page 235

Chapter XVI
Morrison's Cottage Again

"Don't stay! Come away! It's Morrison's."

So Jan had spoken months ago. We had stood together outside the eerie old house just as Jock, Pipi and I were standing now, only then it had been evening, ghostly, shadowy and still. To-day the sun shone warmly, penetrating even the overhanging branches of the trees, and showering flickering rays that danced on the rankness of the growth beneath. A shaft of light fell across the doorway.

Pipi turned her head away.

"Do let's go home, Ngaire," she gasped. "I don't like standin' here. Oh! there it is again!"

This time I heard it too—a low moan which sounded ghostly and drear, and made you forget the sunshine and the brightness of day and see only the creeper-covered house and the shadows. Pipi clung closely to me. Jock's eyes were full of a nameless fear.

But we didn't run. Oh, I'm glad we didn't. Glad! Glad! Glad! To be perfectly candid we were too terrified to move.

We stood by the fence where the pear trees dipped page 236their heavy branches. On the other side of the road the gorse shone golden in the sunlight, and beyond lay a field of young barley. But here the shadows lay thick under the trees; the grass grew dark and rank; the smothering creepers about the house shut out any glimpse of sunlight.

"It wasn't—nothing," said Jock bravely. "Let's go on now, Ngaire—let's go home now."

But almost as he spoke we heard it again. It was a very human cry—the moan of someone in pain. Alone in those lonely old rooms someone was lying ill, dying perhaps, with no one near to help or to soothe. Oh, I'm glad that we stayed. I cannot tell you how glad. For if we had run when the first paralysing sound met us—if we had fled when we realised that it was no ghost who haunted the cottage, but probably some sick swagger—then, who knows, perhaps help would have arrived too late. Every night, when I say my prayers, I thank God that He gave us courage and sent me up the overgrown little path to the door while Jock and Pipi waited by the fence outside.

Pipi was crying still, fearful of the ghostly old house, worn out with a sleepless night and a long, long tramp, trembling before the trouble which had so suddenly shadowed our lives and which she was too young to realise or understand.

We could not leave her alone, so Jock stayed with page 237her while I made my way up the path over the white-carpeted earth to the door. Then I went inside.

A narrow passage ran the length of the house, and the creepers had grown across the door at the further end. It was very dark and lonely-smelling— you understand what I mean. Great gaps showed in the floor, and overhead the light filtered in in ghostly streaks through the crazy roof.

All was very still and silent again. I peeped into the room on the right, but it was gloomy and deserted. A faint, eerie rustling stole through the house, then silence again. I nearly ran, but though my knees shook and my heart was beating great pounding thumps which threatened to choke me, something took me across the passage to the room on the opposite side.

He lay on a bundle of sacks in a corner of the room, his face turned from me, his dear, dark head resting on a rough pillow of straw. I ran across the room and threw myself on my knees beside him, calling his name.

"Rob! Rob!"

He did not hear me when I spoke to him. He did not see me as I bent over him. His eyes were closed; his lips parched and burning; his breathing heavy and laboured.

But it was Rob again—God's answer, to all my prayers.

page 238

I knew that I should get help, and my thoughts flew to Jock and Pipi waiting so patiently outside. Almost before I rose, however, they were in the room, hand in hand, very frightened, yet very plucky and determined.

"We waited and waited, and you didn't come," said Jock. "So we came to look for you. Is it a swagger, Ngaire?"

"It's Rob!" I answered. "Rob come home! Jock, we must get help; he's ill—as ill as he can be. Will you and Pipi fly home and send Uncle John or Uncle Stephen with the buggy, and tell them to get the doctor as quickly as they can. Yes, both of you go; then if one gets puffed the other can go on alone. I'll wait here with Rob. Oh, Jock—he's awfully, awfully ill!"

"Let's have one look at him first," entreated Jock, creeping across the room on his tiptoes.

"He—he's not dead, is he?" gasped Pipi in an awed whisper.

"Course he's not. We'll run; we'll go like the wind, Ngaire. There's no time to waste." Jock touched my hand half shyly. "I don't think he's really so very ill. He—just looks worse'n he is. Perhaps he'll be quite well soon. Come, Pipi."

"Rob's home! Rob's come home,". I said to myself. Over and over again I said it, long after Jock and. page 239Pipi had left, and stillness fell over the old house again

So long I sat, noting vaguely at times the signs of Rob's tenancy—the half-cut ham, the hardly touched cake which had vanished from Kamahi a week before, the blackened billy, the heap of half-' burned, charred wood in the fireplace. Outside, the pear trees tapped wondering blossom branches against the window; an inquisitive bee flew in and then out again, starting anew the humming somewhere at the back of my brain.

"Last time I saw you, Kiddy—" said Rob.

I turned to him with a little cry. He was looking at me eagerly, wistfully, but deep down in his dark, fever-haxmted eyes there still lingered a trace of the old, dauntless smile.

I could not speak, but Rob patted my hand soothingly.

"Where did you spring from, Skinny?" he asked. "Never saw such a kid for being on the spot. If— you only knew how I've longed for a sight of you— you were always a grand little pal, Ngaire."

He broke off hastily, with something of the old hesitation and fear of sentiment.

"There's a pannikin in the next room," he suggested. "I'm parched,"

I brought him water from the well—a great pan-page 240nikinful. Rob drank it greedily. He sank back on tbe pillow again, gazing at me hal£-wonderingly.

"I suppose I ought to be surprised to see you, kid," he said wearily. "But—somehow I'm not—I don't want anything explained. You were always bound to ferret a chap out, anyhow. Burrs aren't in it with you when it comes to sticking to a fellow."

The old laugh was in his voice; the old brightness in his eyes. He was better—much better. He was going to get well very soon. He would come back to Kamahi and begin all over again—never go away until father and mother—But father and mother would never come home. They were dead—drowned, lying somewhere beneath the big, cruel ocean—somewhere—father and mother—father—

But Rob was speaking again, though his voice seemed to come from a far, far distance.

"Were the uncles angry when I cleared out? Have they got over it yet?"

Through the bewilderment of my mind there slipped the memory of the uncles' goodness, of the search they had made for Rob, of the worry puckers round Uncle Stephen's eyes, of the journey Uncle John had made to the Chathams, of the hopeless trips Uncle Dan had taken to various parts of the Dominion.

"They were never angry, Rob," I said very page 241earnestly, "only very, very sorry and worried. And now you've come back—"

"No!" Rob sat up very suddenly, his hand held mine. "I can't do that, Ngaire. I only—I got so tired and pegged out messing around—I've been two trips round the coast in a cargo boat as cabin boy, Then I took to swagging it down in Otago and worked towards Kamahi. I never meant to stay. I wouldn't come sneaking back after being such an ungrateful animal. I remembered the old haunted house, and I thought I'd camp there till I got better— I felt so beastly ill. One night I raided the pantry at home for provisions; I was nearly starving. I had to, Ngaire."

He turned away his head, hating, even now, that I should see the tears on his poor, thin cheeks. But my arms crept round him, and Rob held them there; his face was very close to mine.

"It—it isn't sneaking back, Rob," I said. I swallowed the lump in my throat; I could not bear to see Rob cry: "Don't you see it isn't sneaking one bit. It's—it's just God bringing you home, dear."

Rob did not answer at first; he lay very still.

"God bringing me home," he said at last. "I'll go back and try and begin again if they'll have me. The uncles will forgive, I know—they're so jolly good. Uncle John will storm—"

page 242

Oh, no.

"Well, I hope he does, good and hard. I deserve so much more than he can ever give. You don't know how I am longing for even a good old home row—how homesick I am for you all."

He sat up, smiling at me.

"Especially for you, kiddy. Suppose we go straight away. I believe I'm all a fraud—not ill a bit. I'll race you home. One! Two—!"

He pulled himself to his feet, laughing when I protested.

"Nonsense! I'm not an invalid yet. I—I—"

"Rob!" He had fallen at my feet, unheeding when I called, deaf to my cries. I put my hand over his heart.

So God had taken him too. Father, mother, and Rob—he had taken them all. Why should I cry? What was the use of crying, of anything ever any more?

How cold it was growing; surely the sun had slipped behind the clouds. Shadows lurked in the corners, and crept closer round me, chilling me with their presence.

Who was that gliding silently in at the door, drawing nearer, nearer, a light on her golden hair, and a wonderful softness in her eyes. How gently she page 243held my hands, and touched my cheeks with her soft, cool one. Why, she was singing, singing as Kathie did on Sunday nights when the lights were low… Or was it the wind in the trees outside….

Then darkness, and a deep, deep sleep.