  Stories by MARY GRANT BRUCE Large Crown 8vo. Fully Illustrated. Cloth Gilt. POSSUM Mrs. Bruce writes with a freedom and grace which must win hosts of readers, and there is a lovableness about her Australian youths and maidens which makes one never tired of their healthy and sociable views of life. JIM AND WALLY “There can be no doubt about the success of Miss Bruce . . . real pathos which gets hold of the reader, and her effects are obtained in a real natural way that makes them all the more telling. She evidently knows the up-country life . . . she grips the attention from start to finish.”—Melbourne Argus. A LITTLE BUSH MAID “It is a real pleasure to recommend this story to Australian readers.”—Perth Western Mail. MATES AT BILLABONG “The incidents of station life, its humours, festivities, and mishaps, are admirably sketched in this vivid narrative.”—Adelaide Register. TIMOTHY IN BUSHLAND “The writer understands all about the wonders of the Australian bush, its wild horses, kangaroos, wombats, and infinitely various natural life.”—Daily Telegraph. GLEN EYRE “An admirable story, exquisitely told, full of gentle pathos, and ringing true all through.”—The Sportsman. NORAH OF BILLABONG “The story is written in a refreshing and lovable manner, which makes instant appeal.”—Manchester Courier. GRAY’S HOLLOW “A story always healthy and enjoyable in its sympathetic delineation of unsophisticated nature.”—The Scotsman. FROM BILLABONG TO LONDON “The story has many more incidents than Mrs. Bruce’s earlier books, and though her style is quiet and matter-of-fact, she does succeed in infusing reality into her exciting episodes.”—The Melbourne Argus. NORAH OF BILLABONG
By MARY GRANT BRUCE
Author of “A Little Bush Maid,” “Mates at Billabong,” “Glen Eyre,” “Timothy in Bushland,” etc.
ILLUSTRATED BY J. MACFARLANE
WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED LONDON, MELBOURNE AND TORONTO To All the Kind People —Little and Big— Who asked me for “More Norah.”
M. G. B. CONTENTS
NORAH OF BILLABONG CHAPTER IBREAKING UPWhen Sheelah in the morning Comes down the way, It needs no more adorning To make it gay. —Victor J. Daley. A VERY tall boy came up the gravel path of Beresford House. It was “breaking up” day, and an unwonted air of festivity and smartness was evident, even to the eye of a stranger. The garden looked as though no leaf had ever been out of place, no sacrilegious footmark ever imprinted on the soft mould of its beds, where masses of flowers still bade defiance to the heat of an Australian December. The paths were newly raked; the freshly mown lawns were carpets of emerald, soft underfoot and smooth as bowling greens. Aloft, on the square grey tower, fluttered the school flag—a blue banner, with a device laboriously woven by the fingers of the sewing class, and indirectly responsible for many impositions, since it was beyond the power of the sewing class to work with its several heads so close together as the task demanded, and yet refrain from talking. It was a banner of great magnificence, and the school was justly proud of it. Only the sewing class regarded it with what might be termed a mingled eye. It was early afternoon—too early for guests to be seriously thinking of arriving. A couple of motors were drawn up in the shade of a big Moreton Bay fig; but they belonged to parents who lived at a distance, and had come earlier in the day, to talk solemnly to the head mistress, and then to whisk emancipated daughters away to an hotel for lunch—which necessitated a speedy whisking back, so that the daughters might be apparelled in white, in readiness for the afternoon’s ceremonials. In the garden, little groups of girls might be seen already clad in festive raiment and walking with a seemliness that in itself showed that this day was different from all other days. They turned interested glances upon the newcomer, who, resenting the gaze deeply, stalked on up the path, his straw hat tilted over his brown face. Girls in general had not come much in his way. It was distinctly embarrassing to run the gauntlet of so many frankly curious eyes. “There’s some, one’s brother,” said a red-haired damsel, surveying the stranger across a bush of New Zealand flax. “Yours, Laura?” “Mine?” said Laura, regretfully. “Not much—mine is fat. He’s a dear, of course, but his figure’s something awful! I’d be frightfully proud if he looked like that!” “I wonder who he belongs to,” said the red-haired girl, with a cheerful lack of grammar. “Doesn’t he look miserable—he knows we’re talking about him!” She giggled with wicked enjoyment. The giggle turned to a whistle. “Gracious! Just look at young Norah Linton!” Two younger girls, with arms linked and heads close together, had come into view in a distant corner of the garden, walking decorously, as befitted their white dresses. It was the taller of the two, a brown-faced girl of fifteen, with dark curls and extremely long slim legs, who had caught sight of the boy walking towards the house, and had promptly acted as though electrified. She relinquished her companion’s arms, uttered an incoherent exclamation, and dashed wildly across the lawn, taking the flower bed that bordered it with a flying leap. The sound of the racing feet made the boy swing round quickly. Then a smile broadened on his face, and his eyes twinkled. They pumped each other’s hands enthusiastically. “Oh, Wally!” said Norah, breathlessly. “Oh, you old brick!” Wally Meadows laughed outright. “You don’t know what a blue funk I’ve been in,” he said. “This is a horribly scary place to come to alone—and I’ve been picturing you made as prim and proper as all these girls seem to be. But you’re not!” “Indeed, I’m not,” Norah answered. “And no more are they!” “Aren’t they, really?” asked Wally, much interested. “Well, they look it; there’s a girl over there with red hair who looks nearly too good to be true”—wherein Mr. Meadows showed as much penetration as is usually given to man. “You don’t mean to say that they’re all accustomed to getting across a flower bed in your fashion, Norah?” “Oh, I’ll get into a dreadful row if Miss Winter happened to see me, I expect!” Norah said. “It’s against the rules, of course—but I had to run or to yell, or I’d have missed you—and it’s riskier to yell. Oh, Wally, I am glad to see you!” “So am I,” said Wally, heartily—“to see you, I mean. You’ve grown immense, too, Norah.” “Yes, haven’t I? All my frocks are too short, and I know Dad will say I’ve put my feet too far through them. Oh, Wally, have you seen Dad—and Jim?” “Saw them yesterday. They ought to be here pretty soon—but my brother motored me down, so I didn’t come with them. Norah—there’s a girl looking at me, and if you don’t take her away I shall scream!” “Why, that’s Jean Yorke,” said Norah, wheeling. “She’s my chum, and you’ve got to be extra nice to her, ’cause she is coming home with me for the holidays.” “Then she deserves any one’s kind sympathy,” said Wally, solemnly. He advanced upon Jean with outstretched hand and a smile that went far to put that somewhat shy individual at her ease, while Norah murmured a haphazard introduction. Jean was a short and rather thickset person, with blue eyes and a freckled nose, and a square, honest face. Neither chum could have been regarded as pretty. They were wholesome-looking girls—alike in the trim neatness that is characteristic of the Australian schoolgirl; and alike also in the quality of sturdy honesty that looked straight at the world from blue eyes and grey. Jean was fair, her thick masses of hair gathered in more tightly than Norah’s curly brown mop ever permitted—whereat Norah was frankly envious. She was also wont to be apologetic, because, although a year the younger, she towered over Jean by half a head. The unfulfilled ambition of Jean’s dreams was to be tall and slender, and Norah bore a lasting grudge against Fate for denying so moderate a longing on her friend’s part. She watched her anxiously for signs of growth, and at frequent intervals measured her height, while tactfully ignoring what she herself would have called her girth. Across the introduction came a cold voice. “Your brother, I presume, Norah?” Both girls jumped. “No—only it’s all the same, Miss Winter,” Norah explained, lucidly. “It’s Wally Meadows—my brother’s chum.” At which Wally removed his hat and said: “How do you do?” with such fervour that it seemed that his peace of mind hung upon Miss Winter’s answer. That severe person’s coldness was a trifle modified as she answered, but it was Arctic again when she turned back to Norah. “I saw you crossing the grass—and the flower bed!” she remarked. “Such conduct is inexcusable, Norah—I am amazed at you. The garden is not the hockey field, nor is the arrival of any friend to be the signal for such conduct!” Norah was scarlet. “I’m awfully—I mean I am very—sorry, truly, Miss Winter!” she said. “I forgot all about everything when I saw Wally. You see, he’s nearly the same as Jim, and I hadn’t seen him for ten months! I won’t do it again. And Jean never did it at all!” “I could see that for myself,” said Miss Winter, drily—whereat Jean became even more scarlet than Norah. “However, it is too late in the term for impositions—which is fortunate for you!” There came into the culprit’s eye an irrepressible twinkle, and the teacher relaxed a little. “Ah, well—it’s nearly holiday time,” she said, smiling. “But, Norah, dear—do remember that you are over fifteen!” “I will, Miss Winter—I truly will,” said the criminal. “I’ll behave beautifully—see if I don’t!——” The iron gate clanged, and she glanced round with the quick instinctiveness that never leaves the bush-bred. A tall man and a lad almost as tall came into view, and at sight of them Norah’s “behaviour” suddenly fell away from her, and with a little cry that was half a sob, she fled to meet them. The gravel scattered under her trim-shod feet; her long legs twinkled with amazing swiftness. Then the big man put out his arms to her, and she flung herself into them. “Oh, Daddy—Daddy!” said Norah. “Oh, Jim! Oh-h!” Words failed her. “My girl!” said David Linton. Over her head he looked at the teacher, and found that she was human. He smiled at her in friendly fashion. “We try to teach Norah deportment,” she said, greeting him, and laughing, while big Jim hugged his sister frankly, totally unabashed by the amused glances from various parts of the garden. “But I am afraid the effect isn’t very evident on breaking up day!” “I’m quite certain we’re demoralizing influences,” he told her. “But what can you expect, from the Back of Beyond? We’ll try to make her remember the deportment when we get her back to the station, Miss Winter. At present, you must make allowances.” Miss Winter thawed amazingly under the influence of the quiet voice, deep and courteous, and the Linton smile, which was a wonderfully pleasant one. It was very frequent upon the face of her pupil, and had at all times a tendency to upset discipline; and now the same smile appeared, if more rarely, on the bronzed giants, father and son, who confronted her upon the path. They were very alike—over six feet—Mr. Linton had yet a couple of inches to the good, but Jim was overhauling him fast—lean and broad-shouldered, with the same well-cut features and keen eyes. Norah said that they had absorbed the good looks of the family, leaving her none; which was partly true, although the remark would have moved her father and brother to wrath. In their grey suits and Panama hats, they were excellent specimens of long-limbed Australia, and Norah gazed at them as though she could not take away the eyes that had been hungry for so many long months. It was evident that neither Jim nor his father found it easy to talk polite nothings to Miss Winter. Their eyes kept straying to the slim figure that was the main thing in their world—Norah, who jigged irrepressibly on one foot and broke into sudden smiles, and forgot altogether the discipline and deportment that had been instilled into her during three terms at Beresford House. To put her there at all had been a proceeding much like caging a bush bird, for, until she was fourteen, Norah had known only home and its teachings. And home was Billabong Station, where, apart from lessons that had been a little patchy, she had lived her father’s life—a life of open-air, of horses and cattle, and all the station interests. Jim had been sent to the Grammar School in Melbourne comparatively early, and Norah’s city relatives, particularly a number of assorted aunts, were wont to deplore that the little girl had not had the same opportunity of polish. But the bond between David Linton and his motherless child had been too strong to break, and the silent man had snatched at every pretext for delaying the pang of parting. After all, as he told himself, half in excuse, Norah was no discredit to home teaching. In books she might be below the average; but of the unvoiced learning that lies beyond the world of books she had, perhaps, rather more than falls to the ordinary schoolgirl. A big station is a little world in itself, and the Bush teaching makes for self-control and self-reliance, and a simple, straight outlook on the world that is not a bad foundation of character. Lessons in deportment and manners are not part of its curriculum: but there are a good many ideas in thought and practice that it cultivates half unconsciously. Norah had an almost superstitious regard for doing what Jim termed “the decent thing.” Moreover, her father had given her an ideal to follow. The mother who had gone away from them so soon had never been far from his thoughts or his slow speech: and “Brownie,” the old woman who had taken the little dark-haired baby from her weak arms, had helped to make the picture of “Mother” that was so real that Norah had always known and loved it. Vaguely she knew that there was a lack in her father’s life which she must try to fill. It had tended to make her gentle—to bring out something that was almost protective in her nature. There is a trace of motherliness in every girl-heart; Norah always felt that, while Dad and Jim were very large and strong and dependable, yet it rested with her to “look after them.” Had she put her thoughts into words it is quite likely that the objects of her care might have felt a shade of amusement; but as she did not, they appreciated her attentions mightily. To them, the heart of Billabong had dropped out when Norah went away to school. And school had been something of a trial. Norah’s bringing-up had been along lines where rules of conduct are understood rather than expressed; although she was a well-behaved damsel, in her own setting, it had not been easy to find herself suddenly hedged in to such an extent that she lived and breathed and ate and slept by regulation and timetable. She realized that it was necessary to conform; but practice was a harder matter, and the time at school had seen many “scrapes” and many impositions. Common sense and good temper helped her through, and the appearance of Jean Yorke upon a somewhat lonely horizon had helped in a different way. But only Norah herself knew just how bad had been the homesickness and the silent longing for her own old life. She knew that Dad and Jim would be hurt by knowing, therefore she kept these matters to herself, and diligently cultivated Jim’s prescription of “a stiff upper lip.” Now it was over. There would be other years; but no year could ever be quite like the first, especially since there was now Jean to help—Jean being a comprehending person, whose heart had gone out to Norah since the day of her arrival at Beresford House, three months ago. Jean came from New Zealand, and she, too, was lonely, with the desperate loneliness born of the fact that she would not see home or the home people for two years. When Norah contemplated Jean’s woeful plight she was ashamed to admit that she had been homesick on her own account. So they “twin-souled” immediately, and made life very much easier for each other. How this last week had crawled! Each night Norah had crossed out the finished day upon her calendar with thick, red strokes that were some relief to her pent-up feelings; always doing it just at the last moment before turning out the light and jumping into bed, so that she might have the friendly darkness to cover her as she buried her face in the pillow, wriggling, with sheer physical inability to keep still as she realized how near were home and Dad and Jim. Near—but how slow the days! Examinations and matches were over, and the work of the school slackening. She flung herself headlong into games and “break up” preparations to make the slow hours pass, dividing each day into hours and half hours—she even reduced them to minutes, but the sum total looked too enormous! Her school work was characteristic of her turmoil of mind. Once she rattled over the provisions of Magna Charta for the Latin master with a fluency that paralyzed the unfortunate man, who had merely asked her to decline an inoffensive noun; while Miss Winter gave her up as hopeless on being informed that Thomas a’Becket Archbishop of Canterbury, lost his life by drowning in a butt of malmsey! Norah saw nothing incongruous in the prelate’s alleged death, and spent much of the hour’s detention that followed in drawing a spirited picture of it—representing a large barrel, from the yawning mouth of which protruded two corpulent legs, clad in gaiters, and immaculately shod. The charm of the picture was in the portion of it that was not visible. It was unfortunate that it fell into the hands of Miss Winter, who was handicapped by a literal mind. Altogether, the last week had been more or less exciting and painful, and it was quite as well that it was over. The great bell of the school rang out sharply, and a kind of white flicker came over the garden as the girls moved quickly in answer. It was the signal to assemble in hall. Norah exchanged looks of longing with Jim and Wally. Then she and Jean moved off towards the house, endeavouring to calm spasmodic footsteps. A little later saw the three visitors making a gallant attempt to dispose their long legs among the crowded rows of chairs reserved for parents and “belongings,” while the boys sent rapid telegraphic signals to Norah, by this time a mere speck amid the white-clad girls massed upon the platform. The big hall was packed with visitors—proud parents, each supremely confident that “our girl” was something quite beyond the average; big sisters, anxious to create the impression of being far removed from matters so juvenile as school; brothers, wearing the colours of different schools, and assuming great boredom. Then came Miss Winter, followed by church dignitaries and other notable people, including two members of Parliament, who behaved as though engrossed with affairs of State; whereat the infant classes arose and sang a roundelay with much gusto, and the business of the day began. The Billabong contingent was not happy. It was uncomfortably crowded; its view was obstructed by immense erections of millinery on the heads of ladies immediately in front; frequently it was tickled on the back of the neck by similar erections belonging to ladies who leaned forward, from the rear, manoeuvring for a better vision of the proceedings. It was much embarrassed by the French play, acted by the senior class—the embarrassment being chiefly due to fear of laughing in the wrong place. Nor did lengthy recitations from Shakespeare appeal to it greatly, or a song by the red-haired girl, the said song being of the type known as an “aria,” and ungallantly condemned by Jim as “screamy enough to scare cockatoos with!” It brightened at a physical culture display, and applauded vigorously when a curly-haired mite essayed a recitation, broke down in the middle, and finished, not knowing whether or not to cry, until much cheered by the friendly clapping. The moment of the programme—for Billabong—came when Norah, very pale and unhappy, played a Chopin nocturne. Wally joined wildly in the succeeding applause, but Jim and his father sat up straight, endeavouring to appear unconcerned, but radiating pride. Norah did not dare to look at them until she was safely back in her place. Then she shot a glance at the two tall heads; and what she saw in their faces suddenly sent the blood leaping to her own. Afterwards came the distribution of prizes—a matter which did not greatly concern Norah, whose scholastic achievements could scarcely be classed as other than ordinary. However, she had carried off the music prize in her class—music being born within her, and, even in lessons, only a joy. She was still flushed with excitement when the long ceremony was at an end, and she was able to slip from the platform and find her way to the waiting trio—standing tall and stiff against the wall, while the crowd seethed in the body of the hall, and other book-laden daughters were reunited to parents as proud as David Linton. “I’ll look after that,” Jim said, with a masterful little gesture, possessing himself of Norah’s prize. “Well done, old chap!” He patted her head with brotherly emphasis. “Proud to know you, ma’am,” said Wally, humbly. “Norah, I was nearly asleep until you came on to play!” “And quite asleep afterwards,” grinned Jim. “Snored, Norah—I give you my word!” “That’s one I owe you!” said the maligned Mr. Meadows, vengefully. “I clapped until my horny hands were sore, Norah. Made a hideous noise!” “Then there were two of us,” said Norah, laughing. “I never knew old Chopin sound so funny—catch me playing before a lot of people again! I was scared to look at old Herr Wendt. Probably he pulled out most of his remaining locks—I know I made at least three mistakes.” “It sounded all right,” said her father, and smiled at her. “Now, young woman, this is very nice, but one can have enough of it.” A wheat-trimmed hat brushed across his face, and he emerged in some confusion. “How soon will you two girls be ready?” “Must we change?” “I sincerely trust not,” said Mr. Linton, appalled at the thought of awaiting two feminine toilettes of a greater magnificence than was familiar to him with his daughter. “Not if you have big coats—I’ve a motor outside. Your heavy luggage has gone, I believe.” “Yes, it went by carrier,” said Norah, happily. “All right, Daddy, we’ll be back in five minutes. Come on, Jean!” They disappeared, to re-emerge presently, muffled in heavy blue coats and wearing sailor hats. Farewells hurtled through the air. “Good-bye, Miss Winter. Merry Christmas!” “Good-bye, Carrots, dear!” This to the red-haired singer, who accepted the greeting and the appellation cheerfully. “Good-bye, young Norah. Behave yourself, if you can. But you can’t!” “Good-bye, Jean!” “Good-bye, every one. Mind you all come back!” “Good-bye!” “Merry Christmas!” “Good-bye, school!” The note of utter thankfulness in Norah’s voice brought a twinkle to Jim’s eyes. The motor chug-chugged on the path. Norah did not like motors—horses were infinitely better, in her opinion. But this one seemed a chariot of joy. They bundled in, pell-mell. “Are you all right?” queried Mr. Linton. “I never was so all right in my life!” said Norah, fervently. The car slid away into the dusty haze of the white road. CHAPTER IINIGHT IN THE CITYOh, the world is wondrous fair When the tide of life’s at flood! There is music in the air, There is music in the blood. And a glamour draws us on, To the distance, rainbow-spanned. And the road we tread upon Is the track to Fairyland. —V. J. Daley. JEAN, can you button me up?” “Half a minute till I get this ribbon tied,” said the lady addressed, wrestling urgently with an obstinate bow. “There—that’s got to do! Turn round, old girl—I can’t see. There you are.” “Thanks,” said Norah, shaking out her skirt. “Is my hair decent?” “Yes, it’s all right. Curly-haired people like you always look right.” “Wish I thought so,” said the owner of the curls. “Dreadful mop, I think. Will I do, Jean?” “Do?” said Jean, in some bewilderment. “Why, of course—you look all right. Why are you worrying?” Norah reddened slightly. “Well—I never had dinner in a big hotel like this before,” she said. “Melbourne hotels are a bit different to the Cunjee one, I guess. And I don’t want Dad and Jim to be ashamed of me.” “I don’t think you need bother your head,” said the more travelled Jean. “You look nice, truly. And I shouldn’t think your father and Jim were very hard to please.” “Oh, they never would say anything. But they might think—and be disappointed if I weren’t all right. You see, it never seemed to matter when I was only at Billabong. But after all this time at school they’ll naturally expect me to be different.” “And do you think you are?” queried Jean, anxiously. “I don’t think I am, a bit!” Norah answered. “That’s what’s worrying me. It won’t bother me when I get home, I expect, but this big place seems different.” She glanced round the hotel bedroom with a quaint air of anxiety. “I feel just exactly the same as if I’d never been at school at all.” “Well, I believe that’s how your father’ll like you,” said Jean, sapiently. “And——” Norah flushed more redly, and paused. “What?” “Will dinner be—difficult? You know I haven’t been anywhere like this,” said poor Norah. “Will there be lots of knives and forks and glasses I don’t know anything about? I don’t want to make an ass of myself, you know!” Jean nodded comprehendingly. “Don’t you worry,” she said. “It’s all quite easy. I stayed here with father when he brought me over from Christchurch, you know. He helped me a bit over ordering when the waiter came round—the menu is rather mixed until you get used to it. You tell your father to do the same. And I really won’t know a bit more than you, so if we make mistakes we’ll make them together, and it won’t matter!” “You’re a dear,” said Norah, gratefully. “I say, would you mind if I go and find Dad now, and have a little talk to him? His room is quite near.” “Of course I won’t,” said her friend. “Hurry up—it’s nearly dinner time.” “I’ll come back for you,” Norah called, disappearing into the corridor. She hesitated a moment in the unfamiliar place—all the doors looked so exactly alike. Then from behind one came a line of a song, in Jim’s deep voice, and Wally joined in:— “So we went strolling, down by the rolling— Down by the rolling sea!” It made the corridor seem suddenly homelike, and Norah broke into smiles. Beyond, her father’s number caught her eye, and she tapped at the door. “May I come in, Daddy?” “Certainly you may!” said David Linton, with somewhat startling emphasis, mingled with relief. “And tie this blessed evening tie!” He submitted meekly to his daughter’s ministrations. “Ridiculous!—I’m far too old to get into these clothes!” “You look beautiful,” said his daughter, fervently. “Daddy, will I do?” “Do? I should say so. That white thing looks very fine as far as I’m a judge.” “Then that’s all right. And, Dad——” “Yes, my girl?” “I’m awfully scared of dinner!” Norah confessed. “Will you keep fierce waiters off me, Daddy? And tell me what to say I’ll have?” David Linton looked at her and smiled with something like relief. He sat down and drew her towards him. “Do you know,” he said, “you’ve looked so fine a young lady to-day that I almost feared I’d lost my little Bush mate. I suppose it’s the clothes!” “Daddy!” “But I fancy I haven’t,” said her father twinkling. “Don’t bother your little head about dinner—we’ll see you through. I don’t quite know how I’d have liked it if you had been self-possessed about it.” “Self-possessed!” uttered Norah. “Why, I’m scared to my bones! And as for the clothes—if you’ll wait until to-morrow and let me get into a linen collar again——!” “I’ll know you thoroughly when I have you back at Billabong in your riding habit,” said her father. “But these clothes are nice, too. I’m not quarrelling with them. You’re not sorry to come back to your old Dad?” He paused, watching her. “Sorry!” said Norah. “Sorry!” And then her tongue suddenly refused to do its duty. She put her head down on his shoulder, and drew a deep breath. His arms tightened round her. They were silent for a minute. “Jim is a good mate,” said David Linton, “none better. But my little mate’s place has always been empty. It’s been a long time, my girl.” “Long—to you, Daddy?” “One of the longest I remember. You see, I never bargained for your spending midwinter having measles.” “Neither did I,” said Norah, ruefully. The memory of that inconsiderate ailment was still a sore thing; at the time it had been almost too sore to be borne. “It seems just ages since I saw home. Is it just the same, Dad?” “I don’t think there’s any difference. Everyone has been busy putting on a bit of extra polish for the last week; and Brownie says she’s half a stone lighter—but she doesn’t look it; and there’s a new inmate in the little paddock near the house calling for your immediate inspection!” “A new inmate?” Norah echoed. Jim had come in, unnoticed. He grinned down at her from the hearthrug. “A rather swagger inmate,” he said, nodding. “Seeing how out of form you must be, I don’t think it will be wise to let you try him—we’ll put you up on an old stock horse for a week or so!” “Will you, indeed?” said Norah, with some heat, yet laughing. “You’re going to lend me Garryowen—you said so!” “Garryowen!” said the owner of that proud steed mournfully. “Poor old Garryowen’s tail will be hopelessly out of joint. One thing, I’ll be able to ride him myself—being of a meek disposition!” His eyes twinkled. Two red spots suddenly flamed into Norah’s face. “Dad! You don’t mean——” She stopped, looking at him uncertainly. “There’s something of a pony there,” said Mr. Linton, his keen eyes watching her through his smile. “An ownerless one—wi’ a long pedigree! I looked eight months before I found him. His name’s Bosun, Norah, and he wants an owner.” There was a mist before Norah’s eyes. She tried to speak, but her head went down again upon the broad shoulder near her. A muffled word escaped her, which sounded like, “Bricks!” Norah was least eloquent when most moved. Jim patted her shoulder hard, and said, “Buck up, old chap!” being also a person of few words. For there had been another pony of Norah’s—a most dear pony, who now slept very quietly under a cairn of stones on a rough hillside. Not one of those three, who were mates, could forget. From the corridor Wally’s voice came, gently consolatory. “I think they’ve all been kidnapped,” he was explaining. “Many a little hungry kidnapper would think Jim quite a treat! You and I seem left alone in this pathless forest, and probably the birds will find us, and cover us with leaves. Don’t let it worry you—I believe the leaves are quite comfortable!” “Come in, Wally, you ass!” said Jim, laughing. “He may come in, Dad——?” “Apparently he’s in,” said Mr. Linton, resignedly, getting up. “Come on, Wally—and Jean, too.” “We’ve been lost—at least, we were until we found each other,” said Wally. “We came to the conclusion that none of you Billabong people were left in this little inn. Jean would probably have cried if I hadn’t been crying—as it was, she felt she couldn’t, which was very rough on her. Mr. Linton, do I know you well enough——” “For most things,” said the squatter, laughing! “——To mention that I am hungry?” finished Wally, unmoved. “My last nourishment was at twelve o’clock, and it’s nearly seven now; and theatres in this benighted district begin before eight when they’re pantomimes!” Mr. Linton uttered an exclamation. “I declare, I’d forgotten all about either dinner or pantomime!” he said. “Thank you, Wally—I’m obliged to you. Where’s my coat? I hope all the rest of you are ready.” “Are we going to the pantomime, Dad?” Norah’s eyes were dancing. “Jim says so,” said her father, laughing. “I’m in his hands.” He caught up his coat, while Jean and Norah hugged each other in silent ecstasy. “Now, hurry up, all of you!” Downstairs, the big dining-room brought back Norah’s shyness anew. She felt suddenly very young—infinitely younger than Jim and Wally, tall and immaculate in their evening clothes, although, as a rule, they seemed no older than herself. She kept close to her father’s wing, greatly envying Jean’s apparent calm. The huge room was crowded. It was full of tables of varying sizes, not one of which seemed unoccupied—until a waiter, catching Mr. Linton’s eye, hurried up and led them to a corner, where a round table was reserved for them. It commanded an excellent view of the room, and the sight was a little bewildering to the two schoolgirls. Every one seemed in evening dress—and even Norah knew she had seen no dresses like those the women wore—rich, clinging things, in soft and delicate colours like the inner side of flower petals. The masses of electric light took up the leaping light of jewels on their necks and in their hair; all up and down the room the eye caught the many-coloured gleam, twinkling and sparkling like rainbow stars. Everywhere was laughter and chatter and the chink of plates and glasses; and somewhere, unseen, a string band was playing softly a waltz tune with a lilt in it like a bird’s note. Norah forgot all about being nervous. Indeed, she remembered nothing, being deeply occupied with gazing, until she found a deft waiter putting soup before her. “That’s my order,” said her father, and smiled. “You and Jean have had an exciting day, and you’re to eat just what I tell you.” By these wily means any difficulties the menu might have suggested disappeared. Moreover, the waiter was a man of tact, and seemed to regard it as only ordinary if his clients kept him waiting while they put their heads together over the merits of various items with very fine French names. “Experience in these things is everything,” said Jim, surveying a peculiar substance on his plate. “I ordered something that read like a poem, and it turns out a sort of half-bred hash! Thanks, I’ll have beef!” So they all had beef, and finished up rather hurriedly with jelly, which, as Wally said, could be demolished quickly; for the hands of the clock were slipping round, and a pantomime was not a thing to be kept waiting—especially as there was no likelihood that it would wait!—a reflection that made the situation far more serious. Jim raced up for coats for the girls, and they all hastened out. In the street the lights of Melbourne lit the sky. Far as the eye could reach the yellow glow shone against the star-gemmed blackness. Here and there a point of special brilliance twinkled—it was hard to tell whether it was a tall arc light reaching up into the very heavens, or a lonely star that had leaned down towards the friendly earth. Up and down the Bourke Street hills the lamps formed a linked chain of diamonds on either side, while in their midst the low gliding tram-lights were rubies and sapphires. The big head-lights of motors made gleaming flashes as they turned, or shot straight up the wide street, twin eyes of a dazzling radiance—so bright that when they flashed past darkness seemed to fall doubly dark behind them. And there were creeping bicycle lights, and streaks of white fire, that were the lamps of motor cycles; and red and white lights that went by in silent rubber-tyred hansoms, noiseless save for the jingling bit and the “klop-klop” of the horse’s hoofs upon the wooden blocks. Advertisement signs in huge electric letters flickered into sight and disappeared again—one moment dazzling, the next velvet black; and over picture theatres and other places of amusement were gleaming signs of fire. And up from the city below came the deep hum of the people that only ceases for a little when the lights go out—that wakes again even before the pencils of Dawn come to streak the eastern sky. Then a tram came by, took them on board, and in a moment they were slipping down the hill towards a busy intersection where the post office stood, a mighty block of buildings, with its tall clock just chiming the quarter-hour above them. On again, through the wide, busy street, full of hurrying theatre crowds. Barefooted newsboys ran beside the car whenever it stopped, calling out harrowing details from the evening papers. They passed cabs, climbing the further hill; and swift motors slipped by them—in each Norah and Jean caught glimpses of women in evening dress, with scarfs like trails of coloured mist. Everywhere the shop windows were brilliantly lighted, although it was long after closing time; and scores of people were staring through the glass at the gorgeous displays within. Norah gasped at it all. It was her first experience of the City by night, and she found it rather bewildering. “Does Melbourne ever stop being busy?” she uttered. Mr. Linton laughed. “Not often,” he said—“and not for long. Personally, I prefer old Billabong. But this is all very well for a little while.” The car stopped at a point where an electric theatre sign blazed right across the footpath; and they hurried down a side-street. A string of motors and cabs had drawn up by the kerb and passengers were hastily disembarking before a glittering theatre, with uniformed commissionaires holding the doors open. Norah and Jean had no time to look about them; they were hurried up a wide flight of marble stairs, and in a moment were following Mr. Linton into darkness, for already the lights had been turned off in the theatre, and only a dun green ray filtered from the stage, where an old man of the sea was engaged in making unpleasant remarks to a fairy. The orchestra was playing softly—weird music which, Wally whispered, gave you chills up the backbone. They stumbled down some steps to seats in the front row, and as they thankfully subsided into them, the green sea-caves and the fierce old man suddenly vanished in a whirl of light and a blare of joyful music; and Norah was whisked straight into fairyland. In these advanced days of ours, pantomimes come very early into the scheme of our existence. Most of us have seen one by the time we are six; at nine we have become critical, and at twelve, bored. After that, the pantomime may consider itself lucky if we do not term it a “pretty rotten show.” This painful phase lasts until we are quite old—perhaps eight and twenty. Then we begin to see fresh joys in it, and if we are lucky, to work up quite a comforting degree of enthusiasm. At this stage the companion we like to select must not number more years than six. Then we feel sure of a comprehending fellow-spectator—one who will not wither us with a bland stare when we are consumed with helpless laughter at Harlequin, or rent with anxiety by the perils of the “principal boy.” But it happened that none of our party had ever been spoilt by over-much pantomime. It was, indeed, Norah’s first experience of a theatre. Jean had seen but little more, and Jim and Wally, big fellows as they were, had worked and played far too hard at school to be much concerned with going out. None of them was at all brilliant; theirs were the cheerful, simple hearts that take work and pleasure as they come, and do not trouble to develop either the critical or the grumbling faculty—which are, in truth, closely related. If the boys had not the ecstatic anticipation that seethed in Jean and Norah, at least they were prepared to enjoy themselves very solidly. To Norah, it was all absolutely real, and therefore wonderful past belief. The evening to her was, as she remarked afterwards, “one gasp.” The hero puzzled her, since it was evident that he was not a “truly” boy; but the heroine claimed her heart from the first, and the funny men were droll beyond compare. Indeed, from Mr. Linton downwards, the Billabong party succumbed to the funny men, and laughed until they ached at their antics. The fairies were certainly a trifle buxom, compared to the sprites of Norah’s dreams; but the Old Man of the Sea was fascinatingly life-like and evil, and caused delightful thrills of horror to run up and down one’s spine. And then, the gorgeousness of the whole—the flower and bird ballets, the mysterious dances, the marches, splendid and stately, the glitter and colour and light! And through all, over all, the music!—swaying, rippling; low and soft one moment, with the violins wailing and the harp strings plucked in a chord of poignant sweetness—the next, swelling out triumphantly, wind instruments in a blare of vivid sound, and drums and cymbals clashing wild and stately measures. Afterwards the wonder of the night merged in Norah’s brain to a kind of kaleidoscopic picture, swiftly changing in colour and magnificence; but always clear was the memory of the orchestra, weaving magic spells of music that caught her heart in their meshes. She was a little breathless when the curtain fell on the first act, and the lights flashed out over the body of the theatre. Instinctively her hand sought her father’s. “Is it all over, Dad?” “Not much!” said Mr. Linton. “This is half-time. What do you think of it?” “Oh—it’s lovely!” breathed his daughter. “Isn’t it, Jean?” “I should just think so!” Jean said. “Will there be more like it?” “Very much the same, I expect,” said the squatter, laughing. “And what do you think of this part of the house?” It was not the least interesting part. The closing of the city schools had set free hosts of pilgrims on the ways of knowledge, debarred, as a rule, by stern necessity from such relaxations as pantomimes. Now it seemed that parents in general had risen to a sense of their duty, for it was clearly a “young” night. There were girls and boys in every part of the theatre—in big parties, in twos and threes, or even singly, accompanied by a cheery father and mother, in many cases keener to enjoy than their charges. Everywhere were fresh young faces—girls with bright hair and glowing cheeks, and sunburnt boys with shining collars: and everywhere was a babel and buzz of talk and laughter as the young voices broke loose. A procession—chiefly men—left their seats and filed out; a proceeding which puzzled and pained Norah, who was heard to regret audibly that they were making the mistake of thinking the theatre was over. Wally laid a big box of chocolates on her knee, remarking that she looked hungry—an insult received by the maligned one with fitting scorn. At the moment Norah could scarcely have noticed the difference between chocolates and corned beef! “Won’t do,” grinned Jim, watching her dancing eyes. “She’s getting too excited, Dad—we’d better take her home to bed!” “I’d like to see you!” said Norah, belligerently. “Oh, my goodness, Jean, it’s going up again!” “It”—which was the curtain—flashed up suddenly, as the lights went out, and straightway Norah forgot everything but the wonderland on the stage. She leaned forward breathlessly, half afraid of losing even a glimpse of the marvels that were unfolded with such apparent calm. “As if,” said Norah later, “it was as ordinary as washing-day!” Ever since she could remember, she had danced. But the dancing on the stage was a new thing altogether. It was music put into motion; it was as though the fairies had caught the spirits of joy and poetry and youth, and turned them all into a rhythmic harmony. There was gladness in every swaying movement; gladness and grace and beauty. “They all look so awfully happy!” breathed Norah. But then—who would not be happy, dancing in Fairyland? Only, near the end, come one thing that Norah did not like. A children’s ballet, dressed as flowers, had just danced its way off the stage, leaving at one side a tall tiger lily; and from the other corner a tiny thing toddled out to meet it. A wee baby form, almost ridiculous in the quaint tights of green that made it an orchid—a little face, peeping out of the green peaked cap. Very daintily, a little hesitatingly, it began to dance; the orchestra’s music softened and slackened, as if to help the little half-afraid feet. The theatre rang with applause and laughter. “They shouldn’t let it—it’s a shame!” she uttered very low. “It’s just a baby—and it ought to be in bed! Jim do they make it do this every night?” “I expect so,” Jim answered. “Bless you, old girl, I suppose they pay the kid!” “Then they haven’t any business to—I don’t know what its mother’s thinking about!” whispered Norah. “I’m perfectly certain it’s as scared as ever it can be! It’s only a frightened little baby—I think it’s mean to dress it up in those silly clothes and make it come out here in front of all these people!” “For all you know, old chap, it likes the game,” Jim said, practically. “I’m sure it doesn’t—look at its eyes! I never saw anything so—so anxious. Makes you want to pick it up and nurse it,” said his sister, a straight young monument of indignation. “Thank goodness, it’s gone!” as the little orchid danced off with the tiger lily. She subsided, somewhat to Jim’s relief. He was not sure that he had liked the baby orchid himself. Then came the final scene, a vision of Aladdin’s Cave, massed with every gem known of man, and a great number more known only of the stage; and all gorgeous and glittering beyond any mortal dreams. Rubies as big as turkeys’ eggs, and emeralds the size of barrels; and walls and ceiling a flashing, scintillating mass of diamonds. “Worth while having a vacuum cleaner there,” Wally commented—“you’d only get diamond dust!” And in this wondrous setting, a shifting panorama of moving figures, almost as vivid as the gems themselves; fairies and sprites and marvellous flowers, and tall, slender soldiers in gleaming coats of silver mail. And always the music that made the magic by which everything grew real. Then, suddenly the curtain; and Norah came out of her trance, blinking a little. “Is that the end?” “Quite the end,” said her father. “Come on, my girl; it’s high time you were in bed.” He put a protecting hand on her shoulder, and piloted her through the crowd, while Jim and Wally performed a like kind office for the similarly dazed Jean. Out in Bourke Street, the cooler air blew gratefully upon Norah’s hot face. But she was very silent as the tram took them back to the hotel; and when she said good-night, her father scanned her face keenly. “Sure you’re not over-tired, Norah?” “Not me!” said Norah, absent-mindedly and inelegantly. “I’m all right, Daddy.” “Then you’re half in the theatre yet,” said he, laughing. “Go to bed.” Norah went, obediently. Just as Jean was falling asleep, a voice came from the bed across the room— “Wonder if any one’s tucked up that poor little orchid!” said Norah. From Jean’s corner came a sound that might have been termed either a grunt or a snore, according as the hearer might be more or less kindly disposed. Norah was pondering the problem when she followed her through the gate of sleep. |
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