Part 30 (1/2)

'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 peris.h.i.+ng 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.'