  Up till the evening that they had “put their heads together” and planned that wonderful letter, the Hudsons had lived much the same lives as other little bush girls, although, on the whole, it was much quieter. Just at the present it was very dull on account of the drought, and also their one neighbour, with a big family, had sold out of “Wilga” Station, and gone further west, and that had put an end to the half-time school that had flourished for twelve months between the Hudsons and Jenkins. Now only a caretaker and his wife lived at Jenkin’s homestead, so the little girls were very short of playmates. Sometimes Enid Davies, from Myall, would call to see them, or they would pay a visit to her place, but as Enid was away so much they seldom could count on her. “Besides, Enid is so rich,” Mollie would say sometimes, “although she is real nice, but I don’t like a lot of her friends.” Already Mollie could feel the restraint of “class” in the air. “Things are going from bad to worse,” Eileen would often grumble. “I do wish people with big families wouldn’t sell out. There should be a law to prevent it. We could have some fun and games when the Jenkins were near, and we did have some fun at school, even if it was a bit of a nuisance at times,” and then she would sigh as she thought of the little weather-board school-house, where their teacher—a bright, fresh-faced young man from the Department—had been so keen about studies and competitions and games. It was with regret that they all bade him good-bye, although there had been days and days when they had all felt like throwing slates and books at him—days when they could not manage columns of figures or dictation or dates, and Eileen would wish the teacher “at the bottom of the sea,” or “at the end of the world” or any other far-off place. But he had left with words of kindly encouragement, telling them not to forget their lessons, and to read and study, till such time as they could obtain another teacher; and for a while they had tried, but it was very hard to keep up anything without someone to supervise, as they all discovered, although Mother tried her best to teach them a little every day. “What’s the good of learning old sums?” said Eileen. “We’ll never use them.” “Oh, you never know!” Mother would say, hopefully. “Yes, I know,” declared Eileen. “I’ll just live and die here, like I’m going on, and nothing will ever happen, and I’ll never want sums or nothing else.” “You might get married and go away,” said Mollie. “No, I won’t. If I do get married, I suppose it’ll be to some cockie about here, so I don’t want to know anything for that!”—emphatically. “You mustn’t call them ‘cockies,’” said Mollie, severely. “They’re all selectors or lessees about here.” “Well, whatever they are, I won’t marry any of them. I’ll die an old maid, or go right away and marry a rich man and have a motor-car.” Which showed that Eileen was not very consistent, and would say anything for argument’s sake. Things had been going from bad to worse on the Hudsons’ selection for the past year. A run of bad luck seemed to have struck them, and sometimes after a long day of toil Mr. Hudson would sit far into the night, under the silent stars, smoking grimly, while he wondered how long he could stand it. Already he was deep in debt to the bank, and the loss of some valuable stock during the year had made things look blacker. He was of a hopeful nature, and determined to stick to his land through thick and thin till better times came. But to the children the good times seemed a very long while coming. Mollie was fourteen, and had big, deep blue eyes and red-gold hair. She was bright and animated and fond of fun, and eagerly grasped any little brightness that came within her reach, and in her kind, tender way, eager to share it with others. Eileen, with her big dark eyes and thick brown hair, was fond of luxury, only she never had a chance to gratify her wishes. Her greatest wish was to become “a fine lady,” with everything at her command. Eva, with her nine years of experience, was somewhat old-fashioned. She desired very much to be clever, and “some day” meant to learn everything. Then came Doris and Baby, who never did much except play with dolls and sticks and tins and bottles. A big fat porter bottle, with a red ribbon round its neck, was Doris’s pet “dog,” and she would tie a string to the ribbon and lead “him” everywhere. Although she had many favourites among her dolls, her special pet was “Rose,” a big rag doll, with a very dirty face and eyes like two “daubs of the blue-bag,” as Eileen often said. For all her dirty face and “blue-bag” eyes, she was taken everywhere, and even slept with her fond little mother. When the annual picnic was held in the little township Doris disgusted them all by rigging out Rose in the wax doll’s white muslin and pink ribbons, and carrying her to the picnic. It was a very dirty-faced Rose and a very draggled muslin frock that they found in the bottom of the buggy on their return, for, in the excitement of meeting new people, Doris had quite forgotten her treasure for the time being. Then they had “stick” horses, which came in for a lot of care, and during the drought Doris daily placed little nose-bags, filled with sawdust (for chaff), on their heads, after she had dipped their heads into a pail of water. “’Cause the poor things are like ourselves, and get so thirsty,” she would murmur, as she ran backwards and forwards, attending to their wants. “When God sends the rain, we’ll have nice green couch-grass for youse,” she would tell the sticks, as she laid them away for the night. There was Rattler and Robin and Tommie and Bally, and while Baby could only jog round the house on hers, Doris would scamper over the paddock. Frank Lynton had lived with the Hudson family for the last five years. His mother had been Mr. Hudson’s favourite cousin, and on her death-bed she had given her son into his care. “I know you will be good to him, Robert,” she had murmured. “You know, his father was a ne’er-do-well, but I’m sure my boy will not follow in his steps.” So Frank became one of the family, and tried to settle down and do his very best, although as the years went on he knew that the land was not for him, and, try as he would, he could never build up any interest or eagerness in the work. This only made him try the harder to help and please “Uncle and Aunt,” as he always called them, for he had a great sense of gratitude, and he gave his fresh young strength and energies to help them in their needs, while all the time deep in his heart was an unsatisfied longing for something different. “If only things would change for the better, and I could leave Uncle,” he would murmur, as he went about his work. “But I must not let them know—not yet awhile; but I’ll have to later on. I’m not going to waste my life doing things I hate.” Then he would work grimly on, with determination on his young face. And no one at “Gillong” ever guessed the unsatisfied longings in the boy’s heart—no one but Mollie. It came about in this way. It had been a very hot, trying day, and Frank had left home at five in the morning and returned at twilight, after mustering and drafting sheep the whole day long. He was utterly weary and worn out as he rode to the hayshed and pulled the saddle and bridle off his horse, and there Mollie met him. “Oh, Frank! a man came down from Myall to say there’s a big draft there to-morrow. Travelling sheep were going through, and they didn’t give notice, and all the sheep are boxed, and they want you up, first light.” “Oh, hang it all!” cried Frank, wrathfully. “I’ve been at it every day this week. It’s nothing but drafting from morning till night. I’m just about sick of the whole turn-out.” “Yes, it is hard,” said Mollie, slowly. “Hard! It’s deadly. A fellow might as well be dead as be tied up here, week after week, grinding his life away. I’m just sick of it.” And he threw himself on a big bale of hay. “Oh, Frank! I’m so sorry,” said Mollie, softly. “It’s no use being sorry, Mollie,” he answered, with a hard laugh. “A fellow has to go through it, I suppose—for a while, at any rate. But you don’t know how hard it is, Mollie, when a fellow hates the very thought of the work he’s tied to, and is always longing for something else he knows he’d be better at. What’s the use of throwing your life away in those paddocks, when there’s something else you’re dying to get at and know you’ll be a success at it? You know that there’s hundreds of people just fit for this kind of work, and could do it better than I can——” “Oh, Frank! I am sorry; I always thought you didn’t like this,” said Mollie, “but you’re always so cheerful and so bright, and——” “It’s the least I can do, Mollie, and I shouldn’t grumble now. I’d be a real cad if I were not grateful to you all. You mustn’t think I’m not grateful.” “I know you are,” answered Mollie, warmly, “and I’d like you to tell me more,” she went on, hesitatingly, “if—if you would.” For the first time in his life Frank poured out his heart and told her all his dreams and wishes. “And I’m saving up for it this ever so long. And you know, Mollie,” he concluded, “my father was a ne’er-do-well, and if I go on up here without my heart in my work I suppose people will put me down the same, and all the time I’m out of my sphere. I’m sixteen now, Mollie, and it’s time I was at it; but here I am, and there seems no chance. Look here,” he cried, “as soon as we get rain and things are a little better I’ll tell Uncle all about it.” The stars had come out one by one as they talked, and now the sky was a mass of flickering points, as Mollie, with a sad heart, gazed into the twinkling depths, wondering what on earth she could do to help her loved Frank, and suddenly there flashed into her mind the thought of that wonderful letter. Yes, that would be it! She would write to that rich uncle that she knew so little of. He was rich, and he might help Frank. He might help them all. But she must never let Frank know—Frank, nor Mother, nor Father. Surely it would not be wrong to write on the quiet for a good cause like this. For three days she had thought and thought and worried, before she told her sisters of her plan. “I’m glad you’ve told me all this, Frank, and I think you’re—you’re splendid,” cried Mollie, dashing away the tears; “and I only wish I could do something for you. You’ll have to keep on hoping and wishing, and some day something good may happen.” “Yes, some day,” echoed Frank. “I hope so. But we’d better go in to tea, Mollie,” he said, cheerfully, “and then I’m going to bed early, to get ready for a big day to-morrow.” Frank never knew that, long after he was asleep, Mollie went to his box and carefully examined his clothes, noting all the patched and darned shirts and socks, and wondering if he could make those last until he could go away. “If only he could go before he has to get any more new clothes, and then he could get a nice new supply for his studies,” thought Mollie with shining eyes. “Oh, I do hope that I can manage to fix up things!” Frank slept calmly on—the sleep of the tired, never dreaming that any factors were at work to bring him nearer his heart’s desire. |
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