An Australian Lassie Part 26

Perhaps the man had some eye for dramatic effect, perhaps it was only accident, but he placed Betty carefully upon the cus.h.i.+ons, and put a crimson-covered one under her dark curly head. Then he withdrew to the door.

It was not likely that, having worked hard for his reward, he was about to forego it. But he told himself that "his room would be better than his company" while the rejoicings over her recovery were going on.

The captain came through the door slowly. One hour ago a policeman had arrived in a cab with John--and had departed with a substantial reward in his pocket. During the last hour the captain had heard John's story--thrashed him with his own hands, and sent him to bed.

Now he was "wanted in the hall by a man with a little girl."

But there was no man visible in the hall, only a little barefooted girl asleep--fast asleep upon his lounge. He could hear her breathing, see her face, and he knew in a moment who she was.

He looked sharply at her, back to the door which was closed, forward to the front door which was drawn to, and around the empty hall.

Then slowly and as if fearful of being caught he went nearer to the sofa, and looked down at this little creature--blood of his blood--who had appeared before him again. Her lashes lay still on her rosy sun-tanned cheeks, her curly hair was in confusion upon the red cus.h.i.+on, her bare feet were upon another. Such a pretty tired child she looked although she was but a tattered and soiled representative of the small pink-bonneted maiden he had seen only the other day.

He knew the story of her "career" now, and of her desire to be a self-made woman. John had told him about her in speaking of his own ambition. The captain's slow mind went back to the time when his own "career" had been forced upon him, when he had only too often "slept out." And as remembrance after remembrance awoke, his heart warmed strangely to this brown-haired girl who seemed to be always stumbling into his pathway.

Dirty, ragged imp as she was, that strange inexplicable sense of kins.h.i.+p stirred within him. Stirred as it had never stirred towards alien John, who was after all only the son of his first love's son, with no blood of his at all in him; stirred as it had stirred towards no one living since his daughter had left him more than seventeen years ago.

He put out one hand and touched her hair (she could not know, no one could know, of course)--his only daughter's little child!

And Betty slept on. Had she but known it, a bent-shouldered old gentleman, who might have exerted a wonderful influence over her whole life, was at that moment looking at her with softened eyes. But great possibilities are frequently blighted by small importunities.

The greengrocer chose this moment to open the front door and look into the hall, and the captain saw him, started, and lost his feeling of kins.h.i.+p for the sleeper.

"Good evenin'," said the greengrocer blandly, "I found her about an hour ago, an' came straight 'ome with her."

Captain Carew explained briefly that his boy had been returned to him about an hour ago, and that the promised reward had been given on his behalf to the policeman.

The man looked crestfallen.

"My wife told me," he said, "when I come back from the markets. She said somebody had lost a boy, and you had lost a girl. And your reward was the biggest, so I went for the girl."

Captain Carew put his hand in his pocket, and shook his head. To pay for Betty seemed to him to be publicly claiming her. Yet he could not help being glad that she was found.

"And she ain't nothin' to you?" said the man, most evidently disappointed.

"Nothing!" said Captain Carew firmly; "but I hear that she ran away with my boy--to make her fortune. She lives, I believe, in a small weather-board cottage a few yards further on."

He felt much stronger after he had spoken that sentence. Of course she was nothing to him. He walked to his library, and then looked over his shoulder, and saw the man just stooping over the little girl again. And then, for no reason at all, of course, he put his hand into his pocket again, drew out a sovereign and gave it to the man.

"To make up for your mistake," he said.

Then he went away and shut the library door, while the two went away.

"Little baggage!" he said, "she's nothing to me. John's the only grandchild I ever want."

But he had an uncomfortable feeling that he had owned her.

An hour later, on his way through the hall to his bedroom; he found a soiled crumpled piece of paper on the cane lounge, and opening it, read--"Please give me a penny, sir!"

"The little vagabond!" he muttered. But he put the paper into his pocket.

CHAPTER XX

THE DAY AFTER SCHOOL

A great day had dawned for Dorothea Bruce, a day long dreamed of and alas, long dreaded!

The first day after school life!

She would joyfully have taken another two years of school-days, with their sober joys and sweet intimate friends.h.i.+ps; their griefs and small quarrellings; their lessons and their play hours; their meetings and their breakings up.

But yesterday she had "broken up" for ever. Yesterday she had mournfully given eight locks of her beautiful hair away as "keepsakes," although it must be owned to-day she had examined her hair carefully, looking over her shoulder to see how it bore the loss of its tendrils.

Yesterday she had wept separately with each of her "intimate" friends, excepting only Alma Montague, at this dreadful parting that had come about.

Alma was not to lose Dorothea at all, instead she was to have her all to herself at Katoomba for the holidays, and her queer little yellow face wore a superior smile as she saw the other girls' sorrow at parting from their "darling Thea."

Many things were promised and vowed in this touching season. The little band of intimates were to write to each other every week; still to tell each other _every single_ secret; to think of each other every night; to be each other's bridesmaids as long as there were maids to go round, and to visit each other in their married homes.

For of course they were all going to be married--every one of them.

It was Nellie Harden who had first alluded to the time "When I am married," "When you are married," etc. She said she was rather curious to see who would be married first, and even plain little Alma felt cheerful in looking forward to the time when she would be engaged. They simply took it for granted that in the great beautiful world into which they were going there were lovers--lovers in plenty; lovers who vowed beautiful vows, and performed gallant deeds, and wore immaculate clothing, and still more immaculate moustaches.

Dorothea had decided to be "elder sister" to the best of her ability.

She intensely admired the beautiful elder sister in _The Mother of Eight_, a book Mona had just lent to her.

The mother of eight was a girl of eighteen, who had promised her mother on her death-bed to be a mother to all the little ones. Lovers had come to her, imploring her to "make their lives," friends had put in their claims, pleasures had beckoned; but the mother of eight had shaken her beautiful head and stood there at her post until the eight were married and settled in homes of their own, when the "mother" had suddenly died of a broken heart.

This book formed the basis of Dorothea's day-dreams. She, too, was going to be an "elder sister" and reform the home. In the flights of her imagination she saw herself making Betty and Nancy new frocks, mending Cyril's trousers, tr.i.m.m.i.n.g her mother's hats, correcting her father's ma.n.u.scripts.

Wherever she looked she seemed to be wanted. A great place gaped in the household, and it was for the elder sister to step in and fill it. And Betty, wild madcap Betty, would want talking to, and training and putting into the way in which she should go. And, of course, lovers would come for Dot, but until Baby was well started in life she would have none of them. And when she married, "a few silver threads would be discernible in her golden hair, and there would be patient tired lines at the corners of her mouth."

But it was only the first day after school now, and she had much to think of. She was not going to commence the new order of things by being an elder sister, although the home needed her sorely.

As things had fallen out, it was necessary, she found, to set duty aside for a while.

She was invited to spend the end of December and the whole of January with Alma Montague at Katoomba. They were to stay at the best hotel there--Mrs. Montague, her sister Mrs. Stacey, Alma and Dot. Rooms had already been engaged for the party (Alma's and Dot's adjoining each other's), and all sorts of intoxicating details been settled.

Dot, indeed, spoke to her mother once about coming home to help, instead of going away, but even if she had meant it--which must be questioned--Mrs. Bruce was quite decided that she should go.

"It will do you good," she said, "and we don't need you at home at all.

Betty will be here--it will be holiday-time and she must help."

For February Dot had an invitation to Tasmania. In her wildest imaginings she did not dream of accepting it, but Minnie Stevenson, whose school-days lay behind her too, was going down before Christmas and declared she could not be without Dot longer than the middle of February.