CHAPTER IXMortimer StevensonHe was a man, take him for all and all.'Morty came up to the selection the next Sunday—Mortimer Stevenson.'Glad to see you, Morty,' Cameron said. 'What's the news of the war? It is a week since we have seen the paper.Mortimer fastened his horses' reins to the verandah-post, then drew half a dozen papers out of his saddle-bag—a daily or two, a couple of weeklies, one or two English special war numbers.'I'd rather you read for yourself,' he said, handing them to the older man; 'it's not pretty enough to talk about much. Those Boers take a lot of beating. Of course, it will be all right as soon as Lord Roberts takes charge.'The crisp papers were in Cameron's hands; a few yards away an old canvas chair stretched itself out invitingly.'Hermie, my dear—Miss Browne—here is Mr. Stevenson,' he called down the passage of the little house.'Don't mind me, I'll just sit down here and have a smoke while you read,' Stevenson said; 'don't disturb any one, perhaps they are busy.'He sat down on the verandah step, and began to fill his pipe, and Cameron, relieved, opened his papers, and was in the Transvaal for the rest of the afternoon.To look at, Stevenson was a typical young bushman. He had added inches to his stature so rapidly, and breadth to his shoulders, that he was ill at ease anywhere but in the saddle. His complexion was burnt to a deep copper. Grey, good eyes looked squarely at you.Used to cities, you would not like his dress. A serviceable tweed suit, country-cut, one of the brilliant ties, which, so the storekeepers persuade the bush, are worn in Sydney, a soft brown hat with its dangling, string-coloured fly-veil.His father was a vigorous old man of seventy; his type occurs again and again on the out back stations.He had gathered great wealth during all those laborious years, and he spent it, if not frugally, at least with full respect for its difficult garnering. He had been a member of the Upper House, and his wife, during her lifetime, had much enjoyed the dignity of seeing his letters addressed, 'The Hon. Matthew Stevenson, M.L.C.'He had had but a rudimentary education, yet his plain common-sense and clear intellect had made the loss only a slight one to him. To his sons—six of them he had—he offered education, or at all events its equivalent—the money for it—liberally, and three of them had taken advantage of it, and gone finally into various professions in Sydney.The others—the duller three—had assimilated just as much of the tonic waters as does the ordinary youth of eighteen; then they shook the dust of Sydney off their feet, and returned thankfully to the station where their hearts had always been. Mortimer was youngest of this latter three, and the only one now unmarried.Bart came down the passage, and his eyes brightened at the sight of the figure smoking on the verandah step.'Hallo!' he said, 'just the fellow I wanted. Look here, Daly gave me a whole lot of new seed—Sheep Burnett I think he called it. Will it hurt to sow it on that place where the sorghum was?''Oh, any place will do, old chap; but you needn't waste your best ground; it's great stuff, you know—it would grow in the Sahara. Just sow it along with your grass or clover seeds.''It comes up quickly, doesn't it?' Bart said anxiously. 'Do you think it would make all down there look smooth and green and nice in a month?'Mortimer laughed. 'Are you taking to landscape gardening, Bart?' he said. 'I never knew before you had an eye for effect.'Bart sat down on the step. 'It's no joking matter, Morty,' he said. 'My mother and Challis will be home in a month; we've got to make the place look up a bit before they come. The governor's been making bonfires of all the rubbish since breakfast—it does look tidier, doesn't it?'Mortimer looked round. 'It's not the same place,' he said heartily, and added for encouragement, 'And after all, perhaps they won't come, old fellow; you know you've had a lot of false alarms.''Oh, but this time it's certain,' Bart said, and not without unhappiness; 'they've actually started by this.'Floss came clattering out in her rough boots. She sat down on the other side of the family friend.'I knewed it was you when I heard Pup bark,' she said; 'you came last Sunday, too, and the Sunday before that.''Did I, Flossie?' he said. 'That sounds as if it were a Sunday too many.''Oh no, no one minds you,' she answered; 'if it were your father, now, or the Revering Mr. Smith, it might be a nuisance; we'd have to put a clean tablecloth on for them.''And that sounds as if I am going to be asked to stay to tea, Floss?' Mortimer said.'Of course you are,' was Flossie's reply. 'Miss Browne says it's the least we can do, considering all the papers and things you give us. Only she says she doesn't know how she's going to make the butter spin out. We don't get it from the store again till Thursday.''There, hold your tongue, Floss,' said Bart, 'you'll make Morty afraid to take any.''Oh no, he needn't be,' Floss said. 'Me and Roly's going to say we don't like it under our jam.'Roly came stealthily from behind some trees.'Where is she?' he whispered.'It's all right,' Floss said; 'she's got to change her dress, and her hair was pretty awful, so she'll have to do it again.'Thus reassured, Roly ventured to the step, and took up a position at Mortimer's shoulder. He was attired in an orange and blue-striped football jersey, and the most respectable pair of knickerbockers he possessed. Mortimer had given him the jersey on his last birthday, and it was the boy's dearest possession.'Why,' said Mortimer, 'what have you been after? Is Miss Browne laying wait for you for stealing her jam?''Oh no,' said Roly. 'It's only this,' and he pointed to his jersey; 'she doesn't think it's religious to wear football things on Sunday.''Well,' said Floss, in the virtuous tone a clean pinafore made justifiable, 'I don't think it is, either. Look at me. I learnt a collect this morning.''A what?' said Roly.'A collect,' said Floss. 'Collect for the thirteenth Sunday after Trinity. Hermie wasn't sure if this was the right Sunday, only it was a nice short one to begin with.''Does Miss Hermie teach you your collects?' asked Mortimer, his head turned away a little.'She wants to,' said Floss, 'but I don't know if she'll always be able to find me. She was looking for Roly, too, this morning, only he was playing Boers somewhere, so he got off.''Wasn't playing Boers,' said Roly. 'I was putting a new name on our gate.''What a story you are!' cried Floss. 'I saw you creeping along with father's guns.''Wasn't!' said Roly. 'Hadn't I got this jersey on?''That's nothing; you sleep in it—truly he does, Morty. As soon as Hermie or Miss Browne go out of the room, he puts on the jersey over his pyjamas. Why he hates school is 'cause he can't go in it.''What name were you writing on the gate, old fellow?' asked Mortimer, to save the situation.'Transvaal Vale,' said Roly; 'come on down and see—it looks great. I rubbed Hermie's silly name off.'But Mortimer did not move. Dunks' Selection the place had always been, and always would be called; but Hermie in piteous rebellion had written years ago in violet ink on the sliprails, The Rosery. Mortimer would not go and look at the poor little name defaced.Miss Browne came out, Miss Browne with her face shiny with recent washing, her hair almost tidy, the better of her two colourless gowns on her back.'Very glad indeed to see you—very sorry to keep you waiting so long—hope you, your father is quite well—Bart, my dear, a chair—what are you thinking of, to let Mr. Stevenson sit on the step?—very sad about the war—Flossie, don't tease Mr. Stevenson, my dear—quite a cool day—providential thing the drought has broken—hope you will stay to tea.'These and sundry other remarks she delivered breathlessly, and at the end put her hand to her side and gasped gently.'I shall be most pleased to stay, Miss Browne, if it will be putting you to no inconvenience,' Mortimer said.'Most pleased—most happy—an honour—who is so kind, so thoughtful—those English magazines—and she had never thanked him yet, and those delicious chocolates—too good of him; most glad if he would stay—uncomfortable house—unavoidable—bush, no comfort—he would understand——''He knows he's not to take more than two helpings of butter,' said Bart, with a twinkle in his eye.'Bart, my dear—oh, my love—your mother—what would she say?—Mr. Stevenson—what can he think?—my dear—oh, my love,' and the poor lady withdrew in hot haste, to hide the embarrassment Bart had plunged her into, and to laboriously prepare tea.'I see your father's come down generously,' said Mr. Cameron, glancing up a moment from his papers. 'Matthew Stevenson—that is your father, of course—five thousand pounds, and more if wanted, to the fund for the Bushmen's Contingent.''Yes, that's the governor,' Mortimer said. 'He's red-hot on the war. I believe if he were five years younger, wild horses wouldn't keep him back from volunteering himself. You must come up to Coolooli and have a chat with him over it, Mr. Cameron.'But Cameron was deep again in the war correspondent's letter.Bart went off to feed the calves—Roly had vanished at the sound of Miss Browne's footstep.'Did you know our mother and Challis was coming home, Morty?' said Floss.'Bart just told me—yes, that will be very nice for you, Flossie. All will be well, now, won't it?' said Mortimer.'Oh, you're like the rest, are you?' Floss said. 'Every one going to live happy ever after, eh? No, thank you, not me; I'm always going to hate them. They don't get over me. No, thank you. I know them—bring me a doll, won't they? and "There you are, Flossie darling, sweetest, come and kiss us." Not me. See my finger wet, see it dry, cut my throat sure's ever I die, if I have anything to do with them. Stuck-ups, that's what they are!'Mortimer gazed on the child, a little uncomfortable horror mixed with his amusement; his bringing-up had been orthodox, and reverence for parents was entwined with all his life.'Why, girlie,' he said, 'this is shocking! Your own mother!''Challis's mother,' corrected Floss. 'Didn't she go off and leave me? Lot she cared! I was only two, Lizzie says, and I might have picked up anything, and eaten it and died. Even Mrs. Bickle minds her baby, although she does get drunk at times. S'pose I'd had measles? or Roly? We'd have died, or at least got dropsy, Lizzie says, having no mother to nurse us. No, thank you—no getting round me with a doll. As for that Challis, I'll give her a time of it—just you see.''But—but—but,' cried Mortimer, greatly at a loss, 'your mother is as fond of you as anything, of course. I expect it is very hard for her to go so long without seeing you. She doesn't do it on purpose, old woman. You see, Challis was so clever they had to give her a chance.''How do they know I'm not clever?' demanded Floss. 'I believe I am. You should have seen the man I drew on my slate this morning. Or how do they know I couldn't play before the Queen? I'm up to "What are the Wild Waves Saying?" and it's got two flats.'Mortimer had no answer for this; he could only gaze at her.There was another step in the doorway, and Hermie came out, a very slender-looking Hermie in the let-down white frock that had made a woman of her in a day. Floss leaned back and giggled as her sister shook hands with the visitor.'He! he! he! She's put her long dress on,' she said. 'Morty, look! it's as long as Miss Browne's. You'd think she never had short ones, wouldn't you? She's 'tending she's growed up.''Flossie,' said Mortimer, 'wouldn't you like to look at my watch? you haven't seen the works for a long time.''Me holding it then,' stipulated Flossie.'All right,' said Mortimer, and gave up his valuable timekeeper into the bony little outstretched hand.'You spoil that child shockingly,' Hermie said.Floss looked up from the entrancing little wheels.'He spoils you worser,' she said. 'Look at the books and flowers and chocolates he brings over and gives you, no matter how bad-tempered you may be.'Hermie looked vaguely disturbed.'Spoil me—do you spoil me? Surely I'm too big,' she said.The man's heart leapt to his eyes.'Wish I'd the chance,' he muttered.'What did you say?' said Hermie.'Nothing,' said Mortimer, and began to smoke furiously again.'Morty,' said Floss, 'Morty, how many times does the littlest wheel turn while the big wheel turns once?''Thirteen,' Mortimer said recklessly.—'I hear your mother is coming home, Miss Cameron?''Yes,' sighed Hermie.'This is surely very good news?'Hermie gave a troubled glance around.'Y-yes,' she said.'Why, what a story you are, Morty!' said Floss. 'It doesn't turn thirteen times.''I mean thirty,' said Morty. 'Miss Cameron, I have three men loafing around at the sheds, and can't find work for them to do. It would be doing me a real kindness if you'd let them put in their time straightening up this place.''Thank you,' Hermie said, 'but we should not like to employ men we were not paying.''Not when they're eating their heads off in idleness?' implored Morty.'No, thank you,' Hermie said stiffly.'I beg your pardon,' Mortimer said dejectedly.'I should think you do,' cried Floss; 'it doesn't turn anything like thirty times. I wouldn't have a watch I didn't understand. Here, take it.'He pocketed it humbly.'I'd like to see the ground Bart spoke of sowing Burnett on,' he said, plunging away from his mistake. 'Will you walk down with me, Miss Cameron? It is quite cool and pleasant now.'Hermie rose to her feet, then remembered her shabby little shoes that she had all this time been successfully hiding beneath her long dress.'Oh,' she said, 'it's too far. Floss will go with you, won't you, Floss? I will go in and help Miss Browne with tea.'CHAPTER X'I Love You''The bird of life is singing on the boughHis two eternal notes of "I and Thou."'It was after tea, and the long shadows of the dusk had fallen so gently, so tenderly, that even Dunks' selection had a beauty of its own.Mortimer sat on the verandah and talked war to Mr. Cameron till his very soul loathed the Transvaal. Then he was captured by Bart, and forced into the dining-room to explain something in theTown and Country Journal, and give his opinion on the merits of Johnson's Grass.And when he went outside again, Roly and Floss hung upon his arms and begged and begged him to 'come with us a bit.'At eight o'clock he broke away from them, and stumbled through the dark passage to the kitchen regions to seek Miss Browne.But here only an oil-lamp flickered in the breeze; even Lizzie was away from her post, having gone before tea to walk to Wilgandra, in the urgent need of a little pleasant human intercourse, ere she began another grey week.There was a door open near by, and glancing in Morty saw Miss Browne, seated at her cleared dressing-table so busily writing and so surrounded by little papers and letters he came to a vague conclusion that she was 'literary.''Miss Browne,' he called imploringly.She laid down her pen and hastened to the door to him.He seized both her hands, he pressed them, he wrung them as he stood, labouring with his excitement.'Miss Browne,' he said, 'will you help me? You must help—oh, do not refuse—she has gone down the garden alone—I think she is leaning on the gate. I must go to her. I must go to her. Will you keep them back—all the others—could you get them in a room and turn the key—how can I tell her if they follow me like this?''Tell her—who—what—why?' said the astonished Miss Browne.'I love her,' said the man; 'I love her with all my soul—I must tell her; you will help me?'His face looked quite white; there was a moisture on his forehead, his eager voice shook.Miss Browne was crying; she had taken one of his big hands and was stroking it.'Oh, my dear, my dear!' she said. 'How beautiful, how very beautiful! Oh, my love, how sweet—oh, how sweet, my love!''You will help?' he said. 'You will keep those little beggars away?''Leave it to me,' she said; 'you go to her, down in the garden, and the dusk is here, and the moon beginning to rise! How sweet, how beautiful! And she has on a white dress! Don't trouble about anything, my love—just go out to her.' The happy tears were gushing from her eyes.'What a good sort you are!' he said, and wrung her hand, and patted her shoulder, then went plunging out into the sweet darkness to tell his love.He found her where the wattles grew thickest, leaning on the fence, her flower-face turned to the young rising moon.'How did you know I was here?' she said.'I knew,' he answered, and a long silence fell. 'What are you thinking of?' he whispered.'I don't—know,' she said, and a strange little sob shook in her throat.His arm sprang round her.'Oh,' he said, 'I love you—I do love you! Dearest, dearest, I love you! Do love me, darling—I love you, I love you so!'Hermie was trembling like the little leaves around them—too surprised, too stricken with the newness of the situation even to slip out of his arms. The pleased young moon smiled down at them, the leaves whispered the news all along the bush, an exquisite perfume of flowers and trees and freshening grass rose up to them. How sweet something was—the clasp about her waist, the kisses that had rained upon her cheeks, the eager, beautiful words that still were beating in her ears!'Oh, I don't understand, I don't understand,' said the excited girl, and burst into strange tears, and tried to move from his arms, and put a startled hand to her cheeks, to feel what difference those kisses had made.'Did I frighten you—did I frighten you, my darling, my little girl?' he said. 'See there, don't tremble, I will take my arm away. It is too big and rough, isn't it? There, there, I won't even kiss you; let me hold your hand, there. You have only to understand that I love you, that I have always loved you—ever since you were a tiny thing of twelve, and I used to ride this way just for the pleasure of watching you. You were like no other child here, so slender and sweet and white and pink, and all that shining hair hanging round you. I think I wanted you always. I wanted to pick you up and put you on the saddle in front of me and ride away with you—away and away right out of the world. You will let me, darling? You will try to love me a little? You will be my own little wife?'Wife! One of the Daly girls had just been married to a boundary rider near. Hermie had seen the lonely place where they were to live together with no one else to break the monotony.Wife! All those dull, uninteresting women who came to call in Wilgandra were wives, all those dull, horrid men in Wilgandra were their husbands.Be married; she, Hermie Cameron, like the girls in Miss Browne's books! Perhaps it might not be so very bad—they all seemed to look forward to it.But to Mortimer Stevenson! Oh no, none of them ever married any one like that, the men there were all officers, penniless young artists and authors, or at least earls. Most of them had proud black eyes and cynical smiles, and spoke darkly of their youth. Or else they were debonair young men with laughing blue eyes and Saxon curly hair.Mortimer! She had actually forgotten it was only Mortimer speaking all this time, Mortimer Stevenson, who wore red and blue painful ties, and grew red if she spoke to him, and knocked chairs over in his clumsiness, and had never been anywhere farther than Sydney, and thought Wilgandra and his father's station the nicest places in the world.A cloud came over the happy moon, the leaves hung sad and still; from somewhere far away came the piteous wail of the curlew.Hermie freed her hand and found her voice.'This is really ridiculous,' she said petulantly. 'I suppose you are in fun.''In fun!' he echoed dully.'Yes, you can't really be serious. Think what a fearfully long time we have known each other! I'd as soon think of being married to Bart, or Bill Daly.'He winced at Daly—big, coarse, uneducated bushman.'If I waited a long time, couldn't you grow to love me?' he said. 'I could stop doing anything you don't like; I—I would go through the University like James and Walter did, if you liked.'The exceeding pain in his voice touched the girl's awakening heart.'Forgive me, Morty,' she said, 'it must seem very horrid of me. I didn't understand myself at first——''Perhaps—perhaps——' he began hopefully.'No, I am sure, quite, quite sure I could never love you,' she said decidedly. 'I shall never marry, I have quite made up my mind. There is no one I could ever care for enough.''Have you anything particularly against me?' persisted Mortimer. 'I'd alter anything; you don't know how I would try.' His voice choked.She could not instance his ties, his clumsy length of limb, his habit of furious blushing.'You make it very hard for me,' she said. 'I—I wish you would go home; I want to go to bed.''Forgive me,' he said humbly. 'Forgive me; you have been very good and patient with me. I will go at once.'Hermie looked for him to move. He took a step away from her—a step back—a step away. The sad moon came out and showed her his blurred miserable eyes, his working mouth.'Oh, I am sorry—sorry!' she cried.'May I kiss you—just once?' he whispered.She stood still, her head drooped down, till he lifted it, very gently, very tenderly, and bent his head and put his quivering lips on hers.Her hand went gently round his neck a minute.'Poor Morty, dear Morty!' she said. Her breath came warm on his cheek one second, and a feather kiss, a sweet little sorry kiss that made his heart like bursting, was laid there.The next second she had slipped away into the darkness, and he was stumbling to find his horse and carry his misery as far as he might.Hermie went a circuitous route round the back of the cottage, so anxious was she to reach her bedroom without having her hot cheeks challenged by the sharp eyes of Floss or Roly. And there on the back verandah, where they never went, the two little figures were sitting, one at either end with their backs against a post.'It's time you were in bed,' were the natural words that sprang to her lips, when she found she might not elude them.Two laughs bubbled up. 'We're not going to bed for hours,' they said; 'we're having a 'speriment.''A what?' said Hermie.'See this,' said Floss, standing up, 'we're both tied to the posts with the clothes-line. Such larks! Brownie said she wanted to try a 'speriment on us, and see if we could sit still for two hours. If we do, she's going to give me her little gold brooch, and Roly the green heart out of her work-box.''We can swop them at school for usefuller things,' interpolated Roly.'The best is,' giggled Floss, 'we like sitting still, we'd been running about all day. And she forgot to tell us not to speak to each other, and she didn't put us too far to play knuckle-bones. I've wonned Roly three times.'But Hermie had gone in, an impatient doubt as to Miss Browne's sanity crossing her mind.She found Bart climbing out of the dining-room window.'Did you go doing that?' he demanded.'What?' said Hermie.'Lock the door while I was reading.''Of course I didn't,' Hermie said impatiently.'It's that young beggar Roly,' Bart said; 'I'll have to take it out of him for this. He'd even jammed the window, and I'd no end or work to get it open. I want to go and help father.''Where is he?' Hermie said.'He's washing the paint-brushes in the cowshed,' said Bart. 'Isn't it lucky? Morty says there are about three dozen tins of red paint at his place, no earthly good to any one, and he's going to send them down in the morning, and dad and I are going to give all the place a coat of paint before mother comes.'Hermie went to her bedroom, shut the door, and sat down by the window, glad of the sheltering darkness.But two or three feet away, at the next window, sat Miss Browne, also in the dark, Miss Browne, now crying happily into her wet handkerchief, now looking at the moon and whispering, 'Love, love, how beautiful, how beautiful!'The sound of footsteps, however, in the adjoining room brought her swiftly outside Hermie's window.'Hermie!' she cried in a breathless tone at the sight of the girl sitting there in her white dress. 'That cannot be you?''Yes, it is,' said Hermie; 'why shouldn't it be?''Oh, my love, my love! It is hardly half an hour. I thought two hours, at the least. My dear, my love, no one disturbed you? Oh, my love, don't tell me Roly and Floss got loose?''I don't know what you mean,' Hermie said shortly, 'but I can't help thinking it is rather ridiculous to keep those children sitting there. They ought to be in bed. I am going to bed.''To bed—my love—my dear!' gasped Miss Browne. 'Where is he?''Where is who?' asked Hermie impatiently.'M-M-Mr. M-Mortimer Stevenson,' said Miss Browne in a whisper.Hermie had her secret to hide.'What should I know about Mr. Stevenson?' she said coldly. 'I presume he has gone home.'Gone home! All could not have gone well and happily in half an hour! Miss Browne grew quite pale.Such a sweet half-hour it had been for her! For twenty minutes of it she had thought of nothing but the white light of love that was going to flood Hermie's life. But during the last ten minutes there had come to her a thought of the material advantages that would accrue to the girl—Stevenson would have four or five thousand a year at his father's death. It had been very sweet to sit and think of dear little flower-faced Hermie lifted for ever above the sordid cares of wretched housekeeping.'My love—my dear,' she faltered, 'I—I am old enough to be your mother. Could you trust me—won't you——'But Hermie, with the blind young eyes of a girl, saw nothing outside her window but tiresome Miss Browne, crying a little into her handkerchief (she often cried), stammering out sentences that seemed to have no beginning or end (her sentences seldom had), twisting her fingers about (she never kept them still).This, when the girl's excited heart wanted to be away from all voices, all eyes, and go over the strange sensations, with the moon alone for witness.'Miss Browne,' she said, making a strong effort not to speak unkindly, 'I have a headache to-night, and want to be alone. Would you be so kind as to keep what you have to say till morning, and tell me then?'Nothing could have been swifter than the way Miss Browne melted away into the darkness.CHAPTER XIA Squatter PatriotIt was eleven o'clock before Mortimer reached home, not that Coolooli lay two hours and a half distant from the selection, but that he was trying to ride and ride till the raw edges of his wound had closed together somewhat.Finally he remembered his father would be waiting up for him—one of the old man's fixed customs was to be the last one up in his house—and he turned his mare's head in the direction of the sleeping station. He rode up through the moonlit paddocks and the belts of bush, and wondered a little, as he looked at his home, that the sadness of the place had never struck him before.The house rose on the crest of a hill, convict-built, most of it, in the very early days of the colony, and with a wing or two added here and there. Large, thoroughly comfortable, yet it stood there with a certain air of sternness, as if it knew what unhappy hands had laid its strong foundations, what human misery built up its plain thick walls.No creepers clung to it and wooed it with their grace; no fluttering muslins, fashioned by women's hands, blew about its plain windows. In the wide garden that encircled it trees grew, and handsome shrubs, but the flowers seemed to know themselves for strangers there, and came not. Mortimer's eyes went to the twin hill, half a mile away.How often had he raised a house on that! Not a grim, plain one, like this his home, but a large sunny cottage, with wide verandahs and large bright windows, and a garden where all the sweet flowers in the world ran mad.Near enough the big house for the old man, left to himself, not to feel lonely; far enough away for Hermie to be unquestioned queen, and free as the winds that blew.Oh, the happy hours he had wandered on that farther hill, raising that happy home to receive his love! There had even been a moonlight night or two when he had furnished it—furnished it with deep chairs and wide sofas and delicious hammocks, all for the little light-haired girl who worked so hard on that wretched selection to nestle into and rest. He had begun to work harder and give deeper thought than was his wont to the management of the station; there would be plenty of money for an income, he knew, but he wanted even more than plenty; he wanted the little hands that had always been so afraid to spend sixpence, to revel in the joy of flinging sovereigns broadcast. He had been waiting—waiting to tell her, it seemed for years—waiting till she was just a little older and a little older.But the long frock to-day had told him she was a woman, and he had rushed to know his fate; and now all was over.He put his saddle in the harness-room, and turned the horse out into the moonlit paddock. He went in through the side door, down the wide hall where the lamps still burned for him, and into the dining-room.His father was sitting at the big table drinking very temperately at whiskey and water, and reading a paper.'I'm sorry to have kept you up, dad,' Mortimer said.'That's all right,' said his father, 'it's not often you do it.''No,' said Mortimer.The old man pushed the spirit-casket across the table.'You look as if you've got a chill,' he said; 'take a nip.'The son poured himself a finger's depth, and drank it off, his father watching him from under his shaggy eyebrows.'Did Luke or Jack come up this afternoon?' asked Mortimer.'Jack and his wife,' said the old man. 'Luke went to Sydney yesterday, Jack says, to watch the sales himself.''Take Bertha with him?''I rather think the young woman took him. Don't believe she's the wife for any squatter; Macquarie Street's the only run she'll ever settle on, with the theatres and dancing halls within cooey.''Oh, well,' sighed Mortimer, 'Luke can afford it, and he seems happy enough. Anything fresh about the war? You seem to have all the papers there.'The old man's eyes gleamed, his hand trembled as he reached for an evening paper, and opened it.'See here,' he said, 'Buller's made a fatal mistake, a fatal mistake. He's advancing on Ladysmith by this route, wheeling here and doubling there, and having a brush or two on the way. Now, what he ought to have done is plainly to have gone along by night marches up here, and taken up a strong position here. See, I've marked the way he ought to have gone with those red dots. You don't look as if you agree.''Oh,' said Mortimer, 'I don't know anything about it. But I should say those Johnnies at the head of things know what they're about better than we can out here.''Not a bit, not a bit,' said the old man excitedly; 'it's always the looker-on who sees the most. He's just rushing on to his doom, and those brave chaps shut up in that death-trap'll never get as much relief from this attempt as they would if I sent old Rover out. You mark my words and see. This range of hills is the key of the position, and until those thick-headed generals can be brought to see it, there'll be defeat after defeat. Did I tell you Blake and Lewis and Walsh and Simons came to me, and asked to volunteer?''Whew!' said Mortimer. 'I don't see how we'll get along without Blake. Did you give your consent?''Consent!' cried the old man. 'If the place went to ruin, d'ye think I'd keep the fellow back? I gave him a cheque, and I promised to look after his wife and brats if he fell; that's what I did.''But it's unlucky Walsh wants to go too,' said Mortimer; 'he'd have been the very fellow to take Blake's place. We could have better spared Doherty.''That mean-spirited dog! A lot of volunteering there is in him. He'll take good care to keep his cowardly carcase out of bullet range.'Mortimer looked thoughtful, and poured a little more whiskey into his tumbler.'I suppose we must get fresh men on in their places straight away,' he said; 'we don't want the place to suffer.''Hang the place!' shouted the old man; 'let it go to ruin if it likes. Every man that has the pluck to come and tell me he'll go and shoot at them scoundrels out there, hang me, it's a cheque I'll give 'im, and be a father to his brats if he's got any, and keep his place open till he comes back. And a horse to each—the best I've got on the place—hang me, two horses.''It's very generous of you, father,' Mortimer said, a little unsteadily. 'I see, too, by yesterday's paper, you are giving five thousand pounds to the fund. I—hardly knew you felt as strongly about it as this.'The old man sprang up, and began to thunder about the room.'Feel strongly about it—strongly! If I was only ten years younger, I'd do more than feel strongly! Me very bed's like stones the nights the cables show no victories; the food in me mouth turns to dust. Feel strongly!'Mortimer left the table, and stood at the window looking out at the moonlight that made snow of the twin hill. He did not know he drummed on the window pane until his excited father roared to him to stop. Then he turned and went across the room to where his father was sitting again at the table, gazing with furious eyes at the cables that told of Buller's line of march.'Father,' he said, and put his hand on the old man's shoulder, 'will you give me a couple of horses? I don't know that I want the cheque.'Old Stevenson trembled. 'You're fooling me,' he said.'I wouldn't fool when you're so much in earnest,' Mortimer said. 'I'm afraid I'm a slow-witted chap. It never occurred to me before to-night to volunteer. Now it seems the one thing I'd care to do in all the world.'The old man breathed hard.'I'm not as young as I was, Morty,' he said quaveringly; 'I—can't take disappointments easy. You're not just saying this lightly? You'll abide by it?''The only thing that could stand in my way,' said Mortimer, 'would be your objection. That is removed, since it never existed; so it only remains to find out the date of the sailing of the Bush contingent. Thanks to your subscription, there'll be no difficulty in getting me in, for I know my riding and shooting will pass muster.''Morty,' the old man was clinging to the young one's arm, 'Morty, I'd given up the hope of ever seeing this day. Six sons I had—six, and not a puny, poor one among them. That's what held me up when the war got into me veins first, and I had to face it that seventy was too old to fight. It took some facing, lad. After that I just waited and waited. And none of you spoke. I kep' reading the Sydney news, to find that my sons there was going. None of their names was in. Dick, I could ha' forgave him—p'r'aps—as he's six childers and a wife; but James, a doctor, no end of chances to get in. And Walter, the best shot and best horseman ever come from out back. Never a word that Walter had blood in his veins. I thought it might be funds stoppin' 'em—they might be feared to leave their businesses, thinking they'd suffer. No need of that, I thinks, and sends them a cheque a-piece—a solid thousand each. Does that fetch 'em? Not it. They writes back, very useful, come in nicely. Jack here, married to a wife, wouldn't mind going—see some life; but wife cries and clings, and he gives in. Luke! No son of mine. Oh, I'll not cut him out my will, or do anything dirty by him, but don't never let him give me his hand no more. Cries down his own people, upholds the dirty scoundrelly Boers, and hopes they'll win their fight; dead against the Britain that his own father comed from. My only lad left at home——''Well, that laggard at least is off to shoot his best,' said Mortimer lightly.'Morty,' said the old man, and pressed his hand, 'you'll ha' to forgive me. I've had hard thoughts of you, Morty.' His faded eyes were suffused.'Don't let's think of that, dad,' said Mortimer. 'What horses do you think I'd better take?''In the morning, in the morning,' said Stevenson. 'I only want to sit still to-night, and thank God I've got one son that's a man.'Mortimer looked at the creased, illumined face, the wet eyes, the old, working mouth. His heart swelled towards him.'Dad, old fellow,' he said, 'I'm hard hit. I love a girl, and she won't have me.'His father gripped his hand.'Poor chap, poor chap!' he said. 'I know, I've been through it. I loved a girl before I married your mother, and I met her daughter the other day, and it was the same as if it had been yesterday.' He looked at his big son with new eyes. 'The girl's got hanged bad taste,' he said.'You'd have liked her, dad,' Morty said. 'Not like the girls round here, big, strapping women; very slender and sweet-looking, her skin's as pink and soft as that baby of Jack's.''Happen I know her?' said his father.'Her name is Hermie Cameron,' Mortimer said.'That thriftless beggar's daughter!' was on the old man's lips, but the look on his son's face checked him.'Yes—a pretty child,' was what he said instead, and thanked Heaven that her taste had been so bad.'See here, dad,' Mortimer said awkwardly, 'of course it's not in the least likely I shall get hit—-but of course war's war, and there's a chance that one may get knocked over.''I don't need telling that,' said the old man quickly.Mortimer pressed his shoulder. 'It's this, dad,' he said. 'I want to ask you a favour The Camerons—they're so hard up, it—it makes me fairly miserable.''A cheque, lad,' said the father eagerly, 'of course, of course. Would a thousand pounds do? You shall have it to-night—this minute.'He was moving to get his cheque-book, but Morty detained him.'No, no, dad,' he said, 'you don't know poor Cameron; he's the most unfortunate fellow in the world, but he's the last man who would take a present of money.''I could offer it as a loan,' suggested the old man.'No, he wouldn't have even that, I'm positive,' Mortimer said. 'I've tried a time or two myself, but he's choked me off jolly quickly.''Then what can I do, boy?' the father said helplessly. 'Believe me, I'm willing enough.''I know, I know, dad. All I want to ask you is to keep an eye on them, and if you can do them a turn, do it. The mother's coming from England in a month or so, and I'd give my head to be able to make the place look up a bit. Cameron and his boy are fairly killing themselves to do their best, but you can guess what their best is when there's only labour and not a sixpence to spend.''You leave it to me, leave it to me,' said Stevenson.'And one other thing,' said Morty. 'Of course I won't, dad, but if I should come a cropper, will you let some of my share go to the little girl I wanted?''She shall have every penny of it,' cried the old man; 'hang me, it's the least I can do.'They gripped hands.'Good-night, boy!''Good-night, dad!'
CHAPTER IX
Mortimer Stevenson
He was a man, take him for all and all.'
He was a man, take him for all and all.'
He was a man, take him for all and all.'
Morty came up to the selection the next Sunday—Mortimer Stevenson.
'Glad to see you, Morty,' Cameron said. 'What's the news of the war? It is a week since we have seen the paper.
Mortimer fastened his horses' reins to the verandah-post, then drew half a dozen papers out of his saddle-bag—a daily or two, a couple of weeklies, one or two English special war numbers.
'I'd rather you read for yourself,' he said, handing them to the older man; 'it's not pretty enough to talk about much. Those Boers take a lot of beating. Of course, it will be all right as soon as Lord Roberts takes charge.'
The crisp papers were in Cameron's hands; a few yards away an old canvas chair stretched itself out invitingly.
'Hermie, my dear—Miss Browne—here is Mr. Stevenson,' he called down the passage of the little house.
'Don't mind me, I'll just sit down here and have a smoke while you read,' Stevenson said; 'don't disturb any one, perhaps they are busy.'
He sat down on the verandah step, and began to fill his pipe, and Cameron, relieved, opened his papers, and was in the Transvaal for the rest of the afternoon.
To look at, Stevenson was a typical young bushman. He had added inches to his stature so rapidly, and breadth to his shoulders, that he was ill at ease anywhere but in the saddle. His complexion was burnt to a deep copper. Grey, good eyes looked squarely at you.
Used to cities, you would not like his dress. A serviceable tweed suit, country-cut, one of the brilliant ties, which, so the storekeepers persuade the bush, are worn in Sydney, a soft brown hat with its dangling, string-coloured fly-veil.
His father was a vigorous old man of seventy; his type occurs again and again on the out back stations.
He had gathered great wealth during all those laborious years, and he spent it, if not frugally, at least with full respect for its difficult garnering. He had been a member of the Upper House, and his wife, during her lifetime, had much enjoyed the dignity of seeing his letters addressed, 'The Hon. Matthew Stevenson, M.L.C.'
He had had but a rudimentary education, yet his plain common-sense and clear intellect had made the loss only a slight one to him. To his sons—six of them he had—he offered education, or at all events its equivalent—the money for it—liberally, and three of them had taken advantage of it, and gone finally into various professions in Sydney.
The others—the duller three—had assimilated just as much of the tonic waters as does the ordinary youth of eighteen; then they shook the dust of Sydney off their feet, and returned thankfully to the station where their hearts had always been. Mortimer was youngest of this latter three, and the only one now unmarried.
Bart came down the passage, and his eyes brightened at the sight of the figure smoking on the verandah step.
'Hallo!' he said, 'just the fellow I wanted. Look here, Daly gave me a whole lot of new seed—Sheep Burnett I think he called it. Will it hurt to sow it on that place where the sorghum was?'
'Oh, any place will do, old chap; but you needn't waste your best ground; it's great stuff, you know—it would grow in the Sahara. Just sow it along with your grass or clover seeds.'
'It comes up quickly, doesn't it?' Bart said anxiously. 'Do you think it would make all down there look smooth and green and nice in a month?'
Mortimer laughed. 'Are you taking to landscape gardening, Bart?' he said. 'I never knew before you had an eye for effect.'
Bart sat down on the step. 'It's no joking matter, Morty,' he said. 'My mother and Challis will be home in a month; we've got to make the place look up a bit before they come. The governor's been making bonfires of all the rubbish since breakfast—it does look tidier, doesn't it?'
Mortimer looked round. 'It's not the same place,' he said heartily, and added for encouragement, 'And after all, perhaps they won't come, old fellow; you know you've had a lot of false alarms.'
'Oh, but this time it's certain,' Bart said, and not without unhappiness; 'they've actually started by this.'
Floss came clattering out in her rough boots. She sat down on the other side of the family friend.
'I knewed it was you when I heard Pup bark,' she said; 'you came last Sunday, too, and the Sunday before that.'
'Did I, Flossie?' he said. 'That sounds as if it were a Sunday too many.'
'Oh no, no one minds you,' she answered; 'if it were your father, now, or the Revering Mr. Smith, it might be a nuisance; we'd have to put a clean tablecloth on for them.'
'And that sounds as if I am going to be asked to stay to tea, Floss?' Mortimer said.
'Of course you are,' was Flossie's reply. 'Miss Browne says it's the least we can do, considering all the papers and things you give us. Only she says she doesn't know how she's going to make the butter spin out. We don't get it from the store again till Thursday.'
'There, hold your tongue, Floss,' said Bart, 'you'll make Morty afraid to take any.'
'Oh no, he needn't be,' Floss said. 'Me and Roly's going to say we don't like it under our jam.'
Roly came stealthily from behind some trees.
'Where is she?' he whispered.
'It's all right,' Floss said; 'she's got to change her dress, and her hair was pretty awful, so she'll have to do it again.'
Thus reassured, Roly ventured to the step, and took up a position at Mortimer's shoulder. He was attired in an orange and blue-striped football jersey, and the most respectable pair of knickerbockers he possessed. Mortimer had given him the jersey on his last birthday, and it was the boy's dearest possession.
'Why,' said Mortimer, 'what have you been after? Is Miss Browne laying wait for you for stealing her jam?'
'Oh no,' said Roly. 'It's only this,' and he pointed to his jersey; 'she doesn't think it's religious to wear football things on Sunday.'
'Well,' said Floss, in the virtuous tone a clean pinafore made justifiable, 'I don't think it is, either. Look at me. I learnt a collect this morning.'
'A what?' said Roly.
'A collect,' said Floss. 'Collect for the thirteenth Sunday after Trinity. Hermie wasn't sure if this was the right Sunday, only it was a nice short one to begin with.'
'Does Miss Hermie teach you your collects?' asked Mortimer, his head turned away a little.
'She wants to,' said Floss, 'but I don't know if she'll always be able to find me. She was looking for Roly, too, this morning, only he was playing Boers somewhere, so he got off.'
'Wasn't playing Boers,' said Roly. 'I was putting a new name on our gate.'
'What a story you are!' cried Floss. 'I saw you creeping along with father's guns.'
'Wasn't!' said Roly. 'Hadn't I got this jersey on?'
'That's nothing; you sleep in it—truly he does, Morty. As soon as Hermie or Miss Browne go out of the room, he puts on the jersey over his pyjamas. Why he hates school is 'cause he can't go in it.'
'What name were you writing on the gate, old fellow?' asked Mortimer, to save the situation.
'Transvaal Vale,' said Roly; 'come on down and see—it looks great. I rubbed Hermie's silly name off.'
But Mortimer did not move. Dunks' Selection the place had always been, and always would be called; but Hermie in piteous rebellion had written years ago in violet ink on the sliprails, The Rosery. Mortimer would not go and look at the poor little name defaced.
Miss Browne came out, Miss Browne with her face shiny with recent washing, her hair almost tidy, the better of her two colourless gowns on her back.
'Very glad indeed to see you—very sorry to keep you waiting so long—hope you, your father is quite well—Bart, my dear, a chair—what are you thinking of, to let Mr. Stevenson sit on the step?—very sad about the war—Flossie, don't tease Mr. Stevenson, my dear—quite a cool day—providential thing the drought has broken—hope you will stay to tea.'
These and sundry other remarks she delivered breathlessly, and at the end put her hand to her side and gasped gently.
'I shall be most pleased to stay, Miss Browne, if it will be putting you to no inconvenience,' Mortimer said.
'Most pleased—most happy—an honour—who is so kind, so thoughtful—those English magazines—and she had never thanked him yet, and those delicious chocolates—too good of him; most glad if he would stay—uncomfortable house—unavoidable—bush, no comfort—he would understand——'
'He knows he's not to take more than two helpings of butter,' said Bart, with a twinkle in his eye.
'Bart, my dear—oh, my love—your mother—what would she say?—Mr. Stevenson—what can he think?—my dear—oh, my love,' and the poor lady withdrew in hot haste, to hide the embarrassment Bart had plunged her into, and to laboriously prepare tea.
'I see your father's come down generously,' said Mr. Cameron, glancing up a moment from his papers. 'Matthew Stevenson—that is your father, of course—five thousand pounds, and more if wanted, to the fund for the Bushmen's Contingent.'
'Yes, that's the governor,' Mortimer said. 'He's red-hot on the war. I believe if he were five years younger, wild horses wouldn't keep him back from volunteering himself. You must come up to Coolooli and have a chat with him over it, Mr. Cameron.'
But Cameron was deep again in the war correspondent's letter.
Bart went off to feed the calves—Roly had vanished at the sound of Miss Browne's footstep.
'Did you know our mother and Challis was coming home, Morty?' said Floss.
'Bart just told me—yes, that will be very nice for you, Flossie. All will be well, now, won't it?' said Mortimer.
'Oh, you're like the rest, are you?' Floss said. 'Every one going to live happy ever after, eh? No, thank you, not me; I'm always going to hate them. They don't get over me. No, thank you. I know them—bring me a doll, won't they? and "There you are, Flossie darling, sweetest, come and kiss us." Not me. See my finger wet, see it dry, cut my throat sure's ever I die, if I have anything to do with them. Stuck-ups, that's what they are!'
Mortimer gazed on the child, a little uncomfortable horror mixed with his amusement; his bringing-up had been orthodox, and reverence for parents was entwined with all his life.
'Why, girlie,' he said, 'this is shocking! Your own mother!'
'Challis's mother,' corrected Floss. 'Didn't she go off and leave me? Lot she cared! I was only two, Lizzie says, and I might have picked up anything, and eaten it and died. Even Mrs. Bickle minds her baby, although she does get drunk at times. S'pose I'd had measles? or Roly? We'd have died, or at least got dropsy, Lizzie says, having no mother to nurse us. No, thank you—no getting round me with a doll. As for that Challis, I'll give her a time of it—just you see.'
'But—but—but,' cried Mortimer, greatly at a loss, 'your mother is as fond of you as anything, of course. I expect it is very hard for her to go so long without seeing you. She doesn't do it on purpose, old woman. You see, Challis was so clever they had to give her a chance.'
'How do they know I'm not clever?' demanded Floss. 'I believe I am. You should have seen the man I drew on my slate this morning. Or how do they know I couldn't play before the Queen? I'm up to "What are the Wild Waves Saying?" and it's got two flats.'
Mortimer had no answer for this; he could only gaze at her.
There was another step in the doorway, and Hermie came out, a very slender-looking Hermie in the let-down white frock that had made a woman of her in a day. Floss leaned back and giggled as her sister shook hands with the visitor.
'He! he! he! She's put her long dress on,' she said. 'Morty, look! it's as long as Miss Browne's. You'd think she never had short ones, wouldn't you? She's 'tending she's growed up.'
'Flossie,' said Mortimer, 'wouldn't you like to look at my watch? you haven't seen the works for a long time.'
'Me holding it then,' stipulated Flossie.
'All right,' said Mortimer, and gave up his valuable timekeeper into the bony little outstretched hand.
'You spoil that child shockingly,' Hermie said.
Floss looked up from the entrancing little wheels.
'He spoils you worser,' she said. 'Look at the books and flowers and chocolates he brings over and gives you, no matter how bad-tempered you may be.'
Hermie looked vaguely disturbed.
'Spoil me—do you spoil me? Surely I'm too big,' she said.
The man's heart leapt to his eyes.
'Wish I'd the chance,' he muttered.
'What did you say?' said Hermie.
'Nothing,' said Mortimer, and began to smoke furiously again.
'Morty,' said Floss, 'Morty, how many times does the littlest wheel turn while the big wheel turns once?'
'Thirteen,' Mortimer said recklessly.—'I hear your mother is coming home, Miss Cameron?'
'Yes,' sighed Hermie.
'This is surely very good news?'
Hermie gave a troubled glance around.
'Y-yes,' she said.
'Why, what a story you are, Morty!' said Floss. 'It doesn't turn thirteen times.'
'I mean thirty,' said Morty. 'Miss Cameron, I have three men loafing around at the sheds, and can't find work for them to do. It would be doing me a real kindness if you'd let them put in their time straightening up this place.'
'Thank you,' Hermie said, 'but we should not like to employ men we were not paying.'
'Not when they're eating their heads off in idleness?' implored Morty.
'No, thank you,' Hermie said stiffly.
'I beg your pardon,' Mortimer said dejectedly.
'I should think you do,' cried Floss; 'it doesn't turn anything like thirty times. I wouldn't have a watch I didn't understand. Here, take it.'
He pocketed it humbly.
'I'd like to see the ground Bart spoke of sowing Burnett on,' he said, plunging away from his mistake. 'Will you walk down with me, Miss Cameron? It is quite cool and pleasant now.'
Hermie rose to her feet, then remembered her shabby little shoes that she had all this time been successfully hiding beneath her long dress.
'Oh,' she said, 'it's too far. Floss will go with you, won't you, Floss? I will go in and help Miss Browne with tea.'
CHAPTER X
'I Love You'
'The bird of life is singing on the boughHis two eternal notes of "I and Thou."'
'The bird of life is singing on the boughHis two eternal notes of "I and Thou."'
'The bird of life is singing on the bough
His two eternal notes of "I and Thou."'
It was after tea, and the long shadows of the dusk had fallen so gently, so tenderly, that even Dunks' selection had a beauty of its own.
Mortimer sat on the verandah and talked war to Mr. Cameron till his very soul loathed the Transvaal. Then he was captured by Bart, and forced into the dining-room to explain something in theTown and Country Journal, and give his opinion on the merits of Johnson's Grass.
And when he went outside again, Roly and Floss hung upon his arms and begged and begged him to 'come with us a bit.'
At eight o'clock he broke away from them, and stumbled through the dark passage to the kitchen regions to seek Miss Browne.
But here only an oil-lamp flickered in the breeze; even Lizzie was away from her post, having gone before tea to walk to Wilgandra, in the urgent need of a little pleasant human intercourse, ere she began another grey week.
There was a door open near by, and glancing in Morty saw Miss Browne, seated at her cleared dressing-table so busily writing and so surrounded by little papers and letters he came to a vague conclusion that she was 'literary.'
'Miss Browne,' he called imploringly.
She laid down her pen and hastened to the door to him.
He seized both her hands, he pressed them, he wrung them as he stood, labouring with his excitement.
'Miss Browne,' he said, 'will you help me? You must help—oh, do not refuse—she has gone down the garden alone—I think she is leaning on the gate. I must go to her. I must go to her. Will you keep them back—all the others—could you get them in a room and turn the key—how can I tell her if they follow me like this?'
'Tell her—who—what—why?' said the astonished Miss Browne.
'I love her,' said the man; 'I love her with all my soul—I must tell her; you will help me?'
His face looked quite white; there was a moisture on his forehead, his eager voice shook.
Miss Browne was crying; she had taken one of his big hands and was stroking it.
'Oh, my dear, my dear!' she said. 'How beautiful, how very beautiful! Oh, my love, how sweet—oh, how sweet, my love!'
'You will help?' he said. 'You will keep those little beggars away?'
'Leave it to me,' she said; 'you go to her, down in the garden, and the dusk is here, and the moon beginning to rise! How sweet, how beautiful! And she has on a white dress! Don't trouble about anything, my love—just go out to her.' The happy tears were gushing from her eyes.
'What a good sort you are!' he said, and wrung her hand, and patted her shoulder, then went plunging out into the sweet darkness to tell his love.
He found her where the wattles grew thickest, leaning on the fence, her flower-face turned to the young rising moon.
'How did you know I was here?' she said.
'I knew,' he answered, and a long silence fell. 'What are you thinking of?' he whispered.
'I don't—know,' she said, and a strange little sob shook in her throat.
His arm sprang round her.
'Oh,' he said, 'I love you—I do love you! Dearest, dearest, I love you! Do love me, darling—I love you, I love you so!'
Hermie was trembling like the little leaves around them—too surprised, too stricken with the newness of the situation even to slip out of his arms. The pleased young moon smiled down at them, the leaves whispered the news all along the bush, an exquisite perfume of flowers and trees and freshening grass rose up to them. How sweet something was—the clasp about her waist, the kisses that had rained upon her cheeks, the eager, beautiful words that still were beating in her ears!
'Oh, I don't understand, I don't understand,' said the excited girl, and burst into strange tears, and tried to move from his arms, and put a startled hand to her cheeks, to feel what difference those kisses had made.
'Did I frighten you—did I frighten you, my darling, my little girl?' he said. 'See there, don't tremble, I will take my arm away. It is too big and rough, isn't it? There, there, I won't even kiss you; let me hold your hand, there. You have only to understand that I love you, that I have always loved you—ever since you were a tiny thing of twelve, and I used to ride this way just for the pleasure of watching you. You were like no other child here, so slender and sweet and white and pink, and all that shining hair hanging round you. I think I wanted you always. I wanted to pick you up and put you on the saddle in front of me and ride away with you—away and away right out of the world. You will let me, darling? You will try to love me a little? You will be my own little wife?'
Wife! One of the Daly girls had just been married to a boundary rider near. Hermie had seen the lonely place where they were to live together with no one else to break the monotony.
Wife! All those dull, uninteresting women who came to call in Wilgandra were wives, all those dull, horrid men in Wilgandra were their husbands.
Be married; she, Hermie Cameron, like the girls in Miss Browne's books! Perhaps it might not be so very bad—they all seemed to look forward to it.
But to Mortimer Stevenson! Oh no, none of them ever married any one like that, the men there were all officers, penniless young artists and authors, or at least earls. Most of them had proud black eyes and cynical smiles, and spoke darkly of their youth. Or else they were debonair young men with laughing blue eyes and Saxon curly hair.
Mortimer! She had actually forgotten it was only Mortimer speaking all this time, Mortimer Stevenson, who wore red and blue painful ties, and grew red if she spoke to him, and knocked chairs over in his clumsiness, and had never been anywhere farther than Sydney, and thought Wilgandra and his father's station the nicest places in the world.
A cloud came over the happy moon, the leaves hung sad and still; from somewhere far away came the piteous wail of the curlew.
Hermie freed her hand and found her voice.
'This is really ridiculous,' she said petulantly. 'I suppose you are in fun.'
'In fun!' he echoed dully.
'Yes, you can't really be serious. Think what a fearfully long time we have known each other! I'd as soon think of being married to Bart, or Bill Daly.'
He winced at Daly—big, coarse, uneducated bushman.
'If I waited a long time, couldn't you grow to love me?' he said. 'I could stop doing anything you don't like; I—I would go through the University like James and Walter did, if you liked.'
The exceeding pain in his voice touched the girl's awakening heart.
'Forgive me, Morty,' she said, 'it must seem very horrid of me. I didn't understand myself at first——'
'Perhaps—perhaps——' he began hopefully.
'No, I am sure, quite, quite sure I could never love you,' she said decidedly. 'I shall never marry, I have quite made up my mind. There is no one I could ever care for enough.'
'Have you anything particularly against me?' persisted Mortimer. 'I'd alter anything; you don't know how I would try.' His voice choked.
She could not instance his ties, his clumsy length of limb, his habit of furious blushing.
'You make it very hard for me,' she said. 'I—I wish you would go home; I want to go to bed.'
'Forgive me,' he said humbly. 'Forgive me; you have been very good and patient with me. I will go at once.'
Hermie looked for him to move. He took a step away from her—a step back—a step away. The sad moon came out and showed her his blurred miserable eyes, his working mouth.
'Oh, I am sorry—sorry!' she cried.
'May I kiss you—just once?' he whispered.
She stood still, her head drooped down, till he lifted it, very gently, very tenderly, and bent his head and put his quivering lips on hers.
Her hand went gently round his neck a minute.
'Poor Morty, dear Morty!' she said. Her breath came warm on his cheek one second, and a feather kiss, a sweet little sorry kiss that made his heart like bursting, was laid there.
The next second she had slipped away into the darkness, and he was stumbling to find his horse and carry his misery as far as he might.
Hermie went a circuitous route round the back of the cottage, so anxious was she to reach her bedroom without having her hot cheeks challenged by the sharp eyes of Floss or Roly. And there on the back verandah, where they never went, the two little figures were sitting, one at either end with their backs against a post.
'It's time you were in bed,' were the natural words that sprang to her lips, when she found she might not elude them.
Two laughs bubbled up. 'We're not going to bed for hours,' they said; 'we're having a 'speriment.'
'A what?' said Hermie.
'See this,' said Floss, standing up, 'we're both tied to the posts with the clothes-line. Such larks! Brownie said she wanted to try a 'speriment on us, and see if we could sit still for two hours. If we do, she's going to give me her little gold brooch, and Roly the green heart out of her work-box.'
'We can swop them at school for usefuller things,' interpolated Roly.
'The best is,' giggled Floss, 'we like sitting still, we'd been running about all day. And she forgot to tell us not to speak to each other, and she didn't put us too far to play knuckle-bones. I've wonned Roly three times.'
But Hermie had gone in, an impatient doubt as to Miss Browne's sanity crossing her mind.
She found Bart climbing out of the dining-room window.
'Did you go doing that?' he demanded.
'What?' said Hermie.
'Lock the door while I was reading.'
'Of course I didn't,' Hermie said impatiently.
'It's that young beggar Roly,' Bart said; 'I'll have to take it out of him for this. He'd even jammed the window, and I'd no end or work to get it open. I want to go and help father.'
'Where is he?' Hermie said.
'He's washing the paint-brushes in the cowshed,' said Bart. 'Isn't it lucky? Morty says there are about three dozen tins of red paint at his place, no earthly good to any one, and he's going to send them down in the morning, and dad and I are going to give all the place a coat of paint before mother comes.'
Hermie went to her bedroom, shut the door, and sat down by the window, glad of the sheltering darkness.
But two or three feet away, at the next window, sat Miss Browne, also in the dark, Miss Browne, now crying happily into her wet handkerchief, now looking at the moon and whispering, 'Love, love, how beautiful, how beautiful!'
The sound of footsteps, however, in the adjoining room brought her swiftly outside Hermie's window.
'Hermie!' she cried in a breathless tone at the sight of the girl sitting there in her white dress. 'That cannot be you?'
'Yes, it is,' said Hermie; 'why shouldn't it be?'
'Oh, my love, my love! It is hardly half an hour. I thought two hours, at the least. My dear, my love, no one disturbed you? Oh, my love, don't tell me Roly and Floss got loose?'
'I don't know what you mean,' Hermie said shortly, 'but I can't help thinking it is rather ridiculous to keep those children sitting there. They ought to be in bed. I am going to bed.'
'To bed—my love—my dear!' gasped Miss Browne. 'Where is he?'
'Where is who?' asked Hermie impatiently.
'M-M-Mr. M-Mortimer Stevenson,' said Miss Browne in a whisper.
Hermie had her secret to hide.
'What should I know about Mr. Stevenson?' she said coldly. 'I presume he has gone home.'
Gone home! All could not have gone well and happily in half an hour! Miss Browne grew quite pale.
Such a sweet half-hour it had been for her! For twenty minutes of it she had thought of nothing but the white light of love that was going to flood Hermie's life. But during the last ten minutes there had come to her a thought of the material advantages that would accrue to the girl—Stevenson would have four or five thousand a year at his father's death. It had been very sweet to sit and think of dear little flower-faced Hermie lifted for ever above the sordid cares of wretched housekeeping.
'My love—my dear,' she faltered, 'I—I am old enough to be your mother. Could you trust me—won't you——'
But Hermie, with the blind young eyes of a girl, saw nothing outside her window but tiresome Miss Browne, crying a little into her handkerchief (she often cried), stammering out sentences that seemed to have no beginning or end (her sentences seldom had), twisting her fingers about (she never kept them still).
This, when the girl's excited heart wanted to be away from all voices, all eyes, and go over the strange sensations, with the moon alone for witness.
'Miss Browne,' she said, making a strong effort not to speak unkindly, 'I have a headache to-night, and want to be alone. Would you be so kind as to keep what you have to say till morning, and tell me then?'
Nothing could have been swifter than the way Miss Browne melted away into the darkness.
CHAPTER XI
A Squatter Patriot
It was eleven o'clock before Mortimer reached home, not that Coolooli lay two hours and a half distant from the selection, but that he was trying to ride and ride till the raw edges of his wound had closed together somewhat.
Finally he remembered his father would be waiting up for him—one of the old man's fixed customs was to be the last one up in his house—and he turned his mare's head in the direction of the sleeping station. He rode up through the moonlit paddocks and the belts of bush, and wondered a little, as he looked at his home, that the sadness of the place had never struck him before.
The house rose on the crest of a hill, convict-built, most of it, in the very early days of the colony, and with a wing or two added here and there. Large, thoroughly comfortable, yet it stood there with a certain air of sternness, as if it knew what unhappy hands had laid its strong foundations, what human misery built up its plain thick walls.
No creepers clung to it and wooed it with their grace; no fluttering muslins, fashioned by women's hands, blew about its plain windows. In the wide garden that encircled it trees grew, and handsome shrubs, but the flowers seemed to know themselves for strangers there, and came not. Mortimer's eyes went to the twin hill, half a mile away.
How often had he raised a house on that! Not a grim, plain one, like this his home, but a large sunny cottage, with wide verandahs and large bright windows, and a garden where all the sweet flowers in the world ran mad.
Near enough the big house for the old man, left to himself, not to feel lonely; far enough away for Hermie to be unquestioned queen, and free as the winds that blew.
Oh, the happy hours he had wandered on that farther hill, raising that happy home to receive his love! There had even been a moonlight night or two when he had furnished it—furnished it with deep chairs and wide sofas and delicious hammocks, all for the little light-haired girl who worked so hard on that wretched selection to nestle into and rest. He had begun to work harder and give deeper thought than was his wont to the management of the station; there would be plenty of money for an income, he knew, but he wanted even more than plenty; he wanted the little hands that had always been so afraid to spend sixpence, to revel in the joy of flinging sovereigns broadcast. He had been waiting—waiting to tell her, it seemed for years—waiting till she was just a little older and a little older.
But the long frock to-day had told him she was a woman, and he had rushed to know his fate; and now all was over.
He put his saddle in the harness-room, and turned the horse out into the moonlit paddock. He went in through the side door, down the wide hall where the lamps still burned for him, and into the dining-room.
His father was sitting at the big table drinking very temperately at whiskey and water, and reading a paper.
'I'm sorry to have kept you up, dad,' Mortimer said.
'That's all right,' said his father, 'it's not often you do it.'
'No,' said Mortimer.
The old man pushed the spirit-casket across the table.
'You look as if you've got a chill,' he said; 'take a nip.'
The son poured himself a finger's depth, and drank it off, his father watching him from under his shaggy eyebrows.
'Did Luke or Jack come up this afternoon?' asked Mortimer.
'Jack and his wife,' said the old man. 'Luke went to Sydney yesterday, Jack says, to watch the sales himself.'
'Take Bertha with him?'
'I rather think the young woman took him. Don't believe she's the wife for any squatter; Macquarie Street's the only run she'll ever settle on, with the theatres and dancing halls within cooey.'
'Oh, well,' sighed Mortimer, 'Luke can afford it, and he seems happy enough. Anything fresh about the war? You seem to have all the papers there.'
The old man's eyes gleamed, his hand trembled as he reached for an evening paper, and opened it.
'See here,' he said, 'Buller's made a fatal mistake, a fatal mistake. He's advancing on Ladysmith by this route, wheeling here and doubling there, and having a brush or two on the way. Now, what he ought to have done is plainly to have gone along by night marches up here, and taken up a strong position here. See, I've marked the way he ought to have gone with those red dots. You don't look as if you agree.'
'Oh,' said Mortimer, 'I don't know anything about it. But I should say those Johnnies at the head of things know what they're about better than we can out here.'
'Not a bit, not a bit,' said the old man excitedly; 'it's always the looker-on who sees the most. He's just rushing on to his doom, and those brave chaps shut up in that death-trap'll never get as much relief from this attempt as they would if I sent old Rover out. You mark my words and see. This range of hills is the key of the position, and until those thick-headed generals can be brought to see it, there'll be defeat after defeat. Did I tell you Blake and Lewis and Walsh and Simons came to me, and asked to volunteer?'
'Whew!' said Mortimer. 'I don't see how we'll get along without Blake. Did you give your consent?'
'Consent!' cried the old man. 'If the place went to ruin, d'ye think I'd keep the fellow back? I gave him a cheque, and I promised to look after his wife and brats if he fell; that's what I did.'
'But it's unlucky Walsh wants to go too,' said Mortimer; 'he'd have been the very fellow to take Blake's place. We could have better spared Doherty.'
'That mean-spirited dog! A lot of volunteering there is in him. He'll take good care to keep his cowardly carcase out of bullet range.'
Mortimer looked thoughtful, and poured a little more whiskey into his tumbler.
'I suppose we must get fresh men on in their places straight away,' he said; 'we don't want the place to suffer.'
'Hang the place!' shouted the old man; 'let it go to ruin if it likes. Every man that has the pluck to come and tell me he'll go and shoot at them scoundrels out there, hang me, it's a cheque I'll give 'im, and be a father to his brats if he's got any, and keep his place open till he comes back. And a horse to each—the best I've got on the place—hang me, two horses.'
'It's very generous of you, father,' Mortimer said, a little unsteadily. 'I see, too, by yesterday's paper, you are giving five thousand pounds to the fund. I—hardly knew you felt as strongly about it as this.'
The old man sprang up, and began to thunder about the room.
'Feel strongly about it—strongly! If I was only ten years younger, I'd do more than feel strongly! Me very bed's like stones the nights the cables show no victories; the food in me mouth turns to dust. Feel strongly!'
Mortimer left the table, and stood at the window looking out at the moonlight that made snow of the twin hill. He did not know he drummed on the window pane until his excited father roared to him to stop. Then he turned and went across the room to where his father was sitting again at the table, gazing with furious eyes at the cables that told of Buller's line of march.
'Father,' he said, and put his hand on the old man's shoulder, 'will you give me a couple of horses? I don't know that I want the cheque.'
Old Stevenson trembled. 'You're fooling me,' he said.
'I wouldn't fool when you're so much in earnest,' Mortimer said. 'I'm afraid I'm a slow-witted chap. It never occurred to me before to-night to volunteer. Now it seems the one thing I'd care to do in all the world.'
The old man breathed hard.
'I'm not as young as I was, Morty,' he said quaveringly; 'I—can't take disappointments easy. You're not just saying this lightly? You'll abide by it?'
'The only thing that could stand in my way,' said Mortimer, 'would be your objection. That is removed, since it never existed; so it only remains to find out the date of the sailing of the Bush contingent. Thanks to your subscription, there'll be no difficulty in getting me in, for I know my riding and shooting will pass muster.'
'Morty,' the old man was clinging to the young one's arm, 'Morty, I'd given up the hope of ever seeing this day. Six sons I had—six, and not a puny, poor one among them. That's what held me up when the war got into me veins first, and I had to face it that seventy was too old to fight. It took some facing, lad. After that I just waited and waited. And none of you spoke. I kep' reading the Sydney news, to find that my sons there was going. None of their names was in. Dick, I could ha' forgave him—p'r'aps—as he's six childers and a wife; but James, a doctor, no end of chances to get in. And Walter, the best shot and best horseman ever come from out back. Never a word that Walter had blood in his veins. I thought it might be funds stoppin' 'em—they might be feared to leave their businesses, thinking they'd suffer. No need of that, I thinks, and sends them a cheque a-piece—a solid thousand each. Does that fetch 'em? Not it. They writes back, very useful, come in nicely. Jack here, married to a wife, wouldn't mind going—see some life; but wife cries and clings, and he gives in. Luke! No son of mine. Oh, I'll not cut him out my will, or do anything dirty by him, but don't never let him give me his hand no more. Cries down his own people, upholds the dirty scoundrelly Boers, and hopes they'll win their fight; dead against the Britain that his own father comed from. My only lad left at home——'
'Well, that laggard at least is off to shoot his best,' said Mortimer lightly.
'Morty,' said the old man, and pressed his hand, 'you'll ha' to forgive me. I've had hard thoughts of you, Morty.' His faded eyes were suffused.
'Don't let's think of that, dad,' said Mortimer. 'What horses do you think I'd better take?'
'In the morning, in the morning,' said Stevenson. 'I only want to sit still to-night, and thank God I've got one son that's a man.'
Mortimer looked at the creased, illumined face, the wet eyes, the old, working mouth. His heart swelled towards him.
'Dad, old fellow,' he said, 'I'm hard hit. I love a girl, and she won't have me.'
His father gripped his hand.
'Poor chap, poor chap!' he said. 'I know, I've been through it. I loved a girl before I married your mother, and I met her daughter the other day, and it was the same as if it had been yesterday.' He looked at his big son with new eyes. 'The girl's got hanged bad taste,' he said.
'You'd have liked her, dad,' Morty said. 'Not like the girls round here, big, strapping women; very slender and sweet-looking, her skin's as pink and soft as that baby of Jack's.'
'Happen I know her?' said his father.
'Her name is Hermie Cameron,' Mortimer said.
'That thriftless beggar's daughter!' was on the old man's lips, but the look on his son's face checked him.
'Yes—a pretty child,' was what he said instead, and thanked Heaven that her taste had been so bad.
'See here, dad,' Mortimer said awkwardly, 'of course it's not in the least likely I shall get hit—-but of course war's war, and there's a chance that one may get knocked over.'
'I don't need telling that,' said the old man quickly.
Mortimer pressed his shoulder. 'It's this, dad,' he said. 'I want to ask you a favour The Camerons—they're so hard up, it—it makes me fairly miserable.'
'A cheque, lad,' said the father eagerly, 'of course, of course. Would a thousand pounds do? You shall have it to-night—this minute.'
He was moving to get his cheque-book, but Morty detained him.
'No, no, dad,' he said, 'you don't know poor Cameron; he's the most unfortunate fellow in the world, but he's the last man who would take a present of money.'
'I could offer it as a loan,' suggested the old man.
'No, he wouldn't have even that, I'm positive,' Mortimer said. 'I've tried a time or two myself, but he's choked me off jolly quickly.'
'Then what can I do, boy?' the father said helplessly. 'Believe me, I'm willing enough.'
'I know, I know, dad. All I want to ask you is to keep an eye on them, and if you can do them a turn, do it. The mother's coming from England in a month or so, and I'd give my head to be able to make the place look up a bit. Cameron and his boy are fairly killing themselves to do their best, but you can guess what their best is when there's only labour and not a sixpence to spend.'
'You leave it to me, leave it to me,' said Stevenson.
'And one other thing,' said Morty. 'Of course I won't, dad, but if I should come a cropper, will you let some of my share go to the little girl I wanted?'
'She shall have every penny of it,' cried the old man; 'hang me, it's the least I can do.'
They gripped hands.
'Good-night, boy!'
'Good-night, dad!'