Читать книгу Bill of Billabong - Mary Grant Bruce - Страница 5

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Jim met his sister with an accusing face.

“It was you, I believe, who uttered fears that Dad and I might feel dull?”

“Did I?” asked Norah, meekly. “And don’t you?”

“It was you who drew pathetic pictures of us sinking into a grim old age with no happy laughter ringing in the ancient halls,” went on her brother, disdaining to answer. “You thought that we were becoming sour and melancholy, just because you’d happened to get married, and that the house felt empty, and that the echoing spaces ... well, echoed; and that something ought to be done about it.”

“Jimmy, what’s happened? Do they echo? You look grim enough for anything.”

“Well, you’ve wished it on us. And its name’s Percival.”

Norah subsided into a chair on the Billabong verandah and clutched her head.

“What is named Percival. Not the new Shorthorn bull?”

“Bull!” said Jim, tragically. “No bull I ever saw, even in a china-shop, was likely to cause the upheaval of Percival. He’s ours—Dad’s and mine. We’ve inherited him. I ask you, what on earth is Billabong going to do with anyone with a name like that!”

“If I had the ghost of an idea as to what you’re talking about,” said Norah, resignedly, “I might give an opinion. I never heard of anyone called Percival. I didn’t think they grew nowadays. Do be sensible, Jimmy, and tell me what it’s all about.”

Jim permitted himself to laugh, though somewhat ruefully.

“Well, it’s rather a bomb-shell,” he said. “ ’Member the Vernons?”

“Dad’s old friends? Rather. They used to come to the school and take me out to tea. Kind, but rather terrifying—they loved to ask in detail about all my studies, and it paralysed my enjoyment of the cakes. Are they coming here?”

“No, but Percival is.”

“But they haven’t any children.”

“They haven’t any now. But they have Percival.”

“If only you would stop saying that painful name and tell me, Jimmy——” said Norah, patiently.

“Well, you read that letter. I was just coming to show it to you when you hove in sight among the trees.” He took a letter from his pocket and tossed it to her. “Never mind the beginning: he takes some time to come to the point. Here’s where Percival comes in.”

Norah read aloud.

“ ‘My wife’s illness, and the fact that the doctors have enjoined rest and quiet for some months, makes our problem rather urgent. As I told you when I last saw you in Melbourne, we have charge of a small boy—the Blakes’ young son, Percival. They left him with us when they went to America. I must admit I never cared for the plan—we are rather beyond the age for enjoying the care of a nine-year-old. But Margaret rather fancied the idea: she thought it would wake us up. Percival certainly does that. Not that I see much of him personally, as I am away all day. Margaret has borne the brunt, and as she takes her responsibilities seriously it has tired her greatly. It may very possibly have contributed to her illness.

“ ‘Now that she is convalescent the problem becomes acute. The boy is not to go to school until his people come back: he was ill last year, and his mother is nervous about boarding-schools—quite unreasonably. He goes to a little school near us in the mornings, and for the rest of the day is at home, with nothing to do but get into mischief. It’s hard on him, of course: he is not a bad youngster, and a suburban house and garden don’t give him much chance of occupation. We tried several young ladies, as afternoon caretakers, but each resigned, with painful unanimity, after a little experience of Percival, declaring that he needed a man’s handling. If I could only send him to school I’d gladly pay his bills myself: as it is, I’m hanged if I know what to do with him.

“ ‘I was wondering if you would think it an unwarranted imposition if I asked you to take him for a while. I would not suggest it if I were not in such a fix. Billabong would certainly give him more scope, and your young people would probably teach him a good deal of sense. His lessons do not matter: they are only a form, as it is, and his people would be delighted to think of him in the country.

“ ‘If you could take him, even for a month or two, it would give Margaret time to pull round, and we could make some other plan. I am very harassed, or I would certainly not think of shifting my burden to your shoulders. But, remembering their breadth, I feel that even Percival would not daunt you as much as he does me!’ ”

“Well—!” ejaculated Norah, looking up with a puckered brow.

“Percival sounds rather a lad for a peaceful family to handle, doesn’t he?” said Jim.

“What does Dad say?”

Jim laughed.

“His first remark was, ‘We’ll see what Norah says.’ ”

“But what does he feel about it himself?”

“Hard to say. His first expression was one of pure horror. Afterwards, as he pondered over it, I fancied it changed to the look he wears when he’s after a stubborn bullock. Something of the Happy Warrior—you know.”

Norah nodded.

“But he can handle a bullock with a stock-whip, and he can’t very well contemplate anything so simple with Percival.”

She turned the matter over in her mind. “I feel a bit sorry for Percival. It can’t be easy for a small boy to be good in a very prim house like the Vernons’. Not that I ever was there, but I remember the teas—and the cross-examinations. They were all that was kind, of course—but——”

“Yes, one can imagine the ‘but’—especially with a nipper of nine. When you’re that age you want to have the way of goodness made pretty smooth if you hope to stick to it,” said Jim, with the air of one who reviews his long-ago and murky youth. “When I was nine——”

“Oh, Jimmy, you’re slipping!” laughed Norah. “The air of outrage with which you met me is being rapidly displaced by a look of benevolent old age. I see you dandling Percival on your knee.”

“Not a dandle!” said Jim, firmly. “He’ll have to learn sense if he comes here.”

“Then you’re facing the awful probability.”

Jim smiled.

“Well—you know Dad. Did you ever see him refuse to help a lame dog over a stile?”

“Never. And I rather think he will look on Percival as the lame dog.”

“Which is just the way I thought you would look at it,” said her father, arriving in time to overhear the last words. “Still, it’s a bit of a problem, isn’t it, Norah? I have been taking counsel’s opinion about it.”

“From——?” Norah paused, enquiringly.

David Linton subsided into his big chair and drew out his pipe.

“When your mother and I became engaged,” he said, “I had to ask your grandfather’s consent in due form. More of a business those days than it is now, I can tell you: and your grandfather was a stern old man. I don’t remember that you did any quaking when Wally asked me for you (if he ever did!) but your mother quaked very considerably. She went into the garden to do so, and there her father suddenly appeared, fresh from the interview. He fixed her with an eagle eye, and said sharply, ‘So I hear you want to get married, Mary?’ And she quaked more than ever, and murmured dutifully, ‘Yes please, Papa.’ ”

“I never did that!” affirmed Norah.

“You certainly didn’t. Well, your grandfather had had a Chinese cook for thirty years—old Kow-Lang: a great old chap, devoted to them all. He brought the eagle eye to bear on her still more fiercely, and said, ‘Well, if Kow-Lang approves, I expect it’s all right!’ At which point your mother suddenly discovered he was laughing at her, and ceased to quake. She looked up at him with a twinkle, and said, ‘Oh, but of course, Papa, dear, David consulted Kow-Lang first!’ ”

He rammed the tobacco into his pipe, and his smile was half a sigh.

“Well, there isn’t any Kow-Lang in this instance, so I think we’ll go by Brownie. I’ve been talking to her, because if we take in a small boy much of the brunt of his presence will fall on her.”

“As if you didn’t know what Brownie would say!” laughed Norah. “It’s a foregone conclusion, once you consult Brownie. She is far too soft-hearted to think of leaving a little boy in a suburban fastness.”

“Well—aren’t we all?” David Linton smiled at his son and daughter. “Poor little animal! I suppose I ought to say ‘Poor Mrs. Vernon!’ but somehow I’ve a fellow-feeling for Percival.”

“Wally and I will take him if you like, Dad.”

“You probably will—a good bit of him,” said her father. “But he had better live here, nominally, anyhow. Jim and I have room for an extra responsibility, now that Wally has shouldered our heaviest one, haven’t we, Jim?”

“I like that!” said Norah, scornfully. “Me, that have just the number of helpless men to look after that I always had, and another house! Why I haven’t even time to use grammar!”

“Wally wouldn’t know you if you did,” said Jim. “Here’s Brownie—I knew she couldn’t keep away from a family conclave. So you’re game to begin training the young all over again, Brownie?”

“Ah, well, now, Master Jim, you couldn’t leave a poor little feller where he wasn’t wanted,” said Mrs. Brown, casting a soft glance upon him. “Well I know it. Who was it always brought the lame wallabies and the sick lambs into me kitchen to look after, from the time he was four?”

“Wallabies and lambs are quite another matter,” said Jim laughing. “This young one sounds no lamb; though he may be something of a wallaby—and a pretty lively one, at that. Sure you can stand it, Brownie?”

“To tell you the truth, Master Jim, my dear, I’m not thinking of it as anything to stand,” said Brownie, comfortably. “I’m one as likes a child about a place, and a small boy’s a heartsome thing, even if he keeps you busy. There’s a kind of quietness over Billabong nowadays—it’s high time something woke us all up. It’ll be like the old days, to have little pants to patch again!”

“If I’d known that idleness was wearing your spirit, Brownie——” began Jim.

“Ah, get along with you!” said Brownie, waggishly. “I’m not bereft of jobs, old as I am. But truly, my dear, what’ll a child be on Billabong but just an amusement to us all? You think of that poor little feller in a tidy house in a tidy street in Toorak, with an old lady and gent that never had chick nor child of their own to put ’em up to the ways of children. They’d be kind of course; but there’s some sorts of kindness as just roughs up a boy the wrong way. If you ask me, a boy of nine is that full of boy-feelin’s he’s got to get rid of ’em or bust!”

“I picture him busting over Billabong,” said Jim, resignedly. “Well, we’ll all help to pick up the bits. Will you write to the Vernons to-day, Dad?”

“Ah, why not tallygraph?” begged Brownie, insinuatingly. “Sooner he’s out of that house, the better for everyone.”

“Right as usual, Brownie,” said Mrs. Linton. “I’ll get one off at once. I suppose they can tie a label round his neck and put him in the train in the Guard’s charge.”

“Trust Mr. Vernon!” said Jim. “I fancy he won’t let any minor considerations stand in the way of transferring Percival.”