*CHAPTER VII*
*Come Home! Come Home*
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'Oh, that 'twere possible, After long grief and pain, To find the arms of my true love Around me once again!'
Five years dragged on. Sometimes word came that the travellers were atlast coming home, and Cameron's heart grew warm, only to grow coldagain, as he realised he dare not let them come to this. Then, whilethe agony of dread still was crushing him, the next mail would bring thebitter relief that the time was not yet--the agent or the music mastersor some one else had found another year was necessary, or the greatcareer would be spoiled. Not one word all this time of the selection,else had the 'career' been in instant danger of the ruin predicted, themother would have journeyed at the greatest possible number of knots anhour back to them. Her dreamer of dreams depending on a selection, herchildren depending on her dreamer, become his own master!
Yet surely the man had had his lesson, and toiled now marvellously,piteously.
Five years, and not one idle day.
Five years of bewildered struggling with unknown enemies--drought,hurricanes of wind, bush fires, devastating rains, a soil that thefarmer born and bred could hardly have made pay. Never a complainingword. Hermie, growing to womanhood, broke her heart over his life attimes.
There was even a day when she fell down on her knees at a chair, andcovered paper wildly with a pen that commanded her mother to come home.
Cameron working obstinately on one frightful day, the thermometer onehundred and seventeen degrees, had a 'touch of the sun,' and even afterthe doctor had left him quieted, his head in cool cloths, histemperature falling, he still moaned for his wife, cried to her like achild, stretched out his arms, raved, besought her to hold his hand. Itwas then that Hermie broke her promise, down on her knees, just hiddenby the bed-curtain, writing wildly with the pen she had brought for thedoctor to write his prescription.
'By the next boat,' she wrote; 'if you wait for the one after, it willbe wicked of you. How can you stay like this? Challis, Challis--all ourlives spoiled for her to have a chance! We have no chance; father's lifeis worse than any dog's. Challis--I think I hate Challis! Going alongquietly and happily, are we? Miss Macintosh taking your place? We arestarving, worse than starving; the food we have to eat is worse thannone at all. He needs delicate things, ice and invalid dishes, properlycooked. I have just been to the safe to look what I could get, and themutton has gone bad--it goes bad nearly every day in summer here; thereis no milk, for the cows have no feed, there is some nasty mouldy breadand bad butter, and golden syrup with flies in it, and sugar alive withants. You! You and Challis are eating the best things that can bebought with money. I hate Challis! The doctor says we are to keep hishead cool with water, and to stand vessels full of water about the roomto cool the air. The well is nearly dry, the sun has turned the tankwater bad, or else a wombat or a bird has fallen in, and it ispoisonous. Bartie has gone a mile with the cart to beg some from theDalys.
'Miss Macintosh taking care of us all so nicely! We have no one in theworld but Miss Browne. Oh yes, we have told you lies and lies, but youought not to have believed them. You should have come to see foryourself that he was happy and well. Oh, if you could hear him crying,just to hold your hand, he says, and to hear you talk! Ah, mother,mother, mother, how cruel you are!'
But the spirit of the man, just learning to be indomitable, kept himback from long illness. In four days he was up again, easily turnedsick and faint, but able to lie on the sofa, and even take an interestin the delicacies that Hermie set before him. She had ridden Trambyinto Wilgandra herself, gone to the grocer, and implored him for nicethings--calf's foot jellies, and whitebait, and Canadian tinned fruit.
'My sister, Challis Cameron, the pianist will be back soon. I havewritten for them to come, so you will be sure to be paid.'
And the grocer, a kindly spot in his heart still for the youngesthousekeeper he had ever taken orders from, made up a big basket oftinned goods, and said he would wait for Challis to pay him.
'Hermie,' Cameron said from the sofa on the fifth day, 'my head is stillconfused, but I seem to remember when I was very bad that you kepttelling me mamma was coming. There has been no letter, has there?'
Hermie grew a little pale.
'No, there has been no letter, papa,' she said.
'Hermie,' he cried, after spending a minute trying to find the reasonfor her curiously averted head, 'you did not write for mamma, Hermie?'
She turned to him then, her blue young eyes on fire.
'I did,' she said; 'it is time, more than time she came. If she doesnot come soon, you--we--we shall all be dead!'
'Child, child!' he said.
He had risen from his sofa and gone to the window, to look once morewith aching eyes at his wretched lands. If this had been the green islein the sea he had dreamed of making it, he would have sent long agohimself. But these desolate acres!
'Child,' he groaned, 'I couldn't let her come to this. I am only half aman--half a man. God left the manliness out of me when He made me, andgave me womanish ways instead. And I have never fought them down, as itmust have been meant I should do. But I will begin again, I will workharder--things must take a turn, and then I can meet her, and she willnot despise me. Child, God has no more awful punishment than when Helets those we love despise us. Send another letter, tell her not tocome yet--not just yet. Let me have one more chance.'
Hermie was sobbing at his side, pulling at his arm, trying to urge himback to the sofa. She knew he was not talking to her, knew he was hardlyaware she was there, but her sensitive spirit, leaping at his troubleswith him, was bowed down with the knowledge and weight of them. How sheloved this man--this grey-haired, blue-eyed man at her side! Hardly thelove of daughter for father; her feelings for him had in them somethingof the passionate, protecting tenderness of a mother for a crippledchild.
'Lie down,' she said, 'there--let me move these pillows; that is better.She must come--she should have come long ago. And I told her to be sureto come by the next boat. Now lie still; I am going to get your lunch.'
The exertion and emotion had tried him exceedingly. He lay still,still, his face to the wall; and now his mood brought a tear from underhis eyelid. It was too late! She would have started! Ah, well, praiseGod for that! God who took these things out of our hands. She wascoming--he might give up for a little time, and lie with his head on herbreast; she who had always forgiven him would forgive him still andclasp him to her, and call him, 'Dear One.' Then all he would ask wouldbe the happiness of dying before the world began again.
The happy tears rolled down his cheeks. Hermie, tip-toeing back with hertray, saw them, and was filled with dismay. What had she done by thisinterference?
'Darling,' she said, dropping beside him, 'don't mind, don't mind. Theletter is not posted yet--Bartie was going to take it in this afternoon.It is not mail day till to-morrow. We will not send it.'
Not posted! Not posted! She was not coming--she might not know of hisextremity, his need for her! The chill wind passed over him and driedhis tears, dried his heart.
'Here is the letter,' the poor child cried; 'don't look like that,darling. I would not vex you for the world. Shall I tear it up?'
He looked at it piteously. Oh, that Bartie had it, riding with itthrough the bush, summoning her, summoning her!
'Shall I burn it?' said the poor little girl.
'Yes,' he said, 'burn it.' His voice was lifeless, his eyes stareddully at the wall.
The Wonder-Child: An Australian Story Page 7