Was the Walloping Window-Blind.”
Students’ Song.
FROM that day the spell of the little brown trout laid itself upon the Australians. The basket of fish which they carried home with pride in the evening, and which caused Mrs. Moroney to call upon the saints to protect her, was the forerunner of many, since the weather was kind and Lough Nacurra had profited by its war-time rest to become the happiest of hunting grounds. Day after day, with and without Mr. Burke, whose multifarious duties often called him elsewhere, they visited the little lough in the bog, until they knew all its best spots as well as Patsy himself, and were familiar with every inch of the wooded island where they generally landed for lunch. With the fever of fishing came to them the patience which—curiously enough—accompanies it, making them content to sit hour after hour if rewarded with an occasional rise: since no lough on this side of Paradise could be expected to live up to the first spectacular minutes in which Lough Nacurra had claimed them for its own. Nevertheless, the little lough held well; and trout figured largely on the table for breakfast and dinner, insomuch that Mrs. Moroney confided to Bridget that ’twas the grand guests they were to be keeping down the expense—a remark retailed to Jim by Timsy, in such innocent certainty that his friend would be pleased, that Jim could not find it in his heart to rebuke him for repeating what he was not meant to hear.
Day by day the air of moorland and mountain worked the boys’ cure. Strength came back to them quickly, with long days in the open and long nights of quiet sleep. War seemed very far away. Papers came irregularly, and the younger members of the party were very willing to let Mr. Linton read them and tell them anything startling, without troubling about details. Little by little, the horror of the gas faded; they ceased to dream about it, a nightly torment which had kept them back for the first weeks. The regiment was having a much-needed rest in billets: Anstruther, Garrett, and their other chums were fit and well, and longing for another chance of coming to grips with the enemy. Much of the horror of Gallipoli Mr. Linton succeeded in keeping from them: too many of their school-fellows lay dead upon that most cruel of battlefields, and he suppressed the papers that gave details of the losses. The fog of war always hangs closely: it was easy to make it hide from his boys details of the news that had plunged Australia alike into mourning and into deeper resolve to see the thing through.
For Norah and her father the time was an oasis of peace in a desert of anxiety. Too soon they must send Jim and Wally back, and themselves return to work and wait in London. Now, nothing mattered greatly, and they could try to forget. It was not the least of David Linton’s happiness that each day brought back light to Norah’s eyes and colour to her cheeks.
So they played about Ireland as they had played all their lives in Australia. The Irish blood that was in them made them curiously at home; they liked the simple, kindly country-folk, and found a ready welcome in the scattered cottages, where already Norah had made friends with at least half a dozen babies. Her education developed on new lines: she picked up a good deal of Irish, and became steeped in the innumerable legends of the country, not in the least realizing that in being told the “ould ancient” stories she was being paid a compliment for which the average tourist might sigh in vain,—for the Irish peasant is jealous of his folk-stories, and seldom tells them to anyone not of the country. In the great stone kitchen Mrs. Moroney gave her lessons in the manufacture of potato-cakes, colcannon, soda-bread, and other national delicacies, and, with old Nanny the cook, listened to stories of Australia with frequent ejaculations of “God help us!” while Jim and Wally talked much to Patsy Burke and John Conolly, and to the men in the villages, doing a little recruiting work as occasion offered. They also talked of Australia, since they could not help it, and became at times slightly confused as to the number of men for whom they had promised to find work after the war, on Billabong, if possible. However, as Jim said resignedly if Billabong overflowed with men, there were other places—Australia was large and empty. They could all come.
“Are you there, Norah? Coo-ee!”
An answering “Coo-ee!” came from one of the mouldering summer-houses in the garden, and Wally plunged down the overgrown walk in its direction. Norah was not in the summer-house, which she described as an insecty place, but cross-legged on a sunny patch of grass behind it, surrounded by innumerable letters. The Australian mail had arrived that morning; and, since mails in war time were apt to be “hung up” until a ship could be found to take them, letters were wont to accumulate in alarming quantities.
“Good gracious, are you still reading?” inquired Wally. “I finished all mine ages ago: not that I ever get such awful bundles as you do. Jim and your father are plunged in business letters, and I’m like Mary’s little lamb, or Bo-Peep’s sheep, or whichever mutton it was that got lost.”
“Poor old thing!” said Norah, absently. “Never mind; sit down and read dear old Brownie’s letter. It takes one straight back to Billabong.”