“Dear Mrs. Forester,—“Helen says you want a home for Rex, and she thinks you would let him come to us. We think it is perfectly awful to take money for having him, which we would love to do without any money at all, but Helen says it must not be. So, as Father is having hard times with the drought and other things, and we must leave school and teach Billy, what would you think about trusting Rex to us? Mother and Father would act as parents to him, we are sure, and we would try to make him happy.” (“Ilikethe division of duties!” murmured Mrs. Forester.) “We do not know if we are any good at teaching, but we are up to Junior Public work, and we are going to teach Billy, so he and Rex could have lessons together. We would do our best, and each of us could teach the subjects she was best at; as, for instance, I cannot do French at all, while Jean is a whale at it, and she hates mathematics, which I love. We can both teach him riding, swimming, and gym. work, and see that he baths himself thoroughly, and cleans his teeth. Mother and Father do not know anything about our proposal, and we know they will hate taking money, so we thought we would fix it up without them, if you approve, which Helen says she thinks you will. We would give him the best time we could, if you let us have him, and take tremendous care of him, and Billy would love a mate. Wishing you a happy Christmas, we are,“Yours sincerely,JeanandJo Weston.”
“Dear Mrs. Forester,—
“Helen says you want a home for Rex, and she thinks you would let him come to us. We think it is perfectly awful to take money for having him, which we would love to do without any money at all, but Helen says it must not be. So, as Father is having hard times with the drought and other things, and we must leave school and teach Billy, what would you think about trusting Rex to us? Mother and Father would act as parents to him, we are sure, and we would try to make him happy.” (“Ilikethe division of duties!” murmured Mrs. Forester.) “We do not know if we are any good at teaching, but we are up to Junior Public work, and we are going to teach Billy, so he and Rex could have lessons together. We would do our best, and each of us could teach the subjects she was best at; as, for instance, I cannot do French at all, while Jean is a whale at it, and she hates mathematics, which I love. We can both teach him riding, swimming, and gym. work, and see that he baths himself thoroughly, and cleans his teeth. Mother and Father do not know anything about our proposal, and we know they will hate taking money, so we thought we would fix it up without them, if you approve, which Helen says she thinks you will. We would give him the best time we could, if you let us have him, and take tremendous care of him, and Billy would love a mate. Wishing you a happy Christmas, we are,
“Yours sincerely,
JeanandJo Weston.”
(Jo had said she didn’t think Christmas wishes were correct in a letter that was strictly business. But Jean had contended that civility always paid, and that kind wishes were only civil. She had carried her point, after heated discussion.)
“They sound a most cheerful pair,” Mrs. Forester said, folding up the letter and putting it carefully away in her hand-bag. “I haven’t seen them for years.”
“Oh, they’re priceless!” said her daughter. “Thank goodness they didn’t leave during my time—but I’m sorry for Ellen. They’re so cheery, and absolutely straight; the sort of people who are a good influence in the school, without having the least idea of it. You’ll let Rex go, won’t you, Mother?”
“I must consult your father first. But so far as I am concerned, I think it is a splendid opportunity. To get him with people we know—and especially people like the Westons—well, it’s just a wonderful chance. Even if he learned nothing at all, I should go away happily if I could leave him with the Westons. I’ll see Father to-night, and talk it over with him. Now I wonder how much those stiff-necked people will let us pay for him?”
“They will try to make it about sixpence a week, unless you’re firm,” said Helen.
“Yes. And boarding-school, with holiday expenses as well, would cost about £150, and it wouldn’t be a quarter as satisfactory. Well, I must try to clinch a bargain with the girls before they see their parents, and bind them down to take a decent sum. Poor John Weston! I’m very sorry he’s so hard-hit. It’s hard on the girls, too. You say they told all the school?”
“Oh, yes—with their proud little noses well in the air. Every one was awfully nice to them though, and no one pitied them except young Pearlie Alexander, who reeks of money. And Jean looked at her and said, ‘Oh, but it’s so horribly boring to stay at school after you’re sixteen!’—with such an air that Pearlie actually believed her, and felt quite crushed. All the small fry have been weeping on their necks—the juniors all love them. Lots of girls might have their heads turned, but the twinses are sublimely unconscious of being regarded with affection by the school. Jo merely remarked to me that it was queer how decent everybody was to people in a hole!”
“Are they very good-natured and easy-going, Helen? Or will they be firm with Rex?”
“They have heaps of sense,” Helen said slowly. “Of course they haven’t been tried out at school yet, but I should think, from their way with the juniors, that they wouldn’t stand any nonsense.”
“Rex needs firmness,” Mrs. Forester said, a little anxiously. “He has got rather out of hand lately—Father has had to be away so much, and I have been busy preparing the house for being shut up. He has had no lessons since Miss Green left.”
“Well, there will be Mr. Weston. I don’t suppose he is likely to let Master Rex think he can do as he likes.”
“Not if he has time to be bothered with him. However, Rex is less likely to get his own way in a household like the Westons’ than with a governess in a boarding-house; and we were beginning to face that possibility. If the twins are sensible with him, he will be all right—I mean, if they don’t pet him. Not that Rex is altogether pettable!”
“You needn’t worry about that,” Helen said decidedly. “They have a little brother of their own—I fancy the ways of small boys are quite well known to them.”
“Yes, that’s a great help,” her mother said. “Well, I shan’t worry—except as to the possibility of Mr. and Mrs. Weston putting a veto on the proposal altogether.”
So Helen carried back a hopeful message to the anxiously awaiting twins; and next evening they rushed into her study with excited faces, waving a letter.
“It’s all settled, Helen! What a nice mother you’ve got!”
“I’ve suspected it for some years,” remarked Helen, laughing. “What has she done now?”
“Listen! It sounds too splendid to be true.
“ ‘My dear Jean and Jo,—“ ‘Your letter has relieved my mind of a very pressing problem. Of course, I understand that you wrote without referring to your parents, but I hope that when they realize how much Mr. Forester and I would value the arrangement they will not refuse their consent. We shall be delighted to leave Rex with you; I trust you won’t find him a great nuisance—he has had rather too much of his own way lately, and needs a firm hand.“ ‘When I hear from your mother I will write more fully about him. Just now, I would like to arrange the business side with you girls—we wish to pay at the rate of £150 a year for the privilege of leaving Rex with you all. And I am making so certain that Mr. and Mrs. Weston won’t refuse that I have ceased making inquiries for a governess or any other way of arranging for him.“ ‘Will you tell your mother that while we are deeply sorry that hard times should come to our old friends, we find it hard not to feel a selfish gladness that they make possible an arrangement which ensures such a home for our small boy?“ ‘Yours very sincerely,“ ‘Elaine Forester.’
“ ‘My dear Jean and Jo,—
“ ‘Your letter has relieved my mind of a very pressing problem. Of course, I understand that you wrote without referring to your parents, but I hope that when they realize how much Mr. Forester and I would value the arrangement they will not refuse their consent. We shall be delighted to leave Rex with you; I trust you won’t find him a great nuisance—he has had rather too much of his own way lately, and needs a firm hand.
“ ‘When I hear from your mother I will write more fully about him. Just now, I would like to arrange the business side with you girls—we wish to pay at the rate of £150 a year for the privilege of leaving Rex with you all. And I am making so certain that Mr. and Mrs. Weston won’t refuse that I have ceased making inquiries for a governess or any other way of arranging for him.
“ ‘Will you tell your mother that while we are deeply sorry that hard times should come to our old friends, we find it hard not to feel a selfish gladness that they make possible an arrangement which ensures such a home for our small boy?
“ ‘Yours very sincerely,
“ ‘Elaine Forester.’
“So there!” said Jo. “Isn’t it scrumptious!”
“But—a hundred and fifty pounds!” ejaculated Jean. “It isn’t worth it—three pounds a week for a bit of a shrimp like that!”
“That’s rubbish!” said Helen inelegantly. “We might easily have had to pay much more, so, you see, you’re saving us goodness knows how much. And the peace of mind you’ll be giving us is worth thousands!”
“That may be, but we don’t charge for peace of mind,” said Jo, laughing. “It’s given in, like the coupon with the pound of tea. And it really is a ridiculous sum to pay for a little chap.”
“Father’s fixed it,” said Helen stubbornly. “You’d better talk to him—if you really feel you must. I wouldn’t advise it, because he would simply wipe the floor with you; when Father fixes a thing it usually remains so. And when you have finished arguing with Father there will be Mother to tackle. And you can argue and argue, and at the end the sum will still be £150!”
“I don’t think you’re a bit nice!” said the twins in chorus.
“I’m ever so much nicer than Father will be if you try to upset his figures.”
“But what aboutourfather? He’ll certainly want to upset them.”
“He can’t if you’ve accepted the arrangement. It isn’t fair to Father: he has written down the Rex page of his ledger as closed, and now he’s off in full cry after income-tax arrangements or tea-plantation figures, and you want to take him from them and drag him back to considering Rex again. And he’ssobusy; there’ll be nothing left of him by the time we sail. Please—please don’t worry him any more, twinses!”
She looked so appealing that the twins gave way.
“Well, I only hope Father won’t be very angry,” said Jo.
“Tell him if he tries to alter our very sensible and business-like arrangement that Father will make the £150 into £200!” said Helen, laughing. “That should reduce him to order. And when he’s had Rex for a while he’ll think that even £200 wasn’t much!”
At the moment no one had much time to worry over private affairs, however urgent; for it was the last evening of the term, and half Melbourne was coming to the speech-night. The big schoolroom was gay with flags and flowers, with pot-plants massed upon the little stage at one end; and every one was getting into white frocks, while here and there were the anxious faces of the harassed individuals responsible for items on the programme. The twins had long looked forward to having their father and mother down for the great occasion, but a worried little note from Mrs. Weston had said plainly that at the moment the expense of coming could not be faced. It took away half the joy of the evening that the two dear faces were not to be among the long rows of parents who were coming to beam upon excited daughters. Still, there was no help for it, as the twins realized: and Helen had wisely kept them so busy that they had no time to think. Now, although the evening could not be all that they had hoped, it was still their first speech-night; and to-morrow there would be home, with Mrs. Forester’s wonderful letter to show. The twins found it quite beyond their power to feel gloomy.
Tea was a more or less sketchy meal, at which a junior teacher presided, and Miss Dampier made only a fleeting appearance. No one really wanted to eat; there were still odds and ends of packing to be done, farewells to be said, final touches to be put to preparations for the evening. Moreover, from time immemorial there had been Miss Dampier’s supper for the boarders after the guests had gone, and it was a supper which made tea beforehand seem a mere excrescence. So girls drifted in and out as they liked, and the artistes of the evening brought books or music to the table, studying the fingering of the Moonlight Sonata, or Portia’s remarks on Mercy, while they absently consumed weak tea.
Day-girls concerned with the programme began to arrive soon, and there was much dressing and undressing in studies and bedrooms, with anguished appeals for forgotten burnt-cork and other aids to a good stage-appearance: for there was a little play to be given, and in the eyes of the cast Beethoven and Shakespeare were unimportant details beside it. The twins made a brief but glorious appearance in the play, as Corsican bandits—slim figures in tunics and gym. knickers, with enormous slouch-hats concealing their darkened features and corked moustaches, Neapolitan scarves knotted about their necks, and with crimson silk sashes, in which were stuck a very arsenal of lethal weapons, ranging from ancient duelling-pistols to Gurkha kukris and Canary Island daggers—the species of outfit, in brief, without which no self-respecting Corsican may be found. They fought, were slain, died with artistic gurgles, and were dragged out by the heels; and the junior school, with sighs of rapture, mourned openly that Merriwa was to know them no more.
They appeared in different guise later on, in soft white frocks, their curls clustering about faces scrubbed to a fine rosy polish—the burnt-cork had taken some getting off. On this occasion it was their fate to ascend the daïs modestly and receive prizes at the hands of the Distinguished Person presiding—Jean an award for the French at which, as has been previously stated, she was “a whale,” while Jo, to her own amazement, found herself the owner of Miss Smith’s prize for cookery. Her bewilderment at this was so profound that she almost forgot to bow, and was only recalled to a sense of her position by a dig in the back from the Domestic Economy prize-winner, who was behind her.
“Who’d have thought it!” she ejaculated inelegantly, regaining her seat. “Will you ever forget Smithy’s remarks on the sausage-rolls that I mixed up with sugar?”
“Oh, but that’s ever so long ago,” Gladys said. “I know—it’s that Angels’ Food affair you compounded last cooking-day. You said yourself it was poetic!”
“Yes, but I also said it was a fluke!” rejoined the artist. “And I thought no one knew that better than Smithy!”
She was still regarding with astonishment the huge leather-bound copy of “Mrs. Beeton” that Miss Smith had presented as a tribute to the Angels’ Food, when her name was again called, this time with Jean’s. Jo dumped “Mrs. Beeton” on her neighbour’s knee, and the twins went up together to receive little silver cups that were to remind them of the tennis victory of that week. This time the junior school let itself loose. It had been—unfortunately—not permitted to them to applaud the spectacular decease of the Corsican bandits, since it had occurred at a moment when applause would have wrecked the progress of the drama; and French and cookery, while all very well in their way, made no special appeal to the hordes of juniors. But the tennis cups were a different matter—had they not palpitateden massethroughout that last wild set when the twins had snatched victory from the jaws of Kooringal? Wherefore they made the long room ring with the noise of their enthusiasm, clapping until their hard young hands rang again. The twins stood, flushing, a little taken aback by the warmth of their reception. Then they dived for cover among the applauding ranks.
“Such dear things!” murmured the Distinguished Person, looking after them with a twinkle in her distinguished eye. “And they were suchlovelybandits! Tell me, Miss Dampier, do you ever manage to tell them apart?”
“Sometimes,” the Head admitted. “Not always, by any means—for their first three months at school I never knew whether I was speaking to Jean or Jo. Even now, if possible, I begin by saying the name of the one I want, in a determined tone; the wrong twin won’t respond, to me, though I believe they take an awful joy in doing so among their mates, out of school. But there are many occasions when I am reduced to saying ‘dear’; and I am always in doubt as to whether the twin I am addressing isn’t well aware that my affection is only an insufficient cloak for ignorance!”
The Distinguished Person bestowed a geography prize upon a quaking junior.
“I wonder does their mother ever confuse them?’ she pondered.
“Oh, quite often, she has told me. The only person who never fails to know them apart is a small brother who bluntly says that he fails to see any likeness between them!”
“Dear me!” said the Distinguished One faintly. “How uncanny!” She gave away the next prize with a bewildered air that the recipient imagined was inspired by the spectacle of so much learning.
Visitors, distinguished and otherwise, vanished at the end of the prize-giving. Day-girls bade farewell to the boarders, exulting in the thought that to them the morrow would bring release from early rising and racing for trains and trams. Jean and Jo were the centre of a cheerful crowd—sorrow at parting lost in the overwhelming joy of the Christmas holidays. Their arms ached with shaking hands when the last farewells had been said, and they found themselves trooping with the other boarders to Miss Dampier’s supper.
It was at these farewell suppers that Miss Dampier showed that she fully understood the impossibility of making a decent tea on speech-night, and the consequent need of later nourishment. The nourishment she provided was of a kind that made the most irresponsible junior wonder if up till now she had not misjudged her head mistress. Moreover, she presided with a pleasant tact, bidding every one help herself, and restricting her conversation to teachers and seniors until it was evident that even the hungriest could eat no more. Then she moved about among her guests, with an understanding word for each; and those who were not coming back found themselves singled out for a special little chat and a few words that lay warm at their hearts long after they had gone away.
“Somehow, I don’t feel as if it were really good-bye to you, twinses,” she said; and Jean and Jo found nothing strange in the unfamiliar sound of the familiar school nickname on the Head’s lips. “It’s more as though you were going home on a visit—a long one, perhaps, but it may happen that you will come back.”
“Oh—we’d love to, Miss Dampier. Do you think there’s really any chance?”
“One never knows. Luck turns quickly in Australia.”
“O—o—oh!” said the twins, and looked longingly at each other. School had never seemed so desirable as on this last night. It was a gay and delightful place, with not even the spectre of an irregular verb or an early-morning bell: full of pleasant people and understanding teachers. They caught at the hope of returning to it.
“Oh, we’d love to come back!”
“Well, there would always be a big welcome for you. Tell your mother I had counted upon having you to help me next term.” She smiled at them, knowing she had summed up in those few words the answers to a dozen questions that the mother would have asked. “And I know you’ll help her through.” She drifted away through the throng, her grey head, with its exquisitely dressed hair, towering above every one.
The twins were going by a very early train; all their good-byes had to be said that night. Helen Forester came up with them to their little bedroom.
“Got all your packing done?”
“Oh, yes. The trunks have gone down.”
“It seems queer to think it’s the last night,” Helen said. “And to-day I was Captain, and to-morrow I’ll be—oh, very small potatoes! What fun it’s all been! Oh, you ought to be coming back, twinses!”
“Perhaps we shall, some day. Miss Dampier seemed to think so,” Jean said. “After all, we’re not so awfully old!”
Helen looked at the eager faces framed in the short curls.
“No, you’re not so awfully old,” she said. “Especially to have responsibilities. Don’t grow up too soon, kiddies.”
“Gracious!” ejaculated Jo. “And you’ve given us the biggest responsibility of all, you blessed old darling! Aren’t you nervous about trusting us with Rex?”
Helen laughed.
“Why, I think to-night proves that you’re, together, an association capable of dealing with any small boy,” she said. “One of you has a prize for learning, and the other for cooking, and joint cups for hard-hitting! What more could anyone want? Rex ought to come back to us re-modelled in mind and body.”
“Oh—Helen!” protested the twins.
Helen put an arm about each.
“Don’t spoil him—that’s the only thing I’m afraid of,” she said. “Good-bye, twinses dear: I’m so glad I was at school with you, ’cause you’re a nice old pair!” She dropped a kiss on each face, and was gone.
CHAPTER VIEMU PLAINS
‟FOR the first time,” said John Weston, “I’m not keen on going in to meet my daughters.”
“Then you ought to be ashamed of yourself,” said his wife briskly.
“Well, I am. And that’s why.”
“I never heard such nonsense,” Mrs. Weston said. “If every one in Australia who had had bad luck on top of a drought were to go about feeling ashamed, a nice place Australia would be! No one could have foreseen all the losses you have had. You certainly have no right to blame yourself.”
“Oh, I know all that,” said her husband, laughing rather grimly. “You needn’t ruffle up all your feathers, you fierce old mother-hen! But the youngsters may not realize it all; and anyway, it hurts a bit to meet them as a failure, and not as the person who has generally been regarded as a providing agency that always could be relied on. I feel as if I had let them down badly; and it isn’t a pleasant feeling, Mary. I get it every time Sarah glares at me.”
“But she isn’t glaring because we have lost money—only because we won’t let her stay without wages.”
“Oh, well, of course that’s rank insanity,” said her husband. “I wish I hadn’t any pride, for your sake; it makes me squirm whenever I think of your being without Sarah. But—one can’t do that.”
“I do wish you wouldn’t worry your dear old head about it,” said Mrs. Weston comfortably. “If I can’t manage, with two able-bodied daughters to help me, I should be the one to be ashamed. And wearegoing to manage, and very happily too. I quite look forward to running the house with the girls. They are such cheery souls—they’ll always make the best of things.”
“Well, they get that from their mother,” said the big man, looking down at her with many things expressed in his grey eyes. “To hear you talk, one would think that all this trouble I’ve landed you in for was just a picnic.”
“If you want to make me really cross,” said his wife, looking at the moment as if nothing on earth could ruffle her, “you will continue to stand there and talk nonsense. I don’t worry when Billy tears his trousers, because I know that little boyswilltear their trousers, whether one worries or not; and I’m not going to worry when bad luck comes along, because one can’t expect good luck always. But I shall worry if you go about looking miserable: and it will be much harder for the girls. So you mustn’t.”
“Bless you!” said John Weston, his face suddenly grown younger. “Well, I suppose I’d better start.” He stooped to kiss her. “Where’s Billy?”
Billy answered for himself, characteristically. The gravel on the path by the window rattled under racing feet, and he came in through the window, crossing the sill with a swift, lithe movement.
“Didn’t touch the curtains, Mother—truly! I’ve been down at the creek, and I was afraid Father would be gone.”
“I nearly am,” said his father. “Are you ready, or will you have to clean up?”
“I’m pretty clean,” said Billy, looking down at himself. He was a slender, lightly built little fellow, with an elf-like face—with small features, and very bright brown eyes. Like his sisters’, his hair curled, but his was inclined to be red. Billy despised boys with curly hair, and would have had his shorn almost to the skin, had his mother permitted. “Do I need to put on another coat, Mother?”
“Certainly you need, my son. You’ll find a clean holland coat on your bed.”
“Hurry up, old man,” said his father. The injunction was lost on Billy. He dashed from the room, pounded down the hall, and returned in an astonishingly short space of time, spruce and merry. His father was already in the buggy. Billy dropped a hurried kiss on top of his mother’s head, and raced out to join him.
They drove in a high express-waggon, which had ample room behind for luggage: the two-wheeled “jinker,” or Mrs. Weston’s light hooded buggy, were no use when girls with trunks and suit-cases had to be brought home. A heavy pair of iron-grey horses bowled them along at a good round pace. They were horses accustomed to any sort of work: singly or together they went in the buggy, the plough, the cart; they might draw a disc-harrow to-day, and take a turn at rounding up cattle to-morrow. They were splendidly matched, and though just now they were in poor condition, they held themselves as proudly as thoroughbreds, as they trotted along. John Weston had bred them himself, and he loved the gentle, honest animals. His face was gloomy now as he watched them. All the district knew the big greys, and lately he had had a good offer for them. It was the kind of offer he would have laughed at a year ago. But now—money had become a big thing: Prince and Captain might have to go.
“May I drive, Father?”
Billy’s voice brought him out of a reverie.
“All right, Son.” He gave the reins into the eager brown hands, and made him hold them correctly, watching him as they spun along. Billy took them successfully over a rather narrow culvert, kept a wary eye upon a noisy motor-van, which did not trouble the greys at all, and presently dodged between a timber-waggon and a farm-cart in a way that brought a gruff word of praise to his father’s lips. This brought upon Billy the pride that goes before destruction, and in an effort to show how near he could drive to a hawker’s van he very nearly removed its wheel—bringing upon them the wrath of the hawker, with shouted inquiries as to whether they desired to retain the whole of the road. Somewhat chastened in spirit, Billy drove with great care, and gave other traffic a wide berth: so that they arrived in the township without further misadventure.
It was sale-day, and the little town was busy. Farmers’ buggies and motors thronged the streets; the shops were crowded with the cheery, brown-faced country women, who knew precisely what they wanted to buy, and were not to be deceived by the most tempting “bargain-lines” displayed at “alarming sacrifices” by the drapers. Little boys, in little tweed suits, and little girls, with well-frizzed hair, accompanied their mothers; while babies were as the sands of the sea in number. The fences surrounding the sale-yards were black with men; more sellers than buyers, for there were few men in the district with grass left for their stock. There were many hearty greetings for John Weston as he drove up the street.
“Getting the girls back, John?”
“Yes. And you’re in to meet Tom, I suppose?”
“Yes—he comes by this train. Now the house will wake up again!”
The speaker was a short, stout man with a round, good-humoured face, who sat in a motor outside the station. He was Evan Holmes, of Holmdale, the largest station in the district. Like all the other landowners, he had felt the drought; but, unlike them, he had a well-grassed property in Gippsland, where there was no drought, and he had sent his stock there until better conditions should come to the northern areas. Therefore his good-humour was unfailing, and no lines of worry had creased his brow. John Weston and he had been to school together, and, so far as was possible, he had stood by his old friend, sending some of his best cattle to Gippsland with his own. He looked up now and spoke concerning these.
“Heard from McIntyre this morning, John. He says your stock are doing splendidly.”
“Well, that’s something to be thankful for, at any rate,” said Weston.
“Wonderful season, down there. They grumble, of course, and say it’s dry—but compared to here——!” The speaker swept a hand round the dry landscape. “Green feed—strawberry clover, and all the rest of it: running creeks. I sometimes wonder we don’t all move down there.”
“This part is good enough for me,” said his friend. “We don’t get a drought every year.”
“That’s true. And you can’t beat it when we don’t. A man likes his own country, especially when he was born and brought up in it, as you and I were. Oh, well, bad times pass: everything comes right, if you give it long enough. How do the girls like coming home?”
“They write as if it were a huge joke: but of course I knew they wouldn’t grumble, whatever they might feel. The only thing that seemed to worry them was that their mother and I wouldn’t go down for the breaking-up.”
“Yes, that would worry the twins,” said Mr. Holmes. “Tom was a bit disgusted that I couldn’t get down for his, too: but my wife went. She’ll be home on Christmas Eve, but Tom wouldn’t stay: he always makes for home as quickly as he can. There’s the train now”—as a far-off whistle was heard. “Let my man hold your horses—he’s brought the cart in for some boxes. Here, Joe!” He whistled to a man who was lounging near the entrance-gate. John Weston got down from his high seat, and they went in together to the platform, where Billy was already dancing with impatience.
There was no difficulty in finding Jean and Jo. They had secured an open doorway, and, in complete defiance of railway regulations, were projecting their persons as far as possible into space, that they might the more quickly reach home. They uttered a composite shout at the sight of their father and Billy, and further defied the regulations by swinging themselves down from the train before it had come to a standstill. A wail from the station-master floated by them unheeded. They darted up the platform together and flung themselves upon their father.
“Do you behave like that in Melbourne?” he demanded, laughing, an arm round each.
“Gracious, no! we’re models of deportment,” Jo answered. “But then you’re not in Melbourne, and you’ve a terribly demoralizing effect, Father. Oh, there’s the baby! and he’s grownyards!” She hugged Billy.
“Baby yourself!” quoth Billy, indignantly. He hopped about them on one foot. “Give us something to carry—here, I’ll take that!” He grasped a suit-case.
“You can’t carry that, Billy darling—it’s too heavy,” Jean objected. “Take the umbrellas.”
“Umbrellas!” snorted her brother. “Boys don’t cart umbrellas round.” Gripping the suit-case, he staggered off, unheeding feminine remonstrances.
“How are you, Tom?” Mr. Weston detached himself from his daughters to greet a stout youth who had followed them from the train. “Glad to see you back, though you’ve come to a dry country.”
“It’s the best place I know, anyhow,” said Tom Holmes, shaking hands all round, and bestowing a shy grin upon the twins. “And we’ll get rain some time or other, and then every one’ll have a few thumping seasons and forget the drought. I wish Dad would let me cut school and stay at home to help him: I’ll never do a bit of good at school, and I do love messing about at home.”
“Lazy young dog!” said his father cheerfully. “Another year’s lessons won’t hurt you.”
Tom groaned dramatically.
“Latin!” he said, with a resigned shrug. “And maths! I try to stick arithmetic, so’s I’ll be able to work out interest on mortgages”—he grinned at his father—“but I’m blessed if I can see the use of Euclid or Horace or Virgil on a cattle-station. I seem to spend half my time over Virgil, but I never learn a word that’ll be handy in a tight corner with bullocks!”
“Ah, that’s specialized knowledge, and comes later on,” said his father, laughing. “Come along, now, and gather up your luggage: we’ve got to have dinner at the hotel. Any use asking you and the girls to join us, John?”
“No, thanks; my wife will be looking out for us. I never can get the girls home quickly enough.” They said good-bye, and presently the twins were installed on the seat of the express-waggon, their father between them, while Billy perched on top of the heap of luggage at the back. Jo had the reins: it was an understood thing that she always drove when they came home. She wheeled the greys out of the crowded yard, dodging among motors, carts, and buggies, and in a few moments they were spinning along the dusty road towards home.
“Whew-w!” said Jean. “Isn’teverything dry!”
The familiar landscape was dreary in its barrenness. Nothing green was visible, save the line of trees that marked the nearly dry bed of the creek. The paddocks were brown stretches, almost bare: little swirls of dust rose here and there as the hot breeze blew over them. They passed crops—sad little crops of oats that had come into ear while only about a foot high, and were now not worth the labour of cutting.
Scarcely any stock could be seen. A few dusty brown sheep picked up a scant living in the paddocks near the creek, and here and there were hungry-looking cows, only kept alive by hand-feeding, and apparently getting short rations of that. Everywhere dust lay thick: on the fences, on the dried-up grass by the roadside, on the dull green leaves of the hawthorn hedges past which they drove. It was clear that many weeks had gone by since a shower of rain had fallen to wash the all-covering dust away.
“Yes—you never saw the country looking like this before,” said John Weston sadly.
“No, indeed. It comes home to you with a sort of a bang,” Jo agreed. “Poor old Dad!” She put her hand on his for a brief moment.
“Wait until you see the stock,” he said sadly. “That’s what hurts: to ride out among them day after day, watching them getting poorer and poorer, and to feel you can’t do anything to help them. I’m almost ashamed to go out now—they seem to look at me as if they expected me to help. Of course, most of them have gone—the cattle, I mean. Some I sold, the rest have gone down to Gippsland. Holmes says they’re doing well enough there.”
“What about the garden, Dad?” Jean asked.
“Oh, we’ve still a garden, thank goodness—you see, the windmill pumps the water up from the spring, and it’s one of those obliging servants that works all the twenty-four hours and never asks for pay. So we can still keep the vegetables and your mother’s garden going. But we’ll have to do it ourselves: I’ve been compelled to let the Chinaman go. Sorry, too: he had the place in splendid order.”
“We’ll work,” said Jo cheerfully. “I’m very handy with a hoe.” She grinned across her father at Jean. “ ‘Member our old gardens, Jean?”
“Rather!” said Jean. “We had awful bursts of industry, and made them lovely, and planted all sorts of seeds, and then some evil influence came along——”
“Generally Dad, with a job among the cattle,” remarked Jo.
“Why, you monkey——!” protested Mr. Weston.
“Just so,” Jean went on. “And so we would forget them, and the weeds would grow faster than the seeds, and presently there’d be nothing left of our poor gardens, ’cause Hop Sing would come along and dig them all up. Then we’d make another start!”
“Well, you’d better not grow vegetables on those principles,” said Mr. Weston, laughing, “or it will be a bad look-out for our dinners. Not that I’m going to let you do much work of that kind. I suppose I’ll be glad enough of some help with weeding now and then—my back isn’t as young as it was—but you’ll have plenty to do without that.” He sighed heavily. “That’s the worst of it all—so much is going to fall on your mother and you two; and I can’t help it. If only I could keep old Sarah—and it’s going to take a team of bullocks to shift her! She wants to stay without pay, bless her—says she’s got enough saved up for her old age. But of course we can’t allow that.”
“Of course you couldn’t,” agreed the twins demurely. They exchanged, behind their father’s back, ecstatic glances, which greatly puzzled Billy. “But you mustn’t worry, Dad: we’re awfully strong, and we won’t let Mother do too much. It’s all going to be great fun!”
“I hope you’ll continue to think so,” said their father dryly. “You’re dear kiddies, anyhow, and we’ll all try to make things easy for each other. Mother’s the one who has to be spared in every way: I know you’ll always remember that. Doing without Sarah is going to be harder for her than any of us can guess—not that she ever says so. But I know.”
“Yes, of course,” agreed Jean, with a queer little giggle that brought an inquiring look from her father. It was not quite like Jean to giggle at such a moment. Probably, he reflected, she was over-excited at getting home.
“I’m going to milk with Dad!” announced Billy, proudly, from his perch in the rear. “I’ve been practising, and I’ve milked old Strawberry three times!”
“Good old Billikens!” said Jo, turning to give him a sisterly pat. “Is it hard?”
“Men don’t find those things hard,” said Billy loftily. “You girls will have to be up to give us early tea before we start!”
“It shall be done,” said Jo meekly. “Any other orders?”
“I’ll let you know if there’s anything else,” replied Billy, preserving an unruffled masculine dignity. “Dad’s going to start teaching me all about the stock soon. He says I can be useful to him in no end of ways.”
“Yes—but lessons have got to come first, old son,” remarked his father.
“Oh, lessons!Theywon’t take long,” remarked Billy airily. Plainly it could be seen that he regarded the prospect of education under his sisters as a huge joke.
“You little know,” said Jean darkly. “We mean to turn you out a beautiful specimen of Higher Education before we’ve done with you. Manners and Deportment will be taught—sternly taught, young Billy!—and also Respect for Teachers——”
“Oh,willyou?” responded Billy. He tipped his prospective instructor’s hat over her eyes, and scrambled off across the luggage to avoid reprisals. They were just turning in towards the big gate that opened into the homestead paddock. Billy swung himself to the ground before the buggy had stopped, and, racing ahead of the greys, flung open the gate with a flourish. Looking at him, his hat pushed back on his curly head, his brown face glowing, and his eyes alight with laughter and mischief, it was difficult to imagine him as either a station-hand in the making or a docile pupil—especially in Deportment.
“You’ll have your hands full with him, I’m afraid,” remarked Mr. Weston.
“Oh, Billy will be all right,” said Jo confidently. Something in the certainty of her voice gave comfort to the harassed man at her side.
“I believe everything will seem more all right, now that you two have come home,” he said. “It’s high time you did—we’re almost forgetting how to laugh.”
“Well, no one could forget how to laugh with Jean about——” said Jo.
“Or with Jo,” put in Jean.
“Because she’s such a perfect ass!” finished the twins, in complete unison.
CHAPTER VIITHE TWINS’ SURPRISE-PACKET
MOTHER was at the gate to meet them—a slender, pretty woman, looking not so much older than her tall daughters. She disappeared under their onslaught, emerging from a bear’s hug presently, dishevelled, but cheery.
“Well, you dear things,” she said. “It’s good to get you home. And you’ve hadsucha hot journey—you’ll want baths, but you must have some tea first. And here’s Sarah.”
Sarah had come out to the gate, contrary to her usual habit. Generally she prepared to be sought in her kitchen, a spotless place where she reigned supreme amid the glory of a shining stove, gleaming brass taps, and tables and dressers scrubbed to a whiteness that was almost past belief. But to-day she chose to come out; and there was something in the hard old face that made the twins suddenly rush at her and hug her almost as thoroughly as they had hugged their mother. Sarah had not any words for them. She held them tightly and looked over their heads at their mother and father with a half-defiant question in her eyes. Mrs. Weston could not meet her piteous look. She put her hand gently on her shoulder, going past her on her way to the house.
“Come on, children,” she called. “Tea is ready. Sarah made it as soon as we heard the buggy coming over the bridge. And I’m sure you are both ready for it.”
The twins rushed to the bathroom, to remove the more recent layers of journey grime, and in a few moments they were all in the big comfortable dining-room, where afternoon tea was on a scale calculated to soothe hungry travellers. So far there was no sign that they had come to a poverty-stricken home. The room was just as well-kept as ever, with big bowls of flowers here and there: the glass and silver were shining, the table-linen was as exquisite as they had always known it. Mother was just as dainty as ever, in the soft blue dress that was the colour of her eyes. Everything was simply home: home, as they had pictured it a thousand times, away at school.
But when they looked more closely, the change was there—in the faces of their mother and father. Mr. Weston’s eyes were deeply sunken, with dark shadows under them, and threads of grey were thickly sown in his crisp dark hair; and there were lines in their mother’s face that were new, and an unfamiliar hint of repression about her mouth. Both tried to talk as though nothing was the matter: there were a hundred questions to be asked and answered, and the revelation that the twins had actually brought home prizes elicited satisfactory expressions of awe and respect on the part of their family. But through all the cheery chatter there was an under-current of something wrong—something kept down. It was like a shadow lurking in a corner of the room.
Sarah came in presently to take away the tea-things. She looked approvingly at an empty plate which had held scones, and with less good-will at others not entirely cleared of cakes. The twins glanced at their mother inquiringly as the door closed behind her. It was not usual for Sarah to appear in the dining-room. Mrs. Weston understood the glance.
“Amy has gone, you know, girls,” she said placidly, taking up her knitting. “She didn’t want to go until after Christmas; but Mrs. Holmes needed a housemaid, and it was too good a place for her to lose: I persuaded her to go.”
“Of course,” said the twins hurriedly. There fell an awkward silence.
“Mother and I have made up our minds that it’s best to let you know just how we stand,” said Mr. Weston, speaking as a man speaks who faces a disagreeable task. “It’s only fair, seeing that you youngsters are so much affected by our bad luck. We’re not going to be permanently ruined, so you needn’t worry too much: unless the drought stretches out indefinitely I’ll pull round all right, once the rain comes. You know, droughts with us generally mean extra good seasons afterwards: the ground has had a rest, and grass and crops come on splendidly.”
Jean and Jo nodded acquiescence. They understood the ways of droughts.
“Well—I’ll be right enough if I don’t have to sacrifice more of my stock. The few I have left on the place ought to be able to scratch up a living: those I’ve sent to Gippsland will be our salvation, if only I can hang on to them. If I am forced to sell, things will be very bad, for of course stock are fetching the very lowest prices. I could have gone on without making any special change in our way of living but for the money I told you about—the sum I lent. I lent it to a good friend—he’d done me more than one good turn years ago—and I don’t regret it. Mother says she doesn’t, either.”
“Then nobody does,” said Jo, and Jean nodded vehemently.
“I knew you’d say so,” said Father, and smiled at them. “Still—that’s our trouble. It leaves me horribly short of ready money. The place is bringing in nothing whatever: the small income I have, apart from it, isn’t nearly enough to pay household expenses, school bills, a governess for Billy, a big wages-list, and a dozen other things. So there was nothing for it but to cut down expenses in every way, and bring you home to help.”
“We’re jolly glad you did,” said the twins.
“Oh, we knew we could depend on you. Still, we’re awfully sorry. If you could, we’d like you to go on with some decent reading, and with your music—you’re such kids, to be leaving off studies altogether, and we hate it for you; but we quite realize that you won’t have much time. Sarah is to go after Christmas, and there will be loads for you to do, with Billy’s teaching thrown in, and we don’t want life to be all work for you.”
“We won’t make it all work,” said Mother gently. “We’ll try to have lots of fun mixed in.”
“Why, we couldn’t help it,” said Jean laughing.
“I know you’ll look after your mother,” said Mr. Weston. “I feel pretty desperate at letting Sarah go, for she’s a standby in everything, and she takes such care of Mother if she’s sick.”
“I decline to be sick—ever!” said Mother firmly. At which her husband ran his fingers through his hair, and looked at her with an air of desperation that would have been almost comical if it had not been so miserable.
“I’m afraid of that very thing,” he said. “You’ll hang on and hang on, long after you should give in, if you do get seedy. Sarah would know at a glance, and put you firmly to bed; but the girls and I won’t be as quick to see. If I were sure that you would be sensible, and take care of yourself, I wouldn’t be half so worried. But yourself is the one person about whom you haven’t any sense!”
“Now, don’t meet trouble half-way,” said Mrs. Weston. “We’re going to manage very comfortably, girls. I can get a good woman from the township for a day each week, for washing and rough cleaning, and the rest will be quite easy to us. And if I do feel sick, I promise to stay in bed and call loudly for nourishment. So——”
“Jean,” said Jo, “if I don’t tell I shall burst.”
“Me too,” said Jean.
“Then why don’t you tell?”
“I was waiting for you. You’re five minutes older.”
“I wish you always remembered it!” said Jo severely. “Well, we’ll tell together. You see——”
“There’s nothing wrong, is there, girls?” queried Mrs. Weston anxiously. “You’re not ill, Jo?”
“Do I look it?” asked Jo. “No, but we’ve been fixing up a bit of business on our own. We do hope you won’t mind.”
“You simply mustn’t mind,” said Jean. “It was so dreadful to think we couldn’t earn any money to help you——”
“And when you’re fifteen and a half there doesn’t seemanyway to earn money. And we were tearing our hair about it at school——”
“And Helen—er—one of the senior girls happened to hear——”
“The tearing of the hair?” asked Mr. Weston solemnly.
“Yes, it made an awful row. Like tearing calico. And she started thinking, and so she came up in her kimono early next morning——”
“And offered us her little brother!” Jean finished triumphantly. She glared at her father and mother as if defying them to make any protest.
“It seems more like a way out of the other girl’s difficulties than yours,” remarked Mr. Weston, much puzzled. “Did you mention to her that you had a little brother of your own? Or perhaps you offered Billy in exchange?”
Billy, who had been sitting in a corner of the big sofa in unwonted silence, snorted indignantly.
“No, we didn’t. But we took hers.”
“My dear girls, whatdoyou mean?” asked Mrs. Weston.
“Why, I thought we’d made it quite clear,” said Jean, rather aggrieved. “You see, they want to get rid of her little brother——”
“That sounds as if he were pretty beastly, but he’s not,” said Jo. “Only they’re all going away to Colombo, and——”
“And he can’t go, ’cause of the climate, and——”
“My beloved daughters,” remarked Mr. Weston, “if you would only speak one at a time, and say what you reallydomean, we’d know more about it. You first, Jo—you’re the eldest.”
“Well, but we told you, didn’t we? They’re going to Colombo, and they can’t take him, ’cause he’s only nine, and not very strong. And they were wondering what on earth to do with him—they didn’t want to send him to school. They were at their wits’ end. And then they thought of us. And we’ve made an arrangement—that is, if you approve, only you simplycan’tdisapprove, or it’ll put them in the most frightful fix—that we’re to take him, and look after him and teach him with Billy, for——You tell them, Jean.”
“For £150 a year!” said Jean solemnly.
They ceased, and looked for the effect of their bomb. It was all they could have desired.
“Whew-w-w!” whistled their father.
“My dear little girls!” Mrs. Weston put down her work and stared at them. “You aren’t joking?”
“As if we’d joke about anything so amazing as £150 a year!” uttered Jo.
“But who is it?”
“We don’t want to tell you until you’ve consented,” said Jo. They had decided in the train to keep the identity of the new pupil a secret, believing that Mr. and Mrs. West on would find it easier to accept a stranger than a friend’s son. “It’s all right, of course; they’re nice people. Say we may have him, Dad. You simply can’t refuse.”
“But can you teach him?”
“They don’t want him to have many lessons. They only want him to learn a little, and play about and get strong—and to be made to mind his manners.You’ve got to do that part of the job, Dad.”
Billy got down from the sofa and came forward, his eyes dancing.
“Do you mean to say,” he demanded, “that you’re going to bring a boy here—a real boy, that I can play with and go about with? I never thought sisters were so much good before! Oh, Mother, say you’ll have him!”
“Yes, and if you do, Sarah needn’t go, need she?” exploded Jo. “That’s the loveliest part of it—we can keep Sarah to look after Mother.”
“By—Jove!” said John Weston, very slowly. His eyes met his wife’s with a passion of relief in them.
“But it’s too much to pay for a child,” she objected.
“They won’t pay less,” Jean said. “If they had to send him away with a governess it would cost them more. And they’relongingfor him to come here. They’re counting on your not saying No.”
“I’m not going to say it,” said John Weston. “If you think you can stand another small boy about, dear—it will mean we can keep Sarah.”
Mrs. Weston had taken up her knitting, but there were tears falling on it, and she dropped three stitches. Suddenly the twins’ arms were round her.
“Oh, don’t cry, darling! We’re going to look after you, but we know we can’t do it as well as Sarah.”
“Was ever anyone so looked after?” Mrs. Weston smiled through her tears. “I don’t know why I’m crying, only you’re such darlings. Yes, we’ll have your boy, and we’ll keep Sarah——”
“And bless you both,” said John Weston, putting his arms round all his feminine belongings. “Billy, go and tell Sarah we want her. By the way, Jo, who is he?”
“Rex Forester—only you’re not to mind that.”
“George Forester’s boy!—whew-w! I wish it wasn’t a friend’s son.”
“But it’s that that makes them so happy about it. Mrs. Forester wrote us a lovely letter, and she’s writing to Mother. They’re just frightfully relieved.” The feelings of the twins overcame them, and they jazzed frantically together round the room—a demonstration that brought them into violent collision with Sarah, who entered silently, with Billy, flushed and excited, at her heels.
“Sarah, will you stay with us?” Mrs. Weston asked.
Sarah blinked rapidly thrice.
“Will I stay?”
“Miss Jean and Miss Jo are to have a pupil,” Mrs. Weston said. “A little boy, to teach with Master Billy. It gives us a little more money, so—will you stay with us, old friend?”
Sarah uttered a loud sniff.
“I wouldn’t have gone,” she declared stoutly. “Not if it was ever so. What’s wages, between you and me? and who’d know how to treat your brownkities, when they come?” She put her apron to her eyes. “And why them poor lambs should have to teach some ’orrid little boy, just to keep me on the place,Idunno, seein’ I’d never have gone!”
“I can’t afford Amy too, you know, Sarah,” said Mrs. Weston.
“I’m not conshis of havin’ ever said I needed a second pair of ’ands to ’elp me run a place like this,” said Sarah stiffly. “The work ain’t nothing. Many a time ’ave I said to myself, with Amy talkin’ about her boys and the new way of doin’ her ’air, that I’d rather be on me own.” Suddenly her hard old face worked, and her voice trembled. “I couldn’t never have gone!” she cried loudly, and turned swiftly from the room. They heard her sobbing as she went.
“Go after her, girls,” Mrs. Weston said, crying softly herself. “Tell her all about it. She has been breaking her heart for a month.”
Left alone, John Weston looked long at his wife.
“I seem to remember Sarah once remarking that you’d never know where you were with them twins!” he said.