Читать книгу Billabong's Luck - Mary Grant Bruce - Страница 8

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BEYOND the red-brick homestead of Billabong Station, with the outlying buildings of stables and men’s quarters that made it like a village set in a tree-clad expanse, the ground sloped gently away until it ended in a wide lagoon. A little creek, fed from the farther hills, flowed into it at the eastern end, so that the lagoon was always fresh and the carefully-tended native bush that fringed its banks grew dense and green. Bathing-huts were built near the deepest part, with springboards jutting out over the water; all the children of Billabong had learned to swim almost as soon as they could walk. Near them was a boat-house with a miniature landing-stage. They were all home-made erections, chiefly the work of Jim Linton and his brother-in-law, Wally Meadows: built in days before Wally had dreamed of becoming a brother-in-law. In those days Norah Linton had been playmate and workmate only: and was none the less so now that she was Norah Meadows, with a new responsibility and a new house—Little Billabong, a few minutes’ walk from the old home that would never be anything but “home” to Norah.

The lagoon was a bird-sanctuary. No gun might be fired anywhere in its neighbourhood, even when parrots and sulphur-crested cockatoos, robbers that merit shooting, swept over the water in flocks and came to rest in the trees by the banks. Wild-duck knew it as a place of refuge; black swan came flying low to it in the evenings, their leader’s cry clanging across the paddocks. Wading-birds stalked in reed-beds in the shallows; lesser fowl rested there and brought up their babies in happy peace. And all the bush about it was full of honeyeaters, minahs, magpies and a hundred other little brothers of the trees. Norah loved to sit motionless in the boat, listening to their ceaseless talk of joy.

She was in the boat now, but by no means motionless. Luckily it was a wide craft, built for safety, not speed. Speed was out of the question on the lagoon, and David Linton, Billabong’s owner, rightly considered that a vessel which was used as a diving-stage, which was called upon to carry many people—some of them of unusual size—and which was, moreover, frequently the scene of combats, must be more than ordinarily sea-worthy. The boat that had preceded this one had lacked this quality. It had capsized more than once under stress of unusual activity on the part of its passengers; and it had closed a long and adventurous career by sinking beneath Norah and Wally on the morning of their wedding-day. The people of Billabong interpreted this omen in various ways—but David Linton’s interpretation had been that a new boat was indicated.

Hence the present craft, staunch, wide and flat-bottomed; and Norah’s activity was due to the fact that there was at large within it one whom Jim described as Ruler-of-All-Billabongs—David Meadows, eighteen months old, and already giving evidence of having inherited the quality of swift and unexpected movement which distinguished his father. At school Jim and Wally had been given bird-nicknames: Jim, from his excessively long legs, being dubbed Emu, while it was agreed that Wally could be nothing but Restless Fly-Catcher: a title that endured until the victim’s fists had grown hard enough to deal with his tormentors. In his more serious moments Wally now had forebodings that his son would find the old name waiting for him in his first term at school.

Norah did not look so far ahead. Davie at eighteen months was quite enough of a man for her—with his black curls, his dancing brown eyes, his mouth where smiles lingered even in sleep. From his first month—throughout which he had howled protests at being born into an inquisitive world—life had struck Davie as a colossal joke. This view of existence appeared to dawn on him when his despairing father had carried the screaming atom out to the stables, declaring that he would leave him in a manger. In the stable-yard, however, there were horses; at the sight of which the howls suddenly ceased, as though a tap had been turned off. He had clawed at a pony’s mane delightedly, uttering gurgles which Wally had proudly translated as “Come up, old boy!” The alarmed family on the verandah of Little Billabong had been presently regaled with an unusual sight—Wally riding homeward on the pony, his long legs just clearing the ground, bearing in his arms the son who had come into his kingdom and had found it good.

This change of heart on the part of Davie had been hailed with relief by his family. But to nobody had it quite so fine a flavour as to Murty O’Toole, head stockman on Billabong, who had nursed Norah as a baby, had held her and Jim on their first ponies, and had deep and secret plans for teaching Norah’s son to ride. Murty had declined to share the universal bewilderment at the baby’s bad temper, declaring it to be merely a sign of “the strong character that was in him”; after the visit to the stables his complacency was such that his comrades, Dave Boone and Mick Shanahan, disgustedly christened him “Granny.”

“Ah, what talk!” said Murty, unmoved. “Why wouldn’t he be annoyed?—fussed about with a lot of wimmen, desthroyed with washin’, an’ him knowin’ what he wanted all along! Just wan look at a horse, an’ he’d found it! An’ strong! he grabbed me finger to-day, an’ ’twas the worrk of the world gettin’ it away from him. That wan’ll hold a pullin’ horse all right——”

Further outpourings were drowned in unfeeling shouts of laughter from Dave and Mick.

Thenceforward, having discovered that life held joyful surprises, Davie accepted it gleefully, and became “the little friend of all the world.” He grew prodigiously, a true son of Billabong. At four months Wally contrived a punching-ball for him—a rubber balloon, hung just out of reach of the clutching fingers, but near enough to hit: Davie quickly discovered the fascination of the bright-hued thing that danced over him—that evidently liked being punched, because it always came back for more. Now and then he actually succeeded in holding it; a short-lived triumph, since a touch with a sharp fingernail meant a soft “plop” and a mysterious disappearance of the treasure. But somehow there was always another: his tall subjects were quick to understand and sympathize with the little King’s yell of despair.

In spite of the adoring old servants, he was not spoilt. Norah had definite views on his upbringing; he was too good a possession to be marred. Davie learned very quickly that yea was yea, and nay, nay. He was of an adaptable nature: when cries to be lifted up produced no result, he soon discovered that playing with his toes formed an agreeable substitute. He spent long hours in the garden, with Kim, Jim’s old dog, on guard beside the perambulator: happy with Kim, with the birds that were always near, and thrown into ecstasies if a horse appeared beyond the fence. Norah was quite certain that he saw fairies. Perhaps he did.

To-day she had brought him out in the boat, always a special joy to Davie. Secured by leather harness that Wally called his kicking-strap, he would always sit more or less quietly in the stern while a subject rowed, his bright eyes roving in every direction, his tongue chattering ceaselessly. Very few words were intelligible, though Norah held the belief that she understood a larger percentage than most people. At all events, she answered his remarks gravely, and both were satisfied with the conversation.

They circled the lagoon twice. Then came Davie’s supreme moment. He knew that it was about to come when his mother shipped the oars; then he strained wildly at his bonds and said “Go!” a great many times in quick succession. The strap was unbuckled from the ring in the stern; Norah held one end, but the freedom of the boat was his. He took advantage of every inch of it: sometimes balancing on unsteady feet as the boat rocked gently, gurgling with laughter when he over-balanced; then, deciding that crawling was more fun, scrambling over and under the seats, hanging over the sides to dabble his fingers in the water, returning to fling himself on Norah, patting her face with chubby wet hands. His tongue wagged: he became dirtier and dirtier; and both King and subject were entirely happy.

It was Davie who first saw the three riders. His announcement was a yell of joy—“Horses!”—and a mingling of words in which “Dad!” might be discerned, while he pranced in the bottom of the boat, beckoning wildly.

They came cantering through the trees; three tall men on great horses, Wally’s chestnut reefing and straining a length in front of the others, as though he shared his rider’s impatience to get home. Behind him rode David Linton and Jim; little to choose between them in the supple ease with which they rode, although the squatter’s hair and beard were grizzled. Wally waved his hat: his “Coo-ee!” came to them, and Davie answered it in a gay little shout.

“Back, Davie!” commanded Norah, and the King obediently scrambled to the stem, knowing well that no oars would be lifted until he was safely shackled. To buckle him in was like tethering an eel: no power could keep Davie still when those three riders were in sight. He shouted without pause while Norah sculled swiftly to the landing-stage. They reached it just as the horses pulled up.

“Hallo, everybody!” said Wally. “Been fishing, Davie?”

“Up!” said Davie, stretching appealing arms. It was his invariable greeting to a rider.

“Not on this fellow, old chap,” said his father, shaking his head. “Too merry. You wait until Daddy catches a pony.” He smiled at Norah. “Had a good time?”

“Oh—beautiful. You’re back early.”

“Mrs. Anderson wanted us to stay for tea, but we thought home was better,” Mr. Linton said. “Do we tea with you or do you tea with us?”

“I promised Brownie to go over,” said Norah. “She seemed to think it was a long while since she had had Davie for a meal; and I believe it’s quite three days!”

Jim had dismounted, leaving his big grey with trailing bridle; Struan resented being tied up, but would stand indefinitely if the reins were thrown over his head. Davie shouted “Dim!”—straining at the kicking-strap while Norah endeavoured to free him and Jim tied up the boat. Then he was swung up to his uncle’s shoulder. Norah led Struan, and the procession moved slowly up the rise to Billabong.

A black boy ran out from the stables to take the horses. There were grey hairs in Billy’s rough thatch, but he would always be known as “boy.” He had long forgotten his tribe—probably it no longer existed, scattered to the winds before the advance of the white man long ago. Billabong was all the home he knew, and he served it with dog-like devotion. He grinned widely at Davie, who greeted him as a man and a brother, and would gladly have gone with him and the horses, but for Jim’s restraining grip on his legs. He accepted it cheerfully: partly because Jim’s shoulder was one of the best places he knew, partly because they had turned towards the house, and the house held Brownie; and Brownie was the one person privileged to spoil Davie.

She came out to meet them now; grey-haired and fat, encircled by the voluminous snowy apron that was her badge of honour. The old arms that had nursed the motherless children of Billabong were held out to Norah’s baby; and Davie went to them with a glad little shout. Just for a moment he was torn by a double longing when Wally came striding to them: he clutched his coat. “Dad, too?”

Wally patted the black curls.

“I’ll have my innings later on,” he said. “Take him away, Brownie, and remember that the digestion of a young child is not——”

“Well, of all the imperence!” broke in Brownie, chuckling. “Come along, my pretty, an’ I’ll tell you what he used to do to his own digestion—not so long ago, neither!”

“If you undermine my son’s respect for me——!” threatened Wally.

“Could I?” Brownie asked sweetly—and waddled off with the honours of war.

“Any news, Dad?” Norah tucked her hand into her father’s arm.

“Wally has a bundle of letters for you,” he answered. “My only news is that young Bill is likely to pay us a longer visit than we expected.”

“Well, that’s good news,” said Norah, comfortably. “What is the reason?”

“His school is quarantined. They’re working on the new buildings in the holidays, and some freshly-engaged carpenter brought measles with him. It has spread all round the place. Hard luck for the school, but can’t you imagine the unholy joy of about five hundred boys! Holidays indefinitely extended, and not even the scare of measles for themselves—the school had been closed for a week before this fellow came.”

“I can imagine Bill,” Norah laughed. “That is, if he is allowed to put in the time here. Not if they were to keep him in Melbourne.”

“No, but they won’t. He has written me a rather incoherent letter to ask if he may come at once and stay until the school re-opens. I gather that the formal request from his people will follow.” He chuckled deeply. “One can imagine a family discussion, with Bill slipping out to scrawl his letter and make a frantic dash for the nearest pillar-box!”

“Did you send him a telegram?”

“Well, I didn’t like to seem in too much of a hurry. But I wrote a card in the post office. So he’ll hear in the morning.”

“I expect he’s begun to pack,” said Jim. “Great scenes there must be when he packs for Billabong! He musters up all the oldest clothes he can find, all the treasures that are never allowed to see the light of day at home—remember that rusty old revolver he brought last time?—and lastly the sacred stockwhip is taken down from the wall and packed reverently. He told me his mother objected to it strongly because he’d greased it. Sort of apologized for her. ‘Of course, ladies don’t understand about those things,’ said Bill. He doesn’t include you in that, Nor.”

“I don’t quite know how Bill places Tommy and me,” said Norah, laughing.

“Ladies, to Bill, are female people who live in houses in suburbs,” stated Wally. “You and Tommy are a different species altogether. I don’t think he catalogues you—he just thanks his stars you’re here.”

“Well, I rather fancy Bill’s father is thankful for Billabong,” Mr. Linton said. “He said as much, last time I met him in Melbourne. And certainly the boy is very different from the world-hating urchin that he was two years ago. Holidays here have done a heap for Bill. But I doubt if Mrs. Blake quite approves of us.”

“We can stand that, so long as she lets him come.” Jim’s voice was curt: he liked little Bill Blake, and did not like the mother who had never found time to make friends with her son. “And she will let him: it gets him out of her way in the holidays, and that’s a distinct advantage for Mrs. Blake.”

“It isn’t safe to discuss Bill’s mother when Jim’s about,” Wally said. “I believe she’s the only person you haven’t a good word for, old man.”

“I haven’t,” said Jim, calmly. “Bill’s a pal of mine, and Mrs. Blake is merely a fashionable apology for a mother. Didn’t she tell me herself she’d never been fond of children? Well, that’s her business: only she should have remained a gay spinster—not taken it out of poor old Bill when he happened along. And Blake isn’t much of a fellow for a youngster to fall back upon.”

“That is clearly why Bill’s guardian angel cast him in our path—and what a lot of fun we’ve had out of him!” Norah said, happily. “Tommy will be rejoiced that he is to be here for a good while. Bill confided to me last time that if he ever married, only he didn’t think he would, the bride would be Tommy.”

“Does Tommy know?” asked Mr. Linton, with interest.

“Certainly not. She might have been depressed to think how long she would have to wait——Bill was not twelve then. And man is fickle: before that, his affections were fixed on Brownie. I think it’s chiefly that all his mind is centred on owning a station, and he recognizes the advantages of having a woman about the place. That is why Wally got married!” she finished, gently.

“If you weren’t entrenched behind a tea-cosy!” threatened her husband. “Wait until I get you home!”

“Speaking of Tommy,” remarked Mr. Linton, “isn’t it rather a long while since she and Bob were here?”

“Can’t get Bob off his place,” Jim said. “He always says he’s too busy; last time Wal and I went up into the hills we tried to get him to come, but he wouldn’t. He asked us to ride round his cattle and look at the fences. And that’s one of the things he loves doing: it’s a real holiday for Bob to get into the hills.”

Mr. Linton stirred his tea thoughtfully.

“Do you happen to know if he did well out of that last lot of sheep he sold, Jim?”

“I don’t,” said Jim. “I thought he’d tell me, but as he didn’t, I hardly liked to ask him. And that’s queer, because I used to ask him anything. Somehow I’ve felt lately that Bob was keeping rather to himself.”

“You haven’t had any disagreement?”

“Bob and I? Rather not! There isn’t anything like that, Dad. It’s more a case of—well, feeling that he doesn’t want to be questioned. And there is only one thing that would explain that idea.”

“That he is worried?” Norah said.

Jim nodded.

“Yes. If things were going well with him he’d love to tell me.”

“Wally and I have been uneasy about them,” she said. “Tommy is the same—just as dear and jolly as ever, but she won’t talk about the Creek.”

“She and Bob are cut out of one piece,” remarked Wally. “It’s their blessed pride. If they’re hit—and I believe they are—they would rather stick it out with their backs to the wall than tell us, for fear it would seem like asking for help. They ought to know us better.”

“Well—they do know us,” said Jim. “That’s just it. They know we’d never let them go down, so they won’t give us a chance. Dad, why did you start this? Heard anything?”

“Well, yes, a little. Macleod, of the Bank, was asking me about Bob to-day: said he gathered that things weren’t too good with him.”

“You told Macleod you’d back him, of course?” Jim said swiftly.

“Oh, of course. But it’s one thing to tell Macleod, and quite another to let Bob know it. He wouldn’t accept it—at any rate, without a struggle. And I heard from one of the men at the yards that he hadn’t done at all well out of those sheep. Of course he’s like all the men on little places just now—and most of the big ones; he’s bound to have a struggle.”

“I don’t want the struggle to be too hard for my Tommy,” Norah said, anxiously.

Jim uttered something unintelligible, and passed his cup for more tea.

“There’s such a thing as being too proud!” he uttered. “Bob ought to have more sense where we’re concerned.”

“You’d be exactly the same yourself, Jimmy,” Wally told him. “Catch you running off with a hard-luck story to any man!”

“Well—he hasn’t got himself alone to think of,” Jim said, hotly. “Tommy wasn’t brought up to roughing it.”

“Whoever brought up Tommy taught her to take the rough with the smooth,” Mr. Linton said. “Nothing is going to daunt that small person. And as Wally says, where pride is concerned, she and Bob are cut out of one piece. The question is, what are we going to do about it?”

“You can generally wangle what you want, Dad,” said Jim. “Can’t you be very tactful and get Bob to take help?”

“Not so easy as it sounds,” Mr. Linton answered. “If things come to a crisis we may have to do it by force: but that will hurt them badly. I suggest that we go slow for awhile before making any offer.”

“And, meanwhile,” said Norah, “we must put a stop to this business of letting them seclude themselves at the Creek. We’ll all go over, as we used, and take a hand in any work that’s going. I have got slack about planning those excursions since Davie learned to walk.”

“Feeling you can’t afford to miss seeing one of his strides?” her father smiled.

“Just that,” owned Norah. “He’s a new toy, you see. But I shall leave the toy with Brownie, and we’ll all descend upon the Creek. If we can’t do anything else we can make them laugh—and that will be good for them. And I may be able to get Tommy to tell me how things are going.”

“You’ll be clever if you pull that off when Tommy doesn’t want to talk,” said Jim, glumly. “I’ve tried.”

“What happened?”

“She talked very fluently—about life in France and some chap’s poems. Awfully interesting!”

Everyone laughed; Jim’s views on poetry were known to his family. Norah’s laugh, however, ended in a little frown.

“What is that for?” Wally asked.

“I was just thinking,” said she, “that things are really serious. If Tommy talked poetry to Jim, she must indeed have been desperately anxious to change the conversation!”

“Just what I thought,” agreed Jim. “When she laboriously headed me off Bob’s sheep to that fellow’s sonnets I knew jolly well there was something very wrong about the sheep!”

They had finished tea. Wally filled his pipe, and rose.

“I’m going after a pony—Davie will be looking out for a ride. Who’ll bring him out to me?”

“I will,” Mr. Linton said. “That is, if I can induce Brownie to give him up!” They went out together.

Jim walked to the window. He looked out, thinking deeply. Norah glanced at him, but she did not speak. She was troubled—and her trouble was for Jim.

He faced round presently.

“Find out all you can, Nor. We’ve got to help them. I can’t stand the idea of Tommy’s being poor and harassed.”

Norah went over to him.

“I’ll do all I can, Jim—you know that. But if she will not tell you——”

“Me!” He gave a short laugh. “I’m the last person she will tell. She knows well enough I’d give my right hand to be able to take her out of it all—but ...”

“You’ve asked her, Jim?”

“Three times,” said Jim, shortly. “And that was foolish, I suppose. She was definite enough the first time. I don’t believe any man could get Tommy away from Bob. Anyhow, it’s clear that I’m not to be the man.”

“I would keep on hoping, Jim, dear.”

“No, I’ve given that up,” he said. “Don’t you worry, old Nor—I can hoe my own row. But do all you can to help her—you can have my last penny.” His hand rested on her shoulder for an instant. “There’s Wally and the small boy—come along and see him ride.”