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Chapter III
Kathie loses her Engagement Ring and Jock finds it

Uncle Stephen," Pipi asked, "who is Nan?"

We were seated under the creepers on the west veranda in the stillness of the late after-noon. All day long a blustering, raging nor'- wester had driven across the plains, whirling down the road like a cloud, roaring through the pines, and sweeping over the tussocks; but toward the close of the afternoon it had died down, and now a brooding peace lay over everything. In the garden the flowers were bruised and withered; delicate roses broken and scattered; the scent of the jasmine was hot and heavy like the day; and even the pansies seemed disheartened, and rested wistful purple faces against the hot earth. The birds were silent in the trees, but the river rushed madly over the boulders on its way to the sea. The waters were high to-night; they always were after a nor'-wester. Pipi said they sounded nice and wet.

We had sought the veranda to rest a while before dinner. Jan lounged in Kathie's own page 34favourite chair, which she had secured by strategy, and Kathie sat in another, not so comfortable. Jock had found a nook in the creepers; the uncles and Rob occupied lounge chairs, and the uncles were smoking. Pipi and I perched on the edge of the veranda and wriggled our bare toes on the grass, enjoying the feel of it.

Uncle Stephen smiled at Pipi when she spoke.

"I have been expecting that question," he said. "Where did you meet her, children?"

"On the river-bed," I answered, watching the progress of a curious green beetle making its way steadily toward Pipi's toes. "Look out, Pipi!"

Uncle Stephen took his pipe from his mouth, and held it in his hand, looking at us gravely.

"It is a sad story, children," he said, "Would you like to hear it? Poor little Nan has no father or mother."

"Oh!" I said, and Pipi forgot the beetle, and it crawled up her toes in peace.

"Her father took up Jordan, a station away back in the mountains, over the Little Ararat Pass—let me see, how many years ago was it?" Uncle Stephen said, turning to Uncle John.

"Twenty," Uncle John answered, puffing steadily.

"Twenty years ago. Jordan is an isolated place now, but then it was worse. Mrs Somerset page 35—Nan's mother—was once four years without seeing another woman. They had to send the boy, Pat, away to boarding-school, and he was seventeen, and was still there when Nan was born."

"The brother. She told us about her brother." Pipi nodded to me, and Uncle Stephen continued.

"That winter, twelve years ago, was the worst I ever experienced. Right up to October there were terrible snowstorms; they were quite cut off from the rest of us at Jordan. About December we thought the worst was over, but an unexpected fall of snow made things worse than ever. Mr Somerset sent the men out to get the sheep down from the high lands, and set off himself in another direction. Jordan stands at the foot of a great, grim mountain, scarred with shingle slips, and it was when he was crossing one of these that the shingle slipped—the frosts and snows had loosened it, I suppose. He fell with it, over a cliff, near the house. Mrs Somerset must have heard him call, for when the men came back, late that night, they found her lying there, her arms round him. And they knew" said Uncle Stephen, "that she would never be lonely or unhappy or mourn for him at all."

"Oh!" I said again, and I saw something shiny on Pipi's cheek, while Jan's eyes grew dark and soft.

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"She had been ill for some time, and the shock had killed her," Uncle said sadly. "Relations in England sent for the boy. He was a clever lad, I believe, and has made himself famous in his own line. Most people have heard of Patrick Somerset, the naturalist. The wife of a shepherd on the place looked after Nan. She has been with them ever since. But she is running wild. It is time that brother of hers came home or sent for her. He is her guardian, and she has never seen him."

"Oh, the beast!"

Uncle smiled at Jan.

"Well, not exactly. You see, she was only a few weeks old when he went away. But she has never been to school, nor studied like other children; just run wild about the station. Mr and Mrs Campbell left Jordan three months ago, and came down to the farm at Kinloch so that Nan could attend a school that has just been opened fifteen miles from here. But she hasn't been yet."

"Doesn't she have to?" Pipi asked, envy in her voice.

Uncle John looked up.

"Bless me, no!" he said, loudly and unexpectedly. "Not Nan. She rules the roost at Jordan—always has. If Nan doesn't wish to be educated she won't, that's all there is to it.

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I've a good mind to write to that brother of hers myself. I'm glad you children have met her. I wanted you to. I think you will be a good influence for her."

"Oh!" I said, and the others sat silently digesting Uncle's words. Imagine it! He considered us a good influence. You could almost see the wings shoot out of Pipi's shoulders; Jan smirked—she really did—and even Kathie looked gracious.

"We'll do what we can for her, poor little thing," she said, and her eyes were soft.

"She needs some one to lead her," Jan added, folding one foot nonchalantly over the other to hide a hole in the ankle of her stocking.

"Some one to teach her to be tidy and methodical. How about taking on the job, Jan?" asked Uncle Dan.

Kathie laughed, but Jan threw them a cold, haughty look, and then put Kathie in her place by asking if we were to have any of her delicious Madeira cake for tea. She knew, and we knew, that the delicious Madeira cake was soggy in the middle, and even Pipi had felt ill after eating half of it. Kathie was putting her whole heart into her cooking lessons. She had made shortbread without any butter, scones which looked heavy and sad, and a meat pie without any salt. And once, really and truly, she roasted a duck page 38with all his insides inside because she said it was such messy work getting them out.

"How about driving to the river, and picnicking at Kinloch to-morrow?" suggested Uncle John, smiling around. "I expect Mrs McPherson could manage a hamper, and we could take the buggy and the gig. We might pick up Nan, and take her with us."

"I'll make some apple pasties before breakfast. I'm longing to try pasties," Kathie volunteered, enthusiastically.

Jan groaned.

Uncle John was as good as his word, and next morning the trap and the gig were waiting for us almost before we had disposed of a hasty breakfast. There were a few delays before we set out, however. First, Uncle John sent Jan to sew an elastic on her hat. He took Jan and me driving once, and it was blowing a nor'-wester, and Jan spent most of her time gambolling back toward Kamahi in pursuit of her headgear. Uncle always viewed Jan's hats with suspicion after that. Then Kathie rushed out to say that she couldn't find her engagement ring, and that she wasn't going without it.

"Have you looked in the bathroom?" Pipi asked, swinging her legs over the back of the gig, eager to be off. "'Member the time it got into the pipes, and choked them up, Jock?"

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"Or the pantry? You dropped it into the baking-powder tin once!" I supplemented.

"Or the boot cupboard?"

"Or the big vase in the dining-room?"

But it was in none of these hiding-places, and in the end we had to leave without it. Kathie was quite tearful, and Uncle Dan was trying to comfort her as they drove off, with Pipi tucked away in the back of the gig.

"It will turn up," he said. "It always does." Jan, Jock, and I drove with Uncle John. Jan sat with Uncle on the front seat, and Jock and I occupied the back. We went down the road at a fine pace, meeting Uncle Stephen and Rob by the gate. They were going over the river after some cattle, and would not join the party.

"Mind you enjoy yourselves," Uncle Stephen cried, waving his hat.

We thought we were really off at last, but just as the horse started up the slope Uncle pulled the reins.

"Where is your elastic?" he demanded of Jan. "Under my hair, Uncle."

"What's the use of it there? Put it under your chin, girl. Your hat will blow off."

Jan had to obey. It oppressed her a little, but even with a chin-strap she could not be gloomy on a day like this. The air was shining and golden, the road was as white as white, and the page 40tussocks as yellow as yellow and shimmering in the sunlight. Uncle Dan and Kathie soon left us far behind, and it was only when the first ten miles of our journey had been covered that we came across a trace of them. A small dishevelled figure, hatless and dirty, arose from the grass at the roadside to greet us.

"Pipi!" roared Uncle John.

"They didn't care about me. The gig jumped on a stone, an' I fell out. An' I called to them, but they were talkin' so hard they never noticed —selfish pigs. I guess they're at the picnic now eating all the lunch," sighed Pipi gloomily.

We squeezed her in with us, between Uncle John and Jan, and Uncle sat on top of her. Occasionally a squeak arose, and we knew that she was still alive.

The country was higher now; we were drawing near the hills. Uncle pointed to a house, which stood on a rise overlooking the river—a low, rambling old place, half hidden by the sheltering trees.

"That is Kinloch," he said. "We'll stop, and pick up Nan."

We went through a broken-down old gate, and up to the house. What had been a sweeping lawn was now a wilderness, knee-deep in grass and star-eyed marguerite daisies. There were quaint little paths and shrubberies, and beds page 41where a few hardy plants rioted, but the whole place had an overgrown, neglected look.

"It has been in the charge of a shepherd, who has lived here alone for years," Uncle told us. "The Campbells came down only three months ago. Mr Somerset bought the farm just before he died, meaning to make a home of it."

We pulled up before the house, and a round, smiling little woman came out, and greeted Uncle John. Nan was out on the hills, she told us. She had left early in the morning, and would not be back before the afternoon. Wouldn't we come in and have a cup of tea? The kettle was on the boil.

Uncle shook his head.

"No, we won't stop, thank you, Mrs Campbell," he said. "If Nan should come in tell her to ride up and join us, will you? We'll be picnicking by the creek. Looks a little threatening, doesn't it? I hope the weather will hold."

We drove off once more. Uncle John turned to Jan. "Kind people," he said. "Kind people, but the child is being ruined. I must write to that boy."

By the creek we found Uncle Dan and Kathie waiting for us. They looked at us uneasily.

"We've—lost Pipi," Kathie said guiltily.

They were relieved to find her underneath Uncle John, and since it was such a glorious day, page 42and a picnic and all, we decided to say no more about the matter, though Pipi spoke seriously to them. She said she was not going to drive back with them. They would probably lose her in a creek or a water-race next time, and only remember her when they arrived home.

"That's if they bothered—don't s'pose they would," Pipi added, sarcastically. "S'pose they'd just say, 'Pipi? Oh, she tumbled out into a creek and got drowned ever so long ago. It isn't worth while going back to get her.' Are you going to bathe now, Skinny?"

Jan, Jock, Pipi and I had brought our bathing-gowns with us, and meant to have a swim. Uncle Dan came too, and we found a lovely pool, and swam and splashed and dipped to our hearts' content. When we came back we found that Uncle John had boiled the billy, and Kathie had set the table. Such a feast—meat pies made by Mrs McPherson, and she can make them too, sandwiches, cold fowl and salad, cakes, fruit, blancmange, and Kathie's pasties. We decorated the table with ferns, pinned a red flower rakishly in Uncle John's panama, and sat down to lunch.

It was such a jolly meal. Uncle John was benevolent and beaming, and his moustache never perked once. Uncle Dan was teasing and twinkling, and the rest of us, from Kathie to Pipi, page 43enjoyed ourselves just as much as ever we could. We finished the pies; we attacked the sandwiches; we reduced the pile of cakes, and made the blancmange tremble. But Kathie's pasties we left untouched. Even Uncle Dan refused them, and he should have been willing to risk his life in the cause. At last Jock looked at them. He had sampled everything else we had brought, washing it all down with three cups of Uncle John's billy-tea, which was sweet and smoky, and just what billy-tea should be.

"Don't mind if I do, Kathie," he said, kindly. "P'raps they're not so awful after all." He selected a brown-looking specimen, and attacked it with care. We watched him with interest.

"Not so bad," he pronounced, taking a bite. "Quite decent. Nothing wrong this time. They're pie— Oh!"

He was going on to describe their virtues more fully, but suddenly something seemed to impede his utterance. He looked at us with his eyes starting, coughed, choked, and turned purple. Jan tried to force a drink upon him, but Jock pushed it aside. Uncle John waved a fork agitatedly, and Uncle Dan started to his feet.

"Bless me! the boy's choking," Uncle John cried.

It was terrifying, but Uncle Dan's presence of mind was really admirable—so Kathie says, and page 44she ought to know. In one second he reached Jock; in another he seized him by his heels, and shook him like a puppy, while we all looked on, too horrified to speak. Then suddenly it was over. There was a cough, a gasp, a choke, and a cry, and Jock was safe, and we found Kathie's engagement ring.

Yes—inside Jock. At least it had been stuck in his throat, and Uncle Dan had shaken it out, and it might have been the end of Jock, and Kathie would never have got back her engagement ring. She was quite tearful, and grateful to Jock for finding it for her. It must have fallen off her finger into the apples when she was beating them for the pasties, and of course she never thought of cutting them open and looking for it there. Uncle John was really upset, and it was only after he had smoked three pipes that he became himself again, and even then he looked at Kathie doubtfully.

"I wonder if it is wise? There will certainly be a tragedy before you've finished, Katrine," he said. "Throw those pasties into the river, Pipi," he commanded.

We obeyed him. We threw them in, one by one, like a sacrifice to the waters, and Kathie sat on the bank with Uncle Dan, who comforted her, and Jock, who was still shaken, and heard the splash they made as they landed in the water.

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Then Jan, Pipi, and I wandered up the creek, and sat down under the shade of a ngaio-tree, and dabbled our feet in the water, and nibbled chocolate.

The change came suddenly; we had not noticed how dark it was growing. One little speck of a cloud had risen from the east, and spread over the sky, which was now heavy and leaden. We left our retreat, and set off for the picnic spot; we knew Uncle John would be looking for us. On the way we met Uncle Dan.

"Come quickly. Where have you been hiding?" he asked. "It's going to be a storm. Hustle, kids. Take my hand, Pipi."

Then, like Judgment Day, a flash of lightning cut across the sky, and a great clap of thunder echoed and re-echoed among the hills.