Produced by Col Choat. HTML version by Al Haines.
MATES AT BILLABONG.
by
Mary Grant Bruce (1878-1958).
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I NORAH'S HOME CHAPTER II TOGETHER CHAPTER III BATH--AND AN INTRODUCTION CHAPTER IV CUTTING OUT CHAPTER V TWO POINTS OF VIEW CHAPTER VI COMING HOME CHAPTER VII JIM UNPACKS CHAPTER VIII A THUNDERSTORM CHAPTER IX THE BILLABONG DANCE CHAPTER X CHRISTMAS CHAPTER XI "LO, THE POOR INDIAN!" CHAPTER XII OF POULTRY CHAPTER XIII STATION DOINGS CHAPTER XIV CUNJEE v. MULGOA CHAPTER XV THE RIDE HOME CHAPTER XVI A CHILD'S PONY CHAPTER XVII ON THE HILLSIDE CHAPTER XVIII BROTHER AND SISTER CHAPTER XIX THE LONG QUEST CHAPTER XX MATES
CHAPTER I
NORAH'S HOME
The grey old dwelling, rambling and wide, With the homestead paddocks on either side, And the deep verandahs and porches tall Where the vine climbs high on the trellised wall. G. ESSEX EVANS.
Billabong homestead lay calm and peaceful in the slanting rays of thesum that crept down the western sky. The red roofs were half hidden inthe surrounding trees--pine and box and mighty blue gums towering abovethe tenderer green of the orchard, and the wide-flung tendrils of theVirginia creeper that was pushing slender fingers over the old walls.If you came nearer, you found how the garden rioted in colour under thetouch of early summer, from the crimson rambler round the eastern baywindow to the "Bonfire" salvia blazing in masses on the lawn; but fromthe paddocks all that could be seen was the mass of green, and themellow red of the roof glimpsing through. Further back came a glance ofrippled silver, where the breeze caught the surface of the lagoon--toolazy a breeze to do more than faintly stir the reed-fringed water.Towards it a flight of black swans winged slowly, with outstretchednecks, across a sky of perfect blue. Their leader's note floated down,as if in answer to the magpies that carolled in the pine trees by thestables. The sound seemed to hang in the still air.
Beyond the tennis-court, in the farther recesses of the garden, ahammock swung between two grevillea trees, whose orange flowers made agay canopy overhead; and in the hammock Norah swayed gently, andknitted, and pondered. The shining needles flashed in and out of thedark blue silk sock. Outsiders--mothers of prim daughters, whom Norahpictured as finding their wildest excitement in "patting a doll"--werewont to deplore that the only daughter of David Linton of Billabong wasbrought up in an eccentric fashion, less girl than boy; but outsidersare apt to cherish delusions, and Norah was not without her share ofgentle accomplishments. Knitting was one; the sock grew quickly in thecapable brown fingers that could grip a stock-whip as easily as theyhandled the needles. All the while, she was listening.
About her the coo of invisible doves fell gently, mingling with thehappy droning of bees in the overhead blossoms. Somewhere, not far off,a sheep bell tinkled monotonously, the only outside sound in theafternoon stillness. It was very peaceful. To Norah, who knew that theworld held no place like Billabong, it only lacked one person for thefinal seal of perfection.
"Wish Dad would come," she said aloud, puckering her brow over a knotin the silk. "He's late--and it is jolly dull without him." The knotcame free, and the needles raced as though making up for lost time.
Two dogs lay on the grass: a big sleepy collie that only movedoccasionally to snap at a worrying fly; and an Irish terrier, plainlyshowing by his restlessness that he despised a lazy life, and longedfor action. He caught his mistress's eye at last, and jumped up with alittle whine.
"If YOU had the heel of a sock to turn, Puck," said Norah, "you'd bemore steady. Lie down, old man."
Puck lay down again discontentedly, put his nose on his paws, andfeigned slumber, one restless eyelid betraying the hollowness of thepretence. Presently he rolled over--and chancing to roll on a spikytwig, rose with a wild yelp of annoyance. Across Norah's laugh came astock-whip crack; and the collie came to life suddenly, and sprang up,as impatient as the terrier. Norah slipped out of the hammock.
"There's Dad!" she said. "Come along!"
She was tall for her fourteen years, and very slender--"scraggy," Jimwas wont to say, with the cheerful frankness of brothers. Norah borethe epithet meekly--she held the view that it was better to be dead thanfat. There was something boyish in the straight, slim figure in theblue linen frock--perhaps the quality was also to be found in a frankmanner that was the product of years of the Bush and open-air life. Thegrey eyes were steady, and met those of others with a straight levelglance; the mouth was a little firm-set for her years, but the childwas revealed when it broke into smiles--and Norah was rarely grave. Nohuman power had yet been discovered to keep in order the brown curls.Their distressed owner tied them back firmly with a wide ribbon eachmorning; but the ribbon generally was missing early in the day, andmight be replaced with anything that came handy--possibly a fragment ofred tape from the office, or a bit of a New Zealand flax leaf, or haplyeven a scrap of green hide. Anything, said Norah, decidedly, was betterthan your hair all over your face. For the rest, a nondescript nose,somewhat freckled, and a square chin, completed a face no one wouldhave dreamed of calling pretty. In his own mind her father referred toit as something better. But then there was tremendous friendshipbetween the master of Billabong and his small daughter.
The stock-whip cracked again, nearer home this time; and Norah crammedthe blue silk sock hastily into a little work-bag, and raced away overthe lawn, her slim black legs making great time across the buffalograss. Beside her tore the collie and Puck, each a vision of embodieddelight. They flashed round the corner of the house, scattered thegravel on the path leading to the back, and came out into the yard as abig black horse pulled up at the gate, and the tall man on his backswung himself lightly to the ground. From some unseen region a blackboy appeared silently and led the horse away. Norah, her father, andthe dogs arrived at the gate simultaneously.
"I thought you were never coming, Daddy," said the mistress ofBillabong, incoherently. "Did you have a good trip?--and how did Monarchgo?--and did you buy the cattle?--and have you had any dinner?" Shepunctuated each query with a hug, and paused only for lack of breath.
"Steady!" said David Linton, laughing. "I'm not a ready reckoner! I'vebought the bullocks, and Monarch went quite remarkably well, and yes,I've had dinner, thank you. And how have you been getting on, Norah?"
"Oh, all right," said his daughter. "It was pretty slow, of course--italways is when you go away, Daddy. I worked, and pottered round withBrownie, and went out for rides. And oh, Dad! ever so many letters--andJim's coming home next week!" She executed an irrepressible pirouette."And he's got the cup for the best average at the sports--bestall-around athlete that means, doesn't it? Isn't it lovely?"
"That's splendid!" Mr. Linton said, looking as pleased as his daughter."And any school prizes?"
"He didn't mention," Norah answered. "I don't suppose so, bless him!But there's one thing pretty sickening--the boys can't come with him.Wally may come later, but Harry has to go to Tasmania with hisfather--isn't it unreasonable?"
"I'm sorry he can't come, but on the whole I've a fellow feeling forthe father," said Jim's parent. "A man wants to see something of hisson occasionally, I suppose. And any news from Mrs. Stephenson?"
"She's better," Norah answered, her face growing graver. "Dick wrote.And there's a letter for you from Mrs. Stephenson, too. She says she'sbrighter, and the sea-voyage was evidently the thing for her, 'causeshe's more like herself than at any time since--since my dear old Hermitdied." Norah's voice shook a little. "They expect to be in Wellingtonall the summer, and perhaps longer."
"It was certainly a good prescription, that voyage." Mr. Linton said."I don't think she would have been long in following her husband--poorold chap!--if they
had remained here. But one misses them, Norah."
"Horrid," said Norah, with emphasis. "I miss her all the time--and it'squite rum, Dad, but I do believe I miss lessons. Over five weeks sinceI had any! Are you going to get me another tutor?"
"We'll see," said her father. They were in the big dining-room by thistime, and he was turning over the pile of letters that had come duringhis three days' absence from the station. "Any chance of tea, Norah?"
"Well, rather!" said Norah. "You read your letters, and I'll go andtell Sarah. And Brownie'll be wanting to see you. I won't be long,Daddy." She vanished.
A few minutes later Mr. Linton looked up from a letter that had put acrease into his brow. A firm, flat step sounded in the hall, and Mrs.Brown came in--cook and housekeeper to the homestead, the guide,philosopher and friend of everyone, and the special protector of thelittle motherless girl about whom David Linton's life centred."Brownie" was not a person lightly to be reckoned with, and her masterwas wont to turn to her whenever any question arose affecting Norah. Hegreeted her warmly now.
"We're all glad to welkim you back, sirr," said Brownie. "As for thatblessed child, she's not like the same 'uman bein' when you're off theplace. Passed me jus' now in the passige, goin' full bat, an' turned'ead over 'eels, she did--I didn't need to be told you'd got 'ome!" Shehesitated: "You heard from Mrs. Stephenson, sir?"
"Yes," said Mr. Linton, glancing at the letter in his hand. "As Ithought--she confirms our opinion. I'm afraid there's no help for it."
"I knew she would," said Mrs. Brown, heavily, a shadow falling onto herbroad, pleasant face. "Oh, I know there's no 'elp, sir--it has to be.But--but--" She put her apron to her eyes.
"We're really very lucky, I suppose," Mr. Linton said, in tonesdistinctly unappreciative, at the moment, of any luck. "Mrs. Stephensonhas been a second mother to Norah, these two years--between you and herI can't see that the child needed anything; and with Dick as tutor shehas made remarkable progress. Personally, I'd have let the arrangementgo on indefinitely. Now that they've had to leave us, however--" Hepaused, folding up the letter slowly.
"She couldn't stay 'ere, poor lady," Mrs. Brown said; "'tain't inreason she'd be able to after the old gentleman's death, with the placefull of memories an' all. An', of course, she'd want Mr. Dick alongwith her. Anyway, the precious lamb's getting a big girl to be taughtonly by a young gentleman--" and Brownie pursed up her lips, lookingsuch a model of all the proprieties that Mr. Linton smiledinvoluntarily.
"She's all right," he said shortly. "Of course, her aunt has been at mefor ever so long to send her to school."
"Beggin' your pardon, sir, Mrs. Geoffrey don't know everythink," saidMrs. Brown, bridling. "Her not havin' any daughters of 'er own, 'ow canit be expected that she'd understand? An' town ladies can't nevercompre'end country children, any'ow. Our little maid's jus' grown uplike a bush flower, an' all the better she is for it."
"But the time comes for change, Brownie, old friend," said Mr. Linton.
"Yes," said Mrs. Brown, "it do. But what the station'll do is more'n Ican see just at present--an' as for you, sir--an' let alone me--" Hercomfortable, fat voice died away, and the apron was at her eyes again."What'll Billabong be, with its little girl at school?"
"At--WHERE?" asked Norah.
She had come in with the tea-tray in her hands--a little flushed fromthe fire, and her brown face alight with all the hundred-and-one thingsshe had yet to tell Daddy. On the threshold she paused, struckmotionless by that amazing speech. She looked a little helplessly fromone face to the other; and the two who loved her felt the samehelplessness as they looked back. It was not an easy thing to passsentence of exile from Billabong on Norah.
"I--" said her father. "You see, dear--Dick having gone--you know, youraunt--" He stopped, his tongue tied by the look in Norah's eyes.
Brownie slipped into the breach.
"You're so big now, dearie," she said, "so, big--and--and--" With thislucid effort at enlightenment she put her apron fairly over her headand turned away to the open window.
But Norah's eyes were on her father. Just for a moment the sick senseof bewilderment and despair seemed to crush her altogether. She hadrealized her sentence in a flash--that the home that meant all the worldto her, and from which Heaven only differed in that Mother was there,was to be changed for a new, strange world that would be empty of allthat she knew and loved. Vaguely she had always known that the blowhung over her--now that it had fallen, for a moment there was no roomfor any other thought. Her look, wide with grief and appeal, met herfather's.
And then she realized slowly that he was suffering too--that he waslooking to her for the response that had never failed him yet. Hissilence told her that this thing was unavoidable, and that he neededher help. Mates such as they must stand by one another--that was part ofthe creed that had grown up in Norah's heart. Daddy had always saidthat no matter what happened he could rely upon her. She could not failhim now.
So, just as the silence in the room became oppressive, Norah smiledinto her father's eyes, and carefully put the tea-tray upon the table.
"If you say it's got to be, well, that's all about it, Daddy," shesaid. The voice was low, but it did not quiver. "Don't worry, darling;it's all right. Sarah was out, and Mary goodness knows where, so I madetea myself; I hope it's drinkable." She brought her father's cup to hisside and smiled at him again.
"My blessed lamb!" said Mrs. Brown, hastily--and fled from the room.
David Linton did not take the cup; instead he slipped his arm round thechildish body.
"You think we can stand it, then?" he asked. "It's not you alone,little mate; your old Dad's under sentence too."
"I think that makes things a lot easier," said Norah, "'cause you andI always do things together, don't we, Daddy? And--and--" Just for amoment her lips trembled. "Must we, Dad?"
He tightened his arm.
"Yes, dear."
There was a pause.
"After Christmas?"
"Yes--in February."
"Then I've got nine weeks," said Norah, practically. "We won't talkabout it more than we can help, I think, don't you? Have your tea,Daddy, or it'll be cold and horrid." She brought her own cup and satdown on the arm of his chair. "How many bullocks did you buy?"
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