CHAPTER XX
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.