Part 22 (2/2)
”Oh, yes. We couldn't possibly stay away from Australia,” Norah said, wide-eyed. ”You see, it's home.”
”And England has not made you care any less for it?”
”Goodness, no!” Norah said warmly. ”It's all very well in its way, but it simply can't hold a candle to Australia!”
”But why?”
Norah hesitated.
”It's a bit hard to say,” she answered at length. ”Life is more comfortable here, in some ways: more luxuries and conveniences of living, I mean. And England is beautiful, and it's full of history, and we all love it for that. But it isn't our own country. The people are different--more reserved, and stiffer. But it isn't even that. I don't know,” said Norah, getting tangled--”I think it's the air, and the s.p.a.ce, and the freedom that we're used to, and we miss them all the time. And the jolly country life----”
”But English country life is jolly.”
”I think we'd get tired of it,” said Norah. ”It seems to us all play: and in Australia, we work. Even if you go out for a ride there, most likely there is a job hanging to it--to bring in cattle, or count them, or see that a fence is all right, or to bring home the mail.
Every one is busy, and the life all round is interesting. I don't think I explain at all well; I expect the real explanation is just that the love for one's own country is in one's bones!”
”Quite!” said Mrs. West. ”Quite!” But she said the ridiculous word as though for once she understood, and there was a comfortable little silence between them for a few minutes. Then the men came in, and the evening went by quickly enough with games and music. Captain Garrett proved to be the possessor of a very fair tenor, together with a knack of vamping not unmelodious accompaniments. The cheery songs floated out into the hall, where Bride and Katty crouched behind a screen, torn between delight and nervousness.
”If the Ould Thing was to come she'd have the hair torn off of us,”
breathed Katty. ”But 'tis worth the rishk. Blessed Hour, haven't he the lovely voice?”
”He have--but I'd rather listen to Miss Norah,” said Bride loyally.
”'Tisn't the big voice she do be having, but it's that happy-sounding.”
It was after ten o'clock when Norah, having said good-night to her guests and shown Mrs. West to her room, went softly along the corridor. A light showed under Miss de Lisle's doorway, and she tapped gently.
The door opened, revealing the cook-lady's comfortable little sitting-room, with a fire burning merrily in the grate. The cook-lady herself was an extraordinarily altered being, in a pale-blue kimono with heavy white embroidery.
”I hoped you would come,” she said. ”Are you tired? Poor child, what an evening! I wonder would you have a cup of cocoa with me here? I have it ready.”
She waved a large hand towards a fat brown jug standing on a trivet by the grate. There was a tray on a little table, bearing cups and saucers and a spongecake. Norah gave way promptly.
”I'd love it,” she said. ”How good of you. I was much too excited to eat dinner. But the _souffle_ was just perfect, Miss de Lisle. I never saw anything like it. Mrs. West raved about it after dinner.”
”I am glad,” said the cook-lady, with the rapt expression of a high-priestess. ”Allenby told me how you arranged for a hot spoon.
It was beautiful of you: beautiful!”
”Did he tell you how hot it was?” Norah inquired. They grew merry over the story, and the spongecake dwindled simultaneously with the cocoa in the jug.
”I must go,” Norah said at last. ”It's been so nice: thank you ever so, Miss de Lisle.”
”It's I who should thank you for staying,” said the big woman, rising.
”Will you come again, some time?”
”Rather! if I may. Good-night.” She shut the door softly, and scurried along to her room--unconscious that another doorway was a couple of inches ajar, and that through the s.p.a.ce Mrs. Atkins regarded her balefully.
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