A Little Bush Maid Part 29

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 a.s.sure 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 d.i.c.k 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 ash.o.r.e. She looked round at her father, but he was absorbed in his fis.h.i.+ng 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 fis.h.i.+ng 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.