*CHAPTER IX*
*Mortimer Stevenson*
He was a man, take him for all and all.'
Morty came up to the selection the next Sunday--Mortimer Stevenson.
'Glad to see you, Morty,' Cameron said. 'What's the news of the war? Itis a week since we have seen the paper.
Mortimer fastened his horses' reins to the verandah-post, then drew halfa dozen papers out of his saddle-bag--a daily or two, a couple ofweeklies, one or two English special war numbers.
'I'd rather you read for yourself,' he said, handing them to the olderman; 'it's not pretty enough to talk about much. Those Boers take a lotof beating. Of course, it will be all right as soon as Lord Robertstakes charge.'
The crisp papers were in Cameron's hands; a few yards away an old canvaschair stretched itself out invitingly.
'Hermie, my dear--Miss Browne--here is Mr. Stevenson,' he called downthe passage of the little house.
'Don't mind me, I'll just sit down here and have a smoke while youread,' Stevenson said; 'don't disturb any one, perhaps they are busy.'
He sat down on the verandah step, and began to fill his pipe, andCameron, relieved, opened his papers, and was in the Transvaal for therest of the afternoon.
To look at, Stevenson was a typical young bushman. He had added inchesto his stature so rapidly, and breadth to his shoulders, that he was illat ease anywhere but in the saddle. His complexion was burnt to a deepcopper. Grey, good eyes looked squarely at you.
Used to cities, you would not like his dress. A serviceable tweed suit,country-cut, one of the brilliant ties, which, so the storekeeperspersuade the bush, are worn in Sydney, a soft brown hat with itsdangling, string-coloured fly-veil.
His father was a vigorous old man of seventy; his type occurs again andagain on the out back stations.
He had gathered great wealth during all those laborious years, and hespent it, if not frugally, at least with full respect for its difficultgarnering. He had been a member of the Upper House, and his wife,during her lifetime, had much enjoyed the dignity of seeing his lettersaddressed, 'The Hon. Matthew Stevenson, M.L.C.'
He had had but a rudimentary education, yet his plain common-sense andclear intellect had made the loss only a slight one to him. To hissons--six of them he had--he offered education, or at all events itsequivalent--the money for it--liberally, and three of them had takenadvantage of it, and gone finally into various professions in Sydney.
The others--the duller three--had assimilated just as much of the tonicwaters as does the ordinary youth of eighteen; then they shook the dustof Sydney off their feet, and returned thankfully to the station wheretheir hearts had always been. Mortimer was youngest of this latterthree, and the only one now unmarried.
Bart came down the passage, and his eyes brightened at the sight of thefigure smoking on the verandah step.
'Hallo!' he said, 'just the fellow I wanted. Look here, Daly gave me awhole lot of new seed--Sheep Burnett I think he called it. Will it hurtto sow it on that place where the sorghum was?'
'Oh, any place will do, old chap; but you needn't waste your bestground; it's great stuff, you know--it would grow in the Sahara. Justsow it along with your grass or clover seeds.'
'It comes up quickly, doesn't it?' Bart said anxiously. 'Do you thinkit would make all down there look smooth and green and nice in a month?'
Mortimer laughed. 'Are you taking to landscape gardening, Bart?' hesaid. 'I never knew before you had an eye for effect.'
Bart sat down on the step. 'It's no joking matter, Morty,' he said.'My mother and Challis will be home in a month; we've got to make theplace look up a bit before they come. The governor's been makingbonfires of all the rubbish since breakfast--it does look tidier,doesn't it?'
Mortimer looked round. 'It's not the same place,' he said heartily, andadded for encouragement, 'And after all, perhaps they won't come, oldfellow; you know you've had a lot of false alarms.'
'Oh, but this time it's certain,' Bart said, and not withoutunhappiness; 'they've actually started by this.'
Floss came clattering out in her rough boots. She sat down on the otherside of the family friend.
'I knewed it was you when I heard Pup bark,' she said; 'you came lastSunday, too, and the Sunday before that.'
'Did I, Flossie?' he said. 'That sounds as if it were a Sunday toomany.'
'Oh no, no one minds you,' she answered; 'if it were your father, now,or the Revering Mr. Smith, it might be a nuisance; we'd have to put aclean tablecloth on for them.'
'And that sounds as if I am going to be asked to stay to tea, Floss?'Mortimer said.
'Of course you are,' was Flossie's reply. 'Miss Browne says it's theleast we can do, considering all the papers and things you give us.Only she says she doesn't know how she's going to make the butter spinout. We don't get it from the store again till Thursday.'
'There, hold your tongue, Floss,' said Bart, 'you'll make Morty afraidto take any.'
'Oh no, he needn't be,' Floss said. 'Me and Roly's going to say wedon't like it under our jam.'
Roly came stealthily from behind some trees.
'Where is she?' he whispered.
'It's all right,' Floss said; 'she's got to change her dress, and herhair was pretty awful, so she'll have to do it again.'
Thus reassured, Roly ventured to the step, and took up a position atMortimer's shoulder. He was attired in an orange and blue-stripedfootball jersey, and the most respectable pair of knickerbockers hepossessed. Mortimer had given him the jersey on his last birthday, andit was the boy's dearest possession.
'Why,' said Mortimer, 'what have you been after? Is Miss Browne layingwait for you for stealing her jam?'
'Oh no,' said Roly. 'It's only this,' and he pointed to his jersey;'she doesn't think it's religious to wear football things on Sunday.'
'Well,' said Floss, in the virtuous tone a clean pinafore madejustifiable, 'I don't think it is, either. Look at me. I learnt acollect this morning.'
'A what?' said Roly.
'A collect,' said Floss. 'Collect for the thirteenth Sunday afterTrinity. Hermie wasn't sure if this was the right Sunday, only it was anice short one to begin with.'
'Does Miss Hermie teach you your collects?' asked Mortimer, his headturned away a little.
'She wants to,' said Floss, 'but I don't know if she'll always be ableto find me. She was looking for Roly, too, this morning, only he wasplaying Boers somewhere, so he got off.'
'Wasn't playing Boers,' said Roly. 'I was putting a new name on ourgate.'
'What a story you are!' cried Floss. 'I saw you creeping along withfather's guns.'
'Wasn't!' said Roly. 'Hadn't I got this jersey on?'
'That's nothing; you sleep in it--truly he does, Morty. As soon asHermie or Miss Browne go out of the room, he puts on the jersey over hispyjamas. Why he hates school is 'cause he can't go in it.'
'What name were you writing on the gate, old fellow?' asked Mortimer, tosave the situation.
'Transvaal Vale,' said Roly; 'come on down and see--it looks great. Irubbed Hermie's silly name off.'
But Mortimer did not move. Dunks' Selection the place had always been,and always would be called; but Hermie in piteous rebellion had writtenyears ago in violet ink on the sliprails, The Rosery. Mortimer wouldnot go and look at the poor little name defaced.
Miss Browne came out, Miss Browne with her face shiny with recentwashing, her hair almost tidy, the better of her two colourless gowns onher back.
'Very glad indeed to see you--very sorry to keep you waiting solong--hope you, your father is quite well--Bart, my dear, a chair--whatare you thinking of, to let Mr. Stevenson sit on the step?--very sadabout the war--Flossie, don't tease Mr. Stevenson, my dear--quite a coolday--providential thing the drought has broken--hope you will stay totea.'
These and sundry other remarks she delivered breathlessly, and at theend put her hand to her side and gasped gently.
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'I shall be most pleased to stay, Miss Browne, if it will be putting youto no inconvenience,' Mortimer said.
'Most pleased--most happy--an honour--who is so kind, sothoughtful--those English magazines--and she had never thanked him yet,and those delicious chocolates--too good of him; most glad if he wouldstay--uncomfortable house--unavoidable--bush, no comfort--he wouldunderstand----'
'He knows he's not to take more than two helpings of butter,' said Bart,with a twinkle in his eye.
'Bart, my dear--oh, my love--your mother--what would she say?--Mr.Stevenson--what can he think?--my dear--oh, my love,' and the poor ladywithdrew in hot haste, to hide the embarrassment Bart had plunged herinto, and to laboriously prepare tea.
'I see your father's come down generously,' said Mr. Cameron, glancingup a moment from his papers. 'Matthew Stevenson--that is your father,of course--five thousand pounds, and more if wanted, to the fund for theBushmen's Contingent.'
'Yes, that's the governor,' Mortimer said. 'He's red-hot on the war. Ibelieve if he were five years younger, wild horses wouldn't keep himback from volunteering himself. You must come up to Coolooli and have achat with him over it, Mr. Cameron.'
But Cameron was deep again in the war correspondent's letter.
Bart went off to feed the calves--Roly had vanished at the sound of MissBrowne's footstep.
'Did you know our mother and Challis was coming home, Morty?' saidFloss.
'Bart just told me--yes, that will be very nice for you, Flossie. Allwill be well, now, won't it?' said Mortimer.
'Oh, you're like the rest, are you?' Floss said. 'Every one going tolive happy ever after, eh? No, thank you, not me; I'm always going tohate them. They don't get over me. No, thank you. I know them--bringme a doll, won't they? and "There you are, Flossie darling, sweetest,come and kiss us." Not me. See my finger wet, see it dry, cut mythroat sure's ever I die, if I have anything to do with them.Stuck-ups, that's what they are!'
Mortimer gazed on the child, a little uncomfortable horror mixed withhis amusement; his bringing-up had been orthodox, and reverence forparents was entwined with all his life.
'Why, girlie,' he said, 'this is shocking! Your own mother!'
'Challis's mother,' corrected Floss. 'Didn't she go off and leave me?Lot she cared! I was only two, Lizzie says, and I might have picked upanything, and eaten it and died. Even Mrs. Bickle minds her baby,although she does get drunk at times. S'pose I'd had measles? or Roly?We'd have died, or at least got dropsy, Lizzie says, having no mother tonurse us. No, thank you--no getting round me with a doll. As for thatChallis, I'll give her a time of it--just you see.'
'But--but--but,' cried Mortimer, greatly at a loss, 'your mother is asfond of you as anything, of course. I expect it is very hard for her togo so long without seeing you. She doesn't do it on purpose, old woman.You see, Challis was so clever they had to give her a chance.'
'How do they know I'm not clever?' demanded Floss. 'I believe I am.You should have seen the man I drew on my slate this morning. Or how dothey know I couldn't play before the Queen? I'm up to "What are theWild Waves Saying?" and it's got two flats.'
Mortimer had no answer for this; he could only gaze at her.
There was another step in the doorway, and Hermie came out, a veryslender-looking Hermie in the let-down white frock that had made a womanof her in a day. Floss leaned back and giggled as her sister shookhands with the visitor.
'He! he! he! She's put her long dress on,' she said. 'Morty, look!it's as long as Miss Browne's. You'd think she never had short ones,wouldn't you? She's 'tending she's growed up.'
'Flossie,' said Mortimer, 'wouldn't you like to look at my watch? youhaven't seen the works for a long time.'
'Me holding it then,' stipulated Flossie.
'All right,' said Mortimer, and gave up his valuable timekeeper into thebony little outstretched hand.
'You spoil that child shockingly,' Hermie said.
Floss looked up from the entrancing little wheels.
'He spoils you worser,' she said. 'Look at the books and flowers andchocolates he brings over and gives you, no matter how bad-tempered youmay be.'
Hermie looked vaguely disturbed.
'Spoil me--do you spoil me? Surely I'm too big,' she said.
The man's heart leapt to his eyes.
'Wish I'd the chance,' he muttered.
'What did you say?' said Hermie.
'Nothing,' said Mortimer, and began to smoke furiously again.
'Morty,' said Floss, 'Morty, how many times does the littlest wheel turnwhile the big wheel turns once?'
'Thirteen,' Mortimer said recklessly.--'I hear your mother is cominghome, Miss Cameron?'
'Yes,' sighed Hermie.
'This is surely very good news?'
Hermie gave a troubled glance around.
'Y-yes,' she said.
'Why, what a story you are, Morty!' said Floss. 'It doesn't turnthirteen times.'
'I mean thirty,' said Morty. 'Miss Cameron, I have three men loafingaround at the sheds, and can't find work for them to do. It would bedoing me a real kindness if you'd let them put in their timestraightening up this place.'
'Thank you,' Hermie said, 'but we should not like to employ men we werenot paying.'
'Not when they're eating their heads off in idleness?' implored Morty.
'No, thank you,' Hermie said stiffly.
'I beg your pardon,' Mortimer said dejectedly.
'I should think you do,' cried Floss; 'it doesn't turn anything likethirty times. I wouldn't have a watch I didn't understand. Here, takeit.'
He pocketed it humbly.
'I'd like to see the ground Bart spoke of sowing Burnett on,' he said,plunging away from his mistake. 'Will you walk down with me, MissCameron? It is quite cool and pleasant now.'
Hermie rose to her feet, then remembered her shabby little shoes thatshe had all this time been successfully hiding beneath her long dress.
'Oh,' she said, 'it's too far. Floss will go with you, won't you,Floss? I will go in and help Miss Browne with tea.'