Selected Stories By Henry Lawson Part 35

"You see," said Mrs Head, in explanation to me, "at first nothing would drive it out of my head that the children had wandered about until they perished of hunger and thirst in the Bush. As if the Bush Fairies would let them do that."

"You were very foolish, Maggie," said the Boss; "but don't think about that."

The old woman brought the portraits, a little boy and a little girl: they must have been very pretty children.

"You see," said Mrs Head, taking the portraits eagerly, and giving them to me one by one, "we had these taken in Sydney some years before the children were lost; they were much younger then. Wally's is not a good portrait; he was teething then, and very thin. That's him standing on the chair. Isn't the pose good? See, he's got one hand and one little foot forward, and an eager look in his eyes. The portrait is very dark, and you've got to look close to see the foot. He wants a toy rabbit that the photographer is tossing up to make him laugh. In the next portrait he's sitting on the chair-he's just settled himself to enjoy the fun. But see how happy little Maggie looks! You can see my arm where I was holding her in the chair. She was six months old then, and little Wally had just turned two."

She put the portraits up on the mantelshelf.

"Let me see; Wally (that's little Walter, you know)-Wally was five and little Maggie three and a half when we lost them. Weren't they, Walter?"

"Yes, Maggie," said the Boss.

"You were away, Walter, when it happened."

"Yes, Maggie," said the Boss-cheerfully, it seemed to me-"I was away."

"And we couldn't find you, Walter. You see," she said to me, "Walter-Mr Head-was away in Sydney on business, and we couldn't find his address. It was a beautiful morning, though rather warm, and just after the break-up of the drought. The gra.s.s was knee-high all over the run. It was a lonely place; there wasn't much bush cleared round the homestead, just a hundred yards or so, and the great awful scrubs ran back from the edges of the clearing all round for miles and miles-fifty or a hundred miles in some directions without a break; didn't they, Walter?"

"Yes, Maggie."

"I was alone at the house except for Mary, a half-caste girl we had, who used to help me with the housework and the children. Andy was out on the run with the men, mustering sheep; weren't you, Andy?"

"Yes, Mrs Head."

"I used to watch the children close as they got to run about, because if they once got into the edge of the scrub they'd be lost; but this morning little Wally begged hard to be let take his little sister down under a clump of blue-gums in a corner of the home paddock to gather b.u.t.tercups. You remember that clump of gums, Walter?"

"I remember, Maggie."

"I won't go through the fence a step, mumma," little Wally said. I could see Old Peter-an old shepherd and station hand we had-I could see him working on a dam we were making across a creek that ran down there. You remember Old Peter, Walter?"

"Of course I do, Maggie."

"I knew that Old Peter would keep an eye to the children; so I told little Wally to keep tight hold of his sister's hand and go straight down to Old Peter and tell him I sent them."

She was leaning forward with her hands clasping her knee, and telling me all this with a strange sort of eagerness.

"The little ones toddled off hand in hand, with their other hands holding fast their straw hats. 'In case a bad wind blowed,' as little Maggie said. I saw them stoop under the first fence, and that was the last that anyone saw of them."

"Except the fairies, Maggie," said the Boss quickly.

"Of course, Walter, except the fairies."

She pressed her fingers to her temples again for a minute.

"It seems that Old Peter was going to ride out to the musterers' camp that morning with bread for the men, and he left his work at the dam and started into the Bush after his horse just as I turned back into the house, and before the children got near him. They either followed him for some distance or wandered into the Bush after flowers or b.u.t.terflies--" She broke off, and then suddenly asked me, "Do you think the Bush Fairies would entice children away, Mr Ellis?"

The Boss caught my eye, and frowned and shook his head slightly.

"No. I'm sure they wouldn't Mrs Head," I said-"at least not from what I know of them."

She thought, or tried to think, again for a while, in her helpless puzzled way. Then she went on, speaking rapidly, and rather mechanically, it seemed to me- "The first I knew of it was when Peter came to the house about an hour afterwards, leading his horse, and without the children. I said-I said, 'O my G.o.d! where's the children?'" Her fingers fluttered up to her temples.

"Don't mind about that, Maggie," said the Boss, hurriedly, stroking her head. "Tell Jack about the fairies."

"You were away at the time, Walter?"

"Yes, Maggie."

"And we couldn't find you, Walter?"

"No, Maggie," very gently. He rested his elbow on his knee and his chin on his hand, and looked into the fire.

"It wasn't your fault, Walter; but if you had been at home do you think the fairies would have taken the children?"

"Of course they would, Maggie. They had to: the children were lost."

"And they're bringing the children home next year?"

"Yes, Maggie-next year."

She lifted her hands to her head in a startled way, and it was some time before she went on again. There was no need to tell me about the lost children. I could see it all. She and the half-caste rushing towards where the children were seen last, with Old Peter after them. The hurried search in the nearer scrub. The mother calling all the time for Maggie and Wally, and growing wilder as the minutes flew past. Old Peter's ride to the musterers' camp. Hors.e.m.e.n seeming to turn up in no time and from nowhere, as they do in a case like this, and no matter how lonely the district. Bushmen galloping through the scrub in all directions. The hurried search the first day, and the mother mad with anxiety as night came on. Her long, hopeless, wild-eyed watch through the night; starting up at every sound of a horse's hoof, and reading the worst in one glance at the rider's face. The systematic work of the search-parties next day and the days following. How those days do fly past. The women from the next run or selection, and some from the town, driving from ten or twenty miles, perhaps, to stay with and try to comfort the mother. ("Put the horse to the cart, Jim: I must go to that poor woman!") Comforting her with improbable stories of children who had been lost for days, and were none the worse for it when they were found. The mounted policemen out with the black trackers. Search-parties cooeeing to each other about the Bush, and lighting signal-fires. The reckless break-neck rides for news or more help. And the Boss himself, wild-eyed and haggard, riding about the Bush with Andy and one or two others perhaps, and searching hopelessly, days after the rest had given up all hope of finding the children alive. All this pa.s.sed before me as Mrs Head talked, her voice sounding the while as if she were in another room; and when I roused myself to listen, she was on to, the fairies again.

"It was very foolish of me, Mr Ellis. Weeks after-months after, I think-I'd insist on going out on the verandah at dusk and calling for the children. I'd stand there and call 'Maggie!' and 'Wally!' until Walter took me inside; sometimes he had to force me inside. Poor Walter! But of course I didn't know about the fairies then, Mr Ellis. I was really out of my mind for a time."

"No wonder you were, Mrs Head," I said. "It was terrible trouble."

"Yes, and I made it worse. I was so selfish in my trouble. But it's all right now, Walter," she said, rumpling the Boss's hair. "I'll never be so foolish again."

"Of course you won't, Maggie."

"We're very happy now, aren't we, Walter?"

"Of course we are, Maggie."

"And the children are coming back next year."

"Next year, Maggie."

He leaned over the fire and stirred it up.

"You mustn't take any notice of us, Mr Ellis," she went on. "Poor Walter is away so much that I'm afraid I make a little too much of him when he does come home."

She paused and pressed her fingers to her temples again. Then she said quickly: "They used to tell me that it was all nonsense about the fairies, but they were no friends of mine. I shouldn't have listened to them, Walter. You told me not to. But then I was really not in my right mind."

"Who used to tell you that, Mrs Head?" I asked.

"The Voices," she said; "you know about the Voices, Walter?"

"Yes, Maggie. But you don't hear the Voices now, Maggie?" he asked anxiously. "You haven't heard them since I've been away this time, have you, Maggie?"

"No, Walter. They've gone away a long time. I hear voices now sometimes, but they're the Bush Fairies' voices. I hear them calling Maggie and Wally to come with them." She paused again. "And sometimes I think I hear them call me. But of course I couldn't go away without you, Walter. But I'm foolish again. I was going to ask you about the other voices, Mr Ellis. They used to say that it was madness about the fairies; but then, if the fairies hadn't taken the children, Black Jimmy, or the black trackers with the police, could have tracked and found them at once."

"Of course they could, Mrs Head," I said.

"They said that the trackers couldn't track them because there was rain a few hours after the children were lost. But that was ridiculous. It was only a thunderstorm."

"Why!" I said, "I've known the blacks to track a man after a week's heavy rain."

She had her head between her fingers again, and when she looked up it was in a scared way.

"Oh, Walter!" she said, clutching the Boss's arm; "whatever have I been talking about? What must Mr Ellis think of me? Oh! why did you let me talk like that?"

He put his arm round her. Andy nudged me and got up.

"Where are you going, Mr Ellis?" she asked hurriedly. "You're not going tonight. Auntie's made a bed for you in Andy's room. You mustn't mind me."

"Jack and Andy are going out for a little while," said the Boss. "They'll be in to supper. We'll have a yarn, Maggie."

"Be sure you come back to supper, Mr Ellis," she said. "I really don't know what you must think of me-I've been talking all the time."

"Oh, I've enjoyed myself, Mrs Head," I said; and Andy hooked me out.

"She'll have a good cry and be better now," said Andy when we got away from the house. "She might be better for months. She has been fairly reasonable for over a year, but the Boss found her pretty bad when he came back this time. It upset him a lot, I can tell you. She has turns now and again, and always ends up like she did just now. She gets a longing to talk about it to a Bushman and a stranger; it seems to do her good. The doctor's against it, but doctors don't know everything."

"It's all true about the children, then?" I asked.

"It's cruel true," said Andy.

"And were the bodies never found?"

"Yes;" then, after a long pause, "I found them."

"You did!"

"Yes; in the scrub, and not so very far from home either-and in a fairly clear s.p.a.ce. It's a wonder the search-parties missed it; but it often happens that way. Perhaps the little ones wandered a long way and came round in a circle. I found them about two months after they were lost. They had to be found, if only for the Boss's sake. You see, in a case like this, and when the bodies aren't found, the parents never quite lose the idea that the little ones are wandering about the Bush to-night (it might be years after) and perishing from hunger, thirst, or cold. That mad idea haunts 'em all their lives. It's the same, I believe, with friends drowned at sea. Friends ash.o.r.e are haunted for a long while with the idea of the white sodden corpse tossing about and drifting round in the water."

"And you never told Mrs Head about the children being found?"

"Not for a long time. It wouldn't have done any good. She was raving mad for months. He took her to Sydney and then to Melbourne-to the best doctors he could find in Australia. They could do no good, so he sold the station-sacrificed everything, and took her to England."

"To England?"

"Yes; and then to Germany to a big German doctor there. He'd offer a thousand pounds where they only wanted fifty. It was no good. She got worse in England, and raved to go back to Australia and find the children. The doctors advised him to take her back, and he did. He spent all his money, travelling saloon, and with reserved cabins, and a nurse, and trying to get her cured; that's why he's droving now. She was restless in Sydney. She wanted to go back to the station and wait there till the fairies brought the children home. She'd been getting the fairy idea into her head slowly all the time. The Boss encouraged it. But the station was sold, and he couldn't have lived there anyway without going mad himself. He'd married her from Bathurst. Both of them have got friends and relations here, so he thought best to bring her here. He persuaded her that the fairies were going to bring the children here. Everybody's very kind to them. I think it's a mistake to run away from a town where you're known, in a case like this, though most people do it. It was years before he gave up hope. I think he has hopes yet-after she's been fairly well for a longish time."

"And you never tried telling her that the children were found?"

"Yes; the Boss did. The little ones were buried on the Lachlan River at first; but the Boss got a horror of having them buried in the Bush, so he had them brought to Sydney and buried in the Waverley Cemetery near the sea. He bought the ground, and room for himself and Maggie when they go out. It's all the ground he owns in wide Australia, and once he had thousands of acres. He took her to the grave one day. The doctors were against it; but he couldn't rest till he tried it. He took her out, and explained it all to her. She scarcely seemed interested. She read the names on the stone, and said it was a nice stone, and asked questions, about how the children were found and brought here. She seemed quite sensible, and very cool about it. But when he got her home she was back on the fairy idea again. He tried another day, but it was no use; so then he let it be. I think it's better as it is. Now and again, at her best, she seems to understand that the children were found dead, and buried, and she'll talk sensibly about it, and ask questions in a quiet way, and make him promise to take her to Sydney to see the grave next time he's down. But it doesn't last long, and she's always worse afterwards."

We turned into a bar and had a beer. It was a very quiet drink. Andy "shouted" in his turn, and while I was drinking the second beer, a thought struck me.

"The Boss was away when the children were lost?"

"Yes," said Andy.

"Strange you couldn't find him."

"Yes, it was strange; but he'll have to tell you about that. Very likely he will; it's either all or nothing with him."

"I feel d.a.m.ned sorry for the Boss," I said.

"You'd be sorrier if you knew all," said Andy. "It's the worst trouble that can happen to a man. It's like living with the dead. It's-it's like a man living with his dead wife."

When we went home supper was ready. We found Mrs Head, bright and cheerful, bustling round. You'd have thought her one of the happiest and brightest little women in Australia. Not a word about children or the fairies. She knew the Bush and asked me all about my trips. She told some good Bush stories too. It was the pleasantest hour I'd spent for a long time.

"Good night, Mr Ellis," she said brightly, shaking hands with me when Andy and I were going to turn in. "And don't forget your pipe. Here it is! I know that Bushmen like to have a whiff or two when they turn in. Walter smokes in bed. I don't mind. You can smoke all night if you like."

"She seems all right," I said to Andy when we were in our room.

He shook his head mournfully. We'd left the door ajar, and we could hear the Boss talking to her quietly. Then we heard her speak; she had a very clear voice.

"Yes, I'll tell you the truth, Walter. I've been deceiving you, Walter, all the time, but I did it for the best. Don't be angry with me, Walter! The Voices did come back while you were away. Oh, how I longed for you to come back! They haven't come since you've been home, Walter. You must stay with me a while now. Those awful Voices kept calling me, and telling me lies about the children, Walter! They told me to kill myself; they told me it was all my own fault-that I killed the children. They said I was a drag on you, and they'd laugh-Ha! ha! ha!-like that. They'd say, 'Come on, Maggie; come on, Maggie.' They told me to come to the river, Walter."

Andy closed the door. His face was very miserable.

We turned in, and I can tell you I enjoyed a soft white bed after months and months of sleeping out at night, between watches, on the hard ground or the sand, or at best on a few boughs when I wasn't too tired to pull them down, and my saddle for a pillow.

But the story of the children haunted me for an hour or two. I've never since quite made up my mind as to why the Boss took me home. Probably he really did think it would do his wife good to talk to a stranger; perhaps he wanted me to understand-maybe he was weakening as he grew older, and craved for a new word or hand-grip of sympathy now and then.

When I did get to sleep I could have slept for three or four days, but Andy roused me out about four o'clock. The old woman that they called Auntie was up and had a good breakfast of eggs and bacon and coffee ready in the detached kitchen at the back. We moved about on tiptoe and had our breakfast quietly.

"The wife made me promise to wake her to see to our breakfast and say Goodbye to you; but I want her to sleep this morning, Jack," said the Boss. "I'm going to walk down as far as the station with you. She made up a parcel of fruit and sandwiches for you and Andy. Don't forget it."

Andy went on ahead. The Boss and I walked down the wide silent street, which was also the main road; and we walked two or three hundred yards without speaking. He didn't seem sociable this morning, or any way sentimental; when he did speak it was something about the cattle.

But I had to speak; I felt a swelling and rising up in my chest, and at last I made a swallow and blurted out: "Look here, Boss, old chap! I'm d.a.m.ned sorry!"

Our hands came together and gripped. The ghostly Australian daybreak was over the Bathurst plains.

We went on another hundred yards or so, and then the Boss said quietly: "I was away when the children were lost, Jack. I used to go on a howling spree every six or nine months. Maggie never knew. I'd tell her I had to go to Sydney on business, or out back to look after some stock. When the children were lost, and for nearly a fortnight after, I was beastly drunk in an out-of-the-way shanty in the Bush-a sly grog shop. The old brute that kept it was too true to me. I thought that the story of the lost children was a trick to get me home, and he swore that he hadn't seen me. He never told me. I could have found those children, Jack. They were mostly new-chums and fools about the run, and not one of the three policemen was a Bushman. I knew those scrubs better than any man in the country."

I reached for his hand again, and gave it a grip. That was all I could do for him.

"Good-bye, Jack!" he said at the door of the brake-van. "Good-bye, Andy!-keep those bullocks on their feet."

The cattle-train went on towards the Blue Mountains. Andy and I sat silent for a while, watching the guard fry three eggs on a plate over a coal-stove in the centre of the van.

"Does the Boss never go to Sydney?" I asked.