Читать книгу Hugh Stanford's Luck - Mary Grant Bruce - Страница 6

AUSTRALIA

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Hugh Stanford found the voyage on the Mahratta a much happier time than he had expected. There were no boys of his own age on board; indeed, the only boys who counted at all, the others being babies under four, were cheery twin brothers of seven, who regarded him as a very superior person because of his long trousers. They were also immensely interested in his crutch, which they failed to realize as a handicap, looking upon it, instead, as something like a stilt. Hugh's movements with it seemed to the twins a new and fascinating gymnastic exercise, and they made the lives of their parents a burden by repeated requests for crutches their own size. Somehow Hugh found them very comforting.

There were several families returning to Australia, and Hugh discovered, rather to his own surprise, that he liked little children. Babies just able to toddle came to him with a happy confidence and made a friend of him from the first; it was pleasant to feel that they liked him and depended upon him for help in both their games and their small difficulties. The babies' friendship made him allies among the fathers and mothers--among the latter, especially, since mothers are apt to lead a wearing life on board ship. The Captain did not forget his promise to Mr. Harvey, and never came along the deck without a cheery word for him; while several times he was included in merry afternoon tea-parties in the Captain's cabin, where his lameness did not seem to matter at all. An interesting place was the Captain's cabin, full of curious things gathered from many ports, and of grimmer mementoes that spoke of the Great War--during which the Mahratta had been a troopship, and had very nearly been torpedoed several times. Sometimes, after the tea-parties were over, some of the men stayed on in the cabin, smoking and talking, and Hugh was allowed to perch on the bunk and listen--which he did with all his ears. Those were the times he liked best. He had always been accustomed to being with his father and Mr. Harvey, and to hearing them talk, and his lameness had helped to give him a power of keeping still that is not very common in boys of his age. The men liked the quiet youngster who was always so keenly interested, though he never spoke unless he were addressed. They told many stories for his especial benefit.

"That's a pretty decent kid," one of them said to the Captain one evening, after Hugh had gone away in response to the dressing-bugle. "An orphan, isn't he?"

The Captain nodded.

"His mother died when he was a baby, I believe. I knew his father--very nice fellow, an Australian. He was in Ceylon for twenty years, and died a few months ago, leaving this boy. An uncle in Victoria is to take charge of him. Bit rough on a youngster only accustomed to plantation life to have to find his feet alone among an Australian family, especially with his handicap of lameness. Maurice Harvey would gladly have kept him in Ceylon, but it seems his father wanted him to go to his own people." The Captain shrugged his shoulders. "I'd have left him with Harvey, if I'd been his father. I was a lonely boy myself, and I know what it's like."

"This youngster will make good, I should say," the other man remarked. "He has plenty of backbone, even if he is lame."

"Oh, yes, and he comes of good stock--that always tells. But he's a bundle of nerves, and cruelly sensitive about his lameness. I'm sorry for him: he's a nice little chap. He has decent manners, too, and they're not too common among boys, nowadays."

"No: and the fact won't endear him to a good many other boys. He's a queer mixture of child and man. My wife says she has to resist an inclination to mother him, which he'd probably resent very much. Well, I shall be late for dinner if I don't go to dress."

Hugh had looked forward to the Australian ports without interest. He knew nobody, and felt no wish to explore them alone; but at both Fremantle and Adelaide he found himself taken in charge by the twins' parents, Captain and Mrs. Barlow, pleasant English people who were coming out to settle in New South Wales; and they packed a very solid amount of sight-seeing into the mail-steamer's brief visits. The time at Adelaide was especially delightful; Captain Barlow hired a motor, and they spent a glorious day in the hills, exploring the winding roads that curve in and out among bush-clad peaks, and slopes and valleys made beautiful with orchards. They lunched on the crest of a ridge, looking over mile upon mile of sloping hills to the plains below, seeing Adelaide beneath them, like a giant chess-board, and beyond, the sunlit blue of the sea. With glasses Hugh could pick out the Mahratta lying at the Outer Harbour. She looked curiously home-like and friendly. He caught his breath with a sudden shiver. There were only two days more of the pleasant friendliness on board--after that, everything was unknown and terrifying. How he wished the voyage could last for months!

The cheerful young steward, who had not failed to keep his promise to Mr. Harvey that he would look after Hugh, came to call him early on the following Monday.

"Here's your tea, sir," he announced. "We'll be through the Heads and into the Bay in half an hour. Pilot boat's just comin' out. If I was you I'd have me bath after we're in the Bay if you want to see the Heads."

"All right, steward," Hugh answered. He was still a little bewildered and sleepy: he had been dreaming that he was back on the plantation, walking through the tea bushes with Mr. Harvey: it seemed to him that he could almost hear the familiar voice telling him that the picking that year was "just naturally" going to be the finest they had ever had. It made him ache with home-sickness. He gulped down the hot tea, flung on an overcoat, and limped out on deck.

The first rays of the sun were sending a golden path of light across the water, and on this path the pilot steamer lay rocking lazily. Her boat was coming across, the pilot sitting in the stern, muffled in a thick coat. They came swiftly, the sailors rowing with the deep-sea stroke; in a few minutes they were alongside, and the pilot came hand over hand up the ladder, giving Hugh a jolly "Good-morning, young man!" as he landed on the deck beside him. He made his way quickly to the bridge; Hugh saw the Captain greet him, and presently the dull throb of the engines told that they were again under way. The Mahratta came round in a great circle; before them tossed the broken water of the Rip, and slowly, as they steamed, the channel opened between Point Lonsdale and Point Nepean, and they passed between the great lighthouses and came within sight of Queenscliff on the left.

Hugh turned back to his cabin when they were well on their journey up the Bay. He dressed himself carefully, anxious that the unknown relations should have no cause for feeling ashamed of him, and finished his packing. Barnes, the young steward, came to strap up his heavier luggage.

"Great thing to have a cabin to yourself," he remarked cheerfully. "Gives you room to keep all your trunks with you. You got nothing at all in the baggage-room, have you, sir?"

"No, nothing," Hugh answered.

"Then I'll have all this out nice and 'andy for you after breakfast. Someone meeting you, sir?"

"Yes--my uncle."

"He'll be glad you haven't got to wait to dig out more boxes," said Barnes, pulling hard on a stiff strap. "Some of the luggage people have 'ud surprise you. There's a lady in 53 as'll need a whole carrier's van to transport her stuff. There, that's all right, and don't you worry about anything, sir. You go down and get a good breakfast now; you ain't looking any too fit this morning. You don't want your uncle to think the Mahratta ain't treated you well."

"I wish I didn't have to leave her, that's all," said Hugh. "Thanks, Barnes, you've been jolly good to me." He held out some money shyly, but the young steward drew back.

"No, thanks, sir, all the same. The gent as came on board with you fixed all that up--and goodness knows you ain't given me much to do. It's been a pleasure to look after you, 'cause you always treat a chap like a 'uman being, which is more than a good many passengers do." He smiled cheerfully, but the smile died away as he watched the boy limp along the deck. "Poor little kid--it's hard on him!" he muttered, shouldering a trunk.

Everyone was breakfasting in a hurry, anxious to finish packing; the sound of many "good-byes" was in the air. A number of people came up for a final word with Hugh. The Captain paused as he passed his chair.

"Got everything ready, my boy? That's right. Let me know if your people don't turn up in good time--not that there's any risk of that, I expect." He patted his shoulder as he went.

Hugh found it difficult to eat. His mouth was dry and his throat ached; the food seemed dry and tasteless. He drank his coffee and went back to the deck. The grey blur that meant Melbourne was very close now. Someone pointed out different suburbs to him--Brighton, St. Kilda, Williamstown, and, ahead, Port Melbourne, over which two aeroplanes were flying slowly. They drew nearer and nearer to a long pier, where a cluster of people waited. Beyond, he could see a road with many motors at rest. The great ship came in, inch by inch, and Hugh found that his heart was thudding with nervousness as he scanned the faces on the pier, looking for someone like his father. There seemed no one who resembled him at all. One or two faces made him hope that they did not belong to his uncle--hard, cold faces. But he could not make up his mind that anyone reminded him of the dear face that was never for long absent from his dreams.

Slowly the Mahratta came to rest, the long voyage to Melbourne over. Just as the gangway rattled into position a tall man came into view, striding quickly along the pier in the manner of one who fears that he is late. He paused near the foot of the gangway, looking upwards; and Hugh knew that his quest was over, for, just for a moment, it was as though his father looked at him. His eyes met those of the tall man, and he smiled involuntarily, and lifted his cap.

Robert Stanford came up the gangway three steps at a time.

"We couldn't be in any doubt about each other, could we?" he said, taking Hugh's hand in his great brown one. "I'm supposed to be like your father, but you are his very image. How are you, old chap? Had a good voyage?"

"Yes, thank you." The boy's voice was very low; it was all that he could do to command it. Then he caught the look of pity in his uncle's eyes as he glanced at his crutch, and straightened himself proudly. "I--I'm afraid I've given you a lot of bother in meeting me, Uncle Robert."

"Bother? Not a bit! I'm more glad than I can tell you to get you, my boy. If I could have managed it I should have gone to Colombo to bring you over myself. I was always hoping to pay your father a visit, but somehow I never seemed able to manage it." He sighed. "He and I were great chums, you know, Hugh. I used to think there was no one like him."

"I don't think there ever was," Hugh said.

His uncle let his hand lie on the boy's shoulder for a moment.

"Later on--when you feel you can--I want to hear all you can tell me about him. Now I must get you up to Melbourne as quickly as I can--Aunt Ursula is longing to get hold of you. She came down from Kallowra with me to meet you, but I wouldn't let her come to the pier. It's cold here in the early mornings, and she isn't very strong. Have they got your luggage out of the baggage-room yet, do you know?"

"It's all on deck," Hugh answered, pointing to his heap of boxes.

"Good man!" said his uncle, with evident relief. "We want to start home this afternoon, so it can all go to Spencer-street Station to wait for us--I'll get hold of a carrier." He strode away, and soon returned. "That's all fixed up. Said all your good-byes, Hugh?"

Hugh nodded.

"There's the Captain, Uncle Robert. He's been awfully good to me."

"I must thank him," Mr. Stanford said. They went together to meet the Captain, who detached himself from a group of agents and passengers as Hugh shyly introduced his uncle.

"I'm glad the little chap's fixed up all right," he said. "He has been a first-rate traveller--mind you come back on the Mahratta some day, Hugh. Good-bye, old fellow." He shook hands warmly, and Hugh limped for the last time down the gangway.

A taxi waited for them not far off, and soon they were passing swiftly through long, dusty streets that seemed to Hugh hideously drab and dull after the red roads and the glowing life and colour of Ceylon. Presently they turned across a bridge, over a brown river crowded with lesser shipping, and swung up a hill, and into the roar of Collins-street. The car pulled up before a big, quiet hotel.

"Here we are, Hugh. Aunt Ursula will be waiting upstairs."

A good many people were standing about in the wide entrance-hall. Mr. Stanford nodded greetings to right and left, and Hugh felt curious eyes upon him as he followed his uncle slowly to the open doorway of the lift. They got out at the second floor and crossed to a room of which the only occupant was a tall woman who rose quickly to meet them.

"Well, I've brought your new son, Ursula!"

Hugh found himself looking into steady grey eyes full of a light that was something quite new to him, since never before had he seen the mother-look on a woman's face. Just for a moment they gazed at each other, and into his heart came a great throb of relief, for he knew that he need not have been afraid. Ursula Stanford put both hands lightly on his shoulders and kissed him on the forehead.

"Hugh, dear, I'm so glad you have come," was all she said.

Hugh Stanford's Luck

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