CHAPTER XIX.
THE LAST STRAW.
The words fell like a thunderbolt into the midst of the group.Eustace moved involuntarily to Peter's side and put a protectingarm round him, as if he had been struck. The little fellow himselflooked utterly bewildered.
"How can you say such a wicked, wicked thing?" exclaimed Nesta inastonishment; "just as if it was poor Peter's fault."
"Well, wasn't it?" demanded Herbert bitterly, his face stillhidden. "If Peter hadn't been at the other side of the ship--ifAunt Dorothy had not had to go away and find him--but you all gotinto the boat and went away and left her!"
"Don't!" exclaimed Eustace sharply. "You don't know what a wreck inthe dark is like, or you wouldn't talk like that. There isn't timeto know anything. We didn't know Aunt Dorothy was left."
"I should have known," said Herbert, with all the confidence ofignorance, "and I would have stayed and drowned with her."
He broke off short, rose abruptly, and stumbled in a queer, blindway from the room. He could not bear that any one should witnesshis grief.
Brenda turned a tear-stained face from the window and stared atthe trio now standing close together.
"He isn't thinking what he is saying," she said chokily; "but weare so frightfully unhappy about Aunt Dorothy--and this seems tomake it worse--I mean that she might so easily have been saved. Ofcourse you didn't really know her, so you can't understand. Butever since our mother died Aunt Dorothy--"
But here Brenda's voice broke utterly, and she, too, hurriedly leftthe room.
"Well," exclaimed Nesta, "I think it just horrid of them. I shallnever, never like them now."
Eustace turned a pair of surprised brown eyes upon her.
"Won't you?" he said wonderingly. "Why, I like them better than Idid, ever so much."
"What!" Nesta said, "you like them better for saying a horrid thinglike that? To make out it was Peter's fault! Poor little Peter, whowas so nearly drowned himself!"
"It wasn't that part I was thinking of," said Eustace, "but justhow they loved her. Somehow I never thought of it before. Same waywe love mother, I guess; and I don't know what I should havethought if mother had been drowned saving some one else's brother."
Nesta stared at him blankly. There were things about Eustace latelythat she did not understand. She knew nothing of Bob's maxim aboutlooking at two sides of a question, so she could see no reason forthe strange things he sometimes said, and he was far too reticentto have explained.
"Well, all I can say is, I wish we had never come," said Nesta forabout the twentieth time. "Nothing is nice, and it will be morehateful than ever now they feel like that about Peter. We hadbetter tell mother and father, and ask them to take us away."
"What's that I hear?" said an astonished voice at the door.
The children all jumped and turned round, for there stood theirgrandfather. They were speechless with dismay; they could not havepictured a worse thing happening.
"What did you say, Nesta?" asked Mr. Chase again, in a tone thatmade the twins' hearts stand still.
He looked angry, surprised, and very commanding. But how were theyto repeat what they had been saying? Nesta remembered they had beenwarned not to speak of Aunt Dorothy before him. Eustace felt itwould be mean and ungenerous to get Herbert into trouble behind hisback. But Peter had no such scruples. Dropping his head into hisarms on the table, he broke out sobbingly,--
"Herbert says it was me drowned Aunt Dorothy."
"What!" exclaimed Mr. Chase incredulously; "he surely never saidsuch a thing? Explain this to me, Eustace, at once."
His tone was so severe that the boy literally shook. He had neverseen any one really angry in his life before.
"He didn't say quite that," Eustace said with difficulty; "he onlymeant it was because of Peter."
"Kindly give me his exact words," Mr. Chase said, still in thatawful voice.
Eustace closed his thin lips tight, with an expression that meantwild horses would not drag it from him. His grandfather scanned hisface closely, then turned to Nesta.
"As Eustace seems to have lost his tongue, I must ask you to tellme what Herbert said in exactly his own words."
Nesta glanced furtively at her twin, but she was angry with Herbertand saw no reason why he should be protected.
"He said," she replied, "if Peter had not been at the other side ofthe boat, and Aunt Dorothy had not had to go and find him, shewouldn't have been drowned. He said we all went away and lefther--"
"How dared he!" Mr. Chase thundered. "I am ashamed that a grandsonof mine should have behaved in such a way. Whatever he thought, hehad no right to say such a thing."
"He--he was most fearfully unhappy," said Eustace nervously.
"That is no excuse for his making other people so too," Mr. Chasereplied. "Eustace, go and tell Herbert to come here at once."
It was a disagreeable errand, and the boy whitened as he turned toobey. Mr. Chase's prompt, old-fashioned methods were something newto him. Fault-finding at home had always been reserved for quiettalks alone with father or mother; they were never made big publicaffairs like this.
Eustace found Herbert in his own room pacing up and down the floorwith his hands in his pockets. He had got control of himself bythen, and he turned on his visitor with a look of impatientsurprise.
"What do you want?" he said.
"I'm awfully sorry," Eustace began lamely, "but you've got to cometo grandfather. We were talking about what you said, and he came inwithout our hearing. He made us tell him the rest, and I'm afraidhe--he is going to lecture you."
"You--you told tales?" said Herbert scathingly. Without waiting fora reply he marched past his cousin to the schoolroom. Eustace couldnot bear to follow and see him humiliated. It would be just alittle better for him with one person less present, he thought.
"Grandfather was fearfully severe," said Nesta later, when she hadfound Eustace prowling about like a bear with a sore head alone inthe grounds. "So you see it was a beastly thing to say. He saidHerbert was no gentleman if he didn't apologize."
"And did he?" asked Eustace shortly.
"He said he was sorry if he hadn't behaved like a gentleman, and itshouldn't occur again. Most awfully stiffly he spoke, just like agrown-up, and then grandfather said he might go."
"And that before you and Peter!" exclaimed Eustace in tones ofdisgust. "I'm jolly glad I wasn't there; it would have made me feela low-down black-fellow if Herbert had apologized to me. I don'tthink Peter behaved like a white man, and I mean to tell him so,too, when I get him to myself."
"Grandfather seems to have taken a fancy to Peter," said Nesta. "Hehad come up to fetch him when he overheard me. He said Peter hadalready broken his morning, and he had better have the rest of itand take him a walk. Brenda says she never knew him do such aqueer thing before; he is not generally supposed to be fond ofchildren, and that is why we have no meals downstairs."
Every one was surprised at Mr. Chase's sudden partiality for Peter,but the reason was a very simple one. From Peter he could hear moreabout Miss Chase than from any one else. No tears choked littlePeter's voice when he described Aunt Dorothy's first day, or toldthe story of her quaint mistakes. He quite forgot the sad part ofher visit, and lost himself in his stories. The old man led him onfrom point to point, and learned all that he could of his beloveddaughter's stay in Queensland without Peter's guessing what he wasreally doing.
The little fellow was radiantly happy. They walked about thegrounds together, and presently Mr. Chase said Peter must learn toride--he would teach him himself. Accordingly, out went Peter on alittle pony with Mr. Chase at its head, and the riding lessonsbegan.
"It doesn't look as if grandfather thought it was Peter's fault,"said Nesta to Eustace; "he seems fonder of him than any one."
If Peter was content, not so the twins. The scene with Herbert hadproduced a very uncomfortable state of affairs. He no longer playedthe part of host, but kept out of his cousins' way as much aspossible, going out on long e
xpeditions by himself, and neverjoining the schoolroom party when he could help it.
Nesta thought him detestable, but Eustace had a feeling thatHerbert had been very hardly treated in his own home. He could notforget how genuine had been the big fellow's unhappiness over theawful loss of his beloved aunt, and Eustace could have forgivenmuch more than the outburst against Peter in the face of such realdistress. But he had no chance of showing his sympathy; Herbertwould have resented any exhibition of sentiment most haughtily.Eustace only felt exceedingly awkward whenever he was with him, andwished with all his heart he could awake to find all theseunfortunate English experiences nothing but a bad dream.
Between her loyalty to her brother and the sense of courtesy thatbade her look after her cousins, Brenda had a very difficult courseto steer; being proud and reserved by nature, she only succeeded inbeing exceedingly stiff in her attempts at civility to the twins.
"It gets horrider and horrider," Nesta said after two or three daysof it.
But the secret treaty not to trouble their mother and disturb herenjoyment held good through everything.
"It will come to an end in a year," Eustace said bravely; "and wecouldn't bear it after we got back if we had to remember we hadspoiled mother's trip. She has been longing for it such a longtime."
Because they saw so comparatively little of their mother, it wasalways possible to keep their grievances from her; and she was socertain her children must be sharing the pleasures with herself, itnever occurred to her to suspect that anything was wrong.
"It wouldn't be us spoiling her trip," Nesta objected; "it would beBrenda's and Herbert's faults, because they are so disagreeable."
"It would be because of us," Eustace held out, "and I'll neverforgive you if you go whining about it to mother or any one. We canbear it for a year, or we aren't worth anything."
But even Eustace's courage received a check one evening when he andNesta were called into their mother's room for a talk before shedressed for dinner. Her face was aglow with some pleasant thoughts,yet she was very serious--a strange mixture that immediately struckthe twins as portending something very big and out of the way.
"Chicks," she said, drawing them down on each side of her onthe sofa, "I have got something very special to say to youto-day--something I scarcely know whether to be most glad orsorry about, for it cuts two ways. It fulfils the ambition ofmy life for you, and at the same time it costs me my twins."
There was a breathless, expectant silence.
"I think for you the happiness will outweigh the pain," she went ongently, "because it means new interests, new life, everything youmust most desire. And, dears, we have to thank grandfather for it;he insists on sending you both to school."
"To school!" shouted the twins simultaneously.
"Yes," Mrs. Orban said, "actually to school. He wishes you to haveexactly the same advantages as Brenda and Herbert. Won't it besplendid for you?"
There was dead silence. Mrs. Orban glanced from one grave face tothe other. Nesta's was crumpled and bewildered; Eustace's verywhite, and his expression sadly strained.
"Why, darlings," Mrs. Orban said, "you have always wanted to go toschool. Hasn't it nearly made me cry again and again to hear youcraving for a thing we could not give you? And now your wishes havebeen granted as it were by magic, I do believe you are not gladafter all."
There was such a ring of disappointment in their mother's voicethat even Nesta was roused.
"We've wanted it awfully," stammered Eustace awkwardly, "but we--wedidn't think of it coming quite so soon."
"Oh, is that it, you dears?" Mrs. Orban said in a tone betweenlaughter and tears. "I was afraid something much worse was thematter--that you had changed your minds, for instance, or that youdidn't like England after all; but of course that couldn't be."
She spoke with such perfect certainty that the twins were dumb;they could think of nothing to say.
"There really is rather a blessing in disguise in your going toschool at once, though I can't bear parting with you," Mrs. Orbanwent on after a little silence. "I shall be quite close to youwhile you are still feeling strange in your new life; I shall hearall about everything from you by word of mouth in the holidays; andI shall go away next year feeling content that you are settleddown, and likely to be nothing but a tiny bit mammy-sick at mydeparture."
Eustace rubbed his head against her shoulder.
"More than a tiny bit, mummie," he said.
"We needn't think about that yet, though," said Mrs. Orbancheerily; "it is a long way off, with plenty of lovely timesbetween. I only wish father had not to go so soon."
"How soon?" queried Nesta sharply.
"He says he must be off the end of this month," was the answer;"that is why the school-going has had to be settled so hurriedly.But he has a lovely dream for the future: before you have leftschool he hopes to be able to come to England for good and settledown here."
"How long would it be before that, mother?" Eustace asked.
"Oh, four or five years, perhaps," said Mrs. Orban.
"But shan't we ever go back to Australia again?" Nesta said with agulp.
"You won't want to, my dear, once you get used to England," saidher mother gently. "Of course it would not be possible for you tocome home all that distance for holidays, but you will soon learnnot to mind if you have our home-coming to look forward to. Now Iwill tell you a little about the schools you are going to."
It was easy to listen with apparent interest to this, to put in aquestion here and there and glean all the information possible. Butwhen the pair left the room Nesta suddenly gripped her brother'sarm.
"Eustace," she said huskily, "I--I can't bear it."
"You just must," said the boy sturdily. "I guess there is nothingelse to do."
The words were so hopeless that Nesta's tears began to fall thickand fast, and he drew her almost roughly down the passage out ofearshot. They reached the picture gallery, and sat down in a deepwindow-seat overlooking the front drive and the beautiful parkbeyond. Here Nesta buried her face in her hands and fairly sobbed.Eustace bore it for some seconds, then,--
"Look here, old girl," he said, "don't be silly. You'll have a rednose for dessert."
"I don't care," Nesta blurted out.
"But you must care," Eustace said a little impatiently, "becausethen mother will see you have been crying and find out we'remiserable."
"I don't care," sobbed Nesta again. "I can't hide it any more, andI don't want to. I shall ask father to let me go home with him.Nothing will make me stay here with these--these horrid people."
"Nesta!" Eustace exclaimed.
"Well, I can't help it; they are horrid, even if they are ourpeople. I never thought of them being anything like this. And Ican't--I won't stay with them."
"Rot," said Eustace angrily. "You know we can't help staying ifevery one says we are to."
"Then," said Nesta, drawing herself up with a sudden attempt atdignity, "I shall run away."
"Silly!" Eustace exclaimed irritably.
"You'll see it isn't silly when I do it," said Nesta gloomily. "Ishall tell father and mother everything about how horrid it is forus, and then if they won't take us home--"
She stopped dramatically, leaving Eustace to fill in the threat forhimself.
"You really will tell mother, and spoil everything for her?" heasked in a low, angry tone.
Nesta nodded defiantly.
"Then you are a little beast," said Eustace furiously--"a cruellittle beast."
Nesta rose with her nose very high in the air.
"Thank you," she said; "you are most awfully polite. I shall takecare not to tell you anything ever again."
Eustace knelt up on the seat, and leant out of the open window intothe soft evening air. He was too angry to speak coherently, toobewildered to know what to say. With a toss of her head Nestaturned and left him.
He heard her determined footsteps die away down the gallery, andknew he was meant to understand he had her sinceres
t disapproval. Afew months earlier, he would presently have thrown off his sense ofirritation and laughed at Nesta's little airs of importance.To-night he had no heart for the funny side of it. He was vexed tohave lost his influence over Nesta, and worried at the thought ofwhat an upset her headstrong course would make. Let alone hismother's disappointment, there would be the grandparents'indignation to reckon with, and Herbert's and Brenda's scornfulsurprise. They would indeed think them wild Bush children, and bejustified in their present attitude of cool unfriendliness.
Yet to be left in these uncongenial surroundings for a space oftime that seemed like an eternity to a lad of fourteen; to beforced to remain with these unsympathetic companions for the nextfour or five years, with no one to turn to and without a home,meant desolation as complete for Eustace as for Nesta.
Away in the park some rooks cawed fussily over the choice of theirnight quarters. Nearer, a blackbird piped an evening song. Theysounded restless and plaintive to the lonely boy, and he hid hisface in his hands, covering eyes and ears that he might seenothing, hear nothing. Then into his mind there surged arecollection of the dear old free days at home, never to comeagain. Right in the midst of every memory stood Bob--his friend Bobwhom he would never see again. That was the thought that broke hisspirit, and had he been a girl he would have cried; but Eustaceshed no tears--this sorrow was beyond them, for a boy.
Something hard suddenly struck him with a sharp tap on theshoulder, and, as he started back in surprise, fell with a clatterback on the gravel below.
Then Eustace gasped, rubbed his eyes, and stared, feeling as if hemust suddenly have taken leave of his senses; for there in thedrive, his hand poised ready to throw another stone if the firsthad missed its mark, stood Bob Cochrane.
CHAPTER XX.
BREAKING THE NEWS.
Before the boy had recovered sufficiently to make a sound, Bob saidin a low, distinct voice,--
"Don't make a row, old man. It's all right; I'm not a ghost. I wantyou to get hold of your father for me without a soul knowing thatyou have seen me. Tell him I am waiting by the first drive gate,and want to speak to him at once. Mind no one else hears what yousay. Seeing you is better luck than I expected."
He turned and was walking rapidly away across the centre grass plotbefore Eustace quite realized this was no dream, but a solid truth,and that something was required of him.
"Bob, Bob, how have you come here?" he called in a trembling voice.
But the figure only half turned with a warning gesture, and passedresolutely on.
For a moment the boy was rooted to the spot. Was this thing real?Could Bob possibly be there? The idea was incredible; yet his eyes,his ears, both bore witness to the fact. But how had it happened?what did it mean?
With thoughts in a turmoil and heart beating to suffocation, hemade his way to his father's dressing-room.
"I say, father," he said breathlessly, putting his head round thedoor at the answer to his knock, "are you nearly dressed?"
"All but my coat," said Mr. Orban, without turning from the glasswhere he was carefully arranging his evening tie. "Come in if youwant to."
There was an open door into the bedroom, where Eustace knew hismother was certain still to be.
"I--I would rather speak to you out here," said the boy, "if youcould be quick."
Mr. Orban turned a surprised face.
"Oh, if it is a secret I am sure mother will excuse our shuttingthe door," he said, and suited the action to the word. "Now come,out with it. Have you been getting into some scrape, old man?"
The boy looked so extraordinarily white that Mr. Orban began to beafraid something serious had happened.
"You are quite certain mother can't hear?" Eustace said in a lowtone.
"Perfectly," said Mr. Orban, looking more deeply perplexed, forhitherto Mrs. Orban had shared all secrets; in fact, the childrenhad gone more readily to her with their troubles than to him,because he had so little time for such things. "There hasn't beenany accident to one of the others?" he added sharply, struck by anew idea.
"Oh no, no," Eustace said; "nothing like that. But, father," hewent on, drawing very close, "I'm not to tell another soul--onlyyou. Bob Cochrane is here. He is waiting for you down by the firstdrive gate, and wants to speak to you at once."
"Bob Cochrane!" repeated Mr. Orban, blankly staring at the boy."What are you talking about, child? You've been dreaming, or you'vegot a touch of fever."
He passed his hand over Eustace's brow, and found it cool enough.
"But it's the truth, father," Eustace said. "I thought I wasdreaming myself, and it feels awfully strange still. I was kneelingat the window with my head in my hands, thinking--thinking abouthome"--his voice faltered a good deal over the words--"when someone hit me on the shoulder with a stone, and I looked down and sawBob."
"Impossible!" said Mr. Orban. "You've had a delusion because youwere thinking about home. You were thinking so hard about Bob youfancied you saw him. Things like that do happen sometimes, youknow. Bob is thousands of miles away, looking after the plantation;he couldn't by any earthly possibility be here."
Mr. Orban spoke so certainly that Eustace's faith in his own reasonalmost wavered; but if vision it were, it had impressed himstrongly.
"I don't think I could have seen it so clearly if it had only beenmy own thought," he argued aloud. "Besides, he spoke; he said quiteclearly, 'Don't make a row, old man; I'm not a ghost. I want you toget hold of your father for me without a soul knowing that you haveseen me. Tell him I am waiting by the first drive gate, and want tospeak to him at once. Mind no one else hears what you say. Seeingyou is better luck than I expected.'"
The words were branded on his memory by the shock he had received,and now it was Mr. Orban's turn to become white.
"If it is so really," he said in an odd, unsteady voice, "he bringsbad news. Something so bad has happened that he could not break itto me in a letter."
It flashed into Eustace's mind that Bob had looked awfully graveand queer--if Bob it really were, and no delusion! Suppose hisfather should go to the gate and find no one awaiting him--whatthen?
"You--you will go and see if he is there?" faltered the boynervously.
"I am going at once," said Mr. Orban. "When you are dressedyourself, go down into the drawing-room as usual, as if nothing hadhappened." He opened the door into Mrs. Orban's room and saidlightly, "There's a man just called to see me, dear. If I happen tobe detained, make my apologies to the old people, and ask them notto wait dinner for me."
Mrs. Orban made a cheery, unsuspecting response, and he and Eustaceleft the room.
The twins and the Dixon pair always assembled in the drawing-roomwith every one before dinner was served, and there they awaited thesummons to dessert, as a rule with books, in dreary silence.
When Eustace came down he found every one waiting for dinner. Mr.Orban was not yet in, and Mr. Chase would not hear of beginning themeal without him.
"His friend can't in conscience keep him late at such an hour," hesaid. "Of course we will wait."
No one was very talkative. It seemed to Eustace as if something ofthe coming shadow were creeping over the community before the badnews could even be dreamed of by any one except himself. There wasjust the sort of deadly calm and stillness over everything thatcomes before a thunderstorm.
Nesta had curled herself up in a deep window-seat, well out ofsight. Eustace guessed she had made such a fright of herself withcrying she was afraid to show her face. He sat near the door intothe great conservatory with a book, pretending to read. Really hecould do nothing but wonder what terrible thing could be going tohappen next.
Presently, just when Mr. Chase was getting a little restless, andMrs. Orban began anxiously watching the door, Mr. Orban camehurriedly into the room.
"Forgive my being so late," he said in a voice that vibratedstrangely; "but I am afraid I must detain you still for a fewminutes. The fact is, a Queensland friend of mine has just turnedup with--with some rather curious
details about the wreck of the_Cora_. He thought it would pain us less to hear them by word ofmouth than by letter, so he came himself."
"Very good of him, I'm sure," said Mr. Chase, looking surprised."Won't he stay and dine with us, and then afterwards--"
"Oh, of course he must stay the night!" cried Mrs. Chasehospitably; "and this evening we can talk things over quietly whenthe children have gone to bed."
"I think," said Mr. Orban, with a gravity that impressed every onedeeply, "my friend would rather have his interview at once. He isanxious to get it over as soon as possible. I have asked him intothe boudoir, Mrs. Chase. I thought we would talk there more quietlythan here."
"Certainly," said Mrs. Chase, rising and leading the way to theboudoir, which opened off the drawing-room.
Every one looked utterly bewildered, and Mr. Chase just a littleannoyed. It was most unprecedented that dinner should be sodelayed. Eustace noticed his father whisper something to hismother; she started, flushed painfully, and he guessed Mr. Orbanhad told her who the visitor was.
The boudoir door closed after the elders, and there was silence inthe drawing-room. Herbert became restless, and wandered about theroom opening books or fingering the ornaments in an aimless way;Nesta stared gloomily out of the window, and Brenda tried to read.
Eustace could stand the inaction and the unsympathetic company nolonger, so, getting up, he strolled into the sweet-smellingconservatory to be alone.
There were scents there that always wafted him in memory backhome--he loved the warmth and the plants. There was a large ovalstage covered with flowers in the centre, and round this hestrolled towards the outer door.
So it was about the wreck Bob had come to speak. What more painfulnews could he have to bring than they already knew? The boy'scommon sense told him that the details must have to do with thedeath of Aunt Dorothy; nothing of less importance could havebrought Bob over. Perhaps he had met an eye-witness of the tragedy!Perhaps there were last messages from the drowned girl!
Eustace turned a corner and came to an abrupt standstill. It seemedto him in that instant as if his very heart stopped beating and hishair stood straight on end.
It was absurd, of course. Bob had turned out to be no mere creationof his own brain, but this could be nothing else. Here was proofpositive of Mr. Orban's words that one has but to think hard enoughabout a person to imagine one sees him.
With her back to the outer door--a white figure with a face ascolourless as her dress--stood Dorothy Chase; nothing about her waslifelike except the familiar deep-brown eyes that gazed steadfastlyon the startled boy.
It was an extraordinarily vivid hallucination, and not a littleterrifying. Was it no fancy? Could it possibly be Aunt Dorothy'sspirit come to visit her old home again? The thought leapt into theboy's mind.
Eustace was no coward, but the notion fairly paralyzed him; hecould not have moved to save his life. One supreme effort he made.
"Aunt Dorothy," he whispered hoarsely, and could say no more, forhis lips were parched, his throat was dry.
The vision raised a warning hand.
"Hush!" she said; "don't be frightened. I see Bob has not told youyet; but it is all right, darling. I am a real live human being,and no spirit. Just Aunt Dorothy come back to you safe and sound."
The words seemed to come from far away, and Eustace felt so queerhe swayed to try and keep his balance. He was so giddy he must havefallen had the vision not swept forward and caught him. The feelingof those strong arms about him, the warm touch of Aunt Dorothy'sface bent down to his, brought him with a jerk to himself again,and he did not faint. But even then he could not believe hissenses.
"I don't understand," he gasped, shaking from head to foot in herarms; and he pressed his face tight against her shoulder to try andrecover himself.
"Poor old chap!" said Aunt Dorothy, "how I have upset you! I nevermeant any of you to see me till you knew. Bob is breaking the newsto father and mother gently. We were afraid the shock of joy wouldbe too much for them, so we did not even cable, but came at once. Aletter would have got here very little sooner than ourselves."
She talked on in a soft, soothing voice to give the boy time topull himself together, and all the time she held him close.
"You--you weren't drowned," Eustace managed to blurt out.
"Very nearly, but not quite," was the reply; "my escape was like amiracle. Ah, here comes Bob at last."
"Have I seemed an awful time?" said Bob gently. "It was a difficultthing to do. Come--they are waiting for you."
The pair passed swiftly up the conservatory into the drawing-room.
Herbert was standing by the mantelpiece examining a piece ofvaluable Sevres china. As the stranger, accompanied by that whitefigure, crossed the room to the boudoir, the ornament fell with acrash, to be splintered into twenty pieces on the fender.
"Oh, what was that?" cried Brenda, starting to her feet and gazingafter the apparition.
"It's Aunt Dorothy," said Eustace from the conservatory. "She wasnever drowned at all."
"What!" said Herbert sharply. "You are dreaming."
"Then we are all dreaming," said Eustace gravely. "You saw her foryourself."
It would be impossible to describe the scene that followed. Whenthe boudoir door opened and the grown-ups all trooped out, headedby Aunt Dorothy, the commotion was beyond words. From the midst ofit Mr. Chase slipped away, to return with Peter in his arms. Peterwas in pyjamas and dressing-gown, rosy, and fresh roused fromsleep.
"We can't let him be out of it all," said Mr. Chase. "I have toldhim of our joyful surprise, and he takes it quite calmly."
"Peter would," said Miss Chase, taking the wee fellow in her arms.
"I'm very glad I didn't drown you," Peter said serenely."Herbert--"
But he finished the sentence in an incoherent yell, kicking outright and left.
"What is the matter?" asked Dorothy in surprise.
"Eustace pinched my bare leg," Peter said irately, wriggling to theground in order to avenge himself.
Eustace caught his wrists, and bending low, whispered,--
"You are not to tell tales. I told you that the other day. Youdon't want to be a low-down black-fellow, do you?"
Peter's face was crumpled with anger, and there is no saying whathe would have done if Bob had not exclaimed,--
"Hulloa, Peter! haven't you a word for me?"
The shock was complete. Mr. Chase had not mentioned Bob's arrival,and Peter was wholly unprepared for seeing him.
"Bob!" he shouted, "good old Bob!" and sprang like a young cat atthe big fellow, who caught him skilfully.
"When you have quite done throttling me I shall be glad," said Bob,after enduring the embrace of the merciless little arms a moment.
"But how did you get here?" demanded Peter of the long memory."Were you bewitched over to England?"
"Come, come," said Mr. Chase; "dinner first and stories afterwards.We shall have to eat cinders as it is, I expect, and cook will givenotice to-morrow."
"Every one must come into the dining-room, father," laughed AuntDorothy; "I can't part with one of you yet. We will talk while weeat."
In a moment everything seemed changed. All the severity had fadedfrom the old people's faces; they could not have looked moredelightfully "grannyish" if they had tried. The dreadful barriersof formality were broken down; no noisier, freer family party hadever gathered in the Queensland home than the one that peopled thestately old dining-room that night.
"This," whispered Brenda to Nesta, "is how we always were beforeAunt Dorothy went away. Now you can see why we missed her."
The change was something like a fairy tale to the Bush children;every one seemed suddenly "magicked" into different beings. This,then, was home as mother had known it.
The story of Aunt Dorothy's rescue held the table spellbound; thevery butler and footman forgot their duties as they listened.
It appeared that, having jumped into the water with Peter, Dorothystruck out as fast as possibl
e to swim away from the ship, keepinga grip of the little fellow as best she could. But in the terriblecommotion that occurred on the going down of the _Cora_ she losther grasp, and Peter was swept away from her into the inkyblackness of the night.
She swam, floated, called, it seemed to her for ages, but all invain, and at last, in a state of utter exhaustion, she gave herselfup merely to the thought of keeping afloat. She must have been manyhours in the water, but, losing consciousness after a while, hernext experience was to find herself on board a vessel of somesort--a schooner it turned out to be on her way out to the reefsfor beche-de-mer fishing.
"Why, we saw her!" exclaimed Eustace. "Mother, that must have beenthe boat we saw far away out to sea. The captain of the stationtold us it was theirs."
"They must have picked me up soon after dawn, before the turn ofthe tide," said Aunt Dorothy. "I think when I came to my senses andsaw the kind of people I was among, I was more frightened than Ihad been even by the wreck. Most of them were black-fellows--therest I have since discovered were Portuguese; but not a soul in allthat uncouth crowd could speak English or understand a word Isaid."
"It was pretty terrifying," Bob agreed.
"They therefore did not know where I came from, where I wanted togo, or anything about me. I kept imploring them to take me back toland; but this, though they must have understood my signs, theyrefused to do."
"What brutes!" exclaimed Herbert hotly.
"They are a low-grade lot," said Bob in his quaint Colonial way,"but you know they can only get the beche-de-mer at certain tides.It would have meant a dead loss to them to have put back, andprobably they were working under contract, bound to supply acertain amount at a given time to their Chinkee employers."
"But it was horrid of them," said Nesta, who had recovered herselfentirely in the excitement, and was inclined to agree even withHerbert for once.
"It was a real adventure, wasn't it?" Eustace said, appealing toBob.
"Rather more of one than I bargained for," said Aunt Dorothy. "Butin their own rough way the men tried to be kind to me. The food wehad was disgusting, the boat dreadfully fishy, oily, and dirty;there was not a possibility of being comfortable day or night. ButI have nothing to grumble at. They took me back safe and sound tothe beche-de-mer station at last, and there I heard all about you,even to the saving of Peter. All the discomforts and horrors puttogether were nothing to my suspense about your fates till then."
The rest of the story was simple enough. Finding the Orbans hadleft Cooktown, Miss Chase instantly communicated with Bob, andtogether they arranged the plan for the home-coming. Their chiefaim was to convey the good news as gently as possible, and theycertainly achieved their end.
"I don't know how I could have borne the waiting had you cabled,"Mrs. Chase said. "I should have suffered agonies imagining freshaccidents that might happen to you all the time."
"Dorothy has become quite an experienced traveller one way andanother," said Mr. Chase. "You little thought, my dear, when youset out so gaily from here, what a stormy life you were embarkingupon."
"I should think you would be terrified ever to go there again,"said Brenda.
"On the contrary," said Bob Cochrane, "I hope your aunt will feelencouraged to return before long. What was the compact, Peter? Shewas to come back and be burnt as a witch, wasn't she?"
"Not yet awhile," said Mr. Chase gravely. "You can't expect us topart with her for some little time to come."
"Of course not, sir," said Bob genially.
And then he and Dorothy just glanced at each other and laughed witha strange kind of joyousness that mystified the Dixons; but Eustacelooked hard at Nesta and nodded meaningly.
Bob's face was no longer haggard and drawn; it wore its old,habitual expression of steadfast happiness.
The party did not break up till "disgracefully late," as Mr. Chaseput it. Peter was carried by his mother asleep to bed. The twinsand the Dixons felt so wide awake they fancied they would not closean eye all night.
Mr. Chase laughed when he heard the story of the Sevres ornament.
"I'm not surprised you were startled," he said kindly; "but pleasetry to have something a little less valuable in your hands nextghost you meet."
"Nesta," said Eustace, following his twin to her door, "what areyou going to do now? Shall you tell mother?"
"Tell mother what?" asked Nesta, with well-feigned astonishment.
"Why, that you are miserable, and won't stay, and all that stuff,"was the reply.
"Of course not, silly," Nesta retorted. "Any one can see everythingis going to be quite different now Aunt Dorothy has come."
"Of course, silly," said Eustace, in a mocking tone, and they bothlaughed.
"Good-night, you two," said a voice along the passage, and Herbertturned off into his own room.
"I'm coming to brush my hair in your room to-night," said Brenda,bearing down upon them, brush and comb in hand.
Eustace passed on.
"It is all different already," he said softly. "I think Bob hasbeen right all along--Aunt Dorothy has bewitched us, every one."
THE END.
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