CHAPTER XIIR.M.S. Utopia'There,' said Challis, 'that is exactly the middle of the sheet, mother. Just as many again, and we're all kissing each other and going mad.'She held a piece of note-paper in her hand, and had just carefully marked out with a red pencil one more of the thirty-three days of their voyaging.'That leaves just sixteen,' said Mrs. Cameron.'And a half,' said Challis, 'and Mr. Brooks told me the captain says we may be two whole days late, so we'll count seventeen, darling, and not disappoint ourselves.''There is the captain now, talking to Mrs. Macgregor and Lady Millbourne,' said Mrs. Cameron. 'Run and ask him, dear, if it is true. I can't bear the thought.''Oh, mother,' said the little girl, and hung back, looking with nervous eyes at the group.'Girlie, you must get over this silly shyness,' said Mrs. Cameron. 'I think you get worse every day, instead of better. Run along at once.'The girl rose and walked slowly down the long deck. Some children rushed to her.'Come and play, come and play,' they said. 'It's rounders, and we want another on our side.''Don't ask her,' said a boy, 'she's a stuck-up—never plays with any one.' The voice reached Challis, and coloured her cheeks.'You will be on our side, won't you?' a little girl said. 'We don't know what to do for another.''I—I don't know how to play. I'm very sorry—if I could I would,' Challis said.'Oh, but you can't help knowing,' urged the small girl. 'All you've to do is hit the ball and run. Mamma's deck-chair there is one rounder, and the barometer thing's another, and that life-buoy's the third, and here's home. Of course you mustn't hit the ball overboard.''Oh, please,' said Challis, 'won't you get some one else? I should spoil the game. Oh, I couldn't play—please,' and she broke away from the hand, and heard 'stuck-up' again from the boy as she moved away.Used to the fire of a thousand eyes, the girl shrank nervously from disporting herself before half a dozen idle watchers. She liked the quiet corners on the deck where no one could see her; she had a habit of lying on some cushions by her mother's side, and pretending to be asleep, just to escape being talked to.A group of ladies drew her amongst themselves before she could pass.'The sweet little thing!' said one.'Have you been dreaming a Wave Nocturne up in your corner?' said another.'Don't tease the child,' said a third. 'Darling, we're getting up a concert for to-morrow evening, and we're going to give the money to the Patriotic Fund when we get to Sydney. You will play some of your lovely pieces for us, won't you? You know we couldn't have a concert without the aid of the famous Miss Cameron.''I am afraid mother will not allow me to again,' Challis said. 'She said yesterday was to be the last time.''The last time! Oh, why—why?' chorused the ladies.'She said something about wanting me to rest now,' said poor Challis, flushing.'Oh, but just two or three little pieces,' persisted the promoter of the concert, 'for the wives of the brave boys going to the war! Oh, I know you won't refuse us, will you? That pretty little thing you played for the funds of the Sailors' Home on Monday—what was that?''The Funeral March from Chopin's Second Sonata,' said Challis shyly. 'I will ask mother. I am sure, as it is for the soldiers, she will allow me,' and she edged out of the group.A lady lying on a lounge beckoned to her.'How are you, my dear, to-day?' she said.'Quite well, thank you,' was Challis's answer.'You are looking pale, I think. Your mother should give you quinine. Don't you ever take anything before you play to your big audiences?''No,' said Challis.'Your mother should see you have a quinine powder before you begin, and just before going home a dessert-spoonful of malt extract. It would fortify the system immensely.''Would it?' said Challis, a little wearily.'Is that little Miss Cameron?' said another lady, coming up. 'Now I think Mrs. Goodenough might really introduce us. Ah, now we know each other, and I am very proud—very proud indeed to shake hands with Australia's celebrated player. I heard you in the Albert Hall two nights before we left London, my dear. You play magnificently—magnificently.'Challis stood with gravely downcast eyes, and never said a word.'I wonder could you spare me a photograph, my dear,' continued the lady, 'one of those in a white frock that are all over London? And I should like you to write your name across it. Will you?''We have not any left—we gave the last away,' said Challis, and with a little good-bye bending her head—something like the grave quiet bend she gave her audiences—she moved along on her errand.'So that's your player,' the flouted lady said. 'Well, I don't think much of her. Not a word to say for herself. I suppose she is greatly overrated; it is mostly advertisements, you know—wonderful nowadays what can be done by advertisements.'Challis reached the captain at last. Lady Melbourne had a pleasant word for her, and asked nothing but how she was enjoyingTreasure Island, which was in her hand. Mrs. Macgregor merely inquired after her mother's headache.'Captain,' Challis said, 'are we really going to be two days late? Mother is very anxious.''Why, we are all hoping it will be more than that,' said Lady Millbourne. 'A perfect voyage like this should last for ever. I want to persuade the captain to break the shaft of his propeller, like the Perthshire did, and let us drift for forty days.''Then mother and I would steal the captain's gig and row home by ourselves,' Challis said with a little shy roguery that dimpled her mouth, and made you think she was pretty after all.'I never loved a dear gazelle,' said the captain, 'but I had to land it days before I should have had to, if it had only been a tiresome elephant. My dear little fairy-fingers, I have to give you up two days before the time. This will be the quickest run I've made this year.'The glad colour leapt all over the girl's face. 'Oh-h-h!' she cried, and broke away from them, and went bounding back along the deck to her mother, just as any of the children might have gone.The delightful news necessitated giving all the rest of the morning up to happy chat. They drew their chairs close up together, sheltered from over-much observation by the angle of the deck-house. Mrs. Cameron had no more headache,Treasure Islandfell flat and forgotten on the deck.'[image]'NOW LET'S JUST GO OVER IT ALL AGAIN,' SAID CHALLIS.'Now let's just go over it all again,' said Challis. 'Father'll come first. I don't want to kiss any one till I have kissed him. Well, what's he like? No, don't you say, I'll say. He'll have a moustache—no, I think he'll have a beard—yes, a beard. Not a long one, just a short one, and rather curly. And his eyes have a nice laughing look in them, just the nice look like M'sieu de Briot's, who said there was nothing in the world worth worrying about. You said, didn't you? that daddy hated worrying over things. I can't help thinking he'll have a brown velveteen jacket when he comes to meet us, like Mr. Menel's, at Fontainebleau, and paint all over it. But of course he won't. Let's see, he'll have a grey suit and a shiny hat, like Mr. Warner. No, he mustn't have that—that's not like daddie at all. No, I'll tell you; it's very hot at Wilgandra, so he'll have a nice white linen suit and a white helmet, and he might—he might be holding up a big white umbrella lined with green—you know, mamma, like that nice man who came on board at Malta.'Mrs. Cameron was leaning back, her eyes shining, a fond smile on her lips as she listened to the girl's prattle.'Then there'll be Hermie, and I know she's lovely. Don't you think she will be? You said you always thought she would grow up very beautiful. Oh, isn't it dreadful that we've never had a photo of them? Such lots of mine sent to them, and never any of theirs! It's like drawing their faces with your eyes shut. I think Hermie will have her hair in a thick plait. I suppose she goes to picnics and dances and everything, and always knows what to say to people. Mother, I don't think I shall ever get to know what to say. I'm fourteen, and nothing will come into my head to answer people. A lady said to me this morning, "You play magnificently." Now what can you answer to that? I really felt I'd like to say, "Yes, don't I?" just to see how she would look. Only I was afraid it would be rude. If I'd said, "Oh no, I don't, you're mistaken," she would have thought I was mock modest, wouldn't she? But Hermie, yes, she'll always know what to say. I can sleep in her room, can't I? You said there wouldn't be any other. It will be like Ellen and Edie Fowler we met on the trip to Dover; they always had their arms round each other, and used to tell each other everything and everything. Hermie and I will; we'll whisper and whisper all night, just like they did.'The steward came up with eleven-o'clock tea and the glass of milk that Challis always drank. Mrs. Cameron left her cup to grow cold, Challis set her tumbler in an insecure place, and a lurch of the ship sent it flying.'Never mind, I couldn't have drunk it,' she said, then as the man came back, 'I am so sorry to give you that trouble, steward. If you like to bring a cloth, I'll wipe it up myself.''Well, about Bart,' said the mother, 'what will Bart be like?''Oh, Bart,' said Challis, 'I just feel as if we'll rush straight together, and never come undone again. That's the sort of feeling you have when you're twins. I feel I'd like to give him everything and sew his buttons on and let him bully me. You notice the Griffithses here. They're twins, and she does everything he tells her, and he gets everything for her. It's lovely. I hope Bart hasn't forgotten we're twins.''And Roly?''Roly? I'm not sure of Roly. I can hardly see him at all. I think, p'r'aps, he's like that little boy at our table who wears Eton suits and tries to walk like the boatswain. All I can remember about Roly is one day we were eating water-melon in the paddock, and Roly ate his slice away and away, till there was just a green circle round his head.''And Flossie—my little baby Floss?''Darling little Flossie, I almost love her best of all. She's got very goldy hair and a teeny little face, and she's as little as Lady Millbourne's little girl. And she likes being carried about, and she can't dress herself, and I shall dress her, and fasten all the dear little buttons, and tie her sashes. And I shall put her to bed myself, nobody else must, and I'll tell her stories and stories. And every day there'll be something new for her out of my box. There are fifteen things for her, mother, not counting what she's to go halves with Roly in. Isn't it a darling little tea-set? I never saw such sweet little cups. And won't she like the little dolls from the Crystal Palace? I'd really like to play with them myself. And the big doll we got in the Rue de Crenelle. I must get on with its frock to-morrow, mother, or it never will be done.'On, on went the ship through the secret waters. New stars came out on the great night skies, new breezes played in the rigging. On, on, and the long days dropped away, somewhere, somewhere, beyond the edge of the sea. On, on, and the happy eyes saw at last the dear frown of the Australian coast-line.CHAPTER XIIIThe Bush Contingent'Armed year—year of the struggle!No dainty rhymes or sentimental love verses for you, terrible year.Year that suddenly sang by the mouths of the round-lipped cannon—I repeat you, hurrying, crashing, sad, distracted year.'Cameron was in Sydney again—the first time for seven long years. He had come down almost a month before the date upon which the Utopia was advertised as due, with the desperate hope of getting something to do that might yield him enough money to buy a new suit.Up on the selection he wore soft shirts and old tweed trousers almost all the time.When it came to a question of finding him starched shirts and a decent suit and hat in which to face his wife, Hermie and Miss Browne were nonplussed.Finally they discovered one suit that had not been taken, piecemeal, to work in; but the moths had also discovered it. Sponge and press and darn as Hermie might, it still looked disreputable; the shirts were ragged, there was no hat that was not hopelessly spoiled with the sun and dust and rain.It forced itself upon Cameron that there was but one thing to do—he must borrow a few pounds from some one.And there was but one man he knew who would lend it to him—Mortimer Stevenson. Hermie had never told her secret. He groomed Tramby up a little, and put on a linen coat and hat, and set out in the direction of Coolooli. He hoped he might not meet the father; he was quite conscious of the fact that the business-like, successful old man looked upon him as a shiftless beggar. They knew each other slightly; Stevenson had ridden in two or three times when passing the selection, and stayed for an hour or two talking stock and crops and the war. Once or twice Cameron had been for dinner to Coolooli while shearing was on, and there were chances to learn successful methods. But he shrank with all his soul from encountering the old man this morning.Two or three aboriginal women were coming back from a journey to the house, cloths full of stores and broken food slung over their shoulder. Stevenson forty years ago had had to break up a big camp of them on the land he had just taken up, and drive them farther west. Ever since he had not felt justified in refusing food to any of their colour.Cameron stopped the women, to ask if they had seen Mortimer riding away that morning.'I say, Mary,' he said, 'you been see that one Mr. Mortimer?''Ba' al mine see 'im that one young pfeller Stevenson walk about,' said the most ancient of the women. 'Old pfeller Stevenson 'im up there. You gib it tik-a-pen, you gib it plenty pfeller 'bacca.'Cameron threw her a bit of precious tobacco, which she proceeded at once to cut up and cram into her unsavoury-looking pipe. Then he rode on; Mortimer might by chance have gone out somewhere on the run before the women had reached the station. Half a mile nearer to the house a sundowner had been put on to mending a fence. At present he was smoking and looking at it occasionally.'Going up to volunteer, mate?' he said, as Cameron rode through a gate.Cameron disclaimed the honour.'Take a tip and do it,' the fellow said. 'The old chap is off his nut just now, and is jolly well flinging his money round—him as was too close to give a fellow tucker without turning him on to axe-sharpening first. You'll get your fare to Sydney and a moke and pocket of tin handed over to you afore you've finished of telling him you want to join.'Cameron inquired good-humouredly why under such exceptional circumstances he himself did not volunteer.He grinned. 'Guv'nor's knowed me on and off for twenty year,' he said, and fell to looking at the work before him again. 'Seems to think I've had too much bush experience. Had a try on, of course, but Mister Mortimer he put the stopper on me. I'm cursing my luck for not waiting till he'd gone.''Gone!' said Cameron; 'why, where's he going?''He went larst Monday—you must be a just-come not to know,' the man said; 'he's goin' off to glory along o' the Swaggies Army.'Cameron turned his horse's head and rode slowly back to the selection.He took a picture or two, and tried to sell them in Wilgandra, but they were still frameless, and he only raised a pound by the sale of both.It was his neighbour Daly who helped him most; he saved him his fifty shilling railway ticket by sending him to Sydney in charge of a dozen trucks of sheep.Landed there after the almost intolerable journey, he tried desperately for work—even beat up an old friend or two, who looked askance at his shabby appearance. One offered him a pound which he could ill spare, having fallen on hard times himself, the other wrote him half a dozen useless recommendations to various business men.Cameron hung around the quay in a sort of fascination; no pilot boat went out but he did not tremble, no great ship came round Bradley's Head but he felt it bore his wife on board. The transports sent from the Cape for the Bush Contingent—The Atlantian and the Maplemore—were already anchored out in the stream, the great numbers painted on their sides adding an unusual note to the shipping on the smiling harbour. Launches and heavily weighed boats bearing timber for the horse-boxes were continually putting off from the quay to cross the intermediate stretch of water to where they lay.The bustle and movement woke Cameron to life again, and the knowledge that he must do something, if it were only to take a header into the plentiful water; not here at the quay where a thousand eyes would see, but from one of the quiet bays or headlands the harbour has so many of.Then he pulled himself together again, recognised it was want of food that had begot such cowardice in him, and spent his last shilling on a good meal. After that he tramped out to Randwick to the camp, and asked for Private Mortimer Stevenson.The sentry jerked his head in a certain direction, and Cameron made his way to where some ten thousand perhaps of Sydney's citizens, women and children, had crowded, as they crowded almost every afternoon, for the novelty of seeing the bushmen drill.It was an odd, unmilitary spectacle. Uniforms were not yet served out, and there seemed no regularity as to height. Here a sunburnt fellow from 'out back' drilled in a tattered flannel shirt and a pair of ancient moleskins that had seen several hard shearing seasons. Next to him was some wealthy squatter's son in a well-cut light grey suit, then a rough fellow with a beard half a foot long, moleskins again, and an old red handkerchief tied round his throat, then a lad, a fine well-grown fellow in the white flannels he played tennis in on his far-off station. None of the pomp, theéclatof militarism was there—not even the discipline; the men gossiped cheerfully with each other even while they stood in their ranks, they laughed at the girls in the crowd—even threw kisses to them. They were a fine, independent-looking lot, and you knew at a glance at them that they would think no more of carrying their lives in their hands than most people think of carrying umbrellas. But you marvelled how they were to assume in so few weeks' time the well-groomed, spick-and-span, automatic appearance you had hitherto associated with the word soldiers.Cameron watched the different squads for a little time, and felt proud of Mortimer when he found girls and men were pointing him out and saying. 'That one, look! the fourth from the end; he's a splendid-looking fellow, isn't he?' 'See that fourth chap, that's the sort of man we want to represent us.'But the drilling and the hoarse cries of the hardworked sergeants seemed endless, and Cameron wandered on and watched the riding and shooting tests which separated the genuine bushmen from the counterfeits, who swarmed here, as easily as the winnow separates the grain from the chaff. At last the squads broke up, and the men mixed with the crowd or went off, mopping their steaming faces, to their tents or the canteen.Mortimer broke loose from the men around him, and went instantly to Cameron, whom he had quickly seen while drilling. He carried him off direct to his tent.'I'm awfully sorry to have kept you waiting so long,' he said. 'Here, try this deck-chair, it's more comfortable than that bench. And what will you have to drink? Oh, I know, you like lemon squash.' He turned to a rough-looking fellow at the door. 'Go down to the canteen, Brady, like a good fellow, and get a jug of lemon squash. Here's the money.' He turned back to Cameron. 'I'd have given anything to get away when I saw you, but you can guess what it is out there.''Yes, yes,' said Cameron, 'it doesn't matter; it was all interesting. I have been looking about.'Mortimer gave him a sharp look.'Is all well up there?' he said. 'It isn't often you come down.''Nothing's wrong,' said Cameron, 'I came down to meet my wife, that's all.''Of course, of course,' said Mortimer; 'stupid of me. I was reading about it only this morning in the paper—about the big welcome the citizens intend to give your little girl. There is to be a launch—the Government launch, isn't it?—and the mayor and no end of people are going up the harbour to meet her.''Are they?' said Cameron.'You've been consulted about it, surely?' said Mortimer warmly. 'They're not doing all this without referring to you?'Cameron straightened himself a little.'I've had no fixed address since I came down,' he said. 'They've overlooked me, I suppose, because they don't know I exist; I hardly do, you know.''Are any of the others down with you?' asked Mortimer—'Bart or Roly or any of them?''Oh no,' said Cameron. 'Some one has to mind the landed property against my return.''And are they all well?' pursued Mortimer. 'Roly—wasn't Roly looking a little thin before I left?''Oh no,' Cameron said, 'he's right enough. The girls feel the life more than he and Bart. My eldest girl seemed very off colour when I left?''Not typhoid?' burst out Mortimer. 'I saw in the paper it had broken out in Wilgandra——''Oh no, we're too far for that. Nothing but the heat. Was that Timon I saw among the horses?''Yes, I brought him and the governor's favourite roan down—he made me have him.''Mortimer—I'm compelled to ask—I cannot do without—my wife—Challis—suit—make them ashamed——' Cameron's voice choked.'Confound that Brady!' said Mortimer, springing up and upsetting his chair; 'takes as long to get a lemon squash as if I'd sent him to town for it. If it had been a bottle of whiskey, now, no delay then; might come in for a spare glass himself. You r'mber Brady, rouseabout up at Coolooli, gives a home-touch to see him about. He volunteered the same time as I. I say, I'm off duty now for the rest of the day—may as well come back to town and have a bit of spree. Brooks, I say Brooks, go and see if there's a spare cab, there's a good fellow.' Another coin went into another rough fellow's hand.Cameron found himself driving back to town by Stevenson's side before he had collected his thoughts—or even had his lemon squash.Half the way Mortimer rattled on about the day's work in camp, the transports, provisions for the comfort of the horses, the prospect of the contingent's success.'By the way,' he said all at once, 'I want you to do me a favour. The governor's been too free with his cash for me—not safe to have too much about, you know—tempt some poor devil. D'ye mind taking some of it and looking after it for me—just for a year or two till I get back? Use it, you know; you might use it now instead of drawing any out of your own account, then when I come home you can pay me back. Awfully obliged it you will; had a couple of pounds stolen out of my tent yesterday, and have been going about with fifty pounds on me since. I'll get you to look after thirty of it; the governor's cabled no end of money to a bank in Durban for me, for fear I'll run short.'Half a dozen crisp notes were thrust into Cameron's hands, and Mortimer, hot and red in the face, was rattling on again about the horse-boxes for the voyage, and how they should have been made this way, and not that way, and about the wisdom of telling the men to bring their own saddles, and about that egregious ass the public, who seemed to think the Bushmen were so thin-skinned that they could not bear a word of command, unless it was put in the form of a polite request.'Isn't it tommy-rot?' said Mortimer. 'We're not a pack of sensitive girls. We enjoy the discipline, and recognise we have to be licked into some sort of order, unless we want to remain a mob.'Cameron was very quiet, but he gripped Mortimer's hand on parting, and cleared his throat to try to say something.But the young volunteer found he must be off in violent haste.'By George,' he said, 'haven't another minute; promised the colonel I'd go out and kick up a row about the horse-boxes,' and his big loose figure plunged back to the waiting cab. 'You'll come and see me off, all right, so long'; and the cab woke to life and moved smartly off, to lose itself in the stream of vehicles going towards the quay.Cameron, a lump in his throat, turned towards the General Post Office, to see if there were further news from the little contingent at home. The last letters from Bart had been disquieting; Small, the butcher, it seemed, had transferred the mortgage he held on the selection to old Mr. Stevenson. 'And Daly says,' Bart had written, 'it's about the worst thing that could have happened, Stevenson's so close-handed. Small often used to give you time, but he says Stevenson never will.' A second letter followed. Stevenson had foreclosed, but was willing for a year or two, until a tenant he had in view was ready to occupy, that Cameron should remain on the place. In the meantime, however, he, Stevenson, must be at liberty to make any alteration or improvement he saw fit to the property.The present letter was excited in tone. 'After all, dad,' the boy wrote, 'I believe it's the best thing that could have happened. The place is looking up no end, there are quite ten men at work on it, so the chances are the mater and Challis won't quite die of the shock of seeing it. And what do you think? You know that calf we gave Hermie two years ago? Well, I never knew there was good blood in it, did you? It's the last thing you'd think to look at it. But that Stevenson knows a thing or two. He comes down here and pokes about pretty often, and he saw it, and what did you think? Offered me ten pounds down for it! I couldn't believe my ears. Don't you remember I tried to sell it when you were ill, and Small offered two for it? But I wasn't going to let on I was so green as not to know it was a good sort, and I said straight that we could not let it go under fifteen. He looked at me in that queer, sharp way of his, and he poked at the calf a bit, and then said, "Say twelve ten." But I'd got my mettle up by that. I knew if a close-handed, hard chap like that offered twelve ten, it must be worth quite twenty-five. I just turned round and went on digging up the potatoes for dinner and said, "Fifteen pounds," for all the world like Small does at the sales. He went round to Dimple and began poking at her again, and examining her like anything, and then he said, "Fourteen pounds, sonny." I'd got enough potatoes out for Miss Browne by then, so I put them in the basket and just said, "Good morning, sir," and pretended to be going.'Then he began laughing fit to kill himself, and in between the laughs he said, "Fifteen," and I said, just like Small, "She's yours, and you've got a bargain." And he laughed again, and said, "I have." I hope you're not vexed, dad, at me doing this on my own. I've been feeling very anxious ever since, for she must have been a really valuable little thing—he's not the man to be deceived; they say he's the best judge of stock in the country. I told Daly about it, and he wanted to know if Stevenson was drunk at the time. He doesn't drink at all, does he? But I thought you'd agree that the fifteen would be more use to us now than twenty-five later, and that's why I closed with him. I'm sending five down in this, thinking it will come in usefully for you. And Hermie and Miss Browne have gone off to Wilgandra to get new dresses and cups and sheets and whips of other things with the rest. You should have seen their list. The mater and Challis'll think we're no end of swells after all.'CHAPTER XIVHome to the Harbour'City of ships!City of the world! (for all races are here,All the lands of the earth make contributions here;)Proud and passionate city—mettlesome, mad, extravagant city!Spring up, O city—not for peace alone, but be indeed yourself, warlike!War, red war is my song through your streets, O city!'Down through the excited waters of the harbour came the great ship Utopia, the fussy little tug running on ahead.Away near the Heads the stretching blue had danced almost as unfurrowed by the lines of boats as outside, where the ocean's ways lay wild.But as the ship came down, down closer to the city, a stately untroubled belle on the arm of her hot, nervous, fidgety little partner, many of the passengers felt with astonishment they had never seen so many watercraft in all their lives before. Rowing boats—scores and scores of them! They looked like flies on an agitated surface of translucent honey. Sailing boats! Surely not one stitch of canvas owned by the city was out of use. Poised, waiting, up and down, everywhere, you felt there was going to be a storm and these were the white gulls come in flocks to flutter and dip and rise till it began. The ferry-boats! They went their hurried journeys to and from—across to North Shore, to Mosman's, and Neutral Bay, to Manly, and you could fancy they were looking over their shoulders all the way and longing to come back. The ocean-going boats, leaning at the Woolloomooloo wharves or anchored out in the stream, they were black with eager people, and waved from every point long strings of brilliant flags—the flags of half the world. America was there, shaking out her Stars and Stripes from a mail steamer, a San Francisco timber-boat passing along to a berth in Darling Harbour, and a transport come to take stores for the army in the Philippines.From one of the men-of-war in Farm Cove floated Japan's white flag with its red chrysanthemum; France had her war-ship, with its red, white, and blue ensign, also in the cove. All the others, half a dozen of them, floated the white ensign of England.Up at the quay lay the mammoth Friedrich der Grosse, Germany's black, red, and white ensign flying in the wind amid her gay strings of bunting, and round the corner, in Darling Harbour, among the boats that had come down heavily laden from the rivers, the boats from all the other colonies and Fiji and Noumea. Russia and Norway both were represented.And the city—had the City of Blue Waves gone mad?As the Utopia made her slow progress up the harbour, those on board were able to catch a breath of the excitement from the land.The wharves at Woolloomooloo seemed a black mass of humanity; the windows of the warehouses were lined with faces, men and small boys had taken up vantage-points on scaffolding, cranes, the very roofs of the wharf buildings. On the green park-like slopes of the Domain thousands were patiently waiting, white and gay coloured parasols and dresses enlivening the sombre garments of the men.Challis stood at the side of the boat with trembling knees and rounded eyes. Mrs. Cameron was beside her, very pale, struggling hard for composure, putting her hand to her throat secretly now and again, to smooth the lumps that seemed to be rising there. A warm reception she had had no doubt her child would have; indeed, the Melbourne papers she had seen had said big preparations were to be made for her reception, for was not this the city of her birth, the eager, open-handed city that had made it possible for the world to judge of her genius? But the mother's wildest thoughts had never dreamed of anything like this; royalty itself had never on any of its journeyings been welcomed in more magnificent fashion.She paled and paled—she slid down her hand, and caught and held tightly in it one of the small thin hands of her gifted child.Yet, great as the honour undoubtedly seemed, had the power to change things been hers, she would have swept the wharves clear of all that strange-faced crowd, and have had, standing there alone, looking up at her, the husband her heart was throbbing for, the children she yearned for, and yet would hardly know.The lady who had begged the photograph pressed her way up.'What does it all mean? Did ever you see such excitement? Is it really as Mrs. Graham says—the welcome for Miss Cameron? I never saw anything to equal it in my life. My dear, my dear, you are the most fortunate girl in the world. I am proud to have shaken hands with you, honoured to have sat at the same table. See, here is my travelling ink-pot and a pen, write me your autograph, darling.'Mrs. Goodenough bustled up and caught at the mother's arm.'Such excitement is enough to kill her; give her two of these quinine tablets, and keep these in your pocket, to give if you notice a sign of flagging. It will be a most exhausting day for her. And you are pale—here, I have my flask of tonic—you must, you must indeed take some. You will never bear up through all the congratulations, if you do not. Well, well, I must say I have never seen anything like this in my life.'Challis stood as white as if carved in marble; sometimes her little soft underlip quivered, sometimes she gave an almost piteous glance round, as if seeking an impossible escape. She had had warm welcomes and even cheers and a little bunting in many towns, but what was this she had fallen upon?The gangways were hardly down before there hurried on board from the wharf a gentleman in a tall hat, and two others with the ungroomed, long-haired appearance of the musician the world over. One of them bore a moderate-sized bouquet of white flowers, and another a small harp of roses that looked a little dashed with the sun and dust.'Miss Cameron, Miss Cameron!' was the call echoed all along the deck. The captain himself came up and took the little girl and her mother down to the men. They were warmly shaken hands with, their healths and the voyage asked after, and the flowers presented. Then one of the musicians began to read an address couched in the most flattering terms, but half-way through the tall-hatted gentleman tapped his arm and whispered and looked at his watch. And the musician nodded and turned over the leaves of the address, and shook his head doubtfully and looked hastily also at his watch.'My dear Miss Cameron,' he said, and rolled the big paper up, 'I shall really have to keep this for a more opportune time. We had thought the Utopia would not have been here until four this afternoon, when all our arrangements would have gone well. But now the mayor and the Euterpe Society, and all the musical bodies in the town are of course engaged in seeing the Bush Contingent off. We expect the procession any minute—indeed, it must be nearly in Pitt Street by this.'Mrs. Cameron said a few graceful words, in which she begged them not to waste time now; she was assured by all their kind speeches of the welcome her daughter had in this her native city, and she expressed her sense of the good fortune that had awaited them, inasmuch as the Utopia had arrived in time to see an event of such national importance as the departure of the Bush Contingent. No one could have guessed at the dear fatuous notion she had been nursing in that sensible head of hers until a moment back.As for Challis—Challis put her head over her fast-fading harp and laughed, laughed uncontrollably a minute or two. Then she stretched out her hand and touched one of the musician's sleeves. 'Couldn't we get off and see the procession?' she said.The musician looked at her eagerly, admiringly. 'Just what I was going to suggest,' he cried. 'Come on, come on—we've got a carriage out here for you, and if we've any luck we'll just get up into Macquarie Street in time.'He and his friends swept the two voyagers off their feet, and carried them with the pushing throng to the gangway. None of the passengers had any time to look at them; all were a little off balance at the time, rushing about with faces broken up into tears and laughter, kissing and throwing arms round those they had been long parted from, wildly imploring stewards for gladstones and handbags from their cabins.In the crush Challis whispered to her mother, 'Oh, aren't I glad it's not for me!' in a tone of fervent thankfulness.When they were down on the wharf, the rapturous meetings on all sides sent their eyes hungrily searching the crowd again for their own home welcomers. But there seemed no one, no one, look as they would, and they went slowly down the company's wharf with the welcomers the city had sent to the hired open carriage outside.Challis and her mother sat facing the horses, the tall-hatted gentleman and one musician sat opposite to them, the other went on the box. It had been the committee's intention to bid the coachman wear white favours, in honour of the visitor's youth. But the item had been forgotten, and the man wore instead three of the Contingent medals boys were selling in the streets. The carriage made a snail's progress along the quay crowded with the emptyings of the ferry-boats, and slowly, slowly climbed up to Bridge Street, which was on the line of march. The multitude looked at the vehicle.'Who's the kid?' shouted a youth.And a bright young Australian yelled:'The colonel's kid—going to meet her pa and say good-bye.' On which the human sea lifted up its lungs and hurrahed wildly, till something new came along to attract its interest.So Challis had her cheers.But in Macquarie Street all traffic was suspended, and a hoarse, red-faced man in some sort of a uniform charged at the open carriage, and ordered it to go back, as if it were no more important than a broken-springed buggy with one horse.'Have to take yer up Castlereagh Street, ladies,' said the driver regretfully. 'If yer'd been 'arf an hour sooner, we'd have just got up to the 'ospital, and yer'd 'ave seen it all fine.''Oh,' said Challis eagerly to the musicians, 'see! see that lovely heap of wood—look—over there—those women are getting off—there would be lots of room for us. Oh, do let's get out!'In three minutes the little party was sitting, clinging, or standing on a pile of timber outside a half-built house, and the carriage had backed, backed away to take a clear course up deserted Castlereagh Street.The sudden roll of a drum sent its electric vibration through the tense multitude. The cry of, 'Here they come!' raised falsely a dozen times during the last two hours, now had the positive ring in it that carried entire conviction.'Oh, look, mother! See here come the horses! Doesn't it remind you of the Jubilee crowd in London?' said Challis.But Mrs. Cameron pushed roughly at her shoulder. 'Come here,' she said hoarsely; 'change places with me. Don't fall—there, hold fast. Let me get lower down.'A man was fighting his way through the throng—a grey-bearded man in a well-cut light grey suit and a white helmet; and such was his determination that five minutes after Mrs. Cameron had seen him he had worked his way through twenty yards of solid crowd and was standing just below her.Mrs. Cameron turned to the musician who had been at much pains to secure a little room for himself on the timber.'Mr. Jardine,' she said, 'will you please get down and give up your place to my husband? I—I have not seen him for six years.'Jardine climbed down cheerfully—but also of necessity. Cameron pulled himself into the vacant place.They were side by side at last, and neither could speak; they just looked at each other with white faces—looked, looked.Finally their hands went together.A choked little voice came from above after a minute or two.'Me too, daddie—speak to me too.' And it was then he remembered his child as well as his wife was come back to him.He reached up and squeezed the eager hand, he put his other hand round her little shoe and squeezed that too. Challis leaned down and kissed the top of his helmet.'I said you'd have a helmet on,' she said, with a hysterical little laugh.His hand went back to his wife's.'Is there no way of getting out of this rabble?' she said.'You might be crushed to death. There's nothing for it now, but to sit still till it is over.''Why—why weren't you on the wharf?''I was—of course I was—I saw you both plainly just as they put the gangway down. But there was an accident: a little child near me was knocked down by a luggage truck, badly hurt, at the moment: there seemed no one else to give the mother a hand. By the time I'd got him up and into a cab and found a fellow willing to go with her to a doctor's, you had gone. They told me the carriage had come up Bridge Street. I have been fighting my way and looking for you ever since.''The children?' said the mother.'All well, quite well; I couldn't bring them.''No. Oh, to get out of this hateful crowd!''Here they come,' Challis said; 'no, they are only policemen.'The fine horses and men of the mounted police rode by, then a small body of Lancers; after these marched some two hundred sailors of the Royal Navy, and perhaps half that number of Royal Marines.Then the Bushies.And now the crowd took the reins off itself, and gave head to its madness. It hurrahed itself hoarse; it waved its arms, and its handkerchief, and its hat, and its head; it flung flowers, and flags, and coloured paper; it hung recklessly from roofs, and walls, doors, chimneys, fences, lamp-posts, balconies, verandah-posts, and it yelled, 'There's Jack,' 'Good-bye, Joe,' 'Come back, Wilson,' 'Shoot 'em down, Tom,' 'Hurrah, Cooper!' 'Luck to you, Fogarty,' 'There's Storey,' 'Hurrah, Watt!' It handed up drinks to the thirsty horsemen, it pressed handkerchiefs, cigars, and sweets indiscriminately upon them.In return the sunburnt Bushies waved their helmets and little toy flags; one held up a small fox-terrier, another an opossum by the tail; they rode along with one arm free for handshaking all along the route, threw kisses to the excited women, even at times leaned down and kissed some tip-toe eager girl in a white dress and a wonderful hat.They looked as military as one could wish now; Cameron was amazed to think this was the same material he had seen drilling. A finer body of men had never passed down the streets of any city. They sat their magnificent horses magnificently; you knew there was nothing they could not do with the splendid beasts. The khaki uniform and khaki helmet, and the sunburnt ruddy faces made a healthful, workmanlike study in brown.'That's the dog Bushie,' said Cameron to Challis. 'Every one in the colony is interested in him; the men say he will be very useful.'The crowd yelled, 'Bushie, Bushie—hurrah! good old doggie,' as the intelligent sheep-dog came into sight.'Here's Stevenson—see, the man on the left, Molly,' Cameron said; 'our best friend. Good-bye, Mortimer, good luck! Good-bye, old fellow, good-bye.'Mortimer waved his helmet gaily.'What a fine fellow!' said Mrs. Cameron, and what a good face! Who is the old man?''Why, it's old Stevenson. Yes, just like him to do that,' Cameron answered. The old squatter had ridden alongside the Bushmen the whole of the line of march. His face was working with excitement; every time a cheer went up from the crowd he cheered too, standing up from time to time in his saddle and waving his soft felt hat. He kept beside his son as much as he could; he was almost bursting with the pride of his position.Challis's eyes were full of tears.'Oh,' she said, 'what a very dreadful thing if that nice man should be killed!' She was quite captivated by the sunny smile Mortimer had given their group.'There's not a better fellow in the world,' Cameron said warmly.The khaki died away in the distance, the prancing horses were gone, the sound of the band grew fainter and fainter.Yet a little time, and the transports would be plunging through the Heads with them, carrying them forward as fast as might be to dye the veldt red with their own blood or that of the Boers.
CHAPTER XII
R.M.S. Utopia
'There,' said Challis, 'that is exactly the middle of the sheet, mother. Just as many again, and we're all kissing each other and going mad.'
She held a piece of note-paper in her hand, and had just carefully marked out with a red pencil one more of the thirty-three days of their voyaging.
'That leaves just sixteen,' said Mrs. Cameron.
'And a half,' said Challis, 'and Mr. Brooks told me the captain says we may be two whole days late, so we'll count seventeen, darling, and not disappoint ourselves.'
'There is the captain now, talking to Mrs. Macgregor and Lady Millbourne,' said Mrs. Cameron. 'Run and ask him, dear, if it is true. I can't bear the thought.'
'Oh, mother,' said the little girl, and hung back, looking with nervous eyes at the group.
'Girlie, you must get over this silly shyness,' said Mrs. Cameron. 'I think you get worse every day, instead of better. Run along at once.'
The girl rose and walked slowly down the long deck. Some children rushed to her.
'Come and play, come and play,' they said. 'It's rounders, and we want another on our side.'
'Don't ask her,' said a boy, 'she's a stuck-up—never plays with any one.' The voice reached Challis, and coloured her cheeks.
'You will be on our side, won't you?' a little girl said. 'We don't know what to do for another.'
'I—I don't know how to play. I'm very sorry—if I could I would,' Challis said.
'Oh, but you can't help knowing,' urged the small girl. 'All you've to do is hit the ball and run. Mamma's deck-chair there is one rounder, and the barometer thing's another, and that life-buoy's the third, and here's home. Of course you mustn't hit the ball overboard.'
'Oh, please,' said Challis, 'won't you get some one else? I should spoil the game. Oh, I couldn't play—please,' and she broke away from the hand, and heard 'stuck-up' again from the boy as she moved away.
Used to the fire of a thousand eyes, the girl shrank nervously from disporting herself before half a dozen idle watchers. She liked the quiet corners on the deck where no one could see her; she had a habit of lying on some cushions by her mother's side, and pretending to be asleep, just to escape being talked to.
A group of ladies drew her amongst themselves before she could pass.
'The sweet little thing!' said one.
'Have you been dreaming a Wave Nocturne up in your corner?' said another.
'Don't tease the child,' said a third. 'Darling, we're getting up a concert for to-morrow evening, and we're going to give the money to the Patriotic Fund when we get to Sydney. You will play some of your lovely pieces for us, won't you? You know we couldn't have a concert without the aid of the famous Miss Cameron.'
'I am afraid mother will not allow me to again,' Challis said. 'She said yesterday was to be the last time.'
'The last time! Oh, why—why?' chorused the ladies.
'She said something about wanting me to rest now,' said poor Challis, flushing.
'Oh, but just two or three little pieces,' persisted the promoter of the concert, 'for the wives of the brave boys going to the war! Oh, I know you won't refuse us, will you? That pretty little thing you played for the funds of the Sailors' Home on Monday—what was that?'
'The Funeral March from Chopin's Second Sonata,' said Challis shyly. 'I will ask mother. I am sure, as it is for the soldiers, she will allow me,' and she edged out of the group.
A lady lying on a lounge beckoned to her.
'How are you, my dear, to-day?' she said.
'Quite well, thank you,' was Challis's answer.
'You are looking pale, I think. Your mother should give you quinine. Don't you ever take anything before you play to your big audiences?'
'No,' said Challis.
'Your mother should see you have a quinine powder before you begin, and just before going home a dessert-spoonful of malt extract. It would fortify the system immensely.'
'Would it?' said Challis, a little wearily.
'Is that little Miss Cameron?' said another lady, coming up. 'Now I think Mrs. Goodenough might really introduce us. Ah, now we know each other, and I am very proud—very proud indeed to shake hands with Australia's celebrated player. I heard you in the Albert Hall two nights before we left London, my dear. You play magnificently—magnificently.'
Challis stood with gravely downcast eyes, and never said a word.
'I wonder could you spare me a photograph, my dear,' continued the lady, 'one of those in a white frock that are all over London? And I should like you to write your name across it. Will you?'
'We have not any left—we gave the last away,' said Challis, and with a little good-bye bending her head—something like the grave quiet bend she gave her audiences—she moved along on her errand.
'So that's your player,' the flouted lady said. 'Well, I don't think much of her. Not a word to say for herself. I suppose she is greatly overrated; it is mostly advertisements, you know—wonderful nowadays what can be done by advertisements.'
Challis reached the captain at last. Lady Melbourne had a pleasant word for her, and asked nothing but how she was enjoyingTreasure Island, which was in her hand. Mrs. Macgregor merely inquired after her mother's headache.
'Captain,' Challis said, 'are we really going to be two days late? Mother is very anxious.'
'Why, we are all hoping it will be more than that,' said Lady Millbourne. 'A perfect voyage like this should last for ever. I want to persuade the captain to break the shaft of his propeller, like the Perthshire did, and let us drift for forty days.'
'Then mother and I would steal the captain's gig and row home by ourselves,' Challis said with a little shy roguery that dimpled her mouth, and made you think she was pretty after all.
'I never loved a dear gazelle,' said the captain, 'but I had to land it days before I should have had to, if it had only been a tiresome elephant. My dear little fairy-fingers, I have to give you up two days before the time. This will be the quickest run I've made this year.'
The glad colour leapt all over the girl's face. 'Oh-h-h!' she cried, and broke away from them, and went bounding back along the deck to her mother, just as any of the children might have gone.
The delightful news necessitated giving all the rest of the morning up to happy chat. They drew their chairs close up together, sheltered from over-much observation by the angle of the deck-house. Mrs. Cameron had no more headache,Treasure Islandfell flat and forgotten on the deck.'
[image]'NOW LET'S JUST GO OVER IT ALL AGAIN,' SAID CHALLIS.
[image]
[image]
'NOW LET'S JUST GO OVER IT ALL AGAIN,' SAID CHALLIS.
'Now let's just go over it all again,' said Challis. 'Father'll come first. I don't want to kiss any one till I have kissed him. Well, what's he like? No, don't you say, I'll say. He'll have a moustache—no, I think he'll have a beard—yes, a beard. Not a long one, just a short one, and rather curly. And his eyes have a nice laughing look in them, just the nice look like M'sieu de Briot's, who said there was nothing in the world worth worrying about. You said, didn't you? that daddy hated worrying over things. I can't help thinking he'll have a brown velveteen jacket when he comes to meet us, like Mr. Menel's, at Fontainebleau, and paint all over it. But of course he won't. Let's see, he'll have a grey suit and a shiny hat, like Mr. Warner. No, he mustn't have that—that's not like daddie at all. No, I'll tell you; it's very hot at Wilgandra, so he'll have a nice white linen suit and a white helmet, and he might—he might be holding up a big white umbrella lined with green—you know, mamma, like that nice man who came on board at Malta.'
Mrs. Cameron was leaning back, her eyes shining, a fond smile on her lips as she listened to the girl's prattle.
'Then there'll be Hermie, and I know she's lovely. Don't you think she will be? You said you always thought she would grow up very beautiful. Oh, isn't it dreadful that we've never had a photo of them? Such lots of mine sent to them, and never any of theirs! It's like drawing their faces with your eyes shut. I think Hermie will have her hair in a thick plait. I suppose she goes to picnics and dances and everything, and always knows what to say to people. Mother, I don't think I shall ever get to know what to say. I'm fourteen, and nothing will come into my head to answer people. A lady said to me this morning, "You play magnificently." Now what can you answer to that? I really felt I'd like to say, "Yes, don't I?" just to see how she would look. Only I was afraid it would be rude. If I'd said, "Oh no, I don't, you're mistaken," she would have thought I was mock modest, wouldn't she? But Hermie, yes, she'll always know what to say. I can sleep in her room, can't I? You said there wouldn't be any other. It will be like Ellen and Edie Fowler we met on the trip to Dover; they always had their arms round each other, and used to tell each other everything and everything. Hermie and I will; we'll whisper and whisper all night, just like they did.'
The steward came up with eleven-o'clock tea and the glass of milk that Challis always drank. Mrs. Cameron left her cup to grow cold, Challis set her tumbler in an insecure place, and a lurch of the ship sent it flying.
'Never mind, I couldn't have drunk it,' she said, then as the man came back, 'I am so sorry to give you that trouble, steward. If you like to bring a cloth, I'll wipe it up myself.'
'Well, about Bart,' said the mother, 'what will Bart be like?'
'Oh, Bart,' said Challis, 'I just feel as if we'll rush straight together, and never come undone again. That's the sort of feeling you have when you're twins. I feel I'd like to give him everything and sew his buttons on and let him bully me. You notice the Griffithses here. They're twins, and she does everything he tells her, and he gets everything for her. It's lovely. I hope Bart hasn't forgotten we're twins.'
'And Roly?'
'Roly? I'm not sure of Roly. I can hardly see him at all. I think, p'r'aps, he's like that little boy at our table who wears Eton suits and tries to walk like the boatswain. All I can remember about Roly is one day we were eating water-melon in the paddock, and Roly ate his slice away and away, till there was just a green circle round his head.'
'And Flossie—my little baby Floss?'
'Darling little Flossie, I almost love her best of all. She's got very goldy hair and a teeny little face, and she's as little as Lady Millbourne's little girl. And she likes being carried about, and she can't dress herself, and I shall dress her, and fasten all the dear little buttons, and tie her sashes. And I shall put her to bed myself, nobody else must, and I'll tell her stories and stories. And every day there'll be something new for her out of my box. There are fifteen things for her, mother, not counting what she's to go halves with Roly in. Isn't it a darling little tea-set? I never saw such sweet little cups. And won't she like the little dolls from the Crystal Palace? I'd really like to play with them myself. And the big doll we got in the Rue de Crenelle. I must get on with its frock to-morrow, mother, or it never will be done.'
On, on went the ship through the secret waters. New stars came out on the great night skies, new breezes played in the rigging. On, on, and the long days dropped away, somewhere, somewhere, beyond the edge of the sea. On, on, and the happy eyes saw at last the dear frown of the Australian coast-line.
CHAPTER XIII
The Bush Contingent
'Armed year—year of the struggle!No dainty rhymes or sentimental love verses for you, terrible year.Year that suddenly sang by the mouths of the round-lipped cannon—I repeat you, hurrying, crashing, sad, distracted year.'
'Armed year—year of the struggle!No dainty rhymes or sentimental love verses for you, terrible year.Year that suddenly sang by the mouths of the round-lipped cannon—I repeat you, hurrying, crashing, sad, distracted year.'
'Armed year—year of the struggle!
'Armed year—year of the struggle!
No dainty rhymes or sentimental love verses for you, terrible year.
Year that suddenly sang by the mouths of the round-lipped cannon—
I repeat you, hurrying, crashing, sad, distracted year.'
Cameron was in Sydney again—the first time for seven long years. He had come down almost a month before the date upon which the Utopia was advertised as due, with the desperate hope of getting something to do that might yield him enough money to buy a new suit.
Up on the selection he wore soft shirts and old tweed trousers almost all the time.
When it came to a question of finding him starched shirts and a decent suit and hat in which to face his wife, Hermie and Miss Browne were nonplussed.
Finally they discovered one suit that had not been taken, piecemeal, to work in; but the moths had also discovered it. Sponge and press and darn as Hermie might, it still looked disreputable; the shirts were ragged, there was no hat that was not hopelessly spoiled with the sun and dust and rain.
It forced itself upon Cameron that there was but one thing to do—he must borrow a few pounds from some one.
And there was but one man he knew who would lend it to him—Mortimer Stevenson. Hermie had never told her secret. He groomed Tramby up a little, and put on a linen coat and hat, and set out in the direction of Coolooli. He hoped he might not meet the father; he was quite conscious of the fact that the business-like, successful old man looked upon him as a shiftless beggar. They knew each other slightly; Stevenson had ridden in two or three times when passing the selection, and stayed for an hour or two talking stock and crops and the war. Once or twice Cameron had been for dinner to Coolooli while shearing was on, and there were chances to learn successful methods. But he shrank with all his soul from encountering the old man this morning.
Two or three aboriginal women were coming back from a journey to the house, cloths full of stores and broken food slung over their shoulder. Stevenson forty years ago had had to break up a big camp of them on the land he had just taken up, and drive them farther west. Ever since he had not felt justified in refusing food to any of their colour.
Cameron stopped the women, to ask if they had seen Mortimer riding away that morning.
'I say, Mary,' he said, 'you been see that one Mr. Mortimer?'
'Ba' al mine see 'im that one young pfeller Stevenson walk about,' said the most ancient of the women. 'Old pfeller Stevenson 'im up there. You gib it tik-a-pen, you gib it plenty pfeller 'bacca.'
Cameron threw her a bit of precious tobacco, which she proceeded at once to cut up and cram into her unsavoury-looking pipe. Then he rode on; Mortimer might by chance have gone out somewhere on the run before the women had reached the station. Half a mile nearer to the house a sundowner had been put on to mending a fence. At present he was smoking and looking at it occasionally.
'Going up to volunteer, mate?' he said, as Cameron rode through a gate.
Cameron disclaimed the honour.
'Take a tip and do it,' the fellow said. 'The old chap is off his nut just now, and is jolly well flinging his money round—him as was too close to give a fellow tucker without turning him on to axe-sharpening first. You'll get your fare to Sydney and a moke and pocket of tin handed over to you afore you've finished of telling him you want to join.'
Cameron inquired good-humouredly why under such exceptional circumstances he himself did not volunteer.
He grinned. 'Guv'nor's knowed me on and off for twenty year,' he said, and fell to looking at the work before him again. 'Seems to think I've had too much bush experience. Had a try on, of course, but Mister Mortimer he put the stopper on me. I'm cursing my luck for not waiting till he'd gone.'
'Gone!' said Cameron; 'why, where's he going?'
'He went larst Monday—you must be a just-come not to know,' the man said; 'he's goin' off to glory along o' the Swaggies Army.'
Cameron turned his horse's head and rode slowly back to the selection.
He took a picture or two, and tried to sell them in Wilgandra, but they were still frameless, and he only raised a pound by the sale of both.
It was his neighbour Daly who helped him most; he saved him his fifty shilling railway ticket by sending him to Sydney in charge of a dozen trucks of sheep.
Landed there after the almost intolerable journey, he tried desperately for work—even beat up an old friend or two, who looked askance at his shabby appearance. One offered him a pound which he could ill spare, having fallen on hard times himself, the other wrote him half a dozen useless recommendations to various business men.
Cameron hung around the quay in a sort of fascination; no pilot boat went out but he did not tremble, no great ship came round Bradley's Head but he felt it bore his wife on board. The transports sent from the Cape for the Bush Contingent—The Atlantian and the Maplemore—were already anchored out in the stream, the great numbers painted on their sides adding an unusual note to the shipping on the smiling harbour. Launches and heavily weighed boats bearing timber for the horse-boxes were continually putting off from the quay to cross the intermediate stretch of water to where they lay.
The bustle and movement woke Cameron to life again, and the knowledge that he must do something, if it were only to take a header into the plentiful water; not here at the quay where a thousand eyes would see, but from one of the quiet bays or headlands the harbour has so many of.
Then he pulled himself together again, recognised it was want of food that had begot such cowardice in him, and spent his last shilling on a good meal. After that he tramped out to Randwick to the camp, and asked for Private Mortimer Stevenson.
The sentry jerked his head in a certain direction, and Cameron made his way to where some ten thousand perhaps of Sydney's citizens, women and children, had crowded, as they crowded almost every afternoon, for the novelty of seeing the bushmen drill.
It was an odd, unmilitary spectacle. Uniforms were not yet served out, and there seemed no regularity as to height. Here a sunburnt fellow from 'out back' drilled in a tattered flannel shirt and a pair of ancient moleskins that had seen several hard shearing seasons. Next to him was some wealthy squatter's son in a well-cut light grey suit, then a rough fellow with a beard half a foot long, moleskins again, and an old red handkerchief tied round his throat, then a lad, a fine well-grown fellow in the white flannels he played tennis in on his far-off station. None of the pomp, theéclatof militarism was there—not even the discipline; the men gossiped cheerfully with each other even while they stood in their ranks, they laughed at the girls in the crowd—even threw kisses to them. They were a fine, independent-looking lot, and you knew at a glance at them that they would think no more of carrying their lives in their hands than most people think of carrying umbrellas. But you marvelled how they were to assume in so few weeks' time the well-groomed, spick-and-span, automatic appearance you had hitherto associated with the word soldiers.
Cameron watched the different squads for a little time, and felt proud of Mortimer when he found girls and men were pointing him out and saying. 'That one, look! the fourth from the end; he's a splendid-looking fellow, isn't he?' 'See that fourth chap, that's the sort of man we want to represent us.'
But the drilling and the hoarse cries of the hardworked sergeants seemed endless, and Cameron wandered on and watched the riding and shooting tests which separated the genuine bushmen from the counterfeits, who swarmed here, as easily as the winnow separates the grain from the chaff. At last the squads broke up, and the men mixed with the crowd or went off, mopping their steaming faces, to their tents or the canteen.
Mortimer broke loose from the men around him, and went instantly to Cameron, whom he had quickly seen while drilling. He carried him off direct to his tent.
'I'm awfully sorry to have kept you waiting so long,' he said. 'Here, try this deck-chair, it's more comfortable than that bench. And what will you have to drink? Oh, I know, you like lemon squash.' He turned to a rough-looking fellow at the door. 'Go down to the canteen, Brady, like a good fellow, and get a jug of lemon squash. Here's the money.' He turned back to Cameron. 'I'd have given anything to get away when I saw you, but you can guess what it is out there.'
'Yes, yes,' said Cameron, 'it doesn't matter; it was all interesting. I have been looking about.'
Mortimer gave him a sharp look.
'Is all well up there?' he said. 'It isn't often you come down.'
'Nothing's wrong,' said Cameron, 'I came down to meet my wife, that's all.'
'Of course, of course,' said Mortimer; 'stupid of me. I was reading about it only this morning in the paper—about the big welcome the citizens intend to give your little girl. There is to be a launch—the Government launch, isn't it?—and the mayor and no end of people are going up the harbour to meet her.'
'Are they?' said Cameron.
'You've been consulted about it, surely?' said Mortimer warmly. 'They're not doing all this without referring to you?'
Cameron straightened himself a little.
'I've had no fixed address since I came down,' he said. 'They've overlooked me, I suppose, because they don't know I exist; I hardly do, you know.'
'Are any of the others down with you?' asked Mortimer—'Bart or Roly or any of them?'
'Oh no,' said Cameron. 'Some one has to mind the landed property against my return.'
'And are they all well?' pursued Mortimer. 'Roly—wasn't Roly looking a little thin before I left?'
'Oh no,' Cameron said, 'he's right enough. The girls feel the life more than he and Bart. My eldest girl seemed very off colour when I left?'
'Not typhoid?' burst out Mortimer. 'I saw in the paper it had broken out in Wilgandra——'
'Oh no, we're too far for that. Nothing but the heat. Was that Timon I saw among the horses?'
'Yes, I brought him and the governor's favourite roan down—he made me have him.'
'Mortimer—I'm compelled to ask—I cannot do without—my wife—Challis—suit—make them ashamed——' Cameron's voice choked.
'Confound that Brady!' said Mortimer, springing up and upsetting his chair; 'takes as long to get a lemon squash as if I'd sent him to town for it. If it had been a bottle of whiskey, now, no delay then; might come in for a spare glass himself. You r'mber Brady, rouseabout up at Coolooli, gives a home-touch to see him about. He volunteered the same time as I. I say, I'm off duty now for the rest of the day—may as well come back to town and have a bit of spree. Brooks, I say Brooks, go and see if there's a spare cab, there's a good fellow.' Another coin went into another rough fellow's hand.
Cameron found himself driving back to town by Stevenson's side before he had collected his thoughts—or even had his lemon squash.
Half the way Mortimer rattled on about the day's work in camp, the transports, provisions for the comfort of the horses, the prospect of the contingent's success.
'By the way,' he said all at once, 'I want you to do me a favour. The governor's been too free with his cash for me—not safe to have too much about, you know—tempt some poor devil. D'ye mind taking some of it and looking after it for me—just for a year or two till I get back? Use it, you know; you might use it now instead of drawing any out of your own account, then when I come home you can pay me back. Awfully obliged it you will; had a couple of pounds stolen out of my tent yesterday, and have been going about with fifty pounds on me since. I'll get you to look after thirty of it; the governor's cabled no end of money to a bank in Durban for me, for fear I'll run short.'
Half a dozen crisp notes were thrust into Cameron's hands, and Mortimer, hot and red in the face, was rattling on again about the horse-boxes for the voyage, and how they should have been made this way, and not that way, and about the wisdom of telling the men to bring their own saddles, and about that egregious ass the public, who seemed to think the Bushmen were so thin-skinned that they could not bear a word of command, unless it was put in the form of a polite request.
'Isn't it tommy-rot?' said Mortimer. 'We're not a pack of sensitive girls. We enjoy the discipline, and recognise we have to be licked into some sort of order, unless we want to remain a mob.'
Cameron was very quiet, but he gripped Mortimer's hand on parting, and cleared his throat to try to say something.
But the young volunteer found he must be off in violent haste.
'By George,' he said, 'haven't another minute; promised the colonel I'd go out and kick up a row about the horse-boxes,' and his big loose figure plunged back to the waiting cab. 'You'll come and see me off, all right, so long'; and the cab woke to life and moved smartly off, to lose itself in the stream of vehicles going towards the quay.
Cameron, a lump in his throat, turned towards the General Post Office, to see if there were further news from the little contingent at home. The last letters from Bart had been disquieting; Small, the butcher, it seemed, had transferred the mortgage he held on the selection to old Mr. Stevenson. 'And Daly says,' Bart had written, 'it's about the worst thing that could have happened, Stevenson's so close-handed. Small often used to give you time, but he says Stevenson never will.' A second letter followed. Stevenson had foreclosed, but was willing for a year or two, until a tenant he had in view was ready to occupy, that Cameron should remain on the place. In the meantime, however, he, Stevenson, must be at liberty to make any alteration or improvement he saw fit to the property.
The present letter was excited in tone. 'After all, dad,' the boy wrote, 'I believe it's the best thing that could have happened. The place is looking up no end, there are quite ten men at work on it, so the chances are the mater and Challis won't quite die of the shock of seeing it. And what do you think? You know that calf we gave Hermie two years ago? Well, I never knew there was good blood in it, did you? It's the last thing you'd think to look at it. But that Stevenson knows a thing or two. He comes down here and pokes about pretty often, and he saw it, and what did you think? Offered me ten pounds down for it! I couldn't believe my ears. Don't you remember I tried to sell it when you were ill, and Small offered two for it? But I wasn't going to let on I was so green as not to know it was a good sort, and I said straight that we could not let it go under fifteen. He looked at me in that queer, sharp way of his, and he poked at the calf a bit, and then said, "Say twelve ten." But I'd got my mettle up by that. I knew if a close-handed, hard chap like that offered twelve ten, it must be worth quite twenty-five. I just turned round and went on digging up the potatoes for dinner and said, "Fifteen pounds," for all the world like Small does at the sales. He went round to Dimple and began poking at her again, and examining her like anything, and then he said, "Fourteen pounds, sonny." I'd got enough potatoes out for Miss Browne by then, so I put them in the basket and just said, "Good morning, sir," and pretended to be going.
'Then he began laughing fit to kill himself, and in between the laughs he said, "Fifteen," and I said, just like Small, "She's yours, and you've got a bargain." And he laughed again, and said, "I have." I hope you're not vexed, dad, at me doing this on my own. I've been feeling very anxious ever since, for she must have been a really valuable little thing—he's not the man to be deceived; they say he's the best judge of stock in the country. I told Daly about it, and he wanted to know if Stevenson was drunk at the time. He doesn't drink at all, does he? But I thought you'd agree that the fifteen would be more use to us now than twenty-five later, and that's why I closed with him. I'm sending five down in this, thinking it will come in usefully for you. And Hermie and Miss Browne have gone off to Wilgandra to get new dresses and cups and sheets and whips of other things with the rest. You should have seen their list. The mater and Challis'll think we're no end of swells after all.'
CHAPTER XIV
Home to the Harbour
'City of ships!City of the world! (for all races are here,All the lands of the earth make contributions here;)Proud and passionate city—mettlesome, mad, extravagant city!Spring up, O city—not for peace alone, but be indeed yourself, warlike!War, red war is my song through your streets, O city!'
'City of ships!City of the world! (for all races are here,All the lands of the earth make contributions here;)Proud and passionate city—mettlesome, mad, extravagant city!Spring up, O city—not for peace alone, but be indeed yourself, warlike!War, red war is my song through your streets, O city!'
'City of ships!
'City of ships!
City of the world! (for all races are here,
All the lands of the earth make contributions here;)
Proud and passionate city—mettlesome, mad, extravagant city!
Spring up, O city—not for peace alone, but be indeed yourself, warlike!
War, red war is my song through your streets, O city!'
Down through the excited waters of the harbour came the great ship Utopia, the fussy little tug running on ahead.
Away near the Heads the stretching blue had danced almost as unfurrowed by the lines of boats as outside, where the ocean's ways lay wild.
But as the ship came down, down closer to the city, a stately untroubled belle on the arm of her hot, nervous, fidgety little partner, many of the passengers felt with astonishment they had never seen so many watercraft in all their lives before. Rowing boats—scores and scores of them! They looked like flies on an agitated surface of translucent honey. Sailing boats! Surely not one stitch of canvas owned by the city was out of use. Poised, waiting, up and down, everywhere, you felt there was going to be a storm and these were the white gulls come in flocks to flutter and dip and rise till it began. The ferry-boats! They went their hurried journeys to and from—across to North Shore, to Mosman's, and Neutral Bay, to Manly, and you could fancy they were looking over their shoulders all the way and longing to come back. The ocean-going boats, leaning at the Woolloomooloo wharves or anchored out in the stream, they were black with eager people, and waved from every point long strings of brilliant flags—the flags of half the world. America was there, shaking out her Stars and Stripes from a mail steamer, a San Francisco timber-boat passing along to a berth in Darling Harbour, and a transport come to take stores for the army in the Philippines.
From one of the men-of-war in Farm Cove floated Japan's white flag with its red chrysanthemum; France had her war-ship, with its red, white, and blue ensign, also in the cove. All the others, half a dozen of them, floated the white ensign of England.
Up at the quay lay the mammoth Friedrich der Grosse, Germany's black, red, and white ensign flying in the wind amid her gay strings of bunting, and round the corner, in Darling Harbour, among the boats that had come down heavily laden from the rivers, the boats from all the other colonies and Fiji and Noumea. Russia and Norway both were represented.
And the city—had the City of Blue Waves gone mad?
As the Utopia made her slow progress up the harbour, those on board were able to catch a breath of the excitement from the land.
The wharves at Woolloomooloo seemed a black mass of humanity; the windows of the warehouses were lined with faces, men and small boys had taken up vantage-points on scaffolding, cranes, the very roofs of the wharf buildings. On the green park-like slopes of the Domain thousands were patiently waiting, white and gay coloured parasols and dresses enlivening the sombre garments of the men.
Challis stood at the side of the boat with trembling knees and rounded eyes. Mrs. Cameron was beside her, very pale, struggling hard for composure, putting her hand to her throat secretly now and again, to smooth the lumps that seemed to be rising there. A warm reception she had had no doubt her child would have; indeed, the Melbourne papers she had seen had said big preparations were to be made for her reception, for was not this the city of her birth, the eager, open-handed city that had made it possible for the world to judge of her genius? But the mother's wildest thoughts had never dreamed of anything like this; royalty itself had never on any of its journeyings been welcomed in more magnificent fashion.
She paled and paled—she slid down her hand, and caught and held tightly in it one of the small thin hands of her gifted child.
Yet, great as the honour undoubtedly seemed, had the power to change things been hers, she would have swept the wharves clear of all that strange-faced crowd, and have had, standing there alone, looking up at her, the husband her heart was throbbing for, the children she yearned for, and yet would hardly know.
The lady who had begged the photograph pressed her way up.
'What does it all mean? Did ever you see such excitement? Is it really as Mrs. Graham says—the welcome for Miss Cameron? I never saw anything to equal it in my life. My dear, my dear, you are the most fortunate girl in the world. I am proud to have shaken hands with you, honoured to have sat at the same table. See, here is my travelling ink-pot and a pen, write me your autograph, darling.'
Mrs. Goodenough bustled up and caught at the mother's arm.
'Such excitement is enough to kill her; give her two of these quinine tablets, and keep these in your pocket, to give if you notice a sign of flagging. It will be a most exhausting day for her. And you are pale—here, I have my flask of tonic—you must, you must indeed take some. You will never bear up through all the congratulations, if you do not. Well, well, I must say I have never seen anything like this in my life.'
Challis stood as white as if carved in marble; sometimes her little soft underlip quivered, sometimes she gave an almost piteous glance round, as if seeking an impossible escape. She had had warm welcomes and even cheers and a little bunting in many towns, but what was this she had fallen upon?
The gangways were hardly down before there hurried on board from the wharf a gentleman in a tall hat, and two others with the ungroomed, long-haired appearance of the musician the world over. One of them bore a moderate-sized bouquet of white flowers, and another a small harp of roses that looked a little dashed with the sun and dust.
'Miss Cameron, Miss Cameron!' was the call echoed all along the deck. The captain himself came up and took the little girl and her mother down to the men. They were warmly shaken hands with, their healths and the voyage asked after, and the flowers presented. Then one of the musicians began to read an address couched in the most flattering terms, but half-way through the tall-hatted gentleman tapped his arm and whispered and looked at his watch. And the musician nodded and turned over the leaves of the address, and shook his head doubtfully and looked hastily also at his watch.
'My dear Miss Cameron,' he said, and rolled the big paper up, 'I shall really have to keep this for a more opportune time. We had thought the Utopia would not have been here until four this afternoon, when all our arrangements would have gone well. But now the mayor and the Euterpe Society, and all the musical bodies in the town are of course engaged in seeing the Bush Contingent off. We expect the procession any minute—indeed, it must be nearly in Pitt Street by this.'
Mrs. Cameron said a few graceful words, in which she begged them not to waste time now; she was assured by all their kind speeches of the welcome her daughter had in this her native city, and she expressed her sense of the good fortune that had awaited them, inasmuch as the Utopia had arrived in time to see an event of such national importance as the departure of the Bush Contingent. No one could have guessed at the dear fatuous notion she had been nursing in that sensible head of hers until a moment back.
As for Challis—Challis put her head over her fast-fading harp and laughed, laughed uncontrollably a minute or two. Then she stretched out her hand and touched one of the musician's sleeves. 'Couldn't we get off and see the procession?' she said.
The musician looked at her eagerly, admiringly. 'Just what I was going to suggest,' he cried. 'Come on, come on—we've got a carriage out here for you, and if we've any luck we'll just get up into Macquarie Street in time.'
He and his friends swept the two voyagers off their feet, and carried them with the pushing throng to the gangway. None of the passengers had any time to look at them; all were a little off balance at the time, rushing about with faces broken up into tears and laughter, kissing and throwing arms round those they had been long parted from, wildly imploring stewards for gladstones and handbags from their cabins.
In the crush Challis whispered to her mother, 'Oh, aren't I glad it's not for me!' in a tone of fervent thankfulness.
When they were down on the wharf, the rapturous meetings on all sides sent their eyes hungrily searching the crowd again for their own home welcomers. But there seemed no one, no one, look as they would, and they went slowly down the company's wharf with the welcomers the city had sent to the hired open carriage outside.
Challis and her mother sat facing the horses, the tall-hatted gentleman and one musician sat opposite to them, the other went on the box. It had been the committee's intention to bid the coachman wear white favours, in honour of the visitor's youth. But the item had been forgotten, and the man wore instead three of the Contingent medals boys were selling in the streets. The carriage made a snail's progress along the quay crowded with the emptyings of the ferry-boats, and slowly, slowly climbed up to Bridge Street, which was on the line of march. The multitude looked at the vehicle.
'Who's the kid?' shouted a youth.
And a bright young Australian yelled:
'The colonel's kid—going to meet her pa and say good-bye.' On which the human sea lifted up its lungs and hurrahed wildly, till something new came along to attract its interest.
So Challis had her cheers.
But in Macquarie Street all traffic was suspended, and a hoarse, red-faced man in some sort of a uniform charged at the open carriage, and ordered it to go back, as if it were no more important than a broken-springed buggy with one horse.
'Have to take yer up Castlereagh Street, ladies,' said the driver regretfully. 'If yer'd been 'arf an hour sooner, we'd have just got up to the 'ospital, and yer'd 'ave seen it all fine.'
'Oh,' said Challis eagerly to the musicians, 'see! see that lovely heap of wood—look—over there—those women are getting off—there would be lots of room for us. Oh, do let's get out!'
In three minutes the little party was sitting, clinging, or standing on a pile of timber outside a half-built house, and the carriage had backed, backed away to take a clear course up deserted Castlereagh Street.
The sudden roll of a drum sent its electric vibration through the tense multitude. The cry of, 'Here they come!' raised falsely a dozen times during the last two hours, now had the positive ring in it that carried entire conviction.
'Oh, look, mother! See here come the horses! Doesn't it remind you of the Jubilee crowd in London?' said Challis.
But Mrs. Cameron pushed roughly at her shoulder. 'Come here,' she said hoarsely; 'change places with me. Don't fall—there, hold fast. Let me get lower down.'
A man was fighting his way through the throng—a grey-bearded man in a well-cut light grey suit and a white helmet; and such was his determination that five minutes after Mrs. Cameron had seen him he had worked his way through twenty yards of solid crowd and was standing just below her.
Mrs. Cameron turned to the musician who had been at much pains to secure a little room for himself on the timber.
'Mr. Jardine,' she said, 'will you please get down and give up your place to my husband? I—I have not seen him for six years.'
Jardine climbed down cheerfully—but also of necessity. Cameron pulled himself into the vacant place.
They were side by side at last, and neither could speak; they just looked at each other with white faces—looked, looked.
Finally their hands went together.
A choked little voice came from above after a minute or two.
'Me too, daddie—speak to me too.' And it was then he remembered his child as well as his wife was come back to him.
He reached up and squeezed the eager hand, he put his other hand round her little shoe and squeezed that too. Challis leaned down and kissed the top of his helmet.
'I said you'd have a helmet on,' she said, with a hysterical little laugh.
His hand went back to his wife's.
'Is there no way of getting out of this rabble?' she said.
'You might be crushed to death. There's nothing for it now, but to sit still till it is over.'
'Why—why weren't you on the wharf?'
'I was—of course I was—I saw you both plainly just as they put the gangway down. But there was an accident: a little child near me was knocked down by a luggage truck, badly hurt, at the moment: there seemed no one else to give the mother a hand. By the time I'd got him up and into a cab and found a fellow willing to go with her to a doctor's, you had gone. They told me the carriage had come up Bridge Street. I have been fighting my way and looking for you ever since.'
'The children?' said the mother.
'All well, quite well; I couldn't bring them.'
'No. Oh, to get out of this hateful crowd!'
'Here they come,' Challis said; 'no, they are only policemen.'
The fine horses and men of the mounted police rode by, then a small body of Lancers; after these marched some two hundred sailors of the Royal Navy, and perhaps half that number of Royal Marines.
Then the Bushies.
And now the crowd took the reins off itself, and gave head to its madness. It hurrahed itself hoarse; it waved its arms, and its handkerchief, and its hat, and its head; it flung flowers, and flags, and coloured paper; it hung recklessly from roofs, and walls, doors, chimneys, fences, lamp-posts, balconies, verandah-posts, and it yelled, 'There's Jack,' 'Good-bye, Joe,' 'Come back, Wilson,' 'Shoot 'em down, Tom,' 'Hurrah, Cooper!' 'Luck to you, Fogarty,' 'There's Storey,' 'Hurrah, Watt!' It handed up drinks to the thirsty horsemen, it pressed handkerchiefs, cigars, and sweets indiscriminately upon them.
In return the sunburnt Bushies waved their helmets and little toy flags; one held up a small fox-terrier, another an opossum by the tail; they rode along with one arm free for handshaking all along the route, threw kisses to the excited women, even at times leaned down and kissed some tip-toe eager girl in a white dress and a wonderful hat.
They looked as military as one could wish now; Cameron was amazed to think this was the same material he had seen drilling. A finer body of men had never passed down the streets of any city. They sat their magnificent horses magnificently; you knew there was nothing they could not do with the splendid beasts. The khaki uniform and khaki helmet, and the sunburnt ruddy faces made a healthful, workmanlike study in brown.
'That's the dog Bushie,' said Cameron to Challis. 'Every one in the colony is interested in him; the men say he will be very useful.'
The crowd yelled, 'Bushie, Bushie—hurrah! good old doggie,' as the intelligent sheep-dog came into sight.
'Here's Stevenson—see, the man on the left, Molly,' Cameron said; 'our best friend. Good-bye, Mortimer, good luck! Good-bye, old fellow, good-bye.'
Mortimer waved his helmet gaily.
'What a fine fellow!' said Mrs. Cameron, and what a good face! Who is the old man?'
'Why, it's old Stevenson. Yes, just like him to do that,' Cameron answered. The old squatter had ridden alongside the Bushmen the whole of the line of march. His face was working with excitement; every time a cheer went up from the crowd he cheered too, standing up from time to time in his saddle and waving his soft felt hat. He kept beside his son as much as he could; he was almost bursting with the pride of his position.
Challis's eyes were full of tears.
'Oh,' she said, 'what a very dreadful thing if that nice man should be killed!' She was quite captivated by the sunny smile Mortimer had given their group.
'There's not a better fellow in the world,' Cameron said warmly.
The khaki died away in the distance, the prancing horses were gone, the sound of the band grew fainter and fainter.
Yet a little time, and the transports would be plunging through the Heads with them, carrying them forward as fast as might be to dye the veldt red with their own blood or that of the Boers.