"Why--Daddy--dear old Dad!" she whispered.

It was nearly twilight when Dr. Anderson and black Billy rode into the clearing, to the joy of the anxious watchers.

The doctor did not waste any words. He slipped off his horse and entered the tent. Presently d.i.c.k Stephenson came out and sat down beside Norah to await the verdict.

"I can't do any good there," he said, "and there's no room."

Norah nodded. Just then there seemed nothing to say to this son whose father, so lately given back from the grave, seemed to be slipping away again without a word. She slid her hand into his and felt his fingers close warmly upon it.

"I can stand it," he said brokenly, after a little, "if he can only know we--the world--knows he was never guilty--if I can only tell him that. I can't bear him to die not knowing that."

"He'd know it anyhow."

The little voice was very low, but the lad heard it.

"I--I guess he will," he said, "and that's better. But I would like to make it up to him a bit--while he's here."

Then they were silent. The shadows deepened across the clearing. Long since the sun had disappeared behind the rim of encircling trees.

The tent flaps parted and the doctor and Mr. Linton came out. d.i.c.k rose and faced them. He could not utter the question that trembled on his lips.

The doctor nodded cheerily.

"Well, Norah?" he said. "Yes; I think we'll pull the patient through this time, Mr. Stephenson. It'll be a fight, for he's old and weakened by exposure and lack of proper food, but I think we'll do it." He talked on hopefully, appearing not to see the question the son could not altogether hide. "Take him home? Yes, we'll get him home to-morrow, I think. We can't nurse him out here. The express-wagon's following with all sorts of comforting things. Trust your old Mrs. Brown for that, Norah. Most capable woman! Mattresses, air pillows, nourishment--she'd thought of everything, and the wagon was all ready to start when I got to Billabong. By the way, Billy was to go back to show Wright the way.

Where are you, Billy? Why haven't you gone?"

"Plenty!" said Billy hastily, as he disappeared.

"Queer chap, that," said Dr. Anderson, lighting a cigarette. "That's about the only remark he's made all day, and in the motor he didn't say as much--sat like an ebony statue, with his eyes bulging in unholy terror. I hear you've been flying all over the country, Norah. What do you mean by looking so white?"

The tale of Norah's iniquities was unfolded to him, and the doctor felt her pulse in a friendly way.

"You'll have to go to bed soon," he said. "Can't have you knocking yourself up, you know; and we've got to make an early start to-morrow to avoid the worst heat of the day for the patient. Also, you will take a small tabloid to make you 'buck up,' if you know what that means, Norah!" Norah grinned. "Ah, well, Mr. Stephenson here will make you forget all that undesirable knowledge before long--lost in a maze of Euclid, and Latin, and Greek, and trigonometry, and things!"

"I say!" gasped Norah.

"Well, you may," grinned the doctor. "I foresee lively times for you and your tutor in the paths of learning, young lady. First of all, however, you'll have to be under-nurse to our friend the patient, with Mrs. Brown as head. And that reminds me--someone must sit up to-night."

"That's my privilege," said d.i.c.k Stephenson quickly. And all that night, after the camp had quieted to sleep, the son sat beside his newly-found father, watching in the silver moonlight every change that flitted across the wan old face. The Hermit had not yet recovered consciousness, but under the doctor's remedies he had lost the terrible restlessness of delirium and lay for the most part calmly. In heart, as he watched him, d.i.c.k was but a little boy again, loving above all the world the tall "Daddy" who was his hero--longing with all the little boy's devotion and all the strength of his manhood to make up to him for the years he had suffered alone.

But the calm face on the bed never showed sign of recognition. Once or twice the Hermit muttered, and his boy's name was on his lips. The pulse fluttered feebly. The great river flowed very close about his feet.

CHAPTER XVII. THE END OF THE STRUGGLE

The long slow journey to Billabong homestead was accomplished.

The Hermit had never regained consciousness throughout the weary hours during which every jolt of the express-wagon over the rough tracks had sent a throb to the hearts of the watchers. All unconscious he had lain while they lifted him from the bunk where he had slept for so many lonely nights. The men packed his few personal belongings quickly.

Norah, remembering a hint dropped by the Hermit in other days, had inst.i.tuted a search for buried papers, which resulted in the unearthing of a tin box containing various doc.u.ments. She had insisted, too, that the rough furniture should go, and it was piled in the front of the wagon. Another man had brought out the old pack mare for the baggage of the original fishing party, and the whole cavalcade moved off before the sun had got above the horizon.

But it was a tedious journey. Dr. Anderson sat beside his patient, watching the feeble action of the heart and the flickering pulse, plying him with stimulants and nourishment, occasionally calling a halt for a few minutes' complete rest. Close to the wheel d.i.c.k Stephenson rode, his eyes scarcely leaving his father's face. On the other side, Norah and her father rode in silent, miserable anxiety, fretting at their utter helplessness. Dr. Anderson glanced sharply now and then at the little girl's face.

"This isn't good for her," he said at length quietly to Mr. Linton.

"She's had too much already. Take her home." He raised his voice. "You'd better go on," he said; "let Mrs. Brown know just what is coming; she'll need you to help her prepare the patient's room, Norah. You, too, Stephenson."

"I won't leave him, thanks," he said. "I'd rather not--he might become conscious."

"No chance of that," the doctor said, "best not, too, until we have him safely in bed. However, stay if you like--perhaps it's as well. I think, Linton, you'd better send a wire to Melbourne for a trained nurse."

"And one to mother," d.i.c.k said quickly.

"That's gone already," Mr. Linton said. "I sent George back with it last night when he brought the mare out." He smiled in answer to d.i.c.k's grateful look. "Well, come on, Norah."

The remembrance of that helpless form in the bottom of the wagon haunted Norah's memory all through the remainder of the ride home. She was thoroughly tired now--excitement that had kept her up the day before had prevented her from sleeping, and she scarcely could keep upright in the saddle. However, she set her teeth to show no sign of weakness that should alarm her father, and endeavoured to have a smile for him whenever his anxious gaze swept her white face.

The relief of seeing the red roof of home! That last mile was the longest of all--and when at length they were at the gate, and she had climbed stiffly off her pony, she could only lean against his shoulder and shake from head to foot. Mr. Linton picked her up bodily and carried her, feebly protesting, into Mrs. Brown.

"Only knocked up," he said, in answer to the old woman's terrified exclamation. "Bed is all she needs--and hot soup, if you've got it.

Norah, dear"--as she begged to be allowed to remain and help--"you can do nothing just now, except get yourself all right. Do as I tell you, girlie;" and in an astonishingly short s.p.a.ce of time Norah found herself tucked up in bed in her darkened room, with Daddy's hand fast in hers, and a comforting feeling of everything fading away to darkness and sleep.

It was twilight when she opened her eyes again, and Brownie sat knitting by her side.

"Bless your dear heart," she said fervently. "Yes, the old gentleman's come, an' he's quite comfertable in bed--though he don't know no one yet. Dr. Anderson's gone to Cunjee, but he's coming back in his steam engine to stay all night; an' your pa's having his dinner, which he needs it, poor man. An' he don't want you to get up, lovey, for there ain't nothin' you can do. I'll go and get you something to eat."

But it was Mr. Linton who came presently, bearing a tray with dainty chicken and salad, and a gla.s.s of clear golden jelly. He sat by Norah while she ate.

"We're pretty anxious, dear," he told her, when she had finished, and was snugly lying down again, astonishingly glad of her soft bed. "You won't mind my not staying. I must be near old Jim. I'll be glad when Anderson's back. Try to go to sleep quickly." He bent to kiss her. "You don't know what a comfort your sleep has been to me, my girlie," he said. "Good-night!"

It was the third day of the struggle with death over the Hermit's unconscious body, and again twilight was falling upon Billabong.

The house was hushed and silent. No footfall was allowed to sound where the echo might penetrate to the sick-room. Near its precincts Mrs. Brown and the Melbourne trained nurse reigned supreme, and Dr. Anderson came and went as often as he could manage the fourteen-mile spin out from Cunjee in his motor.

Norah had a new care--a little fragile old lady, with snowy hair, and depths of infinite sadness in her eyes, whom d.i.c.k Stephenson called "mother." The doctor would not allow either mother or son into the sick-room--the shock of recognition, should the Hermit regain consciousness suddenly, might be too much. So they waited about, agonisingly anxious, pitifully helpless. d.i.c.k rebelled against the idleness at length. It would kill him, he said, and, borrowing a spade from the Chinese gardener, he spent his time in heavy digging, within easy call of the house. But for the wife and mother there was no help.

She was gently courteous to all, gently appreciative of Norah's attempts to occupy her thoughts. But throughout it all--whether she looked at the pets outside, or walked among the autumn roses in the garden, or struggled to eat at the table--she was listening, ever listening.

In the evening of the third day Mr. Linton came quickly into the drawing-room. Tears were falling down his face. He went up to Mrs.

Stephenson and put his hand on her shoulder.

"It's--it's all right, we think," he said brokenly. "He's conscious and knew me, dear old chap! I was sitting by the bed, and suddenly his eyes opened and all the fever had gone. 'Why, Davy!' he said. I told him everything was all right, and he mustn't talk--and he's taken some nourishment, and gone off into a natural sleep. Anderson's delighted."

Then he caught Mrs. Stephenson quickly as she slipped to his feet, unconscious.

Then there were days of dreary waiting, of slow, hara.s.sing convalescence. The patient did not seem to be alive to any outside thought. He gained strength very slowly, but he lay always silent, asking no questions, only when Mr. Linton entered the room showing any sign of interest. The doctor was vaguely puzzled, vaguely anxious.

"Do you think I could go and see him?" Norah was outside the door of the sick-room. The doctor often found her there--a little silent figure, listening vainly for her friend's voice. She looked up pleadingly. "Not if you think I oughtn't to," she said.

"I don't believe it would hurt him," Dr. Anderson said, looking down at her. "Might wake him up a bit--I know you won't excite him."