolidly, +“Supper is served, sir!” + +“Supper?” said Mr. Linton. “How’s this, Norah?” + +“_I_ don’t know,” said his daughter. “Ask Miss de Lisle!” + +They filed in, to find a table laden and glittering; in the centre a +huge cake, bearing the greeting, “Good Luck!” with a silken Union Jack +waving proudly. Norah whispered to her father, and then ran away. She +returned, presently, dragging the half-unwilling cook-lady. + +“It’s against _all_ my rules!” protested the captive. + +“Rules be hanged!” said Jim cheerfully. “Just you sit there, Miss de +Lisle.” And the cook-lady found herself beside Colonel West, who paid +her great attention, regarding her, against the evidence of his eyes, +as a Tired Person whom he had not previously chanced to meet. + +“My poor, neglected babies!” said Mrs. Hunt tragically, as twelve +strokes chimed from the grandfather clock in the hall. Wally and Norah, +crowned with blue and scarlet paper caps, the treasure of crackers, +were performing a weird dance which they called, with no very good +reason, a tango. It might have been anything, but it satisfied the +performers. The music stopped suddenly, and Mr. Linton wound up the +gramophone for the last time, slipping on a new record. The notes of +“Auld Lang Syne,” stole out. + +They gathered round, holding hands while they sang it; singing with all +their lungs and all their hearts: Norah between Jim and Wally, feeling +her fingers crushed in each boyish grip. + +“Then here’s a hand, my trusty friend, +And gie’s a hand o’ thine.” + + +Over the music her heart listened to the booming of the guns across the +Channel. But she set her lips and sang on. + + +It was morning, and they were on the station. The train came slowly +round the corner. + +“I’ll look after him, Nor.” Wally’s voice shook. “Don’t worry too much, +old girl.” + +“And yourself, too,” she said. + +“Oh, I’ll keep an eye on _him_,” said Jim. “And Dad’s your job.” + +“And we’ll plan all sorts of things for your next leave,” said David +Linton. “God bless you, boys.” + +They gripped hands. Then Jim put his arms round Norah’s shoulder. + +“You’ll keep smiling, kiddie? Whatever comes?” + +“Yes, I promise, Jimmy.” + +The guard was shouting. + +“All aboard.” + +“Cheero, Norah!” Wally cried from the window. “We’ll be back in no +time!” + +“Cheero!” She made the word come somehow. The train roared off round +the curve. + + + + +CHAPTER XII +OF LABOUR AND PROMOTION + + +The months went by quickly enough, as David Linton and his daughter +settled down to their work at the Home for Tired People. As the place +became more widely known they had rarely an empty room. The boys’ +regiment sent them many a wearied officer, too fagged in mind and body +to enjoy his leave: the hospitals kept up a constant supply of +convalescent and maimed patients; and there was a steady stream of +Australians of all ranks, who came, homesick for their own land, and +found a little corner of it planted in the heart of Surrey. Gradually, +as the Lintons realized the full extent of the homesickness of the lads +from overseas, Homewood became more and more Australian in details. +Pictures from every State appeared on the walls: aboriginal weapons and +curiosities, woven grass mats from the natives of Queensland, +Australian books and magazines and papers—all were scattered about the +house. They filled vases with blue-gum leaves and golden wattle-blossom +from the South of France: Norah even discovered a flowering boronia in +a Kew nurseryman’s greenhouse and carried it off in triumph, to scent +the house with the unforgettable delight of its perfume. She never +afterwards saw a boronia without recalling the bewilderment of her +fellow-travellers in the railway carriage at her exquisitely-scented +burden. + +“You should have seen their wondering noses, Dad!” said Norah, +chuckling. + +No one, of course, stayed very long at Homewood, unless he were +hopelessly unfit. From ten days to three weeks was the average stay: +then, like ships that pass in the night, the “Once-Tireds,” drifted +away. But very few forgot them. Little notes came from the Fronts, in +green Active Service envelopes: postcards from Mediterranean ports; +letters from East and West Africa; grateful letters from wives in +garrison stations and training camps throughout the British Isles. They +accumulated an extraordinary collection of photographs in uniform; and +Norah had an autograph book with scrawled signatures, peculiar drawings +and an occasional scrap of very bad verse. + +Major Hunt, his hand fully recovered, returned to the Front in +February, and his wife prepared to seek another home. But the Lintons +flatly refused to let her go. + +“We couldn’t do it,” said David Linton. “Doesn’t the place agree with +the babies?” + +“Oh, you know it does,” said Mrs. Hunt. “But we have already kept the +cottage far too long—there are other people.” + +“Not for that cottage,” Norah said. + +“It really isn’t fair,” protested their guest. “Douglas never dreamed +of our staying: if he had not been sent out in such a hurry at the last +he would have moved us himself.” + +David Linton looked at her for a moment. + +“Go and play with the babies, Norah,” he said. “I want to talk to this +obstinate person.” + +“Now look, Mrs. Hunt,” he said, as Norah went off, rather +relieved—Norah hated arguments. “You know we run this place for an +ideal—a dead man’s ideal. _He_ wanted more than anything in the world +to help the war; we’re merely carrying on for him. We can only do it by +helping individuals.” + +“But you have done that for us. Look at Douglas—strong and fit, with +one hand as good as the other. Think of what he was when he came here!” + +“He may not always be fit. And if you stay here you ease his worries by +benefiting his children—and saving for their future. Then, if he has +the bad luck to be wounded again, his house is all ready for him.” + +“I know,” she said. “And I would stay, but that there are others who +need it more.” + +“Well, we haven’t heard of them. Look at it another way. I am getting +an old man; it worries me a good deal to think that Norah has no woman +to mother her. I used to think,” he said with a sigh, “that it was +worse for them to lose their own mother when they were wee things; now, +I am not sure that Norah’s loss is not just beginning. It’s no small +thing for her to have an influence like yours; and Norah loves you.” + +Mrs. Hunt flushed. + +“Indeed, I love her,” she said. + +“Then stay and mother her. There are ever so many things you can teach +her that I can’t: that Miss de Lisle can’t, good soul as she is. +They’re not things I can put into words—but you’ll understand. I know +she’s clean and wholesome right through, but you can help to mould her +for womanhood. Of course, she left school far too early, but there +seemed no help for it. And if—if bad news comes to us from the +Front—for any of us—we can all help each other.” + +Mrs. Hunt thought deeply. + +“If you really think I can be of use I will stay,” she said. “I’m not +going to speak of gratitude—I tried to say all that long ago. But +indeed I will do what I can.” + +“That’s all right: I’m very glad,” said David Linton. + +“And if you really want her taught more,” Mrs. Hunt said—“well, I was a +governess with fairly high certificates before I was married. She could +come to me for literature and French; I was brought up in Paris. Her +music, too: she really should practise, with her talent.” + +“I’d like it above all things,” exclaimed Mr. Linton. “Norah’s +neglected education has been worrying me badly.” + +“We’ll plan it out,” Mrs. Hunt said. “Now I feel much happier.” + +Norah did not need much persuasion; after the first moment of dismay at +the idea of renewed lessons she saw the advantages of the plan—helped +by the fact that she was always a little afraid of failing to come up +to Jim’s standard. A fear which would considerably have amazed Jim, had +he but guessed it! It was easy enough to fit hours of study into her +day. She rose early to practise, before the Tired People were awake; +and most mornings saw her reading with Mrs. Hunt or chattering French, +while Eva sang shrilly in the kitchen, and the babies slept in their +white bunks; and Geoffrey followed Mr. Linton’s heels, either on Brecon +or afoot. The big Australian squatter and the little English boy had +become great friends: there was something in the tiny lad that recalled +the Jim of long ago, with his well-knit figure and steady eyes. + +One man alone, out of all Tired People, had never left Homewood. + +For a time after his arrival Philip Hardress had gained steadily in +strength and energy; then a chill had thrown him back, and for months +he sagged downwards; never very ill, but always losing vitality. The +old depression seemed to come back to him tenfold. He could see nothing +good in life: a cripple, a useless cripple. His parents were dead; save +for a brother in Salonica, he was alone in the world. He was always +courteous, always gentle; but a wall of misery seemed to cut him off +from the household. + +Then the magnificent physique of the boy asserted itself, and gradually +he grew stronger, and the hacking cough left him. Again it became +possible to tempt him to try to ride. He spent hours in the keen wintry +air, jogging round the fields and lanes with Mr. Linton and Geoffrey, +returning with something of the light in his eyes that had encouraged +Norah in his first morning, long ago. + +“I believe all he wants is to get interested in something,” Norah said, +watching him, one day, as he sat on the stone wall of the terrace, +looking across the park. “He was at Oxford before he joined the Army, +wasn’t he, Dad?” + +Mr. Linton assented. “His people arranged when he was little that he +should be a barrister. But he hated the idea. His own wish was to go +out to Canada.” + +Norah pondered. + +“Couldn’t you give him a job on the farm, Dad?” + +“I don’t know,” said her father. “I never thought of it. I suppose I +might find him something to do; Hawkins and I will be busy enough +presently.” + +“He’s beginning to worry at being here so long,” Norah said. “Of +course, we couldn’t possibly let him go: he isn’t fit for his own +society. I think if you could find him some work he would be more +content.” + +So David Linton, after thinking the matter over, took Hardress into his +plans for the farm which was to be the main source of supply for +Homewood. He found him a quick and intelligent helper. The work was +after the boy’s own heart: he surrounded himself with agricultural +books and treaties on fertilizers, made a study of soils, and took +samples of earth from different parts of the farm—to the profound +disgust of Hawkins. War had not done away with all expert agricultural +science in England: Hardress sent his little packets of soil away, and +received them back with advice as to treatment which, later on, +resulted in the yield of the land being doubled—which Hawkins +attributed solely to his own skill as a cultivator. But the cure was +worked in Philip Hardress. The ring of hope came back into his voice: +the “shop-leg” dragged ever so little, as he walked across the park +daily to where the ploughs were turning the grass of the farm fields +into stretches of brown, dotted with white gulls that followed the +horses’ slow plodding up and down. The other guests took up a good deal +of Mr. Linton’s time: he was not sorry to have an overseer, since +Hawkins, while honest and painstaking, was not afflicted with any undue +allowance of brains. Together, in the study at night, they planned out +the farm into little crops. Already much of the land was ready for the +planting, and a model poultry-run built near the house was stocked with +birds; while a flock of sheep grazed in the park, and to the tiny herd +of cows had been added half a dozen pure-bred Jerseys. David Linton had +taken Hardress with him on the trip to buy the stock, and both had +enjoyed it thoroughly. + +Meanwhile the boys at the Front sent long and cheery letters almost +daily. Astonishment had come to them almost as soon as they rejoined, +in finding themselves promoted; they gazed at their second stars in +bewilderment which was scarcely lessened by the fact that their friends +in the regiment were not at all surprised. + +“Why, didn’t you have a war on your own account in Ireland?” queried +Anstruther. “You got a Boche submarine sunk and caught half the crew, +didn’t you?” + +“Well, but that was only a lark!” said Wally. + +“You were wounded, anyhow, young Meadows. Of course _we_ know jolly +well you don’t deserve anything, but you can’t expect the War Office to +have our intimate sources of information.” He patted Wally on the back +painfully. “Just be jolly thankful you get more screw, and don’t +grumble. No one’ll ever teach sense to the War Office!” + +There was no lack of occupation in their part of the line. They saw a +good deal of fighting, and achieved some reputation as leaders of small +raids: Jim, in particular, having a power of seeing and hearing at +night that had been developed in long years in the Bush—but which +seemed to the Englishmen almost uncanny. There was reason to believe +that the enemy felt even more strongly about it—there was seldom rest +for the weary Boche in the trenches opposite Jim Linton’s section. Some +of his raids were authorized: others were not. It is probable that the +latter variety was more discouraging to the enemy. + +Behind the fighting line they were in fairly comfortable billets. The +officers were hardworked: the daily programme of drill and parades was +heavy, and in addition there was the task of keeping the men interested +and fit: no easy matter in the bitter cold of a North France winter. +Jim proved a tower of strength to his company commander, as he had been +to his school. He organized football teams, and taught them the +Australian game: he appealed to his father for aid, and in prompt +response out came cases of boxing-gloves, hockey and lacrosse sets, and +footballs enough to keep every man going. Norah sent a special gift—a +big case of indoor games for wet weather, with a splendid bagatelle +board that made the battalion deeply envied by less fortunate +neighbours: until a German shell disobligingly burst just above it, and +reduced it to fragments. However, Norah’s disgust at the news was so +deep that the Tired People in residence at Homewood at the moment +conspired together, and supplied the battalion with a new board in her +name; and this time it managed to escape destruction. + +The battalion had some stiff fighting towards the end of the winter, +and earned a pat on the back from high quarters for its work in +capturing some enemy trenches. But they lost heavily, especially in +officers. Jim’s company commander was killed at his side: the boy went +out at night into No-Man’s Land and brought his body in single-handed, +in grim defiance of the Boche machine-guns. Jim had liked Anstruther: +it was not to be thought of that his body should be dishonoured by the +touch of a Hun. Next day he had a far harder task, for Anstruther had +asked him to write to his mother if he failed to come back. Jim bit his +pen for two hours over that letter, and in his own mind stigmatized it +as “a rotten effort,” after it was finished. But the woman to whom it +carried whatever of comfort was left in the world for her saw no fault +in it. It was worn and frayed with reading when she locked it away with +her dead son’s letters. + +Jim found himself a company commander after that day’s fighting—doing +captain’s work without captain’s rank. Wally was his subaltern, an +arrangement rather doubted at first by the Colonel, until he saw that +the chums played the game strictly, and maintained in working hours a +discipline as firm as was their friendship. The men adored them: they +knew their officers shirked neither work nor play, and that they knew +their own limitations—neither Jim nor Wally ever deluded themselves +with the idea that they knew as much as their hard-bitten +non-commissioned officers. But they learned their men by heart, knowing +each one’s nickname and something of his private affairs; losing no +opportunity of talking to them and gaining their confidence, and sizing +them up, as they talked, just as in old days, as captains of the team, +they had learned to size up boys at football. “If I’ve got to go over +the top I want to know what Joe Wilkins and Tiny Judd are doing behind +me,” said Jim. + +They had hoped for leave before the spring offensive, but it was +impossible: the battalion was too shorthanded, and the enemy was +endeavouring to be the four-times-armed man who “gets his fist in +fust.” In that early fighting it became necessary to deal with a nest +of machine-guns that had got the range of their trenches to a nicety. +Shells had failed to find them, and the list of casualties to their +discredit mounted daily higher. Jim got the chance. He shook hands with +Wally—a vision of miserable disappointment—in the small hours of a +starlit night, and led a picked body of his men out of the front +trench: making a long _detour_ and finally working nearer and nearer to +the spot he had studied through his periscope for hours during the day. +Then he planted his men in a shell-hole, and wriggled forward alone. + +The men lay waiting, inwardly chafing at being left. Presently their +officer came crawling back to them. + +“We’ve got ’em cold,” he whispered. “Come along—and don’t fire a shot.” + +It was long after daylight before the German guards in the main +trenches suspected anything wrong with that particular nest of +machine-guns, and marvelled at its silence. For there was no one left +to tell them anything—of the fierce, silent onslaught from the rear; of +men who dropped as it were from the clouds and fought with clubbed +rifles, led by a boy who seemed in the starlight as tall as a young +pine-tree. The gun-crews were sleeping, and most of them never woke +again: the guards, drowsy in the quiet stillness, heard nothing until +that swift, wordless avalanche was upon them. + +In the British trench there was impatience and anxiety. The men waiting +to go forward, if necessary, to support the raiders, crouched at the +fire-step, muttering. Wally, sick with suspense, peered forward beside +the Colonel, who had come in person to see the result of the raid. + +“I believe they’ve missed their way altogether,” muttered the Colonel +angrily. “There should hove been shots long ago. It isn’t like Linton. +Dawn will be here soon, and the whole lot will be scuppered.” He +wheeled at a sudden commotion beyond him in the trench. “Silence there! +What’s that?” + +“That” was Jim Linton and his warriors, very muddy, but otherwise +undamaged. They dropped into the trench quietly, those who came first +turning to receive heavy objects from those yet on top. Last of all Jim +hopped down. + +“Hullo, Wal!” he whispered. “Got ’em.” + +“Got ’em!” said the Colonel sternly. “What? Where have you been, sir?” + +“I beg your pardon, sir—I didn’t know you were there,” Jim said, rather +horrified. It is not given to every subaltern to call his commanding +officer “Wal,” when that is not his name. “I have the guns, sir.” + +“You have—_what_?” + +“The Boche—I mean, the enemy, machine-guns. We brought them back, sir.” + +“You brought them back!” The Colonel leaned against the wall of the +trench and began to laugh helplessly. “And your men?” + +“All here, sir. We brought the ammunition, too,” said Jim mildly. “It +seemed a pity to waste it!” + +Which things, being told in high places, brought Jim a mention in +despatches, and, shortly afterwards, confirmation of his acting rank. +It would be difficult to find fitting words to tell of the effect of +this matter upon a certain grizzled gentleman and a very young lady +who, when the information reached them were studying patent manures in +a morning-room in a house in Surrey. + +“He’s—why,” gasped Norah incredulously—“he’s actually Captain Linton!” + +“I suppose he is,” said her father. “Doesn’t it sound ridiculous!” + +“I don’t think it’s ridiculous at all,” said Norah warmly. “He deserved +it. I think it sounds simply beautiful!” + +“Do you know,” said her father, somewhat embarrassed—“I really believe +I agree with you!” He laughed. “Captain Linton!” + +“Captain Linton!” reiterated Norah. “Our old Jimmy!” She swept the +table clear. “Oh, Daddy, bother the fertilizers for to-night—I’m going +to write to Billabong!” + +“But it isn’t mail-day to-morrow,” protested her father mildly. + +“No,” said Norah. “But I’ll explode if I don’t tell Brownie!” + +“And will the Captain be coming ’ome soon, Miss Norah?” inquired +Allenby, a little later. The household had waxed ecstatic over the +news. + +“The Captain?” Norah echoed. “Oh, how nice of you, Allenby! It does +sound jolly!” + +“Miss de Lisle wishes to know, miss. The news ’as induced ’er to invent +a special cake.” + +“We’ll have to send it to the poor Captain, I’m afraid,” said Norah, +dimpling. “Dear me, I haven’t told Mrs. Hunt! I must fly!” She dropped +her pen, and fled to the cottage—to find her father there before her. + +“I might have known you couldn’t wait to tell,” said Norah, laughing. +“And he pretends he isn’t proud, Mrs. Hunt!” + +“I’ve given up even pretending,” said her father, laughing. “I found +myself shaking hands with Allenby in the most affectionate manner. You +see, Mrs. Hunt, this sort of thing hasn’t happened in the family +before.” + +“Oh, but those boys couldn’t help doing well,” Mrs. Hunt said, looking +almost as pleased as the two beaming faces before her. “They’re so +keen. I don’t know if I should, but shall I read you what Douglas says +about them?” They gathered eagerly together over the curt words of +praise Major Hunt had written. “Quite ordinary boys, and not a bit +brainy,” he finished. “But I wish I had a regiment full of them!” + +Out in Australia, two months later, a huge old woman and a lean +Irishman talked over the letter Norah had at length managed to finish. + +“And it’s a Captin he is!” said Murty O’Toole, head stockman. + +“A Captain!” Brownie echoed. “Don’t it seem only yesterday he was +tearing about in his first little trousis, and the little mistress +watching him!” + +“And riding his first pony. She put him over her head, and I med sure +he was kilt. ‘Howld her, will ye, Murty,’ says he, stamping his little +fut, and blood trickling down his face. ‘Give me a leg up again,’ he +says, ‘till we see who’s boss!’ And I put him up, and off he went down +the paddock, digging his little heels into her. And he’s a Captin! +Little Masther Jim!” + +“I don’t know why you’re surprised,” said Brownie loftily. “The only +wonder to _me_ is he wasn’t one six months ago!” + + + + +CHAPTER XIII +THE END OF A PERFECT DAY + + +“Are you ready, Norah?” + +“Coming, Phil—half a minute!” + +Hardress, in riding kit, looked into the kitchen, where Norah was +carrying on a feverish consultation with Miss de Lisle. + +“You’ll be late,” he said warningly. “Your father and Geoffrey have +gone on.” + +“Will I truly?” said Norah distractedly. “Yes, Miss de Lisle, I’ll +write to the Stores about it to-night. Now, what about the fish?” + +“Leave the fish to me,” said Miss de Lisle, laughing. “If I can’t +manage to worry out a fish course without you, I don’t deserve to have +half my diplomas. Run away: the house won’t go to pieces in a single +hunting day.” + +“Bless you!” said Norah thankfully, dragging on her gloves and casting +a wild glance about the kitchen for her hunting crop. “Oh, there it is. +Good-bye. You won’t forget that Major Arkwright is only allowed white +meat?” + +“Oh, run away—I won’t forget anything.” + +“Well, he only came last night, so I thought you mightn’t know,” said +the apologetic mistress of the house. “All right, Phil—I’m truly +coming. Good-bye, Miss de Lisle!” The words floated back as she raced +off to the front door, where the horses were fretting impatiently, held +by the groom. + +They jogged down the avenue—Hardress on one of the brown cobs, Norah on +Brunette, the black pony—her favourite mount. It was a perfect hunting +morning: mild and still, with almost a hint of spring warmth in the +air. The leafless trees bore faint signs of swelling leaf-buds. Here +and there, in the grass beside the drive crocus bells peeped out at +them—purple, white and gold. + +“We’ll have daffodils soon, I do believe,” Norah said. “Well, I love +Australia, but there isn’t anything in the world lovelier than your +English spring!” + +Ahead of them, as they turned into the road, they could see Mr. Linton, +looking extraordinarily huge on Killaloe, beside Geoffrey’s little +figure on Brecon. + +“This is a great day for Geoff,” Hardress said. + +“Yes—he has been just longing to go to a meet. Of course he has driven +a good many times, but Mrs. Hunt has been a bit nervous about his +riding. But he’s perfectly safe—and it isn’t as if Brecon ever got +excited.” + +“No. Come along, Norah, there’s a splendid stretch of grass here: let’s +canter!” + +They had agreed upon a Christian-name footing some time before, when it +seemed that Hardress was likely to be a permanent member of the +household. She looked at him now, as they cantered along through the +dew-wet grass at the side of the road. No one would have guessed at +anything wrong with him: he was bronzed and clear-eyed, and sat as +easily in the saddle as though he had never been injured. + +“Sometimes,” said Norah suddenly, “I find myself wondering which of +your legs is the shop one!” She flushed. “I suppose I oughtn’t to make +personal remarks, but your leg does seem family property!” + +“So it is,” said Hardress, grinning. “Anyhow, you couldn’t make a nicer +personal remark than that one. So I forgive you. But it’s all thanks to +you people.” + +“We couldn’t have done anything if you hadn’t been determined to get +on,” Norah answered. “As soon as you made up your mind to that—well, +you got on.” + +“I don’t know how you stood me so long,” he muttered. Then they caught +up to the riders ahead, and were received by Geoffrey with a joyful +shout. + +“You were nearly late, Norah,” said Mr. Linton. + +“I dragged her from the kitchen, sir,” Hardress said. “She and Miss de +Lisle were poring over food—if we get no dinner to-night it will be our +fault.” + +“If _you_ had the responsibility of feeding fourteen hungry people you +wouldn’t make a joke of it,” said Norah. “It’s very solemn, especially +when the fishmonger fails you hopelessly.” + +“There’s always tinned salmon,” suggested her father. + +“Tinned salmon, indeed!” Norah’s voice was scornful. “We haven’t come +yet to giving the Tired People dinner out of a tin. However, it’s all +right: Miss de Lisle will work some sort of a miracle. I’m not going to +think of housekeeping for a whole day!” + +The meet was four miles away, near a marshy hollow thickly covered with +osiers and willows. A wood fringed the marsh, and covered a hill which +rose from a little stream beyond it. Here and there was a glimpse of +the yellow flame of gorse. There were rolling fields all round, many of +them ploughed: it had not yet been made compulsory for every landowner +to till a portion of his holding, but English farmers were beginning to +awake to the fact that while the German submarine flourished it would +be both prudent and profitable to grow as much food as possible, and +the plough had been busy. The gate into the field overlooking the marsh +stood open; a few riders were converging towards it from different +points. The old days of crowded meets and big fields of riders were +gone. Only a few plucky people struggled to keep the hounds going, and +to find work for the hunters that had escaped the first requisition of +horses for France. + +The hounds came into view as Mr. Linton’s party arrived. The “Master” +came first, on a big, workmanlike grey; a tall woman, with a +weatherbeaten face surmounted by a bowler hat. The hounds trotted +meekly after her, one or another pausing now and then to drink at a +wayside puddle before being rebuked for bad manners by a watchful whip. +Mrs. Ainslie liked the Lintons; she greeted them pleasantly. + +“Nice morning,” she said. “Congratulations: I hear the boy is a +Captain.” + +“We can’t quite realize it,” Norah said, laughing. “You see, we hardly +knew he had grown up!” + +“Well, he grew to a good size,” said Mrs. Ainslie, with a smile. +“Hullo, Geoff. Are you going to follow to-day?” + +“They won’t let me,” said Geoffrey dolefully. “I know Brecon and I +could, but Mother says we’re too small.” + +“Too bad!” said Mrs. Ainslie. “Never mind; you’ll be big pretty soon.” + +A tall old man in knickerbockers greeted her: Squire Brand, who owned a +famous property a few miles away, and who had the reputation of never +missing a meet, although he did not ride. He knew every inch of the +country; it was said that he could boast, at the end of a season, that +he had, on the whole, seen more of the runs than any one else except +the Master. He was a tireless runner, with an extraordinarily long +stride, which carried him over fields and ditches and gave him the +advantage of many a short cut impossible to most people. He knew every +hound by name; some said he knew every fox in the country; and he +certainly had an amazing knowledge of the direction a fox was likely to +take. Horses, on the other hand, bored him hopelessly; he consented to +drive them, in the days when motors were not, but merely as a means of +getting from place to place. A splendid car, with a chauffeur much +smarter than his master, had just dropped him: a grant figure in +weatherbeaten Harris tweeds, grasping a heavy stick. + +“We should get a good run to-day,” he said. + +“Yes—with luck,” Mrs. Ainslie answered. + +“Any news from the Colonel?” + +“Nothing in particular—plenty of hard fighting. But he never writes +much of that. He’s much more interested in a run he had with a queer +scratch pack near their billets. I can’t quite gather how it was +organized, but it comprised two beagles and a greyhound and a +fox-terrier and a pug. He said they had a very sporting time!” + +Squire Brand chuckled. + +“I don’t doubt it,” he said. “Did he say what they hunted?” + +“Anything they could get, apparently. They began with a hare, and then +got on to a rabbit, in some mysterious fashion. They finished up with a +brisk run in the outskirts of a village, and got a kill—it turned out +this time to be a cat!” Mrs. Ainslie’s rather grim features relaxed +into a smile. “If any one had told Val two years ago that he would be +enthusiastic over a day like that!” + +A few other riders had come up: two or three officers from a +neighbouring town; a couple of old men, and a sprinkling of girls. +Philip Hardress was the only young man in plain clothes, and strangers +who did not suspect anything amiss with his leg looked at him +curiously. + +“Look at that dear old thing!” he whispered to Norah, indicating a prim +maiden lady who had arrived on foot. “I know she’s aching for a chance +to ask me why I’m not in khaki!” He grinned delightedly. “She’s rather +like the old lady who met me in the train the other day, and after +looking at me sadly for a few minutes said, ‘My dear young man, do you +not know that your King and Country want you?’” + +“Phil! What did you say?” + +“I said, ‘Well, they’ve got one of my legs, and they don’t seem to have +any use for the remnant!’ I don’t think she believed me, so I invited +her to prod it!” He chuckled at his grim joke. Three months ago he had +shrunk from any mention of his injury as from the lash of a whip. + +Mrs. Ainslie never wasted time. Two minutes’ grace for any +laggards—which gave time for the arrival of a stout lady on a +weight-carrying cob—and then she moved on, and in a moment the hounds +were among the osiers, hidden except that now and then a waving stern +caught the eye. Occasionally there was a brief whimper, and once a +young hound gave tongue too soon, and was, presumably, rebuked by his +mother, and relapsed into hunting in shamed silence. + +The osiers proved blank: they drew out, and went up the hill into the +covert, while the field moved along to be as close as possible, and the +followers on foot dodged about feverishly, hoping for luck that would +make a fox break their way. Too often the weary lot of the foot +contingent is to see nothing whatever after the hounds once enter +covert, since the fox is apt to leave it as unobtrusively as possible +at the far side, and to take as short a line as he can across country +to another refuse. To follow the hounds on foot needs a stout heart and +patience surpassing that of Job. + +But those on horses know little of the blighting experiences of the +foot-plodders: and when Norah went a-hunting everything ceased to exist +for her except the white-and-black-and-tan hounds and the green fields, +and Brunette under her, as eager as she for the first long-drawn-out +note from the pack. They moved restlessly back and forth along the +hillside, the black pony dancing with impatience at the faintest +whimper from an unseen hound. Near them Killaloe set an example of +steadiness—but with watchful eyes and pricked ears. + +Squire Brand came up to them. + +“I’d advise you to get up near the far end of the covert,” he said. +“It’s almost a certainty that he’ll break away there and make a +bee-line across to Harley Wood. I hope he will, for there’s less plough +there than in the other direction.” He hurried off, and Norah permitted +Brunette to caper after him. A young officer on a big bay followed +their example. + +“Come along,” he said to a companion. “It’s a safe thing to follow old +Brand’s lead if you want to get away well.” + +Where the covert ended the hill sloped gently to undulating fields, +divided by fairly stiff hedges with deep ditches, and occasionally by +post-and-rail fences, more like the jumps that Norah knew in Australia. +The going was good and sound, and there was no wire—that terror of the +hunter. Norah had always hated wire, either plain or barbed. She held +that it found its true level in being used against Germans. + +Somewhere in a tangle of bracken an old hound spoke sharply. A little +thrill ran through her. She saw her father put his pipe in his pocket +and pull his hat more firmly down on his forehead, while she held back +Brunette, who was dancing wildly. Then came another note, and another, +and a long-drawn burst of music from the hounds; and suddenly Norah saw +a stealthy russet form, with brush sweeping the ground, that stole from +the covert and slid down the slope, and after him, a leaping wave of +brown and white and black as hounds came bounding from the wood and +flung themselves upon the scent, with Mrs. Ainslie close behind. Some +one shouted “Gone awa-a-y!” in a voice that went ringing in echoes +round the hillside. + +Brunette bucked airily over the low fence near the covert, and Killaloe +took it almost in his stride. Then they were racing side by side down +the long slope, with the green turf like wet velvet underfoot; and the +next hedge seemed rushing to meet them. Over, landing lightly in the +next field; before them only the “Master” and whip, and the racing +hounds, with burning eyes for the little red speck ahead, trailing his +brush. + +“By Jove, Norah!” said David Linton, “we’re in for a run!” + +Norah nodded. Speech was beyond her; only all her being was singing +with the utter joy of the ride. Beneath her Brunette was spurning the +turf with dainty hooves; stretching out in her gallop, yet gathering +herself cleverly at her fences, with alert, pricked ears—judging her +distance, and landing with never a peck or stumble. The light weight on +the pony’s back was nothing to her; the delicate touch on her mouth was +all she needed to steady her at the jumps. + +Near Harley Wood the fox decided regretfully that safety lay elsewhere: +the enemy, running silently and surely, were too hot on his track. He +crept through a hedge, and slipped like a shadow down a ditch; and +hounds, jumping out, were at fault for a moment. The slight check gave +the rest of the field time to get up. + +“That’s a great pony!” Norah heard the young officer say. She patted +Brunette’s arching neck. + +Then a quick cast of the hounds picked up the scent, and again they +were off, but no longer with the fences to themselves; so that it was +necessary to be watchful for the cheerful enthusiast who jumps on top +of you, and the prudent sportsman who wobbles all over the field in his +gallop, seeking for a gap. Killaloe drew away again: there was no +hunter in the country side to touch him. After him went Brunette, with +no notion of permitting her stable companion to lose her in a run like +this. + +A tall hedge faced them, with an awkward take-off from the bank of a +ditch. Killaloe crashed through; Brunette came like a bird in his +tracks, Norah’s arm across her face to ward off the loose branches. She +got through with a tear in her coat, landing on stiff plough through +which Mrs. Ainslie’s grey was struggling painfully. Brunette’s light +burden was all in her favour here—Norah was first to the gate on the +far side, opening it just in time for the “Master,” and thrilling with +joy at that magnate’s brief “Thank you!” as she passed through and +galloped away. The plough had given the hounds a long lead. But ahead +were only green fields, dotted by clumps of trees: racing ground, firm +and springy. The air sang in their ears. The fences seemed as nothing; +the good horses took them in racing style, landing with no shock, and +galloping on, needing no touch of whip or spur. + +The old dog-fox was tiring, as well he might, and yet, ahead, he knew, +lay sanctuary, in an old quarry where the piled rocks hid a hole where +he had lain before, with angry hounds snuffing helplessly around him. +He braced his weary limbs for a last effort. The cruel eyes and lolling +tongues were very close behind him; but his muscles were steel, and he +knew how to save every short cut that gave him so much as a yard. He +saw the quarry, just ahead, and snarled his triumph in his untamed +heart. + +Brunette’s gallop was faltering a little, and Norah’s heart sank. She +had never had such a run: it was hard if she could not see it out, when +they had led the field the whole way—and while yet Killaloe was going +like a galloping-machine in front. Then she heard a shout from her +father and saw him point ahead. “Water!” came to her. She saw the gleam +of water, fringed by reeds: saw Killaloe rise like a deer at it, taking +off well on the near side, and landing with many feet to spare. + +“Oh—we can do that,” Norah thought. “Brunette likes water.” + +She touched the pony with her heel for the first time, and spoke to +her. Brunette responded instantly, gathering herself for the jump. +Again Norah heard a shout, and was conscious of the feeling of vague +irritation that we all know when some one is trying to tell us +something we cannot possibly hear. She took the pony at the jump about +twenty yards from the place where Killaloe had flown it. Nearer and +nearer. The water gleamed before her, very close: she felt the pony +steady herself for the leap. Then the bank gave way under her heels: +there was a moment’s struggle and a stupendous splash. + +Norah’s first thought was that the water was extremely cold; then, that +the weight on her left leg was quite uncomfortable. Brunette +half-crouched, half-lay, in the stream, too bewildered to move; then +she sank a little more to one side and Norah had to grip her mane to +keep herself from going under the surface. It seemed an unpleasantly +long time before she saw her father’s face. + +“Norah—are you hurt?” + +“No, I’m not hurt,” she said. “But I can’t get my leg out—and Brunette +seems to think she wants to stay here. I suppose she finds the mud nice +and soft.” She tried to smile at his anxious face, but found it not +altogether easy. + +“We’ll get you out,” said David Linton. He tugged at the pony’s bridle; +and Mrs. Ainslie, arriving presently, came to his assistance, while +some of the other riders, coming up behind, encouraged Brunette with +shouts and hunting-crops. Thus urged, Brunette decided that some +further effort was necessary, and made one, with a mighty flounder, +while Norah rolled off into the water. Half a dozen hands helped her at +the bank. + +“You’re sure you’re not hurt?” her father asked anxiously. “I was +horribly afraid she’d roll on your leg when she moved.” + +“I’m quite all right—only disgustingly wet,” said Norah. “Oh, and I +missed the finish—did you ever know such bad luck?” + +“Well, you only missed the last fifty yards,” said Mrs. Ainslie, +pointing to the quarry, from which the whips were dislodging the +aggrieved hounds. “We finished there; and that old fox is good for +another day yet. I’d give you the brush, if he hadn’t decided to keep +it himself.” + +“Oh!” said Norah, blushing, while her teeth chattered. “Wasn’t it a +beautiful run!” + +“It was—but something has got to be done with you,” said Mrs. Ainslie +firmly. “There’s a farmhouse over there, Mr. Linton: I know the people, +and they’ll do anything they can for you. Hurry her over and get her +wet things off—Mrs. Hardy will lend her some clothes.” And Norah made a +draggled and inglorious exit. + +Mrs. Hardy received her with horrified exclamations and offers of all +that she had in the house: so that presently Norah found herself +drinking cup after cup of very hot tea and eating buttered toast with +her father—attired in a plaid blouse of green and red in large checks, +and a black velvet skirt that had seen better days; with carpet +slippers lending a neat finish to a somewhat striking appearance. +Without, farm hands rubbed down Killaloe and Brunette in the stable. +Mrs. Hardy fluttered in and out, bringing more and yet more toast, +until her guests protested vehemently that exhausted nature forbade +them to eat another crumb. + +“And wot is toast?” grumbled Mrs. Hardy, “and you ridin’ all day in the +cold!” She had been grievously disappointed at her visitors’ refusing +bacon and eggs. “The young lady’ll catch ’er death, sure’s fate! Just +another cup, miss. Lor, who’s that comin’ in at the gate!” + +“That” proved to be Squire Brand, who had appeared at the scene of +Norah’s disaster just after her retreat—being accused by Mrs. Ainslie +of employing an aeroplane. + +“I came to see if I could be of any use,” he said. His eye fell on +Norah in Mrs. Hardy’s clothes, and he said, “Dear me!” suddenly, and +for a moment lost the thread of his remarks. “You can’t let her ride +home, Linton—my car is here, and if your daughter will let me drive her +home I’m sure Mr. Hardy will house her pony until to-morrow—you can +send a groom over for it. I’ve a spare coat in the car. Yes, thank you, +Mrs. Hardy, I should like a cup of tea very much.” + +Now that the excitement of the day was over, Norah was beginning to +feel tired enough to be glad to escape the long ride home on a jaded +horse. So, with Mrs. Hardy’s raiment hidden beneath a gorgeous fur +coat, she was presently in the Squire’s car, slipping through the dusk +of the lonely country lanes. The Squire liked Jim, and asked questions +about him: and to talk of Jim was always the nearest way to Norah’s +heart. She had exhausted his present, and was as far back in his past +as his triumphs in inter-State cricket, when they turned in at the +Homewood avenue. + +“I’m afraid I’ve talked an awful lot,” she said, blushing. “You see, +Jim and I are tremendous chums. I often think how lucky I was to have a +brother like him, as I had only one!” + +“Possibly Jim thinks the same about his sister,” said the old man. He +looked at her kindly; there was something very child-like in the small +face, half-lost in the great fur collar of his coat. + +“At all events, Jim has a good champion,” he said. + +“Oh, Jim doesn’t need a champion,” Norah answered. “Every one likes +him, I think. And of course we think there’s no one like him.” + +The motor stopped, and the Squire helped her out. It was too late to +come in, he said; he bade her good night, and went back to the car. + +Norah looked in the glass in the hall, and decided that her appearance +was too striking to be kept to herself. A very battered felt riding-hat +surmounted Mrs. Hardy’s finery; it bore numerous mud-splashes, some of +which had extended to her face. No one was in the hall; it was late, +and presumably the Tired People were dressing for dinner. She headed +for the kitchen, meeting, on the way, Allenby, who uttered a choking +sound and dived into his pantry. Norah chuckled, and passed on. + +Miss de Lisle sat near the range, knitting her ever-present muffler. +She looked up, and caught her breath at the apparition that danced +in—Norah, more like a well-dressed scarecrow than anything else, with +her grey eyes bright among the mud-splashes. She held up Mrs. Hardy’s +velvet skirt in each hand, and danced solemnly up the long kitchen, +pointing each foot daintily, in the gaudy carpet slippers. + +“Oh my goodness!” ejaculated Miss de Lisle—and broke into helpless +laughter. + +Norah sat down by the fender and told the story of her day—with a +cheerful interlude when Katty came in hurriedly, failed to see her +until close upon her, and then collapsed. Miss de Lisle listened, +twinkling. + +“Well, you must go and dress,” she said at length. “It would be only +kind to every one if you came down to dinner like that, but I suppose +it wouldn’t do.” + +“It wouldn’t be dignified,” said Norah, looking, at the moment, as +though dignity were the last thing she cared about. “Well, I suppose I +must go.” She gathered up her skirts and danced out again, pausing at +the door to execute a high kick. Then she curtsied demurely to the +laughing cook-lady, and fled to her room by a back staircase. + +She came down a while later, tubbed and refreshed, in a dainty blue +frock, with a black ribbon in her shining curls. The laughter had not +yet died out of her eyes; she was humming one of Jim’s school songs as +she crossed the hall. Allenby was just turning from the door. + +“A telegram, Miss Norah.” + +“Thanks, Allenby.” She took it, still smiling. “I hope it isn’t to say +any one is coming to-night,” she said, as she carried it to the light. +“Wouldn’t it be lovely if it was to tell us they had leave!” There was +no need to specify whom “they” meant. “But I’m afraid that’s too much +to hope, just yet.” She tore open the envelope. + +There was a long silence as she stood there with the paper in her hand: +a silence that grew gradually more terrible, while her face turned +white. Over and over she read the scrawled words, as if in the vain +hope that the thing they told might yet prove only a hideous dream from +which, presently, she might wake. Then, as if very far away, she heard +the butler’s shaking voice. + +“Miss Norah! Is it bad news?” + +“You can send the boy away,” she heard herself say, as though it were +some other person speaking. “There isn’t any answer. He has been +killed.” + +“Not Mr. Jim?” Allenby’s voice was a wail. + +“Yes.” + +She turned from him and walked into the morning-room, shutting the +door. In the grate a fire was burning; the leaping light fell on Jim’s +photograph, standing on a table near. She stared at it, still holding +the telegram. Surely it was a dream—she had so often had it before. +Surely she would soon wake, and laugh at herself. + +The door was flung open, and her father came in, ruddy and splashed. +She remembered afterwards the shape of a mud-splash on his sleeve. It +seemed to be curiously important. + +“Norah!—what is wrong?” + +She put out her hands to him then, shaking. Jim had said it was her job +to look after him, but she could not help him now. And no words would +come. + +“Is it Jim?” At the agony of his voice she gave a little choking cry, +catching at him blindly. The telegram fluttered to the floor, and David +Linton picked it up and read it. He laid the paper on the table and +turned to her, holding out his hands silently, and she came to him and +put her face on his breast, trembling. His arm tightened round her. So +they stood, while the time dragged on. + +He put her into a chair at last, and they looked at each other: they +had said no word since that first moment. + +“Well,” said David Linton slowly, “we knew it might come. And we know +that he died like a man, and that he never shirked. Thank God we had +him, Norah. And thank God my son died a soldier, not a slacker.” + + + + +CHAPTER XIV +CARRYING ON + + +After that first terrible evening, during which no one had looked upon +their agony, David Linton and his child took up their life again and +tried to splice the broken ends as best they might. Their guests, who +came down to breakfast nervously, preparing to go away at once, found +them in the dining-room, haggard and worn, but pleasantly courteous; +they talked of the morning’s news, of the frost that seemed commencing, +of the bulbs that were sending delicate spear-heads up through the +grass or the bare flower-beds. There were arrangements for the day to +be made for those who cared to ride or drive: the trains to be planned +for a gunner subaltern whose leave was expiring next day. Everything +was quite as usual, outwardly. + +“Pretty ghastly meal, what?” remarked the young gunner to a chum, as +they went out on the terrace. “Rather like dancing at a funeral.” + +Philip Hardress came into the morning-room, where Mr. Linton and Norah +were talking. + +“I don’t need to tell you how horribly sorry I am,” he faltered. + +“No—thanks, Phil.” + +“You—you haven’t any details?” + +“No.” + +“Wally will write as soon as he can,” Norah added. + +“Yes, of course. The others want me to say, sir, of course they will go +away. They all understand. I can go too, just to the hotel. I can +supervise Hawkins from there.” + +“I hope none of you will think of doing any such thing,” David Linton +said. “Our work here is just the same. Jim would never have wished us +not to carry on.” + +“But——” Hardress began. + +“There isn’t any ‘but.’ Norah and I are not going to sit mourning, with +our hands in front of us. We mean to work a bit harder, that’s all. You +see”—the ghost of a smile flickered across the face that had aged ten +years in a night—“more than ever now, whatever we do for a soldier is +done for Jim.” + +Hardress made a curious little gesture of protest. + +“And I’m left—half of me!” + +“You have got to help us, Phil,” Norah said. “We need you badly.” + +“I can’t do much,” he said. “But as long as you want me, I’m here. Then +I’m to tell the others, sir——” + +“Tell them we hope they will help us to carry on as usual,” said David +Linton. “I’ll come across with you presently, Phil, to look at the new +cultivator: I hear it arrived last night.” + +He looked at Norah as the door closed. + +“You’re sure it isn’t too much for you, my girl? I will send them away +if you would rather we were by ourselves for a while.” + +“I promised Jim that whatever happened we’d keep smiling,” Norah said. +“He wouldn’t want us to make a fuss. Jim always did so hate fusses, +didn’t he, Dad?” + +She was quite calm. Even when Mrs. Hunt came hurrying over, and put her +kind arms about her, Norah had no tears. + +“I suppose we haven’t realized it,” she said. “Perhaps we’re trying not +to. I don’t want to think of Jim as dead—he was so splendidly alive, +ever since he was a tiny chap.” + +“Try to think of him as near you,” Mrs. Hunt whispered. + +“Oh, he is. I know Jim never would go far from us, if he could help it. +I know he’s watching, somewhere, and he will be glad if we keep our +heads up and go straight on. He would trust us to do that.” Her face +changed. “Oh, Mrs. Hunt,—but it’s hard on Dad!” + +“He has you still.” + +“I’m only a girl,” said Norah. “No girl could make up for a son: and +such a son as Jim. But I’ll try.” + +There came racing little feet in the hall, and Geoffrey burst in. + +“It isn’t true!” he shouted. “Say it isn’t true, Norah! Allenby says +the Germans have killed Jim—I know they couldn’t.” He tugged at her +woollen coat. “Say it’s a lie, Norah—Jim couldn’t be dead!” + +“Geoff—Geoff, dear!” Mrs. Hunt tried to draw him away. + +“Don’t!” Norah said. She put her arms round the little boy—and suddenly +her head went down on his shoulder. The tears came at last. Mrs. Hunt +went softly from the room. + +There were plenty of tears in the household: The servants had all loved +the big cheery lad, with the pleasant word for each one. They went +about their work red-eyed, and Allenby chafed openly at the age that +kept him at home, doing a woman’s work, while boys went out to give +their lives, laughing, for Empire. + +“It ain’t fair,” he said to Miss de Lisle, who sobbed into the muffler +she was knitting. “It ain’t fair. Kids, they are—no more. They ain’t +meant to die. Oh, if I could only get at that there Kayser!” + +Then, after a week of waiting, came Wally’s letter. + + +“Norah, Dear,— + +“I don’t know how to write to you. I can’t bear to think about you and +your father. It seems it must be only a bad dream—and all the time I +know it isn’t, even though I keep thinking I hear his whistle—the one +he used for me. + +“I had better tell you about it. + +“We had orders to attack early one morning. Jim was awfully keen; he +had everything ready, and he had been talking to the men until they +were all as bucked up as they could be. You know, he was often pretty +grave about his work, but I don’t think I ever saw him look so happy as +he did that morning. He looked just like a kid. He told me he felt as +if he were going out on a good horse at Billabong. We were looking over +our revolvers, and he said, ‘That’s the only thing that feels wrong; it +ought to be a stock whip!’ + +“We hadn’t much artillery support. Our guns were short of shells, as +usual. But we took the first trench, and the next. Jim was just +everywhere. He was always first; the men would have followed him down a +precipice. He was laughing all the time. + +“We didn’t get much time before they counter-attacked. They came on in +waves—as if there were millions of them, and we had a pretty stiff +fight in the trench. It was fairly well smashed about. I was pretty +busy about fifty yards away, but I saw Jim up on a broken traverse, +using his revolver just as calmly as if he were practising in camp, and +cheering on the men. He gave me a ‘Coo-ee!’ + +“And then—oh, I don’t know how to tell you. Just as I was looking at +him a shell burst near him: and when the smoke blew over there was +nothing—traverse and trench and all, it was just wiped out. I couldn’t +get near him—the Boches were pouring over in fresh masses, and we got +the signal to retire—and I was the only one left to get the men back. + +“He couldn’t have felt anything; that’s the only thing. + +“I wish it had been me. I’m nobody’s dog, and he was just everything to +you two—and the best friend a fellow ever had. It would have been so +much more reasonable if it had been me. I just feel that I hate myself +for being alive. I would have saved him for you if I could, Norah, +“Wally.” + + +There were letters, too, from Jim’s Colonel, and from Major Hunt, and +Garrett, and every other brother-officer whom Jim had sent to Homewood; +and others that Norah and her father valued almost more highly—from men +who had served under him. Letters that made him glow with pride—almost +forgetting grief as they read them. It seemed so impossible to think +that Jim would never come again. + +“I can’t feel as though he were dead,” Norah said, looking up at her +father. “I know I’ve got to get used to knowing he has gone away from +us for always. But I like to think of him as having only changed work. +Jim never could be idle in Heaven; he always used to say it seemed such +a queer idea to sit all day in a white robe and play a harp. Jim’s +Heaven would have to be a very busy one, and I know he’s gone there, +Dad.” + +David Linton got up and went to the bookcase. He came back with +_Westward Ho!_ in his hand. + +“I was reading Kingsley’s idea of it last night,” he said. “I think it +helps, Norah. Listen. ‘The best reward for having wrought well already, +is to have more to do; and he that has been faithful over a few things, +must find his account in being made ruler over many things. That is the +true and heroical rest, which only is worthy of gentlemen and sons of +God.’ Jim was only a boy, but he went straight and did his best all his +life. I think he has just been promoted to some bigger job.” + +So they held their heads high, as befitted people with just cause for +being proud, and set themselves to find the rest that comes from hard +work. There was plenty to do, for the house was always full of Tired +People. Not that the Lintons ever tried to entertain their guests. +Tired People came to a big, quiet house, where everything ran smoothly, +and all that was possible was done for comfort. Beyond that, they did +exactly as they chose. There were horses and the motor for those who +cared to ride and drive; the links for golfers; walks with beautiful +scenery for energetic folk, and dainty rooms with big easy-chairs, or +restful lounges under the trees on the lawn, for those who asked from +Fate nothing better than to be lazy. No one was expected to make +conversation or to behave as an ordinary guest. Everywhere there was a +pleasant feeling of homeliness and welcome; shy men became suddenly at +their ease; nerve-racked men, strained with long months of the noise +and horror of war, relaxed in the peace of Homewood, and went back to +duty with a light step and a clear eye. Only there was missing the wild +merriment of the first few weeks, when Jim and Wally dashed in and out +perpetually and kept the house in a simmer of uncertainty and laughter. +That could never come again. + +But beyond the immediate needs of the Tired People there was much to +plan and carry out. Conscription in England was an established fact; +already there were few fit men to be seen out of uniform. David Linton +looked forward to a time when shortage of labour, coupled with the +deadly work of the German submarines, should mean a shortage of food; +and he and Norah set themselves to provide against that time of +scarcity. Miss de Lisle and Philip Hardress entered into every plan, +lending the help of brains as well as hands. The farm was put under +intensive culture, and the first provision made for the future was that +of fertilizers, which, since most of them came from abroad, were +certain to be scarce. Mr. Linton and Hardress breathed more freely when +they had stored a two years’ supply. The flock of sheep was increased; +the fowl-run doubled in size, and put in charge of a disabled soldier, +a one-armed Australian, whom Hardress found in London, ill and +miserable, and added to the list of Homewood’s patients—and cures. +Young heifers were bought, and “boarded-out” at neighbouring farms; a +populous community of grunting pigs occupied a little field. And in the +house Norah and Miss de Lisle worked through the spring and summer, +until the dry and spacious cellars and storerooms showed row upon row +of shelves covered with everything that could be preserved or salted or +pickled, from eggs to runner beans. + +Sometimes the Tired People lent a hand, becoming interested in their +hosts’ schemes. Norah formed a fast friendship with a cheerful +subaltern in the Irish Guards, who was with them for a wet fortnight, +much of which he spent in the kitchen stoning fruit, making jam, and +acting as bottler-in-chief to the finished product. There were many who +asked nothing better than to work on the farm, digging, planting or +harvesting: indeed, in the summer, one crop would have been ruined +altogether by a fierce storm, but for the Tired People, who, from an +elderly Colonel to an Australian signaller, flung themselves upon it, +and helped to finish getting it under cover—carrying the last sheaves +home just as the rain came down in torrents, and returning to Homewood +in a soaked but triumphant procession. Indeed, nearly all the unending +stream of guests came under the spell of the place; so that Norah used +to receive anxious inquiries from various corners of the earth +afterwards—from Egypt or Salonica would come demands as to the success +of a catch-crop which the writer had helped to sow, or of a brood of +Buff Orpingtons which he had watched hatching out in the incubator: +even from German East Africa came a letter asking after a special +litter of pigs! Perhaps it was that every one knew that the Lintons +were shouldering a burden bravely, and tried to help. + +They kept Jim very close to them. A stranger, hearing the name so often +on their lips, might have thought that he was still with them. +Together, they talked of him always; not sadly, but remembering the +long, happy years that now meant a memory too dear ever to let go. Jim +had once asked Norah for a promise. “If I go West,” he said, “don’t +wear any horrible black frocks.” So she went about in her ordinary +dresses, especially the blue frocks he had loved—with just a narrow +black band on her arm. There were fresh flowers under his picture every +day, but she did not put them sadly. She would smile at the frank happy +face as she arranged leaves and blossoms with a loving hand. + +Later on, David Linton fitted up a carpenter’s bench and a workshop; +the days were too full for much thinking, but he found the evenings +long. He enlisted Hardress in his old work of splint-making, and then +found that half his guests used to stray out to the lit workshop after +dinner and beg for jobs, so that before long the nearest Hospital +Supply Depot could count on a steady output of work from Homewood. Mrs. +Hunt and Norah used to come as polishers; Miss de Lisle suddenly +discovered that her soul for cooking included a corner for carpentry, +and became extraordinarily skilful in the use of chisel and plane. When +the autumn days brought a chill into the air, Mr. Linton put a stove +into the workshop; and it became a kind of club, where the whole +household might often be found; they extended their activities to the +manufacture of crutches, bed-rests, bed-tables, and half a dozen other +aids to comfort for broken men. No work had helped David Linton so +much. + +In the early summer Wally came back on leave: a changed Wally, with +grim lines where there had once been only merry ones in his lean, brown +face. He did not want to come to Homewood; only when begged to come did +he master the pitiful shrinking he felt from meeting them. + +“I didn’t know how to face you,” he said. Norah had gone to meet him, +and they were walking back from the station. + +“Don’t, Wally; you hurt,” she said. + +“It’s true, though; I didn’t. I feel as if you must hate me for coming +back—alone.” + +“Hate you!—and you were Jim’s chum!” + +“I always came as Jim’s chum,” Wally said heavily. “From the very +first, when I was a lonely little nipper at school, I sort of belonged +to Jim. And now—well, I just can’t realize it, Norah. I can’t keep on +thinking about him as dead. I know he is, and one minute I’m feeling +half-insane about it, and the next I forget, and think I hear him +whistling or calling me.” He clenched his hands. “It’s the minute after +that that is the worst of all,” he said. + +For a time they did not speak. They walked on slowly, along the +pleasant country lane with its blossoming hedges. + +“I know,” Norah said. “There’s not much to choose between you and Dad +and me, when it comes to missing Jim. But as for you—well you did come +as Jim’s chum first—and always; but you came just as much because you +were yourself. You know you belonged to Billabong, as we all did. You +can’t cut yourself off from us now, Wally.” + +“I?” he echoed. “Well, if I do, I have mighty little left. But I felt +that you couldn’t want to see me. I know what it must be like to see me +come back without him.” + +“I’m not going to say it doesn’t hurt,” said Norah. “Only it hurts you +as much as it does us. And the thing that would be ever so much worse +is for you not to come. Why, you’re the only comfort we have left. +Don’t you see, you’re like a bit of Jim coming back to us?” + +“Oh, Norah—Norah!” he said. “If I could only have saved him!” + +“Don’t we know you’d have died quite happily if you could!” Norah said. +“Just as happily as he would have died for you.” + +“He did, you know,” Wally said. All the youth and joy had gone out of +his voice, leaving it flat and toneless. “Two or three times that +morning he kept me out of a specially hot spot, and took it himself. He +was always doing it: we nearly punched each other’s heads about it the +day before—I told him he was using his rank unfairly. He just grinned +and said subalterns couldn’t understand necessary strategy in the +field!” + +“He would!” said Norah, laughing. + +Wally stared at her. + +“I didn’t think I’d ever see you laugh again!” + +“Not laugh!” Norah echoed. “Why, it wouldn’t be fair to Jim if we +didn’t. We keep him as near us as we can—talk about him, and about all +the old, happy times. We did have such awfully good times together, +didn’t we? We’re never going to get far away from him.” + +The boy gave a great sigh. + +“I’ve been getting a long way from everything,” he said. “Since—since +it happened I couldn’t let myself think: it was just as if I were going +mad. The only thing I’ve wanted to do was to fight, and I’ve had that.” + +“He looks as if his mind were more tired than his body,” David Linton +said that evening. “One can see that he has just been torturing himself +with all sorts of useless thoughts. You’ll have to take him in hand, +Norah. Put the other work aside for a while and go out with him—ride as +much as you can. It won’t do you any harm, either.” + +“We never thought old Wally would be one of the Tired People,” Norah +said musingly. + +“No, indeed. And I think there has been no one more utterly tired. It +won’t do, Norah: the boy will be ill if we don’t look after him.” + +“We’ve just got to make him feel how much we want him,” Norah said. + +“Yes. And we have to teach him to think happily about Jim—not to fight +it all the time. Fighting won’t make it any better,” said David Linton, +with a sigh. + +But there was no riding for Wally, for a while. The next day found him +too ill to get up, and the doctor, sent for hastily, talked of shock +and over-strain, and ordered bed until his temperature should be +pleased to go down: which was not for many a weary day. Possibly it was +the best thing that could have happened to Wally. He grew, if not +reconciled, at least accustomed to his loss; grew, too, to thinking +himself a coward when he saw the daily struggle waged by the two people +he loved best. And Norah was wise enough to call in other nurses: chief +of them the Hunt babies, Alison and Michael, who rolled on his bed and +played with him, while Geoffrey sat as close to him as possible, and +could hardly be lured from the room. It was not for weeks after his +return that they heard Wally laugh; and then it was at some ridiculous +speech of Michael’s that he suddenly broke into the ghost of his old +mirth. + +Norah’s heart gave a leap. + +“Oh, he’s better!” she thought. “You blessed little Michael!” + +And so, healing came to the boy’s bruised soul. Not that the old, +light-hearted Wally came back: but he learned to talk of Jim, and no +longer to hug his sorrow in silence. Something became his of the peace +that had fallen upon Norah and her father. It was all they could hope +for, to begin with. + +They said good-bye to him before they considered him well enough to go +back to the trenches. But the call for men was insistent, and the boy +himself was eager to go. + +“Come back to us soon,” Norah said, wistfully. + +“Oh, I’m safe to come back,” Wally said. “I’m nobody’s dog, you know.” + +“That’s not fair!” she flashed. “Say you’re sorry for saying it!” + +He flushed. + +“I’m sorry if I hurt you, Nor. I suppose I was a brute to say that.” +Something of his old quaint fun came into his eyes for a moment. +“Anyhow it’s something to be somebody’s dog—especially if one happens +to belong to Billabong-in-Surrey!” + + + + +CHAPTER XV +PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES + + +The church was half in ruins. Great portions of the roof had been torn +away by shell-fire, and there were gaping holes in the walls through +which could be caught glimpses of sentries going backwards and +forwards. Sometimes a grey battalion swung by; sometimes a German +officer peered in curiously, with a sneer on his lips. The drone of +aircraft came from above, through the holes where the rafters showed +black against the sky. Ever the guns boomed savagely from beyond. + +There were no longer any seats in the church. They had all been broken +up for camp-fires—even the oaken pulpit had gone. The great empty space +had been roughly cleared of fallen masonry, which had been flung in +heaps against the wall; on the stone floor filthy straw was thinly +spread. On the straw lay row upon row of wounded men—very quiet for the +most part; they had found that it did not pay to make noise enough to +annoy the guards who smoked and played cards in a corner. + +The long day—how long only the men on the straw knew—was drawing to a +close. The sun sank behind the western window, which the guns had +spared; and the stained glass turned to a glory of scarlet and gold and +blue. The shafts of colour lay across the broken altar, whence +everything had been stripped; they bathed the shattered walls in a +beauty that was like a cloak over the nakedness of their ruin. Slowly +they crept over the floor, as the sun sank lower, touching the straw +with rosy fingers, falling gently on broken bodies and pain-drawn +faces; and weary eyes looked gratefully up to the window where a figure +of Christ with a child in His arms stood glorious in the light, and +blessed them with the infinite pity of His smile. + +A little Cockney lad with a dirty bandage round his head, who had +tossed in pain all day on the chancel steps, turned to the window to +greet the daily miracle of the sunset. + +“Worf waiting for, all the day, that is!” he muttered. The restlessness +left him, and his eyes closed, presently, in sleep. + +Slowly the glory died away, and as it passed a little figure in a rusty +black cassock came in, making his way among the men on the straw. It +was the French priest, who had refused to leave his broken church: a +little, fat man, not in the least like a hero, but with as knightly a +soul as was ever found in armour and with lance in rest. He passed from +man to man, speaking in quaint English, occasionally dropping gladly +into French when he found some one able to answer him in his own +language. He had nothing to give them but water; but that he carried +tirelessly many times a day. His little store of bandages and ointment +had gone long ago, but he bathed wounds, helped cramped men to change +their position, and did the best he could to make the evil straw into +the semblance of a comfortable bed. To the helpless men on the floor of +the church his coming meant something akin to Paradise. + +He paused near a little Irishman with a broken leg, a man of the Dublin +Fusiliers, whose pain had not been able to destroy his good temper. + +“How are you to-night, _mon garcon?_” + +“Yerra, not too bad, Father,” said the Irishman. “If I could have just +a taste of water, now?” He drank deeply as the priest lifted his head, +and sank back with a word of thanks. + +“This feather pillow of mine is apt to slip if I don’t watch it,” he +said, wriggling the back of his head against the cold stone of the +floor, from which the straw had worked away. “I dunno could you gather +it up a bit, Father.” He grinned. “I’d ask you to put me boots under me +for a pillow, but if them thieving guards found them loose, they’d +shweep them from me.” + +“Ss-h, my son!” the priest whispered warningly. He shook up a handful +of straw and made it as firm as he could under the man’s head. “It is +not prudent to speak so loud. Remember you cannot see who may be behind +you.” + +“Indeed and I cannot,” returned Denny Callaghan. “I’ll remember, +Father. That’s great!” He settled his head thankfully on the straw +pillow. “I’ll sleep aisier to-night for that.” + +“And _Monsieur le Capitaine_—has he moved yet?” The priest glanced at a +motionless form near them. + +“Well, indeed he did, Father, this afternoon. He gev a turn, an’ he +said something like ‘Tired People.’ I thought there was great sense in +that, if he was talkin’ to us, so I was cheered up about him—but not a +word have I got out of him since. But it’s something that he spoke at +all.” + +The _cure_ bent over the quiet figure. Two dark eyes opened, as if with +difficulty, and met his. + +“Norah,” said Jim Linton. “Are you there, Norah?” + +“I am a friend, my son,” said the _cure_. “Are you in pain?” + +The dark eyes looked at him uncomprehendingly. Then he murmured, +“Water!” + +“It is here.” The little priest held the heavy head, and Jim managed to +drink a little. Something like a shadow of a smile came into his eyes +as the priest wiped his lips. Then they closed again. + +“If they would send us a doctor!” muttered the _cure_, in his own +language, longingly. “_Ma joi_, what a lad!” He looked down in +admiration at the splendid helpless body. + +“He won’t die, Father, will he?” + +“I do not know, my son. I can find no wound, except the one on his +head—nothing seems broken. Perhaps he will be better to-morrow.” He +gave the little Irishman his blessing and moved away. There were many +eager eyes awaiting him. + +Jim was restless during the night; Denny Callaghan, himself unable to +sleep, watched him muttering and trying to turn, but unable to move. + +“I doubt but his back’s broken,” said the little man ruefully. “Yerra, +what a pity!” He tried to soothe the boy with kind words; and towards +the dawn Jim slept heavily. + +He woke when the sun was shining upon him through a rift in the wall. +The church was full of smothered sounds—stifled groans from helpless +men, stiffened by lying still, and trying to move. Jim managed to raise +himself a little, at which Denny Callaghan gave an exclamation of +relief. + +“Hurroo! Are you better, sir?” + +“Where am I?” Jim asked thickly. + +“’Tis in a church you are, sir, though it’s not much like it,” said the +little man. “The Germans call it a hospital. ’Tis all I wish they may +have the like themselves, and they wounded. Are you better, sir?” + +“I . . . think I’m all right,” Jim said. He was trying to regain his +scattered faculties. “So they’ve got me!” He tried to look at +Callaghan. “What’s your regiment?” + +“The Dubs, sir. ’Tis hard luck; I kem back wounded from Suvla Bay and +they sent me out to the battalion here; and I’d not been with them a +week before I got landed again. Now ’tis a German prison ahead—and by +all one hears they’re not rest-camps.” + +“No,” said Jim. He tried to move, but failed, sinking back with a +stifled groan. “I wish I knew if I was damaged much. Are there any +doctors here?” + +“There was two, a while back. They fixed us up somehow, and we haven’t +seen a hair of them since. The guards throw rations—of a sort—at us +twice a day. ’Tis badly off we’d be, if it weren’t for the priest.” + +“Is he French?” + +“He is—and a saint, if there ever was one. There he comes now.” +Callaghan crossed himself reverently. + +A hush had come over the church. The _cure_, in his vestments, had +entered, going slowly to the altar. + +Jim struggled up on his elbow. There was perfect silence in the church; +men who had been talking ceased suddenly, men who moaned in their pain +bit back their cries. So they lay while the little priest celebrated +Mass, as he had done every morning since the Germans swept over his +village: at first alone, and, since the first few days to a silent +congregation of helpless men. They were of all creeds and some of no +creed at all: but they prayed after him as men learn to pray when they +are at grips with things too big for them. He blessed them, at the end, +with uplifted hand; and dim eyes followed him as he went slowly from +the church. + +He was back among them, presently, in the rusty black cassock. The +guards had brought in the men’s breakfast—great cans of soup and loaves +of hard, dark bread. They put them down near the door, tramping out +with complete disregard of the helpless prisoners. The priest would see +to them, aided by the few prisoners who could move about, wounded +though they were. In any case the guard had no order to feed prisoners; +they were not nurse-maids, they said. + +“Ah, my son! You are awake!” + +Jim smiled up at the _cure_. + +“Have I been asleep long, sir?” + +“Three days. They brought you in last Friday night. Do you not +remember?” + +“No,” said Jim. “I don’t remember coming here.” He drank some soup +eagerly, but shook his head at the horrible bread. The food cleared his +head, and when the little _cure_ had gone away, promising to return as +soon as possible, he lay quietly piecing matters together in his mind. +Callaghan helped him: the Dublins had been in the line next his own +regiment when they had gone “over the top” on that last morning. + +“Oh, I remember all that well enough,” Jim said. “We took two lines of +trench, and then they came at us like a wall; the ground was grey with +them. And I was up on a smashed traverse, trying to keep the men +together, when it went up too.” + +“A shell was it?” + +Jim shook his head. + +“A shell did burst near us, but it wasn’t that. No, the trench was +mined, and the mine went off a shade too late. They delayed, somehow; +it should have gone off if we took the trench, before they +counter-attacked. As it was, it must have killed as many of their men +as ours. They told me about it afterwards.” + +“Afterwards?” said Callaghan, curiously. He looked at Jim, a little +doubtful as to whether he really knew what he was talking about. “Did +ye not come straight here then, sir?” + +“I did not; I was buried,” said Jim grimly. “The old mine went up right +under me, and I went up too. I came down with what seemed like tons of +earth on top of me; I was covered right in, I tell you, only I managed +to get some of the earth away in front of my nose and mouth. I was +lying on my side, near the edge of a big heap of dirt, with my hands +near my face. If I’d been six inches further back there wouldn’t have +been the ghost of a chance for me. I got some of the earth and mud +away, and found I could breathe, just as I was choking. But I was +buried for all that. All our chaps were fighting on top of me!” + +“D’ye tell me!” gasped Callaghan incredulously. + +“I could feel the boots,” Jim said. “I’m bruised with them yet. What +time did we go over that morning?—nine o’clock, wasn’t it?” + +“It was, sir.” + +“Well, it was twelve or one o’clock when they dug me out. They re-took +the trench, and started to dig themselves in, and they found me; I’ve a +spade-cut on my hand. My Aunt, that was a long three hours!” + +“Did they treat you decent, sir?” + +“They weren’t too bad,” Jim said. “I couldn’t move; I suppose it was +the weight on me, and the bruising—at least, I hope so. They felt me +all over—there was a rather decent lieutenant there, who gave me some +brandy. He told me he didn’t think there was anything broken. But I +couldn’t stir, and it hurt like fury when they touched me.” + +“And how long were you there, sir?” + +“They had to keep me until night—there was no way of sending back +prisoners. So I lay on a mud-heap, and the officer-boy talked to me—he +had been to school in England.” + +“That’s where they larned him any decency he had,” said Callaghan. + +“It might be. But he wasn’t a bad sort. He looked after me well enough. +Then, after nightfall, they sent a stretcher party over with me. The +German boy shook hands with me when we were starting, and said he was +afraid he wouldn’t see me again, as we were pretty sure to be shelled +by the British.” + +“And were you, sir?” + +“Rather. The first thing I knew was a bit of shrapnel through the +sleeve of my coat; I looked for the hole this morning, to see if I was +remembering rightly, and sure enough, here it is.” He held up his arm, +and showed a jagged tear in his tunic. “But that’s where I stop +remembering anything. I suppose I must have caught something else then. +Why is my head tied up? It was all right when they began to carry me +over.” + +“Ye have a lump the size of an egg low down on the back of your head, +sir,” said Callaghan. “And a nasty little cut near your temple.” + +“H’m!” said Jim. “I wondered why it ached! Well I must have got those +from our side on the way across. I hope they got a Boche or two as +well.” + +“I dunno,” Callaghan said. “The fellas that dumped you down said +something in their own haythin tongue. I didn’t understand it, but it +sounded as if they were glad to be rid of you.” + +“Well, I wouldn’t blame them,” Jim said. “I’m not exactly a +featherweight, and it can’t be much fun to be killed carrying the enemy +about, whether you’re a Boche or not.” + +He lay for a while silently, thinking. Did they know at home yet? he +wondered anxiously. And then he suddenly realized that his fall must +have looked like certain death: that if they had heard anything it +would be that he had been killed. He turned cold at the thought. _What_ +had they heard—his father, Norah? And Wally—what did he think? Was +Wally himself alive? He might even be a prisoner. He turned at that +thought to Callaghan, his sudden move bringing a stifled cry to his +lips. + +“Did they—are there any other officers of my regiment here?” + +“There are not,” said Callaghan. “I got the priest to look at your +badges, sir, the way he could find out if there was anny more of ye. +But there is not. Them that’s here is mostly Dublins and Munsters, with +a sprinkling of Canadians. There’s not an officer or man of the +Blankshires here at all, barring yourself.” + +“Will the Germans let us communicate with our people?” + +“Communicate, is it?” said the Irishman. “Yerra, they’ll not let anyone +send so much as a scratch on a post-card.” He dropped his voice. +“Whisht now, sir: the priest’s taking all our addresses, and he’ll do +his best to send word to every one at home.” + +“But can he depend on getting through?” + +“Faith, he cannot. But ’tis the only chance we’ve got. The poor man’s +nothing but a prisoner himself; he’s watched if he goes tin yards from +the church. So I dunno, at all, will he ever manage it, with the +suspicions they have of him.” + +Jim sighed impatiently. He could do nothing, then, nothing to keep the +blow from falling on the two dear ones at home. He thought of trying to +bribe the German guards, and felt for his pocket-book, but it was gone; +some careful Boche had managed to relieve him of it while he had been +unconscious. And he was helpless, a log—while over in England Norah and +his father were, perhaps, already mourning him as dead. His thoughts +travelled to Billabong, where Brownie and Murty O’Toole and the others +kept the home ready for them all, working with the love that makes +nothing a toil, and planning always for the great day that should bring +them all back. He pictured the news arriving—saw Brownie’s dismayed old +face, and heard her cry of incredulous pain. And there was nothing he +could do. It seemed unbelievable that such things could be, in a sane +world. But then, the world was no longer sane; it had gone mad nearly +two years before, and he was only one of the myriad atoms caught into +the swirl of its madness. + +The _cure_ came again, presently, and saw his troubled face. “You are +in pain, my son?” + +“No—I’m all right if I keep quiet,” Jim answered. “But it’s my people. +Callaghan says you will try to let them know, Father.” + +“I am learning you all,” said the priest, “names, regiments, and +numbers is it not? I dare not put them on paper: I have been searched +three times already, even to my shoes. But I hope that my chance will +come before long. Then I will send them to your War Office.” He beamed +down on Jim so hopefully that it seemed rather likely that he would +find a private telegraph office of his own, suddenly. “Now I will learn +your name and regiment.” He repeated them several times, nodding his +head. + +“Yes, that is an easy one,” he said. “Some of them are very terrible, +to a Frenchman; our friend here”—he looked quaintly at Callaghan—“has a +name which it twists the tongue to say. And now, my son, I would like +to examine you, since you are conscious. I am the only doctor—a poor +one, I fear. But perhaps we will find out together that there is +nothing to be uneasy about.” + +That, indeed, was what they did find out, after a rather agonizing +half-hour. Jim was quite unable to move his legs, being so bruised that +there was scarcely a square inch of him that was not green and blue and +purple. One hip bore the complete impress of a foot, livid and angry. + +“Yes, that chap jumped on me from a good height,” Jim said when the +_cure_ exclaimed at it. “I thought he had smashed my leg.” + +“He went near it,” said the _cure_. “Indeed, my son, you are beaten to +a jelly. But that will recover itself. You can breathe without pain? +That is well. Now we will look at the head.” He unwrapped the bandages +and felt the lump tenderly. “Ah, that is better; a little concussion, I +think, _mon brave_; it is that which kept you so quiet when you stayed +with us at first. And the cut heals well; that comes of being young and +strong, with clean, healthy blood.” He bathed the head, and replaced +the bandages, sighing that he had no clean ones. “But with you it +matters little; you will not need them in a few days. Then perhaps we +will wash these and they will be ready for the next poor boy.” He +smiled at Jim. “Move those legs as much as you can, my son, and rub +them.” He trotted away. + +“And that same is good advice,” said Callaghan. “It will hurt to move, +sir, and you beaten to a pulp first and then stiffening for the three +days you’re after lying here; ’tis all I wish I could rub you, with a +good bottle of Elliman’s to do it with. But if them Huns move you +’twill hurt a mighty lot more than if you move yourself. Themselves is +the boys for that; they think they’ve got a feather in their caps if +they get an extra yelp out of annywan. So do the best you can, sir.” + +“I will,” said Jim—and did his best, for long hours every day. It was +weary work, with each movement torture, and for a time very little +encouragement came in the shape of improvement: then, slowly, with +rubbing and exercise, the stiffened muscles began to relax. Callaghan +cheered him on, forgetting his own aching leg in his sympathy for the +boy in his silent torment. In the intervals of “physical jerks,” Jim +talked to his little neighbour, whose delight knew no bounds when he +heard that Jim knew and cared for his country. He himself was a Cork +man, with a wife and two sons; Jim gathered that their equal was not to +be found in any town in Ireland. Callaghan occasionally lamented the +“foolishness” that had kept him in the Army, when he had a right to be +home looking after Hughie and Larry. “’Tis not much the Army gives you, +and you giving it the best years of your life,” he said. “I’d be better +out of it, and home with me boys.” + +“Then you wouldn’t let them go to the war, if they were old enough?” +Jim asked. + +“If they were old enough ’twould not be asking my liberty they’d be,” +rejoined Mr. Callaghan proudly. “Is it _my_ sons that ’ud shtand out of +a fight like this?” He glared at Jim, loftily unconscious of any +inconsistency in his remarks. + +“Well, there’s plenty of your fellow-countrymen that won’t go and +fight, Cally!” said the man beyond him—a big Yorkshireman. + +“There’s that in all countries,” said Callaghan calmly. “They didn’t +all go in your part of the country, did they, till they were made? +Faith, I’m towld there’s a few there yet in odd corners—and likely to +be till after the war.” The men round roared joyfully, at the expense +of the Yorkshireman. + +“And ’tis not in Ireland we have that quare baste the con-sci-en-tious +objector,” went on Callaghan, rolling the syllables lovingly on his +tongue. “That’s an animal a man wouldn’t like to meet, now! Whatever +our objectors are in Ireland, they’re surely never con-sci-en-tious!” + +Jim gave a crack of laughter that brought the roving grey eye squarely +upon him. + +“Even in Australia, that’s the Captain’s country,” said the soft Irish +voice, “I’ve heard tell there’s a boy or two there out of khaki—maybe +they’re holding back for conscription too. But wherever the boys are +that don’t go, none of them have a song and dance made about them, +barring only the Irish.” + +“What about your Sinn Feiners?” some one sang out. Callaghan’s face +fell. + +“Yerra, they have the country destroyed,” he admitted. “And nine out of +every ten don’t know annything about politics or annything else at all, +only they get talked over, and towld that they’re patriots if they’ll +get howld of a gun and do a little drilling at night—an’ where’s the +country boy that wouldn’t give his ears for a gun! An’ the English +Gov’mint, that could stop it all with the stroke of a pen, hasn’t the +pluck to bring in conscription in Ireland.” + +“You’re right there, Cally,” said some one. + +“I know well I’m right. But the thousands and tens of thousands of +Irish boys that went to the war and fought till they died—they’ll be +forgotten, and the Sinn Fein scum’ll be remembered. If the Gov’mint had +the pluck of a mouse they’d be all right. I tell you, boys, ’twill be +the Gov’mint’s own fault if we see the haythin Turks parading the fair +fields of Ireland, with their long tails held up by the Sinn Feiners!” +Callaghan relapsed into gloomy contemplation of this awful possibility, +and refused to be drawn further. Even when Jim, desiring to be tactful, +mentioned a famous Irish V.C. who had, single-handed, slain eight +Germans, he declined to show any enthusiasm. + +“Ah, what V.C.!” he said sourly. “Sure, his owld father wouldn’t make a +fuss of him. ‘Why didn’t he do more?’ says he. ‘I often laid out twenty +men myself with a stick, and I coming from Macroom Fair. It is a bad +trial of Mick that he could kill only eight, and he having a rifle and +bayonet!’ he says. Cock him up with a V.C.!” After which Jim ceased to +be consoling and began to exercise his worst leg—knowing well that the +sight of his torments would speedily melt Denny’s heart and make him +forget the sorrows of Ireland. + +The guards did not trouble them much; they kept a strict watch, which +was not difficult, as all the prisoners were partially disabled; and +then considered their duty discharged by bringing twice a day the +invariable meal of soup and bread. No one liked to speculate on what +had gone to the making of the soup; it was a pale, greasy liquid, with +strange lumps in it, and tasted as dish-water may be supposed to taste. +Jim learned to eat the sour bread by soaking it in the soup. He had no +inclination to eat, but he forced himself to swallow the disgusting +meals, so that he might keep up his strength, just as he worked his +stiff limbs and rubbed them most of the day. For there was but one idea +in Jim Linton’s mind—escape. + +Gradually he became able to sit up, and then to move a little, hobbling +painfully on a stick which had been part of a broken pew, and +endeavouring to take part in looking after the helpless prisoners, and +in keeping the church clean, since the guards laughed at the idea of +helping at either. Jim had seen something of the treatment given to +wounded German soldiers in England, and he writhed to think of them, +tended as though they were our own sick, while British prisoners lay +and starved in filthy holes. But the little _cure_ rebuked him. + +“But what would you, my son? They are _canaille_—without breeding, +without decency, without hearts. Are we to put ourselves on that +level?” + +“I suppose not—but it’s a big difference, Father,” Jim muttered. + +“The bigger the difference, the more honour on our side,” said the +little priest. “And things pass. Long after you and I and all these +poor lads are forgotten it will be remembered that we came out of this +war with our heads up. But they——!” Suddenly fierce scorn filled his +quiet eyes. “They will be the outcasts of the world!” + +Wherefore Jim worked on, and tried to take comfort by the _cure’s_ +philosophy; although there were many times when he found it hard to +digest. It was all very well to be cheerful about the verdict of the +future, but difficult to forget the insistent present, with the heel of +the Hun on his neck. It was sometimes easier to be philosophic by +dreaming of days when the positions should be reversed. + +He was able to walk a little when the order came to move. The guards +became suddenly busy; officers whom the prisoners had not seen before +came in and out, and one evening the helpless were put roughly into +farm carts and taken to the station, while those able to move by +themselves were marched after them—marched quickly, with bayonet points +ready behind them to prod stragglers. It was nearly dark when they were +thrust roughly into closed trucks, looking back for the last time on +the little _cure_, who had marched beside them, with an arm for two +sick men, and now stood on the platform, looking wistfully at them. He +put up his hand solemnly. + +“God keep you, my sons!” + +A German soldier elbowed him roughly aside. The doors of the trucks +were clashed together, leaving them in darkness; and presently, with +straining and rattling and clanging, the train moved out of the +station. + +“Next stop, Germany!” said Denny Callaghan from the corner where he had +been put down. “And not a ticket between the lot of us!” + + + + +CHAPTER XVI +THROUGH THE DARKNESS + + +“I think that’s the last load,” Jim Linton said. + +He had wriggled backwards out of a black hole in the side of a black +cupboard; and now sat back on his heels, gasping. His only article of +attire was a pair of short trousers. From his hair to his heels he was +caked with dirt. + +“Well, praise the pigs for that,” said a voice from the blackness of +the cupboard. + +Some one switched on a tiny electric light. Then it could be seen, +dimly, that the cupboard was just large enough to hold four men, +crouching so closely that they almost touched each other. All were +dressed—or undressed—as Jim was; all were equally dirty. Their +blackened faces were set and grim. And whether they spoke, or moved, or +merely sat still, they were listening—listening. + +All four were British officers. Marsh and Fullerton were subalterns +belonging to a cavalry regiment. Desmond was a captain—a Dublin +Fusilier; and Jim Linton completed the quartette; and they sat in a +hole in the ground under the floor of an officers’ barrack in a +Westphalian prison-camp. The yawning opening in front of them +represented five months’ ceaseless work, night after night. It was the +mouth of a tunnel. + +“I dreamed to-day that we crawled in,” Marsh said, in a whisper—they +had all learned to hear the faintest murmur of speech. “And we crawled, +and crawled, and crawled: for years, it seemed. And then we saw +daylight ahead, and we crawled out—in Piccadilly Circus!” + +“That was ‘some’ tunnel, even in a dream,” Desmond said. + +“I feel as if it were ‘some’ tunnel now,” remarked Jim—still breathing +heavily. + +“Yes—you’ve had a long spell, Linton. We were just beginning to think +something was wrong.” + +“I thought I might as well finish—and then another bit of roof fell in, +and I had to fix it,” Jim answered. “Well, it won’t be gardening that +I’ll go in for when I get back to Australia; I’ve dug enough here to +last me my life!” + +“Hear, hear!” said some one. “And what now?” + +“Bed, I think,” Desmond said. “And to-morrow night—the last crawl down +that beastly rabbit-run, if we’ve luck. Only this time we won’t crawl +back.” + +He felt within a little hollow in the earth wall, and brought out some +empty tins and some bottles of water; and slowly, painstakingly, they +washed off the dirt that encrusted them. It was a long business, and at +the end of it Desmond inspected them all, and was himself inspected, to +make sure that no tell-tale streaks remained. Finally he nodded, +satisfied, and then, with infinite caution, he slid back a panel and +peered out into blackness—having first extinguished their little light. +There was no sound. He slipped out of the door, and returned after a +few moments. + +“All clear,” he whispered, and vanished. + +One by one they followed him, each man gliding noiselessly away. They +had donned uniform coats and trousers before leaving, and closed the +entrance to the tunnel with a round screen of rough, interlaced twigs +which they plastered with earth. The tins were buried again, with the +bottles. Ordinarily each man carried away an empty bottle, to be +brought back next night filled with water; but there was no further +need of this. To-morrow night, please God, there would be no returning; +no washing, crouched in the darkness, to escape the eagle eye of the +guards; no bitter toil in the darkness, listening with strained ears +all the while. + +Jim was the last to leave. He slid the panel into position, and placed +against it the brooms and mops used in keeping the barrack clean. As he +handled them one by one, a brush slipped and clattered ever so +slightly. He caught at it desperately, and then stood motionless, beads +of perspiration breaking out upon his forehead. But no sound came from +without, and presently he breathed more freely. + +He stood in a cupboard under the stairs. It was Desmond who first +realized that there must be space beyond it, who had planned a way in, +and thence to cut a tunnel to freedom. They had found, or stolen, or +manufactured, tools, and had cut the sliding panel so cunningly that +none of the Germans who used the broom-cupboard had suspected its +existence. The space on the far side of the wall had given them room to +begin their work. Gradually it had been filled with earth until there +was barely space for them to move; then the earth as they dug it out +had to be laboriously thrust under the floor of the building, which was +luckily raised a little above ground. They had managed to secrete some +wire, and, having tapped the electric supply which lit the barrack, had +carried a switch-line into their “dug-out.” But the tunnel itself had, +for the most part, been done in utter blackness. Three times the roof +had fallen in badly, on the second occasion nearly burying Jim and +Fullerton; it was considered, now, that Linton was a difficult man to +bury, with an unconquerable habit of resurrecting himself. A score of +times they had narrowly escaped detection. For five months they had +lived in a daily and nightly agony of fear—not of discovery itself, or +its certain savage punishment, but of losing their chance. + +There were eight officers altogether in the “syndicate,” and four +others knew of their plan—four who were keen to help, but too badly +disabled from wounds to hope for anything but the end of the war. They +worked in shifts of four—one quartette stealing underground each night, +as soon as the guards relaxed their vigil, while the others remained in +the dormitories, ready to signal to the working party, should any alarm +occur, and, if possible, to create a disturbance to hold the attention +of the Germans for a little. They had succeeded in saving the situation +three times when a surprise roll-call was made during the night—thanks +to another wire which carried an electric alarm signal underground from +the dormitory. Baylis, who had been an electrical engineer in time of +peace, had managed the wiring; it was believed among the syndicate that +when Baylis needed any electric fitting very badly he simply went and +thought about it so hard that it materialized, like the gentleman who +evolved a camel out of his inner consciousness. + +One of the romances of the Great War might be written about the way in +which prisoners bent on escape were able to obtain materials for +getting out, and necessary supplies when once they were away from the +camp. Much of how it was done will never be known, for the organization +was kept profoundly secret, and those who were helped by it were often +pledged solemnly to reveal nothing. Money—plenty of money—was the only +thing necessary; given the command of that, the prisoner who wished to +break out would find, mysteriously, tools or disguises, or whatever +else he needed within the camp, and, after he had escaped, the three +essentials, without which he had very little chance—map, compass, and +civilian clothes. Then, having paid enormous sums for what had probably +cost the supply system a few shillings, he was at liberty to strike for +freedom—with a section of German territory—a few miles or a few +hundred—to cross; and finally the chance of circumventing the guards on +the Dutch frontier. It was so desperate an undertaking that the wonder +was, not that so many failed, but that so many succeeded. + +Jim Linton had no money. His was one of the many cases among prisoners +in which no letters over seemed to reach home—no communication to be +opened up with England. For some time he had not been permitted to +write, having unfortunately managed to incur the enmity of the camp +commandant by failing to salute him with the precise degree of +servility which that official considered necessary to his dignity. +Then, when at length he was allowed to send an occasional letter, he +waited in vain for any reply, either from his home or his regiment. +Possibly the commandant knew why; he used to look at Jim with an evil +triumph in his eye which made the boy long to take him by his fat +throat and ask him whether indeed his letters ever got farther than the +office waste-paper basket. + +Other officers in the camp would have written about him to their +friends, so that the information could be passed on to Jim’s father; +but in all probability their letters also would have been suppressed, +and Jim refused to allow them to take the risk. Letters were too +precious, and went astray too easily; it was not fair to add to the +chances of their failing to reach those who longed for them at home. +And then, there was always the hope that his own might really have got +through, even though delayed; that some day might come answers, telling +that at last his father and Norah and Wally were no longer mourning him +as dead. He clung to the hope though one mail day after another left +him bitterly disappointed. In a German prison-camp there was little to +do except hope. + +Jim would have fared badly enough on the miserable food of the camp, +but for the other officers. They received parcels regularly, the +contents of which were dumped into a common store; and Jim and another +“orphan” were made honorary members of the mess, with such genuine +heartiness that after the first protests they ceased to worry their +hosts with objections, and merely tried to eat as little as possible. + +Jim thought about them gratefully on this last night as he slipped out +of the cupboard and made his way upstairs, moving noiselessly as a cat +on the bare boards. What good chaps they were! How they had made him +welcome!—even though his coming meant that they went hungrier. They +were such a gay, laughing little band; there was not one of them who +did not play the game, keeping a cheery front to the world and meeting +privation and wretchedness with a joke and a shrug. If that was British +spirit, then Jim decided that to be British was a pretty big thing. + +It was thanks to Desmond and Fullerton that he had been able to join +the “syndicate.” They had plenty of money, and had insisted on lending +him his share of the expenses, representing, when he had hesitated, +that they needed his strength for the work of tunnelling—after which +Jim had laboured far more mightily than they had ever wished, or even +suspected. He was fit and strong again now; lean and pinched, as were +they all, but in hard training. Hope had keyed him up to a high pitch. +The last night in this rat-hole; to-morrow——! + +A light flashed downstairs and a door flung open just as he reached the +landing. Jim sprang to his dormitory, flinging off his coat as he ran +with leaping, stealthy strides. Feet were tramping up the stairs behind +him. He dived into his blankets and drew them up under his chin, just +as he had dived hurriedly into bed a score of times at school when an +intrusive master had come upon a midnight “spread”; but with his heart +pounding with fear as it had never pounded at school. What did they +suspect? Had they found out anything? + +The guard tramped noisily into the room, under a big Feldwebel, or +sergeant-major. He flashed his lantern down the long room, and uttered +a sharp word of command that brought the sleepers to their feet, +blinking and but half awake. Then he called the roll, pausing when he +came to Jim. + +“You sleep in a curious dress. Where is your shirt?” + +“Drying,” said Jim curtly. “I washed it—I’ve only one.” + +“Enough for an English swine-hound,” said the German contemptuously. He +passed on to the next man, and Jim sighed with relief. + +Presently the guard clanked out, and the prisoners returned to their +straw mattresses. + +“That was near enough,” whispered Baylis, who was next to Jim. + +“A good deal too near,” Jim answered. “However, it ought to be fairly +certain that they won’t spring another surprise-party on us to-morrow. +And a miss is as good as a mile.” He turned over, and in a moment was +sleeping like a baby. + +The next day dragged cruelly. + +To the eight conspirators it seemed as long as the weary stretch of +months since they had come to the camp. For a long while they had +avoided each other as far as possible in public, knowing that even two +men who talked much together were liable to be suspected of plotting; +on this last day they became afraid even to look at each other, and +wandered about, each endeavouring to put as great a distance as +possible between himself and the other seven. It became rather like a +curious game of hide-and-seek, and by evening they were thoroughly +“jumpy,” with their nerves all on edge. + +They had no preparations to make. Scarcely any of their few possessions +could be taken with them; they would find outside—if ever they got +there—food and clothing. They had managed to make rough knives that +were fairly serviceable weapons; beyond these, and a few small personal +belongings they took nothing except the clothes they wore—and they wore +as little as possible, and those the oldest and shabbiest things to be +found. So there was nothing to do, all that last day, but watch the +slow hours pass, and endeavour to avoid falling foul of any of the +guards—no easy matter, since every German delighted in any chance of +making trouble for a prisoner. Nothing but to think and plan, as they +had planned and thought a thousand times before; to wonder desperately +was all safe still—had the door been found in the cupboard under the +stairs? was the tunnel safe, or had it chosen to-day of all days to +fall in again? was the exit—in a bed of runner beans—already known and +watched? The Huns were so cunning in their watchfulness; it was quite +likely that they knew all about their desperate enterprise, and were +only waiting to pounce upon them in the instant that success should +seem within their grasp. That was how they loved to catch prisoners. + +The age-long afternoon dragged to a close. They ate their supper, +without appetite—which was a pity, since the meagre store of food in +the mess had been recklessly ransacked, to give them a good send-off. +Then another hour—muttering good-byes now and then, as they prowled +about; and finally, to bed, to lie there for hours of darkness and +silence. Gradually the noise of the camp died down. From the guard-room +came, for a while, loud voices and harsh laughter; then quiet fell +there too, and presently the night watch tramped through the barrack on +its last visit of inspection, flashing lanterns into the faces of the +prisoners. To-night the inspection seemed unusually thorough. It set +their strained nerves quivering anew. + +Then came an hour of utter stillness and darkness; the eight prisoners +lying with clenched hands and set teeth, listening with terrible +intentness. Finally, when Jim was beginning to feel that he must move, +or go mad, a final signal came from the doorway. He heard Baylis say +“Thank God!” under his breath, as they slipped out of bed in the +darkness and felt their way downstairs. They were the last to come. The +others were all crouched in the cupboard, waiting for them, as they +reached its door; and just as they did so, the outer doorway swung +open, with a blaze of light, and the big Feldwebel strode in. + +“Shut the door!” Jim whispered. He launched himself at the German as he +spoke, with a spring like a panther’s. His fist caught him between the +eyes and he went down headlong, the lantern rolling into a corner. Jim +knew nothing of what followed. He was on top of the Feldwebel, pounding +his head on the floor; prepared, in his agony of despair, to do as much +damage as possible before his brief dash for freedom ended. Then he +felt a hand on his shoulder, and heard Desmond’s sharp whisper. + +“Steady—he’s unconscious. Let me look at him, Linton.” + +Jim, still astride his capture, sat back, and Desmond flashed the +Feldwebel’s own lantern into that hero’s face. + +“H’m, yes,” he said. “Hit his head against something. He’s stunned, +anyhow. What are we going to do with him?” + +“Is he the only one?” Jim asked. + +“It seems like it. But there may be another at any moment. We’ve got to +go on; if he wakes up he’ll probably be able to identify you.” He felt +in his pocket, and produced a coil of strong cord. “Come along, +Linton—get off and help me to tie him up.” + +They tied up the unconscious Feldwebel securely, and lifted him into +the cupboard among the brooms, gagging him in case he felt inclined for +any outcry on coming to his senses. The others had gone ahead, and were +already in the tunnel; with them, one of the four disabled officers, +whose job it was to close up the hole at the entrance and dismantle the +electric light, in the faint hope that the Germans might fail to +discover their means of escape, and so leave it free for another party +to try for freedom. He stood by the yawning hole, holding one end of a +string by which they were to signal from the surface, if all went well. +The wistfulness of his face haunted Jim long afterwards. + +“Good-bye, old man,” he said cheerily, gripping Jim’s hand. “Good +luck.” + +“I wish you were coming, Harrison,” Jim said, unhappily. + +“No such luck. Cheero, though: the war won’t last for ever. I’ll see +you in Blighty.” They shook hands again, and Jim dived into the tunnel. + +He knew every inch of it, and wriggled quickly along until the top of +his head encountered the boots of the man in front of him, after which +he went more slowly. There seemed a long delay at the end—long enough +to make him break into a sweat of fear lest something should have gone +wrong. Such thoughts come easily enough when you are lying full length +in black darkness, in a hole just large enough to hold a man; in air so +stifling that the laboured breath can scarcely come; with the dank +earth just under mouth and nose, and overhead a roof that may fall in +at any moment. The dragging minutes went by. Then, just as despair +seized him, the boots ahead moved. He wriggled after them, finding +himself praying desperately as he went. A rush of sweet air came to +him, and then a hand, stretching down, caught his shoulder, and helped +him out. + +It was faintly moonlight. They stood in a thick plantation of runner +beans, trained on rough trellis-work, in a garden beyond the +barbed-wire fence of the camp. The tunnel had turned sharply upwards at +the end; they had brought with them some boards and other materials for +filling it up, and now they set to work furiously, after giving the +signal with the string to Harrison; the three sharp tugs that meant +“All Clear!” The boards held the earth they shovelled in with their +hands; they stamped it flat, and then scattered loose earth on top, +with leaves and rubbish, working with desperate energy—fearing each +moment to hear the alarm raised within the barrack. Finally all but +Desmond gained the beaten earth of the path, while he followed, trying +to remove all trace of footprints on the soft earth. He joined them in +a moment. + +“If they don’t worry much about those beans for a few days they may not +notice anything,” he said. “Come along.” + +So often had they studied the way from behind the barbed-wire that they +did not need even the dim moonlight. They hurried through the garden +with stealthy strides, bending low behind a row of currant-bushes, and +so over a low hedge and out into a field beyond. There they ran; +desperately at first, and gradually slackening to a steady trot that +carried them across country for a mile, and then out upon a highroad +where there was no sign of life. At a cross-roads two miles further on +they halted. + +“We break up here,” Desmond said. “You can find your _cache_ all right, +you think, Baylis?” + +“Oh, yes,” Baylis nodded. It had been thought too dangerous for so many +to try to escape together, so two hiding-places of clothes and food had +been arranged. Later they would break up again into couples. + +“Then we’d better hurry. Good night, you fellows, and good luck. We’ll +have the biggest dinner in Blighty together—when we all get there!” + +“Good luck!” + +Baylis led his party down a road to the east, and Jim, Fullerton and +Marsh struck south after Desmond, who paused now and then to consult a +rough map, by a pocket-lamp. On and on, by a network of lanes, skirting +farmhouses where dogs might bark; flinging themselves flat in a ditch +once, when a regiment of Uhlans swept by, unconscious of the gasping +fugitives a few yards away. Jim sat up and looked after their +retreating ranks. + +“By Jove, I wish we could borrow a few of their horses!” + +“Might buck you off, my son,” said Desmond. “Come on.” + +A little wood showed before them presently, and Desmond sighed with +relief. + +“That’s our place, I think.” He looked at the map again. “We’ve got to +make for the south-west corner and find a big, hollow tree.” + +They brushed through the close-growing firs, starting in fear as an owl +flew out above them, hooting dismally. It was not easy to find +anything, for the moonlight was scarcely able to filter through the +branches. Jim took the lead, and presently they scattered to look for +the tree. Something big loomed up before Jim presently. + +“It should be about here,” he muttered, feeling with his hand for the +hollow. Then, as he encountered a roughly-tied bundle, he whistled +softly, and in a moment brought them all to his side. + +There were four rough suits of clothes in the package; a big bag of +bread, meat, and chocolate; and, most precious of all, a flat box +containing maps, compasses, and some German money. They changed +hurriedly, thrusting their uniforms deep into the hollow of the tree +and covering them with leaves; and then divided the food. There was a +faint hint of dawn in the sky when at length their preparations were +complete. + +“Well, you know your general direction, boys,” Desmond said to Marsh +and Fullerton. “Get as far as you can before light, and then hide for +the day. Hide well, remember; they’ll be looking for us pretty +thoroughly to-day. Good luck!” They shook hands and hurried away in +different directions. + +Desmond and Jim came out into open fields beyond the wood, and settled +down to steady running over field after field. Sometimes they stumbled +over ploughed land; sometimes made their way between rows of mangolds +or turnips, where their feet sank deeply into the yielding soil; then, +with a scramble through a ditch or hedge, came upon grass land where +sheep or cows gazed stolidly at the shadowy, racing figures. The east +brightened with long streaks of pink; slowly the darkness died, and the +yellow circle of the sun came up over the horizon, and found them still +running—casting anxious glances to right and left in search of a +hiding-place. + +“Hang these open fields!—will they never end!” Desmond gasped. “We +should be under cover now.” + +Behind a little orchard a farm-house came into view; they were almost +upon a cow-house. It was daylight; a window in the house rattled up, +and a man shouted to a barking dog. The fugitives ducked by a sudden +impulse, and darted into the cow-shed. + +It was a long, low building, divided into stables. There was no +hiding-place visible, and despair held them for a moment. Then Jim +caught sight of a rough ladder leading to an opening in the ceiling, +and flung his hand towards it; he had no speech left. They went up it +hand over hand, and found themselves in a dim loft, with pea-straw +heaped at one end. Desmond was almost done. + +“Lie down—quick!” Jim pushed him into the straw and covered him over +with great bundles of it. Then he crawled in himself, pulling the rough +pea-stalks over him until he had left himself only a peep-hole +commanding the trap-door. As he did so, voices came into the stable. + +They held their breath, feeling for their knives. Then Desmond +smothered a laugh. + +“What did they say?” Jim whispered. + +“It would be ‘Bail up, Daisy!’ in English,” Desmond whispered back. +“They’re beginning to milk the cows.” + +“I wish they’d milk Daisy up here,” Jim grinned. “Man, but I’m +thirsty!” + +It was thirsty work, lying buried in the dusty pea-straw, in the close, +airless loft. Hours went by, during which they dared not move, for when +the milking was done, and the cows turned out, people kept coming and +going in the shed. They picked up a little information about the war +from their talk—Jim’s German was scanty, but Desmond spoke it like a +native; and in the afternoon a farmer from some distance away, who had +apparently come to buy pigs, let fall the remark that a number of +prisoners had escaped from the English camp. No one seemed much +interested; the war was an incident, not really mattering so much, in +their estimation, as the sale of the pigs. Then every one went away, +and Jim and his companion fell asleep. + +It was nearly dark when they awoke. The sleep had done them good, but +they were overpoweringly thirsty—so thirsty that the thought of food +without drink was nauseating. The evening milking was going on; they +could hear the rattle of the streams of milk into the pails, in the +intervals of harsh voices. Then the cows were turned out and heavy feet +stamped away. + +“They should all be out of the way pretty soon,” Desmond whispered. +“Then we can make a move. We must get to water somehow, or——” He broke +off, listening. “Lie still!” he added quickly. “Some one is coming up +for straw.” + +“How do you know?” + +“’Tis a young lady, and she volunteering to see to bedding for the +pigs!” Desmond answered. + +The ladder creaked, and, peering out, they saw a shock yellow head rise +into the trap-door. The girl who came up was about twenty—stoutly +built, with a broad, good-humoured face. She wore rough clothes, and +but for her two thick plaits of yellow hair, might easily have passed +for a man. + +The heavy steps came slowly across the floor, while the men lay trying +to breath so softly that no unusual movement should stir the loose +pea-straw. Then, to their amazement, she spoke. + +“Where are you?” she said in English. + +Astonishment as well as fear held them silent. She waited a moment, and +spoke again. + +“I saw you come in. You need not be afraid.” + +Still they made no sign. She gave a short laugh. + +“Well, if you will not answer, I must at least get my straw for my +pigs.” + +She stooped, and her great arms sent the loose stalks flying in every +direction. Desmond and Jim sat up and looked at her in silence. + +“You don’t seem to want to be killed,” Desmond said. “But assuredly you +will be, if you raise an alarm.” + +The girl laughed. + +“I could have done that all day, if I had wished,” she said. “Ever +since I saw you run in when I put up my window this morning.” + +“Well—what do you want? Money?” + +“No.” She shook her head. “I do not want anything. I was brought up in +England, and I think this is a silly war. There is a bucket of milk for +you downstairs; it will come up if one of you will pull the string you +will find tied to the top of the ladder.” She laughed. “If I go to get +it you will think I am going to call for help.” + +Jim was beyond prudence at the moment. He took three strides to the +ladder, found the cord, and pulled up a small bucket, three parts full +of new milk. The girl sat down on an empty oil-drum and watched them +drink. + +“So! You are thirsty, indeed,” she said. “Now I have food.” + +She unearthed from a huge pocket a package of bread and sausage. + +“Now you can eat. It is quite safe, and you could not leave yet; my +uncle is still wandering about. He is like most men; they wander about +and are very busy, but they never do any work. I run the farm, and get +no wages, either. But in England I got wages. In Clapham. That is the +place of all others which I prefer.” + +“Do you, indeed?” Desmond said, staring at this amazing female. “But +why did you leave Clapham?” + +“My father came back to fight. He knew all about the war; he left +England two months before it began. I did not wish to leave. I desired +to remain, earning good wages. But my father would not permit me.” + +“And where is he now?” + +She shrugged her shoulders. + +“I do not know. Fighting: killed, perhaps. But my uncle graciously +offered me a home, and here am I. I do the work of three men, and I +am—how did we say it in Clapham?—bored stiff for England. I wish this +silly old war would end, so that I could return.” + +“We’re trying to return without waiting for it to end,” said Jim +solemnly. “Only I’d like to know how you knew what we were.” + +“But what else could you be? It is so funny how you put on these +clothes, like the ostrich, and think no one will guess who you are. If +you wore his suit of feathers you would still look like British +officers and nothing else.” + +“You’re encouraging,” said Desmond grimly. “I hope all your nation +won’t be as discerning.” + +“Ach—they!” said the girl. “They see no farther than their noses. I, +too, was like that before I went to Clapham.” + +“It’s a pleasant spot,” said Desmond. “I don’t wonder you improved +there. But all the same, you are German, aren’t you? I don’t quite see +why you want to befriend us.” He took a satisfying mouthful of sausage. +“But I’m glad you do.” + +“In England I am—well, pretty German,” said his fair hostess. “The boys +in Clapham, they call me Polly Sauer Kraut. And I talk of the +Fatherland, and sing ‘Die Wacht am Rhein.’ Oh yes. But when I come back +here and work for my so economical uncle on this beastly farm, then I +remember Clapham and I do not feel German at all. I cannot help it. But +if I said so, I would skinned be, very quickly. So I say ‘Gott Strafe +England!’ But that is only eyewash!” + +“Well, we’ll think kindly of one German woman, anyhow,” said Desmond. +“The last of your charming sisters I met was a Red Cross nurse at a +station where our train pulled up when I was going through, wounded. I +asked her for a glass of water, and she brought it to me all right—only +just as she gave it to me she spat in it. I’ve been a woman-hater ever +since, until I met you.” He lifted the bucket, and looked at her over +its rim. “Here’s your very good health, Miss Polly Sauer Kraut, and may +I meet you in Clapham!” + +The girl beamed. + +“Oh, I will be there,” she said confidently. “I have money in the Bank +in London: I will have a little baker shop, and you will get such +pastry as the English cannot make.” + +Jim laughed. + +“And then you will be pretty German again!” + +“I do not know.” She shook her head. “No, I think I will just be Swiss. +They will not know the difference in Clapham. And I do not think they +will want Germans back. Of course, the Germans will go—but they will +call themselves Swiss, Poles, any old thing. Just at first, until the +English forget: the English always forget, you know.” + +“If they forget all they’ve got to remember over this business—well +then, they deserve to get the Germans back,” said Desmond, grimly. +“Always excepting yourself, Miss Polly. You’d be an ornament to +whichever nation you happened to favour at the moment.” He finished the +last remnant of his sausage. “That was uncommonly good, thank you. Now, +don’t you think we could make a move?” + +“I will see if my uncle is safely in. Then I will whistle.” She ran +down the ladder, and presently they heard a low call, and going down, +found her awaiting them in the cow-shed. + +“He is at his supper, so all is quite safe,” she said. “Now you had +better take the third road to the right, and keep straight on. It is +not so direct as the main road, but that would lead you through several +places where the police are very active—and there is a reward for you, +you know!” She laughed, her white teeth flashing in the dim shed. +“Good-bye; and when I come back to Clapham you will come and take tea +at my little shop.” + +“We’ll come and make you the fashion, Miss Polly,” said Desmond. “Thank +you a thousand times.” They swung off into the dusk. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII +LIGHTS OUT + + +“There was two of every single thing in the Ark,” said Geoffrey firmly. +“The man in Church read it out of the Bible.” + +“Two Teddy-bears?” asked Alison. + +“No; Teddies are only toys. There was real bears, though.” + +“Meat ones?” asked his sister hopefully. + +“Yes. And all the other nanimals.” + +“Who drived ’em in?” + +“Ole Noah and Mrs. Noah. Mustn’t they have had a time! If you tried to +drive in our turkeys an sheep and cows together there’d be awful +trouble—and Noah had lions and tigers and snakes too.” + +“Perhaps he had good sheep-dogs,” Norah suggested. She was sewing with +Mrs. Hunt under a tree on the lawn, while the children played with a +Noah’s Ark on a short-legged table near them. + +“He’d need them,” Geoffrey said. “But would sheep-dogs be any good at +driving snakes and porklepines, Norah?” + +“Noah’s might have been,” Norah answered prudently. “They must have +been used to it, you see. And I believe a good sheep-dog would get used +to anything.” + +“Funny things ole Noah and his fam’ly wore,” said Geoffrey, looking at +Japhet with disfavour. “Like dressing-gowns, only worse. Wouldn’t have +been much good for looking after nanimals in. Why, even the Land Army +girls wear trousers now!” + +“Well, fashions were different then,” said Mrs. Hunt. “Perhaps, too, +they took off the dressing-gowns when they got inside the Ark, and had +trousers underneath.” + +“Where’d they keep all the food for the nanimals, anyhow?” Geoffrey +demanded. “They’d want such a lot, and it would have to be all +different sorts of food. Tigers wouldn’t eat vegi-tubbles, like +rabbits.” + +“And efalunts would eat buns,” said Alison anxiously. “Did Mrs. Noah +make vem buns?” + +“She couldn’t, silly, unless she had a gas-stove,” said Geoffrey. “They +couldn’t carry firewood as well. I say, Mother, don’t you think the Ark +must have had a supply-ship following round, like the Navy has?” + +“It isn’t mentioned,” said Mrs. Hunt. + +“I say!” said Geoffrey, struck by a new idea that put aside the +question of supply. “Just fancy if a submarine had torpedoed the Ark! +Wouldn’t it have been exciting!” + +“Let’s do it in the bath,” said Alison, delightedly. + +“All right,” Geoffrey said. “May we, Mother?” + +“Oh, yes, if you don’t get too wet,” his mother said resignedly. “They +can all swim, that’s a comfort. + +“We’ll muster them,” said Geoffrey, bundling the animals into a heap. +“Hand over that bird, Alison. I say, Mother, which came first, a fowl +or an egg?” + +Mrs. Hunt sighed. + +“It isn’t mentioned,” she said. “Which do you think?” + +“Fowl, I ’specs,” answered her son. + +“_I_ fink it was ve egg,” said Alison. + +“How would it be hatched if it was, silly?” demanded her brother. “They +didn’t have ink-ink-inklebaters then.” + +Alison puckered her brows, and remained undefeated. + +“P’raps Adam sat on it,” she suggested. + +“I cannot imagine Adam being broody,” said Mrs. Hunt. + +“Well, anyhow, he hatched out Eve!” said Geoffrey. No one ventured to +combat this statement, and the children formed themselves into a +stretcher party, bearing the Ark and its contents upon a tray in the +direction of the bathroom. + +“Aren’t they darlings?” Norah said, laughing. “Look at that Michael!” + +Michael was toddling behind the stretcher-party as fast as his fat legs +would permit, uttering short and sharp shrieks of anguish lest he +should be forgotten. Geoffrey gave the order, “Halt!” and the Ark and +its bearers came to a standstill. + +“Come along, kid,” said the commanding officer. “You can be the band.” +The procession was re-formed with Michael in the lead, tooting proudly +on an imaginary bugle. They disappeared within the house. + +“They are growing so big and strong,” said Mrs. Hunt thankfully. +“Michael can’t wear any of the things that fitted Geoff at his age; as +for Alison, nothing seems to fit her for more than a month or two; then +she gracefully bursts out of her garments! As for Geoff——! But he is +getting really too independent: he went off by himself to the village +yesterday, and I found him playing football behind one of the cottages +with a lot of small boys.” + +“Oh—did you?” Norah said, looking a little worried. “We heard just +before I came over this morning that there is a case of fever in the +village—some travelling tinker-people seem to have brought it. Dad said +I must tell you we had better not let the children go down there for +the present.” + +“There were some gipsy-looking boys among the crowd that Geoff was +playing with,” Mrs. Hunt said anxiously. “I do hope he hasn’t run any +risk. He is wearing the same clothes, too—I’ll take them off him, and +have them washed.” She gathered up her sewing hurriedly. “But I think +Geoff is strong enough now to resist any germ.” + +“Oh, of course he is,” Norah answered. “Still, it doesn’t do any harm +to take precautions. I’ll come and help you, Mrs. Hunt.” + +Geoffrey, congenially employed as a submarine commander about to +torpedo the Ark, was distinctly annoyed at being reduced to a mere +small boy, and an unclad one at that. + +“I don’t see why you want to undress me in the middle of the morning,” +he said, wriggling out of his blue jersey. “And it isn’t washing-day, +either, and Alison and Michael’ll go and sink the Ark without me if you +don’t hurry.” + +“I won’t let them, Geoff,” Norah reassured him. “I’m an airship +commander cruising round over the submarine, and she doesn’t dare to +show so much as the tip of her periscope. Of course, when her captain +comes back, he’ll know what to do!” + +“Rather!” said the Captain, wriggling this time in ecstasy. “I’ll just +put up my anti-aircraft gun and blow the old airship to smithereens.” + +Alison uttered a howl. + +“_Won’t_ have Norah made into smivvereens!” + +“Don’t you worry darling, I’ll dodge,” said Norah. + +“Michael, what are you doing with Mrs. Noah?” + +“Not want my dear ’ickle Mrs. Noah dwowned,” said Michael, concealing +the lady yet more securely in his tiny pocket. “She good. Michael +_loves_ her.” + +“Oh, rubbish, Michael! put her back in the Ark,” said Geoffrey +wrathfully. “However can we have a proper submarining if you go and +collar half the things?” + +“Never collared nuffig,” said Michael, unmoved. “Only tooked my dear +’ickle Mrs. Noah.” + +“Never mind Geoff—he’s only a small boy,” Mrs. Hunt said. + +“_Isn’t_ a small boy!” protested Michael furiously. “Daddy said I was +’normous.” + +“So you are, best-beloved,” laughed Norah, catching him up. “Now the +submarine commander has on clean clothes, and you’d better get ready to +go on duty.” Geoffrey dashed back to the bath with a shout of defiance +to the airship, and the destruction of the Ark proceeded gaily. + +“There!” said Mrs. Hunt, putting Geoffrey’s garments into a tub. “It’s +just as well to have them washed, but I really don’t think there’s any +need to worry.” + +“I don’t think you need, indeed!” said Norah, laughing, as a medley of +sound came from the bathroom. + +It was an “off” day for Norah. With Miss de Lisle she had potted and +preserved every variety of food that would lend itself to such +treatment, and now the working season was almost over. For the first +time the Home for Tired People had not many inmates, owing to the fact +that leave had been stopped for several men at the Front who had +arranged to spend their holiday at Homewood. They had with them an +elderly colonel and his wife; Harry Trevor and another Australian; a +silent Major who played golf every hour of daylight, and read golf +literature during the other part of the day; and a couple of sappers, +on final leave after recovering from wounds. To-day the Colonel and his +wife had gone up to London; the others, with the exception of Major +Mackay, who, as usual, might be seen afar upon the links, had gone with +Mr. Linton to a sale where he hoped to secure some unusually desirable +pigs; the sappers, happy in ignorance, promised themselves much +enjoyment in driving them home. Left alone, therefore, Norah had gone +for the day to Mrs. Hunt, ostensibly to improve her French and +needlework, but in reality to play with the babies. Just how much the +Hunt babies had helped her only Norah herself knew. + +“I’m asked to a festivity the day after to-morrow,” Mrs. Hunt said that +afternoon. They were having tea in the pleasant sitting-room of the +cottage; sounds from the kitchen indicated that Eva was giving her +celebrated performance of a grizzly bear for the benefit of the +children. The performance always ended with a hunt, and with the +slaying of the quarry by Geoffrey, after which the bear expired with +lingering and unpleasant details. “Douglas’s Colonel is in London on +leave, and he and his wife have asked me to dine and go to a theatre +afterwards. It would mean staying in London that night, of course.” + +“So of course you’ll go?” + +“I should love to go,” Mrs. Hunt admitted. “It would be jolly in +itself, and then I should hear something about Douglas; and all he ever +tells me about himself might be put on a field postcard. If the babies +are quite well, Norah, do you think you would mind taking charge?” + +Norah laughed. She had occasionally come to sleep at the cottage during +a brief absence on Mrs. Hunt’s part, and liked nothing better. + +“I should love to come,” she said. “But you’d better not put it that +way, or Eva will be dreadfully injured.” + +“I don’t—to Eva,” smiled Mrs. Hunt. “She thinks you come over in case +she should need any one to run an errand, and therefore permits herself +to adore you. In fact, she told me yesterday, that for a young lady you +had an uncommon amount of sense!” + +“Jim would have said that was as good as a diploma,” Norah said, +laughing. + +“I rather think so, myself,” Mrs. Hunt answered. “What about Wally, +Norah? Have you heard lately?” + +“Yesterday,” Norah replied. “He decorated his letter with beautiful +people using pen-wipers, so I suppose he is near Ypres. He says he’s +very fit. But the fighting seems very stiff. I’m not happy about +Wally.” + +“Do you think he isn’t well?” + +“I don’t think his mind is well,” said Norah. “He was better here, +before he went back, but now that he is out again I believe he just +can’t bear being without Jim. He can’t think of him happily, as we do; +he only fights his trouble, and hates himself for being alive. He +doesn’t say so in words, but when you know Wally as well as Dad and I +do, you can tell from his letters. He used to write such cheery, funny +letters, and now he deliberately tries to be funny—and it’s pretty +terrible.” + +She paused, and suddenly a little sob came. Mrs. Hunt stroked her hand, +saying nothing. + +“Do you know,” Norah said presently, “I think we have lost Wally more +than Jim. Jim died, but the real Jim is ever close in our hearts, and +we never let him go, and we can talk and laugh about him, just as if he +was here. But the real Wally seems to have died altogether, and we’ve +only the shell left. Something in him died when he saw Jim killed. Mrs. +Hunt—do you think he’ll ever be better?” + +“I think he will,” Mrs. Hunt said. “He is too fine and plucky to be +always like this. You have to remember that he is only a boy, and that +he had the most terrible shock that could come to him. It must take +time to recover.” + +“I know,” Norah said. “I tried to think like that—but it hurts so, that +one can’t help him. We would do anything to make him feel better.” + +“And you will, in time. Remember, you and your father are more to him +than any one else in the world. Make him feel you want him; I think +nothing else can help him so much.” Mrs. Hunt’s eyes were full of +tears. “He was such a merry lad—it breaks one’s heart to think of him +as he is.” + +“He was always the cheerfullest person I ever saw,” said Norah. “He +just laughed through everything. I remember once when he was bitten by +a snake, and it was hours before we could get a doctor. We were nearly +mad with anxiety, and he was in horrible pain with the tourniquet, but +he joked through it all in the most ridiculous way. And he was always +so eager. It’s the last thing you could call him now. All the spring +has gone out of him.” + +“It will come back,” Mrs. Hunt said. “Only keep on trying—let him see +how much he means to you.” + +“Well, he’s all we have left,” said Norah. There was silence for a +moment; and then it was a relief when the children burst into the room. + +They all went to the station two days later to see Mrs. Hunt off for +her excursion. Michael was not to be depended upon to remain brave when +a train actually bore his mother away, so they did not wait to see her +go; there were errands to be done in the village, and Norah bundled +them all into the governess-cart, giving Geoffrey the reins, to his +huge delight. He turned his merry face to his mother. + +“Good-bye, darling! Take care of yourself in London Town!” + +“I will,” said his mother. “Mind you take care of all the family. +You’re in charge, you know, Geoff.” + +“Rather!” he said. “I’m G.O.C., and they’ve got to do what I tell them, +haven’t they? And Mother—tell the Colonel to send Father home.” + +“Then you won’t be G.O.C.,” said Norah. + +“Don’t want to be, if Father comes,” said Geoffrey, his eyes dancing. +“You’ll tell him, won’t you, Mother?” + +“Indeed I will,” she said. “Now, off you go. Don’t put the cart into +the ditch, Geoff!” + +“Isn’t you insulting,” said her son loftily. “But womens don’t +understand!” He elevated his nose—and then relented to fling her kisses +as the pony trotted off. Mrs. Hunt stood at the station entrance to +watch him for a moment—sitting very straight and stiff, holding his +whip at the precise angle taught by Jones. It was such a heartsome +sight that the incoming train took her by surprise, and she had barely +time to get her ticket and rush for a carriage. + +Norah and her charges found so much to do in the village that when they +reached home it was time for Michael’s morning sleep. Eva brooked no +interference with her right of tucking him up for this period of peace, +but graciously permitted Norah to inspect the process and kiss the rosy +cheek peeping from the blankets. Then Alison and Geoffrey accompanied +her to the house, and visited Miss de Lisle in her kitchen, finding her +by a curious chance, just removing from the oven a batch of tiny cakes +of bewildering attractions. Norah lost them afterwards, and going to +look for them, was guided by sound to Allenby’s pantry, where that most +correct of butlers was found on his hands and knees, being fiercely +ridden by both his visitors, when it was very pleasant to behold +Allenby’s frantic endeavours to get to his feet before Norah should +discover him, and yet to avoid upsetting his riders. Then they called +upon Mr. Linton in his study, but finding him for once inaccessible, +being submerged beneath accounts and cheque-books, they fell back upon +the billiard-room, where Harry Trevor and Bob McGrath, his chum, +welcomed them with open arms, and romped with them until it was time +for Norah to take them home to dinner. + +“Awful jolly kids,” said Harry. “Why don’t you keep them here for +lunch, Norah?” + +“Eva would be terribly hurt,” said Norah. “She always cooks everything +they like best when Mrs. Hunt is away—quite regardless of their +digestions.” + +“Well, can’t they come back afterwards? Let’s all go for a walk +somewhere.” + +“Oh, do!” pleaded Geoffrey. “Could we go to the river, Norah?” + +“Yes, of course,” said Norah. “Will it be too far for Alison, though?” + +“Not it—she walked there with Father when he was home last time. Do +let’s.” + +“Then we must hurry,” said Norah. “Come along, or Eva will think we +have deserted her.” + +They found Eva slightly truculent. + +“I was wonderin’ was you stayin’ over there to dinner,” she said. “I +know I ain’t one of your fine lady cooks with a nime out of the ‘Family +’Erald,’ but there ain’t no ’arm in that there potato pie, for all +that!” + +“It looks beautiful,” said Norah, regarding the brown pie +affectionately. “I’m so glad I’m here for lunch. What does Michael +have, Eva?” + +“Michael ’as fish—an’ ’e ’as it out in the kitchen with me,” said Eva +firmly. “An’ ’is own little baby custid-puddin’. No one but me ever +cooks anythink for that kid. Well, of course, you send ’im cakes an’ +things,” she added grudgingly. + +“Oh, but they’re not nourishment,” said Norah with tact. + +“No,” said Eva brightening. “That’s wot I says. An’ nourishment is wot +counts, ain’t it?” + +“Oh, rather!” Norah said. “And isn’t he a credit to you! Well, come on, +children—I want pie!” She drew Alison’s high chair to the table, while +Eva, departing to the kitchen, relieved her feelings with a burst of +song. + +They spent a merry afternoon at the river—a little stream which went +gurgling over pebbly shallows, widening now and then into a broad pool, +or hurrying over miniature rapids where brown trout lurked. Harry and +Bob, like most Australian soldiers in England, were themselves only +children when they had the chance of playing with babies; they romped +in the grass with them, swung them on low-growing boughs, or skimmed +stones across placid pools, until the sun grew low in the west, and +they came back across the park. Norah wheeled Michael in a tiny car; +Bob carried Alison, and presently Geoffrey admitted that his legs were +tired, and was glad to ride home astride Harry’s broad shoulders. Mr. +Linton came out to meet them, and they all went back to the cottage, +where Eva had tea ready and was slightly aggrieved because her scones +had cooled. + +“Now, you must all go home,” Norah told her men-folk, after tea. “It’s +late, and I have to bath three people.” + +“Don’t we see you again?” Harry asked. + +“You may come over to-night if you like—Dad is coming,” Norah said. +“Geoff, you haven’t finished, have you?” + +“I don’t think I’m very hungry,” Geoffrey said. “May I go and shut up +my guinea-pigs?” + +“Yes, of course. Alison darling, I don’t think you ought to have any +more cakes.” + +“I always has free-four-’leven when mother is at home,” said Alison +firmly, annexing a chocolate cake and digging her little white teeth +into it in the hope of averting any further argument. “Michael doesn’t +want more, he had Geoff’s.” + +“Geoff’s? But didn’t Geoff eat any?” + +“Geoff’s silly to-night,” said his sister. “Fancy not bein’ hungry when +there was choc’lit cakes!” + +“I hope he didn’t get too tired,” Norah said to herself anxiously. +“I’ll hurry up and get them all to bed.” + +She bathed Michael and Alison, with Eva in attendance, and tucked them +up. They were very sleepy—too sleepy to be troubled that Mother was not +there to kiss them good night; indeed, as Norah bent over Michael, he +thought she was his mother, and murmured, “Mum-mum,” in the dusk in a +little contented voice. Norah put her cheek down to the rose-leaf one +for a moment, and then hurried out. + +“Geoff! Where are you, Geoff?” + +“I’m here,” said Geoffrey, from the back doorstep. He rose and came +towards her slowly. Something in his face made her vaguely uneasy. + +“Ready for bed, old chap?” she asked. “Come on—are you tired?” + +“My legs are tired,” Geoffrey said. “And my head’s queer. It keeps +turning round.” He put out a little appealing hand, and Norah took it +in her own. It was burning hot. + +“I—I wish Mother was home,” the boy said. + +Norah sat down and took him on her knee. He put his head against her. + +“You must just let old Norah look after you until Mother comes back,” +she said gently. The memory of the fever in the village came to her, +and she turned sick with fear. For a moment she thought desperately of +what she must do both for Geoffrey and for the other children. + +“I won’t bath Master Geoff; he is tired,” she said to Eva. She carried +the little fellow into his room and slipped off his clothes; he turned +in the cool sheets thankfully. + +“Lie still, old man; I’ll be back in a moment,” Norah said. She went +out and called to Eva, reflecting with relief that the girl’s hard +Cockney sense was not likely to fail her. + +“Eva,” she said, “I’m afraid Master Geoff is ill. You know there is +fever in the village, and I think he has it. I mustn’t go near any one, +because I’ve been looking after him. Run over to the house and tell Mr. +Linton I would like him to come over—as quickly as possible. Don’t +frighten him.” + +“Right-oh!” said Eva. “I won’t be ’arf a tick.” + +Her flying feet thudded across the grass as Norah went back to the room +where Geoffrey was already sleeping heavily. She looked down at the +little face, flushed and dry; in her heart an agony of dread for the +Mother, away at her party in London. Then she went outside to wait for +her father. + +He came quickly, accompanied by Miss de Lisle and Harry Trevor. + +“I telephoned for the doctor directly I got your message,” he said. +“He’ll be up in a few minutes.” + +“Thank goodness!” said Norah. “Of course it may not be the fever. But +it’s something queer.” + +“The little chap wasn’t all right down at the river,” Harry said. “Only +he kept going; he’s such a plucky kid. But he sat jolly quiet on me +coming home.” + +“I knew he was quiet; I just thought he was a bit tired,” Norah said. +“I say, Daddy, what about the other children?” + +“What about you?” he asked. His voice was hard with anxiety. + +“Me?” said Norah, staring. “Why, of course I must stay with him, Dad. +He’s in my charge.” + +“Yes, I suppose you must,” said David Linton heavily. “We’ll find out +from the doctor what precautions can be taken.” + +“Oh, I’ll be all right,” Norah said. “But Alison and Michael mustn’t +stay here.” + +“No, of course not. Well, they must only come to us.” + +“But the Tired People?” Norah asked. + +Miss de Lisle interposed. + +“There are hardly any now—and two of the boys go away to-morrow,” she +said. “The south wing could be kept entirely for the children, couldn’t +it, Mr. Linton? Katty could look after them there—they are fond of +her.” + +“That’s excellent,” said Mr. Linton. “I really think the risk to the +house wouldn’t be much. Any of the Tired People who were worried would +simply have to go away. But the children would not come near any of +them; and, please goodness, they won’t develop fever at all.” + +“Then I’ll go back and have a room prepared,” Miss de Lisle said; “and +then I’ll get you, Mr. Harry, to help me bundle them up and carry them +over. We mustn’t leave them in this place a minute longer than we can +help. That lovely fat Michael!” murmured Miss de Lisle incoherently. +She hurried away. + +There was a hum of an approaching motor presently, and the doctor’s car +came up the drive. Dr. Hall, a middle-aged and over-worked man, looked +over Geoffrey quickly, and nodded to himself, as he tucked his +thermometer under the boy’s arm. Geoffrey scarcely stirred in his heavy +sleep. + +“Fever of course,” said the doctor presently, out in the hall. “No, I +can’t say yet whether he’ll be bad or not, Miss Norah. We’ll do our +best not to let him be bad. Mrs. Hunt away, is she? Well, I’ll send you +up a nurse. Luckily I’ve a good one free—and she will bring medicines +and will know all I want done.” He nodded approval of their plans for +Alison and Michael. Mr. Linton accompanied him to his car. + +“Get your daughter away as soon as you can,” the doctor said. “It’s a +beastly species of fever; I’d like to hang those tinkers. The child in +the village died this afternoon.” + +“You don’t say so!” Mr. Linton exclaimed. + +“Yes; very bad case from the first. Fine boy, too—but they didn’t call +me in time. Well, this village had forgotten all about fever.” He +jumped into the car. “I’ll be up in the morning,” he said; and whirred +off into the darkness. + +Alison and Michael, enormously amused at what they took to be a new +game, were presently bundled up in blankets and carried across to +Homewood; and soon a cab trundled up with a brisk, capable-looking +nurse, who at once took command in Geoffrey’s room. + +“I don’t think you should stay,” she said to Norah. “The maid and I can +do everything for him—and his mother will be home to-morrow. A good hot +bath, with some disinfectant in it, here; then leave all your clothes +here that you’ve worn near the patient, and run home in fresh things. +No risk for you then.” + +“I couldn’t leave Geoff,” Norah said. “Of course I won’t interfere with +you; but his mother left him to me while she was away. And he might ask +for me.” + +“Well, it’s only for your own sake I was advising you,” said the nurse. +“What do you think, Mr. Linton?” + +“I think she ought to stay,” said David Linton shortly—with fear +tugging at his heart as he spoke. “Just make her take precautions, if +there are any; but the child comes first—he was left in our care.” + +He went away soon, holding Norah very tightly to him for a moment; and +then the nurse sent Norah to bed. + +“There’s nothing for you to do,” she said. “I shall have a sleep near +the patient.” + +“But you’ll call me if he wants me?” + +“Yes—I promise. Now be off with you.” + +At the moment Norah did not feel as though she could possibly sleep; +but very soon her eyes grew heavy and she dozed off to dream, as she +often dreamed, that she and Jim were riding over the Far Plain at +Billabong, bringing in a mob of wild young bullocks. The cattle had +never learned to drive, and broke back constantly towards the shelter +of the timber behind them. There was one big red beast, in particular, +that would not go quietly; she had half a dozen gallops after him in +her dream with Bosun under her swinging and turning with every movement +of the bullocks, and finally heading him, wheeling him, and galloping +him back to the mob. Then another broke away, and Jim shouted to her, +across the paddock. + +“Norah! Norah!” + +She woke with a start. A voice was calling her name, hoarsely; she +groped for her dressing-gown and slippers, and ran to Geoffrey’s room. +The nurse, also in her dressing-gown, was bending over the bed. + +“You’re quick,” she said approvingly. “He only called you once. Take +this, now, sonnie.” + +“Norah!” + +She bent down to him, taking the hot hand. + +“I’m here, Geoff, old man. Take your medicine.” + +“All right,” said Geoffrey. He gulped it down obediently and lay back. +“Will Mother come?” + +“Very soon now,” Norah said. “You know she had to be in London—just for +one night. She’ll be back to-morrow.” + +“It’s nearly to-morrow, now,” the nurse said. “Not far off morning.” + +“That’s nice!” the child said. “Stay with me, Norah.” + +“Of course I will, old man. Just shut your eyes and go to sleep; I +won’t go away.” + +She knelt by his bed, patting him gently, until his deep breaths told +that sleep had come to him again. The nurse touched her shoulder and +pointed to the door; she got up softly and went out, looking through +her open window at the first streaks of dawn in the east. Her dream was +still vivid in her mind; even over her anxiety for the child in her +care came the thought of it, and the feeling that Jim was very near +now. + +“Jim!” she whispered, gazing at the brightening sky. + +In Germany, at that moment, two hunted men were facing dawn—running +wildly, in dread of the coming daylight. But of that Norah knew +nothing. The Jim she saw was the big, clean-limbed boy with whom she +had ridden so often at Billabong. It seemed to her that his laughing +face looked at her from the rose and gold of the eastern sky. + +Then Geoffrey turned, and called to her, and she went to him swiftly. + + +It was four days later. + +“Mother.” Geoffrey’s voice was only a thread of sound now. “Will Father +come?” + +“I have sent for him, little son. He will come if he can.” + +“That’s nice. Where’s Norah?” + +“I’m here, sweetheart.” Norah took the wasted hand in hers, holding it +gently. “Try to go to sleep.” + +“Don’t go away,” Geoffrey murmured. “I’m awful sleepy.” He half turned, +nestling his head into his mother’s arm. Across the bed the mother’s +haggard eyes met Norah’s. But hope had almost died from them. + +“If he lives through the night there’s a chance,” the doctor said to +David Linton. “But he’s very weak, poor little chap. An awful pity; +such a jolly kid, too. And all through two abominable families of +tinkers! However, there are no fresh cases.” + +“Can you do nothing more for Geoffrey?” + +The doctor shook his head. + +“I’ve done all that can be done. If his strength holds out there is a +bare chance.” + +“Would it be any good to get in another nurse?” Mr. Linton asked. “I’m +afraid of the mother and Norah breaking down.” + +“If they do, we shall have to get some one else,” the doctor answered. +“But they wouldn’t leave him; neither of them has had any sleep to +speak of since the boy was taken ill. Norah is as bad as Mrs. Hunt; the +nurse says that even if they are asleep they hear Geoffrey if he +whispers. I’ll come again after a while, Mr. Linton.” + +He hurried away, and David Linton went softly into the little thatched +cottage. Dusk was stealing into Geoffrey’s room; the blind fluttered +gently in the evening breeze. Mrs. Hunt was standing by the window +looking down at the boy, who lay sleeping, one hand in that of Norah, +who knelt by the bed. She smiled up at her father. Mrs. Hunt came +softly across the room and drew him out into the passage. + +“He may be better if he sleeps,” she said. “He has hardly had any real +sleep since he was taken ill.” + +“Poor little man!” David Linton’s voice was very gentle. “He’s putting +up a good fight, Mrs. Hunt.” + +“Oh, he’s so good!” The mother’s eyes filled with tears. “He does +everything we tell him—you know he fought us a bit at first, and then +we told him he was on parade and we were the officers, and he has done +everything in soldier-fashion since. I think he even tried to take his +medicine smartly—until he grew too weak. But he never sleeps more than +a few moments unless he can feel one of us; it doesn’t seem to matter +whether it’s Norah or me.” + +Geoffrey stirred, and they heard Norah’s low voice. + +“Go to sleep, old chap; it’s ‘Lights Out,’ you know. You mustn’t wake +up until Reveille.” + +“Has ‘Last Post’ gone?” Geoffrey asked feebly. + +“Oh yes. All the camp is going to sleep.” + +“Is Father?” + +“Yes. Now you must go to sleep with him, the whole night long.” + +“Stay close,” Geoffrey whispered. His weak little fingers drew her hand +against his face. Then no sound came but fitful breathing. + +The dark filled the little room. Presently the nurse crept in with a +shaded lamp and touched Norah’s shoulder. + +“You could get up,” she whispered. + +Norah shook her head, pointing to the thin fingers curled in her palm. + +“I’m all right,” she murmured back. + +They came and went in the room from time to time; the mother, holding +her breath as she looked down at the quiet face; the nurse, with her +keen, professional gaze; after a while the doctor stood for a long time +behind her, not moving. Then he bent down to her. + +“Sure you’re all right?” + +Norah nodded. Presently he crept out; and soon the nurse came and sat +down near the window. + +“Mrs. Hunt has gone to sleep,” she whispered as she passed. + +Norah was vaguely thankful for that. But nothing was very clear to her +except Geoffrey’s face; neither the slow passing of the hours nor her +own cramped position that gradually became pain. Geoffrey’s face, and +the light breathing that grew harder and harder to bear. Fear came and +knelt beside her in the stillness, and the night crept on. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII +THE WATCH ON THE RHINE + + +Evening was closing upon a waste of muddy flats. Far as the eye could +see there was no rise in the land; it lay level to the skyline, with +here and there a glint of still water, and, further off, flat banks +between which a wide river flowed sluggishly. If you cared to follow +the river, you came at length to stone blockhouses, near which sentries +patrolled the banks—and would probably have turned you back rudely. +From the blockhouses a high fence of barbed wire, thickly +criss-crossed, stretched north and south until it became a mere thread +of grey stretching over the country. There was something relentless, +forbidding, in that savage fence. It was the German frontier. Beyond it +lay Holland, flat and peaceful. But more securely than a mountain range +between the two countries, that thin grey fence barred the way. + +If you turned back from the sentries and followed the muddy path along +the river bank, you were scarcely likely to meet any one. The guards in +the blockhouses were under strict discipline, and were not encouraged +to allow friends to visit them, either from the scattered farms or from +the town of Emmerich, where lights were beginning to glimmer faintly in +the twilight. It was not safe for them to disregard regulations, since +at any moment a patrol motor-launch might come shooting down the river, +or a surprise visit be paid by a detachment from the battalion of +infantry quartered, for training purposes, at Emmerich. Penalties for +lax discipline were severe; the guards were supposed to live on the +alert both by day and by night, and the Emmerich commandant considered +that the fewer distractions permitted to the sentries, the more likely +they were to make their watch a thorough one. There had been too many +escapes of prisoners of war across the frontier; unpleasant remarks had +been made from Berlin, and the Commandant was on his mettle. Therefore +the river-bank was purposely lonely, and any stray figure on it was +likely to attract attention. + +A mile from the northern bank a windmill loomed dark against the +horizon; a round brick building, like a big pepper-castor, with four +great arms looking like crossed combs. A rough track led to it from the +main road. Within, the building was divided into several floors, lit by +narrow windows. The heavy sails had plied lazily during the day; now +they had been secured, and two men were coming down the ladder that led +from the top. On the ground floor they paused, looking discontentedly +at some barrels that were ranged against the wall, loosely covered with +sacking. + +“Those accursed barrels are leaking again,” one said, in German. +“Look!” He pointed to a dark stain spreading from below. “And Rudolf +told me he had caulked them thoroughly.” + +“Rudolf does nothing thoroughly—do you not know that?” answered his +companion scornfully. “If one stands over him—well and good; if not, +then all that Master Rudolf cares for is how soon he may get back to +his beerhouse. Well, they must be seen to in the morning; it is too +late to begin the job to-night.” + +“I am in no hurry,” said the first man. “If you would help me I would +attend to them now. All the stuff may not be wasted.” + +“Himmel! I am not going to begin work again at this hour,” answered the +other with a laugh. “I am not like Rudolf, but I see no enjoyment in +working overtime; it will be dark, as it is, before we get to Emmerich. +Come on, my friend.” + +“You are a lazy fellow, Emil,” rejoined the first man. “However, the +loss is not ours, after all, and we should be paid nothing extra for +doing the work to-night. Have you the key?” + +“I do not forget it two nights running,” returned Emil. “What luck it +was that the master did not come to-day!—if he had found the mill open +I should certainly have paid dearly.” + +“Luck for you, indeed,” said his companion. They went out, shutting and +locking the heavy oaken door behind them. Then they took the track that +led to the main road. + +The sound of their footsteps had scarcely died away when the sacking +over one of the barrels became convulsed by an internal disturbance and +fell to the floor; and Jim Linton’s head popped up in the opening, like +a Jack-in-the box. + +“Come on, Desmond—they’ve gone at last!” he whispered. + +Desmond’s head came up cautiously from another barrel. + +“Take care—it may be only a blind,” he warned. “They may come back at +any moment.” + +Jim’s answer was to wriggle himself out of his narrow prison, slowly +and painfully. He reached the floor, and stood stretching himself. + +“If they come back, I’ll meet them with my hands free,” he said. “Come +on, old man; we’re like rats in a trap if they catch us in those +beastly tubs. At least, out here, we’ve our knives and our fists. Come +out, and get the stiffness out of your limbs.” + +“Well, I suppose we may as well go under fighting if we have to,” +Desmond agreed. + +Jim helped him out, and they stood looking at each other. They were a +sorry-looking pair. Their clothes hung in rags about them; they were +barefoot and hatless, and, beyond all belief, dirty. Thin to +emaciation, their gaunt limbs and hollow cheeks spoke of terrible +privations; but their sunken eyes burned fiercely, and there was grim +purpose in their set lips. + +“Well—we’re out of the small traps, but it seems to me we’re caught +pretty securely in a big one,” Desmond said presently. “How on earth +are we going to get out of this pepper-pot?” + +“We’ll explore,” Jim said. Suddenly his eye fell on a package lying on +an empty box, and he sprang towards it, tearing it open with claw-like +fingers. + +“Oh, by Jove—_food!_” he said. + +They fell upon it ravenously; coarse food left by one of the men, whose +beer-drinking of the night before had perhaps been too heavy to leave +him with much appetite next day. But, coarse as it was, it was life to +the two men who devoured it. + +It was nearly six weeks since the night when their tunnel had taken +them into the world outside the barbed wire of their prison; six weeks +during which it had seemed, in Desmond’s phrase, as though they had +escaped from a small trap to find themselves caught within a big one. +They had been weeks of dodging and hiding; travelling by night, +trusting to map and compass and the stars; lying by day in woods, in +ditches, under haystacks—in any hole or corner that should shelter them +in a world that seemed full of cruel eyes looking ceaselessly for them. +Backwards and forwards they had been driven; making a few miles, and +then forced to retreat for many; thrown out of their course, often lost +hopelessly, falling from one danger into another. They had never known +what it was to sleep peacefully; their food had been chiefly turnips, +stolen from the fields, and eaten raw. + +Three times they had reached the frontier; only to be seen by the +guards, fired upon—a bullet had clipped Jim’s ear—and forced to turn +back as the only alternative to capture. What that turning-back had +meant no one but the men who endured it could ever know. Each time +swift pursuit had nearly discovered them; they had once saved +themselves by lying for a whole day and part of a night in a pond, with +only their faces above water in a clump of reeds. + +They had long abandoned their original objective; the point they had +aimed at on the frontier was far too strongly guarded, and after two +attempts to get through, they had given it up as hopeless, and had +struck towards the Rhine, in faint expectation of finding a boat, and +perhaps being able to slip through the sentries. They had reached the +river two nights before, but only to realize that their hope was vain; +no boats were to be seen, and the frowning blockhouses barred the way +relentlessly. So they had struck north, again trying to pierce the +frontier; and the night before had encountered sentries—not men alone, +but bloodhounds. The guards had contented themselves with firing a few +volleys—the dogs had pursued them savagely. One Jim had succeeded in +killing with his knife, the other, thrown off the trail for a little by +a stream down which they had waded, had tracked them down, until, +almost exhausted, they had dashed in through the open door of the old +mill—for once careless as to any human beings who might be there. + +The bloodhound had come, too, and in the mill, lit by shafts of +moonlight through the narrow windows, they had turned to bay. The fight +had not lasted long; they were quick and desperate, and the dog had +paid the penalty of his sins—or of the sins of the human brutes who had +trained him. Then they had looked for concealment, finding none in the +mill—the floors were bare, except for the great barrels, half-full of a +brown liquid that they could not define. + +“Well, there’s nothing for it,” Jim had said. “There’s not an inch of +cover outside, and daylight will soon be here. We must empty two of +these things and get inside.” + +“And the dog?” Desmond had asked. + +“Oh, we’ll pickle Ponto.” + +Together they had managed it, though the barrels taxed all their +strength to move. The body of the bloodhound had been lowered into the +brown liquid; two of the others had been gradually emptied upon the +earthen floor. With the daylight they had crawled in, drawing the +sacking over them, to crouch, half-stifled through the long day, +trembling when a step came near, clenching their knives with a sick +resolve to sell their freedom dearly. It seemed incredible that they +had not been discovered; and now the package of food was the last +stroke of good luck. + +“Well, blessings on Emil, or Fritz, or Ludwig, or whoever he was,” Jim +said, eating luxuriously. “This is the best blow-out I’ve had +since—well, there isn’t any since, there never was anything so good +before!” + +“Never,” agreed Desmond. “By George, I thought we were done when that +energetic gentleman wanted to begin overhauling the casks.” + +“Me too,” said Jim. “Emil saved us there—good luck to him!” + +They finished the last tiny crumb, and stood up. + +“I’m a different man,” Desmond said. “If I have to run to-night, then +the man that tries to catch me will have to do it with a bullet!” + +“That’s likely enough,” Jim said, laughing. “Well, come and see how +we’re going to get out.” + +There seemed little enough chance, as they searched from floor to +floor. The great door was strong enough to resist ten men; the windows +were only slits, far too narrow to allow them to pass through, even had +they dared risk the noise of breaking their thick glass. Up and up they +went, their hearts sinking as their bodies mounted; seeing no possible +way of leaving their round prison. + +“Rats in a trap!” said Desmond. “There’s nothing for it but those +beastly barrels again—and to watch our chance of settling Emil and his +pal when they come to-morrow.” + +“Let’s look out here,” Jim said. + +They were at the top of the mill, in a little circular place, barely +large enough for them to stand upright. A low door opened upon a tiny +platform with a railing, from which the great sails could be worked; +they were back now, but the wind was rising, and they creaked and +strained at their mooring rope. Far below the silver sheet of the Rhine +moved sluggishly, gleaming in the moonlight. The blockhouses stood out +sharply on either bank. + +“Wonder if they can see us as plainly as we see them,” Jim said. + +“We’ll have callers here presently if they can,” Desmond said. “That, +at least, is certain. Better come in, Jim.” + +Jim was looking at the great sails, and then at the rope that moored +them. + +“Wait half a minute,” he said. + +He dived into the mill, and returned almost instantly with a small coil +of rope. + +“I noticed this when we came up,” he said. “It didn’t seem long enough +to be any use by itself, but if we tie it to this mooring-rope it might +be long enough.” + +“To reach the ground from here?” Desmond asked him in astonishment. +“Never! You’re dreaming, Jim.” + +“Not from here, of course,” Jim said. “But from the end of the sail.” + +“The sail!” Desmond echoed. + +“If we tie it to the end of the sail’s rope, and let the mill go, we +can swing out one at a time,” Jim said. “Bit of a drop at the bottom, +of course, but I don’t think it would be too much, if we wait till our +sail points straight down.” + +“But——” Desmond hesitated. “The sail may not bear any weight—neither +may the rope itself.” + +“The ropes seem good enough—they’re light, but strong,” Jim said. “As +for the sail—well, it looks pretty tough; the framework is iron. We can +haul on it and test it a bit. I’d sooner risk it than be caught here, +old man.” + +“Well—I’m going first,” Desmond said. + +“That you’re not—it’s my own little patent idea,” Jim retorted. “Just +you play fair, you old reprobate. Look—they keep a sort of boathook +thing here, to catch the rope when the arm is turning—very thoughtful +and handy. You’ll easily get it back with that.” + +He was knotting the two ropes as he spoke, testing them with all his +strength. + +“There—that will hold,” he said. “Now we’ll let her go.” + +He untied the mooring-rope, and very slowly the great sails began to +revolve. They tugged violently as the arm bearing the rope mounted, and +drew it back; it creaked and groaned, but the rope held, and nothing +gave way. Jim turned his face to Desmond on the narrow platform. + +“I’m off!” he said. “No end of a jolly lark, isn’t it? Hold her till I +get on the railing.” + +“Jim—if it’s too short!” + +“Well, I’ll know all about that in a minute,” said Jim with a short +laugh. “So long, old chap: I’ll be waiting below, to catch you when you +bounce!” + +He flung his legs over the railing, sitting upon it for an instant +while he gripped the rope, twining his legs round it. Then he dropped +off, sliding quickly down. Sick with suspense, Desmond leaned over to +watch him. + +Down—down he went. The mill-arms rose for a moment, and then checked as +his weight came on them—and slowly—slowly, the great sail from which he +dangled came back until it pointed straight downwards, with the +clinging figure hanging far below. Down, until the man above could +scarcely see him—and then the rope, released, suddenly sprang into the +air, and the sails mounted, revolving as if to make up for lost time. +On the grass below a figure capered madly. A low, triumphant whistle +came up. + +“Oh, thank God!” said Desmond. He clutched the boathook and leaned out, +finding that his hands trembled so that the sails went round three +times before he managed to catch the dangling rope. Then it was only a +moment before he was on the grass beside Jim. They grinned at each +other. + +“You all right?” Jim asked. + +“Oh, yes. It was pretty beastly seeing you go, though.” + +“It was only a ten-foot drop at the end,” said Jim, casting his eye up +at the creaking sails. “But it certainly was a nasty moment while one +wondered if the old affair would hold. I don’t believe it ever was made +in Germany—it’s too well done!” + +“Well, praise the pigs we haven’t got to tackle those barrels again!” +Desmond said. “Come along—we’ll try and find a hole in the old fence.” + +They came out of the friendly shadow of the mill and trotted +northwards, bending low as they ran; there was no cover on the flats, +and the moonlight was all too clear, although friendly clouds darkened +it from time to time. It was a windy night, with promise of rain before +morning. + +“Halt! Who goes there?” + +The sharp German words rang out suddenly. Before them three soldiers +seemed to have risen from the ground with levelled rifles. + +Jim and Desmond gave a despairing gasp, and turned, ducking and +twisting as they fled. Bullets whistled past them. + +“Are you hit?” Jim called. + +“No. Are you?” + +“No. There’s nothing but the river.” + +They raced on madly, their bare feet making no sound. Behind them the +pursuit thudded, and occasionally a rifle cracked; not so much in the +hope of hitting the twisting fugitives, as to warn the river sentries +of their coming. The Germans were not hurrying; there was no escape, +they knew! Father Rhine and his guardians would take care of their +quarry. + +Jim jogged up beside Desmond. + +“We’ve just a chance,” he said—“if we ever get to the river. You can +swim under water?” + +“Oh yes.” + +“Then keep as close to the bank as you can—the shots may go over you. +We’ll get as near the blockhouses as we dare before we dive. Keep +close.” + +He was the better runner, and he drew ahead, Desmond hard at his heels. +The broad river gleamed in front—there were men with rifles silhouetted +against its silver. Then a merciful cloud-bank drifted across the moon, +and the shots whistled harmlessly in the sudden darkness. Jim felt the +edge of the bank under his feet. + +“Dive!” he called softly. + +He went in gently and Desmond followed with a splash. The sluggish +water was like velvet; the tide took them gently on, while they swam +madly below the surface. + +Shouts ran up and down the banks. Searchlights from the blockhouses lit +the river, and the water was churned under a hail of machine-gun +bullets, with every guard letting off his rifle into the stream in the +hope of hitting something. The bombardment lasted for five minutes, and +then the officer in command gave the signal to cease fire. + +“The pity is,” he observed, “that we never get the bodies; the current +sees to that. But the swine will hardly float back to their England!” +He shrugged his shoulders. “That being settled, suppose we return to +supper?” + +It might have hindered the worthy captain’s enjoyment had he been able +to see a mud-bank fifty yards below the frontier, where two dripping +men looked at each other, and laughed, and cried, and wrung each +other’s hands, and, in general, behaved like people bereft of reason. + +“Haven’t got a scratch, have you, you old blighter?” asked Jim +ecstatically. + +“Not one. Rotten machine-gun practice, wasn’t it? Sure you’re all +right?” + +“Rather! Do you realize you’re in Holland?” + +“Do you realize that no beastly Hun can come up out of nowhere and take +pot-shots at you?” + +“It’s not their pot-shots I minded so much,” said Jim. “But to go back +to a prison-camp—well, shooting would be a joke to that. Oh, by Jove, +isn’t it gorgeous!” They pumped hands again. + +“Now, look here—we’ve got to be sober,” Desmond said presently. +“Holland is all very well; I’ve heard it’s a nice place for skating. +But neither of us has any wish to get interned here.” + +“Rather not!” said Jim. “I want to go home and get into uniform again, +and go hunting for Huns.” + +“Same here,” said Desmond. “Therefore we will sneak along this river +until we find a boat. Go steady now, young Linton, and don’t turn hand +springs!” + +Within the Dutch frontier the Rhine breaks up into a delta of navigable +streams, on which little brown-sailed cargo-boats ply perpetually; and +the skipper of a Dutch cargo-boat will do anything for money. A couple +of hours’ hard walking brought Jim and Desmond to a village with a +little pier near which half a dozen boats were moored. A light showed +in a port-hole, and they went softly on deck, and found their way below +into a tiny and malodorous cabin. A stout man sprang to his feet at +sight of the dripping scarecrows who invaded his privacy. + +South Africa had taught Desmond sufficient Dutch to enable him to make +himself intelligible. He explained the position briefly to the mariner, +and they talked at length. + +“Wants a stiff figure,” he said finally, turning to Jim. “But he says +‘can do.’ He’ll get us some clothes and drop down the river with us to +Rotterdam, and find a skipper who’ll get us across to Harwich—the +German navy permitting, of course!” + +“The German navy!” said Jim scornfully. “But they’re asleep!” He yawned +hugely. “I’m going to sleep, too, if I have to camp on the gentleman’s +table. Tell him to call me when it’s time to change for Blighty!” + + + + +CHAPTER XIX +REVEILLE + + +It was not yet dawn when David Linton, fully dressed, came into the +cottage garden. The door stood open, and he kicked off his shoes and +crept into the house. + +Eva sat on the floor of the passage with her head in her hands. She +looked up with a start as the big man came in, and scrambled to her +feet; a queer dishevelled figure with her tousled head and crumpled cap +and apron. A wave of dismay swept over Mr. Linton. + +“Is he——?” he whispered, and stopped. + +The girl beckoned him into the sitting-room. + +“’E’s never stirred all night,” she whispered. “I dunno if ’e isn’t +dead; I never see any one lie so still. The nurse wouldn’t sit there +like a wooden image if ’e was dead, would she, sir?” + +“Surely not,” said David Linton. “Where is Miss Norah?” + +“Kneelin’ alongside of ’im, same like she was when you was here. She +ain’t never stirred, neither. An’ I’ll bet a dollar she must be stiff!” + +“And Mrs. Hunt?” + +“She’s in there, wiv ’em. She ’ad a little sleep; not much. No one’s +said one word in this ’ouse all night.” + +“Why didn’t you go to bed?” David Linton said, looking down at the +pinched old face and the stooping shoulders. He had never noticed Eva +very much; now he felt a sudden wave of pity for the little London +servant. She loved Geoffrey too in her queer way. + +“Not me!” said Eva defiantly. “And ’im very near dyin’. I been boilin’ +the kettle every hour or so, but none of ’em came out for tea. Will +_you_ ’ave a cup, sir?” + +A refusal was on his lips, but he changed his mind. + +“Thank you,” he said gently. “And have one yourself, Eva.” + +“My word, I’ll be glad of it,” she said. “It’s bitter cold, sittin’ out +there.” She tip-toed off to the kitchen. Mr. Linton stood, hesitating, +for a moment, and then went along the passage. A screen blocked +Geoffrey’s doorway, and he peeped over it. + +As he did so, Mrs. Hunt moved to the end of the bed. Geoffrey lay +exactly as he had been on the night before; so utterly still that it +was impossible to say whether he were alive or dead. Norah crouched +beside him, her hand still against his face. + +Then, very slowly, Geoffrey turned, and opened his eyes. + +“Mother!” he said. “Mother, I’m so thirsty!” + +Mrs. Hunt was beside him as his eyelids had lifted. The nurse, moving +swiftly, handed her a little cup. + +“Drink this, sweetheart.” The mother raised his head, and Geoffrey +drank eagerly. + +“That’s awful nice,” he said. “May I have some more?” + +They gave him more, and put him back on the pillow. He looked at Norah, +who knelt by him silently. + +“Wake up, old Norah—it’s Reveille!” he said. + +She smiled at him, and put her face on his, but she did not stir. +Suddenly the nurse saw Mr. Linton, and beckoned to him. + +“Carry her—she can’t move.” + +Norah felt her father’s arm about her. + +“Hold round my neck, dear,” he said. + +The nurse was at her other side. They raised her slowly, while she +clenched her teeth to keep back any sound that should tell of the agony +of moving—still smiling with her eyes on Geoffrey’s sleepy face. Then, +suddenly, she grew limp in her father’s arm. + +“Fainted,” murmured the nurse. “And a very good thing.” She put her arm +round her, and they carried her out between them, and put her on a +sofa. + +“I must go back to Geoffrey,” the nurse said. “Rub her—rub her knees +hard, before she comes to. It’s going to hurt her, poor child!” She +hurried away. + +Geoffrey was lying quietly, his mother’s head close to him. The nurse +put her hand on his brow. + +“Nice and cool,” she said. “You’re a very good boy, Geoff; we’ll think +about some breakfast for you presently.” Mrs. Hunt raised her white +face, and the nurse’s professional calmness wavered a little. She +patted her shoulder. + +“There—there, my dear!” she said. “He’s going to do very well. Don’t +you worry. He’ll be teaching me to ride that pony before we know where +we are.” She busied herself about the boy with deft touches. “Now just +keep very quiet—put Mother to sleep, if you like, for she’s a tired old +mother.” She hastened back to Norah. + +“Is she all right?” David Linton’s voice was sharp with anxiety. “She +has never moved.” + +“The best thing for her,” said the nurse, putting him aside and +beginning to massage this new patient. “If I can rub some of the +stiffness away before she becomes conscious it will save her a lot. Run +away, there’s a dear man, and tell that poor soul in the kitchen that +the child is all right.” + +“He will live?” + +“Rather! That sleep has taken every trace of the fever away. He’s weak, +of course, but we can deal with that when there’s no temperature. Tell +Eva to make tea—lots of it. We all want it.” + +“Thus it was that presently might have been seen the astounding +spectacle of a grizzled Australian squatter and a little Cockney +serving-maid holding each other’s hands in a back kitchen. + +“I knew it was orright when I ’eard you comin’ down the ’all,” said Eva +tearfully. “No one’s ’ad that sort of a step in this ’ouse since Master +Geoff went sick. The dear lamb! Won’t it be ’evinly to see ’is muddy +boot-marks on me clean floor agin! An’ him comin’ to me kitching window +an’ askin’ me for grub! I’ll ’ave tea in a jiffy, sir. An’ please +’scuse me for ketchin’ old of you like that, but I’d ’ave bust if I +’adn’t ’eld on to somefink!” + +Geoffrey dropped off to sleep again, presently, and Mrs. Hunt came to +Norah, who was conscious, and extremely stiff, but otherwise too happy +to care for aches and pains. They did not speak at first, those two had +gone down to the borderland of Death to bring back little, wandering +feet; only they looked at each other, and clung together, still +trembling, though only the shadow of fear remained. + +After that Geoffrey mended rapidly, and, having been saintlike when +very ill, became just an ordinary little sinner in his convalescence, +and taxed every one’s patience to keep him amused. Alison and Michael, +who were anxiously watched for developing symptoms, refused to develop +anything at all, remaining in the rudest health; so that they were +presently given the run of all Homewood, and assisted greatly in +preventing any of the Tired People from feeling dull. + +Norah remained at the cottage, which was placed strictly in quarantine, +and played with Geoffrey through the slow days of weakness that the +little fellow found so hard to understand. Aids to convalescence came +from every quarter. Major Hunt, unable to leave France, sent parcels of +such toys and books as could still be bought in half-ruined towns. +Wally, who had been given four days’ leave in Paris—which bored him to +death—sent truly amazing packages, and the Tired People vied with David +Linton in ransacking London for gifts for the sick-room. Geoffrey +thought them all very kind, and would have given everything for one +hour on Brecon beside Mr. Linton. + +“You’ll be able to ride soon, old chap,” Norah said, on his first +afternoon out of bed. + +“Will I?” The boy looked scornfully at his thin legs. “Look at +them—they’re like silly sticks!” + +“Yes, but Brecon won’t mind that. And they’ll get quite fat again. +Well, not fat—” as Geoffrey showed symptoms of horror—“but hard and +fit, like they were before. Quite useful.” + +“I do hope so,” Geoffrey said. “I want them to be all right before +Father comes—and Wally. Will Wally come soon, do you think?” + +“I’m afraid not: you see, he has been to Paris. There’s hardly any +leave to England now.” + +“’Praps leave will be open by Christmas,” Geoffrey suggested hopefully. +“Wouldn’t it be a lovely Christmas if Father and Wally both came?” + +“Wouldn’t it just?” Norah smiled at him; but the smile faded in a +moment, and she walked to the window and stood looking out. Christmas +had always been such a perfect time in their lives: she looked back to +years when it had always meant a season of welcoming Jim back; when +every day for weeks beforehand had been gay with preparations for his +return from school. Jim would arrive with his trunks bulging with +surprises for Christmas morning; Wally would be with him, both keen and +eager for every detail in the life of the homestead, just as ready to +work as to play. All Billabong, from the Chinese gardener to Mr. +Linton, hummed with the joy of their coming. Now, for the first time, +Christmas would bring them nothing of Jim. + +She felt suddenly old and tired; and the feeling grew in the weeks that +followed, while Geoffrey gradually came back to strength and merriment, +and the cottage, after a strenuous period of disinfecting, emerged from +the ban of quarantine. Alison and Michael had a rapturous reunion with +their mother and Geoffrey, and Homewood grew strangely quiet without +the patter of their feet. Norah returned to her post as housekeeper, to +find little to do; the house seemed to run on oiled wheels, and Miss de +Lisle and the servants united in trying to save her trouble. + +“I dunno is it the fever she have on her,” said Katty in the kitchen +one evening. “She’s that quiet and pale-looking you wouldn’t know her +for the same gerrl.” + +“Oh, there’s no fear of fever now,” said Miss de Lisle. + +“Well, she is not right. Is it fretting she is, after Masther Jim? She +was that brave at first, you’d not have said there was any one dead at +all.” + +“I think she’s tired out,” said Miss de Lisle. “She has been under +great strain ever since the news of Mr. Jim came. And she is only a +child. She can’t go through all that and finish up by nursing a fever +patient—and then avoid paying for it.” + +“She cannot, indeed,” said Katty. “Why wouldn’t the Masther take her +away for a change? Indeed, it’s himself looks bad enough these times, +as well. We’ll have the two of them ill on us if they don’t take care.” + +“They might go,” said Miss de Lisle thoughtfully. “I’ll suggest it to +Mr. Linton.” + +David Linton, indeed, would have done anything to bring back the colour +to Norah’s cheeks and the light into her eyes. But when he suggested +going away she shrank from it pitifully. + +“Ah, no, Daddy. I’m quite well, truly.” + +“Indeed you’re not,” he said. “Look at the way you never eat anything!” + +“Oh, I’ll eat ever so much,” said Norah eagerly. “Only don’t go away: +we have work here, and we wouldn’t know what to do with ourselves +anywhere else. Perhaps some time, when Wally comes home, if he cares to +go we might think about it. But not now, Daddy.” She hesitated. +“Unless, of course, you want to very much.” + +“Not unless you do,” he said. “Only get well, my girl.” + +“I’m quite all right,” protested Norah. “It was only Geoff’s illness +that made me a bit slack. And we’ve had a busy summer, haven’t we? I +think our little war-job hasn’t turned out too badly, Dad.” + +“Not too badly at all—if it hasn’t been too much for my housekeeper,” +he said, looking at her keenly. “Remember, I won’t have her knocked +up.” + +“I won’t be, Daddy dear—I promise,” Norah said. + +She made a brave effort to keep his mind at ease as the days went on; +riding and walking with him, forcing herself to sing as she went about +the house—she had her reward in the look in the silent man’s eyes when +he first heard a song on her lips—and entering with a good imitation of +her old energy into the plans for the next year on the farm. But it was +all imitation, and in his heart David Linton knew it. The old Norah was +gone. He could only pity her with all his big heart, and help her in +her struggle—knowing well that it was for his sake. In his mind he +began to plan their return to Australia, in the hope that Billabong +would prove a tonic to her tired mind and body. And yet—how could they +face Billabong, without Jim? + +He came out on the terrace one evening with a letter in his hand. + +“Norah,” he said. “I’ve good news for you—Wally is coming home.” + +“Is he, Dad? On leave?” + +“Well—he has been wounded, but not seriously. They have been nursing +him in a hospital at Boulogne and he writes that he is better, but he +is to have a fortnight’s leave.” + +“It will be lovely to have him,” Norah said. “May I see the letter, +Dad?” + +“Of course.” He gave it to her. “Poor old Wally! We must give him a +good time, Norah.” + +“It’s a pity Harry’s leave didn’t happen at the same time,” said Norah. +“However, Phil will be a mate for him; they like each other awfully.” + +“Yes,” agreed her father. “Still, I don’t think Wally wants any other +mate when you are about.” + +“They were always astonishingly good in the way they overlooked my bad +taste in being a girl!” said Norah, with a laugh. She was running her +eye over the letter. “Oh—hit in the shoulder. I do hope it wasn’t a +very painful wound—poor old boy. I wonder will he be able to ride, +Dad?” + +“He says he’s very well. But then, he would,” Mr. Linton said. “Since +we first knew him Wally would never admit so much as a finger-ache if +he could possibly avoid it. I expect he’ll ride if it’s humanly +possible!” + +Allenby came out. + +“Hawkins would like to see you, sir.” + +“Very well,” said his master. “By the way, Allenby, Mr. Wally is coming +back on leave.” + +The butler’s face brightened. + +“Is he indeed, sir! That’s good news.” + +“Yes—he has been wounded, but he’s all right.” + +“Miss de Lisle will certainly invent a new dish in his honour, sir,” +said Allenby, laughing. “Is he coming soon?” + +“This week, he says. Well, I mustn’t keep Hawkins waiting.” He went +into the house, with Allenby at his heels. It was evident that the +kitchen would hear the news as quickly as the ex-sergeant could get +there. + +Norah read the letter over again, slowly, and folded it up. Then she +turned from the house, and went slowly across the lawn. At the sweep of +the drive there was a path that made a short cut across the park to a +stile, and her feet turned into it half-unconsciously. + +The dull apathy that had clogged her brain for weeks was suddenly gone. +She felt no pleasure in the prospect that would once have been so +joyful, of seeing Wally. Instead her whole being was seething with a +wild revolt. Wally’s coming had always meant Jim. Now he would come +alone, and Jim could never come again. + +“It isn’t fair!” she said to herself, over and over. “It isn’t fair!” + +She came to the stile, and paused, looking over it into a quiet lane. +All her passionate hunger for Jim rose within her, choking her. She had +kept him close to her at first; lately he had slipped away so that she +had no longer the dear comfort of his unseen presence that had helped +her through the summer. And she wanted him—wanted him. Her tired mind +and body cried for him; always chum and mate and brother in one. She +put her head down on the railing with a dry sob. + +A quick step brushed through the crisp leaves carpeting the lane. She +looked up. A man in rough clothes was coming towards her. + +Norah drew back, wishing she had brought the dogs with her; the place +was lonely, and the evening was closing in. She turned to go; and as +she did so the man broke into a clear whistle that made her pause, +catching her breath. It was the marching tune of Jim’s regiment; but +beyond the tune itself there was something familiar in the +whistle—something that brought her back to the stile, panting, catching +at the rail with her hands. Was there any one else in the world with +that whistle—with that long, free stride? + +He came nearer, and saw her for the first time—a white-faced girl who +stood and stared at him with eyes that dared not believe—with lips that +tried to speak his name, and could not. It was Jim who sobbed as he +spoke. + +“Norah! Norah!” + +He flung himself over the stile and caught her to him. + +“Old mate!” he said. “Dear little old mate!” + +They clung together like children. Presently Norah put up her hand, +feeling the rough serge of his coat. + +“It isn’t a dream,” she said. “Tell me it isn’t, Jimmy-boy. Don’t let +me wake up.” + +Jim’s laugh was very tender. + +“I’m no dream,” he said. “All these months have been the dream—and you +can wake up now.” + +She shivered, putting her face against him. + +“Oh—it’s been so long!” + +Then, suddenly, she caught his hand. + +“Come!” she said breathlessly. “Come quickly—to Dad!” + +They ran across the park, hand in hand. Near the house Jim paused. + +“I say, old chap, we can’t take him by surprise,” he said. “I was going +to sneak in by the back door, and get hold of Miss de Lisle and +Allenby, to tell you. Hadn’t you better go and prepare him a bit?” + +“Yes, of course,” Norah said. “There’s a light in the study: he’s +always there at this time. Come in and I’ll hide you in Allenby’s +pantry until I ring.” + +They crept in by a side door, and immediately ran into the butler. + +“How are you, Allenby?” Jim inquired pleasantly. + +Allenby staggered back. + +“It’s Mr. Jim!” he gasped, turning white. + +“It is,” said Jim, laughing. He found the butler’s hand, and shook it. +Norah left them, and went swiftly to her father’s study. She opened the +door softly. + +David Linton was sitting in a big armchair by the fire, bending forward +and looking into the red coals. The light fell on his face, and showed +it old and sad with a depth of sadness that even Norah had hardly seen. +He raised his head as the door opened. + +“Hallo, my girl,” he said, forcing a smile. “I was just beginning to +wonder where you were.” + +“I went across the park,” Norah said nervously. Something in her voice +made her father look sharply at her. + +“Is anything the matter, Norah?” + +“No,” she said quickly. She came close to him and put her hand on his +shoulder. + +“You look as if you had seen a ghost,” he said. “What is it, Norah?” + +“I—I thought I had, too,” she stammered. “But it was better than a +ghost. Daddy—Daddy!” she broke down, clinging to him, laughing and +crying. + +“What is it?” cried David Linton. “For God’s sake tell me, Norah!” He +sprang to his feet, shaking. + +“He’s here,” she said. “He isn’t dead.” Suddenly she broke from him and +ran to the bell. “Jim,” she said; “Jim has come back to us, Daddy.” + +The door was flung open, and Jim came in, with great strides. + +“Dad!” + +“My boy!” said his father. They gripped each other’s hands; and Norah +clung to them both, and sobbed and laughed all at once. + +“Let me sit down, children,” said David Linton presently; and they saw +that he was trembling. “I’m getting an old man, Jim; I didn’t know how +old I was, until we lost you.” + +“You couldn’t get old if you tried,” said Jim proudly. “And you can’t +lose me either—can he, Norah?” They drew together again; it seemed +complete happiness just to touch each other—not to speak; to be +together. Afterwards there would be explanations; but they seemed the +last thing that mattered now. + +They did not hear the hoot of a motor in the drive or a ring at the +front door. Allenby answered it, and admitted a tall subaltern. + +“Mr. Wally!” + +“Evening, Allenby,” said Wally. “I believe I’m a bit ahead of time—I +didn’t expect to get here so soon. Do you think they’ll have a corner +for me?” + +Allenby laughed—a rather quavering laugh. + +“I think you’ll always find your room ready, sir,” he said. “You—I +suppose you ’aven’t ’eard our good news, sir?” + +“I never hear good news,” said Wally shortly. “What is it?” + +Allenby eyed him doubtfully. + +“I don’t know as I oughtn’t to break it to you a bit, sir,” he said. +“You can’t be over-strong yet, and you wounded, and all; and never +’aving rightly got over losing Mr. Jim, and——” + +Wally shuddered. + +“For Heaven’s sake, man, stop breaking it gently!” he said. “What is +it?” In his voice was the crisp tone of the officer; and the +ex-sergeant came to attention smartly. + +“It’s Mr. Jim, sir,” he said. “’E’s ’ome.” + +For a long moment Wally stared at him. + +“You’re not mad, I suppose?” he said slowly. “Or perhaps I am. Do you +mean——” + +“Them ’Uns couldn’t kill him, sir!” Allenby’s voice rose on a note of +triumph. “Let me take your coat, sir—’e’s in the study. And you coming +just puts the top on everything, sir!” + +He reached up for Wally’s coat. But the boy broke from him and ran +blindly to the study, bursting in upon the group by the fire. There he +stopped dead, and stared at them. + +“Old chap!” said Jim. He sprang to him, and flung an arm round his +shoulders. Then he gave a great sigh of utter contentment, and echoed +Allenby unconsciously. + +“Well, if that doesn’t make everything just perfect!” he said. + + + + +CHAPTER XX +ALL CLEAR + + +“Kiddie, are you awake?” + +“Come in, Jimmy.” + +Norah sat up in bed and felt for the electric switch. The room sprang +into light as Jim came in. + +“I had to come and bring your stocking,” he said. “Merry Christmas, +little chap.” + +“Merry Christmas, Jimmy dear.” Norah looked at the bulging stocking on +her bed, and broke into laughter. “And you a full-blown Captain! Oh, +Jimmy, are you ever going to grow up?” + +“I trust not,” said Jim comfortably—“if it means getting any bigger +than I am. But you’re not, either, so it doesn’t matter. Do you +remember all the Christmases at Billabong when I had to bring you your +stocking?” + +“Do I remember!” echoed Norah scornfully. “But at Billabong it was +daylight at four o’clock in the morning, and extremely hot—probably +with a bush-fire or two thrown in. You’ll be frozen to death here. Turn +on the electric stove, and we’ll be comfy.” + +“That’s a brain-wave,” said Jim, complying. “I must admit I prefer an +open fireplace and three-foot logs—but in a hurry those little +contraptions of stoves are handy. Hold on now—I’ll get you something to +put over your shoulders.” + +“There’s a woolly jacket over there,” Norah said. “Let me have my +property—I’m excited.” She possessed herself of the stocking and fished +for its contents. “Chocolates!—and in war-time! Aren’t you ashamed?” + +“Not much,” said Jim calmly, extracting a huge chocolate from the box. +“I lived on swede turnips for six weeks, so I think the family deserves +a few extras. Fish some more.” + +Norah obeyed, and brought to light articles of a varied nature; a pair +of silk stockings, a book on _Housekeeping as a Science_, a large +turnip, artistically carved, a box of French candied fruit, a mob-cap +and a pair of housemaids’ gloves, and, lastly, the cap of a shell, +neatly made into a pin-tray. + +“I did that in camp in Germany,” said Jim. “And I swore I’d put it into +your Christmas stocking. Which I have done.” + +“Bless you,” said Norah. “I would rather lose a good many of my +possessions than that.” They smiled at each other; and, being an +undemonstrative pair, the smile was a caress. + +“Isn’t this going to be a Christmas!” Norah said. “I’ve been lying +awake for ever so long, trying to realize it. You alive again——” + +“I never was dead,” said Jim indignantly. + +“It was a horribly good imitation. And Wally here, and even Harry; and +Major Hunt home; and Geoff getting stronger every day. And Dad grown +twenty years younger.” + +“And you too, I guess—judging by what you looked like the night I came +home.” + +“Oh, I’ve got turned and made up to look like new,” said Norah. She +faltered a little. “Jimmy, I’ve been saying my prayers—_hard_.” + +“I’ve done that, too,” said Jim. There was a long, contented silence. + +“And somehow, now, I know you’ll be all right—both of you,” Norah said. +“I just feel certain about it. Before—ever since the war began—I was +always horribly afraid, but now I’m not afraid any more. It can’t last +for ever; and some day we’ll all go back.” + +“And that will be the best thing in the world,” said Jim. + +“The very best,” she said. + +Some one tapped at the door. + +“May I come in?” asked Miss de Lisle’s voice. She entered, bearing a +little tray. + +“You!” said Norah. “But you shouldn’t.” + +“Bride and Katty have gone to church, so I thought I’d bring you some +tea and wish you a merry Christmas,” said Miss de Lisle. “But I didn’t +expect to find the Captain here.” She did not wait for their greetings, +but vanished with the elephantine swiftness peculiar to her; returning +in a few moments with a second tray. + +“And toast!” said Jim. “But where’s your own, Miss de Lisle?” + +“Never mind mine—I’ll have it in the kitchen,” said the cook-lady. + +“Indeed, you will not. Sit down.” He marched off, unheeding her +protests. When he returned, he bore a large kitchen tray, with the +teapot. + +“It seemed simpler,” he said. “And I couldn’t find anything smaller. +This cup is large, Miss de Lisle, but then you won’t want it filled so +often. Have some of my toast—I couldn’t possibly eat all this.” + +“Well, it’s very pleasant here,” said the cook-lady, yielding meekly. +“I took some to Mr. Wally, but he merely said, ‘Get out, Judkins; I’m +not on duty!’ and rolled over. So I concluded, in Katty’s words, that +‘his resht was more to him,’ and came away.” + +“He’ll wake up presently and be very pleased to find it; it won’t +matter to him at all if it’s stone-cold,” said Jim. “Queer chap, Wal. I +prefer tea with the chill off it, myself. Judkins has hard times +getting him up in time for early parade. Luckily Judkins is an old +regular soldier, and has a stern, calm way with a young officer.” + +“Who bullies _you_ into getting up, may I ask?” demanded Miss de Lisle. + +“I used to be bullied by a gentleman called Wilkes, in the grey days +when I was a subaltern,” said Jim sadly. “Now, alas, I am a responsible +and dignified person, and I have to set an example.” He sighed. “It’s +awful to be a captain!” + +“It’s so extraordinary,” said his sister, “that I never get used to +it.” + +“But you never had any respect for age,” said Jim, removing her tray +and putting a pillow on her head. “Every one finished? then I’ll clear +away the wreck and go and dress.” He piled the three trays on top of +each other and goose-stepped from the room solemnly—his long legs in +pyjamas, under a military great coat, ending a curious effect to the +spectacle. Miss de Lisle and Norah laughed helplessly. + +“And a captain!” said the cook-lady, wiping her eyes. “Now I really +must run, or there will be no breakfast in this house.” + +Breakfast was a movable feast in the Home for Tired People, who +wandered in and out just as they felt inclined. Hot dishes sat on a +hot-water plate and a little aluminium-topped table; such matters as +ham and brawn lurked on a sideboard; and Allenby came in from time to +time to replenish tea and coffee. Norah and her father rarely +encountered any one but Phil Hardress at this meal, since theirs was +generally over long before most of their guests had decided to get up. +On this morning, however, every one was equally late, and food did not +seem to matter; the table was “snowed under” with masses of letters and +Christmas parcels, and as every one opened these and talked all at +once, mingling greetings with exclamations over the contents of the +packages, Miss de Lisle’s efforts had been in vain. + +“I pitied your post-lady,” said Mrs. Aikman, the wife of a wounded +colonel. “She staggered to the door under an enormous mail-bag, looking +as though Christmas were anything but merry. However, I saw her +departing, after an interval, with quite a sprightly step.” + +“Allenby had orders to look after her,” Norah said, smiling. “Poor +soul—she begins her round at some unearthly hour and she’s hungry and +tired by the time she gets here.” + +“One of the remarkable things about this country of yours,” said Mr. +Linton, “is the way you have continued to deliver parcels and letters +as though there were no war. Strange females or gaunt children bring +them to one’s door, but the main point is that they do come. In +Australia, even without a war, the post-office scorns to deliver a +parcel; if any one is rash enough to send you one the post-office puts +it in a cupboard and sends you a cold postcard to tell you to come and +take it away. If you don’t come soon, they send you a threatening +card.” + +“And if you don’t obey that?” + +“I never dared to risk a third,” said Mr. Linton, laughing. “I am a man +of peace.” + +“But what a horrible system!” said Mrs. Aikman. “Doesn’t it interfere +with business?” + +“Oh yes, greatly,” said her host. “But I suppose we shall learn, in +time.” + +“I’m going over to the cottage,” Norah whispered to Jim. “Do come—Geoff +won’t think it’s Christmas if you don’t.” + +They went out into the hall. Flying feet came down the stairs, and +Wally was upon them. + +“Merry Christmas, Norah!” He seized both her hands and pranced her down +the hall. “Always begin Christmas with a turkey-trot!” he chanted. + +“Begin, indeed!” said Norah, with a fine contempt. “I began mine hours +ago. Where have you been?” + +“I have been—contemplating,” said Wally, his brown eyes twinkling. “No +one called me.” + +“There’s evidence to the contrary,” Jim said, grinning. “It has been +stated that you called a perfectly blameless lady Judkins, and said +awful things to her.” + +“My Aunt!” said Wally. “I hope not—unless you talk pretty straight to +Judkins he doesn’t notice you. That accounts for the frozen tea and +toast I found; I thought Father Christmas had put ’em there.” + +“Did you eat them?” + +“Oh, yes—you should never snub a saint!” said Wally. “So now I don’t +want any breakfast. Where are you two going?” + +“To the cottage. Come along—but really, I do think you should eat a +decent breakfast, Wally.” + +“It will be dinner-time before we know where we are—and I feel that +Miss de Lisle’s dinner will be no joke,” said Wally. “So come along, +old house mother, and don’t worry your ancient head about me.” Each boy +seized one of Norah’s hands and they raced across the lawn. David +Linton, looking at them from the dining-room window, laughed a little. + +“Bless them—they’re all babies again!” he thought. + +The cottage was echoing with strange sounds; it might be inferred that +the stockings of the young Hunts had contained only bugles, trumpets +and drums. Eva, sweeping the porch, greeted the newcomers with a +friendly grin. + +“Merry Christmas, Eva!” + +“The sime to you,” said Eva. “Ain’t it a real cold morning? The +frorst’s got me fingers a fair treat.” + +“No one minds frost on Christmas Day—it’s the proper thing in this +queer country!” said Wally. “Was Father Christmas good to you, Eva?” + +“Wasn’t ’e! Not ’arf!” said Eva. “The children wouldn’t ’ear of anyfink +but ’angin’ up a stockin’ for me—and I’m blowed if it wasn’t bang full +this mornin’. And a post-card from me young man from the Front; it’s +that saucy I wonder ’ow it ever passed the sentry! Well, I do say as +’ow this place ain’t brought us nuffink but luck!” + +Geoffrey dashed out, equipped with a miniature Sam Brown belt with a +sword, and waving a bugle. + +“Look! Father Christmas brought them! Merry Christmas, everybody.” He +flung himself at Norah, with a mighty hug. + +“And where’s my Michael—and that Alison?” Norah asked. “Oh, Michael, +darling, aren’t you the lucky one!” as he appeared crowned with a paper +cap and drawing a wooden engine. “Where’s Alison?” + +“It’s no good ever _speaking_ to Alison,” Geoffrey said, with scorn. +“She got a silly doll in her stocking, and all she’ll do is to sit on +the floor and take off its clothes. Girls are stupid—all ’cept you, +Norah!” + +“Keep up that belief, my son, and you’ll be spared a heap of trouble,” +said Major Hunt, coming out. “Unfortunately, you’re bound to change +your mind. How are you all? We’ve had an awful morning!” + +“It began at half-past four,” Mrs. Hunt added. “At that hour Michael +discovered a trumpet; and no one has been asleep since.” + +“They talk of noise at the Front!” said her husband. “Possibly I’ve got +used to artillery preparation; anyhow, it strikes me as a small thing +compared to my trio when they get going with assorted musical +instruments. How is your small family, Miss Norah?” + +“Not quite so noisy as yours—but still, you would notice they were +there!” Norah answered, laughing. “They were all at breakfast when I +left, and it seemed likely that breakfast would run on to dinner, +unless they remembered that church is at eleven. I must run home; we +just came to wish you all a merry Christmas. Dinner at half-past one, +remember!” + +“We won’t forget,” Mrs. Hunt said. + +Every one was dining at Homewood, and dinner, for the sake of the +children, was in the middle of the day. The house was full of guests; +they trooped back from church across the park, where the ground rang +hard as iron underfoot, for it was a frosty Christmas. Homewood glowed +with colour and life—with big fires blazing everywhere, and holly and +ivy scarlet and green against the dark oaken panelling of the walls. +And if the Australians sent thoughts overseas to a red +homestead—Billabong, nestling in its green of orchard and garden, with +scorched yellow paddocks stretching away for miles around it—they were +not homesick thoughts to-day. For home was in their hearts, and they +were together once more. + +The dinner was a simple one—Miss de Lisle had reserved her finest +inspirations for the evening meal, regarding Christmas dinner as a mere +affair of turkey and blazing plum-pudding, which, except in the matter +of sauces, might be managed by any one. “It needs no soul!” she said. +But no one found any fault, and at the end Colonel Aikman made a little +speech of thanks to their hosts. “We all know they hate speeches made +at them,” he finished. “But Homewood is a blessed word to-day to +fighting men.” + +“And their wives,” said Mrs. Aikman. + +“Yes—to people who came to it tired beyond expression; and went back +forgetting weariness. In their names—in the names of all of us—we want +to say ‘Thank you.’” + +David Linton stood up, looking down the long room, and last, at his +son. + +“We, who are the most thankful people in the world, I think, to-day,” +he said, “do not feel that you owe us any gratitude. Rather we owe it +to all our Tired People—who helped us through our own share of what war +can mean. And, apart from that, we never feel that the work is ours. We +carry on for the sake of a dead man—a man who loved his country so +keenly that to die for it was his highest happiness. We are only tools, +glad of war-work so easy and pleasant as our guests make our job. But +the work is John O’Neill’s. So far as we can, we mean to make it live +to his memory.” + +He paused. Norah, looking up at him, saw him through misty eyes. + +“So—we know you’ll think of us kindly after we have gone back to +Australia,” the deep voice went on. “There will be a welcome there, +too, for any of you who come to see us. But when you remember Homewood, +please do not think of it as ours. If that brave soul can look back—as +he said he would, and as we are sure he does—then he is happy over +every tired fighter who goes, rested, from his house. His only grief +was that he could not fight himself. But his work in the war goes on; +and as for us, we simply consider ourselves very lucky to be his +instruments.” + +Again he paused. + +“I don’t think this is a day for drinking toasts,” he said. “When we +have won we can do that—but we have not won yet. But I will ask you all +to drink to a brave man’s memory—to John O’Neill.” + +The short afternoon drew quickly to dusk, and lights flashed out—to be +discreetly veiled, lest wandering German aircraft should wish to drop +bombs as Christmas presents. Norah and the boys had disappeared +mysteriously after dinner, vanishing into the study. Presently Geoffrey +came flying to his mother, with eager eyes. + +“Mother! Father Christmas is here!” + +“You don’t say so!” said Mrs. Hunt, affecting extreme astonishment. +“Where?” + +“I saw him run along the hall and go into the study. He was real, +Mother!” + +“Of course he’s real,” Major Hunt said. “Do you think he’s gone up the +study chimney?” + +Wally appeared in the doorway. + +“Will the ladies and gentlemen kindly walk into the study?” he said +solemnly. “We have a distinguished guest.” + +“There! I _told_ you,” said Geoffrey ecstatically. He tugged at his +father’s hand, capering. + +In the study a great fir-tree towered to the ceiling; a Christmas-tree +of the most beautiful description, gay with shining coloured globes and +wax lights and paper lanterns; laden with mysterious packages in white +paper, tied with ribbon of red, white and blue, and with other things +about which there was no mystery—clockwork toys, field guns and +ambulance wagons, and a big, splendid Red Cross nurse, difficult to +consider a mere doll. Never was seen such a laden tree; its branches +groaned under the weight they bore. And beside it, who but Father +Christmas, bowing and smiling with his eyes twinkling under bushy white +eyebrows. + +“Walk in, ladies and gentleman, walk in!” he said invitingly. + +Wally frowned at him. + +“That’s not the way to talk,” he said. “You aren’t a shop-walker!” He +inflicted a surreptitious kick upon the elderly saint. + +“Hi, you blighter, that’s my shin!” said Father Christmas wrathfully; a +remark luckily unheard by the guests in the excitement of the moment. + +All the household was there; Miss de Lisle beaming at Wally and very +stately and handsome in blue silk; the servants, led by Allenby, with +Con and Katty and Bride giggling with astonishment at a tree the like +of which did not grow in Donegal. + +“All mustered?” said Father Christmas. “Right oh! I mean, that is well. +As you see, I’ve had no end of a time labouring in your behalf. But I +love hard work!” (Interruption from Mr. Meadows, sounding like “I +_don’t_ think!”) “Being tired, I shall depute to my dear young friend +here the task of removing the parcels from the tree.” He tapped Wally +severely on the head with his knuckles, and that hapless youth +ejaculated, “Beast!”. “You’ll get thrown out, if you don’t watch it!” +said the saint severely. “Now—ladies first!” + +He detached the Red Cross nurse from her bough and placed her in +Alison’s arms; and Alison, who had glued her eyes to her from the +moment of entering the room, uttered a gasp, sat promptly upon the +floor, and began an exhaustive examination of her charms, unheeding any +further gifts. Under the onslaught of Wally and Harry the tree speedily +became stripped of its burden; Father Christmas directing their labours +in a voice that plainly had its training on the barrack-square. Eva +watched him admiringly. + +“Ain’t the Captin a trick!” she murmured, hugging her parcels to her. + +The last package came down, and Father Christmas slipped away, +disappearing behind a screen with a flourish that revealed an +immaculate brown leather gaiter under the cotton-wool snow bordering +his red cloak; and presently Jim sauntered out, slightly flushed. + +“Oh, you silly!” said Geoffrey. “Where _ever_ have you been? You’ve +missed ole Father Christmas!” + +“I never did have any luck,” Jim said dolefully. + +“Never mind—he’s left heaps and heaps of parcels for you. I’ll help you +open them,” said Geoffrey kindly. + +The gong summoned them to tea; and afterwards it was time to take the +children home, happy and sleepy. Jim tossed Alison up on his shoulder, +and, with Geoffrey clinging to his other hand, and Michael riding Wally +pick-a-back, Norah and the boys escorted the Hunts back to the cottage. + +“You’re coming over again, of course?” Jim said. “We’re going to dance +to-night.” + +“Oh yes; we’re getting a terribly frivolous old couple,” said Mrs. +Hunt, laughing. “But Christmas leave only comes once a year, especially +when there’s a war on!” + +“I think she needs a rest-cure!” said her husband, knitting his brows +over this remarkable statement. “Come in and lie down for awhile, or +you won’t be coherent at all by to-night; Eva and I will put the babies +to bed.” + +“Can’t I help?” Norah asked. + +“No—you’re off duty to-night. You’ve really no idea how handy I am!” +said Major Hunt modestly. + +“Then we’ll see you later on,” Norah said, disentangling Michael from +her neck. “Good-night, Michael, darling; and all of you.” + +“We’ve had a lovely time!” Geoffrey said. + +“I’m so glad,” Norah said, smiling at him. The cottage-door closed, and +they turned back. + +“I’ve had a lovely time, too!” she said. “There never was such a +Christmas!” + +“Never!” Jim said. “I believe that five months in Germany was worth +it.” + +“No!” said Wally sharply. + +“No, it wasn’t,” Norah agreed. “But now—it helps one to forget.” + +They came slowly across the frozen lawn. Before them Homewood loomed +up, little beams of warm light coming from its shuttered windows. Then +the door opened wide, letting out a flood of radiance; and in it stood +David Linton, looking out for them. They came into the path of light; +Norah between the two tall lads. His voice was tender as he looked down +at their glowing faces. + +“It’s cold,” he said. “Come in to the fire, children.” + + + + +Notes: possible errors in original text that I have left intact and +some notes on things that might look wrong but I think they are +actually correct. + +1) reading about,” said Wally. “Do you remember, Jim, how old poor old +-> the first old should probably be omitted + +2) know I ain’t one of your fine lady cooks with a nime out of the -> +nime occurs elsewhere in the text as well and indicates an accent + +3) and became extraordinarily skilful in the use of chisel and plane. +-> skilful with one ‘l’ is valid British spelling + +4) him to instal her before we get to Homewood on Thursday. Hawkins has +-> instal with one ‘l’ is valid British spelling + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CAPTAIN JIM *** + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the +United States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, +and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following +the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use +of the Project Gutenberg trademark. 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