THE HOUSE BY ATHOLTON
The little feet that run to me,
The little hands that strive
To touch me at the heart, and find
The heart in me alive.
O God! if hands and feet should fail!
If Death his mist should fling
Between my heart and the touch of
The little living thing!
—_R. Crawford._
IT was late in the afternoon of the third day, and in a cloud of thick
dust the riders were hurrying along the road towards Atholton. Ahead
they could see the scattered roofs of the little township, showing white
among the trees; but everything was obscured by the dust that swirled
and eddied, now tearing away before them in a cloud sixty feet high, or
seeming to stand still all around them, blinding any vision for more
than a few yards. Behind a leaden sky glowered through the dust clouds,
or was revealed, darkly purple, when they rose for an instant to swirl
and scurry, and grow dense again, as the shrieking wind came in a fresh
gust.
Three days of gradually mounting heat had worked up to a tempestuous
change. All day, riding had been anything but pleasant. Even in early
morning the air had been still and heavy, after a night of breathless
heat. They had left camp not long after sunrise, intending to rest
during the middle of the day; but the weather had tried the horses; they
had travelled badly, sweating before they had gone a mile, so that
progress was slow. Mr. Linton had cut the noon “spell” ruthlessly short.
“We’ll have to hurry,” he said, glancing uneasily at the sullen sky.
“This means a big storm, and it’s very doubtful if we can escape it,
even now. As far as I remember there’s no shelter at all between here
and Atholton, and there is too much big timber along the track to be
safe in a storm. Billy, you travel the slowest—cut along!”
Billy proceeded to “cut,” not unwillingly. He hated storms, even as a
cat, and firmly believed that thunder was the noise of innumerable
“debbil-debbils,” let loose dangerously near the inhabitants of earth,
and at any moment likely to fall on the just and the unjust. He mounted
Bung Eye and jogged off along the track, the packhorse toiling in the
rear. Ten minutes later saw the rest of the party in pursuit.
From the first it was evident that the ride would be a race with the
storm. Mr. Linton made all the haste that was possible for the horses;
but the way was long and the heat so breathless that it seemed cruel to
urge the poor brutes along. A purple cloud came up out of the west, and
spread up and up; then a murky haze obscured the sun, yet brought no
lessening of heat. Finally came a low sighing of faraway wind, and long
before it struck them they could see distant tree-tops swaying and
bending before the fury of the blast. They came to a sharp turn in the
road, facing eastwards.
“Thank goodness, there’s Atholton!” uttered Mr. Linton, pointing at the
roofs far ahead. “We may get off with dry skins if we gallop.”
They shook up the horses. Even as they did so, the beginning of the
storm was upon them in a furious gust of wind that gathered up the loose
summer dust of the road and carried it high into the air. It was
impossible to see more than a few yards ahead except between the gusts.
They rode blindly, trusting to their horses, and fairly sure that on
such an afternoon there would be no other obstacles of traffic on the
lonely bush track. On either side the thick timber creaked and groaned
in the wind, and occasionally a sharp crack told of a limb or a treetop
breaking under the strain. Then the horses bounded as a sharp crackle of
thunder came out of the west and ran round the sky in a heavy, echoing
roll, followed by a vivid flash of lightning. Heavy drops began to fall,
splashing into the thick dust underfoot.
“Gad! There’s a house!” said Mr. Linton thankfully. “Make for the gate,
Jim.”
A hundred yards ahead a white cottage stood near the track, in the midst
of a pleasant orchard. As they clattered up to the road gate, a woman
came out upon the verandah and waved to them energetically, beckoning
them in. Garryowen propped at the gate, and Jim swung it open. The sky
seemed to split with another thunderclap as they rode through, and then
came rain, like a curtain, blotting out everything behind them.
The woman rushed down to the little garden gate as they raced to it.
“Let the young ladies come in here—quick! There’s a shed over there for
the horses.”
“Off you get, girls!” Mr. Linton said. Jean and Norah slipped to the
ground, yielding their bridles into ready hands, and ran up the garden
path behind their hostess. The rain was pelting upon the iron roof of
the little cottage with a noise like musketry.
“I don’t think you’re very wet,” panted the woman. She darted into the
house, returning with towels, and rubbed them down as they stood on the
verandah, despite their protests.
“We’re truly all right,” Norah told her. “Thank you ever so much. But
what luck! Five minutes later and we’d have been soaked to the skin but
for your house. And it isn’t a joke to get everything wet through when
you’re camping, as we are, and travelling as light as possible.”
“I should think not,” said their hostess—a tall woman, whitefaced and
delicate in appearance, with tired grey eyes, that had black half
circles beneath them. “Fact is, I’ve been looking out for you—the
storekeeper in the township was telling me Mr. Linton’s party was to
come through Atholton this evening. I’ve been thinking about you all the
afternoon, wondering if the storm would catch you.”
“You were very good,” Jean told her, shyly.
“Oh, I don’t know. There isn’t so much to think about in these
places—one’s glad of any excitement. I’d have been more excited if I’d
known it wasn’t only men riding. It’s a big ride for you two girls.”
“We’re used to it,” said Norah. “It’s been lovely, until to-day; that
has certainly been a bit hot. It’s hot still, isn’t it?”
“Close as ever it can be,” said the woman. “But the rain’ll cool it.”
She peeped round the corner of the verandah, putting her head into the
rain. “They’re all right in the shed, horses and all. Will you go into
the house and sit down and rest?”
“I think it’s nice out here,” Norah said, hesitatingly.
“Well, it is better than inside—the house is heated right through,”
said the woman. “Wooden houses cool quickly, but they heat like an oven,
don’t they? I’ll bring out chairs.” She disappeared—her movements were
curiously quick—and came out laden. They sat on the verandah, with the
pelting rain beating all round them, and a sense of wet coolness
gradually coming over the hot atmosphere.
She was anxious to talk—this gaunt, hungry-eyed woman of the Bush. She
went from one subject to another almost feverishly, asking them a
hundred questions—of home, of school, of the life that was so busy
hundreds of miles away from her lonely home in the timber. And always
her eyes wandered restlessly, as if she were seeking. Once she failed to
answer a question, staring before her with a strained look that was half
expectancy and half despair. Then she came back to attention with a
start, and begged their pardon.
“I—I was listening,” she said. “I didn’t quite hear what you were
saying.”
The storm began to wear itself out after a while, and she took them into
the house, saying that they would be glad of a wash and brush up while
she made some tea. She showed them into a neat little bedroom, and
brought a brimming can of hot water.
“Just you make yourselves quite at home,” she said. “Don’t hurry; I’ll
call you when I got tea made.” She went out, closing the door.
It was a bright little room, with a cheap blue paper on the walls, and
crisp, fresh curtains at the window. Everything was poor, but spotlessly
clean.
“Isn’t it nice?” Jean said. “It smells of lavender and things!”
“And as if the window were always open,” said Norah, approvingly. “I
like it—and I like her, too. Don’t you, Jean?”
“Yes—I do,” Jean said, slowly. “She—she’s a bit queer though, isn’t
she?”
“She’s got a scared sort of look,” Norah said, trying to find words.
“Perhaps she’s had a lot of trouble. Ever so many women in the Bush do,
I think. But I like her eyes, though they’re so tired.”
“They’re mother-y sort of eyes,” said Jean, her thoughts suddenly flying
to her own mother, in far-off New Zealand. “I wonder if that’s her
little girl?”
A photograph smiled at them from a cheap frame on the wall—a little
laughing child, taken in the stiff, conventional manner of the country
photographer, yet dimpling into merriment as if at some suddenly happy
thought.
“Oh!” said Norah. “What a dear little youngster! Isn’t she a darling!”
She faced round as the door opened, and their hostess came in, bringing
clean towels. “We’re just in love with this,” she said, indicating the
photograph. “Is she your little girl?”
The woman put down the towels in silence. Her face was working, and
before the misery in her eyes Jean and Norah shrank back aghast. There
was a moment’s dreadful silence. Then she spoke in a strained, unnatural
voice.
“She was—once,” she said. “But she’s dead. We lost her. She’s dead.
Dead!” Suddenly she was gone, the door slamming behind her.
The girls looked at each other dumbly, horror-stricken.
“Oh, I say!” said Jean, presently. “Oh, weren’t we idiots! I’m so sorry
we asked her.”
“Poor thing!” Norah said, her voice a shade unsteady. “Oh, poor thing!
Did you see how terrible her eyes were?”
Jean nodded. “There couldn’t be anything more awful than to have a
kiddie like that, and then for it to die,” she said. “No wonder she
looks so—so hungry. I wish we hadn’t asked her.”
“So do I,” Norah said. “It must have hurt her dreadfully—and she’s been
very kind to us. But how could we guess?”
“I don’t half like going out,” said Jean. “I wish we could slip away.”
“We couldn’t do that,” Norah said, shaking her head. “Come on. We’d
better hurry, because Dad and the boys will be over. The rain has nearly
stopped.”
They found the rest of their party in the kitchen, when they made their
way out presently, considerably refreshed. Their hostess was bustling
about, setting out cups and saucers. She met their half-nervous glances
quite cheerfully.
“Perhaps you two would butter some scones for me,” she said. She smiled
at them—a kindly look that told them they had nothing to worry about.
And Norah and Jean took the task thankfully.
“Now what are you going to do?”
Their hostess asked the question of Mr. Linton across the empty teapot.
It was a large teapot, but it had been filled and emptied twice. Now
every one was feeling better.
“You can’t go camping to-night,” she went on. “The ground will be
soaking and you’d get your death of cold. Besides, it may rain again; I
don’t believe it’s all over yet.”
“Oh, camping is out of the question,” Mr. Linton answered. “We’ll have
to find shelter in the township, that’s all. I suppose there’s an
hotel?”
“If you call it one,” said the woman, sniffing. “Sort of bush shanty, I
should call it—and not too good a specimen at that. Very rough style,
and not too clean—and that’s putting a pretty fine point upon it. You
couldn’t possibly take these children there.” She nodded in a friendly
way at Jean and Norah.
“H’m—that’s awkward,” said the squatter. “Are there any farms about
that would take us in?”
“I don’t know of any. Most of the people about here have small houses
and they’re pretty crowded.” She hesitated. “If you gentlemen could
manage at the hotel, I’d be very glad to have the girls here.”
“That’s very good of you,” Mr. Linton said, hesitating in his turn. She
read the shade of doubt in his eyes.
“You know my husband, I think,” she said; “he’s Jack Archdale, that used
to be boundary rider at the Darrells’ station.”
“Why, of course!” said Mr. Linton. “And you—weren’t you teaching in the
State school at Mulgoa? I seem to remember hearing of Archdale’s
wedding.”
“Yes, Mr. Darrell gave us a great wedding,” said Mrs. Archdale, smiling.
“Five years ago, nearly; we came up here soon after.” Her face clouded
momentarily, as if remembering. “Jack’s doing contract work; he’ll be in
after a while. So, will you trust your belongings to me, Mr. Linton?”
“Only too gladly,” said the squatter, in a voice of relief. “It’s
exceptionally lucky for us, Mrs. Archdale. One has to take risks of
finding rowdy bush inns when one goes for wild expeditions, but I
confess I’m glad not to have to take the girls there. I’m greatly
obliged to you.”
“Oh, it’s a real treat to me,” she said. “It’s lonely here; I don’t seem
to make great friends with the township people, and Jack’s away all day;
and you can’t be always scrubbing and cleaning a house of this size, to
keep yourself occupied. You don’t know how glad I’ve been of a talk with
them already—and they took pity on my questions!” She flashed a smile
across at Norah that suddenly made her tired face quite like that of the
little laughing child in the photograph. “You won’t mind staying with
me?” she asked, a little wistfully.
“We’ll be awfully glad to,” Norah said. As a rule, she was a little shy
of strangers, but there was something about this woman that made her
feel more like a friend; and Norah was desperately sorry for the brave
heart behind the haggard eyes.
It was a little hard to say good-bye to Mr. Linton and the boys, seeing
them ride off to the township in the clean, rainwashed dusk. But they
found plenty to do in helping their hostess, although she would have had
them sit still and do nothing. And there was an odd fascination about
her—about her quick voice and quick movements, and quaint, unexpected
streaks of merriment, that set them laughing very often. Archdale was a
big, silent fellow, who evidently worshipped his wife’s very shadow. His
eyes scarcely left her as she flitted about the kitchen preparing the
evening meal. The photograph that they had seen was in every room—a big
enlargement of it in Mrs. Archdale’s bedroom. It even smiled from over
the polished tins upon the kitchen mantelpiece, and sometimes Norah saw
the father’s eyes wander to it sadly.
After tea they talked on the front verandah, having made a joint
business of the washing up. Jack Archdale went to bed soon. He had had a
long day’s work in the heat. But his wife kept Jean and Norah up a
little longer, always talking. A strong restlessness never left her. It
was evidently hard for her to sit still, and to keep silent a harder
thing yet. Still, she made them so merry when she talked that they
forgot that they were tired, and were sorry when at last she packed them
off to the fragrant little bedroom with the blue walls.
“I do like her,” Jean said. They were tucked into bed together, the
moonlight coming in through the open window, and making a white ray
across the sheet.
“She’s just a dear,” Norah agreed. “But, oh! hasn’t she sorry eyes!
Don’t you wish one could make her forget?”
“My word!” said Jean, with emphasis. “But no mother ever could forget
losing a little kiddie, I expect. And she hasn’t got any others.”
There came a tap at the half-open door, and Mrs. Archdale came in. She
sat down on Norah’s side of the bed, which was nearest the door. The
moonlight fell on her face, showing it quite colourless.
“You’re quite comfortable?” she asked. “That’s right. I thought I’d like
to see. I like some one to tuck up. I thought I’d come and—and tuck you
up.”
Something in her voice kept them silent. But Norah put out a
half-nervous hand, and Mrs. Archdale took it and held it.
“And—and tell you about her,” she said.
Then she was silent again. Outside in the paddocks a curlew was calling
wearily across the timber.
“I’m sure I must have frightened you this afternoon,” she said at last.
“I was dreadfully ashamed of myself.”
“Please, don’t!” Norah whispered. “We shouldn’t have asked you.”
“Why not? If I can’t stand being asked, I have no business to keep the
pictures about. Only—you see it was on just such a day as this that we
lost her—fearfully hot, and ending in a big thunderstorm. Just like
to-day—and whenever one comes, I go nearly mad. I can’t keep still, and
all the time I’m listening and looking. I know it’s terribly foolish,
but I can’t help it. Jack knows; he always understands, and he doesn’t
go away from me these days unless he can’t get out of it.”
She stopped, and they felt her shivering.
“You see, we lost her in the scrub,” she said, dully.
“What!”
“She slipped away into the timber. She was only just three, and no
little child has much chance in the Bush. How would they have? It’s so
big and lonely, and cruel—oh, how I hate it! We hunted—we were hunting
so soon! and all the district turned out, and we got the black trackers.
But it was so hot—and then the big storm came up, and when it was over
there were no tracks.”
She ceased, looking out of the window—so long silent that it seemed
that she had forgotten them.
“So we never found her,” she said at length, quite calmly. “The Bush
just took her and swallowed her up. We looked for weeks; long and long
after all the other people had given it up—and they didn’t give up
soon—Jack and I were hunting. All day long, and often all night too;
calling and calling, as long as we thought that she could answer. And
after that we hunted, only we did not call. And then, like a fool, I got
brain fever, and while I was ill the big Bush fires came and burnt all
that part of the scrub. It’s fifteen months ago, now.”
Jean was sobbing softly. But Norah could only cling to the hard,
work-worn hand she held, very tightly.
“I often think how lucky mothers are who see their kiddies die,” the
tired voice went on. “They know they helped them as much as was
possible, and they have their graves to look after. I haven’t got
anything—no grave, and no memories. Then I think of her lost and
wandering in that horrible green prison—tired and frightened, and
calling me; and I don’t know how much she suffered. Why, it scares men
to get lost in the Bush—and my little Babs was only three. If I
knew—if I knew that she died easily. It isn’t fair on a mother not to
know, when she was such a baby thing. It isn’t fair.”
She had quite forgotten them now. It was as if she was talking to
herself.
“Jack wants to go away from here,” she said. “But I can’t go. I can’t
go. I always keep thinking that some day when I am walking through the
scrub I might find—something. And then at least I would have the little
grave. It would be easier than having just nothing. Jack doesn’t like me
to go looking, now. But I have to keep on. When you’ve put your baby to
bed every night for three years—kissed her and played with her—how she
used to laugh!—and heard her say her little prayers, and tucked her in,
you can’t settle down to leaving her alone at night out in the timber.
You just can’t do it.”
Again the voice ceased, and she sat staring out of the open window.
After a long while she got up, still holding Norah’s hand.
“Good-night,” she said. “Perhaps I oughtn’t to have told you. But I had
to, somehow. If it hadn’t been this kind of a day I could have told you
lots of funny little things she used to do.” And with that dreadful
little speech on her lips she went away.