“About that fishing excursion, Norah?”
“Yes, Daddy.” A small brown paw slid itself into Mr. Linton’s hand.
They were sitting on the verandah in the stillness of an autumn evening, watching the shadows on the lawn become vague and indistinct, and finally merge into one haze of dusk. Mr. Linton had been silent for a long time. Norah always knew when her father wanted to talk. This evening she was content to be silent, too, leaning against his knee in her own friendly fashion as she curled up at his feet.
“Oh, you hadn’t forgotten, then?”
“Well—not much! Only I didn’t know if you really wanted to go, Daddy.”
“Why, yes,” said her father. “I think it would be rather a good idea, my girlie. There’s not much doing on the place just now. I could easily be spared. And we don’t want to leave our trip until the days grow shorter. The moon will be right, too. It will be full in four or five days—I forget the exact date. So, altogether, Norah, I think we’d better consult Brownie about the commissariat department, and make our arrangements to go immediately.”
“It’ll be simply lovely,” said his daughter, breathing a long sigh of delight. “Such a long time since we had a camping out—just you and me, Daddy.”
“Yes, it’s a good while. Well, we’ve got to make up for lost time by catching plenty of fish,” said Mr. Linton. “I hope you haven’t forgotten the whereabouts of that fine new hole of yours? You’ll have to take me to it if Anglers’ Bend doesn’t come up to expectations.”
A deep flush came into Norah’s face. For a little while she had almost forgotten the Hermit—or, rather, he had ceased to occupy a prominent position in her mind, since the talk of the Winfield murder had begun to die away. The troopers, unsuccessful in their quest, had gone back to headquarters, and Norah had breathed more freely, knowing that her friend had escaped—this time. Still, she never felt comfortable in her mind about him. Never before had she kept any secret from her father, and the fact of this concealment was apt to come home closely to her at times and cloud the perfect friendship between them.
“Master Billy will be delighted, I expect,” went on Mr. Linton, not noticing the little girl’s silence. “Anything out of the ordinary groove of civilisation is a joy to that primitive young man. I don’t fancy it would take much to make a cheerful savage of Billy.”
“Can’t you fancy him!” said Norah, making an effort to break away from her own thoughts; “roaming the bush with a boomerang and a waddy, and dressed in strips of white paint.”
“Striped indeed!” said her father, laughing. “I’ve no doubt he’d enjoy it. I hope his ancient instincts won’t revive—he’s the best hand with horses we ever had on the station. Now, Norah, come and talk to Brownie.”
Mrs. Brown, on being consulted, saw no difficulties in the way. A day, she declared, was all she wanted to prepare sufficient food for the party for a week—let alone for only three days.
“Not as I’ll stint you to three days,” remarked the prudent Brownie. “Last time it was to be three days—an’ ’twas more like six when we saw you again. Once you two gets away—” and she wagged a stern forefinger at her employer. “And there’s that black himp—he eats enough for five!”
“You forget the fish we’re going to live on,” laughed Mr. Linton.
“‘M,” said Brownie solemnly. “First catch your fish!”
“Why, of course, we mean to, you horrid old thing!” cried Norah, laughing; “and bring you home loads, too—not that you deserve it for doubting us!”
“I have seen many fishing parties go out, Miss Norah, my dear,” said Mrs. Brown impassively, “and on the ’ole more came ’ome hempty ’anded than bringing loads—fish bein’ curious things, an’ very unreliable on the bite. Still, we’ll ’ope for the best—an’ meanwhile to prepare for the worst. I’ll just cook a few extry little things—another tongue, now, an’ a nice piece of corned beef, an’ per’aps a ’am. An’ do you think you could manage a pie or two, Miss Norah?”
“Try her!” said Mr. Linton, laughing.
“Let’s tell Billy!”—and off went Norah at a gallop.
She returned a few minutes later, slightly crestfallen.
“Billy must be asleep,” she said. “I couldn’t get an answer. Lazy young nigger—and it’s still twilight!”
“Billy has no use for the day after the sun goes down, unless he’s going ’possuming,” her father said. “Never mind—the news will keep until the morning.”
“Oh, I know,” said Norah, smiling. “But I wanted to tell him to-night.”
“I sympathise with you,” said her father, “and, meanwhile, to console yourself, suppose you bend your mighty mind to the problem of getting away. Do you see any objection to our leaving for parts unknown the day after to-morrow?”
“Depends on Brownie and the tucker,” said Norah practically.
“That part’s all right; Brownie guarantees to have everything ready to-morrow night if you help her.”
“Why, of course I will, Daddy.”
“And you have to get your own preparations made.”
“That won’t take long,” said Norah, with a grin. “Brush, comb, tooth-brush, pyjamas; that’s all, Dad!”
“Such minor things as soap and towels don’t appear to enter into your calculations,” said her father. “Well I can bear it!”
“Oh, you silly old Dad! Of course I know about those. Only Brownie always packs the ordinary, uninteresting things.”
“I foresee a busy day for you and Brownie tomorrow,” Mr. Linton said. “I’ll have a laborious time myself, fixing up fishing tackle—if Jim and his merry men left me with any. As for Billy, he will spend the day grubbing for bait. Wherefore, everything being settled, come and play me ‘The Last Rose of Summer,’ and then say good-night.”
Norah was up early, and the day passed swiftly in a whirl of preparations. Everything was ready by evening, including a hamper of monumental proportions, the consumption of which, Mr. Linton said, would certainly render the party unfit for active exertion in the way of fishing. Billy’s delight had made itself manifest in the broad grin which he wore all day while he dug for worms, and chased crickets and grass-hoppers. The horses were brought in and stabled overnight, so that an early start might be made.
It was quite an exciting day, and Norah was positive that she could not go to sleep when her father sent her off to bed at an unusually early hour, meeting her remonstrances with the reminder that she had to be up with, or before, the lark. However, she was really tired, and was soon asleep. It seemed to her that she had only been in this blissful condition for three minutes when a hand was laid on her shoulder and she started up to find daylight had come. Mr. Linton stood laughing at her sleepy face.
“D’you mean to say it’s morning?” said Norah.
“I’ve been led to believe so,” her father rejoined. “Shall I pull you out, or would you prefer to rise without assistance?”
“I’d much prefer to go to sleep again—but I’ll tumble out, thank you,” said his daughter, suiting the action to the word. “Had your bath, Daddy?’
“Just going to it.”
“Then I’ll race you!” said Norah, snatching a towel and disappearing down the hall, a slender, flying figure in blue pyjamas. Mr. Linton gave chase, but Norah’s start was too good, and the click of the lock greeted him as he arrived at the door of the bathroom. The noise of the shower drowned his laughing threats, while a small voice sang, amid splashes, “You should have been here last week!”
Breakfast was a merry meal, although, as Norah said, it was unreasonable to expect anybody to have an appetite at that hour. Still, with a view to the future, and to avoid wounding Mrs. Brown too deeply, they made as firm an attempt as possible, with surprisingly good results. Then brief good-byes were said, the pack scientifically adjusted to the saddle on the old mare, and they rode off in the cool, dewy morning.
This time there was no “racing and chasing o’er Cannobie Lea” on the way to Anglers’ Bend. Mr. Linton’s days of scurrying were over, he said, unless a bullock happened to have a difference of opinion as to the way he should go, and, as racing by one’s self is a poor thing Norah was content to ride along steadily by her father’s side, with only an occasional canter, when Bobs pulled and reefed as if he were as anxious to gallop as his young mistress could possibly be. It was time for lunch when they at length arrived at the well-remembered bend on the creek.
The horses were unsaddled and hobbled, and then turned out to wander at their own sweet will—the shortness of the hobbles a guarantee that they would not stray very far; and the three wanderers sat on the bank of the creek, very ready for the luncheon Mrs. Brown had carefully prepared and placed near the top of the pack. This despatched, preparations were made for pitching camp.
Here luck favoured them, for a visit to their former camping place showed that tent poles and pegs were still there, and uninjured—which considerably lessened the labour of pitching the tents. In a very short time the two tents were standing, and a couple of stretchers rigged up with bags—Mr. Linton had no opinion of the comfort of sleeping on beds of leaves. While her father and Billy were at this work, Norah unpacked the cooking utensils and provisions. Most of the latter were encased in calico bags, which could be hung in the shade, secure from either ants or flies, the remainder, packed in tins, being stowed away easily in the corner of one of the tents.
When the stretchers were ready Norah unpacked the bedding and made their beds. Finally she hung the tooth-brushes to the ridge poles and said contentedly, “Daddy, it’s just like home!”
“Glad you think so!” said Mr. Linton, casting an approving eye over the comfortable-looking camp, and really there is something wonderfully homelike about a well-pitched camp with a few arrangements for comfort. “At any rate, I think we’ll manage very well for a few days, Norah. Now, while Billy lays in a stock of firewood and fixes up a ‘humpy’ for himself to sleep in, suppose you and I go down and try to catch some fish for tea?”
“Plenty!” laughed Norah.
It soon became evident that Anglers’ Bend was going to maintain its name as a place for fish. Scarcely was Norah’s line in the water before a big blackfish was on the hook, and after that the fun was fast and furious, until they had caught enough for two or three meals. The day was ideal for fishing—grey and warm, with just enough breeze to ripple the water faintly. Mr. Linton and Norah found it very peaceful, sitting together on the old log that jutted across the stream, and the time passed quickly. Billy at length appeared, and was given the fish to prepare, and then father and daughter returned to camp. Mr. Linton lit the fire, and cutting two stout forked stakes, which he drove into the ground, one on each side of the fire, he hung a green ti-tree pole across, in readiness to hold the billy and frying-pan. Billy presently came up with the fish, and soon a cheery sound of sizzling smote the evening air. By the time that Norah had “the table set,” as she phrased it, the fish were ready, and in Norah’s opinion no meal ever tasted half so good.
After it was over, Billy the indispensable removed the plates and washed up, and Norah and her father sat by the fire and “yarned” in the cool dusk. Not for long, for soon the little girl began to feel sleepy after the full day in the open air, and the prospect of the comfortable stretcher in her tent was very tempting. She brushed her hair outside in the moonlight, because a small tent is not the place in which to wield a hairbrush; then she slipped into bed, and her father came and tucked her up before tying the flap securely enough to keep out possible intruders in the shape of “bears” and ’possums. Norah lay watching the flickering firelight for a little while, thinking there was nothing so glorious as the open-air feeling, and the night scents of the bush; then she fell asleep.
“Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! Ho-ho-ho-ho-ho!!”
A cheeky jackass on a gum tree bough fairly roared with laughter, and Norah woke up with a violent start. The sunlight was streaming across her bed. For a moment she was puzzled, wondering where she was; then the walls of the tent caught her eye, and she laughed at herself, and then lay still in the very pleasure of the dewy morning and the wonderful freshness of the air. For there is a delight in awaking after a night in the open that the finest house in the world cannot give.
Presently the flap of the tent was parted and Mr. Linton peeped in.
“Hallo!” he said, smiling, “did the old jackass wake you? I found him as good as an alarum clock myself. How about a swim?”
“Oh—rather!” said Norah, tumbling out of bed. She slipped on a jacket and shoes, and presently joined her father, and they threaded their way through the scrub until they came to a part of the creek where a beach, flat and sandy, and shelving down to a fairly deep hole, offered glorious bathing. Mr. Linton left Norah here, and himself went a few yards farther up, round a bend in the creek.
At the first plunge the water was distinctly cold, but once the first dip was taken Norah forgot all about chilliness, and only revelled in the delights of that big pool. She could swim like a fish—her father had seen to that in the big lagoon at home. Not until Mr. Linton’s warning voice sang out that it was time to dress did she leave the water, and then with reluctance.
A brisk rub down with a hard towel and she rejoined her father. He cast an approving look at her glowing face.
“Well, you look as if you’d enjoyed your swim,” he said.
“Oh it was lovely, Daddy! Did you have a good bathe?”
“Yes—I struck a very good place—deep enough to dive in,” her father answered. “Not that I counsel diving altogether—you strike such a lot of mud at the bottom—soft, sticky, black mud! I spent most of my bathe in getting myself clean after my dive! Still, I had a good swim, notwithstanding. I say, Norah, I’m ready for breakfast.”
“So am I,” said his daughter. “I hope Billy’s got the fish on!”
However, there was no sign of the black retainer when they reached the camp. The fire was blazing and the billy boiling, but of the other Billy no trace existed.
“He’s gone after the horses,” Mr. Linton said. “I told him to see to them—but he ought to be back. I hope they’re all right. Well, you get dressed, Norah.”
By the time Norah’s toilet was completed the fish, under Mr. Linton’s supervision, were in the pan, and she hurried to set out the breakfast things. They were just beginning breakfast when the sound of hoofs was heard and Billy rode into the clearing on his own pony, with evident signs of perturbation on his ebony face.
“What’s up, Billy?” Mr. Linton asked sharply.
“That feller pack-mare,” Billy said briefly. “Broken hobbles—clear out. Plenty!” He produced a hobble as he spoke, the broken leather telling its own tale.
Mr. Linton uttered an exclamation of anger.
“That comes of not seeing to the hobbles myself,” he said sharply. “No sign of her?”
Billy shook his head.
“Not likely,” Mr. Linton said; “that old mare would make for home like a shot. I dare say she’s half-way there by now. Well, Billy, there’s only one thing to do—get your pony saddled and go after her.”
Billy’s face expressed unuttered depths of woe.
“Get your breakfast first,” said his master; “there’s no particular hurry, for you’re bound to have to go all the way home—and bring some good hobbles back with you, if you do!”
Billy slid to the ground.
“Plenty!” he said ruefully.
Billy, a black vision of despondency, had faded away into the distance, making his chestnut pony pay for the disappointment of his long ride back to the homestead for the missing mare. Norah and her father had “cleaned up house,” as Norah put it, and again they were sitting on the old log that spanned the creek.
Their lines were in water, but the fish were shy. The promise of a hot day had driven them to the shady hollows under the banks. The juiciest worms failed to lure them from their hiding-places. Norah thought it dull and said so.
Her father laughed.
“You’ll never make a fisherman without cultivating an extra stock of patience,” he said. “The thought of last night’s luck ought to make you happy.”
“Well, it doesn’t,” his daughter answered decidedly. “That was yesterday, and this is to-day; and it is dull, Daddy, anyhow.”
“Well, keep on hoping,” said Mr. Linton; “luck may change at any minute. Norah, do you know, I have something to tell you?”
“What?” Norah’s dullness was gone. There was something unusual in her father’s tone.
“I’m afraid you won’t think it the best news,” he said, smiling at her eager face. “But it had to come some day, I suppose. I couldn’t keep you a baby always. There’s a tutor coming to make a learned lady of my little bush maid.”
“Daddy!” There were worlds of horror in the tone.
“Oh, don’t!” said her father. “You make me feel a criminal of the deepest dye. What can I do with you, you ignorant small child? I can’t let you grow up altogether a bush duffer, dear.” His voice was almost apologetic. “I can assure you it might have been worse. Your Aunt Eva has been harrowing my very soul to make me send you to a boarding school. Think of that now!”
“Boarding school!” said Norah faintly. “Daddy, you wouldn’t?”
“No—not at present, certainly,” said her father. “But I had to agree to something—and, really, I knew it was time. You’re twelve, you know, Norah. Be reasonable.”
“Oh, all right,” said Norah, swallowing her disgust. “If you say it’s got to be, it has to be, that’s all, Daddy. My goodness, how I will hate it! Have I got to learn heaps of things?”
“Loads,” said her father, nodding; “Latin, and French, and drawing, and geography, and how to talk grammar, and any number of things I never knew. Then you can teach the tutor things—riding, and cooking, and knitting, and the care of tame wallabies, and any number of things he never dreamed of. He’s a town young man, Norah, and horribly ignorant of all useful arts.”
“I’ll turn him over to Billy after school,” said Norah laughing. “Is he nice, Dad?”
“Very, I should say,” rejoined her father. “He’s the son of an old friend”—and his face saddened imperceptibly. “Your Aunt Eva said it ought to be a governess, and perhaps it would have been one only young Stephenson came in my way. He wanted something to do, and for his father’s sake I chose him for my daughter’s instructor.”
“Who’s his father, Daddy?”
“Well, you wouldn’t know if I told you, girlie. A dear old friend of mine when I was a young man—the best friend I ever had. Jim is named after him.”
“Is he dead now?”
Mr. Linton hesitated.
“We lost him years ago,” he said sadly. “A great trouble came upon him—he lost some money, and was falsely accused of dishonesty, and he had to go to prison. When he came out his wife refused to see him; they had made her believe him a thief, and she was a hard woman, although she loved him. She sent him a message that he must never try to see her or their boy.”
“She was cruel.” Norah’s eyes were angry.
“She was very unhappy, so we mustn’t judge her,” her father said, sighing. “Poor soul, she paid for her harshness. Later the truth of the whole bad business came out, and she would have given the world to be able to beg his forgiveness-only it was too late.”
“Was he dead, Daddy?”
“They found his body in the river,” said Mr. Linton. “Poor old chap, he couldn’t stand the loss of his whole world. I’ve wished ever since that I could tell him I never believed the lie for a moment. I was in England at the time, and I knew nothing about it until he was dead.”
“Poor old Daddy,” said Norah softly.
“Oh, it’s an old story, now,” Mr. Linton said. “Only I never lose the regret—and wish that I could have done something to help my old friend. I don’t quite know why I’ve told you about it, except that I want you to be kind to young Dick Stephenson, because his life has been a sad enough one.”
“Is his mother alive?”
“She lives in Melbourne,” said her father. “I think she only lives for this boy, and the time when she can go to her husband and beg his forgiveness. He’ll give it, too—poor old Jim. He could never bear malice in his life, and I’m certain death couldn’t change his nature. The lad seems a good chap; he’s had a first-rate education. But his mother never gave him any profession; I don’t know why. Women aren’t made for business. So he wants to teach.”
“I’ll be good to him, Daddy.” Norah slipped her hand into her father’s.
“That’s my little girl. I knew I could depend on you,” said Mr. Linton. A far-away look came into his eyes, and he pulled hard at his pipe. Norah guessed he was thinking of days of long ago.
She pulled her bait up, and examination told her it was untouched. The fish were certainly shy, and another half-hour’s tempting did not bring them to the hook. It was exceedingly dull. Norah wound up her line slowly. She also had been thinking.
“I’m going for a walk, Daddy,” she said.
“All right, dear; don’t go far,” said her father absently.
Norah walked soberly along the log until she reached the creek bank, and then jumped ashore. She looked round at her father, but he was absorbed in his fishing and his thoughts, and so the little girl slipped away into the bush. She made her way among the trees quickly, keeping to the line of the creek. Presently she sat down on a moss-grown stump and thought deeply.
The Hermit had been pretty constantly in Norah’s mind since the troopers had been scouring the district in their search for the Winfield murderer. She had longed intensely to warn him—scenting certain unpleasantness to him, and possible danger, although she was loyally firm in the belief that he could not be the man for whom they were searching. Still, how like the description was! Even though Norah’s faith was unshaken, she knew that the veriest hint of the Hermit’s existence would bring the troopers down on him as fast as they could travel to his camp. She put aside resolutely the thoughts that flocked to her mind—the strange old man’s lonely life, his desire to hide himself from his fellow-men.
“I don’t understand it a bit,” she said aloud. “But I’ll have to tell him. He ought to know.”
With that she sprang up and ran on through the scrub. It was thick enough to puzzle many a traveller, but the little maid of the bush saw no difficulties in the way. It was quite clear to her, remembering how the Hermit had guided their merry party on the first visit, weeks ago. At the exact spot on the creek she struck off at right angles into the heart of the trees, keeping a sharp lookout for the tall old form that might appear at any moment—hoping that her father might not grow tired of fishing and coo-ee for her to return.
But there was silence in the bush, and no sign of the Hermit could be seen. The thought came to Norah that he might have struck camp, and gone farther back into the wild country, away from the men he dreaded. But she put the idea from her. Somehow she felt that he was there.
She came to the clump of dogwood that hid the old log along which lay the last part of the track to the Hermit’s camp and, climbing up, ran along it lightly. There were no recent footprints upon it. Suddenly the silence of the surroundings fell heavily on her heart.
Reaching the end of the log that gave access to the clearing, she took a hasty glance round. The ashes of the fire were long dead. No one was there.
Norah’s heart thumped heavily. For a moment she fought with the longing to run back—back from this strange, silent place—back to Daddy. Then she gulped down something in her throat, and giving herself an impatient shake, she went resolutely across the clearing to the tent and peeped in.
The interior of the tent was as neat and homelike as when Norah had seen it first. The quaint bits of furniture stood in their places, and the skins lay on the floor. But Norah saw nothing but her friend’s face.
The Hermit was lying on his bunk—a splendid old figure in his dress of soft furry skins, but with a certain helplessness about him that brought Norah’s heart into her mouth. As the flap of the tent lifted he turned his head with difficulty, and looked at the little girl with weary, burning eyes that held no light of recognition. His face was ghastly white beneath the sunburnt skin, which was drawn like parchment over the cheekbones. A low moan came from his dry lips.
“Water!”
Norah cast a despairing glance around. An empty billy by the old man told its own tale, and a hurried search in the camp only revealed empty vessels.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” said Norah, sobbing.
Afterwards she could not remember how she had got down to the creek. Her blouse was torn, and there were long scratches on her wrists, and she was panting, as she came back to the sick man, and, struggling to raise his heavy head, held a cup to his lips. He drank fiercely, desperately, as Norah had seen starving cattle drink when released after a long journey in the trucks. Again and again he drank—until Norah grew afraid and begged him to lie down. He obeyed her meekly and smiled a little, but there was no comprehension in the fevered eyes. She put her hand on his forehead and started at its burning heat.
“Oh, what’ll I do with you!” she said in her perplexity.
“Do?” said the Hermit with startling suddenness. “But I’m dead!” He closed his eyes and lay very still. “Dead—ages ago!” He muttered. A second he lay so, and then he turned and looked at her. “Where’s the child?” he asked. “I must go to him; let me go, I tell you!” He tried to rise, but fell back weakly. “Water!” he begged.
She gave him water again, and then bathed his face and hands, using her handkerchief for a sponge. He grew quieter, and once or twice Norah thought he seemed to know her; but at the end he closed his eyes and lay motionless.
“I’ll be back very soon,” she said. “Do please be still, dear Mr. Hermit!” She bent over him and kissed his forehead, and he stirred and murmured a name she could not catch. Then he relapsed into unconsciousness, and Norah turned and ran wildly into the scrub.
To bring Daddy—Daddy, who knew everything, who always understood! There was no other thought in her mind now. Whatever the Hermit might have done, he needed help now most sorely—and Daddy was the only one who could give it. Only the way seemed long as she raced through the trees, seeing always that haggard, pain-wrung face on the rude bunk. If only they were in time!
Mr. Linton, sitting on the log and lazily watching his idle float, started at the voice that called to him from the bank; and at sight of the little girl be leaped to his feet and ran towards her.
“Norah! What is it?”
She told him, clinging to him and sobbing; tugging at him all the time to make him come quickly. A strange enough tale it seemed to Mr. Linton—of hermits and hidden camps, and the Winfield murderer, and someone who needed help,—but there was that in Norah’s face and in her unfamiliar emotion that made him hurry through the scrub beside her, although he did not understand what he was to find, and was only conscious of immense relief to know that she herself was safe, after the moment of terror that her first cry had given him. Norah steadied herself with a great effort, as they came to the silent camp.
“He’s there,” she said, pointing.
Mr. Linton understood something then, and he went forward quickly. The Hermit was still unconscious. His hollow eyes met them blankly as they entered the tent.
“Oh, he’s ill, Daddy! Will he die?”
But David Linton did not answer. He was staring at the unconscious face before him, and his own was strangely white. As Norah looked at him, struck with a sudden wonder, her father fell on his knees and caught the sick man’s hand.
“Jim!” he said, and a sob choked his voice. “Old chum—Jim!”
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