LIGHTS OUT
“There was two of every single thing in the Ark,” said Geoffrey firmly.
“The man in Church read it out of the Bible.”
“Two Teddy-bears?” asked Alison.
“No; Teddies are only toys. There was real bears, though.”
“Meat ones?” asked his sister hopefully.
“Yes. And all the other nanimals.”
“Who drived ’em in?”
“Ole Noah and Mrs. Noah. Mustn’t they have had a time! If you tried to
drive in our turkeys an sheep and cows together there’d be awful
trouble—and Noah had lions and tigers and snakes too.”
“Perhaps he had good sheep-dogs,” Norah suggested. She was sewing with
Mrs. Hunt under a tree on the lawn, while the children played with a
Noah’s Ark on a short-legged table near them.
“He’d need them,” Geoffrey said. “But would sheep-dogs be any good at
driving snakes and porklepines, Norah?”
“Noah’s might have been,” Norah answered prudently. “They must have
been used to it, you see. And I believe a good sheep-dog would get used
to anything.”
“Funny things ole Noah and his fam’ly wore,” said Geoffrey, looking at
Japhet with disfavour. “Like dressing-gowns, only worse. Wouldn’t have
been much good for looking after nanimals in. Why, even the Land Army
girls wear trousers now!”
“Well, fashions were different then,” said Mrs. Hunt. “Perhaps, too,
they took off the dressing-gowns when they got inside the Ark, and had
trousers underneath.”
“Where’d they keep all the food for the nanimals, anyhow?” Geoffrey
demanded. “They’d want such a lot, and it would have to be all
different sorts of food. Tigers wouldn’t eat vegi-tubbles, like
rabbits.”
“And efalunts would eat buns,” said Alison anxiously. “Did Mrs. Noah
make vem buns?”
“She couldn’t, silly, unless she had a gas-stove,” said Geoffrey. “They
couldn’t carry firewood as well. I say, Mother, don’t you think the Ark
must have had a supply-ship following round, like the Navy has?”
“It isn’t mentioned,” said Mrs. Hunt.
“I say!” said Geoffrey, struck by a new idea that put aside the
question of supply. “Just fancy if a submarine had torpedoed the Ark!
Wouldn’t it have been exciting!”
“Let’s do it in the bath,” said Alison, delightedly.
“All right,” Geoffrey said. “May we, Mother?”
“Oh, yes, if you don’t get too wet,” his mother said resignedly. “They
can all swim, that’s a comfort.
“We’ll muster them,” said Geoffrey, bundling the animals into a heap.
“Hand over that bird, Alison. I say, Mother, which came first, a fowl
or an egg?”
Mrs. Hunt sighed.
“It isn’t mentioned,” she said. “Which do you think?”
“Fowl, I ’specs,” answered her son.
“_I_ fink it was ve egg,” said Alison.
“How would it be hatched if it was, silly?” demanded her brother. “They
didn’t have ink-ink-inklebaters then.”
Alison puckered her brows, and remained undefeated.
“P’raps Adam sat on it,” she suggested.
“I cannot imagine Adam being broody,” said Mrs. Hunt.
“Well, anyhow, he hatched out Eve!” said Geoffrey. No one ventured to
combat this statement, and the children formed themselves into a
stretcher party, bearing the Ark and its contents upon a tray in the
direction of the bathroom.
“Aren’t they darlings?” Norah said, laughing. “Look at that Michael!”
Michael was toddling behind the stretcher-party as fast as his fat legs
would permit, uttering short and sharp shrieks of anguish lest he
should be forgotten. Geoffrey gave the order, “Halt!” and the Ark and
its bearers came to a standstill.
“Come along, kid,” said the commanding officer. “You can be the band.”
The procession was re-formed with Michael in the lead, tooting proudly
on an imaginary bugle. They disappeared within the house.
“They are growing so big and strong,” said Mrs. Hunt thankfully.
“Michael can’t wear any of the things that fitted Geoff at his age; as
for Alison, nothing seems to fit her for more than a month or two; then
she gracefully bursts out of her garments! As for Geoff——! But he is
getting really too independent: he went off by himself to the village
yesterday, and I found him playing football behind one of the cottages
with a lot of small boys.”
“Oh—did you?” Norah said, looking a little worried. “We heard just
before I came over this morning that there is a case of fever in the
village—some travelling tinker-people seem to have brought it. Dad said
I must tell you we had better not let the children go down there for
the present.”
“There were some gipsy-looking boys among the crowd that Geoff was
playing with,” Mrs. Hunt said anxiously. “I do hope he hasn’t run any
risk. He is wearing the same clothes, too—I’ll take them off him, and
have them washed.” She gathered up her sewing hurriedly. “But I think
Geoff is strong enough now to resist any germ.”
“Oh, of course he is,” Norah answered. “Still, it doesn’t do any harm
to take precautions. I’ll come and help you, Mrs. Hunt.”
Geoffrey, congenially employed as a submarine commander about to
torpedo the Ark, was distinctly annoyed at being reduced to a mere
small boy, and an unclad one at that.
“I don’t see why you want to undress me in the middle of the morning,”
he said, wriggling out of his blue jersey. “And it isn’t washing-day,
either, and Alison and Michael’ll go and sink the Ark without me if you
don’t hurry.”
“I won’t let them, Geoff,” Norah reassured him. “I’m an airship
commander cruising round over the submarine, and she doesn’t dare to
show so much as the tip of her periscope. Of course, when her captain
comes back, he’ll know what to do!”
“Rather!” said the Captain, wriggling this time in ecstasy. “I’ll just
put up my anti-aircraft gun and blow the old airship to smithereens.”
Alison uttered a howl.
“_Won’t_ have Norah made into smivvereens!”
“Don’t you worry darling, I’ll dodge,” said Norah.
“Michael, what are you doing with Mrs. Noah?”
“Not want my dear ’ickle Mrs. Noah dwowned,” said Michael, concealing
the lady yet more securely in his tiny pocket. “She good. Michael
_loves_ her.”
“Oh, rubbish, Michael! put her back in the Ark,” said Geoffrey
wrathfully. “However can we have a proper submarining if you go and
collar half the things?”
“Never collared nuffig,” said Michael, unmoved. “Only tooked my dear
’ickle Mrs. Noah.”
“Never mind Geoff—he’s only a small boy,” Mrs. Hunt said.
“_Isn’t_ a small boy!” protested Michael furiously. “Daddy said I was
’normous.”
“So you are, best-beloved,” laughed Norah, catching him up. “Now the
submarine commander has on clean clothes, and you’d better get ready to
go on duty.” Geoffrey dashed back to the bath with a shout of defiance
to the airship, and the destruction of the Ark proceeded gaily.
“There!” said Mrs. Hunt, putting Geoffrey’s garments into a tub. “It’s
just as well to have them washed, but I really don’t think there’s any
need to worry.”
“I don’t think you need, indeed!” said Norah, laughing, as a medley of
sound came from the bathroom.
It was an “off” day for Norah. With Miss de Lisle she had potted and
preserved every variety of food that would lend itself to such
treatment, and now the working season was almost over. For the first
time the Home for Tired People had not many inmates, owing to the fact
that leave had been stopped for several men at the Front who had
arranged to spend their holiday at Homewood. They had with them an
elderly colonel and his wife; Harry Trevor and another Australian; a
silent Major who played golf every hour of daylight, and read golf
literature during the other part of the day; and a couple of sappers,
on final leave after recovering from wounds. To-day the Colonel and his
wife had gone up to London; the others, with the exception of Major
Mackay, who, as usual, might be seen afar upon the links, had gone with
Mr. Linton to a sale where he hoped to secure some unusually desirable
pigs; the sappers, happy in ignorance, promised themselves much
enjoyment in driving them home. Left alone, therefore, Norah had gone
for the day to Mrs. Hunt, ostensibly to improve her French and
needlework, but in reality to play with the babies. Just how much the
Hunt babies had helped her only Norah herself knew.
“I’m asked to a festivity the day after to-morrow,” Mrs. Hunt said that
afternoon. They were having tea in the pleasant sitting-room of the
cottage; sounds from the kitchen indicated that Eva was giving her
celebrated performance of a grizzly bear for the benefit of the
children. The performance always ended with a hunt, and with the
slaying of the quarry by Geoffrey, after which the bear expired with
lingering and unpleasant details. “Douglas’s Colonel is in London on
leave, and he and his wife have asked me to dine and go to a theatre
afterwards. It would mean staying in London that night, of course.”
“So of course you’ll go?”
“I should love to go,” Mrs. Hunt admitted. “It would be jolly in
itself, and then I should hear something about Douglas; and all he ever
tells me about himself might be put on a field postcard. If the babies
are quite well, Norah, do you think you would mind taking charge?”
Norah laughed. She had occasionally come to sleep at the cottage during
a brief absence on Mrs. Hunt’s part, and liked nothing better.
“I should love to come,” she said. “But you’d better not put it that
way, or Eva will be dreadfully injured.”
“I don’t—to Eva,” smiled Mrs. Hunt. “She thinks you come over in case
she should need any one to run an errand, and therefore permits herself
to adore you. In fact, she told me yesterday, that for a young lady you
had an uncommon amount of sense!”
“Jim would have said that was as good as a diploma,” Norah said,
laughing.
“I rather think so, myself,” Mrs. Hunt answered. “What about Wally,
Norah? Have you heard lately?”
“Yesterday,” Norah replied. “He decorated his letter with beautiful
people using pen-wipers, so I suppose he is near Ypres. He says he’s
very fit. But the fighting seems very stiff. I’m not happy about
Wally.”
“Do you think he isn’t well?”
“I don’t think his mind is well,” said Norah. “He was better here,
before he went back, but now that he is out again I believe he just
can’t bear being without Jim. He can’t think of him happily, as we do;
he only fights his trouble, and hates himself for being alive. He
doesn’t say so in words, but when you know Wally as well as Dad and I
do, you can tell from his letters. He used to write such cheery, funny
letters, and now he deliberately tries to be funny—and it’s pretty
terrible.”
She paused, and suddenly a little sob came. Mrs. Hunt stroked her hand,
saying nothing.
“Do you know,” Norah said presently, “I think we have lost Wally more
than Jim. Jim died, but the real Jim is ever close in our hearts, and
we never let him go, and we can talk and laugh about him, just as if he
was here. But the real Wally seems to have died altogether, and we’ve
only the shell left. Something in him died when he saw Jim killed. Mrs.
Hunt—do you think he’ll ever be better?”
“I think he will,” Mrs. Hunt said. “He is too fine and plucky to be
always like this. You have to remember that he is only a boy, and that
he had the most terrible shock that could come to him. It must take
time to recover.”
“I know,” Norah said. “I tried to think like that—but it hurts so, that
one can’t help him. We would do anything to make him feel better.”
“And you will, in time. Remember, you and your father are more to him
than any one else in the world. Make him feel you want him; I think
nothing else can help him so much.” Mrs. Hunt’s eyes were full of
tears. “He was such a merry lad—it breaks one’s heart to think of him
as he is.”
“He was always the cheerfullest person I ever saw,” said Norah. “He
just laughed through everything. I remember once when he was bitten by
a snake, and it was hours before we could get a doctor. We were nearly
mad with anxiety, and he was in horrible pain with the tourniquet, but
he joked through it all in the most ridiculous way. And he was always
so eager. It’s the last thing you could call him now. All the spring
has gone out of him.”
“It will come back,” Mrs. Hunt said. “Only keep on trying—let him see
how much he means to you.”
“Well, he’s all we have left,” said Norah. There was silence for a
moment; and then it was a relief when the children burst into the room.
They all went to the station two days later to see Mrs. Hunt off for
her excursion. Michael was not to be depended upon to remain brave when
a train actually bore his mother away, so they did not wait to see her
go; there were errands to be done in the village, and Norah bundled
them all into the governess-cart, giving Geoffrey the reins, to his
huge delight. He turned his merry face to his mother.
“Good-bye, darling! Take care of yourself in London Town!”
“I will,” said his mother. “Mind you take care of all the family.
You’re in charge, you know, Geoff.”
“Rather!” he said. “I’m G.O.C., and they’ve got to do what I tell them,
haven’t they? And Mother—tell the Colonel to send Father home.”
“Then you won’t be G.O.C.,” said Norah.
“Don’t want to be, if Father comes,” said Geoffrey, his eyes dancing.
“You’ll tell him, won’t you, Mother?”
“Indeed I will,” she said. “Now, off you go. Don’t put the cart into
the ditch, Geoff!”
“Isn’t you insulting,” said her son loftily. “But womens don’t
understand!” He elevated his nose—and then relented to fling her kisses
as the pony trotted off. Mrs. Hunt stood at the station entrance to
watch him for a moment—sitting very straight and stiff, holding his
whip at the precise angle taught by Jones. It was such a heartsome
sight that the incoming train took her by surprise, and she had barely
time to get her ticket and rush for a carriage.
Norah and her charges found so much to do in the village that when they
reached home it was time for Michael’s morning sleep. Eva brooked no
interference with her right of tucking him up for this period of peace,
but graciously permitted Norah to inspect the process and kiss the rosy
cheek peeping from the blankets. Then Alison and Geoffrey accompanied
her to the house, and visited Miss de Lisle in her kitchen, finding her
by a curious chance, just removing from the oven a batch of tiny cakes
of bewildering attractions. Norah lost them afterwards, and going to
look for them, was guided by sound to Allenby’s pantry, where that most
correct of butlers was found on his hands and knees, being fiercely
ridden by both his visitors, when it was very pleasant to behold
Allenby’s frantic endeavours to get to his feet before Norah should
discover him, and yet to avoid upsetting his riders. Then they called
upon Mr. Linton in his study, but finding him for once inaccessible,
being submerged beneath accounts and cheque-books, they fell back upon
the billiard-room, where Harry Trevor and Bob McGrath, his chum,
welcomed them with open arms, and romped with them until it was time
for Norah to take them home to dinner.
“Awful jolly kids,” said Harry. “Why don’t you keep them here for
lunch, Norah?”
“Eva would be terribly hurt,” said Norah. “She always cooks everything
they like best when Mrs. Hunt is away—quite regardless of their
digestions.”
“Well, can’t they come back afterwards? Let’s all go for a walk
somewhere.”
“Oh, do!” pleaded Geoffrey. “Could we go to the river, Norah?”
“Yes, of course,” said Norah. “Will it be too far for Alison, though?”
“Not it—she walked there with Father when he was home last time. Do
let’s.”
“Then we must hurry,” said Norah. “Come along, or Eva will think we
have deserted her.”
They found Eva slightly truculent.
“I was wonderin’ was you stayin’ over there to dinner,” she said. “I
know I ain’t one of your fine lady cooks with a nime out of the ‘Family
’Erald,’ but there ain’t no ’arm in that there potato pie, for all
that!”
“It looks beautiful,” said Norah, regarding the brown pie
affectionately. “I’m so glad I’m here for lunch. What does Michael
have, Eva?”
“Michael ’as fish—an’ ’e ’as it out in the kitchen with me,” said Eva
firmly. “An’ ’is own little baby custid-puddin’. No one but me ever
cooks anythink for that kid. Well, of course, you send ’im cakes an’
things,” she added grudgingly.
“Oh, but they’re not nourishment,” said Norah with tact.
“No,” said Eva brightening. “That’s wot I says. An’ nourishment is wot
counts, ain’t it?”
“Oh, rather!” Norah said. “And isn’t he a credit to you! Well, come on,
children—I want pie!” She drew Alison’s high chair to the table, while
Eva, departing to the kitchen, relieved her feelings with a burst of
song.
They spent a merry afternoon at the river—a little stream which went
gurgling over pebbly shallows, widening now and then into a broad pool,
or hurrying over miniature rapids where brown trout lurked. Harry and
Bob, like most Australian soldiers in England, were themselves only
children when they had the chance of playing with babies; they romped
in the grass with them, swung them on low-growing boughs, or skimmed
stones across placid pools, until the sun grew low in the west, and
they came back across the park. Norah wheeled Michael in a tiny car;
Bob carried Alison, and presently Geoffrey admitted that his legs were
tired, and was glad to ride home astride Harry’s broad shoulders. Mr.
Linton came out to meet them, and they all went back to the cottage,
where Eva had tea ready and was slightly aggrieved because her scones
had cooled.
“Now, you must all go home,” Norah told her men-folk, after tea. “It’s
late, and I have to bath three people.”
“Don’t we see you again?” Harry asked.
“You may come over to-night if you like—Dad is coming,” Norah said.
“Geoff, you haven’t finished, have you?”
“I don’t think I’m very hungry,” Geoffrey said. “May I go and shut up
my guinea-pigs?”
“Yes, of course. Alison darling, I don’t think you ought to have any
more cakes.”
“I always has free-four-’leven when mother is at home,” said Alison
firmly, annexing a chocolate cake and digging her little white teeth
into it in the hope of averting any further argument. “Michael doesn’t
want more, he had Geoff’s.”
“Geoff’s? But didn’t Geoff eat any?”
“Geoff’s silly to-night,” said his sister. “Fancy not bein’ hungry when
there was choc’lit cakes!”
“I hope he didn’t get too tired,” Norah said to herself anxiously.
“I’ll hurry up and get them all to bed.”
She bathed Michael and Alison, with Eva in attendance, and tucked them
up. They were very sleepy—too sleepy to be troubled that Mother was not
there to kiss them good night; indeed, as Norah bent over Michael, he
thought she was his mother, and murmured, “Mum-mum,” in the dusk in a
little contented voice. Norah put her cheek down to the rose-leaf one
for a moment, and then hurried out.
“Geoff! Where are you, Geoff?”
“I’m here,” said Geoffrey, from the back doorstep. He rose and came
towards her slowly. Something in his face made her vaguely uneasy.
“Ready for bed, old chap?” she asked. “Come on—are you tired?”
“My legs are tired,” Geoffrey said. “And my head’s queer. It keeps
turning round.” He put out a little appealing hand, and Norah took it
in her own. It was burning hot.
“I—I wish Mother was home,” the boy said.
Norah sat down and took him on her knee. He put his head against her.
“You must just let old Norah look after you until Mother comes back,”
she said gently. The memory of the fever in the village came to her,
and she turned sick with fear. For a moment she thought desperately of
what she must do both for Geoffrey and for the other children.
“I won’t bath Master Geoff; he is tired,” she said to Eva. She carried
the little fellow into his room and slipped off his clothes; he turned
in the cool sheets thankfully.
“Lie still, old man; I’ll be back in a moment,” Norah said. She went
out and called to Eva, reflecting with relief that the girl’s hard
Cockney sense was not likely to fail her.
“Eva,” she said, “I’m afraid Master Geoff is ill. You know there is
fever in the village, and I think he has it. I mustn’t go near any one,
because I’ve been looking after him. Run over to the house and tell Mr.
Linton I would like him to come over—as quickly as possible. Don’t
frighten him.”
“Right-oh!” said Eva. “I won’t be ’arf a tick.”
Her flying feet thudded across the grass as Norah went back to the room
where Geoffrey was already sleeping heavily. She looked down at the
little face, flushed and dry; in her heart an agony of dread for the
Mother, away at her party in London. Then she went outside to wait for
her father.
He came quickly, accompanied by Miss de Lisle and Harry Trevor.
“I telephoned for the doctor directly I got your message,” he said.
“He’ll be up in a few minutes.”
“Thank goodness!” said Norah. “Of course it may not be the fever. But
it’s something queer.”
“The little chap wasn’t all right down at the river,” Harry said. “Only
he kept going; he’s such a plucky kid. But he sat jolly quiet on me
coming home.”
“I knew he was quiet; I just thought he was a bit tired,” Norah said.
“I say, Daddy, what about the other children?”
“What about you?” he asked. His voice was hard with anxiety.
“Me?” said Norah, staring. “Why, of course I must stay with him, Dad.
He’s in my charge.”
“Yes, I suppose you must,” said David Linton heavily. “We’ll find out
from the doctor what precautions can be taken.”
“Oh, I’ll be all right,” Norah said. “But Alison and Michael mustn’t
stay here.”
“No, of course not. Well, they must only come to us.”
“But the Tired People?” Norah asked.
Miss de Lisle interposed.
“There are hardly any now—and two of the boys go away to-morrow,” she
said. “The south wing could be kept entirely for the children, couldn’t
it, Mr. Linton? Katty could look after them there—they are fond of
her.”
“That’s excellent,” said Mr. Linton. “I really think the risk to the
house wouldn’t be much. Any of the Tired People who were worried would
simply have to go away. But the children would not come near any of
them; and, please goodness, they won’t develop fever at all.”
“Then I’ll go back and have a room prepared,” Miss de Lisle said; “and
then I’ll get you, Mr. Harry, to help me bundle them up and carry them
over. We mustn’t leave them in this place a minute longer than we can
help. That lovely fat Michael!” murmured Miss de Lisle incoherently.
She hurried away.
There was a hum of an approaching motor presently, and the doctor’s car
came up the drive. Dr. Hall, a middle-aged and over-worked man, looked
over Geoffrey quickly, and nodded to himself, as he tucked his
thermometer under the boy’s arm. Geoffrey scarcely stirred in his heavy
sleep.
“Fever of course,” said the doctor presently, out in the hall. “No, I
can’t say yet whether he’ll be bad or not, Miss Norah. We’ll do our
best not to let him be bad. Mrs. Hunt away, is she? Well, I’ll send you
up a nurse. Luckily I’ve a good one free—and she will bring medicines
and will know all I want done.” He nodded approval of their plans for
Alison and Michael. Mr. Linton accompanied him to his car.
“Get your daughter away as soon as you can,” the doctor said. “It’s a
beastly species of fever; I’d like to hang those tinkers. The child in
the village died this afternoon.”
“You don’t say so!” Mr. Linton exclaimed.
“Yes; very bad case from the first. Fine boy, too—but they didn’t call
me in time. Well, this village had forgotten all about fever.” He
jumped into the car. “I’ll be up in the morning,” he said; and whirred
off into the darkness.
Alison and Michael, enormously amused at what they took to be a new
game, were presently bundled up in blankets and carried across to
Homewood; and soon a cab trundled up with a brisk, capable-looking
nurse, who at once took command in Geoffrey’s room.
“I don’t think you should stay,” she said to Norah. “The maid and I can
do everything for him—and his mother will be home to-morrow. A good hot
bath, with some disinfectant in it, here; then leave all your clothes
here that you’ve worn near the patient, and run home in fresh things.
No risk for you then.”
“I couldn’t leave Geoff,” Norah said. “Of course I won’t interfere with
you; but his mother left him to me while she was away. And he might ask
for me.”
“Well, it’s only for your own sake I was advising you,” said the nurse.
“What do you think, Mr. Linton?”
“I think she ought to stay,” said David Linton shortly—with fear
tugging at his heart as he spoke. “Just make her take precautions, if
there are any; but the child comes first—he was left in our care.”
He went away soon, holding Norah very tightly to him for a moment; and
then the nurse sent Norah to bed.
“There’s nothing for you to do,” she said. “I shall have a sleep near
the patient.”
“But you’ll call me if he wants me?”
“Yes—I promise. Now be off with you.”
At the moment Norah did not feel as though she could possibly sleep;
but very soon her eyes grew heavy and she dozed off to dream, as she
often dreamed, that she and Jim were riding over the Far Plain at
Billabong, bringing in a mob of wild young bullocks. The cattle had
never learned to drive, and broke back constantly towards the shelter
of the timber behind them. There was one big red beast, in particular,
that would not go quietly; she had half a dozen gallops after him in
her dream with Bosun under her swinging and turning with every movement
of the bullocks, and finally heading him, wheeling him, and galloping
him back to the mob. Then another broke away, and Jim shouted to her,
across the paddock.
“Norah! Norah!”
She woke with a start. A voice was calling her name, hoarsely; she
groped for her dressing-gown and slippers, and ran to Geoffrey’s room.
The nurse, also in her dressing-gown, was bending over the bed.
“You’re quick,” she said approvingly. “He only called you once. Take
this, now, sonnie.”
“Norah!”
She bent down to him, taking the hot hand.
“I’m here, Geoff, old man. Take your medicine.”
“All right,” said Geoffrey. He gulped it down obediently and lay back.
“Will Mother come?”
“Very soon now,” Norah said. “You know she had to be in London—just for
one night. She’ll be back to-morrow.”
“It’s nearly to-morrow, now,” the nurse said. “Not far off morning.”
“That’s nice!” the child said. “Stay with me, Norah.”
“Of course I will, old man. Just shut your eyes and go to sleep; I
won’t go away.”
She knelt by his bed, patting him gently, until his deep breaths told
that sleep had come to him again. The nurse touched her shoulder and
pointed to the door; she got up softly and went out, looking through
her open window at the first streaks of dawn in the east. Her dream was
still vivid in her mind; even over her anxiety for the child in her
care came the thought of it, and the feeling that Jim was very near
now.
“Jim!” she whispered, gazing at the brightening sky.
In Germany, at that moment, two hunted men were facing dawn—running
wildly, in dread of the coming daylight. But of that Norah knew
nothing. The Jim she saw was the big, clean-limbed boy with whom she
had ridden so often at Billabong. It seemed to her that his laughing
face looked at her from the rose and gold of the eastern sky.
Then Geoffrey turned, and called to her, and she went to him swiftly.
It was four days later.
“Mother.” Geoffrey’s voice was only a thread of sound now. “Will Father
come?”
“I have sent for him, little son. He will come if he can.”
“That’s nice. Where’s Norah?”
“I’m here, sweetheart.” Norah took the wasted hand in hers, holding it
gently. “Try to go to sleep.”
“Don’t go away,” Geoffrey murmured. “I’m awful sleepy.” He half turned,
nestling his head into his mother’s arm. Across the bed the mother’s
haggard eyes met Norah’s. But hope had almost died from them.
“If he lives through the night there’s a chance,” the doctor said to
David Linton. “But he’s very weak, poor little chap. An awful pity;
such a jolly kid, too. And all through two abominable families of
tinkers! However, there are no fresh cases.”
“Can you do nothing more for Geoffrey?”
The doctor shook his head.
“I’ve done all that can be done. If his strength holds out there is a
bare chance.”
“Would it be any good to get in another nurse?” Mr. Linton asked. “I’m
afraid of the mother and Norah breaking down.”
“If they do, we shall have to get some one else,” the doctor answered.
“But they wouldn’t leave him; neither of them has had any sleep to
speak of since the boy was taken ill. Norah is as bad as Mrs. Hunt; the
nurse says that even if they are asleep they hear Geoffrey if he
whispers. I’ll come again after a while, Mr. Linton.”
He hurried away, and David Linton went softly into the little thatched
cottage. Dusk was stealing into Geoffrey’s room; the blind fluttered
gently in the evening breeze. Mrs. Hunt was standing by the window
looking down at the boy, who lay sleeping, one hand in that of Norah,
who knelt by the bed. She smiled up at her father. Mrs. Hunt came
softly across the room and drew him out into the passage.
“He may be better if he sleeps,” she said. “He has hardly had any real
sleep since he was taken ill.”
“Poor little man!” David Linton’s voice was very gentle. “He’s putting
up a good fight, Mrs. Hunt.”
“Oh, he’s so good!” The mother’s eyes filled with tears. “He does
everything we tell him—you know he fought us a bit at first, and then
we told him he was on parade and we were the officers, and he has done
everything in soldier-fashion since. I think he even tried to take his
medicine smartly—until he grew too weak. But he never sleeps more than
a few moments unless he can feel one of us; it doesn’t seem to matter
whether it’s Norah or me.”
Geoffrey stirred, and they heard Norah’s low voice.
“Go to sleep, old chap; it’s ‘Lights Out,’ you know. You mustn’t wake
up until Reveille.”
“Has ‘Last Post’ gone?” Geoffrey asked feebly.
“Oh yes. All the camp is going to sleep.”
“Is Father?”
“Yes. Now you must go to sleep with him, the whole night long.”
“Stay close,” Geoffrey whispered. His weak little fingers drew her hand
against his face. Then no sound came but fitful breathing.
The dark filled the little room. Presently the nurse crept in with a
shaded lamp and touched Norah’s shoulder.
“You could get up,” she whispered.
Norah shook her head, pointing to the thin fingers curled in her palm.
“I’m all right,” she murmured back.
They came and went in the room from time to time; the mother, holding
her breath as she looked down at the quiet face; the nurse, with her
keen, professional gaze; after a while the doctor stood for a long time
behind her, not moving. Then he bent down to her.
“Sure you’re all right?”
Norah nodded. Presently he crept out; and soon the nurse came and sat
down near the window.
“Mrs. Hunt has gone to sleep,” she whispered as she passed.
Norah was vaguely thankful for that. But nothing was very clear to her
except Geoffrey’s face; neither the slow passing of the hours nor her
own cramped position that gradually became pain. Geoffrey’s face, and
the light breathing that grew harder and harder to bear. Fear came and
knelt beside her in the stillness, and the night crept on.