Ida Cameron

Front matter

LOOKING AS IF SHE HAD STEPPED FROM AN OLD PICTURE.'— Page 148. BY MARGARET PARKER JK. EDINBURGH & LONDON OLIPHANT ANDERSON & FERRIER BOOKS IN THIS SERIES Crown 8vo, cloth extra, Illustrated, price 2S. 6d. ADELE S LOVE. The Story of a Faithful Little Heart. By Maude M. Butler. MATTHEW DALE, FARMER. By Mrs. SANDERS. KATE AND J FAX. The History of Two Young and Independent Spinsters, narrated by their Landlady. By Jessie M. E. Saxhy. THE STRONGER WILL. By Evelyn Everett-Green. AMONG THE HEATHER. By A. C. Hertford. TIBBYS TRYST. By Robina F. Hardy. THE A YRES OF STUDLE/GH. By Annie S. Swan. THE SANDCLIFF MYSTERY. By Scott Graham. THE MAGIC FLOWER POT, and other Stories. By Edward Garrett. FALCONER OF FALCONHURST. By Evelyn Everett-Green. R/NG IN THE TRUE: A Story of Transition Times in Village Life.

By Ella Stone. THE DOCTOR'S DOZEN. By Evelyn Everett -Green, TIB. By George Douglas, AFTER LONG YEARS; or, Normans Vow. By Ella Stone. IDA CAMERON. By Margarex-Parjcer. / EDINBURGH & LONDON : OLIPHANT ANDERSON & FERRIER. t",i all J}.-' ,://,/■ . MORP.ISON ANI> GIBE, PRINTERS. EDINBURGH CONTENTS. CHAP. PACE i. wanaroo, . 7 II. HOME LIFE IN THE bush, 20 35 III. SUNDAY AT THE STATION. IV. THE MAXWELLS, 50 V. 'I HATE AUSTRALIA AND EVERYTHING ABOUT IT,' . 68 VI. KATIE LOSES HER TEMPER, 80 VII. 'AT MY WITS' END ABOUT IDA, .... 92 VIII. 'THE PARTING OF THE WAYS,' .... 107 IX. THE CROSBIES, . . . . . . ■ ■ 123 X. 'A VERY' DIFFERENT IDA,' ..... 138 XI. 'NOT SO MUCH CHANGED, AFTER ALL!' . . 150 XII. THE OLD STRUGGLE, ...... 105 XIII. THE GENIUS OF THE SCHOOL, 178 XIV. 'YOU GO TO THE UNIVERSITY, IDA!' . . . 193 XV.

MISS LORRAINE DOES MORE HARM THAN GOOD, . Contents. CHAf. FAOE XVI. MISS JEAN'S ACCIDENT 225 XVII. A DISTINGUISHED STRANGER AND A STARTLING PROPOSAL, ..... ... 241 XVIII. IDA'S REPLY, 255 XIX. A TERRIBLE AFTERNOON FOR MISS JEAN, . . 21)6 XX. MUTUAL CONFESSION, . .... 282 XXI. 'THE LITTLE FOOL,' 296 XXII. 'SHE'S GOT HEli OLD WISH, AFTER ALL,' . .

Chapter I. Wanaroo

'llj/pjfffi RE you tired, Ida? Cheer up, - I^^^fi mJ 8'ir^ » we'll see the lights in another minute. You'll soon be home.' ' Yes, uncle,' answered Ida Cameron, in a tone so utterly listless and languid as at once to put a stop to any further conversation. Then, as she leant back in the buggy, she said to herself, with a heavy sigh, ' Home ! I have no home, and no one to care for me in all the world.' She was very youug to feel that, for she was only fifteen ; and though it was not exactly true, yet there was great excuse for her think ing so. She had been driving all day under a hot Australian sun. over bare, treeless plains, with «clouds of dust blowing in her face ; and it was only a week ago that she had seen her father laid to rest in the St. Kilda cemetery, far from his kindred and friends in Scotland.

Indeed, it seemed to her that it was only to day that she really understood how much she had lost. At first she had been too much stunned to realise it, too weary and worn-out after the long lonely strain of watching and nursing which lay between the day they landed in Melbourne and that other day, a month later, when her uncle, Mr. Reid, had hurried down from his bush home only in time to promise his dying brother-in-law that he would be a father to Ida. And now he was returning, and taking her with him. Mr. Cameron was a Scotchman of good family and small fortune, who had spent the last twelve years of his life in Edinburgh, engaged in writing, in leisurely fashion, a book on Wanaroo. 9 ' Caledonian Archæology.' His work had gone on very slowly, though becoming every year more absorbing, for he was constantly rejecting and rewriting portions.

At the same time, his hobby proved a some what expensive one to ride, necessitating as it did constant journeys from one end of Scot land to another. But however busy he might lie, his daughter was never neglected. She was his only child, and had never known her mother, so the tie between them was a very close one. As a baby she had played on his study floor, a little later she learnt her letters standing; at his knee. When she went to school, all her lessons were prepared at the other side of his writing-table, and any difficulty was at once brought to him to be explained and smoothed away. He himself was her teacher in some subjects ; he chose most of the books she read, and discussed them with her in their long Saturday afternoon rambles. Soon she was allowed to read por tions of his own great work, and at last even to write them to his dictation.

Her summer holidays were spent sometimes in one part of Scotland, sometimes in another, but always where they could combine pleasure with the great object of collecting material and verifying information for what Ida learnt to call ' the book.' She had very few friends of her own age. Her schoolfellows thought her shy and re served, and she cared but little for their games and amusements. Even in the days before dolls were given up, she preferred playing with them alone. She would spend hours poring over the Waverley Novels when other children of her age would have been satisfied with Andersen's Fairy Tales. Soon she began to weave wonderful stories herself, in which she was always the heroine, transplanted to the days of Bruce, or Queen Mary, or Prince Charlie. By the time she was thirteen she was her father's constant companion, except during school hours, and often helped to entertain his friends, grave professors and learned scientists, to whose talk she was an eager listener.

It was not a very wholesome life for the girl ; if her mother had lived, many things Wanaroo. 11 would have been different ; yet Ida was very happy. Her first real trouble was her father's serious illness during their last winter in Edin burgh. Then he had heard that some of his investments had proved failures, and gradually woke up to the fact that his little fortune was fast melting away. Worry and anxiety preyed upon his health ; and at last his doctors told him plainly that his only chance for life lay in a long voyage and warmer climate. This had brought them to Melbourne ; but the change had been delayed too long, and soon Ida was an orphan, ' a stranger in a strange land.' She was more fortunate than many strangers, for she had one friend who was very willing to give her a home. Her mother's only sister had married an Australian squatter, and though she was now dead also, her husband was glad to do for her sake what she would have wished done.

So he tried to comfort Ida in her sorrow and desolation by telling her of the warm welcome that awaited her at Wanaroo station, and the cousins who would be sisters and brothers to her. She cared very little just then what became of her, and was only con scious of relief that the drive was over, when at last they passed through a tall white gate. Two men came up to take the horses out of the buggy, and her uncle turned to her with a brisk ' Now then, Ida, here we are. Sit still, my dear ; I'll lift you out. Why, there's Cissie.' Ida, looking round languidly as she reached the ground, saw a tall fair girl in a white gown, and carrying a lantern in her hand, who came running up to meet them. ' Papa,' she cried, ' have you come at last ? How late you are ! Is this Ida 1 Poor girl, you must be very tired !

Welcome to Wanaroo.' ' Yes, that's right, Cis,' said her father. ' Take her inside ; she's dead beat. Where's your aunt ? ' ' In the kitchen, I think,' answered Cicely, leading her cousin along a wide verandah into a large airy room, with long French windows. Ida sank into the nearest chair, feeling that she could not walk a step farther. ' Poor thing, you are tired,' said Cissie com passionately, as she removed her cousin's hat Wanaroo. 13 and gloves. ' You are not used to such long drives, I suppose ? Never mind, you will be better in the morning, after a good sleep. Here's auntie.' Miss Jean Reid, her brother's housekeeper, was a tall, hard-featured, angular woman of about five-and-forty, a notable housewife and a rigid disciplinarian. Even her noisy nephews knew better than to disobey Aunt Jean.

Her word was law, and none dared gainsay it ; her rules were like those of the Medes and Persians, and might never be departed from. In her household management her two leading ideas were cleanliness and economy, and she hated idleness with a perfect hatred. She was in the habit of saying that girls until they were ten and boys till they left school were 'more bother than they're worth.' And when she made this speech, she generally added, ' And as for Kate, her fingers are a]l thumbs.' Kate was the second daughter, a girl of twelve ; Charlie, a boy of fourteen, now at school in Melbourne, came between her and Cicely ; while the two children, as they were usually called, were Mary aged eight, and Bobbie aged five. Miss Jean was accustomed to say that five bairns, and two of them boys, were enough of a handful for any woman.

This being the case, she had not been greatly pleased when her brother wrote to say he was bringing her another niece. Yet she was not an unkindly woman, and when she came into the drawing-room that evening and saw the weary, pale-faced girl in her heavy, dusty mourning, her heart was touched ; but un fortunately, when that happened, few had any chance of discovering it. ' So you're Ida Cameron ? ' she said briskly. ' Well, I needn't ask how you are ; I can easy see you're fit for nothing but your bed. — Cissie, go and see that her things are brought to her room properly. — Ida, give her your keys, and she'll unlock your portmanteau for you.' ' I — I don't think I locked it,' said Ida hesitatingly. ' Oh ! Well, at your age I should think you might have known better than to travel with an unlocked portmanteau.

However, it's easier opened now, at any rate. Make haste, Cissie. What are you waiting for ? ' Wanaroo. 15 ' Auntie,' asked Cissie in low tones, ' don't you think Ida had better lie down on the sofa ? ' ' No, I don't. She'll be in her bed presently. I'll get you a glass of wine, though, Ida.' ' No, thank you, I do not want any,' answered Ida coldly ; for she felt herself somewhat insulted by Miss Jean's remarks about the portmanteau. ' Stuff and nonsense ! Do you think I'd give it to you if you didn't want it ? ' ' Now then, drink every drop of that,' she added presently, returning with the wine, : and see if it doesn't put some smeddum into you.' And whether she would or no, Ida found herself constrained to obey. She was very thankful when Cicely returned, saying that her room was ready, and still more so when she found that Miss Reid had no intention of accompanyingher thither.

It was Cicely who went with her, helped her to undress — troubling her with no unnecessary questions and remarks, saw her safely into bed, and then, when she found Ida was too tired to care for any food, kissed her tenderly and bade her good-night. Ida had been quite sure all day that she would cry herself to sleep ; she had found it hard work to keep back the tears before, but now she was so utterly exhausted, that five minutes after her head touched the pillow, all her troubles were forgotten till morning. Meanwhile Mr. Reid had come in, and was reading his letters and enjoying his dinner with the hearty appetite of a man who felt he had well earned it. Miss Jean sat by his side, knitting a pair of stockings for Bobbie, with the skill and speed of long practice. ' That's a poor white-faced thing you've brought back with you,' was her first remark, when the last letter had been opened and glanced through. ' Is she delicate, like her father ? ' ' Oh no, I don't think so, Jean.

She's tired out, poor girl ; she'll be better when she's rested a bit.' ' Humph ! She's got a will of her own, and a pretty good conceit of herself too.' ' Nonsense, Jean. The girl's not been an Wanaroo. 17 hour in the house, and here you've taken a down on her already. How on earth should you find that out ? ' ' Never you mind how I found it out. I'll find out more about that girl or any other girl in half an hour than you would in a month, you take my word for that.' ' And you take my word for this, ' said Mr. Reid sharply, — ' I brought my Mary's niece here to be my own child, and I mean this to be a home to her, and a happy one too.' ' Well, you needn't lose your temper over it, Robert. I'm sure I'll do the best I can for her, though I'm no' going to make a fine talk about it. Will you take another cup of tea ? ' ' Why, yes, I think I will.

My word, Jean, you don't get cream like that in Melbourne.' ' I should think not, — skim milk, most likely,' was Miss Jean's reply ; and then there was a pause, during which the only sound was the sharp click of her knitting needles, till at length she remarked — ' She's no beauty, anyway. Is it her father or her mother she favours ? ' ' She's more like her mother, and now and then she has a kind of look of her aunt. Oh, you'll see two or three years will make a big chance in her. Just now she wants some flesh on her bones.' ' Humph ! she's got precious little, anyhow. She's grown too fast, I expect. How old is she ? ' ' Fifteen and a month or two.' ' A year younger than Cissie, and she's good half a head taller ! But if I'd had the bringing up of her, she wouldn't stoop like that.' ' Tut, tut, Jean ! any girl might stoop when she was tired.

You feed her up well, and give her plenty of your good milk, and in six weeks she'll be a different creature. I wonder at you, woman, talking that way about the poor lassie ! ' Something in her brother's tone warned Miss Jean that it would be wiser not to discuss his niece's character or appearance further just then, so she turned to another subject on which she wanted information. ' You said in your letter that Mr. Cameron hadn't left much behind him — not more than a thousand pounds.' Wanaroo. 19 ' Barely that, when everything's paid. Ida will have about fifty pounds a year, 1 expect — enough to dress on. Well, Cissie, my dear, going to bed ? ' ' Yes, papa,' said Cissie, stooping down to kiss him. ' Ida's fast asleep, auntie ; I looked in just now.' ' You've dirtied your gown too, I'm thinking ; I told you you were a fool to put on that white one,' was the only reply she got.

Cissie did not urge that her reason for wear ing it was that it seemed more like mourning than her pink one ; but her father interposed with, ' They ought to get black things, Jean. Have you been seeing to that ? ' ' Me ! do you think I've got nothing to do ? ' answered Miss Jean a trifle irascibly, for only yesterday she had declared such a thing altogether unnecessary. ' Well, you'll need to take them in to Borro dale early in the week and see about it. They must have something. Now, I'm going out for a smoke.'

Chapter II. Home Life In The Bush

§T is a curious sensation to wake for the first time in an unfamiliar house, especially when one has been too tired to note one's surroundings the night before. When Ida woke on her first morning at Wanaroo, she could not for a moment or two imagine where she could be or how she had come there. Then, as the knowledge gradually dawned upon her, she sat up in bed and looked about her with more curiosity than she had yet felt about her future home. The result was hardly satisfactory. This room was a contrast indeed to the large airy chamber, with its handsome old furniture, and beautiful view of the Pentland Hills, which had been hers since her nursery days. The sloping roof, so low that she could touch the part above her with her hand, the uncarpeted floor, the canvas and paper walls, the rough wood work of the door and window, and the scanty furniture, so evidently made by a bush car penter, hardly formed a prepossessing -whole.

Ida had been used to having all things about her handsome and good ; and as she lay down again, conscious now that her bed was a some what hard one and her sheets none of the finest, her face wore an expression of profound disgust. ' Such a room ! ' she said half aloud. ' We should be ashamed to put a servant into it. That door's like the door of an outhouse, actually a latch instead of a handle. And the dressing-table's not draped ; and what legs it has ! And then the walls — oh, it is all too dreadful ! What would papa have thought of it? Oh, papa, papa, why did you leave me alone among strangers ? They think anything will do for me, I suppose, and I have nobody to love me or care for me now. Oh, papa, papa ! ' And Ida buried her face in her pillows and sobbed bitterly, the smaller troubles being all absorbed now in the greater one, that terrible loneliness, that heart - sick longing ' for the touch of a vanished hand, and the sound of a voice that is still.' Then suddenly she started up again, choking back her sobs, even holding her breath, and listening intently.

What was that sound, that loud scratching noise close beside her — was it, could it be rats ? As far back as she could remember, she had had a horror of rats, and had more than once wakened in terror from a dream that she was sharing the fate of Bishop Hatto. It was a great relief now when there came a knock at her door, and in answer to her eager ' Come in,' Cicely entered, bright and fresh and smiling, the very picture of health and happiness. Here indeed was something pleasant to look upon, and yet Ida's first feel ing was not pleasure, but a sharp pang of envy. She was only too conscious, poor girl, that, as Miss Jean said, she was ' no beauty ; ' and if there was any gift she had intensely desired, it was the very one that had been denied to her. Surely it is a great and real trial to a sensitive, beauty-loving girl to find that her looking-glass shows her no pleasing picture, and to feel that no eyes rest upon her with admiration.

She is apt to be morbidly conscious of her own deficiencies, and to greatly over-estimate the value of the blessing denied to her ; and very often her friends little guess how much pain some slighting remark of theirs has given, how it is brooded over by her long after it has been forgotten by them. Almost as far back as she could remember, Ida had longed to be possessed of blue eyes and golden hair, like the lovely ladies of Arthur's court and the beautiful princesses of fairy tales. Eight or nine years ago she had cherished many a fond hope that at some future day, and in some unknown manner, her grey eyes would become blue, and her straight dark hair be changed to shining curls. Alas ! no such marvellous transforma tion had taken place. At fifteen she was not a pretty girl even at her best ; and now, with red eyes, and swollen, tear-stained cheeks, she knew she must look her worst.

And Cissie was pretty. Her eyes, though not large, were undeniably blue, her face was as delicately tinted as the rose in her belt, and her long plait of fair hair shone like gold when the morning sun touched it. Poor Ida, tired and wretched and all out of tune, felt as if it were almost an injury to her that her cousin should look so bonnie and bright and winsome, should have so much that was denied to her. So all Cissie's kindly inquiries and offers of breakfast met with very stiff and curt replies, all the stiffer and curter from a vain attempt to hide the very evident fact that Ida had been cry ing. Her cousin had turned to leave the room when the scratching sound was heard again, and Ida called her back hastily. 'Oh, Cissie, wait a minute. Are there rats in the room ? ' ' Oh no, none in the room, Ida.

They're outside in the garden, close beside the wall. Don't be frightened ; they can't possibly get in. They're really pretty bad just now, though Charlie thought he had killed them all in the holidays.' ' How do you kill them ? ' asked Ida. ' The boys set traps for them — rabbit traps, you know, not mouse traps. They set them on the verandahs and all over the garden, and then go round with a heavy stick and kill them. They think it great fun ; and indeed Mary's nearly as bad, she's such a little tomboy. Katie and I are glad enough to get rid of the horrid things, but we don't like to touch any of the traps.' ' I should think not,' said Ida, with a little shudder. 'And — do you have any snakes here? ' ' No, not nearly so many as there used to be. This was a dreadful place for them once, but they are dying out now.

We don't often see them in the house, it is only in the garden and the paddocks that we have to be careful. But we had a great scare last week.' ' How was that ? Was it about a snake ? ' ' Indeed it was, such a big black ugly one, too. They said afterwards that it was not venomous, but of course we did not know that at the time. It crawled into the nursery while the children were at breakfast, — one of the doors opens into the garden, you must know, — and the first person who saw it was the nurse. She is newly out from home, and had never seen a snake before. She screamed, and dropped the milk-jug she had in her hand, caught Bobbie up in her arms and ran out by the other door, and Katie and Mary ran after her as fast as they could into the dining-room, where auntie and I were.' ' And weren't you frightened ? ' ' I was, though it was very silly, I am afraid,' answered Cissie, with a little shake of her head. ' I really don't think I should have been so much frightened if I had seen it myself, instead of hearing about it first from them.

They were in such a state of terror.' ' And your aunt, was she frightened too ? ' ' Auntie ? No, I don't think she was ever frightened in her life. She told us all not to make fools of ourselves, took down papa's big heavy riding-whip, and marched straight off to the nursery. We went after her, though I must say we all hung about the door afraid to go in. But she walked right up to the snake — it was coiled up under Mary's bed by that time — and gave it a tremendous blow on the head. Then one of the men came in from the garden with a rake, and between them they finished it pretty quickly. It was horrid to see it lying there all crushed and battered. Poor Katie got quite white, and had to go away, and when she got back to the drawing-room she fainted.' ' No wonder ; it must have been dreadful.' ' Yes, I think it was very natural to faint, and not at all so silly as poor Katie thinks it was.

She is quite ashamed of it.' Cissie did not think it necessary to tell how much her aunt's remarks had had to do with that feeling. Instead, she suddenly declared that it was really very wrong of her to stand there chattering when poor Ida must want her breakfast so much, and hurried away. She returned presently with a nicely arranged tray — good home-made bread and butter, a beautifully fresh egg, and a very fine bunch of muscatel grapes. These grapes were the only things Ida cared for; though she drank the tea and crumbled a little bread, she would not be persuaded to touch the egg, still less would she take a chop instead. She wanted nothing, she declared, except to be let alone ; she was tired, she had a headache, she was aching all over, she would like to go to sleep again ; in short, she showed Cissie very plainly that her company was not at all welcome.

Anxious to do all she could for her cousin, all the more so because of a few words her father had said that morning, Cissie would gladly have stayed, and had planned to unpack and put away Ida's clothes under her directions, and then help her to get up. There was nothing for it now but to go ; yet she lingered to bring water to bathe her cousin's face and hands, to shake up her pillows, darken the room, and place the grapes where they could be reached easily. Then she went out softly, and Ida could hear her telling some one outside that he must be a good boy and run away now, for poor Cousin Ida was very tired and had a bad headache. So Ida was left to herself again, and it is to be feared that her meditations were not very profitable. She was more certain than ever that she could not possibly be happy here.

It was a dreadful place, where all sorts of horrible things might happen. She was not at all sure that she liked Cissie, and she was very sure that she did not like Miss Jean. She was far too domineering, and very rude sometimes ; they would never get on together. ' But she has no right to order me about, that is one comfort,' thought Ida. ' I must show her at once that I am not going to give in to her in everything.' She had just decided this when the door opened, and the lady herself entered, carrying a glass in her hand, and possibly for that reason quite omitting the formality of knocking. ' She looks like a servant, she quite suits the place,' thought Ida scornfully ; and certainly Miss Reid looked like a woman who had been working. Her brown print gown was almost hidden under an enormous apron, a broad brimmed and very unbecoming garden hat was tied under her chin, her sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, and her bare arms were certainly neither white nor beautiful. ' Well, Ida, how are you to-day ?

Are you thinking of getting up yet ? ' Miss Jean always spoke in sharp, quick tones, as if afraid of losing a minute. ' I am tired,' answered Ida laconically. ' Yes, I suppose you are ; but you don't mean to lie in bed and think about it, surely ? Here, I've brought you a beat-up egg. You take it, and then get up and get out of this close room. It's enough to give any one a headache.' Her tone was not unkind, she had not for gotten her brother's words ; but Ida chose to take offence. ' Thank you,' she said in as icy a tone as she could command. ' My journey has tired me very much ; I do not feel the room close, and I prefer to lie still a little longer.' ' Oh, you do, do you ? And I suppose you think that if you prefer a thing, that's reason enough for your doing it ? No, no, Miss Ida, I'll have none of that nonsense here.

You'd better make up your mind at once who's mistress in this house, and see you remember it.' ' I don't know what right you have to speak to me in that way ' — Ida began ; but she was interrupted. ' Right ? Stuff and nonsense, girl ! Don't begin to talk in that style. The rule here is for children to obey their elders, and not stop to think whether they like it, either. Drink this quickly, and don't talk rubbish.' Alas for Ida's resolutions ! Miss Jean was not a person whom it was easy to disobey. She would not leave the room until she had opened a window, and had seen the business of dressing fairly begun. Then she went away, saying she would send one of the children in ten minutes ; so that even after she had gone, Ida did not feel it safe to linger. She knelt for a minute beside her bed, but she was too full of indignation and a sense of injury to pray, and she started to her feet quickly when again there wTas a knock at her door.