Part 7

'Poor Morty, dear Morty!' she said. Her breath came warm on his cheek one second, and a feather kiss, a sweet little sorry kiss that made his heart like bursting, was laid there.

The next second she had slipped away into the darkness, and he was stumbling to find his horse and carry his misery as far as he might.

Hermie went a circuitous route round the back of the cottage, so anxious was she to reach her bedroom without having her hot cheeks challenged by the sharp eyes of Floss or Roly. And there on the back verandah, where they never went, the two little figures were sitting, one at either end with their backs against a post.

'It's time you were in bed,' were the natural words that sprang to her lips, when she found she might not elude them.

Two laughs bubbled up. 'We're not going to bed for hours,' they said; 'we're having a 'speriment.'

'A what?' said Hermie.

'See this,' said Floss, standing up, 'we're both tied to the posts with the clothes-line. Such larks! Brownie said she wanted to try a 'speriment on us, and see if we could sit still for two hours. If we do, she's going to give me her little gold brooch, and Roly the green heart out of her work-box.'

'We can swop them at school for usefuller things,' interpolated Roly.

'The best is,' giggled Floss, 'we like sitting still, we'd been running about all day. And she forgot to tell us not to speak to each other, and she didn't put us too far to play knuckle-bones. I've wonned Roly three times.'

But Hermie had gone in, an impatient doubt as to Miss Browne's sanity crossing her mind.

She found Bart climbing out of the dining-room window.

'Did you go doing that?' he demanded.

'What?' said Hermie.

'Lock the door while I was reading.'

'Of course I didn't,' Hermie said impatiently.

'It's that young beggar Roly,' Bart said; 'I'll have to take it out of him for this. He'd even jammed the window, and I'd no end or work to get it open. I want to go and help father.'

'Where is he?' Hermie said.

'He's washing the paint-brushes in the cowshed,' said Bart. 'Isn't it lucky? Morty says there are about three dozen tins of red paint at his place, no earthly good to any one, and he's going to send them down in the morning, and dad and I are going to give all the place a coat of paint before mother comes.'

Hermie went to her bedroom, shut the door, and sat down by the window, glad of the sheltering darkness.

But two or three feet away, at the next window, sat Miss Browne, also in the dark, Miss Browne, now crying happily into her wet handkerchief, now looking at the moon and whispering, 'Love, love, how beautiful, how beautiful!'

The sound of footsteps, however, in the adjoining room brought her swiftly outside Hermie's window.

'Hermie!' she cried in a breathless tone at the sight of the girl sitting there in her white dress. 'That cannot be you?'

'Yes, it is,' said Hermie; 'why shouldn't it be?'

'Oh, my love, my love! It is hardly half an hour. I thought two hours, at the least. My dear, my love, no one disturbed you? Oh, my love, don't tell me Roly and Floss got loose?'

'I don't know what you mean,' Hermie said shortly, 'but I can't help thinking it is rather ridiculous to keep those children sitting there. They ought to be in bed. I am going to bed.'

'To bed--my love--my dear!' gasped Miss Browne. 'Where is he?'

'Where is who?' asked Hermie impatiently.

'M-M-Mr. M-Mortimer Stevenson,' said Miss Browne in a whisper.

Hermie had her secret to hide.

'What should I know about Mr. Stevenson?' she said coldly. 'I presume he has gone home.'

Gone home! All could not have gone well and happily in half an hour! Miss Browne grew quite pale.

Such a sweet half-hour it had been for her! For twenty minutes of it she had thought of nothing but the white light of love that was going to flood Hermie's life. But during the last ten minutes there had come to her a thought of the material advantages that would accrue to the girl--Stevenson would have four or five thousand a year at his father's death. It had been very sweet to sit and think of dear little flower-faced Hermie lifted for ever above the sordid cares of wretched housekeeping.

'My love--my dear,' she faltered, 'I--I am old enough to be your mother. Could you trust me--won't you----'

But Hermie, with the blind young eyes of a girl, saw nothing outside her window but tiresome Miss Browne, crying a little into her handkerchief (she often cried), stammering out sentences that seemed to have no beginning or end (her sentences seldom had), twisting her fingers about (she never kept them still).

This, when the girl's excited heart wanted to be away from all voices, all eyes, and go over the strange sensations, with the moon alone for witness.

'Miss Browne,' she said, making a strong effort not to speak unkindly, 'I have a headache to-night, and want to be alone. Would you be so kind as to keep what you have to say till morning, and tell me then?'

Nothing could have been swifter than the way Miss Browne melted away into the darkness.

*CHAPTER XI*

*A Squatter Patriot*

It was eleven o'clock before Mortimer reached home, not that Coolooli lay two hours and a half distant from the selection, but that he was trying to ride and ride till the raw edges of his wound had closed together somewhat.

Finally he remembered his father would be waiting up for him--one of the old man's fixed customs was to be the last one up in his house--and he turned his mare's head in the direction of the sleeping station. He rode up through the moonlit paddocks and the belts of bush, and wondered a little, as he looked at his home, that the sadness of the place had never struck him before.

The house rose on the crest of a hill, convict-built, most of it, in the very early days of the colony, and with a wing or two added here and there. Large, thoroughly comfortable, yet it stood there with a certain air of sternness, as if it knew what unhappy hands had laid its strong foundations, what human misery built up its plain thick walls.

No creepers clung to it and wooed it with their grace; no fluttering muslins, fashioned by women's hands, blew about its plain windows. In the wide garden that encircled it trees grew, and handsome shrubs, but the flowers seemed to know themselves for strangers there, and came not. Mortimer's eyes went to the twin hill, half a mile away.

How often had he raised a house on that! Not a grim, plain one, like this his home, but a large sunny cottage, with wide verandahs and large bright windows, and a garden where all the sweet flowers in the world ran mad.

Near enough the big house for the old man, left to himself, not to feel lonely; far enough away for Hermie to be unquestioned queen, and free as the winds that blew.

Oh, the happy hours he had wandered on that farther hill, raising that happy home to receive his love! There had even been a moonlight night or two when he had furnished it--furnished it with deep chairs and wide sofas and delicious hammocks, all for the little light-haired girl who worked so hard on that wretched selection to nestle into and rest. He had begun to work harder and give deeper thought than was his wont to the management of the station; there would be plenty of money for an income, he knew, but he wanted even more than plenty; he wanted the little hands that had always been so afraid to spend sixpence, to revel in the joy of flinging sovereigns broadcast. He had been waiting--waiting to tell her, it seemed for years--waiting till she was just a little older and a little older.

But the long frock to-day had told him she was a woman, and he had rushed to know his fate; and now all was over.

He put his saddle in the harness-room, and turned the horse out into the moonlit paddock. He went in through the side door, down the wide hall where the lamps still burned for him, and into the dining-room.

His father was sitting at the big table drinking very temperately at whiskey and water, and reading a paper.

'I'm sorry to have kept you up, dad,' Mortimer said.

'That's all right,' said his father, 'it's not often you do it.'

'No,' said Mortimer.

The old man pushed the spirit-casket across the table.

'You look as if you've got a chill,' he said; 'take a nip.'

The son poured himself a finger's depth, and drank it off, his father watching him from under his shaggy eyebrows.

'Did Luke or Jack come up this afternoon?' asked Mortimer.

'Jack and his wife,' said the old man. 'Luke went to Sydney yesterday, Jack says, to watch the sales himself.'

'Take Bertha with him?'

'I rather think the young woman took him. Don't believe she's the wife for any squatter; Macquarie Street's the only run she'll ever settle on, with the theatres and dancing halls within cooey.'

'Oh, well,' sighed Mortimer, 'Luke can afford it, and he seems happy enough. Anything fresh about the war? You seem to have all the papers there.'

The old man's eyes gleamed, his hand trembled as he reached for an evening paper, and opened it.

'See here,' he said, 'Buller's made a fatal mistake, a fatal mistake. He's advancing on Ladysmith by this route, wheeling here and doubling there, and having a brush or two on the way. Now, what he ought to have done is plainly to have gone along by night marches up here, and taken up a strong position here. See, I've marked the way he ought to have gone with those red dots. You don't look as if you agree.'

'Oh,' said Mortimer, 'I don't know anything about it. But I should say those Johnnies at the head of things know what they're about better than we can out here.'

'Not a bit, not a bit,' said the old man excitedly; 'it's always the looker-on who sees the most. He's just rushing on to his doom, and those brave chaps shut up in that death-trap'll never get as much relief from this attempt as they would if I sent old Rover out. You mark my words and see. This range of hills is the key of the position, and until those thick-headed generals can be brought to see it, there'll be defeat after defeat. Did I tell you Blake and Lewis and Walsh and Simons came to me, and asked to volunteer?'

'Whew!' said Mortimer. 'I don't see how we'll get along without Blake. Did you give your consent?'

'Consent!' cried the old man. 'If the place went to ruin, d'ye think I'd keep the fellow back? I gave him a cheque, and I promised to look after his wife and brats if he fell; that's what I did.'

'But it's unlucky Walsh wants to go too,' said Mortimer; 'he'd have been the very fellow to take Blake's place. We could have better spared Doherty.'

'That mean-spirited dog! A lot of volunteering there is in him. He'll take good care to keep his cowardly carcase out of bullet range.'

Mortimer looked thoughtful, and poured a little more whiskey into his tumbler.

'I suppose we must get fresh men on in their places straight away,' he said; 'we don't want the place to suffer.'

'Hang the place!' shouted the old man; 'let it go to ruin if it likes. Every man that has the pluck to come and tell me he'll go and shoot at them scoundrels out there, hang me, it's a cheque I'll give 'im, and be a father to his brats if he's got any, and keep his place open till he comes back. And a horse to each--the best I've got on the place--hang me, two horses.'

'It's very generous of you, father,' Mortimer said, a little unsteadily. 'I see, too, by yesterday's paper, you are giving five thousand pounds to the fund. I--hardly knew you felt as strongly about it as this.'

The old man sprang up, and began to thunder about the room.

'Feel strongly about it--strongly! If I was only ten years younger, I'd do more than feel strongly! Me very bed's like stones the nights the cables show no victories; the food in me mouth turns to dust. Feel strongly!'

Mortimer left the table, and stood at the window looking out at the moonlight that made snow of the twin hill. He did not know he drummed on the window pane until his excited father roared to him to stop. Then he turned and went across the room to where his father was sitting again at the table, gazing with furious eyes at the cables that told of Buller's line of march.

'Father,' he said, and put his hand on the old man's shoulder, 'will you give me a couple of horses? I don't know that I want the cheque.'

Old Stevenson trembled. 'You're fooling me,' he said.

'I wouldn't fool when you're so much in earnest,' Mortimer said. 'I'm afraid I'm a slow-witted chap. It never occurred to me before to-night to volunteer. Now it seems the one thing I'd care to do in all the world.'

The old man breathed hard.

'I'm not as young as I was, Morty,' he said quaveringly; 'I--can't take disappointments easy. You're not just saying this lightly? You'll abide by it?'

'The only thing that could stand in my way,' said Mortimer, 'would be your objection. That is removed, since it never existed; so it only remains to find out the date of the sailing of the Bush contingent. Thanks to your subscription, there'll be no difficulty in getting me in, for I know my riding and shooting will pass muster.'

'Morty,' the old man was clinging to the young one's arm, 'Morty, I'd given up the hope of ever seeing this day. Six sons I had--six, and not a puny, poor one among them. That's what held me up when the war got into me veins first, and I had to face it that seventy was too old to fight. It took some facing, lad. After that I just waited and waited. And none of you spoke. I kep' reading the Sydney news, to find that my sons there was going. None of their names was in. Dick, I could ha' forgave him--p'r'aps--as he's six childers and a wife; but James, a doctor, no end of chances to get in. And Walter, the best shot and best horseman ever come from out back. Never a word that Walter had blood in his veins. I thought it might be funds stoppin' 'em--they might be feared to leave their businesses, thinking they'd suffer. No need of that, I thinks, and sends them a cheque a-piece--a solid thousand each. Does that fetch 'em? Not it. They writes back, very useful, come in nicely. Jack here, married to a wife, wouldn't mind going--see some life; but wife cries and clings, and he gives in. Luke! No son of mine. Oh, I'll not cut him out my will, or do anything dirty by him, but don't never let him give me his hand no more. Cries down his own people, upholds the dirty scoundrelly Boers, and hopes they'll win their fight; dead against the Britain that his own father comed from. My only lad left at home----'

'Well, that laggard at least is off to shoot his best,' said Mortimer lightly.

'Morty,' said the old man, and pressed his hand, 'you'll ha' to forgive me. I've had hard thoughts of you, Morty.' His faded eyes were suffused.

'Don't let's think of that, dad,' said Mortimer. 'What horses do you think I'd better take?'

'In the morning, in the morning,' said Stevenson. 'I only want to sit still to-night, and thank God I've got one son that's a man.'

Mortimer looked at the creased, illumined face, the wet eyes, the old, working mouth. His heart swelled towards him.

'Dad, old fellow,' he said, 'I'm hard hit. I love a girl, and she won't have me.'

His father gripped his hand.

'Poor chap, poor chap!' he said. 'I know, I've been through it. I loved a girl before I married your mother, and I met her daughter the other day, and it was the same as if it had been yesterday.' He looked at his big son with new eyes. 'The girl's got hanged bad taste,' he said.

'You'd have liked her, dad,' Morty said. 'Not like the girls round here, big, strapping women; very slender and sweet-looking, her skin's as pink and soft as that baby of Jack's.'

'Happen I know her?' said his father.

'Her name is Hermie Cameron,' Mortimer said.

'That thriftless beggar's daughter!' was on the old man's lips, but the look on his son's face checked him.

'Yes--a pretty child,' was what he said instead, and thanked Heaven that her taste had been so bad.

'See here, dad,' Mortimer said awkwardly, 'of course it's not in the least likely I shall get hit---but of course war's war, and there's a chance that one may get knocked over.'

'I don't need telling that,' said the old man quickly.

Mortimer pressed his shoulder. 'It's this, dad,' he said. 'I want to ask you a favour The Camerons--they're so hard up, it--it makes me fairly miserable.'

'A cheque, lad,' said the father eagerly, 'of course, of course. Would a thousand pounds do? You shall have it to-night--this minute.'

He was moving to get his cheque-book, but Morty detained him.

'No, no, dad,' he said, 'you don't know poor Cameron; he's the most unfortunate fellow in the world, but he's the last man who would take a present of money.'

'I could offer it as a loan,' suggested the old man.

'No, he wouldn't have even that, I'm positive,' Mortimer said. 'I've tried a time or two myself, but he's choked me off jolly quickly.'

'Then what can I do, boy?' the father said helplessly. 'Believe me, I'm willing enough.'

'I know, I know, dad. All I want to ask you is to keep an eye on them, and if you can do them a turn, do it. The mother's coming from England in a month or so, and I'd give my head to be able to make the place look up a bit. Cameron and his boy are fairly killing themselves to do their best, but you can guess what their best is when there's only labour and not a sixpence to spend.'

'You leave it to me, leave it to me,' said Stevenson.

'And one other thing,' said Morty. 'Of course I won't, dad, but if I should come a cropper, will you let some of my share go to the little girl I wanted?'

'She shall have every penny of it,' cried the old man; 'hang me, it's the least I can do.'

They gripped hands.

'Good-night, boy!'

'Good-night, dad!'

*CHAPTER XII*

*R.M.S. Utopia*

'There,' said Challis, 'that is exactly the middle of the sheet, mother. Just as many again, and we're all kissing each other and going mad.'

She held a piece of note-paper in her hand, and had just carefully marked out with a red pencil one more of the thirty-three days of their voyaging.

'That leaves just sixteen,' said Mrs. Cameron.

'And a half,' said Challis, 'and Mr. Brooks told me the captain says we may be two whole days late, so we'll count seventeen, darling, and not disappoint ourselves.'

'There is the captain now, talking to Mrs. Macgregor and Lady Millbourne,' said Mrs. Cameron. 'Run and ask him, dear, if it is true. I can't bear the thought.'

'Oh, mother,' said the little girl, and hung back, looking with nervous eyes at the group.

'Girlie, you must get over this silly shyness,' said Mrs. Cameron. 'I think you get worse every day, instead of better. Run along at once.'

The girl rose and walked slowly down the long deck. Some children rushed to her.

'Come and play, come and play,' they said. 'It's rounders, and we want another on our side.'

'Don't ask her,' said a boy, 'she's a stuck-up--never plays with any one.' The voice reached Challis, and coloured her cheeks.

'You will be on our side, won't you?' a little girl said. 'We don't know what to do for another.'

'I--I don't know how to play. I'm very sorry--if I could I would,' Challis said.

'Oh, but you can't help knowing,' urged the small girl. 'All you've to do is hit the ball and run. Mamma's deck-chair there is one rounder, and the barometer thing's another, and that life-buoy's the third, and here's home. Of course you mustn't hit the ball overboard.'

'Oh, please,' said Challis, 'won't you get some one else? I should spoil the game. Oh, I couldn't play--please,' and she broke away from the hand, and heard 'stuck-up' again from the boy as she moved away.

Used to the fire of a thousand eyes, the girl shrank nervously from disporting herself before half a dozen idle watchers. She liked the quiet corners on the deck where no one could see her; she had a habit of lying on some cushions by her mother's side, and pretending to be asleep, just to escape being talked to.

A group of ladies drew her amongst themselves before she could pass.

'The sweet little thing!' said one.

'Have you been dreaming a Wave Nocturne up in your corner?' said another.

'Don't tease the child,' said a third. 'Darling, we're getting up a concert for to-morrow evening, and we're going to give the money to the Patriotic Fund when we get to Sydney. You will play some of your lovely pieces for us, won't you? You know we couldn't have a concert without the aid of the famous Miss Cameron.'

'I am afraid mother will not allow me to again,' Challis said. 'She said yesterday was to be the last time.'

'The last time! Oh, why--why?' chorused the ladies.

'She said something about wanting me to rest now,' said poor Challis, flushing.

'Oh, but just two or three little pieces,' persisted the promoter of the concert, 'for the wives of the brave boys going to the war! Oh, I know you won't refuse us, will you? That pretty little thing you played for the funds of the Sailors' Home on Monday--what was that?'

'The Funeral March from Chopin's Second Sonata,' said Challis shyly. 'I will ask mother. I am sure, as it is for the soldiers, she will allow me,' and she edged out of the group.

A lady lying on a lounge beckoned to her.

'How are you, my dear, to-day?' she said.

'Quite well, thank you,' was Challis's answer.

'You are looking pale, I think. Your mother should give you quinine. Don't you ever take anything before you play to your big audiences?'

'No,' said Challis.

'Your mother should see you have a quinine powder before you begin, and just before going home a dessert-spoonful of malt extract. It would fortify the system immensely.'

'Would it?' said Challis, a little wearily.

'Is that little Miss Cameron?' said another lady, coming up. 'Now I think Mrs. Goodenough might really introduce us. Ah, now we know each other, and I am very proud--very proud indeed to shake hands with Australia's celebrated player. I heard you in the Albert Hall two nights before we left London, my dear. You play magnificently--magnificently.'

Challis stood with gravely downcast eyes, and never said a word.

'I wonder could you spare me a photograph, my dear,' continued the lady, 'one of those in a white frock that are all over London? And I should like you to write your name across it. Will you?'

'We have not any left--we gave the last away,' said Challis, and with a little good-bye bending her head--something like the grave quiet bend she gave her audiences--she moved along on her errand.

'So that's your player,' the flouted lady said. 'Well, I don't think much of her. Not a word to say for herself. I suppose she is greatly overrated; it is mostly advertisements, you know--wonderful nowadays what can be done by advertisements.'

Challis reached the captain at last. Lady Melbourne had a pleasant word for her, and asked nothing but how she was enjoying _Treasure Island_, which was in her hand. Mrs. Macgregor merely inquired after her mother's headache.

'Captain,' Challis said, 'are we really going to be two days late? Mother is very anxious.'

'Why, we are all hoping it will be more than that,' said Lady Millbourne. 'A perfect voyage like this should last for ever. I want to persuade the captain to break the shaft of his propeller, like the Perthshire did, and let us drift for forty days.'

'Then mother and I would steal the captain's gig and row home by ourselves,' Challis said with a little shy roguery that dimpled her mouth, and made you think she was pretty after all.

'I never loved a dear gazelle,' said the captain, 'but I had to land it days before I should have had to, if it had only been a tiresome elephant. My dear little fairy-fingers, I have to give you up two days before the time. This will be the quickest run I've made this year.'