JACK RUSSELL’S CHRISTMAS

Timaru Herald, Volume CXXXVII, Issue 19374, 24 December 1932, Page 9

JACK RUSSELL’S CHRISTMAS

before Christmas Jack pg||t Russell came into the little bush township and “treated " ' the boys.” Hail-fellow-well-met was Jack, and well-liked, giving the glad hand impartially to the horny hand of labour or the soft palm of the brain worker.

Jack was a foreman of a road-mak-ing gang, pushing its way grimly inch by inch through the stubborn forest, over the bush-clad hills. He was apparently the most open-handed and open-hearted of men, ready to laugh, to ride, to dance, to flirt where opportunity offered, but the observent sensed something behind his gay insouciance, his careless laughter, for there was sometimes a reckless ring to that laughter, a rather desperate gaiety. He was an unmistakable Englishman in speech and bearing—“A gentleman born,” even his rough mates decided. “A bit of a scallywag once, but no harm in him,” the shrewd padre opinioned, but Jack’s lips were sealed as to his past. No one knew that as a brilliant boy, fresh from college, he had earned the* right to the C.E. after his name, though the engineer who had planned the road works on which he was now engaged sometimes pondered thoughtfully after a talk with his foreman, who had graduated to his present position by way of hard and practical labour with pick and shovel. For, locked in Russell’s breast was the memory of the last scene in his old English home, when his father, white ( to the lips with outraged pride, had ordered him out of the house after some wild, boyish escapade, which had taken a far more serious turn than had ever been planned by its graceless young originators.

“You have disgraced our name —my name—and broken your mother's heart,” his father had said with stern passion, “and now the best thing you can do is to clear out to the colonies and make a fresh start. I’ll make you an allowance, so long as you—”

Bue the boy had blazed forth with equal passion, declaring that he did not want a penny of his father’s money, and, with a hasty good-bye to his ing mother, had flung out of the house. His heart was bitter against his father, who had refused to listen to any explanation or extenuation, and sore, too, with his mother, because she had only wept helplessly, and had attempted no defence of him. Time, however, had softened his grievance against her, for, as he cooled, he realised what a litle, soft, loving creature she had always been, and how completely his harsh and autocratic father had always dominated her.

Jack had eventually found his way to New Zealand, but, beyond a brief letter to his mother, telling her of his safe arrival, he had held no communication with his own people for five years. He had worked hard with his hands at anything which had come his way, and was content enough with his way of life and the people he now companioned with, for ambition seemed dead in him. But at times the old bitterness assailed him, and he would think of his home, the mellow old brick mansion he had loved, of his mother, with her soft, brown hair, without a thread of grey in it, of which he had been so proud, and of his father’s ward— Aileen.

Oh, well—he would shrug impatiently—there had really been nothing in that affair, nothing definite, and no word spoken. Only that he had somehow always thought of her —when the time should come for him to settle down into a steady old stick, with a wife and responsibilities—as being very definitely in the picture, the pretty, graceful mistress of his home. Well, that was all over. She had probably married long ago some steady, respectable chap—a far better man and husband than he would have made her. Somehow, though, in all these years, though he had dallied here and there in more or less serious affairs, the thought of Aileen, with her grave, sweet eyes and her delicate little face, had always kept him from “falling over the edge,” as he expressed it, and he was still a carefree bachelor.

When he was not on the road he lived alone in a little one-roomed shack up on Turntable Mountain, so called because of the winding nature of the road, which snaked about its bushy flanks. He was bound there now, after he had celebrated the season with the boys, for there was one peculiarity about Jack. Though he rode far and wide to attend any jolly country gathering, and was in much demand at dances and picnics, being a favourite with the girls, he always spent his Christmas alone in his little shack on the windy top of Turntable.

Sometimes he jibed fiercely at this sentimentality in himself, but the memory of his last Christmas “at dome” always stayed with him, the memory of Aileen in her billowing white frock, with her wide, sweet eyes, beneath the gold-brown lashes, her little golden head almost touching his shoulder, as they swayed in the dance. He had almost spoken then, but some unexpressed feeling of boyish reverence had restrained him asking her the question which was burning on his lips and in his eyes in this gay atmosphere of bright lights, frivolous music and gliding feet.

He had not seen her again before the shattering of his little world came, and with a boy’s exaggerated pride, the word “disgrace” had stung and burned, so that he had left England without a back-ward look.

“I say, Jack, there’s a new school marm up on the hill,” said one of his companions in the bar. “Spendin’ Christmas up there with a sick pal, I heard.”

“That’s a God-forsaken spot for a girl to spend Christmas,” remarked another. “Aren’t any of the settler’s wives game to put her up—her and her pal?”

“Well, I did hear the Brownes asked her, but she wouldn’t go. Says the air up there is good for the sick kid, whoever she is,” was the reply.

Jack, starting on his long ride up to his lonely shack in the hills, thought of that lonely girl with the “sick kid” up in the bare little weather-board school-house. It was about five miles from his own shack, and had been built on the hillside with the idea of attracting settlement round it, but the area was too exposed, and most settlers preferred the shelter of the valleys. With a sudden thought Jack stopped at the store, though he had laid in his stores for the festive season, and bought chocolates, bon-bons, fruit and a rather heavy-looking cake, which he deposited in his saddle-bags, along with the mail he had collected for the farmers along his route. “Poor little kid,” he thought. “She’ll have a rotten Christmas. Guess I’ll ride across on Christmas morning and drop these parcels.”

Jack stopped at Browne's with the mail and was easily persuaded to stay and drink a cup of tea with the hospitable farmer and his wife.

“I hear there’s a new girl at the school-house,” he said, as he ate his cold mutton. “I thought of riding over on Christmas Day with a few things and wishing ’em a Merry Christmas.” “Girl!” exclaimed Mrs Browne, while the farmer guffawed. “Not much girl about her! Why she’s white-haired.” “I’ll go, all the same. I like old ladies,” said Jack stoutly.

“I asked her here for Christmas,” offered Mrs Browne, “but she said she had to keep the little girl she has with her very quiet. A daughter or niece, I believe. I’ve not seen her.” “Well,” said Jack, with a smile, “I’ll go. I like kids.” Soon after Jack took his leave, and rode on slowly u£> the winding Turntable, a narrow road, between towering masses of bush. He paused on the first ridge, looking down to where

ISABEL M. CLUETT

the lonely little school-house stood in its small clearing. He had helped to fell and clear away the bush for the site a few years ago, but now the tall teatree scrub and new growth was creeping up almost to the doors again, though the children’s restless feet had worn hard, smooth tracks through it.

“Queer choice for a woman to spend Christmas there,” he thought, “but perhaps I’m not the only one that likes a quiet Christmas, and there’s not a more gorgeous outlook anywhere,” he added, as he looked down on the dark, rolling masses of trees and giant, ferny growths, the river glancing silverbright in the distance, hill and hollow and winding creek chequering the landscape clear away to the ethereal blue mountains, hazy and dim now with the smoke of bush fires.

Jack turned off the road, urging his horse up a steep bridle-track, which considerably shortened the way to his shack. The day was lowering and breathless, with hanging clouds of smoke. On top of the hill he was accustomed to catch a clear, pure breath of air, but to-day even here the atmosphere was dry and lifeless and oppressive with the thick, smoky tang of burning vegetation. “Fires are early this year,” he muttered, “and, by jove, pretty near, too,” as he noticed a dense smoke cloud veiling the lower range. “Old Turntable’s all right so long as the wind doesn’t change.”

His two dogs and his sandy cat welcomed the home-comer rapturously, and after seeing to his horse, he ate his solitary meal and sat out on the little porch all the evening, smoking his pipe, the dogs snoozing at his feet, the cat on his knee. The moon rose, a rayless disc, red as blood through the smoky haze, and in the distance he could see tall, fiery pillars glowing sullenly through the darkness, the burning skeletons of lately-living trees, now like giant, incandescent candles. Beneath them all the lovely aisle o.f cool ferns, the wild green tangles of the undergrowth, with leaf and berry and blossom, were but smouldering heaps of grey ash and glowing cinder. The air seemed to grow more oppressive, and a light wind which had sprung up seemed only to thicken the brooding haze.

Jack Russell slept badly. Somehow he was restless. To-morrow would be Christmas Day, and Christmas always brought back thoughts of home. And then the talk of that “grey-headed woman” made him think of his mother

—not that the pretty little mater was grey-headed. Her hair was nut-brown and curled like a girl’s. By jove! how he would like to see her again. Hanged if he wouldn’t write to her, £ven though she had not replied to his first and last letter. Ten to one there was some good reason for that. He’d been behaving rather like a spoiled kid. Jack reflected ruefully. And he’d write to Aileen, too—probably married now, but still— Gad! what eyes she had, like blue periwinkles! His thoughts began to wander— “that lonely old woman with the sick child in the school-house—he liked old ladies —but no one could call the mater”—» then his rambling thoughts hazed off into uneasy dreams.

Jack woke to a dawn as grey as ashes and heavily oppressive. He stumbled out to the porch sleepily, and suddenly his head went back, nostrils expanded like a questing hound’s. The thick, sourish smell of smoke was more pronounced than ever, and, looking dawn the hillside, he saw the clouds nearer than ever before, and out of the rolling masses from time to time flickered lightning tongues of flame.

The wind had changed in the night, and the fire demon was marching down on the valley, with blood-red pennons waving. Even from here Jack could hear the crunching crackle of the flames seizing on the dry timber of old trees and the thick green of young foliage, where the suffocating smoke rolled acridly. He was safe enough here in his mountain eyrie, but the fire was sweeping down the hillside with incredible rapidity, and would soon reach the hillside where that woman and her sick child were alone and helpless. The man felt his mouth go dry. A woman—an old, whiteheaded woman—and a sick child. The words rang in his brain, and suddenly he thought of his own mother with a passion of longing he had not felt for years. He seemed to see that poor old white head flickering frantically here and there through the wild, rolling smoke and roaring fire, as she fought desperately to save her child. Feverishly he flung on his clothes, snatching a mouthful or two as he did so, and thrusting odds and ends of food into his pockets, the biscuits and chocolates and raisins he had bought tiie day before. If they escaped they would have need of food. If they escaped!

Soon he was on his horse, galloping at reckless speed down the steep slope, having sent his dogs back with drooping tails. Now he was skirmishing the burning bush; smoke and sparks rolled over him. He drew breath with difficulty in the acrid air, and the horse snorted and trembled violently.

“Steady! Steady!” he soothed the terrified animal, with quiet words. He must be somewhere near the schoolhouse now, and there were many bridle tracks beaten through the scrub by the feet of the children’s ponies. Finally he came on one of these tracks, like a little dark, smoky lane, leading through the blazing scrub, and, without hesitation he urged his horse onward. It plunged and backed, but finally went forward, wincing and snorting as the scorching brush touched his flanks. Suddenly a burning tree, like a great torch flung down, fell with a crash right across the path, and with a scream of terror the horse reared so violently that Jack was flung from the saddle, and when he sat up, dazed and shaken, he could hear the thunderous beat of hoofs dying away in the distance.

Fortunately the man was only bruised, and quickly he rose to his feet, and brushing away the sparks which clung to his clothing, he drew off his coat, and, enveloping his head and face in it, ran doggedly on his way. Somehow, not without painful burns, he surmounted the smouldering wreck which lay in his path. In after years liis most fearful dream was always of that wild race down that lane of fire, where on either hand flames

tossed their red and yellow plumes and roared exultantly.

And then suddenly a shifting of the smoke showed him the little schoolhouse. and he broke through the burning scrub, a wild, scorched, blackened figure, and sprang up the steps.

Someone with a bowed white head was sitting on the verandah with her face buried in her hands, and he bent over her and shook her, almost angrily.

"Are you mad, sitting here?” he cried. “You should have made for the road long ago. Where is the child?”

“Jack! Jack!” A shriek burst from the woman’s lips, the old white head was raised, the hands clasped tremulously. “Mother!*

Jack stood staring, white to the lips through his sooty grime. His mother! Th ealmost girlish roundness of the face he remembered was gone, the blue eyes were sunken, the brown hair white, but he knew her, and, with a smothered groan of tenderness, snatched her into his arms. No time now for questions or explanations. “Hurry! Hurry!” he said. “Soak two blankets in water. Where is that child?”

“Oh, Jack,” faltered his mother. “She was too weak to face the flames. I—l could not carry her, and I—l could not leave her.” Jack dashed into the house. In the living room a siflall figure was huddled up in a big armchair, hands tightly pressed over the face, which was buried in the cushions.

“Hurry!” cried Jack harshly. “Out of this!” And the slight figure stumbled to its feet. Out of that absolutely colourless face two big blue eyes filled with stark terror and dawning amazement gazed up at the man. For the space of a heart-beat those two stood and stared into each other’s startled faces, while the roar of the flames sounded like the stirring of a mighty wind. Then, without a sound, the girl dropped un-

conscious, and Jack caught her as she fell.

Aileen—Aileen! How feather-light she was, how wasted and weak!

“Oh, Jack, she’s dying!” cried his mother. “She has been so ill, and sick with fear of the fire.” “No! No! Better she should know nothing for a time. Get those rugs.” Swiftly he draped one dripping rug about his mother, and then, throwing the other one over his head, he drew the ends of it tightly about the girl in his arms. As they left the house a sea of tossing flame and lurid smoke seemed to surround them, and, with a low moan, his mother shrank back. “Come on! Come on!” he shouted merrily. “It looks bad, but there are tracks everywhere. Keep close to me.” Through the furious crackling of the burning scrub, the choking smokeclouds, the showers of sparks and flying pieces of blazing brush, he made his way, with the girl in his arms, choked, blinded, grasping, but contriving from time to time to croak a word of encouragement to the little old lady

bravely following. From sundry soft stirrings against his breast he knew the girl had regained consciousness, but for some time now she had lain so still that he feared lest she Tiad died in his arms from terror and exhaustion. Light

though she was, her weight was becoming an almost intolerable burden, and he knew they would never reach the road before the flames overtook them. Then he remembered they were not far from a deep, natural cave in the hillside, sai*i to be an old Maori burial place. With renewed hope he plodded on, and at last, reeling with exhaustion, with scorched hands and faces, they reached the cave mouth and stumbled !h‘. The space about them was low, but deep, with a penthouse overhang overhang, and, crawling as far as possible into the interior they were at last safe from the flames. A tiny spring welled up at the back of the cave, at which they knelt and drank. Aileen’s eyes were wide and tranquil as they dwelt on Jack's indescribably dirty but cheerful face. “I knew you would save us,” she murmured.

“Poor little girl!” muttered Jack. “And poor mater, too. What a Christmas! But”—with an effort at gaiety —“you shall have some kind of Christmas dinner.”

He produced nuts and raisins, biscuits and chocolates, and thankfully they took their simple meal crouching in the cave, while outside the flames raved and rioted, and the choking smoke billowed even into their refuge. There, as they huddled together, Aileen

fell asleep with her head on Jack’s knee, and his mother, her hand held

close in her son's, told her story in a low voice.

Jack's father was dead. The proud old man had failed in business. Nothing was saved out of the wreck of hri fortune, and even Aileen’s modest inheritance. which had been in his charge, was swallowed up. Unable to endure the bitterness of failure, the old man had given up hope, and within a month was dead.

Going through his papers afterwards, his widow had come across an unopened letter from her son, sent years before. Jack never received the letter she then sent, as he had long ago moved on from his old address. Aileen, who had always been delicate, became very ill, and the doctors recommended

a mild climate and a long sea voyage. With difficulty the two women found the passage money for their long trip to New Zealand in the hope of tracing Jack Russell.

“God sent me to this little place, Jack,” said his mother reverently. “I had to do something to keep us both until Aileen was strong enough to help, and I got the post of school mistress here. God has been good to us, in spite of everything.”

“Amen!” said Jack softly, and kissed the thin old hand clinging to his. and then glanced down at the sweet face on his knee. ‘‘She always loved you, my boy,” said his mother tenderly. “It nearly broka her heart when you left her without a word.” “I’ll—never leave her again," said Jack unsteadily. Next morning they were found by a search party that had been sept out to rescue the two women, and had found with horror only the smouldering ruins erf the school-house. Aileen had slept peacefully all night, and looked the least haggard of the three. This story ends to the chime of wedding bells, as so many others have done, mingled with the mellow song of Christmas bells beating out the old rhythm of "Peace on earth—goodwill to men."