CHAPTER XIII

“ ‘Brownie, you shouldn’t, you bad young thing!’ ”

CHAPTER XIII

There are stars of gold on the Wallaby Track,And silver the moonbeams glisten,The great Bush sings to us, out and back.And we lie in her arms and listen.

There are stars of gold on the Wallaby Track,

And silver the moonbeams glisten,

The great Bush sings to us, out and back.

And we lie in her arms and listen.

—W. H. Ogilvie.

AWEEK went by—a week of blinding heat, ending in a cool change, accompanied by a gale of wind that almost blew the tents and their occupants into the lagoon. Then the weather settled to glorious conditions, neither hot nor cold—long days of sunshine, and nights chilly enough to make the campers enjoy a fire by the water’s edge while they fished for their breakfast.

But, on the whole, it was dull. The new saddles had not arrived from Melbourne, so that riding was out of the question. In any case it was deemed wiser not to ride Monarch and Garryowen and Bosun too soon. Norah and Jim had them yarded each day, and they caught and handled them, dressing Garryowen’s burns, and petting all three—talking to them and leading them about while they hunted for the milk-thistles horses love. Gradually the quivering nerves steadied down, and the memory of their terror faded. But Garryowen would never face fire again; a tiny blaze was too much for him, and even smoke sent him into a panic. Even kindness could not make him forget the moments when he had been a rat in a burning trap.

They fished and walked—moderately; walking was not a Billabong characteristic; and helped Mrs. Evans and Brownie, and worshipped the Evans baby—that is to say, Jean and Norah did, and Jim and Wally pretended not to; and they watched Hogg glowering as he worked in his ruined garden, and wished business did not detain Mr. Linton during nearly every hour of the day. It was hard to settle to anything. Possibly they were feeling a natural reaction after the strain of the night of the fire. But as none of the four would have known what reaction meant, no one suggested it.

They were all in the boat one exquisite evening, floating lazily among the water lilies on the lagoon, and pretending to fish—a transparent pretence, since frequent snagging on the lily stems had made every angler disgusted, and had brought all the lines out of the water. Then Mr. Linton appeared on the bank and they pulled in and took him on board, giving him the place of honour in the stern.

“This is the most peaceful thing I’ve done since we became a burnt-offering,” he said, as they drifted away from the shore. He lit his pipe and leaned back contentedly. “Well—business is done!”

“Thank goodness!” from Norah.

“I quite agree with you,” said her father. “To be burnt out is bad enough, but it’s an added penance to be forced to put in time as I’ve been doing. I’m sick of the sight of insurance people, and policemen, and architects, and contractors!”

“Have you made all arrangements, Dad?” Jim asked.

“So far as I can. But the men I want to employ can’t begin rebuilding for three weeks at least, possibly a month; and then the job will be a long one.”

“Then I won’t see it before I go back to school!” came from Norah, disgustedly. “Oh, I’m so sorry!”

“No; and I’m sorry, too,” said her father. “But it can’t be helped. The fire has done unpleasant things to your holidays, my girl.”

“Just you wait until I begin growling!” Norah said, laughing. “I’m having lovely holidays, truly, only I’m disappointed that I can’t see the house.”

“Well, I’ve a plan,” said David Linton, slowly.

Norah sat up so briskly that the boat rocked violently.

“Have a little sense, Nor.!” came from Jim. “Sit still, or you’ll be smacked and turned out!”

“Get out yourself!” said his sister, inelegantly. “When Dad has a plan in that voice it is time to sit up! Tell us, Dad.”

Mr. Linton laughed.

“How about Ben Athol?” he asked.

“Ben Athol!” Jim whistled. “By Jove, Dad, that’s an idea!”

“Oh!” said Norah. “Didn’t I tell you it was time to sit up!”

Ben Athol towered from the low ranges to the north of Billabong, beyond the stations and out to the wild country that was No Man’s Land because of its steepness and inaccessibility. “Old hands” told stories of well grassed valleys in the ranges, where stock might be pastured; of a mountain river, flowing clear as crystal all the year round, in a way very unlike the usual habit of Australian rivers. But comparatively few white men knew anything about the country between the hills. Blacks were reputed to camp there—some miserable, scattered families, who came into the townships as winter approached to beg for food and blankets, sometimes to hang about all through the cold months, a thievish, filthy pest.

Snow lay for the winter months upon the brow of Ben Athol. In spring, when the warm sun melted the great white cap, it slid away gradually, and the big peak stood out, dark blue among the lesser hills. Always it seemed to Norah like a friend.

For two years they had talked of climbing it. But the expedition required some organizing, for it was three days’ ride even to the last township that nestled at the foot of the hills. Then came a day’s stiff climbing for horses, after which it was only possible to proceed on foot, if one wanted to reach the peak. Few were adventurous enough to want to do so.

“Well, I think we may as well go,” said Mr. Linton, when his excited family calmed down. “I have been turning over various plans in my mind for the last few days, for we can’t stop here; it’s too dismal to look at the old place. We’re all in good form, fit for such a ride. I don’t quite know about Jean.”

“Oh, please,” said Jean, in a small shriek. “I can, quite easily. Truly, Mr. Linton.”

“I’m sure she’s all right, Dad,” Norah put in. “She wasn’t a bit stiff after that long day we had in the Far Plain.”

“Well, that was a pretty fair test,” Mr. Linton remarked. “Anyhow, we can’t start for a few days, so you had better ride a good deal, to get into form. The saddles will be out to-day. But we shan’t use them for the trip—new saddles aren’t advisable for a journey like that—we’d probably have the horses with sore backs.”

“Rather,” Jim said. “I’m never really friends with a saddle until it has been re-stuffed.”

“Oh, they are like new boots—they must get accustomed to a horse,” Mr. Linton answered. “We’ll have to exchange with the men. Murty will see that the new ones are looked after. We’ll use the old ones from to-day, so that you girls can find out which are the most comfortable for you.”

“All right,” nodded Norah. “When do you think we’ll start, Dad?”

“This is Thursday—we’ll get away on Monday morning,” her father replied. “We’ll take Billy, to lead a packhorse and make himself generally useful. It will not be necessary to carry a great amount of provisions, because we can lay in a stock of food at the various townships as we go. Atholton is the last one, at the foot of the ranges, and I’ve sent a note to the storekeeper there, telling him to have various things ready for us. Until then we need only have a day’s rations. We’ll take a tent for you girls——”

“Oh, need you, Dad? Can’t we put up a wurley?” Norah begged.

“No,” said Mr. Linton, firmly. “We don’t know if we’ll always be in timber to make wurleys, and it’s as well to be prepared for bad weather. That little tent is no trouble to take, and, as it’s waterproof, it will make an excellent covering for the pack. We’ll take some fishing tackle. They say the fishing in that mountain stream is very good. For the rest, Norah, you and I will have a heart-to-heart talk with Brownie. I believe it will make the old soul quite happy to have to cook for an expedition again.”

The time until Monday seemed all a cheerful bustle of preparation. Jean and Norah rode each day, generally with Wally in attendance, since Jim and his father had much to do together. There were jobs of moving cattle from one paddock to another; of riding round the Queensland bullocks, now settling down contentedly in the Bush Paddock, and only becoming excited when the three riders tried to count them; of inspecting the fences, with sharp eyes alert for a broken panel or a sagging wire. No one at Billabong need ever ride aimlessly; there was always work of this kind—work that the three regarded as the best possible fun. And always they talked of next week’s expedition, and made quite a hundred thousand plans in connection with it. Jean had never been camping out in her life, and, considering how calm a person she was ordinarily, it became almost alarming to behold her state of simmering excitement.

Mr. Linton sternly hunted his flock to bed early on Sunday evening, and dawn, had scarcely broken next morning when they were astir, Norah and Jean running hurriedly to the Cottage to dress, while Murty dismantled their little tent, and had it, with the bags that formed their bunks, neatly packed and made ready for transport. Breakfast was despatched hastily by all but Mr. Linton, who declined altogether to bestir himself unduly, and demanded of his excited charges if they had visions of catching a train? Finally, they were all in the saddle, the horses fidgeting and dancing with excitement—save the packhorse, who looked upon the world with an embittered gaze, and Black Billy’s scrawny piebald, old Bung Eye, who was supposed to be proof against any kind of excitement whatever.

“Now do come back safe an’ sound, all of you!” Brownie begged. “Me nerves have had enough to bear lately; I don’t want any broken heads or cracked legs. An’ if you find a gold mine out there, then I’ll give notice, if you please, sir, an’ take out a miner’s right, an’ go off makin’ me fortune!”

“Anybody in this party finding a gold mine is hereby ejected summarily!” said Mr. Linton, promptly. “The penalty would be too heavy to make the find worth while.”

“We’ll live and die poor, but we’ll keep you, Brownie!” Jim told her.

“Me own prospects don’t seem to matter much to you, do they?” retorted Brownie, enjoying herself hugely. Occasionally it gave her immense delight to toy with the fiction of leaving Billabong—knowing very well indeed, as did they all, that a team of bullocks would scarcely have been strong enough to tear her away. “Often I says to meself that I might end me days as a prospector—there’s no knowin’ how much gold is lyin’ about in them ranges for the pickin’ up.”

“If it’s there, Brownie, I will bring you a necklace of nuggets with my own fair hands,” said Wally. “Steady, you brute!”

Brownie beamed over the portion of the speech addressed to her.

“Thank you—an’ take care of that horse, dearie, for I know he ain’t safe,” she said anxiously—to the great delight of Jim, and Wally’s no small embarrassment. The men grinned widely.

“The halters is in the pack, sir, an’ likewise the hobbles,” said Murty. “If y’ don’t be watchin’ that black image of a haythen on Bung Eye, he’ll put the wrong hobbles on Bosun—there’s a small, little pair I made special for the pony. He’ll get his feet out of nearly anny other hobbles on the place.”

“Thank you, Murty!” from Norah. Murty beamed.

“A good ride to ye all,” he said, “an’ don’t be afther breakin’ your neck on thim ridges, Miss Norah. ’Tis the only neck like it on Billabong, an’ we can’t spare it, at all.”

“We’ll take care of her, Murty,” said her father.

“Bedad,” said Murty, “I have not forgotten that wan time ’twas y’rsilf did not take care of y’rsilf in that very same place! How am I to be thinkin’ anny of ye safe afther that misfortunate time?”

David Linton laughed.

“Ah, Monarch and I have learned sense now,” he said. “He won’t get rid of me in the same way again.”

“Divil a wan of me knows!” said Murty, darkly. “Well—that ye may come home wid whole bones, annyhow! Is it gettin’ up a search party we’ll be if ye’re not back this day week, sir?”

“Certainly not!” said the squatter. “If we find Brownie’s gold mine, there’s no prophesying when I shall get my party away from it!”

“Then ye’ll find hersilf an’ me joggin’ out in the old dray to meet ye,” Murty averred. He took his hand from Bosun’s bridle, and stepped back. Good-byes floated to the little group by the cottage as the riders cantered down the track.

CHAPTER XIV

A homely-looking folk they are, these people of my kin—Their hands are hard as horse shoes, but their hearts come through the skin.

A homely-looking folk they are, these people of my kin—

Their hands are hard as horse shoes, but their hearts come through the skin.

—V. J. Daley.

THEY camped that night half a mile off the road, in a paddock belonging to a station Mr. Linton knew well.

“Henderson would give me leave if I asked him—so I won’t,” he said. “It’s a short stage, but that’s advisable, seeing that it’s our first day out, and that it has been uncommonly warm. And we’re sure of good water in the creek over yonder.”

So they found some slip-rails and rode into the paddock and across the long grass to the creek, a fairly large stream for that time of the year, fringed with a thick dark green belt of wattles. The horses were short-hobbled and allowed to graze, and the camp was pitched quickly.

The tent for the girls was put up in a little grove of trees, near which the bank of the creek sloped down to an excellent place for bathing—a deep hole with a little stretch of clean grass growing over a sunken log at the water’s edge—a place, as Norah said, simply planned to stand on while you were drying. Most Australian creeks are unkind in this respect—either the bank is inaccessibly steep, or the few available places are so muddy that the difficulty after a bathe is to keep clean.

“We’ll fish there before you bathe,” Jim told Norah, regarding the hole hopefully. “If there aren’t blackfish there I’m very much mistaken.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Norah told him, unkindly. “Don’t leave any fish-hooks in our pool, that’s all.”

“You’ll get no fish for tea if you don’t practise civility!” Jim grinned. “I’m worn to a shred putting up your blessed tent, and there’s really no reason why I should allow you to be impolite. Why don’t you take pattern by Jean? Her manners are lovely!”

“I wish my family heard you say so!” said the lady referred to, longingly.

“Don’t they appreciate you? I’m like that!” Wally said. “I often think I’ll die without any one finding out my true worth.”

“Jolly good job for you if they don’t, old man!” quoth Jim, retreating hastily, and cannoning with violence into his father as he dodged round a gum tree. Explanations ensued, and the party settled down to fish, soon catching enough to make tea a memorable meal. Then they lay about on the grass and talked until it was bedtime—a period which came early, though no one would admit any sense of fatigue.

It was a still, hot night—so hot that the girls slept with the tent flap tied back, and were openly envious of the men of the party, who disdained to erect a “wurley,” and slept bushman fashion out in the open, with their blankets spread in a soft spot, and their saddles for pillows. Black Billy disappeared along the creek, camping in some select nook after his blackfellow heart. Then silence fell upon the camp, and all that could be heard was a mopoke, steadily calling in a dead tree, throughout the night.

Norah was the first to awaken. It was daylight, but only faintly; looking through the opening of the tent she could see the sun coming slowly over the edge of the horizon, flushing all the eastern sky with gleams of pink and gold. A little breeze blew gently. She slipped quietly from her bunk, put on a light overcoat and went out barefooted into the sweetness of the morning.

There was an old moss-grown log near the tent, and she sat down upon it. Just beyond the belt of trees that marked the creek, the yellow paddock stretched away, unbroken by any fence, so far as her eye could reach. She could see grazing cattle here and there, and a few half-grown steers were standing in a little knot and staring towards the camp with curious, half-frightened eyes. From further down the bank came the chink of hobbles, and the chime of the bell on old Bung Eye’s neck. Near the tent her father lay sleeping; a few yards away were Jim and Wally, far off in the land of dreams. The clean bush scent lay over everything; the scent of tree and leaf and rich black earth, where the night-dew still lingers. Just below her the creek rippled softly, and the splash of a leaping fish sent a swirl across the wide pool. Norah sighed from very joy of the place, and the beauty of the morning, and the certainty of a happy day ahead.

Then she became aware that some one was awake—in the curious way in which we become conscious that the thoughts of another have entered into our solitary places. She looked round, and beheld one intent eye regarding her from the end of the roll of blankets that represented Wally. For a moment the eye and Norah continued to watch each other; at which point Norah suddenly realized that it was faintly possible that Wally might feel a shade of embarrassment, and modestly withdrew her gaze. She did Mr. Meadows great injustice. He yawned widely, sat up, and wriggled out of his blankets. Then, discovering that Jim’s mouth was slightly open, he proceeded to place within it three dandelions, which accomplished, he fled while his unconscious victim was waking up and spluttering. Wally sat down on the log beside Norah, with a face like an unusually lean cherub.

“You’re a horrid boy!” said that damsel, laughing. “Dandelions taste abominably—at least that milky stuff in them does.”

“Never tried it,” said Wally. “What funny things you seem to have lived on!”

“Poor old Jimmy!” said Norah, disregarding this insinuation, and bending a glance of pity on Jim, who was coughing violently, and evidently prepared for battle. Mr. Linton had wakened, and was regarding his son with curiosity.

“It’s a pneumonia cough, I should say, sir,” explained Wally, considerately, from the log. “Nasty lungy sound, hasn’t it. Shall I get you some water, my poor dear?” At this point the outraged Jim arose and hurled himself upon his tormentor, who dodged him round a bush until Jim managed to pick up a thorn with his foot, when he retired to a log for purposes of investigation.

“Wait till I get you in the creek, young Wally!” he growled.

“Not too many larks,” commanded Mr. Linton, who had also cast off his blankets. “We’ve got to get away as early as we can, so as to have a long spell in the hottest part of the day.” He shook himself vigorously. “I think I’m too old for sleeping without a mattress.”

“So am I,” said Wally, who was sitting cross-legged on Norah’s log. “That bit of ground looked the softest I could see, but it found out every bone I have before I’d been there an hour. It would be a tremendous advantage to be fat! I was afraid at last that my hip bone would come right through, so I got up and scraped a little hole for it. Then I was much more comfortable, except when I wriggled in my sleep and failed to hit the hole.”

“Well, I’ve had a lovely night!” Norah averred.

“I should think so—sleeping in the lap of gilded luxury—at least in a beautiful sacking bunk!” said Wally, indignantly. “Then you get up at your elegant leisure and jeer at those whose lodging was on the cold, cold ground! Women were ever thus!” He choked, dramatically, and rose. “James, if you’ve finished operating, are you ready to come and bathe?”

“I must wake Jean,” said Norah, disappearing within the tent. Then they scattered up and down the creek for their swim—not a matter to be dawdled over, for even in the summer morning the water was very cold. Jim returned, fresh and glowing, before the girls were ready to vacate the tent, and proceeded to loosen its fastenings in a way that caused them great anguish of mind, since it threatened to collapse bodily upon them. The last stages of their toilet were performed hastily, and without dignity.

“Can’t be helped,” said Jim, imperturbably, as they emerged, wrathful. “Got to strike camp, and this is my job.” He brought the tent to earth with a quick movement. “Help me to fold this up, Nor.”

“Where’s Wally?” Norah asked, complying.

“I left him diving for the soap,” Jim grinned. “He was pretty cold, and didn’t seem exactly happy; but I couldn’t wait. Here he comes. Did you get it, Wal.?”

“I did—no thanks to you!” said Wally, whose teeth were still inclined to chatter, while his complexion was a fine shade of blue. “He’s just the champion mean exhibit of the party, Jean. I was nearly dry, out on the bank, and threw the soap at him in pure friendliness; and the brute actually dodged! Dodged! And then he wouldn’t dive for it: fact is, I believe he’s forgotten how to dive. So I had to go in again after it!”

“Any mud at the bottom?” asked Jim, grinning.

“About a foot of soft slush. I loathe you!” said Wally. He proceeded to roll up blankets vigorously, still slightly azure of hue.

Billy had the horses already saddled, and when breakfast was over the pack was quickly adjusted and a start made. They travelled through country that became rapidly wilder and more rugged. A wire fence bounded each side of the road, which was a track scarcely fit for wheeled traffic. The paddocks on both sides were part of big station properties, on which the homesteads were far back; so that they scarcely saw a house throughout the day, except when now and then they passed through sleepy little townships, where dogs barked furiously at them and children ran out to stare at the riders. They were typical bush children, who scarcely ever saw a stranger—lean, sun-dried youngsters, as wild and shy as hares, and quite incapable of giving an answer when addressed. They paused in one township to buy stores, and Norah dashed to the post office to send a postcard to Brownie, assuring her that so far they were safe.

The post office was a quaint erection, especially when considered in the light of a Government building. Had it not been for this mark of distinction, it would probably have been termed a shed. It was a little, ramshackle lean-to, against the side of a shop that was equally falling to decay. There was no door—only a slit barely two feet wide, through which Norah entered, wondering, as she did so, if the township contained any inhabitants as fat as Brownie, and if so, how they contrived to transact their postal business. It was very certain that Brownie could not have entered through the slit unless hydraulic pressure had been applied to her.

Within was emptiness. The sole furnishing of the office was a small shelf against the wall; above it, a trap-door. This artistic simplicity was complicated by the appearance of a head in the trap-doorway, after Norah had tapped vigorously five or six times.

“I clean forgot the office,” said the owner of the head—a tall, freckled damsel, with innumerable curling pins bristling in her “fringe.” She favoured Norah with a wide and cheerful smile. “Fact is, I was out in the garden lookin’ at your lot. Ain’t your horses just corkin’!”

“They’re . . . not bad.” Norah hesitated. “I want a postcard, please.”

“Not bad!” said the Government official, disregarding her request. She propped her elbows on the ledge within, evidently ready for conversation, and put her face as far through the trap-doorway as nature or its designer would permit. “Well, I reckon they’re fair ringers! That big black ’ud take a lot of beatin’, I’ll bet. Is it your Pa ridin’ him?”

“Yes,” Norah answered. “Can I——”

“Goin’ far?” asked the postmistress. “You all look pretty workmanlike, don’t y’ now? Where d’ y’ come from, if it’s a fair question?”

“From this side of Cunjee. And we’re going up Ben Athol. I want——”

“Up Ben Athol! You’re never!”

“Well, we’re going to try. Can I have——”

“I never heard of any one but drovers an’ blackfellers goin’ up there,” said the postmistress, gaping. “You two kids’ll never do it, will y’, do y’ think? I wonder at your Pa lettin’ you. Rummy, ain’t it, what people ’ll do for fun!”

“They’ll be calling me in a moment,” said poor Norah. “Let me have a postcard, please.” She held out her penny firmly.

“Oh, all right,” said the postmistress, unwillingly. Without removing her face from the little window she fished in an unseen receptacle and extracted a card, which she poked through to Norah.

“There’s no pen here,” said that harassed person investigating. “Can I have one—and some ink?”

“Right-oh!” said, the official. “This chap’s a bit scratchy, but the office is clean out of nibs. There is another—but it’s worse. This one’ll write all right when you get used to it. I say, is them divided skirts comf’table to ride in?”

Norah assented, stretching out her hand for the ink.

“I read in the paper that ladies was riding astride,” said the postmistress, apparently soul-hungry for companionship. “But me father won’t let me get a pattron an’ try an’ make one. Yours don’t seem to mind.”

“He won’t let me ride any other way,” said Norah, writing busily.

“Go on! Well, ain’t men different!” said the postmistress. “Never know where you have them, do you? Is those long fellers your brothers?”

Norah nodded, feeling at the moment, unequal to detailed explanation.

“Thought so. An’ you’re re’ly goin’ to try old Ben Athol! Wonder if you’ll ever get there,” the postmistress pondered. Her freckled face suddenly widened to a smile. “Look at that blackfeller, now! Well, if he ain’t a trick!”

Billy was jogging up the street on old Bung Eye, smoking vigorously. Behind him, taking the fullest advantage of a long halter, the packhorse led, very bored by Life. The township children shouted and ran, but nothing affected Billy’s serenity. He passed out of sight, and the Postmistress, oblivious of further possible wishes on the part of her customer, quitted her little office and rushed outside to gaze after him. In this pleasurable occupation she was not alone, since three parts of the township was hanging over its front fence, gazing likewise.

From the street came Jim’s whistle, for the third time—this time with something peremptory in its note.

“Coming!” Norah called. She dropped her card into the slit marked “Letters,” and ran out, receiving voluble farewells from the postmistress as she fled.

“Good-bye!” Norah called. She swung herself upon Bosun’s back, and trotted down the street with Jim. Already the others were some distance ahead.

The postmistress came in, regretfully, as the dust of their going died away.

“Wonder who they were?” she pondered. “Well, at least, there’s the postcard!” She opened the letter box, and drew out the documentary evidence, receiving not much information from Norah’s hastily-scrawled lines. She turned the card over.

“Well, I’m blessed!” she gasped. Keen disappointment was in her voice. She pondered for a moment and then hurried out, locking the office door firmly, and affixing to it a battered notice, which read: “Closed for dinner.” The fact that she had already dined did not trouble the free and independent soul of the postmistress.

Half an hour later the sound of galloping hoofs on the road behind them made the Billabong party look round. A cloud of dust resolved itself into the vision of the postmistress, mounted on a raking chestnut, and somewhat bulky in appearance, by reason of the fact that she had slipped on a habit skirt over her other apparel.

“She’s waving,” said Norah, much puzzled. “Let’s pull up.”

They waited. The postmistress arrived with a wide and friendly smile.

“Thought I’d never catch you up!” she panted. “Blessed if you didn’t forget to put any address on that postcard you wrote!” She produced the card, a good deal crumpled by the vicissitudes of travel.

“Well, I am a duffer!” ejaculated Norah. “But how awfully good of you to come after us!”

“It was indeed,” said Mr. Linton, warmly. He produced a pencil, and Norah scribbled the address and handed the card back. “Uncommonly kind and thoughtful. We’re very much obliged to you. I hope it didn’t give you very much trouble?”

“Not a bit!” said the postmistress, genially. She read the address with care, and tucked the card into her bodice. “Fact is,” she said, “I was just dead keen to know it meself! Well, I must be gettin’ back—me office is shut up, an’ the coach is nearly due. So long!” She wheeled the chestnut, galloping back to the township.

CHAPTER XV

The little feet that run to me,The little hands that striveTo touch me at the heart, and findThe heart in me alive.O God! if hands and feet should fail!If Death his mist should flingBetween my heart and the touch ofThe little living thing!

The little feet that run to me,The little hands that striveTo touch me at the heart, and findThe heart in me alive.

The little feet that run to me,

The little hands that strive

To touch me at the heart, and find

The heart in me alive.

O God! if hands and feet should fail!If Death his mist should flingBetween my heart and the touch ofThe little living thing!

O God! if hands and feet should fail!

If Death his mist should fling

Between my heart and the touch of

The little living thing!

—R. Crawford.

IT was late in the afternoon of the third day, and in a cloud of thick dust the riders were hurrying along the road towards Atholton. Ahead they could see the scattered roofs of the little township, showing white among the trees; but everything was obscured by the dust that swirled and eddied, now tearing away before them in a cloud sixty feet high, or seeming to stand still all around them, blinding any vision for more than a few yards. Behind a leaden sky glowered through the dust clouds, or was revealed, darkly purple, when they rose for an instant to swirl and scurry, and grow dense again, as the shrieking wind came in a fresh gust.

Three days of gradually mounting heat had worked up to a tempestuous change. All day, riding had been anything but pleasant. Even in early morning the air had been still and heavy, after a night of breathless heat. They had left camp not long after sunrise, intending to rest during the middle of the day; but the weather had tried the horses; they had travelled badly, sweating before they had gone a mile, so that progress was slow. Mr. Linton had cut the noon “spell” ruthlessly short.

“We’ll have to hurry,” he said, glancing uneasily at the sullen sky. “This means a big storm, and it’s very doubtful if we can escape it, even now. As far as I remember there’s no shelter at all between here and Atholton, and there is too much big timber along the track to be safe in a storm. Billy, you travel the slowest—cut along!”

Billy proceeded to “cut,” not unwillingly. He hated storms, even as a cat, and firmly believed that thunder was the noise of innumerable “debbil-debbils,” let loose dangerously near the inhabitants of earth, and at any moment likely to fall on the just and the unjust. He mounted Bung Eye and jogged off along the track, the packhorse toiling in the rear. Ten minutes later saw the rest of the party in pursuit.

From the first it was evident that the ride would be a race with the storm. Mr. Linton made all the haste that was possible for the horses; but the way was long and the heat so breathless that it seemed cruel to urge the poor brutes along. A purple cloud came up out of the west, and spread up and up; then a murky haze obscured the sun, yet brought no lessening of heat. Finally came a low sighing of faraway wind, and long before it struck them they could see distant tree-tops swaying and bending before the fury of the blast. They came to a sharp turn in the road, facing eastwards.

“Thank goodness, there’s Atholton!” uttered Mr. Linton, pointing at the roofs far ahead. “We may get off with dry skins if we gallop.”

They shook up the horses. Even as they did so, the beginning of the storm was upon them in a furious gust of wind that gathered up the loose summer dust of the road and carried it high into the air. It was impossible to see more than a few yards ahead except between the gusts. They rode blindly, trusting to their horses, and fairly sure that on such an afternoon there would be no other obstacles of traffic on the lonely bush track. On either side the thick timber creaked and groaned in the wind, and occasionally a sharp crack told of a limb or a treetop breaking under the strain. Then the horses bounded as a sharp crackle of thunder came out of the west and ran round the sky in a heavy, echoing roll, followed by a vivid flash of lightning. Heavy drops began to fall, splashing into the thick dust underfoot.

“Gad! There’s a house!” said Mr. Linton thankfully. “Make for the gate, Jim.”

A hundred yards ahead a white cottage stood near the track, in the midst of a pleasant orchard. As they clattered up to the road gate, a woman came out upon the verandah and waved to them energetically, beckoning them in. Garryowen propped at the gate, and Jim swung it open. The sky seemed to split with another thunderclap as they rode through, and then came rain, like a curtain, blotting out everything behind them.

The woman rushed down to the little garden gate as they raced to it.

“Let the young ladies come in here—quick! There’s a shed over there for the horses.”

“Off you get, girls!” Mr. Linton said. Jean and Norah slipped to the ground, yielding their bridles into ready hands, and ran up the garden path behind their hostess. The rain was pelting upon the iron roof of the little cottage with a noise like musketry.

“I don’t think you’re very wet,” panted the woman. She darted into the house, returning with towels, and rubbed them down as they stood on the verandah, despite their protests.

“We’re truly all right,” Norah told her. “Thank you ever so much. But what luck! Five minutes later and we’d have been soaked to the skin but for your house. And it isn’t a joke to get everything wet through when you’re camping, as we are, and travelling as light as possible.”

“I should think not,” said their hostess—a tall woman, whitefaced and delicate in appearance, with tired grey eyes, that had black half circles beneath them. “Fact is, I’ve been looking out for you—the storekeeper in the township was telling me Mr. Linton’s party was to come through Atholton this evening. I’ve been thinking about you all the afternoon, wondering if the storm would catch you.”

“You were very good,” Jean told her, shyly.

“Oh, I don’t know. There isn’t so much to think about in these places—one’s glad of any excitement. I’d have been more excited if I’d known it wasn’t only men riding. It’s a big ride for you two girls.”

“We’re used to it,” said Norah. “It’s been lovely, until to-day; that has certainly been a bit hot. It’s hot still, isn’t it?”

“Close as ever it can be,” said the woman. “But the rain’ll cool it.” She peeped round the corner of the verandah, putting her head into the rain. “They’re all right in the shed, horses and all. Will you go into the house and sit down and rest?”

“I think it’s nice out here,” Norah said, hesitatingly.

“Well, it is better than inside—the house is heated right through,” said the woman. “Wooden houses cool quickly, but they heat like an oven, don’t they? I’ll bring out chairs.” She disappeared—her movements were curiously quick—and came out laden. They sat on the verandah, with the pelting rain beating all round them, and a sense of wet coolness gradually coming over the hot atmosphere.

She was anxious to talk—this gaunt, hungry-eyed woman of the Bush. She went from one subject to another almost feverishly, asking them a hundred questions—of home, of school, of the life that was so busy hundreds of miles away from her lonely home in the timber. And always her eyes wandered restlessly, as if she were seeking. Once she failed to answer a question, staring before her with a strained look that was half expectancy and half despair. Then she came back to attention with a start, and begged their pardon.

“I—I was listening,” she said. “I didn’t quite hear what you were saying.”

The storm began to wear itself out after a while, and she took them into the house, saying that they would be glad of a wash and brush up while she made some tea. She showed them into a neat little bedroom, and brought a brimming can of hot water.

“Just you make yourselves quite at home,” she said. “Don’t hurry; I’ll call you when I got tea made.” She went out, closing the door.

It was a bright little room, with a cheap blue paper on the walls, and crisp, fresh curtains at the window. Everything was poor, but spotlessly clean.

“Isn’t it nice?” Jean said. “It smells of lavender and things!”

“And as if the window were always open,” said Norah, approvingly. “I like it—and I like her, too. Don’t you, Jean?”

“Yes—I do,” Jean said, slowly. “She—she’s a bit queer though, isn’t she?”

“She’s got a scared sort of look,” Norah said, trying to find words. “Perhaps she’s had a lot of trouble. Ever so many women in the Bush do, I think. But I like her eyes, though they’re so tired.”

“They’re mother-y sort of eyes,” said Jean, her thoughts suddenly flying to her own mother, in far-off New Zealand. “I wonder if that’s her little girl?”

A photograph smiled at them from a cheap frame on the wall—a little laughing child, taken in the stiff, conventional manner of the country photographer, yet dimpling into merriment as if at some suddenly happy thought.

“Oh!” said Norah. “What a dear little youngster! Isn’t she a darling!” She faced round as the door opened, and their hostess came in, bringing clean towels. “We’re just in love with this,” she said, indicating the photograph. “Is she your little girl?”

The woman put down the towels in silence. Her face was working, and before the misery in her eyes Jean and Norah shrank back aghast. There was a moment’s dreadful silence. Then she spoke in a strained, unnatural voice.

“She was—once,” she said. “But she’s dead. We lost her. She’s dead. Dead!” Suddenly she was gone, the door slamming behind her.

The girls looked at each other dumbly, horror-stricken.

“Oh, I say!” said Jean, presently. “Oh, weren’t we idiots! I’m so sorry we asked her.”

“Poor thing!” Norah said, her voice a shade unsteady. “Oh, poor thing! Did you see how terrible her eyes were?”

Jean nodded. “There couldn’t be anything more awful than to have a kiddie like that, and then for it to die,” she said. “No wonder she looks so—so hungry. I wish we hadn’t asked her.”

“So do I,” Norah said. “It must have hurt her dreadfully—and she’s been very kind to us. But how could we guess?”

“I don’t half like going out,” said Jean. “I wish we could slip away.”

“We couldn’t do that,” Norah said, shaking her head. “Come on. We’d better hurry, because Dad and the boys will be over. The rain has nearly stopped.”

They found the rest of their party in the kitchen, when they made their way out presently, considerably refreshed. Their hostess was bustling about, setting out cups and saucers. She met their half-nervous glances quite cheerfully.

“Perhaps you two would butter some scones for me,” she said. She smiled at them—a kindly look that told them they had nothing to worry about. And Norah and Jean took the task thankfully.

“Now what are you going to do?”

Their hostess asked the question of Mr. Linton across the empty teapot. It was a large teapot, but it had been filled and emptied twice. Now every one was feeling better.

“You can’t go camping to-night,” she went on. “The ground will be soaking and you’d get your death of cold. Besides, it may rain again; I don’t believe it’s all over yet.”

“Oh, camping is out of the question,” Mr. Linton answered. “We’ll have to find shelter in the township, that’s all. I suppose there’s an hotel?”

“If you call it one,” said the woman, sniffing. “Sort of bush shanty, I should call it—and not too good a specimen at that. Very rough style, and not too clean—and that’s putting a pretty fine point upon it. You couldn’t possibly take these children there.” She nodded in a friendly way at Jean and Norah.

“H’m—that’s awkward,” said the squatter. “Are there any farms about that would take us in?”

“I don’t know of any. Most of the people about here have small houses and they’re pretty crowded.” She hesitated. “If you gentlemen could manage at the hotel, I’d be very glad to have the girls here.”

“That’s very good of you,” Mr. Linton said, hesitating in his turn. She read the shade of doubt in his eyes.

“You know my husband, I think,” she said; “he’s Jack Archdale, that used to be boundary rider at the Darrells’ station.”

“Why, of course!” said Mr. Linton. “And you—weren’t you teaching in the State school at Mulgoa? I seem to remember hearing of Archdale’s wedding.”

“Yes, Mr. Darrell gave us a great wedding,” said Mrs. Archdale, smiling. “Five years ago, nearly; we came up here soon after.” Her face clouded momentarily, as if remembering. “Jack’s doing contract work; he’ll be in after a while. So, will you trust your belongings to me, Mr. Linton?”

“Only too gladly,” said the squatter, in a voice of relief. “It’s exceptionally lucky for us, Mrs. Archdale. One has to take risks of finding rowdy bush inns when one goes for wild expeditions, but I confess I’m glad not to have to take the girls there. I’m greatly obliged to you.”

“Oh, it’s a real treat to me,” she said. “It’s lonely here; I don’t seem to make great friends with the township people, and Jack’s away all day; and you can’t be always scrubbing and cleaning a house of this size, to keep yourself occupied. You don’t know how glad I’ve been of a talk with them already—and they took pity on my questions!” She flashed a smile across at Norah that suddenly made her tired face quite like that of the little laughing child in the photograph. “You won’t mind staying with me?” she asked, a little wistfully.

“We’ll be awfully glad to,” Norah said. As a rule, she was a little shy of strangers, but there was something about this woman that made her feel more like a friend; and Norah was desperately sorry for the brave heart behind the haggard eyes.

It was a little hard to say good-bye to Mr. Linton and the boys, seeing them ride off to the township in the clean, rainwashed dusk. But they found plenty to do in helping their hostess, although she would have had them sit still and do nothing. And there was an odd fascination about her—about her quick voice and quick movements, and quaint, unexpected streaks of merriment, that set them laughing very often. Archdale was a big, silent fellow, who evidently worshipped his wife’s very shadow. His eyes scarcely left her as she flitted about the kitchen preparing the evening meal. The photograph that they had seen was in every room—a big enlargement of it in Mrs. Archdale’s bedroom. It even smiled from over the polished tins upon the kitchen mantelpiece, and sometimes Norah saw the father’s eyes wander to it sadly.

After tea they talked on the front verandah, having made a joint business of the washing up. Jack Archdale went to bed soon. He had had a long day’s work in the heat. But his wife kept Jean and Norah up a little longer, always talking. A strong restlessness never left her. It was evidently hard for her to sit still, and to keep silent a harder thing yet. Still, she made them so merry when she talked that they forgot that they were tired, and were sorry when at last she packed them off to the fragrant little bedroom with the blue walls.

“I do like her,” Jean said. They were tucked into bed together, the moonlight coming in through the open window, and making a white ray across the sheet.

“She’s just a dear,” Norah agreed. “But, oh! hasn’t she sorry eyes! Don’t you wish one could make her forget?”

“My word!” said Jean, with emphasis. “But no mother ever could forget losing a little kiddie, I expect. And she hasn’t got any others.”

There came a tap at the half-open door, and Mrs. Archdale came in. She sat down on Norah’s side of the bed, which was nearest the door. The moonlight fell on her face, showing it quite colourless.

“You’re quite comfortable?” she asked. “That’s right. I thought I’d like to see. I like some one to tuck up. I thought I’d come and—and tuck you up.”

Something in her voice kept them silent. But Norah put out a half-nervous hand, and Mrs. Archdale took it and held it.

“And—and tell you about her,” she said.

Then she was silent again. Outside in the paddocks a curlew was calling wearily across the timber.

“I’m sure I must have frightened you this afternoon,” she said at last. “I was dreadfully ashamed of myself.”

“Please, don’t!” Norah whispered. “We shouldn’t have asked you.”

“Why not? If I can’t stand being asked, I have no business to keep the pictures about. Only—you see it was on just such a day as this that we lost her—fearfully hot, and ending in a big thunderstorm. Just like to-day—and whenever one comes, I go nearly mad. I can’t keep still, and all the time I’m listening and looking. I know it’s terribly foolish, but I can’t help it. Jack knows; he always understands, and he doesn’t go away from me these days unless he can’t get out of it.”

She stopped, and they felt her shivering.

“You see, we lost her in the scrub,” she said, dully.

“What!”

“She slipped away into the timber. She was only just three, and no little child has much chance in the Bush. How would they have? It’s so big and lonely, and cruel—oh, how I hate it! We hunted—we were hunting so soon! and all the district turned out, and we got the black trackers. But it was so hot—and then the big storm came up, and when it was over there were no tracks.”

She ceased, looking out of the window—so long silent that it seemed that she had forgotten them.

“So we never found her,” she said at length, quite calmly. “The Bush just took her and swallowed her up. We looked for weeks; long and long after all the other people had given it up—and they didn’t give up soon—Jack and I were hunting. All day long, and often all night too; calling and calling, as long as we thought that she could answer. And after that we hunted, only we did not call. And then, like a fool, I got brain fever, and while I was ill the big Bush fires came and burnt all that part of the scrub. It’s fifteen months ago, now.”

Jean was sobbing softly. But Norah could only cling to the hard, work-worn hand she held, very tightly.

“I often think how lucky mothers are who see their kiddies die,” the tired voice went on. “They know they helped them as much as was possible, and they have their graves to look after. I haven’t got anything—no grave, and no memories. Then I think of her lost and wandering in that horrible green prison—tired and frightened, and calling me; and I don’t know how much she suffered. Why, it scares men to get lost in the Bush—and my little Babs was only three. If I knew—if I knew that she died easily. It isn’t fair on a mother not to know, when she was such a baby thing. It isn’t fair.”

She had quite forgotten them now. It was as if she was talking to herself.

“Jack wants to go away from here,” she said. “But I can’t go. I can’t go. I always keep thinking that some day when I am walking through the scrub I might find—something. And then at least I would have the little grave. It would be easier than having just nothing. Jack doesn’t like me to go looking, now. But I have to keep on. When you’ve put your baby to bed every night for three years—kissed her and played with her—how she used to laugh!—and heard her say her little prayers, and tucked her in, you can’t settle down to leaving her alone at night out in the timber. You just can’t do it.”

Again the voice ceased, and she sat staring out of the open window. After a long while she got up, still holding Norah’s hand.

“Good-night,” she said. “Perhaps I oughtn’t to have told you. But I had to, somehow. If it hadn’t been this kind of a day I could have told you lots of funny little things she used to do.” And with that dreadful little speech on her lips she went away.

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