CHAPTER VIIIGETTING ON TERMS
REX FORESTER arrived three days after Christmas. The twins drove in to meet him, well charged with pity. A little boy of nine, whose family has just sailed in a body for Colombo, may be expected to be an object for anyone’s compassion, and Jean and Jo fully expected a tear-stained and disconsolate individual.
Instead, there stepped from the train a perfectly self-possessed young gentleman. Nothing was awry about him, and no tear seemed likely to find a lodging on his cheek. His light suit was unspotted by a journey that reduced most small boys to monuments of grime; his sailor hat sat jauntily upon his well-brushed head. He wore spectacles, which gave him a curious air of dignity. Very fair was he, with large blue eyes and a skin of milk and roses. Nature seemed to have destined him to sing in a choir; and as there was no such opening for him at Emu Plains, the twins may be excused for wondering what on earth they were going to do with him. They also wondered what Billy would think of him.
They had shopping to do in the township, so Jo drove into the little main street and held the horses while Jean transacted the commissions. Rex declined to get down, saying he would rather stay in the buggy—a mode of conveyance which interested him a good deal, since he had had no experiences save of motors. He had expected a motor, and had been frankly amazed at the high, light buggy into which he was expected to climb.
“I didn’t know anyone used these things,” he said. “Not—well, not our sort of people, you know.”
“Oh, you’ll find quite a lot here and there,” Jo told him. “Some even prefer them. No nasty smell of petrol, like motors have.”
“Oh, not decent cars,” Rex answered, in a pained way. “I suppose some smell of petrol, though I really don’t know. But not good cars.”
“And is yours a good car?”
“Ours? Oh, we’ve got three. Yes, they’re all good. I can drive a bit. Is it hard to drive horses?”
“Not when you’re used to it,” said Jo. “Or to ride them, either. Can you ride, by the way?”
“No, I never tried riding. We’ve been in town since I was a little kiddie. Helen said she supposed I’d learn at Emu Plains.”
“Oh, of course you’ll have to—we all learned to ride about the time we learned to walk,” Jo told him. “It’s half the fun of the bush.”
“Is there much fun in the bush?” asked the small boy doubtfully.
“Depends on what you call fun,” Jo answered briskly. “Of course, if you’re mad keen on picture-shows and theatres and going down to St. Kilda, you may find it a bit slow. We have riding and driving, and we go for picnics, and there’s ripping bathing in the river, and there always seems something to do about the place. Billy—that’s my young brother—is awfully glad you’re coming. He has never had a mate of his own size.”
“How old is he?” asked Rex, forbearing to make any comment on the list of country attractions.
“Eight, but he’s as big as you, I think. He’s hoping very much that he is, anyway. He rides pretty well, and he can swim fairly. Dad thinks it would be a good plan to teach you both to box.”
“I’d like that,” Rex said eagerly. “My father was going to have me taught, but I got sick after I’d only had one lesson. I don’t have to wear my specs. to box, and that’s a pull. Specs. are an awful nuisance.”
“Jolly hard on you to have to wear them,” said Jo sympathetically. “But perhaps you won’t have to always.”
“I hope to goodness I shan’t,” said the small boy. “A fellow does look such an ass in them. And other chaps rag you about them.” He set his teeth and looked ferocious. “That’s one of the reasons why I want to learn to box!”
“So that you can take it out of them—good idea!” agreed Jo. “Here’s Jean, all bundles. Got everything, Jean?”
“I sincerely hope so,” said her twin, who looked hot. “The shop’s crowded, and the smell of half-dead Christmas decorations is awful.” She glanced down her list. “Yes, that’s all, except the mail. Drive up, and I’ll meet you at the post-office.”
“Can’t we go somewhere and have an ice, or a drink?” suggested Rex, as they drove up the little street. “I’m awfully hot. Is there any place?”
Jo hesitated. In the old days when money had not seemed to matter, she and Jean had never failed to sample the ice-creams and other delights of hot weather supplied by the little fruit-shop. But the twins had talked this matter over, and had agreed that such luxuries must now be cut out of their programme. It was somewhat disconcerting to find that their pupil looked on them as one of the ordinary aids to existence. She temporized.
“Well—it won’t be long before we get home,” she said. “Can’t you wait?”
“Oh do let’s come—it won’t take two minutes,” Rex begged. “Look, there’s quite a jolly place over there and it’s got an ‘Ice-Cream’ sign hanging out.”
Jo yielded, with a sigh. They had agreed not to take any more pocket-money from their father, and Christmas had made a very considerable hole in their slender funds. Still, there seemed no way out. She beckoned to Jean as her twin came out of the post-office.
“Jean—take Rex across to Fielding’s, and have an ice with him.”
Jean’s heated countenance expressed reproach, mingled with surprise. She had not time to reply, however, before Rex broke in.
“Oh, but you’ve got to come too,” he said.
“No! thanks—don’t want any,” Jo returned.
“Oh! that’s rubbish—you’ve got to come. Can’t you get anyone to hold the horses?”
“Well, I won’t, if you don’t, Jo,” said Jean firmly. To depart from a rule so recently formed was bad enough, but it was ten times worse to be expected to do it without one’s faithless twin. Mingled with her feelings was a guilty consciousness that she wanted that ice very badly indeed. “Jimmy Fielding will hold the horses. Come on.”
“Oh, all right,” Jo said, capitulating. “After all,” she added to herself, “it’s only threepence a head.”
But it turned out to be rather more than that. After the ices, Rex ordered raspberry vinegar before the twins could interfere; and then it occurred to him that peaches would enliven the journey home, and he secured a bag full of rosy-cheeked freestones. He picked them up and stood aside, cheerfully unconcerned, while Jo paid the bill. Rex had plenty of money in his pockets, but it did not occur to him that others might not be as well off. Older people always paid for him when they shopped together—why not the twins?
The superhuman politeness of their pupil continued during the drive home, scarcely modified even by the consumption of peaches that freely dripped with juice. He asked a great many questions, but did not appear at all interested in any answers. One gathered the impression that he considered it bad manners to sit in silence, and that questions were the easiest way out. The twins, however, were somewhat paralyzed by the rapid-fire nature of his conversation, and found their own supply of small-talk quite unequal to his. It was something of a relief to them when they reached the homestead, and saw their young charge taken over by Billy.
“Wonder what Billy’s thinking?” Jo laughed, as she perched on the end of the table where their mother was sewing.
“What doyouthink?” was Mrs. Weston’s rejoinder.
“He’s quite amazing,” Jo answered. “Isn’t he, Jean? Frightfully grown-up, and I should think he’s had rather too much of his own way all his life.”
“His manners are lovely,” Jean said. “You should have seen him eating peaches, Mother—they were the really-drippy sort that ordinary people like Jo and me can only eat with comfort in a bath, or in the middle of a fifty-acre paddock; but he managed it without turning a hair, and I don’t think there’s one spot on his coat!”
“Remarkably prehensile action with his tongue,” grinned Jo. “I’m going to practise it—in private. The weird part was that it hardly interfered with his remarks at all!”
“It would take years of practice beforeIcould eat a peach and talk at the same time—except to you,” said Jean. “It’s one of those occasions when the strain of society is a bit too much. But Rex isn’t like any small boy I ever met.”
“I’m rather leaning back against the fact that he’s Helen’s brother,” Jo remarked. “Anyone belonging to Helenmustbe all right. And of course he’s had lots of drawbacks.”
“He does not seem quite a natural small boy,” said Mrs. Weston. “But Billy will make him natural, if it’s humanly possible. So don’t worry, girls.”
Meanwhile, Billy and Rex, having looked each other over after the fashion of young puppies who meet for the first time, had strolled together into the orchard. They kept some distance apart, and exchanged sidelong glances, looking very much as if they wished to growl. Conversation flagged. Billy paused presently under a laden apricot tree.
“Have one?” he asked, jerking his head upwards.
“Yes, thanks,” Rex answered. They browsed awhile in silence.
“Not many good ones left near the ground,” remarked Billy. “Come on up the tree.”
Rex hesitated.
“Don’t think I care about climbing trees.”
“Not like climbing trees!” uttered Billy. “Whyever not?”
“Oh—I’m not keen on it.”
“But—fruittrees!” Billy’s eyes were round. “How on earth are you going to get fruit if you never climb?”
“Well—I can buy it.”
“You can’t buy it more’n once a week, if you’re livin’ with us,” affirmed Billy. “An’ fruit in shops isn’t half as good as fruit picked off trees. Besides, every one climbs.”
“Well, I don’t, so that’s flat.”
Billy surveyed him with amazement. Courtesy to guests had been preached to him, but this was a serious matter. There surged over his mind the utter impossibility of living with a boy who refused to climb.
“I believe you’re afraid!” he burst out.
Rex went scarlet.
“ ’Fraid, yourself. Don’t you dare say I’m afraid.”
“Well, if you aren’t afraid, come on after me.”
Billy swung his lithe young body into the lower branches of the tree, and went up, hand over hand, until he reached a favourite nook near the top. He hooked his leg over a branch and looked down, tauntingly.
“There!—why, it’s as easy as easy. Even old Sarah can climb an apricot tree—any muff can! And you’re afraid!”
“I’m not afraid,” retorted Rex furiously.
He gave an awkward little run at the tree and succeeded, with a scramble, in gaining the lower branches. It was very plain that he was unused to climbing. He clung rather desperately to the trunk and turned an angry face upward to Billy, who unfeelingly roared with laughter.
“That’s right—hang on like fury, or you’ll tumble out again! Come on up here and have an apricot—all the ripe ones are high up.”
Rex set his teeth and tried to copy his tormentor’s easy upward swing. It looked the simplest thing, but, somehow, it was harder than it looked. He missed his grasp at a branch, slipped, and fell with a resounding bump. The ground was hard beneath the tree, and, though he fell only a few feet, Rex felt considerably shaken and damaged. He jumped up—rather to the relief of Billy, who promptly laughed anew.
“Well, youarea muff! Fancy falling out of a tree like that. Did you ever try to climb before?”
“No, I never!” rejoined Rex, red with rage. “It’s all very well for you to laugh, when you’ve been climbing trees all your life. Anyhow, I wouldn’t have silly ginger curls like yours for something. Does your mother put them in curl-papers every night?”
The bitterness of this insult sent the blood to Billy’s face.
“No, she doesn’t—an’ I’ll fight you if you say that again!”
Every vestige of his society manner had departed from Rex. He danced about on the grass, chanting derisively.
“Yah, Curly! Who’s got ginger curls? Silly old Curly—won’t the boys laugh at him when he goes to school!”
“Not as much as they’ll laugh at you if you try to climb!” retorted Billy, at the top of his voice. But Rex apparently did not hear. He danced and yelled with unabated vigour.
“Curly, Curly Weston! Curly, Curly Weston! Who goes to bed in curl-papers every night?”
“I’ll teach you!” said Billy fiercely. He came down the tree like an avalanche, dropping from bough to bough until he landed on the grass. His fists were clenched at his sides. It would have been difficult to say which face was the redder.
“Will you fight?”
“I don’t fight girls with silly curls,” said Rex—and realizing that he had made an unexpected burst of poetry, was correspondingly uplifted, and chanted wildly, “I—don’t—fight—girls— With—sil-ly—curls” again and again, ducking to avoid a sudden blow from Billy. Then another, better aimed, caught him on the shoulder, and from that instant neither manners nor melody remained to Master Rex Forester. He became primitive boy. Hammer and tongs they fought each other under the tree—slipping on squashed apricots, stumbling and recovering, exchanging thudding blows with their hard young fists.
From the shelter of an apple-tree by the gate Mr. Weston, who had come to make his guest’s acquaintance, watched them, a twinkle in his eye.
“I suppose I ought to interfere,” he murmured, smiling under his moustache. “But—I don’t know. There certainly doesn’t seem much of the city polish left about that youngster: and a little blood-letting is a pretty good way to friendship. I think I’ll let them be. Anyhow, Billy’s getting the worst of it, so my feelings as a host won’t be too badly hurt.” He drew back into the shelter of the tree, watching.
Billy was certainly getting the worst of it. He was slightly smaller than Rex, and had very little idea of fighting; while the solitary boxing-lesson of which Rex had spoken had not failed to leave some impression on that hero. There was a trace of science in his hitting: a faint trace, it is true, but it was more than enough for Billy. Billy’s muscles were hard, and his blows were of the sledge-hammer type—the drawback being that they so seldom got home. He was almost on the point of admitting that he had had enough when a swing from Rex’s left arm landed on the point of his nose. Blood followed, in quantities sufficiently terrifying to an eight-year-old. It was not altogether surprising if a few tears came too.
Billy was desperately ashamed of crying. He leaned against a tree, endeavouring to staunch the bleeding—thankful that, for once in a way, he had a handkerchief, and trusting that his suppressed sobs would be unnoticed by his conqueror. He knew he was beaten: it would be only a moment, he supposed, before the insulting chant about his curls would begin again.
It did not come, however. Gradually the bleeding slackened, and he became sufficiently master of himself to face the world again. He turned from his friendly tree, his face doggedly ashamed, ready to meet whatever insults his victor might devise.
There were none, it seemed, that he was to be called upon to meet. Rex lay full-length in the grass, his face buried in his arms. His shoulders were shaking: there was obvious evidence that Billy was not the only one to cry. And suddenly it came to little Billy Weston that this conqueror, with his smooth hair and his grown-up manner, was only a lonely little boy whose mother was very far away.
He paused a moment, awkwardly. Then he went over and knelt beside him, putting a nervous hand on his shoulder.
“I say. Rex, I’m awful sorry. I was a pig.”
“Well, so was I,” came in muffled tones.
“No, but you’re a visitor. Anyhow, you licked me. M-made me blub, too.”
The last was an heroic effort, and it brought Rex round to a sitting position.
“Did I?” he uttered. His own face was tear-stained, and a fine bruise was rapidly developing near his eye. “Well, I blubbed, too. I—I guess it’s a bit queer, being away from every one you know.”
“Well, we’re no better than each other,” said Billy quaintly. “Let’s be pals.”
They shook hands solemnly. Mr. Weston slipped away, chuckling as he went.
“I wouldn’t take any notice of anything peculiar in the boys’ appearance,” he told his wife and the twins. “They’ve been making friends, and it’s a process involving bruises. But it’s all right.” He told the story.
Billy guided Rex by devious paths to the bathroom presently, there to remove as much evidence of warfare as could be treated with soap and water. They appeared at tea with extremely red and shiny faces, coloured here and there with bruises, and, in Billy’s case, with a nose resembling a beetroot in shape and colour. No one took any apparent notice of these defects. The twins plied their pupil with food—for which he had little appetite—and Mrs. Weston asked him kindly if he had enjoyed his afternoon.
“I’ve had a very nice time, thank you, Mrs. Weston,” responded Rex politely. “We’ve been in the orchard.”
“Ah, it’s nice there,” said John Weston gravely. His eyes met his son’s for a moment, and Billy flushed at something he saw in them.
“Do I look rum?” he demanded of Rex when, released from society, they wandered out into the garden.
“Pretty, rum,” Rex said, regarding him critically. “Do I?”
“Yes, rather. I wonder would anyone guess we’d been fighting?”
“I shouldn’t wonder if they did. Would they be wild?”
“Well, they told me to behave nicely to you—especially at first.”
“They told me that, too, at home.”
They grinned at each other, comprehendingly.
“Oh, well,” said Billy. “Girls an’ grown-ups can’t possibly understand everything about boys!”
“ ‘I say, Rex, I’m awful sorry. I was a pig.’ ‘Well, so was I,’ came in muffled tones.”The Twins of Emu Plains] [Page 103
“ ‘I say, Rex, I’m awful sorry. I was a pig.’ ‘Well, so was I,’ came in muffled tones.”The Twins of Emu Plains] [Page 103
CHAPTER IXTHE PROGRAMME
‟ARE you young people aware,” asked Mr. Weston severely, “that it is now up to you to map out the whole duty of pupil-teachers?”
“Parents of high-grade pupil-teachers,” remarked Jo with equal severity, “don’t use such expressions as ‘up to you.’ They employ only thebestEnglish.”
“It has been sufficiently exhausting to act as the parent of low-grade twins without beginning to live up to them as high-grade pupil-teachers,” said her father, laughing. “However, I’ll try, being of a meek spirit. Will you, my children, address yourselves to the problem of framing a suitable scheme of educational training for——”
“Oh, Daddy, do say something like ‘that blessed kid,’ to finish with, and then I’ll know it’s you!” cried Jean.
“I meant to,” said Mr. Weston with a sigh of relief. “I couldn’t have kept it up a second longer. Well, what are you going to do about it, anyhow?”
“We’ve been trying to work out a scheme for a week,” Jo said. “There’s such a lot to be thought of. Mrs. Forester said specially that she didn’t want him to have too many lessons—three hours a day would be quite enough for him. Is that enough for Billy?”
“Well, Billy could stand more. But three hours will do for the present,” said Mrs. Weston, who was knitting in her armchair by the window, profiting by the last gleam of daylight. The long summer day was over, and a cool breeze had begun to blow across the scorched, bare plains. Rex and Billy, wearied by battle, were already in bed, in their corner of the verandah, sleeping peacefully. The twins had tucked them up, and were now ready for a family conclave.
“Well—lessons, three hours. We’ve got to fit that in with our own work,” said Jean. “You see, we’re going to do most of the housework. We mean to get up at five in the summer, and get most of it done before breakfast. That leaves Sarah pretty free. Of course, we don’t want Mother to do anything at all.”
“A nice sort of person I should soon become!” said Mrs. Weston, laughing. “Disgracefully fat and hopelessly lazy! It seems hard that you should deliberately conspire to ruin an excellent character like mine!”
“Oh, we know well enough you’ll always be busy, darling,” Jo said, laughing. “You can have the mending of all Billy’s trousers, for one thing: and that’s about enough to keep you busy. But we don’t want you to have any definite housework. We’ve talked it all out with Sarah, and arranged everything. She insists on turning out one room every day—so we’re going to get it all ready for turning out, and do the rest of the housework. It’ll be quite easy, because nothing will ever get dirty or untidy.”
“My poor lambs!” murmured Mrs. Weston, gazing at this picture of youthful optimism.
“Well, you know, Mother, not really bad.” Both the twins laughed. “We do really mean to try to keep things tidy. We’re going round a bit at night, putting everything away before we go to bed—things that don’t seem to matter a bit at night do look so horribly untidy in the morning. And we’re going to plan the work so as to get method. Smithy—Miss Smith, I mean—used always to preach about that. Do you think it takes long to grow method?”
“A lifetime isn’t enough for some people,” Mrs. Weston said. “But if you really try I think yours will soon develop. There are already signs of healthy sprouting!” She smiled at them—the smile a little tremulous. They were so young, and so tremendously in earnest.
“That’s comforting,” Jean said. “Now there’s another important thing. Do you think it’s our duty to teach the boys together? Us together, I mean—not the boys, of course.”
“A class of two isn’t exactly huge,” said their father. “It would be rather over-engined with two teachers, I think.”
“That’s what we thought,” Jean cried eagerly. “It would be silly—we’d be falling over each other. So we mapped out a programme, each of us taking an hour and a half at a time, and we’ll each give the lessons we’re best at ourselves. English isn’t mine, you’ll notice! Then the one who isn’t teaching can be free for other jobs.”
“Here’s the programme,” Jo said. She displayed it triumphantly—a lengthy document, with spaces beautifully ruled in red ink, mapping out a week’s work. Mr. and Mrs. Weston studied it together.
“ ‘Drill—15 minutes’?” queried Mr. Weston presently.
“Oh, that’s physical jerks—you know, calisthenics,” Jo explained. “We’ll begin with that every morning. They were very keen about it at school. Miss Dampier says it gets all the brain-machinery going well.”
“Good idea,” said their father, relapsing into silence.
“Isn’t there a good deal of time for ‘Reading’?” asked Mrs. Weston. “They’re very small for such long lessons.”
“Oh—that’s not only the boys,” Jean said. “We’re going to read to them—jolly books, like those ‘High Roads’ series, that teach you all about history and geography and literature without letting you guess that you’re being taught. We had a lot of them ourselves, and Mrs. Forester has sent dozens in Rex’s trunk. They’ll get absolutely full of knowledge without an effort on their own parts!”
“Why wasn’t I taught like that!” groaned Mr. Weston. “My ‘High Roads’ were paved with flint—these lucky young dogs will have theirs strewn with rose-leaves. Well, it seems a pretty comprehensive schedule, twinses. I hope you’ll be able to live up to it.”
“We mean to have a jolly good try,” Jo said. “I expect we’ll slump sometimes, but we’re really going to do our best. Now, where do you come in, Dad?”
“Is it me?” queried Mr. Weston blankly. “What have I to do with your fell schemes?”
“Rex isn’t a fell scheme, and you have lots to do with him,” said his relentless daughter. “You see, it was specially mentioned that he needs manly influence. Well, we can’t supply that!”
“I’m not so sure,” remarked the hapless man, gazing at the determined young faces. “Still, I’m willing to do all I can. What would you suggest?”
“Well—boxing for one thing: and of course he has to be taught to ride. We can all take a turn at that, but we think he ought to begin with you, Dad, ’cause he’ll have more confidence with a man than he would with us.”
“Can do,” said Mr. Weston. “I’ll give him half an hour on old Merrilegs after breakfast every morning—if I possibly can. Boxing after tea; then they can wash off the results and sleep off the soreness! Anything else?”
“Well—no other accomplishments. But he can go about with you and Billy, can’t he, Dad?—when you have time, of course. We don’t want them always with us, or getting into mischief alone.”
“Billy is very anxious to learn to manage the place,” said Mr. Weston, with a twinkle in his eye. “I think he has visions of relieving me of any work after a year or two—like you two with your mother. I’ve promised to teach him all I can, but of course there’s very little to show him just now, with the whole place a desert, and most of the stock away. When Rex can ride I can take them both out with me. Meanwhile, I’ll do what I can to instruct him in country ways; and it’s not a bad thing to teach them to use their eyes. Quite remarkable, how many people can look at things without seeing them. To come down to actual deeds, Billy is earnestly learning to use an axe, and to milk. Rex can share those lessons.”
“For goodness’ sake, don’t let him chop his feet off!” begged Mrs. Weston.
“Not if I can avoid it,” said her husband. “The axe Billy is using isn’t sharp enough to cut anything in particular, so I don’t think you need worry. But will young Rex want to learn such unfashionable things as chopping and milking?”
“Oh, I think he’ll want to join in anything that Billy does,” Jean said. “And if you tell him to do them as a matter of course, he’ll hardly refuse, even if it’s a shock to him. Then there’s swimming.”
“Am I the swimming teacher too?” demanded Mr. Weston. “For I warn you, I shan’t have time.”
“Oh, no—we can teach him. We thought of going to bathe every afternoon, and he’ll soon learn. I think that’s all,” said Jean, wrinkling her brows. “Or can you think of anything else we ought to teach him?”
“I think you’ve a fairly complete scheme—for a boy who has to go slow. Rex will certainly say that he has enough to do.”
“It doesn’t appear that there is any job for me in the scheme,” remarked Mrs. Weston. “In fact, I think you’re steadily planning to make me into a fine lady. I don’t think I quite like it.”
She found herself suddenly hugged by both twins.
“Bless you, you’ve got jobs all the time!” said Jo. “He’s only nine, and he can’t possibly do without mothering. It’s the biggest job of all. And we’ll all come to you with our difficulties, as we always do, and you’ll get us all out.”
“So long as you all do that I shan’t feel too much on the shelf,” said her mother. “And I’m appointing myself one job that you needn’t put down on the schedule—the last half-hour at night for the boys. That is mine, and nobody must take it, please. Also it seems to me that the schedule and the oddments and the hundred-and-one things that aren’t written down won’t leave my twinses much time, so I want it to be clearly understood that in case of necessity I can take over the lessons occasionally. I’m not going to have your poor old noses perpetually at the grindstone.”
“We’re not going to feel it a grind,” declared Jean. “And, Mother, there won’t be much mending for Rex, for Mrs. Forester has sent up just the sensiblest things for him: scout blouses and whipcord breeches, and all sorts of hard-wearing things that look as if they couldn’t possibly tear!”
“You don’t know small boys as well as I do!” returned Mrs. Weston, laughing.
“Well—you’ll see. And there are ever so many things, and all perfectly new. But nothing very swagger: our poor old Billy won’t feel that he’s too much in the shade.”
“I was afraid when we met him that Billy would be hopelessly out of it,” said Jo. “He was such a dreadfully superior young man. And he still shows signs of being superior—but not as much. And they went off to bed arm in arm—which was far more than I had dared to hope for, the very first night.”
“There’s nothing like a good, honest fight,” said her father, laughing. “If you had seen those urchins in the orchard, going at each other, hammer and tongs, you’d have known that there was no question of superiority about either of them. After all, Rex’s polish is only skin-deep; there’s normal small boy under it. And one small boy is very like another.”
“I’m rather troubled about one thing,” Jean said. “It doesn’t seem to me that Rex can possibly keep his polish up here. Billy will certainly rub it off, even if Jo and I don’t. It just couldn’t exist in a place like Emu Plains.”
“It could not,” her father nodded agreement.
“Well—when the Foresters come back from Colombo and find only unpolished Rex—it sounds rather like unpolished rice—do you think they’ll be horrified? For all we know Mrs. Forester has spent nine laborious years in putting that polish on.”
“That’s an awful idea!” said Jo anxiously.
“Only, Helen isn’t a bit polished,” Jean said. “She’s almost rugged at times, especially when you duck her in the baths. Of course her manners are lovely when she wants them to be; but then every Captain of the School has to have lovely manners for use if required—not as a habit. Rex’s polish isn’t like that. He fairly wallows in it.”
“He won’t wallow long,” said Mr. Weston. “Not if I know Billy.”
“Well—will Mrs. Forester mind?”
“She will not,” said Mrs. Weston, coming into the discussion with a note of decision in her clear voice. “If Mrs. Forester finds that much-too-pretty little boy grown into a brown, noisy, healthy ruffian like Billy, with horny hands and tough muscles, she won’t worry one little bit as to where his polish has gone. The mother who sent her son up here with scout suits and whipcord breeches doesn’t want him kept in cotton-wool. We can’t be always sure of making no mistakes, twinses dear: but I think if we have to decide between living up to the polish or the breeches, it will certainly be best to let the polish go. Elaine Forester won’t miss it after her boy has been for a year on Emu Plains!”
Later, on her way back from bidding good-night to the twins, in their end of the verandah, Mrs. Weston paused near the boys’ beds. Billy always slept under her window: to-night the second little bed was drawn near his, and the sleek, fair head showed close to the ruddy curls in the moonlight. Billy lay, as always, with one arm flung above his head. He did not stir when his mother stooped to kiss him, tucking the sheet more closely round him. But when she bent above the other bed, Rex tossed round uneasily, and spoke in his sleep.
“Mother!” he muttered. The word was almost a cry.
“Go to sleep, little sonnie,” Mrs. Weston said gently. She put her lips to the smooth cheek, and Rex settled down with a little satisfied sigh.
A vision came across Mrs. Weston of that other mother, whose ship was bearing her relentlessly away from her son.
“I’ll take care of him for you,” she murmured. And when she leaned from her window later on for the look she always gave Billy before blowing out her light, her caressing eyes lingered as long on the fair head as on the ruddy mass of despised curls.
CHAPTER XMIXED INSTRUCTIONS
WITH the first days of January the twins’ programme may be said to have got fairly into its stride. It worked smoothly enough. An alarum-clock, placed on an empty kerosene-tin between their beds, shrieked a wild summons at five every morning—on the first occasion each twin had dived to seize and silence it, with the result that their heads had banged together with sufficient violence to banish sleep very effectually. After that, they put the kerosene-tin near the foot of the beds, a plan that had the additional advantage of making them leap from their pillows without any chance of yielding to the temptation, familiar to us all, of “just one minute more.” Then came a quick cold shower and a hurried dressing, after which one twin attacked the drawing-room and the other the dining-room; it was a point of honour to have both rooms done before early morning tea, always ready in the kitchen soon after six. They had had visions of taking in their mother’s morning cup; but they soon realized that this was a privilege too dear to Sarah’s heart to be deputed to anyone. Therefore the twins contented themselves with taking their own tea very cheerfully in the kitchen with Sarah, who imagined that she concealed, under a grumpy manner, the fact that she delighted in their presence.
Billy and Rex used to appear in the kitchen also, demanding nourishment. Rex had willingly agreed to the plan of learning to milk and to use an axe. He never attempted to hint that he cared either for cows or for chopping; but it had very soon become evident that he was keenly anxious to be as strong as other boys of his age, and he welcomed any chance of developing his muscles. They would hurriedly swallow cups of weak tea, and, their hands full of scones, trot off to the paddock near the house, where the three milkers, which were all that the drought had left of Mr. Weston’s herd, awaited them. It was never hard to yard the milkers, for there was scarcely anything left for them to eat in the paddock. Down by the river there was still some dry, stick-like grass, on which they browsed for forms’ sake during the day; but green feed welcomed them at milking-times—lucerne, from the little patch that was irrigated through the efforts of a windmill which brought from the spring enough water for household purposes, and a little extra. The cows needed no bell to summon them when the hours for lucerne drew near.
The girls’ room had two long windows, opening upon the verandah where their beds were placed. It was a cheery place, with little to indicate that it was used as anything but a sitting-room: the stained floor boasted a couple of good rugs, easily moved when necessary, and there was an old sofa, disreputable, but astonishingly comfortable when once you had learned to accommodate your person to the places where its springs were broken. Two or three inviting chairs were scattered about; there was a business-like writing-table with the drawers on the east sacred to Jo, and the western ones Jean’s property. A rather good Japanese screen hid the dressing-table—not that the twins had much use for a dressing-table, since their bobbed curls demanded little more than hard brushing, and their frocks were of the type that is easiest to slip on hastily. Tennis-racquets and hockey-sticks were displayed upon the wall, and there were many school photographs, as well as those of the home-folk. A long, low cupboard ran along one wall. To its kindly recesses was due the fact that the twins’ room was nearly always tidy. “It’s a mercy we’ve got it!” Jean would say, tossing old shoes, or battered hats, or half-soiled aprons into its capacious interior. “And Mother’s such a brick—she never dreams of looking inside it!”
“Mother’s an awfully understanding person,” Jo would answer. “She says if it weren’t for Sarah she wouldn’t have any reputation for tidiness herself!”
For Mother never failed to understand. Perhaps it was because her own gay youth was not so very far behind her; perhaps because of her great love for these cheery, curly-haired twins, with their merry faces. She knew—somehow—when the famous programme did not seem to run smoothly: when the housework developed unexpected difficulties, or the teaching faculty seemed suddenly deficient. Then she would make an appearance, as if accidentally, and things would smooth out. Her sovereign prescription on these occasions was open air. Generally, she would take over the small boys, and the twins would find themselves suddenly despatched on an errand to the township, or, best of all, sent out in the paddocks with their father. For though Emu Plains might be scorched and bare, and the stock weak and starved, so that riding out on the run had lost something of its joy, it still remained the chief of all pleasures.
But it was not often that the programme failed to work. After early tea the twins made a triumphal progress from one room to another, sweeping and dusting. They generally sang, too, loudly and cheerily, what their voices lacked being made up in enthusiasm. They swept verandahs, and made beds, and trimmed lamps, and gathered what flowers the drought had spared, which were not many. The work, like the songs, was made into a duet, so far as was possible, for the twins hated to work apart. When they dusted a room together they did it in a kind of drill, each taking one half—the work calculated so that they finished at the same moment. They swept the wide verandah, that ran round three sides of the house, in a concerted movement, beginning at opposite ends and making a race of it until they met in the middle, at the steps leading down from the front door. This lent great excitement to the job, and Mr. Weston had even been known to appear near the finish, to cheer on the panting combatants.
Most of the housework was done before breakfast, and then odd jobs took up the time until nine o’clock, when Rex and Billy were supposed to be in readiness on the verandah, with scrubbed hands and faces, and persons displaying as little dust as possible, considering that the persons were those of small boys. Rex had, by this time, undergone his riding-lessons, and his appearance was fairly certain, since Mr. Weston used to dismiss him at five minutes to nine, telling him to hurry up and get ready for school. But Billy was a will-o’-the-wisp creature, and rules and regulations meant little to him. He was never openly defiant: he was merely oblivious of time and space, when engaged in any of the thousand-and-one “ploys” in which his soul delighted; and against that bland armour of forgetfulness the twins’ wrath fell blunted. “I never reallymeantnot to be there,” he used to say, with wide, innocent eyes, after an indignant twin, wailing his name disconsolately, had run him to earth in the orchard, or the stables, or on the river-bank. “It isn’t truly nine yet, is it?” When assured in pungent tones that it was long after nine, he would exclaim, “My word, I must hurry up, then!”—and would take to his heels; so that when his teacher, heated in more ways than one, arrived on the verandah, it was to find him awaiting her, washed and brushed, and with a disarming twinkle in his eye. The pursuing twin invariably twinkled in response.
“He’s awful, of course,” they would say. “But we were young, once, ourselves!”
Rex, so far, committed no breaches of discipline. When alone with Billy there were signs that his polish was, after all, merely skin-deep, and was even wearing off in places; but with the other members of the family he maintained a calm correctness of demeanour that the twins found almost painful. He drilled painstakingly, in a solid fashion; the twins sighed over his heavy movements, even while they rebuked Billy, who loved to prance through his “physical jerks” like the light-footed elf he was. To lessons Rex brought a dull hatred that somewhat astonished the twins, since it was evident from the first that he was by no means deficient in brains. Only when he dealt with figures was he at all happy, and as Jean put it, resentfully, “he just wallows in sums.” Jean herself having a constitutional dislike to adding even two and two, mathematics were always left to her twin, so that her share of the lessons was rather wearying.
“There must be a reason for it,” she puzzled, one day. “I wonder if he had very frowsy governesses.”
“We’ll ask him,” Jo declared.
They did, and the boy’s heavy eyes kindled as he was gradually induced to describe his former lessons. His governess had been one of the old school, severe and correct; she exacted absolute stillness and obedience, and led the weary feet of her small pupil along the dullest paths of old-fashioned learning. He used to learn by heart long passages of heavy history and geography books and repeat them to her with very little idea of their meaning. In the same way he would learn poetry, and repeat it, parrot-fashion. All lessons were beastly, he said, but poetry was not quite so beastly as others, because it had rhymes, and was not quite so hard to learn. But it never meant anything. You could tell a story better without worrying about rhymes, if that was all you wanted.
“But poetry’s gorgeous!” expostulated Billy, open-eyed.
“Aw, what’s gorgeous?” Rex demanded. “I never saw any sense in it.”
“But it is. Look at fighting yarns like ‘Horatius,’ and things like that!”
“Oh, I know that ‘Horatius’ thing. It’s one of the worst,” declared Rex, loftily—“there’s such miles of it.”
“Say a bit, Rex,” said Jean.
It was lesson-time, and they were all in the schoolroom. Rex began at once, obediently.