DOWN THE MOUNTAIN
Oh, little body, nestled on my heart!
—_M. Forrest._
THEY fixed a saddle-pad for Babs in front of Norah, and she rode proudly
into Atholton. The horses did not make her afraid at all; indeed, she
welcomed them with shouts of glee, appearing a little doubtful as to
whether they were pets or things to eat—but in either case greatly to
be desired. And when she was mounted before Norah, with one hand
clutching a lock of old Warder’s mane and the other holding Norah’s
finger, she had nothing left to wish for. She chuckled at frequent
intervals; any object along the track, from a kookaburra to a lizard,
moved her to little shouts of laughter, though it was painfully certain
that she wished to devour the lizard. “I never saw such a merry baby,”
said Jean.
Gradually words came back to her. At first they caught fragments of
native dialect, chiefly unintelligible; but, with the talk about her,
and the kind voices that spoke to her, English words returned brokenly
to the baby tongue. She answered quite soon to her own name, looking up
whenever she heard “Babs” with a quaint, elfish half smile; and before
breakfast was over she had made a hesitating attempt at “Norah”—finding
the “r” altogether too hard a stumbling block. Her vocabulary was not
large, but she made the most of it. And all the time as they rode down
Ben Athol, Norah taught her one word—leaning forward, holding her
closely, one arm round the quicksilver little body. One word, over and
over again—_Mother, Mother, Mother_.
Norah never could have told much about the way down. It was steep, she
knew, and stony; she was glad old Warder was surefooted, since to him
was left most of the responsibility of the track. There were birds
singing everywhere, in the Bush and in her own heart; there was blue sky
overhead, and a little breeze that just redeemed the day from heat. It
could not have been otherwise than a perfect day. But for Norah there
was no view beyond the mat of black curls against her breast; no thought
beyond the one that surged and sang within her. An old verse beat in her
happy brain—“For this thy brother was dead and is alive again; and was
lost and is found.”
“Contented, my girl?” David Linton asked, riding beside her.
“I’m happy,” Norah answered, and smiled up at the tall man on the great
black horse. “I’m not quite contented yet. But I will be, soon.” Then
Babs developed a determination to ride Monarch, and lurched forward so
suddenly that she only saved her by a spasmodic grip that included some
of Babs, as well as her clothing—to the no small indignation of Babs.
“Don’t be ambitious quite so early, my lass,” said Jim, gravely,
regarding the scarlet and wrathful picaninny with a judicial air. “Time
enough to hitch your waggon to a star when you’re a bit older.” Hearing
which profound reflection, and understanding no syllable of it, but
deciding that she liked the voice in which it was proffered, Babs
promptly transferred her affections to Garryowen, and was with
difficulty restrained from transferring herself as well. Norah evaded
both difficulties by seizing advantage of a tiny stretch of flat ground
and, cantering across it, thereby so entrancing her passenger that she
was never again satisfied with anything so ordinary as a walking
pace—which was unfortunate, as to canter down Ben Athol demanded
four-footed agility usually withheld from all but circus horses. There
was no lack of excitement in riding with Babs Archdale.
They lunched on the lower slopes of the mountain—cutting the spell
short, since Norah’s restlessness to be gone made it impossible for her
to sit still. Then, still in the early afternoon, they saw the roofs of
Atholton below them, half hidden in the timber.
On the flat, just where the hills ended, they shook up their horses and
cantered quickly over the half-mile that lay between them and the
village. Scarcely any one was in sight; Atholton slumbered peacefully,
oblivious of intruders. The storekeeper, shirt-sleeved and with pipe in
mouth, lounged on his verandah, and greeted them jovially as they came
up, Jim and his father in the lead.
“Got back, have you?” he said. “And had a good trip, by the looks of
you!” His eye travelled back to Norah. “Didn’t knock you up, Miss
Linton——” His voice stopped abruptly on a note of amazement. Staring,
he was silent, and his pipe clattered from his mouth to the ground.
“Why!” he gasped. “Good Lord—you’ve got little Babs Archdale!”
“Let us have a frock of some kind for her—quick as you can, Green,”
said David Linton. “Anything will do.”
“I’ll take her in,” said Norah, slipping from the saddle, and carrying
into the shop the extraordinary vision in the suit and blanket. They
emerged in a few moments, the blanket hidden by a brief dress of blue
print; and Babs reluctantly consented to allow the strange man to lift
her up to Norah again. Mr. Green found his tongue, with some difficulty.
“I never heard of such a thing in all me born days!” he said. “Gad! to
think of Mrs. Archdale——” He stared after them, open-mouthed, as they
clattered off, swinging round the bend of the track. The sound of the
cantering hoofs echoed in the still afternoon air as Mr. Green, leaving
his store to its own devices, hurried off to tell the township.
Near the cottage David Linton pulled up.
“There are too many of us,” he said. “You three youngsters found her—go
and give her back!” Jim and he moved into the shade of a big messmate
tree, and the others rode on.
The little white cottage was fresh and inviting, the garden gay with
flowers. The front door stood open; at any moment they looked to see
Mrs. Archdale’s tall figure come out upon the verandah. Suddenly Norah
found she was trembling, and that the cottage wavered mistily before
her.
At the garden gate they got down, and Wally tied up the horses. There
was no sign of any one. But Babs gave them no time to wonder. The gate
was ajar, and she flung herself at it, uttering shrill little squeals of
joy, and raced up the path.
“I say—catch her!” Wally said. “The shock may be too much for Mrs.
Archdale.”
Babs was battering at the steps of the high verandah as Norah caught
her. She wriggled fiercely in her arms.
“Down!” she said. “Want down!”
“Wait a minute, darling!” Norah begged her. “Wally, you go on—find her.
I—I’m going to howl!” She sat down on the step, desperately ashamed of
the sobs that shook her; and Jean, in no better case, patted her back
very hard.
Perhaps Wally was not very sure of himself either. He cleared his throat
as he stood at the door, after knocking, not sorry that no answering
step came at once. Presently he came back to the girls.
“There’s no one about,” he said. “I’ve been round to the kitchen. Wonder
where they are?”
“Let’s come and look,” Norah answered, doubtfully sure of herself once
more. Wally picked up Babs, who wriggled and squeaked on his shoulder, a
quicksilver embodiment of excitement that she could not voice in words,
since words were all too slow. So they went through the silent house.
There was no sign of any one. In the little blue room the bed was dainty
and fresh, with crisp linen, and roses smiled a welcome from the table;
and the fire burned low in the kitchen stove, where a kettle bubbled
busily. But the house was empty. They looked into Mrs. Archdale’s room,
half afraid to find her ill; but she was not there; and Babs went into a
fresh ecstasy of excitement at the vision of her own picture, which
laughed down at her from the wall.
“Babs!” she cried, and pointed a brown forefinger; “Babs!”
“You blessed kid,” said Wally, in perplexity, “I wish you could tell us
where to look for your mother.”
“Muvver!” said the lady addressed. She wriggled ecstatically, and
grasped a handful of Wally’s hair, to his extreme agony. A fresh effort
of memory came to her. “Dad,” she said, half inquiringly, and drummed
her heels upon her bearer’s chest.
At the back of the house the little kitchen garden stretched to the
brush fence. Beyond came a narrow, timbered paddock, and then the deep
green of the scrub—the unbroken curtain that had fallen behind the baby
on Wally’s shoulder more than a year ago. They came out of the back door
and stood looking towards it doubtfully.
Then from the scrub they saw Mrs. Archdale coming slowly. No one might
say what dreadful pilgrimage had led her into its silent heart. She
stumbled as she walked, bent as though her body had given way under the
stress of agony of mind too great to be borne. Even across the shining
grass it was plain that she did not know where she walked—that all that
her eyes could see was the dark maze of the Bush, where a little child
had wandered, and called to her. A fallen log lay across her path, and
she sat down upon it, burying her face in her hands.
“Oh, Wally, go and tell her,” Norah said. “I’m such an idiot—I’m going
to howl again. Let me have Babs—I’ll bring her.” She followed Wally
slowly down the path, with Babs patting her tear-stained cheek gently,
saying, “Poor, poor,” in a little crooning voice.
Mrs. Archdale raised her head as the swift steps came to her across the
grass, and looked at the tall lad for a moment without recognition. Then
she collected herself with an effort that was pitiful in its violence,
and smiled at him.
“Why, you’ve got back!”
Wally nodded, seeking desperately for words. His brown face was flushed
and eager.
“I——” he said, and stopped. “We——. Mrs. Archdale.” Words fled from
him altogether, and he pushed his hat back with a despairing gesture.
“I’ve got something to tell you; and I’m such a fool at telling it.”
“Nothing wrong?” she asked him swiftly. “Not little Norah?”
“No—nothing wrong. Everything’s all right; everything’s perfect!” he
told her. He put out a lean, boyish hand, and gripped hers strongly. “We
saw you—coming away from the scrub.”
“Don’t!” She flushed, miserably.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” said poor Wally, his task almost beyond
him. “I only want to say you needn’t ever go there again. She—she isn’t
there, Mrs. Archdale!”
“Are you mad?” The colour died out of her face, and for a moment the
agony of her eyes robbed the boy of speech.
“I mean it,” he said, faltering. “If it was all—all wrong, Mrs.
Archdale? If your little kiddie had never died?” Something choked his
voice; he could only look at her with honest, pitying eyes. But the
mother’s eyes were keen.
“You know something!” she said; “there is something!” Her voice rose to
a wailing cry. “Tell me, for God’s sake!”
Across the grass came a voice that rang shrilly sweet.
“Muvver!”
Babs came running with swift bare feet; behind her, Norah, half afraid,
yet wholly unable to restrain her once the remembered voice had raised
its mother cry. At the sight of the baby form, with outstretched arms,
the mother uttered a low, incredulous sob—a sound so piteous that Wally
turned away sharply, lest he should see her face. Her feet would not
carry her to meet her baby. She fell on her knees on the grass, and Babs
flung herself bodily upon her, soft and sweet, and quivering with love.
There came a clatter of hoofs. Jack Archdale, riding home, had pulled up
to speak to Mr. Linton and Jim; and suddenly he broke from them like a
madman, and, not waiting for gates, put his horse at the log fence of
his paddock, cleared it, and raced to the house. He flung the bridle
over a post, and ran wildly to them—past Jean and Norah, sitting
together on a stump, not able to speak, and speechless himself, to where
his wife crouched over their child; Babs, who stroked her mother’s cheek
gently, crooning in her funny little voice: “Poor—poor!”
Norah felt Wally’s hand upon her shoulder.
“Come on,” he said. “I guess we’d better get back to the horses.”