FROM BILLABONG TO LONDON
BY MARY GRANT BRUCE Author of “Mates at Billabong,” “Glen Eyre,” “Timothy in Bushland,” etc.
WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED LONDON, MELBOURNE AND TORONTO CONTENTS.
FROM BILLABONG TO LONDON.
—•— HOLIDAYS AT BILLABONG.IF you came to the homestead of Billabong by the front entrance, you approached a great double gate of wrought iron, which opened stiffly, with protesting creaks, and creaked almost as much at being closed. Then you found yourself in a long, winding avenue, lined with tall pine-trees, beyond which you could catch glimpses, between the trunks, of a kind of wilderness-garden, where climbing roses and flowering shrubs and gum-trees and bush plants, and a host of pleasant, friendly, common flowers grew all together in a very delightful fashion. Seeing, however, that you were a visitor by the front entrance, you could not answer the beckonings of the wilderness-garden, but must follow the windings of the avenue, on and on, until the wild growth on either side gave place to spreading lawns and trim flower-beds, the pine-trees ended, and you came round a kind of corner formed by an immense bush of scarlet bougainvillea, and so found the house smiling a welcome. Very rarely were any doors or windows shut at Billabong. The kindly Australian climate makes the sunlit winter air a delight; and if in summer it is sometimes necessary to shut out heat, and possibly intrusive snakes, as soon as the sun goes down everything is flung wide open to admit the cool evening breeze that comes blowing across the paddocks. Billabong always looked as if it were open to welcome the newcomer. It was a red house of two storeys, looking lower than it was because of its width and the great trees that grew all round it, as well as because of its broad balconies and verandahs. From either side the garden stretched away until hedges of roses blocked the entrance to orchard and vegetable patches. The house stood on a gentle rise, and in front the trees had been thinned so that across the smooth lawn you looked over stretching paddocks, dotted with gum-trees, and broken by the silver gleam of a reed-fringed lagoon. There was no other house visible—only the wide, peaceful paddocks. The nearest road was two miles away, and it was seventeen miles to the nearest town. Perhaps, seen from the front, Billabong might have seemed a little lonely. But, in fact, no one ever dreamed of coming to Billabong by the front. There had, of course, been a few exceptions to the rule; as in the case of a new Governor-General, who had been brought in state to see it as a typical Australian station, and had greatly annoyed the inmates by bringing his dogs in to luncheon and feeding them with bones on the dining-room carpet, which happened to be a Persian rug of value. The Billabong folk looked back to that visit with considerable disgust. Sometimes other strangers found their way to the great iron gates, and up the avenue; but not often. Occasional callers did not come to Billabong, since the owner and his motherless children were not ceremonious people, and in any case, no one drives seventeen miles in the Australian bush to pay a call of ceremony. Those who came were prepared to stay, and were more immediately concerned with the disposal of their horses than with any other consideration; so that it followed that the chief entrance to Billabong was known as “the back way.” The tracks alone would have told you that. As you came up from the outer paddocks, the gravel of the drive was smooth and untouched save for the gardener’s rake; but the other tracks, deep and well trodden, swept round beside the garden and turned in to the courtyard of the stables—big, red-brick buildings, looking almost as large as the house itself. It was always cheerful and exciting at the stables, for all the dogs took charge of you directly you arrived, and made vigorous remarks about you, until they were quite sure whether you were a person to be trusted. “Swagmen”—the bush tramps of Australia—loathed the Billabong dogs very exceedingly; and the dogs returned the feeling in a lively fashion, so that the progress of a swagman from the outer gate to the security of the back yard was apt to be fraught with incident and marked by haste. But if your respectability were evident, the dogs became merely enthusiastic, inspecting visitor and horses with well-bred curiosity, and finally accompanying you to the gate with demonstrations of friendliness, and parting from you with regret. Within the gate you had, as Murty O’Toole, the head stockman, put it, “your choice thing of tracks.” One led across the gravelled yard to the kitchen and its long row of out-buildings; another took you in the shade of a row of pepper-trees to Mr. Linton’s office, where interviews with the men were held, and all the business of a big station went forward. Another—Jim and Norah Linton liked this one—went directly to the orchard, where, on hot days, might be found cherries and apricots, peaches, nectarines, great red Japanese plums, guavas, and long beds of strawberries and raspberries. But the most worn track of all led through a porch that opened in a creeper-hung fence, on the other side of which you found yourself in the garden, and presently on the side verandah, a pleasant place, half closed in by passion fruit vines and clematis, and made very homely and comfortable with long basket-chairs and tables where books and magazines lay. There were rugs on the tiled floor, and, here and there, tall palms in oaken tubs. Nearly all the year round, the Billabong folk were to be found on the side verandah. It was vacant just now, save for one inmate, a big man in riding dress, asleep on a rush lounge. His whip and broad felt hat were tossed on the table beside him, and a collie, also asleep, lay in a patch of sunlight near. It was mid-winter, yet the sun shone warmly across the sheltered space; a good corner to bask in, after the keen wind sweeping across the paddocks. Everything was very quiet. The glass doors leading into a room close by were open, but no sound came from the house, and the big man slept like a child. Presently, however, a chorus of barking came from the stables, and the sleeper stirred and opened his eyes. “Billy, I expect,” he said, yawning. “Believe I’ve been asleep.” He glanced at his watch. “Half-past three!—it’s high time that black rascal was here.” He got up, stretching himself, and went to the edge of the verandah—a mighty figure of a man, well over six feet, with broad shoulders and a loosely hung frame indicative of great strength. His hair and close-cropped beard were turning grey; but the whole face held an indefinable boyishness, due perhaps to the twinkle that was never far from the deep-set eyes. As he watched, the chorus of barking drew nearer, the gate in the porch swung open, and a native boy came through, his black face a startling contrast to his white shirt and spotless moleskin breeches. He grinned broadly as he neared the verandah. “You’re late, Billy,” David Linton said. “Plenty that pfeller mare lazy,” said the dusky one, cheerfully. “That one gettin’ old, boss. Better me ride one of this year’s lot—eh?” He handed over a leather mailbag and a bundle of papers, remaining poised on one foot, in evident anxiety as to his answer. “One of the new young horses?—what, to carry out mails and parcels? No, thanks, Billy, I’m not keen on experiments that lead to broken legs,” replied the squatter, laughing. “Old Bung-Eye is good for the job for a long time yet.” Then, in answer to the downcast face as the black boy turned away, “I’ll see what Mr. Jim says about your taking one of the new lot out mustering—if you behave yourself and take him gently.” “Plenty!” said Billy, rejoicing. “That black colt, boss—him going to make a mighty good horse——” “We’ll see what Mr. Jim says. Be off—it’s high time you had the cows in the milking-yard.” The gate slammed behind the ecstatic Billy as his master went back to his chair and unlocked the mailbag. He lifted a rather furrowed brow half an hour later at a step beside him—the housekeeper, round, fat and cheery, her twinkling eyes almost lost in her wide, jolly face. “Will you have tea now, sir?” “The children are not in, are they, Brownie?” “Not yet,” Mrs. Brown answered, smoothing her spotless apron. “Mr. Jim said they’d be back at four-ish; but when it comes to gettin’ back it’s generally—as a rule more ‘ish’ than ‘four.’ Would you rather wait a little, sir?” “I think so,” said the squatter, absent-mindedly, his glance wandering back to the letter in his hand. “Yes—there’s no hurry, Brownie—and Miss Norah seems to like to pour out my tea.” “She do, bless her,” said Mrs. Brown. “I always say meals aren’t the same to Miss Norah if you’re not there, sir. Poor lamb—and so soon goin’ back to that there school. Mighty little she gets for tea there, I’ll be bound.” “Well, she doesn’t strike one as ill-fed, Brownie—and you know she likes school.” “I know she likes home better,” said Brownie, darkly. “Me, I don’t hold with schools. I was glad when Master Jim came home for good an’ I’ll be gladder when it’s Miss Norah’s last term. Edication’s all very well in its way, like castor-oil; but you can get too much of it. Why, Miss Norah’s grandma never even heard of half them fancy things she knows, and where’d you find a better manager of a house than she was? What she didn’t know about curing bacon——!” Brownie sighed in inability to express fitly the superhuman attainments of her nursling’s ancestress. “Well, you know, Brownie, I look to you for all that side of Norah’s education,” said Mr. Linton pacifically. “And you say yourself that the child is no bad housekeeper.” “I should think she isn’t,” retorted Mrs. Brown. “Mighty few girls, though I say it as shouldn’t, cook better than Miss Norah, or can be handier about a house. But where’s the use of all them other things? Physics, which ain’t anything to do with medicine, an’ brushwork that’s not even first-cousin to a broom an’ physi—something—or—other, which is learnin’ more about your inside than any young lady has any call for. No, I don’t hold with it at all. But it doesn’t seem to hurt her, bless her!” “No, I don’t think it hurts her,” David Linton said. “Learning does not seem to make her any less healthy, either in mind or body; and that’s the main thing, Brownie. You mustn’t grumble at the bit of extra polish—they all have it nowadays, and it’s no bad thing.” His eyes lit up suddenly. “There they come,” he said. “Is your kettle boiling?” There were sounds of hoof-beats on the track, faint at first and then more distinct. The dogs burst into a wild chorus of welcome. Brownie disappeared hurriedly in the direction of the kitchen, and Mr. Linton lay back in his long chair and gave his letter a half-hearted attention, his eyes wandering to the door in the porch. Presently came quick feet and merry voices, the door swung open, and three people entered in a pell-mell fashion and descended upon the verandah like a miniature cyclone. “I know we’re late, but we couldn’t help it,” Norah said breathlessly. “There was such a heap to do in the Far Plain, Dad—you ask the manager!” She shot a laughing glance at her brother, an immensely tall individual, who responded by lazily pitching his hat at her. “Oh, the wind is cold, Dad—we raced home against it, and it cut like a knife. But it was lovely. Have you had tea? I do hope you haven’t.” “I waited for the mistress of the house; and Brownie gave me her views on the Higher Education of Women,” said her father. “She seems to think you’re learning too much, Norah. Are you worried about it?” “Not so much as my teachers,” said Norah, laughing. “And their anxieties seem all the other way. Oh, don’t let us think of school, Daddy—it will be bad enough when the time really comes.” The third of the newcomers uttered a hollow groan. Like Jim Linton, he was a tall, lean boy; but while Jim gave promise of as mighty a pair of shoulders as his father’s, Wally Meadows exemplified at the moment length without breadth. Everything about him was lean and quick and active; his brown hands were never still, and his merry brown face was always alight with interest, except in those deep moments when those who knew him had reason to suspect some amazing outbreak of mischief in his plotting brain. Finding that no one observed him, he groaned again, yet more hollowly. “What’s the matter, old man?” Jim asked. “Toothache? Or lack of tea?” “I don’t have toothache; and Billabong doesn’t have any lack of tea. If you haven’t just had tea here, it’s because you’re just going to have it,” said Wally severely, and with truth; for in an Australian bush home tea begins to occur at an early hour in the morning, and continues to occur with great frequency all day. “No, it’s only the idea of school. You’re so hideously old and important now that I suppose you forget all about it, but it’s only two Christmases ago that Norah and I used to dry your tears at going back. Didn’t we, Norah? “What about your own tears?” Mr. Linton asked, laughing. “Why, I shed them still,” said Wally. “I could begin now, quite easily. Didn’t you hear me groan?—I’ll do it again, if you’d care for it. It isn’t any trouble.” “Don’t think of me,” begged his host. “I wouldn’t put you to the exertion for any consideration. And really I don’t believe that any of you mind school half as much as you make out. You have an uncommonly good time when you’re there.” “Yes, of course we do,” Wally said. “School truly isn’t a bad old place, once you’ve got to it. But a fellow gets a bit restless as age creeps upon him, you know, sir—and especially since this old reprobate left and took to station-managing, I’ve been feeling it was about time I got busy at something beside cricket and footer and lessons. And now, of course, it’s worse than ever.” “Now?” “Well, you see, so many of the fellows one knew are in camp. Lots of the seniors left almost as soon as war broke out and the Australian Contingent was started. Wouldn’t I give my ears to go!” said Wally hotly. “And they say I’m too young. Well, Mills and Fisher and Ballantyne were under me in the footer team, and they’re taken; they may be a bit older, but I can handle any of them with one hand. It doesn’t seem fair. However, I expect there will still be war when I get to the age limit, and then I’m off!” A slow flush had crept over Jim Linton’s grave face. He rose and went to the edge of the verandah, staring across the garden, and kicking with his heel at a grass-tuft trying to grow up in the gravel. There was a moment’s uncomfortable silence; and Wally, seeing his chum’s hand clench tighter on the stockwhip he still held, bit his lip and mentally informed himself that he was an idiot. Then came footsteps, and Mrs. Brown appeared, panting behind a loaded tea-tray. “I was getting quite worried about your pa having no tea, Miss Norah,” she said, cheerfully. “But he wouldn’t let me bring it till you was all home.” “And we were late, of course,” Norah said, penitently, jumping up and making swift clearance of the hats and whips encumbering the rush-work tea-table. “But there was such a heap to do. We found one poor old sheep down; and when we were close to it we discovered that it was in a sort of barbed-wire entanglement. It had picked up a loose piece of wire somewhere, and managed to wind it round and round its body, buried deep in the wool. And its poor cut legs!” “Could you save it, Jim?” Mr. Linton asked. “Oh, yes, it’s all right,” Jim answered, turning. “Beastly job, of course; the poor brute was even more stupid than the average sheep, and kicked itself into a worse mess when we came near it. We had to get Norah to hold down its head while Wally and I got the wire away—and that meant cutting it out of the wool. It looked as if a very amateur shearer had been at it with blunt nail scissors, by the time we had finished; I never saw anything like the way twisted old barbed-wire can imbed itself in wool. However, the patient was able to walk away afterwards; he had two battle-scarred legs, but they didn’t seem to worry him much.” “How are the cattle looking in the Far Plain?” his father asked. “Bad enough,” said Jim, stirring his tea. “The grass, such as it was, has gone off very much since I was out there last, a fortnight ago. The Queensland bullocks haven’t put on a bit of condition since we turned them in. And the creek is awfully low. Take it all round, Dad, I don’t think we’ve ever had such a bad season.” “No; Billabong never was as dry—in my time, at all events,” said David Linton. “It’s the worst year in these parts that any one remembers. Australia is certainly having its full allowance just now—war, increased taxation, political troubles; and on top of all, the drought. I suppose we’ll worry through them all in time, but the process is slow.” “Where were you to-day, Dad?” Norah asked. “I’ve been through the lower paddocks; they always stand dry weather better than the Far Plain, but they’re not encouraging, for all that,” answered her father. “The cattle are holding their own, so far, but nothing more. Did you see any dead ones, Jim?” “No—but two that were sick look weak enough to be thinking of dying. We got one poor brute bogged in the creek—not badly, thank goodness; we were able to get him out, but it took time. Some one will have to go out there every day until the boggy places are dry enough to be safe, or we’ll certainly lose some stock. Drought years,” said Jim, solemnly, “seem to mean plenty of extra work, extra expense, extra worry, and extra everything except money.” “They do—but we’ll pull through all right,” said David Linton, cheerfully. “I know it’s disheartening to see the old place looking like a dust-heap; still, we’ve had a lot of good years, and we mustn’t grumble. And even if it does look dry, there’s plenty of feed and water yet on Billabong. Neither is the bank likely to worry me—if the worst came to the worst, and we had to shift the stock, or to buy feed, it can be managed.” “Things might be a heap worse,” said Norah. “Why, we might be in Belgium.” “You’re like Mrs. Wiggs, who consoled herself in her darkest hours by reflecting that she might have had a hare-lip,” said Wally, laughing, though his eyes were grave. The great war was in its very early stages, and only cable messages of its progress had yet reached Australia; but the heroism and the sufferings of Belgium and her people were ringing round the world, and from the farthest corners of the Empire men were flocking to fight under the Allies’ standard and to thrust back the German invaders. Half a dozen of the Billabong stockmen had gone; it was a sore point with the son of the house that he had not been permitted to join the Expeditionary Force with the men with whom he had so often ridden at work. “I hear there’s no fresh news,” he said. “We met Mr. Harrison, and he said there was nothing.” “No; I telephoned at lunch-time,” said his father. “But there’s an English mail in, and the papers should make interesting reading. We will have them to-night.” “Well, it’s getting dusk, and I have one sick wallaby to look after, eggs to gather, and chicks to shut up,” said Norah. “Come on, Wally, and I will let you crawl in under the haystack to the old Wyandotte’s nest.” “Your kindness, ma’am, would electrify me if I were not used to it,” said Wally, ruefully, getting his long form by degrees out of the low chair in which he was coiled. “Why you don’t put a chain on that old Wyandotte’s horny leg is more than I can imagine—I believe it’s because you like to see me worming my way under that beastly stack. Man was not made to emulate the goanna and the serpent, young Norah, and it’s time you realised the fact.” “I don’t see how it affects you, at any rate,” said Norah, cruelly. “Boys of seventeen!” She tilted a naturally tilted nose, and patted Wally kindly on the head as she passed him. “In a few years you will probably be too fat to crawl under anything at all, and meanwhile it’s excellent exercise.” “It’s a good thing for you that you’re a mere girl,” said the maligned one, following her. “When the meek inherit the earth I’ll come in for all Billabong, I should think, for certainly you and Jim won’t deserve it. Don’t you think so, Jimmy?” “All the real estate your meekness is likely to bring you won’t embarrass you much,” said his chum, grinning. “One’s recollections of you at school don’t seem to include anything so meek as to be startling. In fact, now that I come to consider the matter, Dad and Norah are about the only people who ever have a chance of observing your submissive side. And not always Norah.” “I should think not always Norah!” said that lady. “Meek, indeed!” “As a matter of fact, there’s no one who makes me feel my own meekness so much as Brownie,” said Wally. “There’s a dignity about her that you would do well to cultivate, Norah, my child. I think it comes with weight. Still, as there seems no chance of your attaining it, how about looking after the wallaby?” “It’s high time,” said Norah. “I told Billy to feed him whenever he thought of it, knowing that would not be more than once, and probably not at all. Coming, Jim?” “No, thanks,” said Jim, from behind an outspread Times. “Not with the English papers in, old girl—and war flourishing.” “You can tell us about it when we come in,” Norah said. “I’ll race you to the paddock, Wally!” The sound of their flying feet died away, leaving two silent figures on the verandah. “The progress of a swagman . . . was apt to
UPHEAVALS.DUSK falls early in an Australian mid-winter, and as evening draws in, the frost in the air nips sharply after the brilliant sunshine of the day. It was half an hour later that David Linton put down his paper and glanced across at his son. “Too dark to read—and too cold,” he said. “Come into the smoking-room.” “I suppose it’s time to make a move,” Jim answered, rising, hat and stockwhip in one hand and a bundle of papers in the other. “It’s going to be a cold night. I wish this frosty weather would break, and there might be a chance of rain; we want it badly enough.” “You’re getting worried about the place,” his father said, leading the way into the smoking-room, where the leaping light from a great fire of red-gum logs flung dancing shadows on deep leather chairs drawn invitingly near its warmth. The squatter sat down and glanced affectionately at his tall son. “Switch on the light, Jim. Drought is bad, but there’s no need to make yourself an old man over it; we won’t let the stock starve, and if we have a bad year—well, the old place is sound, and we’ve had many good ones. I’m not exactly a poor man, Jim, and one drought won’t make me so.” “Oh, I don’t worry about being poor,” Jim answered. “After all, one doesn’t want to do much with money up here; and one can keep away from Sydney and Melbourne, if cash is short. It’s certainly disheartening to see the place looking its worst, and the stock getting poorer each week—there’s nothing jollier than riding over it when the grass is knee-deep and the creeks and the river high, and all the stock rolling fat, and the horses kicking up their heels with sheer joy at being alive. One doesn’t think then of the actual money it means; it’s only the feeling that it’s a good thing to be alive oneself. This sort of year does not come often, thank goodness, and one knows it can’t last for ever.” “It is just a little rough on you that it should come in the first year you have helped me to manage the place,” said his father. “But then, from a selfish point of view, it’s better for me to have your help and companionship through a tough time. And it has been a help, Jim.” Jim shot a grateful look at him. David Linton was a man of few words; the brief sentence meant much on his lips, and the boy’s eyes softened. “I’m awfully glad if it has,” he said, awkwardly. “I haven’t had enough experience to be really useful, but I’m as interested as I can be—and there’s no life like it. I don’t want anything better than Billabong, and to work with you. But——” He broke off, irresolutely. That which he had to say had never seemed easy; it was harder than ever, now, with his father’s kind words warm at his heart. All day, riding through the bare, bleak paddocks, he had tried to frame words that would be firm, and yet not hurt. Now, looking into the steady grey eyes that were like his own, he could not find speech at all. He rose, and taking a pipe from the mantel-shelf, began to fill it slowly. “But you’re worried still,” said David Linton, watching him. “Well, so am I. And as open confession is good for the soul, and we’re all mates on Billabong, let’s have the worries out, old son. Tell me yours first.” Jim stood up, straight and tall, on the hearthrug, forgetting his pipe. The light was full on his brown face, showing it older than his years warranted. He met his father’s eyes steadily. “I can’t stand it, Dad,” he said. “I’ve tried, honestly, since we talked about it, and done my best to put it out of my head. But it’s no good. I’ve got to go.” “You mean—to the war?” “Yes. I know jolly well it’s rough on you—because I’m the only son. I suppose it doesn’t seem quite fair to you, my even wanting to go. But if you were my age it would. And all the fellows I knew best have enlisted; some of them are younger than I am; and I’m standing out. They used to look up to me in a sort of way when I was captain of the school. They can’t do it now. They’re doing their share, and I’m just a shirker.” “That’s rubbish,” his father said, hastily. “You wanted to go from the first day, only you gave in to my wish. It’s my doing.” “That doesn’t seem to matter,” Jim answered. “The only fact that matters is that I’m taking it easy, and they are getting ready. I know you had lots of good reasons, and I have tried not to care; and it was hard, when the men went, and I felt they were wondering why I didn’t go, too. You know it isn’t because I want to leave you and Billabong, don’t you, Dad?” “Oh, I know that,” said David Linton. “There are some things that get too big for a fellow,” Jim said, slowly. “Of course I’m only a youngster; but I’m tough, and I can shoot and ride, and I had four years as a cadet, so I know the drill. It seems to me that any fellow who can be as useful as that, and who isn’t really tied, has no right to stay behind. Lots of fellows younger than I am are joining in England—boys of sixteen are getting commissions. I don’t care about a commission, but I want to do my bit. I’ve got to do the square thing.” “It is always a little difficult, I suppose, for a man to realise that his children are growing up,” David Linton said, heavily. “You were such babies when your mother died—and that seems only yesterday. I know that you’ll do a man’s work wherever you are. But to me you’re still in many ways the small boy your mother left me.” “Well, except for this I don’t want to be any different,” Jim answered. “You’ve never made me feel it, except in being jolly good to me—look how you’ve treated me as a sort of equal in managing the place, ever since I left school. I’ve never said anything, but I’ve noticed it every day.” “Well, you have common sense—and you don’t do wild things with your authority,” his father answered. “You’ve made it possible for yourself. And you know, Jim, I didn’t actually forbid you to enlist. I don’t give you orders.” “That’s just it,” Jim burst out. “You never do—you’re so jolly decent to me. You asked me not to go; and I’d do anything rather than hurt you. But this is such a big thing, Dad—and it’s getting bigger. I want you to believe that it isn’t just the excitement and all that part of it. But——” There was silence for a moment. Jim rammed tobacco into his pipe furiously, and then laid it aside again with a gesture of impatience. “There are things a fellow can’t talk about,” he said. “I’m an awful fool at talking, anyhow. But one can’t open a paper without reading about Belgium and the things the Germans have done there; and it makes one feel one has simply got to go. Fighting men is all very well, and in the way of business. But—women and kids!” “I know,” said David Linton. From the drawing-room came the cheerful sound of a piano, and Norah’s fresh young voice in a verse of a song, with Wally joining in. The father gripped the arms of his chair and stared in front of him; seeing, perhaps, blackened Northern cornfields, and children who fled, crying, before an army. No one spoke for a long time. The silence in the room was only broken by the tick of the clock and the sputter and crackle of the wood fire. From his post on the hearthrug Jim watched his father, trying vaguely to read his answer in the grave face. But David Linton, staring into the fire, gave no sign. His thoughts were wandering back over the long years since his wife’s death had fallen upon him suddenly, tearing the fabric of his life to pieces. Then it had seemed to him that nothing could ever mend it or make it again worth living; but as time crept on, baby fingers unconsciously had taken up the broken threads and woven them into something new—not the old, perfect happiness, but a life full of interest and contentment. Such mates they had been, he and his children. All through the years, they had shared things: worked, and played, and laughed together until their relationship had grown into a companionship and a mutual comprehension that held little of authority on one side, but all of love on both. For that short, terrible season after the little mother had gone away, the house had been home no longer, but a place of desolation; and then the father had realised that his babies needed more from him, and that through them alone lay his way of peace. There is nearly always something bigger than one’s personal grief, no matter how great it seems; and it is that one thing bigger that spells comfort. David Linton had never put aside his grief altogether, for it was part of himself. But he had put his children first, since to do so was part of his doctrine of doing “the square thing.” Little and helpless, their happiness must not suffer. Somewhere, he knew, the little mother was watching them. Heaven could not keep her from watching her babies—from straining hungry eyes to see how he was managing the task she had left him. When the time came to go to her he must be able to give a good account. He knew, looking back, that they had been happy. Life had held no cares beyond the necessary trial of leaving home for school—a trial always compensated by the joy of getting back. They had known no loneliness; Billabong and its wild acres, its free, simple life, had filled each day with work that was pleasure and with the thousand cheerful recreations of the Bush. He had tried to make them healthy, wholesome, and useful, holding as he did that no life was complete without all three attributes. They had repaid him by coming up to his standard in other things as well; by being sound in mind and body, honest as the day, and of a clean, straight courage. Throughout all they had been his mates. The little watching mother would be satisfied. Now, for the first time in sixteen years, the parting of the ways must come. Authority had never been one of his methods; and if it had been, this was not the time to use it. He had taught the tall lad who stood before him his version of “the decent thing,” and his teaching had come home; even in his pain he welcomed it. Jim would not have been Jim had he been willing to sit contentedly at home. He looked up, and smiled suddenly at the boy’s unhappy face. “Don’t look like that, old son,” he said. “It’s all right.” A great load rolled off Jim’s heart. “Dad! You don’t mind——” “Well, a fellow doesn’t cheerfully give up his only son,” David Linton said. “But I’ve seen it coming, Jim, and, as you say, this thing is bigger than we are. I wouldn’t have you not want to go.” “Oh, thank goodness!” said Jim, and sat down and lit his pipe. “I couldn’t make up my mind to it at first,” his father went on. “One didn’t know how far things were going; and it’s hard to realise you grown up. After all, you’re only nineteen, Jim, lad, and for all that I know, you are capable of doing a man’s work, to my mind soldiering demands an extra degree of toughness, if a fellow is to be of real use. Still, as you say, much younger boys are going; I won’t ask you again to stay. Perhaps it wasn’t fair to ask you in the beginning. I was doubtful in my own mind; but I had to be sure there was real need.” “And are you satisfied now?” “Oh, yes. There isn’t any room for further doubt. Every day brings evidence of what the job is going to be—the biggest the Empire ever had to tackle. And the cry from Belgium comes home to every decent man. I’d rather go myself than send you; but as I said, I’m glad you don’t want to stay.” “Then that’s all right,” Jim said, with a mighty sigh of relief. “You don’t know what a weight it is off my mind, Dad. I’ve hated to seem a beast over it, and you know I always go by your judgment. But somehow I knew you’d have to think differently yourself. Why, great Scott! I couldn’t face you and Norah, in ten years, if I had stayed at home!” “No; and I couldn’t face you if I had been the one to keep you,” said his father. “So that is settled. But there are other things to settle as well.” “Rather!” said Jim. “I wonder, can I get into the first contingent, or if I’ll have to wait for the second.” His father paused before replying. “There is something else, altogether,” he said at length. “My own plans seem on the verge of an upheaval, just now.” “Yours? Nothing wrong, is there, Dad?” “Nothing in the main. But you know I’ve been bothered for some weeks over that business of the English property your uncle Andrew left me. There is a lot of complicated detail that would take me a week to explain—it’s all in the lawyer’s letters over there, if you’d care to go through them. (“Not me!” from Jim, hurriedly.) Some of it ought to be sold, and some apparently can’t be sold just now, and there are decisions to be made, at which it’s almost impossible for me to arrive, with letters alone to go upon. Last week’s English mail left me in a state of complete uncertainty as to what I ought to do about it.” “And has to-day’s mail straightened out matters at all?” “Well—it has,” said Mr. Linton, with a wry smile. “I can’t say it has exactly eased my mind, but at least the letters have made one thing abundantly clear, which is that the business cannot be settled from Australia. I’m needed on the spot. As far as I can see, there is no way out of it; I’ll have to go home.” “Go to England!” “Yes.” “But,” Jim was on his feet, his face radiant. “Why, you’ll be there when I’m in France—we might come home together! How ripping, Dad! When would you go?” “Very soon, I think.” Jim sat down, the flash of joy suddenly dying away. “Dad—what about Norah?” “I wish I knew,” said his father, uneasily. “I could leave her at school, of course; and she has always invitations enough for twice as many holidays as are in the year. But she won’t like it, poor little girl. It would be bad enough if only one of us were going; as it is, she will feel that the bottom has dropped out of the universe.” “I can’t see us leaving her,” Jim said. “Why not take her with you?” “Why, I don’t even know if it’s safe,” said his father, his brow knitted. “The voyage is a certain risk; and who knows what will be the conditions in England? I can’t run the child into danger.” “If Germany wins you may not be able to keep her out of it,” Jim answered. “One thing is certain—Norah would rather be in danger with you than feel that you were running risks and leaving her in safety. I think it would break her heart to be left here alone.” “I’ve been turning it backwards and forwards in my mind for a fortnight,” said the father. “I felt that the time was coming to give you a free hand: and then, on top of that, came this complication.” He laughed a little. “Life has been too easy for me, Jim: I’m not used to big decisions.” “Well, I am a beast,” said Jim, frankly. “I’ve been chewing over my own disappointment; and about the worst part of it was that I got hold of the idea that you had put it right out of your mind, and that you didn’t care. I wish I had known you were up to your eyes in worry. But you never let us suspect a thing.” “Well, I kept hoping against hope that each mail would straighten things out,” his father answered. “Until I was certain I did not want to cast any shadows on Norah’s holidays. Poor little lass; she’ll have trouble in earnest now.” “Well, Nor will face it,” Jim said, confidently. “She isn’t made of the stuff that caves in—and as far as I’m concerned, Dad, she wants me to go. She knew I’d only eat my heart out if I didn’t. But to have you go away is another matter. Don’t you think you can take her?” “If I were sure England would be safe . . .” mused Mr. Linton. “You can be very certain I don’t want to leave her.” “Well, I don’t think there’s much risk for England,” said Jim, with the cheerful optimism of youth. “And anyhow, there’s always America—you and she could slip across there if there were any real fear of invasion. My word, Dad, it would be grand to think you and Nor were so near. Just think if I got wounded, how jolly it would be to come over to you!” “I’ve thought,” said his father, drily. The jollity of the idea seemed to him slightly exaggerated. “Well, it would be heaps better than hospital. And then we’d all be together after the finish, and do London. It would be such a lark. Fancy old Norah in Piccadilly!” “Me?” asked a startled voice. Norah stood in the doorway, with Wally behind her. She had exchanged her riding-habit for a soft white frock, and her brown curls, released from their tight plait, fell softly round her face. No one would have dreamed of calling her pretty; but there was an indefinable charm in the merry face, lit by straight grey eyes. She was tall for her age; people found it difficult to believe that she was not yet sixteen, for she had left the awkward age behind her, and there was unstudied grace in the slender, alert form, with its well-shaped hands and feet. Occasionally—when she was not too busy—Norah had fleeting moments of regret, mainly on account of her men-folk, that she was not pretty. But it is doubtful if her father and brother would have cared to change a feature of the vivid face. “Did you say Piccadilly? And me?” she asked, advancing into a startled silence. “I’ve always imagined Piccadilly must be rather worse than Collins Street, and I don’t fit in there a bit. Stella Harrison says there are rather jolly motor-busses there, and you can get on top. That wouldn’t be so bad.” She perched on the arm of her father’s chair. “Why are you talking about streets, Daddy? You know you don’t like them any more than I do.” “No,” said David Linton, finding that some answer was expected of him. Something in his tone brought Norah’s eyes upon him quickly. “There’s something wrong, isn’t there?” she asked. No one spoke for a moment. Then Wally got up quietly and moved towards the door. “Don’t go, Wally, my boy,” Mr. Linton said. “You’re so much one of the family that you may as well join the family councils. No, there’s nothing exactly wrong, Norah. But there are happenings.” “Jim’s going?” said Norah, quickly. Her keen eyes saw that the new and unfamiliar shadow had lifted from her brother’s face. Jim nodded, smiling at her. “Yes, I’m going. Dad says it’s all right.” Norah drew a long breath, and Wally gave an irrepressible whistle of delight. “Lucky dog—I’m so glad!” he cried. “Oh, why can’t I be eighteen!” “There will be plenty of fighting after you are eighteen,” Mr. Linton said. “This isn’t going to be any lightning business. But that’s not all, Norah. Your old father has to pack up, too. I must go to England.” “Daddy! You!” The voice was a cry. Then Norah shut her lips tightly, and said nothing more, looking at her father. “It’s business,” he said hurriedly. “I don’t want to go, my girl. It may not take me long.” There was a long pause. “I can’t ask to go,” said Norah at last, rather breathlessly. “It’s too big a thing—not like a trip to Melbourne or Sydney. I know it would cost a fearful lot of money—and there are other things. It’s—it’s all right, Daddy, if you say so—only I want to know. Have I got to stay behind?” There was no answer. Jim was watching the set, childish face pitifully, longing to help, and powerless. Norah got up from the arm of her father’s chair at length, and turned her face away. “It’s—it’s quite all right, Daddy,” she said, unsteadily. “I understand. Don’t go worrying.” “Worrying!” said David Linton, explosively. “No, I’m not going to worry—if I can help it: and I’m not going to leave you, either. We’ll stick together, little mate.” “Daddy!” said Norah, very low. She went to him like a little child, and he put her on his knee, one arm round her, while Jim beamed on them both. “I knew you couldn’t do it,” he said laughing. “It was so altogether ridiculous to think of old Nor here alone, and you and me at the other side of the world. Things like that simply can’t occur!” “Well—there may be danger” began his father. “There would be strong danger of my losing my few wits if you did it,” Norah said. “I thought I was going to lose them a minute ago, as it was. Oh, Daddy won’t it be lovely! Think of the ship—and the queer ports—and England! It’s the most wonderful thing that ever happened. And we’ll be near Jim, and he’ll get leave and come over to see us!” “That’s another thing,” Mr. Linton said. “It’s settled that you’re to enlist, Jim; that matter is decided. But is there any particular reason why you should enlist in Australia?” “In Australia?” repeated Jim, blankly. “Why—where else?” “Well, if Norah and I are going home, why should we not all go together? You would have no difficulty in joining the Army in England, if boys of sixteen are getting commissions there.” “What?” burst from Wally. “Oh, yes—you’d be quite a veteran, judging by to-day’s news, Wally,” said Mr. Linton, laughing. “There would be no difficulty at all, I should think, Jim; I know enough people in London to pull a few strings, though even that would hardly be necessary. But if you wanted a commission I should think it could be managed. It would leave us all together a bit longer.” “That would be ripping,” Jim said, doubtfully. “I don’t know, though; I’m an Australian, and I rather think Australians ought to stick together. And I would know such a lot of the fellows in our own contingent.” “That counts, of course,” said his father. “But there’s another point; there are rumours that our men may not be sent direct to the Front. You might get hung up in Egypt, or the Persian Gulf, or Malta; I’ve heard suggestions that the Australians should even be used for garrison duty in India.” “By Jove!” said Jim. “I wouldn’t like that.” “No; and it would mean that you might never get to England at all, to join Norah and me after the show. If you’re going, I don’t want you to be shelved in some out-of-the-way corner of the earth; I’d like you to have your chance.” “Oh, Jimmy, come with us!” said Norah. “Just think how jolly it would be—not like the voyage in a horrid old troopship, where you mightn’t be allowed to see a single port. And perhaps we’d be together quite a lot in England, before you were sent to the Front.” Wally jumped up with such emphasis that his chair fell over backwards. He did not notice it. “Let’s all go!” he cried. Three pairs of eyes turned upon him for information. “If it’s really true that boys younger than I am are being taken in England, I’d have a chance, wouldn’t I, Mr. Linton?” “I suppose you would—yes, of course, my boy. You’re only a year younger than Jim, aren’t you?” “Yes—and he knows as much drill as I do, to say nothing of shooting and riding,” Jim exclaimed. “Would you come, Wal?” “I should just think I would!” Wally uttered. “But you’d have to join in England, Jim—not here.” “But your guardian—and your brothers, Wally. Would they be willing?” Mr. Linton asked. “It’s rather an undertaking to arrange off-hand. And it would mean your leaving school.” “I know it would be all right, sir,” Wally answered. “My brothers were only sorry I couldn’t get into the first contingent; and old Mr. Dimsdale never worries his head about me, except to look after the property and send me my allowance. He knows I’m to join as soon as I can. The money part of it would be all right; I don’t know much about it, but the money that’s to come to me has been accumulating since I was a kid, and there must be plenty. If you’d let me go under your wing, nobody would think of objecting.” He stopped, his brown, eager face flushing. “By Jove, you must think me awfully cool, sir. I sort of took it for granted I could go with you!” “Well, you old goat!” said Jim, disgustedly. David Linton laughed. “My dear boy, I think you’re pretty well established as one of the family,” he said. “You have been Jim’s chum for five years, and somehow we’ve come to regard Billabong as your home. I have liked to think you felt that way about it, yourself.” “It’s the only real home I ever remember,” said Wally, still greatly confused. “And you’ve all been such bricks to me. I’ve quite forgotten I’m really a sort of lost dog.” “It’s rude to say you’re a lost dog, when you belong to Billabong,” said Norah solemnly, though her eyes were dancing. “Isn’t he talking a lot of nonsense, Dad?—and this is much too exciting an evening to waste any time. I wish someone would sort me out, for I’m all mixed-up in my mind. We’re going to England, you and I, Dad.” “And me,” said Wally, cheerfully disregarding grammar. “And me, I suppose,” Jim followed. “If you think I’ve as good a chance there, Dad?” “Better, I should think—judging from the rush of men here,” said his father. “Then we’re all going,” finished Norah blissfully. “In a ’normously large ship, Dad?” “Most certainly,” said David Linton, hastily. “I came out forty years ago in a five-hundred tonner, and I’ve no desire to repeat the experience. We’re built on lines that demand space, we Lintons.” “And when we get to London?” “We’ll settle down somewhere—where we can be near the boys until they are sent out to the Front, and I can attend to business.” “And then——?” “We’ll wander about a bit until they come back to us. If it’s likely to be long, you’ll have to resume your neglected education, young woman,” said her father severely. “M’f!” said Norah, wrinkling her nose. “How unpleasant!—that’s the first dismal thing you’ve said, Daddy. But I suppose one has to take the powder with the jam. And after the war——?” “Oh, after the war——” said David Linton; and fell silent, looking at his son. “After the war,” said Wally, happily, “we’ll all meet in London, and see the Kaiser led in triumph down Piccadilly. My own preference leads me to hope that it will be on a donkey with his face towards the tail of the ass, but I’m sadly afraid the world has grown too civilised.” “Well, you can’t call him and his crowd civilised, anyhow,” Jim said. “No. But we’ll have to be, I suppose, to show how nicely we were brought up. Anyhow, after that we’ll explore all the things we’ve always wanted to see—London, and Stonehenge, and the Dublin Horse Show, and Killarney, and David Balfour’s country, and heathery moors, and the Derby, and punts on the Thames, and the Dartmoor ponies, and——” Wally’s extraordinary mixture left him breathless, but the others took up the tale. “And English lanes——” “And ruins—truly ruins——!” “And old castles——” “And woods and hedges——” “And real hunting country——” “And real hunts——!” “And trout-streams——” “And Irish loughs——” “And then,” said Norah, as the dinner-gong clashed out its summons,—“then——” “If we’ve any money left!” put in her father. “Or even if we haven’t,” said Norah, and smiled at him—“we’ll go back to Billabong!” | ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
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