Really, Miss Chase," said Bob next morning, "I'm glad you didn't burst all your accomplishments on us at once. We might have been rather frightened of you."
Miss Chase smiled. She was looking very pale, and unlike her usual bright self.
"I hope I didn't do an awfully wrong thing," she said nervously; "but I had only two definite ideas—one was to save Nesta, the other not to let the man get away."
"You were perfectly right, Dorothy," Mr. Orban said; "there would never have been any end to the worry until he was caught. He may thank his stars I didn't find him out. I should not have been so merciful."
"So that is why you aimed at his ankle, Aunt Dorothy?" said Eustace. "It was clever of you to think of laming him."
"She says she did," said Bob, the tease.—"But are you quite sure, Miss Chase, that you really didn't aim at his head? For most women his ankle would have been wonderfully near the mark."
"I shall treat the aspersion with silent contempt," laughed Miss Chase.
"Where did you learn to shoot like that, Dorothy?" asked Mrs. Orban.
"Oh, I've patronized every shooting gallery that has come to the village for the last eighteen years, I should think," was the answer. "But, do you know, I feel most awfully remorseful about that poor fellow. He will be lame for a long time."
In the kitchen sat Manuel, the stable-boy, his leg bandaged and resting on a chair; for the midnight visitor on both occasions had been no other. He confessed to the first performance quite readily, and declared that this second had been at the instigation of Sinkum Fung, who promised always to get the reward for stolen goods, and give him half. Mr. Orban was not sorry to get hold of some definite reason for turning Sinkum Fung out of the place. He had long suspected him to be a cheat, and he wanted an Englishman in the store. But Manuel, when he was well, was to be allowed to retrieve his character, as he protested vehemently he would.
"You needn't worry about Manuel," said Bob. "We shall all be coming to you to shoot us, if you'll just bind us up as beautifully afterwards. Did you learn that in the shooting galleries too, in case you put the showman's eye out?"
Miss Chase really did treat this speech with silent scorn, and changed the subject.
The clearing up of the black-fellow mystery was a great relief to every one's mind.
"Though it comes rather late in the day, just when we are going away," said Mrs. Orban.
"Do you know, I don't feel a bit as if we werereally going," Miss Chase declared the very evening before their departure.
All the same, when the next day came, they started in the plantation schooner for Cooktown, accompanied by Bob and Mr. Orban, who were going to see them off.
The children found many excitements on the way; and when finally they were hoisted on board the big boat by means of a crane and basket, Peter's joy knew no bounds.
Nesta found it was certainly not very nice saying the last "good-byes," and she wished Eustace had not said anything to her about the possibility of not coming back to Queensland for years.
But when they were fairly off, and out of sight of waving hands and the two strong, kind faces that had been his ideals from his babyhood, even Eustace began to cheer up considerably. He had been very much like a bear with a sore head, rather to his mother's and Miss Chase's astonishment; for Eustace could generally be counted on as sensible and fairly serene in temper. To get short answers from him, to find him unreasonably uninterested in things, and to see him really snappy with Nesta and Peter, was something new and extraordinary.
"Well, good-bye, old chap," said Bob. "Let England see the best side of you, and be a credit to us."
The words rang in the boy's ears long after, and he pulled himself together with a sudden consciousness that he had not been much of a credit to any one for some days. He hoped Bob hadn't noticed it, for never, never could he explain to him that it was just the thought of leaving him that made going away sohard. If only he had not been possessed by the horrible feeling that he would never come back again, or at least not for years and years, it would have been different.
It was impossible not to become interested in the boat before very long—it was so huge, such a real house afloat, and so unusual. Peter revelled in going downstairs to bed. Becky wanted to play in what she called her "bunky-bye" instead of going to sleep. Nesta eyed some other families of children speculatively, wondering how much good they would prove as friends on the voyage. But Eustace only wanted to talk to the officers, especially the captain, of whom he determined to ask hundreds of questions about the machinery, how he knew his way, and the exact time the boat would reach every port, just to be able to check it off, and see how far he was right in his estimates.
The first day was a lovely one—a less likely one to be productive of adventures could scarcely be imagined.
"Calm as a duck-pond, isn't it, sir?" said one of the seamen to Eustace, who stood staring out to sea. "Yet I've seen some storms here too. It's a nasty bit of coast, with some ugly reefs about."
"Are there many wrecks here?" asked Eustace with interest.
"A goodish few," said the seaman; "but one doesn't look for them this kind of weather."
"No, of course not," said Eustace, with a great show of certainty, for he did not want the man to imagine he was scaring him.
Peter had been fairly irrepressible all day. Hewas always a fidget—made on springs, his father said—and the excitement carried him away entirely. He talked to every one indiscriminately, especially if they happened to be in uniform, and had no shyness in asking questions. He had a dozen friends in a very few hours. Afraid lest he should weary people, Mrs. Orban tried to keep him with her, and towards evening she said,—
"You might play with poor Becky a little, Peter. She will have to go to bed very soon, and I think it has been a duller day for her than for any one else."
Which was probably true, as Becky was too tiny to have the sustained interest in things the others had.
So Peter began a game of romps with Becky, which at first consisted of careering round and round and in and out between their mother's and aunt's chairs, Peter making the reiterated assertion, "I'll catch you, I'll catch you," Becky retorting with delighted chuckles, "Oo can't, oo can't!"
Mrs. Orban was just congratulating herself that Becky would be delightfully sleepy after the exercise, when the child made a sudden dive away from the chairs in her excitement, Peter behind her. The next minute she was rolling head over heels down the companion-ladder, down which it had evidently been her intention to go right side up, for a joke.
The yells that proceeded from the passage below assured every one that Becky was not killed; but when she was picked up it was discovered that one poor little wrist was terribly sprained. She must have fallen with it doubled under her. To put her to bed in such pain was out of the question; her mother's arms was the only place in which she couldfind any rest. So Mrs. Orban remained on deck in the cool with Miss Chase near her. The children's bedtime was quite forgotten; in fact, after the doctor had examined Becky and reported on her injuries, Nesta, Eustace, and Peter had disappeared—probably out of range of orders to go to bed. Their mother, when she gave them a thought, supposed them to be all together, and in her anxiety over Becky never realized how late it was getting.
It was quite dark. All the other children had disappeared. Most of the grown-ups who had begun the voyage together, and were friendly by now, were in the music-room below having a concert. The ship was utterly still but for the throb of the engines and the "swish" of the water as the bows cut through it. They were running at full speed, without a pitch or a roll, the sea as clear as glass, when all of a sudden there was an awful crash, and the boat shuddered from bow to stern.
In an instant the peaceful scene was changed to one of wildest confusion. There were cries of terror, hurried questions, rapid orders, the crew dashing hither and thither, and a stream of horror-stricken people began swarming up from below. It was awful, the intense darkness of the night adding to the confusion immeasurably.
"We've struck on a rock," Mrs. Orban heard some one say. "There isn't a minute to lose."
"Man the boats!" called a strident voice, and there was a running of ropes over pulleys, a creaking and a splashing not far away.
"Here you are, ma'am," a seaman said, taking her by the arm.
"Oh, the children!" said Mrs. Orban, holding back.
"We're here, mother," said Nesta's voice at her elbow.
"We'll see to them, ma'am," said the seaman; "you and the little one first."
He was almost rough in his kindness; and Mrs. Orban found herself swinging down into the boat below before she had time to make any protestations.
One after another, through pitch darkness into the only chance for safety, people were sent down. It was impossible to know who came—nothing could be seen or heard. The seamen above could not stop to pick and choose, but whoever they could lay hands on went.
Then came a hoarse cry—the boat was becoming overcrowded, the crew pushed off, and away they went with a bound at every stroke of the oars. To Mrs. Orban it was a hideous nightmare of awful anxiety. She could not tell whether all her children and her sister were with her or not. Her one ray of hope was that as they had apparently been all standing close together, the others must have been put in after her. But people had rushed so the moment they knew the boats were lowered, there was an awful possibility the children had been swept aside. They were certainly not near her, for she called their names and Dorothy's again and again, and there was no answer.
The men had not been rowing for seven minutes when there was a sudden awful sound behind them, and the boat plunged and rocked as if she were a living thing gone mad with terror.
"Oh, what was that?" Mrs. Orban cried, and the question ran from mouth to mouth.
"The ship," answered a solemn voice with a break in it; "she's gone under, poor thing. Must have been ripped from bows to stern."
The silence that followed was dreadful. How many boats had got away? Who was left on board? There was not one in the boat who had not a thought of agonized pity for the poor souls left behind.
It was so unexpected; every one was so unprepared. Who could suppose that with a sea as calm as a mill-pond a great vessel could strike on a rock and sink in less than seven minutes?
Afterwards, when the matter came to be investigated, it was discovered that theCorahad run on to a coral reef unmarked in the charts. Coral reefs form with extraordinary rapidity, and are infinitely dangerous, because they are so sharp as to cut like razors. The loss of theCorawas no one's fault; but that fact was of but little comfort to those whose friends went down in her.
The boat pulled steadily on awhile, then paused, for no one could be certain where she lay as regarded the shore.
"Easy, mates," said the man in command. "We must hang about till there's a gleam of light to give us our bearings, or we shall go down like that poor thing over there."
In the hush that fell it was possible to hear each other speak. People began to question who was in the boat with them.
"Eustace, Nesta, Peter, are you there?" cried Mrs. Orban.
"Yes, mother; yes, mother," she heard, and her heart bounded with thankfulness.
"And you, Dorothy?" she forced herself to say.
But to this there was no answer.
"Children," Mrs. Orban said, "isn't your aunt there?"
"I don't know," Eustace said; "she wouldn't come before us."
There could be no doubt that Miss Chase was not there.
The first streak of daylight fell upon a boatload of haggard men and women, afraid of, yet longing for, the day. It was discovered that they had come within half a mile of shore, and the crew pulled with a will till they beached the boat. One after another in the shadowy gloom the stiff, cramped figures landed. There were meetings, but no open rejoicings, because of those others left behind.
Eustace and Nesta clung to their mother, half sobbing.
"And Peter," she said—"where is Peter?"
"Peter?" said the other two blankly.
"I thought you said he was there?" said Mrs. Orban.
"We—we answered for ourselves," faltered Eustace. "I didn't notice he didn't speak."
The boat was empty now. Groups of shivering, unstrung people stood about, utterly incapable of thinking what to do next. But Peter was not there—nor was Dorothy.
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The stranded party was much in need of a leader till one of the crew volunteered the information that some miles higher up the coast there was a bêche-de-mer station where they would probably get some means of communicating with the rest of the world, and at least find food, of which every one was much in need. Bêche-de-mer fisheries are a feature of the coast, the bêche-de-mer being a huge sea-slug, thought to be a great delicacy.
This particular station was owned by some half-caste Portuguese, and worked by a mixture of aborigines and Malays, a most unpromising and ruffianly-looking set. However, they received the unhappy boatload quite civilly, promised that a messenger should be dispatched across country to the nearest civilized centre, and provided a good meal of salt junk, sweet potatoes, rice, and tea. It did not matter to the exhausted men and women that they had to eat off tin plates, drink out of tin pannikins, and that the food was more roughly prepared and served than any they had ever tasted before.
They camped under some trees for the meal; andmany sad eyes looked towards the great calm sea, where not a trace of last night's tragedy was to be seen. In the distance there was the sail of an outgoing vessel—one of the bêche-de-mer boats off on a several months' trip. Besides that, there was just one tiny speck, not so far out as the sail, but much smaller.
"It's a boat," said the captain of the station, a swarthy Portuguese. He had been watching the speck for some time through a telescope. "So far as I can make out it is something of the same build as yours."
There was instant excitement. Could it be another of the ship's boats?
It seemed an eternity before the boat came close enough to discover that she did indeed belong to the ill-fatedCora. The crowd on the beach was speechless before she pulled in to shore and her worn-out occupants were disembarked.
Amongst the anxious watchers were Mrs. Orban, with the fretful, feverish Becky in her arms, and Nesta and Eustace. But though they pressed forward and saw every man, woman, and child that landed, there was no comfort for them. Miss Chase and Peter had not come. There was but one interpretation to put on this—they had never left the ship.
"Any more boats likely to come?" asked a woman whose husband was missing.
"No, lady," said a sailor, shaking his head pitifully. "They only got one more out, and she was overcrowded and swamped. There was no time for anything."
There is no describing the misery of the day that followed—the terrible blankness for many, the haunting recollection that all had of the nightmare experience.
The men at the station were as kind as they could be in their rough way. The sailors who had manned the boats set to work to arrange some comforts for the women and children, improvising hammocks for them to lie in, as sleeping in the grass was dangerous on account of snakes and other disagreeables.
Poor little Becky spent a day of weeping, for her wrist was very painful. She needed all Mrs. Orban's attention, which was perhaps fortunate for the poor lady—it gave her less time for brooding over her terrible loss. Nesta cried herself nearly silly, and then fell asleep in a hammock that a kindly old sailor prevailed on her to try.
Eustace was too restless to settle down. He spent his time hovering about his white-faced, desolate-looking mother. The moment inaction began to tell on him and make him feel sleepy he went away for a while, and paced up and down by the water's edge to rouse himself. However useless his presence, he could not bear to leave his mother lonely and unwatched; it seemed heartless to forget her and her sorrows in sleep when she could take no rest.
"She might want something, or perhaps she would like to speak," he argued, "or she may cry presently; and there mustn't be no one to comfort her."
But Mrs. Orban asked for nothing for herself, only water now and then to bandage Becky's wrist. She took the food when it was given her, but ate verylittle. Whatever she was thinking about, she did not speak of her trouble, but inquired after Nesta, and whether she and Eustace had had plenty of food and felt no symptoms of chill or fever.
"I wish father or Bob would come quick," thought the boy helplessly; "we're no good. She is only thinking about taking care of us all the time; and I don't know how to look after her. It would have been better if I had been drowned instead of Aunt Dorothy; she would have known what to do."
He was doing one of his violent pacings up and down, and every turn backwards or forwards he had to change his course, for the tide was running in fast. The sea fascinated him; he could not help watching it, especially now when all sorts of bits of wreckage were beginning to float in—lengths of rope, a life-belt or two, and things belonging to theCora'sdeck. The men from the station were watching with the sailors and hauling things in to land.
"Any bodies that went down will be carried by the under current into the next bay," Eustace heard the bêche-de-mer owner explaining to theCora'screw.
"Well, my name's not Swaine," said an old sailor with a telescope, "if that isn't one coming now."
There was a thrill of excitement, an immediate demand for the telescope, as every one pressed forward.
"It will be a broken spar," said the bêche-de-mer captain. "I've been here fifteen years and there's never such a thing happened yet."
"I'm going out in one of the boats, mate," said the old sailor resolutely. "Who is coming with me?"
There were many volunteers at once, and the boat was launched.
Eustace remained as if frozen to the spot. He could just see the log-like thing lying upon the water, gently tossed by the tiny waves that were slowly, slowly bearing it to shore. It certainly looked no bigger than a broken spar, and very much that shape as, the boat drawn up alongside, two sailors leant over and lifted it in.
It was all Eustace could do to make himself stay until the boat's return, and he covered his face as the burden was gently lifted ashore.
"It's all right, youngster," said a kindly voice at his elbow, one of the older sailors; "he is alive—only unconscious. It's a miracle; but there, miracles do happen, say what you will."
The news made all the difference to Eustace, and he pressed round with the rest.
"Here," said one of theCora'screw, catching sight of him suddenly, "make way for this laddie—it's his own brother."
In utter bewilderment Eustace felt himself forced to the centre of the crowd, and there, with a man kneeling beside him trying restoratives, lay Peter, with a life-belt round him, his face ashen, and his fair hair all sodden—but he was living. They said he was alive, but certainly he did not look it.
Eustace turned, fought his way madly through the press, and dashed up the beach straight to the trees where his mother sat bending over Becky.
"Hush," she said warningly; "I am just getting her off to sleep."
The quiet voice pulled the boy up just in time,before he had blurted out his news in all its crudeness.
"Mother," he said instead, "let me hold Becky—I can really. Peter will want you."
Mrs. Orban neither started nor changed colour; she just stared at Eustace curiously, and said inquiringly,—
"Peter?"
"Yes, mummie, Peter," Eustace said in a shaking voice. "He is unconscious, but he will want you when he opens his eyes."
He held out his arms for Becky; and Mrs. Orban rose and went as if she were dreaming, leaving him standing there with the baby.
It was a very long time before Peter knew that he wanted his mother. Terror and the exposure in the water for so many hours had done their work, and even when the little fellow recovered consciousness he was too ill to realize anything at all.
Every one was very kind to the Orbans. The poor lady who had lost her husband took entire charge of Becky; other fellow-passengers offered to help with Peter, who needed nursing night and day. The survivors from the wreck clung together, and found some comfort in helping each other. The people of the station were very attentive and good; but the relief party from Cooktown was hailed with thankfulness, for there were of course many discomforts and unpleasantnesses. The blacks had a disagreeable habit of prowling about in the night and peeping at their guests as they tried to sleep in the impromptu hammocks. The food was coarse and monotonous; the men rough, and uncouth in their ways.
When Eustace saw his father he felt a great burden lifted from his shoulders; his powerlessness to help his mother did not matter any more; no one could comfort her like his father. Then there was Bob; he would help the whole family to keep up in his usual splendid way!
Fortunately Mr. Orban and Bob had not yet left Cooktown when the news of the disaster arrived. They hastened to the bêche-de-mer station on getting Mrs. Orban's message, without the least knowledge whom they would find of their own party; and after the first explanations were over, no one could speak of the cloud shadowing the joy of meeting. To Eustace's infinite surprise, Bob, to whom he had looked for so much, failed him utterly—he could not rouse himself, let alone other people.
The survivors of the wreckedCorawere carried by steamer to Cooktown, and Mr. Orban took his family to the best hotel, for no plans could be made till Peter was better.
Alone with Eustace, Nesta gave vent to her feelings very often.
"Eustace," she said, "wasn't it queer Aunt Dorothy saying the very day before we left she didn't feel a bit as if we were going to England? Do you remember?"
Eustace replied with a kind of grunt. He had not words for every emotion as Nesta had.
"And it seems so horrid," she proceeded chokily, "to know nothing about what happened to her or even how it happened. If only some one could tell us!"
"What's the good of talking when no one can?"said Eustace gruffly. "I can't think why you do. You only make yourself cry."
The first person to speak of Miss Chase without tears was Peter. He was lying in their private sitting-room, and suddenly he said,—
"I say, where's Aunt Dorothy?"
He had asked before, but in his weakness the subject had easily been changed.
"She is not here, dear," said Mrs. Orban.
"That's funny," said Peter, in his old talkative way; "she distinctly said she was coming."
Bob got up from a deep chair and stood, with his back to the room, looking out of the window.
"Did she, Peter?" said Mr. Orban quickly. "When?"
"Why, on the boat," said Peter; "when she put the life-belt round me."
"Oh, she put the life-belt round you, did she?" said Mr. Orban. "And what did she say?"
Every one leant forward eagerly. It was the first time Peter had shown any inclination to talk, and no one had guessed he could possibly know anything of Miss Chase.
"She said," was his clear reply, "'That's right, Peter Perky. Now mind you float; don't struggle, but lie on your back.'—Bob," he broke off, "lucky you taught me to float, wasn't it?"
"Yes, yes," said Bob; "never mind about that. Go on about Dorothy."
Eustace stared at his back in wonder. For the first time in his life he heard Bob irritable.
"She said," Peter went on obediently, "'Don't be frightened; I am coming too.'"
"Well?" prompted Mr. Orban.
"Then she took me up, and we jumped overboard. I don't know what happened next."
"Try to think," said Bob in a hard voice.
"I can't," said Peter; "everything was noise and blackness. Ask Aunt Dorothy; she'll tell you."
There was a solemn hush—so solemn that Peter stared round in amazement at the grave faces. Bob turned and walked heavily out of the room. Nesta buried her head in her hands.
"Why, what's the matter?" asked Peter sharply.
He had to be told then, and he wept as if his heart would break; but he could remember nothing after the jump into the sea. It appeared that he was all by himself at the other side of the ship, very unhappy because he thought it was all his fault Becky had been hurt. Then came the crash, and he was terrified. He was wondering what had happened, when Aunt Dorothy came running towards him, crying, "Peter, Peter, where are you?" And then followed the putting on of the life-belt. It was so easy to picture her talking to him all the time, to reassure him, in that quick, cheery way of hers.
"O Eustace," Nesta said afterwards, "wasn't she splendid? I guess Bob must be sorry he teased her so now."
"Pooh," said Eustace, "that was only his fun. Aunt Dorothy knew it."
But Nesta could not stand teasing herself, and was sure no one liked or understood it.
"I don't know," she said; "she used to get red sometimes. And I'm not so sure Bob did mean itall in chaff. He has a real down-on-anything-English. I mean to ask him some day what he thinks of English girls' pluck now."
"If you do," said Eustace, with sudden ferocity, "I'll never speak to you again."
Nesta stared at him in dismay.
"Why ever?" she asked dully. "Wouldn't he like to talk about her? Didn't he like her, really?"
"Like her!" Eustace exclaimed. "Oh, you little stupid! Didn't you see him when Peter was telling us about her? Didn't you hear Bob then? Can't you understand?"
Nesta stared in blank silence for some seconds.
"Oh, I say!" she gasped, "I didn't know! I never thought of that! I—I wasn't looking at him."
"I wasn't looking at anything else," said Eustace; "but I guess he wouldn't like to think any one knew, so we must hold our tongues. But I couldn't have you going and asking him blundering questions."
"I won't," said Nesta, with unwonted meekness. "When did you guess?"
"Only then," said Eustace; "but now I can remember lots of things. Bob always liked talking to her better than any one. Bob didn't want her to go. Bob asked her to come back."
He broke off short and slammed out of the room. It was as bad to think of as it had been to bear his mother's helpless loneliness; for as he could do nothing then for her, he could do nothing now for Bob.
It was a matter of conjecture between the twins what was likely to happen next. They really expected that, when Peter was well enough for therough journey, they would all go back to the plantation, and settle down again for ever and ever.
A telegram had been dispatched with the bad news to Mr. and Mrs. Chase. The reply was an urgent appeal for them all to go on as first intended.
Leaving everything on the plantation in Bob's care, Mr. Orban decided to take his wife and family home himself. It would not be the joyful home-coming they had anticipated; and Mrs. Orban would need him, he knew.
"We must do what we can for the poor dear old people," Mr. Orban explained to Bob. "Dorothy was their baby. It is a terrible loss to them."
"To every one," said Bob briefly.
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In the length and breadth of England there could hardly have been found a more lovely little property than Maze Court. There were larger houses in the neighbourhood, with more extensive grounds; but as Brenda Dixon stood on the terrace and gazed down towards the good old English park she felt a real glow of pride and pleasure in belonging to such a place. It was the sort of feeling she had whenever she brought a new school friend home for the holidays.
Beside her stood Herbert—long, lean, and very gentlemanly in his flannels. It was one of his sister's great joys that he always looked a gentleman in everything.
She was a striking-looking girl herself, with features a little too pronounced for accurate beauty; but this very fault had the effect of making her handsome. She had little personal vanity—mere features she cared nothing for—but pride of birth and of the old home were deeply rooted in her.
"I think Nesta and Eustace ought to be surprised," she was thinking; "they won't have seen anything like it. It will seem so big and splendid to them after the kind of life they have had."
Brenda was never very sure how to picture the Orbans' existence in Queensland. There was a touch of pettiness about it—a feeling of poverty and "hugger-muggerness," if one may coin such a word. The thought of her uncle going daily to his work in his shirt-sleeves; of her aunt helping in the housework; her cousins brought up just anyhow, without a governess or any schooling, shocked her sensibilities and gave vivid local colouring to her ideas about the Orbans. Those were the sort of details she would never have referred to at school.
And now she and Herbert were waiting for the arrival of the travellers, whom their grandparents had driven to the station to meet.
"Oh dear," she said with a sigh, "how I wish I didn't wish they weren't coming! If they are fearfully eccentric, all the neighbourhood will be talking about it in a week, and thinking it funny we have such relations. One can't explain to every one that they really are ladies and gentlemen gone to seed, can one?"
"Not exactly," said Herbert. "I jolly well hope you won't try; it would be beastly bad form. Of course if one had a fellow staying in the house one might have to explain."
"I simply couldn't ask any one," Brenda said. "It would be all over the school next term my uncle was a common labourer, and my cousins savages—or something!"
"Nice sort of friends you seem to have," said Herbert. "Is that a girl's usual way?"
"Well," said Brenda, with some asperity, "boys aren't any better, if you should have to explain matters to a chum of yours."
"That's different," Herbert said; "one doesn't want to give a bad impression. What I hope is that Eustace isn't an awful little muff. I expect he is, though—can't help being when he has never been amongst any boys. It will have to be knocked out of him."
"Aunt Dorothy said he was a very nice little chap," Brenda quoted, and then her voice broke, so that she could not go on.
It was the beginning of the summer holidays, and both she and Herbert were feeling the death of Miss Chase most dreadfully. It had been bad enough when she left before the end of the winter holidays. Again at Easter the dullness of the house without her had known no bounds. But now, when they knew she would never be with them again, her very name choked them; they could scarcely speak of her, because her absence proved at every turn all that her presence had meant to them and to every one. How they had hated Australia when she left! How much more they hated it now and everything to do with it—even the coming of the cousins! Australia seemed the root of all evil—the cause of Aunt Dorothy's death.
"Aunt Dorothy was a brick," said Herbert jerkily; "she saw niceness in people whatever they were like. But girls don't really know when fellows are muffs."
"I don't know about Eustace," said Brenda, "but Nesta looked fearfully long-legged and queerly dressed in those snapshots Aunt Dorothy did."
"I hope she won't want to kiss me when she says 'How-do-you-do,'" said Herbert; "that is all I mind about her. But if that kid Eustace fancies he isgoing to hang around with me perpetually, he will find himself mistaken. I couldn't be bothered."
"But we shall have to look after them properly, and treat them just as we would any other visitors," Brenda said anxiously; "we can't sort of leave them to themselves, you know."
"Of course," said Herbert rather testily; "what do you take me for? I hope I shan't behave like a cad in my own house! But that is just the nuisance of it: they'll be visitors without being visitors, and they'll be here such an awful time. Thank goodness, there will be term time to look forward to!"
"If only Aunt Dorothy—" began Brenda.
"Oh, shut up," said Herbert roughly. Then added more gently, "I think the carriage has just turned in at the park gate. Listen."
All through the voyage Eustace and Nesta had been picturing this very day—this very hour. The parting with Bob and the farewell to home necessarily dropped into the background of their thoughts; the foreground was full of expectations. Now that they could realize they were on their way to the fulfilment of what had originally been the dream of their lives, all the old feeling of longing possessed them. At last they would see England! At last they would know what real "home" was like—their mother's old home, to which she had given them such a sense of belonging by all the tales they knew so well!
That England was not what they expected was natural enough. Mrs. Orban had never pretended to describe England, but simply her own particular corner of it on the borders of Wales. Leaving theship was all bustle and rush, but during the long train journey there was plenty of time to look about, and English scenery struck all three children as most peculiar.
"Why, it's just like a map!" exclaimed Peter, as he knelt up at a window. "I'm certain if I was up in a balloon it would look like a map with all those funny little hedges."
"I think it would look like a patchwork quilt," said Nesta. "Father, why do people mark their land out into such funny little bits?"
So spoke the children, used to wide tracts of land without boundaries, hundreds of acres without fence or railing—such country as England boasts of in miniature only on its wildest moors.
The twins were speechless and almost suffocated with excitement when the train at last ran into a little country station, and Mr. Orban said briskly,—
"Here we are!"
"There they are!" exclaimed Mrs. Orban, with a little sob in her voice.
"Who? who?" yelled Peter, dashing from the other side of the carriage.
"Grannie and grandpapa," answered Mrs. Orban.
"Oh, where?" said Peter, as the train stopped. The children knew Bob Cochrane's grandfather and grandmother—a very comfortable, homely old pair of the typical "grannyish" type, rather bent, rather deaf, and always referred to as "the old people." Trixy invariably rushed at them when they came, and called them "the dear old pets."
There was no one the least "grannyish" or cosy-lookingon the platform. Only a very erect, elderly gentleman with silver hair, and a lady who might have been the Queen, so dignified, so stately was she. They were the sort of people the twins had read of but never seen.
A hush fell over the children as they scrambled out of the carriage after their mother, and waited till their grandparents were ready to notice them. Then they each received a kiss and a handshake which made them instantly feel that nothing would be more impossible than to rush upon this grandfather and grandmother and call them either "dear," "old," or "pets."
All through the drive in the old-fashioned waggonette the sense of unfamiliarity grew as the children stared—the twins furtively, Peter openly—at Mr. and Mrs. Chase.
It seemed to the twins such a queer arrival, and so different to anything they had expected, that they could scarcely believe it was real. "Why," thought Nesta, "the Cochranes make much more fuss over us when we go to see them for a day." But Eustace's thoughts were too confused for description.
The conversation was funny and jerky, and just the sort of things strangers say to each other. Mrs. Chase hoped they were not very tired, and that they had had a nice journey. And Mr. Chase said it was a hotter summer than there had been for the last ten years, and so on.
"Oh dear," thought Eustace wearily, as they drove into the park, "how different it would have been if Aunt Dorothy had been here!"
But still there was the place to be interested in,and when his mother said, "This is home, Eustace," he roused himself, and looked about him.
Even a Colonial child, accustomed to vastness, could not help admiring such a place as this, full of fine old trees spreading over the short cropped turf. The park was hilly, and swept away to right and left towards thick woods.
Then, as the carriage reached a bend and came into full view of the great house, standing gray, massive, and strong in the evening light, the children's hearts did thrill with pride. This was something better than their own slenderly-built, iron-roofed house in Queensland.
"There are Herbert and Brenda waiting for us," said Mrs. Chase, "but I don't see nurse. I have got you a charming woman as nurse for Becky and Peter. You can't be tied down to looking after the children, you know. I want you to be free to enjoy yourself."
Peter started as if he had been shot.
"Me have a nurse!" he exclaimed. "I don't want looking after."
Eustace and Nesta glanced quickly at their mother. Becky with a nurse! This was something extraordinary. And mother "not to be tied down to looking after the children." When had it ever been a tie to mother to look after them? Such a strange idea had never occurred to any of them before, and all in their own separate ways resented it.
Mr. Chase looked at Peter in surprise.
"When I was your age," he said gravely, "I had what was given me, no matter what I wanted."
"We've got to think about your mother's wantsfirst," said Mrs. Chase, "and she deserves a holiday after all these years."
"Quite right," said Mr. Orban; "she needs one badly. I am thankful she should have it."
There was no time to say more, for just then the carriage pulled up under the fine old portico.
Again there was that sense of stiffness and awkwardness as the Dixons came forward to greet their cousins; there was no triumphant entry and welcome to the old home. Mrs. Chase drew Mrs. Orban in; Mr. Chase took Mr. Orban; Becky, sleepy and perfectly placid, was whisked away by a grave-faced, elderly woman who said, "Come along, sir," to Peter, and disappeared through a red baize door, whither the little fellow had to follow.
"We're to have meals with the little ones in the schoolroom," said Brenda, to whom this new rule was not pleasing. "Come and get ready."
Now that she was a schoolgirl, and only home for holidays, she had all her meals with her grandparents except late dinner; but the arrival of the Orbans put an end to this. It was felt that the perpetual presence of such a crowd of youngsters at meals would never do. To Brenda and Herbert the change was typical of the whole difference these unwelcome guests would make in their lives.
"Couldn't we just have one look round first?" said Nesta, staring about her in proprietary admiration at the walls of the great hall, where hung the horns and weapons, the family portraits and trophies, of bygone Chases. "I would like just to see the secret chamber. Let me see—it must be through that door and up some steps—"
She stopped inquiringly.
"No, it isn't," Brenda said, with a look of surprise; "you go just the other way. But there isn't time now; Herbert and I will show you everything to-morrow."
Nesta looked taken aback.
"I don't expect I shall need much showing," she said, with a little air of importance.
Her cousins both stared at her.
"You certainly will," said Herbert decidedly; "it isn't at all an easy house to find one's way about in, I can tell you. You would go blundering into all sorts of places you oughtn't to."
"Places we oughtn't to?" repeated Eustace in bewilderment.
"Yes, the servants' quarters, you know," said Herbert, as if he were talking to a child of eight.
"Aren't you allowed to go into the servants' quarters?" asked Nesta wonderingly.
"Oh, we'reallowed, of course," said Herbert; "but one doesn't go. I dare say things were rather mixed out with you, though."
"What do you mean?" asked Eustace abruptly.
"Oh, you had to rough it rather, hadn't you?" said the elder boy. "I had a sort of idea you all had meals together."
"With the servants?" questioned Eustace.
"Yes," said Herbert, with perfect gravity.
Eustace flushed deeply.
"Oh, of course," he said, "coolies and every one had meals together. We all ate out of a trough."
"Eustace!" exclaimed Nesta in dismay, wondering what had happened to him all of a sudden.
The cousins stared at him blankly, hardly realizing for a moment what he had said.
"Well, it is just as sensible as saying we had meals with the servants," said the boy, in such a tone of disgust that Herbert was left in no doubt as to his meaning.
"You needn't be cheeky, youngster," he said; "you can't expect me to know your habits, can you? I do know people in the Colonies can't pick and choose their company, and have to make friends with cowboys and bushrangers, if they want any society."
"What!" shouted the twins. "Who told you that?"
"Oh, I've read it somewhere," Herbert said carelessly. "It said 'there are no class distinctions in Colonial life. Men and women meet as equals.'"
"Then it is rot," said Eustace briefly. "I don't know how you could believe it. Our friends were all gentlemen and ladies. Australians are as particular as you are whom they have for friends."
"My good kid," said Herbert aggravatingly, "you don't know everything, and you haven't been everywhere in the Colonies, you know. But it really doesn't matter, does it? We were only saying one doesn't do that sort of thing in England. Come and wash for tea."
The small passage of arms left neither boy much pleased with the other. Herbert foresaw that Eustace was likely to be uppish and cheeky, and would want keeping in his place. Eustace thought Herbert gave himself airs, and more than justified the criticism he had long accorded his portrait. He did not look it in real life, for Herbert was manly and unaffected inappearance. "All the same," thought Eustace, "he's a silly ass."
Not so much what was said as the tone in which it was said left an unpleasant impression upon both new-comers. They had planned together that the very first thing they would do when they arrived would be to rush all over the house and see everything. Nesta declared she would not be able to sleep a wink for excitement if she did not. It had never occurred to them there would be barriers of any sort. Nothing in their own free lives hitherto had suggested baize doors through which they "ought not to go."
Somehow those baize doors were suggestive of everything irksome and disappointing; they were of a piece with all the other changes which the twins began to feel from the outset.
Before the evening was over Eustace and Nesta had grasped something of what coming to England really meant: it seemed a case of shut doors all round—there was no feeling of home about it. Rather, Eustace reflected bitterly, it was like prison, and all the freedom of existence was gone. It appeared that here the grown-ups lived in one part of the house, the children in another. There were certain times at which the drawing-room or dining-room might be visited, otherwise the grown-ups must not be interrupted. Becky and Peter were provided with a sort of jailer, whose business it also was to give all the young people their meals, and their mother seemed utterly ungetatable.
Life on the veranda always together, always in the thick of everything that was going on, withno shut doors anywhere, had ill-prepared them for this.
Then there were Herbert and Brenda.
Strange to say, Eustace and Nesta had not thought of them as anything but some one to play with—other children staying in the same house as themselves. That they were really the son and daughter of the place had never occurred to the new-comers. That they would play the part of host and hostess, and treat the Australians entirely as visitors, was a shock to Eustace and Nesta. Not thus did they expect to be received into their mother's old home, which she had always taught them to look on as their own.
Before the end of the day, however, they had realized this one thing very vividly—Herbert and Brenda had lived here all their lives, but the Orbans were outsiders, their very coldly-welcomed guests.
"It is delightful," said Mrs. Orban, as she dressed for dinner, "to think of the children getting to know each other at last. I do hope they will be happy."
"All the happier for being thrown so much together," said Mr. Orban. "We couldn't help it, of course, but ours have been thrown far too much with older people. This sort of thing is much healthier for them."
"It is all hateful," wept Nesta to her pillow that night. "Herbert is a bully, and Brenda is a stuck-up pig—and I wish we had never come."
And Eustace did not close his eyes for hours.
"Bob was quite right," he thought. "English people are horrid; they freeze you right up the minute yousee them. But oh! I believe it would be better if only there was a veranda. They do live in such a queer way, all divided up like this."
Back into his mind there came the refrain of one of Bob's songs—the one he had sung to Aunt Dorothy the day of her arrival. He went to sleep with the tune ringing in his head,—