A BUSH BROTHER
It was soon an established fact that the children spent most of their
days together, an intimacy that at first was rather a trouble to Mrs.
Kenyon, who felt that from mere force of circumstance she could make
no adequate return for the kindness shown to her little girl at the
farm. Her days were of necessity spent almost entirely from home, as
her expectation of obtaining work was fully justified. For half the
day, either morning or afternoon, Eva would go with her, but the
other half was almost invariably spent with Jack, who was always
lurking near the gate in readiness to carry off his playmate. It was
in vain for Betty to assure her that this was a satisfactory
arrangement for both parties, that before Eva's coming Jack's life
had been a lonely one.
"It's delightful for the children, but for your people it must be
very often a terrible nuisance; I must think of some way of making
things equal, or it cannot go on," said Mrs. Kenyon, not many weeks
after her coming.
The opportunity presented itself on the first occasion when Betty
brought a message from her mother, asking if Mrs. Kenyon could
reserve the next week's work for them.
"Our sewing is all behindhand, and neither mother nor I have anything
fit to put on, but if you will devise, fit, and cut out, and we all
sit at work together, I think a week will see us through the worst of
it."
"It just happens that I'm free next week, and I'll come gladly--as a
friend, you understand; exchange is no robbery. Think of all you do
for Eva," and Mrs. Kenyon's head lifted with the odd little gesture
that Betty was beginning to interpret as a sign that her decision on
any subject was final. Neither did Betty try at the present time to
combat it.
But she was not pleased about it.
"She's too poor to afford to be so independent, mother," she said,
when she went home.
"My dear, let her have her way. We can make it up to her in many
forms, which she will not detect. Meanwhile one respects that
passionate desire for independence."
"Do you? Carried too far I think it becomes almost a vice. It
blocks real friendship. I should like to know Mrs. Kenyon's story.
I'm sure she has one."
"When she wishes you to know it she will tell you," said Betty's
mother placidly.
The children meanwhile did everything together, or to speak more
accurately, whatever Jack did, Eva, his faithful satellite, tried to
copy. Happiest of all was she when, tired with play, Jack would sit
and tell her stories in which his father played ever a prominent
part, and his title in these stories was always "Father Jack, the
Giant Killer," a name which Eva received with bursts of laughter.
"I shan't tell you any more if you laugh like that," said Jack one
day.
Eva stuffed the corner of her pinafore into her mouth to stay her
unseemly merriment.
"But you don't say all that when you see him. You don't say 'Good
morning, father Jack, the Giant Killer.'"
"O' course I don't," said Jack with displeased dignity, "but this is
a story about the giants father fights. He really fights giants."
Eva's eyes rounded in alarm. "Does he k-kill them like your story
says?"
"No, he catches 'em and makes 'em do what he wants. What do you
think he's catching now?"
"Goannas," said Eva quickly, whose special terror were the large
lizards called iguanas which occasionally invaded the garden, or that
she and Jack found about the farm and which Jack drove away with
adorable courage.
Jack gave a contemptuous laugh. "What silly things girls are! This
is a true story I'm telling you. Father catches the air, at least he
rides up in it in a thing called an airy-plane, and he makes the air
help to carry him along."
It was neither a very lucid nor accurate description of his father's
methods, but it filled his hearer with awe and wonder.
"Not really!"
"But yes," reiterated Jack, "and when I'm old enough, I'll ride in an
airy-plane too. Come along; I've told you plenty of stories for
to-day. Let's come and play airy-planes," so round and round the
paddock scampered the children, with arms outspread like wings, arms
which flapped occasionally as the speed became greater to the
accompaniment of a whirring sound intended feebly to imitate the buzz
of a motor bicycle.
"Faster, faster," cried Jack breathlessly. "Airy-planes flies at an
awful rate," but Eva's fat legs were failing her and her arms fell to
her side with a little gasp like the wheeze of exhausted bellows.
"Can't--run--no--more," she said, throwing herself on the grass, and
Jack after one more triumphant circle threw himself by her side.
Leaning over the gate with his arms folded on the top was a man, who
had stood there unperceived, watching the children's play with quiet
amusement. Now as it came to an end he laughed aloud, a kindly
genial laugh.
"That was really a fine exhibition," he said unlatching the gate and
coming towards them, "and deserves a round of applause," and suiting
the action to the word he clapped his hands together with all his
might.
Jack sprang to his feet, surveying the stranger with frankly
questioning eyes, but Eva, too exhausted to speak, sat where she was.
"Did you know what we were playing at? asked Jack.
"I must confess I heard you naming it. You were pretending to be
aeroplanes, weren't you? but it was so excellent an imitation that I
think I could have guessed. But isn't it rather a tiring game for a
little girl like this?"
"I don't know; Eva likes to do what I do, don't you, Eva?"
Eva sat bolt upright and nodded.
"Your little sister, I expect, and a good deal younger than you?"
"Not sister; we're chums, that's all, but it's just as good. She's
five, and I'm seven, but I'm big for my age, aren't I?"
The stranger laughed, and seating himself on the grass, drew Jack
down beside him.
"Quite big; I thought you might be eight. Having told me this much I
must hear a little more. I'm getting interested. May I hear your
name?"
"Jack--Jack Stephens; but here they always call me Jack, the
Englishman, 'cause father's a captain in the English Navy."
"Ah! I felt somehow that we should be friends. Shake hands, Jack,
the Englishman, for I'm an Englishman, too. I've not been long in
the colony," and Jack's small hand was almost lost in the palm of his
new friend.
"And what does the little girl call herself? I think she has found
breath enough to tell me."
Eva lifted a round face dimpled with smiles to the questioner. His
deep resonant voice and kindly smile inspired confidence.
"Eva," she said.
"And the rest? You must be something besides Eva," but Eva stood
staring at him, not quite understanding the form in which he had put
his question. Jack gave her a little nudge. "Tell him, Eva, that
your mother is Mrs. Kenyon."
A quick change passed over the face of the listener; the humour of it
resolved itself into an earnest gravity.
"Kenyon!" he repeated quickly. "It's a name I know something of. Do
father and mother live anywhere near here, Eva? I would rather like
to go and see them, if I might."
"Haven't no father," said Eva, with a quick shake of the head.
"Never had no father. Mother lives close by."
"Well, come along, Eva. Just take me to see mother. Perhaps she can
tell me something of the Kenyon I am seeking. Are you called Eva
after mother?"
Eva laughed and shook her head. "No; mother has a hard name to say.
I can't always say it just right. Cla--Cla----"
"--rissa," said the strange man, supplying the missing syllables.
"Is mother's Christian name Clarissa?"
Eva clapped her hands, jumping up and down with excitement.
"Oh, Jack, he's like the conjurer what tells you things he doesn't
ought to know. Isn't it clever of him to find out mummy's name?"
But Jack was intently watching the stranger's face, wondering greatly
why it twitched as if he were in pain.
"P'raps he's got the toothache," was his solution of the difficulty,
not knowing that heartache was the trouble.
"Take me to mummy," said the stranger again, holding out his hand.
"We've telled you both our names; you've not telled us yours."
"That will come later; for the present it's enough for you to know
that I'm a bush brother."
The children exchanged bewildered glances; the explanation threw no
light upon the stranger.
"We don't know what that means," said Jack, politely.
"That, too, I must tell you at some other time; but now I must get
Eva to take me home--home to mummy, home to Clarissa Kenyon."
Greatly wondering, the trio moved towards the gate; but there Jack
halted. Some instinct told him that just now he was not wanted, and
much as he wished to know the end of this strange story, he
determined to go home and wait till he saw Eva again.
He was a little piqued that his new acquaintance was apparently too
much absorbed in his own thoughts to take any notice of his leaving,
but Eva glanced back with a little nod.
"I'll be back directly dinner's over, Jack. Does you always walk as
fast as this?" she went on, glancing up at her companion, whose long
stride necessitated a quick trot on her part.
"When I'm in a hurry, Eva; and I'm in a hurry now," and then,
dropping the little hot hand he held, he broke into a run, for coming
down the lane towards them came Eva's mother, returning from a
morning's work to dinner.
And then a strange thing happened, for Eva, who stood stock still
with legs set rather far apart, saw mummy give a start backwards as
if half frightened by something, then heard her break into a little
cry, and the next moment she was caught into the stranger's arms and
held tightly to his breast. She did not like such rough treatment!
Eva was certain she did not like it, for mummy, who never cried, was
sobbing with all her might, great big sobs as if she were angry or
hurt. So Eva fled forward, anxious to defend, hammering with all the
might of her young fists upon the assailant's legs.
"Let go, let go, you wicked, wicked man," she said. "Don't you see
you are hurting my mummy and making her cry? Let go, I say," and the
man did let go, smiling down at the child with eyes that were full of
tears.
"You can ask mummy for yourself if I've hurt or made her glad," he
said very gently.
"Hush, Eva, hush," said Mrs. Kenyon, taking her little daughter by
the hand. "You don't understand that I'm crying because I'm
glad--gladder than I've been for many a year, so glad that it makes
me cry; and all because my brother, your Uncle Tom, has come to see
me; and how he got here and how he has found me out remains yet to
tell. Come in, come in, my Tom. Let us get into the shelter of the
house and let me look at you and make quite sure that it is in very
deed my brother Tom who talks to me. But your voice rings true, your
dear, kind voice that I had thought never to hear again."
She struggled to the seat in the verandah and pulled him down beside,
gazing into his face with hungry eyes. It was bliss enough to look
at him after the long lapse of years, to hold his hand between her
own, which would hardly cover one of his.
"You always had such big hands, Tom, such big, kind hands that seem
to carry help and consolation in their very touch. Oh, how I've
wanted you sometimes since--he died."
She did not name her husband, but Tom knew well enough she referred
to the father little Eva could not remember.
"But you could have had me for the asking," he said gently.
"I know, I know, but pride would not let me. How could I appeal to
you for help when father and Walter--that elder brother of mine--told
me that in marrying George I made my final choice between them and
him? And you were away, away in Canada, and George just about to
return to the colony. We were madly in love, he and I, so I married
him and came out with him. I don't say life was easy, Tom; I don't
know whether I did right or wrong in marrying George, but I do know
this--that from that day to this I never regretted it. He was the
dearest and best of men, and we were devoted to each other. I own
that when he got ill he suffered agonies of self-reproach in having
allowed me to come out with him, but if I had life over again I
should have chosen him before all living men. You see father had
decided on another match. George, as he lay dying, tried to make me
promise to go home, but I told him I never would do it, that I was
strong enough and young enough to support myself and the child."
"Young enough, but scarcely strong enough, I take it," said Tom,
slipping his arm round the slight frame.
She crept up closer to him. "I don't feel young," she said. "The
buffeting of life has made me feel old and cold. If I could forgive
father the part he played----"
"Ah, hush," said her brother, "surely you will forgive him, as God
will forgive us all. Father died a few months ago."
Clarissa drew herself away, stiffening into stony silence, her hands
folded in her lap. Dead! her father dead, and she not a moment since
speaking angry, unforgiving words of one who had passed into the
presence of the Great White Throne! It was forgiveness for herself
that she craved for now, forgiveness for all the hard thoughts she
had harboured against him since they parted in such hot anger,
forgiveness that in her pride she had made no effort to break through
the barrier of silence built up between them. Never a line had she
either written to home or received from it since that hasty flight of
between six and seven years ago.
Eva, feeling that matters had passed beyond her childish ken, had
slipped away into the back garden, and was solacing her loneliness
with a game with the new kitten that they had given her up at the
farm, so the brother and sister were left alone. Tom understood
something of the conflict that was passing in his sister's mind and
wisely held his peace. He left her to the teaching of the still
small voice which was making itself heard in her heart with gentle
insistence.
"I suppose he never forgave me," she said at last.
"I did not hear him mention your name until his last illness. Then,
when his mind wandered, your name was often on his lips, showing that
you still held your place in his heart. He left you an annuity of
£150 a year. Walter tried his level best to track you to tell you
about it, but up to this time his search was quite unsuccessful. We
wrote to the post-office authorities, but they did not help us; we
gave your name to the leading firm of lawyers in Launceston and
Hobart, we advertised in the local papers, but nothing came of any of
our enquiries. Then I decided to come and work as a bush parson in
the colonies for some years before settling down in an English
parish, and I thought it not unlikely that I might find some clue to
your whereabouts, and all in a moment I found you by the most
unlikely means in the world. I stood watching two little children
playing in a field near by, went in and made friends with them, and
discovered in one of them my own little niece, who brought me
straight home to mummy. Some people may call it a happy chance, but
I prefer to regard it as a direct Providence."
"What made you come here at all?"
"The fact that your own parson broke down, as you know, quite
suddenly, and was ordered away for rest; the bishop knew I was at
work somewhere in this neighbourhood, and wrote to ask me if I could
combine my peregrinations in the bush with Sunday services in this
and the other churches connected with this parish until such time as
he can find a _locum_. He is terribly short-handed at present. I'm
very thankful to be able to give my services free of charge, for
while the bulk of the property goes with the estate to Walter, my
father has left me a sufficient income to make me independent of any
stipend from the Church. If I take an English living at some future
period it will be one with a simply nominal income that a man without
private means could not accept. At present I find my nomadic life so
absorbingly interesting that I have no immediate intention of
returning home."
"And you will work near here? How wonderful and delightful! What a
change one short half-hour has made in life's outlook. Poor father!
Did he leave me that annuity out of pity, do you think? No, you need
not be afraid that I shall refuse it. My pride is broken down. It
seems a poor thing to have let it stand between him and me, and
now--I can't even say I'm sorry."
"I forget the exact wording of the will, but I think it said 'lest
she should come to want.'"
Clarissa flushed a little. "I have not wanted, but it's been a hard
struggle, and if my health had failed"--her voice broke for a moment.
"But now, with £150 a year at my back, the worst fear, the one that
has kept me awake at nights sometimes, that the child would suffer,
is entirely taken away. One can live the simple life out here, none
despising you."
"And you think I shall be content to leave it at that?"
"You will have to be content," and his sister slipped her hand into
his. "If I needed help at any time I know you will be glad to give
it, but I chose my own life in marrying my George, and I'll abide by
it. I've no wish to return to England, and what will keep me here in
comfort would be grinding poverty at home."
"Walter will never consent to your remaining out here."
Clarissa smiled a little sadly. "He may protest a little, but in his
inmost heart he'll not be sorry to leave things as they are. We
shall get on quite nicely fifteen thousand miles apart."
A little head peeped round the corner, and a piteous voice made
piteous appeal.
"Mummy, I'm not naughty. Mayn't I have my dinner, please? Bush
brother can stay if he wants to."