Mates at Billabong

Mary Grant Bruce

Description

Norah is now 14. She, Jim and Wally do their best to put up with Cecil, the 19-year-old cousin from town who has come to stay at Billabong for the Christmas holidays and tries to show off to his Bush relatives with his disdainful city airs. But the results are invariably disastrous and highly amusing until he does the unforgiveable and takes Norah’s much-loved pony for a wild ride...

Sujets

• Univers ado
• Fiction ado
• Fiction
• Animals

Informations

• Publié par: Rare Treasure Editions
• Date de parution: 04 novembre 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781774642634
• Langue: English

Extrait

Mates at Billabong
by Mary Grant Bruce

First published in 1913
This edition published by Rare Treasures
Victoria, BC Canada with branch offices in the Czech Republic and Germany
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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, except in the case of excerpts by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
Norah and Bobs. Mates at Billabong ] [ Frontispiece
Mates At Billabong



by MARY GRANT BRUCE

CHAPTER I NORAH’S HOME

The grey old dwelling, rambling and wide,
With the homestead paddocks on either side,
And the deep verandahs and porches tall
Where the vine climbs high on the trellised wall.
                            G. Essex Evans.
B ILLABONG homestead lay calm and peacefulin the slanting rays of the sun that creptdown the western sky. The red roofs were halfhidden in the surrounding trees—pine and box andmighty blue gums towering above the tenderergreen of the orchard, and the wide-flung tendrils ofthe Virginia creeper that was pushing slender fingersover the old walls. If you came nearer, you foundhow the garden rioted in colour under the touchof early summer, from the crimson rambler roundthe eastern bay window to the “Bonfire” salviablazing in masses on the lawn; but from the paddocksall that could be seen was the mass of green, andthe mellow red of the roof glimpsing through. Furtherback came a glance of rippled silver, where thebreeze caught the surface of the lagoon—too lazy abreeze to do more than faintly stir the reed-fringedwater. Towards it a flight of black swans wingedslowly, with outstretched necks, across a sky of perfectblue. Their leader’s note floated down, as if inanswer to the magpies that carolled in the pine treesby the stables. The sound seemed to hang in thestill air.
Beyond the tennis-court, in the farther recessesof the garden, a hammock swung between twogrevillea trees, whose orange flowers made a gaycanopy overhead; and in the hammock Norahswayed gently, and knitted, and pondered. Theshining needles flashed in and out of the dark bluesilk sock. Outsiders—mothers of prim daughters,whom Norah pictured as finding their wildest excitementin “patting a doll”—were wont to deplore thatthe only daughter of David Linton of Billabong wasbrought up in an eccentric fashion, less girl than boy;but outsiders are apt to cherish delusions, and Norahwas not without her share of gentle accomplishments.Knitting was one; the sock grew quickly in thecapable brown fingers that could grip a stockwhipas easily as they handled the needles. All the while,she was listening.
About her the coo of invisible doves fell gently,mingling with the happy droning of bees in the overheadblossoms. Somewhere, not far off, a sheepbell tinkled monotonously, the only outside sound inthe afternoon stillness. It was very peaceful. ToNorah, who knew that the world held no place likeBillabong, it only lacked one person for the final sealof perfection.
“ ’Wish Dad would come,” she said aloud, puckeringher brow over a knot in the silk. “He’s late—andit is jolly dull without him.” The knot camefree, and the needles raced as though making up forlost time.
Two dogs lay on the grass; a big sleepy colliethat only moved occasionally to snap at a worryingfly; and an Irish terrier, plainly showing by hisrestlessness that he despised a lazy life, and longedfor action. He caught his mistress’s eye at last,and jumped up with a little whine.
“If you had the heel of a sock to turn, Puck,”said Norah, “you’d be more steady. Lie down,old man.”
Puck lay down again discontentedly, put his noseon his paws, and feigned slumber, one restless eyelidbetraying the hollowness of the pretence. Presentlyhe rolled over—and chancing to roll on a spiky twig,rose with a wild yelp of annoyance. Across Norah’slaugh came a stockwhip crack; and the collie cameto life suddenly, and sprang up, as impatient as theterrier. Norah slipped out of the hammock.
“There’s Dad!” she said. “Come along!”
She was tall for her fourteen years, and veryslender—“scraggy,” Jim was wont to say, with thecheerful frankness of brothers. Norah bore theepithet meekly—she held the view that it wasbetter to be dead than fat. There was somethingboyish in the straight, slim figure in the blue linenfrock—perhaps the quality was also to be found ina frank manner that was the product of years of theBush and open air life. The grey eyes were steady,and met those of others with a straight level glance;the mouth was a little firm-set for her years, but thechild was revealed when it broke into smiles—andNorah was rarely grave. No human power had yetbeen discovered to keep in order the brown curls.Their distressed owner tied them back firmly with awide ribbon each morning; but the ribbon generallywas missing early in the day, and might be replacedwith anything that came handy—possibly a fragmentof red tape from the office, or a bit of a NewZealand flax leaf, or haply even a scrap of green hide.Anything, said Norah, decidedly, was better thanyour hair all over your face. For the rest, a nondescriptnose, somewhat freckled, and a square chin,completed a face no one would have dreamedof calling pretty. In his own mind her father referredto it as something better. But then therewas tremendous friendship between the master ofBillabong and his small daughter.
The stockwhip cracked again, nearer home thistime; and Norah crammed the blue silk sock hastilyinto a little work-bag, and raced away over the lawn,her slim black legs making great time across thebuffalo grass. Beside her tore the collie and Puck,each a vision of embodied delight. They flashedround the corner of the house, scattered the gravelon the path leading to the back, and came out intothe yard as a big black horse pulled up at the gate,and the tall man on his back swung himself lightlyto the ground. From some unseen region a blackboy appeared silently and led the horse away.Norah, her father, and the dogs arrived at the gatesimultaneously.
“I thought you were never coming, Daddy,”said the mistress of Billabong, incoherently. “Didyou have a good trip?—and how did Monarch go?—anddid you buy the cattle?—and have you hadany dinner?” She punctuated each query with ahug, and paused only for lack of breath.
“Steady!” said David Linton, laughing; “I’mnot a ready reckoner! I’ve bought the bullocks,and Monarch went quite remarkably well, and yes,I’ve had dinner, thank you. And how have youbeen getting on, Norah?”
“Oh, all right,” said his daughter. “It waspretty slow, of course—it always is when you goaway, Daddy. I worked, and pottered round withBrownie, and went out for rides. And oh, Dad!ever so many letters—and Jim’s coming home nextweek!” She executed an irrepressible pirouette.“And he’s got the cup for the best average at thesports—best all-round athlete that means, doesn’tit? Isn’t it lovely?”
“That’s splendid!” Mr. Linton said, looking aspleased as his daughter. “And any school prizes?”
“He didn’t mention,” Norah answered. “Idon’t suppose so, bless him! But there’s one thingpretty sickening—the boys can’t come with him.Wally may come later, but Harry has to go to Tasmaniawith his father—isn’t it unreasonable?”
“I’m sorry he can’t come, but on the whole I’vea fellow feeling for the father,” said Jim’s parent.“A man wants to see something of his son occasionally,I suppose. And any news from Mrs.Stephenson?”
“She’s better,” Norah answered, her face growinggraver. “Dick wrote. And there’s a letter foryou from Mrs. Stephenson, too. She says she’sbrighter, and the sea-voyage was evidently the thingfor her, ’cause she’s more like herself than at anytime since—since my dear old Hermit died.”Norah’s voice shook a little. “They expect to be inWellington all the summer, and perhaps longer.”
“It was certainly a good prescription, that voyage,”Mr. Linton said. “I don’t think she wouldhave been long in following her husband—poor oldchap!—if they had remained here. But one missesthem, Norah.”
“Horrid,” said Norah, with emphasis. “I missher all the time—and it’s quite rum, Dad, but I dobelieve I miss lessons. Over five weeks since I hadany! Are you going to get me another tutor?”
“We’ll see,” said her father. They were in thebig dining-room by this time, and he was turningover the pile of letters that had come during his threedays’ absence from the station. “Any chance oftea, Norah?”
“Well, rather!” said Norah. “You read yourletters, and I’ll go and tell Sarah. And Brownie’llbe wanting to see you. I won’t be long, Daddy.”She vanished.
A few minutes later Mr. Linton looked up from aletter that had put a crease into his brow. A firm,flat step sounded in the hall, and Mrs. Brown camein—cook and housekeeper to the homestead, theguide, philosopher and friend of every one, and thespecial protector of the little motherless girl aboutwhom David Linton’s life centred. “Brownie”was not a person lightly to be reckoned with, andher master was wont to turn to her whenever anyquestion arose affecting Norah. He greeted herwarmly now.
“We’re all glad to welkim you back, sirr,” saidBrownie. “As for that blessed child, she’s not likethe same ’uman bein’ when you’re off the place.Passed me jus’ now in the passige, goin’ full bat, an’turned ’ead over ’eels, she did—I didn’t need to betold you’d got ’ome!” She hesitated: “Youheard from Mrs. Stephenson, sir?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Linton, glancing at the letter inhis hand. “As I thought—she confirms our opinion.I’m afraid there’s no help for it.”
“I knew she would,” said Mrs. Brown, heavily,a shadow falling on her broad, pleasant face. “Oh,I know there’s no ’elp, sir—it has to be. But—but——”She put her apron to her eyes.
“We’re really very lucky, I suppose,” Mr. Lintonsaid, in tones distinctly unappreciative, at the moment,of any luck. “Mrs. Stephenson has been asecond mother to Norah these two y