Читать книгу Billabong Gold - Mary Grant Bruce - Страница 4

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‟SHALL you go, Jean?” asked Betty Yorke.

“Goodness, no!” answered her sister decidedly. “It doesn’t tempt me in the least.”

“But you used to like going to Billabong.”

“Oh, I did, when I was only a kid. It was fun enough then to spend most of one’s time on a horse, and any odd moments playing tennis. But really, Betty, I’ve grown out of that sort of thing. It would bore me to tears to spend weeks there now.”

“You and Norah Linton were great friends once,” said her mother regretfully. “I liked her better than your present set, Jean—they’re too advanced for me!”

“Oh, my set’s all right,” Jean answered. “They know how to keep things going. And I like Norah almost as much as ever when she comes to Town and goes to dances and races, and sees everything there is to be seen. She’s great fun then. But nothing ever happens at Billabong. The same old round—and I’m not built for station life, Mother. I like a ride now and then, but give me cars!”

“Well, I suppose they have cars,” remarked Betty. “They seem fairly civilized.”

“Cars—yes; but they only think of them as useful necessities for getting from one place to another. Not to be seriously considered beside horses. And Norah’s wrapped up in that small boy of hers; she’s never been the same since she married Wally Meadows. Too domesticated altogether. She wears the most appalling clothes——”

“Oh, I say, Jean!” protested Betty.

“You only see her in Town. She turns out well enough then, but at Billabong——!” Jean tilted a very pretty nose. “Woollies and old coats and skirts, when she’s not in riding-breeches. I never thought I’d be able to get her into a decent wedding-dress; a nice rush it was, too, when she and Wally tipped themselves into the lagoon just when they ought to have been dressing to get married. Just picture them—arriving drenched and covered with mud, and all the wedding-guests waiting on the verandah! And they thought it a howling joke!”

Betty giggled.

“I wish I had seen it,” she said.

“Well, I didn’t think it was funny. No, I’ve outgrown Billabong. As for going there now—why I wouldn’t leave Melbourne this month for anything. I’m booked for dozens of things.”

“What are you all conspiring about?” asked Mr. Yorke, appearing on the scene.

“Oh, it’s not a conspiracy, Father. Only I’ve just had a letter from Norah Meadows. She wants me to go up to Billabong. She and Tommy Rainham are alone there; at least, except for that small boy, Bill Blake, who spends all his holidays with them.”

“Tommy Rainham? Is he the young Englishman who settled near Billabong?”

“No, it’s his sister——Jim Linton is engaged to her. I don’t know why they call her Tommy.”

“I do,” said Betty. “Her name’s Cecilia.”

“Well, that’s an excellent reason,” remarked Mr. Yorke, taking a cup of tea. “But why are they alone, Jean? Where’s Norah’s father, and that enormous brother of hers—Jim, isn’t he? To say nothing of her husband.”

“They seem to be camping out in the ranges beyond Billabong. Norah’s rather vague about it—she says they’re prospecting for gold, and Bob Rainham too. It sounds a bit queer. They never used to go in for that sort of thing.”

“Oh, quite sane men become queer if the gold-bug bites them,” observed her father. “Not that I believe there’s any gold in that district. Still, I don’t know much about it, after all. Does Norah want you to join the fossicking party, or just to hold her hand because she is lonely?”

“I don’t believe she’s lonely at all. Norah never is. She says they go out to the camp now and then, and sometimes Mr. Linton and the boys come in to the homestead. She seems to think it would be a good time for me to go up. Dick is asked too. I told her in my last letter that he was at home because of his school being in quarantine, and she jumped at that, because young Bill Blake is in the same box—he goes to Dick’s school. So she thinks Dick would be a good mate for Bill.”

Mr. Yorke showed rather more interest at this information.

“That’s very nice of Norah,” he said. “And uncommonly good for Dick. That boy is simply living at cinemas when he isn’t knocking about the streets—not that there’s much else for the poor youngster to do. He would jump out of his skin at the chance of going to a station.” He stirred his tea. “What about it, Jean?”

“Nothing doing, I’m afraid, Father,” she laughed. “If you only knew all the engagements I’ve got ahead!”

“Oh—your engagements!” he said, with a touch of impatience. “Can’t you let them slide for a few weeks?”

“Father, you know I can’t. It would mean letting down ever so many people. And I don’t want to go to the country. Not a little bit. Why don’t you send Dick up by himself?”

“Certainly not,” said her mother firmly. “Norah has one boy visitor on her hands; I’m not going to add to her responsibilities. Think of what Dicky’s mending would be, to say nothing of any other consideration!”

“She wouldn’t mind,” said Jean carelessly. She lit a cigarette, leaning back in her chair. “Norah takes responsibilities in her stride. I believe young Bill was rather a terror when he first went there, but she managed to tame him. She would think nothing of having a second youngster to look after.”

“Not my youngster,” returned Mr. Yorke. “No—Dick must stay at home if you won’t go, Jean. I wouldn’t mind sending him if her men-folk were there, but it’s another matter when she is alone with the Rainham girl. It’s a pity, though; Dick would have loved it.”

“It’s a beastly shame!” said a furious voice.

The face that appeared at the window of the drawing-room was red with anger and very dirty. In calmer and cleaner moments it might have been called good-looking; indeed, when Dick Yorke was washed and brushed, his fair hair reduced to such sleekness as its tendency to curl allowed, his mother thought fondly that he would have looked beautiful as a choir-boy. To which his father would have responded grimly that Dick certainly possessed all the possibilities with which choir-boys are credited when off duty. Just now, he stared fiercely at his family, keeping his heaviest scowl for his elder sister.

“Dick, you’ve been listening!” exclaimed his mother with an attempt at severity.

“Well, I never asked you to talk when I was sitting just outside on the verandah, did I?” demanded the fierce voice. “Can’t I be on my own verandah if I like?” The voice was a little breathless; one might have suspected that the speaker was inclined to choke. “I—I couldn’t help hearing you talking, could I? An’, anyhow, it was my business. I s’pose you’d never have told me I’d had an invitation. An’ now you won’t let me go!”

“Steady, Dick,” said Mr. Yorke.

“I’m ... being steady,” said the voice with a gulp. Dick pointed an accusing finger at Jean. “You’d let me go, too, only she won’t take me. She’s just mean! Just ’cause she’s got her own car an’ heaps of fat-headed friends, an’ she thinks she’s someone! Stickin’ red paint on her lips an’ powder on her silly nose, an’ plucking out bits of her eyebrows, an’——”

“Dick!” His father rose threateningly.

“Well, doesn’t she? You know jolly well she does, an’ you don’t like it either—you said so. Only you won’t make her take me to that Billabong place—you just let her do every single blessed thing she likes. An’—an’—it just is a beastly shame!” The choke in his voice became overpowering; his head vanished suddenly. Feet pounded along the verandah and died away.

In the drawing-room there was silence for a moment. Jean had flushed a little, but she laughed.

“Dick’s manners!” she said expressively. “Really, Mother, he’s a bit out of hand. He certainly isn’t fit to go away to stay at Billabong or anywhere else, if you ask me!”

“Well, it’s enough to make the poor little chap lose his temper.” Betty’s tone showed where her sympathies lay. “He does love the country, and it’s so dull for him at home.”

“So I suppose you mean I ought to put everything aside and take him?”

Betty hesitated.

“No, I don’t mean that,” she said honestly. “You wouldn’t enjoy it, and you have all your own plans made. Only—well, I wish Dicky hadn’t heard anything about it, that’s all.”

“He shouldn’t have listened,” said Jean sharply. “Someone will have to teach him that that sort of thing isn’t done.”

Betty got up with an impatient movement and began to collect the teacups. She was taller than Jean and darker; her light-brown hair held tints of copper where the light caught it. She lacked her elder sister’s prettiness and her air of perfect poise, but there was a different attraction in her round face with its wide brow and the grey eyes that were rarely without a twinkle. Somewhat overshadowed by Jean, Betty took her path through life unobtrusively. “Betty finds fun easily; Jean makes hard labour of it,” Mr. Yorke had summed up his daughters.

He looked rather uneasily at them now; a hard-worked business man, family disagreements bewildered him, and he would not take sides. He had a vague feeling that fatherly duty demanded that he should go in search of Dick and reason with him on the subject of good manners; and he knew it was the last thing he wished to do. So he filled his pipe slowly and waited for someone to speak.

Mrs. Yorke broke the silence.

“Oh, well, it can’t be helped. We must try to make it up to Dicky in some way, poor darling. How I do wish that wretched school would reopen!”

Jean said, “It will be a mercy for everyone when it does.”

Betty flashed round on her.

“You might at least be a little sorry for him, Jean, even if he was rude to you. He’s only a small boy, after all.”

Jean raised her eyebrows, looking at her enquiringly.

“You’re awfully concerned about him, Betty. Why don’t you take him up to Billabong yourself?”

“I?” Betty looked astonished. “I’m not invited.”

“That doesn’t matter a scrap. Norah only wants a mate for Bill Blake; she would be just as glad to see him come with you. And you’d fit in there far better than I could now; you like that sort of thing. And you know you always worshipped Norah at school.”

“Well, but every junior did that,” admitted Betty. “A girl who shines at every game as Norah did can’t help being put on a pedestal by all the small fry. But Norah hardly knew that I existed.”

“Oh, well, let her know it now,” Jean said lightly. “Honestly, I know it would be all right if you were to go. I’ll write and tell Norah that I can’t leave home, but that you’ll take my place—I know perfectly well what she’ll say.”

Betty hesitated. It was very tempting. There were not many places to which one could go without an invitation, but she believed that Billabong was one of them. As a small girl she had listened eagerly to Jean’s stories of holidays spent on the station—it seemed to her then, as it often seemed now, that Jean had all the luck. At school, even though she and Norah Linton were parted by the incredible distance that separates a senior from a junior, Norah had more than once been friendly and kind. And there had been glimpses of her now and then, in recent years in Melbourne, that had always made Betty want to know her better. She thought of her now: tall and serene and merry-eyed; a girl who seemed to shine with happiness, who had the gift of communicating happiness to others. “I don’t believe she would think it queer if I did go,” she thought.

Jean was watching her, guessing at her thoughts.

“You had better let me write, Betty. Norah will give you a tremendous welcome. And you can go and tell Dick he can begin to pack!”

That was a consideration to sway Betty. She looked at Mrs. Yorke.

“Mother, do you think it would be all right?”

“I don’t see why not,” her mother answered. “Norah is rather a dear, you know; I think it might be a most successful visit—and, Betty darling, what a blessing for poor Dick!”

“Do it, Betty,” urged her father. “After all, you can always come home when you like if you’re not enjoying yourself.”

Betty made up her mind, throwing care to the winds.

“Right!” she said. “I’ll go and tell Dicky.”

Dick was brooding miserably in his room. He wished he had never listened to the grown-ups talking; he wished someone large and unforgiving would deal effectively with Jean; he wished that severe engine-trouble would develop in her green sports car, in which he so seldom was a passenger. Not a fatal trouble—Dick’s respect for a sports car was too deep for that, whatever he felt at the moment for the car’s owner. He tried to picture it breaking down at an extremely awkward moment; there was some grim satisfaction in the picture. But across it would keep drifting the thought of a cattle-station, with mobs of bullocks and unnumbered galloping horses; of wide spaces where a boy could really gallop.

He heard Betty’s quick step and began in a hurry to turn over the leaves of his stamp-album, looking up defiantly when she came in.

“Hullo, Dicky!” she said gaily. “We’ve been talking about Billabong——”

Swift hope transformed his face.

“She—she isn’t going to take me, after all?”

“No, Jean can’t. But suppose I were to go with you instead, old chap?”

“You!” he said with a gasp. The stamp-album slid to the floor; he flung himself at her, engulfing her in a bear-like hug. “That’s just a million times nicer! My word, Bet, we will have a time!”

“Oh, it won’t be very exciting, Dicky,” she told him. It was a remark they were to remember with some amazement later on.