A Little Bush Maid by Mary Grant Bruce

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In the evening of the third day Mr. Linton came quickly into the
drawing-room. Tears were falling down his face. He went up to Mrs.
Stephenson and put his hand on her shoulder.

"It's--it's all right, we think," he said brokenly. "He's conscious and
knew me, dear old chap! I was sitting by the bed, and suddenly his eyes
opened and all the fever had gone. 'Why, Davy!' he said. I told him
everything was all right, and he mustn't talk--and he's taken some
nourishment, and gone off into a natural sleep. Anderson's delighted."
Then he caught Mrs. Stephenson quickly as she slipped to his feet,
unconscious.

Then there were days of dreary waiting, of slow, harassing
convalescence. The patient did not seem to be alive to any outside
thought. He gained strength very slowly, but he lay always silent,
asking no questions, only when Mr. Linton entered the room showing any
sign of interest. The doctor was vaguely puzzled, vaguely anxious.

"Do you think I could go and see him?" Norah was outside the door of the
sick-room. The doctor often found her there--a little silent figure,
listening vainly for her friend's voice. She looked up pleadingly. "Not
if you think I oughtn't to," she said.

"I don't believe it would hurt him," Dr. Anderson said, looking down at
her. "Might wake him up a bit--I know you won't excite him."

So it was that the Hermit, waking from a restless sleep, found by his
side a small person with brown curls that he remembered.

"Why, it's my little friend," he murmured, feeling weakly for her hand.
"This seems a queer world--old friends and new, all mixed up."

"I'm so glad you're better, dear Mr. Hermit," Norah said. She bent and
kissed him. "And we're all friends--everybody."

"You did that once before," he said feebly. "No one had kissed me for
such a long, long while. But mustn't let you."

"Why?" asked Norah blankly.

"Because--because people don't think much of me, Miss Norah," he said, a
deep shade falling on his fine old face. "They say I'm no good. I don't
suppose I'd be allowed to be here, only I'm an old man, and I'm going to
die."

"But you're not!" Norah cried. "Dr. Anderson says you're not!
And--and--oh, you're making a great mistake. Everyone wants you."

"Me!" said the Hermit, in sudden bitter scorn. "No, only strangers like
you. Not my own."

"Oh, you don't know," Norah protested. She was painfully aware of the
order not to excite the patient, but it was awful to let him be so
unhappy! "Dad's not a stranger--he always knew you. And see how he wants
you!"

"Dad?" the Hermit questioned feebly. "Is David Linton your father?" She
nodded, and for a minute he was silent. "No wonder you and I were
friends!" he said. "But you're not all--not even you and Davy."

"No, but--"

He forced a smile, in pity for her perplexity.

"Dear little girl, you don't understand," he said. "There's something
even friendship can't wipe out, though such friendship as your father's
can bridge it over. But it's always there--a black, cruel gulf. And
that's disgrace!"

Norah could not bear the misery of his eyes.

"But if it's all a horrible mistake?" she said. "If everybody knew
it--?"

"If it's a mistake!"

The Hermit's hand was on her wrist like a vice. For a moment Norah
shivered in fear of what her words might have done.

"What do you mean? For God's sake, tell me?"

She steadied her voice to answer him bravely.

"Please, you mustn't get excited, dear Mr. Hermit," she said. "I'll tell
you. Dad told me all about it before we found you. It's all a terrible
mistake. Every one knows you were a good man. Everyone wants to be
friends with you. Only they thought you were dead."

"I managed that." His voice was sharp and eager. "I saw the other body
in the river and the rest was easy." He struggled for calmness and Norah
held a glass of water to his lips.

"Please don't get excited!" she begged.

"I won't," he smiled at her. "Tell me--does everyone know?"

"Everyone," Norah nodded. There was a step behind her and a sudden light
flashed into the Hermit's eyes.

"Davy! Is it true? I am cleared?"

"Years ago, old man." David Linton's voice was husky. "All the world
wants to make it up to you."

"All the world--they're only two!" the sick man said. "Do they know?"

"Yes."

"Where are they?"

For a moment Mr. Linton hesitated, not knowing what risk he might run.

"Oh! for pity's sake don't be cautious, David," the Hermit begged. "I'll
be calm--anything--only don't refuse a starving man bread! Davy, tell
me!"

"They're here, old man."

"Here! Can I--will they--?"

"Ah, we've got to be careful of you, Jim, old chap," Mr. Linton said.
"You've been a very sick man--and you're not better yet. But they're
only living on the hope of seeing you--of having you again--of making it
up to you."

"And they believe in me?"

"The boy--Dick--never believed a word against you," Mr. Linton said.
"And your wife--ah, if she doubted, she has paid for it again and again
in tears. You'll forgive her, Jim?"

"Yes," he said simply. "I've been bitter enough God knows, but it all
seems gone. You'll bring her, Davy?"

But at the word Norah was out of the room, racing along the hall.

Out in the gardens Dick Stephenson dug mightily in the hard soil, and
his mother watched him, listening always. She heard the flying footsteps
on the gravel and turned quickly to meet Norah.

"Mr. Stephenson, he wants you!"

"Is he worse?" Dick gasped.

"No--I think he's all right. But he knows everything and he wants you
both!"

In his room the Hermit heard the steps in the hall--the light, slow
feet, and the man's tread, that curbed its impatience, lingering to
support them. His breath came quickly as he stared at the door.

Then for a moment they faced each other, after the weary years; each
gaunt and wan and old, but in their eyes the light and the love of long
ago. The hermit's eyes wandered an instant to his son's face, seeking in
the stalwart man the little lad he knew. Then they came back to his
wife.

"Mary!"

"Jim!" She tottered to the bed.

"Jim--can you forgive me?"

"Forgive--oh, my girl!" The two grey heads were close together. David
Linton slipped from the room.

CHAPTER XVIII

EVENING

They were all sitting on the lawn in the twilight.

Norah had dispensed afternoon tea with laborious energy, ably seconded
by Dick, who carried cups and cake, and made himself generally useful.
Then they had talked until the sun slipped over the edge of the plain.
There was so much to talk of in those days.

The Hermit had been allowed to leave his room a fortnight since. He was
still weak, but strength was coming every day--strength that follows on
happiness. Norah declared he grew better every day and no one
contradicted her.

He and his wife sat hand in hand. They were rarely seen any other
way--perfect content on each placid face. Dick lay on the grass at their
feet and smoked, and threw stems of buffalo grass at Norah, who returned
them honourably. Mr. Linton, also smoking, surveyed the group with
satisfaction.

They had been talking over plans for the future, plans which Mr.
Linton's masterfulness modified very considerably.

"Go away?" he said. "Certainly not! I've engaged your son as tutor to my
daughter, and I really can't spare him from the poor neglected child!
Then, as you, curiously enough, don't wish to leave your son, the course
is quite clear--you must stay here."

"I'm not going to live on you, Davy."

"You needn't. I'm bitterly in need of someone with a head for figures--a
thing I never possessed. You can help me tremendously. And, good as dear
old Brownie is, I know Norah ought to be with a gentlewoman--to learn
the things that aren't in school books. It's the best chance you and I
have ever had, isn't it, Norah? We aren't going to let it--or you--slip
through our hands."

"It's--it's all very well, Davy, old man--"

"I know it is. Now, can't you let well alone, Jim? Talk of it again in
five years' time--you may have better luck then. I don't say you
will--but you may! Hang it all, man, you're not going to thwart me when
I've just got my family together!"

"Well, I won't for a while," the Hermit said-and immediately received a
kiss on the top of his head.

"Thank you, Norah," he said meekly.

"Don't mention it," Norah answered politely. "Oh, I'm so glad you're
going to stay with us, Mr. Hermit!"

Norah had flatly declined to call her friend anything but the name she
had given him in the bush. As for the Hermit, he was perfectly content
with anything Norah did and had no idea of objecting.

"You heard, didn't you, Norah, that they'd found your friend, the
Winfield murderer?" Mr. Linton asked.

"Daddy!--no!"

"Found his body in an old shaft--not far from Winfield. He had the
stolen property on him, so there's no doubt of his guilt. So that clears
your Hermit, even in your suspicious mind!"

"Ah, don't, Daddy," Norah said, flushing. "I wasn't suspicious. I was a
duffer."

"I don't think you were," the Hermit said decidedly. "A very sensible
duffer, anyhow."

Dick laughed.

"No use trying to come between those two," he said.

"Not a bit," said the Hermit with great cheerfulness. He smiled at
Norah. "You brought me back to life--twice."

"When I think--but for Norah," Mrs. Stephenson murmured brokenly, "no
one would have known you were dying in that dreadful tent."

"Yes," said the Hermit, "but I didn't know anything about it. My best
memory is of my little friend who brought me good news when I was
wishing with all my soul that I'd died in the tent!"

"Don't, Jim!" said Mr. Linton.

"Well, between one and another there's a fair chance of spoiling my
pupil," laughed Dick, stretching himself. "I'll have to be doubly stern
to counteract the evil influences, Norah. You can prepare for awful
times. When next Monday comes, Mr. Linton--may it be soon!--you can say
good-bye to your pickle of a daughter. She will come out from my mill
ground into the most approved type of young lady--accomplishments,
prunes and prisms personified!"

Mr. Linton laughed.

"Will she?" he said, pulling Norah's hair gently. "I wonder! Well, you
can do your worst, Dick. Somehow, I fancy that under all the varnish
I'll find my little bush maid."

The End

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