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Captain Jim

<h2 id="id02355" style="margin-top: 4em">CHAPTER XX</h2> <h5 id="id02356">ALL CLEAR</h5> "Kiddie, are you awake?" "Come in, Jimmy." Norah sat up in bed and felt for the electric switch. The room sprang into light as Jim came in. "I had to come and bring your stocking," he said. "Merry Christmas, little chap." "Merry Christmas, Jimmy dear." Norah looked at the bulging stocking on her bed, and broke into laughter. "And you a full-blown Captain! Oh, Jimmy, are you ever going to grow up?" "I trust not," said Jim comfortably—"if it means getting any bigger than I am. But you're not, either, so it doesn't matter. Do you remember all the Christmases at Billabong when I had to bring you your stocking?" "Do I remember!" echoed Norah scornfully. "But at Billabong it was daylight at four o'clock in the morning, and extremely hot—probably with a bush-fire or two thrown in. You'll be frozen to death here. Turn on the electric stove, and we'll be comfy." "That's a brain-wave," said Jim, complying. "I must admit I prefer an open fireplace and three-foot logs—but in a hurry those little contraptions of stoves are handy. Hold on now—I'll get you something to put over your shoulders." "There's a woolly jacket over there," Norah said. "Let me have my property—I'm excited." She possessed herself of the stocking and fished for its contents. "Chocolates!—and in war-time! Aren't you ashamed?" "Not much," said Jim calmly, extracting a huge chocolate from the box. "I lived on swede turnips for six weeks, so I think the family deserves a few extras. Fish some more." Norah obeyed, and brought to light articles of a varied nature; a pair of silk stockings, a book on Housekeeping as a Science, a large turnip, artistically carved, a box of French candied fruit, a mob-cap and a pair of housemaids' gloves, and, lastly, the cap of a shell, neatly made into a pin-tray. "I did that in camp in Germany," said Jim. "And I swore I'd put it into your Christmas stocking. Which I have done." "Bless you," said Norah. "I would rather lose a good many of my possessions than that." They smiled at each other; and, being an undemonstrative pair, the smile was a caress. "Isn't this going to be a Christmas!" Norah said. "I've been lying awake for ever so long, trying to realize it. You alive again——" "I never was dead," said Jim indignantly. "It was a horribly good imitation. And Wally here, and even Harry; and Major Hunt home; and Geoff getting stronger every day. And Dad grown twenty years younger." "And you too, I guess—judging by what you looked like the night I came home." "Oh, I've got turned and made up to look like new," said Norah. She faltered a little. "Jimmy, I've been saying my prayers—hard." "I've done that, too," said Jim. There was a long, contented silence. "And somehow, now, I know you'll be all right—both of you," Norah said. "I just feel certain about it. Before—ever since the war began—I was always horribly afraid, but now I'm not afraid any more. It can't last for ever; and some day we'll all go back." "And that will be the best thing in the world," said Jim. "The very best," she said. Some one tapped at the door. "May I come in?" asked Miss de Lisle's voice. She entered, bearing a little tray. "You!" said Norah. "But you shouldn't." "Bride and Katty have gone to church, so I thought I'd bring you some tea and wish you a merry Christmas," said Miss de Lisle. "But I didn't expect to find the Captain here." She did not wait for their greetings, but vanished with the elephantine swiftness peculiar to her; returning in a few moments with a second tray. "And toast!" said Jim. "But where's your own, Miss de Lisle?" "Never mind mine—I'll have it in the kitchen," said the cook-lady. "Indeed, you will not. Sit down." He marched off, unheeding her protests. When he returned, he bore a large kitchen tray, with the teapot. "It seemed simpler," he said. "And I couldn't find anything smaller. This cup is large, Miss de Lisle, but then you won't want it filled so often. Have some of my toast—I couldn't possibly eat all this." "Well, it's very pleasant here," said the cook-lady, yielding meekly. "I took some to Mr. Wally, but he merely said, 'Get out, Judkins; I'm not on duty!' and rolled over. So I concluded, in Katty's words, that 'his resht was more to him,' and came away." "He'll wake up presently and be very pleased to find it; it won't matter to him at all if it's stone-cold," said Jim. "Queer chap, Wal. I prefer tea with the chill off it, myself. Judkins has hard times getting him up in time for early parade. Luckily Judkins is an old regular soldier, and has a stern, calm way with a young officer." "Who bullies you into getting up, may I ask?" demanded Miss de Lisle. "I used to be bullied by a gentleman called Wilkes, in the grey days when I was a subaltern," said Jim sadly. "Now, alas, I am a responsible and dignified person, and I have to set an example." He sighed. "It's awful to be a captain!" "It's so extraordinary," said his sister, "that I never get used to it." "But you never had any respect for age," said Jim, removing her tray and putting a pillow on her head. "Every one finished? then I'll clear away the wreck and go and dress." He piled the three trays on top of each other and goose-stepped from the room solemnly—his long legs in pyjamas, under a military great coat, ending a curious effect to the spectacle. Miss de Lisle and Norah laughed helplessly. "And a captain!" said the cook-lady, wiping her eyes. "Now I really must run, or there will be no breakfast in this house." Breakfast was a movable feast in the Home for Tired People, who wandered in and out just as they felt inclined. Hot dishes sat on a hot-water plate and a little aluminium-topped table; such matters as ham and brawn lurked on a sideboard; and Allenby came in from time to time to replenish tea and coffee. Norah and her father rarely encountered any one but Phil Hardress at this meal, since theirs was generally over long before most of their guests had decided to get up. On this morning, however, every one was equally late, and food did not seem to matter; the table was "snowed under" with masses of letters and Christmas parcels, and as every one opened these and talked all at once, mingling greetings with exclamations over the contents of the packages, Miss de Lisle's efforts had been in vain. "I pitied your post-lady," said Mrs. Aikman, the wife of a wounded colonel. "She staggered to the door under an enormous mail-bag, looking as though Christmas were anything but merry. However, I saw her departing, after an interval, with quite a sprightly step." "Allenby had orders to look after her," Norah said, smiling. "Poor soul—she begins her round at some unearthly hour and she's hungry and tired by the time she gets here." "One of the remarkable things about this country of yours," said Mr. Linton, "is the way you have continued to deliver parcels and letters as though there were no war. Strange females or gaunt children bring them to one's door, but the main point is that they do come. In Australia, even without a war, the post-office scorns to deliver a parcel; if any one is rash enough to send you one the post-office puts it in a cupboard and sends you a cold postcard to tell you to come and take it away. If you don't come soon, they send you a threatening card." "And if you don't obey that?" "I never dared to risk a third," said Mr. Linton, laughing. "I am a man of peace." "But what a horrible system!" said Mrs. Aikman. "Doesn't it interfere with business?" "Oh yes, greatly," said her host. "But I suppose we shall learn, in time." "I'm going over to the cottage," Norah whispered to Jim. "Do come—Geoff won't think it's Christmas if you don't." They went out into the hall. Flying feet came down the stairs, and Wally was upon them. "Merry Christmas, Norah!" He seized both her hands and pranced her down the hall. "Always begin Christmas with a turkey-trot!" he chanted. "Begin, indeed!" said Norah, with a fine contempt. "I began mine hours ago. Where have you been?" "I have been—contemplating," said Wally, his brown eyes twinkling. "No one called me." "There's evidence to the contrary," Jim said, grinning. "It has been stated that you called a perfectly blameless lady Judkins, and said awful things to her." "My Aunt!" said Wally. "I hope not—unless you talk pretty straight to Judkins he doesn't notice you. That accounts for the frozen tea and toast I found; I thought Father Christmas had put 'em there." "Did you eat them?" "Oh, yes—you should never snub a saint!" said Wally. "So now I don't want any breakfast. Where are you two going?" "To the cottage. Come along—but really, I do think you should eat a decent breakfast, Wally." "It will be dinner-time before we know where we are—and I feel that Miss de Lisle's dinner will be no joke," said Wally. "So come along, old house mother, and don't worry your ancient head about me." Each boy seized one of Norah's hands and they raced across the lawn. David Linton, looking at them from the dining-room window, laughed a little. "Bless them—they're all babies again!" he thought. The cottage was echoing with strange sounds; it might be inferred that the stockings of the young Hunts had contained only bugles, trumpets and drums. Eva, sweeping the porch, greeted the newcomers with a friendly grin. "Merry Christmas, Eva!" "The sime to you," said Eva. "Ain't it a real cold morning? The frorst's got me fingers a fair treat." "No one minds frost on Christmas Day—it's the proper thing in this queer country!" said Wally. "Was Father Christmas good to you, Eva?" "Wasn't 'e! Not 'arf!" said Eva. "The children wouldn't 'ear of anyfink but 'angin' up a stockin' for me—and I'm blowed if it wasn't bang full this mornin'. And a post-card from me young man from the Front; it's that saucy I wonder 'ow it ever passed the sentry! Well, I do say as 'ow this place ain't brought us nuffink but luck!" Geoffrey dashed out, equipped with a miniature Sam Brown belt with a sword, and waving a bugle. "Look! Father Christmas brought them! Merry Christmas, everybody." He flung himself at Norah, with a mighty hug. "And where's my Michael—and that Alison?" Norah asked. "Oh, Michael, darling, aren't you the lucky one!" as he appeared crowned with a paper cap and drawing a wooden engine. "Where's Alison?" "It's no good ever speaking to Alison," Geoffrey said, with scorn. "She got a silly doll in her stocking, and all she'll do is to sit on the floor and take off its clothes. Girls are stupid—all 'cept you, Norah!" "Keep up that belief, my son, and you'll be spared a heap of trouble," said Major Hunt, coming out. "Unfortunately, you're bound to change your mind. How are you all? We've had an awful morning!" "It began at half-past four," Mrs. Hunt added. "At that hour Michael discovered a trumpet; and no one has been asleep since." "They talk of noise at the Front!" said her husband. "Possibly I've got used to artillery preparation; anyhow, it strikes me as a small thing compared to my trio when they get going with assorted musical instruments. How is your small family, Miss Norah?" "Not quite so noisy as yours—but still, you would notice they were there!" Norah answered, laughing. "They were all at breakfast when I left, and it seemed likely that breakfast would run on to dinner, unless they remembered that church is at eleven. I must run home; we just came to wish you all a merry Christmas. Dinner at half-past one, remember!" "We won't forget," Mrs. Hunt said. Every one was dining at Homewood, and dinner, for the sake of the children, was in the middle of the day. The house was full of guests; they trooped back from church across the park, where the ground rang hard as iron underfoot, for it was a frosty Christmas. Homewood glowed with colour and life—with big fires blazing everywhere, and holly and ivy scarlet and green against the dark oaken panelling of the walls. And if the Australians sent thoughts overseas to a red homestead—Billabong, nestling in its green of orchard and garden, with scorched yellow paddocks stretching away for miles around it—they were not homesick thoughts to-day. For home was in their hearts, and they were together once more. The dinner was a simple one—Miss de Lisle had reserved her finest inspirations for the evening meal, regarding Christmas dinner as a mere affair of turkey and blazing plum-pudding, which, except in the matter of sauces, might be managed by any one. "It needs no soul!" she said. But no one found any fault, and at the end Colonel Aikman made a little speech of thanks to their hosts. "We all know they hate speeches made at them," he finished. "But Homewood is a blessed word to-day to fighting men." "And their wives," said Mrs. Aikman. "Yes—to people who came to it tired beyond expression; and went back forgetting weariness. In their names—in the names of all of us—we want to say 'Thank you.'" David Linton stood up, looking down the long room, and last, at his son. "We, who are the most thankful people in the world, I think, to-day," he said, "do not feel that you owe us any gratitude. Rather we owe it to all our Tired People—who helped us through our own share of what war can mean. And, apart from that, we never feel that the work is ours. We carry on for the sake of a dead man—a man who loved his country so keenly that to die for it was his highest happiness. We are only tools, glad of war-work so easy and pleasant as our guests make our job. But the work is John O'Neill's. So far as we can, we mean to make it live to his memory." He paused. Norah, looking up at him, saw him through misty eyes. "So—we know you'll think of us kindly after we have gone back to Australia," the deep voice went on. "There will be a welcome there, too, for any of you who come to see us. But when you remember Homewood, please do not think of it as ours. If that brave soul can look back—as he said he would, and as we are sure he does—then he is happy over every tired fighter who goes, rested, from his house. His only grief was that he could not fight himself. But his work in the war goes on; and as for us, we simply consider ourselves very lucky to be his instruments." Again he paused. "I don't think this is a day for drinking toasts," he said. "When we have won we can do that—but we have not won yet. But I will ask you all to drink to a brave man's memory—to John O'Neill." The short afternoon drew quickly to dusk, and lights flashed out—to be discreetly veiled, lest wandering German aircraft should wish to drop bombs as Christmas presents. Norah and the boys had disappeared mysteriously after dinner, vanishing into the study. Presently Geoffrey came flying to his mother, with eager eyes. "Mother! Father Christmas is here!" "You don't say so!" said Mrs. Hunt, affecting extreme astonishment. "Where?" "I saw him run along the hall and go into the study. He was real, Mother!" "Of course he's real," Major Hunt said. "Do you think he's gone up the study chimney?" Wally appeared in the doorway. "Will the ladies and gentlemen kindly walk into the study?" he said solemnly. "We have a distinguished guest." "There! I told you," said Geoffrey ecstatically. He tugged at his father's hand, capering. In the study a great fir-tree towered to the ceiling; a Christmas-tree of the most beautiful description, gay with shining coloured globes and wax lights and paper lanterns; laden with mysterious packages in white paper, tied with ribbon of red, white and blue, and with other things about which there was no mystery—clockwork toys, field guns and ambulance wagons, and a big, splendid Red Cross nurse, difficult to consider a mere doll. Never was seen such a laden tree; it's branches groaned under the weight they bore. And beside it, who but Father Christmas, bowing and smiling with his eyes twinkling under bushy white eyebrows. "Walk in, ladies and gentleman, walk in!" he said invitingly. Wally frowned at him. "That's not the way to talk," he said. "You aren't a shop-walker!" He inflicted a surreptitious kick upon the elderly saint. "Hi, you blighter, that's my shin!" said Father Christmas wrathfully; a remark luckily unheard by the guests in the excitement of the moment. All the household was there; Miss de Lisle beaming at Wally and very stately and handsome in blue silk; the servants, led by Allenby, with Con and Katty and Bride giggling with astonishment at a tree the like of which did not grow in Donegal. "All mustered?" said Father Christmas. "Right oh! I mean, that is well. As you see, I've had no end of a time labouring in your behalf. But I love hard work!" (Interruption from Mr. Meadows, sounding like "I don't think!") "Being tired, I shall depute to my dear young friend here the task of removing the parcels from the tree." He tapped Wally severely on the head with his knuckles, and that hapless youth ejaculated, "Beast!". "You'll get thrown out, if you don't watch it!" said the saint severely. "Now—ladies first!" He detached the Red Cross nurse from her bough and placed her in Alison's arms; and Alison, who had glued her eyes to her from the moment of entering the room, uttered a gasp, sat promptly upon the floor, and began an exhaustive examination of her charms, unheeding any further gifts. Under the onslaught of Wally and Harry the tree speedily became stripped of its burden; Father Christmas directing their labours in a voice that plainly had its training on the barrack-square. Eva watched him admiringly. "Ain't the Captin a trick!" she murmured, hugging her parcels to her. The last package came down, and Father Christmas slipped away, disappearing behind a screen with a flourish that revealed an immaculate brown leather gaiter under the cotton-wool snow bordering his red cloak; and presently Jim sauntered out, slightly flushed. "Oh, you silly!" said Geoffrey. "Where ever have you been? You've missed ole Father Christmas!" "I never did have any luck," Jim said dolefully. "Never mind—he's left heaps and heaps of parcels for you. I'll help you open them," said Geoffrey kindly. The gong summoned them to tea; and afterwards it was time to take the children home, happy and sleepy. Jim tossed Alison up on his shoulder, and, with Geoffrey clinging to his other hand, and Michael riding Wally pick-a-back, Norah and the boys escorted the Hunts back to the cottage. "You're coming over again, of course?" Jim said. "We're going to dance to-night." "Oh yes; we're getting a terribly frivolous old couple," said Mrs. Hunt, laughing. "But Christmas leave only comes once a year, especially when there's a war on!" "I think she needs a rest-cure!" said her husband, knitting his brows over this remarkable statement. "Come in and lie down for awhile, or you won't be coherent at all by to-night; Eva and I will put the babies to bed." "Can't I help?" Norah asked. "No—you're off duty to-night. You've really no idea how handy I am!" said Major Hunt modestly. "Then we'll see you later on," Norah said, disentangling Michael from her neck. "Good-night, Michael, darling; and all of you." "We've had a lovely time!" Geoffrey said. "I'm so glad," Norah said, smiling at him. The cottage-door closed, and they turned back. "I've had a lovely time, too!" she said. "There never was such a Christmas!" "Never!" Jim said. "I believe that five months in Germany was worth it." "No!" said Wally sharply. "No, it wasn't," Norah agreed. "But now—it helps one to forget." They came slowly across the frozen lawn. Before them Homewood loomed up, little beams of warm light coming from its shuttered windows. Then the door opened wide, letting out a flood of radiance; and in it stood David Linton, looking out for them. They came into the path of light; Norah between the two tall lads. His voice was tender as he looked down at their glowing faces. "It's cold," he said. "Come in to the fire, children." <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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