the garden. It was the nurse, heavy-eyed, pale-cheeked, come out for a
breath of the quickening morning. She did not see the unhappy boy
standing there, but went down the path towards the sun-touched river,
and left the door open behind her.
Pip slipped in, on uncontrollable impulse. He stole through the quiet
hall and up the staircase; he went softly down the upstairs passage--and
Meg's door was open.
She was quite alone, lying among the pillows, with her bright hair
loose, her cheeks a little flushed, but her eyes open and quite natural.
The next second he was in the room kneeling by the bedside, and kissing
the little hot hand on the counterpane.
"Just say you forgive me, Meg darling--darling!" he implored, the tears
rolling down his cheeks.
She sat up in distress.
"Oh, go away!" she cried. "Oh, Pip, how mad of you--dear Pip, you'll
catch it!"
But he would not loose her hand.
"Will you?" he said.
She moved to put her arm round his neck, then remembered and shrank
back.
"Why, there is nothing," she said; "it was you to forgive me--if you do
I am more than glad; now do go, old fellow."
"Lie down," he said, standing up again; it had only just struck him he
might be doing her harm.
"There, lie so,--keep still, for heaven's sake. I only came to tell you
you're the best sister on earth, and I've been a brute to you. Meg,
I'll promise you faithfully never to think of Mabelle again--oh, good
God! I haven't made you worse, have I?" For Meg put her hand up to her
head with a sudden movement.
"Not an atom," she said, "the cloth was wetting my neck, that's
all.--you've made me better indeed with that promise; now go, Pip
dearest, this minute, and change everything--promise me; think of the
children; get a suit out of your room and have a bath."
The nurse's step was on the stairs; he kissed her hand again and fled.
Afterwards he felt he had done a selfish thing, and made himself
miserable over it. Perhaps he had excited and worried her, perhaps it
would make her worse; and suppose he gave the infection to Peter or
Poppet!
He took his evening clothes, they were the only ones left in his room,
and he went down to the river with a slow and heavy step.
Then he undressed and swam about for nearly twenty minutes, so
determined was he not to carry home a microbe. He even struck out into
the middle, and braved any sharks that might be yet unbreakfasted. Then
he made his toilet again, swallow-tail and all, carefully washed the
clothes he had taken off, and laid them on the grass to dry.
A man he knew, coming down to the water with his towels over his
shoulder, met him on the way to the cottage and stared amazedly.
"You're fairly late home, old chap," he said; "where in the world have
you been?"
Pip only shook his head and pushed on. He was far too unhappy to stay
and explain.
*CHAPTER XXIV.*
*"IN THE MIDNIGHT, IN THE SILENCE OF THE SLEEP TIME."*
"Have I not trodden a weary road
Saint, my Saint?
And where, at last, shall be my abode,
Oh, my Saint?"
But Meg only had it very lightly, or those two poor human hearts could
not have borne their misery. She was not half so ill as Essie had been;
she was not delirious at all, and she never went near to the great wide
sea whose cold waves had washed up to the little baby feet.
When she woke after a troubled sleep in the afternoon, there was Nellie
standing by the bedside looking at her, with all her heart in her eyes.
"What about the children?" she said with instant anxiety. "You oughtn't
to be here."
But Nell stooped and kissed her.
"It's just where I ought to be," she said, "and Esther's mother will be
here this evening, to look after the children,--don't worry."
Meg turned over restfully; how good it was to feel there would be a
sister near always instead of the strange hands and face of a nurse!
What a relief, now the strain was over, to be able to give up and be
taken care of instead of taking care!
In the morning, when she woke, her first question again, after hearing
Essie was improving fast, was what about the children?
Mrs. Hassal had come, Nell said; Mr. Gillet had brought her, and they
were both at the cottage. Mr. Gillet was much distressed to hear she was
ill, and had sent kindest regards and hopes for a speedy recovery.
For a moment the long-unheard name brought no connection with it to Meg;
then she saw the burnt grass paddocks, the dingy sheep, the homestead
and clustering cottages of Yarrahappini.
She called to mind his little room as she had seen it when she went for
the keys of the storeroom. She was surprised to still remember, after
all these years, her astonishment at finding the keeper of the stores
with the room of a gentleman.
She could remember the rows of books, the medallion of Shelley, the
pictures, the little breakfast table--even the silver chased vase with
the passion flowers in it.
She wondered if he had kept the blue ribbon she had given him; even now
her cheeks coloured above their fever to think how intolerant she had
been in those days. But perhaps she was just as bad now, or had other
faults still worse; she tossed unhappily and thought upon all the
mistakes she was for ever making. Then Nellie's cool fingers touched
her forehead and replaced a wet, lavender-sweet handkerchief, and she
dropped off into an uneasy slumber.
She thought they were binding her head round and round with ribbon, pale
blue with creases in it; it held her down to the bed so that she could
not move; and there in the dancing river little Essie was struggling,
the grey look of death on her small sweet face.
Then that torture shifted, and it was Pip who was struggling, and he
could not put out his arms to swim because he had a monstrous gold
wedding-ring binding them to his body. And Peter was at the top of the
forbidden tree, and Poppet shrieking to him to come down. And Bunty was
in the hospital with scarlet fever, and they could not give him medicine
because he would not tell his name.
For several days troubles of this kind lasted, with short unrefreshing
waking intervals when her mouth was parched, her throat swollen, and her
head throbbing.
On the sixth morning she opened her eyes about eleven o'clock. Nellie
was mixing lemon drink at a small table, and Alan was standing by the
bedside, Alan with a face grown quite haggard, and a look in his eyes
that had never quite left them since she fell ill.
"Am I getting better or worse?" she said, for his look made her suddenly
fearful for herself.
But he brightened instantly, for, in truth, the anxiety was almost over,
only he could not shake it off at once.
"Much better," he said. "Do you know you have been asleep since nine
last night?"
"How many hours is that?" she asked, with smiling languor; "my brain's
asleep yet, I can't count." But neither could he. His lip trembled
suddenly, and he put his face down on hers.
She slipped her thin hands round his neck.
"Poor old fellow!" she said, "dear old fellow! I'm going to get better
immediately now."
"Try to go to sleep again," he whispered, putting a kiss on each eyelid
to keep them shut. "Please, my little, pale daisy."
The eyelashes lay quite still, but the lips smiled up to him. Then,
before she knew it, she was asleep again, her breathing regular, her
skin cool. And when she woke she was far on the road to recovery. But
down in the cottage, while Essie and Meg were struggling slowly up the
beautiful tiring hill of convalescence, a terrible tragedy had happened.
In the middle of one night, Poppet, sleeping in a little made-up bed in
the room with Mrs. Hassal, woke up hot and choking. One side of the
room was in a sheet of fire; the curled, leaping tongues of flame came
nearer every instant.
She sprang out of bed shrieking wildly, and pulled and shook poor little
Mrs. Hassal, who, half suffocated with the smoke, lay motionless.
Pip slept at the Courtneys now, since the cottage was so taxed for room,
Bunty and Peter across the passage, and Mr. Gillet had a camp bed in the
sitting-room. No one had wakened till the little girl's wild shrieks
rang through the house; the smoke had stupefied them all.
Then there was a terrible scene of confusion. The door of the bedroom
was in a blaze--all the wall adjacent; the flames were licking at the
long French window, and the curtains already burning.
Mr. Gillet went back one second for his thick coat, which he had not put
on at first; then, shielding his face with his arm, he sprang into the
room through the window, calling to Bunty to stand outside.
[Illustration: "He sprang through the flames, the child close in his
arms." The Family at Misrule. Page 271.]
Poppet, mad with terror, was still pulling at Mrs. Hassal, and the
mosquito nets of the bed had just caught.
He pushed the child aside, and bade her go into the one safe corner.
Then he enveloped Mrs. Hassal in the blanket, carried her across the
room, and hastily put her through the window to Bunty.
Then he went back for the little girl,--Meg's little sister.
He took off his coat to wrap her in, as the other bedclothes had caught,
but as he did so Bunty threw back the big blanket, and he used it
instead.
The flames at the window were growing worse, but he sprang through them,
the child close in his arms. When they took the blanket off her not a
hair of her head was hurt.
One breathless second they looked at the burning room together from the
safe vantage ground of the grass plot at the side.
Then Mr. Gillet started forward again.
"I've left my coat," he said.
Mrs. Hassal held his arm. "As if that matters," she answered
indignantly.
"But there's something I rather prize in it," he said; "there's no
danger,--see, I'll have the blanket this time."
He flung it round his head and shoulders, and went through the window
again.
"Catch!" he cried, and threw the rough serge coat far out to them.
[Illustration: "THE BOY SEIZED HIM BY THE SHOULDERS AND DRAGGED HIM OUT
THROUGH THE BLAZING GAP."]
They saw him in the burning window putting his arms up to dive out. But
even as he did so there was a crash and fall--a great burning rafter had
dropped from the ceiling.
Bunty was the hero now. He put his coat over his head and dashed into
the room.
Mr. Gillet had fallen just inside, the blanket still around him.
With incredible strength and courage the boy seized him by the
shoulders, dragged him out through the blazing gap and into safety, amid
the shouts of the awakened neighbours, who had come too late to be of
use.
But the man was dead.
The rafter had struck his temple, and he had no more days of life to
ruin, no more with which to redeem past ruin.
They did not tell Meg until long after, not until Blue Mountain air had
blown the last of the fever away, and all the seven were together for
the last week before coming home.
Then they gave her the something he had "rather prized."
She sobbed and went away from them all when she had opened the little
parcel and seen its pitifulness.
It was nothing but the length of ribbon, the blue faded, and still
creased as it had tied her hair.
On the paper wrapping it he had written, "My soft-eyed girl St. Cecily."
*CHAPTER XXV.*
*HERE ENDETH.*
"God's in His heaven,
All's right with the world."
Such a day! The spring of the year in the sky, and on the river, and on
the land. September at its happiest, fresh and young, and gladdening as
a maiden stepping with shining eyes and light feet into a world that she
knows she is going to brighten.
Blue in the sky, blue deeper and sun-flecked in the river, a glory of
roses in the garden, a yellow splendour of wattles in the bush.
Tea was spread on the lawn, not under a tree, but out in the sunshine
that no one could get enough of. Even the cakes had a light-hearted
look; and as for the shining kettle on the lamp, it was absolutely
bubbling with good spirits. They were all there,--the seven and Mrs.
Hassal, all mentally on tiptoe, physically in comfortable attitudes,
sitting or lying round the cloth.
The Captain and Esther were expected every minute.
Peter wanted to begin on the little cakes that had such a fascinating
bit of peel on the top of each.
"Leth go halveth in one, Nell," he said; "we ought to tathte them
firtht,--prapth you forgot the thugar."
But Nellie assured him they were sweetness itself, and removed the plate
into the middle of the cloth, where they could not lead his fingers into
temptation.
She consoled him with two lumps of sugar, and he gave Poppet one and bet
her he could suck his for a longer time than she could without it
breaking.
Alan was hammering at a tipsy-looking erection of posts halfway down the
drive, that said "Welcome" in pink and white roses, and threatened to
fall and engulf any one passing underneath. Bunty had made it, Alan was
only trying to ensure the safety of Esther's head.
Near the door was another arch; it was very low--both the Captain and
Esther would have to go under it doubled up: it was done in ferns and
red geraniums and blue flag lilies and yellow "bunny rabbits," and it
said "Wellcome."
This was the architecture of Peter and Poppet; the choice of flowers and
handing up had been Essie's work.
The kettle boiled over. Meg took the opinions of the company as to
whether she should make the tea or wait. The travellers were coming
overland from Brisbane, and the man had already gone to the station with
the dogcart. It always made the Captain irritable to be met by half his
family on a station, so they were all assembled at home instead. Nellie
counselled waiting, tea brewed too long was "horrid."
Pip said no one would know what they were drinking, so it did not
matter.
Swift wheels on the road, a shriek from Peter and Poppet, and the
question was decided. Meg filled up the teapot and cosied it, then
snatched Essie up in her arms and went down the path. Oh, thank God,
thank God she had her to take!
Esther leapt out before the horse fairly stopped, just as impetuously
young as ever. She devoured Essie, lifted big Peter right up in her
arms, laughed and cried over the others.
No one said anything the pen could catch for the next ten minutes; every
one spoke at once and laughed at once; every one asked questions and no
one waited for answers.
It was the Captain of course who first made a whole speech. "We've been
travelling for hours,--haven't you any tea for Esther, Meg?"
Then they all trooped up under the arches to the white cloth,
flower-strewn, and Flibbertigibbet had improved the shining time by
drinking the milk.
[Illustration: "THE WHOLE SIX RUSHED TO PICK HER UP."]
Martha came down with more, her very forehead sharing in the great smile
that widened all her features.
She shook the Captain's hand and Esther's; then small Essie ran before
her, and she pulled up her apron to catch a sudden sob and went away.
Little Mrs. Hassal picked up the child,--just her own little girl Esther
over again. She gave her a lump of sugar and squeezed her tenderly for
nothing in particular. Then Nellie crept round and took her to find the
prettiest cake of all, and Pip rode her round and round on his shoulders
and kissed her again and again when she happened to stand near him.
And once, when running back from the house with her grand new doll for
inspection, her eager little feet tripped and she fell on the path, the
whole six started up and rushed to pick her up. Esther told herself she
had left her darling in loving enough hands, she need not have worried
so.
"But she seems a little thinner to me, Meg," she said; "I don't know if
it is my fancy."
Then they all grew silent, and each one waited for the other to tell.
It was Nellie who spoke at last, and told the story, and Esther's tears
fell and she clasped her baby close to her breast and thanked God who
had been so good to her. And the Captain put out his hand and drew his
eldest daughter closer to him, and said he did not think Alan could have
her now.
It is only four o'clock, and the spring glad sunshine is still over
everything; the feast is at its height, and all faces untroubled again.
Let us leave them here.
Esther is leaning against her husband, her bright face full of content
and happiness; once or twice her eyes have gone skywards, and the light
in them has deepened. Essie is in her arms, saucy and dimpled: she
knows she is the undisputed queen of that gathering, and is taking
advantage of her power by giving all manner of sweet little commands.
Peter is still engaged on the cakes; he is only eating the tops of them
where the peel nestles, but no one has noticed. He has just informed
Esther of the progress he has made in her absence.
"I tharcely drop any blotht now," he said; "I've gone into theven times,
I'm learning peninthulath, and I've thtopped lithping."
As no one disputes any of his statements, and as no one smiles openly,
he is quite happy in his present occupation. Poppet seems to have
grown; she is thinner than ever,--arms and legs, as Bunty says, and
nothing else worth mentioning. He forgets the heart; it is just the
same dear loving tender little one, with room for all the world, and one
warm, special corner for himself.
Bunty's collar this afternoon is a sign of the times; it is perfectly
white and almost unrumpled; the whole of it is visible, and his jacket
does not fit extraordinarily badly. His mouth is firm, but hardly
strikes one as obstinate now, and the brooding light that used to be in
his eyes shows very seldom. Pip says if some day the boy becomes a great
hero it will not surprise any one in the family at all, despite those
early days he is so bitterly ashamed of.
This is quite a different Nellie from the one who went over this same
lawn in her first long dress. More beautiful if possible: the shining
hair and dewy, long-lashed eyes, the clear colouring, and slim, straight
figure are just the same, but there is a deeper look in the young eyes,
a sweeter, graver expression about the young mouth. She will be that
gladdening thing, an exceedingly beautiful woman; she will be more, a
good woman and a noble.
Meg,--well, Meg is Meg.
A little thin and pale-looking from the fever, a little quieter, and, if
possible, even more sweet, more womanly and lovable than ever. Alan is
at one side of her, her family at the other; so far they possess her
equally, and perhaps the standing between is the happiest time of her
life.
Pip is stretched on the ground, six feet of splendid young manhood; his
laugh is good to hear, his cheeks have the tint of health, he measures a
surprising number of inches round the chest. Surely it is reasonable to
suppose his blighted affections have not done him irreparable mischief!
Peter lets a light in on the subject. He has finished the cakes, and is
at liberty again to pour out all the events of note that have happened
during Esther's absence.
He has informed her that "the catht had four kittenth, that his betht
thuith grown too thmall for his legth, that the butcher thent the chopth
and thteak too late for breakfatht, and Meg got another one named
Thmitherth, and that a thtorm of hail had thmathed the thtudy window."
Then his eye fell upon his eldest brother, and his young catholic mind
found an item of news concerning him.
"An' Mith Joneth ith married to the man at the thauthpan thop; me and
Poppet peeped in at the church, and the looked thplendid. And Pip wath
awful mad, but he'th gone on Mith Thybil Moore now."
And as Miss Sybil Moore was the exceedingly pretty daughter of new
delightful neighbours, and as Mr. Philip coloured somewhat warmly and
inverted the young scamp in great haste, there seemed a probability of
pleasant truth in the statement. Especially as Meg smiled contentedly.
Esther spoke of Indian scarfs and shawls and gauzes the boxes held.
"They will do beautifully for charades and theatricals," she said.
"Or playing at being grown up," said Poppet.
The Captain leaned back against a tree. "There is not much playing
about it," he said. "I must be getting an old man; how fast you are all
growing up."
"What's dwowing up?" asked Essie.
"I used to think it was just long dresses and done-up hair," sighed
Nellie; "or a stick and a moustache."
"And not doing as you're told," supplemented Poppet.
"An' eating thingth and not getting thick." It was Peter's amendment.
Meg only smiled.
But there was a faint curve of sadness as well as the smile on her young
lips--and one was for sweet, buried childhood, and one for the
broadening days.
THE END
UNWIN BROTHERS, THE GRESHAM PRESS, WOKING AND LONDON.
* * * * * * * *
*Works by Ethel Turner*
(MRS. H. E. CURLEWIS).
*The Story of a Baby.*
Illustrated by FRANCES EWAN and others.
*Seven Little Australians.*
With Twenty-six Illustrations by A. J. JOHNSON.
*The Family at Misrule.*
A Sequel to the above.
With Twenty-nine Illustrations by A. J. JOHNSON.
*Three Little Maids.*
Illustrated by A. J. JOHNSON.
*The Camp at Wandinong.*
Illustrated by FRANCES EWAN and others.
*Miss Bobbie.*
Illustrated by HAROLD COPPING.
*The Little Larrikin.*
Illustrated by A. J. JOHNSON.
* * * * *
*The "Tip-Cat" Series*
(BY THE AUTHOR OF 'LADDIE')
*Tip-Cat.*
By the Author of 'Laddie.'
A very pathetic story of hardships and sacrifice, telling how the
tenderness and generosity of one may make life smooth and happy for
others.
*Dear.*
By the Author of 'Laddie.'
The love-story of the daughter of a simple-hearted country clergyman.
The way she is deprived of her lover, and duped into marrying the
squire's son, and the final attainment of her heart's desire, are told
with great charm and pathos.
*Pen.*
By the Author of 'Laddie.'
A story of the neglect of two motherless children. The sketches of
character and touching love passages are exceedingly well told.
*My Honey.*
By the Author of 'Laddie.'
"It is always a pleasure to meet with a book by the authoress of
'Tip-Cat.' The story is full of charming character
drawing."--_Graphic_.
*Rob.*
By the Author of 'Laddie.'
"Interestingly written, and will be read with equal pleasure by members
of either sex."--_Westminster Gazette_.
*Lil.*
By the Author of 'Laddie.'
"A volume of interesting reading that should attract all young
people."--_Sunday School Recorder_.
*Our Little Ann.*
By the Author of 'Laddie.'
The story of a girl who from the time she left the country for town led
a chequered life. The various episodes are cleverly connected, and the
descriptive portions well told.
*Laddie, etc.*
By the Author of 'Tip-Cat.'
"It is possible that 'kiddie' may become a classic."--_Chambers'
Journal_.
*The Captain of Five.*
By MARY H. DEBENHAM.
"Every human being over seven and under seventy will agree in
pronouncing it delightful."--_Daily Chronicle_.
*Hollyberry Janet.*
By MAGGIE SYMINGTON ("Aunt Maggie").
"An excellent addition to a charming series."--_Academy_.
*The Pattypats.*
By H. ESCOTT-INMAN.
"One of the most delightfully droll story-books that it is possible to
conceive of. Brimful of quaint and wonderful notions, and teeming with
mirth and 'go.'"--_The Teachers' Aid_.
* * * * *
*The Youths' Library.*
1 From Log Cabin to White House, By W. M. Thayer
2 Robinson Crusoe, By Daniel Defoe
3 Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress
4 Grimm's Fairy Stories
5 Grimm's Fairy Tales
6 Swiss Family Robinson
7 Andersen's Popular Tales
8 Andersen's Stories
9 Boys' Own Sea Stories
10 Two Years before the Mast, By R. H. Dana
11 Scottish Chiefs, By Jane Porter
12 Ivanhoe, By Sir Walter Scott
13 Romance of Navigation, By Henry Frith
14 Prisoners of the Sea, By F. M. Kingsley
15 Westward Ho!, By Charles Kingsley
16 Arabian Nights Entertainments
17 Black Man's Ghost, By J. C. Hutcheson
18 Frank Allreddy's Fortune, By Franklin Fox
20 Two Years Ago, By Charles Kingsley
21 The Last of the Barons, By Bulwer Lytton
22 Harold, By Bulwer Lytton
23 The Holy War, By John Bunyan
24 The Heroes, By Charles Kingsley
25 The Beachcombers, By Gilbert Bishop
WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED.