Part 49 (1/2)
”Fainted,” murmured the nurse. ”And a very good thing.” She put her arm round her, and they carried her out between them, and put her on a sofa.
”I must go back to Geoffrey,” the nurse said. ”Rub her--rub her knees hard, before she comes to. It's going to hurt her, poor child!” She hurried away.
Geoffrey was lying quietly, his mother's head close to him. The nurse put her hand on his brow.
”Nice and cool,” she said. ”You're a very good boy, Geoff; we'll think about some breakfast for you presently.” Mrs. Hunt raised her white face, and the nurse's professional calmness wavered a little.
She patted her shoulder.
”There--there, my dear!” she said. ”He's going to do very well.
Don't you worry. He'll be teaching me to ride that pony before we know where we are.” She busied herself about the boy with deft touches. ”Now just keep very quiet--put Mother to sleep, if you like, for she's a tired old mother.” She hastened back to Norah.
”Is she all right?” David Linton's voice was sharp with anxiety. ”She has never moved.”
”The best thing for her,” said the nurse, putting him aside and beginning to ma.s.sage this new patient. ”If I can rub some of the stiffness away before she becomes conscious it will save her a lot.
Run away, there's a dear man, and tell that poor soul in the kitchen that the child is all right.”
”He will live?”
”Rather! That sleep has taken every trace of the fever away. He's weak, of course, but we can deal with that when there's no temperature. Tell Eva to make tea--lots of it. We all want it.”
”Thus it was that presently might have been seen the astounding spectacle of a grizzled Australian squatter and a little c.o.c.kney serving-maid holding each other's hands in a back kitchen.
”I knew it was orright when I 'eard you comin' down the 'all,” said Eva tearfully. ”No one's 'ad that sort of a step in this 'ouse since Master Geoff went sick. The dear lamb! Won't it be 'evinly to see 'is muddy boot-marks on me clean floor agin! An' him comin' to me kitching window an' askin' me for grub! I'll 'ave tea in a jiffy, sir. An' please 'scuse me for ketchin' old of you like that, but I'd 'ave bust if I 'adn't 'eld on to somefink!”
Geoffrey dropped off to sleep again, presently, and Mrs. Hunt came to Norah, who was conscious, and extremely stiff, but otherwise too happy to care for aches and pains. They did not speak at first, those two had gone down to the borderland of Death to bring back little, wandering feet; only they looked at each other, and clung together, still trembling, though only the shadow of fear remained.
After that Geoffrey mended rapidly, and, having been saintlike when very ill, became just an ordinary little sinner in his convalescence, and taxed every one's patience to keep him amused. Alison and Michael, who were anxiously watched for developing symptoms, refused to develop anything at all, remaining in the rudest health; so that they were presently given the run of all Homewood, and a.s.sisted greatly in preventing any of the Tired People from feeling dull.
Norah remained at the cottage, which was placed strictly in quarantine, and played with Geoffrey through the slow days of weakness that the little fellow found so hard to understand. Aids to convalescence came from every quarter. Major Hunt, unable to leave France, sent parcels of such toys and books as could still be bought in half-ruined towns. Wally, who had been given four days' leave in Paris--which bored him to death--sent truly amazing packages, and the Tired People vied with David Linton in ransacking London for gifts for the sick-room. Geoffrey thought them all very kind, and would have given everything for one hour on Brecon beside Mr. Linton.
”You'll be able to ride soon, old chap,” Norah said, on his first afternoon out of bed.
”Will I?” The boy looked scornfully at his thin legs. ”Look at them--they're like silly sticks!”
”Yes, but Brecon won't mind that. And they'll get quite fat again.
Well, not fat--” as Geoffrey showed symptoms of horror--”but hard and fit, like they were before. Quite useful.”
”I do hope so,” Geoffrey said. ”I want them to be all right before Father comes--and Wally. Will Wally come soon, do you think?”
”I'm afraid not: you see, he has been to Paris. There's hardly any leave to England now.”
”'Praps leave will be open by Christmas,” Geoffrey suggested hopefully. ”Wouldn't it be a lovely Christmas if Father and Wally both came?”
”Wouldn't it just?” Norah smiled at him; but the smile faded in a moment, and she walked to the window and stood looking out. Christmas had always been such a perfect time in their lives: she looked back to years when it had always meant a season of welcoming Jim back; when every day for weeks beforehand had been gay with preparations for his return from school. Jim would arrive with his trunks bulging with surprises for Christmas morning; Wally would be with him, both keen and eager for every detail in the life of the homestead, just as ready to work as to play. All Billabong, from the Chinese gardener to Mr.
Linton, hummed with the joy of their coming. Now, for the first time, Christmas would bring them nothing of Jim.
She felt suddenly old and tired; and the feeling grew in the weeks that followed, while Geoffrey gradually came back to strength and merriment, and the cottage, after a strenuous period of disinfecting, emerged from the ban of quarantine. Alison and Michael had a rapturous reunion with their mother and Geoffrey, and Homewood grew strangely quiet without the patter of their feet. Norah returned to her post as housekeeper, to find little to do; the house seemed to run on oiled wheels, and Miss de Lisle and the servants united in trying to save her trouble.
”I dunno is it the fever she have on her,” said Katty in the kitchen one evening. ”She's that quiet and pale-looking you wouldn't know her for the same gerrl.”