And she had just gone to the door to look out for a moment, when a one-horse sledge, with a man in it, drew up before the hut. Sonia gave a cry of joy, and opened the door wide.
"Come here, Pamphil!" she said, hushing her voice to a whisper, remembering the children.
Pamphil reached the doorway just as the man had got out of the sledge, and they met on the threshold.
"Thou, Stepan!"
"Thou, Pamphil!"
And then the two brothers fell on each other's necks, and kissed in true Russian fashion.
"I went to the prison," said Stepan. "And there I saw Sonia's cousin, who told me of thine escape. And of course I knew that thou must hide for a time, and yet wouldest wish to be with thy wife."
THE MEETING IN THE HUT—SAFE AT HOME.
"SO, then," continued Stepan, "having driven this way before on business for the factory, I remembered thy father's hut, Sonia, and thought I would call here, on the chance of finding thee, and also to ask if thou knowest anything of the two little gentlemen who started from a hut ten miles or more from here on the homeward journey. I am terribly anxious about them, for on the way here to-day I came upon the remains of a man who had been devoured by wolves. Fresh snow had fallen, so that very little remained uncovered, but it made me feel doubly uneasy. I did not know that wolves came here to these parts in any numbers; but it must be the early and severe winter that has brought them."
"Since thou art so anxious, brother, come and look here," said Sonia, and she pointed to the farthest corner of the room, where, on a bed of straw, lay Sharik the pony, and Alf and Bert with their heads pillowed on his back—all fast asleep.
"Now God be praised for all His mercies!" exclaimed Stepan, taking off his cap and crossing himself. "This is joy indeed!"
By this time, the sound of the eager voices had penetrated even into dreamland, and the boys sat up, rubbing their eyes.
"I was dreaming," said Bert, still more than half-asleep, "of Stepan."
"So was I," rejoined Alf, and then, looking up, he exclaimed, "And here he is!"
Then both lads, crying and laughing at once, threw their arms round the man's neck, and tears of gladness and thankfulness ran down his cheeks as he held them in a close embrace.
Sonia now set to work to prepare tea for the travellers, and the horse, harnessed to the sledge, was warmly covered over, and made quite happy with a full nose-bag, while Sharik was fed and petted to his heart's content. Half an hour later, Stepan and the boys were on their way homeward in the sledge, the pony trotting merrily behind, and neighing for joy, every now and then, to his friend in the shafts.
It was quite dark when the sledge stopped inside the great yard at the house door. Work in the factory seemed to be in full swing, fires everywhere, and the electric light streaming forth.
"Drive round to the stable-yard, Stepan," said Alf, "while we go in and see if we can find anybody."
So saying, the boys passed through the big swing doors into the warm hall. The office doors on either side of the hall were locked, for it was Saturday, and the clerks had gone home.
"No one here," said Alf; "let's go up and try and find mother."
Upstairs they went, and paused on the first landing by the open door of their parents' room. As they did so, they heard nurse's voice, and stayed to listen.
"Dear Barina," she said, "no wonder this suspense is making you ill, but, I beg you, do not despair. I seem to feel it here in my heart that our dear children are safe, and that our prayers will be answered."
"Thy master is away searching for them himself, Niania," said the sad, feeble voice of Mrs. Oliver, "but so far he—"
At that moment, the boys stepped from behind the screen that was round the door, and mother and children were re-united.
And now, what remains to tell can be told in a few words: Mr. Oliver came home late that night, only to find his sons safely there before him.
How Stepan's repentance, and his kindness to the children, led to his being restored to his place in the factory; how, after a while, Pamphil too returned, having become steady and reliable; how Anton Griboff, owing to the injury to his head, went mad and died in a lunatic asylum—all this needs no further telling. Enough that trials and dangers through which Alf and Bert Oliver had passed had deepened their characters and strengthened their faith in God.
And later on, even when they were sent to school in England, they never forgot their Russian adventures, or that they had once been, in deed and in truth, in peril in Tsarland.
THE END.
THE WRONG TWIN
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THE WRONG TWIN AND THE RIGHT ONE.
"CHILDREN, don't quarrel!" said Mr. Ellis, lifting his eyes from the old manuscript he was examining.
"Be a nice, kind daddy," pleaded Dina, "and tell us a story just for once, won't you? The rain is pouring down; we can't go out; Miss Goodlett hasn't come back yet from town, and if we stay in with no one to look after us, we shall quarrel again. Do, daddy!"
"Yes, dad, please do!" pleaded Gerald.
"Nonsense, children! Can't you see I'm busy? How selfish young folks are, and how tiresome!"
Mr. Ellis spoke crossly, as he too often did, and Dina replied drearily, "Are they? Then I wish we'd been born a hundred years old! You'd have been proud of us then, daddy, and would always have been inviting people to come and see your antique twins."
"Other children's daddies play with them and tell them stories on wet days," said Gerry, in an injured tone, as he drew his sister out of the room. "Oh, Dina, if only mamma were here!"
"Yes, wouldn't it be lovely! But her chest is not well enough for her to come home yet."
"Nurse was talking to cook yesterday," remarked Gerald, "and I overheard what was said. She told her that it was enough to make anyone's lungs bad to live in a damp house, with no end of old bones and parchments and specimens about; and that if mamma was sensible, she'd stay where she was rather than be 'turned into a mummy afore her time.'"
"And what did cookie say?" Dina inquired, with great interest.
"Oh, she said that nothing would please her more than to pile up all dad's most precious treasures in the fireplace under the copper, set them alight, and boil the clothes with them. For then, she said, they'd have been of some use in the world, and 'be cleared away decent afterwards as ashes into the dustbin.'"
Both children laughed at this, then, running to the window, they discovered that the weather had improved.
"Look!" cried Gerald. "It's clearing up. Let's go and sail our boats in the round pond."
So the twins took their boats and were soon in the home field, which belonged to an old farmer near. Some cattle were grazing here, and Gerry said, "You're farther sighted than I am, Dina; look if you can see Farmer Donn's bull anywhere about. Somebody said he wasn't safe now."
"He's nowhere that I can see," replied the little girl; "I think it's all right."
And the children went on to the round pond which was in the centre of the meadow. Here they found that the bank near the water was very muddy and slippery, trodden into puddles too by the feet of the cattle, and Dina began to pull off her shoes and stockings.
"Well, as you're doing that I need not," said Gerald; "I hate making myself in a mess. You can go down the bank just as well by yourself, and launch both the boats, and give me the string of mine while I stay up on the grass."
Geraldine assented to this. She was too well accustomed to her brother's selfishness to take much notice unless he was unkind as well. So now she stepped, with little bare white feet, into the spongy mud, handed Gerald the string of his boat, and presently both children had forgotten everything but their small boats.
Suddenly they heard a shout behind them. "Look out! The bull! The bull!"
They both started and glanced round, and there was Farmer Donn's great black bull rushing towards them across the grass. He had torn up the paling of the smaller field in which he had been shut up, and thus gained an entrance into the home meadow.
Running at full speed after the bull, and brandishing a pitchfork, came Farmer Donn's cattle-man, and while he ran, he shouted, "Run, children! Run! Run for your lives!"
And, knowing that they were running for their lives, away went the twins, like leaves driven by a gale; away, as with winged feet, towards the gate, while thundering after them and gaining at every stride, galloped Nero, Farmer Donn's fierce black bull.
"It's no good!" gasped Gerald after a minute or two of hard running. "I can't keep this up. I'm just done."
Geraldine snatched at his hand. She was both stronger and fleeter than her brother, and her little bare feet trod lightly and swiftly over the wet grass.
"Hold up another minute, Gerry!" she panted. "We'll be at the gate by that time." But as she spoke, she glanced over her shoulder, and shuddered to see that the bull was close behind—almost upon them.
Then a sudden thought flashed into that active little brain. She would save her twin brother, her poor Gerry, and if she died in doing it—well, it did not so very much matter, save to her mother—and she was far away. To everyone else she was a plague, a bother, the wrong twin, while Gerald was the pet of all.
This, that takes a minute in the telling, flashed through the child's mind in a second, and she had made her plan.
Just in front of them was a clump of trees. Geraldine dragged her brother to the far side of this clump, and pushed him down so that he lay with one of the trunks of the trees between him and the bull.
"Lie still, Gerry!" she cried. Then out of the tree clump she dashed, not twenty yards from the bull, and before he could turn in his tracks, began to race back towards Joe Gerson, Farmer Donn's cattle-man.
With a snort of rage, Nero paused for a moment, head erect, tail straight out. Once he glanced towards the clump of trees, then back towards the fluttering pink skirt and twinkling feet of the flying child. Then he made up his mind to follow her, and turning, resumed his mad gallop, never seeing, in his headlong, blind rage, that Joe was waiting for him. And the first thing that he knew was a very painful sensation caused by the prongs of the pitchfork—which brought him suddenly to a full stop and gave him something else to think of besides the little light form he had been chasing like the great cowardly bully that he was.
Joe was quickly joined by some stablemen and haymakers, and when a strong cord had been passed through the ring in the great brute's nose, and was held on either side by a man brandishing a hayfork, Nero felt that he had no further chance of making himself famous, and submitted sullenly to being led home and shut up in an outhouse.
THE TWINS' JOKE.
AS for Geraldine, when the bull met Joe, and she heard the bellow of pain that showed he had encountered his match, the child had dropped senseless upon the grass. There she lay, while Gerald meanwhile had picked himself up and, none the worse for his hard run, had found his way home. The little girl was still there when Joe came back to look after her, after securing his unruly charge.
"Was there ever such an unselfish, plucky, clever little lady!" said the kind old fellow to himself as he lifted the child tenderly, thankful to see in the small white face signs of returning consciousness.
Slowly the fluttering eyelids lifted, and a look of intelligence dawned in the great dark eyes. Then her lips moved.
"Thank you, Joe," she whispered. "Is Gerry safe?" And she gazed eagerly up in the man's face.
"Which if Gerry means the young gent as was with you, miss, he's safe as eggs," replied Joe. "He have gone home; I see him just in front of the paddock as I were comin' back to find you, which I think he might have come hisself to see where you was, more partic'lar as you'd just done the cleverest, neatest, bravest dodge, and took all the danger on yourself to save him. I could see what you was after, only I couldn't get up sooner to help you. But you was good and brave, little lady, and so I'd say if it was my last words."
"I don't think I deserve all that," said Dina, slipping from the man's arms to the ground, and walking by his side. "You see, Gerry's my twin brother, and I love him."
"Yes, miss, and you're the young gent's twin sister, and still he forgot you."
This came back to Dina's mind after she had gone to bed in the little room next to Gerald's, and, realising how true it was, she broke into bitter sobbing and crying. "I saved him, yet he never thought of me afterwards! No one loves me!" And faster came the tears, and deeper the sobs.
Suddenly she heard a whisper in the darkness, and a cool, smooth cheek touched her face.
"Don't, Twinnie darling—don't cry!" said Gerry's voice. "Somehow I never really understood till just now what you'd done for me, not till I was thinking it all over in bed; and I know I'm wicked sometimes, dear, but I do love you, Twinnie, I do!"
So Geraldine was comforted and fell asleep, and dreamed that she was once more in some deadly peril, and was rescued by One whom she somehow knew to be the Lord Jesus Christ. And yet she had never thanked Him, or remembered Him, or loved Him, though she had known that His life had been given for hers.
"I thought Gerry was very cruel when he seemed to have forgotten me," said the child to herself on waking from her vivid dream. "I wonder—oh, I wonder what Jesus thinks of me!"
Only for a day or two after the adventure with the bull were things in the house more peaceable. Then—all about nothing—came a great upset.
Mr. Ellis, when he heard of Geraldine's courage (which he did from Joe's master) called the children into his study, and was pleased to express himself as gratified, adding that he hoped his daughter was taking after his family and ancestors, who had always been remarkable for presence of mind.
"But what are you giggling at, children?" he asked, half offended, as the twins burst out into peals of laughter, after a glance and nudge at each other.
"Only a riddle, dad," replied Gerald, "and an old one, but not bad. Dina and I both thought of it when you said presence of mind."
"And what may this very amusing riddle be?" inquired Mr. Ellis drily.
"The question is, 'What is better than presence of mind in an accident?'" said Dina.
"How silly!" commented Mr. Ellis. "Nothing can be better," and his face maintained an unchanged gravity, though the children's eyes were dancing with merriment.
"That's not the answer, dad! Do you give it up?" cried the little girl.
Mr. Ellis gave a resigned nod of assent.
"All right, dad!" said Gerald. "The answer to 'What is better than presence of mind?' is simply 'Absence of body.'"
"Yes, dad," added Geraldine, "and we were thinking that if those family portraits of the ever-so-old Ellis folks were at all like the real people, it's rather a good thing that we haven't got their presence of mind and body here now."
Mr. Ellis suddenly looked up with real displeasure. He was absurdly proud of his family, and resented, even from his children, anything that seemed like a slight to his ancestors.
"This is quite unbearable," he said, rising from his seat. "I see I have been over-indulgent to you, and you take advantage. I am seriously displeased at your want of respect in speaking of those whose portraits you see in the dining-room. Go upstairs—both of you—and consider yourselves in disgrace for the rest of the day."
A DESPERATE PLAN.
THE twins eyed each other in consternation. Peevish fault-finding by their father was common enough, and they had grown quite used to it, but punishment was a thing well-nigh unheard of, and they had made the sudden discovery that any fault they might commit, any scrape into which they might fall, all counted for nothing. The only fault that was past forgiveness was a laughing word against this hobby of his, and what he deemed the honour of his house.
The children said not a word in protest. Out of the room they went instantly, Gerald glaring angrily over his shoulder at his father, Geraldine with her little dark head held very high, and her small nose tilted.
Up they went to their own bedrooms, but kept the door open between, so as to talk freely.
"Now then, what do you think of that, Dina?" exclaimed Gerald, standing in the doorway.
"Think of it? Why, of course it's unjust. We'd done and said nothing naughty a bit, and anyway it was only a joke, and couldn't hurt any old ancestors."
"Of course not," rejoined Gerald, "and I, for one, am not going to stand being punished when I don't deserve it."
Dina, did not respond; she was thinking intently.
Gerald went on. "Let's run away for the whole day, and don't come home till we've given him a jolly good fright."
"We'd only get punished worse when we got back," said Dina.
"Yes, I didn't think of that," admitted Gerald.
There was a pause of a few seconds, then Geraldine's quaint little face lighted up.
"Have you any money, Gerry," she asked, her eyes full of a new purpose.
"Only half-a-crown besides what's in the twins' box," replied the boy.
Now the twins' box was an old money-box, given them when they were quite tiny children. Their nurse taught them to save their pennies and put them into the slot in the lid. And later on, when relatives or friends, or on rare occasions their father, gave them a Christmas or birthday tip, these coins, too, were duly put, from force of habit, into the faithful old box. So, year after year, the money was dropped in and was forgotten.
"I meant to put this half-crown in the other day when mother sent it for our birthday," said Gerald, "but I changed my clothes in a hurry, and left it in my jacket pocket."
But Dina was not listening. She was thinking.
Presently she said, "That money's quite ours, isn't it, Gerry?"
"Rather!" replied Gerald with assurance. "But what have you got in your head, Dina?"
"Gerry," replied the child, "for ever so long I've had such a big want just here—" and she laid a small brown hand on her heart—"to see mother and ask and tell her all sorts of things. We've done without her too long, and things at home will be going wronger and wronger now we've fallen out with dad. She can't come to us; she isn't well enough, but, Gerry, why shouldn't—"
"Oh, I see, Twinnie!" cried Gerald. "I see! You want awfully to see mother, and so do I; and you think we had better run away."
"Yes," said Dina in a mysterious whisper, "just run away to mother."
The next morning found the twins with their plans made. Indeed they had been chattering half the night making their final arrangements. The money-box was opened, and, much to the children's delight, the contents proved to be about five pounds, in coins varying in value from a rare half-sovereign to a frequent halfpenny.
From an early tip-toe visit to Mr. Ellis's study, while the rest of the household was asleep, Gerald and Dina brought upstairs the big atlas where even small towns were easy to find, and the twins soon found on the map the place by the sea where their mother had for some time been staying. Then they put down on a slip of paper the names of all the towns in the direct line of travel between their home and the town for which they were bound.
"There," said Gerald, "that will be a guide to us. When we are able to walk, we will do so and save our money, and when we are tired, we can go by train or tramcar, if we can get one. I heard dad say the other day that it was only about a hundred and fifty miles, as the crow flies."
"It will be more for us, as we are not crows!" replied Dina.
"At night," said Gerald, "we shall have to sleep at inns or farmhouses, and buy food next morning to go on with."
"Yes, that's the way the children in the story-books do," replied Dina, with a comfortable sense of following good example.
"There's still one thing we've got to do before we go," said Gerald. "We must write a letter to dad. They always do, you know."
"Oh, yes, always," assented Geraldine out of her large experience; "and in the letter let's tell him why we're going, and where."
"We will," rejoined Gerald. "I'll do the writing—shall I?—because my hand's better than yours. Here goes then!"
"'Dear Dad—'"
"But he isn't dear!" protested Dina. "Don't let's begin by telling stories."
"All right. Then it shall be just 'Dad,'" and Gerald wrote as follows:—
"'Dad, youve hert our feelings dreffuly by punnishing us for nuthing we did rong for the saik of our nasty mussty old ansestars, so we're not goeing to remane to be bulied, but we're off to Mother who isn't ungust and unkinde. Dont come after us for we will never be taken alive."(Signed) THE TWINS."
BROTHER BOB.
SO the twins' letter was folded and addressed to their father, and left on the hall table.
The night before, they had packed a few clothes in a black bag taken from the box-room, and, now quite ready for their journey, they went down to breakfast.
Their father did not breakfast with them, but had his meal brought to him upstairs, so they could freely discuss their plans. They were just rising from the table when there came a double knock at the front door, and the parlour-maid took in a telegram and carried it up to Mr. Ellis. The twins went on with their chatter, debating where to leave the letter they had written to their father.
Suddenly Mr. Ellis's bell rang loudly, once, twice, thrice; and before it could be answered, he came out in his dressing-gown on to the stairs.
"Is the boy waiting? Let him take this reply!" he called in a hoarse, strained voice. "And tell Jack to harness the mare at once. I want the dog-cart to take me to the station and catch the next train."
"What can it be?" whispered Gerald. "Something has happened."
But before his sister could answer, their father's voice was heard calling them. Such a strange, broken voice, too—so different from his usual querulous, peevish, high-pitched tones.
They ran up, and he met them, and they saw his face was white and drawn and full of pain.
"Children," said he, "I've had bad news—the worst you can imagine."
"Oh, dad!" cried Dina, clasping her little hands together. "Nothing wrong with mother?"
"Geraldine—Gerald—my poor little twins," said the father, for once shaken out of his selfishness, "you have no mother. Your mother died last night."
"O God! God!" moaned Dina, as she crept upstairs and throw herself down upon her bed. "I wanted so to go to mother, and You've taken her away. Please let me go to her where she is! Oh, please God, do take me too!"
* * * * *
The last sad rites had been over for about a month, and the dreary home had settled back into its usual dull routine.
Mr. Ellis had now gone back to his musty parchments, his ancient curiosities, his old coins and antique gems; and the twins saw no more of him than they had done before their mother's death.
Their governess had been out of health during her summer holidays, and had been unable to return to them; their father's half-hearted attempt to secure another had hitherto met with no result. So the children wandered aimlessly about the house, grounds and neighbourhood, Gerald very often vexed at his sister's listlessness and want of zeal in their games and other occupations.
One day he missed her, in the afternoon, and found her at last in one of the spare rooms which went by the name of Brother Bob's room.
On the wall of this room there hung a life-size oil-painting of a handsome youth some fourteen years of age, whom the twins knew as Brother Bob. There had always been something of a mystery about Brother Bob, and Gerald and Dina had never seen him, and only knew him by his picture. All they could learn about him from their old nurse (who had returned to them since the death of Mrs. Ellis) was that Bob was a son of Mr. Ellis by a former marriage, and was a mere infant when his mother died.
His father had sent him to be brought up by an elder sister of his own, who had spoilt the boy by over-indulgence, so that he had grown up disobedient, self-willed and headstrong.
Nurse had seen the lad several times years ago, and she still kept a soft spot in her heart for the poor, naughty scapegrace. Dina soon found this out and shared it, and often she betook herself to this room (which had been his when he stayed with his father during school holidays), and remained there studying the bright, frank young face, so full of spirit and promise—and wished she had a big grown-up brother.
Once, indeed, she had gathered up her courage and asked her father where Brother Bob was, and why he did not come to see them; but Mr. Ellis had turned upon her angrily and forbidden her ever again to mention Bob's name.
And nurse had shaken her head and said sadly, in her old-fashioned way:
"Ah, well-a-day, Miss Dina, my darlin'! If his own father won't hear him spoke of, sure the master knows somethin' as we don't, and I fear me the poor lad has gone to the bad."
What the exact meaning of the phrase "gone to the bad" might mean, the twins, even after heated discussion, could not agree, but the cloud of mystery that overhung it seemed to make much worse any meaning it might have.
"Why are you mooning in front of that picture?" said Gerald. "I want you to come out with me. The nuts are ripe now in Hazel Copse, and if we don't pick them, the village children will. Come along."
And with a lingering look at the picture, Dina turned and went with her brother.
Together they explored the nut wood, filling their baskets and chatting the while. Thus the afternoon passed, and the autumn twilight began to close in.
"IS IT BECAUSE YOU WENT TO THE BAD?"
"IT'S getting damp and cold," said Gerald at last; "we must be going home." And hand-in-hand the twins wended homeward.
A short stretch of road came between the wood and the shrubbery that surrounded their house, and they had left the road and just entered the shrubbery gate, when they saw, a little way in front of them, the tall figure of a young man walking at a good pace towards the house.
"Who can that be?" said Gerald in a whisper. "Visitors never come up this way."
Suddenly the young fellow, perhaps hearing voices or footsteps behind him, turned his head, saw the children following, and stayed waiting till they came up.
"What do you want? This is not the visitors' way," said Gerald, rather rudely, staring at the tall upright figure in the semi-darkness.
"I know," replied the young man; "I am not a visitor. I was going round to the servants' entrance. Perhaps you will kindly tell me," (and he turned to Dina, who had not yet spoken), "if the old nurse who used to live in Mr. Ellis's family is still there."
"Yes," replied the little girl, "she is. Did you want her?"
"I did—I do," replied the stranger, with a smile which set the child's heart beating fast; "I wanted to ask her a question."
"Maybe we can answer your question," suggested Gerald.
"Thank you; I only wished to ask whether Robert Ellis's room had been allowed to remain as he left it, or if it had been turned out and altered."
"Oh!" cried Dina, "We know all about that. Dear mother would never—right from the first—have a thing touched. The room was kept clean and had a fire in it sometimes, but everything is the same as it used to be—even the dear beautiful Brother Bob picture on the wall."
A queer sound came from the stranger's lips. Then in a choked voice he said, "Some papers left in the room are wanted, and I thought perhaps nurse would get them for me—to—give to Robert Ellis."
But just here Dina, who had been gazing intently into the stranger's face, gave a joyful cry.
"Oh, Gerry! Don't you see? It's Brother Bob himself—I know it is! Oh, Brother Bob, you can't think how I've wanted you! Come home with us!" And Dina caught hold of his hand.
But the young fellow shook his head. "No," he said, "I must not."
"Why?" asked Dina. "Is it because you went to the bad?" An odd sort of smile, half comical, half sad, curled the handsome lips as he nodded assent.
"Well," put in Gerald, "wherever you went, you're not there now, for you're here with us—your step-brother and sister—so come along. You shall see nurse and your old room, and maybe dad, but I won't answer for him, because no one can, you know."
The interview between Bob Ellis and nurse, and the young man's visit to his own room, were managed easily enough. The other servants were at tea downstairs, out of sight and hearing, and Mr. Ellis was, as usual, in his study, which was on the first floor and facing the opposite side of the house.
When Bob and nurse came down, they found the twins waiting for them at the foot of the stairs.
"Have you found your papers, Brother Bob?" inquired Gerald.
"Yes, I have," replied the young man.
"And you saw your picture again, that we're so fond of?" queried Dina.
"Yes, I saw my picture too. And now," added Bob, "I must be off. It will hardly do for father to catch me here."
"I should think he'd be glad to see you again after this long time!" said Dina. "And if he asked you to come home to live, you would, wouldn't you?"
Bob looked down into the earnest little face uplifted towards him, and said gently, "Well, dear, perhaps, if he really wished it."
FATHER AND SON.
IN a moment Gerald was knocking at the study door.
"May I come in, dad?" cried his rather shrill tones.
The watchers down below heard an exclamation of impatience, and then the peevish voice, "Those tiresome brats again!"
"Come in—if you must!" cried Mr. Ellis at last, and Gerald entered.
"Well, child, and what now?" said the father, putting down a magnifying glass with which he was examining an old silver amulet.
"Please, dad," said the boy, "Brother Bob's here, and he's quite come back from the bad—you know—where he went, and Dina and I and nurse want him to come home for good. He won't give you any trouble," went on Gerald, "and he won't meddle with any of your treasures, and I shouldn't wonder if he'd teach us twins, and save you the expense of a governess, so you'd have more money to spend on—" here Gerald looked round the room—"well, on the nasty things you like."
It was not a very happy finish to his sentence, but it struck him that, happy or not, Mr. Ellis did not hear it. At the mention of Bob's name, he had risen from his seat, his face full of anger.
"Bob here?" he exclaimed. "How dare he? Tell him—no—I'll see him myself! Go down, Gerald!"
And as the boy went, Mr. Ellis came to the top of the stairs, and called in a cold, hard voice, "Robert, come up here."
"No good won't come of this, I'm afraid!" said nurse.
Bob said nothing; his face wore a strange mingling of expressions as he went upstairs.
"Come in and shut the door," said Mr. Ellis, going before him into the room.
Bob obeyed.
"Now, sir, what does this visit mean? Did I not forbid you my house?"
"You did, sir, and I had no intention of intruding upon you. All I came for was some old letters of my mother's and grandmother's, and a few trifles which had been theirs. I meant to see nurse and ask for these, but I met the children, and they would not be content unless I waited to see you."
"And you were foolish enough to yield to their wish?"
"I was, sir," rejoined the young man in a voice trembling with emotion. "And after all, am I not your son?"
"You are—worse luck for me! And a prodigal son at that!"
"Since you refer to the prodigal, sir," said Bob "might I venture to remind you how the father in the parable received his repentant son?"
"I object to Scripture being dragged into every day life," said Mr. Ellis. "Still, as you are here, I'll hear what you have to say. No one shall call me unjust or unfair." And he drew himself up with a gesture and half-smile of self-righteousness that might well have been those of the proud Pharisee in the parable when, standing and praying with himself, he said, "Lord, I thank Thee that I am not as other men are."
"Thank you, sir," said Bob. "I've only to tell you that I'm sorry for the past; I know I've behaved badly; but I'd be glad to give up my companions and my shady means of living, if I might come home."
"I dare say you would," replied Mr. Ellis; "they all say that, and I can't trust you. No—as you made your bed, you must lie on it. It would be robbing myself and the rest if I took you back."
"One moment, father. Hear me out before you send me back to the old sins and sorrows again. I want to be different from what I've been. I want to earn an honest living. Give me a chance! Oh, father, for God's sake, for my poor soul's sake, give me just one chance. Let me come home?"
The passionate entreaty of the young voice touched, to some extent, even the hard heart of Mr. Ellis, but the momentary feeling was instantly swallowed up by the pride and selfishness which were making him the meanest of men.
"I owe it to myself," said he coldly, "not to turn my house into a reformatory, and I cannot, therefore, receive you here. I give you this five-pound note, which you will please to regard as a farewell present, and under no pretext are you to come here again."
"But, father, for pity's sake—"
"Enough, Robert! I will hear no more."
"Then there's nothing for me but to go—to the bad!" cried the young man despairingly.
"Really," replied Mr. Ellis, "things being as they are, that's your affair, not mine."
Then the door opened, and Bob ran downstairs.
"Don't stop me, children! It's all up with me!" he sobbed, as the twins clung to his arm. "I'm a poor outcast, whom no one loves. I'm going to the bad again."
Throwing off the little clinging hands, while great tears ran down his pale cheeks, he opened the hall door and sprang out.
He was already in the dark of the shrubbery path, when he felt a little, soft, warm hand steal into his own, and Dina's voice whispered, "You mustn't think nobody loves you, Brother Bob; I love you ever so much; and I'm going to pray to God for you every day, just as I used for dear mother. Won't you kiss me, please?"
Brother Bob stooped and kissed his little sister, and tried to speak, but could not—and so passed on alone into the night.
AN ARRIVAL, AND THE NOISE IN THE NIGHT.
"DINA, she's come! She's come! I haven't seen her, but I saw the carriage and the luggage."
"So we've got a governess at last!" remarked Dina. "I'd forgotten she was coming to-day."
"Let's have our guessing game as to what she'll be like," said Gerald, "and see which of us gets nearest to the truth."
"All right!" rejoined Dina. "I guess that she is very tall, dark, rather bony, and wears a big comb in her back hair, and not much hair to put the comb in. Oh, yes, and blue goggles!"
Gerald laughed.
"What a beauty!" he said. "Now I guess she's fair, red hair perhaps, and very much poodled—you know what I mean—curled and frizzed and fussed. She's a sort of pretty, make-believe, doll-de-doll-doll governess."
Dina laughed in her turn. "I don't like your guess any better than I do mine," she said.
"Maybe we're both wrong," answered Gerald; and so it turned out.
Indeed so far away from the truth were the guesses of both that, when the new governess came down to tea, the twins could only stare.
And Mr. Ellis, who had joined them at tea in honour of the new arrival, said sharply, "Well, children, where are your manners? Have you no welcome for Miss Burnard?"
"It is natural they should feel a little shy of a stranger just at first," said she pleasantly, with a bright smile; "but I hope we may be very good friends soon. Do you know, my dears, I have always wished to have twins to teach; I think twins are so very interesting."
"We're not," rejoined Dina; "ask dad!"
"No, thank you," laughed Miss Burnard, "I am not going to ask anyone. I mean to judge for myself. But I love children so dearly that to me they are always interesting."
After tea the twins went out again, while the governess unpacked her boxes, and settled comfortably into her own room.
"I say, Dina," said Gerald, "she's not a bit like your guess of the grenadier party with the comb."
"Nor the poodley, doll-de-doll-doll that you guessed," retorted Dina.
"She's not at all young," said Gerald, "and she's not pretty, and yet—"
"And yet she is," replied Dina with assurance. "Her smile is ever so sweet, and her big grey eyes are lovely; and then she has such a quantity of brown hair, with just little gleams of white as if they had been sprinkled in with a sugar-sifter. And she's tall and graceful, like darling mother." And the child's voice broke, and her eyes filled with tears.
"Dad's not often nice to anyone," said Gerald after a brief pause; "but he was to her. If he'd been half as good to Brother Bob, he'd have been here now."
"Poor dear Brother Bob!" sighed Dina. "There's nothing now to keep him from going to the bad," and the little girl turned away sad at heart, and wandered off alone, brooding over the sorrow which had already come into her young life.
The next day the children had lessons all the morning, at which Miss Burnard showed herself an interesting teacher. In the afternoon the twins took her all over the queer old house.
"For you must see for yourself what a musty old curiosity shop it is, Miss Burnard," said Gerald.
"Yes," added Dina, "dad cares for nothing much younger than Noah's ark, and that's why he never cared much about his children, though he's only had three—Brother Bob and us twins."
"Come along, Miss Burnard," said Gerald, "come and see the only beautiful things in all dad's collection." And he led the way to the gem cabinet in the drawing-room.
"You are right, my dear boy," said the governess, when the twins had done the honours of the cabinet; "these things are indeed beautiful, and they must be valuable too."
"I shouldn't wonder," replied Gerald discontentedly. "I wish dad would sell the lot and buy us ponies to ride, but he's the sort of dad who only thinks of himself."
"I hope—oh, I do hope you are not the sort of boy who often speaks of his father like that," was the gentle rejoinder, and Gerald could not resent it, for her smile was so sweet, and the pressure of her hand on his arm had in it an attractive force that drew the boy to her in spite of himself.
Dina was wakeful that night, long after the rest of the household was asleep; and it might have been between twelve and one o'clock when she heard a curious rasping noise, which seemed to come from the ground floor, on the same side as her own room. With a heart beating fast, and eyes staring into the darkness, the child sat up to listen.
Yes—it was not fancy; the subdued sound kept on, and Dina at once jumped to conclusions.
"We're going to be burgled," said she to herself. "Somebody's trying to get in at the drawing-room window after the gems. What had I better do?"
The next minute Dina was standing at her brother's bedside.
"Gerry, wake up! It's burglars. Oh, do stop snoring and wake up! Burglars! Burglars!"
The frightened whisper at last reached the boy's drowsy brain. He started up and jumped out of bed.
"Let's go and see what's up!" he said; and shoving his feet into slippers, he flung his dressing-gown about him, and opening his door came out on the landing, Dina, behind him. Here the rasping noise came less softly to their ears, and Gerald said, "They're filing the catch of the drawing-room window. It's the gems they're after."
Suddenly—and before the twins had made up their mind how to act—the noise ceased and a window was gently opened.
"Oughtn't I to go and tell dad?" whispered Gerald.
"Yes, of course he must know," replied Dina; "I'll go with you as far as his landing."
Mr. Ellis was a little deaf, and took some waking; and Dina, leaving her brother to this, and possessed by a strange mingling of curiosity and dread, crept noiselessly downstairs in the dark, till she stood by the drawing-room door, which was ajar.
Holding her breath, she leaned forward and peeped in, and saw, by the light of a lantern which shone full into the gem cabinet, the dark outline of a man's form in a crouching position. His hands alone were in the clear light of the lantern as they quickly and deftly collected the treasures from the shelves, and slipped them into a bag that lay on the floor. The face of the man was in deep shadow, and not a feature was visible.
But Dina had seen something which appalled her more than a dozen savage ruffians could have done. By that light she recognised those handsome hands, with their long deft fingers, and the plain broad wedding-ring on the little finger, kept as a precious possession through years of hardship and want, for the dead mother's sake. For one moment the child stood in the doorway, rigid with horror; then she darted into the room, and as the burglar looked up, startled, Dina fell forward into his arms.
"How could you? Oh, how could you?" she sobbed. "You that we love so!" and the childish voice was thrilling in its agony of sorrow and reproach. The man's bosom heaved convulsively, and the bag of gems lay unheeded on the floor as he clasped the poor little wrong twin to his heart.
"I was starving, Dina, starving. Do you know what hunger means? And hadn't I a right to something in this house? And if my right was denied, I must help myself."
"Hark!" whispered Dina. "There's dad coming! Run away quick! I'll come to you in the shrubbery, if you'll hide in the jungle walk."
As the child spoke she was pulling him towards the window—one of those big French windows opening down the middle like a double door, and level with the garden path outside.
As Mr. Ellis entered, he just caught a glimpse of the burglar's tall form and caught him by the arm ere he passed out, though not firmly enough to secure him. There was the quick crack of a revolver shot, and a smothered cry from the thief as he stumbled through the window into the darkness beyond.
GERALDINE'S BURGLAR.
BUT in wrenching himself free in his effort to escape, the man threw Mr. Ellis down, and the latter, in falling, struck his head violently against the sharp corner of a carved chiffonier, and lay where he fell, without sound or motion.
By this time the whole household was roused, and Miss Burnard at once took the direction of affairs. The master of the house was carried to his bed, and a messenger was despatched for the surgeon. In the confusion no one noticed that Dina had vanished, so that wholly unobserved she crept into the jungle walk, and in a moment came upon the tall burglar leaning up against a tree and panting heavily.
The child came to his side. "No one knows, Brother Bob; no one shall know: that's our secret. But you've hurt him—dad, I mean—in knocking him down."
"And he has hurt me—shot me in the side—and I shall bleed to death, if I don't have help soon," replied the young man in a failing voice.
"Oh dear, what shall we do?" said the little girl.
Bob said nothing. He seemed faint and ready to fall.
Presently Dina said:
"Lean on me, and try to get as far as the seat."
Bob did so, and sank down heavily on the bench.
"Now I'm going for nurse," said Dina, and she flew back to the house.
In less than ten minutes Bob heard hushed footsteps approaching, and nurse's soothing tender voice was in his ears. Leaning on the strong old arm that had carried him as a baby, and supported by Dina on the other side, he staggered back towards the house.
"I was rather long in comin', my darlin'," said nurse, "but I stayed to get my room on the ground floor ready for you. Come right in there. The servants has gone back to their beds; only the upper housemaid and the governess are up, and they're with master."
"Is he badly hurt?" asked Bob.
"Can't tell yet, my dear; it were a hard knock; he hasn't come to himself yet, I understand."
The burglar and his two protectors met no one as they entered the side door, and safely gained nurse's room, where the bed was in readiness for the patient.
"Now, Miss Dina," said nurse, "leave me to look after Master Bob, and you must be on the look-out for the doctor when he comes down from master's room, and send him in here to see his other patient. And not a word about this business to anyone to-night."
Things straightened out to some extent and fell into working order during the next few days, without anyone but the twins and nurse knowing who had been the burglar. Dina had felt she could not keep the secret from Gerald, but she knew that he was to be trusted.
That Master Bob should have come home to be nursed when he was ill seemed a natural thing to the servants, and the surgeon (an old friend of the family) was the only outsider who knew to what the illness was due. By his express orders, Mr. Ellis had not yet been told of his son's presence in the house. As the doctor very sensibly said, the excitement of this unexpected news might retard the older patient's recovery; while, as for the burglar, he was supposed to have got clean away, taking nothing with him, and leaving behind not a clue to his whereabouts.
But then came a time when Mr. Ellis was getting better, and it was felt by all the household that the secret of Bob's presence in the house could no longer be kept. Mr. Ellis had really been at his best during his illness. Miss Burnard, who had quietly assumed the necessary authority on the first night, had been head nurse, and her firm gentleness and skill had exerted a good influence, keeping in check the man's selfishness and peevish discontent. So that, when the doctor told nurse that her master must now be informed that his son was at home, it seemed as though it would be easier to tell him than it would have been a fortnight before.
"Suppose you go to dad, Gerry," said Dina, "and tell him that Brother Bob is here ill. Dad would take it best from you."
But Gerald stoutly refused. "Let nurse tell him, or Miss Burnard," said he.
"No, Gerry," replied Dina. "Nurse might let slip some word about that dreadful night; and Miss Burnard—though she's a dear—isn't one of the family."
"Then there's only you to do it, Twinnie, for I won't."
"I'm afraid I'll be the wrong twin again," said the child sadly; "but someone must tell dad, and if no one else can, I suppose I'll have to. Dad can't like me much less than he does now. That's one comfort!"
The next morning an unlooked-for chance occurred for the carrying out of the little girl's purpose. Miss Burnard had a bad headache, and asked Dina to read a chapter out of the Bible to Mr. Ellis, as she (Miss Burnard) had done ever since the beginning of his illness. And the child chose to read the Parable of the Prodigal Son.
THE APPEAL.
THE story of the Prodigal Son had always touched her, and the childish voice trembled as she read of the young man's repentance and resolve to return and confess his sin to his father. A picture arose before her of a weary wayfarer, toiling homeward, grief, pain, suffering in every line of his face; but that face was the face of Brother Bob.
"When he was yet a great way off," the child read, "his father saw him and had compassion."
Ah! What a father that was! But would dad act like this? And a passionate prayer went up from the little burdened heart:
"Dear Lord, make dad like the father that had compassion."
Dina's own heart was so full, and her eyes so brimming over, that she could neither read further nor see. Covering her face with her hands, she shook with sobs.
"Why, child, what is it?" inquired Mr. Ellis in unusually tender tones. "Tell me, Geraldine?"
Dina, with a great effort, mastered her emotion.
She must speak now, and she realised how much might depend upon her words.
"Dad," she said, in a little broken, pathetic voice, "when that poor naughty son who had been to the bad—came home and found his father so kind, and tender, and forgiving, that would help to keep him, wouldn't it, from going wrong again?"
"I should think it might," replied Mr. Ellis, surprised at the question, and still more at the earnest way in which it was put.
But he was fairly startled when Dina threw herself on her knees by the bedside, and clasping her father's hand between both hers, said, "Oh, dad, the prodigal that went to the bad, and came to grief, and was tired, and starved, and sick, and so very, very sorry for being naughty, has come home. Oh, dad, dear dad, will the father forgive him and give him a welcome, and help him to be good? Dad, tell me quick, for my heart's breaking. Will he say, 'This my son was dead and is alive again, and was lost and is found'?"
The child ceased speaking, but her heart was one fervent prayer during the silence that followed, broken at last by a husky voice, very unlike Mr. Ellis's usual sharp tones:
"You wish this very much, Geraldine?"
"More than anything else in the world."
"So be it, then. Since the father in the parable could forgive his prodigal, I can—I will forgive mine."
And so it came about that Bob Ellis returned home, to begin a new life and be a comfort when he had hitherto been only a sorrow. The whole household rejoiced over his return, and Miss Burnard was especially interested in the young man, for in him she recognised a patient whom she had visited in a hospital a year or two before, and in whom—she had felt sure—were great possibilities for good.
"It's time we stopped calling Dina, the wrong twin," said Gerald, the first time that the invalids came downstairs to an early dinner. "She's always doing things that no one else likes to do, and she's the pluckiest little beggar that ever was, and the tender-heartedest."
"Oh, don't, Gerry dear!" pleaded Dina. "I'm so often wrong; I'm always getting into trouble, and—"
"Getting other folks out!" whispered Brother Bob.
"Well," said Miss Burnard, "if to be the wrong twin means to be always striving—in spite of difficulties and temptations—to do right; if it means to confess oneself in the wrong and to try to make amends—then, Dina darling, there is not one of us who would not be glad to change with you and be a wrong twin too."
"Hear! Hear!" said Mr. Ellis.
"Three cheers for the righter of the two right twins!" cried Gerald.
THE END.
———————————————————————————————————LONDON: PRINTED DY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED.