Читать книгу Mates at Billabong - Mary Grant Bruce - Страница 5

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Quiet and shy, as the Bush girls are,

But ready-witted and plucky too.

A. B. Paterson.

THE telegram assuring a welcome to Cecil Linton was duly dispatched, and the fact of his impending arrival broken to Mrs. Brown, who sniffed portentously, and gave without enthusiasm directions for the preparation of his room. “Mrs. Geoffrey” was rather a bugbear to Brownie, who had unpleasant recollections of a visit in the past from that majestic lady. During her stay of a week, she had attempted to alter every existing arrangement at Billabong—and when she finally departed, in a state of profound disapproval, the relief of the homestead was immense. Brownie was unable to feel any delight at the idea of entertaining her son.

Norah and her father made the utmost of their remaining time together. Thursday was devoted to a great muster of calves, which meant unlimited galloping and any amount of excitement; for the sturdy youngsters were running with their mothers in one of the bush paddocks, and it was no easy matter to cut them out and work them away from the friendly shelter and refuge of the trees. A bush-reared calf is an irresponsible being, with a great fund of energy and spirits—and, while Norah loved her day, she was thoroughly tired as they rode home in the late evening, the last straggler yarded in readiness for the branding next day. Mr. Linton sent her to bed early, and she did not wake in the morning until the dressing gong boomed its cheerful summons through the house.

Mr. Linton was already at breakfast when swift footsteps were heard in the hall above, a momentary silence indicated that his daughter was coming downstairs by way of the banisters, and the next moment she arrived hastily.

“I’m so sorry, Dad,” Norah said, greeting him. “But I did sleep! Let me pour out your coffee.”

She brought the cup to him, investigated a dish of bacon, and slipped into her place behind the tall silver coffee pot.

“What are we going to do to-day, Dad?”

“I really don’t quite know,” Mr. Linton said, smiling at her. “There aren’t any very pressing jobs on hand—we must cut out cattle to-morrow for trucking, but to-day seems fairly free. Have you any ideas on the subject of how you’d like to spend it? I’ve letters to write for a couple of hours, but after that I’m at your disposal.”

Norah wrinkled her brows.

“There are about fifty things I want to do,” she said. “But most of them ought to wait until Jim comes home.” She thought for a moment. “I don’t want to miss any more time with Bobs than I have to—could we ride over to the backwater, Dad, and muster up the cattle there? You know you said you were going to do so, pretty soon.”

“I’d nearly forgotten that I had to see them,” Mr. Linton said, hastily. “Glad you reminded me, Norah. We’ll have lunch early, and go across.”

Norah’s morning was spent in helping Mrs. Brown to compound Christmas cakes—large quantities of which were always made and stored well before Christmas, with due reference to the appetites of Jim and his friends. Then a somewhat heated and floury damsel donned a neat divided riding skirt of dark blue drill, with a white linen coat, and the collar and tie which Norah regarded as the only reasonable neck gear, and joined her father in the office.

“Ready?—that’s right,” said he, casting an approving glance at the trim figure. “I’ve just finished writing, and the horses are in.”

“So’s lunch,” Norah responded. “It’s a perfectly beautiful day for a ride, Daddy—hurry up!”

The day merited Norah’s epithet, as they rode over the paddocks in the afternoon. As yet the grass had not dried up, thanks to the late rains, and everywhere a green sea rippled to the fences. Soon it would be dull and yellow; but this day there was nothing to mar the perfection of the carpet that gave softly under the horses’ hoofs. The dogs raced wildly before them, chasing swallows and ground-larks in the cheerfully idiotic manner of dogs, with always a wary ear for Mr. Linton’s whistle: but as yet they were not on duty, and were allowed to run riot.

An old log fence stretched before them. It was the only one on Billabong, where all station details were strictly up-to-date. This one had been left, partly because it was picturesque, and partly at the request of Jim and Norah, because it gave such splendid opportunities for jumping. There were not many places on that old fence that Bobs did not know, and he began to reef and pull as they came nearer to it.

“I don’t believe I’ll be able to hold him in, Daddy!” said Norah, with mock anxiety.

“Not afraid, I hope?” asked her father, laughing.

“Very—that you won’t want to jump! I’d hate to disappoint him, Daddy—may I?”

“Oh, go on!” said Mr. Linton. “If I said ‘no’ the savage animal would probably bolt!” He held Monarch back as Norah gave the bay pony his head, and they raced for the fence; watching with a smile in his eyes the straight little form in the white coat, the firm seat in the saddle, the steady hand on the rein. Bobs flew the big log like a bird, and Norah twisted in her saddle to watch the black horse follow. Her eyes were glowing as her father came up.

“I do think he loves it as much as I do!” she said, patting the pony’s neck.

“He’s certainly as keen a pony as I ever saw,” Mr. Linton said. “How are you going to manage without him, Norah?”

Norah looked up, her eyes wide with astonishment.

“Do without Bobs!” she exclaimed. “But I simply couldn’t—he’s one of the family.” Then her face fell suddenly, and the life died out of her voice. “Oh—school,” she said.

The change was rather pitiful, and Mr. Linton mentally abused himself for his question.

“He’ll always be waiting for you when you come home, dear,” he said. “Plenty of holidays—and think how fit he’ll be! We’ll have great rides, Norah.”

“I guess I’ll want them,” she said. There fell silence between them.

The scrub at the backwater was fairly thick, and the cattle had sought its shade when the noonday sun struck hot. Well fed and sleek, they lay about under the trees or on the little grassy flats formed by the bends of the stream. Norah and her father separated, each taking a dog, and beat through the bush, routing out stragglers as they went. The echoes of the stockwhips rang along the water. Norah’s was only a light whip, half the length and weight of the one her father carried. It was beautifully plaited—a special piece of work, out of a special hide; while the handle was a triumph of the stockman’s art. It had been a gift to Norah from an old boundary rider whose whips were famous, and she valued it more than most of her possessions, while long practice and expert tuition had given her no little skill in its use.

She worked through the scrub, keeping her eyes in every direction, for the cattle were lazy and did not stir readily, and it was easy to miss a motionless beast hidden behind a clump of dogwood or Christmas bush—the scrub tree that greets December with its exquisite white blossoms. When at length she came to the end of her division, and drove her cattle out of the shelter she had quite a respectable little mob to add to those with which her father was already waiting.

It was only to be a rough muster; rather, a general inspection to see how the bullocks were doing, for the nearest stockyards were at the homestead, and Mr. Linton did not desire to drive them far. He managed to get a rough count along a fence—Norah in the rear, bringing the bullocks along slowly, so that they strung out under their owner’s eye. Occasionally one would break out and try to race past him on the wrong side. Bobs was as quick as his rider to watch for these vagrants, and at the first hint of a break away he would be off in pursuit. It was work the pair loved.

“Hundred and thirty,” said Mr. Linton, as the last lumbering beast trotted past him, and, finding the way clear, with no harrowing creatures to annoy him, and head him back to his mates, kicked up his heels and made off across the paddock.

“Did any get behind me, Norah?”

“No, Daddy.”

“That’s a good girl. They look well, don’t they?”

Norah assented. “Did you notice how that big poley bullock had come on, Dad?”

“Yes, he’s three parts fat,” said Mr. Linton. “All very satisfactory, and the count is only two short—not bad for a rough muster.”

They turned homewards, cantering quickly over the paddocks; the going was too good, Norah said, to waste on walking; and it was a delight to feel the long, even stride under one, and the gentle wind blowing upon one’s cheeks. As he rode, Mr. Linton watched the eager, vivid little face, alight with the joy of motion. If Bobs were keen, there was no doubt that his mistress was even keener.

They crossed the log fence again by what Norah termed “the direct route,” traversed the home paddock, and drew up with a clatter of hoofs at the stable yard. Billy, a black youth of some fame concerning horses, came forward as they dismounted and took the bridles. But Norah preferred to unsaddle Bobs herself and let him go; she held it only civil after he had carried her well. She was leading him off when the dusky retainer muttered something to her father.

“Oh, all right, Billy,” said Mr. Linton. “Norah, those fellows from Cunjee have come to see me about buying sheep. I expect I shall have to take them out to the paddock. I don’t think you’d better come.”

“All right, Dad.” Sheep did not interest Norah very much. “I think I’ll go down to the lagoon.”

“Very well, don’t distinguish yourself by falling in,” said her father, with a laugh over his shoulder as he hurried away towards the house.

Left to herself, Norah paid a visit to Brownie in the kitchen, which resulted in afternoon tea—there was never a bush home where tea did not make its appearance on the smallest possible pretext. Then she slipped off her linen jacket and brown leather leggings, and, having beguiled black Billy into digging her some worms, found some fishing tackle and strolled down to the lagoon.

It was a broad sheet of water, at one end thickly fringed with trees, while in the shallower parts a forest of green, feathery reeds bordered it, swaying and rustling all day, no matter how soft the breeze. The deeper end had been artificially hollowed out, and a bathing box had been built, with a spring board jutting out over the water. Under the raised floor of the bathing box a boat was moored. Norah pulled it out and dropped down into it, stowing her tin of worms carefully in the stern. Then she paddled slowly into the deepest part of the lagoon, baited her line scientifically, and began to fish.

Only eels rewarded her efforts; and while eels are not bad fun to pull out, Norah regarded them as great waste of time, since no one at Billabong cared to eat them, and in any case she would not let them come into the boat—for a good-sized eel can make a boat unpleasantly slimy in a very short time. So each capture had to be carefully released at the stern—not a very easy task. Before long Norah’s white blouse showed various marks of conflict; and being by nature a clean person, she was rather disgusted with things in general. When at length a large silver eel, on being pulled up, was found to have swallowed the hook altogether, she fairly lost patience.

“Well, you’ll have to keep it,” she said, cutting her line; whereupon the eel dropped back into the water thankfully, and made off as though he had formed a habit of dining on hooks, and, in fact, preferred them as an article of diet. “I’m sure you’ll have shocking indigestion,” Norah said, watching the swirl of bubbles.

The boat had drifted some way down the lagoon, and a rustle told Norah that they were near one of the reedy islands dotted here and there in the shallows. There was very little foothold on them, but they made excellent nesting places for the ducks that came to the station each year. The boat grounded its nose in the soft mud, and Norah jumped up to push it off. Planting the blade of the oar among the reeds, she leant her weight upon it and shoved steadily.

The next events happened swiftly. The mud gave way suddenly with a suck, and the oar promptly slithered, burying itself for half its length; and Norah, taken altogether by surprise, executed a graceful header over the bow of the boat. The mud received her softly, and clung to her with affection; and for a moment, face downward among the reeds, Norah clawed for support, like a crab suddenly beached. Then, somehow, she scrambled to a sitting position, up to her waist in mud and water—and rocked with laughter. A little way off, the boat swayed gently on the ruffled surface of the water.

“Well—of all the duffers!” Norah said. She tried to stand, and forthwith, went up to one knee in the mud. Then, seeing that there was no help for it, she managed to slip into deeper water—not very easy, for the mud showed a deep attachment to her—and swam to the boat. To get into it proved beyond her, but, fortunately, the bank was not far off, and, though her clothes hampered her badly—a riding skirt is the most inconvenient of swimming suits—she was as much at home as a duck in the water, and soon got ashore.

Then she inspected herself, standing on the grass, while a pool of water rapidly widened round her. Alas, for the trim maiden of the morning! soaked to the skin, her lank hair clinging round her face, her collar a limp rag, the dye from her red silk tie spreading in artistic patches on her white blouse! Over all was the rich black mud of the lagoon, from brow to boot soles. Her hat, once white felt, was a sodden black-streaked mass; even her hands and face were stiff with mud.

“Thank goodness, Daddy’s out!” said the soaked one, returning knee-deep in the water to try and cleanse herself as much as might be—which was no great amount, for lagoon mud defies ordinary efforts. She waded out, still laughing; cast an apprehensive glance at the quarter from which her father might be expected to return, and set out on her journey to the house, the water squelching dismally in her boots at every step.

In the garden at Billabong walked a slim youth in most correct attire. His exquisitely tailored suit of palest grey flannel was set off by a lavender striped shirt, with a tie that matched the stripe. Patent leather shoes with wide ribbon bows shod him; above them, and below the turned-up trousers, lavender silk socks with purple circles made a very glory of his ankles. On his sleek head he balanced a straw hat with an infinitesimal brim, a crown tall enough to resemble a monument, and a very wide hat band. His pale, well-featured face betrayed unuttered depths of boredom.

The click of the gate made him turn. Coming up the path was a figure that might have been plaintive but that Norah was so immensely amused at herself; and the stranger opened his pale eyes widely, for such apparitions had not come his way. She did not see him for a moment. When she did, he was directly in her path, and Norah pulled up short.

“Oh!” she said, weakly; and then—“I didn’t know any one was here.”

The strange youth looked somewhat disgusted.

“I should think you’d—ah—better go round to the back,” he said, condescendingly. “You’ll find the housekeeper there.”

This time it was Norah’s turn to be open-eyed.

“Thanks,” she said a little shortly, “Were you waiting to see any one?”

The boy’s eyebrows went up. “I am—ah—staying here.”

“Oh, are you?” Norah said. “I didn’t know. I’m Norah Linton.”

“You!” said the stranger. There was such a world of expression in his tone that Norah flushed scarlet, suddenly painfully conscious of her extraordinary appearance. Then—it was unusual for her—she became angry.

“Did you never see any one wet?” she asked, in trenchant tones. “And, didn’t you ever learn to take your hat off?”

“By Jove!” said the boy, looking at the truculent and mud-streaked figure. Then he did an unwise thing, for he burst out laughing.

“I don’t know who you are,” Norah said, looking at him steadily. “But I think you’re the rudest, worst-mannered boy that ever came here!”

She flashed past him with her head in the air. Cecil Linton, staring after her with amazement, saw her cross the red-tiled verandah hurriedly and disappear within a side door, a trail of wet marks behind her.

“By Jove!” he said again. “The bush cousin!”