“MADCAP BILLIE”

Wanganui Chronicle, Volume LXXXIII, Issue 19721, 11 December 1926, Page 24 (Supplement)

“MADCAP BILLIE”

A SERIAL STORY

(SPECIALLY WHITTEN FOB ONE YOUNG BEADERS)

CHAPTER 25 (Continued.) The Bush Fire. “She doesn’t want the fowls to be burnt, that’s tall. I’ll go after her, Miss Dabonne, and bring her back. Don’t bother —she will be all right. ’ “If she refuses to return with you, Fred, find her father and tell him,” Grace called, as the boy sped away. He was not very far in the rear when Billie reached the dividing fence and passed through the gateway in a bound, her yellow hair streaming out behind her. She made a wide detour of the cottage, and, creeping down past the loquat trees, reached the fowlyards without being seen. Fred rushed up, pointing, a minute later. “Come back at once I Miss Dabonne said you were to! The fire is coming up here and you’ll be burnt up,” he cried, at the same time he tried to drag Billie away. But she fought him like a wild thing. “You leave me alone, Fred Duval! I won’t come for anybody until I get Mrs Tomkins. If the other poor things Dave to be burnt, I’ll not leave her!” Wrenching herself free, she ran into one of the fowl pens, slamming the wire-netting gate in his face. “Very well, I’ll just tell your father,” and Fred ran back to the cottage. “Mr Weston! Mr Weston!” he shouted. “What do you want? You should not be here”; and Mr Weston disentangled himself from the throng of men and women. “Billie is in the big fowl-yard looking for Mrs Tomkins. She stays -she won’t come until she gets her, as she’s I not going" to let her be burnt by the fire.’’ Without a word, the father hastened to the fowl-yards, and met Billie with her pct fowl safely in her arms. “Go over to the big house —and don’t come across here any more,” he commanded. “But daddy—will they—will they—till—have to be burnt up?” she asked ; tearfully. i A sudden soft expression camo into her father’s face. “I'm afraid they will. Anyhow, when there’s no hope of stopping the fire I’ll undo the gates i and give them a chance to get away—if I they can.” I “Oh, the poor things!” And Billie, ' snuffling, sped laway, Mrs Tomkins ’struggling in her clasp. ' Five minutes later, the fire, having devoured the whole of the orchard, reached the line of beaters, who were; determined to save Mr Weston’s cotj tagc if possible. Fortunately, the wind; ; had dropped slightly, and the fire, hav- ; ing come across practically clear ground, had considerably diminished. • Old John drew near his master: “I ! fancy we’ll fix her this time, Mister.” He spoke correctly, for, after a des-; i perate fight that lasted half an hour, ; the fire wlas practically extinguished, i “Well, at any rate, your cottage and | the fowl-runs are saved, boss,” the I bush people congratulated Air Weston, who stood a little apart, looking sadly nt the smouldering remains of what a few hours before had been a well culti- ! vated orchard. ! “Alost likely it’ll rain; them little clouds looks mighty like it,” old John i remarked. As soon as everyone had gone, Mr Weston, glad of the prospect of a few minutes to himself, turned indoors. Pat was at the kitchen door las he passed. “Well, Mister, it might have been worse, ’ ’ she remarked, cheerfully. “Yes, Pat,” he answered mechanically; and added to himself bitterly: “But as it is I’m ruined.” Sick lat heart, he sat down on the hard 1 broken-springed couch; and there Miss Dabonne found him a little while afterwards. She glided across the room like a wraith, and put her hand on his arm. “Is—is it very bad?” she lasked softly. He gave a little smile that hurt her — it was so hopeless—, and said—“lt only means that I am a ruined man. All the toil of the liast seven miserable years has been wiped out in a morning.” “Oh!” she exclaimed, brokenly. Then there came the sound of quickly running feet, and they heard Billie, in a strange choked voice, ask Pat where her father Was. “It’s—Uncle Will,” she said in answer to Pat’s question as to why she wanted to worry him. “Well, if you must have yer dad, he’s in there an* so’s Miss Dabonne,” Billie rushed into the room, and flung herself into her father’s arms, crying wildly—“Oh! daddy —it’s Uncle Will! He’s sitting at the window —an’ won't —speak—an ’ his hands are so cold. Madame said —Afadtamc said—he—must be—dead! ’ ’ “Good God!” exclaimed Air Weston. “Take her, please, while I see,” and he pushed Billie towards Afiss Dabonne, who wtis white and shaking. He ran from the room and Grace tried to sooth Billie. “He—he was sitting there all the time, and I went up to him, and he wouldn’t speak to me. Then—then Madame came up and put her hland on him, an’ —and I touched him, too, and he—he was v-v-very c-c-c-c-c-old, and she s-s-s-sai-d s-s-she thought he m-m-m--must be d-d-d-dead!” Billie ended her pitiful little story wdth U loud burst of sobs. Grace, her heart heavy with dread, stroked the golden head tenderly, saying that perhaps Uncle Will had only fainted. In about fifteen minutes Mr Weston returned, tind one look at his face told Grace everything. “He has passed out —I fear,” he said with difficulty, because of a lump in his throat. “Anyhow, I’m going for the doctor in the next town. Rosie and Esther, and the two boys, are coming Across here. Afadame has offered to stay — with him, until I return. Esther is frightfully upset, what with the fright the fire gave her—and this other. Put her to bed at once, and somebody—Pat —must sit beside her. It would never do to leave her alone.” Early that evening tnere was a heavy 1 thunder-storm, and in the midst of it Mr Weston returned with the doctor,

who said that poor Uncle Will had died of heart failure. Later. Mr Weston and Old John caricd the body across to the cottage, and all through the night the former stayed by the de&d man’s side in the small, stuffy dining-rom. In the early hours of the morning, Grace, stealing into the room, found him seated at the table, his face hidden on his arm. He loked up apathetically. His face was so pale and thin that the mother instinct rose strongly within her. She felt that she wanted to put her arms around him and draw his hctul down upon her breast. He motioned for her to sit beside him. Grace had fully dressed herself, and wore an old-fashioned black frock —the only mourning robe she possessed. Her face land neck showed up exquisitely fair, and her hair, slightly untidy,' was like a golden cloud. “ You' have been crying—so much,” Mr Weston remarked softly, noting the heaviness of the beautiful eyes that met his with such h. compassionate expression ‘Come, we wil go out into the air for awhile; he will not mind. They passed out quietly into the garden, and walked up and down the centre path a few times without speaking a word. “It (all seems very cruel,” he observed, at length, hopelessly. “That blackened orchard was a bank with my money in it —and it’s now destroyed — everything is gone! The poor old man has gone, too. I cannot rcta,lize that! After all his wanderings and his lonliness, just as he found love, death came. We had all grown so fond of him, and the blow of his sudden d eta th-is great.” “He was good and kind, and so attached to the. children,” Grace murmured, her eyes filling with tears. “You and I are now doing what practictvlly all do when death comes to a loved one, remembering only the virtues of the dear dead, —not that in Uncle Will 's case there is anything but goodness to remember.” Coming to sudden standstill, he looked at her pitingly. “Please go indoors —b.nd rest; you are very white.” “And you?” she asked, thinking how thoughtful he was for another’s welfare even in his own great trouble. “I’ll bo in dlirectly. I want to watch the sun come up above the hills. I may not see it rise mtuiy more times in this old place.” She left him; and from behind the curtain of her bedroom window, watched him as he stood motionless facing the hills, where the sky was tinged with saffron colour A breeze, sweet and fresh after the storm, stole across the ruined orchard, and he felt it touch his face. “All—till gone! ’’ burst from his lips, and he flung out his arms despairingly. Grace, seeing the action, understood, and her woman heart ached for him. She sank on her knees beside the dishevelled bed. “Help him, oh, help him, God! ” she prayed fervently. CHAPTER 26. A Happy Ending. When Mr Weston was going through Uncle Will’s belongings a few days Hater, he found in the inner breastpocket of the suit ho had worn the day he died, an envelope in his handwriting and bearing his signature:— “If I should die, communicate with Mann and Mann, Solicitors, George Street, Sydney.” Mr Weston immediately sought Miss Dabonne, and showed her the envelope. “Whatever does it indan?” she asked wonderingly, turning it over and over. “He —was a poor man?” “I always understood so. In fact, as you know, Uncle Will always spoke of hi»self as being almost a jiauper. ” Grace considered the envelope again. “If I were you I would take the first train to Sydney and call t)n the solicitors mentioned. Perhaps there is some private matter that Mr Dyson wished attended to (after his death. I canont think of any other likely explanation.” “In all probability that is the correct one. I’ll take your advice and catch the 12 noon train, and then, no doubt, I shall be able to get back before very lute in the evening.” The door of the dining-room opened, and the three children stole in. They looked very pathetic in the black frocks that Mrs Hall had made for them when she heard the sad news. A note had accompanied the parcel—“ Please allow me to show my sorrow for the loss of an esteemed friend.”

Little Rosie had strutted proudly in her new dress, and had been discovered by Pat on Miss Dabonne’s dressingtable. where she had climbed to have a better view of herself. Pat had scolded her soundly for her heartlessness land sent her out of the room. Esther even had found pleasure secretly in the silkiness of the material of which the dresses were made. But wild, heedless Billie had burst out crying and said fiercely that she hated the “old thing”, and wanted her dear Uncle AV ill back (again. “Where are you going, daddy!’’ Billie asked, having heard her father’s last words. He drew her to his side. The sight of his tom boy girl, pale and sad, made her doubly dear to him. “To Sydney, girlie.” Esther crept up, fhirer and frailer than ever in her frock of mouring. “Couldn’t you take me with you!” she enquired, wistfully. “I don’t like the black orchard!” she added in a whispet—“ ’Cause the trees arc burnt all away we can see where—where Uncle Will is.” Rose began to whimper. “Me’ll tome —’me doesn’t like the ole sings, too.” And Billie said reproachfully: “You know quite well, daddy, that I hate being left here.” The father looked down on his three daughters apologetically. “It is necessary for me to to Sydney on business, and I could not possibly take you children with me.” He lowered his voice: 11 There is some little thing th&t Uncle Will wished fixed up when he died, and I’m going to see about it. You must not be selfish. ’ ’ (To M Continued.)