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Back to Billabong, by Mary Grant Bruce
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The Project Gutenberg EBook of Back To Billabong, by Mary Grant Bruce
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere 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
Title: Back To Billabong
Author: Mary Grant Bruce
Release Date: June 6, 2006 [EBook #7047]
Last Updated: March 15, 2018
Language: English
Character set encoding: UTF-8
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BACK TO BILLABONG ***
Produced by Donald Lainson; David Widger
</pre>
<p>
<br /> <br />
</p>
<h1>
BACK TO BILLABONG
</h1>
<p>
<br />
</p>
<h2>
By Mary Grant Bruce
</h2>
<p>
<br /> <br />
</p>
<h3>
1921
</h3>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
“Beyond the distant sky-line
(Now pansy-blue and clear),
We know a land is waiting,
A brown land, very dear:
A land of open spaces,
Gaunt forest, treeless plain:
And if we once have loved it
We must come back again.”
(Dorothea Mackellar.)
</pre>
<p>
<br /> <br />
</p>
<hr />
<p>
<br /> <br />
</p>
<blockquote>
<p class="toc">
<big><b>CONTENTS</b></big>
</p>
<p>
<br /> <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> <big><b>BACK TO BILLABONG</b></big> </a>
<br /><br /> <br /> <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I </a><br /><br /> <a
href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II </a><br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0003">
CHAPTER III </a><br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV </a><br /><br />
<a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V </a><br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0006">
CHAPTER VI </a><br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII </a><br /><br />
<a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII </a><br /><br /> <a
href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX </a><br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0010">
CHAPTER X </a><br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI </a><br /><br />
<a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII </a><br /><br /> <a
href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII </a><br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0014">
CHAPTER XIV </a><br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV </a><br /><br />
<a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI </a>
</p>
</blockquote>
<p>
<br /> <br />
</p>
<hr />
<p>
<a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> <br /> <br />
</p>
<h1>
BACK TO BILLABONG
</h1>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER I
</h2>
<h3>
LANCASTER GATE, LONDON, W
</h3>
<p>
“Do the beastly old map yourself, if you want it. I shan't, anyhow!”
</p>
<p>
“Wilfred!”
</p>
<p>
“Aw, Wil-fred!” The boy at the end of the schoolroom table, red-haired,
snub-nosed and defiant, mimicked the protesting tone. “I've done it once,
and I'm blessed if I do it again.”
</p>
<p>
“No one would dream that it was ever meant for Africa.” The young teacher
glanced at the scrawled and blotted map before her. “It—it doesn't
look like anything earthly. You must do it again, Wilfred.”
</p>
<p>
“Don't you, Wilf.” Wilfred's sister leaned back in her chair, tilting it
on its hind legs.
</p>
<p>
“You have nothing to do with Wilfred's work, Avice. Go on with your
French.”
</p>
<p>
“Done it, thanks,” said Avice. “And I suppose I can speak to my own
brother if I like.”
</p>
<p>
“No, you can't—in lesson time,” said the teacher.
</p>
<p>
“Who's going to stop me?”
</p>
<p>
Cecilia Rainham controlled herself with an effort.
</p>
<p>
“Bring me your work,” she said.
</p>
<p>
She went over the untidy French exercise with a quick eye. When she had
finished it resembled a stormy sky—a groundwork of blue-black,
blotted writing, lit by innumerable dashes of red. Cecilia put down her
red pencil.
</p>
<p>
“It's hopeless, Avice. You haven't tried a bit. And you know it isn't hard—you
did a far more difficult piece of translation without a mistake last
Friday.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, but the pantomime was coming off on Saturday,” said Wilfred, with a
grin. “Jolly little chance of tickets from Bob if she didn't!”
</p>
<p>
“You shut up!” said Avice.
</p>
<p>
“Be quiet, both of you,” Cecilia ordered, a spot of red in each pale
cheek. “Remember, there will be other Saturdays. Bob will do nothing for
you if I can't give him a decent report of you.” It was the threat she
hated using, but without it she was helpless. And the red-haired pair
before her knew to a fraction the extent of her helplessness.
</p>
<p>
For the moment the threat was effective. Avice went back to her seat,
taking with her the excited-looking French exercise, while Wilfred
sullenly recommenced a dispirited attack upon the African coastline.
Cecilia leaned back in her chair, and took up a half-knitted sock—to
drop it hastily, as a long-drawn howl came from a low chair by the window.
</p>
<p>
“Whatever is the matter, Queenie?”
</p>
<p>
“I per-ricked my finger,” sobbed the youngest Miss Rainham. She stood up,
tears raining down her plump cheeks. No one, Cecilia thought, ever cried
so easily, so copiously, and so frequently as Queenie. As she stood
holding out a very grubby forefinger, on which appeared a minute spot of
blood, great tears fell in splashes on the dark green linoleum, while
others ran down her face to join them, and others trembled on her lower
eyelids, propelled from some artesian fount within.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, dry up, Queenie!” said Wilfred irritably. “Anyone 'ud think you'd cut
your silly finger off!”
</p>
<p>
“Well—it'th bleed-in'!” wailed Queenie. She dabbed the injured
member with the pillow case she was hemming, adding a scarlet touch in
pleasant contrast to its prevailing grime.
</p>
<p>
“Well—you're too big a girl to cry for a prick,” said Cecilia
wearily. “People who are nearly seven really don't cry except for
something awfully bad.”
</p>
<p>
“There—I'll tell the mater you said awfully!” Avice jeered. “Who
bites our heads off for using slang, I'd like to know?”
</p>
<p>
“You wouldn't have much head left if I bit for every slang word you use,”
retorted her half-sister. “Do get on with your French, Avice—it's
nearly half-past twelve, and you know Eliza will want to lay the table
presently. Come here, Queenie.” She took the pillow case, and unpicked a
few stitches, which clearly indicated that the needle had been taking
giant strides. “Just hem that last inch or two again, and see if you can't
make it look nice. I believe the needle only stuck into your finger
because you were making it sew so badly. Have you got a handkerchief?—but,
of course, you haven't.” She polished the fat, tear-stained cheek with her
own. “Now run and sit down again.”
</p>
<p>
Queenie turned to go obediently enough—she was too young, and
possibly too fat, to plan, as yet, the deliberate malice in which her
brother and sister took their chief pleasure. Unfortunately, Wilfred
arrived at the end of Africa at the wrong moment for her. He pushed the
atlas away from him with a jerk that overturned the ink bottle, sending a
stream of ink towards Avice—who, shoving her chair backwards to
escape the deluge, cannoned into Queenie, and brought her headlong to the
floor. Howls broke out anew, mingled with a crisp interchange of abuse
between the elder pair, while Cecilia vainly sought to lessen the inky
flood with a duster. Upon this pleasant scene the door opened sharply.
</p>
<p>
“A nice way you keep order at lessons,” said Mrs. Mark Rainham acidly.
“And the ink all over the cloth. Well, all I can say is, you'll pay for a
new one, Cecilia.”
</p>
<p>
“I did not knock it over,” said Cecilia, in a low tone.
</p>
<p>
“It's your business to look after the children, and see that they do not
destroy things,” said her stepmother.
</p>
<p>
“The children will not obey me.”
</p>
<p>
“Pouf!” said Mrs. Rainham. “A mere question of management. High-spirited
children want tact in dealing with them, that is all. You never trouble to
exercise any tact whatever.” Her eyes dwelt fondly on her high-spirited
son, whose red head was bent attentively over Africa while he traced a
mighty mountain range along the course of the Nile. “Wilfred, have you
nearly finished your work?”
</p>
<p>
“Nearly, Mater,” said the industrious Wilfred, manufacturing mountains
tirelessly. “Just got to stick in a few more things.”
</p>
<p>
“Say 'put,' darling, not 'stick.' Cecilia, you might point out those
little details—that is, if you took any interest in their English.”
</p>
<p>
“Thethilia thaid 'awfully' jutht now,” said Queenie, in a shrill pipe.
</p>
<p>
“I don't doubt it,” said Mrs. Rainham, bitterly. “Of course, anyone
brought up in Paris is too grand to trouble about English—but we
think a good deal of these things in London.” A little smile hovered on
her thin lips, as Cecilia flushed, and Avice and her brother grinned
broadly. The Mater could always make old Cecilia go as red as a beetroot,
but it was fun to watch, especially when the sport beguiled the tedium of
lessons.
</p>
<p>
A clatter of dishes on a tray heralded the approach of Eliza.
</p>
<p>
“It is time the table was clear,” Mrs. Rainham said. “Wilfred, darling, I
want you to post a letter. Put up your work and get your cap. Cecilia, you
had better try to clean the cloth before lunch; it is ruined, of course,
but do what you can with it. I will choose another the next time I am in
London. And just make sure that the children's things are all in order for
the dancing lesson this afternoon. Avice, did you put out your slippers to
be cleaned?”
</p>
<p>
“Forgot all about it, Mater,” said Avice cheerfully.
</p>
<p>
“Silly child—and it is Jackson's day off. Just brush them up for
her, Cecilia. When the children have gone this afternoon, I want you to
see to the drawing-room; some people are coming in to-night, and there are
fresh flowers from Brown's to arrange.”
</p>
<p>
Cecilia looked up, with a sudden flush of dismay. The children's dancing
lesson gave her one free afternoon during the week.
</p>
<p>
“But—but I am going to meet Bob,” she stammered.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, Bob will wait, no doubt; you need not keep him long, if you hasten
yourself. Yes, Eliza, you can have the table.” Mrs. Rainham left the room,
with the children at her heels.
</p>
<p>
Cecilia whisked the lesson books hastily away; Eliza was waiting with a
lowering brow, and Eliza was by no means a person to be offended. Maids
were scarce enough in England in the months after the end of the war; and,
even in easier times, there had been a dreary procession of arriving and
departing servants in the Rainham household—the high-spirited
characteristics of the children being apt to pall quickly upon anyone but
their mother. In days when there happened to be no Eliza, it was Cecilia
who naturally inherited the vacant place, adding the duties of house-maid
to those of nurse, governess, companion and general factotum; all exacting
posts, and all of them unpaid. As Mrs. Rainham gracefully remarked, when a
girl was not earning her own living, as so many were, but was enjoying the
comfort of home, the least she could do was to make herself useful.
</p>
<p>
“Half a minute, Eliza.” She smiled at the slatternly girl. “Sorry to keep
you waiting; there's a river of ink gone astray here.” She placed the
soaked cloth on the waste-paper basket and polished the top of the table
vigorously.
</p>
<p>
“I'll bet it worn't you wot spilt it—but it's you wot 'as the
cleanin' up,” muttered Eliza. “Lemme rub that up now, Miss.” She put down
her tray and took the cloth from Cecilia's hand.
</p>
<p>
“Thanks, ever so, Eliza—but you've got plenty to do yourself.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, if I 'ave, I ain't the on'y one wot 'as,” said Eliza darkly. Her
wizened little face suddenly flushed. “Lor, Miss,” she said
confidentially, “you doan't know wot a success that 'at you trimmed for me
is. It's a fair scream. I wore it larst night, an' me young man—'im
wot's in the Royal Irish—well, it fair knocked 'im! An' 'e wants me
to go out wiv 'im next Benk 'Oliday—out to 'Ampstead 'Eath. 'E never
got as far as arstin' me that before. I know it was that 'at wot done it.”
</p>
<p>
“Not it, Eliza,” Cecilia laughed. “It was just your hair under the hat. I
told you how pretty it would be, if you would only brush it more.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, I never 'ad no brush till you give me your old one,” said Eliza
practically. “I did brush it, though, a nundred times every night, till
Cook reckoned I was fair cracked. But 'air's on'y 'air, an' anyone 'as it—it's
not every one 'as an 'at like that.” She clattered plates upon the table
violently. “You goin' out this awfternoon, Miss?”
</p>
<p>
“As soon as I can, Eliza.” Cecilia's face fell. “I must arrange flowers
first.”
</p>
<p>
“I'll 'ave the vawses all ready wiv clean water for you,” said Eliza. “An'
don't you worry about the drorin'-room—I'll see as it's nice.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, you can't, Eliza—you have no time. I know it's silver-cleaning
afternoon.”
</p>
<p>
“Aw, I'll squeeze it in some'ow.” Eliza stopped suddenly, at a decided
footstep in the passage, and began to rattle spoons and forks with a
vigour born of long practice. Cecilia picked up the inky cloth, and went
out.
</p>
<p>
Her stepmother was standing by the hall-stand, apparently intent on
examining Wilfred's straw hat. She spoke in a low tone as the girl passed
her.
</p>
<p>
“I wish you did not find so much pleasure in gossiping with servants,
Cecilia. It is such a bad example for Avice. I have spoken about it to you
before.”
</p>
<p>
Cecilia did not answer. She went upstairs with flaming cheeks, and draped
the cloth across the hand basin in the bathroom, turning the tap
vengefully. A stream of water flowed through the wide stain.
</p>
<p>
“There's more real kindness in that poor little Cockney's finger than
there is in your whole body!” Cecilia whispered, apparently addressing the
unoffending cloth—which, having begun life as a dingy green and
black, did not seem greatly the worse for its new decoration. “Hateful old
thing!” A smile suddenly twitched the corners of her mouth. “Well, she
can't stop the money for a new cloth out of this quarter's allowance,
because I've just got it. That's luck, anyhow. I'll give it to Bob to
keep, in case she goes through my desk again.” She poured some ammonia
upon the stain, and rubbed gingerly, surveying the result with a tilted
nose. It was not successful. “Shall I try petrol? But petrol's an awful
price, and I've only got the little bottle I use for my gloves. Anyhow,
the horrible old cloth is so old and thin that it will fall to pieces if I
rub it. Oh, it's no use bothering about it—nothing will make it
better.” She squeezed the water from the cloth and spread the stained area
over a chair to dry, looking disgustedly at her own dyed finger-nails.
“Now for Avice's shoes before I scrub my hands.”
</p>
<p>
Avice's shoes proved a lengthy task, since the younger Miss Rainham had
apparently discovered some clay to walk through in Regent's Park on her
way home from the last dancing lesson; and well-hardened clay resists
ordinary cleaning methods, and demands edged tools. The luncheon bell rang
loudly before Cecilia had finished. She gave the shoes a final hurried
rub, and then fell to cleansing her hands; arriving in the dining-room,
pink and breathless, some minutes later, to find a dreary piece of tepid
mutton rapidly congealing on her plate.
</p>
<p>
“I think you might manage to be down in time for meals, Cecilia,” was Mrs.
Rainham's chilly greeting.
</p>
<p>
Cecilia said nothing. She had long realized the uselessness of any
excuses. To be answered merely gave her stepmother occasion for further
fault-finding—you might, as Cecilia told Bob, have a flawless
defence for the sin of the moment, but in that case Mrs. Rainham merely
changed her ground, and waxed eloquent about the sin of yesterday, or of
last Friday week, for which there might happen to be no defence at all. It
was so difficult to avoid being a criminal in Mrs. Rainham's eyes that
Cecilia had almost given up the attempt. She attacked her greasy mutton
and sloppy cabbage in silence, unpleasantly conscious of her stepmother's
freezing glance.
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Rainham was a short, stout woman, with colourless, rather pinched
features, and a wealth of glorious red hair. Some one had once told her
that her profile was classic, and she still rejoiced in believing it, was
always photographed from a side view, and wore in the house loose and
flowing garments of strange tints, calculated to bring out the colour of
her glowing tresses. Cecilia, who worshipped colour with every bit of her
artist soul, adored her stepmother's hair as thoroughly as she detested
her dresses. Bob, who was blunt and inartistic, merely detested her from
every point of view. “Don't see what you find to rave about in it,” he
said. “All the warmth of her disposition has simply gone to her head.”
</p>
<p>
There was certainly little warmth in Mrs. Rainham's heart, where her
stepdaughter was concerned. She disapproved very thoroughly of Cecilia in
every detail—of her pretty face and delicate colouring, of the fair
hair that rippled and curled and gleamed in a manner so light-hearted as
to seem distinctly out of place in the dingy room, of the slender grace
that was in vivid contrast to her own stoutness. She resented the very way
Cecilia put on her clothes—simple clothes, but worn with an air that
made her own elaborate dresses cheap and common by comparison. It was so
easy for her to look well turned out; and it would never be easy to dress
Avice, who bade fair to resemble her mother in build, and had already a
passion for frills and trimmings, and a contempt for plain things. Mrs.
Rainham had an uneasy conviction that the girl who bore all her scathing
comments in silence actually dared to criticize her in her own mind—perhaps
openly to Bob, whose blue eyes held many unspoken things as he looked at
her. Once she had overheard him say to Cecilia: “She looks like an
over-ornamented pie!” Cecilia had laughed, and Mrs. Rainham had passed on,
unsuspected, her mind full of a wild surmise. They would never dare to
mean her—and yet—that new dress of hers was plastered with
queer little bits of purposeless trimmings. She never again wore it
without that terrible sentence creeping into her mind. And she had been so
pleased with it, too! An over-ornamented pie. If she could only have been
sure they meant her!
</p>
<p>
She thought of it again as she sat looking at Cecilia. The new dress was
lying on her bed, ready to be worn that afternoon; and Cecilia was going
to meet Bob—Bob, who had uttered the horrible remark. Well, at least
there should be no haste about the meeting. It would do Bob no harm to
cool his heels for a little. She set her thin lips tightly together, as
she helped the rice pudding.
</p>
<p>
The meal ended, amidst loud grumbles from Wilfred that the pudding was
rice; and Cecilia hurried off to find the flowers and arrange them. The
florist's box was near the vases left ready by the faithful Eliza; she cut
the string with a happy exclamation of “Daffodils!” as she lifted the lid.
Daffodils were always a joy; this afternoon they were doubly welcome,
because easy to arrange. She sorted them into long-necked vases swiftly,
carrying each vase, when filled, to the drawing-room—a painful
apartment, crowded with knick-knacks until it resembled a bazaar stall,
with knobby and unsteady bamboo furniture and much drapery of a would-be
artistic nature. It was stuffy and airless. Cecilia wrinkled her pretty
nose as she entered. Mrs. Rainham held pronounced views on the subject of
what she termed the “fresh-air fad,” and declined to let London air—a
smoky commodity at best—attack her cherished carpets; with the
result that Cecilia breathed freely only in her little attic, which had no
carpet at all.
</p>
<p>
The lady of the house rustled in, in her flowing robe, as Cecilia put the
last vase into position on the piano—finding room for it with
difficulty amid a collection of photograph frames and china ornaments. She
carried some music, and cast a critical eye round the room.
</p>
<p>
“This place looks as if it had not been properly dusted for a week,” she
remarked. “See to it before you go, Cecilia.” She opened the piano. “Just
come and try the accompaniment to this song—it's rather difficult,
and I want to sing it to-night.”
</p>
<p>
Cecilia sat down before the piano, with woe in her heart. Her stepmother's
delusion that she could sing was one of the minor trials of her life. She
had been thoroughly trained in Paris, under a master who had prophesied
great things for her; now her hours at the Rainhams' tinkly piano, playing
dreary accompaniments to sentimental songs with Mrs. Rainham's weak
soprano wobbling and flattening on the high notes, were hours of real
distress, from which she would escape feeling her teeth on edge. Her
stepmother, however, had thoroughly enjoyed herself since the discovery
that no accompaniment presented any difficulty to Cecilia. It saved her a
world of trouble in practising; moreover, when standing, it was far easier
to let herself go in the affecting passages, which always suffered from
scantiness of breath when she was sitting down. Therefore she would stand
beside Cecilia, pouring forth song after song, with her head slightly on
one side, and one hand resting lightly on the piano—an attitude
which, after experiment with a mirror, she had decided upon as especially
becoming.
</p>
<p>
The song of the moment did make some demands upon her attention. It had a
disconcerting way of changing from sharps to flats; trouble being caused
by the singer failing to change also. Cecilia took her through it
patiently, going over and over again the tricky passages, and devoutly
wishing that Providence in supplying her stepmother with boundless energy,
a tireless voice and an enormous stock of songs, had also equipped her
with an ear for music. At length the lady desisted from her efforts.
</p>
<p>
“That's quite all right,” she said, with satisfaction. “I'll sing it
to-night. The Simons will be here, and they do like to hear what's new. Go
on with your dusting; I'll just run through a few pieces, and you can tell
me if I go wrong.”
</p>
<p>
Cecilia hesitated, glancing at the clock.
</p>
<p>
“It is getting very late,” she said. “Eliza told me she could dust the
room.”
</p>
<p>
“Eliza!” said Mrs. Rainham. “Why, it's her silver day; she had no business
to tell you anything of the sort—and neither had you, to ask her to
do it. Goodness knows it's hard enough to make the lazy thing do her own
work. Just get your duster, and make sure as you come down that the
children are properly dressed for the dancing class.” She broke into a
waltz.
</p>
<p>
Cecilia ran. Sounds of woe greeted her as she neared Avice's room, and she
entered, to find that damsel plunged in despair over a missing button.
</p>
<p>
“It was on all right last time I wore the beastly dress,” wailed she. “If
you'd look after my clothes like Mater said you had to, I wouldn't be
late. Whatever am I to do? I can't make the old dress shut with a safety
pin.”
</p>
<p>
“No, you certainly can't,” said her half-sister. “Never mind; there are
spare buttons for that frock, and I can sew one on.” She accomplished the
task with difficulty, since Avice appeared quite unable to stand still.
</p>
<p>
“Now, are you ready, Avice? Shoes, hat, gloves—where are your
gloves? How do you ever manage to find anything in that drawer?” She
rooted swiftly in a wild chaos, and finally unearthed the gloves. “Yes,
you'll do. Now, where's Wilfred?” Search revealed Wilfred, who hated
dancing, reading a “penny dreadful” in his room—ready to start, save
for the trifling detail of having neglected to wash an extremely dirty
face. Cecilia managed to make him repair the omission, after a struggle,
and saw them off with a thankful heart—which sank anew as she heard
a neighbouring clock strike three. Three—and already she should be
meeting Bob in Hyde Park. She fled for a duster, and hurried to the
drawing-room. Eliza encountered her on the way.
</p>
<p>
“Now, wotcher goin' to do wiv that duster, Miss?” she inquired. “I told
yer I'd do it for yer.”
</p>
<p>
“Mrs. Rainham is waiting for me to do it, Eliza. I'm sorry.”
</p>
<p>
“Ow!” Eliza's expression and her tilted nose spoke volumes. “Suppose she
finks I wouldn't clean 'er old silver proper. Silver, indeed!—'lectrer-plyte,
an' common at that. Just you cut and run as soon as she's out of the
'ouse, Miss; I know she's goin', 'cause 'er green and yaller dress is
a-airin' on 'er bed.”
</p>
<p>
“It's not much good, Eliza. I ought to be in the Park now.” Cecilia knew
she should not allow the girl to speak of her mistress so contemptuously.
But she was disheartened enough at the moment not to care.
</p>
<p>
“Lor!” said Eliza. “A bloomin' shyme, I calls it!”
</p>
<p>
Cecilia found her stepmother happily engaged upon a succession of wrong
notes that made her wince. She dusted the room swiftly, aware all the time
of a watchful eye. Occasionally came a crisp comment: “You didn't dust
that window-sill.” “Cecilia, that table has four legs—did you only
notice two?”—the effort to speak while playing generally bringing
the performer with vigour upon a wrong chord. The so-called music became
almost a physical torment to the over-strained girl.
</p>
<p>
“If she would only stop—if she would only go away!” she found
herself murmuring, over and over. Even the thought of Bob waiting in Hyde
Park in the chill east wind became dim beside that horrible piano, banging
and tinkling in her ear. She dusted mechanically, picking up one cheap
ornament after another—leaving the collection upon the piano until
the last, in the hope that by the time she reached it the thirst for music
would have departed from the performer. But Mrs. Rainham's tea appointment
was not yet; she was thoroughly enjoying herself, the charm of her own
execution added to the knowledge that Cecilia was miserable, and Bob
waiting somewhere, with what patience he might. She held on to the bitter
end, while the girl dusted the piano's burden with a set face. Then she
finished a long and painful run, and shut the piano with a bang.
</p>
<p>
“There—I've had quite a nice practice, and it isn't often the
drawing-room gets really decently dusted,” she remarked. “Nothing like the
eye of the mistress; I think I must practise every day while you are
dusting, Cecilia. Oh, and, Cecilia, give the legs of the piano a good
rubbing. Dear me, I must go and dress.”
</p>
<p>
Cecilia dragged herself upstairs a few minutes later. All the spring was
gone out of her; it really did not seem to matter much now whether she met
Bob or not; she was too tired to care. This was only a sample of many
days; so it had been for two years—so it would be for two more,
until she was twenty-one, and her own mistress. But it did not seem
possible that she could endure through another two years.
</p>
<p>
She reached her own room, and was about to shut the door, when the harsh
voice rasped upwards.
</p>
<p>
“Cecilia! Cecilia! Come here a minute.”
</p>
<p>
The girl went down slowly. Mrs. Rainham was standing before her mirror.
</p>
<p>
“Just come and hook my dress, Cecilia. This new dressmaker has a knack of
making everything hard to fasten. There—see that you start with the
right hook and eye.”
</p>
<p>
At the moment, physical contact with her stepmother was almost the last
straw for the girl. She obeyed in silence, shrinking back as far as she
could from the stout, over-scented body and the powdered face with the
thin lips. Mrs. Rainham watched her with a little smile.
</p>
<p>
“Yes, that's all right,” she said. “Now, my hat, Cecilia—it's in the
bandbox under the bed. I can't stoop in this dress, that's the worst of
it. And my gloves are in that box on the chest of drawers—the white
pair. Hurry, Cecilia, my appointment is for four o'clock.”
</p>
<p>
“Mine was for three o'clock,” said the girl in a low voice.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, well, you should manage your work better. I always tell you that.
Nothing like method in getting through every day. However, Bob is only
your brother—it would be more serious if it was a young man you were
meeting. Brothers don't matter much.”
</p>
<p>
Cecilia flamed round upon her.
</p>
<p>
“Bob is more to me than anyone in the world,” she cried. “And I would
rather keep any other man waiting.”
</p>
<p>
“Really? But I shouldn't think it very likely that you'll ever have to
trouble about other young men, Cecilia; you're not the sort. Too thin and
scraggy.” Mrs. Rainham surveyed her own generous proportions in the glass,
and gathered up her gloves with a pleased air. For the moment she could
not possibly believe that anyone could have referred to her as “an
over-ornamented pie.” “Good-bye, Cecilia; don't be late for tea.” She
sailed down the stairs.
</p>
<p>
Even the bang of the hall door failed to convey any relief to Cecilia. For
the second time she toiled upstairs, to the bare freshness of her little
room. Generally, it had a tonic effect upon her; to-day it seemed that
nothing could help her. She leaned her head against the window, a wave of
homesick loneliness flooding all her soul. So deep were its waters that
she did not hear the hall door open and close again, and presently swift
feet pounding up the stairs. Someone battered on her door.
</p>
<p>
“Cecilia! Are you there?”
</p>
<p>
She ran to open the door. Bob stood there, a short, muscular fellow, in
Air Force blue, with twinkling eyes. She put out her hands to him with a
little pitiful gesture.
</p>
<p>
“Don't say that horrible name again,” she whispered. “If anyone else calls
me Cecilia I'll just go mad.”
</p>
<p>
Bob came in, and flung a brotherly arm round her shoulders.
</p>
<p>
“Has it been so beastly?” he said. “Poor little Tommy. Oh, Tommy, I saw
the over-ornamented pie sailing down the street, and I dived into a side
alley until she'd gone out of range. I guessed from her proud and happy
face that you'd been scarified.”
</p>
<p>
“Scarified!” murmured Cecilia. But Bob was not listening. His face was
radiant.
</p>
<p>
“I couldn't wait in the park any longer,” he said. “I had to come and tell
you. Tommy, old thing—I'm demobilized!”
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER II
</h2>
<h3>
THE RAINHAMS
</h3>
<p>
It was one of Mrs. Mark Rainham's grievances that, comparatively late in
her married life, she should suddenly find herself brought into
association with the children of her husband's first marriage. They were
problems that Fate had previously removed from her path; she found it
extremely annoying—at first—that Fate should cease to be so
tactful, casting upon her a burden long borne by other shoulders. It was
not until she had accepted Mark Rainham, eleven years before, that she
found out the very existence of Bob and Cecilia; she resented the manner
of the discovery, even as she resented the children themselves. Not that
she ever dreamed of breaking off her engagement on their account. She was
a milliner in a Kensington shop, and to marry Mark Rainham, who was
vaguely “something in the city,” and belonged to a good club, and dressed
well, was a distinct step in the social scale, and two unknown children
were not going to make her draw back. But to mother them was quite another
question.
</p>
<p>
Luckily, Fate had a compassionate eye upon the young Rainhams, and was
quite willing to second their stepmother's resolve that they should come
into her life as little as possible. Their father had never concerned
himself greatly about them. A lazy and selfish man, he had always been
willing to shelve the care of his small son and daughter—babies were
not in his line, and the aunt who had brought up their mother was only too
anxious to take Bob and Cecilia when that girl-mother had slipped away
from life, leaving a week-old Cecilia and a sturdy, solemn Bob of three.
</p>
<p>
The arrangement suited Mark Rainham very well. Aunt Margaret's house at
Twickenham was big enough for half a dozen babies; the children went
there, with their nurse, and he was free to slip back into bachelor ways,
living in comfortable chambers within easy reach of his club and not too
far, with a good train service, from a golf links. The regular week-end
visits to the babies suffered occasional interruptions, and gradually grew
fewer and fewer, until he became to the children a vague and mysterious
person named Papa, who dropped from the skies now and then, asked them a
number of silly questions, talked with great politeness to Aunt Margaret—who,
they instinctively felt, liked him no better than they did—and then
disappeared, whereupon every one was immensely relieved. Even the fact
that he generally brought them a packet of expensive sweets was as nothing
beside the harrowing knowledge that they must kiss him, thereby having
their faces brushed with a large and scrubby moustache. Aunt Margaret and
nurse did not have to endure this infliction—which seemed to Bob and
Cecilia obviously unfair. But the visits did not often happen—not
enough to disturb seriously an existence crammed with interesting things
like puppies and kittens, the pony cart, boats on the river that ran just
beyond the lawn, occasional trips to London and the Zoo, and delirious
fortnights at the seaside or on Devonshire moors. Cecilia had never known
even Bobby's shadowy memories of their own mother. Aunt Margaret was
everything that mattered, and the person called Papa was merely an
unpleasant incident. Other little boys and girls whom they knew owned, in
their houses, delightful people named Daddy and Mother; but Cecilia and
Bob quite understood that every one could not have the same things, for
possibly these fortunate children had no puppies or pony carts. Nurse had
pointed out this, so that it was perfectly clear.
</p>
<p>
It was when Cecilia was eight and Bob eleven, that their father married
again. To the children it meant nothing; to Aunt Margaret it was a bomb.
If Mark Rainham had happened to die, or go to the North Pole, she would
have borne the occurrence calmly; but that he should take a step which
might mean separating her from her beloved babies shook her to her
foundations. Even when she was assured that the new Mrs. Rainham disliked
children, and had not the slightest intention of adding Bob and Cecilia to
her household, Aunt Margaret remained uneasy. The red-haired person, as
she mentally labelled her, might change her mind. Mark Rainham was wax in
her hands, and would always do as he was told. Aunt Margaret, goaded by
fear, became heroic. She let the beloved house at Twickenham while Mr. and
Mrs. Rainham were still on their honeymoon; packed up the children, her
maids, nurse, the parrot and most of the puppies; and kept all her plans a
profound secret until she was safely established in Paris.
</p>
<p>
To the average Londoner, Paris is very far off. There are, of course, very
many people who run across the Channel as easily as a Melbourne man may
week-end in Gippsland or Bendigo, but the suburban section of London is
not fond of voyaging across a strip of water with unpleasant possibilities
in the way of choppiness, to a strange country where most of the
inhabitants have the bad taste not to speak English. Neither Mark Rainham
nor his new wife had ever been in France, and to them it seemed, as Aunt
Margaret had shrewdly hoped it would, almost as though the Twickenham
household had gone to the North Pole. A great relief fell upon them, since
there could now be no question of assuming duties when those duties were
suddenly beyond their reach. And Aunt Margaret's letter was convincing—such
a good offer, suddenly, for the Twickenham house; such excellent
educational opportunities for the children, in the shape of semi-English
schools, where Bob and Cecilia might mix with English children and retain
their nationality while acquiring Parisian French. If Mark Rainham felt
any inward resentment at the summary disposal of his son and daughter, he
did not show it; as of old, it was easier to let things slide. Aunt
Margaret was given a free hand, save that at fourteen Bob returned to
school in England; an arrangement that mattered little, since all his
holidays were spent at the new home at Fontainebleau—a house which,
even to the parrot, was highly reminiscent of Twickenham.
</p>
<p>
Bob and Cecilia found life extremely interesting. They were cheery,
happy-go-lucky youngsters, with an immense capacity for enjoyment; and
Aunt Margaret, while much too shrewd an old lady to spoil children,
delighted in giving them a good time. They found plenty of friends in the
little English community in Paris, as well as among their French
neighbours. Paris itself was full of fascination; then there were
wonderful excursions far afield—holidays in Brussels, in the South
of France, even winter sporting in Switzerland. Aunt Margaret was
determined that her nurselings should miss nothing that she could give
them. The duty letters which she insisted on their writing, once a month,
to their father told of happenings that seemed strangely remote from the
humdrum life of London. “By Jove, the old lady gives those youngsters a
good time!” Mark Rainham would comment, tossing them across the table to
his wife. He did not guess at the dull rage that filled her as she read
them—the unreasoning jealousy that these children should have
opportunities so far beyond any that were likely to occur for her own, who
squabbled angrily over their breakfast while she read.
</p>
<p>
“She seems to have any amount of money to spend on gadding about,” she
would say unpleasantly.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, pots of money. Wish to goodness I had some of it,” her husband would
answer. Money was always scarce in the Rainham household.
</p>
<p>
When the thunderbolt of war fell upon the world, Aunt Margaret, after the
first pangs of panic, stiffened her back, and declined to leave France.
England, she declared, was not much safer than anywhere else; and was it
likely that she and Cecilia would run away when Bob was coming back? Bob,
just eighteen, captain of his school training corps, stroke of its racing
boat, and a mighty man of valour at football, slid naturally into khaki
within a month of the outbreak of war, putting aside toys, with all the
glad company of boys of the Empire, until such time as the Hun should be
taught that he had no place among white men. Aunt Margaret and Cecilia,
knitting frantically at socks and mufflers and Balaclava helmets, were
desperately proud of him, and compared his photograph, in uniform, with
all the pictures of Etienne and Henri and Armand, and other French boys
who had played with him under the trees at Fontainebleau, and had now
marched away to join him at the greater game. It was difficult to realize
that they were not still little boys in blouses and knickerbockers—difficult
even when they swooped down from time to time on short leave, filling the
quiet houses with pranks and laughter that were wholly boyish. Even when
Bob had two stars on his cuff, and wore the ribbon of the Military Cross,
it would have astonished Aunt Margaret and Cecilia very much had anyone
suggested that he was grown up.
</p>
<p>
Indeed, Aunt Margaret was never to think of him as anything but “one of
the children.” Illness, sudden and fierce, fell upon her after a long
spell of duty at the hospital where she worked from the first few months
of the war—working as cook, since she had no nursing experience, and
was, she remarked, too old to learn a new trade. Brave as she was, there
was no battling for her against the new foe; she faded out of life after a
few days, holding Cecilia's hand very tightly until the end.
</p>
<p>
Bob, obtaining leave with much difficulty, arrived a few days later, to
find a piteous Cecilia, white-faced, stunned and bewildered. She pleaded
desperately against leaving France; amidst all the horror and chaos that
had fallen upon her, it seemed unthinkable that she should put the sea
between herself and Bob. But to remain was impossible. Aunt Margaret's
English maids wanted to go back to their friends, and a girl of seventeen
could scarcely stay alone in a country torn by two years of war. Besides,
Aunt Margaret's affairs were queerly indefinite; there seemed very little
money where there had formerly been plenty. There was no alternative for
Cecilia but England—and England meant the Rainham household, and
such welcome as it might choose to give her.
</p>
<p>
She was still bewildered when they made the brief journey across the
Channel—a new Channel, peopled only with war-ships of every kind,
from grim Dreadnoughts to submarines; with aircraft, bearing the red,
white and blue circles of Britain, floating and circling overhead. Last
time Cecilia had crossed, it had been with Aunt Margaret on a big turbine
mail boat; they had reached Calais just as an excursion steamer from
Margate came up, gay with flags and light dresses, with a band playing
ragtime on the well-deck, and people dancing to a concertina at the stern.
Now they zig-zagged across, sometimes at full speed, sometimes stopping
dead or altering their course in obedience to the destroyer nosing ahead
of them through the Channel mist; and she could see the face of the
captain on the bridge, strained and anxious. There were so few civilians
on board that Cecilia and the two old servants were greeted with curious
stares; nearly all the passengers were in uniform, their boots caked with
the mud of the trenches, their khaki soiled with the grime of war. It was
all rather dream-like to Cecilia; and London itself was a very bad dream;
darkened and silent, with the great beams of searchlights playing back and
forth over the black skies in search of marauding Zeppelins. And then came
her father's stiff greeting, and the silent drive to the tall, narrow
house in Lancaster Gate, where Mrs. Rainham met her coldly. In after years
Cecilia never could think without a shudder of that first meal in her
father's house—the struggle to eat, the lagging talk round the
table, with Avice and Wilfred, frankly hostile, staring at her in silence,
and her stepmother's pale eyes appraising every detail of her dress. It
was almost like happiness again to find herself alone, later; in a dingy
little attic bedroom that smelt as though it had never known an open
window—a sorry little hole, but still, out of the reach of those
unblinking eyes.
</p>
<p>
For the first year Cecilia had struggled to get away to earn her own
living. But a very few weeks served to show Mrs. Rainham that chance had
sent her, in the person of the girl whose coming she had sullenly
resented, a very useful buffer against any period of domestic stress. Aunt
Margaret had trained Cecilia thoroughly in all housewifely virtues, and
her half-French education had given her much that was lacking in the
stodgy damsels of Mrs. Rainham's acquaintance. She was quick and courteous
and willing; responding, moreover, to the lash of the tongue—after
her first wide-eyed stare of utter amazement—exactly as a well-bred
colt responds to a deftly-used whip. “I'll keep her,” was Mrs. Rainham's
inward resolve. “And she'll earn her keep too!”
</p>
<p>
There was no doubt that Cecilia did that. Wilfred and Avice saw to it,
even had not their mother been fully capable of exacting the last ounce
from the only helper she had ever had who had not the power to give her a
week's notice. Cecilia's first requests to be allowed to take up work
outside had been shelved vaguely. “We'll find some nice war-work for you
presently”. . . and meanwhile, the household was short-handed, Mrs.
Rainham was overstrained—Cecilia found later that her stepmother was
always “overstrained” whenever she spoke of leaving home—and duties
multiplied about her and hemmed her in. Mrs. Rainham was clever; the net
closed round the girl so gradually that she scarcely realized its meshes
until they were drawn tightly. Even Bob helped. “You're awfully young to
start work on your own account,” he wrote. “Can't you stick it for a bit,
if they are decent to you?” And, rather than cause him any extra worry,
Cecilia decided that she must “stick it.”
</p>
<p>
Of her father she saw little. He was, just as she remembered him in her
far-back childhood at Twickenham, vague and colourless. Rather to her
horror, she found that the ordeal of being kissed by his large and scrubby
moustache was just as unpleasant as ever. Cecilia had no idea of how he
earned his living—he ate his breakfast hurriedly, concealed behind
the Daily Mail, and then disappeared, bound for some mysterious place in
the city—the part of London that was always full of mystery to
Cecilia. Golf was the one thing that roused him to any enthusiasm, and
golf was even more of a mystery than the city. Cecilia knew that it was
played with assorted weapons, kept in a bag, and used for smiting a small
ball over great expanses of country, but beyond these facts her knowledge
stopped. Mrs. Rainham had set her to clean the clubs one day, but her
father, appearing unexpectedly, had taken them from her hands with
something like roughness. “No, by Jove!” he said. “You do a good many odd
jobs in this house, but I'm hanged if you shall clean my golf sticks.”
Cecilia did not realize that the assumed roughness covered something very
like shame.
</p>
<p>
Money matters were rather confusing. A lawyer—also in the city—paid
her a small sum quarterly—enough to dress on, and for minor
expenses. Bob wrote that Aunt Margaret's affairs were in a beastly tangle.
An annuity had died with her, and many of her investments had been hit by
the war, and had ceased to pay dividends—had even, it seemed, ceased
to be valuable at all. There was a small allowance for Bob also, and some
day, if luck should turn, there might be a little more. Bob did not say
that his own allowance was being hoarded for Cecilia, in case he “went
west.” He lived on his pay, and even managed to save something out of
that, being a youth of simple tastes. His battalion had been practically
wiped out of existence in the third year of the war, and after a peaceful
month in a north country hospital, near an aerodrome, the call of the air
was too much for him—he joined the cheerful band of flying men, and
soon filled his letters to Cecilia with a bewildering mixture of
technicalities and aviation slang that left her gasping. But he got his
wings in a very short time, and she was prouder of him than ever—and
more than ever desperately afraid for him.
</p>
<p>
The children's daily governess, a down-trodden person, left after Cecilia
had been in England for a few months, and the girl stepped naturally into
the vacant position until some one else should be found. She had no idea
that Mrs. Rainham made no effort at all to discover any other successor to
Miss Simpkins. Where, indeed, Mrs. Rainham demanded of herself, would she
be likely to find anyone with such qualifications—young, docile,
with every advantage of a modern education, speaking French like a native,
and above and beyond all else, requiring no pay? It would be flying in the
face of Providence to ignore such a chance. Wherefore Cecilia continued to
lead her step-sisters and brother in the paths of learning, and life
became a thing of utter weariness. For Mrs. Rainham, though shrewd enough
to get what she wanted, in the main was not a far-sighted woman; and in
her unreasoning dislike and jealousy of Cecilia she failed to see that she
defeated her own ends by making her a drudge. Whatever benefit the girl
might have given the children was lost in their contempt for her. She had
no authority, no power to enforce a command, or to give a punishment, and
the children quickly discovered that, so long as they gave her the merest
show of obedience in their mother's presence, any shortcomings in
education would be laid at Cecilia's door. Lesson time became a period of
rare sport for the young Rainhams; it was so easy to bait the new sister
with cheap taunts, to watch the quick blood mount to the very roots of her
fair hair, to do just as little as possible, and then to see her blamed
for the result. Mrs. Rainham's bitter tongue grew more and more
uncontrolled as time went on and she felt the girl more fully in her
power. And Cecilia lived through each day with tight-shut lips, conscious
of one clear thing in her mist of unhappy bewilderment—that Bob must
not know: Bob, who would probably leave his job of skimming through the
air of her beloved France after the Hun, and snatch an hour to fly to
England and annihilate the entire Rainham household, returning with
Cecilia tucked away somewhere in his aeroplane. It was a pleasant dream,
and served to carry her through more than one hard moment. But it did not
always serve; and there were nights when Cecilia mounted to her attic with
dragging footsteps, to sit by her window in the darkness, gripping her
courage with both hands, afraid to let herself think of the dear, happy
past; of Aunt Margaret, whose very voice was love; least of all of Bob,
perhaps even now flying in the dark over the German lines. There was but
one thing that she could hold to: she voiced it to herself, over and over
with clenched hands, “It can't last for ever! It can't last for ever!”
</p>
<p>
And then, after the long years of clutching anxiety, came the Armistice,
and Cecilia forgot all her troubles in its overwhelming relief. No one
would shoot at Bob any longer; there were no more hideous, squat guns,
with muzzles yawning skywards, ready to shell him as he skimmed high
overhead, like a swallow in the blue. Therefore she sang as she went about
her work, undismayed by the laboured witticisms of Avice and Wilfred, or
by Mrs. Rainham's venom, which increased with the realization that her
victim might possibly slip from her grasp, since Bob would come home, and
Bob was a person to be reckoned with. Certainly Bob had scarcely any
money; moreover, Cecilia was not of age, and, therefore, still under her
father's control. But Mrs. Rainham felt vaguely uneasy, and visions
floated before her of the old days when governesses and maids had departed
with unpleasant frequency, leaving her to face all sorts of disagreeable
consequences. She set her thin lips, vowing inwardly that Cecilia should
remain.
</p>
<p>
Nevertheless it was a relief to her that early demobilization did not come
for Bob. At the time of the Armistice he was attached to an Australian
flying squadron, and for some months remained abroad; then he was sent
back to England, and employed in training younger fliers at a Surrey
aerodrome. This had its drawbacks in Mrs. Rainham's eyes, since he was
often able to run up to London, and, to Bob, London merely meant Cecilia.
It was only a question of time before he discovered something of what life
at Lancaster Gate meant—his enlightenment beginning upon an
afternoon when, arriving unexpectedly, and being left by Eliza to find
Cecilia for himself, he had the good fortune to overhear Mrs. Rainham in
one of her best efforts—a “wigging” to which Avice and Wilfred were
listening delightedly, and which included not only Cecilia's sin of the
moment, but her upbringing, her French education, her “foreign fashion of
speaking,” and her sinful extravagance in shoes. These, and other matters,
were furnishing Mrs. Rainham with ample material for a bitter discourse
when she became aware of another presence in the room, and her eloquence
faltered at the sight of Bob's astonished anger.
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Rainham did not recall with any enjoyment the interview which
followed—Cecilia and the children having been brushed out of the way
by the indignant soldier. Things which had been puzzling to Bob were
suddenly made clear—traces of distress which Cecilia had often
explained away vaguely, the children's half-contemptuous manner towards
her, even Eliza's tone in speaking of her—a queer blend of anger and
pity. Mrs. Rainham held her ground to some extent, but the brother's
questions were hard to parry, and some of his comments stung.
</p>
<p>
“Well, I'll take her away,” he stormed at length. “It's evident that she
does not give you satisfaction, and she certainly isn't happy. She had
better come away with me to-day.”
</p>
<p>
“Ah,” said his stepmother freezingly, “and where will you take her?”
</p>
<p>
Bob hesitated.
</p>
<p>
“There are plenty of places—” he began.
</p>
<p>
“Not for a young girl alone. Cecilia is very ignorant of England; you
could not be with her. Your father would not hear of it. You must remember
that Cecilia is under his control until she is twenty-one.”
</p>
<p>
“My father has never bothered about either of us,” Bob said bitterly. “He
surely won't object if I take her off your hands.”
</p>
<p>
“He will certainly not permit any such thing. Whatever arrangement he made
during your aunt's lifetime was quite a different matter. If you attempt
to take Cecilia from his control you commit an illegal action,” said Mrs.
Rainham—hoping she was on safe ground. To her relief Bob did not
contradict her. English law and its mysteries were beyond him.
</p>
<p>
“I don't see that that matters,” he began doubtfully. His stepmother cut
him short.
</p>
<p>
“You would very soon find that it matters a good deal,” she said coldly.
“It would be quite simple for your father to get some kind of legal
injunction, forbidding you to interfere with your sister. Home training is
what she needs, and we are determined that she shall get it. You will only
unsettle and injure her by trying to induce her to disobey us.”
</p>
<p>
The hard voice fell like lead on the boy's ears. He felt very helpless; if
he did indeed snatch his sister away from this extremely unpleasant home,
and their father had only to stretch out a long, legal tentacle and claw
her back, it was clear that her position would be harder than ever. He
could only give in, at any rate, for the present, and in his anxiety for
the little sister whom Aunt Margaret had always trained him to protect, he
humbled himself to beg for better treatment for her. “No one ever was
angry with her,” he said. “She'll do anything for you if you're decent to
her.”
</p>
<p>
“She might give less cause for annoyance if she had had a little more
severity,” said Mrs. Rainham with an unspoken sneer at poor Aunt Margaret.
“You had better advise her to do her best in return for the very
comfortable home we give her.” With which Bob had to endeavour to be
content, for the present. He went off to find Cecilia, with a lowering
brow, leaving his stepmother not nearly so easy in her mind as she seemed.
For Bob had a square jaw, and was apt to talk little and do a good deal;
and his affection for Cecilia was, in Mrs. Rainham's eyes, little short of
ridiculous.
</p>
<p>
Thereafter, the brother and sister took counsel together and made great
plans for the future, when once the Air Force should decide that it had no
further wish to keep Captain Robert Rainham from earning his living on
terra firma. What that future was to be for Bob was very difficult to
plan. Aunt Margaret had intended him for a profession; but the time for
that had gone by, even had the money been still available. “I'm half glad
that it isn't,” Bob said; “I don't see how a fellow could go back to
swotting over books after being really alive for nearly five years.” There
seemed nothing but “the land” in some shape or form; they were not very
clear about it, but Bob was strenuously “keeping his ears open”—like
so many lads of his rank in the early months of 1919, when the future that
had seemed so indefinite during the years of war suddenly loomed up, very
large and menacing. Cecilia had less anxiety; she had a cheerful faith
that Bob would manage something—a three-roomed cottage somewhere in
the country, where he could look after sheep, or crops, or something of
the kind, while she cooked and mended for him, and grew such flowers as
had bloomed in the dear garden at Fontainebleau. Sheep and crops, she was
convinced, grew themselves, in the main; a person of Bob's ability would
surely find little difficulty in superintending the process. And, whatever
happened, nothing could be worse than life in Lancaster Gate.
</p>
<p>
Neither of them ever thought of appealing to their father, either for
advice or for help. He remained, as he had always been to them, utterly
colourless; a kind of well-bred shadow of his wife, taking no part in her
hard treatment of Cecilia, but lifting not a finger to save her. He did
not look happy; indeed, he seldom spoke—it was not necessary, when
Mrs. Rainham held the floor. He had a tiny den which he used as a
smoking-room, and there he spent most of his time when at home, being
blessed in the fact that his wife disliked the smell of smoke, and refused
to allow it in her drawing-room. Nobody took much notice of him. The
younger children treated him with cool indifference; Bob met him with a
kind of strained and uncomfortable civility.
</p>
<p>
Curiously enough, it was only Eliza who divined in him a secret hankering
after his eldest daughter—Cecilia, who would have been very much
astonished had anyone hinted at such a thing to her. The sharp eyes of the
little Cockney were not to be deceived in any matter concerning the only
person in the house who treated her as if she were a human being and not a
grate-cleaning automaton.
</p>
<p>
“You see 'im foller 'er wiv 'is eyes, that's all,” said Eliza to Cook, in
the privacy of their joint bedroom. “Fair 'ungry he looks, sometimes.”
</p>
<p>
“No need for 'im to be 'ungry, if 'e 'ad the sperrit of a man,” said Cook
practically. “Ain't she 'is daughter?”
</p>
<p>
“Well, yes, in a manner of speakin',” said Eliza doubtfully. “But there
ain't much of father an' daughter about them two. I'd ruther 'ave my ole
man, down W'itechapel way; 'e can belt yer a fair terror, w'en 'e's drunk,
but 'e'll allers tike yer out an' buy yer a kipper arterwards. Thet's on'y
decent, fatherly feelin'.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, Master don't belt 'er, does 'e?”
</p>
<p>
“No; but 'e don't buy 'er the kipper, neither. An' I'd ruther 'ave the
beltin' from my ole man, even wivout no kipper, than 'ave us allers
lookin' at each other as if we was wooden images. Even a beltin' shows as
'ow a man 'as some regard for 'is daughter.”
</p>
<p>
“It do,” said Cook. “Pity is, you ain't 'ad more of it, that's the only
thing!”
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003">
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</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER III
</h2>
<h3>
PLAYING TRUANT
</h3>
<p>
“Demobilized! Oh, Bob—truly?”
</p>
<p>
“Truly and really,” said Bob. “At least, I shall be in twenty-seven days.
Got my orders. Show up for the last time on the fifteenth of next month.
Get patted on the head, and told to run away and play. That's the
programme, I believe, Tommy. The question is—What shall we play at?”
</p>
<p>
Cecilia brushed the hair from her brow.
</p>
<p>
“I don't know,” she said vaguely. “It's too big to think of; and I can't
think in this awful house, anyhow. Take me out, quick, please, Bobby.”
</p>
<p>
“Sure,” said Bob, regarding her with an understanding eye. “But you want
to change or something, don't you, old girl?”
</p>
<p>
“Why, yes, I suppose I do,” said Cecilia, with a watery smile, looking at
her schoolroom overall. “I forgot clothes. I've had a somewhat packed
morning.”
</p>
<p>
“You look as if this had been your busy day,” remarked Bob. “Right-oh, old
girl; jump into your things, and I'll wait on the mat. Any chance of the
she-dragon coming back?”
</p>
<p>
“No; she's gone out to tea.”
</p>
<p>
“More power to her,” said Bob cheerfully. “And the dragon puppies?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, they're safely out of the way. I won't be five minutes, Bob. Don't
shut the door tight—you might disappear before I opened it.”
</p>
<p>
“Not much,” said Bob, through the crack of the door. “I'm a fixture. Want
any shoes cleaned?”
</p>
<p>
“No, thanks, Bobby dear. I have everything ready.”
</p>
<p>
“From what the other fellows say about their sisters, I'm inclined to
believe that you're an ornament to your sex,” remarked Bob. “When you say
five minutes, it really does mean not more than five and a half, as a
rule; other girls seem to mean three-quarters of an hour.”
</p>
<p>
“I get all my things ready the night before when I'm going to meet you,”
said Cecilia. “Catch me losing any time on my one day out. You can come
back again—my coat's on the hanger there, Bobby.” He put her into it
deftly, and she leaned back against him. “If you knew how good it is to
see you again—and you smell of clean fresh air and good tobacco and
Russia leather, and all sorts of nice things.”
</p>
<p>
“Good gracious, I'll excite attention in the street!” grinned Bob. “I
didn't imagine I was a walking scent-factory!”
</p>
<p>
“Neither you are—but everything in this house smells of coal-smoke
and cabbage-water and general fustiness, and you're a nice change, that's
all,” said Cecilia. They ran downstairs together light-heartedly, and let
themselves out into the street.
</p>
<p>
“Do we catch a train or a 'bus?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, can't we walk?” Cecilia said. “I think if I walked hard I might
forget Mrs. Rainham.”
</p>
<p>
“I'd hate you to remember her,” Bob said. “Tell me what she has been
doing, anyhow, and then we won't think of her any more.”
</p>
<p>
“It doesn't sound much,” Cecilia said. “There never is anything very much.
Only it goes on all the time.” She told him the story of her day, and
managed to make herself laugh now and then over it. But Bob did not laugh.
His good-humoured young face was set and angry.
</p>
<p>
“There isn't a whole lot in it, is there?” Cecilia finished. “And no one
would think I was badly off—especially when the thing that hit me
hardest of all was just dusting that awful drawing-room while she plays
her awful tunes. Yes, I know I shouldn't say awful, and that no lady says
it—that must be true because Mrs. Rainham frequently tells me so—but
it's such a relief to say whatever I feel like.”
</p>
<p>
“You can say what you jolly well please,” said Bob wrathfully. “Who's she,
I'd like to know, to tell us what to say? And she kept you there all the
afternoon, when she knew you were due to meet me!—my hat, she is a
venomous old bird! And now it's half-past four, and what time does she
expect you back?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh—the usual thing; the children's tea-time at six. She told me not
to be late.”
</p>
<p>
Bob set his jaw.
</p>
<p>
“Well, you won't be late, because you won't be there,” he said. “No going
back to tea for you. We'll have dinner at the Petit Riche in Soho, and
then we'll do a theatre, and then I'll take you home and we'll face the
music. Are you game?”
</p>
<p>
Cecilia laughed.
</p>
<p>
“Game? Why, of course—but there will be awful scenes, Bobby.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, what can she do to you?” asked Bob practically. “You're too big to
beat, or she'd certainly do it; she can't stop your pay, because you don't
get any; and as you have your meals with the youngsters, she can't dock
your rations. That doesn't leave her much beside her tongue. Of course,
she can do a good deal with that; do you think you can stand it?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, yes,” said Cecilia. “You see, I generally have it, so it really
doesn't matter much. But if she forbids me to go out with you again,
Bobby?”
</p>
<p>
Bob pondered.
</p>
<p>
“Well—you're nineteen,” he said. “And the very first minute I can,
I'm going to take you away from her altogether. If you were a kid I
wouldn't let you defy her. But, hang it all, Tommy, I'm not going to let
her punish you as though you were ten. If she forbids you to meet me—well,
you must just take French leave, that's all.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, Bob, you are a satisfying person!” said Cecilia, with a sigh.
</p>
<p>
“Well, I don't know—it's you who will have to stand the racket,”
said Bob. “I only wish I could take my share, old girl. But, please
goodness, it won't be for long.”
</p>
<p>
“Bob,” said Cecilia, and paused. “What about that statement of hers—that
it would be illegal for you to take me away? Do you think it's true?”
</p>
<p>
“I've asked our Major, and he's a bit doubtful,” said Bob. “All the other
fellows say it's utter nonsense. But I'm going to ask the old lawyer chap
who has charge of Aunt Margaret's money—he'll tell me. We won't
bother about it, Tommy; if I can't get you politely, I'll steal you. Just
forget the she-dragon and all her works.”
</p>
<p>
“But have you thought about what you are going to do?”
</p>
<p>
“I don't think of much else, and that's the truth, Tommy,” said her
brother ruefully. “You see, there's mighty little in sight. I could get a
clerkship, I suppose. I could certainly get work as a day labourer. But I
don't see much in either of those possibilities towards a little home with
you, which is what I want. I'm going to answer every advertisement I can
find for fellows wanted on farms.” He straightened his square shoulders.
“Tommy, there must be plenty of work for any chap as strong as an ox, as I
am.”
</p>
<p>
“I'm sure there's work,” said Cecilia. “But the men who want jobs don't
generally advertise themselves as 'complete with sister.' I'm what's
technically known as an encumbrance, Bob.”
</p>
<p>
“You!” said Bob. “You're just part of the firm, so don't you forget it.
Didn't we always arrange that we should stick together?”
</p>
<p>
“We did—but it may not be easy to manage,” Cecilia said, doubtfully.
“Perhaps we could get some job together; I could do inside work, or teach,
or sew.”
</p>
<p>
“No!” said Bob explosively. “If I can't earn enough for us both, I ought
to be shot, Aunt Margaret didn't bring you up to work.”
</p>
<p>
“But the world has turned upside down since Aunt Margaret died,” said
Cecilia. “And I have worked pretty hard for the last two years, Bob; and
it hasn't hurt me.”
</p>
<p>
“It has made you older—and you ought to be only a kid yet,” said Bob
wistfully. “You haven't had any of the fun girls naturally ought to have.
I don't want you to slave all your time, Tommy.”
</p>
<p>
“Bless you!” said his sister. “But I wouldn't care a bit, as long as it
was near you—and not in Lancaster Gate.”
</p>
<p>
They had turned across Hyde Park, where a big company of girl guides was
drilling, watched by a crowd of curious on-lookers. Across a belt of grass
some boy scouts were performing similar evolutions, marching with all the
extra polish and swagger they could command, just to show the guides that
girls were all very well in their way, but that no one with skirts could
really hope to do credit to a uniform. Cecilia paused to watch them.
</p>
<p>
“Thank goodness, the children can come and drill in the park again!” she
said. “I hated to come here before the armistice—soldiers, soldiers,
drilling everywhere, and guns and searchlight fixings. Whenever I saw a
squad drilling it made me think of you, and of course I felt sure you'd be
killed!”
</p>
<p>
“I do like people who look on the bright side of life!” said Bob laughing.
“And whenever you saw an aeroplane I suppose you made sure I was crashing
somewhere?”
</p>
<p>
“Certainly I did,” said his sister with dignity.
</p>
<p>
“Women are queer things,” Bob remarked. “If you had these unpleasant
beliefs, how did you manage to write as cheerfully as you did? Your
letters were a scream—I used to read bits of 'em out to the
fellows.”
</p>
<p>
“You had no business to do any such thing,” said Cecilia, blushing.
</p>
<p>
“Well, I did, anyhow. They used to make 'em yell. How did you manage
them?”
</p>
<p>
“Well, it was no good assuring you you'd be killed,” said Cecilia
practically. “I thought it was more sensible to try to make you laugh.”
</p>
<p>
“You certainly did that,” said Bob. “I fancied from your letters that life
with the she-dragon was one huge joke, and that Papa was nice and
companionable, and the kids, sweet little darlings who ate from your hand.
And all the time you were just the poor old toad under the harrow!”
</p>
<p>
“I'm not a toad!” rejoined his sister indignantly. “Don't you think you
could find pleasanter things to compare me to?”
</p>
<p>
“Toads aren't bad,” said Bob, laughing. “Ever seen the nice old fellow in
the Zoo who shoots out a tongue a yard long and picks up a grub every
time? He's quite interesting.”
</p>
<p>
“I certainly never had any inclination to do any such thing,” Cecilia
laughed.
</p>
<p>
They had turned into Piccadilly and were walking down, watching the
crowded motor traffic racing north and south. Suddenly Bob straightened up
and saluted smartly, as a tall staff officer, wearing a general's badges,
ran down the steps of a big club, and nearly cannoned into Cecilia.
</p>
<p>
“I beg your pardon!” he said—and then, noticing Bob—“How are
you, Rainham?” He dived into a waiting taxi, and was whisked away.
</p>
<p>
“Did he bump you?” inquired Bob.
</p>
<p>
“No—though it would be almost a privilege to be bumped by anyone as
splendid as that!” Cecilia answered. “He knows you, too!—who is he,
Bobby?”
</p>
<p>
“That's General Harran, the Australian,” said Bob proudly. “He's a great
man. I've run into him occasionally since I've been with the Australians
in France.”
</p>
<p>
“He looks nice.”
</p>
<p>
“He is nice,” replied Bob. “Awful martinet about duty, but he treats every
one under him jolly well. Never forgets a face or a name, and he's always
got a decent word for everybody. He's had some quite long talks to me,
when we were waiting for some 'plane or other to come back.”
</p>
<p>
“Why wouldn't he?” asked Cecilia, who considered it a privilege for anyone
to talk to her brother.
</p>
<p>
Bob regarded her in amazement.
</p>
<p>
“Good gracious!” he ejaculated. “Why, he's a major-general; I can tell
you, most men of his rank haven't any use for small fry like me—to
talk to, that is.”
</p>
<p>
Cecilia had a flash of memory.
</p>
<p>
“Isn't he the general who was close by when you brought that German
aeroplane down behind our lines? Didn't he say nice things to you about
it?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, that was only in the way of business,” said Bob somewhat confused.
“The whole thing was only a bit of luck—and, of course, it was luck,
too, that he was there. But he is just as nice to fellows who haven't had
a chance like that.”
</p>
<p>
Out of the crowd two more figures in Air Force uniform came, charging at
Bob with outstretched hands.
</p>
<p>
“By Jove, old chap! What luck to meet you!”
</p>
<p>
They shook hands tumultuously, and Bob made them known to Cecilia—comrades
he had not seen for months, but with whom he had shared many strange
experiences in the years of war. They fell into quick talk, full of the
queer jargon of the air. The newcomers, it appeared, had been with the
army of occupation in Germany; there seemed a thousand things they
urgently desired to tell Bob within the next few minutes. One turned to
Cecilia, presently, with a laughing interpretation of some highly
technical bit of slang.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, you needn't bother to translate to Tommy,” Bob said. “She knows all
about it.”
</p>
<p>
The other boys suddenly gave her all their attention.
</p>
<p>
“Are you Tommy? But we know you awfully well.”
</p>
<p>
“Me?” Cecilia turned pink.
</p>
<p>
“Rather. We used to hear your letters.”
</p>
<p>
The pink deepened to a fine scarlet.
</p>
<p>
“Bob!” said his sister reproachfully. “You really shouldn't.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, don't say that,” said the taller boy, by name Harrison. “They were a
godsend—there used to be jolly little to laugh about, pretty often,
and your letters made us all yell. Didn't they, Billy?”
</p>
<p>
“They did,” said Billy, who was small and curly-haired—and
incidentally a captain, with a little row of medal ribbons. “Jolliest
letters ever. We passed a vote of thanks to you in the mess, Miss Tommy,
after old Bob here had gone. Some one was to write and tell him about it,
but I don't believe anyone ever did. I say, you must have had a cheery
time—all the funny things that ever happened seemed to come your
way.”
</p>
<p>
Cecilia stammered something, her scarlet confusion deepening. A rather
grim vision of the war years swept across her mind—of the ceaseless
quest in papers and journals, and wherever people talked, for “funny
things” to tell Bob; and of how, when fact and rumour gave out, she used
to sit by her attic window at night, deliberately inventing merry jests.
It had closely resembled a job of hard work at the time; but apparently it
had served its purpose well. She had made them laugh; and some one had
told her that no greater service could be rendered to the boys who risked
death, and worse than death, during every hour of the day and night. But
it was extremely difficult to talk about it afterwards.
</p>
<p>
Bob took pity on her.
</p>
<p>
“I'll tell you just what sort of a cheery time she had, some time or
other,” he remarked. “What are you fellows doing this evening?”
</p>
<p>
“We were just going to ask you the same thing,” declared Billy. “Can't we
all go and play about somewhere? We've just landed, and we want to be
looked after. Any theatres in this little town still?”
</p>
<p>
“Cheer-oh!” ejaculated Billy. “Let's all go and find out.”
</p>
<p>
So they went, and managed very successfully to forget war and even
stepmothers. They were all little more than children in enjoyment of
simple pleasures still, since war had fallen upon them at the very
threshold of life, cutting them off from all the cheery happenings that
are the natural inheritance of all young things. The years that would
ordinarily have seen them growing tired of play had been spent in grim
tasks; now they were children again, clamouring for the playtime they had
lost. They found enormous pleasure in the funny little French restaurant,
where Madame, a lady whose sympathies were as boundless as her waist,
welcomed them with wide smiles, delighting in the broken French of Billy
and Harrison, and deftly tempting them to fresh excursions in her
language. She put a question in infantile French to Bob presently,
whereupon that guileless youth, with a childlike smile, answered her with
a flood of idiomatic phrases, in an accent purer than her own—collapsing
with helpless laughter at her amazed face. After which, Madame neglected
her other patrons to hover about their table like a stout, presiding
goddess, guiding them gently to the best dishes on the menu, and
occasionally putting aside their own selection with a hasty, “Mon-non; you
vill not like that one to-day.” She patted Cecilia in a motherly fashion
at parting, and their bill was only about half what it should have been.
</p>
<p>
They found a musical comedy, and laughed their way through it—Billy
and Harrison had apparently no cares in the world, and Bob and Cecilia
were caught up in the whirl of their high spirits, so that anything became
a huge joke. The evening flew by on airy wings, when Billy insisted on
taking them to supper after the theatre. Cecilia allowed herself a
fleeting vision of Mrs. Rainham, and then, deciding that she might as well
be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, followed gaily. And supper was so cheery
a meal that she forgot all about time—until, just at the end, she
caught sight of the restaurant clock.
</p>
<p>
“Half-past eleven! Oh, Bobby!”
</p>
<p>
“Well, if it is—you poor little old Cinderella,” said Bob.
</p>
<p>
But he hurried her away, for all that, amid a chorus of farewells and
efforts, on the part of Billy and Harrison, to arrange further meetings.
They ran to the nearest tube station, and dived into its depths; and,
after being whisked underground for a few minutes, emerged into the cool
night. Cecilia slipped her arm through her brother's as they hurried along
the empty street.
</p>
<p>
“Now, you keep your nose in the air,” Bobby told her. “You aren't exactly
a kid now, and she can't really do anything to you. Oh, by Jove—I
was thinking, in the theatre, she might interfere with our letters.”
</p>
<p>
“She's quite equal to it,” said Cecilia.
</p>
<p>
“Just what she'd revel in doing. Well, you can easily find out. I'll write
to you to-morrow, and again the next day—just ordinary letters, with
nothing particular in them except an arrangement to meet next Saturday. If
you don't get them you'll know she's getting at the mail first.”
</p>
<p>
“What shall I do, then?”
</p>
<p>
“Drop me a line—or, better still, wire to me,” said Bob. “Just say,
'Address elsewhere.' Then I'll write to you at Mr. M'Clinton's; the old
solicitor chap in Lincoln's Inn; and you'll have to go there and get the
letters. You know his address, don't you?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, yes. I have to write to him every quarter when he sends me my
allowance. You'll explain to him, then, Bob, or he'll simply redirect your
letters here.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, of course. I want to go and see the old chap, anyhow, to talk over
Aunt Margaret's affairs. I might as well know a little more about them.
Tommy, the she-dragon can't actually lock you up, can she?”
</p>
<p>
“No—it couldn't be done,” said Cecilia. “Modern houses aren't built
with dungeons and things. Moreover, if she tried to keep me in the house
she would have to take the children out for their walks herself; and she
simply hates walking.”
</p>
<p>
“Then you can certainly post to me, and get my letters, and I'll be up
again as soon as ever I can. Buck up, old girl—it can't be for long
now.”
</p>
<p>
They turned in at the Rainhams' front gate, and Cecilia glanced up
apprehensively. All the windows were in darkness; the grey front of the
house loomed forbiddingly in the faint moonlight.
</p>
<p>
“You're coming in, aren't you?” she asked, her hand tightening on his arm.
</p>
<p>
“Rather—we'll take the edge off her tongue together.” Bob rang the
bell. “Wonder if they have all gone to bed. The place looks pretty dark.”
</p>
<p>
“She's probably in the little room at the back—the one she calls her
boudoir.”
</p>
<p>
“Horrible little den, full of bamboo and draperies and pampas grass—I
know,” nodded Bob. “Well, either she's asleep or she thinks it's fun to
keep us on the mat. I'll try her again.” He pressed the bell, and the
sound of its whirring echoed through the silent house.
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004">
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</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER IV
</h2>
<h3>
COMING HOME
</h3>
<p>
The bolt grated, as if grudgingly, and slowly the door opened as far as
the limits of its chain would permit, and Mrs. Rainham's face appeared in
the aperture. She glared at them for a minute without speaking.
</p>
<p>
“So you have come home?” she said at last. The chain fell, and the door
opened. “I wonder you trouble to come home at all. May I ask where you
have been?”
</p>
<p>
“She has been with me, Mrs. Rainham,” Bob said cheerfully. “May I come
in?”
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Rainham did not move. She held the door half open, blocking the way.
</p>
<p>
“It is far too late for me to ask you in,” she answered frigidly. “Cecilia
can explain her conduct, I presume.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, there's really nothing to explain,” Bob answered. “It was so late
when she got out this afternoon that I kept her—why, it was after
half-past four before she was dressed.”
</p>
<p>
“I told her to be in for tea.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes; but I felt sure you couldn't realize how late she was in getting
out,” said Bob in a voice of honey.
</p>
<p>
“That was entirely her own mismanagement—” began the hard tones.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, no, Mrs. Rainham; really it wasn't,” said Cecilia mildly. “Your
accompaniments, you remember—your dress—your music,” she
stopped, in amazement at herself. It was rarely indeed that she answered
any accusation of her stepmother's. But to be on the mat at midnight, with
Bob in support, seemed to give her extraordinary courage.
</p>
<p>
“You see, Mrs. Rainham, there seems to have been quite a number of little
details that Cecilia couldn't mismanage,” said Bob, following up the
advantage. It was happily evident that his stepmother's rage was
preventing her from speaking, and, as he remarked later, there was no
knowing when he would ever get such a chance again. “She really needed
rest. I'm sure you'll agree that every one is entitled to some free time.
Of course, you couldn't possibly have realized that it was a week since
she had been off duty.”
</p>
<p>
“It's her business to do what I tell her,” said Mrs. Rainham, finding her
voice, in an explosive fashion that made a passing policeman glance up
curiously. “She knew I had company, and expected her help. I had to see to
the children's tea myself. And how do I know where she's been?—gallivanting
round to all sorts of places! I tell you, young lady, you needn't think
you're going to walk in here at midnight as if nothing was the matter.”
</p>
<p>
“I never expected to,” said Cecilia cheerfully. “But it was worth it.”
</p>
<p>
Bob regarded her in solemn admiration.
</p>
<p>
“I don't think we gallivanted at all reprehensibly,” he said. “Just dinner
and a theatre. I haven't made much claim to her time during the last four
years, Mrs. Rainham; surely I'm entitled to a little of it now.”
</p>
<p>
“You!” Mrs. Rainham's tone was vicious. “You don't give her a home, do
you? And as long as I do, she'll do what I tell her.”
</p>
<p>
“No; I don't give her a home—yet,” said Bob very quietly. “But I
very soon will, I assure you; and meanwhile, she earns a good deal more
than her keep in her father's house. You can't treat her worse than your
servants—”
</p>
<p>
Cecilia suddenly turned to him.
</p>
<p>
“Ah, don't, Bob darling. It doesn't matter—truly—not a bit.”
With the end of the long penance before her, it seemed beyond the power of
the angry woman in the doorway to hurt her much. What she could not bear
was that their happy evening should be spoiled by hard and cruel words at
its close. Bob's face, that had been so merry, was sterner than she had
ever seen it, all its boyishness gone. She put up her own face, and kissed
him.
</p>
<p>
“Good night—you mustn't stay any longer. I'll be all right.” She
whispered a few quick words of French, begging him to go, and Bob, though
unwillingly, gave in.
</p>
<p>
“All right,” he said. “Go to bed, little 'un. I'll do as I promised about
writing.” He saluted Mrs. Rainham stiffly. “You'll remember, Mrs. Rainham,
that she stayed out solely at my wish—I take full responsibility,
and I'll be ready to tell my father so.” The door closed behind Cecilia,
and he strode away down the street, biting his lip. He felt abominably as
though he had deserted the little sister—and yet, what else could he
do? One could not remain for ever, brawling on a doorstep at midnight—and
Tommy had begged him to go. Still—
</p>
<p>
“Hang it!” he said viciously. “If she were only a decent Hun to fight!”
</p>
<p>
In the grim house in Lancaster Gate Cecilia was facing the music alone.
She listened unmoved, as she had listened many times before, to the
catalogue of her sins and misdeeds—only she had never seen her
stepmother quite so angry. Finally, a door above opened, and Mark Rainham
looked out, his dull, colourless face weakly irritable.
</p>
<p>
“I wish you'd stop that noise, and let the girl go to bed,” he said. “Come
here, Cecilia.”
</p>
<p>
She went to him hesitating, and he looked at her with a spark of
compassion. Then he kissed her.
</p>
<p>
“Good night,” he said, as though he had called her to him simply to say
it, and not to separate her from the furious woman who stood looking at
them. “Run off to bed, now—no more talking.” Cecilia ran upstairs
obediently. Behind her, as she neared her attic, she heard her
stepmother's voice break out anew.
</p>
<p>
“Just fancy Papa!” she muttered. Any mother sensations were lost in wonder
at her father's actually having intervened. The incredible thing had
happened. For a moment she felt a wave of pity for him, left alone to face
the shrill voice. Then she shrugged her shoulders.
</p>
<p>
“Ah, well—he married her,” she said. “I suppose he has had it many a
time. Perhaps he knows how to stop it—I don't!” She laughed, turning
the key in the lock, and sitting down beside the open window. The glamour
of her happy evening was still upon her; even the scene with her
stepmother had not had power to chase it away. The scene was only to be
expected; the laughter of the evening was worth so every-day a penalty.
And the end of Mrs. Rainham's rule was nearly in sight. Not even to
herself for a moment would she admit that there was any possibility of Bob
failing to “make good” and take her away.
</p>
<p>
She went downstairs next morning to an atmosphere of sullen resentment.
Her father gave her a brief, abstracted nod, in response to her greeting,
and went on with his bacon and his Daily Mail; her stepmother's forbidding
expression checked any attempt at conversation. The children stared at her
with a kind of malevolent curiosity; they knew that a storm had been
brewing for her the night before, and longed to know just how thoroughly
she had “caught it.” Eliza, bringing in singed and belated toast, looked
at her with pity, tinged with admiration. Cook and she had been awakened
at midnight by what was evidently, in the words of Cook, “a perfickly
'orrible bust-up,” and knowing Cecilia to have been its object, Eliza
looked at her as one may look who expects to see the scars of battle.
Finding none, but receiving instead a cheerful smile, she returned to the
kitchen, and reported to Cook that Miss Cecilia was “nuffink less than a
neroine.”
</p>
<p>
But as that day and the next wore on, Cecilia found it difficult to be
cheerful. That she was in disgrace was very evident, Mrs. Rainham said no
more about her sins of the night before; instead, she showed her
displeasure by a kind of cold rudeness that gave a subtle insult to her
smallest remark. The children were manifestly delighted. Cecilia was more
or less in the position of a beetle on a pin, and theirs was the precious
opportunity of seeing her wriggle. Wherefore they adopted their mother's
tone, openly defied her, and turned school-hours into a pandemonium.
</p>
<p>
Cecilia at last gave up the attempt to keep order. She opened her desk and
took out her knitting.
</p>
<p>
“Well, this is all very pleasant,” she said, calmly. “You seem determined
to do no work at all, so I can only hope that in time you will get tired
of being idle. I can't attempt to teach you any more. I am quite ready,
however, if you bring your lessons to me.”
</p>
<p>
“You'll get into a nice row from the Mater,” jeered Wilfred.
</p>
<p>
“Very possibly. She may even punish me by finding another governess,” said
Cecilia, with a twinkle. “However that may be, I do not feel compelled to
talk to such rude little children as you any more. When you are able to
speak politely you may come to me for anything you want; until then, I
shall not answer you.” She bent her attention to the mysteries of
heel-turning.
</p>
<p>
The children were taken aback. To pinprick with rudeness a victim who
answered back was entertaining; but there was small fun in baiting anybody
who sat silently knitting with a half-smile of contempt at the corners of
her mouth. They gave it up after a time, and considered the question of
going out; a pleasant thing to do, only that their mother had laid upon
them a special injunction not to leave Cecilia, and she was in a mood that
made disobedience extremely dangerous. Cecilia quite understood that she
was being watched. No letters had yet come from Bob, and she knew that her
stepmother had been hovering near the letter-box whenever the postman had
called. Mrs. Rainham had accompanied them on their walk the day before; a
remark of Avice's revealed that she meant to do so again to-day.
</p>
<p>
“It's all so silly,” the girl said to herself. “If I chose to dive into a
tube station or board a motor-bus she couldn't stop me; and she can't go
on watching me and intercepting my letters indefinitely. I suppose she
will get tired of it after a while.” But meanwhile she found the spying
rather amusing. Avice popped up unexpectedly if she went near the front
door; Wilfred's bullet head peeped in through the window whenever she
fancied herself alone in the schoolroom. Only her attic was safe—since
to spy upon it would have required an aeroplane.
</p>
<p>
The third day brought no letter from Bob. Cecilia asked for her mail when
she went down to breakfast, and was met by a blank stare from her
stepmother—“I suppose if there had been any letters for you they
would be on your plate.” She flushed a little under the girl's direct
gaze, and turned her attention to Queenie's table manners, which were at
all times peculiar; and Cecilia sat down with a faint smile. It was time
to obey orders and telegraph to Bob.
</p>
<p>
She planned how to do it, during a long morning when the children actually
did some work—since to be rude or idle meant that their teacher
immediately retired into her shell of silence, and knitted, and life
became too dull. To employ Eliza was her first thought—rejected,
since it seemed unlikely that Eliza would be able to get time off to go
out. If Mrs. Rainham's well-known dislike for walking proved too strong
for her desire to watch her stepdaughter, it would be easy enough to do it
during the afternoon; but this hope proved vain, for when she appeared in
the hall with her charges at three o'clock the lady of the house sailed
from the drawing-room, ready for the march. They moved off in procession;
Mrs. Rainham leading the way, with Avice and Wilfred, while Cecilia
brought up the rear, holding Queenie's podgy hand.
</p>
<p>
She had telegraph forms in her desk, and the message, already written, and
even stamped, was in the pocket of her coat. There was nothing for it but
to act boldly, and accordingly, when they entered a street in which there
was a post office, she let Queenie lag until they were a little distance
behind the others. Then, as they reached the post office, she turned
sharply in.
</p>
<p>
“Wait a minute, Queenie.”
</p>
<p>
She thrust her message across the counter hurriedly. The clerk on duty was
provokingly slow; he finished checking a document, and then lounged across
to the window and took the form, running over it leisurely.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, you've got the stamps on. All right,” he said, and turned away just
as quick steps were heard, and Mrs. Rainham bustled in, panting.
</p>
<p>
“What are you doing?”
</p>
<p>
Cecilia met her with steady eyes.
</p>
<p>
“Nothing wrong, I assure you.” She had had visions of covering her real
purpose by buying stamps—but rejected it with a shrug.
</p>
<p>
“Thethilia gave the man a pieth of paper!” said Queenie shrilly.
</p>
<p>
“What was it? I demand to know!” cried Mrs. Rainham. She turned to the
clerk, who stood open-mouthed, holding the telegram in his hand. “Show me
that telegram. I am this young lady's guardian.”
</p>
<p>
The clerk grinned broadly. The stout and angry lady made no appeal to him,
and Cecilia was a pretty girl, and moreover her telegram was for a flying
captain. The clerk wore a returned soldier's badge himself. He fell back
on Regulations.
</p>
<p>
“Can't be done, ma'am. The message is all in order.”
</p>
<p>
“Let me see it.”
</p>
<p>
“Much as my billet's worth, if I did,” said the clerk. “Property of the
Postmaster-General now, ma'am. Couldn't even give it back to the young
lady.”
</p>
<p>
“I'll report you!” Mrs. Rainham fumed.
</p>
<p>
“Do, ma'am. I'll get patted on the head for doin' me duty.” The clerk's
grin widened. Cecilia wished him good afternoon gravely, and slipped out
of the office, pursued by her stepmother.
</p>
<p>
“What was in that telegram?”
</p>
<p>
“It was to my brother.”
</p>
<p>
“What was in it?”
</p>
<p>
“It was to Bob, and that is guarantee that there was nothing wrong in it,”
Cecilia said steadily. “It was on private business.”
</p>
<p>
“You have no right to have any business that I do not know about.”
</p>
<p>
Cecilia found her temper rising.
</p>
<p>
“My father may have the power to say that—I do not know,” she said.
“But you have none, Mrs. Rainham.”
</p>
<p>
“I'll let you see whether I have the right!” her stepmother blazed. “For
two pins, young lady, I'd lock you up.”
</p>
<p>
Cecilia laughed outright.
</p>
<p>
“Ah, that's not done now,” she said. “You really couldn't, Mrs. Rainham—especially
as I have done nothing wrong.” She dropped her voice—passers-by were
looking with interest at the elder woman's face. “Why not let me go? You
do not approve of me—let me find another position.”
</p>
<p>
“You'll stay in your father's house,” Mrs. Rainham said. “We'll see what
the law has to say to your leaving with your precious Bob. Your father's
your legal guardian, and in his control you stay until you're twenty-one,
and be very thankful to make yourself useful. The law will deal with Bob
if he tries to take you away—you're a minor, and it'd be abduction.”
The word had a pleasantly legal flavour; she repeated it with emphasis.
“Abduction; that's what it is, and there's a nice penalty for it. Now you
know, and if you don't want to get Bob into trouble, you'd best be
careful.”
</p>
<p>
Cecilia had grown rather white. The law was a great and terrible
instrument, of which she knew nothing. It seemed to have swallowed up Aunt
Margaret's money; it might very well have left her defenceless. Her
stepmother seemed familiar with its powers, and able to evoke them at
will; and though she did not trust her, there was something in her glib
utterance that struck fear into the girl's heart. She did not answer, and
Mrs. Rainham followed up her advantage.
</p>
<p>
“We'll go home,” she said. “And you make up your mind to tell me what was
in that telegram, and not to have any secrets from me. One thing I can
tell you—until you decide to behave yourself—Bob shan't show
his nose in my house, and you shan't go out to meet him, either. He only
leads you into mischief; I don't consider he has at all a good influence
over you. The sooner he's away somewhere, earning his own living in a
proper manner, the better for every one; and it'll be many a long day
before he can give you as good a home as you've got now.” She paused for
breath. “Anyhow, he's not going to have the chance,” she finished grimly.
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER V
</h2>
<h3>
THE TURN OF FORTUNE'S WHEEL
</h3>
<p>
“Is Mr. M'Clinton in?”
</p>
<p>
The clerk, in a species of rabbit hutch, glanced out curiously at the
young flying officer.
</p>
<p>
“Yes; but he's very busy. Have you an appointment?”
</p>
<p>
“No—I got leave unexpectedly. Just take him my card, will you?”
</p>
<p>
The clerk handed the card to another clerk, who passed it to an
office-boy, who disappeared with it behind a heavy oaken door. He came
back presently.
</p>
<p>
“Mr. M'Clinton will see you in ten minutes, if you can wait, sir.”
</p>
<p>
“I'll wait,” said Bob, sitting down upon a high stool. “Got a paper?”
</p>
<p>
“To-day's Times is here, sir.” He whisked off, to return in a moment with
the paper, neatly folded.
</p>
<p>
“You'll find a more comfortable seat behind the screen, sir.”
</p>
<p>
“Thanks,” said Bob, regarding him with interest—he was so dapper, so
alert, so all that an office-boy in a staid lawyer's establishment ought
to be. “How old might you be?”
</p>
<p>
“Fourteen, sir.”
</p>
<p>
“And are you going to grow into a lawyer?”
</p>
<p>
“I'm afraid I'll never do that, sir,” said the office-boy gravely. “I may
be head clerk, perhaps. But—” he stopped, confused.
</p>
<p>
“But what?”
</p>
<p>
“I'd rather fly, sir, than anything in the world!” He looked worshippingly
at Bob's uniform. “If the war had only not stopped before I was old
enough, I might have had a chance!”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, you'll have plenty of chances,” Bob told him consolingly. “In five
years' time you'll be taking Mr. M'Clinton's confidential papers across to
Paris in an aeroplane—and bringing him back a reply before lunch!”
</p>
<p>
“Do you think so, sir?” The office-boy's eyes danced. Suddenly he resumed
his professional gravity.
</p>
<p>
“I must get back to my work, sir.” He disappeared behind another
partition; the office seemed to Bob to be divided into water-tight
compartments, in each of which he imagined that a budding lawyer or head
clerk was being brought up by hand. It was all rather grim and solid and
forbidding. To Bob the law had always been full of mystery; this grey,
silent office, in the heart of the city, was a fitting place for it. He
felt a little chill at his heart, a foreboding that no comfort could come
of his mission there.
</p>
<p>
The inner door opened, after a little while, and a woman in black came
out. She passed hurriedly through the outer office, pulling down her veil
over a face that showed traces of tears. Bob looked after her
compassionately.
</p>
<p>
“Poor soul!” he thought. “She's had her gruel, evidently. Now I suppose
I'll get mine.”
</p>
<p>
A bell whirred sharply. The alert office-boy sprang to the summons,
returning immediately.
</p>
<p>
“Mr. M'Clinton can see you now, sir.”
</p>
<p>
Bob followed him through the oaken door, and along a narrow passage to a
room where a spare, grizzled man sat at a huge roll-top desk. He rose as
the boy shut the door behind his visitor.
</p>
<p>
“Well, Captain Rainham. How do you do?”
</p>
<p>
Bob gripped the lean hand offered him—it felt like a claw in his
great palm. Then he sat down and looked uncomfortably at the lawyer.
</p>
<p>
“I had thought to have seen you here before, Captain.”
</p>
<p>
“I suppose I should have shown up,” said Bob—concealing the fact
that the idea had never occurred to him. “But I've been very busy since
I've been back to England.”
</p>
<p>
“And what brings you now?”
</p>
<p>
“I'm all but demobilized,” Bob told him, “and I'm trying to get
employment.”
</p>
<p>
“What—in this office?”
</p>
<p>
“Heavens, no!” ejaculated Bob, and at once turned a fine red. “That is—I
beg your pardon, sir; but I'm afraid I'm not cut out for an office. I want
to get something to do in the country, where I can support my sister.”
</p>
<p>
“Your sister? But does not your father support her? She is an inmate of
his house, is she not?”
</p>
<p>
“Very much so,” said Bob bitterly. “She's governess, and lady-help, and a
good many other things. You couldn't call it a home. Besides, we have
always been together. I want to take her away.”
</p>
<p>
“And what does your father say?”
</p>
<p>
“He says she mustn't go. At least, that's what my stepmother says, so my
father will certainly say it too.”
</p>
<p>
“Your sister is under age, I think?”
</p>
<p>
“She's just nineteen—I'm over twenty-two. Can my father prevent her
going with me, sir?”
</p>
<p>
“Mph,” said the lawyer, pondering. “Do I gather that the young lady is
unhappy?”
</p>
<p>
“If she isn't, it's because she has pluck enough for six people, and
because she always hopes to get away.”
</p>
<p>
“And do you consider that you could support her?”
</p>
<p>
“I don't know,” said Bob unhappily. “I would certainly have thought I
could, but there seems mighty little chance for a fellow whose only
qualification is that he's been fighting Huns for nearly five years. I've
answered advertisements and interviewed people until my brain reels; but
there's nothing in it, and I can't leave Tommy there.”
</p>
<p>
“Tommy?” queried the lawyer blankly.
</p>
<p>
Bob laughed.
</p>
<p>
“My sister, I mean, sir. Her name's Cecilia, but, of course, we've never
called her that. Even Aunt Margaret called her Tommy.”
</p>
<p>
Mr. M'Clinton made no reply. He thought deeply for a few moments. Then he
looked up, and there was a glint of kindness in his hard grey eyes.
</p>
<p>
“I think you had better tell me all about it, Captain Rainham. Would it
assist you to smoke?”
</p>
<p>
“Thanks awfully, sir,” said Bob, accepting the proffered cigarette. He
plunged into his story; and if at times it was a trifle incoherent,
principally from honest wrath, yet on the whole Cecilia's case lost
nothing in the telling. The lawyer nodded from time to time,
comprehendingly.
</p>
<p>
“Aye,” he said at last, when Bob paused. “Just so, just so. And why did
you come to me, Captain?”
</p>
<p>
“I want your advice, sir,” Bob answered. “And I should like to know
something about my aunt's property—if I can hope for any help from
that source. I should have more chance of success if I had a little
capital to start with. But I understand that most of it was lost. My
father seemed very disappointed over the small amount she left.” He
hesitated. “But apart from money, I should like to know if I am within the
law in taking my sister away.”
</p>
<p>
Mr. M'Clinton thought deeply before replying.
</p>
<p>
“I had better speak frankly to you, Captain Rainham,” he said. “Your aunt,
as you probably know, did not like your father. I am not sure that she
actually distrusted him. But she considered him weak and indolent, and she
recognized that he was completely under the thumb of his second wife. Your
late aunt, my old friend, had an abhorrence for that lady that was quaint,
considering that she had scarcely ever seen her.” He permitted himself the
ghost of a smile. “She was deeply afraid of any of her property coming
under the control of your father—and through him, of his wife. And
so she tied up her money very carefully. She left direct to you and your
sister certain assets. The rest of her property she left, in trust, to
me.”
</p>
<p>
“To you, sir?”
</p>
<p>
“Aye. Very carefully tied up, too,” said Mr. M'Clinton, with a twinkle. “I
can't make ducks and drakes of it, no matter how much I may wish to. It is
tied up until your sister comes of age. Then my trust ceases.”
</p>
<p>
“By Jove!” Bob stared at him. “Then—do we get something?”
</p>
<p>
“Certainly. Unfortunately, many of your aunt's investments were very hard
hit through the war. Certain stocks which paid large dividends ceased to
pay altogether; others fell to very little. The sum left to you and your
sister for immediate use should have been very much larger, but all that
is left of it is the small allowance paid to you both. I imagine that a
smart young officer like yourself found it scarcely sufficient for
tobacco.”
</p>
<p>
“I've saved it all,” said Bob simply. “A bit more, too.”
</p>
<p>
“Saved it!” said the lawyer in blank amazement. “Do you tell me, now? You
lived on your pay?”
</p>
<p>
“Flying pay's pretty good,” said Bob. “And there was always Tommy to think
of, you know, sir. I had to put something away for her, in case I
crashed.”
</p>
<p>
“Dear me,” said Mr. M'Clinton. “Your aunt had great confidence in you as a
boy, and it seems she was justified. I'm very glad to hear this, Captain,
for it enables me to do with a clear conscience something which I have the
power to do. There is a discretionary clause in your aunt's will, which
gives me power to realize a certain sum of money, should you need it. I
could hand you over about three thousand pounds.”
</p>
<p>
“Three thousand!” Bob stared at him blankly.
</p>
<p>
“Aye. And I see no reason why I should not do it—provided I am
satisfied as to the use you will make of it. As a matter of form I should
like a letter from your commanding officer, testifying to your general
character.”
</p>
<p>
“That's easy enough,” said Bob. “But—three thousand! My hat, what a
difference it will make to Tommy and me! Poor old Aunt Margaret—I
might have known she'd look after us.”
</p>
<p>
“She loved you very dearly. And now, Captain, about your sister.”
</p>
<p>
“She's the big thing,” said Bob. “Can I kidnap her?”
</p>
<p>
“It's rather difficult to say just how your father might act. Left to
himself, I do not believe he would do anything. But urged by your
stepmother, he might make trouble. And the good lady is more likely to
make trouble if she suspects that there is any money coming to your
sister.”
</p>
<p>
“That's very certain,” Bob remarked. “I wish to goodness I could get her
right out of England, sir. How about Canada?”
</p>
<p>
The lawyer pondered.
</p>
<p>
“Do you know any one there?”
</p>
<p>
“Not a soul. But I suppose one could get introductions. And one can always
get Government expert advice there, I believe, to prevent one chucking
away one's money foolishly.”
</p>
<p>
Mr. M'Clinton nodded approvingly.
</p>
<p>
“I don't know, but you might do worse,” he said. “I believe in these new
countries for young people; the old ones are getting overcrowded and worn
out. And your relations are likely to give trouble if you are within their
reach. A terrible woman, that stepmother of yours; a terrible woman. She
came to see me with your father; he said nothing, but she talked like a
mill-race. Miss Tommy has my full sympathy. A brawling woman in a wide
house, as the Scripture says. I reproach myself, Captain, that I did not
inquire personally into Miss Tommy's well-being. She told you nothing of
her trials, you say, during the war?”
</p>
<p>
“Not a word. Wrote as if life were a howling joke always. I only found out
for myself by accident a few months ago.”
</p>
<p>
“A brave lassie. Well, I'll do what I can to help you, Captain. I'll keep
a lookout for a likely land investment for your money, and endeavour to
prepare a good legal statement to frighten Mrs. Rainham if she objects to
your taking your sister away. Much may be done by bluffing, especially if
you do it very solemnly and quietly. So keep a good heart, and come and
see me next time you're in London. Miss Tommy will be in any day, I
presume, after the telegram you told me about?”
</p>
<p>
“Sure to be,” said Bob. “She'll be anxious for her letters. I'm leaving
one for her, if you don't mind, and I'll write to her again to-night.” He
got up, holding out his hand. “Good-bye—and I don't know how to
thank you, sir.”
</p>
<p>
“Bless the boy—you've nothing to thank me for,” said the lawyer.
“Just send me that letter from your commanding officer, and remember that
there's no wild hurry about plans—Miss Tommy can stand for a few
weeks longer what she has borne for two years.”
</p>
<p>
“I suppose she can—but I don't want her to,” Bob said.
</p>
<p>
The brisk office-boy showed him out, and he marched down the grey streets
near Lincoln's Inn with his chin well up. Life had taken a sudden and
magical turn for the better. Three thousand pounds!—surely that
meant no roughing it for Tommy, but a comfortable home and a chance of
success in life. It seemed a sum of enormous possibilities. Everything was
very vague still, but at least the money was certain—it seemed like
fairy gold. He felt a sudden desire to get away somewhere, with Tommy,
away from crowded England to a country where a man could breathe; his
heart rejoiced at the idea, just as he had often exulted when his
aeroplane had lifted him away from the crowded, buzzing camp, into the
wide, free places of the air. Canada called to him temptingly. His brain
was seething with plans to go there when, waiting for a chance to cross a
crowded thoroughfare, he heard his own name.
</p>
<p>
“Asleep, Rainham?”
</p>
<p>
Bob looked up with a start. General Harran, the Australian, was beside
him, also waiting for a break in the crawling string of motor-buses and
taxi-cabs. He was smiling under his close-clipped moustache.
</p>
<p>
“I beg your pardon, sir,” stammered the boy, coming to the salute stiffly.
“I was in a brown study, I believe.”
</p>
<p>
“You looked it. I spoke to you twice before you heard me. What is it?—demobilization
problems?”
</p>
<p>
“Just that, sir,” said Bob, grinning. “Most of us have got them, I suppose—fellows
of my age, anyhow. It's a bit difficult to come down to earth again, after
years spent in the air.”
</p>
<p>
“Very difficult,” Harran agreed gravely. He glanced down with interest at
the alert face and square-built figure of the boy beside him. There were
so many of them, these boys who had played with Death for years. They have
saved their country from horror and ruin, and now it seemed very doubtful
if their country wanted them. They were in every town in England, looking
for work; their pitiful, plucky advertisements greeted the eye in every
newspaper. The problem of their future interested General Harran keenly.
He liked his boys; their freshness and pluck and unspoiled enthusiasm had
been a tonic to him during the long years of war. Now it hurt him that
they should be looking for the right to live.
</p>
<p>
“I'm just going to lunch, Rainham,” he said. “Would you care to come with
me?”
</p>
<p>
Bob lifted a quaintly astonished face.
</p>
<p>
“Thanks, awfully, sir,” he stammered.
</p>
<p>
“Then jump on this 'bus, and we'll go to my club,” said the General,
swinging his lean, athletic body up the stairs of a passing motor-'bus as
he spoke. Bob followed, and they sped, rocking, through the packed traffic
until the General, who had sat in silence, jumped up, threaded his way
downstairs, and dropped to the ground again from the footboard of the
hurrying 'bus—with a brief shake of the head to the conductor, who
was prepared to check the speed of his craft to accommodate a passenger
with such distinguished badges of rank. Bob was on the ground almost as
quickly, and they turned out of the crowded street into a quieter one that
presently led them into a silent square, where dignified grey houses
looked out upon green trees, and the only traffic was that of gliding
motors. General Harran led the way into one of the grey houses, up the
steps of which officers were constantly coming and going. A grizzled
porter in uniform, with the Crimean medal on his tunic, swung the door
open and came smartly to attention as they passed through. The General
greeted him kindly.
</p>
<p>
“How are you, O'Shea? The rheumatism better?”
</p>
<p>
“It is, sir, thank you.” They passed on, through a great hall lined with
oil-paintings of famous soldiers, and trophies of big game from all over
the world; for this was a Service club, bearing a proud record of soldier
and sailor members for a hundred years. Presently they were in the
dining-room, already crowded. The waiter found them a little table in a
quiet corner.
</p>
<p>
There was a sprinkling of men whom Bob already knew; he caught several
friendly nods of recognition us he glanced round. Then General Harran
pointed out others to him—Generals, whose names were household words
in England—a notable Admiral, and a Captain with the V.C. ribbon—earned
at Zeebrugge. He seemed to know every one, and once or twice he left his
seat to speak to a friend—during which absence Bob's friends shot
him amazed glances, with eyebrows raised in astonishment that he should be
lunching with a real Major-General. Bob was somewhat tongue-tied with
bewilderment over the fact himself. But when their cold beef came, General
Harran soon put him at his ease, leading him to talk of himself and his
plans with quiet tact. Before Bob fairly realized it he had unfolded all
his little story—even to Tommy and her hardships. The General
listened with interest.
</p>
<p>
“And was it Tommy I saw you with on Saturday?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, sir. She was awfully interested because it was you,” blurted Bob.
“You see, she and I have always been pals. I'm jolly keen to get some
place to take her to.”
</p>
<p>
“And you think of Canada. Why?”
</p>
<p>
“Well—I really don't know, except that it would be out of reach of
England and unpleasantness,” Bob answered. “And my money would go a lot
further there than here, wouldn't it, sir? Three thousand won't buy much
of a place in England—not to make one's living by, I mean.”
</p>
<p>
“That's true. I advise every youngster to get out to one of the new
countries, and, of course, a man with a little capital has a far greater
chance. But why Canada? Why not Australia?”
</p>
<p>
“There's no reason why not,” said Bob laughing. “Only it seems further
away. I don't know more of one country than the other—except the
sort of vague idea we all have that Canada is all cold and Australia all
heat!”
</p>
<p>
General Harran laughed.
</p>
<p>
“Yes—the average Englishman's ideas about the new countries are
pretty sketchy,” he said. “People always talk to me about the fearfully
hot climate of Australia, and seem mildly surprised if I remark that we
have about a dozen different climates, and that we have snow and ice, and
very decent winter sports, in Victoria. I don't think they believe me,
either. But seriously, Rainham, if you have no more leaning towards one
country than the other, why not think of Australia? I could help you
there, if you like.”
</p>
<p>
“You, sir!” Bob stammered.
</p>
<p>
“Well, I can pull strings. I dare say I could manage a passage out for you
and your sister—you see, you were serving with the Australians, and
you're both desirable immigrants—young and energetic people with a
little capital. That would be all right, I think, especially now that the
first rush is over. And I could give you plenty of introductions in
Australia to the right sort of people. You ought to see something of the
country, and what the life and work are, before investing your money. It
would be easy enough to get you on to a station or big farm—you to
learn the business, and your sister to teach or help in the house. She
wouldn't mind that for about a year, with nice people, would she?”
</p>
<p>
“Not she!” said Bob. “It was her own idea, in fact; only I didn't want to
let her work. But I can see that it might be best. Only I don't know how
to thank you, sir—I never imagined—”
</p>
<p>
General Harran cut him short.
</p>
<p>
“Don't worry about that. If I can help you, or any of the flying boys, out
of a difficulty, and at the same time get the right type of settlers for
Australia—she needs them badly—then I'm doing a
double-barrelled job that I like. But see here—do I understand that
what you really want to do is to take your sister without giving your
father warning? To kidnap her, in short?”
</p>
<p>
“I don't see anything else to do, sir. I spoke to him a while ago about
taking her away, and he only hummed and hawed and said he'd consult Mrs.
Rainham. And my stepmother will never let her go as long as she can keep
her as a drudge. We owe them nothing—he's never been a father to us,
and as for my stepmother—well, she should owe Tommy for two years'
hard work. But honestly, to all intents and purposes, they are strangers
to us—it seems absolutely ridiculous that we should be controlled by
them.”
</p>
<p>
“You say your aunt's family lawyer approves?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, or he wouldn't let me have the money. I could get him to see you,
sir, if you like; though I don't see why you should be bothered about us,”
said Bob flushing.
</p>
<p>
“Give me his address—I'll look in on him next time I'm in Lincoln's
Inn,” said the General. “Your own, too. Now, if I get you and your sister
passages on a troopship, can you start at short notice—say
forty-eight hours?”
</p>
<p>
Bob gasped, but recovered himself. After all, his training in the air had
taught him to make swift decisions.
</p>
<p>
“Any time after the fifteenth, sir. I'll be demobilized then, and a free
agent. I'll get my kit beforehand.”
</p>
<p>
“Don't get much,” counselled the General. “You can travel in uniform—take
flannels for the tropics; everything you need in Australia you can get
just as well, or better, out there. Most fellows who go out take tons of
unnecessary stuff. Come into the smoking-room and give me a few more
details.”
</p>
<p>
They came out upon the steps of the club a little later. Bob's head was
whirling. He tried to stammer out more thanks and was cut short, kindly
but decisively.
</p>
<p>
“That's all right, my boy. I'll send you letters of introduction to
various people who will help you, and a bit of advice about where to go
when you land. Tell your sister not to be nervous—she isn't going to
a wild country, and the people there are much the same as anywhere else.
Now, good-bye, and good luck”; and Bob found himself walking across the
Square in a kind of solemn amazement.
</p>
<p>
“This morning I was thinking of getting taken on as a farm hand in
Devonshire, with Tommy somewhere handy in a labourer's cottage,” he
pondered. “And now I'm a bloated capitalist, and Tommy and I are going
across the world to Australia as calmly as if we were off to Margate for
the day! Well, I suppose it's only a dream, and I'll wake up soon. I guess
I'd better go back and tell Mr. M'Clinton; and I've got to see Tommy
somehow.” He bent his brows over the problem as he turned towards
Lincoln's Inn.
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER VI
</h2>
<h3>
SAILING ORDERS
</h3>
<p>
“Are you there, miss?”
</p>
<p>
The sepulchral whisper came faintly to Cecilia's ears as she sat in her
little room, sewing a frock of Queenie's. The children were out in the
garden at the back of the house. Mrs. Rainham was practising in the
drawing-room. The sound of a high trill floated upwards as she opened the
door.
</p>
<p>
“What is it, Eliza?”
</p>
<p>
“It's a letter, miss. A kid brought it to the kitchen door—a bit of
a boy. Arsked for me as if 'e'd known me all 'is life—called me
Elizer! 'E's waitin' for an answer. I'll wait in me room, miss, till you
calls me.” The little Cockney girl slipped away, revelling in furthering
any scheme to defeat Mrs. Rainham and help Cecilia.
</p>
<p>
Cecilia opened the letter hurriedly. It contained only one line.
</p>
<p>
“Can you come at once to Lincoln's Inn? Important.—BOB.”
</p>
<p>
Cecilia knitted her brows. It was nearly a month since the memorable
evening when she and Bob had revolted; and though she was still made to
feel herself in disgrace, and she knew her letters were watched, the close
spying upon her movements had somewhat relaxed. It had been too
uncomfortable for Mrs. Rainham to keep it up, since it made heavy demands
upon her own time, and interfered with too many plans; moreover, in spite
of it, Cecilia had slipped away from the house two or three times, going
and coming openly, and replying to any questions by the simple answer that
she had been to meet Bob. Angry outbreaks on the part of her stepmother
she received in utter silence, against which the waves of Mrs. Rainham's
wrath spent themselves in vain.
</p>
<p>
Indeed, the girl lived in a kind of waking dream of happy anticipation,
beside which none of the trials of life in Lancaster Gate had power to
trouble her. For on her first stolen visit to Mr. M'Clinton's office the
wonderful plan of flight to Australia had been revealed to her, and the
joy of the prospect blotted out everything else. Mr. M'Clinton, watching
her face, had been amazed by the wave of delight that had swept over it.
</p>
<p>
“You like it, then?” he had said. “You are not afraid to go so far?”
</p>
<p>
“Afraid—with Bob? Oh, the farther I can get from England the
better,” she had answered. “I have no friends here; nothing to leave,
except the memory of two bad years. And out there I should feel safe—she
could not get a policeman to bring me back.” There was no need to ask who
“she” was.
</p>
<p>
Cecilia had made her preparations secretly. She had not much to do—Aunt
Margaret had always kept her well dressed, and the simple and pretty
things she had worn two years before, and which had never been unpacked
since she put on mourning for her aunt, still fitted her, and were
perfectly good. It had never seemed worth while to leave off wearing
mourning in Lancaster Gate—only when Bob had come home had she
unpacked some of her old wardrobe. Much was packed still, and in store
under Mr. M'Clinton's direction, together with many of Aunt Margaret's
personal possessions. It was as well that it was so, since Mrs. Rainham
had managed to annex a proportion of Cecilia's things for Avice. To
Lancaster Gate she had only taken a couple of trunks, not dreaming of
staying there more than a short time. So packing and flitting would be
easy, given ordinary luck and the certain co-operation of Eliza. Her few
necessary purchases had been made on one of her hurried excursions with
Bob; she had not dared to have the things sent home, and they had been
consigned in a tin uniform case to Bob's care.
</p>
<p>
She pondered over his note now, knitting her brows. It would be easy
enough to act defiantly and go at once; but if this meant that the final
flight were near at hand she did not wish to excite anew her stepmother's
anger and suspicion. Then, as she hesitated, she heard a heavy step on the
stairs, and she crushed the note hurriedly into her pocket.
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Rainham came into the room without the formality of knocking—a
formality she had never observed where Cecilia was concerned. The
afternoon post had just come, and she carried some letters in her hand.
</p>
<p>
“Cecilia, I want you to put on your things and go to Balding's for me,”
she said, her voice more civil than it had been for a month. “I'm asked up
to Liverpool for a few days; my sister there is giving a big At Home—an
awfully big thing, with the Lady Mayoress and all the Best People at it—and
she wants me to go up. I suppose she'll want me to sing.”
</p>
<p>
“That is nice,” said Cecilia, speaking with more truth than Mrs. Rainham
guessed. “What will you wear?”
</p>
<p>
“That's just it,” said her stepmother eagerly. “My new evening dress isn't
quite finished—we ran short of trimming. I can't go out, because the
Simons are coming in to afternoon tea; so you just hurry and go over to
Balding's to match it. I got it there, and they had plenty. Here's a bit.”
She held out a fragment of gaudy sequin trimming. “I think you could
finish the dress without me getting in the dressmaker again—she's
that run after she makes a regular favour of coming.”
</p>
<p>
“Very well,” said Cecilia—who would, at the moment, have agreed to
sew anything or everything that might hasten her stepmother's journey.
“When do you go?”
</p>
<p>
“The day after to-morrow. I'll stay there a few days, I suppose; not worth
going so far for only one evening. Mind, Cecilia, you're not to have Bob
here while I'm away. When I come back, if I'm satisfied with you, I'll see
about asking him again.”
</p>
<p>
“That is very good of you,” said the girl slowly.
</p>
<p>
“Well, that's all right—you hurry and get ready; there's always a
chance they may have sold out, because it was a bargain line, and if they
have you'll have to try other places. I don't know what on earth I'll do
if you can't match it.” She turned to go, and then hesitated. “I was
thinking you might take Avice with you—but you'll get about quicker
alone, and she isn't ready. The tubes and buses are that crowded it's no
catch to take a child about with you.” In moments of excitement Mrs.
Rainham's English was apt to slip from her. At other times she cultivated
it carefully, assisted by a dramatic class, which an enthusiastic maiden
lady, with leanings towards the stage, conducted each winter among
neighbouring kindred souls.
</p>
<p>
Cecilia had caught her breath in alarm, but she breathed a sigh of relief
as the stout, over-dressed figure went down the narrow stairs, with a
final injunction to hurry. There was, indeed, no need to give Cecilia that
particular command. She scribbled one word, “Coming,” on Bob's note,
thrust it into an envelope and addressed it hastily, and then tapped on
the wall between the servants' room and her own.
</p>
<p>
Eliza appeared with the swiftness of a Jack-in-the-box, full of suppressed
excitement.
</p>
<p>
“Lor! I fought she was never goin',” she breathed. “Got it ready, Miss?
The boy'll fink I've gorn an' eloped wiv it.” She took the envelope and
pattered swiftly downstairs.
</p>
<p>
A very few moments saw Cecilia flying in her wake—to Balding's
first, as quickly as tube and motor-bus could combine to take her, since
she dared not breathe freely until Mrs. Rainham's commission had been
settled. Balding's had never seemed so huge and so complicated, and when
she at length made her way to the right department the suave assistant
regretted that the trimming was sold out. It was Cecilia's face of blank
dismay that made him suddenly remember that there was possibly an odd
length somewhere, and a search revealed it, put away in a box of odds and
ends. Cecilia's thanks were so heartfelt that the assistant was mildly
surprised.
</p>
<p>
“For she don't seem the sort to wear ghastly stuff like that,” he
pondered, glancing after the pretty figure in the well-cut coat and skirt.
</p>
<p>
Outside the great shop Cecilia glanced up and caught the eye of a
taxi-driver who had just set down a fare.
</p>
<p>
“I'll be extravagant for once,” she thought. She beckoned to the man, and
in a moment was whirring through the streets in the peculiar comfort a
motor gives to anyone in a hurry in London—since it can take direct
routes instead of following the roundabout methods of buses and
underground railways. She leaned back, closing her eyes. If this summons
to Bob indeed meant that their sailing orders had come, she would need all
her wits and her coolness. For the first time she realized what her
stepmother's absence from home might mean—a thousandfold less
plotting and planning, and no risk of a horrible scene at the end. Cecilia
loathed scenes; they had not existed in Aunt Margaret's scheme of
existence. Since Bob's plans had become at all definite, she had looked
forward with dread to a final collision with Mrs. Rainham—it was
untold relief to know that it might not come.
</p>
<p>
She hurried up the steps of Mr. M'Clinton's office. The alert office boy—who
had been Bob's messenger to Lancaster Gate—met her.
</p>
<p>
“You're to go straight in, miss. The Captain's there.”
</p>
<p>
Bob was in the inner sanctum with Mr. M'Clinton. They rose to meet her.
</p>
<p>
“Well—are you ready, young lady?” the old man asked.
</p>
<p>
“Is it—are we to sail soon?”
</p>
<p>
“Next Saturday—and this is Monday. Can you manage it, Tommy?” Bob's
eyes were dancing with excitement.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, Bobby—truly?” She caught at his coat sleeve. “When did you
hear?”
</p>
<p>
“I had a wire from General Harran this morning. A jolly good ship, too,
Tommy; one of the big Australian liners—the Nauru. You're all ready,
aren't you?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, yes. And there's the most tremendous piece of luck, Bobby—Mrs.
Rainham's going away on Wednesday!”
</p>
<p>
“Going away! How more than tactful!” ejaculated Bob. “Where is she going?”
</p>
<p>
“To Liverpool.”
</p>
<p>
“Liverpool? Oh, by Jove!” Bob ended on a low whistle, while his face
assumed a comical expression of dismay. He turned to the lawyer. “Did you
ever hear of anything so queer?”
</p>
<p>
“Queer? Why?” demanded Cecilia.
</p>
<p>
“Well, it looks as if she wanted to see the last of you, that's all. The
Nauru sails from Liverpool.”
</p>
<p>
“Bobby!” Cecilia's face fell. “I thought we went from Gravesend or
Tilbury, or somewhere.”
</p>
<p>
“So did I. But the General's wire says Liverpool, so it seems we don't,”
said Bob. “And that she-dragon is going there too!”
</p>
<p>
“I don't think you need really worry,” Mr. M'Clinton said drily.
“Liverpool is not exactly a village. The chances are that if you went
there, trying to meet some one, you would hunt for him for a week in vain.
And you'll probably go straight from the train to the docks, so that you
won't be in the least likely to encounter Mrs. Rainham.”
</p>
<p>
“Why, of course, we'd never run into her in a huge place like Liverpool,”
Bob said, laughing. “Don't be afraid, Tommy—you'll have seen the
last of her when you say good-bye on Wednesday.”
</p>
<p>
“It seems too good to be true,” said Cecilia solemnly. “I remember how I
felt once before, when she went away to visit her sister in Liverpool; the
beautiful relief when one woke, to think that not all through the day
would one even have to look at her. It's really very terrible to look at
her often; her white face and hard eyes seem to fascinate one. Oh, I don't
suppose I ought to talk like that, especially here.” She looked
shamefacedly at Mr. M'Clinton, and blushed scarlet.
</p>
<p>
Both men laughed.
</p>
<p>
“The good lady had something of the same effect on me,” Mr. M'Clinton
admitted. “I found her a very terrible person. Cheer up, Miss Tommy,
you've nearly finished with her. And, now, what about getting you away?”
</p>
<p>
Cecilia turned to her brother.
</p>
<p>
“What am I to do, Bob?”
</p>
<p>
“We'll have to go to Liverpool on Friday,” Bob replied promptly. “I can't
find out the Nauru's sailing time, and it isn't safe to leave it until
Saturday. There's a train somewhere about two o'clock that gets up
somewhere about seven or eight that evening. Mr. M'Clinton and I don't
want to leave it to the last moment to get your luggage away from
Lancaster Gate. Can you have it ready the night before?”
</p>
<p>
“It would really be safer to take it in the afternoon,” Cecilia said after
a moment's thought. “Mrs. Rainham's absence will make that quite easy, for
I know I can depend upon Eliza and Cook. I can get my trunks ready, leave
them in my room, and tell Eliza you will be there to call for them, say,
at four o'clock. Then I take the three children out for a walk, and when
we return everything is gone. Will that do?”
</p>
<p>
“Perfectly,” said Bob, laughing. “And four o'clock suits me all right.
Then you'll saunter out on Friday morning with an inoffensive brown paper
parcel containing the rest of your worldly effects, and meet me for lunch
at the Euston Hotel. Is that clear?”
</p>
<p>
“Quite. I suppose I had better put no address on my trunks?”
</p>
<p>
“Not a line—I'll see to that. And don't even mention the word
'Australia' this week, just in case your eye dances unconsciously, and
sets people thinking! I think you'd better cultivate a downtrodden look,
at any rate until Mrs Rainham is out of the house; at present you look far
too cheerful to be natural—doesn't she, sir?”
</p>
<p>
“You have to see to it that she does not look downtrodden again, after
this week,” said Mr. M'Clinton. “Remember that, Captain—she's going
a long way, and she'll have no one but you.”
</p>
<p>
“I know, sir. But, bless you, it's me that will look downtrodden,” said
Bob with a grin. “She bullies me horribly—always did.” He slipped
his hand through her arm, and they looked up at him with such radiant
faces that the old man smiled involuntarily.
</p>
<p>
“Ah, I think you'll be all right,” he said. “Remember, Miss Tommy, I'll
expect to hear from you—fairly often, too. I shall not say good-bye
now—you'll see me on Friday at luncheon.”
</p>
<p>
They found themselves down in the grey precincts of Lincoln's Inn, which,
it may be, had rarely seen two young things prancing along so dementedly.
In the street they had to sober down, to outward seeming; but there was
still something about them, as they hurried off to find a teashop to
discuss final details, that made people turn to look at them. Even the
waitress beamed on them, and supplied them with her best cakes—and
London waitresses are a bored race. But at the moment, neither Cecilia nor
Bob could have told you whether they were eating cakes or sausages.
</p>
<p>
“The money is all right,” Bob said. “It'll be available at a Melbourne
bank when we get there; and meanwhile, there's plenty of ready money, with
what I've saved and my war gratuity. So if you want anything, Tommy, you
just say so, and don't go without any pretties just because you think
we'll be in the workhouse.”
</p>
<p>
“Bless you—but I don't really need anything,” she told him
gratefully. “It would be nice to have a little money to spend at the
ports, but I think we ought to keep the rest for Australia, don't you,
Bob?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, yes, of course; but you're not to go without a few pounds if you want
'em,” said Bob. “And, Tommy, don't leave meeting me on Friday until lunch
time. I'll be worrying if you do, just in case things may have gone wrong.
Make it eleven o'clock at the Bond Street tube exit, and if you're not
there in half an hour I'll jolly well go and fetch you.”
</p>
<p>
“I'll be there,” Cecilia nodded. “You had better give me the half-hour's
grace, though, in case I might be held up at the last moment. One never
knows—and Avice and Wilfred are excellent little watchdogs.”
</p>
<p>
“Anyhow, you won't have the she-dragon to reckon with, and that's a big
thing,” Bob said. “I don't see how you can have any trouble—Papa
certainly will not give you any.”
</p>
<p>
“No, he won't bother,” said Cecilia slowly. “It's queer to think how
little he counts—our own father.”
</p>
<p>
“A pretty shoddy apology for one, I think,” Bob said bitterly. “What has
he ever done for us? But I'd forgive him that when I can't forgive him
something else—the way he has let you be treated these two years.”
</p>
<p>
“He hasn't known everything, Bobby.”
</p>
<p>
“He has known quite enough. And if he had the spirit of a man he'd have
saved you from it. No; we don't owe him any consideration, Tommy; and he
saw to it years ago that we should never owe him any affection. So we
really needn't worry our heads about him. By the way, there are to be some
Australians on the Nauru who General Harran says may be of use to us—I
don't remember their names, but he's going to give me a letter to them.
And probably there will be some other flying people whom I may know. I
think the voyage ought to be rather good fun.”
</p>
<p>
“I think so, too. It will be exciting to be on a troopship,” Cecilia said.
“But, then, anything will be heavenly after Lancaster Gate!”
</p>
<p>
She hurried home, as soon as the little meal was over, knowing that Mrs.
Rainham would be impatiently awaiting her. Luckily, her success in
matching the trimming made her stepmother forget how long she had been
away; and from that moment until a welcome four-wheeler removed the
mistress of the house on Wednesday, she sewed and packed for her
unceasingly. Her journey excited Mrs. Rainham greatly. She talked almost
affably of her sister's grandeur, and of the certainty of meeting wealthy
and gorgeously dressed people at her party.
</p>
<p>
“Not that I'll be at all ashamed of my dress,” she added, looking at the
billowy waves on which Cecilia was plastering yet more trimming. “Unusual
and artistic, that's what it is; and it'll show off my hair. Don't forget
the darning when I'm gone, Cecilia. There's a tablecloth to mend, as well
as the stockings. I'll be home on Saturday night, unless they persuade me
to stay over the week-end.”
</p>
<p>
Cecilia nodded, sewing busily.
</p>
<p>
“And just see if you can't get on a bit better with the children. You've
got to make allowances for their high spirits, and treat them tactfully.
Of course you can't expect them to be as obedient to you as they would be
to a regular governess, you being their own half-sister, and not so much
older than Avice, after all. But tact does wonders, especially with
children.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes,” said Cecilia, and said no more.
</p>
<p>
“Well, just bear it in mind. I don't suppose you'll see much of your
father, so you needn't worry about him. But don't let Eliza gossip and
idle; she never does any work if she's not kept up to it, and you know
you're much too familiar with her. Always keep girls like her at a
distance, and they'll work all the better, that's what I say. Treat her as
an equal, and the next thing you know she'll be trying on your hats!”
</p>
<p>
“I haven't caught Eliza at that yet,” said Cecilia with the ghost of a
smile.
</p>
<p>
“It'll come, though, if you're not more stand-offish with her—you
mark my words. Keep them in their place—that's what I always do with
my servants and governesses,” said Mrs. Rainham without the slightest idea
that she was saying anything peculiar. “Now, I'll go and put my things out
on my bed, and as soon as you've finished that you can come up and pack
for me.”
</p>
<p>
Cecilia stood at the hall door that afternoon to watch her go—bustling
into the cab, with loud directions to the cabman, her hard face full of
self-importance and satisfaction. The plump hand waved a highly scented
handkerchief as the clumsy four-wheeler moved off.
</p>
<p>
“To think I'll never see you again!” breathed the girl. “It seems too good
to be true!”
</p>
<p>
A kind of wave of relief seemed to have descended upon the house. The
children were openly exulting in having no one to obey; an attitude which,
in the circumstances, failed to trouble their half-sister. Eliza went
about her work with a cheery face; even Cook, down in the basement,
manifested lightness of heart by singing love songs in a cracked soprano
and by making scones for afternoon tea. Mark Rainham did not come home
until late—he had announced his intention of dining at his club.
Late in the evening he sauntered into the dining-room, where Cecilia sat
sewing.
</p>
<p>
“Still at it?” he asked. He sat down and poked the fire. “What are you
sewing?”
</p>
<p>
“Just darning,” Cecilia told him.
</p>
<p>
He sat looking at her for a while—at the pretty face and the
well-tended hair; and who shall say what thoughts stirred in his dull
brain?
</p>
<p>
“You look a bit pale,” he said at last. “Do you go out enough?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, yes, I think so,” Cecilia answered in astonishment. Not in two years
had he shown so much interest in her; and it braced her to a sudden
resolve. She had never been quite satisfied to leave him without a word;
whatever he was, he was still her father. She put her darning on her knee,
and looked at him gravely.
</p>
<p>
“You know Bob is demobilized, don't you, Papa?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes—he told me so,” Mark Rainham answered.
</p>
<p>
“And you know he wants to take me away?”
</p>
<p>
Her father's eyes wavered and fell before her.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, yes—but the idea's ridiculous, I'm afraid. You're under age,
and your stepmother won't hear of it.” He poked the fire savagely.
</p>
<p>
“But if Bob could make a home for me! We have always been together, you
know, Papa.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, well—wait and see. Time enough when you're twenty-one, and your
own mistress; Bob will have had a chance to make good by then. I—I
can't oppose my wife in the matter—she says she's not strong enough
to do without your help.”
</p>
<p>
“But she never seems satisfied with me.”
</p>
<p>
Mark Rainham rose with an irritably nervous movement.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, no one is ever perfect. I suspect, if each of you went a little way
to meet the other, things would be better. Your stepmother says her nerves
are all wrong, and I'm sure you do take a great deal of trouble off her
shoulders.”
</p>
<p>
“Then you won't let me go?” The girl's low voice was relentless, and her
father wriggled as though he were a beetle and she were pinning him down.
</p>
<p>
“I—I'm afraid it's out of the question, Cecilia. I should have to be
very satisfied first that Bob could offer you a home—and by that
time he'll probably be thinking of getting married, and won't want you.
Why can't you settle down comfortably to living at home?”
</p>
<p>
“There isn't any home for me apart from Bob,” said the girl.
</p>
<p>
“Well, I can't help it.” Mark Rainham's voice had a hopeless tone. He
walked to the door, and then half turned. “If you can make my wife agree
to your going, I won't forbid it. Good night.”
</p>
<p>
“Good night,” said Cecilia. The slow footsteps went up the stairs, and she
turned to her darning with a lip that curled in scorn.
</p>
<p>
“Well, that let's me out. I don't owe you anything—not even a
good-bye note on my pincushion,” she said presently; and laughed a little.
She folded a finished pair of socks deliberately, and, rising, stretched
her arms luxuriously above her head. “Two more days,” she whispered. She
switched off the light, and crept noiselessly upstairs.
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER VII
</h2>
<h3>
THE WATCH DOGS
</h3>
<p>
“Well, if you ask me, she's up to something,” said Avice with conviction.
</p>
<p>
“How d'you mean?” Wilfred looked up curiously.
</p>
<p>
“Lots of things. She looks all different. First of all—look how red
she is all the time, and the excited look in her eyes.”
</p>
<p>
“That's all look—look!” jeered her brother. “Girls always have those
rotten ideas about nothing at all. Just because Cecilia's got a bit
sunburnt, and because she's havin' an easy time 'cause Mater's away—”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, you think because you're a boy, you know everything,” retorted his
sister hotly. “You just listen, and see if I've got rotten ideas. Did you
know, she's kept her room locked for days?”
</p>
<p>
“Well—if she has? That's nothing.”
</p>
<p>
“You shut up and let me go on. Yesterday she forgot, and left it open
while she was down talking to Cook, and I slipped in. And there was one of
her great big trunks, that she always keeps in the box room, half-packed
with her things. I nicked this necklace out of it, too,” said Avice with
triumph, producing a quaint string of Italian beads.
</p>
<p>
“Good business,” said Wilfred with an appreciative grin. “Did she catch
you?”
</p>
<p>
“Not she—I can tell you I didn't wait long, 'cause she always comes
upstairs as quick as lightning. She did come, too, in an awful hurry, and
locked up the room—I only got out of the way just in time. And every
minute she could, yesterday, she was up there.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, I don't see much in that.”
</p>
<p>
“No, but look here, I got another chance of looking into her room this
morning, and that trunk was gone!”
</p>
<p>
“Gone back to the box-room,” said Wilfred with superiority.
</p>
<p>
“No, it wasn't—I went up and looked. And her other trunk's not
there, either.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, you're dreaming! I bet she'd just pushed it under her bed.”
</p>
<p>
“Pooh!” said Avice. “That great big trunk wouldn't go under her bed—you
know she's only got a little stretcher-bed. And I tell you they'd both
gone. I bet you anything she's going to run away.”
</p>
<p>
“Where'd she run to?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, somewhere with Bob.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, let her go.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, and Mater 'd have to spend ever so much on a new governess; and most
likely she'd be a worse beast than Cecilia. And no governess we ever had
did half the things Mater makes Cecilia do to help in the house. Why she's
like an extra servant, as well as a governess. Mater told me all about it.
I tell you what, Wilfred, it's our business to see she doesn't run away.”
</p>
<p>
“All right,” said Wilfred, “I suppose we'd better watch out. When do you
reckon she'd go? People generally run away at night, don't they?”
</p>
<p>
“Well, anyone can see she's just taking advantage of Mater being away.
Yes, of course she'd go at night. She might have sent her boxes away
yesterday by a carrier—I bet that horrid little Eliza would help
her. Ten to one she means to sneak out to-night—she knows Mater will
be home to-morrow.”
</p>
<p>
“What a sell it will be for her if we catch her!” said Wilfred with glee.
“I say, what about telling Pater?”
</p>
<p>
Avice looked sour.
</p>
<p>
“I did tell him something yesterday, and he only growled at me. At least,
I said, 'Do you think Cecilia would ever be likely to run away?' And he
just stared at me, and then he said, 'Not your business if she does.' So
I'm not going to speak to him again.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, we'd better take it in turns to watch her,” Wilfred said. “After
dark's the most likely time, I suppose, but we'd better be on the look-out
all the time. Where's she now, by the way?”
</p>
<p>
“Why, I don't know. I say, she's been away a long time—I never
noticed,” said Avice, in sudden alarm. “She said we were to go on with our
French exercises—and that's ages ago.”
</p>
<p>
“Come on and see,” said Wilfred jumping up.
</p>
<p>
Outside the room he caught Avice by the arm.
</p>
<p>
“Kick off your shoes,” he said. “We'll sneak up to her room.”
</p>
<p>
They crept up silently. The door of Cecilia's room was ajar. Peeping in,
they saw her standing before her tiny looking-glass, pinning on her hat. A
small parcel lay upon her bed, with her gloves and parasol. The children
were very silent—but something struck upon the girl's tightly strung
nerves. She turned swiftly and saw them.
</p>
<p>
“What are you doing?” she demanded. “How dare you come into my room?”
</p>
<p>
“Why, we thought you were lost,” said Avice. “We finished our French ages
ago. Where are you going?”
</p>
<p>
“I am going out,” said Cecilia. “I'll set you more work to do while I'm
away.”
</p>
<p>
“But where are you going?”
</p>
<p>
“That has nothing to do with you. Come down to the schoolroom.”
</p>
<p>
Avice held her brother firmly by the arm. Together they blocked the way.
</p>
<p>
“Mater wouldn't let you go out in lesson time. I believe you're going to
run away!”
</p>
<p>
A red spot flamed in each of Cecilia's white cheeks.
</p>
<p>
“Stand out of my way, you little horrors!” she said angrily. She caught up
her things and advanced upon them.
</p>
<p>
“I'm hanged if you're going,” said Wilfred doggedly. He pushed her back
violently, and slammed the door.
</p>
<p>
The attic doors in Lancaster Gate, like those of many London houses, were
fitted with heavy iron bolts on the outside—a precaution against
burglars who might enter the house by rooms ordinarily little used. It was
not the first time that Cecilia had been bolted into her room by her
step-brother. When first she came, it had been a favourite pastime to make
her a prisoner—until their mother had made it an offence carrying a
heavy penalty, since it had often occurred that Cecilia was locked up when
she happened to need her.
</p>
<p>
But this time Cecilia heard the heavy bolt shoot home with feelings of
despair. It was already time for her to leave the house. Bob would be
waiting for her in Bond Street, impatiently scanning each crowd of
passengers that the lift shot up from underground. She battered at the
door wildly.
</p>
<p>
“Let me out! How dare you, Wilfred? Let me out at once!”
</p>
<p>
Wilfred laughed disagreeably.
</p>
<p>
“Not if we know it—eh, Avice?”
</p>
<p>
“Rather not,” said Avice. “What d'you think Mater'd say to us if we let
you run away?”
</p>
<p>
“Nonsense!” said Cecilia, controlling her voice with difficulty. “I was
going to meet Bob.”
</p>
<p>
There was silence, and a whispered consultation. Then Avice spoke.
</p>
<p>
“Will you give us your word of honour you weren't going to run away?”
</p>
<p>
Words of honour meant little to the young Rainhams. But they knew that
Cecilia held it as a commonplace of decent behaviour that people did not
tell lies. They had, indeed, often marvelled that she preferred to “take
her gruel” rather than use any ready untruth that would have shielded her
from their mother's wrath. Avice and Wilfred had no such scruples on their
own account: but they knew that they could depend upon Cecilia's word.
They were, indeed, just a little afraid of their own action in locking her
up; their mother might have condoned it as “high spirits,” but their
father was not unlikely to take a different view. So they awaited her
reply with some anxiety.
</p>
<p>
Cecilia hesitated. Never in her life had she been so tempted. Perhaps
because the temptation was so strong she answered swiftly.
</p>
<p>
“No—I won't tell you anything of the kind. But look here—if
you will let me out I'll give you each ten shillings.”
</p>
<p>
Ten shillings! It was wealth, and the children gasped. Wilfred, indeed,
would have shot back the bolt instantly. It was Avice who caught at his
arm.
</p>
<p>
“Don't you!” she whispered. “It'll cost heaps more than that to get a new
governess—and we'll make Mater give us each ten shillings for
keeping her. I say, we'll have to get the Pater home.”
</p>
<p>
“How?” Wilfred looked at her blankly.
</p>
<p>
“Easy. You go to the post office and telephone to him at his office. Tell
him to come at once. I'll watch here, in case Eliza lets her out. Run—hard
as you can. Mater'll never forgive us if she gets away.”
</p>
<p>
Wilfred clattered off obediently, awed by his sister's urgency. Avice sat
down on the head of the stairs, close to the bolted door; and when Cecilia
spoke again, repeating her offer, she answered her in a voice unpleasantly
like her mother's:
</p>
<p>
“No, you don't, my fine lady. Wilfred's gone for the Pater—he'll be
here presently. You just stay there quietly till he comes.”
</p>
<p>
“Avice!” The word was a wail. “Oh, you don't know how important it is—let
me out. I'll give you anything in the world.”
</p>
<p>
“So'll Mater if I stop your little game,” said Avice. “You just keep
quiet.”
</p>
<p>
Eliza's sharp little face appeared at the foot of the flight of stairs.
</p>
<p>
“Wot's up, Miss Avice? Anyfink wrong with Miss 'Cilia?”
</p>
<p>
“Nothing to do with you,” said Avice rudely. “I'm looking after her.” But
Cecilia's sharp ears had caught the new voice.
</p>
<p>
“Eliza! Eliza!” she called.
</p>
<p>
The girl came up the stairs uncertainly. Avice rose to confront her.
</p>
<p>
“Now, you just keep off,” she said. “You're not coming past here. The
master'll be home directly, and till he comes, no one's going up these
stairs.” She raised her voice, to drown that of Cecilia, who was speaking
again.
</p>
<p>
Eliza looked at her doubtfully. She was an undersized, wizened little
Cockney, and Avice was a big, stoutly-built girl—who held, moreover,
the advantage of a commanding position on the top step. In an encounter of
strength there was little doubt as to who would win. She turned in
silence, cowed, and went down to the kitchen, while Avice sang a
triumphant song, partly as a chant of victory, and partly to make sure
that no one would hear the remarks that Cecilia was steadily making. She
herself had caught one phrase—“Tell my brother”—and her sharp
little mind was busy. Did that mean that Bob would be coming, against its
mistress's orders, to Lancaster Gate.
</p>
<p>
In the kitchen Eliza poured out a frantic appeal to Cook.
</p>
<p>
“She's got Miss 'Cilia locked up—the little red-'eaded cat! An'
Master Wilfred gorn to fetch the Master! Oh, come on, Cookie darlin', an'
we'll let 'er out.”
</p>
<p>
Cook shook her head slowly.
</p>
<p>
“Not good enough,” she said. “I got a pretty good place. I ain't goin' to
risk it by 'avin' a rough-an'-tumble with the daughter of the 'ouse on the
hattic stairs. You better leave well alone, Liza. You done your bit,
'elpin' 'er git them trunks orf yes'day.”
</p>
<p>
“Wot's the good of 'avin the trunks off if she can't go, too?” demanded
Eliza.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, she'll git another chance. Don't worry your 'ead so much over other
people's business. If the Master comes 'ome an' finds us scruffin' 'is
daughter, 'e'll 'and us both over to the police for assault—an' then
you'll 'ave cause for worry. Now you git along like a good gel—I got
to mike pastry.” Cook turned away decisively.
</p>
<p>
Wilfred had come home and had raced up the stairs.
</p>
<p>
“Did you get him?” Avice cried.
</p>
<p>
“No—he was out. So I left a message that he was to come home at
once, 'cause something was wrong.”
</p>
<p>
“That'll bring him,” said Avice with satisfaction. “Now, look here, Wilf—I
believe Bob may come. You go and be near the front door, to block Eliza,
if he does. Answer any ring.”
</p>
<p>
“What'll I say if he comes?”
</p>
<p>
“Say she's gone out to meet him—if he thinks that, he'll hurry back
to wherever they were to meet. Don't give him a chance to get in. Hurry!”
</p>
<p>
“Right,” said Wilfred, obeying. He sat down in a hall chair, and took up a
paper, with an eye wary for Eliza. Half an hour passed tediously, while
upstairs Cecilia begged and bribed in vain. Then he sprang to his feet as
a ring came.
</p>
<p>
Bob was at the door; and suddenly Wilfred realized that he had always been
afraid of Bob. He quailed inwardly, for never had he seen his half-brother
look as he did now—with a kind of still, terrible anger in his eyes.
</p>
<p>
“Where's Cecilia?”
</p>
<p>
“Gone out,” said the boy.
</p>
<p>
“Where?”
</p>
<p>
“Gone to meet you.”
</p>
<p>
“Did she tell you so?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, of course—how'd I know if she didn't?”
</p>
<p>
“Then that's a lie, for she wouldn't tell you. Let me in.”
</p>
<p>
“I tell you, she's gone out,” said Wilfred, whose only spark of remaining
courage was due to the fact that he had prudently kept the door on the
chain. “And Mater said you weren't to come in here.”
</p>
<p>
From the area below a shrill voice floated upwards.
</p>
<p>
“Mr. Bob! Mr. Bob! Daon't you believe 'im. They got Miss 'Cilia locked up
in 'er room.”
</p>
<p>
“By Jove!” said Bob between his teeth. “Bless you, Eliza! Open that door,
Wilfred, or I'll make it hot for you.” He thrust a foot into the opening,
with a face so threatening that Wilfred shrank back.
</p>
<p>
“I shan't,” he said. “You're not going to get her.”
</p>
<p>
“Am I not?” said Bob. He leaned back, and then suddenly flung all his
weight against the door. The chain was old and the links eaten with rust—it
snapped like a carrot, and the door flew open. Bob brushed Wilfred out of
his way, and went upstairs, three at a time.
</p>
<p>
Avice blocked his path.
</p>
<p>
“You aren't coming up.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, yes, I think so,” Bob said. He stooped, with a quick movement, and
picked her up, holding her across his shoulder, while she beat and clawed
unavailingly at his back. So holding her, he thrust back the bolt of
Cecilia's door and flung it open.
</p>
<p>
“Did you think they had got you, Tommy?”
</p>
<p>
She could only cling to his free arm for a moment speechless. Then she
lifted her face, her voice shaking, still in fear.
</p>
<p>
“We must hurry, Bob. They've sent for Papa.”
</p>
<p>
“Have they?” said Bob, with interest. “Well, not a regiment of papas
should stop you now, old girl. Got everything?”
</p>
<p>
Cecilia gathered up her things, nodding.
</p>
<p>
“Then we'll leave this young lady here,” said Bob. He placed Avice
carefully on Cecilia's bed, and made for the door, having the pleasure, as
he shot the bolt, of hearing precisely what the younger Miss Rainham
thought of him and all his attributes, including his personal appearance.
</p>
<p>
“A nice gift of language, hasn't she?” he said. “Inherits it from her
mamma, I should think.” He put his arm round Cecilia and held her closely
as they went downstairs, his face full of the joy of battle. Wilfred was
nowhere to be seen, but by the door Eliza waited. Bob slipped something
into her hand.
</p>
<p>
“I expect you'll lose your place over this, Eliza,” he said. “Well, you'll
get a better—I'll tell my lawyer to see to that. He'll write to you—by
the way, what's your surname? Oh, Smithers—I'll remember. And thank
you very much.”
</p>
<p>
They shook hands with her, and passed out into the street. Cecilia was
still too shaken to speak—but as Bob pulled her hand through his arm
and hurried her along, her self-control returned, and the face that looked
up at his presently was absolutely content. Bob returned the look with a
little smile.
</p>
<p>
“Didn't you know I'd come?” he asked. “You dear old stupid.”
</p>
<p>
“I knew you'd come—but I thought Papa would get there first,”
Cecilia answered. “Somehow, it seemed the end of everything.”
</p>
<p>
“It isn't—it's only the beginning,” Bob answered.
</p>
<p>
There was a narrow side street that made a short cut from the tube station
to the Rainhams' home; and as they passed it Mark Rainham came hurrying up
it. Bob and Cecilia did not see him. He looked at them for a moment, as if
reading the meaning of the two happy faces—and then shrank back into
an alley and remained hidden until his son and daughter had passed out of
sight. They went on their way, without dreaming that the man they dreaded
was within a stone's throw of them.
</p>
<p>
“So it was that,” said Mark Rainham slowly, looking after them. “Out of
gaol, are you—poor little prisoner! Well, good luck to you both!” He
turned on his heel, and went back to his office.
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER VIII
</h2>
<h3>
HOW TOMMY BOARDED A STRANGE TAXI
</h3>
<p>
“We're nearly in, Tommy.”
</p>
<p>
Cecilia looked up from her corner with a start, and the book she had been
trying to read slipped to the floor of the carriage.
</p>
<p>
“I believe you were asleep,” said Bob, laughing. “Poor old Tommy, are you
very tired?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, nothing, really. Only I was getting a bit sleepy,” his sister
answered. “Are we late, Bob?”
</p>
<p>
“Very, the conductor says. This train generally makes a point of being
late. I wish it had made a struggle to be on time to-night; it would have
been jolly to get to the ship in daylight.” Bob was strapping up rugs
briskly as he talked.
</p>
<p>
“How do we get down to the ship, Bob?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, no doubt there'll be taxis,” Bob answered. “But it may be no end of a
drive—the conductor tells me there are miles and miles of docks, and
the Nauru may be lying anywhere. But he says there's always a military
official on duty at the station—a transport officer, and he'll be
able to tell me everything.” He did not think it worth while to tell the
tired little sister what another man had told him, that it was very
doubtful whether they would be allowed to board any transport at night,
and that Liverpool was so crowded that to find beds in it might be an
impossibility. Bob refused to be depressed by the prospect. “If the worst
came to the worst, there'd be a Y.W.C.A. that would take in Tommy,” he
mused. “And it wouldn't be the first time I've spent a night in the open.”
Nothing seemed to matter now that they had escaped. But, all the same,
there seemed no point in telling Tommy, who was extremely cheerful, but
also very white-faced.
</p>
<p>
They drew into an enormous station, where there seemed a dense crowd of
people, but no porters at all. Bob piled their hand luggage on the
platform, and left Cecilia to guard it while he went on a tour of
discovery. He hurried back to her presently.
</p>
<p>
“Come on,” he said, gathering up their possessions. “There's a big station
hotel opening on to the platforms. I can leave you sitting in the
vestibule while I gather up the heavy luggage and find the transport
officer. I'm afraid it's going to take some time, so don't get worried if
I don't turn up very soon. There seem to be about fifty thousand people
struggling round the luggage vans, and I'll have to wait my turn. But I'll
be as quick as I can.”
</p>
<p>
“Don't you worry on my account,” Cecilia said. “This is ever so
comfortable. I don't mind how long you're away!” She laughed up at him,
sinking into a big chair in the vestibule of the hotel. There were heavy
glass doors on either side that were constantly swinging to let people in
or out; through them could be seen the hurrying throng of people on the
station, rushing to and fro under the great electric lights, gathered
round the bookstall, struggling along under luggage, or—very
occasionally—moving in the wake of a porter with a barrow heaped
with trunks. There were soldiers everywhere, British and Australian, and
officers in every variety of Allied uniform.
</p>
<p>
An officer came in with a lady and two tiny boys—Cecilia recognized
them as having been passengers on their train. With them came an old Irish
priest, who had met them, and the officer left them in his care while he
also went off on the luggage quest. The small boys were apparently untired
by their journey; they immediately began to use the swinging glass doors
as playthings to the imminent risk of their own necks, since they were too
little to be noticed by anyone coming in or out, and were nearly knocked
flat a dozen times by the swing of the doors. The weary mother spent a
busy time in rescuing them, and was not always entirely successful—bumps
and howls testified to the doors being occasionally quicker than the boys.
Finally, the old priest gathered up the elder, a curly-haired, slender
mite, into his arms and told him stories, while his plump and solemn
brother curled up on his mother's knee and dozed. It was clearly long
after their bed-time.
</p>
<p>
The procession of people came and went unceasingly, the glass doors always
aswing. In and out, in and out, men and women hurried, and just beyond the
kaleidoscope of the platforms moved and changed restlessly under the
glaring arc lights. Cecilia's bewildered mind grew weary of it all, and
she closed her eyes. It was some time later that she woke with a start, to
find Bob beside her.
</p>
<p>
“Sleepy old thing,” he said. “Oh, I've had such a wild time, Tommy; to get
information of any kind is as hard as to get one's luggage. However, I've
got both. And the first thing is we can't go on board to-night.”
</p>
<p>
“Bob! What shall we do?”
</p>
<p>
“I was rather anxious about that same thing myself,” said Bob, “since
everyone tells me that Liverpool is more jammed with people than even
London—which is saying something. However, we've had luck. I went to
ask in here, never imagining I had the ghost of a chance, and they'd just
had telegrams giving up two rooms. So we're quite all right; and so is the
luggage. I've had all the heavy stuff handed over to a carrier to be put
on the Nauru to-morrow morning.”
</p>
<p>
“You're the great manager,” said Cecilia comfortably. “Where is the Nauru,
by the way?”
</p>
<p>
“Sitting out in the river, the transport officer says. She doesn't come
alongside until the morning; and we haven't to be on board until three
o'clock. She's supposed to pull out about six. So we really needn't have
left London to-day—but I think it's as well we did.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, indeed,” said Cecilia, with a shiver. “I don't think I could have
stood another night in Lancaster Gate. I've been awake for three nights
wondering what we should do if any hitch came in our plans.”
</p>
<p>
“Just like a woman!” said Bob, laughing. “You always jump over your hedges
before you come to them.” He pulled her gently out of her chair. “Come
along; I'll have these things sent up to our rooms, and then we'll get
some dinner—after which you'll go to bed.” It was a plan which
sounded supremely attractive to his sister.
</p>
<p>
Not even the roar and rattle of the trains under the station hotel kept
Cecilia awake that night. She slept, dreamlessly at first; then she had a
dream that she was just about to embark in a great ship for Australia;
that she was going up the gangway, when suddenly behind her came her
father and her stepmother, with Avice, Wilfred and Queenie, who all seized
her, and began to drag her back. She fought and struggled with them, and
from the top of the gangway came Mr. M'Clinton and Eliza, who tugged her
upwards. Between the two parties she was beginning to think she would be
torn to pieces, when suddenly came swooping from the clouds an areoplane,
curiously like a wheelbarrow, and in it Bob, who leaned out as he dived,
grasped her by the hair, and swung her aboard with him. They whirred away
over the sea; where, she did not know, but it did not seem greatly to
matter. They were still flying between sea and sky when she woke, to find
the sunlight streaming into her room, and some one knocking at her door.
</p>
<p>
“Are you awake, Tommy?” It was Bob's voice. “Lie still, and I'll send you
up a cup of tea.”
</p>
<p>
That was very pleasant, and a happy contrast to awakening in Lancaster
Gate; and breakfast a little later was delightful, in a big sunny room,
with interesting people coming and going all the time. Bob and Cecilia
smiled at each other like two happy children. It was almost unbelievable
that they were free; away from tryanny and coldness, with no more plotting
and planning, and no more prying eyes.
</p>
<p>
Bob went off to interview the transport officer after breakfast, and
Cecilia found the officer's wife with the two little boys struggling to
attend to her luggage, while the children ran away and lost themselves in
the corridors or endeavoured to commit suicide by means of the lift. So
Cecilia took command of them and played with them until the harassed
mother had finished, and came to reclaim her offspring—this time
with the worry lines smoothed out of her face. She sat down by Cecilia and
talked, and presently it appeared that she also was sailing in the Nauru.
</p>
<p>
“Indeed, I thought it was only wives who were going,” she said. “I didn't
know sisters were permitted.”
</p>
<p>
“I believe General Harran managed our passages,” Cecilia said. “He has
been very kind to my brother.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, you should have a merry voyage, for there will be scarcely any
young girls on board,” said Mrs. Burton, her new friend. “Most of the
women on the transports are brides, of course. Ever so many of our men
have married over here.”
</p>
<p>
“You are an Australian?” Cecilia asked.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, yes. My husband isn't. He was an old regular officer, and returned to
his regiment as soon as war broke out. I don't think there will be many
women on board: the Nauru isn't a family ship, you know.”
</p>
<p>
“What is that?” Cecilia queried.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, a ship with hundreds of women and children—privates' wives and
families, as well as officers'. I believe they are rather awful to travel
on—they must be terrible in rough weather. The non-family ships
carry only a few officers' wives, as a rule: a much more comfortable
arrangement for the lucky few.”
</p>
<p>
“And we are among the lucky few?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes. I only hope my small boys won't be a nuisance. I've never been
without a nurse for them until last night. However, I suppose I'll soon
get into their ways.”
</p>
<p>
“You must let me help you,” Cecilia said. “I love babies.” She stroked
Tim's curly head as she spoke: Dickie, his little brother, had suddenly
fallen asleep on his mother's knee.
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Burton smiled her thanks.
</p>
<p>
“Well, it is pleasant to think we shan't go on board knowing no one,” she
said. “I hope our cabins are not far apart. Oh, here is my husband; I hope
that means all our luggage is safely on board.”
</p>
<p>
Colonel Burton came up—a pleasant soldierly man, bearing the
unmistakable stamp of the regular officer. They were still chatting when
Bob arrived, to be introduced—a ceremony which appeared hardly
necessary in the case of the colonel and himself.
</p>
<p>
“We've met at intervals since last night in various places where they hide
luggage,” said the colonel. “I'm beginning to turn faint at the sight of a
trunk!”
</p>
<p>
“It's the trunks I can't get sight of that make me tremble,” grinned Bob.
“One of mine disappeared mysteriously this morning, and finally, after a
breathless hunt, turned up in a lamp-room—your biggest Saratoga,
Tommy! Why anyone should have put it in a lamp-room seems to be a
conundrum that is going to excite the station for ever. But there it was.”
</p>
<p>
“And have they really started for the ship?” asked Cecilia.
</p>
<p>
“Well—I saw them all on a lorry, checked over my list with the
driver's, and found everything right, and saw him start,” said Bob,
laughing. “More than that no man may say.”
</p>
<p>
“It would simplify matters if we knew our cabin numbers,” said Colonel
Burton. “But we don't; neither does anyone, as far as I can gather, since
cabins appear to be allotted just as you go on board—a peculiar
system. Can you imagine the ghastly heap of miscellaneous luggage that
will be dumped on the Nauru, with frenzied owners wildly trying to sort it
out!”
</p>
<p>
“It doesn't bear thinking of,” said Bob, laughing. “Come along, Tommy, and
we'll explore Liverpool.”
</p>
<p>
They wandered about the crowded streets of the great port, where may,
perhaps, be seen a queerer mixture of races than anywhere in England,
since ships from all over the world ceaselesly come and go up and down the
Mersey. Then they boarded a tram and journeyed out of the city, among
miles of beautiful houses, and, getting down at the terminus, walked
briskly for an hour, since it would be long before there would be any land
for them to walk on again. They got back to the hotel rather late for
lunch, and very hungry; and afterwards it was time to pack up their light
luggage and get down to the docks. General Harran had warned them to take
enough hand-baggage to last them several nights, since it was quite
possible that their cabin trunks would be swept into the baggage room, and
fail to turn up for a week after sailing.
</p>
<p>
A taxi whisked them through streets that became more and more crowded. The
journey was not a long one; they turned down a slope presently, and drew
up before a great gate across the end of a pier where two policemen were
on duty to prevent the entrance of anyone without a pass. Porters were
there in singular numbers—England had grown quite used to being
without them; and Bob had just transferred their luggage to the care of a
cheerful lad with a barrow when Cecilia gave a little start of dismay.
</p>
<p>
“Bob, I've left my watch!”
</p>
<p>
“Whew!” whistled her brother. “Where?”
</p>
<p>
“I washed my hands just before I left my room,” said the shamefaced
Cecilia. “I remember slipping it off my wrist beside the basin.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, there's no need to worry,” said Bob cheerfully. “Ten to one it's
there still. You'll have to take the taxi and go back for it, Tommy: I
can't leave the luggage, and I may be wanted to show our papers, besides;
but you won't have any difficulty. Come along, and I'll see that the
policeman lets you through when you come back.”
</p>
<p>
The constable was sympathetic. He examined Cecilia's passport, declared
that he would know her anywhere again, and that she had no cause for
anxiety.
</p>
<p>
“Is it time? Sure, ye'll be tired of waitin' on the ould pier hours afther
ye get back,” he said cheerfully. “I know thim transports. Why, there's
not one of the throops marched in yet. There comes the furrst lot.”
</p>
<p>
A band swung round the turn of the street playing a quickstep: behind it,
a long line of Australian soldiers, marching at ease, each man with his
pack on his shoulder. A gate with a military sentry swung wide to admit
them, and they passed on to where a high overhead bridge carried them
aboard a great liner moored to the pier.
</p>
<p>
“'Tis the soldiers have betther treatment than the officers whin it comes
to boardin' transports,” said the friendly policeman. “They get marched
straight on board. The officers and their belongin's has to wait till
they've gone through hivin knows what formalities. So you needn't worry,
miss, an' take your time. The ould ship'll be there hours yet.”
</p>
<p>
The taxi driver appeared only too glad of further employment, and Cecilia,
much cheered, though still considerably ashamed of herself, leaned back
comfortably in the cab as they whisked through the streets. At the hotel
good fortune awaited her, for a chambermaid had just found her watch and
had brought it to the office for safe keeping. Cecilia left her thanks,
with something more substantial, for the girl, and hurried back to the
cab.
</p>
<p>
The streets seemed more thronged than ever, and presently traffic was
blocked by a line of marching men—more “diggers” on their way to the
transport. Cecilia's chauffeur turned back into a side street, evidently a
short cut. Half-way along it the taxi jarred once or twice and came to a
standstill.
</p>
<p>
The chauffeur got out and poked his head into the bonnet, performing
mysterious rites, while Cecilia watched him, a little anxiously. Presently
he came round to the door.
</p>
<p>
“I'm awful sorry, miss,” he said respectfully. “The old bus has broke
down. I'm afraid I can't get another move out of 'er—I'll 'ave to
get 'er towed to a garage.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh!” said Cecilia, jumping out. “Do you think I can find another near
here?”
</p>
<p>
“You oughter pick one up easy in the street up there,” said the chauffeur.
“Plenty of 'em about 'ere. Even if you shouldn't, miss, you can get a tram
down to the docks—any p'liceman 'll direct you. You could walk it,
if you liked—you've loads of time.” He touched his cap as she paid
him. “Very sorry to let you down like this, miss—it ain't my fault.
All the taxis in England are just about droppin' to pieces—it'll be
a mercy when repair shops get goin' again.”
</p>
<p>
“It doesn't matter,” Cecilia said cheerfully. She decided that she would
walk; it would be more interesting, and the long wait on the pier would be
shortened. She set off happily towards the main street where the tram
lines ran, feeling that short cuts were not for strangers in a big city.
</p>
<p>
Even in the side street the shops were interesting. She came upon a
fascinating curio shop, and stopped a moment to look at the queer medley
in its window; such a medley as may be seen in any port where sailor-men
bring home strange things from far countries. She was so engrossed that
she failed to notice a woman who passed her, and then, with an astonished
stare, turned back. A heavy hand fell on her wrist.
</p>
<p>
“Cecilia!”
</p>
<p>
She turned, with a little cry. Mrs. Rainham's face, inflamed with sudden
anger, looked into her own. The hard grasp tightened on her wrist.
</p>
<p>
“What are you doing here, you wicked girl? You've run away.”
</p>
<p>
At the moment no speech was possible to Cecilia. She twisted her arm away
fiercely, freeing herself with difficulty, and turning, ran, with her
stepmother at her heels. Once, Mrs. Rainham gasped “Police!” after which
she required all the breath to keep near the flying girl. The street was
quiet; only one or two interested passers-by turned to look at the race,
and a street urchin shouted: “Go it, red 'ead—she's beatin' yer!”
</p>
<p>
It follows naturally, when one person pursues another through city
streets, that the pursued falls under public suspicion and is liable to be
caught and held by any officious person. Cecilia felt this, and her
anxiety was keen as she darted round the corner into the next street,
looking about wildly for a means of escape. A big van, crawling across the
road, held Mrs. Rainham back for a moment, giving her a brief respite.
</p>
<p>
Just in front of her, a block in the traffic was beginning to move. A taxi
was near her. She held up her hand desperately, trying to catch the
driver's eye. He shook his head, and she realized that he was already
engaged—there was a pile of luggage beside him with big labels, and
a familiar name struck her—“H.M.T. Nauru.” A girl, leaning from the
window of the taxi, met her glance, and Cecilia took a sudden resolve. She
sprang forward, her hand on the door.
</p>
<p>
“I am a passenger by the Nauru. Could you take me in your car?” she
gasped.
</p>
<p>
“Why, of course,” said the other girl. “Plenty of room, isn't there, dad?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, certainly,” said the other occupant of the cab—a big, grizzled
man, who looked at the new-comer in blank amazement. He had half risen,
but there was no time for him to assist his self-invited guest; she had
opened the door and jumped in before his daughter had finished speaking.
Leaning forward, Cecilia saw her stepmother emerge from the traffic,
crimson-faced, casting wild and wrathful glances about her. Then her
wandering eye fell upon Cecilia, and she began to run forward. Even as she
did the chauffeur quickened his pace, and the taxi slid away, until the
running, shouting figure was lost to view.
</p>
<p>
Cecilia sat back with a gasp, and began to laugh helplessly. The others
watched her with faces that clearly showed that they began to suspect
having entertained a lunatic unawares.
</p>
<p>
“I do beg your pardon,” said Cecilia, recovering. “It was inexcusable. But
I was running away.”
</p>
<p>
“So it seemed,” said the big man, in a slow, pleasant voice. “I hope it
wasn't from the police?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh no!” Cecilia flushed. “Only from my stepmother. My own taxi had just
broken down, and she found me, and she would have made a scene in the
street—and scenes are so vulgar, are they not? When I saw Nauru on
your luggage, you seemed to me to have dropped from heaven.”
</p>
<p>
She looked at them, her pretty face pink, her eyes dancing with
excitement. There was something appealing about her, in the big childish
eyes, and in the well-bred voice with its faint hint of a French accent.
The girl she looked at could hardly have been called pretty—she was
slender and long-limbed, with honest grey eyes and a sensitive mouth that
seemed always ready to break into smiles. A little smile hovered at its
corners now, but her voice held a note of protection.
</p>
<p>
“I don't think we need bother you to tell us,” she said. “In our country
it's a very ordinary thing to give anyone a lift, if you have a seat to
spare. Isn't it, daddy?”
</p>
<p>
“Of course,” said her father. “And we are to be fellow-passengers, so it
was very lucky that we were there in the nick of time.”
</p>
<p>
Cecilia looked at them gratefully. It might have been so different, she
thought; she might have flung herself on the mercy of people who would
have been suspicious and frigid, or of others who would have treated her
with familiarity and curious questioning. These people were pleasantly
matter-of-fact; glad to help, but plainly anxious to show her that they
considered her affairs none of their business. There was a little catch in
her throat as she answered.
</p>
<p>
“It is very good of you to take me on trust—I know I did an
unwarrantable thing. But my brother, Captain Rainham, will explain
everything, and he will be as grateful to you as I am. He is at the ship
now.”
</p>
<p>
“Then we can hand you over to his care,” said her host. “By the way, is
there any need to guard against the—er—lady you spoke of? Is
she likely to follow you to the docks?”
</p>
<p>
“She doesn't know I'm going,” said Cecilia, dimpling. “Of course, if it
were in a novel she would leap into a swift motor and bid the driver
follow us, and be even now on our heels—”
</p>
<p>
“Goodness!” said the other girl. She twisted so that she could look out of
the tiny window at the back; turning back with a relieved face.
</p>
<p>
“Nothing near us but a carrier's van and a pony cart,” she said. “I
shouldn't think you need worry.”
</p>
<p>
“No. I really don't think I need. My stepmother did see me in the taxi,
but her brain doesn't move very swiftly, nor does she, for that matter—and
I'm sure she wouldn't try to follow me. She knows, too, that if she found
me she couldn't drag me away as if I were two years old. Oh, I'm sure I'm
safe from her now,” finished Cecilia, with a sigh of relief.
</p>
<p>
“At any rate, if she comes to the docks she will have your brother to deal
with,” said the big man. “And here we are.”
</p>
<p>
They got out at the big gate where the Irish policeman greeted Cecilia
with a friendly “Did ye find it now, miss?” and beamed upon her when she
held up her wrist, with her watch safely in its place. He examined her
companions' passports, but let her through with an airy “Sure, this young
lady's all right,” which made Cecilia feel that no further proof could be
needed of her respectability. Then Bob came hurrying to meet her.
</p>
<p>
“I was just beginning to get uneasy about you,” he said. “Did you have any
trouble?”
</p>
<p>
“My taxi broke down,” Cecilia answered. “But this lady and gentleman most
kindly gave me a seat, and saved me ever so much trouble. I'll tell you my
story presently.”
</p>
<p>
Bob turned, saluting.
</p>
<p>
“Thanks, awfully,” he said. “I wasn't too happy at letting my little
sister run about alone in a strange city, but it couldn't be helped.”
</p>
<p>
“I'm very glad we were there,” said the big man. “Now, can you tell me
where luggage should go? My son and a friend are somewhere on the pier, I
suppose, but it doesn't seem as though finding them would be an easy
matter.”
</p>
<p>
The pier, indeed, resembled a hive in which the bees have broken loose.
Beside it lay the huge bulk of the transport, towering high above all the
dock buildings near. Already she swarmed with Australian soldiers, and a
steady stream was still passing aboard by the overhead gangway to the
blare and crash of a regimental march. The pier itself was crowded with
officers, with a sprinkling of women and children—most of them
looking impatient enough at being kept ashore instead of being allowed to
seek their quarters on the ship. Great heaps of trunks were stacked here
and there, and a crane was steadily at work swinging them aboard.
</p>
<p>
“We can't go aboard yet, nobody seems to know why,” Bob said. “An
individual called an embarkation officer, or something of the kind, has to
check our passports; he was supposed to be here before three o'clock, but
there's no sign of him yet, and every one has to wait his convenience.
It's hard on the women with little children—the poor mites are
getting tired and cross. Luggage can be left in the care of the ship's
hands, to be loaded; I'll show you where, sir, if you like. Is this
yours?” His eye fell on a truck-load of trunks, wheeled up by a porter,
and lit up suddenly as he noticed the name on their labels.
</p>
<p>
“Oh—are you Mr. Linton?” he exclaimed. “I believe I've got a letter
for you, from General Harran.”
</p>
<p>
“Now, I was wondering where I'd heard your name before, when your sister
happened to say you were Captain Rainham,” said the big man. “How stupid
of me—of course, I met Harran at my club this week, and he told me
about you.” He held out his hand, and took Bob's warmly; then he turned to
his daughter. “Norah, it's lucky that we have made friends with Miss
Rainham already, because you know she's in our care, after a fashion.”
</p>
<p>
Norah Linton turned with a quick smile.
</p>
<p>
“I'm so glad,” she said. “I've been wondering what you would be like,
because we didn't know of anyone else on board.”
</p>
<p>
“General Harran told my brother that you would befriend us, but I did not
think you would begin so early,” Cecilia said. “Just fancy, Bob, they
rescued me almost from the clutches of the she-dragon!”
</p>
<p>
Bob jumped.
</p>
<p>
“You don't mean to say you met her?”
</p>
<p>
“I did—as soon as my cab broke down. And I lost my head and ran from
her like a hare, and jumped into Mr. Linton's car!”
</p>
<p>
Bob regarded her with solemn amazement.
</p>
<p>
“So this is what happens when I let you go about alone!” he ejaculated.
“Why, you might have got yourself into an awful mess—it might have
been anybody's car—”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, but it wasn't,” said his sister serenely. “You see, I looked at Miss
Linton first, and I knew it would be all right.”
</p>
<p>
The Lintons laughed unrestrainedly.
</p>
<p>
“That's your look of benevolent old age, Norah,” said her father. “I've
often noticed it coming on.”
</p>
<p>
“I wish you'd mention it to Wally,” Norah said. “He might treat me with
more respect if you did.”
</p>
<p>
“I doubt it; it isn't in Wally,” said her father. “Now, Rainham, shall we
see about this luggage?”
</p>
<p>
They handed it over to the care of deck hands, and watched it loaded, with
many other trunks, into a huge net, which the crane seized, swung to an
enormous height and then lowered gently upon the deck of the Nauru. Just
as the operation was finished two figures threaded their way through the
crowd towards them; immensely tall young officers, with the badge of a
British regiment on their caps.
</p>
<p>
“Hullo, dad,” said the taller—a good-looking grave-faced fellow,
with a strong resemblance to Norah. “We hardly expected you down so
early.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, Norah and I had nothing to do, so we thought we might as well come;
though it appears that we would have been wiser not to hurry,” said Mr.
Linton. “Jim, I want to introduce you to two courageous emigrants—Miss
Rainham, Captain Rainham—my son.”
</p>
<p>
Jim Linton shook hands, and introduced his companion, Captain Meadows, who
was dark and well built, with an exceedingly merry eye.
</p>
<p>
“We've been trying to get round the powers that be, to make our way on
board,” he said. “The chief difficulty is that the powers that be aren't
there; everything is hung up waiting for this blessed official. I suppose
the honest man is sleeping off the effects of a heavy lunch.”
</p>
<p>
“If he knew what hearty remarks are being made about him by over two
hundred angry people, it might disturb his rest,” said Wally Meadows.
“Come along and see them—you're only on the fringe of the crowd
here.”
</p>
<p>
“Wally's been acting as nursemaid for the last half hour,” Jim said, as
they made their way along the pier. “He rescued a curly-haired kid from a
watery grave—at least, it would have been in if he hadn't caught it
by the hind leg—and after that the kid refused to let him go.”
</p>
<p>
“He was quite a jolly kid,” said Wally. “Only he seems to have quicksilver
in him, instead of blood. I'm sorry for his mother—she'll have a
packed time for the next five weeks.” He sighed. “Hide me, Norah—there
he is now!”
</p>
<p>
The curly-haired one proved to be little Tim Burton, who detached himself
from his mother on catching sight of Wally, and trotted across to him with
a shrill cry of “There's mine officer!”—whereat Wally swung him up
on his shoulder, to his infinite delight. Mrs. Burton hurried up to claim
her offspring, and was made known to every one by Cecilia.
</p>
<p>
“It's such an awful wait,” she said wearily. “We came here soon after two
o'clock, thinking we would get the children on board early for their
afternoon sleep; now it's after four, and we have stood here ever since.
It's too tantalizing with the ship looking at us, and the poor babies are
so tired. Still, I'm not the worst off. Look at that poor girl.”
</p>
<p>
She pointed out a white-faced girl who was sitting in a drooping attitude
on a very dirty wooden case. She was dainty and refined in appearance; and
looking at her, one felt that the filthy case was the most welcome thing
she had found that afternoon. Her husband, an officer scarcely more than a
boy, stood beside, trying vainly to hush the cries of a tiny baby. She put
up her arms wearily as they looked at her.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, give her to me, Harry.” She took the little bundle and crooned over
it; and the baby wailed on unceasingly.
</p>
<p>
“Oh!” said Norah Linton. She took a quick stride forward. They watched her
accost the young mother—saw the polite, yet stiff, refusal on the
English girl's face; saw Norah, with a swift decided movement stoop down
and take the baby from the reluctant arms, putting any protest aside with
a laugh. A laugh went round the Linton party also.
</p>
<p>
“I knew she'd get it,” said Jim.
</p>
<p>
“Rather!” his friend echoed. “But she hasn't arms enough for all the
babies who want mothering here.”
</p>
<p>
There were indeed plenty of them. Tired young mothers stood about
everywhere, with children ranging from a few months to three or four
years, all weary by this time, and most of them cross. Harassed young
husbands, unused to travelling with children—unused, indeed, to
anything but War—went hither and thither trying to hasten the
business of getting on board—coming back, after each useless
journey, to try and soothe a screaming baby or restrain a tiny boy anxious
to look over the edge of the pier. It was only a few minutes before
Cecilia had found a mother exhausted enough to yield up her baby without
much protest; and Jim and Wally Meadows and Bob “adopted” some of the
older children, and took them off to see the band; which diversions helped
to pass the time. But it was after five o'clock before a stir went round
the pier, and a rush of officers towards a little wooden room at the foot
of the gangway told that the long-waited-for official had arrived.
</p>
<p>
“Well, we won't hurry,” said Mr. Linton. “Let the married men get on
first.”
</p>
<p>
There were not many who did not hurry. A few of the older officers kept
back; the majority, who were chiefly subalterns, made a dense crowd about
the little room, their long-pent impatience bursting out at last.
Passports examined, a procession began up the gangway; each man compelled
to halt at a barrier on top, where two officers sat allotting cabins. It
was difficult to see why both these preliminaries could not have been
managed before, instead of being left until the moment of boarding; the
final block strained every one's patience to breaking-point.
</p>
<p>
The Lintons and the Rainhams were almost the last to board the ship,
having, not without thankfulness, relinquished their adopted babies. The
officers allotting berths nodded comprehendingly on hearing the names of
the two girls.
</p>
<p>
“Oh yes—you're together.” He gave them their number.
</p>
<p>
“Together—how curious!” said Cecilia.
</p>
<p>
“Not a bit; you're the only unmarried ladies on board. And they're packed
like sardines—not a vacant berth on the ship. Over two thousand men
and two hundred officers, to say nothing of wives and children.” He leaned
back, thankful that his rush of work was over. “Well, when I make a long
voyage I hope it won't be on a trooper!”
</p>
<p>
“Well, that's a bad remark to begin one's journey on,” said Jim Linton,
following the girls up the gangway. “Doesn't it scare you, Miss Rainham?”
</p>
<p>
“No,” she said, with a little laugh. “Nothing would scare me except not
going.”
</p>
<p>
“Why, that's all right,” he said. His hand fell on his sister's shoulder.
“And what about you, Nor?”
</p>
<p>
The face she turned him was so happy that words were hardly needed.
</p>
<p>
“Why—I'm going back to Billabong!” she said.
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER IX
</h2>
<h3>
THE WELCOME OF AUSTRALIA
</h3>
<p>
A path of moonlight lay across the sea. Into it drifted a great ship, her
engines almost stopped, so that only a dull, slow throb came up from
below, instead of the swift thud-thud of the screw that had pounded for
many weeks. It was late; so late that most of the ship's lights were
extinguished. But all through her was a feeling of pulsating life, of
unrest, of a kind of tense excitement, of long-pent expectation. There
were low voices everywhere; feet paced the decks; along the port railings
on each deck soldiers were clustered thickly, looking out across the grey,
tossing sea to a winking light that flashed and twinkled out of the
darkness like a voice that cried “Greeting!” For it was the Point Lonsdale
light, at the sea gate of Victoria; and the men of the Nauru were nearly
home.
</p>
<p>
There was little sleep for anyone on board on that last night. Most of the
Nauru's great company were to disembark in Melbourne; the last two days
had seen a general smartening up, a mighty polishing of leather and brass,
a “rounding-up” of scattered possessions. The barber's shop had been
besieged by shaggy crowds; and since the barber, being but human, could
not cope with more than a small proportion of his would-be customers,
amateur clipping parties had been in full swing forward, frequently with
terrifying results. Nobody minded. “Git it orf, that's all that matters!”
was the motto of the long-haired.
</p>
<p>
No one knew quite when the Nauru would berth; it was wrapped in mystery,
like all movements of troopships. So every one was ready the night before—kit
bags packed, gear stowed away, nothing left save absolute necessaries.
Then, with the coming of dusk, unrest settled down upon the ship, and the
men marched restlessly, up and down, or, gripping pipe stems between their
teeth, stared from the railings northwards. And then, like a star at
first, the Point Lonsdale light twinkled out of the darkness, and a low
murmur ran round the decks—a murmur without words, since it came
from men whose only fashion of meeting any emotion is with a joke; and
even for a “digger” there is no joke ready on the lips, but only a catch
at the heart, at the first glimpse of home.
</p>
<p>
Norah Linton had tucked herself away behind a boat on the hurricane deck,
and there Cecilia Rainham found her just after dusk. The two girls had
become sworn friends during the long voyage out, in the close
companionship of sharing a cabin—which is a kind of acid test that
generally brings out the best—and worst—of travellers. There
was something protective in Norah's nature that responded instantly to the
lonely position of the girl who was going across the world to a strange
country. Both were motherless, but in Norah's case the blank was softened
by a father who had striven throughout his children's lives to be father
and mother alike to them, while Cecilia had only the bitter memory of the
man who had shirked his duty until he had become less than a stranger to
her. If any pang smote her heart at the sight of Norah's worshipping love
for the tall grey “dad” for whom she was the very centre of existence,
Cecilia did not show it. The Lintons had taken them into their little
circle at once—more, perhaps, by reason of Cecilia's extraordinary
introduction to them than through General Harran's letter—and Bob
and his sister were already grateful for their friendship. They were a
quiet quartet, devoted to each other in their undemonstrative fashion;
Norah was on a kind of boyish footing with Jim, the huge silent brother
who was a major, with three medal ribbons to his credit, and with Wally
Meadows, his inseparable chum, who had been almost brought up with the
brother and sister.
</p>
<p>
“They were always such bricks to me, even when I was a little scrap of a
thing,” she had told Cecilia. “They never said I was 'only a girl,' and
kept me out of things. So I grew up more than three parts a boy. It was so
much easier for dad to manage three boys, you see!”
</p>
<p>
“You don't look much like a boy,” Cecilia had said, looking at the tall,
slender figure and the mass of curly brown hair. They were getting ready
for bed, and Norah was wielding a hair-brush vigorously.
</p>
<p>
“No, but I really believe I feel like one—at least, I do whenever I
am with Jim and Wally,” Norah had answered. “And when we get back to
Billabong it will be just as it always was—we'll be three boys
together. You know, it's the most ridiculous thing to think of Jim and
Wally as grown-ups. Dad and I can't get accustomed to it at all. And as
for Jim being a major!—a major sounds so dignified and respectable,
and Jim isn't a bit like that!”
</p>
<p>
“And what about Captain Meadows?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh—Wally will simply never grow up.” Norah laughed softly. “He's
like Peter Pan. Once he nearly managed it—in that bad time when Jim
was a prisoner, and we thought he was killed. But Jim got back just in
time to save him from anything so awful. One of the lovely parts of
getting Jim again was to see the twinkle come back into Wally's eyes. You
see, Wally is practically all twinkle!”
</p>
<p>
“And when you get back to Australia, what will you all do?”
</p>
<p>
Norah had looked puzzled.
</p>
<p>
“Why, I don't know that we've ever thought of it,” she said. “We'll just
all go to Billabong—we don't seem to think further than that.
Anyway, you and Bob are coming too—so we can plan it all out then.”
</p>
<p>
Looking at her, on this last night of the voyage, Cecilia wondered whether
the unknown “Billabong” would indeed be enough, after the long years of
war. They had been children when they left; now the boys were seasoned
soldiers, with scars and honours, and such memories as only they
themselves could know; and Norah and her father had for years conducted
what they termed a “Home for Tired People,” where broken and weary men
from the front had come to be healed and tended, and sent back refitted in
mind and body. This girl, who leaned over the rail and looked at the Point
Lonsdale light, had seen suffering and sorrow; the mourning of those who
had given up dear ones, the sick despair of young and strong men crippled
in the very dawn of life; and had helped them all. Beside her, in
experience, Cecilia felt a child. And yet the old bush home, with its
simple life and the pleasures that had been everything to her in
childhood, seemed everything to her now.
</p>
<p>
Cecilia went softly to her side, and Norah turned with a start.
</p>
<p>
“Hallo, Tommy!” she said, slipping her arm through the new-comer's—Cecilia
had become “Tommy” to them all in a very short time, and her hated, if
elegant, name left as a legacy to England. “I didn't hear you come. Oh,
Tommy, it's lovely to see home again!”
</p>
<p>
“You can't see much,” said Tommy, laughing.
</p>
<p>
“No, but it's there. I can feel it; and that old winking eye on Point
Lonsdale is saying fifty nice things a minute. And I can smell the gum
leaves—don't you tell me I can't, Tommy, just because your nose
isn't tuned up to gum leaves yet!”
</p>
<p>
“Does it take long to tune a nose?” asked Tommy, laughing.
</p>
<p>
“Not a nice nose like yours.” Norah gave a happy little sigh. “Do you see
that glow in the sky? That's the lights of Melbourne. I went to school
near Melbourne, but I never loved it much; but somehow, it seems different
now. It's all just shouting welcomes. And back of beyond that light is
Billabong.”
</p>
<p>
“I want to see Billabong,” said the other girl. “I never had a home that
meant anything like that—I want to see yours.”
</p>
<p>
“And I suppose you'll just think it's an ordinary, untidy old place—not
a bit like the trim English places, where the woods look as though they
were swept and dusted before breakfast every morning. I suppose it is all
ordinary. But it has meant just everything I wanted, all my life, and I
can't imagine its meaning anything less now.”
</p>
<p>
“And what about Homewood—the Home for Tired People?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, Homewood certainly is lovely,” Norah said. “I like it better than any
place in the world that isn't Billabong—and it was just wonderful to
be able to carry it on for the Tired People: dad and I will always be
thankful we had the chance. But it never was home: and now it's going to
run itself happily without us, as a place for partly-disabled men, with
Colonel Hunt and Captain Hardress to manage it. It was just a single
chapter in our lives, and now it is closed. But we're—all of us—parts
of Billabong.”
</p>
<p>
Some one came quietly along the deck and to the vacant place on her other
side.
</p>
<p>
“Who's talking Billabong again, old kiddie?” Jim Linton's deep voice was
always gentle. Norah gave his shoulder a funny little rub with her head.
</p>
<p>
“Ah, you're just as bad as I am, so you needn't laugh at me, Jimmy.”
</p>
<p>
“I wasn't laughing at you,” Jim defended himself. “I expected to find you
ever so much worse. I thought you'd sing anthems on the very word
Billabong all through the voyage, especially in your bath. Of course I
don't know what Tommy has suffered!”
</p>
<p>
“Tommy doesn't need your sympathy,” said that lady. “However, she wants to
look her best for Melbourne, so she's going to bed. Don't hurry, Norah; I
know you want to exchange greetings with that light for hours yet!”
</p>
<p>
She slipped away, and Norah drew closer to Jim. Presently came Wally, on
her other side, and a few moments later a deep voice behind them said,
“Not in bed yet, Norah?”—and Wally made room for Mr. Linton.
</p>
<p>
“I couldn't go to bed, dad.”
</p>
<p>
“Apparently most of the ship is of your mind—I didn't feel like bed
myself,” admitted the squatter, letting his hand rest for a moment on his
daughter's shoulder. He gave a great sigh of happiness. “Eh, children,
it's great to be near home again!”
</p>
<p>
“My word, isn't it!” said Jim. “Only it's hard to take in. I keep fancying
that I'll certainly wake up in a minute and find myself in a trench, just
getting ready to go over the top. What do you suppose they're doing at
Billabong now, Nor?”
</p>
<p>
“Asleep,” said Norah promptly. “Oh, I don't know—I don't believe
Brownie's asleep.”
</p>
<p>
“I know she's not,” Wally said. He and the old nurse-housekeeper of
Billabong were sworn allies; though no one could ever quite come up to Jim
and Norah in Brownie's heart, Wally had been a close third from the day,
long years back, that he had first come to the station, a lonely,
dark-eyed little Queenslander. “She's made the girls scrub and polish
until there's nothing left for them to rub, and she's harried Hogg and Lee
Wing until there isn't a leaf looking crooked in all the garden, and she
and Murty have planned all about meeting you for the hundred and first
time.”
</p>
<p>
“And she's planning to make pikelets for you!” put in Norah.
</p>
<p>
“Bless her. I wouldn't wonder. She's planning the very wildest cooking, of
course—do you remember what the table used to be the night we came
home from school? And now she's gone round all the rooms to make sure she
couldn't spend another sixpence on them, and she's sitting by her window
trying to see us all on the Nauru. 'Specially you, old Nor.”
</p>
<p>
“'Tis the gift of second sight you have,” said Jim admiringly. “A few
hundred years ago you'd have got yourself ducked as a witch or something.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, Wally and Brownie were always twin souls; no wonder each knows what
the other is thinking of,” Norah said, laughing. “It all sounds exactly
true, at any rate. Boys, what a pity you can't land in uniform—wouldn't
they all love to see you!”
</p>
<p>
“Can't do it,” Jim said. “Too long since we were shot out of the army; any
enterprising provost-marshal could make himself obnoxious about it.”
</p>
<p>
“I know—but I'm sorry,” answered Norah. “Brownie won't be satisfied
unless she sees you in all your war paint.”
</p>
<p>
“We'll put it on some night for dinner,” Jim promised. He peered suddenly
into the darkness. “There's a moving light—it's the pilot steamer
coming out for us.”
</p>
<p>
They watched the light pass slowly from the dim region that meant the
Heads, until, as the pilot boat swung out through the Rip to where the
Nauru lay, her other lights grew clear, and presently her whole outline
loomed indistinctly, suddenly close to them. She lay to across a little
heaving strip of sea, and presently the pilot was being pulled across to
them by a couple of men and was coming nimbly up the Nauru's ladder, hand
over hand. He nodded cheerily at his welcome—a fusillade of
greetings from every “digger” who could find a place at the railings, and
a larger number who could not, but contented themselves with shouting
sweet nothings from behind their comrades. A lean youngster near Jim
Linton looked down enviously at the retreating boat.
</p>
<p>
“If I could only slide down into her, an' nick off to the old Alvina over
there, I'd be home before breakfast,” he said. “Me people live at
Queenscliff—don't it seem a fair cow to have to go past 'em, right
up to Melbourne?”
</p>
<p>
The pilot's head appeared above on the bridge, beside the captain's, and
presently the Nauru gathered way, and, slowly turning, forged through the
tossing waters of the Rip. Before her the twin lights of the Heads opened
out; soon she was gliding between them, and under the silent guns of the
Queenscliff forts, and past the twinkling house lights of the little
seaside town. There were long coo-ees from the diggers, with shrill,
piercing whistles of greeting for Victoria; from ashore came faint
answering echoes. But the four people from Billabong stood silently, glad
of each other's nearness, but with no words, and in David Linton's heart
and Norah's was a great surge of thankfulness that, out of many perils,
they were bringing their boys safely home.
</p>
<p>
The Nauru turned across Port Phillip Bay, and presently they felt the
engines cease, and there came the rattle of the chain as the anchor shot
into the sea.
</p>
<p>
“As the captain thought,” said Jim. “He fancied they'd anchor us off
Portsea for the night and bring us up to Port Melbourne in the morning,
after we'd been inspected. Wouldn't it be the limit if some one developed
measles now, and they quarantined us!”
</p>
<p>
“You deserve quarantining, if ever anyone did,” said Norah, indignantly.
“Why do you have such horrible ideas?”
</p>
<p>
“I don't know—they just seem to waft themselves to me,” said Jim
modestly. “Anyhow, the quarantine station is a jolly little place for a
holiday, and the sea view is delightful.” He broke off, laughing, and
suddenly flung his arm round her shoulders in the dusk of the deck. “I
think I'm just about insane at getting home,” he said. “Don't mind me, old
kiddie—and you'd better go to bed, or you'll be a ghost in the
morning.”
</p>
<p>
They weighed anchor after breakfast, following a perfunctory medical
inspection—so perfunctory that one youth who, having been a medical
student, and knowing well that he had a finely-developed feverish cold,
with a high temperature, and not wishing to embarrass his
fellow-passengers, placed in his mouth the wrong end of the clinical
thermometer handed him by the visiting nurse. He sucked this gravely for
the prescribed time, reversing it just as she reappeared; and, being
marked normal and given a clean bill of health, returned to his berth to
shiver and perspire between huge doses of quinine. More than one such hero
evaded the searching eye of regulations; until finally the Nauru, free to
land her passengers, steamed slowly up the Bay.
</p>
<p>
One by one the old, familiar landmarks opened out—Mornington,
Frankston, Mordialloc, while Melbourne itself lay hidden in a mist cloud
ahead. Then, as the sun grew stronger the mist lifted, and domes and
spires pierced the dun sky, towering above the jumbled mass of the grey
city. They drew closer to Port Melbourne, and lo! St. Kilda and all the
foreshore were gay with flags, and all the ships in the harbour were
dressed to welcome them; and beyond the pier were long lines of motors,
each beflagged, waiting for the fighting men whom the Nauru was bringing
home.
</p>
<p>
“Us!” said a boy. “Why, it's us! Flags an' motors—an' a blessed band
playin' on the pier! Wot on earth are they fussin' over us for? Ain't it
enough to get home?”
</p>
<p>
The band of the Nauru was playing Home, Sweet Home, very low and tenderly,
and there were lumps in many throats, and many a pipe went out unheeded.
Slowly the great ship drew in to the pier, where officers in uniform
waited, and messengers of welcome from the Government. Beyond the barriers
that held the general public back from the pier was a black mass of
people; cheer upon cheer rose, to be wafted back from the transport, where
the “diggers” lined every inch of the port side, clinging like monkeys to
yards and rigging. Then the Nauru came to rest at last, and the gangways
rattled down, and the march off began, to the quick lilt of the band
playing “Oh, it's a Lovely War.” The men took up the words, singing as
they marched back to Victoria—coming back, as they had gone, with a
joke on their lips. So the waiting motors received them, and rolled them
off in triumphal procession to Melbourne, between the cheering crowds.
</p>
<p>
From the top deck the Lintons, with the Rainhams, watched the men go—disembarkation
was for the troops first, and not till all had gone could the unattached
officers leave the ship. The captain came to them, at last a normal and
friendly captain—no more the official master of a troopship, in
which capacity, as he ruefully said, he could make no friends, and could
scarcely regard his ship as his own, provided he brought her safely from
port to port. He cast a disgusted glance along the stained and littered
decks.
</p>
<p>
“This is her last voyage as a trooper, and I'm not sorry,” he said. “After
this she'll lie up for three months to be refitted; and then I'll command
a ship again and not a barracks. You wouldn't think now, to see her on
this voyage, that the time was when I had to know the reason why if there
was so much as a stain the size of a sixpence on the deck. Oh yes, it's
been all part of the job, and I'm proud of all the old ship has done, and
the thousands of men she's carried; and we've had enough narrow squeaks,
from mines and submarines, to fill a book. But I'm beginning to hanker
mightily to see her clean!”
</p>
<p>
The Lintons laughed unfeelingly. A little mild grumbling might well be
permitted to a man with his record; few merchant captains had done finer
service in the war, and the decoration on his breast testified to his cool
handling of his ship in the “narrow squeaks” he spoke of lightly.
</p>
<p>
“Oh yes. I never get any sympathy,” said the captain, laughing himself.
“And yet I'll wager Miss Linton was 'house-proud' in that 'Home for Tired
People' of hers, and she ought to sympathize with a tidy man. You should
have seen my wife's face when she came aboard once at Liverpool, and saw
the ship; and she's never had the same respect for me since! There—the
last man is off the ship, and the gangways are clear; nothing to keep all
you homesick people now.” He said good-bye, and ran up the steps to his
cabin under the bridge.
</p>
<p>
It was a queer home-coming at first, to a vast pier, empty save for a few
officials and policemen—for no outsiders were allowed within the
barriers. But once clear of customs officials and other formalities they
packed themselves into cabs, and in a few moments were outside the
railed-off space, turning into a road lined on either side with people—all
peering into the long procession of cabs, in the hope of finding their own
returning dear ones. It was but a few moments before a posse of uncles,
aunts and cousins swooped down upon the Lintons, whose cab prudently
turned down a side street to let the wave of welcome expend itself. In the
side street, too, were motors belonging to the aunts and uncles; and
presently the new arrivals were distributed among them, and were being
rushed up to Melbourne, along roads still crowded by the people who had
flocked to welcome the “diggers” home. The Rainhams found themselves
adopted by this new and cheery band of people—at least half of whose
names they never learned; not that this seemed to matter in the least. It
was something new to them, and very un-English; but there was no doubt
that it made landing in a new country a very different thing from their
half-fearful anticipations.
</p>
<p>
“And you really came out all alone—not knowing anyone!” said an
aunt. “Aren't you English people plucky! And I believe that most of you
think we're all black fellows—or did until our diggers went home,
and proved unexpectedly white!”
</p>
<p>
“I don't think we're quite so bad as that!” Bob said, laughing. “But
certainly we never expected quite so kind a welcome.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, we're all immensely interested in people who take the trouble to come
across the world to see us,” said Mrs. Geoffrey Linton. “That is, if they
don't put on 'side'; we don't take kindly to being patronized. And you
have no idea how many new chums do patronize us. Did you know, by the way,
that you're new chums now?”
</p>
<p>
“It has been carefully drilled into us on the ship,” Bob said gravely. “I
think we know pretty well all we have to face—the snakes that creep
into new chums' boots and sleep under their pillows, the goannas that bite
our toes if we aren't watchful, and the mosquitoes that sit on the trees
and bark!”
</p>
<p>
“Also the tarantulas that drop from everywhere, especially into food,”
added Tommy, dimpling. “And the bush fires every Sunday morning, and the
blacks that rush down—what is it? Oh yes, the Block, casting
boomerangs about! There is much spare time on a troopship, Mrs. Linton,
and all of it was employed by the subalterns in telling us what we might
expect!”
</p>
<p>
“I can quite imagine it,” Mrs. Geoffrey laughed. “Oh well, Billabong will
be a good breaking-in. Norah tells me you are going up there at once?”
</p>
<p>
“Well, not quite at once,” Bob said. “We think it is only fair to let them
get home without encumbrances, and as we have to present other letters of
introduction in Melbourne, we'll stay here for a few days, and then follow
them.”
</p>
<p>
“Then you must come out to us,” said Mrs. Geoffrey firmly. “No use to ask
my brother-in-law, of course; he has just one idea, and that is to stay at
Scott's, get his luggage through the customs, see his bankers as quickly
as possible, and then get back to his beloved Billabong. If we get them
out to dinner to-night, it's as much as we can hope for. But you two must
come to us—we can run you here and there in the car to see the
people you want.” She put aside their protests, laughing. “Why, you don't
know how much we like capturing bran-new English people—and think
what you have done for our boys all these four years! From what they tell
us, if anyone wants to go anywhere or do anything he likes in England, all
he has to do is to wear a digger's slouched hat!”
</p>
<p>
They stopped in Collins Street, and in a moment the new-comers, slightly
bewildered, found themselves in a tea-room; a new thing in tea-rooms to
Tommy and Bob, since it was a vision of russet and gold—brown wood,
masses of golden wattle and daffodils, and of bronze gum leaves; and even
the waitresses flitted about in russet-brown dresses. David Linton hung
back at the doorway.
</p>
<p>
“It isn't a party, Winifred?”
</p>
<p>
“My dear David, only a few people who want to welcome you back. Really,
you're just as bad as ever!” said his sister-in-law, half vexed. “The
children's school friends, too—Jim and Wally's mates. You can't
expect us to get you all back, after so long—and with all those
honours, too!—and not give people a chance of shaking hands with
you.” At which point Norah said, gently, but firmly, “Dad, you mustn't be
naughty,” and led him within.
</p>
<p>
Some one grasped his hand. “Well, Linton, old chap!” And he found himself
greeting the head of a big “stock and station” firm. Some one else clapped
him on the shoulder, and he turned to meet his banker; behind them towered
half a dozen old squatter friends, with fellow clubmen, all trying at once
to get hold of his hand. David Linton's constitutional shyness melted in
the heartiness of their greeting. Beyond them Norah seemed to be the
centre of a mass of girls, one of whom presently detached herself, and
came to him. He said in amazement, “Why, it's Jean Yorke—and grown
up!” and actually kissed her, to the great delight of Jean, who had been
an old mate of Norah's. As for Jim and Wally, they were scarcely to be
seen, save for their heads, in a cluster of lads, who were pounding and
smiting them wherever space permitted. Altogether, it was a confused and
cheerful gathering, and, much to the embarrassment of the russet-brown
waitresses, the last thing anybody thought of was tea.
</p>
<p>
Still, when the buzz of greetings had subsided, and at length “morning
tea”—that time-honoured institution of Australia—had a chance
to appear, it was of a nature to make the new arrivals gasp. The last four
years in England had fairly broken people in to plain living; dainties and
luxuries had disappeared so completely from the table that every one had
ceased to think about them. Therefore, the Linton party blinked in
amazement at the details of what to Melbourne was a very ordinary tea,
and, forgetting its manners, broke into open comment.
</p>
<p>
“Cakes!” said Wally faintly. “Jean, you might catch me if I swoon.”
</p>
<p>
“What's wrong with the cakes?” said Jean Yorke, bewildered.
</p>
<p>
“Nothing—except that they are cakes! Jim!”—he caught at his
chum's sleeve—“that substance in enormous layers in that enormous
slice is called cream. Real cream. When did you see cream last, my son?”
</p>
<p>
“I'm hanged if I know,” Jim answered, grinning. “About four years ago, I
suppose. I'd forgotten it existed. And the cakes look as if they didn't
fall to pieces if you touched 'em.”
</p>
<p>
“What, do the English cakes do that?” asked a pained aunt.
</p>
<p>
“Rather—when there are any. It's something they take out of the war
flour—what is it, Nor?”
</p>
<p>
“Gluten, I think it's called,” said Norah doubtfully. “It's something that
ordinarily makes flour stick together, but they took it all out of the war
flour, and put it into munitions. So everything you made with war flour
was apt to be dry and crumbly. And when you made cakes with it, and war
sugar, which was half full of queer stuff like plaster of paris, and egg
substitute, because eggs—when you could get them—were
eightpence halfpenny, and butter substitute (and very little of that)—well,
they weren't exactly what you would call cakes at all.”
</p>
<p>
“Butter substitute!” said the aunt faintly. “I could not live without good
butter!”
</p>
<p>
“Bless you, Norah and dad hadn't tasted butter for nearly three years
before they came on board the Nauru,” said Jim. “It was affecting to see
Nor greeting a pat of butter for the first time!”
</p>
<p>
“But you had some butter—we read about it.”
</p>
<p>
“Two ounces per head weekly—but they put all their ration into the
'Tired People's food,'” said Wally.
</p>
<p>
“It wasn't only dad and I,” said Norah quickly. “Every soul we employed
did that—Irish maids, butler, cook-lady and all. And we hadn't to
ask one of them to do it. The Tired People always had butter. They used to
think we had a special allowance from Government, but we hadn't.”
</p>
<p>
“Dear me!” said the aunt. “It's too terrible. And meat?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, meat was very short,” said Norah, laughing. “Of course we were fairly
well off for our Tired People, because they had soldiers' rations; but
even so, we almost forgot what a joint looked like. Stews and hot pots and
made dishes—you call them that because you make them of anything but
meat! We became very clever at camouflaging meat dishes. Somehow the Tired
People ate them all. But”—she paused, laughing—“you know I
never thought I could feel greedy for meat. And I did—I just longed,
quite often, for a chop!”
</p>
<p>
“And could you not have one?”
</p>
<p>
“Gracious, no!” Norah looked amazed. “Chops were quite the most
extravagant thing of all—too much bone. You see, the meat ration
included bone and fat, and I can tell you we were pretty badly worried if
we got too much of either.”
</p>
<p>
“To think of all she knows,” said the aunt, regarding her with a tearful
eye. Whereat Norah laughed.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, I could tell you lots of homely things,” she said. “How we always
boiled bones for soup at least four times before we looked on them as used
up; and how we worked up sheep's heads into the most wonderful chicken
galantines; and—but would you mind if I ate some walnut cake
instead? It's making me tremble even to look at it.”
</p>
<p>
After which Jean Yorke and the russet-brown waitresses vied in plying the
new-comers with the most elaborate cakes, until even Jim and Wally begged
for mercy.
</p>
<p>
“You ought to remember we're not used to these things,” Wally protested,
waving away a strange erection of cream, icing and wafery pastry. “If I
ate that it would go to my head, and I'd have to be removed in an
ambulance. And the awful part of it is—I want to eat it. Take it out
of my sight, Jean, or I'll yield, and the consequences will be awful.”
</p>
<p>
“But it is too dreadful to think of all you poor souls have gone through,”
said an aunt soulfully. “How little we in Australia know of what war
means!”
</p>
<p>
“But if it comes to that, how little we knew!” Norah exclaimed, “Why,
there we were, only a few miles from the fighting—you could hear the
guns on a still day, when a big action was going on; and except for the
people who came directly in the way of air raids, England knew little or
nothing of war: I mean, war as the people of Belgium and Northern France
knew it. The worst we had to admit was that we didn't get everything we
liked to eat, and that was a joke compared to what we might have had.
Hardly anyone in England went cold or hungry through the war, and so I
don't think we knew much about it either.” She broke off blushing
furiously, to find every one listening to her. “I didn't mean to make a
speech.”
</p>
<p>
“It's quite true, though,” said her father, “even if you did make a speech
about it. There were privations in some cases, no doubt—invalids
sometimes suffered, or men used to a heavy meat diet, whose wives had not
knowledge—or fuel—enough to cook substitutes properly. On the
other hand, there was no unemployment, and the poor were better fed than
they had ever been, since every one could make good wages at munitions.
The death rate among civilians was very much lower than usual. People
learned to eat less, and not to waste—and the pre-war waste in
England was terrific. And I say—and I think we all say—that
anyone who grumbles about 'privations' in England deserves to know what
real war means—as the women of Belgium know it.”
</p>
<p>
He stopped, and Norah regarded him with great pride, since his remarks
were usually strictly limited to the fewest possible words.
</p>
<p>
“Well, it's rather refreshing to hear you talk,” remarked another
squatter. “A good many people have come back telling most pathetic tales
of all they had to endure. I suppose, though, that some were worse off
than you?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, certainly,” David Linton said. “We knew one Australian, an officer's
wife, who was stranded in a remote corner of South Wales with two servants
and two babies; it was just at the time of greatest scarcity before
compulsory rationing began, when most of the food coming in was kept in
the big towns and the Midlands. That woman could certainly get milk for
her youngsters; but for three months the only foods she and her maids were
sure of getting were war bread, potatoes, haricot beans and salt herrings.
She was a good way from the nearest town, and there was deep snow most of
the time. There was no carting out to her place, and by the time she could
get into the town most of the food shops would be empty.”
</p>
<p>
“And if you saw the salt herrings!” said Norah. “They come down from
Scotland, packed thousands in a barrel. They're about the length and
thickness of a comb, and if you soak them for a day in warm water and then
boil them, you can begin to think about them as a possible food. But Mrs.
Burton and her maids ate them for three months. She didn't seem to think
she had anything to grumble about—in fact, she said she still felt
friendly towards potatoes, but she hoped she'd never see a herring or a
bean again!”
</p>
<p>
“She had her own troubles about coal, too,” remarked Jim. “The only coal
down there is a horrible brownish stuff that falls into damp slack if you
look at it; it's generally used only for furnaces, but people had to draw
their coal allowance from the nearest supply, and it was all she could
get. The only way to use the beastly stuff was to mix it with wet, salt
mud from the river into what the country people call culm—then you
cut it into blocks, or make balls of it, and it hardens. She couldn't get
a man to do it for her, and she used to mix all her culm herself—and
you wouldn't call it woman's work, even in Germany. But she used to tell
it as a kind of joke.”
</p>
<p>
“She used to look on herself as one of the really lucky women,” said David
Linton, “because her husband didn't get killed. And I think she was—herrings
and culm and all. And we're even luckier, since we've all come back to
Australia, and to such a welcome as you've given us.” He stood up, smiling
his slow, pleasant smile at them all. “And now I think I've got to go
chasing the Customs, if I'm ever to disinter our belongings and get home.”
</p>
<p>
The girls took possession of Norah and Tommy, who left their menfolk to
the drear business of clearing luggage, and thankfully spent the afternoon
in the Botanical Gardens, glad to have firm ground under their feet after
six weeks of sea. Then they all met at dinner at Mrs. Geoffrey Linton's,
where they found her son, Cecil, who greeted Norah with something of
embarrassment. There was an old score between Norah and Cecil Linton,
although they had not seen each other for years; but its memory died out
in Norah's heart as she looked at her cousin's military badge and noted
that he dragged one foot slightly. Indeed, there was no room in Norah's
heart for anything but happiness.
</p>
<p>
The aunts and uncles tried hard to persuade David Linton to remain a few
days in Melbourne, but he shook his head.
</p>
<p>
“I've been homesick for five years,” he told them. “And it feels like
fifty. I'll come down again, I promise—yes, and bring the children,
of course. But just now I can't wait. I've got to get home.”
</p>
<p>
“That old Billabong!” said Mrs. Geoffrey, half laughing. “Are you going to
live and die in the backblocks, David?”
</p>
<p>
“Why, certainly—at least I hope so,” he said. “I suppose there must
be lucid intervals, now that Norah is grown up, or imagines she is—not
that she seems to me a bit different from the time when her hair was down.
Still I suppose I must bring her to town, and let her make her curtsy at
Government House, and do all the correct things—”
</p>
<p>
Some one slipped a hand through his arm.
</p>
<p>
“But when we've done them, daddy,” said Norah cheerfully, “there will
always be Billabong to go home to!”
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER X
</h2>
<h3>
BILLABONG
</h3>
<p>
“Will it be fine, Murty?”
</p>
<p>
The person addressed made no answer for a moment, continuing to stare at
the western horizon with his eyes wrinkled and his face anxious. He turned
presently; a tall, grizzled man, with the stooping shoulders and the
slightly bowed legs that are the heritage of those who spend nine-tenths
of their time in the saddle.
</p>
<p>
“Sorra a one of me knows,” he said. “It's one of thim unchancy days that
might be annything. Have ye looked at the glass?”
</p>
<p>
“It's mejum,” replied the first speaker. She was a vast woman, with a
broad, kindly face, lit by shrewd and twinkling blue eyes, dressed, as was
her custom, in a starched blue print, with a snowy apron. “Mejum only. But
I don't feel comferable at that there bank of clouds, Murty.”
</p>
<p>
“I'd not say meself it was good,” admitted Murty O'Toole, head stockman on
the Billabong run. He looked again at the doubtful sky, and then back to
Mrs. Brown. “Have ye no corns, at all, that 'ud be shootin' on ye if rain
was coming?”
</p>
<p>
“Corns I 'ave, indeed,” said Mrs. Brown, with the sigh of one who admits
that she is but human. “But no—they ain't shootin' worth speakin'
about, Murty. Nor me rheumatic knee ain't givin' tongue, as Master Jim
would say.”
</p>
<p>
“Yerra, that's all to the good,” said the stockman, much cheered. “I'll
not look at the ould sky anny longer—leastways, not till I have that
cup of tea ye were speakin' about.”
</p>
<p>
“Come in then,” said Mrs. Brown, leading the way into the kitchen—a
huge place so glittering with cleanliness and polish that it almost hurt
the eye. “Kettle's boilin'—I'll have it made in a jiffy. No, Murty,
you will not sit on that table. Pounds of bath-brick 'ave gone into me
tables this last week.”
</p>
<p>
“Ye have them always that white I do not see how ye'd want them to be
whiter,” remarked Murty, gazing round him. “But I niver see anything to
aiqual the shine ye have on them tins an' copper. And the stove is that
fine it's a shame to be cookin' with it.” He looked with respect at the
black satin and silver of the stove, where leaping flames glowed redly.
“Well, I'll always say there isn't a heartsomer place to come into than
the Billabong kitchen. And isn't it the little misthress that thinks so?”
</p>
<p>
“Bless her, she was always in and out of it from the time she could
toddle,” said Mrs. Brown, pausing with the teapot in her hand. “And she
wasn't much more than toddlin' before she was at me to teach her to cook.
When she was twelve she could cook a dinner as well as anyone twice her
age. I never see the beat of her—handy as a man out on the run, too—”
</p>
<p>
“She was that,” said Murty solemnly. “Since she was a bit of a thing I
never see the bullock as could get away from her. And the ponies she'd
ride! There was nothin' ever looked through a bridle that cud frighten
her.”
</p>
<p>
“Poof! Miss Norah didn't know what it was to be afraid,” said Mrs. Brown,
filling the huge brown teapot. “Sometimes I've wished she was, for me
heart's been in me mouth often and often when I see her go caperin' down
the track on some mad-'eaded pony.”
</p>
<p>
“An' there was niver a time when they was late home but you made sure the
whole lot of 'em was killed,” said Murty, grinning. “I'd come in here an'
find you wit' all the funerals planned, so to speak—”
</p>
<p>
“Ah, go on! At least, I alwuz stayed at home when I was nervis,” said Mrs.
Brown. “Who was it I've known catch an 'orse in the dark, an' go off to
look for 'em when they were a bit late? Not me, Mr. O'Toole!” She filled
his cup and handed it to him with a triumphant air.
</p>
<p>
“Yerra, I misremember doin' any such thing,” said Murty, slightly
confused. “'Tis the way I was most likely goin' afther a sick bullock, or
it might be 'possum shootin'.” He raised his cup and took a deep draught;
then, with a wry face, gazed at its contents. “I dunno is this a new brand
of tea you're afther usin', now? Sure, it looks pale.”
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Brown cast a glance at the cup he held out, and gave a gasp of
horror.
</p>
<p>
“Well, not in all me born days 'ave I made tea an' forgot to put the tea
in!” she exclaimed, snatching it from his hand. “Don't you go an' tell
Dave and Mick, Murty, or I'll never hear the end of it. Lucky there's
plenty of hot water.” She emptied the teapot swiftly, and refilled it,
this time with due regard to the tea-caddy.
</p>
<p>
“Now, Murty, don't you sit there grinnin' at me like a hyener—it
isn't every day I get Miss Norah home.”
</p>
<p>
“It is not,” said Murty, taking his renewed cup and a large piece of bread
and butter. “Sure, I'd not blame ye if ye fried bacon in the tea-pot—not
this morning. I dunno, meself, am I on me head or me heels. All the men is
much the same; they've been fallin' over each other, tryin' to get a
little bit of extra spit-an'-polish on the whole place. I b'lieve Dave
Boone wud 'a' set to work an' whitewashed the paddock fences if I'd
encouraged him at all.”
</p>
<p>
“There's that Sarah,” said Mrs. Brown. “Ornery days it takes me, an alarum
clock, an' Mary, to say nothin' of a wet sponge, to get her out of bed.
But bless you—these last three days she's up before the pair of us,
rubbin' an' polishin' in every corner. An' she an' 'Ogg at each other's
throats over flowers; she wantin' to pick every one to look pretty in the
'ouse, an' 'Ogg wantin' every one to look pretty in the garden.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, Hogg's got enough an' to spare,” was Murty's comment. “No union
touch about his work. I reckon he's put in sixteen hours a day at that
garden since we heard they were comin'.”
</p>
<p>
“But there never was any union touch about Billabong,” said Mrs. Brown.
</p>
<p>
“Not much! We all know when we're well off,” said Murty. “I'll bet no
union was ever as good a boss as David Linton.”
</p>
<p>
Two other men appeared at the kitchen door—Mick Shanahan and Dave
Boone—each wearing, in defiance of regulations, some battered
remnant of uniform that marked the “digger,” while Mick, in addition,
would walk always with a slight limp. He was accustomed to say 'twas a
mercy it didn't hinder his profession—which, being that of a
horsebreaker, freed him, as a rule, from the necessity of much walking.
Other men Billabong had sent to the war, and not all of them had come
back; the lonely station had been a place of anxiety and of mourning. But
to-day the memories of the long years of fighting and waiting were blotted
out in joy.
</p>
<p>
“Come in, boys,” Mrs. Brown nodded at the men. “Tea's ready. What's it
going to be?”
</p>
<p>
“Fine, I think,” said Boone, replying to this somewhat indefinite question
with complete certainty as to the questioner's meaning. “I seen you an'
Murty pokin' your heads up at them clouds, but there ain't nothin' in
them.” A smile spread over his good-looking, dark face. “Bless you, it
couldn't rain today, with Miss Norah comin' home!”
</p>
<p>
“I don't believe, meself, that Providence 'ud 'ave the 'eart,” said Mrs.
Brown. “Picksher them now, all flyin' round and gettin' ready to start,
and snatchin' a bite of breakfast—”
</p>
<p>
“If I know Master Jim 'twill be no bite he'll snatch!” put in Mick.
</p>
<p>
“Well, all I 'ope is that the 'otel don't poison them,” said Mrs. Brown
darkly. “I on'y stopped in a Melbin' 'otel once, and then I got
pot-o'-mine poisoning, or whatever they call it. I've 'eard they never
wash their saucepans!”
</p>
<p>
“No wonder you get rummy flavours in what you eat down there, if that's
so,” said Dave. “Surprisin' what the digestions of them city people learn
to put up with. Well, I suppose you won't be addin' to their risks by
puttin' up much of a dinner for them to-day, Mrs. Brown.” He grinned
wickedly.
</p>
<p>
“You go on, imperence!” said the lady. “If I let you look into the larder
now (w'ich I won't, along of knowin' you too well), there'd be no gettin'
you out to work to-day. Murty, that turkey weighed five-and-thirty pound!”
</p>
<p>
“Sure he looked every ounce of it,” said Murty. “I niver see his aiqual—he
was a regular Clydesdale of a bird!”
</p>
<p>
“I rose him from the aig meself,” said Mrs. Brown, “and I don't think I
could 'a' brung meself to 'ave 'im killed for anythink less than them
comin' 'ome. As it was, I feel 'e's died a nobil death. An' 'e'll eat
beautiful, you mark my words.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, it'll be something to think of the Boss at the head of his table,
investigatin' a Billabong turkey again,” said Boone, putting down his
empty cup. “And as there's nothing more certain than that they'll all be
out at the stables d'reckly after dinner, wantin' to see the 'orses, you
an' I'd better go an' shine 'em up a bit more, Mick.” They tramped out of
the kitchen, while Mrs. Brown waddled to the veranda and cast further
anxious glances at the bank of clouds lying westward.
</p>
<p>
Norah was watching them, too. She was sitting in the corner of the
compartment, as the swift train bore them northward, with her eyes glued
to the country flying past. Just for once the others did not matter to
her; her father, Jim, and Wally, each in his own corner, as they had
travelled so many times in the past, coming back from school. Then she had
had eyes only for them; to-day her soul was hungry for the dear country
she had not seen for so long. It lay bare enough in the early winter—long
stretches of stone-walled paddocks where the red soil showed through the
sparse, native grass; steep, stony hillsides, with little sheep grazing on
them—pygmies, after the great English sheep; oases of irrigation,
with the deep green of lucerne growing rank among weed-fringed
water-channels; and so on and on, past little towns and tiny settlements,
and now and then a stop at some place of more importance. But Norah did
not want the towns; she was homesick for the open country, for the scent
of the gum trees coming drifting in through the open window, for the long,
lonely plains where grazing cattle raised lazy eyes to look at the roaring
engine, or horses flung up nervous heads and went racing away across the
grass—more for the fun of it than from fear. The gum trees called to
her, beckoned to her; she forgot the smooth perfection of the English
landscape as she feasted her eyes on the dear, untidy trees, whose
dangling strips of bark seemed to wave to her in greeting, telling her she
was coming home. They passed a great team of working bullocks in a wagon
loaded with an enormous tree trunk; twenty-four monsters, roan and red and
speckled, with a great pair of polled Angus in the lead; they plodded
along in their own dust, their driver beside them with his immense whip
over his shoulder. Norah pointed them out to the others with a quick
exclamation, and Jim and Wally came to look out from her window.
</p>
<p>
“By Jove, what a team!” said Jim. “Well, just at this moment I'd rather
see those fellows than the meet of the Coaching Club in Hyde Park—and
I had a private idea that that was the finest sight in the world!”
</p>
<p>
“Aren't you a jungly animal!” quoth Wally.
</p>
<p>
“Rather—just now,” Jim rejoined. “Some day, I suppose, I'll be glad
to go back to London, and look at it all again. But just now there doesn't
seem to be anything to touch a fellow's own country—and that team of
old sloggers there is just a bit of it. Isn't it, old Nor?” She nodded up
at him; there was no need of words.
</p>
<p>
The morning was drawing towards noon when they came in sight of their own
little station: Cunjee, looking just as they had left it years ago, its
corrugated iron roofs gleaming in the sunlight, its one street green with
feathery pepper trees along each side. The train pulled up, and they all
tumbled out hastily; presumably the express wasted no more time upon
Cunjee than in days gone by, when it was necessary to hustle out of the
carriage, and to race along to the van, lest the whistle should sound and
your trunks be whisked away somewhere down the line.
</p>
<p>
There were many people on the platform, and, wonderful to relate, a band
was playing—Home Sweet Home; a little band, some of its musicians
still in the aprons in which they had rushed from their shop duties; with
instruments few and poor, and with not much training, so that the cornet
was apt to be half a bar ahead of the euphonium. The Lintons had heard
many bands since they had been away, and some had played before the King
himself; but no music had ever gripped at their heartstrings like the
music of the little backblocks band that stood on the gravelled platform
of Cunjee and played to welcome them home.
</p>
<p>
Suddenly, as they stood bewildered, there seemed people all round them;
kindly, homely faces, gripping their hands, shouting greetings. Evans, the
manager of Billabong, showed a delighted face for a moment, said, “Luggage
in the van. I'll see to it; don't you bother,” and was gone. Little Dr.
Anderson and his wife, friends of long years, were trying to shake hands
with all four at once. They were the centre of an excited little crowd—and
found it hard to believe that it was really for them. The train roared
away, unnoticed, and the station-master and the porter ran up to add their
voices to the chorus. Somehow they were outside the station, gently
propelled; and there was a great arch of gum leaves, with a huge WELCOME
in red letters, and beneath it were the shire president and his
councillors, and other weighty men, all with speeches ready. But the
speeches did not come to much, for the shire president had lads himself
who had gone to the war, and a lump came in his throat as he looked at the
tall boys from Billabong, whom he had known as little children; so that
half the fine things he had prepared were never said—which did not
matter, since he had it all written out and gave it to the reporter of the
local paper afterwards! Something of speech-making there undoubtedly was,
but no one could have told you much about it—and suddenly it ended
in some one calling for “Three cheers!” which every one gave with a will,
while the band played that they were Jolly Good Fellows—and some of
the band cheered while they played, with very curious results. Then David
Linton tried to speak, and that was a failure also, as far as eloquence
went; but nobody seemed to mind. So, between hand grips and cheers, they
made their way through the welcome of Cunjee to where the big double buggy
of Billabong stood, with three fidgeting brown horses, each held by a
volunteer. Beyond that was the carry-all of the bush; an express wagon,
with a grinning black boy at the horses' heads—and Norah went to him
with outstretched hands.
</p>
<p>
“Why, Billy!” she said.
</p>
<p>
Billy's grin expanded in a perfectly reckless fashion.
</p>
<p>
“Plenty glad!” he stammered—and thereby doubled his usual output of
words.
</p>
<p>
Willing hands were tossing their luggage into the wagon—unfamiliar
luggage to Cunjee, with its jumble of ship labels, Continental hotel
brands, and the names of towns all over England, Ireland and Scotland.
There were battered tin uniform cases of Jim and Wally's, bearing their
rank and regiment in half effaced letters: “Major J. Linton”; “Captain W.
Meadows”—it was hard to realize that they belonged to the two
merry-faced boys, who did not seem much changed from the days when Cunjee
had seen them arrive light-heartedly from school. Mr. Linton ran his eye
over the pile, pronouncing it complete. Then Evans was at his side.
</p>
<p>
“The motor you sent is ready at the garage in the township if you want
it,” he said. “But you wired that I was to bring the buggy.”
</p>
<p>
“I did,” said David Linton, with a slow smile. “I suppose for convenience
sake we'll have to shake down to using the motor. But I drove the old
buggy away from Billabong, and I'll drive home now. Jump in, children.”
</p>
<p>
He gathered up the reins, sitting, erect and spare, with one foot on the
brake, while the brown horses plunged impatiently, and the volunteers
found their work cut out in holding them. Norah was by him, Evans on her
other hand; Jim and Wally “tumbled up” into the back seat, as they had
done so many times. David Linton looked down at the crowd below.
</p>
<p>
“Thank you all again,” he said. “We'll see you soon—it's not
good-bye now, only 'so-long.' Let 'em go, boys.”
</p>
<p>
The volunteers sprang back, thankfully. The browns stood on their hind
legs for a moment, endeavouring to tie themselves in knots; then the whip
spoke, and they came to earth, straightened themselves out with a flying
plunge, and wheeled out of the station yard and up the street. Behind them
cheers broke out afresh, and the band blared once more—which acted
as a further spur to the horses; they were pulling double as the high
buggy flashed along the street, where every house and every shop showed
smiling faces, and handkerchiefs waved in welcome. So they passed through
Cunjee, and wheeled to the right towards the open country—the
country that meant Billabong.
</p>
<p>
There were seventeen miles of road ahead, but the browns made little of
them. They had come into the township the evening before, and had done
nothing since but eat the hotel oats and wish to be out of a close stable
and back in their own free paddocks. They took the hills at a swift,
effortless trot, and on the down slopes broke into a hand-gallop;
light-hearted, but conscious all the time of the hand on the reins, that
was as steel, yet light as a feather upon a tender mouth. They danced
merrily to one side when they met a motor or a hawker's van with flapping
cover; when the buggy rattled over a bridge they plainly regarded the
drumming of their own hoofs as the last trump, and fled wildly for a few
hundred yards, before realizing that nothing was really going to happen to
them. But the miles fled under their swift feet. The trim villas near the
township gave place to scattered farms. These in their turn became further
and further apart, and then they entered a wide belt of timber, ragged and
wind-swept gums, with dense undergrowth of dogwood and bracken fern. The
metalled road gave place to a hard, earthern track, on which the spinning
tyres made no sound; it curved in and out among the trees, which met
overhead and cast upon it a waving pattern of shadows. Grim things had
once happened to Norah in this belt of trees, and the past came back to
her as she looked at its gloomy recesses again.
</p>
<p>
They were all silent. There had been few questions to ask of Evans, a few
to be answered; then speech fled from them and the old spell of the
country held them in its power. Every yard was familiar; every little
bridge, every culvert, every quaint old skeleton tree or dead grey log.
Here Jim's pony had bolted at sight of an Indian hawker, in days long
gone, and had ended by putting his foot into a hole and turning a
somersault, shooting Jim into a well-grown clump of nettles. Here Norah
had dropped her whip when riding alone, and her fractious young mare had
succeeded in pulling away when she dismounted, and had promptly departed
post-haste for home; leaving her wrathful owner to follow as she might. A
passing bullock-wagon had given her a lift, and the somewhat anxious
rescue party, setting out from Billabong, had met its youthful mistress,
bruised from much bumping, but otherwise cheerful, progressing in slow
majesty towards its gates. Here—but the memories were legion, even
to the girl and the two boys. And David Linton's went further back, to the
day when he had first driven Norah's mother over the Billabong track;
little and dainty and merry, while he had been as always, silent, but
unspeakably proud of her. The little mother's grave had long been green,
and the world had turned topsy-turvy since then, but the old track was the
same, and the memory, and the pride, were no less clear.
</p>
<p>
They emerged from the timber at last, and spun across a wide plain,
scattered with clumps of gum-trees. Then another belt of bush, a narrow
one this time; and they came out within view of a great park-like paddock
where Shorthorn bullocks, knee-deep in grass, scarcely moved aside as the
buggy spun past, with the browns pulling hard. The track ran near the
fence, and turned in at a big white gate glistening with new paint. It
stood wide open, and beside it was a man on a splendid bay horse.
</p>
<p>
“There's Murty, and he's on Garryowen,” spoke Jim quickly. “The old
brick!”
</p>
<p>
“I guess if anyone else had wanted to open the gate for you to-day, he'd
have had to fight Murty for the job,” said Evans. “And Garryowen's been
groomed till he turns pale at the sight of a brush, Great horse he's made,
Mr. Jim.”
</p>
<p>
“He's all that,” said his owner, leaning out to view him better, with his
eyes shining. He raised his voice in a shout as they swung in through the
gateway. “Good for you, Murty! Hurroo!”
</p>
<p>
“Hurroo for ye all!” said Murty, and found to his amazement that his voice
was shaky. “Ah, don't shtop, sir, they're all waitin' on ye. I'll be up as
soon as ye.”
</p>
<p>
Norah had tried to speak, and had found that she had no voice at all. She
could only smile at him, tremulously—and be sure the Irishman did
not fail to catch the smile. Then, as they dashed up the paddock, her hand
sought for her father's knee under the rug, in the little gesture that had
been hers from babyhood. The track curved round a grove of great pines,
and suddenly they were within sight of Billabong homestead, red-walled and
red-roofed, nestled in the deep green of its trees.
</p>
<p>
“By Jove!” said Jim, under his breath. “I thought once I'd never see the
old place again.”
</p>
<p>
They flashed through mighty red gums and box trees, Murty galloping beside
them now. There was a big flag flying proudly on Billabong house—they
found later that the household had unanimously purchased it on the day
they heard that Jim had got his captaincy. The gate of the great sanded
yard stood open, and near it, on a wide gravel sweep, were the dear and
simple and faithful people they loved. Mrs. Brown first, starched and
spotless, her hair greyer than it had been five years before, with Sarah
and Mary beside her—they had married during the war, but nothing had
prevented them from coming back to make Billabong ready. Near them the
storekeeper, Jack Archdale, and his pretty wife, with their elfish small
daughter; and Mick Shanahan and Dave Boone, with the Scotch gardener,
Hogg, and his Chinese colleague—and sworn enemy—Lee Wing. They
were all there, a little welcoming group—but Norah could see them
only through a mist of happy tears. The buggy stopped, and Evans sprang
out over the wheel; she followed him almost as swiftly, running to the old
woman who had been all the mother she had known.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, Brownie—Brownie!”
</p>
<p>
“My precious lamb!” said Brownie, and held her tightly. She had no hands
left for Jim and Wally, and they did not seem to mind; they kissed her,
patting her vast shoulders very hard. Then Mrs. Archdale claimed Norah,
and Brownie found herself looking mistily up at David Linton and he was
gripping her hand tightly, the other hand on her shoulder.
</p>
<p>
“Why, old Brownie!” he said. “Dear old Brownie!”
</p>
<p>
They were shaking hands all round, over and over again. Nobody made any
speeches of welcome—there were only disjointed words, and once or
twice a little sob. Indeed, Brownie only found her tongue when they had
drifted across the yard in a confused group, and had reached the wide
veranda. Then she looked up at Jim and seemed suddenly to realize his
mighty height and breadth.
</p>
<p>
“Oh!” she said. “Oh! Ain't 'e grown big an' beautiful!” Whereat Wally
howled with laughter, and Jim, scarlet, kissed her again, and told her she
was a shameful old woman.
</p>
<p>
No one on Billabong could have told you much of that day, after the first
wonderful moment of getting home. It was a day of blurred memories. The
new-comers had to wander through the house where every big window stood
open to the sunlight, and every room was gay with flowers; and from every
window it was necessary to look out at the view across the paddocks and
down at the gardens, and to follow the winding course of the creek. The
gong summoned them to dinner in the midst of it, and Brownie's dinner
deserved to be remembered; the mammoth turkey flanked by a ham as
gigantic, and somewhat alarming to war-trained appetites; followed by
every sweet that Brownie could remember as having been a favourite. They
drifted naturally to the stables afterwards, to find their special horses,
apparently little changed by five years, though some old station
favourites were gone, and the men spoke proudly of some new young ones
that were going to be “beggars to go,” or “a caution to jump.” Then they
wandered down to the big lagoon, where the old boat yet lay at the edge of
the reed-fringed water; and on through the home paddock to look at the
little herd of Jerseys that were kept for the use of the house, and some
great bullocks almost ready for the Melbourne market. So they came back to
the homestead, wandering up from the creek through Lee Wing's rows of
vegetables, and came to rest naturally in the kitchen, where they had
afternoon tea with Brownie, who beamed from ear to ear at the sight of Jim
and Wally again sitting on her table.
</p>
<p>
“I used to think of you in them 'orrible trenches, an' wonder wot you got
to eat, an' if it was anything at all,” she said tremulously.
</p>
<p>
“We got something, but it was apt to be queer,” said Jim, laughing. “We
used to think of sitting on the table here, Brownie, and eating hot scones—like
this. May I have another?”
</p>
<p>
“My pore dears!” said Brownie, hastily supplying him with the largest
scone in sight. “Now, Master Wally, my love, ain't you ready for another?
Your appetite's not 'alf wot it used to be. A pikelet, now?”
</p>
<p>
“I believe I've had six!” said Wally, defending himself.
</p>
<p>
“An' wot used six pikelets to be to you? A mere fly in the ointment,” said
Brownie, whose similes were always apt to be peculiar. “Just another,
then, my dear. An' I've got your fav'rite sponge cake, Miss Norah—ten
aigs in it!”
</p>
<p>
“Ten!” said Norah faintly. “Hold me, daddy! Doesn't it make you feel
light-headed to think of putting ten eggs in one cake again?”
</p>
<p>
“An' why not?” sniffed Brownie. “Ah, you got bad treatment in that old
England. I never could see why you should go short, an' you all 'elpin' on
the war as 'ard as you could.” Brownie's indifference to national
considerations where her nurselings were concerned was well known, and
nobody argued with her. “Any'ow, the cake's there, an' just you try it—it's
as light as a feather, though I do say it.”
</p>
<p>
Once in the kitchen Norah and the boys went no further. They remained
sitting on the tables, talking, while presently David Linton went away to
his study, and, one by one, Murty and Boone and Mick Shanahan drifted in.
There was so much to tell, so much to ask about; they talked until the
dusk of the short winter afternoon stole into the kitchen, making the red
flames in the stove leap more redly. It was time to dress for tea. They
went round the wide verandas and ran upstairs to their rooms, while old
Brownie stood in the kitchen doorway listening to the merry voices.
</p>
<p>
“Ain't it just 'evinly to 'ear 'em again!” she uttered.
</p>
<p>
“It is that,” said Murty. “We've been quare an' lonesome an' quiet these
five years.”
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER XI
</h2>
<h3>
COLONIAL EXPERIENCES
</h3>
<p>
Cecilia—otherwise Tommy—and Bob Rainham came up to Billabong
three days later, and were met by Jim, who had ridden into Cunjee with
Black Billy, and released the motor from inglorious seclusion in the local
garage. Billy jogged off, leading Garryowen, and Jim watched them half
wistfully for a minute before turning to the car. Motors had their uses
certainly; but no Linton ever dreamed of giving a car the serious and
respectful consideration that naturally belonged to a horse.
</p>
<p>
Nevertheless, it was a good car; a gift to Norah from an Irishman they had
known and loved; and Jim drove well, having developed the accomplishment
over Flemish roads that were chiefly a succession of shell holes. He took
her quietly up to the station, and walked on to the platform as the train
thundered in.
</p>
<p>
Tommy and Bob were looking eagerly from their carriage window, and hailed
him with delight; they had been alone, for the first time since leaving
England, and had begun to feel that Australia was a large and slightly
populated country, and that they were inconsiderable atoms, suddenly
dumped into its vacant spaces. Jim was like a large and friendly rock, and
Australia immediately became less wide and desolate in their eyes. He
greeted them cheerily and helped Bob to pack their luggage into the car.
</p>
<p>
“Now, I could get you afternoon tea here,” he said; “and I warn you, it
will be bad. Or I could have you home in well under an hour, and you
wouldn't be too late for tea there. Which is it to be, Tommy?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh—home,” said Tommy. “I don't care a bit about tea; and I want to
see this Billabong of yours. Do let's go, Jim.”
</p>
<p>
“I hoped you wouldn't choose tea here,” said Jim, striding off to the car.
“Bush townships don't run to decent tea places, as a rule; the hotel is
the only chance, and though they can give you a fair dinner, tea always
seems to be a weak spot.” He packed them in, and they moved off down the
winding street.
</p>
<p>
“Do you know,” Jim said, “that I never went down this street before except
on a horse, or behind one? It seems quite queer and unnatural to be doing
it in a car. I suppose I'll get used to it. Had a good trip up?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, quite,” Tommy told him. “Jim, how few people seem to be living in
Australia!”
</p>
<p>
Jim gave a crack of laughter.
</p>
<p>
“Well, you saw a good many in Melbourne, didn't you?” he asked.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, yes. But Melbourne isn't Australia. It's only away down in a wee
little corner.” Tommy flushed a little. “You see, I haven't seen much of
any country except France and the England that's near London,” she said.
“And there isn't much waste space there.”
</p>
<p>
“No, there isn't,” Jim agreed. “I suppose we'll fill up Australia some
day. But the people who come out now seem to have a holy horror of going
into the 'waste spaces,' as you call 'em, Tommy. They want to nestle up to
the towns, and go to picture theatres.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, I want to go and find a nice waste space,” said Tommy. “Not too
waste, of course, only with room to look all round. And I'd like it to be
not too far from Norah, 'cause she's very cheering to a lone new-chum. But
don't you go planning to settle in one of those horrid little tin-roofed
towns, Bobby, for I should simply hate it.”
</p>
<p>
“Certainly, ma'am,” said Bob cheerfully. “We'll get out into the open. I
can always run you about in an aeroplane, if you feel lonesome, provided
we make enough money to buy one, that is. Only new-chums don't always make
heaps of money, do they, Jim?”
</p>
<p>
“Not at first, I'm afraid,” Jim said. “The days of picking up fortunes in
Australia seem to be over; anyway, there's no more gold lying about.
Nowadays, you have to put your back into it extremely hard, if you've no
capital to start with; and even if you have, you can't loaf. How did you
get on in Melbourne? I hope you didn't buy a station without consulting
us.”
</p>
<p>
“Rather not,” Bob answered. “We raced round magnificently in your aunt's
car and presented our letters, and had more invitations to sundry meals
than we could possibly accept. Every one was extraordinarily kind to us.
I've offers and promises of advice in whatever district we settle; three
squatters asked me up to their places, to stay awhile and study the
country; and one confiding man—I hadn't a letter to him at all, by
the way, only some one introduced us to him in Scott's—actually
offered me a job as jackeroo on a Queensland run. But he was a lone old
bachelor, and when he heard I had a sister he shied off in terror. I think
he's running yet.”
</p>
<p>
Jim shouted with laughter.
</p>
<p>
“Poor old Tommy!” he said.
</p>
<p>
“Yes, is it not unfair?” said Tommy. “I told Bob I was a mere encumbrance,
but he would bring me.”
</p>
<p>
“You wait until you've settled, and Bob wants some one to run his house,
and then see how much of an encumbrance you are,” rejoined Jim. “Then
you'll suddenly stop being meek and get swelled head.”
</p>
<p>
“And not be half so nice,” interjected Bob.
</p>
<p>
“But so useful!” said Tommy demurely. “Only sometimes I become afraid—for
you seem always to kill a whole sheep or bullock up in the bush, and how I
am to deal with it I do not know!”
</p>
<p>
“It sounds as if you preferred some one to detach an occasional limb from
the sheep as it walked about!” said Jim, laughing.
</p>
<p>
“Much easier for me—if not for the sheep,” said Tommy.
</p>
<p>
“Well, don't you worry—the meat problem will get settled somehow,”
Jim told her cheerfully. “All problems straighten out, if you give 'em
time. Now we're nearly home—that's the fence of our home-paddock.
And there are Norah and Wally coming to meet you.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh—where?” Tommy started up, looking excitedly round the landscape.
“Oh—there she is—the dear! And isn't that a beautiful horse!”
</p>
<p>
“That's Norah's special old pony, Bosun,” said Jim. “We're making her very
unhappy by telling her she's grown too big for him, but he really carries
her like a bird. A habit might look too much on him, but not that astride
kit. You got yours, by the way, Tommy, I hope?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh yes. I look very strange in it,” said Tommy. “And Bob thinks I might
as well have worn out his old uniforms. But I shall never ride like that—as
Norah does.”
</p>
<p>
She looked at Norah, who was coming across the paddock with Wally, at a
hard canter. Her pony was impatient, reefing and plunging in his desire to
gallop; and Norah was sitting him easily, her hands, well down, giving to
the strain on the bit, her slight figure, in coat and breeches, swaying
lightly to each bound. The sunlight rippled on Bosun's glossy, bay coat,
and on the big black horse Wally rode. They pulled up, laughing, at the
gateway, just as the car turned off the road. There were confused and
enthusiastic greetings, and the car dashed on up the track, with an
outrider on each side—both horses strongly resenting this new and
ferocious monster. The years had brought a good deal of sober sense to
Bosun and Monarch, but motors were still unfamiliar objects on Billabong.
Indeed, no car of the size of Norah's Rolls-Royce had ever been seen in
the district, and the men gaped at it open-mouthed as Jim drove it round
to the stable after unloading his passengers.
</p>
<p>
“Yerra, but that's the fine carry-van,” said Murty. “Is that the size they
have them in England, now?”
</p>
<p>
“No, it isn't, Murty—not as a rule,” Jim answered. “This was built
specially for a man who was half an invalid; he used to go for long tours,
and sleep in the car because he hated hotels. So it's a special size. It
used to be jolly useful taking out wounded men in England.”
</p>
<p>
“Sure, it would be,” Murty said. “Only—somehow, it don't seem to fit
into Billabong, Mr. Jim!”
</p>
<p>
“So big as that! I say, Murty!”
</p>
<p>
“Yerra, there's room enough for it,” grinned the Irishman. “Only, motors
and Billabong don't go hand in hand—we've always stuck to horses,
haven't we, Mr. Jim?”
</p>
<p>
“We'll do that still,” Jim said. “But it will be useful, all the same,
Murty.” He laughed at the stockman's lugubrious face. “Oh, I know it's
giving you the sort of pain you had when dad had the telephone put on—”
</p>
<p>
“Well, 'tis the quare onnatural little machine, an' I niver feel anyways
at home with it, Mr. Jim,” Murty defended himself.
</p>
<p>
“There's lots like you, Murty. But you'll admit that when we've got to
send a telegram, it's better to telephone it than make a man ride
thirty-four miles with it?”
</p>
<p>
“I suppose it is,” said the Irishman doubtfully. “I dunno, though—if
'twas that black imp of a Billy he'd as well be doing that as propping up
the stable wall an' smokin'!”
</p>
<p>
Jim chuckled.
</p>
<p>
“There's no getting round an Irishman when he makes up his mind,” he said.
“And if you had to catch the eight o'clock train to Melbourne I believe
you'd rather get up at three in the morning and run up the horses to drive
in, than leave here comfortably in the car at seven.”
</p>
<p>
“Is it me to dhrive in it?” demanded Murty, in horror. “Begob, I'd lose me
life before I'd get into one of thim quare, sawed-off things. Give me
something with shafts, Mr. Jim, and a dacint horse in them. More by token,
I would not get up at three in the morning either, but dhrive in aisy an'
comfortable the night before.” He beamed on Jim with so clear a conviction
that he was unanswerable that Jim hadn't the heart to argue further.
Instead he ran the car deftly into a buggy-shed whence an ancient double
buggy had been deposed to make room for her, and then fell to discussing
with Murty the question of building a garage, with a turn-table and pit
for cleaning and repairs. To which Murty gave the eager interest and
attention he would have shown had Jim proposed building anything, even had
it been an Eiffel Tower on the front lawn.
</p>
<p>
Brownie came out through the box-trees to the stables, presently.
</p>
<p>
“Now, Master Jim, afternoon tea's in these ten minutes.”
</p>
<p>
“Good gracious! I forgot all about tea!” Jim exclaimed. “Thanks awfully,
Brownie. Had your own?” He slipped his arm through hers as they turned
back to the house.
</p>
<p>
“Not yet, my dear,” said Brownie, beaming up at him. That this huge Major,
with four years of war service to his credit, was exactly the same to her
as the little boy she had bathed and dressed in years gone by, was a
matter of nightly thanksgiving in her prayers. “I was just goin' to settle
to it when it come over me that you weren't in—and the visitors
there an' all.”
</p>
<p>
“I'd come and have mine with you in the kitchen if they weren't there,”
Jim told her. “Tea in your kitchen is better than anything else.” He
patted her shoulders as he left her at the door of her domain, going off
with long strides to wash his hands.
</p>
<p>
“We didn't wait for you,” Norah said, as he came into the drawing-room; a
big cheery room, with long windows opening out upon the veranda, and a
conservatory at one end. A fire of red gum logs made it pleasantly warm;
the tea table was drawn near its blaze, and the arm-chairs made a
semicircle round it. “These poor people looked far too hungry to wait—to
say nothing of Wally and myself. How did the car go, Jimmy?”
</p>
<p>
“Splendidly,” Jim said, taking his cup, and retiring from the tea-table
with a scone. “Never ran better; that man in Cunjee knows his job, which I
didn't expect. Are you tired, Tommy?”
</p>
<p>
“Tired?—no,” said Tommy. “I was very hungry, but that is getting
better. And Norah is going to show me Billabong, so I could not possibly
dream of being tired.”
</p>
<p>
“If Norah means to show you all Billabong before dark, she'll have to
hurry,” said Jim lazily. “Don't you let yourself be persuaded into
anything so desperate, Tommy.”
</p>
<p>
“Don't you worry; I'll give her graduated doses,” Norah said. “I'll watch
the patient carefully, and see if there is any sign of strength failing.
When do you begin to teach Bob to run a station?”
</p>
<p>
“I never saw anyone in such a hurry,” said Jim. “Why, the poor beggar
hasn't had his tea yet—give him time.”
</p>
<p>
“But we are in a hurry,” said Tommy. “We're burning to learn all about it.
Norah is to teach me the house side, while you instruct Bob how to tell a
merino bullock—is it not?—from an Ayrshire.” Everybody ate
with suspicious haste, and she looked at them shrewdly. “Now, I have said
that all wrong, I feel sure, but it's just as well for you to be prepared
for that. Norah will have a busy time correcting my mistakes.”
</p>
<p>
“You aren't supposed to know anything about cattle and things like that,”
said Norah. “And when it comes to the house side, I don't think you'll
find I can teach you much—if anyone brought up to know French
cooking and French housekeeping has much to learn from a backblocks
Australian, I'll be surprised.”
</p>
<p>
“In fact,” said Mr. Linton, “I should think that the lessons will
generally end in the students of domestic economy fleeing forth upon
horses and studying how to deal with beef—on the hoof. Don't you,
Wally?”
</p>
<p>
“Rather,” said Wally. “And Brownie will wash up after them, and say,
'Bless their hearts, why would they stay in a hot kitchen!' And so poor
old Bob will go down the road to ruin!”
</p>
<p>
“It's a jolly prospect,” said Bob placidly. “I think we'll knock a good
deal of fun out of it!”
</p>
<p>
They trooped out in a body presently on their preliminary voyage of
discovery; touring the house itself, with its big rooms and wide
corridors, and the broad balconies that ran round three sides, from which
you looked far across the run—miles of rolling plains, dotted with
trees and clumps of timber, and merging into a far line of low,
scrub-grown hills. Then outside, and to the stables—a massive red
brick pile, creeper-covered, where Monarch and Garryowen, and Bosun, and
the buggy ponies, looked placidly from their loose boxes, and asked for—and
got—apples from Jim's pockets. Tommy even made her way up the steep
ladder to the loft that ran the whole length of the stables—big
enough for the men's yearly dance, but just now crammed with fragrant
oaten hay. She wanted to see everything, and chatted away in her eager,
half-French fashion, like a happy child.
</p>
<p>
“It is so lovely to be here,” she told Norah later, when the keen evening
wind had driven them indoors from a tour of the garden. She was kneeling
on the floor of her bedroom, unpacking her trunk, while Norah perched on
the end of the bed. “You see, I am no longer afraid; and I have always
been afraid since Aunt Margaret died. In Lancaster Gate I was afraid all
the time, especially when I was planning to run away. Then, on the ship,
though every one was so kind, the big, unknown country was like a wall of
Fear ahead; even in Melbourne everything seemed uncertain, doubtful. But
now, quite suddenly, it is all right. I just know we shall get along quite
well.”
</p>
<p>
“Why, of course you will,” Norah said, laughing down at the earnest face.
“You're the kind of people who must do well, because you are so keen. And
Billabong has adopted you, and we're going to see that you make a success
of things. You're our very own immigrants!”
</p>
<p>
“It's nice to be owned by some one who isn't my step-mother,” said Tommy
happily. “I began to think I was hers, body and soul—when she
appeared on that awful moment in Liverpool. I made sure all hope was over.
Bob says I shouldn't have panicked, but then Bob had not been a toad under
her harrow for two years.”
</p>
<p>
“I'm very glad you panicked, since it sent you straight into our arms,”
said Norah. “If we had met you in an ordinary, stodgy way—you and
Bob presenting your letter of introduction, and we saying 'How do you do?'
politely—it would have taken us ages to get to know you properly.
And as it was, we jumped into being friends. You did look such a poor,
hunted little soul as you came dodging across that street!”
</p>
<p>
“And you took me on trust, when, for all you know, the police might have
been after me,” said Tommy. “Well, we won't forget; not that I suppose Bob
and I will ever be able to pay you back.”
</p>
<p>
“Good gracious, we don't want paying back!” exclaimed Norah, wrinkling her
nose disgustedly. “Don't talk such utter nonsense, Tommy Rainham. And just
hurry up and unpack, because tea will be ready at half-past six.”
</p>
<p>
“My goodness!” exclaimed the English girl, to whom dinner at half-past
seven was a custom of life not lightly to be altered. “And I haven't half
unpacked, and oh, where is my blue frock? I don't believe I've brought
it.” She sought despairingly in the trunk.
</p>
<p>
“Yes, you have—I hung it up for you in the wardrobe ages ago,” said
Norah. “And it doesn't matter if you don't finish before tea. There's lots
of time ahead. However, I certainly won't be dressed if I don't hurry,
because I've to see Brownie first, and then sew on a button for Jim.
You'll find me next door when you're ready.” Tommy heard her go, singing
downstairs, and she sighed happily. This, for the first time for two
years, was a real home.
</p>
<p>
The education of the new-chums began next morning, and was carried out
thoroughly, since Mr. Linton did not believe in showing their immigrants
only the pleasanter side of Australian life. Bob was given a few days of
riding round the run, spying out the land, and learning something about
cattle and their handling as he rode. Luckily for him, he was a good
horseman. The stockmen, always on the alert to “pick holes” in a new-chum,
had little fault to find with his easy seat and hands, and approved of the
way in which he waited for no one's help in saddling up or letting go his
horse; a point which always tells with the man of the bush.
</p>
<p>
“We've had thim on this run,” said Murty, “as wanted their horses led
gently up to thim, and then they climb into the saddle like a lady. And
when they'd come home, all they'd be lookin' for 'ud be some one to casht
their reins to, the way they cud strowl off to their tay. Isn't that so,
Mick?”
</p>
<p>
“Yairs,” said Mick. He was riding an unbroken three-year-old, and had no
time for conversation.
</p>
<p>
After a few days of “gentle exercise,” Bob found himself put on to work.
He learned something of cutting out and mustering, both in cleared country
and in scrub; helped bring home young cattle to brand, and studied at
first hand the peculiar evilness of a scrub cow when separated from her
calf. They gave him jobs for himself, which he accomplished fairly well,
aided by a stock horse of superhuman intelligence, which naturally knew
far more of the work than its rider could hope to do. Bob confided to
Tommy that never had he felt so complete a fool as when he rode forth for
the first time to cut out a bullock alone under the eyes of the experts.
</p>
<p>
“Luckily, the old mare did all the work,” he said. “But I knew less about
it than I did the first time I went up alone at the flying school!”
</p>
<p>
His teaching went on all the time. Mr. Linton and Jim were tireless in
pointing out the points of cattle, and the variations in the value of feed
on the different parts of the run, with all the details of bush lore; and
the airman's eyes, trained to observe, and backed by keen desire to learn,
picked up and retained knowledge quickly. Billabong was, in the main, a
cattle run, but Mr. Linton kept as well a flock of high class sheep, with
the usual small mob for killing for station use, and through these a
certain amount of sheep knowledge was imparted to the new-chum. To their
surprise, for all his instructors were heart and soul for cattle, Bob
showed a distinct leaning towards mutton.
</p>
<p>
“They're easier to understand, I think,” he said. “Possibly it's because
they're not as intelligent as cattle, and I don't think I am, either!”
</p>
<p>
“Well, I know something about bullocks, but these woolly objects have
always been beyond me,” said Jim. “Necessary evils, but I can't stand
them. I used to think there was nothing more hopeless than an old merino
ewe, until I met a battery mule—he's a shade worse!”
</p>
<p>
“Wait till you've worked with a camel in a bad temper, Mr. Jim,” said Dave
Boone darkly; he had put in a weary time in Egypt. “For downright
wickedness them snake-headed beggars is the fair limit!”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, I've heard so,” said Jim. “Anyhow, we haven't added mules and camels
to our worries in Victoria yet; sheep are bad enough for me. Norah says
turkey hens are worse, and she's certainly tried both; there isn't much
about the run young Norah doesn't know. But you aren't going to make a
living out of turkeys.”
</p>
<p>
“No—Tommy can run them as a side line,” said Bob. “I fancy sheep
will give me all I want in the way of worry.”
</p>
<p>
“And you really think you'll go in for sheep, old man?” asked Jim with
pity.
</p>
<p>
Bob set his lips obstinately.
</p>
<p>
“I don't think anything yet,” he said. “I don't know enough. Wait until
I've learned a bit more—if you're not sick of teaching such an
idiot.”
</p>
<p>
“Yerra, ye're no ijit,” said Murty under his breath.
</p>
<p>
Education developed as the weeks went on. Wally had gone to Queensland, to
visit married brothers who were all the “people” he possessed; and Jim,
bereft of his chum, threw himself energetically into the training of the
substitute. Bob learned to slaughter a bullock and kill a sheep—being
instructed that the job in winter was not a circumstance to what it would
be in summer, when flies would abound. He never pretended to like this
branch of learning, but stuck to it doggedly, since it was explained to
him that the man who could not be his own butcher in the bush was apt to
go hungry, and that not one hired hand in twenty could be trusted to kill.
</p>
<p>
More to Bob's taste were the boundary riding expeditions made with Jim to
the furthest corners of the run; taking a pack horse with tucker and
blankets, and camping in ancient huts, of which the sole furniture was
rough sacking bunks, a big fireplace, and empty kerosene cases for seats
and tables. It was unfortunate, from the point of view of Bob's
instruction, that the frantic zeal of Murty and the men to have everything
in order for “the Boss” had left no yard of the Billabong boundary
unvisited not a month before. Still, winter gales were always apt to bring
down a tree or two across the wires, laying a few panels flat; the creeks,
too, were all in flood, and where a wire fence crossed one, floating
brushwood often damaged the barrier, or a landslip in a water-worn bank
might carry away a post. So Jim and his pupil found enough occupation to
make their trips worth while; and Bob learned to sink post holes, to ram a
post home beyond the possibility of moving, and to strain a wire fence
scientifically. He was not a novice with an axe, though Jim's mighty
chopping made him feel a child; still, when it was necessary to cut away a
fallen tree, he could do his share manfully. His hands blistered and grew
horny callouses, even as his muscles toughened and his shoulders widened;
and all the time the appeal of the wide, free country called to his heart
and drew him closer and closer to his new life.
</p>
<p>
“But he's too comfortable, you know,” David Linton said to Jim one night.
“He's shaping as well as anyone could expect; but he won't always have
Billabong at his back.”
</p>
<p>
Jim nodded wisely.
</p>
<p>
“I know,” he said. “Been thinking of that. If you can spare me for a bit
we'll go over and lend ourselves as handy men to old Joe Howard.”
</p>
<p>
His father whistled.
</p>
<p>
“He'll make you toe the mark,” he said, laughing. “He won't have you there
as gentlemen boarders, you know.”
</p>
<p>
“Don't want him to,” said Jim.
</p>
<p>
So it came about that early on Monday morning Jim and Bob fixed swags more
or less scientifically to their saddles—Jim made his disciple
unstrap his three times before he consented to pass it—and rode away
from Billabong, amidst derisive good wishes from Norah and Tommy, who
kindly promised to feed them up on their return, prophesying that they
would certainly need it. They took a westerly direction across country,
and after two or three hours' riding came upon a small farm nestling at
the foot of a low range of hills.
</p>
<p>
“That's old Howard's,” Jim said. “And there's the old chap himself, fixing
up his windmill. You wait a minute, Bob; I'll go over and see him.”
</p>
<p>
He gave Bob his bridle, and went across a small paddock near the house.
Howard, a hard-looking old man with a long, grey beard, was wrestling with
a home-made windmill—a queer erection, mainly composed of rough
spars with sails made from old wheat-sacks. He clambered to the ground as
Jim approached, and greeted him civilly.
</p>
<p>
“I thought you'd have forgotten me, Mr. Howard,” said Jim.
</p>
<p>
“Too like your dad—an', anyhow, I know the horses,” was the laconic
answer. “So you're back. Like Australia better'n fightin'?”
</p>
<p>
“Rather!” said Jim. “Fighting's a poor game, I think, when you hardly ever
see the other fellow. Want any hands, Mr. Howard?”
</p>
<p>
“No.” The old man shook his head. “They want too much money nowadays, an'
they're too darned partickler about their tucker. Meat three times a day,
whether you've killed it or not. An' puddin'. Cock 'em up with puddin'—a
fat lot of it I ever saw where I was raised. An' off to the township on
Saturday afternoon, an' lucky if they get back in time for milkin' nex'
mornin'. No—the workin' man ain't what 'e was, an' the new kind'll
make precious little of Australia!”
</p>
<p>
“That's about right, I'm afraid,” said Jim, listening sympathetically to
this oration. “Well, will you take me and my friend as hands for a few
weeks, Mr. Howard?”
</p>
<p>
“You!” The old man stared at him. “Ain't 'ad a quarrel with yer dad, 'ave
yer? You take my tip, if yer 'ave—go back and make it up. Not many
men in this districk like yer dad.”
</p>
<p>
“I know that, jolly well,” said Jim, laughing. “No—but my friend's a
new-chum, and I want to show him something of work on a place like yours.
We've been breaking him in on Billabong, but he'll have to take a small
place for himself, if he settles, and he'd better see what it's like.”
</p>
<p>
The old man shook his head doubtfully.
</p>
<p>
“English officer, I suppose?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes.”
</p>
<p>
“I dunno,” said Howard. “Too much of the fine gent about that sort, Mr.
Jim. I dunno 'ow I'd get down to orderin' the pair of yous about. An' I
ain't got no 'comodation for yous; an' the tucker's not what yous 'ave bin
used ter.”
</p>
<p>
“You needn't let any of that worry you,” said Jim cheerfully. “He isn't a
bit of a fine gent, really, and we'll tackle any job that's going. As for
accommodation, we've brought our blankets, and, in case you were short of
tucker, we've a big piece of corned beef and some bread. I wish you'd try
it, Mr. Howard; we don't want pay, and we'll do no end of work. Murty
reckons you won't be sorry if you take on Captain Rainham.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, Murty says that, does 'e?” asked the old man, visibly cheered. “Well,
Murty ain't the man to barrack for a useless new-chum.”
</p>
<p>
“Great Scott, do you think I am?” demanded Jim, laughing. “Or my father?”
</p>
<p>
“Yous cert'nly didn't ought to be,” agreed Howard. “All the same”—he
pushed his hat back from his worried brow—“I dunno as I quite like
it. If I take on a chap I like 'im to step quick an' lively when I tell
him anything I want done; an' I don't make no guests of 'em either. They
got to do their own cookin', an' keep things clean an' tidy, too.”
</p>
<p>
“We'll take our share,” said Jim. “As for stepping quick and lively, we've
both been trained to that pretty thoroughly during the last few years. If
you're worse than some of the Sergeant-majors I met when I was training,
I'll eat my hat.”
</p>
<p>
“I'm told they're 'ard,” said Howard. “Well, I s'pose I'd better take yous
on, though it's a queer day when the son of Linton of Billabong comes
askin' old Joe Howard for a job. But, I say”—and anguish again
settled on his brow—“wot am I to call yous? I can't order you about
as Mr. Jim. It wouldn't seem to come natural.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, call us any old thing,” said Jim, laughing.
</p>
<p>
The old man pondered.
</p>
<p>
“Well, I'll call yous Major an' Captin,” he declared, at length. “That'll
sound like a pair of workin' bullocks, an' I'll feel more at 'ome.”
</p>
<p>
“Right-o,” said Jim, choking slightly. “Where shall we put our horses?”
</p>
<p>
“Put 'em in the little paddock over there, an' stick yer saddles in the
shed,” said his employer. “An' then bring in yer beef, an' we'll 'ave a
bit o' dinner. I ain't killed for a fortnight.”
</p>
<p>
Then began for Bob Rainham one of the most strenuous fortnights of his
existence. Once having agreed to employ them, old Joe speedily became
reconciled to the prospect of cheap labour, and worked his willing guests
with a devouring energy. Before dawn had reddened the eastern sky a shout
of “Hi, Captin! Time the cow was in!” drove him from his blankets, to
search in the darkness of a scrub-covered paddock for a cow, who
apparently loved a game of hide-and-seek, and to drive her in and milk her
by the fitful light of a hurricane lantern. Then came the usual round of
morning duties; chopping wood, feeding pigs, cleaning out sheds and
outhouses, before the one-time airman had time to think of breakfast. By
the time he came in Howard and Jim had generally finished and gone out—the
old man took a sly delight in keeping “Major” away from “Captin”—and
after cooking his meal, it was his job to wash up and to clean out the
kitchen, over which old Joe proved unexpectedly critical. Then came a
varied choice of tasks to tackle to while away the day. Sometimes he would
be sent to scrub cutting, which he liked best, particularly as Jim was
kept at it always; sometimes he slashed mightily at a blackberry-infested
paddock, where the brambles would have daunted anyone less stout of heart—or
less ignorant. Then came lessons in ploughing on a dry hillside; he
managed badly at first, and came in for a good deal of the rough side of
old Joe's tongue before he learned to keep to anything approaching a
straight line. Ploughing, Bob reflected, was clearly an art which needed
long apprenticeship before you learned to appreciate it, and he developed
a new comprehension and sympathy for the ploughman described by Gray as
“homeward plodding his weary way.” He also wondered if Gray's ploughman
had to milk and get his own tea after he got home.
</p>
<p>
Other relaxations of the bush were open to him. Old Joe had a paddock,
once a swamp, which he had drained; it was free of water, but abounded in
tussocks and sword grass which “Captin” was detailed to grub out whenever
no duty more pressing awaited him. And sword grass is a fearsome
vegetable, clinging of root and so tough of stem that, if handled
unwarily, it can cut a finger almost to the bone; wherefore the
unfortunate “Captin” hated it with a mighty hatred, and preferred any
other branch of his education. There were stones to pick up and pile in
cairns; red stones, half buried in grass and tussocks, and weighing
anything from a pound to half a hundredweight. He scarred his hands and
broke his fingernails to pieces over them, but, on the whole, considered
it not a bad employment, except when old Joe took it into his head to
perch on the fence and spur him on to greater efforts by disparaging
remarks about England. Whatever his work, there was never any certainty
that old Joe would not appear, to sit down, light his short, black pipe,
and make caustic remarks about his methods or his country—or both.
Bob took it all with a grin. He was a cheerful soul.
</p>
<p>
They used to meet for dinner—dinner consisting of corned beef and
potatoes until the corned beef ran out; then it became potatoes and bread
and jam for some days, until Joe amazed them by saddling an ancient grey
mare and riding into Cunjee, returning with more corned beef—and
more jam. He boiled the beef in a kerosene tin, and Bob thought he had
never tasted anything better. Appetites did not need pampering on Howard's
Farm. Work in the evening went on until there was barely light enough to
get home and find the cow; it was generally quite dark by the time milking
was finished, and Bob would come in with his bucket to find Jim just in,
and lighting the fire—“Major,” not being the milking hand, worked in
the paddocks a little longer. Tea required little preparation, since the
only menu that occurred to old Joe seemed to be bread and jam. Jim, being
a masterful soul, occasionally took the matter into his own hands and,
aided by Bob, made “flap-jacks” in the frying-pan; they might have been
indigestible for delicately-constituted people, but at least they had the
merit of being hot and comforting on a biting winter night. Old Joe
growled under his breath at the “softness” of people who required “cocking
up with fal-lals.” But he ate the flap-jacks.
</p>
<p>
After tea the “hands” divided the duties of the evening; taking it in
turn, one to wash up, while the other “set” bread. Joe's only baking
implement was a camp-oven, which resembles a large saucepan on three legs;
it could hold just enough for a day's supply, so that it was necessary to
set bread every night, and bake every morning. This wounded their
employer, who never failed to tell them, with some bitterness, that when
alone he had to bake only twice a week. However, he knew all that there
was to know about camp-oven baking, and taught them the art thoroughly, as
well as that of making yeast from potatoes. “That's an extry,” he remarked
thoughtfully, “but I won't charge yer for it, yous 'avin' bin soldiers!”
</p>
<p>
With the bread set, and rising pleasantly before the fire, under a bit of
old blanket, and the kitchen tidy, a period of rest ensued, when “Major”
and “Captin” were free to draw up chairs—seated with greenhide with
the hair left on, and very comfortable—and smoke their pipes. This
was the only time of the day when old Joe unbent. At first silent, he
would presently shift his pipe to the corner of his mouth and spin them
yarns of the early days, told with a queer, dry humour that kept his
hearers in a simmer of laughter. It was always a matter of regret to poor
“Captin” that he used to be the one to end the telling, since no story on
earth could keep him, after a while, from nodding off to sleep. He would
drag himself away to his blankets in the next room, hearing, as sleep
fully descended upon him, the droning voice still entertaining Jim—whose
powers of keeping awake seemed more than human!
</p>
<p>
Saturday brought no slackening of work. Whatever his previous hired men
had done, old Joe was evidently determined that his present
“parlour-boarders” should not abate their efforts, and even kept them a
little later than usual in the paddocks, remarking that “ter-morrer bein'
Sunday, yous might as well cut a bit more scrub.” The next morning broke
fine and clear, and he looked at them a little doubtfully after breakfast.
</p>
<p>
“Well, there ain't no work doin' on Sunday, I reckon. I can manage the ol'
keow to-night, if yous want to go home.”
</p>
<p>
The guests looked at each other doubtfully.
</p>
<p>
“What do you say, Bob? Shall we ride over?”
</p>
<p>
Bob pondered.
</p>
<p>
“All one to me, o' course,” said Joe, getting up and stumping out. He
paused at the door. “On'y if yous mean ter stick on 'ere a bit you'll find
comin' back a bit 'ard, onced yous see Billabong.”
</p>
<p>
“Just what I was thinking,” said Bob, as the old man disappeared. “I'm not
going, Jim; I know jolly well I'd hate to come back after—er—fleshpotting
at your place. But look here, old chap—why don't you go home and
stay there? You've done quite enough of this, especially as you've no
earthly need to do it at all. You go home, and I'll stay out my
fortnight.”
</p>
<p>
“What, leave you here alone?” queried Jim. “Not much, Bobby.”
</p>
<p>
“But why not? I've Joseph, and we'd become bosom friends. And your father
must think it ridiculous for you to be kept over here, slaving—”
</p>
<p>
“Don't you worry your old head about dad,” said Jim cheerfully. “It's a
slack time, and he doesn't need me, and he's perfectly satisfied at my
being here. Bless you, it's no harm for me to get a bit of this sort of
life.”
</p>
<p>
“You'll never have to do it.”
</p>
<p>
“No one can tell that,” said Jim. “The bottom has dropped out of land in
other countries, and it may happen here. Besides, if you've got to employ
labour it's just as well to know from experience what's a fair thing to
expect from a man as a day's work. For which reason, I have desired our
friend Joseph to take me off scrub-duty, which I feel I know pretty well,
and to detail me for assorted fatigues, like yours, next week. And anyhow,
my son, having brought you to this savage place, I'm not going to leave
you. Finally, we couldn't go anywhere, because this is the day that we
must wash.”
</p>
<p>
“I have washed!” said Bob indignantly.
</p>
<p>
“I didn't mean your person, Bobby, but your clothes. The laundress doesn't
call out here.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh!” said Bob, and grinned. “Then I'd better put on a kettle.”
</p>
<p>
So they washed, very cheerfully, taking turns in the one bucket, which was
all Joe could offer as laundry equipment. He had an iron, but after brief
consultation, “Major” and “Captin” decided that to iron working shirts
would be merely painting the lily. Old Joe watched them with a twinkle,
saying nothing. But a spirit of festivity and magnificence must have
entered into him, for when the washermen went for a walk, after disposing
their damp raiment upon bushes, he entered the kitchen hurriedly and dived
for the flour-bag; and later, they found unwonted additions to the corned
beef and potatoes—the said additions being no less than boiled
onions and a jam tart.
</p>
<p>
The week that followed was a repetition of the first, save for a day of
such rain that even old Joe had to admit that work in the paddocks was out
of the question. He consoled himself by making them whitewash the kitchen.
Large masses of soot fell down into the fireplace throughout the day,
seriously interfering with cooking operations, which suggested to Joe that
“Captin” might acquire yet another art—that of bush chimney sweeping—which
he accomplished next day, under direction, by the simple process of
tugging a great bunch of tea-tree up and down the flue. “Better'n all them
brushes they 'ave in towns,” said Joe, watching his blackened assistant
with satisfaction.
</p>
<p>
“Well, we're off to-morrow, Mr. Howard,” said Jim on Saturday night. They
were seated round the fire, smoking.
</p>
<p>
“I s'pose so. Didn't think yous'd stick it out as long,” the old man said.
</p>
<p>
“We've had a very good time,” said Bob; and was astonished to find himself
speaking truthfully. “Jolly good of you to have me; I know a new-chum
isn't much use.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, I wouldn't say as how you weren't,” said old Joe deliberately. “I
ain't strong on new-chums, meself—some of them immy-grants they send
out are a fair cow to handle; but I will say, Captin, you ain't got no
frills, nor you don't mind puttin' your back into a job. I worked you
pretty 'ard, too.” He chuckled deeply.
</p>
<p>
“Did you?” asked Bob—and chuckled in his turn.
</p>
<p>
“Well, I didn't see no points in spoon-feedin' you. If a man's goin' on
the land he may as well know wot 'e's likely to strike. There's lots'll
tell you you won't strike anythink 'arder than ol' Joe—an' p'raps
you won't,” he added. “Any'ow, yous asked fer work, an' it was up ter me
ter see that yous got it. But don't go imaginin' you've learned all there
is ter know about farmin' yet.”
</p>
<p>
“If there's one thing I'm certain of, it's that,” said Bob a trifle
grimly.
</p>
<p>
“That's right. I ain't got much of a farm, an' any'ow, it's winter. I on'y
showed yous a few of the odd jobs—an' wot it is to 'ave to batch fer
yerself, not comin' in like a lord to Billabong ter see wot Mrs. Brown's
been cookin' for yous. Nothin' like a bit o' batchin' ter teach a cove.
An' you mind, Captin—if you start anywhere on yer own, you batch
decent; keep things clean an' don't get into the way o' livin' just
any'ow. I ain't much, nor the meenoo ain't excitin'; but things is clean.”
</p>
<p>
“Well—I have a sister,” said Bob. “So I'm in luck. But I guess I
know a bit more about her side of the job now.”
</p>
<p>
“And that's no bad thing for Tommy,” said Jim.
</p>
<p>
“Oo's 'e?” demanded Joe.
</p>
<p>
“Oh—that's his sister.”
</p>
<p>
“Rum names gals gets nowadays,” said Joe, pondering. “Not on'y gels,
neither. 'S a chap on top of the 'ill 'as a new baby, an' 'e's called it
'Aig Wipers Jellicoe. 'Course, 'e did go to the war, but 'e ain't got no
need ter rub it into the poor kid like that.” He paused to ram the tobacco
into the bowl of his pipe with a horny thumb. “One thing—I'd like to
pay you chaps somethin'. Never 'ad blokes workin' fer me fer nothin', an'
I don't much care about it.”
</p>
<p>
“No, thanks, Mr. Howard,” said Jim. “We came for colonial experience.”
</p>
<p>
“You!” said old Joe, and permitted himself the ghost of a grin. “Well, I
ain't goin' ter fight yous about it, an' I'm not worryin' a mighty lot
about you, Major, 'cause your little bit o' country's ready made for you.
But Captin's different. We won't 'ave no fight about cash, Captin; but
that last year's calf of the ol' keow's goin' ter be a pretty decent
steer, an' when you gets yer farm 'e's goin' on it as yer first bit o'
stock. An' 'e'll get the best o' my grass till 'e goes.”
</p>
<p>
“Rubbish!” said Bob, much embarrassed. “Awfully good of you, Mr. Howard,
but that wasn't the agreement. I know I'm not worth wages yet.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, ain't you?” Joe asked. “Well, there's two opinions about that.
Any'ow, 'e's yours, an' I've christened 'im Captin, so there ain't no way
out of it.” He rose, cutting short further protests. “Too much bloomin'
argument about this camp; I'm off ter bed.”
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER XII
</h2>
<h3>
ON INFLUENZA AND FURNITURE
</h3>
<p>
“So you think he'll do, Jim?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, I certainly do,” Jim answered. He was sitting with his father in the
smoking-room at Billabong, his long legs outstretched before the fire, and
his great form half-concealed in the depths of an enormous leather
armchair. “Of course he'll want guidance; you couldn't expect him to know
much about stock yet, though he's certainly picked up a good bit.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes—so it seems. His great point is his quick eye and his keenness.
I haven't found him forget much.”
</p>
<p>
“No, and he's awfully ashamed if he does. He's a tiger for work, and very
quick at picking up the way to tackle any new job. That was one of the
things that pleased old Joe about him. I fancy the old chap had suffered
at the hands of other new-chums who reckoned they could teach him how to
do his work. 'Captin ain't orffered me not one bit of advice,' he told me
with relief.”
</p>
<p>
Mr. Linton laughed.
</p>
<p>
“Yes, I've had them here like that,” he said. “Full of sublime enthusiasm
for reforming Australia and all her ways. I don't say we don't need it,
either, but not from a new-chum in his first five minutes.”
</p>
<p>
“Not much,” agreed Jim. “Well, there's nothing of that sort about old Bob.
He just hoes in at anything that's going, and doesn't talk about it. Joe
says he must have been reared sensible. He's all right, dad. I've had a
lot of men through my hands in the last few years, and you learn to size
'em up pretty quickly.”
</p>
<p>
David Linton nodded, looking at his big son. Sometimes he had a pang of
regret for Jim's lost boyhood, swallowed up in war. Then, when he was
privileged to behold him rough-and-tumbling with Wally, singing idiotic
choruses with Norah and Tommy, or making himself into what little Babs
Archdale ecstatically called “my bucking donkey,” it was borne in upon him
that there still was plenty of the boy left in Jim—and that there
always would be. Nevertheless, he had great confidence in his judgment;
and in this instance it happened to coincide with his own.
</p>
<p>
The door opened, and Bob Rainham came in, hesitating as he caught sight of
the father and son.
</p>
<p>
“Come in, Bob,” Mr. Linton said. “I was just wishing you would turn up.
We've been talking about you. I understand you've made up your mind to get
a place of your own.”
</p>
<p>
“If you don't think I'm insane to tackle it, sir,” Bob answered. “Of
course, I know I'm awfully ignorant. But I thought I could probably get
hold of a good man, and if I can find a place anywhere in this district,
Jim says he'll keep an eye on me. Between the two, I oughtn't to make very
hopeless mistakes. And I might as well have my money invested.”
</p>
<p>
“Quite so. I think you're wise,” the squatter answered. “As it happens, I
was in Cunjee yesterday, talking to an agent, and I heard of a little
place that might suit you very well—just about the price you ought
to pay, and the land's not bad. There's a decent cottage on it—you
and Tommy could be very comfortable there. It's four miles from here, so
we should feel you hadn't got away from us.”
</p>
<p>
“That sounds jolly,” said Bob. “I'd be awfully glad to think Tommy was so
near to Norah. Is it sheep country, Mr. Linton?”
</p>
<p>
“So it's to be sheep, is it? Well, I'd advise you to put some young cattle
on to some scrub country at the back, but you could certainly run sheep on
the cleared paddocks,” Mr. Linton answered. “We could drive over and look
at it to-morrow, if you like. The terms are easy; you'd have money over to
stock it, or nearly so. And there's plenty to be done in improving the
place, if you should buy it; you could easily add a good deal to its
value.”
</p>
<p>
“That's what I'd like,” Bob answered eagerly. “It doesn't take a whole lot
of brains to dig drains and cut scrub. I could be doing that while the
sheep turn into wool and mutton!”
</p>
<p>
“So you could; though there's a bit more to be done to sheep than just to
watch them turn,” said the squatter, with a twinkle. “I fancy Tommy will
be pleased if you get this place.”
</p>
<p>
“Tommy's mad keen to start,” Bob said. “She says Norah has taught her more
than she ever dreamed that her head could contain, and she wants to work
it all off on me. I think she has visions of making me kill a bullock, so
that she can demonstrate all she knows about corning and spicing and
salting beef. I mentioned it would take two of us quite a little while to
work through a whole bullock, but she evidently didn't think much of the
objection.”
</p>
<p>
“I'll see you get none fat enough to kill,” grinned Jim. “Norah says
Tommy's a great pupil, dad.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, they have worked as if they were possessed,” Mr. Linton answered. “I
never saw such painfully busy people. But Norah tells me she has had very
little to teach Tommy—in fact, I think the teaching has been mutual,
and they've simply swapped French and Australian dodges. At all events
they and Brownie have lived in each other's pockets, and they all seem
very content.”
</p>
<p>
“Are you all talking business, or may we come in?” demanded a cheery
voice; and Norah peeped in, with Tommy dimly visible in the background.
</p>
<p>
“Come in—'twas yourselves we were talking about,” Jim said, rising
slowly from the armchair; a process which, Norah was accustomed to say, he
accomplished yard by yard. “Sit here, Tommy, and let's hear your views on
Australia!”
</p>
<p>
Tommy shook her head.
</p>
<p>
“Too soon to ask me—and I've only seen Billabong,” she said,
laughing. “Wait until I've kept house for Bob for a while, and faced life
without nice soft buffers like Norah and Mrs. Brown!”
</p>
<p>
“I'm not a nice soft buffer!” said Norah indignantly. “Do I look like one,
Jimmy?”
</p>
<p>
“Brownie certainly fits the description better,” Jim said. “Never mind,
old girl, you'll probably grow into one. We'd be awfully proud of you if
you got really fat, Norah.”
</p>
<p>
“Then I hope you'll never have cause for pride,” retorted his sister. “I
couldn't ride Bosun if I did, and that would be too awful to think about.
Oh, and Tommy's making a great stock-rider, Bob. She declared she could
never ride astride, but she's perceiving the error of her ways.”
</p>
<p>
“I thought I could never stick on without the moral support of the
pommels,” said Tommy. “When you arrange yourself among pommels and horns
and things on a side-saddle, there seems no real reason why you should
ever come off, except of your own free will. But a man's saddle doesn't
offer any encouragement to a poor scared new-chum. I pictured myself
sliding off it whenever the horse side-stepped. However, somehow, it
doesn't happen.”
</p>
<p>
“And what happens when your steed slews around after a bullock?” asked
Jim.
</p>
<p>
“Indeed, I hardly know,” said Tommy modestly. “I generally shut my eyes,
and hold on to the front of the saddle. After a while I open them, and
find, to my astonishment, that nothing has occurred, and I'm still there.
Then we sail along after Norah, and I hold up my head proudly and look as
if that were really the way I have always handled cattle. And she isn't a
bit taken in. It's dreadfully difficult to impress Norah.”
</p>
<p>
Every one laughed, and looked at the new-chum affectionately. This small
English girl, so ready to laugh at her own mistakes, had twined herself
wonderfully about their hearts. Even Brownie, jealous to the point of
prickliness for her adored Norah, and at first inclined to turn up a
scornful nose at “Miss Tommy's” pink and white daintiness, had been forced
to admit that she “could 'andle things like a workman.” And that was high
praise from Brownie.
</p>
<p>
The telephone bell whirred in the hall, and Jim went out to answer it. In
a few minutes they heard his voice.
</p>
<p>
“Norah, just come here a moment.” He came back presently, leaving Norah at
the telephone.
</p>
<p>
“It's Dr. Anderson,” he said. “They're in trouble in Cunjee—there's
a pretty bad outbreak of influenza. Some returned men came up with it, and
now it's spreading everywhere, Anderson says. Mrs. Anderson has been
nursing in the hospital, but now two of her own kiddies have got it, so
she has had to go home, and they're awfully shorthanded. Nurses seem to be
scarce everywhere; they could only get one from Melbourne, and she's badly
overworked.”
</p>
<p>
“Norah will go, I suppose,” said David Linton, with a half-sigh—the
sigh of a man who has looked forward to peace and security, and finds it
again slipping from his grasp.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, yes, I'm sure she will. They have a certain number of volunteers, not
nearly enough.”
</p>
<p>
“I'm going,” said Tommy, and David Linton nodded at her kindly.
</p>
<p>
“What about you and me, Jim?” Bob asked.
</p>
<p>
“Well, Anderson says they have a number of men volunteers. Such a lot of
returned fellows about with nothing to do yet. I told him to count on us
for anything he wanted, but the need seems chiefly for women.”
</p>
<p>
“Must they go to-night? It's pretty late,” said Mr. Linton.
</p>
<p>
“No, not to-night,” Norah answered, entering. “It would be eight o'clock
before I could get in, and Dr. Anderson says I'm to get a good sleep and
come in early in the morning. Tommy, darling, will you mind if I leave you
for a few days?”
</p>
<p>
“Horribly,” said Tommy drily. “It would be unpardonably rude for a
hostess. So I 'm coming too.”
</p>
<p>
Norah laughed down at her.
</p>
<p>
“Somehow, I thought you would,” she said. “Well, Jimmy, you'll take us in
after breakfast, won't you? We'll have it early.” She perched on the arm
of her father's chair, letting her fingers rest for a moment on his
close-cropped grey hair. “And I've never asked you if I could go, daddy.”
</p>
<p>
“No,” said David Linton; “you haven't.” He put his arm gently round her.
</p>
<p>
“But then I knew that you'd kick me out if I didn't. So that simplifies
matters. You'll take care of yourself while I'm away, won't you, dad? No
wild rides by yourself into the ranges, or anything of that sort?”
</p>
<p>
“Certainly not,” said her father. “I'll sit quietly at home, and let
Brownie give me nourishment at short intervals.”
</p>
<p>
“Nothing she'd like better.” Norah laughed. “I don't believe Brownie will
really feel that she owns us again until one of us is considerate enough
to fall ill and give her a real chance of nursing and feeding us. Then the
only thing to do is to forget you ever had a will of your own, and just to
open your mouth and be fed like a young magpie, and Brownie's perfectly
happy.”
</p>
<p>
“She won't be happy when she hears of this new plan,” Mr. Linton said.
“Poor old soul, I'm sorry she should have any worry, when she has just got
you home.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes; I'm sorry,” Norah answered. “But it can't be helped. I'll go and
talk to her now, and arrange things—early breakfast among them.”
</p>
<p>
“You might make it a shade earlier than you meant to, while you're at it,
Nor,” Jim observed. “Then we could turn off the track as we go in
to-morrow to let Tommy have a look at the place that has been offered Bob—you
know that place of Henderson's, off the main road. Bob can go over the
land with us when we're coming back. But once you and Tommy get swallowed
up in Cunjee, there's no knowing when we could get you out; and Tommy
ought to inspect the house.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, I'd love to,” said Tommy enthusiastically. “No mere man can be
trusted to buy a house.”
</p>
<p>
“Don't go to look at it with any large ideas of up-to-date improvements
floating in your mind,” Jim warned her. “It's sure to be pretty primitive,
and probably there isn't even a bathroom.”
</p>
<p>
“Don't you worry, Tommy; we'll build you one,” said Mr. Linton.
</p>
<p>
“I'm not going to worry about anything; there are always washtubs,” spoke
Tommy cheerfully—“and thank you, all the same, Mr. Linton. I didn't
expect much when I came out to Australia, but I'm getting so much more
than I expected that I'm in a state of bewilderment all the time. Someday
I feel that I shall come down with a bump, and I shall be thankful if it's
only over a bathroom.”
</p>
<p>
“Distressing picture of the valiant pioneer looking for discomforts and
failing to find them,” said Bob, laughing. “It's so difficult to feel
really pioneerish in a place where there are taps, and electric light, and
motors, and no one appears to wear a red shirt, like every Australian
bushman I ever saw on the stage.”
</p>
<p>
“Did you bring any out with you?” demanded Norah wickedly.
</p>
<p>
“I didn't. But honest, it was only because I had so many khaki ones, and I
thought they'd do. Otherwise I'd certainly have thought that scarlet
shirts were part of the ordinary outfit for the Colonies. And if you
believed all the things they tell you in outfitting shops, you would bring
a gorgeous assortment. We'd have even arrived here with tinware. It was
lucky I knew some Australians—they delicately hinted that you really
had a shop or two in the principal cities.”
</p>
<p>
“I've often marvelled at the queer collection people seem to bring out,”
said Mr. Linton. “It's not so bad of late years, but ten years ago a
jackeroo would arrive here with about a lorry-load of stuff, most of which
he could have bought much more cheaply in Melbourne or Sydney—and
he'd certainly never use the greater part of it. Apparently a London shop
will sell you the same kind of outfit for a Melbourne suburb as if you
were going into the wilds of West Africa. They haven't any conscience.”
</p>
<p>
“They just never learn geography,” said Norah. “And 'the Colonies' to them
mean exactly the same thing, no matter in what continent the colony may
be. If they can sell pioneers tinware to take out to Melbourne, so much
the better for them. Well, I must see Brownie, or there may not be early
breakfast for pioneers or any one else.”
</p>
<p>
Brownie rose to the occasion—there had never been any known occasion
to which Brownie did not rise—and the hospital at Cunjee was still
grappling with early morning problems next day when the Billabong motor
pulled up at the door, after a flying visit to the new home—which
Tommy, regarding with the large eye of faith, had declared to be full of
boundless possibilities. Dr. Anderson came out to meet the new-comers,
Norah and Tommy, neat and workmanlike; Jim, bearing their luggage; and Mr.
Linton and Bob sharing a large humper, into which Brownie had packed
everything eatable she could find—and Brownie's capacity for finding
things eatable at short notice was one of her most astonishing traits. The
little doctor, harassed as he was, greeted them with a twinkle.
</p>
<p>
“You Lintons generally appear bearing your sheaves with you,” he said.
“Well, you're very welcome. How many of you do I keep?”
</p>
<p>
“Tommy and Norah, for certain,” said Mr. Linton. “And as many more of us
as you please. Want us all, doctor?”
</p>
<p>
“Well, I really don't; there are a good many men volunteers. But if I
might commandeer the car and a driver for a few hours, I should be glad,”
the doctor went on. “There are some cases to be brought in from Mardale
and Clinthorpe. I heard of them only this morning, on the telephone, and I
was wondering how to get them in.”
</p>
<p>
“We're at your disposal, and you've only to telephone for us or the car
whenever you want it,” said Mr. Linton. “How are things this morning?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh—bad enough. We have several very troublesome cases; people
simply won't give in soon enough. My youngsters are very ill, but I'm not
really worried about them as long as my wife keeps up. Our biggest trouble
is that our cook here went down this morning. She told me she couldn't
sleep a wink all night, and when she woke up in the morning her tongue was
sticking to the roof of her head!—and certainly she has temperature
enough for any strange symptoms. But we feel rather as if the bottom had
dropped out of the universe, for none of our volunteers are equal to the
job.”
</p>
<p>
“I can cook,” said Norah and Tommy together.
</p>
<p>
“Can you?” said the little doctor, staring at them as though the heavens
had opened and rained down angels on his head. “Are you sure? You don't
look like it!”
</p>
<p>
“I can guarantee them,” said Mr. Linton, laughing. “Only you'll have to
watch Norah, for the spell of the war is heavy upon her, and she'll boil
your soup bones thirteen times, and feed you all on haricot beans and
lentils if nobody checks her!”
</p>
<p>
“Dad, you haven't any manners,” said Norah severely. “May I cook, Doctor?”
</p>
<p>
“You can share the job,” said Dr. Anderson thankfully. “I really think
it's more than enough for one of you. This place is getting pretty full.
Of course, I've wired to town for a cook, but goodness knows if we'll get
one; it's unlikely. Come on, now, and I'll introduce you to Sister.”
</p>
<p>
Sister proved to be a tall, capable, quiet woman, with war decorations.
She greeted the volunteers thankfully, and unhesitatingly pronounced their
place to be cooks, rather than nurses.
</p>
<p>
“I can get girls who will do well enough in the wards,” she said, “where I
can direct them. But I can't be in the kitchen too. If you two can carry
on without supervision it will be a godsend.”
</p>
<p>
So the kitchen swallowed up Norah and Tommy, and there they worked during
the weeks that followed, while the influenza scourge raged round Victoria.
The little cottage-hospital became full almost to bursting-point. Even the
rooms for the staff had to be appropriated, and nurses and helpers slept
in a cottage close by. Luckily for the cooks, Cunjee now boasted a gas
supply and its citizens supplied them with gas-stoves, as Norah said, “in
clutches,” so that they worked in comfort. It was hard work, with little
time to spare, but the girls had learned method, and they soon mapped out
a routine that prevented their ever being rushed or flurried. And they
blessed the cold weather that saved constant watching lest supplies should
go bad.
</p>
<p>
From Billabong came daily hampers that greatly relieved their labours. It
was a matter of some amazement to the Lintons that Brownie did not
volunteer for the hospital, and indeed, it had been the first thought of
Brownie herself. But she repressed it firmly, though by no means feeling
comfortable. To Murty she confided her views, and was relieved by his
approval.
</p>
<p>
“I know I did ought to go,” she said, almost tearfully. “There's those two
blessed lambs in the kitchen, doing wot I'd ought to be doing; and I know
Mrs. Archdale 'ud come up an' run things 'ere for me. But wot 'ud 'appen
if I did go, I ask you, Murty? Simply they'd take the two blessed lambs
out of the kitchen an' put 'em to nursing in the wards, an' next thing you
knew they'd both be down with the beastly flu' themselves. They're safer
among the pots and pans, Murty. But when the master looks at me I don't
feel comferable.”
</p>
<p>
“Yerra, let him look,” said Murty stoutly. “'Tis the great head ye have on
ye; I'd never have thought of it. Don't go worryin', now. Are ye not
sendin' them in the heighth of good livin' every day?”
</p>
<p>
“That's the least I can do,” said Brownie, brightening a little. “Only I'd
like to think Miss Norah and Miss Tommy got some of it, and not just them
patients, gethered up from goodness knows where.”
</p>
<p>
“Yerra, Miss Norah wouldn't want to know their addresses before she'd feed
'em,” said the bewildered Murty. But there came a suspicious smell from
the kitchen, as of something burning, and Mrs. Brown fled with a swiftness
that was surprising, considering her circumference.
</p>
<p>
Jim lived a moving existence in those days, flying between Billabong and
Cunjee in the car, bringing supplies, always on hand for a job if wanted,
and insisting that on their daily “time off” Norah and Tommy should come
out for a spin into the country. Sometimes they managed to take Sister,
too, or some of the other helpers. The car never went out with any empty
seats. Presently they were recovering patients to be given fresh air or
taken home; white-faced mothers, longing to be back to the house and
children left in the care of “dad,” and whatever kindly neighbours might
drop in; or “dads” themselves, much bewildered at the amazing illness that
had left them feeling as if neither their legs nor their heads belonged to
them. Occasionally, after dropping one of these convalescents, Jim would
find jobs waiting to his hand about the bush homestead; cows to milk, a
fence to be mended, wood waiting to be chopped. He used to do them
vigorously, while in the house “mum” fussed over her restored man and
tried to keep him from going out to run the farm immediately. There were
generally two or three astonished children to show him where tools were
kept—milk buckets, being always up-ended on a fence post, needed no
introduction, and the pump, for a sluice afterwards, was not hard of
discovery. The big Rolls-Royce used to purr gently away through the bush
paddock afterwards, often with a bewildered “mum” looking amazedly at the
tall young man who drove it.
</p>
<p>
Meanwhile Bob Rainham, left alone with his host, set about the business of
his new farm in earnest, since there seemed nothing else for him to do;
and David Linton, possibly glad of the occupation, threw himself into the
work. The farm was bought on terms that seemed to Bob very easy—he
did not know that Mr. Linton stood security for his payments—and
then began the task of stocking it and of planning just what was best to
do with each paddock. The house, left bare and clean by the last owners,
was in good repair, save that the dingy white painting of the exterior,
and the varnished pine walls and ceilings within were depressing and
shabby. Mr. Linton decided that his house-warming present to Tommy should
be a coat of paint for her mansion, and soon it looked new—dark red,
with a gleaming white roof, while the rooms were painted in pretty fresh
colours. “Won't Tommy get a shock!” chuckled Bob gleefully. The dinginess
of the house had not escaped him on the morning that they had made their
first inspection, but Tommy, who loved freshness and colours, had made no
sign. Had you probed the matter, Tommy would probably have remarked, with
some annoyance, that it was not her job to begin by grumbling.
</p>
<p>
Wally came hurtling back from Queensland at the first hint of the
influenza outbreak, and was considerably depressed at finding his twin
souls, Jim and Norah, engaged in jobs that for once he could not share.
Therefore he, too, fell back on the new farm, and found Bob knitting his
brow one evening over the question of furniture.
</p>
<p>
“I don't want to buy much,” he said. “Tommy doesn't, either; we talked it
over. We'd rather do with next to nothing, and buy decent stuff by degrees
if we get on well. Tommy says she doesn't want footling little gimcracky
tables and whatnots and things, nor dressing-tables full of drawers that
won't pull out. But I've been looking at the cheap stuff in Cunjee, and,
my word, it's nasty! Still, I can't afford good things now, and Tommy
wouldn't like it if I tried to get 'em. Tommy's death on the simple life.”
</p>
<p>
“How are you on tools?” queried Wally.
</p>
<p>
“Using tools? Pretty fair,” admitted Bob. “I took up carpentering at
school; it was always a bit of a hobby of mine. I'm no cabinet-maker, if
that's what you mean.”
</p>
<p>
“You don't need to be,” Wally answered. “Up where I come from—we
were pretty far back in Queensland—we hardly ever saw real
furniture, the stuff you buy in shops. It was all made out of
packing-cases and odd bits of wood. Jolly decent, too; you paint 'em up to
match the rooms, or stain 'em dark colours, and the girls put sort of
petticoats round some of the things.”
</p>
<p>
“We began that way,” said David Linton, with a half-sigh. “There was
surprisingly little proper furniture in our first house, and we were very
comfortable.”
</p>
<p>
“Couldn't we begin, sir?” asked Wally eagerly. “This wet weather looks
like setting in. Bob can't do much on the farm. If we could get out a few
odd lengths of timber and some old packing cases from the township—”
</p>
<p>
“Heavens, you don't need to do that!” exclaimed their host. “The place is
full of both; packing-cases have been arriving at Billabong since Jim was
a baby, and very few of them have gone away again. There's plenty of
timber knocking about, too. We'll go over to the farm if you like, Bob,
and plan out measurements.”
</p>
<p>
“I think it's a splendid idea, thanks, sir,” said Bob slowly. “Only I
don't quite see why I should bother you—”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, don't talk rubbish!” said David Linton, getting up. “I believe I'm
glad of the job—the place seems queer without Jim and Norah.”
</p>
<p>
“My word!” said Wally. “Let's all turn carpenters, and give Tommy the
surprise of her life!”
</p>
<p>
They flung themselves at the work with energy. A visit to the new house,
and a careful study of each room, revealed unsuspected possibilities to
Bob, whose English brain, “brought up,” as Wally said, “on a stodgy diet
of bedroom suites,” had failed to grasp what might be done by handy people
with a soul above mere fashion in the matter of furniture. They came back
with a notebook bulging with measurements and heads seething with ideas.
First, they dealt with the bedrooms, and made for each a set of long
shelves and a dressing-table-cupboard—the latter a noble piece of
furniture, which was merely a packing-case, smoothed, planed and fitted
with shelves; the whole to be completed with a seemly petticoat when Tommy
should be able to detach her mind from influenza patients. They made her,
too, a little work-table, which was simply a wide, low shelf, at which she
could write or sew—planned to catch a good light from her window, so
that as she sat near it, she could see the line of willows that marked the
creek and the rolling plains that ended in the ranges behind Billabong.
Tommy's room was painted in pale green; and when they had stained all
these exciting additions dark green, Bob heaved a great sigh, and yearned
audibly for the swift recovery of the influenza patients, so that Tommy
could return and behold her new possessions.
</p>
<p>
“We could make washstands,” said Mr. Linton, when they had fitted out the
two remaining bedrooms. “But washstands are depressing things, and would
take up a good deal of space in these little rooms. You have a good water
supply, Bob; why not have built-in basins with taps, and lay on water
through the bedrooms?”
</p>
<p>
Bob whistled.
</p>
<p>
“My aunt! Is that really possible?”
</p>
<p>
“Quite, I should say. It wouldn't take elaborate plumbing, and the pipes
could discharge into an irrigation drain for your vegetable garden. It
would save Tommy ever so much work in carrying water, too. There's a
fearsome amount of water carried in and out of bedrooms, and I can't see
why pipes shouldn't do the work. It need not cost you much—just a
shelf across a corner, with an enamelled basin let in.”
</p>
<p>
“Save you buying jugs and basins,” said Wally. “Great money-saving idea!”
</p>
<p>
“Rather,” said Bob. “Is there anyone in Cunjee who can plumb?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, yes; there's a handy man who can do the whole thing. We'll get Jim to
go and see him tomorrow.”
</p>
<p>
They left this job to the handy man, who proved equal to all demands, and
went on themselves to higher flights. Kitchen and pantry were already
fitted with shelves, but they built in a dresser, and found a spare
corner, where they erected a linen press warranted to bring tears of joy
to the eye of any housewife. Round the little dining-room and sitting-room
they ran a very narrow shelf, just wide enough to carry flowers and
ornaments, and they made wide, low window seats in each room. Then,
becoming bold by success, they turned to cabinet making, and built into
the dining-room a sideboard, which was only a glorified edition of the
kitchen dresser, but looked amazingly like walnut, aided by a little
stain; and for both sitting-rooms made low cupboards, with tops wide
enough to serve as little tables. Even the verandah was furnished with
wide shelf tables and a cupboard, and with low and broad seats.
</p>
<p>
“And it's all done by kindness—and packing cases!” said Jim,
surveying the result with admiration.
</p>
<p>
“Indeed, I'm afraid a lot of your father's good timber has gone into it,”
said Bob half ruefully. “He was awfully good about it, and the supply of
just-what-you-want timber on Billabong seemed inexhaustible.”
</p>
<p>
“No, you really used very little good stuff,” David Linton said. “It's
chiefly packing cases, truly, Jim. But we had plenty of time to plane it
up and make it look decent. Bob ran an electric light into the workshop
and we worked every night. I believe it's kept us from getting influenza
from sheer boredom, with all you people away.”
</p>
<p>
“They'll soon be home,” Jim said cheerfully. “Influenza's dying out, I
believe. No fresh cases for three days, and all the patients are getting
better. The little Andersons are up and about. By the way, Dad, couldn't
we bring those kiddies out to Billabong for a change?”
</p>
<p>
“Why, of course,” his father answered. “Tell Mrs. Anderson to come too,
or, if she won't leave her husband, Brownie will be delighted at the
chance of getting two children to look after again. Are the cooks quite
cheery, Jim?”
</p>
<p>
“As cheery as possible,” Jim answered. “They got off early to-day, and I
took them and Sister and the Anderson youngsters out for a run. Did 'em
all good. I'm coming home to-night, and they don't want me to-morrow,
because they're going to afternoon tea with some one or other. Flighty
young things, those cooks! So I can help you carpenters or do any odd
jobs.”
</p>
<p>
“We've lots,” said Wally, who was putting a finishing coat of dark green
enamel to a rod destined as a towel rail for Tommy's room. “Simple jobs,
suitable for your understanding. Take care, Jimmy, I've a wet paint brush,
and you have a good suit on! I want to put shelves from floor to ceiling
of the bathroom, because the walls are rough and unlined, and nothing on
earth will make it a beautiful room. So Tommy may as well store there all
the things she doesn't want anywhere else. And you can make her a medicine
cupboard. I shan't have time to look at any of you unskilled labourers,
for I'm going to build her a draining-rack for plates and things over the
kitchen sink. And I can tell you, that takes brains!”
</p>
<p>
“Then it's not your job!” said Jim definitely.
</p>
<p>
“Isn't it? I'll show you, you old Bond Street fashion plate!” Wally
stretched his long form, simply attired in a khaki shirt and dungaree
trousers, much be-splashed by paint, and looked scornfully at his neatly
dressed friend. “You needn't think, because you come here dressed like the
lilies of the field and fresh from motoring girls round the country, that—”
</p>
<p>
“My hat!” said Jim justly incensed. “And I after cleaning out and
whitewashing the hospital fowl-houses all the morning! Young Wally, you
need some one to sit on your head.” He took off his coat slowly.
</p>
<p>
“Ten to one,” said Wally hastily, “if we had time to look into the matter
we'd find you'd whitewashed the fowls as well! These Army Johnnies are so
beastly impractical!” He gathered up his brushes and fled, pursued by his
chum. Sounds of warfare came faintly from the distance.
</p>
<p>
“It's a good thing some of us are sane,” said Mr. Linton laughing. “Nearly
finished, Bob?”
</p>
<p>
He was painting a shelf-table, screwed to the wall within a space at the
end of the verandah, which they had completely enclosed with wire mosquito
netting. Bob was hanging the door of this open-air room in position, a
task requiring judgment, as the floor of the verandah was old and uneven.
</p>
<p>
“Nearly, sir,” he mumbled, his utterance made difficult by the fact of
having several screws in his mouth. He worked vigorously for a few
moments, and then stood back to survey his job. “This is going to be a
great little room—though it's hard just now to imagine that it will
ever be warm enough for it.”
</p>
<p>
“Just you wait a few months until we get a touch of hot weather, and the
mosquitoes come out!” said David Linton. “Then you and Tommy will
thankfully entrench yourselves in here at dusk, and listen to the singing
hordes dashing themselves against the netting in the effort to get at
you!”
</p>
<p>
“That's the kind of thing they used to tell me on the Nauru,” Bob said
laughing; “but I didn't quite expect it from you, Mr. Linton!”
</p>
<p>
The squatter chuckled.
</p>
<p>
“Well, indeed, it's no great exaggeration in some years,” he said. “They
can be bad enough for anything, though it isn't always they are. But an
open-air room is never amiss, for if there aren't mosquitoes a lamp will
attract myriads of other insects on a hot night. That looks all right,
Bob; you've managed that door very well.”
</p>
<p>
“First rate!” said Jim and Wally approvingly, returning arm in arm.
</p>
<p>
“You're great judges!” David Linton rejoined, looking at the pair. “Have
you returned to work, may I ask, or are you still imitating the lilies of
the field?”
</p>
<p>
“Jim is; he couldn't help it,” said Wally. “But I have been studying that
oak tree out in the front, Mr. Linton. It seems to me that a seat built
round it would be very comforting to weary bones on warm evenings—”
</p>
<p>
Bob gathered up his tools with decision in each movement.
</p>
<p>
“Wally has come to that state of mind in which he can't look at anything
on the place without wanting to build something out of a packing case in
it, or round it, or on top of it!” he said. “When the sheep come I'll have
to keep you from them, or you'll be building shelves round them!”
</p>
<p>
“Why, you're nearly as bad yourself!” grinned Wally.
</p>
<p>
“I know I am, and that's why I've got to stop. I'm going to leave nice
little chisels and spokeshaves and smoothing planes, and mend up the
pigsty; it needs it badly, and so does the cow-shed. And then I've got to
think of ploughing, and cutting that drain across the flat, and generally
earning my living.”
</p>
<p>
“Don't you worry,” said David Linton. “You couldn't have done much outside
in this wet weather, and at least your house is half-furnished. And we'll
help you through with the other things.”
</p>
<p>
“You're all just bricks,” said Bob, his fair skin flushing—“only I
begin to feel as if I were fed with a spoon. I can't always expect to have
my work done for me.”
</p>
<p>
“You haven't shown much wish to leave it for anyone else,” Jim said drily.
“Neither you nor Tommy strikes this district as a loafer. Just stop
talking bosh, old man, and think what Tommy's going to say to her
mansion.”
</p>
<p>
“Say?” queried Mr. Linton. “Why, she'll point out to us all the places
where she wants shelves!”
</p>
<p>
“Shelves?” yelled the three as one man.
</p>
<p>
“Yes, certainly. There was never a woman born who had enough. Don't lose
sight of your tools, Bob, for you'll go on putting up shelves as long as
you've an inch of wall to put them on. Come along, boys, and we'll go
home.”
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER XIII
</h2>
<h3>
THE HOME ON THE CREEK
</h3>
<p>
“I think it's the loveliest home that ever was!” said Tommy solemnly.
</p>
<p>
“Well, indeed, it takes some beating,” Wally agreed.
</p>
<p>
“Creek Cottage”—the name was of Tommy's choosing—was ready for
occupation, and they had just finished a tour of it. There was nothing in
it that was not fresh and bright and dainty—like Tommy herself. The
rooms were small, but they had good windows, where the crisp, short
curtains were not allowed to obscure the view. There were fresh mattings
and linoleums on the floors, and the home-made furniture now boasted,
where necessary, curtains of chintz or cretonne, that matched its
colouring. Norah and Tommy had spent cheery hours over those draperies.
The curtains for Tommy's “suite” had been Norah's gift—of dark-green
linen, embroidered in dull blue silks; and in the corner there was a
little sofa with cushions of the same. Tommy had purred—was, in
fact, still purring—over that home-made furniture, and declared it
superior to any that money could buy. She had also suggested new ideas for
shelves.
</p>
<p>
They had not troubled furniture shops much. Save for a few comfortable
arm-chairs, there was nothing solid and heavy in the house; but it was all
pleasant and home-like, and the little rooms, bright with books and
pictures and flowers, had about them the touch of welcome and restfulness
that makes the difference between a home and a mere house. The kitchen was
Tommy's especial pride—it was cool and spotless, with fresh-painted
walls and ceilings, and shining white tiles round the white sink—over
which Wally's draining-rack sat in glory. Dazzling tin-ware decorated the
walls, and the dresser held fresh and pretty china. For weeks it had been
a point of honour for no one to visit Cunjee without bringing Tommy a gift
for the kitchen—meat fork, a set of skewers, a tin pepper castor;
offerings wrapped in many coverings of tissue paper, and presented with
great solemnity, generally at dinner. The last parcel had been from Mr.
Linton, and had eclipsed all the others—an alarum clock, warranted
to drive the soundest sleeper from her bed. Bob declared it specially
designed to ensure his getting fed at something approaching a reasonable
hour.
</p>
<p>
A wide verandah ran round the whole house, and rush lounges and deck
chairs stood about invitingly—Tommy had insisted that there should
be plenty of seating accommodation on the verandah for all the Linton
party, since they filled the little rooms to an alarming extent. Near
where they stood the drawing-room opened out by a French window. Something
caught Tommy's eye, and she dived into the room—to return, laughing
with new treasure-trove—a sink brush and saucepan-scrubber, tied up
with blue ribbon.
</p>
<p>
“Your doing?” she asked, brandishing them.
</p>
<p>
“Not mine.” Wally shook his head. “I don't do frivolous things like that.
But I heard Jim wheedling blue ribbon out of Norah this morning, and I
don't fancy he has much use for it ordinarily. You'd better ask him.”
</p>
<p>
“It's like both of you—you nice stupids!” she said.
</p>
<p>
“What?—the pot-scrub! That's not polite of you, Miss Rainham; and so
untrue, where I'm concerned.” Wally sat down on the arm of a lounge and
regarded her with a twinkle. “What's old Bob doing?”
</p>
<p>
Tommy laughed happily.
</p>
<p>
“I think whenever we don't know where Bob is, he's safe to be out looking
at either the sheep or the pigs,” she said. “He just loves them; and he
says he can see them growing.”
</p>
<p>
There was a hint of Spring in the air, and more than a hint of good grass
in the green paddocks stretching away from the house. By the creek the
willows were putting out long, tender shoots that would soon be a thick
curtain. The lucerne patch that stretched along its bank was dense and
high. The Rainhams had been delayed in taking possession of Creek Cottage;
a severe cold had smitten Tommy just at the end of her labours in the
hospital, and, being thoroughly tired out, it had been some time before
she could shake off its effects. Mr. Linton and Norah had put down their
feet with joint firmness, declaring that in no circumstances should she
begin housekeeping until she was thoroughly fit; so the Rainhams had
remained at Billabong. Tommy was petted and nursed in a way she had not
known since Aunt Margaret had died, while Bob worked feverishly at his
farm, riding over every day from Billabong, with a package of Brownie's
sandwiches in his pocket, and returning at dusk, dirty and happy. Bob was
responding to Australian conditions delightfully, and was only
discontented because he could not make his farm all that he wanted it to
be within the first week.
</p>
<p>
Therein, however, he had unexpected help. The Cunjee district was a
friendly one; station owners and farmers alike looked kindly on the young
immigrant who turned so readily to work after four years' fighting.
Moreover, Tommy's work in the hospital was well known; the general opinion
being that “anything might be expected from young Norah Linton, but you
wouldn't think a bit of a new-chum kid like Bob Rainham's sister would
turn to and cook for a crowd, and she hardly off the ship!” So the
district laid its heads together and consulted Mr. Linton; with the result
that one morning Bob found himself unexpectedly accompanied to work by his
host. It was nothing unusual for Jim or Wally, or both, to go with him. He
was cutting a drain, which they declared to be a job for which they had a
particular fancy. But to-day he found Monarch saddled with the other
horses, and Mr. Linton, not only ready to start, but hurrying them off;
and there was no lunch to carry, Norah airily declaring that since she and
Tommy were to be deserted they declined to be downtrodden, and would motor
over with a hamper and picnic at Creek Cottage. There was a mysterious
twinkle in Norah's eye; Bob scented something afoot, and tried—in
vain—to pump her on the matter. He rode away, his curiosity
unsatisfied.
</p>
<p>
But when they rode up the homestead paddock at his farm, he gave a long
whistle.
</p>
<p>
“What on earth—?” he began amazedly.
</p>
<p>
There were men in sight everywhere, and all working. Eight or nine ploughs
were moving across the paddocks destined for cultivation; already wide
strips of freshly turned earth showed that they had been some time at
work. On the flat where Bob had begun his drain was a line of men, and
some teams with earth-scoops, cutting a deep channel. There were even men
digging in the garden; and the sound of axes came faintly from a belt of
scrub that Bob was planning to clear—some day. He gaped at them.
</p>
<p>
“What does it mean?”
</p>
<p>
“It's a bee,” said Wally kindly. “A busy bee, improving each shining
hour.”
</p>
<p>
Bob turned a puzzled, half-distressed face to Mr. Linton.
</p>
<p>
“I say, sir—what is it?”
</p>
<p>
“It's just that, my boy,” said David Linton. “The district had a fancy to
help you—Cunjee thinks a heap of soldiers, you see. So a lot of the
fellows got together and planned to put in a day on the creek, doing odd
jobs.”
</p>
<p>
“I say,” said poor Bob flushing scarlet, “I never heard such a thing—and
I hardly know any of them. Whatever am I to say to them, sir?”
</p>
<p>
“I wouldn't say much at all,” said David Linton laughing. “You'll only
embarrass them if you do. Just take a hand in any job you like, and carry
on—as we're all going to do.”
</p>
<p>
“There's one man you know, anyhow,” said Jim grinning. He pointed out old
Joe Howard, the nearest to them among the ploughmen.
</p>
<p>
“Heavens!” ejaculated Bob. “You don't mean to tell me old Joe has come of
his own accord!”
</p>
<p>
“Couldn't keep him away,” Jim said. “He remarked that you were a very
decent young feller, and he'd taught you how to work, so he might as well
lend an 'and. It's like old Joe's cheek, but he'll claim for ever that he
made you a worker.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, let him,” said Bob. “It doesn't hurt me, and it may amuse him.” His
gaze travelled across the busy paddocks. “Well—I'm just staggered,”
he said. “The least I can do is to get to work quickly.”
</p>
<p>
They turned the horses out and scattered; Bob to cutting scrub—it
was the job he liked least, so it seemed to him the decent thing to tackle
it—Jim to the drain construction, while Wally joined the band of
workers in the garden, since he knew Tommy's plans concerning it; and Mr.
Linton attacked a fence that needed repairs. In the middle of the morning
came the Billabong motor, driven by Norah, with Brownie and a maid in the
tonneau with Tommy, and hampers packed wherever possible. A cart with
other supplies had been driven over by Evans in the very early morning,
since Billabong had undertaken the feeding of the workers for the day. The
Rolls-Royce picked its way delicately round the paddocks, while the girls
carried drinks and huge slabs of cake to the different bands of workers—this
being the time for “smoke-oh.” Then they hurried back to the cottage,
where Brownie and Maria were busy unpacking hampers on the verandah, and
Brownie was preparing to carve great joints of beef and mutton and pork in
readiness for the hungry horde that would descend on them at dinner time.
</p>
<p>
It was all ready when the men trooped up from the paddocks—squatters
and stockmen, farmers, horse breakers, bush workers of every degree; all
dirty and cheery, and filled with a mighty hunger. Soap and water awaited
them at the back; then they came round to sit on the edge of the long
verandahs, balancing heaped plates on their knees, and making short work
of Brownie's provisions. Jokes and cheery talk filled the air. Tommy,
carrying plates shyly at first, found herself the object of much friendly
interest. “Little Miss Immigrant,” they called her, and vied with each
other in making her feel that they were all welcoming her. But they did
not waste much time over dinner—soon one after another got up and
sauntered away, lighting his pipe, and presently there were straggling
lines of figures going back to work across the paddocks. After which Norah
and Tommy bullied Bob into eating something—he had been far too
anxious to wait on his hungry “bee” to think of feeding himself, and then
the ladies of the party lunched with the ardour of the long-delayed, and
fell upon the colossal business of dish-washing.
</p>
<p>
Afternoon tea came early, by which time nearly all the ploughing was done,
and the brown ribbon of the new drain stretched, wide and deep, across the
flat. The girls took the meal round the paddocks, this time with Bob to
carry the steaming billies of tea; it gave him a chance to thank his
helpers, when it was difficult to say whether the thanker or the thanked
were the more embarrassed. Soon after “cow time” loomed for some of the
workers, and whatever waits in Australia, it must not be the cow; so that
here and there a man shouldered his tools, and, leaving them at the shed,
caught his horse and rode away—apologizing to Bob, if he happened to
meet him, for going so early, with the brief apology of the dairy farmer,
“Gotter get home an' milk.” But the majority worked on until dusk came
down and put an end to their efforts, and then came up for their horses,
singing and laughing.
</p>
<p>
Bob stood at the gate, bareheaded, as they rode away. By this time he had
no words at all. He wished from the bottom of his heart that he could tell
them what good fellows he thought them; but he could only stand, holding
the gate for them with Tommy by his side; and it may be that the look on
each tired young face moved “the bee” more than eloquence would have done.
They shouted cheery good-byes as they went. “Good luck, Miss Immigrant!
Good luck, Captain!” And the dusk swallowed them up, leaving only the
sound of the cantering hoofs.
</p>
<p>
Thanks to “the bee,” the little farm on the creek looked very flourishing
on the great day when the lady of the house came down in state to take
possession of her domain. Bob had worked hard in the garden, where already
rows of vegetables showed well; Jim and Wally had aided Norah and Tommy in
the making of a flower garden, laying heavy toll on Hogg's stores for the
purpose; to-day it was golden and white with daffodils and narcissi and
snowdrops. The cultivation paddocks, no longer brown, rippled with green
oats; and cattle were grazing on the rough grass of the flats, once a
swamp, but already showing the influence of the big drain. Bob had great
plans for ploughing all his flats next year. Dairy cows pastured in the
creek paddock near the house; beyond, Bob's beloved sheep were steadily
engrossed in the fascinating pursuit of “turning into wool and mutton.” He
never grew tired of watching the process.
</p>
<p>
The ever-present problem of labour, too, had solved itself pleasantly
enough. Sarah, for many years housemaid at Billabong, had married a man on
a farm near Cunjee, whose first attempt at renting a place for himself had
been brought to an untimely end by the drought; and Sarah had returned to
Billabong, to help in preparing for the home-coming of the long-absent
family, while her husband secured a temporary job in Cunjee and looked
about for another chance. There Jim had found him, while helping at the
hospital; the end of the matter being that Sarah and Bill and their baby
were installed at Creek Cottage, Bill to be general utility man on the
farm, and to have a share of profits, while Sarah helped Tommy in the
house. Every one was satisfied, and already there were indications that
Tommy would be daft over the baby.
</p>
<p>
Sarah came out now to say that tea was ready—she had insisted on
being responsible for everything on this first day. Not that there was
much to do, for Brownie had sent over a colossal hamper, declaring that
Miss Tommy shouldn't be bothered with thinking about food when she wasn't
'ardly settled. So they packed into the little dining-room; where, indeed,
it took no small ingenuity to stow so large a party, when three of the six
happened to be of the size of David Linton and Jim and Wally; and Tommy
did the honours of her own table for the first time.
</p>
<p>
“And to think,” she said presently, “that six months ago there was only
Lancaster Gate! Of course, there was always Bob”—she flashed him a
quick smile—“but Bob was—”
</p>
<p>
“In the air,” put in Norah.
</p>
<p>
“Very much so. And it didn't seem a bit certain that I could ever get him
out of it; or, if I did, that I could ever escape from Lancaster Gate.”
</p>
<p>
“And you wouldn't, if the she-dragon had had her way,” Bob said.
</p>
<p>
“No. There was nothing to do but run. But even when I dreamed of running,
I never thought of more than a workman's cottage, with you earning wages
and me trying to make both ends meet. And now—look at us! Bloated
capitalists and station owners.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, you were a cook not so long ago. I wouldn't be too proud,” Wally
gibed.
</p>
<p>
“All the more reason for me to be proud—I've risen in the world,”
declared Tommy. “Left my situation to better myself—isn't that the
right way to put it? And we've got the jolliest home in Australia—thanks
to all of you. Do have some more cake, Mr. Linton; I'd love to say I made
it myself, but Brownie did—still, all the same, it's mine.”
</p>
<p>
“Don't you worry,” he told her. “I'm coming here plenty of times for cake
of your own baking.”
</p>
<p>
“That's what I want.” She beamed at him. “All of you. Bob and I will feel
lost and lonesome if we don't see you all—oh, often.”
</p>
<p>
“But you're going to,” Norah said. “We'll be over goodness knows how many
times a week, and you two are always coming to dinner on Sunday, and ever
so many other days as well.”
</p>
<p>
“Was it in your plans that any work should be done on this estate?”
queried Bob solemnly.
</p>
<p>
“Why, yes, in your spare time,” Wally answered. “Any time you're not on
the road between here and Billabong, or catching a horse to go there, or
letting one go after coming back, or minding the Billabong horde when it
comes over, you can do a little towards improving the creek. I say, Bob,
it sounds the sort of life I'd love. Can't you give me a job, old man?”
</p>
<p>
“Seeing that you've done little but work on this place since you came back
from Queensland, I shouldn't think you'd need to ask for a job,” retorted
Bob. “However, I'll take you on as milker if you like—it's about the
only thing you haven't sampled.”
</p>
<p>
“No,” said Wally, “you won't. Whatever beast I finally take to by way of
earning my living, it won't be the cow—if I can help it. I'd sooner
graze giraffes!”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, do try!” Norah begged. “I'd love to see you trying to put a bridle on
one in a hurry!”
</p>
<p>
“Wonder what would happen if one rode a giraffe and he reared?” pondered
Jim.
</p>
<p>
“You'd have to swarm up his neck and hang on to his little horns,” Wally
said. “But they're nice, silent beasts, giraffes, and I think they'd be
very restful to deal with.”
</p>
<p>
Every one laughed unsympathetically. Restfulness was the last quality to
be associated with Wally, who had been remarkable throughout his life for
total inability to keep still.
</p>
<p>
“It's always the way,” said Wally, in tones of melancholy. “Every fortune
teller I ever saw told me that no one understood me.”
</p>
<p>
“All fortune tellers say that, and that's why people think them so
clever,” said Tommy. “It's so soothing to think one is misunderstood. My
stepmother always thought so. Did Bob tell you, Mr. Linton, that we had
had letters from home?”
</p>
<p>
“No—from your people?”
</p>
<p>
“From Papa. The she-dragon didn't write. I think her words would have been
too burning to put on paper. But Papa wrote a pretty decent letter—for
him. He didn't speak of our letters from Liverpool—the notes we
wrote from the hotel, saying we were leaving for Australia. But he
acknowledged Bob's letter from Melbourne, saying we were going up country
under your wing, and actually wished us luck! Amazing, from Papa!”
</p>
<p>
“I think he's jolly glad we got away,” Bob said.
</p>
<p>
“I think that's highly probable,” said David Linton. “You'll write to him
occasionally, won't you?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, yes, I suppose so,” Bob answered. “Sometimes I'm a bit sorry for him;
it must be pretty awful to be always under the heel of a she-dragon. Oh,
and there was a really fatherly sort of letter from old Mr. Clinton. He's
an old brick; and he's quite pleased about our finding you—or you
finding us. He was always a bit worried lest Tommy should feel lonesome in
Australia.”
</p>
<p>
“And not you?” Norah asked laughing.
</p>
<p>
“No, he didn't worry a bit about me; he merely hoped I'd be working too
hard to notice lonesomeness. I think the old chap always was a bit
doubtful that any fellow would get down to solid work after flying; he
used to say the two things wouldn't agree. But you sent him a decent
report of me, didn't you, sir?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, yes—I wrote when you asked me, just after you bought this
place,” David Linton said. “Told him you were working like a cart-horse,
which was no more than the truth, and that Tommy was serving her adopted
country as a cook; and that I considered your prospects good. He'll have
had that letter before now—and I suppose others from you.”
</p>
<p>
“We wrote a few weeks ago—sent him a photograph of the house, and of
Tommy on a horse, and Tommy told him all about our furniture,” Bob
chuckled. “I don't quite know how a staid old London lawyer will regard
the furniture; he won't understand its beauty a bit. But he ought to be
impressed with our stern regard for economy.”
</p>
<p>
“He should,” said Mr. Linton with a twinkle. “And I presume you mentioned
the sheep?”
</p>
<p>
“As a matter of fact,” said Tommy confidentially, “his letter was little
but mutton. He described all his ewes in detail—”
</p>
<p>
“Colour of their eyes?” queried Wally.
</p>
<p>
“And their hair,” nodded Tommy. “I never read anything so poetical. And
any enthusiasm he had over went to the pigs and the Kelpie pup!”
</p>
<p>
“But what about the cows?” laughed Norah. “And the young bullocks?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, he mentioned them. But cattle are just four-legged animals to Bob;
they don't stir his soul like sheep and pigs. He couldn't write beautiful
things about them. But when it comes to sheep, he just naturally turns
into a poet!”
</p>
<p>
The object of these remarks helped himself serenely to cake.
</p>
<p>
“Go on,” he nodded at his sister cheerfully. “Wait until my wool cheque
comes in, and you want a new frock—then you'll speak respectfully of
my little merinoes. And if you don't, you won't get the frock!”
</p>
<p>
“Why, I wouldn't disrespect them for anything,” Tommy said. “I think
they're lovely beasts. So graceful and agile. Will any of them come yet
when you whistle, Bobby?”
</p>
<p>
“Are you going to put up with this sort of thing, Bob?” demanded Jim.
</p>
<p>
Bob smiled sweetly.
</p>
<p>
“I'm letting her have her head,” he said confidently. “It's badly swelled
just now, because she's got a house of her own—but you wait until
she wants a new set of shelves, or a horse caught in a hurry so that she
can tear over and find out from Norah how to cook something—then
she'll come to heel. It's something in your climate, I think, because she
was never so cheeky at home—meek was more the word to describe her.”
</p>
<p>
“Meek!” said his sister indignantly. “Indeed, I never was meek in my
life!”
</p>
<p>
“Indeed you were, and it was very becoming,” Bob assured her. “Now you're
more like a suffragette—” He stopped, staring. “Why, that's it! It
must be in the air! She knows she'll have the vote pretty soon!” He broke
into laughter. “Glory! Fancy little Tommy with a vote!”
</p>
<p>
Tommy joined in the general mirth.
</p>
<p>
“I hadn't realized it,” she said, “and I needn't bother for over eighteen
months, anyhow. And I don't believe that any of you have ever voted, even
if you are twenty-one—except Mr. Linton, of course; and you don't
know a bit more about it than I do.”
</p>
<p>
“Hear, hear!” said Wally. “I certainly don't, and neither does Jim. But
when we do vote, it's going to be for the chap who'll let us go and dig
our own coal out if there's a strike. That's sense; and it seems to me the
only sensible thing I've ever heard of in politics!” A speech which
manifested so unusual an amount of reflection in Wally that every one was
spellbound, and professed inability to eat any more.
</p>
<p>
Bob and Tommy stood on the verandah to watch their visitors go; Mr. Linton
and Norah in the motor, while Jim and Wally rode. The merry shouts of
farewell echoed through the gathering dusk.
</p>
<p>
“Bless them,” said Tommy—“the dears. I don't believe we'd have a
home now but for them, Bob.”
</p>
<p>
“We certainly wouldn't,” Bob answered. “And sometimes I feel as if they'd
spoon-fed us. Look at all they've done for us—these months at
Billabong and all they've taught us, and all the things that they've
showered on us. We couldn't pay them back in twenty years.”
</p>
<p>
“And they talk as if the favour were on their side,” his sister said.
“There's the buggy they've lent us—Mr. Linton spent quite a long
time in pointing out to me how desirable it was for them that we should
use it, now that they have the car and don't need it. And the horses that
apparently would have gone to rack and ruin from idleness if we hadn't
come.”
</p>
<p>
“And the cows that don't seem to have had any reason for existence except
to supply us with milk,” Bob said laughing; “and the farm machinery that
never was really appreciated until immigrants came along—at least,
you'd think so to hear Jim talk, only its condition belies him. Oh,
they're bricks, all right. Only I don't seem as if I were standing
squarely on my own feet.”
</p>
<p>
“I don't think we could expect to, just yet,” said Tommy pondering. “And
if they have helped us, Bobby, you can see they have loved doing it. It
would be ungracious for us not to take such help—given as it has
been.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, of course,” Bob answered and squared his shoulders. “Well, I'm going
to work like fury. The only thing I can do now is not to disappoint them.
I feel an awful new-chum, Tommy, but I've got to make good.”
</p>
<p>
“Why, of course you're going to,” she said, slipping a hand through his
arm. “Jim wouldn't let you make mistakes; and the land is good, and even
if we strike a bad season, there's always the creek—we'll never be
without water, Jim says. And we're going to have the jolliest home—it's
that now, and we're going to make it better.”
</p>
<p>
“It's certainly that now,” Bob said. “I just can't believe it's ours. Come
and prowl round, old girl.”
</p>
<p>
They prowled round in the dusk; up and down the garden paths by the
nodding daffodils, out round the sheds and the pigsties, and so down to
where the creek rippled and murmured in the gloom, flowing through
paddocks that, on either side, were their own. Memories of war and of
gloomy London fell away from them; only the bright present and a future
yet more bright filled them; and there was no loneliness, since all the
big new country had smiled to them and stretched out hands of
friendliness. They came back slowly to their house, arm in arm; two young
things, like shadows in the gloom, but certain in their own minds that
they could conquer Australia.
</p>
<p>
Bob lit the hanging lamp in the little sitting-room, and looked round him
proudly. A photograph caught his eye; a large group at his Surrey
Aerodrome, young officers clustered round a bi-plane that had just landed.
</p>
<p>
“Poor chaps,” he said, and stared at them. “Most of 'em don't know yet
that there's anything better in the world than flying.”
</p>
<p>
“But they've never met merino sheep,” said Tommy solemnly.
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER XIV
</h2>
<h3>
THE CUNJEE RACES
</h3>
<p>
“Who's going to the races?” demanded Jim.
</p>
<p>
He had ridden over to the creek alone, and Tommy had come to the garden
gate to greet him, since the young horse he was riding firmly declined to
be tied up. It was a very hot morning in Christmas week. Tommy was in a
blue print overall, and her face was flushed, her hair lying in little
damp rings on her forehead. Jim, provokingly cool in riding breeches and
white silk shirt, smiled down at her across the gate.
</p>
<p>
“Races!” said Tommy. “But what frivolity. Why, I'm bottling apricots.”
</p>
<p>
“No wonder you look warm, you poor little soul,” said Jim. “You oughtn't
to choose a scorcher like this for bottling. Anyhow, the races aren't
to-day, but New Year's day—Cunjee Picnic meeting. We're all going,
so you and Bob have got to come. Orders from Norah.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, New Year's day. I'd love to come,” Tommy said. “I've never seen
races.”
</p>
<p>
“Never seen races!” ejaculated young Australia in sheer amazement. “Where
were you dragged up?” They laughed at each other.
</p>
<p>
“Aunt Margaret wasn't what you'd call a racing woman,” Tommy said. “I
don't fancy Bob has seen any, either. Bill and Sarah, to say nothing of
the baby, are going. I offered to mind the baby, but Sarah didn't seem to
think the picnic would be complete without her.”
</p>
<p>
“People have queer tastes,” Jim said. “I wouldn't choose a long day at
races as the ideal thing for a baby; but Sarah seems to think differently.
Wonder what Bill thinks? Still, I'm glad she didn't take you at your word,
because we'd have had to dispose of the baby somewhere if she had. I
suppose we could put it under the seat of the car!”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, do you?” Tommy regarded him with a glint in her eye. “No; we'd have
made you nurse her—she isn't 'it.' She's the nicest baby ever, and I
won't have her insulted.”
</p>
<p>
“Bless you, I wouldn't insult the baby for worlds,” grinned Jim. “I'll
look forward to meeting her at the races—especially as you won't be
minding her. Then it's settled, is it, Tommy? We thought of riding; will
it be too far for you?”
</p>
<p>
“Not a bit,” Tommy said. “Bob and I rode in and out of Cunjee the other
day, and I wasn't tired—and it was dreadfully hot.”
</p>
<p>
“Then you'll be all right on New Year's day, because the racecourse is two
miles this side of the township,” Jim said. “But Norah said I was to tell
you some of us could easily go in the car if you'd rather drive.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, no, thanks; I know you always ride, and I should love it,” Tommy
answered. “Is Mr. Linton going?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, yes. Indeed, as far as I can tell, the whole station's going,” Jim
said. “All except Brownie, of course; she scorns races. She says she can't
imagine why anyone should make anything run fast in the 'eat if they don't
want to.”
</p>
<p>
“Does Brownie ever leave Billabong?”
</p>
<p>
“Hardly ever,” Jim answered, laughing—“and it's getting more and
more difficult to make her. I think in a year or two it will need a charge
of dynamite. Oh, but, Tommy, we got her out in the car the other evening—had
to do it almost by main force. It was a hot evening, and we took her for a
spin along the road. She trembled like a jelly when we started, and all
the time she gripped the side with one hand and Norah's knee with the
other—quite unconsciously.”
</p>
<p>
“Do you think she enjoyed it at all?” Tommy smiled.
</p>
<p>
“No, I'm jolly well sure she didn't,” Jim responded. “Brownie's much too
well mannered to criticize anyone else's property, but when she got out
she merely said, 'You have great courage, my dear.' And wild horses
wouldn't get her into it again, unless we promised to 'make it walk,' like
we did the day we brought her over to help at your working bee. The funny
part of it is that Norah believes she was just as frightened that morning,
only she had a job on, and so was too busy to think of it. But as for
going in a car for mere pleasure—not for Brownie!”
</p>
<p>
“Brownie's a dear,” said Tommy irrelevantly. “Jim, can't you put that
fierce animal in the stable or the horse paddock, or somewhere, and come
in for some tea? I simply must get back to my apricots.”
</p>
<p>
“And I've certainly no business to be keeping you standing here in the
heat,” Jim said. “No, I can't stay, thanks, Tommy—I promised dad I'd
meet him at the Far Plain gate at eleven o'clock, and it's nearly that
now. You run in to your apricots, and don't kill your little self over
them; it's no day for cooking if you can avoid it.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, but I couldn't,” Tommy answered. “They were just right for bottling;
the sun to-day would have made them a bit too soft. And it's better to get
them done; to-morrow may be just as hot, or hotter.”
</p>
<p>
“That's true enough,” Jim said. “Feeling the heat much, little Miss
Immigrant?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, not enough to grumble at,” she answered, smiling. “And the
bathing-hole in the creek is a joy; it's almost worth a hot day to get a
swim at the end of it. Bob has built me a bathing-box out of a tree, and
it's a huge success; he's very pleased with himself as an architect.”
</p>
<p>
“That's good business,” approved Jim. “You two never grumble, no matter
what comes along.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, but nothing has come along but good luck,” Tommy said. “What have
we had to grumble at, I should like to know?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, some people find cause for grousing, no matter how good their luck
is,” Jim answered. “I believe you and old Bob would decline to recognize
bad luck even if it did come your way.”
</p>
<p>
“It's not coming,” Tommy said, laughing. “So don't talk about it—I
don't believe it exists.” She stood watching him for a moment as he tried
to mount; his big young thoroughbred resented the idea of anyone on his
back, and Jim had to hop beside him, with one foot in the stirrup, while
he danced round in a circle, trying to get away. Jim seized an
opportunity, and was in the saddle with a lithe swing; whereupon the horse
tried to get his head down to buck, and, being checked in that ambition,
progressed down the paddock in a succession of short, staccato bounds.
</p>
<p>
“I think I should have to recognize bad luck coming if I had to ride him
instead of Jim,” remarked Tommy quaintly. She turned and ran in to her
neglected apricots.
</p>
<p>
New Year's day broke clear and hot, like all the week before it. Norah,
arriving at the Creek about ten o'clock, looked a little anxiously at her
friend.
</p>
<p>
“We're used to riding in the heat, Tommy, dear,” she said. “But you're not—are
you sure you feel up to it?”
</p>
<p>
“Why, I'm going to love it,” Tommy said. She looked cool and workman-like
in a linen habit and white pith helmet—Norah's Christmas present. “I
hadn't these nice things to wear when Bob and I brought the sheep out from
Cunjee three weeks ago; and it was just as hot, and so dusty. And that
didn't kill me. I liked it, only I never got so dirty in my life.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, we shall only have a hot ride one way,” said Norah philosophically.
“There's a concert in Cunjee, and the boys want to stay for it. The
concert won't be much, but the ride home in the moonlight will be lovely.
You and Bob can stay, of course?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, yes. Bill must bring Sarah and the baby home in good time, so he will
milk the cows,” Tommy answered. “He wanted them to stay for the concert,
but Sarah had an amazing attack of common sense, and said it was no place
for a baby. I didn't think she considered any place unfit for a baby, and
certainly Bill doesn't.”
</p>
<p>
“Bush people don't,” said Norah, laughing. “If they did, they would never
go anywhere, because the babies must go too, no matter what happens. And
the babies get accustomed to it, and don't cry nearly as much as pampered
ones that are always in the nursery.”
</p>
<p>
“Bush kiddies grow a stock of common sense quite early,” said Wally's
voice from the door. “It leaves them in later life, and they stay
gossiping with immigrants in new riding-kit, leaving their unfortunate
fathers grilling in the sun. Which he says—” But at this point Norah
and Tommy brushed the orator from their path, and hastened out to the
horses—finding all the men comfortably smoking under a huge pepper
tree, and apparently in no hurry to start.
</p>
<p>
Bob bewailed his yellow paddocks as they rode down to the gate.
</p>
<p>
“They were so beautifully green a few weeks ago,” he said. “Now look at
them—why, they're like a crop. The sun has burnt every bit of
moisture out of them.”
</p>
<p>
“Don't let that worry you, my boy,” David Linton said. “The stock are
doing all right; as long as they have plenty of good water at this time of
the year they won't ask you for green grass.” He gave a low chuckle. “You
wouldn't think this was bad feed if you had seen the country in the
drought years—why, the paddocks were as bare as the palm of your
hand. Now you've grass, as you say yourself, like a crop.” He looked at it
critically. “I could wish you hadn't as much; fires will be a bit of an
anxiety later on.”
</p>
<p>
“Grass fires?” queried Bob.
</p>
<p>
“Yes. There's not enough timber here to have a real bush fire. But this
grass is dry enough now, and by February it will go like tinder if any
fool swagman drops a match carelessly. However, you'll just have to keep
your eyes open. Luckily, your creek can't burn—you'll always have so
much safeguard, because your stock could take to it; and that row of
willows along the bank would check any grass fire.”
</p>
<p>
“My word, wouldn't a fire race across the Billabong plains this year!”
said Wally.
</p>
<p>
“Yes, it would certainly travel,” agreed Mr. Linton. “Well, we've ploughed
fire-breaks, and burned round the house, and we can only hope for good
luck. You'd better burn a break round your house soon, Bob.”
</p>
<p>
“Bill was saying so only this morning,” Bob answered. “I nearly chucked
the races and stayed at home to do it—only I was afraid it might get
away from me single-handed, and I couldn't very well keep Bill at home.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, time enough,” the squatter said lightly. “You're not so dry as we
are, and we only burned last week.”
</p>
<p>
“We'll come over and help you to-morrow, if you like,” Jim said. “Wally
wants work; he's getting too fat. A little gentle exercise with a racing
fire on a hot day would be the very thing for him. We'll come and burn off
with you, and then have a bathing party in the creek, and then you and
Tommy must come back to tea with us.” Which was a sample of the way much
of the work was done on the Creek Farm. It had never occurred to the two
Rainhams that life in Australia was lonely.
</p>
<p>
The road to Cunjee was usually bare of much traffic, but on the one race
day of the year an amazing number of vehicles were dotted along it, light
buggies, farm wagonettes, spring carts and the universal two-wheeled
jinker, all crammed with farmers and settlers and their families. Wives, a
little red-faced and anxious, resplendent in their Sunday finery, kept a
watchful eye on small boys and girls; the boys in thick suits, the girls
with white frocks, their well-crimped hair bearing evidence of intense
plaiting overnight. Hampers peeped from under the seats, and in most cases
a baby completed the outfit. Now and then a motor whizzed by, leaving a
long trail of dust-cloud in its wake, and earning hearty remarks from
every slower wayfarer. There were riders everywhere, men and women—most
of the latter with riding-skirts slipped on over light dresses that would
do duty that night at the concert and the dance that was to follow.
Sometimes a motor-cycle chugged along, always with a girl perched on the
carrier at the back, clinging affectionately to her escort. As Cunjee drew
nearer and the farms closer together the crowd on the road increased, and
the dust mounted in a solid cloud.
</p>
<p>
The Billabong people drew to one side, as close as possible to the fence,
cantering over the short, dusty grass. It was with a sigh of relief that
Jim at last pointed out a paddock across which buggies and horsemen were
making their way.
</p>
<p>
“There's the racecourse,” he said.
</p>
<p>
“Racecourse!” Tommy ejaculated. “But it just looks like an ordinary
paddock.”
</p>
<p>
“That's all it is,” said Jim, laughing. “You didn't expect a grand-stand
and a lawn, did you? Cunjee is very proud of itself for having a turf club
at all, and nobody minds anything as long as they get an occasional
glimpse of the horses.”
</p>
<p>
“But where do they run?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, the track goes in and out among the trees. There's some talk of
clearing it before the next meeting by means of a working bee. But they
won't worry if it doesn't get done—every one will come and have a
picnic just the same. You see, there are only two days in the year when a
bush place can really let itself go—Show day and Race day. Show day
is more serious and business-like, but Race day is a really light-hearted
affair, and the horses don't matter to most of the people.”
</p>
<p>
They turned into a gate where two men were busily collecting shillings and
keeping a wary eye lest foot passengers should dodge in through the fence
without paying. There were no buildings at all in the bush paddock in
which they found themselves. It lay before them, flat, save for a rise
towards the southern boundary, where already the crowd was thickening, and
sparsely timbered. As they cantered across it they came to a rough track,
marked out more or less effectively by pink calico flags nailed to the
trees.
</p>
<p>
“That's the racing track,” Wally said. “Let's ride round it, and we'll
have a faint idea of what the horses are doing later on.”
</p>
<p>
They turned along the track, where the grass had been worn by horses
training for the races during the few weeks preceding the great day. The
trees had been cleared from it, so that it was good going. In shape it was
roughly circular, with an occasional dint or bulge where a big red gum had
been too tough a proposition to clear, and the track had had to swing
aside to avoid it—a practice which must, as Jim remarked, make
interesting moments in riding a race, if the field were larger than usual
and the pace at all hot. Presently they emerged from the timber and came
into the straight run that marked the finish—running along the foot
of the southern rise, so that, whatever happened in the mysterious moments
in the earlier parts of a race, the end was within full view of the crowd.
The winning-post was a sawed-off sapling, painted half-black and
half-white; opposite to it was the judge's box, a huge log which made a
natural grand-stand, capable of accommodating the racing committee as
well. Behind, a rough wire fence enclosed a small space known as the
saddling paddock. The crowd picked out its own accommodation—it was
necessary to come early if you wanted a good place on the rise. Already it
was dotted with picnic parties, preparing luncheon, and a procession of
men and boys, bearing teapots and billies, came and went about a huge
copper, steaming over a fire, where the racing club dispensed hot water
free of charge, a generosity chiefly intended to prevent the casual
lighting of fires by the picnickers. All over the paddock people were
hastening through the business of the midday meal; the men anxious to get
it over before the real excitement of the day began with the racing, the
women equally keen to feed their hungry belongings and then settle down to
a comfortable gossip with friends perhaps only seen once or twice in the
twelve months. Children tore about wildly, got in the way of buggies and
motors, climbed trees and clustered thickly round any horse suspected of
taking part in the racing. More than one candidate for a race appeared on
the course drawing a jinker; and, being released from the shafts, was
being vigorously groomed by his shirt-sleeved owner.
</p>
<p>
“There's an awful lot to see!” ejaculated Tommy, gazing about her.
</p>
<p>
“That is if you've eyes,” Jim said. “But most of it can be seen on foot,
so I vote Wally and Bob and I take the horses and tie them up while
there's still a decent patch of shade left for them to stand in—every
tree in the paddock will have horses tied to it before long. Do you know
where Evans was to leave the buggy, Dad?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes—it's under a tree over there,” said his father, nodding towards
a bushy clump of wattles. “I told him to pick out a good shady place for
lunch. We'll go on and get ready, boys. I'll take the teapot for hot
water.”
</p>
<p>
“Not you!” said Jim. “We'll be back in a few minutes and can easily get
it. Just help the girls with the things, Dad, and we'll get lunch over;
I'm as hungry as a hawk.”
</p>
<p>
“I'm not hungry,” said Norah. “But I want, oh! gallons of tea.”
</p>
<p>
Tea seemed the main requirement of everybody. It was almost too hot to
eat, even in the deep shade of the wattles. The boys, taught by the war to
feed wherever and whenever possible, did some justice to Brownie's hamper;
but Mr. Linton soon drew aside and lit his pipe at a little distance,
while Tommy and Norah nibbled tomato and lettuce sandwiches, kept fresh
and cool by being packed in huge nasturtium leaves, and drank many cups of
tea. Then they lay under the trees until a bell, ringing from the saddling
paddock, hinted that the first race was at hand. There was a surge of
people towards the rise.
</p>
<p>
“Come on,” Jim said, jumping up. “Help me to stow these things in the
buggy, Wally—we'll want most of them for afternoon tea later on.
Then we might as well go and see the fun. You girls rested?”
</p>
<p>
They were, they declared; and presently they set off towards the rise.
Already the horses were appearing on the track, most of the jockeys
wearing silk jackets and caps, although a few were content with doffing
coat and waistcoat, and riding in blue and pink shirts—occasionally,
but not always, complete with collar and tie. The horses were a mixed lot;
some bore traces of birth and breeding, but the majority were just
grass-fed horses from the neighbouring farms and stations, groomed and
polished in a way that only happened to them once a year. The well-bred
performers were handicapped with heavy weights, while the others had been
let off lightly, so that all had a chance.
</p>
<p>
“Billabong has a horse running to-day—did you know?” Jim inquired.
</p>
<p>
“No!” Tommy looked up, dimpling with interest. “But how exciting, Jim. Is
it yours?”
</p>
<p>
“No.” Jim shook his head. “I won't enter a horse if I can't ride him
myself, and of course I'm too heavy. He belongs to the station, but he's
always looked upon as Murty's, and black Billy's going to ride him. He's
in the Hurdle Race.”
</p>
<p>
“Do you think he has any chance?”
</p>
<p>
“Well, he can gallop and jump all right,” Jim said. “But he hasn't had
much training, and whether he'll jump in company is open to doubt. But I
don't think he'll disgrace us. You've seen Murty riding him—a big
chestnut with a white blaze.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, yes—he calls him Shannon, doesn't he?” said Tommy. “I saw him
jump three fences on him last time we were out mustering with your people.
He's a beauty, Jim.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, he's pretty good. Murty thinks he's better than Garryowen, but I
don't,” Jim observed.
</p>
<p>
“If the Archangel Gabriel turned into a horse you wouldn't think he was up
to Garryowen!” said Wally.
</p>
<p>
“No, and he probably wouldn't be,” said Jim, laughing. “If you begin life
as an archangel, how would you settle down to being a horse after?”
</p>
<p>
“I suppose it needs practice,” Wally admitted. “Look out—here they
come!”
</p>
<p>
The horses were coming down the straight in their preliminary canter, and
the crowd abandoned the business of picnicking and turned its attention to
the first race. The riders, mostly local boys, looked desperately serious,
and, as they pulled up after their canter, and turning, trotted slowly
back past the rise, shouts of warning and encouragement and instruction
came to them—from the owners of their mounts—which had the
effect of making the boys look yet more unhappy. A bookmaker, the sole
representative of his profession, yelled steadily from under a lightwood
tree; those who were venturesome enough to do business with him were
warned solemnly by more experienced men to keep a sharp look-out that he
did not get away with their money before the end of the day.
</p>
<p>
“That happened in Cunjee some years ago,” said Mr. Linton. “A bookmaker
appeared from goodness knows where, and struck a very solid patch of bad
luck. All the district seemed to know how to pick winners that day, and he
lost solidly on every race. He plunged a bit on the fourth race, hoping to
get his money back; but that was worse still, and when he saw the
favourite winning, he knew he had no hope of settling up. So he quietly
collected his horse, which he had tied up in a convenient place, in case
it was wanted in a hurry, and made tracks before the race finished.”
</p>
<p>
“What happened to him?” asked Bob.
</p>
<p>
Mr. Linton chuckled.
</p>
<p>
“Well, he added considerably to the excitement of the day. Some one saw
him going, and passed the word round, and every man to whom he owed money—and
they were many—ran for his horse and went after him. He had a good
start, and no one knew what road he would take, so it was quite a cheery
hunt. I think it was Dave Boone who tracked him at last, and he paused at
a cross-roads, and coo-eed steadily until he had a number of followers.
Then they set sail after the poor bookie, and caught him about seven or
eight miles away. They found he had practically no money—not nearly
enough to divide up; so they took what he had and presented it to the
Cunjee Hospital, and finished up the day happily by tarring and feathering
the bookie, and riding him on a fence rail round Cunjee that night!”
</p>
<p>
“What do your police do in a case like that?” Bob asked.
</p>
<p>
“Well, there's only one policeman in Cunjee, and, being a wise man, he
went to the concert, and probably enjoyed himself very much,” said Mr.
Linton, laughing.
</p>
<p>
“And what happened to the bookie?”
</p>
<p>
“Just what you might expect—the boys got sorry for him, made a
collection for him, bought him some cheap clothes—I believe they
didn't err on the side of beauty!—and shipped him off to Melbourne
by the first train in the morning. I don't think he'll try his artful
dodges on this section of the bush again; and it has made all the boys
very watchful about betting, so it wasn't a bad thing, on the whole. They
think they know all about the ways of the world now. Look, Tommy—the
horses are off! Watch through the trees, and you'll get a glimpse
presently.”
</p>
<p>
The gay jackets flashed into view in a gap in the timber, and then were
lost again. Soon they came in sight once more and rounded the last curve
into the straight, amid shouts from the crowd. They came up the straight,
most of the jockeys flogging desperately, while everyone rushed to get as
near the winning-post as possible. Hats were flung in the air and yells
rose joyfully, as a Cunjee boy, riding a desperate finish, got his horse's
nose in front in the last couple of lengths and won cleverly.
</p>
<p>
“She's excited!” said Wally, looking down at Tommy's flushed face.
</p>
<p>
“I should think so,” said Tommy. “Why, it was dreadfully exciting. I'd
love to have been riding myself.” At which everyone laughed extremely, and
a tall young stockman from a neighbouring station, overhearing, was so
impressed that he hovered as near as possible to Tommy for the rest of the
day.
</p>
<p>
The next event was the Hurdle Race, and interest for the Linton party
centred in the candidate described on the race-card as Mr. M. O'Toole's
Shannon. Nothing further could be done for Shannon—he was groomed
until the last hair on his tail gleamed; but black Billy, resplendent in a
bright green jacket and cap, the latter bearing an embroidered white
shamrock, became the object of advice and warning from every man from
Billabong, until anyone except Billy would probably have turned in wrath
upon the multitude of his counsellors. Billy, however, had one refuge
denied to most of his white brothers. He hardly ever spoke; and if some
reply was absolutely forced upon him, he merely murmured “Plenty!” in a
vague way, which, as Wally said, left you guessing as to his meaning.
</p>
<p>
“Yerra, lave off badgerin' the boy,” said Murty at last, brushing aside
Dave Boone and Mick Shanahan, and the other Billabong enthusiasts. “If he
listens to the lot of ye anny longer he won't know whether he's ridin' a
horse or an airyplane. There's only wan insthruction to be kapin' in your
head, Billy—get to the front an' stay there. Ridin' a waitin' race
is all very well on the flat, but whin it comes to jumpin', anything
that's in front of ye is apt to turn a somersault an' bring ye down in a
heap.”
</p>
<p>
“Plenty!” agreed Billy; and lit a cigarette.
</p>
<p>
“Shannon don't like anny other horse in front of him at all,” went on
Murty. “He's that full of pride he never tuk kindly to bein' behind, not
since he was bruk in. He'll gallop like a machine an' lep like a deer if
he gets his head.”
</p>
<p>
“I don't b'lieve you've much show, anyhow,” Dave Boone said. “There's that
horse from the hotel at Mulgoa—Blazer, they call him. He's done no
end of racin', and won, too.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, an' if he has, hasn't he the great weight itself to be carryin'?”
demanded Murty.
</p>
<p>
“Why, he's top weight, of course; but you're carryin' ever so much over
weight,” responded Mr. Boone. “If you'd put up a boy instead of Billy, you
could be pounds lighter.”
</p>
<p>
“Ah, git away with your advisin',” replied Murty. “Billy knows the horse—an'
where'd a shlip of a boy be if Shannon cleared out with him? I'd rather
carry too much weight, an' know I'd put a man up as could hold the horse.”
His anxious eye fell on the girls. “Miss Norah and Miss Tommy!—come
here an' wish him luck without offerin' me any advice, or I'll lose me
life over the ould race! They have desthroyed me with all the things
they're afther tellin' me to do.”
</p>
<p>
“We won't tell you a thing, Murty—except that he's looking
splendid,” Norah said, stroking Shannon's nose, to which the horse
responded by nuzzling round her pocket in search of an apple. “No, I can't
give you one, old man—I wouldn't dare. But you shall have one after
the race, whether you win or not, can't he, Murty?”
</p>
<p>
“He can so,” said Murty. “Wance he's gone round that thrack he can live on
the fat of the land—an' Billy, too. It's a dale aisier to get the
condition off a horse than off Billy. No man on this earth 'ud make a
black fellow see why he shouldn't have a good blow-out whenever it came
his way. Only that Providence made him skinny by nature, he'd be fat as a
porpoise this day. I've been watchin' over his meals like a mother with a
delicate baby these three weeks back; but what hope 'ud I have with
Christmas comin' in the way? He got away on me at Christmas dinner, an'
what he didn't ate in the way of turkey an puddin' wouldn't be worth
mentioning—an' him booked to ride to-day! 'Plenty' always did be his
motter, an' he lives up to it. So he's pounds overweight, an' no help for
it.”
</p>
<p>
“Never mind, Murty,” Jim said. “He knows the horse, and Shannon's able to
stand a few pounds extra. He'll give us a good run.”
</p>
<p>
“I believe ye, Masther Jim,” said Murty, beaming. “He'll not disgrace us,
an' if he don't win itself, then he'll not be far behind. There you are,
Billy—that's the bell for weighin'. Hurry up now, and get over to
the scales.”
</p>
<p>
The black boy's lean figure, saddle and bridle on arm, threaded its way
through the crowd round the weighing enclosure—a little space fenced
off by barbed wire. Presently they saw him coming back grinning.
</p>
<p>
“That pfeller sayin' I plenty too much pounds,” he said in an unusual
burst of eloquence.
</p>
<p>
“Ah, don't be rubbin' it in—don't I know it?” quoth Murty, taking
the saddle and slipping it deftly on Shannon's back. “I dunno, did he
think he was givin' me a pleasant surprise with the information by way of
a New Year's gift. Does he think we've never a scales on Billabong, did ye
ask him? There now, he's ready. Get on him, Billy, an' shove out into the
track for a canter. I'll get nothing but chat from every one as long as
you're here. Take him for a look at some of the hurdles, the way he'll
know all about them when he comes to jump.” He stood with a frown on his
good-humoured face as Shannon and his rider made off.
</p>
<p>
Norah laid a hand on his arm.
</p>
<p>
“There's not a horse on the course better turned out, Murty,” she said.
“No one can say the Billabong representative doesn't look fit.”
</p>
<p>
Murty turned on her, beaming again.
</p>
<p>
“Well, indeed, he'll not be doin' the station any discredit, Miss Norah,”
he said happily, “an' if he don't win, well, we can't all be winnin', can
we? Only we did win a race last year, whin none of ye were here to be
watchin' us an' make it worth while. I'd like to score to-day, now that
ye're all here to see—an' Miss Tommy too, that's never seen racin'.”
He smiled down at the English girl's pink face.
</p>
<p>
“I'm going to see you win to-day, Murty—I feel it in my bones,” said
Tommy promptly. “I've always loved Shannon, ever since I saw you jump
those big fences with him when we put up the hare out mustering.”
</p>
<p>
“Yerra, that one'd make a steeplechaser if he got the trainin',” declared
Murty, all his troubles forgotten. “Come a little higher up, won't ye,
Miss Norah; we can see every jump from the top of the rise, barrin' the
wan that's in the timber.”
</p>
<p>
They followed him up the little hill until he declared himself satisfied
with his position; and he spent the time until the flag fell in pointing
out to Tommy the exact places where the hurdles were erected—pausing
only for a proud look when Shannon thundered past below them in his
preliminary canter, the green jacket bright in the sun, and every muscle
in the horse's gleaming body rippling as he moved. He was reefing and
plunging in his gallop, trying to get his head; but Billy soon steadied
him, and presently brought him up the straight again at a quiet trot. The
other horses went out, one by one, until at length a field of eight faced
the starter; and presently they were off, and over the first jump in a
body. They came down the straight on the first time round, packed closely,
a glittering mass of shining horses and bright colours. One dropped at the
jump near the judge's box, and as the other horses raced away round the
turn the riderless horse followed, while his jockey lay still for a
moment, a little scarlet blur upon the turf. Eager helpers ran forward to
pick him up, but he was on his feet before they could reach him, and came
limping up the hill, a little bruised and infinitely disgusted.
</p>
<p>
“He's all right,” Murty said. “Yerra, Mr. Jim, did ye see the ould horse
jump! He wint ahead at his fences like a deer!”
</p>
<p>
The horses were in the timber; they peered anxiously at the bright patch
of colour that showed from time to time, trying to see the familiar green
jacket. Then, as the field came into view Murty uttered an irrepressible
yell, for his horse shot ahead at the next jump and came into the straight
in the lead. Murty gripped at the nearest object, which happened to be
Norah's shoulder, and clenched it tightly, muttering, in his excitement,
words in his native Irish. They thundered up the straight, Billy crouching
on Shannon's neck, very still. Then behind him the Mulgoa horse drew out
from the ruck and came in chase. Nearer and nearer he came, while the
shouts from the crowd grew louder. Up, up, till his nose was at Shannon's
quarter—at his girth—at his shoulder, and the winning-post was
very near. Then suddenly Billy lifted his whip and brought it down once,
and Shannon shot forward with a last wild bound. Murty's hat went up in
the air—and Wally's with it.
</p>
<p>
“He's done it!” Murty babbled. “Yerra, what about Billabong now?” He
suddenly found himself gripping Norah's shoulder wildly, and would have
apologized but that Norah herself was dancing with delight, and looking
for his hand to grasp. And the crowd was shouting “Shannon! Shannon!
Billabong!”—since all of these Cunjee folk loved Billabong and were
steadily jealous of Mulgoa. Jim and Wally were thumping Murty on the back.
Bob and Mr. Linton stood beaming at him. Below them Billy came trotting
back on his victorious steed, sitting with a grave face, as expressionless
as if he had not just accomplished his heart's desire. But his dark,
mysterious eyes scanned the crowd as he turned from weighing in, and only
grew satisfied when he saw the Billabong party hurrying to greet him. They
shook his hand, and smote him on the back, Dave Boone and Mick Shanahan
prancing with joy. And Shannon, his glossy coat dark with sweat, nuzzled
again at Norah's pocket for an apple—and this time got it.
</p>
<p>
This glorious event over, interest became focused on a trotting race,
which brought out a queer assortment of competitors, ranging from King
Lightfoot, a horse well known in Melbourne, to Poddy, an animal apparently
more fitted to draw a hearse than to trot in a race—a lean,
raw-boned horse of a sad countenance and a long nose, with a shaggy black
coat which rather resembled that of a long-haired Irish goat. There were
other candidates, all fancied by their owners, but the public support was
only for King Lightfoot, who ran in elaborate leather and rubber harness,
and was clearly regarded by his rider as of infinite condescension to be
taking part in such a very mixed company.
</p>
<p>
It proved, however, not to be King Lightfoot's lucky day. The horses
started at intervals, according to their performances or merit, Poddy
being the first to move, the Melbourne horse the last. King Lightfoot,
however, obstinately refused to trot, whereas Poddy revealed unexpected
powers, flinging his long legs abroad in a whirlwind fashion, and pounding
along doggedly, with his long nose outstretched as if hoping to get it
past the winning-post as soon as possible. No other horse came near him;
his initial lead was never lessened, and he plugged doggedly to victory,
while the crowd roared with laughter, and out in the timber King
Lightfoot's rider wrestled with his steed in vain. Later, his prejudice
against trotting in the bush removed by stern measures, King Lightfoot
flashed up the track like a meteor, with his furious rider determined to
show something of what his steed could do. By that time Poddy was once
more unsaddled, and was standing under a tree with his weary nose drooping
earthwards, so that the crowd merely yelled with laughter anew, while the
stewards unfeelingly requested the Melbourne man to get off the track.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, isn't it hot!” Norah fanned herself with a bunch of gum leaves, and
cast an anxious look at Tommy.
</p>
<p>
It was breathlessly hot. Not a hint of air stirred among the trees or
moved the long dry grass that covered the paddock—now showing many
depressions, where tired people or horses had lain down to rest. The
horses stood about, drooping their heads, and swishing their tails
ceaselessly at the tormenting flies; men and women sought every available
patch of shade, while dogs stretched themselves under the buggies,
panting, with lolling tongues. Children alone ran about, as though nothing
could mar their enjoyment; but babies fretted wearily in their mothers'
arms. Overhead the sun blazed fiercely in a sky of brass. Now and then
came a low growl of thunder, giving hope of a change at night; but it was
very far distant, although a dull bank of cloud lay to the west. David
Linton watched the cloud a little uneasily.
</p>
<p>
“I don't quite like the look of it,” he muttered to himself. “I'll go and
ask Murty what he thinks of it.” But Murty had been swallowed up in a
crowd anxious to congratulate him on Shannon's success, and his employer
failed to find him at the moment. He came upon Sarah, however—sitting
under a tree, with her baby wailing dismally.
</p>
<p>
“To hot for her, Sarah,” David Linton said kindly.
</p>
<p>
“That's right, sir—it's too hot for anyone, let alone a little tiny
kid,” Sarah said wearily. “I'd get Bill to go home if I could, but I can't
get on his tracks—and it's too hot to take baby out in the sun
looking for him. If you come across him, sir, you might tell him I want
him.”
</p>
<p>
“All right,” said the squatter. “But you wouldn't take that long drive
home yet, Sarah—better wait until the sun goes down.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, I'd go into Cunjee, to me sister-in-law's,” said Sarah. “She'd let
me take baby's things off an' sponge her—an' I'd give a dollar to do
it. No more races with kids for me in weather like this!” She crooned to
the fretting baby as Mr. Linton went off.
</p>
<p>
He found Tommy and Norah together under a tree near the track—hot,
but interested.
</p>
<p>
“Where are the boys?”
</p>
<p>
“They're all holding ponies,” Norah said. “I don't quite know why, but a
very hot and worried man collected them to help start the race. What is it
for, Dad, do you know?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, I see!” David Linton laughed. “It's—a distance handicap—the
ponies all start at the same moment, but from different points along the
track.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, that must be it,” Norah said. “Jim's away over near the timber with
a little rat of a pony, and Bob is shepherding another fifty yards behind
him, while Wally is quite near here with that big pony of the blacksmith's
that has won ever so many races. She'll have a lot of ground to make up.
But why must each one be shepherded, Dad?”
</p>
<p>
“Human nature,” said David Linton, smiling. “These youngsters who are
riding would sneak a yard or two if they weren't closely watched, and they
would never start fair; the only way is to put each in charge of a
responsible man with a good watch, and let him start them. What time is
the race? Oh, four o'clock. Well, I never yet saw a pony race that started
on time; neither the ponies nor the boys are easy to handle, and I see
there are ten of them. Watch them; it's after four, and they must be
nearly ready to start.”
</p>
<p>
The ponies were strung out round the course, each with a “shepherd”
standing to attention near its bridle, watch in hand. They could see Jim's
great form standing sentinel over a tiny animal, whose diminutive rider
was far too afraid of the huge Major to try to snatch even a yard of
ground; nearer, Wally kept a wary eye on the experienced jockey on the
blacksmith's racing mare, who was afraid of nothing, but nevertheless had
a certain wholesome respect for the tall fellow who lounged easily against
a tree near him, but never for an instant shifted his gaze. The shepherds
were waiting for a signal from the official starter.
</p>
<p>
It came presently, a long shrill whistle, and simultaneously each guardian
stepped back, and the released ponies went off like a flash—all save
Bob's charge, who insisted on swinging round and bolting in the wrong
direction, while his jockey sawed at his mouth in vain. Yawing across the
track the rebel encountered the blacksmith's pony, who swerved violently
in her swift course to avoid him, and lost so much ground that any chance
she had in the race was hopelessly lost, whereat the blacksmith, who was
standing on the hill, raved and tore his hair unavailingly. A smart little
bay pony fought out the finish with Jim's tiny charge, and was beaten by a
short head, just as Wally, walking quickly, came back to his party.
</p>
<p>
“That was a great race,” said Norah. “Wally, you shouldn't walk so fast on
such a day. It makes one warm only to look at you.”
</p>
<p>
Wally answered with an absent air that was unlike his usual alertness. The
girls, watching the ponies come in, noticed nothing, and presently he drew
Mr. Linton aside.
</p>
<p>
“Did you notice that cloud, sir?” he asked, in a low voice. “I didn't
until I was down on the track with the pony, looking in that direction.
But it's twice the size it was when I went down.”
</p>
<p>
“I've been looking at it, and I don't like it,” said Mr. Linton. “It's
smoke, I'm positive, and too near Billabong and the Creek to be
comfortable. I think we'll make tracks for home, Wally. Have you seen
Murty anywhere?”
</p>
<p>
As if in answer, Mr. O'Toole came running down the hill.
</p>
<p>
“I've been huntin' ye's everywhere,” he panted. “There's a man just kem
out from Cunjee lookin' for ye, sir—some one's tallyphoned in that
there's a big grass fire comin' down on the Creek, an' 'twill be a miracle
if it misses Billabong! I've told the men—they're off to get the
horses.”
</p>
<p>
Norah and Tommy had turned, with dismayed eyes.
</p>
<p>
“Will it be at our place, Murty?” Tommy asked.
</p>
<p>
“I dunno will it, Miss Tommy,” the Irishman answered. “But as like as not
'twill miss it—or anyhow, we'll get there first, an' stop it doing
much damage. Don't you worry your little head, now.”
</p>
<p>
She looked up at him gratefully. Norah's hand was thrust through her arm.
</p>
<p>
“It may not be near the Creek at all, Tommy dear,” she said.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, I hope it isn't—my poor old Bob!” Tommy said, under her breath.
“Can we hurry, Norah?”
</p>
<p>
“They're bringing the horses,” Norah answered. “We'll be off in a minute—see,
dad has gone to meet Bob.”
</p>
<p>
Wally had turned to Murty.
</p>
<p>
“Murty, do you mind if I ride Shannon and take him across country? I'm on
Marshal to-day, you know, and he can't jump for nuts. But Shannon can take
every fence between here and the Creek, and I can cut the distance in half
if I go across. I'm about the lightest of us, I think.”
</p>
<p>
“So ye are—an' the horse'll take ye like a bird,” said Murty. “Don't
shpare him, Mr. Wally, if ye think ye can do any good. He's over there
under the big wattle.”
</p>
<p>
“Right-o!” said Wally. “Tell Mr. Jim, will you, Murty?” He turned and ran
down the hill with long strides.
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER XV
</h2>
<h3>
HOW WALLY RODE A RACE
</h3>
<p>
Already the cloud was growing in the western sky—so high that it
threatened to obscure the sun that still blazed fiercely down. At first a
dull brown, there was a curious light behind it; at the edges it trailed
away into ragged wisps like floating mist. There was something
mysteriously threatening in its dense heaviness.
</p>
<p>
There were other men running for their horses, as Wally raced towards
Shannon. The news of a grass fire had spread quickly, and every man wanted
to be on his own property, for the whole countryside was covered with
long, dry grass, and no one could say where a fire might or might not end.
Boone and Shanahan passed Wally, leading several horses—his own
amongst them. They hailed him quickly.
</p>
<p>
“We've got Marshal, Mr. Wally.”
</p>
<p>
“Give him to Murty,” Wally answered as he ran. “I'm riding Shannon.” He
raced on.
</p>
<p>
“That means he's going across country,” said Dave Boone. “For two pins I'd
go too.”
</p>
<p>
“Don't you—you'd never get your horse over them fences,” Shanahan
said. “An' it'll take Mr. Wally all his time to get across them wired
paddocks of Maclennan's. Hope he don't break Shannon's laigs.”
</p>
<p>
“Not he; Mr. Wally's no fool,” said Boone. “Git up, y' ol' sardine!” He
kicked the horse he was leading, and they trotted up to Norah and Tommy.
</p>
<p>
Shannon, standing with drooping head, showed little interest as Wally
flung the saddle on his back. He had won his race handsomely, and it was a
scorching day; possibly the big chestnut felt that no more should be
required of him; in which case he was soon to be rudely awakened. Wally
swung into the saddle with a quick movement, and turned him, not towards
the gate, but in the opposite direction, which further puzzled Shannon.
But he was a stock horse first and a hurdle racer as an afterthought; and
a good stock horse knows his rider's mind, if that rider is a good man. He
made one tentative movement towards his paddock mates, now moving away
towards the gate; then, feeling the touch of Wally's hand on the bit, and
the light pressure of his knee, he decided that some new game was on foot,
and cantered easily away.
</p>
<p>
They crossed the racing track, going westward over the big paddock, away
from the buggies and the crowd. A belt of timber checked their swift
progress a moment; then they came out into clear ground in sight of the
boundary fence, a stiff three-railer. Wally peered at it anxiously,
unable, for an instant, to see if there were a wire on top; but it was
clear, and he shook up his horse, putting him straight at the middle of a
panel. Shannon pricked his ears and flew it daintily—this was work
he loved, and hot though the day might be, he was ready for any amount of
it. Also Wally was lighter than Murty, his usual rider; and although he
loved Murty, and respected him greatly, this new man had a seat like a
feather and a hand gentle as silk upon his tender mouth. Shannon broke
into the gallop that he felt sure his rider wanted.
</p>
<p>
They were in a wide paddock, bare, save for a few clumps of timber, in the
shade of which sheep were thickly clustered. It was good, sound going,
with a few little rises; and, knowing that he would have to slacken speed
presently, Wally let the chestnut have his head across the clear grass.
They took the next fence and the next before he drew rein. He was in
country he did not know—all big farms, with many stubble fields with
newly erected stacks, and with good homesteads, where now and then a woman
peered curiously from a verandah at him. There were no men in sight; every
man in the neighbourhood was at the races on New Year's day.
</p>
<p>
He found himself in a paddock where rough ground, thickly strewn with
fallen timber, sloped down abruptly to a creek. Checking Shannon, he rode
more steadily down to the water, and trotted along the bank for a hundred
yards, looking for a good place to ford—the banks shelved abruptly
down, and the water was unusually deep. But the only promising fords were
too thickly snagged to be tempting; and presently, with a shrug, Wally
gave up the quest, and choosing a place where the fall of the bank was a
shade less abrupt, he put the horse at it.
</p>
<p>
Shannon hesitated, drawing back. Water was the one thing to which he had
not been schooled on Billabong, and this place was mysterious and deep.
But Wally's hand was firm, and he spoke sharply—so that the chestnut
repented of the error of his ways, and plunged obediently downwards. The
bank gave under them, and they slithered down among its remnants and
landed in the water with a profound splash, almost hidden for a moment by
the spray that drenched Wally's thin silk coat and shirt. Shannon
floundered violently, and nearly lost his footing—and then, deciding
that this was an excellent entertainment on a hot day, he thrust his
thirsty nose into the water. Wally checked him after one mouthful.
</p>
<p>
“I'm sorry, old chap,” he said regretfully. “I'd like it as much as you.
But I can't let you have a drink just now.”
</p>
<p>
He pressed him on across the muddy stream, floundering over sunken logs,
slipping into holes, dodging half-concealed snags; and so they came to a
bank which scarcely seemed a possible place, so steep was it. But Wally
looked at the smoke-cloud, and grew desperate, and for the first time
touched Shannon with the spur; and the chestnut answered gamely, springing
at the bank and climbing almost like a cat. Twice it broke under him; the
third time he made some footing, and Wally suddenly flung himself from his
back, scrambling up ahead of him, and hauling at the bridle. Shannon
followed, floundering and snorting; desperately relieved to find himself
on firm ground again. Wally swung into the saddle and they galloped
forward.
</p>
<p>
The next two fences were log ones, and the chestnut took them almost in
his stride. Then Wally's lips tightened, for he saw a homestead that he
knew must be Maclennan's, the most prosperous farmer about; and Maclennan
had strong views on the subject of inflammable fences in a country so
liable to grass fires, and all his property was wire-fenced. The first
fence stretched before him, taut and well-strung; he looked up and down
its length in search of a gate, but there was none in sight.
</p>
<p>
“I could put my coat on the top wire for you to jump if it was a thick
one, old chap,” he told Shannon. “But a scrap of wet silk wouldn't be much
good to you. We'll have to chance a post.”
</p>
<p>
He drew rein, trotting up to the fence, where he let the horse put his
nose over a post—and set his lips again when he saw that the top
wire was barbed.
</p>
<p>
“Just you remember to pick up all your toes well, old man,” he said.
</p>
<p>
He trotted back a little way, and, turning, came hard at the fence,
putting Shannon directly at the post. This also was new to the chestnut;
but once, when a foal, he had been badly pricked on barbed wire, and, ever
since, one glance at its hideous spikes had been enough for him. Refusing
was out of the question—Wally was leaning forward, keeping him
absolutely straight, lifting him at the post with a little shout of
encouragement. He flew over it as if it had been a hurdle. Wally patted
his neck with a big sigh of relief.
</p>
<p>
“Eh, but I was scared for your legs, old man!” he said.
</p>
<p>
They galloped across a wide stubble field, while Wally's keen eyes
searched the fence for a gate. He caught sight of one presently, a stiff,
four-railed gate, considerably higher than the fence. High as it was,
Wally preferred it to barbed wire; and by this time he had a queer feeling
that no jump would prove too much for the big, honest chestnut, who was
doing so gamely everything that he was asked. Nor did Shannon disappoint
him; he rose at the gate cheerfully, and barely tipped it with one hind
foot as he cleared it. Wally fancied there was something of apology in the
little shake of his head as he galloped on.
</p>
<p>
“If I'd time to take you back over that you wouldn't lay a toe on it
again, I believe. Never mind, there's sure to be another.”
</p>
<p>
There was, and the chestnut flew it with never a touch. Maclennan's
paddocks were wide and well cleared—such galloping ground as Wally
dared not waste—and he took full advantage of them, leaving one
after another behind swiftly, to the beat of Shannon's sweeping stride.
Fence after fence the chestnut cleared, taking them cleanly, with his keen
ears pricked; never faltering or flagging as he galloped. Wally sat him
lightly, leaning forward to ease him, cheering him on with voice and
touch. Before him the cloud grew dense and yet more dense; he could feel
its hot breath now, although a bush-covered paddock ahead blocked the fire
itself from his immediate view. He had to choose between picking his way
through the trees or galloping round them; and chose the latter, since
Shannon showed no sign of fatigue. He put the last wire fence behind him
with a sigh of relief. A small farm with easy enough fences remained to be
crossed, and then he swung round the timber at top speed. Once round it,
he should come within view of the Rainhams' house.
</p>
<p>
He came into the open country, and pulled up with a shout of dismay.
Before him was the long line of timber marking the creek, but between lay
nothing but a rolling cloud of smoke, lit with flashes of flame. A hot
gust of wind blew it aside for a moment, and through it he caught a
glimpse of Creek Cottage, burning fiercely. Wally uttered a smothered
groan, and thrust Shannon forward, over the last fence, and up a little
lane that led near the Rainhams' back gate.
</p>
<p>
The paddock was nearly all on fire. It had started somewhere back in the
bush country, and had swept across like a wall, burning everything before
it. As Wally reached the gate, it was rolling away across the paddocks, a
sheet of flame, licking up the dry grass; leaving behind it bare and
blackened ground, with here and there a fence post, or a tree burning,
and, in the midst of its track, Creek Cottage wrapped in flames.
</p>
<p>
The boy slipped from his saddle and flung Shannon's bridle over the
gate-post. Then, as a thought struck him, he turned back and released him,
buckling the reins into one stirrup.
</p>
<p>
“I don't dare to tie you up, old man,” he said. “The beastly fire might
swing round. Go home, if you like. I can't take you across that hot
ground.” He gave the chestnut's neck a hasty pat; then, putting one hand
on the gate, he vaulted it cleanly and ran across the burnt ground.
</p>
<p>
The grass was yet smouldering; it broke away under his feet, crackling and
falling into black powder. He ran desperately, not feeling the burning
breath of the fire, in blind hope of being able to save something. The
house itself, he knew, was doomed; no fire-brigade could have checked the
flames which had laid hold of the flimsy weatherboard. The fire had
divided round it, checked a little by Tommy's flower-garden, which was
almost uninjured yet, and by Bob's rows of green vegetables which lay
singed and ruined; then, unable to wait, it had swept on its way through
the long dry grass, which carried it swiftly forward, leaving the burning
cottage and the green garden in the midst of a blackened waste.
</p>
<p>
The front verandah, and one side, were yet untouched, nor had the front
rooms caught. Wally raced through the garden and tried the front door. It
was locked. He sprang to the nearest window and smashed it with quick
blows from a hoe standing near; then, flinging up the sash, dived in. The
room was full of smoke, the heat stifling. It was Tommy's room. He
gathered up her little personal belongings from the dressing-table and
flung them on the quilt, following them with armfuls of clothes hastily
swept from shelves. A trunk, covered with a bright Navajo blanket, stood
near the window. He thrust it through to the verandah, and scrambled out
after it with the quilt and blankets bundled round the things he had
saved. Dragging them across the lawn, he thrust them under some green
bushes, and returned for the trunk.
</p>
<p>
“I don't believe you'll catch there,” he said, choking. “Wonder if I can
try another room?”
</p>
<p>
He had opened the door from Tommy's room into the hall, but the rush of
flame and smoke were so appalling that he had to shut it again quickly,
realizing that the draught only helped the fire. To break in by another
window was the only way. He smashed his way in to the other front room,
and hurriedly gathered up all he could. There was no time to save anything
heavy. His quick mind guided him to the things he knew Bob and Tommy
valued most—things that had been Aunt Margaret's in the past, that
spoke of their old happy life in France. He spread an embroidered cloth on
the floor and pitched his treasure trove into it—working feverishly,
choking and gasping, until the flames began to crackle through the wall,
and the ceiling above him split across. Then he plunged through the
window, and staggered across the lawn with his burden—falling beside
it at last, spent and breathless, his throat parched with smoke, and his
eyes almost sightless. But he picked himself up presently and went back.
All the rooms were blazing now. The side verandah had not yet caught, and
on it he saw an old oaken chest that did double duty as a seat and as a
wardrobe for Bob's spare clothes. The sight brought fresh energy back to
Wally.
</p>
<p>
“By Jove, there's old Bob's box!” he uttered. “I'll have to get that.”
</p>
<p>
He dragged it across the verandah and on to the path. It was cruelly
heavy. He had to stop and rest again and again; but still he struggled on,
a few yards at a time, until it, too, was in comparative safety. Then
there was nothing else that he could do but sit on the grass and watch the
gay little home that they had all loved as it fell into ruins. The flames
made mercifully short work of it; they roared and crackled and spat
wreathing fiery tongues round the chimneys and up and down the verandah
posts; shooting out of the broken windows and turning the white-painted
iron of the roof into a twisted and blackened mass. It fell in presently
with a deafening roar, bringing one chimney with it; and soon all that
Wally had to look at was a smouldering heap of coals, in the midst of
which one chimney stood, tottering and solitary, with the kitchen stove a
glowing mass of red-hot iron, and strangely contorted masses of metal that
once were beds. The boy uttered a groan.
</p>
<p>
“And they were so proud of it,” he said. “Poor souls—how are they
going to stick it?”
</p>
<p>
He got up presently and made his way round to the back. All the sheds and
buildings were burned; he turned with a shudder from where Bob's beloved
Kelpie had died at his post chained in helplessness. The metal parts of
the buggy, writhed into knots and tangles, lay in the ashes of the big
shed; beyond, the pigsty smouldered.
</p>
<p>
“They've gone, too, I suppose,” Wally said. “By George, where are all his
stock? They can't all be burned, surely.”
</p>
<p>
There was nothing visible in the bare, black paddocks. He cast a wild look
round, and then made for the creek at a staggering run. The fire had died
away for lack of material as it neared the banks, for great willows
overhung them, a camping-ground for the stock all through the summer heat,
and the ground was always beaten hard and bare. Wally uttered a shout of
relief as he came to the trees. Below in the wide, shallow pools, all the
stock had taken refuge—carthorses and cows, sheep and pigs, all
huddled together, wild-eyed and panting, but safe. They stared up at
Wally, dumbly bewildered.
</p>
<p>
“Poor brutes,” said Wally. “Well, you chose a good spot, anyhow. I say,
what a jolly good thing Bob let his pigs out. Poor old chap—he's not
broke yet.” He leaned against the gnarled trunk of a willow for a moment.
“Well, I suppose I'd better get up to the gate and tell them—it
won't do for Tommy to come on the ruins all of a sudden.”
</p>
<p>
But he realized, as he made his slow way up from the creek, that he was
too late. There was a little knot of horses beside the garden gate. His
eye caught the light linen habit coats that Tommy and Norah wore. They
were looking silently at the blackened heap of ashes, with the tottering
chimney standing gaunt in its midst, Bob's face grey under its coating of
smoky dust. Norah was holding Tommy's hand tightly. They did not hear
Wally as he came slowly across the black powder that had been grass.
</p>
<p>
“I suppose the stock have gone, too,” Bob said heavily.
</p>
<p>
“No, they haven't, old man,” Wally said. “I believe every head is safe;
they're in the creek.”
</p>
<p>
They turned sharply, and cried out at the sight of him—blackened and
ragged, his eyes red-rimmed in his grimy face, his hands, cut by the
broken window glass, smeared with dried blood. His coat and shirt, burnt
in a score of places, hung in singed fragments round him. There were great
holes burnt in his panama hat, even in his riding breeches. Jim flung
himself from his horse, and ran to him.
</p>
<p>
“Wal, old man! Are you hurt?”
</p>
<p>
“Not me,” said Wally briefly. “Only a bit singed. I say, you two, you
don't know how sorry I am. Tommy, I wish I could have got here in time.”
</p>
<p>
“You seem to have got here in time to try, anyhow,” said Tommy, and her
lip trembled. “Are you sure you're not hurt, Wally?” She slipped from her
saddle, and came to him. “Were you in the fire?”
</p>
<p>
“No, I'm truly all right,” Wally assured her. He suddenly realized that he
had not known how tired he was; something in his head began to whirl
round, and a darkness came before his aching eyes. He felt Jim catch him;
and then he was sitting on the ground, propped against the fence, and
blinking up at them all, while indignantly assuring them that he had never
been better.
</p>
<p>
“Did you meet the fire? It was away from here before I got here.”
</p>
<p>
“It crossed the road in front of us,” Mr. Linton said. “There were a good
many men about by that time—we got it stopped before it reached
Elston's.” His pitying eyes went back to the brother and sister. Anxiety
for Wally had drawn them from their own disaster for a moment; now they
had moved away together, and stood looking at the ashes of their home,
where so many hopes were ashes, too. David Linton went over to them, and
put a hand on a shoulder of each.
</p>
<p>
“You're not to be down-hearted,” he said firmly. “It's bad enough, and
bitter enough—but it might be worse. The stock are safe, and the
land is there—one good shower will turn the paddocks green again.
Why, there's even most of your garden left, Tommy. And we'll build the
house and sheds better than before.”
</p>
<p>
“You're jolly good, Mr. Linton,” Bob said, with dry lips. “But we owe you
enough already.”
</p>
<p>
“If you talk that sort of nonsense, I'll be really annoyed,” David Linton
said. “Why, hard luck comes to all of us—we got burned out ourselves
once, didn't we, Norah?”
</p>
<p>
“Rather—and had to live in tents,” said Norah. “No, you'll have to
come back to us at Billabong until we build up the cottage again—oh,
and, Tommy darling, I've been lonesome for you!” She put a hand on Bob's
arm. “You won't worry, Bob? One bit of bad luck isn't going to beat you!”
</p>
<p>
“I suppose it won't,” Bob said slowly. “There's the insurance money,
anyhow. But it was the jolliest little home—and our very own. And I
was so jolly proud of being independent.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, you're that still,” Jim said. “This is a country where everybody
helps everybody else—because you and Tommy come to stay with us, and
run your stock for a while on Billabong until your own grass grows, that
isn't going to make you less independent. Wouldn't you do the same for us,
if we were in the same box?”
</p>
<p>
“That goes without saying—and I'm as grateful as I can be,” Bob
said. “But the cases are different. I'm deep enough in your debt, as it
is. I—” His lip quivered, and he turned away, staring at the ruins.
</p>
<p>
“I don't see any good arguing about it, at all events,” said Norah,
practically. “We're all hot and tired, and I vote we just get home and
have tea. We'll all feel better after a tub, and then we can begin to make
plans. Come on, Tommy dear, it's just lovely to think we're going to have
you.”
</p>
<p>
Bob stood with one hand on the scorched gate.
</p>
<p>
“I wish I could have got here in time to get out a few things,” he
muttered.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, I did that,” said Wally, brightening. “I forgot, in the shock of
finding all Noah's Ark turned out in the creek. Come along, Tommy, and see
my little lot of salvage!”
</p>
<p>
He dragged himself up from the ground and seized Tommy's hand. They
trooped across the lawn.
</p>
<p>
“I saved the cuckoo clock and that set of Swiss bears,” said Wally. “And
lots of oddments from goodness knows where—the sort of thing you
can't buy in Cunjee. I expect I've hauled out all the things you wouldn't
have saved, Tommy, but you'll just have to let me down lightly—I'd
have made a shot for the beloved cake tins, only I hadn't time.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, Wally, you dear old idiot,” said Tommy. “And that's how you nearly
killed yourself.” They came in sight of Wally's heap of loot, and she
stopped in amazement.
</p>
<p>
“Bob—just look!”
</p>
<p>
“By Jupiter!” said Bob, “you saved my old box! You old brick. How did you
manage it? Why, it weighs a ton!”
</p>
<p>
Tommy was on her knees by the bundles. “Look!” she said. “Look, Bobby! My
silver things—and all Aunt Margaret's, and my little jewel box. And
my clothes! How did you do it, Wally?” Suddenly her voice broke. She put
her head down on the bundle in a passion of sobs.
</p>
<p>
“That's the best thing she could do,” said David Linton gently. He turned
to Norah. “Let her cry—and bring her along presently, and we'll take
her home. Come along, boys, we'll get the horses and go and see Wally's
Noah's Ark.”
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER XVI
</h2>
<h3>
BUILDING UP AGAIN
</h3>
<p>
It was three months later, and Billabong lay in the peace of an exquisite
autumn evening. The orchard showed yellow and bronze against the green of
the pine trees; here and there oak and elm leaves fluttered down lazily
upon the lawn. The garden flamed with dahlias and asters, amidst which
Hogg worked contentedly. And there was utter content upon the face of
David Linton, as he stood on the broad stone steps of his home, and looked
towards the setting sun. Beyond the garden gleamed the reed-fringed waters
of the lagoon; further yet, the broad paddocks stretched away, dotted with
feeding Shorthorns. It was the view, of all others, that he loved—his
soul had longed for it during weary years of exile and war. Now, it seemed
that he could never tire of looking at it.
</p>
<p>
Brownie came up from the garden, a basket on her arm laden with splendid
mauve and pink asters. David Linton strolled across the gravel sweep to
meet her.
</p>
<p>
“What, Brownie—taking Miss Norah's job, are you?”
</p>
<p>
“Well, it ain't 'ardly that, sir,” Brownie answered. “Miss Norah she done
the vases this morning, same as ushul, an' Miss Tommy elpin' her. Only she
wouldn't pick these 'ere astors, 'cause they're 'Oggs best, an' she didn't
like to 'urt 'im; you see she always remembers that onst they go into the
'ouse, 'Ogg, 'e don't see 'em no more. An' she do love 'em in the vases.
So I just put the matter sensible like to 'Ogg, an', of course, 'e saw
reason and give me 'alf; an' I'll 'ave 'em on the table to-night. Only
they've filled every vase in the house already, I believe I'll be druv to
puttin' 'em in Mason jars!”
</p>
<p>
“Miss Norah will love them, no matter what they're in,” said Mr. Linton.
“There's no sign of them yet, Brownie—it's nearly time they were
home.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, they meant to 'ave a long day's work fixin' the 'ouse,” said
Brownie comfortably. “Mrs. Archdale druv me over to see them, an' Sarah
gave us all afternoon tea—she an' Bill are real toffs in their
little new cottage there. Sarah ain't indulgin' in any regrets over that
fire! And they were all busy as bees. Miss Tommy's room's fixed, an' her
little sleep-out place off it, and so's Mr. Bob's, an' they were workin'
at the drorin'-room; 'omelike it looked with all their nice old things in
it again.”
</p>
<p>
“I'm sure it will,” David Linton agreed. “How do you like the new house,
Brownie?”
</p>
<p>
“Why, it's lovely,” said Brownie. “An' a fair treat to work, with all them
new improvements—no corners to the rooms, an' no silly skirtin'
boards that'll catch dust, an' the water laid on everywhere, an' the air
gas, an' all them other patent fixings. An' so comferable; better than the
old one, any way you look at it. Miss Tommy's the lucky young lady to be
comin' in for such a place.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, she deserves it, Brownie.”
</p>
<p>
“She do,” said Brownie heartily. “Ain't it lovely to see Miss Norah an'
'er so 'appy together? Our blessed lamb never 'ad a friend like that
before, and she needed one—every girl do.”
</p>
<p>
“Long may it last, that's all I say,” agreed the squatter. “Norah needed
her badly, although she didn't know it. And she and her brother are the
best type of immigrants, aren't they?”
</p>
<p>
“They are that,” said Brownie, “always cheery, an' workin' 'ard, an'
takin' the ups and downs sensibly. Now, it was a real nasty knock to find
their nice little 'ome burnt down on New Year's day, but after the first
shock they never 'ung their lip at all—just bucked in to make good
again.”
</p>
<p>
She went on her way with her asters, and David Linton walked slowly across
the lawn and stood looking over the gate, along the track where his
children would come riding home. Somehow, he found it difficult not to
think of them all as his children. Wally had made an attempt to go away
and set up a place for himself, but the idea had been received with such
amazed horror by the whole household that it had been temporarily shelved.
After all, Wally had more money than was good for him, the result of
having always been an orphan. He could establish himself in a place at any
time if he wished. And meanwhile, he was never idle. David Linton had
handed over most of the outside management of the big run to Jim and his
mate. They worked together as happily as they had played together as boys.
There was time for play now, as well; Mr. Linton saw to that. The years
that they had left on Flanders fields were not to rob them of their
boyhood.
</p>
<p>
There had also been time to help the Rainhams—and there again the
district had taken a hand. It was not to be imagined that the people who
had helped in the first working bee would sit calmly by when so stupendous
a piece of bad luck as the New Year fire overtook the just established
young immigrants; and so there had been several other bees, to replace
Bob's burnt fencing, to clear away the ruins of the house and sheds, and,
finally, to rebuild for him. There had been long discussions at Billabong
over plans—the first Creek Cottage had taught them much of what was
desirable in the way of a house; so that the second Creek Cottage, which
rose from the ashes of the old one when kindly rains had drawn a green
mantle over all the blackened farm, was a very decided improvement upon
the old house, and contained so many modern ideas and “dodges” that the
wives and sisters of all the working bees, who helped to build it, came
miles to see it, and went home, in most cases, audibly wishing that they
could have a fire. It was illuminating, too, to the working bees, to see
how Bob and the Billabong men planned for the comfort of the women who
were to run the house, and for its easy working; so that presently a wave
of labour-saving devices swept through the Cunjee district in imitation,
and wives who had always carried buckets of water found taps conveniently
placed where they were needed, and sinks and draining racks built to ease
the dreary round of dish-washing, and air-gas plants established to
supersede the old kerosene lamps. After which the district was very much
astonished that it had not done it before.
</p>
<p>
The cottage was finished now, and nearly ready for its occupants; Bill,
Sarah and the baby had been installed for some time in a neat little
two-roomed place with a side verandah, a short distance from the main
building. Home-made furniture, even more ambitious than the first built,
had been erected, and a fresh supply of household goods bought during an
exciting week in Melbourne, where Mr. Linton had taken them all—all,
that is, but Bob, who had steadfastly declined to go away and play when
other people were helping him. So Bob had remained at his post, giving
Tommy a free hand as to shopping; a freedom cautiously used by Tommy, but
supplemented by the others with many gifts, both useful and idiotic. Tommy
had an abiding affection for the idiotic efforts.
</p>
<p>
She had spent so much time in the saddle that she now rode like an old
hand; the brown-faced girl who came up the paddock presently with the
cheery band of workers was very different to the pink and white “little
Miss Immigrant” of eight months before. She rode Jim's big favourite,
Garryowen, who, although years had added wisdom to him, was always
impatient when nearly home; he was reefing and pulling, as they swept up
at a hand gallop, but Tommy held him easily, and pulled up near Mr.
Linton, laughing. He looked at them with grave content.
</p>
<p>
“I began to think you meant me to have tea alone,” he said. “Have they
been doing any work, Bob, or couldn't you keep them in hand at all?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, they've been working,” Bob answered. “I told Sarah not to give them
any afternoon tea if they didn't, and it acted like a charm.”
</p>
<p>
“You to talk!” said Norah, with tilted nose. “They said they'd sample the
new deck chairs, dad, and it took them about an hour to make sure if they
liked them—they just smoked while Tommy and I toiled.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, you'd only have been annoyed with us if we hadn't done the sampling
properly, and had grumbled afterwards,” said Wally. “I'm always trying to
teach you to be thorough, Norah. Of course, they say they work all the
time, sir—but when they disappear into Tommy's room there's an awful
lot of talking.”
</p>
<p>
“There would be something wrong with them if there weren't,” said the
squatter sagely. “And I have no doubt there yet remains much awaiting
their expert supervision in Tommy's room.” Whereat Tommy and Norah beamed
at him, and commended him as a person of understanding, while Wally
remarked feelingly to Bob that there was no chance of justice where those
two females were concerned. At this point Jim observed that the
conversation showed signs of degenerating into a brawl, and that, in any
case, it was time the horses were let go. They trotted off to the stables,
a light-hearted body.
</p>
<p>
Tommy slipped her arm into Bob's as they went upstairs to dress.
</p>
<p>
“Come into my room and talk for a moment.”
</p>
<p>
He came in and sat down in a low chair by the window.
</p>
<p>
“Your quarters at the new place won't be as big as this, old girl.”
</p>
<p>
“They'll be bigger, for it will all be ours,” rejoined Tommy promptly.
“Who wants a big room, anyway? I don't. Bobby, I'd be hard to please if I
wanted more than I've got.”
</p>
<p>
“You're always satisfied,” he said. “There never was anything easier than
pleasing you, old Tommy.”
</p>
<p>
“Life's all so good, now,” she said. “No hideous anxiety about you—no
Lancaster Gate—no she-dragon. Only peace, and independence, and the
work we like. Aren't you satisfied, Bob?”
</p>
<p>
“I'd like to be really independent,” he said slowly. “Our amount of debt
isn't heavy, of course, and it doesn't cause real anxiety, with Mr. Linton
guaranteeing us to the bank—”
</p>
<p>
“And as we had to build again, it was worth while to improve the house and
make it just what we wanted,” Tommy added. “We'll pay the debt off, Bob.
Mr. Linton assures me that with ordinary seasons we should easily do it.”
</p>
<p>
“I know, and I'm not anxious,” Bob said. “Only I'll be glad when it's
done; debt, even such an easy debt as this, gives me the creeps. And I
want to feel we stand on our own feet.”
</p>
<p>
“And not on the Lintons'!” said Tommy, laughing. “I quite agree—though
it's amazing to see how little they seem to mind our weight. Was there
ever such luck as meeting them, Bob?”
</p>
<p>
“Never,” he agreed. “We'd have been wage-earners still, or struggling
little cocky farmers at the best, but for that letter of General Harran's—though,
I think more was due to the way you butted into their taxi!”
</p>
<p>
“I believe it was,” laughed Tommy. “It was the sort of thing to appeal to
the Lintons—it wouldn't to everybody. But the letter was behind it,
saying what a worthy young man you were!”
</p>
<p>
“Well, when you start calling me such a thing as 'worthy,' it's time I
left and got dressed for tea,” said her brother, rising slowly. “English
mail ought to be in, by the way; I'm wondering what old Mr. M'Clinton will
say when he hears we were burned out in our first season.”
</p>
<p>
“He'll wish he'd sent us to the snows of Canada, where such things don't
happen on New Year's day,” Tommy said. “Still, he ought not to be anxious
about us—Mr. Linton wrote and told him our position was quite
sound.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, I don't think he'll worry greatly,” said Bob. “I must hurry, old
girl, or I'll be late—and I want a tub before tea.”
</p>
<p>
The boys came down in flannels, ready for a game of tennis after tea; and
Bob and Wally were just leaving the court after a stoutly-contested set,
when black Billy brought the mail-bag across the lawn to Mr. Linton. The
squatter unlocked it and sorted out the letters quickly.
</p>
<p>
“Nothing for you, Tommy; two for Norah; three for Bob, and bundles for
Wally and Jim. Papers beyond counting, and parcels you girls can deal
with.” He gathered up a package of his own letters. “Chiefly stock and
station documents—though, I see, there's a letter from your aunt,
Norah; I expect she's anxious to know when I'm going to cease bringing you
up like a boy, and send you to Melbourne to be a perfect lady.”
</p>
<p>
“Tell her, never,” said Norah lazily. “I don't see any spare time ahead—not
enough to make me into a lady after Aunt Winifred's pattern. Cecil is much
more lady-like than I am.”
</p>
<p>
“He always was,” Jim said. “Years ago we used to wonder that he didn't
take to wool-work, and I expect he'll do it yet. Even serving in the war
didn't keep Cecil from manicuring his nails—he gets a polish on them
that beats anything I ever saw.”
</p>
<p>
“Never mind—he's got a limp,” said Norah, in whose eyes that legacy
of the war covered a multitude of sins.
</p>
<p>
“Well, he has. But he even limps in a lady-like way,” grinned Jim. “And he
has no time for Wal and me. He told me that he was surprised that five
years of France and England hadn't made us less Australian.”
</p>
<p>
“It's a matter of regret to us all,” said Norah placidly. “We hoped for
great things when you came out—more attention to polite
conversation, and a passion for top-hats, and—” At which point
further eloquence was checked by a cushion placed gently, but firmly, by a
brotherly hand on her face, and so she subsided, with a gurgle of
laughter, into the cool depths of the buffalo grass where they were all
lying.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, by Jove!” said Bob suddenly. He looked at them, and finally at Tommy,
his eyes dancing.
</p>
<p>
“What's up, old man?” Jim asked. “Not your stepmother coming out?”
</p>
<p>
“England couldn't spare her,” Bob said. “But the sky has fallen, for all
that. Just listen to old M'Clinton.
</p>
<p>
“'. . . It was with deep regret that I learned from you and from Mr.
Linton of the calamity which had befallen you on New Year's day. Such
disasters seem common in Australia, like blizzards in Canada, and I
presume every settler is liable to them. In your case your loss, being
partly covered by insurance, will not, Mr. Linton assures me, be crushing,
although it seems to me very severe. To have your initial endeavours, too,
handicapped by so calamitous an occurrence would have excused despondency,
but—'”
</p>
<p>
“Hasn't he a lovely style?” chuckled Wally, as the reader paused to turn
over.
</p>
<p>
“'But Mr. Linton assures me that you and your sister are facing the
situation with calmness and courage.' Did you know you were calmly
courageous, Tommy?”
</p>
<p>
“I am not,” said Tommy. “I am courageously calm. Go on, Bobby—my
calmness will waver if you don't get to the point. Where does the sky
fall?”
</p>
<p>
“Half a second. 'Further, I am immensely interested to learn from Mr.
Linton, who appears to be the kindest of benefactors'—that's you,
sir—'that the people of the district, who have already helped you so
remarkably by a working bee, are so much in sympathy with you both that
they intend again lending you their assistance over rebuilding your house.
This shows me, even without Mr. Linton's letter, that you have earned
their esteem and regard. Nevertheless, I estimate that you cannot fail to
be at some monetary embarrassment, and this I am luckily able to ease for
you. Certain rubber investments of your late aunt's have recently risen in
value, after the long period of depression due to the war; and I deemed it
prudent to sell them while their price in the market was high. The terms
of your aunt's will enable me to reinvest this money, amounting to a
little over nine hundred pounds, for you, or, at my discretion, to hand it
over to you; and such is the confidence I repose in you, after Mr.
Linton's letter, that I feel justified in remitting you the money, to use
as you think best. I presume that will be in the reduction of your
liabilities. I should like to think you had the benefit of Mr. Linton's
advice in the matter.' Shall I, sir?”
</p>
<p>
“I never listened to such language,” returned the squatter. “I should like
it read three times a day, before meals. But if it's my advice you want,
Bob, you can have it. Meanwhile, I'm very glad for you to have such a
windfall, my boy.”
</p>
<p>
Tommy and Norah had collapsed on each other's shoulders, speechless.
</p>
<p>
“Joy never kills, they say,” said Wally, regarding them anxiously. “But
it's been known to turn the brain, when the brain doesn't happen to be
strong. Will we turn the hose on them, Jim?”
</p>
<p>
“Sit on him, Bob,” came faintly from Norah.
</p>
<p>
“I will—with the weight of nine hundred pounds!” said Bob—and
did so.
</p>
<p>
“Get off, you bloated capitalist,” said Wally, struggling. He succeeded in
dislodging him, with a mighty effort. “You're just purse-proud, that's
what's the matter with you. What'll you do with it, Bobby—go racing?
Or buy an aeroplane?”
</p>
<p>
“Get out of debt,” said Bob, sitting up with rumpled hair and a face like
a happy child's. “And there'll be a bit over to play with. What shall we
put it into, Tommy? Want any pretty things?”
</p>
<p>
“Just merino sheep,” said Tommy.
</p>
<p>
THE END <br /> <br />
</p>
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