Читать книгу Mates at Billabong - Mary Grant Bruce - Страница 8

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You found the Bush was dismal, and a land of no delight—

Did you chance to hear a chorus in the shearer’s hut at night?

A. B. Paterson.

‟DEAR MATER,—Arrived at Cunjee safely, and, thanks to the way you fixed up things found no one to meet me, as Uncle David thought I would not arrive until next day. However, a friendly yokel gave me a lift out to Billabong in a very dirty and springless buggy, so that the mistake was not a fatal one, though it gave me a very uncomfortable drive.

“The place is certainly very nice, and the house comfortable, though, of course, it is old-fashioned. I prefer more modern furniture; but Uncle David seems to think his queer old chairs and tables all that can be desired, and did not appear interested when I told him where we got our things. I have a large room, rather draughty, but otherwise pleasant, with plenty of space for clothes, which is a comfort. I do think it’s intensely annoying to be expected to keep your clothes in your trunk. The view is nice.

“Uncle David seemed quite prepared to treat me as a small boy, but I fancy I have demonstrated to him that I know my way about—in fact, as far as city life goes, I should say he knew exceedingly little. I can’t understand any man with money being content to live and die in a hole like this out-of-the-way place: but I suppose, as you say, Aunt Helen’s death made a difference. Actually, they have not even one motor! and when I spoke of it Uncle David seemed almost indignant, and said horses were good enough for him. That is a specimen of the way they are content to live. He seems quite idiotically devoted to the small child, and she lives in his pocket. If she weren’t so countrified in her ways she wouldn’t be bad looking; but, of course, she is quite the bush youngster, and, I should think, would find her level pretty quickly when she goes to school among a lot of smart Melbourne girls. I should hope so, at any rate, for she is quite spoilt here. It is exactly as you said—every one treats her like a sort of tin god, and she evidently thinks herself someone, and is inclined to regard those older than herself quite as equals. When I first saw her she had just fallen into some mud hole, and her appearance would have given you a fit. But what can you expect?

“The fat old cook is still here, and asked after you. It’s absolutely ridiculous to see the way she is treated—quite considers herself the mistress of the place, and when I told her one morning to let me have my shaving water she was almost rude. I think if there’s one thing sillier than another it’s the sort of superstition some people have about old servants.

“So far I find it exceedingly dull, and don’t feel very hopeful that things will be much better when Jim comes home. Of course, he may be improved, but he appeared to me a great overgrown animal when I last saw him, without an idea in his head beyond cricket and football. I don’t feel that he will be any companion to me. He will probably suffer badly from swelled head, too, as every one is making a fuss about his return. So quaint, to see the sort of mutual admiration that goes on here.

“I have had some riding, being given a horse much inferior to either Uncle David’s or Norah’s—the latter rides like a jockey, and, of course, astride, which I consider very ungraceful. She turns out well, however, and all her get-up is good—her habits come from a Melbourne tailor. I think I will get some clothes in Melbourne on my way back; they may not have newer ideas, but it may be useful for purposes of comparison with the Sydney cut. My riding clothes were evidently a source of much wonderment and admiration to the yokels. Unfortunately they have become badly stained with some confounded raspberry juice, and though I left them out for Mrs. Brown to clean, she has not done so yet.

“Well, there is no news to be got in a place like this; we never go out, except on the run, and there seems absolutely no society. The local doctor came out yesterday, in a prehistoric motor, but I found him very uninteresting. Of course, one has no ideas in common with these Bush people. Where the ‘Charm of the Bush’ comes in is more than I can see—I much prefer Town on a Saturday morning to all Billabong and its bullocks. They wanted me to go out one night and—fancy!—help to burn down dead trees; but, really, I jibbed on that. There is no billiard room. Uncle David intends building one when Jim comes home for good, but that certainly won’t be in my time here. I fancy a very few weeks will see me back in town.

“No bridge played here, of course! Have you had any luck that way?

Your affectionate son,

Cecil Aubrey Linton.”

Cecil blotted the final sheet of his letter home, and sat back with a sigh of satisfaction, as one who feels his duty nobly done. He stamped it, strolled across the hall to deposit it in the post box which stood on the great oak table, and then looked round for something to do.

It was afternoon, and all was very quiet. Mr. Linton had ridden off with a buyer to inspect cattle, Norah ruefully declining to accompany him.

“I’m awfully sorry, Dad,” she had said. “But I’m too busy.”

“Busy, are you? What at?”

“Oh, cooking and things,” Norah had answered. “Brownie’s not very well, and I said I’d help her—there’s a lot to do just now, you know.” She stood on tip-toe to kiss her father. “Good-bye, Dad—don’t be too long, will you? And take care of yourself!”

Cecil also had declined to go out, giving “letters to write” as a reason. The truth was that several rides had told on the town youth, whose seat in the saddle was not easy enough to prevent his becoming stiff and sore. Bush people are used to this peculiarity in city visitors, and, while regarding the sufferers with sympathy, generally prescribe a “hair of the dog that bit them”—more riding—as the quickest cure; which Cecil would certainly have thought hard-hearted in the extreme. However, nothing would have induced him to say that he had felt the riding, since Cecil belonged to that class of boy that hates to admit any inferiority to others. So he suffered in silence, creaked miserably at his uprising and down-sitting, and was happily unaware that every one on Billabong knew perfectly well what was the matter with him.

Cecil and his mother were very good friends in the cool, polite way that was distinctive of them. They “fitted” together admirably, and as a general rule held the same views, the one on which they were most in accord being the belief in Cecil’s own superior talents and characteristics. He wrote to her just as he would have talked, certain of her absolute agreement. When his letter was finished he felt much relieved at having, as Jim said, “got it off his chest.” Not that Cecil would ever have said anything so inelegant.

Sarah crossed the hall at the moment, carrying a tray of silver to be cleaned, and he called to her—

“Where is Norah?”

“Miss Norah’s in the kitchen,” said the girl, shortly. The Billabong maids were no less independent than modern maids generally are, but they had their views about the city gentleman’s manner to the daughter of the house. “On’y a bit of a kid himself,” Mary had said to Sarah, indignantly, “but any one’d think he owned the earth, an’ Miss Norah was a bit of it.” So they despised Cecil exceedingly, and refrained from shaking up his mattress when they made his bed.

“Er—you may tell her I want to speak to her.”

“Can’t I’m afraid,” Sarah said. “Miss Norah’s very busy, ’elpin’ Mrs. Brown. She don’t care to be disturbed.”

“Can’t she spare me a moment?”

“Wouldn’t ask her to.” Sarah lifted her tray—and her nose—and marched out. Cecil looked black.

“Gad! I wish the mater had to deal with those girls!” he said, viciously—Mrs. Geoffrey Linton was of the employers who “change their maids” with every new moon. “She’d make them sit up, I’ll wager. Abominable impertinence!” He strolled to the door, and looked out across the garden discontentedly. “What on earth is there for a man to do? Well, I’ll hunt up the important cousin.”

At the moment, Norah was quite of importance. Mrs. Brown had succumbed to a headache earlier in the day. Norah had found her, white-faced and miserable, bending over a preserving pan full of jam, waiting for the mystical moment when it should “jell.” Ordered to rest, poor Brownie had stoutly refused—was there not more baking to be done, impossible to put off, to say nothing of the jam? A brisk engagement had ensued, from which Norah had emerged victorious, the reins of government in her hands for the day. Brownie, still protesting, had been put on her bed with a handkerchief steeped in eau de Cologne on her throbbing forehead, and Norah had returned to the kitchen to varied occupations.

The jam had behaved beautifully; had “jelled” in the most satisfactory manner, just the right colour; now it stood in a neat array of jars on a side table, waiting to be sealed and labelled when cold. Then, after lunch, Norah had plunged into the mysteries of pastry, and was considerably relieved when her mince pies turned out very closely akin to those of Brownie, which were famous. Puddings for dinner had followed, and were now cooling in the dairy. Finally, the joint being in the oven, and vegetables prepared, the cook had compounded Jim’s favourite cake, which was now baking; during which delicate operation, with a large dab of flour on her nose, the cook sat at the table, and wrote a letter.

“Dear old Jim,—This must be in pencil, ’cause I’m watching a cake that’s in the oven, and I’m awfully scared of it burning, so I don’t dare to go for the ink. Dad said I was to write and tell you we would meet you on Wednesday, unless we heard from you again. We are all awfully glad and excited about you coming. I’m sure Tait and Puck understand, ’cause I told them to-day, and they barked like anything. Your room is all right, and we’ve put in another cupboard. We’re all so sorry about Wally not coming, but we hope he will come later on. Do make him.

“Dad and I aren’t talking about me going to school. It can’t be helped, and it only makes you jolly blue to talk about it.

“Cecil’s come, and he’s the queerest specimen of a boy I ever saw. He’s awfully grown up, but he’s small and terribly swagger. His riding clothes are gorgeous, and you mustn’t laugh at them. Dad did, but it was into Bobs’ mane. He came with us cutting-out, and Betty was too good for him swinging round, so he came a lovely cropper into some wild raspberries. It was so funny no one could have helped laughing, and he wasn’t really hurt, only prickled and very wild. I am afraid he isn’t enjoying himself very much, but of course he will be all right when you come. It’s jolly hard to entertain him, ’cause he isn’t a bit keen about anything. He has a tremendous array of shaving tackle. And he has a hand glass. Do you think he will lend it to you to see your back hair?

“Bobs is just lovelier than ever. I never knew him go so well as he is now, and he perfectly loves a jump. Dad has a new horse he calls Monarch, and he is a beauty, he is black with a star. Of course don’t say anything about Cecil’s spill to anybody, he could not help it. And he had a much bigger laugh at me, ’cause I fell into the lagoon the day he came. I will tell you all about it when you come.

“The place is looking lovely, and hasn’t dried up a bit——”

An unfamiliar step came along the passage, and Norah sat up abruptly from the labours of composition, and then with promptness concealed her letter under a cookery book.

“Why, Cecil! How did you find your way here?”

“Oh—looked about me. I had finished my writing, and there was nothing to do.”

“I’m so sorry,” Norah said, contritely. “You see, Brownie’s sick, and I’m on duty here.”

“You!” said Cecil, with a laugh. “And what can you do in a kitchen?”

Norah blushed at the laugh more than at the words.

“Oh, you’ll get some sort of a dinner,” she said. “Don’t be too critical, that’s all.”

“What, you really can cook? Or do you play at it?”

“Well, there are mighty few girls in the Bush who can’t cook a bit,” Norah said. “Of course we’re lucky, having Brownie—but you really never can tell as a rule when you may have to turn to in the kitchen. Dad says it’s one of the beauties of Australia!”

“Can’t say I like the idea of a lady in the kitchen,” quoth Cecil, loftily.

“Can’t say I’d like to be one who was scared of it,” Norah said. “And I guess you’d get very bored if you had to go without your dinner!” She seized a cloth and opened the oven door gingerly, and made highly technical experiments with her cake, rising presently, somewhat flushed. “Ten minutes more,” she said, with an air of satisfaction. “And, as Brownie would say, ‘he’s rose lovely.’ Have some tea, Cecil?”

Cecil assented, and watched the small figure in the voluminous white apron as she flitted about the kitchen.

“I like having tea here,” Norah confided to him—“then I use Brownie’s teapot, and don’t you always think tea tastes miles better out of a brown pot? You won’t get the proper afternoon cups either—I hope you don’t mind?” She stopped short, with a sudden sense of talking a language altogether foreign to this bored young man in correct attire; and a rush of something like irritation to think how different Jim or Wally would have been—she could almost see Wally sitting on the edge of the table, with a huge cup of tea in one hand, a scone in the other, and his thin, eager face alight with cheerfulness. Cecil was certainly heavy in the hand. She sighed, but bent manfully to her task again.

“You take sugar, don’t you? And cream? Yes, you ought to have cream, ’cause you’ve been ill.” She dashed into the pantry, returning with a small jug. “The cake’s not mine, so I can recommend it; but if you’re not frightened you can have one of my mince pies.”

“Thanks, I’d rather have cake,” said Cecil, and again Norah flushed at his tone, but she laughed.

“It’s certainly safer,” she agreed. “I’m sure Brownie thought it was a hideous risk to leave the pies to me.” She supplied her cousin with cake, and retreated to the oven.

“Why don’t you let one of the girls do this?” he asked.

“Sarah or Mary? Oh, they’re as busy as ever they can be,” explained Norah. “We always do a lot of extra cleaning and rubbing up before Christmas, and they haven’t a moment. Of course they’d do it in a minute, if I asked them, but I wouldn’t—as it is, Sarah’s going to dish up for me. They’re the nicest girls; I’m going to take them tea as soon as I get my cake out!”

“You!” said Cecil. “You don’t mean to say you’re going to cart tea to the servants?”

“I’d be a perfect pig if I didn’t,” Norah said, shortly. “I’m afraid you don’t understand the bush a bit, Cecil.”

“Thank goodness I don’t then,” said Cecil, stiffly. “Who’s that tray for?”

“Brownie, of course.” Norah was getting a little ruffled—criticism like this had not come to her.

“Well, I think it’s extraordinary—and so would my mother,” Cecil said, with an air of finality.

“I suppose a town is different,” said Norah, striving after patience. “We like to look after every one here—and I think it’s grand when every one’s nice to every one!” She paused; it was hard to be patient and grammatical, too.

“School will teach you a number of things,” said her cousin loftily. He rose and put down his cup. “A lady shouldn’t lower herself.”

“Dad says a lady can’t lower herself by work,” retorted Norah. “Anyhow, if taking tea to dear old Brownie’s going to lower me, it’ll have to, that’s all!”

“You don’t understand,” said Cecil. “A lady has her own place, and to get on terms of familiarity with the lower classes is bad for both her and them.” He looked and felt instructive. “It isn’t exactly the action that counts—it’s the spirit it fosters—er—the feeling—that is, the—er, in short, it’s a mistake to——”

“Oh, please be careful, Cecil, you’re sitting in some dough!”

Norah sprang forward anxiously, and instructiveness fell from Cecil as one sheds a garment. He had sat down on the edge of the table in the flow of his eloquence; now he jumped up angrily, and, muttering unpleasant things, endeavoured to remove dough from his person. Norah hovered round, deeply concerned. Pastry dough, however, is a clinging and a greasy product, and finally the wrathful lecturer beat a retreat towards the sanctuary of his own room, and the cook sat down and shook with laughter.

“My cake!” she gasped in the midst of her mirth. She flew to the oven and rescued Jim’s delicacy.

“Thank goodness, it’s all right!” said she. Her mirth broke out afresh.

A shadow darkened the doorway.

“What—cooking and in hysterics?” said Mr. Linton. “May I have some tea? And what’s the matter?”

“Cecil’s begun the reforming process,” said his daughter, becoming solemn with difficulty—“you’ve no idea how improved I am, Daddy! He seems to be certain that I’m not a lady, and he’s very doubtful if I’m a cook, so could you tell me what I’m likely to be?”

“A better all-round man than Cecil, I should hope,” said David Linton, with a sound like a snort of wrath. “Give me some tea, mate, and don’t bother your head about the future. Your old Dad’s not scared!”