The Adventures of Don Lavington Part 100

Don had some consciousness of hearing voices, and of feeling hands touching him; but it was all during a time of confusion, and when he looked round again with the power to think, he was facing a tiny unglazed window, the shutter which was used to close it standing below.

He was lying on a rough bed formed of sacking spread over dried fern leaves, and the shed he was in had for furniture a rough table formed by nailing a couple of pieces of board across a tub, another tub with part of the side sawn out formed an armchair; and the walls were ornamented with bunches of seeds tied up and hung there for preservation, a saddle and bridle, and some garden tools neatly arranged in a corner.

Don lay wondering what it all meant, his eyes resting longest upon the open window, through which he could see the glorious sunshine, and the leaves moving in the gentle breeze.

He felt very happy and comfortable, but when he tried to raise his head the effort was in vain, and this set him wondering again, till he closed his eyes and lay thinking.

Suddenly he unclosed them again to lie listening, feeling the while that he had been asleep, for close beside him there was some one whistling in a very low tone--quite a whisper of a whistle--a familiar old Somersetshire melody, which seemed to carry him back to the sugar yard at Bristol, where he had heard Jem whistle that tune a score of times.

This set him thinking of home, his mother, and Cousin Kitty. Then of stern-looking Uncle Josiah, who, after all, did not seem to have been unkind.

"Poor Mas' Don! Will he ever get well again?" a voice whispered close to his ear.

"Jem!"

"Oh, Mas' Don! Oh! Oh! Oh! Thank the great Lord o' mussy. Amen!

Amen! Amen!"

There was the sound of some one going down heavily upon his knees, a pair of clasped hands rested on Don's breast; and, as he turned his eyes sidewise, he could see the top of Jem's head as the bed shook, and there was the sound of some one sobbing violently, but in a choking, smothered way.

"Jem! Is that you? What's the matter?" whispered Don feebly.

"And he says, 'What's the matter?'" cried Jem, raising his head, and bending over Don. "Dear lad, dear lad; how are you now?"

"Quite well, thank you, Jem, only I can't lift up my head."

"And don't you try, Mas' Don. Oh, the Lord be thanked! The Lord be thanked!" he muttered. "What should I ha' done?"

"Have--have I been ill, Jem?"

"I'll, Mas' Don? Why, I thought you was going to die, and no doctor, not even a drop of salts and senny to save your life."

"Oh, nonsense, Jem! I never thought of doing such a thing! Ah, I remember now. I felt poorly. My head was bad."

"Your head bad? I should think it was bad. Dear lad, what stuff you have been saying."

"Have I, Jem? What, since I lay down among the ferns this morning?"

"This morning, Mas' Don! Why, it's close upon a month ago."

"What?"

"That's so, my lad. We come back from cutting wood to find you lying under a tree, and when we got here it was to find poor old 'my pakeha'

with a shot-hole in him, and his head all beaten about with big clubs."

"Oh, Jem!"

"That's so, Mas' Don."

"Is he better?"

"Oh, yes; he's getting better. I don't think you could kill him. Sort o' chap that if you cut him to pieces some bit or another would be sure to grow again."

"Why, it was Mike Bannock and those wretches, Jem."

"That's what we thought, my lad, but we couldn't find out. It was some one, and whoever it was took away three guns."

"I saw them, Jem."

"You see 'em?"

"Yes, as I lay back with my head so bad that I couldn't be sure."

"Ah, well, they found us out, and they've got their guns again; but they give it to poor Ngati awful."

Just then the window was darkened by a hideous-looking face, which disappeared directly. Then steps were heard, and the great chief came in, bending low to avoid striking his head against the roof till he reached the rough bedside, where he bent over Don, and patted him gently, saying softly, "My pakeha."

CHAPTER FIFTY THREE.

DON SPEAKS OUT.

A healthy young const.i.tution helped Don Lavington through his perilous illness, and in another fortnight he was about the farm, helping in any little way he could.

"I'm very sorry, Mr Gordon," said Don one evening to the young settler.

"Sorry? What for, my lad?" he said.

"For bringing those convicts after us to your place, and for being ill and giving you so much trouble."

"Nonsense, my lad! I did begin to grumble once when I thought you were going to be ungrateful to me for taking you in."

"Ungrateful!"

"Yes, ungrateful, and trying to die."

"Oh!" said Don smiling.

"Nice mess I should have been in if you had. No church, no clergyman, no doctor, no s.e.xton. Why, you young dog, it would have been cruel."

Don smiled sadly.

"I am really very grateful, sir; I am indeed, and I think by to-morrow or next day I shall be strong enough to go."

"What, and leave me in the lurch just as I'm so busy! Why, with the thought of having you fellows here, I've been fencing in pieces and making no end of improvements. That big Maori can cut down as much wood as two men, and as for Jem Wimble, he's the handiest fellow I ever saw."

"I am very glad they have been of use, sir. I wish I could be."