A Little Bush Maid

by Mary Grant Bruce

“Bless your dear heart,” she said fervently. “Yes, the old gentleman’s come, an’ he’s quite comfertable in bed—though he don’t know no one yet. Dr. Anderson’s gone to Cunjee, but he’s coming back in his steam engine to stay all night; an’ your pa’s having his dinner, which he needs it, poor man. An’ he don’t want you to get up, lovey, for there ain’t nothin’ you can do. I’ll go and get you something to eat.”

But it was Mr. Linton who came presently, bearing a tray with dainty chicken and salad, and a glass of clear golden jelly. He sat by Norah while she ate.

“We’re pretty anxious, dear,” he told her, when she had finished, and was snugly lying down again, astonishingly glad of her soft bed. “You won’t mind my not staying. I must be near old Jim. I’ll be glad when Anderson’s back. Try to go to sleep quickly.” He bent to kiss her. “You don’t know what a comfort your sleep has been to me, my girlie,” he said. “Good-night!”

It was the third day of the struggle with death over the Hermit’s unconscious body, and again twilight was falling upon Billabong.

The house was hushed and silent. No footfall was allowed to sound where the echo might penetrate to the sick-room. Near its precincts Mrs. Brown and the Melbourne trained nurse reigned supreme, and Dr. Anderson came and went as often as he could manage the fourteen-mile spin out from Cunjee in his motor.

Norah had a new care—a little fragile old lady, with snowy hair, and depths of infinite sadness in her eyes, whom Dick Stephenson called “mother.” The doctor would not allow either mother or son into the sick-room—the shock of recognition, should the Hermit regain consciousness suddenly, might be too much. So they waited about, agonisingly anxious, pitifully helpless. Dick rebelled against the idleness at length. It would kill him, he said, and, borrowing a spade from the Chinese gardener, he spent his time in heavy digging, within easy call of the house. But for the wife and mother there was no help. She was gently courteous to all, gently appreciative of Norah’s attempts to occupy her thoughts. But throughout it all—whether she looked at the pets outside, or walked among the autumn roses in the garden, or struggled to eat at the table—she was listening, ever listening.

In the evening of the third day Mr. Linton came quickly into the drawing-room. Tears were falling down his face. He went up to Mrs. Stephenson and put his hand on her shoulder.

“It’s—it’s all right, we think,” he said brokenly. “He’s conscious and knew me, dear old chap! I was sitting by the bed, and suddenly his eyes opened and all the fever had gone. ‘Why, Davy!’ he said. I told him everything was all right, and he mustn’t talk—and he’s taken some nourishment, and gone off into a natural sleep. Anderson’s delighted.” Then he caught Mrs. Stephenson quickly as she slipped to his feet, unconscious.

Then there were days of dreary waiting, of slow, harassing convalescence. The patient did not seem to be alive to any outside thought. He gained strength very slowly, but he lay always silent, asking no questions, only when Mr. Linton entered the room showing any sign of interest. The doctor was vaguely puzzled, vaguely anxious.

“Do you think I could go and see him?” Norah was outside the door of the sick-room. The doctor often found her there—a little silent figure, listening vainly for her friend’s voice. She looked up pleadingly. “Not if you think I oughtn’t to,” she said.