THE LAST NIGHT
The gray gums by the lonely creek,
The star-crowned heights,
The wind-swept plain, the dim blue peak,
The cold white light,
The solitude spread near and far
Around the camp-fire’s tiny star,
The horse bells’ melody remote,
The curlew’s melancholy note
Across the night.
—_G. Essex Evans._
“WELL, she’s a queer little atom,” said David Linton, surveying the
treasure trove. “Strong and healthy, too, I should say, if one could see
anything for stains and dirt. She’s inconceivably dirty. Has she made
any remarks on the situation?”
“She seems to approve of you, at any rate, Nor.,” said Jim. “What on
earth are you going to do with her?”
“Bath her,” said Norah promptly. “Thank goodness, Mrs. Archdale isn’t
going to see her looking like that!”
“I don’t fancy the poor soul would worry over that point of view,” said
her father. “But bath her, by all means—you’ll certainly require to do
so, as she’ll have to be in your tent all night.”
“A mercy we’ve got the washing-up tin,” remarked Norah, looking with
approval at a half kerosene tin which had formed a somewhat disputed
part of their pack; “and ammonia—I’d never get her clean without it.
Brownie put in a bottle in case of insect stings.”
“You’ll need it all,” Jim said, grimly. “Will she speak, Nor.?”
“She won’t say a word so far,” Norah answered. “I wonder if she has
forgotten how? A baby like that would forget nearly everything in a year
and a quarter, wouldn’t she?”
The child stood in the midst of the group, one hand clinging tightly to
Norah’s finger. She had said nothing since she had been suddenly left
among the strangers. As the black woman rushed away from her she had
made an instinctive movement to follow her, but Billy had been too
quick, his hand falling on her tiny shoulder before she had taken two
steps. At his touch the little thing had given a terrified start, and
then, moved by some hidden instinct, had fled to Norah, whose hands were
held out to her. Since then she had not relinquished her grip on Norah’s
finger. She gazed from one to the other with great, unwinking eyes.
“Perhaps she hasn’t forgotten her name,” Jean suggested. “Try her.”
So Norah knelt down before the ragged little figure.
“Babs!” she said softly. “Babs!”
The baby looked at her. Something like a gleam of recognition came into
her eyes. But beyond that she would give no sign, and at last Norah gave
up the attempt.
“I’d better bath her now,” she said; “her hair must be quite dry before
she goes to sleep. Billy, you boil the billy quick as you can.”
“What on earth are you going to dress her in?” Jim asked. “You can’t put
those rags on her again.”
“I should think not!” his sister answered, eyeing the malodorous tatters
disgustedly. “Jean and I will fix up something.”
“You had better fix it up out of a blanket, then,” her father observed.
“I don’t suppose she has encountered water for fifteen months—and we
don’t want her to take a chill.”
“All right,” said Jean, nodding wisely. “I’ve got an idea, and we have
needles and thread.”
“Then we can leave it to you two,” said Mr. Linton, with relief.
“You can,” said Norah. “Only keep the supply of hot water going!”
They needed all they could get, and the soap was at a low ebb and the
ammonia bottle empty before they made little Babs Archdale clean. At
first she objected strenuously to the process, and her screams rent the
air, and she struggled furiously, so that it took both attendants of the
bath to hold her, and much soap went in her eyes. But once her hair was
washed and tucked up out of her way, she suddenly became good, and
submitted happily to their ministrations, revelling in the warm soapy
water.
They stripped her rags off with gingerly movements, and Jean carried
them on a stick into the scrub. All the child’s skin was stained with
some dark juice and grimed with the dirt of long months; but it yielded
to the scrubbing, and Babs emerged from the final rinsing water a very
different being from the grubby picaninny who had gone in—the white
skin of her shining little body a startling contrast to the deep
sun-brown of her face and arms and legs. Norah rolled her in a towel and
tossed her upon a bunk in the tent, rubbing and patting her gently, in
sheer happiness over the slender, sweet-smelling little form. Out of the
final towelling, Babs sat up, glowing and dimpling. She broke into
sudden, happy laughter.
“Oh, you darling!” Norah said, catching her up. “Jean, isn’t she just
lovely? Babs! Oh, I do want your mother to see you!”
Babs looked at her, opened her mouth, and then closed it.
“Muvver!” she said, quite clearly. “Muvver!” At which Norah and Jean,
unable to contain their emotions, hugged each other very heartily—to
the great delight of Babs, who sat upon the bed like a piebald Cupid and
dimpled into laughter again at this strange pair.
Over the tangled curls both girls worked despairingly, while Babs
submitted with a stoicism that said much for her sojourn as an
aboriginal.
Norah stopped at last, and put down the comb.
“I think we’re a pair of duffers,” she said. “We might work all night at
that mop, and it wouldn’t be right—indeed, I believe most of it will
have to be cut off. But can’t you imagine how Mrs. Archdale will just
love doing it!”
“Well, it’s clean, at any rate,” said Jean philosophically. “And that’s
the main thing.”
It was a quaint little figure that they led out for inspection; and the
boys roared with laughter, to the great disgust of the object of their
mirth, who tucked her damp head into Norah’s neck and refused to face
the audience for some time. Finally she condescended to sit on David
Linton’s knee and inspect his watch—and brought down rounds of
delighted applause by suddenly bending forward and “blowing” in the
time-honoured fashion for the case to be opened.
“Jean, may I employ you as a tailor?” Wally asked, solemnly.
The small person was attired in a fearful and wonderful garment
contrived by Jean out of a soft blanket—coming high round her neck, and
ending in brief trouser legs, from which the bare, brown knees emerged.
Over it she wore a linen coat of Norah’s—the sleeves turned back almost
to the shoulders, and a world too wide for the tiny arms that seemed to
be lost within them. But there was no doubt that Babs was happy and
comfortable, albeit not clad according to the dictates of fashion.
“It’s peculiar, isn’t it?” said Jean, surveying her handiwork. “Most of
it is sewn together on her, and she’ll have to be unpicked for her next
bath. Don’t you think I was clever to manage to get the pink stripes
right down the front?”
“You’re a genius!” Wally said, greatly impressed. “There is, however, a
sterner side to it. Do I not recognize my blanket?”
“You do,” said Jean. “It happened to be the softest. Anyway, you’ve got
another, and it’s going to be a hot night.”
“A fair exchange isn’t any robbery,” said Norah, with striking
originality. “The other part of Babs’ attire is in the scrub, if you’d
care for it!”
“I scorn you both,” said Wally. “It’s an abominable thing to be made a
philanthropist against one’s will!” He fell to tickling Babs’ brown toes
with a stem of grass, to the great delight of the mite.
She was quite friendly with them all by the time tea was ready, when she
displayed an appetite that would, Wally averred, have shamed a
hippopotamus, and ate until she bulged visibly, and Norah had fearful
visions of her exploding. Nothing, apparently, came amiss to her, and
her cheerful desire to eat anything whatever led to harrowing
conjectures as to what could have been her principal diet during her
life in the scrub.
“Kangaroo rat and wallaby, most likely,” Jim remarked; “varied with
fish, in various stages of preservation, and nice succulent tree-grubs!”
“Be quiet, you disgusting creature!” said Wally, in extreme horror. “You
spoil my appetite.” He helped himself to a mammoth slice of cake.
“Looks like it!” Jim grinned. “Well, Babs can’t furnish you with details
of her late guardian’s menu, I suppose; but I wouldn’t mind betting it
didn’t vary much from my ideas.”
“Bless her!” said Norah, fatuously. “We’ll give her everything we’ve got
that’s nice now to make up.” She tempted Babs with a chocolate, and Babs
swiftly fell before the temptation.
“I think you’d better call a halt,” observed Mr. Linton. “That child has
eaten as much as any two of the party—and she’ll be asleep in about a
minute. You ought to put her to bed, Norah—we shall want to make an
early start for Atholton.”
Babs was nearly asleep by the time Norah had tucked her into her bunk.
She clung to her finger still, and drowsily put her face up to be
kissed—a forgotten instinct, coming back as consciousness slipped away.
And all through the night she nestled to her closely, one little hand
clinging to her sleeve. Norah did not sleep much. She did not want to;
it seemed to her that she dare not cease protecting the tiny dreaming
mite for this last night—to keep her safe for the morrow, that meant
such bewilderment of joy for the forlorn hearts in the little cottage by
Atholton. At the thought she thrilled with an eagerness that left her
almost trembling. Even the short few hours seemed long to wait—thinking
of Babs Archdale’s mother.
“But it’s only one more night!” she whispered. “You’ll know soon.” She
smiled in the moonlight, raising herself a trifle to watch the little
face nestling near her.
David Linton slept across the tent doorway this night.
“Just as well,” he said. “I wouldn’t risk to-morrow for the Archdales
for all Billabong!”
And out in the gloom of the scrub, where the moonlight scarcely filtered
through the tracery of boughs to the boulder-strewn ground, a woman
crouched, lonely, in her ruined wurley among the rocks. Sometimes she
muttered angrily; sometimes her wild eyes, fiercely stupid, closed in
sleep, and then her hands moved restlessly, seeking for a little body
that no longer lay against her breast. She was outcast, loathsome, a
pariah; every man’s hand would be against her, and only the wild hills
left to her for refuge. But perhaps the calm stars, that see so many
lonely mothers, looked down pityingly upon this black mother, who had
been lonely, too.