CHAPTER VIIII HEAR STRANGE THINGS
DR. FIRTH appeared next day after breakfast and borrowed me, with the children, for the day. Mrs. McNab was immersed in writing, and seemed glad to let us go. She had shown real feeling over the news of Jack’s escape, and had come to my room at night to thank me for my small share in it. I had remarked that I was afraid she would blame me for letting him out of my sight: to which she had replied mournfully that if one had a hundred eyes it would be impossible always to keep Judy and Jack in their line of vision. Then she had drifted away.
We went off in high spirits, my own raised to the seventh heaven because Dr. Firth allowed me to drive. I had not had the wheel of a car in my hands since the good days when I used to drive father on his rounds; one of the bitterest moments of our poverty had been when we saw our beloved Vauxhall driven away by the fat bookmaker who had bought her. He couldn’t drive a bit, either: he scraped one mudguard at our very front gate. Dr. Firth’s car was a Vauxhall also, and it was sheer joy to feel her purring under one’s touch. We went for a fifty-mile run before we came back to his house for lunch.
The house was a fine old place, of deep-red brick, half smothered in Virginia creeper. Judy and Jack evidently knew their way about, and they promptly disappeared towards the stables, where two ponies were at their disposal. It was with difficulty that I retrieved them for lunch, which we ate at a table on the verandah, in a corner shut in by a wall of climbing roses. A delightful old housekeeper, motherly and gentle, fussed over us. The whole place breathed an atmosphere of home.
When we had finished, Dr. Firth showed us all the quaint and beautiful things that his brother had collected. They were almost bewildering in their variety. One great room was given up to stuffed animals, far finer specimens than the moth-eaten relics to be found in the City Museum. There were marvellous cases of butterflies, mounted so exquisitely that they almost seemed in flight: others of tropical birds, and a particularly unpleasant section given up to reptiles, over which Judy and Jack gibbered with delight. In one room were weapons, ancient and modern, civilized and savage: in another, barbaric ornaments, set with rough jewels. I recollect a beautiful cabinet filled with fans, of the most delicate workmanship. So large was the collection that my brain was bewildered long before I had seen everything. I sympathized with Judy and Jack when at last they struck.
“They’re all awfully wonderful and all that,” Judy said bluntly. “But if you won’t think us rude, Dr. Firth, Jack and I would rather go back to the ponies!”
The Doctor laughed.
“I don’t blame you,” he said. “There is really too much for one day. I think Doris has had enough, too. Some other time you must come and see the rest: just now, I think we’ll lock them up again. Be off with you!”—and the pair raced away.
Dr. Firth returned the jewelled Tibetan belt-clasp he had been showing us to its blue-lined case, and locked the cabinet carefully.
“Mrs. McNab is convinced that the Wootong burglar will pay me a visit,” he said, laughing. “I don’t think so: these things are hardly likely to attract the average sneak-thief, though, of course, many of them are almost priceless. They really should not be in a private house. I mean to lend most of them to the Museum, and then I shan’t feel responsible.”
“I should love you to be burgled,” I said, laughing—“and the burglar to find himself inside that stuffed Zoo of yours. Just fancy the feelings of an enterprising thief who turned on his dark lantern and found himself confronted by a python! It would be enough to give him a change of heart, wouldn’t it?”
“It would certainly be worth seeing,” Dr. Firth agreed. “If he dropped his dark lantern in his confusion and couldn’t find the way out, there would be a very fair chance of adding a lunatic to the collection by the morning! That room is uncommonly eerie in a dim light. I don’t care for it myself. The animals always seem to me to come alive when the light begins to fade: sometimes you’d swear you saw one move. They say my brother used to sit there in the evening—he said the animals were companionable!”
“It was a queer taste,” I said.
“An unhealthy one, I think. No—they’re out of place in an ordinary man’s home. And the servants hate them; not one of the maids would go near that room after dark if you offered her double wages. That big room could be put to much better use than housing those silent avenues of watching beasts. It would make a fine ballroom, wouldn’t it, Doris?”
“Oh, wouldn’t it!” I cried.
“I’d like to see it a ballroom,” he said, putting his keys into his pocket, and leading the way out to the verandah. “I want to see young people round me, Doris: the place is altogether too lonely and silent. I’ll clear all the beasts out before the next holidays, and you and Madge and Colin must come down here and we’ll fill the house with cheery boys and girls. I think we could manage a pretty good time, don’t you?”
“It sounds too good to be true!” I answered. “But I would love to think it might happen.”
“We’ll make it happen,” Dr. Firth said. “You three are to be my property, in a way; you’re the nearest approach to nieces and nephews that I have—and, indeed, I don’t believe that any nieces and nephews of my own could have been as much to me as Denis’s children.” He put me into a comfortable chair. “Now you have got to tell me all about him,” he said. “I never could hear too much of Denis.”
I certainly could never have grown weary of talking. It seemed to bring Father very near to be telling everything about him to this man whom he had loved: who sat, leaning forward in his chair, letting his pipe go out as he listened. I told him how dear and good Father had been to us after Mother had died, when Madge was a very little girl: how, busy as he was, he had always made time to be with us, and had set himself to make our home what Mother would have liked it to be—a place of love and happiness. I told him of our camping-out holidays in the bush; of the half-hour before bed-time that he always kept free for us; of how he used to come to tuck us in, when we were in bed, and say “God bless you,” just as Mother would have done. There were so many dear and merry memories of which it was happiness to tell. It was not so easy to speak of the last dreadful days, when we had all, in our bewilderment, been unable to realize that he was going away from us for ever.
“But he did not know, himself,” I said. “It was all so quick: unconsciousness came so soon. We have always been thankful that he did not know.”
“I wish I had been there,” Dr. Firth said. “You three children, to face everything!”
He walked up and down for a few minutes saying nothing. Then he came back and put his hand on my shoulder.
“You seem to have faced things like men, at all events,” he said. “And in future, you have got to count me in: I’m not going to lose you, now that I have found you. When you go back to Melbourne I mean to go too, to make friends with Colin and Madge. Colin and I used to be friends, years ago. He was a great little boy: the kind of boy a man would like to have for a son.”
“He is certainly the kind of boy we like to have for a brother,” I said, laughing. “Why, even his name helps to keep Judy and Jack McNab in order!”
“And that speaks volumes!” said Dr. Firth. “Not that you would call them extra-orderly now. Look at Judy, I ask you!”
The younger Miss McNab had just shot into view in the paddock beyond the garden. She was mounted on a nuggety black pony, which had apparently gone mad. Bucking was beyond the black pony, ordinarily an animal of sedate habits and calm middle-age; but it fled across the paddock, “pig-rooting,” kicking-up, and now and then pausing to twist and wriggle in the most complex fashion. Behind the pair came Jack, who rolled in his saddle, helpless with laughter: his shouts of mirth echoed as he went.
“She’ll be killed!” I gasped.
“Not she,” said Dr. Firth. “That child is born to be hanged! But I would certainly like to know what had come to my old Blackie. I didn’t think he had it in him to be so gay.”
Blackie’s gaiety at the moment seemed to border on desperation. He propped in his gallop, gave a series of ungainly bounds, and finally commenced to kick as though nothing else could ease his spirits. At each kick his hind-quarters shot higher and higher into the air, and Judy slid a little farther forward. At last, a kick so high that it seemed that nothing could save the pony from turning a somersault ended the matter for his rider: she left the saddle, appeared to sit on Blackie’s head for a moment, and came to earth in a heap. The pony stood still, panting.
In their joyous career they had turned and were near the house, so that it did not take us long to reach them. I ran with wild imaginings of broken bones whirling in my brain: hugely relieved, as I came near, to see Judy gather herself up from the grass, rubbing various portions of her frame with extreme indignation. Beyond the fact that she was very dirty there seemed little damage done. And after all, to be dirty was nothing very unusual for the younger Miss McNab.
“That beast of a pony!” she uttered viciously. “What on earth happened to him, Dr. Firth? He just went mad!”
“He isn’t given to excursions of that kind,” Dr. Firth said, looking puzzled. “Blackie is always regarded as beyond the flights of youth. What did you do to him, Judy?”
“Only rode him. And I could hardly get a move out of him until just now. I told Jack the old slug wasn’t fit to ride!”
“So he went and slung you off!” put in Jack happily, from his pony. “That’ll teach you to be polite to a pony, Ju!”
“You be quiet!” flashed his sister. She cast a look of sudden inspiration at his innocent face. “I do believe——!” She broke off, and hurriedly unfastened Blackie’s girth, lifting the saddle. A dry thistle-head, considerably flattened, came into view.
“You did it!” she screamed, and darted at him. Jack’s movement of flight was a thought too late: she grabbed his leg as he swung his pony round, and in a moment he, too, lay on the grass, the injured Judy pounding him scientifically. We dragged the combatants apart, holding them at a safe distance.
“What do you mean by putting a thing like that under your sister’s saddle, sir?” demanded Dr. Firth severely.
“Well, she wanted an exciting ride,” Jack grinned. “She wouldn’t do anything but abuse poor old Blackie ’cause he wouldn’t go. She said he ought to be in a Home for Decayed Animals, and she wouldn’t believe me when I told her he only wanted a little handling. So I thought I’d show her that he wasn’t as old as he looked, and I put that thistle under the saddle while she was finding a new switch. And my goodness, didn’t he go! Wasn’t it just scrumptious when he kicked her off!” He dissolved in helpless laughter at the recollection, and Judy writhed in Dr. Firth’s hands.
“It isn’t fair!” she protested. “Just let me get at him for a moment!”
“Murder is forbidden on this property,” answered her host sententiously. “He deserves hanging, but you had better forgive him, Judy, and come in for some tea.”
Judy submitted with a bad grace.
“Oh, all right,” she said. “Let’s go—I won’t kill him now, but I’ll pay him out afterwards—you see if I don’t, young Jack!” With a swift movement she possessed herself of Jack’s pony, scrambling into the saddle and setting off at a gallop, a proceeding Jack vainly endeavoured to check by clinging to the tail of his steed, and narrowly escaping being kicked. He shrugged his shoulders, grinned cheerfully, girthed up Blackie’s saddle, and went off in pursuit. They appeared together, presently, on the verandah, washed and brushed, and apparently the best of friends: and proceeded to demonstrate how many chocolate éclairs may be consumed at an early age without fatal results to the consumers.
We found a silent house when we reached The Towers at six o’clock, for the house-party had suddenly decided upon a moonlight picnic, and had vanished into the bush. Mrs. McNab did not appear at all: genius was working, and she had given orders that she was not to be disturbed. We dined in the schoolroom in unwonted quiet; the children confessed to being tired, and went off to bed early, leaving me free to answer long letters that had awaited me from Colin and Madge—long, cheery letters, written with the evident intention of making me believe that life in the Prahran flat was one long dream of joy. I was reading them, for the fourth time, when Julia dropped in to see me, on her way downstairs with Mrs. McNab’s dinner-tray.
“I’d sooner be carryin’ it down than up,” she remarked, putting the tray upon the schoolroom table. “ ’Tis herself has the great appetite when she’s worrkin’: that tray was as heavy as lead when I tuk it up. Indeed, though, wouldn’t the poor thing want nourishing an’ she writin’ her ould books night afther night! ’Tis no wonder she looks annyhow next day.”
“No wonder, indeed,” I assented.
“Well, now, many’s the time I’ve said things agin her, but there’s no doubt she’s got a feelin’ heart,” said Julia. “I’ll tell you, now, the quare thing I heard to-day, miss. ’Twas me afthernoon out, an’ I walked into Wootong to do me little bit of shoppin’, an’ who should I meet but little Miss Parker—wan of thim two ould-maid sisters the thief’s afther robbin’ the other night. They’re nice little ould things, them two sisters: I often stop an’ have a chat wid them an’ I goin’ by. Little Miss Sarah she med me go in to-day an’ have a cup of tay wid her an’ her sister. An’ what do you think them two told me?”
I said I didn’t know.
“A baby cud have knocked me down wid a feather!” said Julia dramatically. “This morning, who should call on them but the misthress herself!”
“Mrs. McNab?” I asked.
Julia nodded.
“Herself, an’ no wan else. Bence druv her in, but he never let on to annywan where she’d gone. She doesn’t know them well, so they were surprised at her comin’. She didn’t waste much time in chat, but told them she was terrible sorry to hear about the robbery. An’ finally she brings out five-an’-twinty pounds, just what the thief stole from them, an’ lays it on the table, sayin’ she was better able to afford the loss than they were. They argued against her, but nothin’ ’ud move her from the determination she had. ‘Let you take it now,’ she says, ‘or I’ll throw it in the fire,’ says she. There was no fire there, by reason of the hot weather that was in it, but the bare idea made the ould maids shiver. So they gev in at the lasht, after they’d argued an’ protested, but to no good: she wouldn’t listen to annything they’d be sayin’. An’ she lef the notes on the table an’ wished them a Happy New Year, an’ said good-bye. That was the lasht they saw of her, an’ they was still fingerin’ the notes to make sure they was real. What would you make of that now, miss?”—and Julia cocked her head on one side and looked at me like an inquisitive bird.
It was a queer story, and I said so. Mrs. McNab did not strike one ordinarily as a person of deep feeling or sympathy: and, despite the surroundings of wealth at The Towers, she kept a fairly sharp eye upon the household expenses and checked the bills with much keenness. It was difficult to imagine her going out of her way to pay so large a sum as twenty-five pounds to women of whom she knew personally very little. It just showed that one shouldn’t judge anyone’s character by outward appearances. Like Julia, I felt rather ashamed of having thought hardly of Mrs. McNab.
“Me ould Mother used to say you couldn’t tell an apple by its skin,” remarked Julia. “I’d have said plump enough that the misthress hadn’t much feelin’ for annywan but herself. She’s that cold in her manner you’d imagine all the warrm blood in her body had turned to ink—but there you are! There’s a mighty lot of warmth in five-an’-twinty pounds, so there is: particularly when you get it back afther havin’ lost it. Mrs. Winter, she’s as surprised as I was. ‘To think of that, now!’ says she—’an’ only this morning the misthress was down on me sharp enough for all the butter we do be usin’. An’ indeed, there’s butter used in this house to that extent you’d think they greased the motor with it,’ she says; ‘but where’s the use of scrapin’, an’ so I told her,’ says she. Terrible stiff she was about it to Mrs. Winter. But you’d forgive her for keepin’ one eye in the butter when she’d go off an’ make up all that money to thim two poor ould maids.”
Julia took up her tray and turned to go. But at the door, she hesitated.
“Tell me now, miss,” she said. “Do you ever get thinkin’ you hear quare noises in the night?—the sounds I was tellin’ you about when you first came? I’d be aisier in me mind if I knew that some one else heard the things I do be hearin’.”
“All rubbish, Julia,” I said, laughing. “In a house with so many people as this place has in it, you’re bound to hear movements at night some time. You’re very foolish to worry about it.”
Julia shook her head stubbornly.
“ ’Tis no right things I do be hearin’. People like the wild young things that’s in this house don’t move about as if they were tryin’ not to touch the floors with a foot. Bangin’ up an’ down stairs they are, makin’ as much noise as they can—to hear Mr. Harry or that young Mr. Atherton you’d say it was a regiment of horse they were. That’s the way people should move when they’re young an’ full of spirits. But the noises at night is very different—quare, muffled noises. If ’twas in Ireland you’d just say it was a ghost an’ be done with it. Many’s the good respectable house has its family ghost, just like the family pictures an’ silver. Only there’s no ghosts in Australia.”
“Certainly not,” I agreed. “You hear the trees rustling, Julia.”
“Ah, trees!” sniffed Julia. “The other night I heard them ould muffled noises till I couldn’t resht in me bed for them. I was that afraid, me heart was poundin’ on me ribs, but I up an’ puts on me coat, an’ crep’ out. Downstairs I went, an’ if annywan had spoke to me I’d have let a bawl fit to raise the roof!”
“And I’m certain you didn’t find anything,” I said.
“Well, I did not. But ’tis well known, miss, that them that goes lookin’ for them sounds isn’t the people that finds annything,” said Julia darkly. “An’ indeed, if I didn’t see a ghost at all, I med certain ’twasn’t only me that was afraid.” She paused, looking at me with a scared face.
I was trying hard to be practical and commonsensible, but in spite of myself I gave a little shiver. There was something eerie in her tragic tones.
“What do you mean?” I asked, forcing a smile that felt stiff at the corners.
“I seen the misthress. She was huntin’, too: she had a little flash-lamp, an’ she came out of the smokin’-room, movin’ like a ghost herself. Sure, an’ I thought she was one for a moment. I’d have screeched, only me tongue was stickin’ to the roof of me head! She looked up an’ saw me, an’ I cud see she was as frightened as I was. We stared at each other for a minute, me on the stairs an’ she by the door. Never a worrd did she say, only she put her finger to her lips as if she was tellin’ me to howld me noise—me, that couldn’t have said a worrd if ’twas to save me life!”
“And what then?”
“Then she shut off her lamp an’ went back into the room behind her. An’ I up the stairs as if the Sivin Divils were behind me, an’ lef’ her to her huntin’. ‘If there’s ghosts in it, let you be findin’ them yourself,’ thinks I; ‘sure, it’s your own house!’ An’ pretty soon I heard her comin’ upstairs slow an’ careful, an’ she went back into the Tower.”
“I think you are worrying yourself about nothing, Julia,” I said. “Mrs. McNab is often about the house at night—I thought I had caught a burglar myself the other night, and it turned out to be the mistress, coming up the kitchen stairs. I think she often wanders round when her work won’t go easily: and she is nervous about the safety of the place, since the robbery at Miss Parker’s. At any rate, if she is wakeful and watching there is no need for you or me to be anxious.”
Julia looked unconvinced. I could see that she hugged the idea of a mystery. And, indeed, I did not feel half so commonsensible as I tried to seem.
“Why wouldn’t she do it different, then?” she demanded. “If ’tis nervous she is, she might call Mr. Harry an’ let him an’ the other young gentlemen go huntin’, with all the lights turned on, an’ plenty of noise! A good noise ’ud be heartenin’—betther than that silent prowlin’ round, like a lone cat.”
“It might—but it wouldn’t catch a burglar,” I said. “Anyhow, Mrs. McNab might not have been after a burglar at all: she might have gone down for a book.”
“She had not that appearance,” said Julia. “Stealthy, she was: an’ I tell you, miss, there was fear on her face!”
“I should think so—with you creaking down the stairs!” I said, laughing. “Probably she made sure that the burglar had caught her instead. And when she saw that it was you, she was afraid you might alarm the house. She’s awfully anxious that the house-party should have a good time. I think it is rather nice to know that, even though she is working so hard, she watches over everything at night.”
“I dunno,” said Julia doubtfully. “Sure, I’d a sight rather she laid peaceful an’ quiet in her bed, an’ lef’ all the lights burnin’. Burglar or ghost, either of them’s aisy discouraged with a strong light: it’s worth all the prowlin’ a woman could do. Well, I’ve been lettin’ me tongue run away with me, but you’re the only wan I can talk to, miss. Mrs. Winter an’ Bella, they sleep like the dead, an’ never hear annything: an’ if they thought there was either a ghost or a burglar in The Towers they’d be off like scalded cats, without givin’ notice. An’ where’d you an’ I be then?”
“Cooking,” said I with alarmed conviction. “For goodness’ sake, don’t say a word to frighten them, Julia! Do make up your mind there is nothing wrong, and go to sleep at night like a sensible girl. Lock your door, and if you hear anything, just remember that it is Mrs. McNab’s house and she has a perfect right to prowl round it at any hour of the night.”
“ ’Tis great sense you have, an’ you only a shlip of a gerrl yourself, miss,” said Julia, looking at me respectfully—from which I gathered that I sounded more impressive than I felt. “Well, I will try so. But I’ll be believin’ all me days that it’s a quare house, entirely!”
Somehow, I thought so myself, after I had gone to bed—the picnickers had come in, laughing and chattering, and then the house settled down to quiet. I lay awake, thinking of what the Irish girl had said: and, so thinking, it seemed to me that, gradually, queer, muffled sounds came to me: furtive, stealthy movements, and the creaking of a stair. Once I got up, and, opening my door very softly, peered out: but all was in darkness, and there was no sound as I listened, except the thumping of my own heart. I told myself, angrily, all the wise things I had said to Julia, as I crept back to bed. But I will confess that I switched on my light and looked under the bed before I got back into its friendly shelter.
CHAPTER IXI BECOME A MEMBER OF THE BAND
‟MISS EARLE—do you know where the children are?”
My employer’s voice made me jump. I had slipped away from the drawing-room, where I had been playing accompaniments since dinner. It was a still hot night, following upon a day of breathless heat, and I was tired—in no mood for the dance for which Harry and his friends were now energetically preparing the room. Like Cinderella, whom I often felt that I resembled, I was hoping to make good my escape before my absence was discovered.
Mrs. McNab stood on the landing above me, looking annoyed.
“Are they not in bed?” I asked. “They said good night an hour ago.”
“No; their beds are empty. And I cannot find them anywhere in the house. I—I have just come in from a—from a little stroll”—she stammered slightly, with a trace of confusion—“and I thought I heard voices in the shrubbery. I wonder can they have gone out on some prank.”
“It’s quite likely,” I answered, feeling dismally certain that anything might be expected of my charges. “I’ll go out and look for them, Mrs. McNab.”
“You must not go alone,” she said unexpectedly. “Change your frock as quickly as you can: I will come with you.”
“Oh, please don’t!” I protested. “I can easily find them alone, I’m certain. You mustn’t disturb your work.”
“I—I am not working well to-night.” Her tone was awkward. “So it really does not matter—and I could not let you go alone. I would call my son, but that one does not like to disturb one’s guests—and Beryl does so resent it if the children are troublesome. I have no doubt that we shall find them easily.”
I had no doubt at all, as I hastily got out of my dinner-frock in my room. For, as I glanced from the open window, a swift flame flickered up into the sky, seemed to hang for a moment, and then curved and came back to earth, leaving a trail of sparks across the blackness. In a flash as vivid was revealed to me why Judy and Jack had been at such elaborate pains that afternoon to find an errand for me at the railway-station while they visited the one stationer’s shop in Wootong; I had a mental vision of the queer-shaped packages they had stowed away in the governess-cart when we drove back from the township. Had not Colin and I burned our fingers over forbidden fireworks in the days of our wild youth?
“I think I have tracked them,” I said, laughing, as I rejoined Mrs. McNab. “There are bangings and poppings coming from the shrubbery, and I saw a rocket above the trees. I think they must be holding a private Fifth of November celebration.”
“Fireworks!” exclaimed Mrs. McNab, aghast. “But they areneverpermitted!”
I kept my face grave, but it was an effort. If Judy and Jack had restricted their energies to the list of permitted things, their lives would have been on very different—and much duller—lines. Compared with some of their highly-original occupations, a little indulgence in fireworks seemed mild. But Mrs. McNab was extraordinarily concerned.
“We must hurry,” she said, darting out of a side-door with a swift energy that recalled the night on the shore when she had swooped upon Jack and spanked him with such unsuspected vigour. “I have an especial dread of fireworks in the hands of children. The figures, my dear Miss Earle, of accidents to American children who celebrate their Fourth of July with firework displays, are harrowing in the extreme. Death and disfigurement are common—terribly common.”
“They do things on such a grand scale in America,” I ventured, trotting beside her. “I don’t think Judy would let Jack run any risk.”
“One never knows,” returned Judy’s mother, gloomily. “Not with Judith. Even if she protected Jack, she would not hesitate to run any risk herself. And fireworks are so very unexpected. One cannot possibly——”
Bang!
Something exploded close to us, in the very heart of a dense pittosporum tree. For a moment sparks glittered among its myriad leaves: and then hundreds of sparrows, which made their nightly home in its heart, flew wildly out, chirping, twittering, terrified. We were the centre of a cloud of fluttering little bodies; they struck against our faces, so that we had to shelter our eyes with our hands. Above the clamour of the bird-panic rose smothered shrieks and gurgles of delight from Judy and Jack, unseen among the bushes.
“Crikey, that was a beauty, Ju!” came Jack’s voice.
“Jack!” uttered his mother in awful accents.
“Judy! It’s Mother! Grab ’em and run!”
A dim light guided us round the pittosporum, and Mrs. McNab darted towards it. I followed, choking with laughter. A smoky lantern, hanging on a bough, showed the culprits racing towards a heap of fireworks that lay on the ground within the murky circle of light. Near them Jack caught his foot in a creeper and pitched headlong on his face. Judy halted in her stride and darted to pick him up.
And then something happened.
Near the little heap of forbidden delight a cracker that had been lit and tossed aside as useless decided to fulfil its destiny and explode. It was a large cracker, and it did so with vehemence. A shower of sparks fell on a long trail of soft tissue-paper which had formed the wrapping of the parcel; dry as tinder, and sprinkled with loose gunpowder, it flared into flame, and a little breath of wind carried it fairly across the heap of fireworks. There was a quick spitting and hissing as the fuses caught. I seized Jack, who uttered a wail and sprang to save what he could.
“No, you don’t, old chap!” I said, tightening my grip against his struggles.
A string of crackers went off in a spitting volley, and a Catherine-wheel suddenly began to revolve madly in the grass. Then everything caught at once. Rockets dug themselves into the ground, exploding harmlessly, while whizz-bangs and Roman candles and basket-bombs leaped and sputtered and banged in a whirl of rainbow sparks. It was a lavish and uplifting spectacle, produced for our benefit regardless of expense. But the producers wailed aloud in their despair.
“They cost every bit of pocket-money we had!” grieved Jack. “I could have got half of them away if you’d given me a chance! Why on earth do you want to come round poking your noses in?”
“We never get a show,” said Judy mournfully. “We’re just hunted down like mad dogs! I should think persons of twelve and thirteen can be trusted to do a few little things alone, occasionally, anyhow!”
She twisted round, and suddenly screamed. A long tongue of flame, a licking, fiery tongue, ran up her thin frock, and in an instant it was blazing fiercely. I dropped Jack and sprang to catch her, flinging her down; Mrs. McNab, quicker than I, was beating at the burning silk. It was over more quickly than one can tell of it. Judy, very white, sat on the ground in the blackened remnants of her frock, while we gasped and hunted for vagrant sparks. Jack burst into a terrified howl, rather pitiful to hear.
“Oh, shut up, Jack!” Judy said. “I’m not killed. But I ’specs I would have been but for Mother and Miss Earle.”
“Are you hurt, Judy?” her mother asked, her voice shaking.
“Not a bit—I’m not even singed, I think. Jolly sight luckier than I deserve to be. I guess I can’t talk much about taking care of myself, can I?”
“Judith,” said Mrs. McNab, solemnly—her solemnity rather handicapped by the fact that she had passed a blackened hand across her face—“have I not warned you from your childhood that in the event of clothes catching fire one must cause the person in danger to assume an horizontal position?”
“You have, Mother,” responded Judy. “And I stayed vertical—and ran. Well, I’m a fool, that’s all!”
To this there seemed no answer. Mrs. McNab, regarding her daughter much as an owl may who has hatched out an imp, rose slowly to her feet. Suddenly Judy’s defiant look changed to one of swift concern. She sprang towards her mother.
“I say, Mother—you’re hurt!”
“My hand is a little burned, I think,” said Mrs. McNab quietly. She held out her left palm, on which big blisters were already forming.
“Oh, I am a beast!” uttered Judy. “Mother, dear, I’m so sorry! It’s all my silly fault. Is it very bad?”
“It is rather painful,” Mrs. McNab admitted. She swayed a little, and I put my arm round her.
“Do sit down,” I begged. “I’ll run in for dressings.”
“No, I am quite able to come with you,” she said. “There is no need to alarm anyone. Just give me your arm, and I will walk slowly.”
We gained the house unseen, a sorry little procession, and Mrs. McNab sent the disconsolate youngsters to bed while I dressed and bandaged her hand. The burns were painful enough, but not serious; my patient made light of them, and refused any stimulant except coffee, which she permitted me to prepare for her, after some argument. We drank it together, in the kitchen.
“Being bandaged is the worst infliction,” she said. “I do not take kindly to being even partly helpless. I shall have to ask your assistance in dressing, I am afraid, Miss Earle. It is fortunate that I conformed to the fashion and had my hair cut—not that I might be in the fashion, needless to say, but because I was thankful to be relieved of the weight of my hair. It sadly hampered my work, and I have never regretted that I sacrificed it, even though I have heard Judith remark that I now resemble a turkey-hen.”
This was one of the remarks to which there seemed no tactful reply. At any rate, I had none handy, so I merely murmured that I should be delighted to assist in her toilet.
“I will not ask you to come up to the Tower rooms,” she said. “Perhaps you will allow me to come to your room when I need a little help. I should be glad, too, if nothing is said about the children’s escapade. They have had a very severe fright, and I do not want them blamed by the household. There is an old proverb about ‘a dog with a bad name’—and I cannot but feel that my poor Judith and Jack have suffered by their mother’s absorption in her work for some years. My daughter Beryl’s remarks about to-night’s occurrence would certainly be very severe. I think we may spare them any further punishment, Miss Earle.”
“I’m awfully glad,” I said—forgetting, in my haste, that well-brought-up governesses do not say ‘awfully.’ Luckily Mrs. McNab appeared not to notice my lapse. “They are very sorry, I know. May I tell them, Mrs. McNab?”
“Do—or they will certainly blurt it out themselves. I will go to bed now, and I think you should do the same as soon as possible.” She refused any further help, saying that she was quite able to manage alone. I watched her mount the stairs slowly, and then went off with my message for the culprits, whom I found sitting together on Jack’s bed, steeped in woe. They received my news with relief, though it did not dispel their gloom.
“Jolly decent of Mother,” Judy said: “Beryl and Harry would have been beasts—’specially Beryl. Not that we don’t deserve it; but I can’t stick Beryl’s way of telling us we’re worms. Even if you feel wormy you don’t want it rubbed in. And every one else would have despised us.” She looked at me keenly. “Did you ask Mother not to tell, Miss Earle?”
“Indeed, I didn’t,” I hastened to assure her. “But I was ever so glad that she said she wouldn’t.”
Judy’s lip quivered, and suddenly she broke into hard, choked sobbing. It isn’t a pleasant thing to see the complete surrender of a person who ordinarily shows no feeling whatever: I put my arm round her, not far removed from tears myself, and was not surprised when Jack buried his face in the pillow and howled too.
“Oh, you poor kids!” I uttered, entirely forgetting that I was a governess. They seemed to forget it too, for they clung to me desperately, and I hugged them and lent them my handkerchief in turn, since neither possessed one. When they began to pull themselves together, and to look shame-faced, I slipped away to the kitchen and came back with some cake and hot milk, over which they became comparatively cheerful.
“If you ask me,” said Jack, “it was a pretty hard-luck night. If you and Mother hadn’t smelt us out we’d have had our fireworks without any accident. Why, Ju and I have used fireworks since we were kids!”
“Rather!” agreed Judy. “And when they did go off in a general mix-up, there was no need for me to catch fire. Why did it want to happen, I’d like to know?”
“And when it happened it was bad luck that your Mother got burned,” I supported. “Some bad-tempered gnome was certainly taking the place of your fairy godmother to-night, chickens. Only none of it would have happened at all if you hadn’t gone out when you were supposed to be in bed. You didn’t have much luck the last time, either, did you, Jack?”
They regarded me, wide-eyed.
“How—did—you—know?” uttered Jack.
“I was there—in a bush,” I said, laughing. “But it didn’t seem necessary for me to interfere, for you certainly got all that was coming to you, didn’t you?”
“My Aunt, I did!” Jack said. “And you never said a thing! Why, all our other governesses would have sung hymns of joy!”
“From this out,” said Judy solemnly, “I refuse to look on you as a governess. You are a Member of the Band. Isn’t she, Jack?”
“Rather!” said Jack. “Will you, Miss Earle?”
“I will,” I said. “But if I belong to the Band, the Band has got to play the game. No more night excursions unless I go too. Is it a bargain?”
They said it was, and we shook hands with all formality.
“We’ll back you up no end,” said Judy. “ ’Means we’ve got to be horribly respectable, but it can’t be helped, Jack.” She heaved a sigh. “I’ve always known we’d have to be respectable some day, but I hoped it wouldn’t be until we were quite old. But you’ve been an awful brick, Miss Earle, and we jolly well won’t let you down.”
“And when we’re at school in Melbourne, don’t you think the Band could meet some Saturday?” Jack asked. The outlaw in him had vanished for the moment; he looked just a wistful small boy, with the traces of tears still on his freckled face.
“It will be arranged,” I told him. “And would you like my brother Colin to come to the meeting?”
They gaped at me.
“The ‘record-breaker’ Earle?” Jack uttered. “My aunt, wouldn’t I!” He flushed suddenly. “Would he come, Miss Earle? You know you told us once he was jolly particular!”
“He is,” I said calmly. “Awfully particular. But he will come, if I ask him. And I should like to ask him.”
The original Members of the Band regarded each other with glowing eyes.
“Well!” said Jack at last, drawing a long breath. “We lost seven bob over those fireworks, Ju, but I reckon it was worth it, don’t you?”
“Rather!” agreed Judy.
CHAPTER XI HEAR OF ROBBERS
MRS. McNAB kept to the Tower rooms all next day. Julia brought me a message early in the morning.
“She put her head out at me when I did be sweepin’ the landin’ outside her door. ‘Let you be tellin’ Miss Earle I’d like to see her up here,’ says she: ‘an’ I’ll be takin’ all me meals here to-day,’ she says. ‘The work is troublin’ me,’ she says. An’ I’d say from the look she had on her that something was afflictin’ her. Yerra, there’s a powerful lot of misery over writin’ books. I never did read a book if I could help it, but if ever I’m druv to it I’ll be pityin’ the poor soul that wrote it all the time. It’s a poor trade for the spirits.”
As soon as I was dressed I ran up the narrow stairway and tapped at the door. Mrs. McNab opened it immediately. She was very pale, and there were dark circles under her eyes.
“I have not slept much,” she said, in answer to my inquiries. Evidently she had not climbed the steep steps to her bedroom, for there were tumbled rugs and cushions on the big couch; but she was fully dressed, and her iron-grey shingled hair was as neat as usual. “I think it would be as well if I did not go down-stairs to-day.” But she laughed at my suggestion to call in the Wootong doctor.
“Oh no: my hand is really not bad. I suppose I must be feeling a certain amount of shock, that is all. I will spend a lazy day. You can manage without me, can you not?”
I begged her not to worry on that score, and proceeded to dress her hand. The burns were nothing to be anxious about: there was no sign of inflammation, and she possessed the clean, healthy skin that heals rapidly. She was mildly proud of it as I adjusted the bandages.
“I always heal quickly—no cut or burn ever troubles me for long,” she remarked. “Indeed, I rarely have to bandage a trifling hurt: but one has to be careful with a blister. Perhaps you will not mind coming up after luncheon and dinner to renew the dressings. Judith is quite well this morning, I hope?”
“Quite—judging by the rate at which I saw her tearing over the paddock to bathe, half an hour ago,” I said, laughing. “And she and Jack have promised me that there will be no more unlawful excursions at night. We have made a solemn alliance!”
“I am indeed relieved to hear it.” She looked at me with something like warmth. “You manage them very well, my dear: they recognize something in you that they can trust. There has been mutual abhorrence between them and their other governesses. I had begun to despair of them—every one has regarded them as outlaws.”
“There is nothing much wrong with Judy and Jack beyond high spirits,” I defended. “And I think there is a good deal in what you said last night about ‘a dog with a bad name’; they knew they were expected to be outlaws, and they simply lived up to what was expected of them. But they never do mean things, and I think that is all that really matters.”
“I am glad you say that,” Mrs. McNab said. “You are young enough to understand them—and yet I was very much afraid of your youth when you first came. But I have become thankful for it. You are a great comfort to me, my dear!” Which so amazed me, coming from the lips of my dour employer, that I got out of the room with all speed—to behold from my window my “misunderstood” outlaws vigorously watering Mr. Atherton with the garden hose—their victim having imprudently assailed them with chaff from a somewhat helpless position in an apricot tree. By the time he reached the ground he was so drenched that the only thing undamped in him was his ardour for vengeance. Judy and Jack, however, fled in time, and as the breakfast-gong boomed out at the moment, Mr. Atherton had to beat a retreat to change his clothes. Nothing could have been more lamb-like than my charges when I met them at the table. I decided that the occurrence was one which I might profitably be supposed not to have seen.
Nobody seemed to mind the non-appearance of the hostess, and the day passed uneventfully. Too much fire the night before appeared to have bred in Judy and Jack a burning desire for water; they spent most of the day in the sea, and I had the pleasure of seeing Mr. Atherton duck them both with a scientific thoroughness that seemed to repay him in part for what he had suffered before breakfast. In the evening they behaved with unwonted decorum—it drew anxious inquiries for their health from several of the party, notably from the girl who had found a frog in her bed. She announced her intention of making a very thorough search before retiring, remarking gloomily that when the children acted like infant cherubs a five-foot goanna under her sheet might well be expected. At which Judy and Jack smiled dreamily. They went to bed early, and when I tucked them up they were sleeping soundly, looking more innocent than any lambs.
Mrs. McNab came down after breakfast next morning, evidently rested. She made light of her bandaged hand, satisfying such inquiries as were made with a vague remark about the careless use of matches. It was a busy morning for me, for an all-day picnic was planned, and the preparations had to be rushed. Just as I came out with the last basket of provisions a motor came up the drive, and Dr. Firth got out. He greeted every one cheerfully, declining the invitations that were showered upon him to go to the picnic: he was too busy, he said, and certainly too old—which produced a storm of protest. Certainly he did not look old, as he gave back chaff for chaff. Not until the last car had driven away, loaded, did he look grave. Then the face he turned to Mrs. McNab and me was serious enough.
“I came with rather unpleasant news,” he said. “There didn’t seem any need to worry all those light-hearted young people with it, but I felt I must let you know. My place was pretty successfully burgled last night!”
Mrs. McNab went white to the lips.
“Dr. Firth!” she breathed. “Have you—did you lose much?”
“More than I care about. The thieves were discriminating: they didn’t bother about anything bulky. They must have known a good deal about the place. All the unset jewels have gone, and most of the smaller and more valuable ornaments—some very valuable as rare specimens. I wish I had done six months ago what I intended to do next week—sent the lot to a museum. You were right in your warnings after all, Mrs. McNab.” He smiled grimly.
“And you heard nothing?”
“Not a thing. I was writing until very late, and when I turned in I slept like a top. My housekeeper is a light sleeper, but she heard nothing. I am almost inclined to think that there was only one burglar. The police believe more than one had a hand in it. But I think that if a gang had been at work more would have been taken; to me, the small bulk of what has gone points to a man working single-handed. And I wouldn’t be surprised if both thief and booty are in the neighbourhood yet.”
If Mrs. McNab had been pale before, she was ghastly now.
“Why—why do you think so?”
“Because every one takes it for granted that he would get away. The Wootong police—not that they’re especially intelligent—are quite certain on the point: they have been keeping the telegraph-wires busy with messages to Melbourne. I wish they’d show more anxiety to hunt the neighbourhood. How easy it would be for a man to hide his plunder somewhere in the bush and remain quietly here until the hue and cry died away! In the cities the detectives have a fair working knowledge of likely criminals. But a man could stay in the country, perhaps as a farm-labourer, without suspicion ever being drawn to him.”
Judy and Jack had been listening open-mouthed. Now Judy burst forth.
“I say, I’ve a gorgeous idea! You and I’ll be detectives, Jack, and we’ll hunt round everywhere! We’ll find out if there are any strangers about, and do some scouting. I’m jolly glad they wouldn’t take us for their beastly old picnic, aren’t you?”
“Rather!” said Jack. “Let’s go and hunt through the tea-tree near Dr. Firth’s!”
“Not if I know it!” said the doctor hastily. “You keep well out of the way, young people: there may be tracks, and I don’t want them confused. I mean to get the black trackers down, Mrs. McNab: they may get on the trail, especially if my theory is correct.”
“The black trackers!” ejaculated Mrs. McNab faintly. “Do you really think——?” She paused, looking at him anxiously.
“There’s no harm in trying. Those black fellows are wonderfully quick at picking up a track. And I must say, I should like to put up a fight to get poor old Michael’s things back. They’re precious little good to me, but he valued them. Besides, if the thief or thieves should be in the neighbourhood, my house may not be the last to be robbed. He’s visited the hotel and the poor little Parker ladies already: this may seem to him a good district to work in.”
“I—wonder,” said Mrs. McNab. “Oh, I should think he would have got away. He would not dare to stay.”
“It might be less risky to stay than to go—knowing that every detective in the cities was on the watch for him. Of course, my theory may be all wrong, but I mean to take precautions. And I want you to be on your guard.”
“My Aunt!” said Judy. “We may be burgled next, Jack. What a lark!”
“Don’t be foolish, Judith!” said her mother sharply. “This is a matter far too serious for silly joking. Not that I really feel afraid, Dr. Firth. There is not much here that could be easily carried away, and I never keep much money in the house.”
“No; but the thief might not know that. The enterprising gentleman who knew all about the Parkers’ little hoard might well expect pickings in The Towers. I don’t want to make you nervous, but it would be foolish not to be on the watch.”
For all her attempt at unconcern, Mrs. McNab looked distinctly nervous, though she again expressed the belief that the burglars had got well away with their plunder, and threw cold water on the doctor’s scheme of procuring the black trackers. I wondered at the haggard lines into which her face set as she watched him drive away—he refused her invitation to remain to lunch, remarking that all the Wootong police force were sure to be waiting on his doormat, eager for him to sign more documents. “I don’t know how many I’ve signed already,” he said, laughing. “It’s a terrible thing to come into close quarters with the law!”
We lunched rather soberly: the children were repressed by their mother’s grim face, and ate as quickly as possible, so that they might escape from the table. Mrs. McNab seemed lost in thought; she let her cutlet go away almost untasted, sitting with her fingers keeping a soft drumming on the tablecloth, and her brow knitted. I wondered whether the burglar-scare were troubling her, or if it were merely the perennial worry of her work: and wished I could escape as quickly as Judy and Jack, whose gay young voices could be heard in the shrubbery long before their mother rose from the table. She walked to the window and stood looking out for a moment. Then she turned to me.
“I hope you are not alarmed by this burglary,” she said. “I really do not think we are likely to have trouble here.”
“Then you shouldn’t look as if you did,” I thought; but prudently forbore to put my thought into words. Aloud, I said I didn’t think I was likely to be nervous. Then I wondered was I right to keep silent about the movements I had heard.
“I think I ought to tell you that I have noticed unusual sounds several times at night,” I began. I got no further, for my employer took a quick step forward, her face changing.
“What is that?Whatdid you hear?”
“There have been rustlings and movements in the shrubbery below my window,” I said. “Quite a number of times; and more than once I have heard steps on the gravel, sounding as though some one were trying to walk as noiselessly as possible.”
She drew a long breath.
“Did you see anything?”
“Yes—just glimpses of a dark figure. But with so many in the house it seemed foolish to worry: anyone might have gone there for a stroll. I did feel as if some one were prowling for no good; but then, I know one is apt to fancy things, especially at night. Still, I thought I ought to tell you.”
Mrs. McNab looked relieved.
“You are quite level-headed,” she said approvingly. “And I am sure there was nothing to cause alarm: as a matter of fact, I very frequently stroll out at night myself, and I naturally try not to disturb anyone. A little turn in the night-air clears my head when I am at work. So, quite possibly I myself was your prowler.”
“Yes, I thought of that,” I answered. “Of course, there was the night I met you on the back stairs I was sure I had trapped a burglar that time!”
For a moment she stared at me with a look that seemed to lack comprehension. Then she smiled nervously.
“Oh yes—yes,” she murmured. “Quite so. Well, I think we may agree that Dr. Firth’s burglar has not paid us a visit yet. Personally, I do not think he will ever do so.” She spoke hurriedly, almost incoherently. “And I hope you will not worry, or keep any watch at night. We have plenty of defenders, if anyone should break in. My son and his friends would welcome the chance of dealing with a burglar—yes, think it great fun!” The laugh with which she ended was a queer, forced cackle. Then she turned on her heel abruptly, and hurried out of the room.
I went in search of Judy and Jack, and, seeing them safely ensconced in the highest branches of a pine-tree, sat down on a garden-seat and gave myself up to thought. For the first time, doubts as to my employer’s mental balance assailed my mind. Undoubtedly, she was queer; that I had known always, but never had she been quite so queer as in those few minutes after lunch. Was she really afraid of thieves? Perhaps, unknown to anyone, she had a secret hoard of money or jewels in the Tower rooms that she guarded so jealously: but in that case it did not seem likely that she would feel so sure that no thief would come. She would welcome Dr. Firth’s black trackers, instead of trying to persuade him not to employ them.
And yet—I did not believe that any mere danger of loss would make Mrs. McNab look as she had looked; afraid, almost hunted. She was the mistress of The Towers, secure, guarded, wealthy: no outside risk could touch her. The more I thought, the more the conviction grew upon me that her mind was unbalanced. There had been something hardly sane in her nervous distress, her incoherence. And most of all I puzzled over her blank look when I had spoken of our midnight meeting on the night when she had brushed rudely by me. For, despite her quick effort to cover it, I was very sure that Mrs. McNab had not the slightest recollection of having met me on the kitchen stairs.