Australian Lassie Page 3

  CHAPTER III

  "THE DAILY ROUND--THE COMMON TASK"

  Betty's boots and stockings were on once more, and her school frockexchanged for one whose school days lay far behind it. In spite of"lettings down" and repeated patchings and mendings it was in what itssmall wearer called the "ragetty tagetty" stage of its existence, andwas donned only when she was about the dirty part of "cleaning up."

  It was Saturday morning now, and she was very busy. Her mother couldnever capably wield a broom, or scrub, or dust, or cook--she had doneall four, but the results were pathetic. Even Nancy knew the story ofher life, which began with "once upon a time, almost twenty years ago,"and was told in varying fragments whenever a story was begged for.

  There was the story of the jolly sea-captain and his one weedaughter--their own mother--and of how they had sailed the seas and seenmany people and many lands. There was the story of the old house withinthe iron gates--built by convicts more than fifty years ago--and of howthe sea-captain had bought it and built a tower and spiral staircase anda roof promenade, which he called his "deck." And of how he and hissmall daughter settled down in the great house together; and how herwardrobe was always full of beautiful clothes and her purse full of realsovereigns; and two ponies she had to her name, and a great dog that wasthe terror of the neighbourhood, and a little dog that lived as much asit could in her lap. There was the story of her garden full of rareflowers, and her ferneries of rare ferns, and her aviary of rare birds.

  Then there was the story of the little girl "grown up," with hair doneon the top of her head, and long sweeping dresses, and a lover chosen byher father himself--by name John Brown; and of the pale young authorwho lived beyond the iron gates, in a small weather-board cottage withan iron roof who wrote dainty little sonnets and ballads, which he readto her under the old gum trees.

  And lastly, there was the story of the captain's pretty daughterslipping away from the great house--to become mistress of the weecottage behind the pine trees. And of how the captain returned allletters unopened and sailed away to other lands for five years; of howafterwards the poor author lay ill unto death, and the littlewife--"mother" now--carried pretty Dorothy to the great house and senther trotting into the library, saying "grandpa" as she ran; and of howthe little girl had been lifted outside the house by a servant, who hadcivilly stated the orders he had received, never to allow any one fromthe author's house to "cross the threshold" of that other great one.

  And now it was to-day--and besides Dorothea there were the twins (Cyriland Elizabeth), Nancy and the baby; a goodly number for the smallweather-board cottage to shelter and for the author, who had only hadone book published, to bring up.

  So it fell out that there was only a rough state girl to do the work ofthe cottage, and much sweeping and dusting was Elizabeth's "share"; much"washing-up" and tidying. To Nancy belonged the task of setting thetables and amusing the baby; and Cyril was engaged at a penny a week tostock the barrel in the kitchen with firewood and chips, and bits ofbark to coax contrary fires. He was the only one who received paymentfor his work, and no one demurred, for was he not the only boy of thefamily and in the eyes of them all a sort of king!

  So Betty was dressed in working garb and was bestowing her usualSaturday morning attention upon the "living-room"--drawing-room they hadnone. The little room that had evidently been destined by its builder tofulfil such a mission, had been seized and occupied by the author in thebeginning of his residence at The Gunyah.

  The living-room was a low-ceiled room with French windows leading to theverandah. It had a centre table, several cane chairs, a small piano, arocking-chair and a dilapidated sofa. Its floor was oilclothed and itswindows uncurtained--only Dorothea had arrived at the stage that sighedfor prettinesses.

  Betty was quite happy when she had swept the floor, shaken the cloth,put all the chairs with their backs to the wall, and polished the piano.

  She was surveying the room with pride when Dorothea walked in. Dorotheain the frock she had worn for five mornings during the week, and whichwas still clean and fresh; with her wonderful hair in a shining massdown her back, and a serviette in her hand (an extempore duster). Italways took her the better part of Saturday to even find her own nichein the home.

  "I was going to dust this room, Betty," she said--"someway, everything Iam going to do, I find you've done."

  Elizabeth smiled drily. She could not even sweep a room and be justElizabeth Bruce. Saturdays usually found her in imagination Cinderella;and consequently harsh words from Dorothea, who in her eyes was a cruelstep-sister, would have found more favour with her than kind ones.

  "There is the kitchen to be swept," said Betty; "the ashes are thick onthe hearth and the breakfast things are not washed up."

  Dorothea looked startled. Betty's voice sounded tired and resigned.

  "Oh dear!" said Dorothea, "I do so _hate_ doing kitchen work. It makesmy hands so red and rough, and just spoils my dress."

  "The work is there and must be done," remarked Betty.

  Mrs. Bruce looked in at the door. Her face was just Dorothea's grownolder, and without its roses; her hair was Dorothea's with its goldgrown dull; her very voice and dimples were Dorothea's. A largepoppy-trimmed hat adorned her head, and a basket with an old pair ofscissors in it was swung over her arm.

  "Of course you'll not do kitchen work, my chicken," she said gaily;"slip on your hat and come and gather roses with me. It's little enoughof you home your get--that little shall not be spoilt by ashes and dust.

  "It's Mary's work, and Betty can see that she does it well."

  Betty stalked into the kitchen and regarded the fireplace in gleefulgloom, sitting down in front of it and staring into the heart of thesmall wood fire.

  Mary, the maid-of-all-work, took her duties in a very haphazard way. Shehad no particular time for doing anything, and no particular place forkeeping anything. And alas! it is to be regretted her mistress was thelast woman in the world to train her in the way she should go.

  To-day she had taken it into her head to try the effect of a few bows ofblue ribbon upon her cherry-coloured straw hat, before the breakfastthings were washed or the sweeping and scrubbing done. But thewashing-up belonged to Betty.

  Outside in the garden Mrs. Bruce was drawing Dorothea's attention to thescent of the violets and mignonette, and her gay voice caused Betty tosigh heavily.

  "If my own mother had lived," she said gloomily, "I too might gatherflowers. But what am I?--the family drudge!"

  Cyril entered the back door, his arms piled up with firewood.

  "I'm getting sick of chopping wood," he said grumblingly, "it's all verywell to be you and stay in a nice cool kitchen. How'd you like it if youhad to be me and stay chopping in the hot sun? I know what _I_ wish."

  "What?" asked Betty, glancing round her "nice cool kitchen" without anyappreciation of it lighting her eyes.

  "Why, I wish mother had never run away and made grandfather mad. And Iwish he'd suddenly think he was going to die, and say he wanted to adoptme."

  "How about me? Why shouldn't he adopt me?" demanded Betty.

  "'Cause I'm the only son," said Cyril. "He's got his pick of four girls,but if he wants a boy there's only me."

  He went outside and loaded himself with wood once more.

  "Cecil Duncan's father gives him threepence a week, and he doesn't haveto do anything to earn it," he said when he came in again. "He saysevery Monday morning his father gives him a threepenny bit and hismother's _always_ giving him pennies."

  "H'em," said Cinderella, and fell to work sweeping up the hearthvigorously. Her own grievances faded away, as she looked atCyril's--which was a way they had.

  "And he's not the only boy neither," said Cyril. He threw the woodangrily into the barrel. "There's Harry and Jim besides. I suppose theyget threepence each as well. What's a penny a week? You can't doanything with it."

  Elizabeth lifted down a tin bowl and filled it with water; placed in ita piece of yellow soap, a piece of s
and soap and a scrubbing brush, andthen began to roll up her sleeves. She was no longer Cinderella. A newand wonderful thought had flashed into her mind even as she listened toCyril's plaint. It certainly _was_ hard for him, her heart admitted,very hard.

  "How would you like to be rich, Cywil?" she asked, turning a shiningface to him.

  Cyril thought a reply was one of those many things that could bedispensed with--he merely showered a little extra vindictiveness uponthe firewood and kicked the cask with a shabby copper-toed boot.

  Betty danced across to him and put her sun-tanned face close to his fairfreckled one.

  "How would you like to be _very_ rich?" she said, "and to have a pony ofyour own, and jelly and things to eat, and a lovely house to live in,and----"

  "Don't be so silly, Betty," said the boy irritably.

  Betty wagged her head. "I've got a thought," she said.

  "Your silly-old pearl-seeking is no good. There are no pearls, sothere," said Cyril crossly. "You needn't go thinking you really take mein. It's only a game--bah!"

  Betty was still dancing around him in a convincing, yet aggravating way.

  "How'd you like to be adopted, Cywil?" she asked--"really adopted, notpretending? Oh, I've got a very big thought, and it wants a lot ofthinking. You go on getting your wood while I think."

  And Cyril gave her one of his old respectful looks as he went out of thekitchen door.