The Hermit2 had never regained4 consciousness throughout the weary hours during which every jolt5 of the express-wagon6 over the rough tracks had sent a throb7 to the hearts of the watchers. All unconscious he had lain while they lifted him from the bunk8 where he had slept for so many lonely nights. The men packed his few personal belongings9 quickly. Norah, remembering a hint dropped by the Hermit in other days, had instituted a search for buried papers, which resulted in the unearthing10 of a tin box containing various documents. She had insisted, too, that the rough furniture should go, and it was piled in the front of the wagon. Another man had brought out the old pack mare11 for the baggage of the original fishing party, and the whole cavalcade12 moved off before the sun had got above the horizon.
But it was a tedious journey. Dr. Anderson sat beside his patient, watching the feeble action of the heart and the flickering13 pulse, plying14 him with stimulants15 and nourishment16, occasionally calling a halt for a few minutes' complete rest. Close to the wheel Dick Stephenson rode, his eyes scarcely leaving his father's face. On the other side, Norah and her father rode in silent, miserable17 anxiety, fretting18 at their utter helplessness. Dr. Anderson glanced sharply now and then at the little girl's face.
“This isn't good for her,” he said at length quietly to Mr. Linton. “She's had too much already. Take her home.” He raised his voice. “You'd better go on,” he said; “let Mrs. Brown know just what is coming; she'll need you to help her prepare the patient's room, Norah. You, too, Stephenson.”
“I won't leave him, thanks,” he said. “I'd rather not—he might become conscious.”
“No chance of that,” the doctor said, “best not, too, until we have him safely in bed. However, stay if you like—perhaps it's as well. I think, Linton, you'd better send a wire to Melbourne for a trained nurse.”
“And one to mother,” Dick said quickly.
“That's gone already,” Mr. Linton said. “I sent George back with it last night when he brought the mare out.” He smiled in answer to Dick's grateful look. “Well, come on, Norah.”
The remembrance of that helpless form in the bottom of the wagon haunted Norah's memory all through the remainder of the ride home. She was thoroughly19 tired now—excitement that had kept her up the day before had prevented her from sleeping, and she scarcely could keep upright in the saddle. However, she set her teeth to show no sign of weakness that should alarm her father, and endeavoured to have a smile for him whenever his anxious gaze swept her white face.
The relief of seeing the red roof of home! That last mile was the longest of all—and when at length they were at the gate, and she had climbed stiffly off her pony20, she could only lean against his shoulder and shake from head to foot. Mr. Linton picked her up bodily and carried her, feebly protesting, into Mrs. Brown.
“Only knocked up,” he said, in answer to the old woman's terrified exclamation21. “Bed is all she needs—and hot soup, if you've got it. Norah, dear”—as she begged to be allowed to remain and help—“you can do nothing just now, except get yourself all right. Do as I tell you, girlie;” and in an astonishingly short space of time Norah found herself tucked up in bed in her darkened room, with Daddy's hand fast in hers, and a comforting feeling of everything fading away to darkness and sleep.
It was twilight22 when she opened her eyes again, and Brownie sat knitting by her side.
“Bless your dear heart,” she said fervently23. “Yes, the old gentleman's come, an' he's quite comfertable in bed—though he don't know no one yet. Dr. Anderson's gone to Cunjee, but he's coming back in his steam engine to stay all night; an' your pa's having his dinner, which he needs it, poor man. An' he don't want you to get up, lovey, for there ain't nothin' you can do. I'll go and get you something to eat.”
But it was Mr. Linton who came presently, bearing a tray with dainty chicken and salad, and a glass of clear golden jelly. He sat by Norah while she ate.
“We're pretty anxious, dear,” he told her, when she had finished, and was snugly25 lying down again, astonishingly glad of her soft bed. “You won't mind my not staying. I must be near old Jim. I'll be glad when Anderson's back. Try to go to sleep quickly.” He bent26 to kiss her. “You don't know what a comfort your sleep has been to me, my girlie,” he said. “Good-night!”
It was the third day of the struggle with death over the Hermit's unconscious body, and again twilight was falling upon Billabong.
The house was hushed and silent. No footfall was allowed to sound where the echo might penetrate27 to the sick-room. Near its precincts Mrs. Brown and the Melbourne trained nurse reigned28 supreme29, and Dr. Anderson came and went as often as he could manage the fourteen-mile spin out from Cunjee in his motor.
Norah had a new care—a little fragile old lady, with snowy hair, and depths of infinite sadness in her eyes, whom Dick Stephenson called “mother.” The doctor would not allow either mother or son into the sick-room—the shock of recognition, should the Hermit regain3 consciousness suddenly, might be too much. So they waited about, agonisingly anxious, pitifully helpless. Dick rebelled against the idleness at length. It would kill him, he said, and, borrowing a spade from the Chinese gardener, he spent his time in heavy digging, within easy call of the house. But for the wife and mother there was no help. She was gently courteous30 to all, gently appreciative
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