The Grape-Gatherers or Who was Mr. Smith?
Aunt Mary had gone up to London to do some shopping, and when Mollie
came downstairs next morning she found Grannie installed in the
drawing-room, instead of in the morning-room as usual, with another old
lady who had come to spend the day.
"Mrs. Pell and I were at school together," she explained, as she
introduced her grandchild, "and that was not yesterday," she added, as
she settled Mollie in an easy-chair with the lame foot up on a
cushioned frame. "My dear husband used this when he had gout," she
continued, tucking a warm shawl round Mollie's bandages and large
bedroom slipper. "It was made in the village under his own directions,
and is most ingeniously constructed. Poor, dear Richard was such an
active man; he could not endure to lie on a sofa, and I had the
greatest difficulty in keeping him to his bed even when his attacks
were severe."
Mrs. Pell shook her head as she looked admiringly at the foot-rest.
"James was the same, he hated a sofa and would always sit in a chair.
Not that he was so active, but he was stout, and stout people are more
comfortable sitting up than lying on their backs."
Mollie coughed. She had either to cough or to laugh, which, of course,
would never have done.
"My dear, I trust you have not caught cold," Grannie said anxiously.
"Perhaps we should close the window. Your Aunt Mary has a perfect craze
for open windows, and I sometimes think there is a draught in this
room."
"No, no, Grannie," Mollie protested; "I have not got the least bit of
cold, and I love the open window; it is so warm to-day. It was only a
tickle; I get them sometimes--tell me about when you and Mrs. Pell were
at school, please."
The two old ladies smiled at each other over their spectacles.
"That was not yesterday," Grannie repeated. "You would think very
poorly of our school. We had no games, no gym-dress, no examinations
such as you have; but we learnt the use of the globes very thoroughly,
and we spoke French, so that we were not at a loss when we went to
Paris later on. Our dancing was much more graceful than the foolish
gambols with their ridiculous titles which you young people call
dancing nowadays. Fox-trot, indeed! And bunny-hug. And rag-time. I
never heard such names in my life! _We_ danced the Highland
schottische, and the quadrille, and Sir Roger de Coverley. And do you
remember your famous curtsy, Esther? And how Madame made you show off
on parents' day?"
"Indeed I do!" Mrs. Pell answered briskly. "I believe I could do it
now, this moment. I have been wonderfully free of rheumatism this year."
"Do, do," Mollie begged, overlooking the insult to her beloved fox-trot
in her anxiety to see a real old-fashioned curtsy.
Mrs. Pell laid her knitting on one side, rose from her chair, and
walked to the middle of the room. She shook her somewhat ample black
silk skirt into place, tilted her chin to an angle that gave her a
decidedly haughty expression, and stood facing Grannie and Mollie.
"You must imagine yourselves to be our beloved Queen Victoria and our
beautiful and gracious Alexandra, Princess of Wales," she said, looking
so elegant and distinguished that Mollie suddenly felt rather small and
shy, while Grannie, on the other hand, drew herself up into what was
presumably the attitude of Her late Majesty.
Mrs. Pell lifted her skirts with an easy turn of her pretty hands and
wrists, pointed a charming foot, so small that it made Mollie gasp, and
began to sink slowly down. Down, down, down she swept, her skirt
billowing out around her, her shoulders square, her head erect--down
till she all but touched the floor, and how she kept her balance was a
perfect miracle; then slowly up, with an indescribably graceful curve
of neck and elbows, till once more she stood erect, pleased and
triumphant, a pretty pink flush on her cheeks.
Grannie clapped her hands. "There, Miss Mollie! That was how _we_ were
taught to curtsy! There's nothing resembling a fox about _that_!" she
exclaimed, as Mrs. Pell took her seat again and resumed her knitting.
"It was perfectly lovely," Mollie agreed warmly, "but it does require
the right kind of skirt, Grannie. Did anyone ever topple over at the
critical moment?"
"Not that I can remember," Mrs. Pell answered; "but, of course, it
required a great deal of practice, and we did many exercises before we
got the length of our court curtsy. Do you remember Ellen Bathurst,
Daisy?" (How funny it sounded to hear Grannie called Daisy.) "And the
time all the brandy-balls fell out of her pocket? _How_ angry Madame
was!"
Of course Mollie had to hear about the adventure of the brandy-balls,
and from that the talk drifted to memories of old friends long since
dead and gone, whose names Mollie had never heard. It was a little
depressing, and her thoughts wandered away to the Campbells. She
wondered where she would find herself that afternoon, and then
remembered with dismay that Aunt Mary was away and there would be no
tunes.
But after lunch Grannie insisted upon the sofa as usual. "You shall
have your lullaby," she said. "Mrs. Pell and I are going to play duets.
We used to play a great deal together when we were young, and no doubt
our music is just the thing for sending you to sleep; it has a base and
a treble and some perfectly distinct tunes."
"Don't be sarcastic, Grannie," Mollie laughed, as Grannie bent to kiss
her. "I am sure it is beautiful music, and I like tunes myself. Jean is
the musical one of our family. She jiggles up and down the piano in no
particular key and calls it 'The Scent of Lilac on a June Day'."
"Well, well," said Grannie. "Times change. We are going to play
selections from _Faust_, with variations. Sleep quietly till tea-time,
my dear."
Mollie smiled as she listened to the selections. "--two-three,
_one_-two-three, _one_--" she could hear the treble counting. "I like
it," she murmured to herself rather sleepily--the morning's
conversation had not been exciting on her side. "I am glad I am not
James, for this is an awfully comfortable sofa--hullo, Prue! You _are_
in a hurry to-day! I was just thinking of a nap--"
Prudence did not answer; she was listening to the piano.
"Mamma sings that," she said. "It's _Faust_. I adore _Faust_. Don't
you? The waltz simply makes my feet go wild."
"I don't know it," Mollie confessed. "There are so many things I don't
know. Hurry up, Prue. I have had such an aged morning; now I want a
young afternoon."
"--two-three, _one_-two-three, _one_--" said Prue, taking Mollie's hand
in her own.
* * * * *
It was very hot. So hot that Mollie could not be bothered to move. She
was half-sitting, half-lying on a bed of bracken, and around her she
could see the supine forms of four other children--Prudence and
Grizzel, Dick and Jerry--all lying in various attitudes of exhaustion
and apparently all asleep. Mollie was too lazy to turn her head, but
she could see that they were in a wood. The trees were the eternal gum
trees, with their monotonous grey trunks and perpetual blue-green
foliage. They were not growing in the neighbourly manner of trees in an
English wood, nor did they throw the cool green shade of elms and
beeches, but still in their own way they formed a wood. Mollie lay with
her back propped up against one of the grey trunks, her arms behind her
head, and her eyes blinking sleepily. She wondered where Hugh was.
"You _are_ a lazy lot," said a voice behind her. "I have been helping
in the vineyards all morning, and I've discovered a new kind of grape.
Mr. von Greusen thinks it might turn out to be a good champagne grape.
The carts are coming down; don't you want to see them?"
As he spoke Hugh came round and stood at Mollie's side. He wore a coat
of tussore silk, and his shirt was open at the neck; a wide pith helmet
was on his head, draped with a striped pugaree with broad ends hanging
down his back, and further decorated with vine leaves, which looked
rather droopy in the heat. He held out a hand to Mollie and pulled her
up, looking scornfully at the recumbent figures of Jerry and Dick.
"What a way to spend the time!" he exclaimed. "Their eyes tight shut
and their legs spread out like dried fruit. _They'll_ never discover a
new grape and have the most famous champagne in the world called after
them. Come on!"
Mollie had been listening for a little while to a distant rumble. It
now resolved itself into the uneven racketty grind of heavy cart-wheels
on a rough track. She went forward with Hugh, and, shading her eyes
from the glare of the sun, looked up the road which wound between the
trees of the wood they were in. As she watched, the carts came into
view round a bend of the track, and soon they were passing before her.
A team of six oxen drew each heavy load--such a load as Mollie had
never seen in her life. Grapes! Grapes piled up like turnips! They had
been thrown in by careless hands accustomed to working with rich
harvests, and here and there they hung over the sides, or dropped to
the ground, to be trodden under foot by indifferent beasts and weary
men.
The noise of trampling feet and creaking wheels disturbed the sleepers,
who, one by one, got up and came beside Mollie and Hugh. There was a
smell of hot grapes in the air, mingled with the smell of sweating
oxen, dry grass, and pungent eucalyptus, and the spilled juice of
grapes mixing with the hot dust of the track added a peculiar aroma of
its own to the general nosegay, as Dick described it. Mollie thought
that she could never remember smelling anything so thirst-inducing in
all her days. When the last cart had disappeared down the winding road,
and the noisy rattle had died away to a distant rumble again, Hugh sat
down on the trunk of a fallen tree and stretched his arms.
"Where are they going?" asked Dick, now wideawake and curious. "What
happens next?"
"They're going to Mr. von Greusen's place to be made into wine," Hugh
answered, "and it's a funny thing that however nice grapes are raw they
are all equally nasty when turned into wine. Some go sour and black and
you call it claret, and some go sharp and yellow and you call it
Frontignac or any other silly yellow name. What _I_ should like to
invent would be a kind of drink that tasted of grapes, fresh sweet
grapes. I'd add a dash of peach, and a slice or two of melon, and a
bottle of soda-water. And just enough powdered sugar. And ice."
"Let's go and get the things now and make it this very minute," said
Grizzel, tying on her sun-bonnet and making ready to start. "I'm _so_
thirsty."
"It's too late to-day, and besides I'm tired. There was a man up there
who wanted to know all sorts of things about the vineyards. Mr. von
Greusen was too busy to go round with him, so he sent me. He was
pleased with me for discovering that grape. The man's name is John
Smith. I think he is French."
Mollie laughed.
"What are you laughing at?" asked Hugh, looking all ready to be
offended.
"Oh--nothing--I'm not laughing," Mollie declared; "it's only a sort of
tickle; I get it sometimes."
"John Smith isn't exactly a French name," said Jerry. "Why do you think
he is French?"
"Because he called Mr. von Greusen a 'vigneron' and talked about
'hectares' instead of acres, and 'hectolitres' instead of gallons, and
he told me how vines were trained in Champagne and Burgundy and
Languedoc--all very Frenchy. Mr. von Greusen never talks like that. He
was interested in my new grape, but he's afraid it won't go on being
like it is now. He says it has about one chance in a hundred. I don't
mind betting you sixpence it _will_ be a champagne grape."
"I don't mind betting you sixpence he isn't French if his name is John
Smith," said Jerry. "You might as well call yourself a Scotsman named
Chung Li Chang."
"Oh--names! Names are nothing out here," Hugh said loftily. "We can
call ourselves what we please. This is the Land of Liberty. Besides,
Papa knows a Scotsman called Devereux, so there you are."
"Faugh!" said Jerry scornfully. "That's nothing! Everyone knows that
Scotland is full of French names."
"I suppose you are trying to say 'sfaw'," said Hugh coldly. "There is
nothing to sfaw about. Lots of Chinese people come to Australia and
call themselves John Smith if they choose."
"Faugh!" Jerry repeated.
"Sfaw!" said Hugh.
"Faugh--" Jerry began, but Dick interrupted.
"If you two asses are trying to say pshaw you are both wrong. I
happened to see it in the dictionary a few days ago and it is
pronounced shaw; it's a silly sort of word anyhow. No one uses it in
real life. Shut your jaws and stop your shaws and let's go and get a
drink."
"You can go," said Hugh, whose feelings were injured by the lack of
interest in his new grape. "I'm going to stay here for the present."
"Leave him alone and he'll come home and bring his grape behind him,"
sang Grizzel, as they set off down the hill. Hugh pretended not to hear.
"I wish I was a Red Indian," he muttered to himself, as he watched the
little party straggling down the road. "I'd invent some first-rate
tortures for Grizzel."
The children trudged along the track between the trees. The air was
full of dust stirred up by the carts, the sun seemed to grow hotter and
hotter every moment, "putting on a sprint before the finish", Dick
groaned, and the children grew thirstier and thirstier, till Mollie
felt she could hardly bear it for one minute more. Her lips and tongue
were dry and parched, and, although she kept her mouth shut, the dust
blew up her nose and down her dry throat. She felt as if the sun were
hitting her on the back between her shoulders, and her feet kept
stumbling over the deep ruts in the road. "A Guide's motto is never say
die till you are dead," she thought to herself. "There _are_ times when
I wish I were not a Guide, and this is one of them. 'Be Loyal.'
Oh--_bother_ Baden-Powell!" She held up three fingers to remind herself
of the Guide Law, and tried her best to smile. "How do the others get
on without it?" she wondered, watching Prue and Grizzel as they
loitered along just before her, Grizzel dragging weary little feet in
the dust. "I suppose they are used to it. Life in Australia isn't _all_
beer and skittles. I wonder what skittles are? If they are something
nice to drink I wish we had some here. Even beer would be better than
nothing. I _am_ a beautiful Patrol Leader! Walking behind and grousing
for all I am worth." She hurried her steps a little and made up to the
boys.
"Let's make a queen's chair and carry Grizzel," she suggested. "She
looks about done. We can do it in turns, Dick and me, then Prue and
Jerry."
"Righto!" said both boys at once.
"But you girls needn't do it," Dick added. "Jerry and I have carried
heavier loads than that, haven't we, old son-of-a-gun?"
"Faugh!" said Jerry, with a wink.
Fortunately for the boys, and for Mollie, whose pride as a Patrol
Leader was now up in arms, and perhaps most fortunately for Grizzel,
whose weight was by no means fairy-like, they were overtaken at that
moment by an empty cart, the driver of which pulled up and invited them
all to jump in. It was a relief to sit down, though the floor of the
cart was far from clean, and they were rattled and bumped like dried
peas in a basket. Mollie thought the road would never end, and began to
wonder at what stage of thirst delirium came on. But the longest lane
has a turning, and at last they came in sight of a white house standing
in the middle of an untidy sort of garden. The usual balcony ran round
it, but this time it was approached by a wide flight of steps leading
up from the drive in front. The cart stopped before a wooden gate, and
without a word Prue led the way to the back veranda, where a row of
canvas bags hung swinging from the roof. There were taps in the bags,
but Prue ignored them. She climbed on to the veranda railing, dipped a
tumbler into a bag, and handed it down to Mollie.
Oh, the exquisite joy of that drink! The water was deliciously cold; it
trickled over Mollie's parched tongue, irrigated her dried-up throat,
washed away the dust she had been inhaling, and in half a minute made
her feel like a newly-made-over girl.
"It is worth while being thirsty," she said, as she watched the others
revive under the same treatment. "I never knew before what a delicious
thing water is. I'd like some more, please."
"I wish we were all giraffes," Grizzel said, with a sigh. "I'd like to
have a throat a yard long and just sit here for ever letting cold water
bubble down its hotness."
"What about Hugh?" asked Jerry, his conscience smiting him now that the
irritating effect of heat and thirst had departed, and he reflected
that his slighting remarks were probably the cause of Hugh's absence
from this refreshing entertainment. "I expect he is the thirstiest of
the lot, seeing he is the only one who did any work."
"He had his billy-can of cold tea with him this morning," Prue
answered, "and if he _is_ thirsty it is his own fault for being so
huffy. Anyhow, he likes to practise enduring things; he says it is a
useful habit. The worst of it is he thinks everyone else should endure
too. I don't see the slightest use in making disagreeable things happen
ten times just in case they should have to happen once."
Hugh seemed to have forgotten his grievance when he got home. He
arrived along with Mr. von Greusen, who came to supper and talked to
Papa about vintages and vines, the prospects of the wine industry, the
possibilities of olive culture, and other subjects interesting to
Australians but a trifle dull for the English listeners. Presently,
however, the name of John Smith was introduced, and the boys pricked up
their ears.
"He asks many questions," said Mr. von Greusen, "but I do not think
that his heart is in the vineyard, as the heart of a man must be if he
wishes to make his wine world-famous. In your work, that is where your
heart must be, my children," he added, looking solemnly at the boys.
"And where do you think that the heart of Mr. John Smith is?" Papa
asked, with a twinkle in his blue eyes.
"Ah!" said Mr. von Greusen, shaking his head, "that know I not. The
heart of a young man who brings himself to Australia and whose feet
tread the vineyard while his eyes look far away, so that he repeatedly
trips over obstacles--where is it?" He shook his head again and hummed
in a melodious baritone:
"Mdchen mit dem rothen Mndchen
Mit den uglein sss und klar."
"Aha!" laughed the professor, "I have seen more than one young man come
to Australia to cure _that_ disease. But I don't recommend the
vineyard."
"I also not. Mr. John Smith should squat," said Mr. von Greusen.
Mollie laughed so suddenly that she choked, and brought a look of
disapproval upon herself from her hostess.
"You may go, children. Mr. von Greusen wishes to hear you play,
Prudence. Wait in the drawing-room till we come."
"Why did you go and laugh?" Hugh asked Mollie, as they trooped off to
the drawing-room and thence to the balcony to enjoy the cool breeze
which had sprung up. "I wanted to hear more about Mr. John Smith. I
don't understand German. Do you? Why did Papa laugh?"
"I don't know much German, but I think _Mdchen_ means girl," Mollie
answered. "I couldn't help laughing. Squatting sounds such a funny cure
for being in love." She giggled again.
"_Girl_!" Hugh exclaimed."_Girl_! I didn't think he was _that_ sort of
an idiot! He talked quite all right to me. No wonder Papa laughed. It's
much funnier than squatting, I can tell you. There's nothing to laugh
at in being a squatter. They're as rich as What's-his-name. Some of
them are millionaires. I wish Papa was a squatter--but he would be no
use on a sheep-run; you've got to be in the saddle all day, and keep
your eyes skinned for blackfellows half the night. John Smith looked
the very chap for it. _Girl_!"
"You needn't go on saying _girl_ in that voice," said Grizzel. "It
isn't the girl who is tumbling about with loverishness; it's Mr. Smith."
"What happened to the diamond-mine?" Mollie interrupted, feeling that
another squabble was in the air. "Did you make a fortune, and is this
house it?"
"Oh no--this house belongs to the Bertram Fitzherberts; they are
fruit-farmers. They have gone home for a trip, and they told Papa to
come here for the holidays, if he liked. Mr. von Greusen looks after
the farm for them. His vineyard begins a little farther up the hill.
The diamond-mine hasn't begun to pay yet, but it soon will."
"Do you like--is Mr. von Greusen a nice man?" Mollie asked
hesitatingly; it felt a little queer to be such friends with the late
(or the future, Mollie was a trifle mixed) enemy.
"Nice! Of course he is. Jolly nice, and jolly clever too. Why do you
ask?"
"Oh--I don't know--he is a foreigner, and sometimes foreigners
are--they're different."
"I don't know what you mean by different. Everybody is different from
everybody else. Anyhow, he isn't a foreigner here; he is an Australian."
"What happens if you go to war?" asked Dick.
"We don't go to war. We are too far away to fight against other
countries, and we will never fight each other, like America, and
France, and the Wars of the Roses. There's nothing to fight about and
there never will be. Of course--if we _wanted_ to we _could_. We'd be
first-class fighters if we weren't so peaceful. In fact," Hugh
continued, in a somewhat dreamy tone, "I have invented, or at least
thought about, several rather good things for fighting with--but they
will never be wanted in Australia. Papa says that if ever there was a
sweet and blessed country on earth it is Australia; it is full of peace
and goodwill towards all men."
The English children were silent. It was a good thing, they thought,
that people could not see into the future. Time-travelling was
certainly best done backwards. And yet--who would want to wipe out the
record of the Anzacs? Life was a fairly puzzling job, when you saw too
far ahead.
"Papa says," Grizzel repeated, "that Australian people ought to be the
goodest people in the world, because there is a beautiful Cross always
shining in the sky to remind us of the Beloved Son, like the rainbow,
so that we should never forget. But I do. Nothing in the world seems to
keep me from forgetting to be good just when I most want to remember."
Grizzel heaved a sigh from the very bottom of her sinful little heart.
Everyone's eyes turned towards the Southern Cross, conspicuous even
amongst the myriad stars shining and throbbing with tropical brilliance
in the velvety blackness of the sky. Mollie remembered that it
decorated the Australian flag, and she wondered if the sight of it had
made the soldiers homesick sometimes. They were _real_ Australians, she
thought to herself, born and bred in this sunny land. She could
remember a day when she had been walking with her mother in the Pimlico
Road--a dark, foggy, raw day in late autumn. They had come upon a group
of Australian soldiers standing round the door of a little
green-grocer's shop, and chaffing the good-natured shop-woman about the
quality of her fruit. Mother had stopped to speak to them. Mollie could
not remember exactly what had passed, but the men had been friendly and
communicative, and if they had groused about the English climate they
had some cause, she thought, considering the climate they had come
from; and they were cheerful about the war--she could remember that,
for their voices had followed them through the fog singing "Australia
will be there!" to what she had thought was a very lively and pleasant
tune--and yet Mother had tears in her eyes. It was a good idea, she
reflected, having that device on the flag, for it really was a bit of
home--for them. Poor men! Suddenly a new thought came into her mind.
"Look!" she whispered, laying a hand on Jerry's arm and pointing to the
Cross, "look! how brightly it shines! _Their name liveth for evermore!_"
Prue had slipped indoors and was playing a grave prelude and fugue of
Bach's. The three older people joined the children in the balcony, and
sat quietly listening till she had finished.
"That was very good, my child," said Mr. von Greusen, patting her
approvingly on the shoulder, "very good indeed. Next winter we shall
study together some piano and violin duets. And now perhaps your
_verehrte Frau Mutter_ will make some of her beautiful music for us.
Some Schubert songs, yes?"
So Mamma went in, and she and Mr. von Greusen both made beautiful
music, separately and together, which the audience in the balcony
enjoyed without troubling to understand, Prue being the only one among
them who loved music with her head as well as with her heart.
A sound of footsteps on the path below attracted the children's
attention. Someone was walking slowly backwards and forwards, obviously
listening to the music. As he passed through the long beam of light
sent out by the lamp into the darkness, he turned up his face for a
moment.
"It is Mr. John Smith," Hugh said in a low voice. "Shall I ask him to
come up, Papa? He looks lonely out there all by himself."
"By all means ask him to come up," Papa whispered cordially; "but go
quietly, my son, or Mamma will be out to know who is there, and our
concert will be over."
Hugh departed on his errand, returning in a few moments with a tall
figure in his wake, which he led to one of the long cane chairs
scattered about, and left to its own meditations.
The children looked curiously at Mr. John Smith, He appeared to be a
dark-haired young man, with a considerable amount of nose and chin and
a good many inches of leg. He sat very still, his eyes fixed on the
starry sky before him. There was, in his general outline in the
semi-darkness of the balcony, something vaguely familiar to Mollie--one
of those tantalizing impressions that come and go and refuse to be laid
hold of.
"But I _can't_ have seen him before," she said to herself; "it is quite
impossible." She looked away and tried to get to where she had been
before Mr. Smith came up--to that fairyland which the musician summons
up with a wave of his magic wand, especially perhaps for those who love
music mostly with their hearts, but the teasing little impression
disturbed her like an imp. Until the notes of Schubert's "Adieu" came
floating out into the night and carried them all on its wings up to the
very gates of Heaven.
The sound of the piano closing brought them back to earth. The
musicians stepped out on to the balcony.
"_Ende vom Lied,_" Mr. von Greusen said, as he left the lighted room
behind him, "and the end of the evening too, for me. I must be getting
home--hullo, Smith! Where did you come from? Am I to have the pleasure
of introducing you to Professor and Mrs. Campbell, or has someone
stolen a march upon me?"
"I brought him up," Hugh answered. "He heard Mamma singing and was
fascinated like flies and moths and things."
They laughed as Mr. Smith made his apologies while he joined in the
laughter. "You must come again," Mamma said, "and we will have a
concert properly prepared for you. And you will give me all the news
from home," she added, with the wistful note that was so often in her
voice, "unless you will come in now, and try our Australian wine?"
But the young man could not stay, and, after a few more words of thanks
and a grateful promise to come again at the earliest possible
opportunity, he went off with Mr. von Greusen.
"Who _is_ Mr. Smith?" Mollie asked, as they moved bedwards. "Doesn't
anybody know who he is?"
"He is a young man newly out from home, and that is enough for Papa and
Mamma," Hugh answered, with a yawn. "What does it matter who he is so
long as he is a nice chap."
"But suppose he was a bushranger in disguise and--"
"Suppose he is Nebuchadnezzar, King of the Jews," Hugh interrupted,
with another yawn. "I'm going to bed. We shall sleep tonight, with that
cool wind. Thank goodness."
Next morning found them again on the winding road which led up to the
vineyards. For three-quarters of the way it ran through the woods of
yesterday; then they left the woods behind and emerged on to a bare and
shadeless track on the hill-side, and ten minutes later they turned in
through the gate of the vineyard Mr. von Greusen had given them
permission to "browse" in, as he had expressed it. The English children
had never seen a vineyard in their lives, and their expectations were
inclined to be romantic and artistic. Large bunches of thin-skinned,
bloomy purple grapes, hanging gracefully down from something like a
pergola, was the picture they had formed in their minds. Mollie, it is
true, had seen grapes growing in the cherry garden, but they had been
so surrounded by cherry trees and other exciting objects that they had
not left any great impression.
They found the reality somewhat disappointing. Here were acres of
straight green lines hardly higher than gooseberry-bushes, and without
a single tree to break the monotony or to cast a welcome shade. The
bunches of grapes looked inviting enough, hanging among their
decorative leaves and tendrils, but they had not been thinned and
consequently were smaller than English hothouse grapes, while exposure
to wind and dust had removed most of their bloom; but, in spite of
their comparatively homely appearance, the children soon found that the
fruit tasted sweet and luscious as only freshly gathered, sun-ripened
fruit can do.
"This is Mr. von Greusen's experimental field," Hugh explained. "He
mostly grows different lots for different wines, but here he has all
sorts. We like these Ladies' Fingers; they go off in your mouth with
such a nice squelch."
"What happens if you eat his favourite experiment?" asked Jerry,
squelching his way diligently through a bunch of long, slender grapes
of a translucent pale-green colour.
"He says, '_Donnerwetter_! What see I?'" Hugh answered; "but he ties a
red worsted round his first-class experiments and then we know. He has
tied _all_ my new grapes up except the bunch he took home."
Now that the children were in the vineyard, and heard Hugh talking
learnedly of Black Portugals, Verdeilho, Shirez, and other
strange-sounding names, they were more reverential towards his new
grape, which _might_ be called Hughenne, or even, he generously
suggested, either Gordello or Campdonne.
"It has to have a winey sound, you see," he said, "or it wouldn't sell.
I think 'Gordello' sounds rather well myself."
It did not take very long to satisfy their appetite for grapes. The sun
got hotter, their eyes ached with the glare, and they decided to return
to the coolness of the woods and gardens lower down. The boys wanted to
go exploring; the girls were to be left to collect peaches and melons
for the new drink--which might bear the honoured name of Gordello until
the famous champagne was put on the market--which would then be ready
and cooling in the spring of the Fairy Dell by the time that the
explorers were weary of exploring. Thus planned the boys.
"Boys propose, girls dispose," paraphrased Mollie, as the three pith
helmets disappeared, after their owners had condescended to gather a
share of the Gordello-destined grapes and carry them part of the way
towards the Dell. "If Dick and Jerry want drinks they can jolly well
come and make them. _I_ am going to have a rest."
Prue looked a little shocked, but Grizzel heartily agreed with Mollie.
"I shall pull six peaches and one water-melon _exactly_," she said. "I
am tired and my legs ache, and I can't be bothered with Hugh and his
old Gordello."
A short walk down the road between the gum trees brought them to the
fruit gardens, where Mollie saw peaches that made up by their
magnificence for any hothouse elegance lacking in the grapes. Large as
apples, soft and downy as velvet, glowing with crimson and gold, they
were a perfect revelation of what peaches could be when they tried, and
Mollie could hardly bear to wait till they reached the Fairy Dell
before devouring one. But Prudence was firm.
"No, Mollie; not after all those grapes while you are hot and tired.
Come and get your water-melon, and we'll go straight to the Dell and
rest and eat peaches there. If you ate them now you might die all of a
sudden, and that would be _so_ awkward for Grizzel and me."
Mollie thought it would be more awkward for her, but did not argue. She
followed Prue obediently, finding her basket of grapes, plus six
peaches and a large water-melon, quite enough to absorb all her
energies. If only Gordello were an accomplished fact, she thought, it
would be very delightful. If someone else had made it and _she_ could
find it "cooling in the spring", as the boys expected to do, it would
be extraordinarily delicious, and the more she thought of it the more
delicious it became in her fancy. Poor boys! She was sorry for the
disappointment awaiting them. Australians seemed to be a strenuous lot
of people; no wonder the Australian soldiers were so brown and chinny.
Her meditations on chinny Australians lasted till they reached the
Fairy Dell, the sight of which chased every other thought from her
head. Surrounded by she-oaks and native cherry trees a smoothly curved
hollow lay at the foot of a rocky declivity, its sides clothed with
ferns almost startlingly green amidst the dried-up grass which covered
most of the country around. A silvery cascade of water fell down the
rock at the far side, its fine spray blown by the wind over the little
hollow, looking in the sunlight like the veil of a fairy bride. Mollie
recognized the delicate fronds of maidenhair growing in clumps here and
there, and the edge of the pool at the bottom of the hollow was fringed
with wild forget-me-nots.
The children scrambled down and seated themselves in a shady spot,
untying their sun-bonnets and holding their hot and dusty faces towards
the filmy veil of foam.
"It is heavenly," Mollie said, with a long sigh, as she sniffed up the
cool scent of the damp ferns. "I don't wonder you call it the Fairy
Dell."
"It is Mamma's favourite spot, and we often have picnics here," said
Prue, hanging her sun-bonnet on a branch of she-oak that spread above
them. "There's the water all ready, you see, and there's a place up
there where we can light our fire. Mamma sketches, and we bring our
books or we hunt for wild flowers; it is always a nice place to be in.
Now we can eat our fruit." She produced a knife from her basket and cut
a melon in halves. Its delicate pink flesh and black seeds called forth
more enthusiastic admiration from Mollie.
"Let us arrange all the things among the ferns," she suggested, "and
gather some forget-me-nots to put beside that pink melon; then the
purple grapes; then the peaches--isn't it _pretty_, Prue?"
Prue nodded her head; she was speechless with melon, and soon the other
two were following her example; and melon was followed by peaches.
Then Grizzel jumped to her feet. "There is a cache here," she said.
"Papa often pops something in for a surprise when he passes this way.
I'm going to look; there might be a pencil there, and I want to draw
that fruit."
She soon returned, carrying in her hand a small basket, which yielded
up two books, a small sketching-block, and a box of chocolates. "You
can have the books," she announced, "one is _From Six to Sixteen_, by
Mrs. Ewing, and the other is _Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea_,
by Jules Verne."
Mollie, being the guest, got first choice and took Jules Verne, turning
the pictures over with much interest as she compared the _Nautilus_
with the submarine of 1920.
"I do think," she said emphatically, helping herself to a large
chocolate-cream with entire disregard of both past and future, "I do
think that your father is a perfect _peach_."
Grizzel glanced up from her drawing to the still-life study before her.
"He is more the shape of a water-melon," she remarked.
Mollie laughed.
"Be quiet, Grizzel," Prue said angrily. "How can you speak so
disrespectfully of Papa? You should be ashamed of yourself."
"I'm _not_ disrespectful," Grizzel answered indignantly. "I think it is
a beautiful shape."
Mollie laughed again.
"You _are_ disrespectful," Prue repeated, turning very red. "Papa does
the dearest, sweetest things, and all your thanks is to make Mollie
laugh at him. It is horrible of you, and I don't call it very nice of
Mollie."
"I'm not laughing at your father," Mollie said; "I wouldn't dream of
doing such a thing. I'm laughing at Grizzel. She is so funny."
"I'm _not_ funny," said Grizzel, turning as red as Prudence, "and if
you laugh at Papa for being partly the shape of a water-melon, I'll
laugh at _your_ father. Your father is an unripe olive and your mother
is a bitter almond," she added vindictively.
But if she expected Mollie to be insulted she was disappointed, for
that young person went off into fits of cackling giggles which she
vainly tried to suppress. At last she rose to her feet.
"I've got the giggles badly," she spluttered out. "I get them
sometimes. I think I had better go away for a little till I am better.
I _really_ am not laughing at your father. I think he is a perfectly
lovely father."
"Then you shouldn't call names," said Prue, still very red. "How would
you like me to call your father an apricot?"
"I shouldn't mind in the least," answered Mollie, giggling worse than
ever. "You don't understand. I'll go away, and I'll explain when I am
better."
She seized her sunbonnet, tucked her book under her arm, climbed up the
side of the ferny dell, crossed the track, and ran into the wood on the
farther side, leaving Prue and Grizzel to finish the squabble between
themselves.
"We have eaten too much, that's what's the matter," she said to
herself, as she slowed down to a walk and the giggle became less
severe. "This hot sun all the time makes one feel crossish."
She came to a halt at the foot of a hollow gum tree, and stooping a
little she peered within. It looked shady and cool, its floor powdered
with decayed bark mixed with dead leaves--quite clean enough, she
decided, to sit upon and rest until her giggles had finally subsided.
She crept in, snuggled down comfortably, opened her book, and soon was
deep in the adventures of Professor Arrownax, Ned Land, Captain Nemo,
and the rest.
The shadows swung slowly round, the sun climbed higher and higher, and
the day grew hotter and hotter, but Mollie, skimming along the bottom
of the sea in the _Nautilus_ was oblivious of heat. She was walking in
the submarine forest of the Island of Crespo, treading on sand "sown
with the impalpable dust of shells", when the sudden cracking of a
sun-dried branch near at hand startled her and reminded her that time
was passing. She closed her book, crept out of her tree, and set off
towards the Dell.
"I wish," she said impatiently to herself, "that Time would find
something new to do. His one idea seems to be to pass. He may fly or he
may crawl, but he is _incessantly_ passing."
She stood still as she spoke and looked before her. Surely the trees
were growing more closely together than they had seemed to do; their
tall grey-white trunks repeated themselves in a most bewildering way,
and right in her path lay a fallen giant which she was perfectly
certain she had not passed before.
"Bother! I have come the wrong way," she said, turning round and
retracing her steps. "I remember now, there were some trees with rings
cut round their trunks--there they are."
She reached the ringed trees, turned her back upon them, and walked
straight on. But she came to a dried-up creek which she had not seen
before. She could not have missed seeing it, for it was too wide to
jump. And there were more ringed trees.
"I can't be far from the Dell, that's one thing certain. I'll coo-ee."
She coo-eed her best and shrillest, but no answer came. There was no
sound but the occasional scamper of some small furry animal or the
unhomely call of an Australian parrot or magpie. All around her the
monotonous grey trunks stood, as much alike as the pillars of a
town-hall, and overhead the blue-green leaves stirred languidly in the
warm wind. Mollie was standing, though she did not know it, on primeval
forest land.
What she did begin to realize was that she was lost.
"I _can't_ be far away," she repeated to herself. "I wasn't running for
five minutes. The point is, how am I to find the way back. Everything
is so difficult in this upside-down place; I haven't the least idea
which is north and which is south; nor which way the wind blows, nor
how the shadows fall, nor _anything_; and if I go the wrong way I will
only get farther and farther from the Dell. The best plan really is to
sit down and wait till someone comes. Someone is sure to look for me
sooner or later; Dick and Jerry will, anyhow." She looked about her
again in search of inspiration. Sitting down and waiting was not a
cheerful prospect. Dick and Jerry might whisk away home and leave her
behind. Or she might merely wake up suddenly and find herself in the
Chauncery morning-room, safe but dull, or--just supposing she didn't!
Supposing that she couldn't get back without Prue, and that she turned
into an interesting case for the What's-its-name Society, to be read
about in learned books!
"I might try climbing a tree," she thought, gazing round in search of
something climbable. But the tall, smooth trunks were discouraging;
there were few with boughs within her reach, and the few there were
were too low to be of any use as observation posts. She sat down and
resolutely opened her book. "Never say die till you are dead," she
repeated, firmly fastening the Guide's smile on to her face. "I'll
read, and coo-ee every third page."
But she no longer walked in the submarine forest; she only sat in a
wood and read about other people doing it, lifting her eyes from the
page every now and then, and turning her head uneasily from side to
side, feeling very lonely in that great, still place!
What was that? A magpie or a human whistle? "--two-three,
_one_-two-three, _one_--". Someone was whistling the air from _Faust_.
Mollie sprang to her feet and coo-eed with all her might and main. The
whistling stopped short, and there was an answering shout in a man's
voice. Mollie coo-eed again.
"Hi! You'll have to come to me," the man shouted; "I can't come to you.
Tied here by the leg."
It is not an easy thing to locate a sound in the open air, and though
Mollie had had some practice in the course of her Guide work, it was
only after several shouts on the man's part and experiments on hers
that she at last found herself standing beside Mr. John Smith, who was
sitting on the ground with one bootless leg stretched out before him.
"I am glad to see you," he said to Mollie. "I have sprained my ankle
rather badly, and was just wondering what to do next. There seemed to
be nothing for it but to crawl all the way home, and the prospect was
not pleasing."
"I am glad to see you too," said Mollie. "I am lost."
"Lost!" exclaimed the young man. "Oh no, you aren't. I have a compass,
and it is not more than a couple of miles or so to Silver Fields, von
Greusen's place. I'll show you how to use a compass, and you will be my
good angel and go to Silver Fields and ask them to send a horse along,
and I will be grateful to you for ever."
"I know how to use a compass, thank you," said Mollie, feeling greatly
relieved, "and I will go to Mr. von Greusen's place if you tell me
where it is; but first I will bandage up your foot and make it feel
easier. I have learnt First Aid. May I take that thing off your hat for
a bandage?"--as she noticed the pith helmet and pugaree lying on the
ground.
"My pugaree? Good idea! I don't know what First Aid is precisely, but
it sounds appropriate. Do you mean you can fix a bandage?"
"Rather," said Mollie, comfortably conscious that she was a First-class
Guide and a bright and shining light in this particular line. "How did
you sprain your ankle? I suppose you--" she stopped short. She had
almost said that she supposed he had tripped over an obstacle in a fit
of loverishness. "I suppose your foot just went. That's what mine did."
"I caught it in a rabbit-hole," he answered, "the floor of Australia
seems to be perforated with them. Why didn't you coo-ee sooner?"
"I did," Mollie answered, as she unwound the pugaree and took off her
patient's sock, "I coo-eed ever so often--oh, dear me! that _is_ a bad
foot! I'm afraid you'll be laid up for ever so long. Why didn't _you_
coo-ee?"
"I did," answered Mr. Smith, eyeing the badly swollen and discoloured
ankle ruefully. "I coo-eed ever so often too. I suppose we mistook each
other for magpies. Next time I'll try a good English shout. Now, what's
to happen? D'ye mean to say that I'm to be stuck up in Silver Fields
for goodness knows how long with only my own thoughts for company and
nothing to do? Oh, ye gods and little fishes!" he groaned
disconsolately.
"I'm afraid so," Mollie replied sympathetically. "I sprained my
ankle--" she was going to say "the other day" but remembered in
time--"once in the holidays, and I had to lie on a sofa all day. It
wasn't nearly so dull as I expected though," she ended with a little
laugh. As they talked she had been skilfully bandaging the swollen
ankle in her best style, which was a style not to be despised by
anybody. "Now," she said, as she tucked in the end and fastened it
firmly with her Tenderfoot brooch, "now you will be more comfortable.
But you must keep quite still. I do wish you were not so far from home;
you should not ride. If you do anything foolish now you may be lame all
your life; that's what the doctor told me; he was most frightfully firm
about it. Your wrist is bleeding--you have cut it."
The young man turned back his shirt sleeve. "It is nothing. A
handkerchief twisted round will do. You have done the bandage
beautifully."
Mollie arranged the handkerchief. As she did so her eyes fell upon a
tattoo-mark, an anchor inside a true-lover's knot. It was an ordinary
enough tattoo-mark, but the sight of it struck at Mollie for _she had
seen it before_. The odd impression of last night, which she had
forgotten in the various exigences of the situation, came rushing back
into her mind. Who _did_ he remind her of? How could she possibly have
seen that little mark before?
"My name is John Smith," he said, looking up and finding her eyes fixed
questioningly upon him. "I don't think we have met before?"
"I saw you last night at the Campbell's," Mollie replied aloud (while
to herself she added, "And where I saw you before that is what I should
like to know more than anything else at this present moment"). "I am
staying there. It was dark on the balcony and there were a lot of us
children; you wouldn't notice me. My name is Mollie--oh, you simply
must _not_ twist your leg about like that! Your ankle _may_ be broken;
you don't know."
He smiled; his eyes crinkled up and there was a something in the tilt
of his mouth. Why was that smile so familiar? Was it the Prince of
Wales? No, it was someone she knew much better than she knew the Prince
of Wales. (Which wasn't saying very much after all.)
"You are very cheery! So you were there, were you? I never heard such
heavenly singing in my life. Von Greusen says that Mrs. Campbell has
one of the most beautiful voices in South Australia, and I should say
that he has the other. But it isn't only their voices, it's the way
they sing, making you think of all the might-have-beens and
ought-to-have-beens and never-will-bes--" he stopped, and sighed in a
melancholy way, leaning his back against the tree behind him. "I think
you had better be starting, Miss Polly. Neither of us will be the worse
of getting home."
"Mollie, not Polly. I wish you had not to be left alone. I will be as
quick as I can. How shall I describe this place? I think I had better
come back with the men."
"No need for that. Tell them I'm by the creek on the way to the olive
plantation. They'll know. I have a sister called Polly. I was thinking
of her at that moment," he added, with another sigh. "I had a letter
from her yesterday and she wants me to go back. The point is, shall I
go or shall I not?"
"I don't know, but I think I had better hurry," Mollie said. It had
occurred to her that if _she_ "went back" with her usual abruptness,
before she delivered her message, Mr. John Smith might be left in an
awkward predicament.
He handed over the compass with careful directions. She nodded her
head, waved her hand at her distractingly perplexing new acquaintance,
and set off. Soon her entire attention was absorbed in finding her way,
for, although she had used a compass often enough when Guiding, an
Australian forest was something quite new, and to her it seemed as
trackless as the ocean, every part of it looked so precisely the same
as every other part. Eventually, however, she found herself safely back
on the cart-track, though nowhere within sight of the Fairy Dell. She
decided to go straight home to the Campbell's house and ask there for
help for Mr. John Smith. Mr. von Greusen would probably be out at this
hour, and she felt shy of the big bearded men working about the place.
Mamma was in, and heard her story with concern.
"Of course he must come here," she exclaimed, with true Australian
hospitality, unquestioning and ungrudging. "He must be properly nursed
and fed." Mollie thought that Mamma looked rather pleased than
otherwise at the prospect of nursing and feeding a good-looking young
man newly out from home. Bridget was called, and between them all a
room was got ready and made to look as homelike as possible. "Flowers
and books," said Mrs. Campbell, "always make a room look pleasant. I
wish I had some photographs. I wonder who his people are. We'll put up
a picture of St. Paul's Cathedral, and this little water-colour of a
Sussex village; they are not quite the same thing as his mother or
sweetheart, but they will be better than nothing." She sighed as she
looked at the water-colour. They were great people for sighing, Mollie
thought. It must be rather miserable to be homesick so very, very far
away from home!
When Prudence and Grizzel, accompanied by the boys, all not a little
anxious about Mollie, arrived at home for dinner they found not only
the missing Mollie but also Mr. John Smith on the balcony. Mollie ran
down the steps to meet them, and gave a highly coloured account of her
adventures. Past differences were forgiven and forgotten, and after
dinner they all assembled on the balcony again with the benevolent
intention of devoting themselves to the entertainment of the
interesting invalid.
But Mrs. Campbell did not approve of this plan. "We are too many," she
said in her decided way. "Prudence and Mollie may stay; the rest of you
must run away for the present. Grizzel can go for a walk with Bridget
and Baby; I want a few things from the Store, and they can be brought
up in the perambulator. The boys had better go up to Mr. von Greusen's
and see about getting Mr. Smith's belongings brought here."
"You might call at the Fairy Dell and get the Gordello," Prudence
suggested--for after all she and Grizzel had made the new drink in a
fit of remorse--"Mr. Smith will perhaps like to taste it."
The family melted away, and Mamma with the two girls settled down to
needlework. Mamma's kindly interest invited confidence under these
pleasant circumstances, and it was not long before the young man was
pouring his story into her sympathetic ears. Prudence listened
spellbound. It was not often that one had romance brought to one's very
door--by a hero with a sprained ankle too! Such a romantic affliction!
But Mollie was too much preoccupied by that haunting likeness to listen
properly to what the hero was saying, once she had ascertained the fact
that Mr. Smith belonged to the Campbell's Time, and that therefore she
could not possibly have met himself before; it must have been somebody
extraordinarily like him. And yet--the number of her friends was not so
very great that one could be totally forgotten. She tried not to think
about it, but it stuck in the back of her brain in an irritating sort
of way and refused to be forgotten.
His story was not at all an uncommon one: a love-affair, a selection of
angry parents, lack of money, eternal vows, and a young man in search
of a fortune. He had been told that fortunes lay about loose in
Australia.
"Not that I mind working," he said. "I like work all right, but it's so
slow, and we are getting older all the time. I rather fancied a
vineyard; our parents are great on their cellars and might come round
to a vineyard and wine. I spent some time in France before coming here,
but it was hopeless. They won't look at a foreigner in their wine
concerns. As a matter of fact I have some hopes of my own governor
relenting. I am his only son, and he is getting tired of keeping me at
arm's length. There's nothing really in the way; only he had another
wife in view for me, and Margaret's father had another husband. _He_ is
rather a cantankerous old party. Too much port wine is what is the
matter with them both, that's my opinion; they're turning gouty."
As Mr. John Smith talked he pulled his watch out of his pocket and
sprung it open. In the back lay a tiny photograph.
"That's Margaret," he said.
The others bent over the faintly tinted portrait of a young girl,
pretty and smiling, her wavy hair rippling on either side of a smooth
brow. Mollie glanced at it absent-mindedly; the back of her brain, she
felt, was moving to the front; in another moment it would be there.
Mr. Smith looked affectionately at the pretty face. "That is my little
girl," he repeated, "and I--I ought to tell you--you are so kind--my
name is not really John Smith. I dropped my real name because I wanted
to dodge my governor--teach him a lesson, you know, not to play fast
and loose with his only son--poor old governor! I have written to him
since I came to Silver Fields. My real name is--"
Suddenly Mollie began to laugh. It had come in a flash--the long chair,
the bandaged foot on a foot-rest, the watch with its back open, the
tattooed anchor and rope on a lean wrist, and above all a pair of dark
eyes (so like Dick's) crinkled up in a kindly smile: "You don't blow
hard enough, little Polly," someone was saying, "try again." The hair
above the dark eyes was white, but Mollie knew.
"It's so _funny_," she cried, as they all looked at her, Prudence
anxiously inquiring if she had "got it again". "I'm all right, Prue,
but it's so funny. _I_ know who you are," she laughed again, turning to
Mr. Smith. "Your name isn't John Smith at all. You are poor dear
Richard. Who was so active. With the gout. And you are--you are my--"
"Hush, Mollie!" said Prue.
* * * * *
Mollie sat up. She was still laughing. Aunt Mary stood beside her in
hat and coat, her hands full of cardboard boxes from Buszard's. Grannie
sat at the tea-table, and opposite her was old Mrs. Pell, who had put
on her bonnet because it would soon be time for her to go. They all
looked at Mollie, who continued to laugh.
"It's nothing," she said. "It is only a fit of giggles. I have them
sometimes."
"Give the dear child her tea, Mary," said Grannie. "Her nerves are a
little highly strung; her grandfather used to laugh just like
that--poor dear Richard!"