A Little Bush Maid Part 24

A wave of horror swept over the little girl, and the hands gripping the reins trembled. Common sense might tell one tale, but every instinct of her heart told a very different one. That gentle-faced old man, with a world of kindness in his tired eyes--he the man who killed his sleeping mate for a handful of gold! Norah set her square little chin. She would not--could not--believe it.

"Why, you're very quiet, dearie." Mrs. Brown glanced inquiringly at her companion. "A minute ago you was chatterin', and now you've gone down flat, like old soda-water. Is anything wrong?"

"No, I'm all right, Brownie. I was only thinking," said Norah, forcing a smile.

"Too many sweeties, I expect," said Mrs. Brown, laying a heavy hand on the bag and impounding it for future reference. "Mustn't have you get indigestion, an' your Pa comin' home to-morrow."

Norah laughed.

"Now, did you ever know me to have indigestion in my life?" she queried.

"Well, perhaps not," Mrs. Brown admitted. "Still, you never can tell; it don' do to pride oneself on anything. If it ain't indigestion, you've been thinking too much of this narsty murder."

Norah flicked the off pony deliberately with her whip.

"Darkie is getting disgracefully lazy," she said. "He's not doing a bit of the work. n.i.g.g.e.r's worth two of him." The injured Darkie shot forward with a bound, and Mrs. Brown grabbed the side of the buggy hastily, and in her fears at the pace for the ensuing five minutes forgot her too inconvenient cross-examination.

Norah settled back into silence, her forehead puckered with a frown. She had never in her careless little life been confronted by such a problem as the one that now held her thoughts. That the startling similarity between her new-made friend and the description of the murderer should fasten upon her mind, was unavoidable. She struggled against the idea as disloyal, but finally decided to think it out calmly.

The descriptions tallied. So much was certain. The verbal likeness of one man was an exact word painting of the other, so far as it went, "though," as poor Norah reflected, "you can't always tell a person just by hearing what he's like." Then there was no denying that the conduct of the Hermit would excite suspicion. He was camping alone in the deepest recesses of a lonely tract of scrub; he had been there some weeks, and she had had plenty of proof that he was taken aback at being discovered and wished earnestly that no future prowlers might find their way to his retreat. She recalled his shrinking from the boys, and his hasty refusal to go to the homestead. He had said in so many words that he desired nothing so much as to be left alone--any one would have gathered that he feared discovery. They had all been conscious of the mystery about him. Her thoughts flew back to the half-laughing conversation between Harry and Wally, when they had actually speculated as to why he was hiding. Putting the case fairly and squarely, Norah had to admit that it looked black against the Hermit.

Against it, what had she? No proof; only a remembrance of two honest eyes looking sadly at her; of a face that had irresistibly drawn her confidence and friends.h.i.+p; of a voice whose tones had seemed to echo sincerity and kindness. It was absolutely beyond Norah's power to believe that the hand that had held hers so gently could have been the one to strike to death an unsuspecting mate. Her whole nature revolted against the thought that her friend could be so base.

"He was in trouble," Norah said, over and over again, in her uneasy mind; "he was unhappy. But I know he wasn't wicked. Why, Bobs made friends with him!"

The thought put fresh confidence in her mind; Bobs always knew "a good sort."

"I won't say anything," she decided at last, as they wheeled round the corner of the homestead. "If they knew there was a tall old man there, they'd go and hunt him out, and annoy him horribly. I know he's all right. I'll hold my tongue about him altogether--even to Dad."

The coach dropped Mr. Linton next day at the Cross Roads, where a little figure, clad in white linen, sat in the buggy, holding the brown ponies, while the dusky Billy was an attendant sprite on his piebald mare.

"Well, my little girl, it's good to see you again," Mr. Linton said, putting his Gladstone bag into the buggy and receiving undismayed a small avalanche of little daughter upon his neck. "Steady, dear--mind the ponies." He jumped in, and put his arm round her. "Everything well?"

"Yes, all right, Daddy. I'm so glad to have you back!"

"Not gladder than I am to get back, my little la.s.s," said her father.

"Good-day, Billy. Let 'em go, Norah."

"Did you see Jim?" asked Norah, as the ponies bounded forward.

"No--missed him. I had only an hour in town, and went out to the school, to find Master Jim had gone down the river--rowing practice. I was sorry to miss him; but it wasn't worth waiting another day in town."

"Jim would be sorry," said Norah thoughtfully. She herself was rather glad: had Jim seen his father, most probably he would have mentioned the Hermit. Now she had only his letters to fear, and as Jim's letters were of the briefest nature and very far apart, it was not an acute danger.

"Yes, I suppose he would," Mr. Linton replied. "I regretted not having sent a telegram to say I was going to the school--it slipped my memory.

I had rather a rush, you know. I suppose you've been pretty dull, my girlie?"

"Oh it was horrid after the boys went," Norah said. "I didn't know what to do with myself, and the house was terribly quiet. It was hard luck that you had to go away too."

"Yes, I was very sorry it happened so," her father said; "had we been alone together I'd have taken you with me, but we'll have the trip some other time. Did you have a good day's fis.h.i.+ng on Sat.u.r.day?"

"Yes," said Norah, flus.h.i.+ng a little guiltily--the natural impulse to tell all about their friend the Hermit was so strong. "We had a lovely day, and caught ever so many fish--didn't get home till ever so late.

The only bad part was finding you away when we got back."

"Well, I'm glad you had good luck, at any rate," Mr. Linton said. "So Anglers' Bend is keeping up its reputation, eh? We'll have to go out there, I think, Norah; what do you say about it? Would you and Billy like a three days' jaunt on fis.h.i.+ng bent?"

"Oh, it would be glorious, Daddy! Camping out?"

"Well, of course--since we'd be away three days. In this weather it would be a very good thing to do, I think."

"You are a blessed Daddy," declared his daughter rubbing her cheek against his shoulder. "I never knew anyone with such beautiful ideas."

She jigged on her seat with delight. "Oh, and, Daddy, I'll be able to put you on to such a splendid new hole for fis.h.i.+ng!"

"Will you, indeed?" said Mr. Linton, smiling at the flushed face.

"That's good, dear. But how did you discover it?"

Norah's face fell suddenly. She hesitated and looked uncomfortable.

"Oh," she said slowly; "I--we--found it out last trip."

"Well, we'll go, Norah--as soon as I can fix it up," said her father.

"And now, have you heard anything about the Winfield murderer?"

"Not a thing, Daddy. Brownie thinks it's just a yarn that he was seen about here."

"Oh, I don't think so at all," Mr. Linton said. "A good many people have the idea, at any rate--of course they may be wrong. I'm afraid Brownie is rather too ready to form wild opinions on some matters. To tell the truth, I was rather worried at the reports--I don't fancy the notion of escaped gentry of that kind wandering round in the vicinity of my small daughter."

"Well, I don't think you need have worried," said Norah, laughing up at him; "but all the same, I'm not a bit sorry you did, if it brought you home a day earlier, Dad!"

"Well, it certainly did," said Mr. Linton, pulling her ear; "but I'm not sorry either. I can't stand more than a day or two in town. As for the murderer, I'm not going to waste any thought on him now that I am here.

There's the gate, and here comes Billy like a whirlwind to open it."

They bowled through the gate and up the long drive, under the arching boughs of the big gum trees, that formed a natural avenue on each side.

At the garden gate Mrs. Brown stood waiting, with a broad smile of welcome, and a chorus of barks testified to the arrival of sundry dogs.

"It's a real home-coming," Mr. Linton said as he walked up the path, his hand on Norah's shoulder--and the little girl's answering smile needed no words. They turned the corner by the big rose bush, and came within view of the house, and suddenly Norah's smile faded. A trooper in dusty uniform stood on the doorstep.

"Why, that's a pleasant object to greet a man," Mr. Linton said, as the policeman turned and came to meet him with a civil salute. He nodded as the man came up. "Did you want me?"

"It's only about this 'ere murderer, sir," said the trooper. "Some of us is on a sort of a scent, but we haven't got fairly on to his tracks yet.

I've ridden from Mulgoa to-day, and I came to ask if your people had seen anything of such a chap pa.s.sing--as a swaggie or anything?"

"Not that I know of," said Mr. Linton. "What is he like?"

"Big fellow--old--plenty of white hair and beard, though, of course, they're probably cut off by this time. Very decent-looking old chap,"

said the trooper reflectively--"an' a good way of speakin'."

"Well, I've seen no such man," said Mr. Linton decidedly--"of course, though, I don't see all the 'travellers' who call. Perhaps Mrs. Brown can help you."

"Not me sir," said Mrs. Brown, with firmness. "There ain't been no such a person--and you may be sure there ain't none I don't see! Fact is, when I saw as 'ow the murderer was supposed to be in this districk, I made inquiries amongst the men--the white hands, that is--and none of them had seen any such man as the papers described. I reckon 'e may just as well be in any other districk as this--I s'pose the poor p'lice must say 'e's somewheres!"