DOWN THE MOUNTAIN
Oh, little body, nestled on my heart!
—M. Forrest.
THEY fixed a saddle-pad for Babs in front of Norah, and she rode proudly into Atholton. The horses did not make her afraid at all; indeed, she welcomed them with shouts of glee, appearing a little doubtful as to whether they were pets or things to eat—but in either case greatly to be desired. And when she was mounted before Norah, with one hand clutching a lock of old Warder’s mane and the other holding Norah’s finger, she had nothing left to wish for. She chuckled at frequent intervals; any object along the track, from a kookaburra to a lizard, moved her to little shouts of laughter, though it was painfully certain that she wished to devour the lizard. “I never saw such a merry baby,” said Jean.
Gradually words came back to her. At first they caught fragments of native dialect, chiefly unintelligible; but, with the talk about her, and the kind voices that spoke to her, English words returned brokenly to the baby tongue. She answered quite soon to her own name, looking up whenever she heard “Babs” with a quaint, elfish half smile; and before breakfast was over she had made a hesitating attempt at “Norah”—finding the “r” altogether too hard a stumbling block. Her vocabulary was not large, but she made the most of it. And all the time as they rode down Ben Athol, Norah taught her one word—leaning forward, holding her closely, one arm round the quicksilver little body. One word, over and over again—Mother, Mother, Mother.
Norah never could have told much about the way down. It was steep, she knew, and stony; she was glad old Warder was surefooted, since to him was left most of the responsibility of the track. There were birds singing everywhere, in the Bush and in her own heart; there was blue sky overhead, and a little breeze that just redeemed the day from heat. It could not have been otherwise than a perfect day. But for Norah there was no view beyond the mat of black curls against her breast; no thought beyond the one that surged and sang within her. An old verse beat in her happy brain—“For this thy brother was dead and is alive again; and was lost and is found.”
“Contented, my girl?” David Linton asked, riding beside her.
“I’m happy,” Norah answered, and smiled up at the tall man on the great black horse. “I’m not quite contented yet. But I will be, soon.” Then Babs developed a determination to ride Monarch, and lurched forward so suddenly that she only saved her by a spasmodic grip that included some of Babs, as well as her clothing—to the no small indignation of Babs.
“Don’t be ambitious quite so early, my lass,” said Jim, gravely, regarding the scarlet and wrathful picaninny with a judicial air. “Time enough to hitch your waggon to a star when you’re a bit older.” Hearing which profound reflection, and understanding no syllable of it, but deciding that she liked the voice in which it was proffered, Babs promptly transferred her affections to Garryowen, and was with difficulty restrained from transferring herself as well. Norah evaded both difficulties by seizing advantage of a tiny stretch of flat ground and, cantering across it, thereby so entrancing her passenger that she was never again satisfied with anything so ordinary as a walking pace—which was unfortunate, as to canter down Ben Athol demanded four-footed agility usually withheld from all but circus horses. There was no lack of excitement in riding with Babs Archdale.
They lunched on the lower slopes of the mountain—cutting the spell short, since Norah’s restlessness to be gone made it impossible for her to sit still. Then, still in the early afternoon, they saw the roofs of Atholton below them, half hidden in the timber.
On the flat, just where the hills ended, they shook up their horses and cantered quickly over the half-mile that lay between them and the village. Scarcely any one was in sight; Atholton slumbered peacefully, oblivious of intruders. The storekeeper, shirt-sleeved and with pipe in mouth, lounged on his verandah, and greeted them jovially as they came up, Jim and his father in the lead.
“Got back, have you?” he said. “And had a good trip, by the looks of you!” His eye travelled back to Norah. “Didn’t knock you up, Miss Linton——” His voice stopped abruptly on a note of amazement. Staring, he was silent, and his pipe clattered from his mouth to the ground. “Why!” he gasped. “Good Lord—you’ve got little Babs Archdale!”
“Let us have a frock of some kind for her—quick as you can, Green,” said David Linton. “Anything will do.”
“I’ll take her in,” said Norah, slipping from the saddle, and carrying into the shop the extraordinary vision in the suit and blanket. They emerged in a few moments, the blanket hidden by a brief dress of blue print; and Babs reluctantly consented to allow the strange man to lift her up to Norah again. Mr. Green found his tongue, with some difficulty.
“I never heard of such a thing in all me born days!” he said. “Gad! to think of Mrs. Archdale——” He stared after them, open-mouthed, as they clattered off, swinging round the bend of the track. The sound of the cantering hoofs echoed in the still afternoon air as Mr. Green, leaving his store to its own devices, hurried off to tell the township.
Near the cottage David Linton pulled up.
“There are too many of us,” he said. “You three youngsters found her—go and give her back!” Jim and he moved into the shade of a big messmate tree, and the others rode on.
The little white cottage was fresh and inviting, the garden gay with flowers. The front door stood open; at any moment they looked to see Mrs. Archdale’s tall figure come out upon the verandah. Suddenly Norah found she was trembling, and that the cottage wavered mistily before her.
At the garden gate they got down, and Wally tied up the horses. There was no sign of any one. But Babs gave them no time to wonder. The gate was ajar, and she flung herself at it, uttering shrill little squeals of joy, and raced up the path.
“I say—catch her!” Wally said. “The shock may be too much for Mrs. Archdale.”
Babs was battering at the steps of the high verandah as Norah caught her. She wriggled fiercely in her arms.
“Down!” she said. “Want down!”
“Wait a minute, darling!” Norah begged her. “Wally, you go on—find her. I—I’m going to howl!” She sat down on the step, desperately ashamed of the sobs that shook her; and Jean, in no better case, patted her back very hard.
Perhaps Wally was not very sure of himself either. He cleared his throat as he stood at the door, after knocking, not sorry that no answering step came at once. Presently he came back to the girls.
“There’s no one about,” he said. “I’ve been round to the kitchen. Wonder where they are?”
“Let’s come and look,” Norah answered, doubtfully sure of herself once more. Wally picked up Babs, who wriggled and squeaked on his shoulder, a quicksilver embodiment of excitement that she could not voice in words, since words were all too slow. So they went through the silent house.
There was no sign of any one. In the little blue room the bed was dainty and fresh, with crisp linen, and roses smiled a welcome from the table; and the fire burned low in the kitchen stove, where a kettle bubbled busily. But the house was empty. They looked into Mrs. Archdale’s room, half afraid to find her ill; but she was not there; and Babs went into a fresh ecstasy of excitement at the vision of her own picture, which laughed down at her from the wall.
“Babs!” she cried, and pointed a brown forefinger; “Babs!”
“You blessed kid,” said Wally, in perplexity, “I wish you could tell us where to look for your mother.”
“Muvver!” said the lady addressed. She wriggled ecstatically, and grasped a handful of Wally’s hair, to his extreme agony. A fresh effort of memory came to her. “Dad,” she said, half inquiringly, and drummed her heels upon her bearer’s chest.
At the back of the house the little kitchen garden stretched to the brush fence. Beyond came a narrow, timbered paddock, and then the deep green of the scrub—the unbroken curtain that had fallen behind the baby on Wally’s shoulder more than a year ago. They came out of the back door and stood looking towards it doubtfully.
Then from the scrub they saw Mrs. Archdale coming slowly. No one might say what dreadful pilgrimage had led her into its silent heart. She stumbled as she walked, bent as though her body had given way under the stress of agony of mind too great to be borne. Even across the shining grass it was plain that she did not know where she walked—that all that her eyes could see was the dark maze of the Bush, where a little child had wandered, and called to her. A fallen log lay across her path, and she sat down upon it, burying her face in her hands.
“Oh, Wally, go and tell her,” Norah said. “I’m such an idiot—I’m going to howl again. Let me have Babs—I’ll bring her.” She followed Wally slowly down the path, with Babs patting her tear-stained cheek gently, saying, “Poor, poor,” in a little crooning voice.
Mrs. Archdale raised her head as the swift steps came to her across the grass, and looked at the tall lad for a moment without recognition. Then she collected herself with an effort that was pitiful in its violence, and smiled at him.
“Why, you’ve got back!”
Wally nodded, seeking desperately for words. His brown face was flushed and eager.
“I——” he said, and stopped. “We——. Mrs. Archdale.” Words fled from him altogether, and he pushed his hat back with a despairing gesture. “I’ve got something to tell you; and I’m such a fool at telling it.”
“Nothing wrong?” she asked him swiftly. “Not little Norah?”
“No—nothing wrong. Everything’s all right; everything’s perfect!” he told her. He put out a lean, boyish hand, and gripped hers strongly. “We saw you—coming away from the scrub.”
“Don’t!” She flushed, miserably.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” said poor Wally, his task almost beyond him. “I only want to say you needn’t ever go there again. She—she isn’t there, Mrs. Archdale!”
“Are you mad?” The colour died out of her face, and for a moment the agony of her eyes robbed the boy of speech.
“I mean it,” he said, faltering. “If it was all—all wrong, Mrs. Archdale? If your little kiddie had never died?” Something choked his voice; he could only look at her with honest, pitying eyes. But the mother’s eyes were keen.
“You know something!” she said; “there is something!” Her voice rose to a wailing cry. “Tell me, for God’s sake!”
Across the grass came a voice that rang shrilly sweet.
“Muvver!”
Babs came running with swift bare feet; behind her, Norah, half afraid, yet wholly unable to restrain her once the remembered voice had raised its mother cry. At the sight of the baby form, with outstretched arms, the mother uttered a low, incredulous sob—a sound so piteous that Wally turned away sharply, lest he should see her face. Her feet would not carry her to meet her baby. She fell on her knees on the grass, and Babs flung herself bodily upon her, soft and sweet, and quivering with love.
There came a clatter of hoofs. Jack Archdale, riding home, had pulled up to speak to Mr. Linton and Jim; and suddenly he broke from them like a madman, and, not waiting for gates, put his horse at the log fence of his paddock, cleared it, and raced to the house. He flung the bridle over a post, and ran wildly to them—past Jean and Norah, sitting together on a stump, not able to speak, and speechless himself, to where his wife crouched over their child; Babs, who stroked her mother’s cheek gently, crooning in her funny little voice: “Poor—poor!”
Norah felt Wally’s hand upon her shoulder.
“Come on,” he said. “I guess we’d better get back to the horses.”