“I don’t know of any. Most of the people about here have small houses and they’re pretty crowded.” She hesitated. “If you gentlemen could manage at the hotel, I’d be very glad to have the girls here.”
“That’s very good of you,” Mr. Linton said, hesitating in his turn. She read the shade of doubt in his eyes.
“You know my husband, I think,” she said; “he’s Jack Archdale, that used to be boundary rider at the Darrells’ station.”
“Why, of course!” said Mr. Linton. “And you—weren’t you teaching in the State school at Mulgoa? I seem to remember hearing of Archdale’s wedding.”
“Yes, Mr. Darrell gave us a great wedding,” said Mrs. Archdale, smiling. “Five years ago, nearly; we came up here soon after.” Her face clouded momentarily, as if remembering. “Jack’s doing contract work; he’ll be in after a while. So, will you trust your belongings to me, Mr. Linton?”
“Only too gladly,” said the squatter, in a voice of relief. “It’s exceptionally lucky for us, Mrs. Archdale. One has to take risks of finding rowdy bush inns when one goes for wild expeditions, but I confess I’m glad not to have to take the girls there. I’m greatly obliged to you.”
“Oh, it’s a real treat to me,” she said. “It’s lonely here; I don’t seem to make great friends with the township people, and Jack’s away all day; and you can’t be always scrubbing and cleaning a house of this size, to keep yourself occupied. You don’t know how glad I’ve been of a talk with them already—and they took pity on my questions!” She flashed a smile across at Norah that suddenly made her tired face quite like that of the little laughing child in the photograph. “You won’t mind staying with me?” she asked, a little wistfully.
“We’ll be awfully glad to,” Norah said. As a rule, she was a little shy of strangers, but there was something about this woman that made her feel more like a friend; and Norah was desperately sorry for the brave heart behind the haggard eyes.
It was a little hard to say good-bye to Mr. Linton and the boys, seeing them ride off to the township in the clean, rainwashed dusk. But they found plenty to do in helping their hostess, although she would have had them sit still and do nothing. And there was an odd fascination about her—about her quick voice and quick movements, and quaint, unexpected streaks of merriment, that set them laughing very often. Archdale was a big, silent fellow, who evidently worshipped his wife’s very shadow. His eyes scarcely left her as she flitted about the kitchen preparing the evening meal. The photograph that they had seen was in every room—a big enlargement of it in Mrs. Archdale’s bedroom. It even smiled from over the polished tins upon the kitchen mantelpiece, and sometimes Norah saw the father’s eyes wander to it sadly.
After tea they talked on the front verandah, having made a joint business of the washing up. Jack Archdale went to bed soon. He had had a long day’s work in the heat. But his wife kept Jean and Norah up a little longer, always talking. A strong restlessness never left her. It was evidently hard for her to sit still, and to keep silent a harder thing yet. Still, she made them so merry when she talked that they forgot that they were tired, and were sorry when at last she packed them off to the fragrant little bedroom with the blue walls.