The Wonder-Child: An Australian Story

  *CHAPTER XI*

  *A Squatter Patriot*

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

  Finally he remembered his father would be waiting up for him--one of theold man's fixed customs was to be the last one up in his house--and heturned his mare's head in the direction of the sleeping station. Herode up through the moonlit paddocks and the belts of bush, and wondereda little, as he looked at his home, that the sadness of the place hadnever struck him before.

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

  No creepers clung to it and wooed it with their grace; no flutteringmuslins, fashioned by women's hands, blew about its plain windows. Inthe wide garden that encircled it trees grew, and handsome shrubs, butthe 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, likethis his home, but a large sunny cottage, with wide verandahs and largebright windows, and a garden where all the sweet flowers in the worldran mad.

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

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

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

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

  His father was sitting at the big table drinking very temperately atwhiskey 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 fatherwatching 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 wifefor 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 happyenough. Anything fresh about the war? You seem to have all the papersthere.'

  The old man's eyes gleamed, his hand trembled as he reached for anevening 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 doublingthere, and having a brush or two on the way. Now, what he ought to havedone is plainly to have gone along by night marches up here, and takenup a strong position here. See, I've marked the way he ought to havegone 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 saythose Johnnies at the head of things know what they're about better thanwe can out here.'

  'Not a bit, not a bit,' said the old man excitedly; 'it's always thelooker-on who sees the most. He's just rushing on to his doom, andthose brave chaps shut up in that death-trap'll never get as much relieffrom this attempt as they would if I sent old Rover out. You mark mywords and see. This range of hills is the key of the position, anduntil those thick-headed generals can be brought to see it, there'll bedefeat after defeat. Did I tell you Blake and Lewis and Walsh andSimons 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 thinkI'd keep the fellow back? I gave him a cheque, and I promised to lookafter 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 beenthe very fellow to take Blake's place. We could have better sparedDoherty.'

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

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

  'I suppose we must get fresh men on in their places straight away,' hesaid; '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 atthem scoundrels out there, hang me, it's a cheque I'll give 'im, and bea father to his brats if he's got any, and keep his place open till hecomes back. And a horse to each--the best I've got on the place--hangme, 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 poundsto 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'ddo more than feel strongly! Me very bed's like stones the nights thecables show no victories; the food in me mouth turns to dust. Feelstrongly!'

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

  'Father,' he said, and put his hand on the old man's shoulder, 'will yougive 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'mafraid I'm a slow-witted chap. It never occurred to me before to-nightto volunteer. Now it seems the one thing I'd care to do in all theworld.'

  The old man breathed hard.

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

  'The only thing that could stand in my way,' said Mortimer, 'would beyour objection. That is removed, since it never existed; so it onlyremains 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'dgiven up the hope of ever seeing this day. Six sons I had--six, and nota puny, poor one among them.
That's what held me up when the war gotinto me veins first, and I had to face it that seventy was too old tofight. 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 mysons 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, adoctor, no end of chances to get in. And Walter, the best shot and besthorseman ever come from out back. Never a word that Walter had blood inhis veins. I thought it might be funds stoppin' 'em--they might befeared to leave their businesses, thinking they'd suffer. No need ofthat, 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 innicely. Jack here, married to a wife, wouldn't mind going--see somelife; but wife cries and clings, and he gives in. Luke! No son ofmine. 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 ownpeople, upholds the dirty scoundrelly Boers, and hopes they'll win theirfight; dead against the Britain that his own father comed from. My onlylad left at home----'

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

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

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

  'In the morning, in the morning,' said Stevenson. 'I only want to sitstill 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'thave me.'

  His father gripped his hand.

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

  '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 pinkand 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 thelook on his son's face checked him.

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

  'See here, dad,' Mortimer said awkwardly, 'of course it's not in theleast likely I shall get hit---but of course war's war, and there's achance 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 toask you a favour The Camerons--they're so hard up, it--it makes mefairly miserable.'

  'A cheque, lad,' said the father eagerly, 'of course, of course. Woulda 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 mostunfortunate fellow in the world, but he's the last man who would take apresent 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'vetried 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'mwilling 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 Englandin a month or so, and I'd give my head to be able to make the place lookup a bit. Cameron and his boy are fairly killing themselves to do theirbest, but you can guess what their best is when there's only labour andnot 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 Ishould come a cropper, will you let some of my share go to the littlegirl I wanted?'

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

  They gripped hands.

  'Good-night, boy!'

  'Good-night, dad!'