Carey junior joined the Christmas party after breakfast, and was handed
round. Mary introduced him. He was spick-and-span, with shining cheeks
and a damp and glossy top-knot, and his blue eyes stared at the strange
crowd stolidly for several minutes before he suddenly crumpled up his
face and uttered a howl of terror.
"What is it?" queried Dalzell, with raised brows, pretending that he
had never seen such a thing before.
"It's a baby," Frances explained, dancing round it. "Baby!
Baby!"--shaking the new rattle that was one of its Christmas
gifts--"look at me, baby! It is Mr Carey's baby. Oh, come and speak to
him, Mr Carey! He is frightened of so many strangers."
The stalwart father in the background glowered upon the son disgracing
him. Red as beetroot, embarrassed and annoyed, he strode forward. The
yelling infant cast one glance at him, and yelled louder than before.
"I shouldn't have let him come," the sailor growled. He had got up from
the wrong side of the bed that morning, and was in the mood to regret
everything, even that he had been born. "I don't know what possessed me
to let you be bothered with the brat. I'll ring for his nurse."
This was unanimously objected to. The ladies gathered round, with
honeyed words and tinkling baubles to pacify the little guest. Deborah
snatched him from her sister's arms, and ran with him into the garden,
where she tossed him, still writhing and wailing, up and down, and
dipped his face into flowers, and played other pranks calculated to
enchant the average baby. This baby turned on her for her pains, and
having slapped her cheeks, grabbed her beautiful hair and tore it down
about her ears. The next instant he felt the weight of the hand from
which his own had derived its strength.
"You brute!" cried Deb, shielding the offending little arm from a
second blow. "A great big man like you, to strike a tender mite like
this!"
"'Tender' is hardly the word," the irate parent sneered. "And mite as
he is, he is not to do things of that sort." Guthrie glared at her
sacred locks, dishevelled. "I'm awfully sorry. He shan't do it again.
I'll take him away tomorrow."
"You will do nothing of the sort," flashed Deb. "You are not fit to
have the care of him. He shall stay here, where he will be treated as a
baby ought to be--not smacked and knocked about for nothing at all."
"I admire his pluck," quoth Dalzell, sauntering up.
"So do I," said Deb; but she handed her sobbing burden to Mary. "Here,
take him, Moll, while I put my hair up. POOR little fellow!"
She need not have been so severe. She might have known that it was
because the cheeks and hair were hers that the baby had been punished
for his assault on them. She could have seen that she was wringing the
culprit's heart. Perhaps she did, and had no room in her own to care.
She stood on the sunny garden path and lifted her hands to her head--a
lovely pose.
"Here, let me," said Claud Dalzell.
She let him--which was cruellest of all. Guthrie turned his murderous
eyes from the group and sauntered away, out of the garden, out of their
sight, unrecalled, apparently unnoticed. Mary carried the crying child
into the house.
Then for an hour the silly fellow walked alone in the most solitary
places that he could find, revelling in the thought that it was
Christmas Day, and he singled out by Fate to have no share in its happy
circumstances: no home, no friends, no love, like other men--nothing to
make life worth living, save only the baby son that he had ill-used.
Apart from the sting of Deb's comment on it, he repented him of that
blow. A great big man like him, to strike a tender mite like this--a
motherless babe, his precious Lily's bequest to him--aye, indeed! It
was the act of a brute, whatever the provocation. The mite was a waif
too, alone in the world when his father was at sea, pathetically
helpless, with no defence against blows and unkindness. The reflection
brought dimness to the man's hard blue eyes, and turned his steps
houseward.
He arrived to find a large four-horsed brake at the door. The body was
filling with other persons--the sailor knew not, cared not whom. He
looked up at the radiant figure in front. She looked down on him with
heart-melting kindness, as if nothing had happened.
"Why, Mr Carey, aren't you coming to church?" she called to him.
"Not--not today, I think," he answered, without premeditation.
"Christmas Day," she hinted invitingly. "You don't always get the
chance, you know."
"I know. But--thanks--I'd rather not," he bluntly persisted, hating
himself for the churlish response, and all the time wanting to
go--certain to have gone if he had given himself time to think.
Soldiers and sailors, with their habit of unquestioning obedience to
authority, are almost always "good" churchmen, and, as she had pointed
out, this offer of Christian privileges did not come to him every year.
He had not anticipated it on this occasion, knowing Redford to be
situated at least ten miles from a church.
"Oh, well," said Deborah, scenting spite, "I daresay it IS more
comfortable in the cool house."
And then she left him, in the position of a self-indulgent idler,
preferring comfort to duty, a foil to his more conscientious rival.
When the dust of the departure had cleared away, he sat on, not in the
cool house, but on the hot verandah, nursing his griefs in solitude. He
seemed the only person left behind, or else he seemed forgotten, as a
guest of no account. "What a Christmas Day!" was again his thought,
while he dragged before his mind's eye old pictures of his English
home, his dead mother, Santa Claus stockings, and all sorts of pathetic
things. He resolved to quit Redford on the morrow, and spend the last
hours of his leave in establishing his son elsewhere.
Then Mary Pennycuick came out to him, with that son in her arms. Her
face was redeemed from its plainness by the tender motherliness and the
no less tender friendliness of its expression; that of little Harry was
cherubic. The heart of the lonely man warmed to both.
"He has come to tell daddy that he is a good boy now," explained Mary
proudly. Guthrie ejaculated "Sonny boy!" and held out his arms. The
baby, bearing no malice, tumbled into them, and was at once occupied
with his father's watch-chain. The three subsided upon two cane chairs,
looking, as Mary keenly comprehended, like a self-contained family.
"You have stayed at home because of him!" the man complained fretfully.
But the girl hastened to perjure herself with the assertion that she
had done nothing of the kind. She then persuaded him to the half-belief
that his child was not only no nuisance to the house, but its positive
delight; and she earnestly talked him out of his cruel resolve to
return it to bad air and all sorts of domestic risks. "How can he be
any burden on us?" she pleaded. "We need never see him unless we
like--only, of course, we shall like. It is entirely an arrangement
between you and Mrs Kelsey. Unless," she bethought herself--"unless
you'd like to consider an idea of Alice Urquhart's--"
"Oh, no!" he broke in. "I'd rather Mrs Kelsey--a proper business
agreement--if I could feel absolutely certain--"
"Well, you can," said Mary. "The beginning and end of all the trouble
to us is our answering for Mrs Kelsey. She was once our nurse, and we
know her ways; for the rest, she is as independent of us as that lady
in Sandridge."
"In that case--of course, I've very little time, and really I don't
know where to turn--perhaps until after this voyage--"
"Yes. Then, if you are dissatisfied, you can make a change." She
assumed the matter settled, and began to go into details. "Deb saw Mrs
Kelsey while you were away; she's willing enough. She says ten
shillings a week would cover everything. The drainage is all right.
Kelsey will see that he has one cow's milk. They'll feed him well, but
they won't give him rich things; she's the most careful woman. He'll be
out in the air, getting strong, all the time. He'll want hardly any
clothes in the country. Deb says he'd be better without shoes and
socks."
"I hope he'll be kept out of Miss Deborah's way, after that
exhibition--"
"Nonsense! She was too rough and ready with him. And she didn't mind a
bit--of course not. She says she likes boys to be boys. He is a
thorough boy," Mary proudly declared, bending to kiss a chubby knee.
Harry acknowledged the caress with a thumping smack of her bowed head.
"Gently--gently!" warned the father amiably.
"Now, what do you say to our walking over to interview Mrs Kelsey?"
Mary pushed her advantage home. "I daresay she will be busy, but she'd
give us a few minutes. It would be a satisfaction to her to speak to
you herself, and here is a good opportunity. They won't be home much
before two."
Guthrie fetched his straw hat. Mary retied the baby's flapping
head-gear, and they set forth.
"Let me have him," she begged, mother-like.
"No. He is too heavy for you."
The father carried the child, who loved the feel of the strong arms, in
which he jumped up and down, continuing to make play with his sturdy
little fists. Instead of striking back, Guthrie answered the baby
assaults with wild-beast roars and gestures that sent the little man
into fits of delight. Mary laughed in chorus, keeping touch with the
happy creature over the towering shoulder reared between them. It was
more than ever like a little self-contained family, taking its Sunday
stroll.
Mrs Kelsey had her Christmas dinner in hand, but came to them in her
big white apron and sleeves rolled to her dimpled elbows, smiling,
business-like, charming in her plain, reposeful, straightforward
attitude towards the visitors and their mission. No sooner had he
beheld her orderly and cheerful house, looked into her kind eyes, and
heard her sincere speech, than the young father was satisfied that he
had found a good place for his little son. The child seemed to know it
too, for when the strange woman drew him to her broad lap--calmly, as
if used to doing it--he surrendered himself without a protest. When
presently she gave him a drink of milk and a biscuit to munch, he
regaled himself peaceably, with the air of feeling quite at home. When
he had finished his lunch he played with a collie puppy.
"I'll do my best for him, sir, and I'll not let these young ladies
spoil him if I can help it," said Mrs Kelsey, with a smile at Mary
Pennycuick.
Terms had been arranged, and everything settled.
"I hope you will be able to keep him from being any bother to them,"
said Guthrie earnestly.
"Bother!" crowed Mary, whose intention was to visit the child daily.
"We'll see to that, Mr Carey--never fear."
Mrs Kelsey suggested beginning her duties, with the aid of the little
nurse, at once; but Mary would not hear of parting the boy from his
father while they could be together. So he was carried back to Redford,
to be the plaything of the housekeeper's room for the rest of the day.
"MY baby," Mary began to call him. She had to preside at the great
dinner, but was not visible to her family for hours before and after.
It was a better Christmas to Guthrie Carey in the end than in the
beginning. Deb came back from church chastened in spirit, to make up to
him for her unkindness, on the score of which her warm heart had
reproached her. She made him play billiards with her after tea, while
Claud was resting after his labours; she chaffed him deliciously on his
errors in the game. She forgot to ask after his baby; but she asked
whether it would not be possible to get his leave extended. When he
said "No"--he had had more than his share already--she commended him
for his sense of duty, and in her seriousness was more enchanting than
in her fun.
"But I do wish we could have kept you longer," she flattered him, in
her sweet way. "However, we shall have a hostage for your return."
Several new people came to dinner, including Mr Goldsworthy and
Ruby--the latter sent at once, by Deb's command, to keep little Carey
company. Spacious Redford was taxed to the utmost to accommodate its
guests, and never was better Christmas cheer provided in the old hall
of English Redford than its son in exile dispensed under his Australian
roof. When every leaf was put into the dining-table, it was so long
that Mary at one end was beyond speaking distance of her father at the
other, and those at the sides could scarce use their elbows as they
ate. The banquet was prodigious, with speeches to wind up with (Mr
Goldsworthy, in his oration, disgusted Deb by referring to the host as
"princely", and to the ladies of the house as his "bevy of beautiful
daughters"); and if the truth must be told, the crowning ceremony of
the loving cup was a bit superfluous. It found the host already fuddled
beyond a doubt, and several of the guests under suspicion of being so.
But in the opinion of all, Redford had celebrated Christmas in an
unsurpassably proper manner.
Two mornings later, a waggonette was packed with luggage and four
passengers--Mary Pennycuick, Guthrie Carey, the baby and the baby's
little nurse. They proceeded in a body to the overseer's house, where
the load was halved. Mary, the baby, and one box were left with Mrs
Kelsey (reinforced by the collie puppy and a plate of sugared
strawberries); the sailor and the nursemaid, after a few poignant
moments, went on to a distant railway station.
"Have an easy mind," said Mary, outside the parlour door. "He will be
well off with her, and we shall all be looking after him."
"How can I thank you?" said the parting guest, barely able to
articulate. He wrung her hand, and looked at her kind, red face with
feelings unspeakable. "God bless you! God reward you for your goodness
to the little chap and me."
He was including all the family in his benediction, and it was the
father in him that was so touched and overcome. None the less, she
accepted the tribute for her own, and to her poverty-stricken womanhood
it was wealth indeed.
She stood in the porch to watch the wheels of his departing chariot
flash through the sun and dust. She stared long at the vacant point of
disappearance, like one entranced. When she came to herself, she ran
into the house and fell upon little Harry.
"My baby," she crooned passionately, "MY baby!"
Carey Junior responded with his ready fist, pushing her from him. He
was feeding the puppy with a strawberry, and she put her head in the
way.
"Fie! You mustn't do that," said Mrs Kelsey, mindful of her
responsibilities. "That's rude."
"Oh, let him," pleaded the girl, infatuated with that look of his
father in his face; and she dropped on her knees before him and kissed
a dangling foot, with which he kicked her mouth. "Let him do what he
likes, so long as he's happy."
"Not at all," her old nurse reproved her. "I promised Mr Carey that he
should not be spoiled."
He was not spoiled. The admirable foster-mother, brooking no
interference with her system, improved him into a well-behaved child,
as well as the healthiest and most beautiful in all that countryside.
It was a standing grievance at Redford that she would not allow him to
be always on show there, subject to Mary's indulgence, and Deb's
caprices, and the temptations of the housekeeper's store-room. Only Mr
Kelsey, who was his idol, was permitted to withdraw him from Mrs
Kelsey's eye. The man used to take the child, with a toy whip in his
little hand, on the saddle before him, and let him think he was guiding
the steady horse and doing all the business of the station as well. The
overseer confessed, in bad weather, when he had to ride alone, that he
was lost without his little mate. "Hardly weaned," he used to brag,
"and knows every beast on the place as well as I do myself." This was
gross exaggeration, yet was the infant Harry a conspicuously forward
child, with the "makings of a man" in him visible to all. His hearty
whoas and gee-ups carried as far as the overseer's gruff voice; and the
picture of the jolly boy, with his rosy, joyous face, and his fair
curls blowing in the wind, was one to kindle the admiration of all who
saw it. The phrase continually on the lips of his adopted family and
connections was: 'Won't his father be surprised when he sees him!' They
enjoyed in anticipation the grateful praises that would be heaped upon
them then.
But Guthrie Carey never saw his son again.
The baby went a-visiting with his foster-parents to the local township,
and it was supposed caught the infection of typhoid there from some
unknown source. Having caught it, the robust little body, unused to any
ailment, was wrecked at once, where a frail child might easily have
weathered the storm. No little prince of blood royal could have been
better nursed and more strenuously fought for; but three days after he
had visibly sickened he was dead. And then the wail went up, "Oh! what
will his father say?"
When Guthrie came, prepared by letters from fellow-mourners as bereaved
as himself, it was but from one day to the next--only to "hear the
particulars" and to see the little grave. Deborah was away from home,
but in any case Mary would have been the one to perform the sad duties
of the occasion; they were hers by right. She took him to the family
cemetery on the only evening of his stay, and, herself speechless and
weeping, showed him the whole place renovated and made beautiful for
the sake of the latest comer. No weeds, no dead rose-bushes, no vampire
ivy now; but an orderly garden, new planted and watered, and in the
midst a small mound heaped with fresh-cut flowers. She had visited the
child daily while he lived at Mrs Kelsey's; now she almost daily
visited his grave.
They dropped on their knees beside it, close as bride and bridegroom on
altar steps, as father and mother at the firstborn's cradle. The dusk
was melting into moonlight; they could not see each other's faces. When
his big frame heaved with heavy sobs, she laid a timid hand--her
beautiful hand--on his shoulder; and when he felt that sympathetic
woman's touch, he turned suddenly and kissed her. Afterwards he did not
remember that he had done it.
She seemed to cling to him when, next morning, the time came for him to
go.
"You will come again?" she implored him, in a trembling whisper. "You
will come here when you return next time?"
"Oh, surely," he replied, whispering too, and to the full as deeply
moved. But when he got away it was to other lands that he turned his
eyes, in the search for new interests to occupy his lonely life. With
Lily and the baby dead, and Deborah Pennycuick given to another man,
Australia had no more hold on him. His first letter to Redford notified
that he had changed into another line, and that the name of his new
ship was the DOVEDALE. She traded to the West Indies.
He forgot to write again when, not very long afterwards, he went back
to his old line, at the invitation of the Company, as captain of the
ship on which he had served as mate.