Chapter XVII: The Turning of the Long Lane

IT was barely dawn next morning when the twins’ alarum-clock roused them. They sprang up, dressed with swift movements, and tiptoed to the larder. No one else was astir.

“Whatever we do, we mustn’t wake Sarah!”

“No—and we mustn’t take what will be noticed too much,” Jean said. “Here’s a tin of sheep’s tongue, and another of sardines.” She rummaged among the spare foodstuffs that are to be found in every station store-room. “A pot of peach jam, Jean—I hope he likes peach; and a tin of tomatoes. There’s a jar of anchovy paste here.”

“No—make him too thirsty,” objected Jo. “He can’t crawl up and down the bank for water, with that ankle. Look, I’ll pack butter into this little pot—it’s got a screw-top, and he can put it in a tin of water if it gets too soft. We must take a spare billy and a cup—oh, and grab a tin-opener! And a knife.”

“Right!” whispered her twin. “Plenty of bread, thank goodness: Sarah baked yesterday. No wonder she was cooked at night, poor old dear! I believe we can spare him some cake.” They progressed to the meat-safe under the walnut-tree, and abstracted some cold beef. A bottle of milk finished their depredations, and they set off, laden, across the paddock. The house still slumbered peacefully.

So, apparently, did their patient when they appeared at the door of the hut; but he woke with a terrified start.

“It’s all right,” Jean assured him. “No one knows you are here. How are you?”

“Better,” he whispered. Speech seemed difficult to him; he lay quietly while they bathed his injuries. They gave him milk, which he drank thirstily, but he refused food.

“We’ll bring you more milk as soon as we can,” Jean said. “It was no use bringing more now, because it would only go sour—it’s going to be another blazing day. Sour milk would be bad for you, so finish that soon.” She spoke in the tone of an understanding mother to a fractious child, and he looked at her gratefully for a moment. Then his heavy lids drooped over his eyes again.

“It’s hard to believe he’s a criminal; he looks such a boy,” Jean said, as they hurried home. “Oh, I do hope the police won’t come this way. I feel as if I’d do anything to keep him out of their clutches!”

“So do I,” Jo said. “After all, the police have so many criminals that they could easily spare one! And if he gets a chance now he may live a good life for ever after. But I do wonder, Jean, if he oughtn’t to have a doctor.”

“But that means the police!” Jean cried. “Dr. Lawrence never could visit him without letting the police know.” She thought a moment. “I’ll tell you what, Jo: we’ll see how he is this evening, and if he’s not better we’ll get Sarah to see him. She’s as good as a doctor, and we could swear her to secrecy.” The phrase struck her with a pleasant flavour of conspiracy and mystery: she repeated it to herself, ending with a little chuckle.

“It really is fun, Jo! To think of the police scouring the country for that poor fellow, and you and I have him planted in that hut! Don’t you wish we could tell them at school!”

“Rather!” Jo agreed. “Wouldn’t there be excitement! By the way, I wonder if we’re likely to get into a jolly row!”

“Well, there’s a pretty good chance, I suppose,” Jean said. “But it’s worth it. Goodness me, Jo, there’s Father!”

Mr. Weston, in riding-breeches and shirt, was in full view, going to the house-paddock, a bridle over his arm. The twins ducked guiltily behind a bush, waiting until a high fence hid him; then they rose and bolted to the garden, and climbed over its pittosporum hedge with the kindly aid of an overhanging pepper-tree. They gained the house without being seen—it was only a little after five o’clock; and were soon hard at work. Presently Sarah appeared.

“Tea’s ready,” she informed them. “Yes, it’s early, but the Master’s wanting breakfast; he’s off to Reedy Creek, after some sheep. I thought you would ’ave your tea in the dining-room with ’im an’ see that he eats somethin’; there was mighty little eaten in this ’ouse yesterday!”

“Too hot to eat, Sarah,” said Jo.

“Too ’ot _not_ to eat,” responded Sarah. “People’s gotter keep up their strength in weather like this. Just you go an’ bully the Master, now: he told me to give ’im just some bre’n’butter, but I’ve done ’im some bacon the way ’e likes it. You two go an’ be firm with ’im.”

They found their father rather ruefully contemplating the bacon-dish, and induced him to eat by representing Sarah’s wounded feelings should he send it out untouched.

“I suppose I’d better; but it’s too early to eat,” he said. “And later it will be too hot, so Sarah’s cookery doesn’t get a fair chance. However, I’ve a twenty-mile ride, so it really would be wiser to have something.”

“Are you going to buy sheep, Father?” Jo asked, pouring out tea.

“I believe I am. It’s a gamble, of course—but they’re very cheap, and I need not move them for a month. Your mother will tell you about it. It’s going to be a worse day than yesterday, I believe: I’m going to get back as soon as I can, and get the trip over. Take care of your mother, girls: she was awfully done yesterday.”

“We’ll take her a nice little breakfast-tray before she gets up,” Jean said. “Perhaps she may eat something if we do. I’ll make her an omelette à la Smithy.”

“Do,” he said, smiling at her. “And have one for me when I come back. I’ll need it after spending as much money as I’ve got to spend this morning!” He pushed his chair back. “Well, Cruiser’s had his feed by now, I expect: I’ll be off.”

Jean’s brow had a little furrow as she gathered up the breakfast dishes.

“Poor darling!” she said. “Jo, did you notice how grey he’s getting?”

“Do you wonder?” Jo said. “Oh, I do wish we could get a few more small boys to teach!”

It was a day of blistering heat. Lessons were voted impossible, and teachers and pupils spent the morning in the river, accompanied, for once, by Mrs. Weston, whom the twins conveyed carefully on Merrilegs. The bathe refreshed her, and afterwards she sat in the shade and laughed to watch their porpoise-like gambols at water-polo. But she was restless and uneasy, and before they were ready to come out she mounted the grey pony and rode back to the house, declaring that her stock-riding days were not so far behind her that she should need assistance now.

As she neared the garden, she saw her husband coming. He was riding up the track slowly, his head bent down. She turned and rode to meet him, laughing at his astonished face.

“You!” he said. “Whatever are you out for, on such a day?”

“Oh, I’ve been with the children,” she answered. “I couldn’t rest, John: I had to know. Did you get the sheep?”

“Yes, I got them,” he said. “But, Mary, what is it? Aren’t you well? Why are you troubling about it?”

“I’m all right,” she said. “But I wanted you desperately to buy those sheep, and I couldn’t rest until I knew. I don’t know why—perhaps because my silly toe still aches! Tell me about them, dear. Was Murphy glad to sell?”

“Oh, Murphy’s gone!” her husband answered.

“Couldn’t wait any longer: he cleared out two days ago, and I believe he sails for the old country to-day. He left the sheep in the agents’ hands to sell, if possible: if they were not sold when the lease of his place expired they were to put them in the yards and let them go for what they’d fetch. The agents didn’t expect to get rid of them: neither did Murphy himself. But he said, ‘Is it a mob of sheep will be keeping me from Ireland? Begob, it is not!’—and went.”

“And they’re really ours?”

“Really and truly—signed, sealed, and delivered. I saw them first—they’re not bad sheep, considering—and then fixed up the deal with the agents, in Reedy Creek. They’ve got my cheque, and I’ve got their receipt. Now, are you satisfied, you worrying woman!” He smiled down upon her from Cruiser’s back.

“Yes, I’m satisfied,” she said. “Perhaps I’ll be sorry afterwards, but I’ve faith in my old toe!”

“I hope we shan’t all be sorry afterwards,” he said gravely. “But it’s a big thing, Mary-girl.” He helped her to the ground. “Go on to the house while I let the horses go: it’s far too hot for you to be out.”

The long day dragged to evening—an evening that brought little relief from the overpowering heat. There was something almost malignant in the heavy air. Even Billy and Rex were subdued by it: they lay on the floor in their room, in the minimum of clothing, and would not face the short journey to the river, declaring that one couldn’t actually _live_ in the water, and that one felt worse on coming out. The twins tried to read, and found it impossible to keep their attention on a book: slept, lying on the floor, and awoke in a bath of perspiration, acutely sorry they had slept. Mrs. Weston would not come into the house. She lay on a lounge on the verandah, pretending to read; but whenever her husband looked at her, her eyes were fixed upon the western sky, where the sun, a ball of lurid fire, was sinking into the bank of dull cloud that waited for it every evening.

Sarah—who had ironed all the afternoon with steady persistency—made no attempt to induce people to eat what she termed a “proper” meal. She marched through the house towards evening with a tray of sandwiches and a huge jug of cold coffee—the said coffee having been immersed, in bottles, in the underground tank. Jean and Jo nibbled their sandwiches, and then, taking a bottle of milk with them, slipped away to the hut by the creek.

It was evident that their patient was ill. He lay in the stifling little hut, his breath coming in gasps, his face deadly white. But he was more alive now: he looked at them with more recognition, and muttered thanks as they bathed his head and foot; and he drank the milk greedily. They conferred together in low tones.

“I’m sure he needs a doctor,” Jean said.

“We’ll get Sarah,” said Jo.

“Don’t get anyone,” begged the patient, unexpectedly. “I’m all right—want sleep—brute of a headache—sorry!” He closed his eyes and seemed to sleep. They watched him for a little while, and then, as he made no movement, they set off home.

“He’ll simply have to be moved,” said Jean. “It’s enough to kill him, to be in that awful little hut. We couldn’t risk another day of it for him.”

“Yes,” Jo agreed. She heaved a sigh. “Better to let the police have him than for him to die—and he looks awful to-night. But who wouldn’t look awful, to have spent to-day in that hut!”

“Oh, we’ll beg and beg Father!” said Jean. “Perhaps he’ll take the risk and not tell the police. No one would think of looking for the prisoner in the homestead; as far as that went, he’d be safer than in the hut.”

“But if we have to get the doctor?”

“I forgot the doctor,” Jean admitted gloomily. “He’s a magistrate himself: he’d simply _have_ to tell. Well, we’ve done our best, Jo: we can’t do any more. And look here: we’d better tell Father at once, for he’ll have to be brought up to the house before dark, and Sarah couldn’t do it—Father would have to help.”

“Yes, that’s true,” Jo said. “There’s Father, coming across from the lucerne patch. Let’s go and tell him.”

Mr. Weston heard their story in utter astonishment.

“Well, if you aren’t the most amazing twins!” he ejaculated. “And I was assuring a very hot policeman at Reedy Creek, only this morning, that no strangers had been out our way! I’ll go down at once. No, I’m not angry: I don’t see what else you could have done. Tell Sarah to get a room ready, but don’t say anything to your mother: she isn’t well enough to be worried. Do you think we can move him on a pony?”

“I don’t know,” Jean said. “But if you can’t, how can you?”

“That’s just what I don’t know: we can’t get a buggy down to that corner.” He thought for a moment. “Look, Jean: send Sarah out here to me, and you go on getting the room ready. I’ll need Sarah’s help to lift him. Jo, get Merrilegs and bring him down to the hut. You’d better go first: I don’t want to startle the poor wretch.”

So it was that Mrs. Weston, moving restlessly about the garden, caught sight of a queer little procession: Jo, slowly leading the grey pony, on whose bare back was a white-faced young man with his head tied up in a sock, and one foot curiously wrapped in its fellow. On one side her husband supported him, and on the other, Sarah: he wobbled rather painfully between them.

“It’s all right, Mother darling,” said Jean’s voice behind her. “It’s only our prisoner!” She explained briefly. “And oh, Mother!—do you think we’ll have to give him up to the police?”

“I don’t see how we can get out of it,” her mother said. “But the main thing is, to get him better. Poor fellow! what a dreadful day he must have had!” She hurried to the verandah to meet him, all her weariness forgotten.

It was half an hour later when she came out to the anxious twins on the verandah.

“He’s asleep,” she said. “We have fixed him up comfortably, and I hope he’ll sleep all night; Father means to camp near his room. Poor fellow—he’s only a boy! But we must tell the police, twinses dear; Father says there’s no help for it. We’ll get the doctor in the morning and let the police know.”

The twins sighed heavily.

“I suppose it’s got to be,” Jean said. “It’s hard: but I don’t think he can have a wife and children, as I was afraid he had—he’s too young.”

“He certainly is,” said Mrs. Weston, smiling.

“And, perhaps, after he’s served his sentence he’ll be a reformed character, and Father will give him a job.”

“And he’ll marry Sarah!” finished Billy, who, with Rex, had been hugely interested in the prisoner.

“And meanwhile, we’ll look out for our valuables!” said Mr. Weston, who had come out, unperceived—darkness had fallen suddenly. “Sorry, twinses, when he’s your pet criminal—but really, it’s as well to be careful. However, he’s helpless enough to-night, poor wretch!”

“I’m thankful he’s out of that horrid little hut,” Jo said. “We were awfully keen on taking care of him; but the job got a bit too big for us. Of course, in books, he’d get better and escape in the night, leaving a note of thanks on the pin-cushion!”

“And taking the spoons with him!” finished her father, callously. “No, he won’t do any escaping: his head and his ankle will see to that.” He drew a long breath. “My word, isn’t it hot! Are you all right, Mary? I can hardly see you, it’s so dark—but you’re very quiet.”

Mrs. Weston did not answer him for a moment. She stood up and moved a few steps into the darkness.

“John—I smell rain!” she said.

Something in her voice made him suddenly anxious. He came quickly and put his arm round her.

“Sure you’re all right, dear?”

She did not seem to notice the question. Her face was raised to the western sky.

“Listen!” she said. “It’s coming—it’s coming, John! I’ve been feeling it for three days. I know it’s coming—now!”

A scorching breath of wind swept across their faces. Then, as they stood in tense silence, a great flash of lightning cut across the blackness of the night: and suddenly big drops fell around them. They heard them splash heavily on the iron roof of the verandah: they felt them through their thin clothes on their heated bodies. The boys gave a great shout, springing forward, and suddenly Sarah came running through the house.

“Did ye hear it?” she was saying. “Are ye there, ma’am?—did ye hear it?”

Then it was on them in a sudden torrent—blinding, rushing rain. They heard it drumming on the baked earth, beating furiously on the echoing roof. In a moment they were soaked to the skin, but no one noticed it: they stood together on the lawn, with faces upraised to the wonder of it, afraid to speak. It seemed to hiss round them, beating through the hot air. Then, as the thirsty ground grew damp, the smell of it came up to them: the unforgettable smell of rain after long drought. Another vivid flash of lightning showed them standing together, with Sarah peering anxiously from the verandah.

“Come in!” she cried. “Make her come in, sir! Are ye all gone mad?”

“I think so,” John Weston said. His arm was round his wife: he picked her up suddenly and carried her to the verandah. “There you are, Sarah—take care of her,” he said. “She’s soaking wet—soaking wet, thank God! Go in, kiddies!” He turned and strode out into the storm.

“Come in yourself, sir!” Sarah cried. “Aren’t ye wet enough?”

“I don’t think I’ll be wet enough if it goes on for a week!” he said. He felt Billy beside him, catching at his hand. “Go in, Sonnie—it’s enough for one of us to be mad!”

“I’m goin’ to stay with you!” Billy uttered. “I’ll get wet with you. I’m wet already!”

His father put his arm round the thin little shoulders in the soaked shirt.

“Ah, well, then, we’ll go in together, old Son,” he said gently. “Go and change now, all of you.”

He stood awhile on the verandah, looking out into the storm. The lightning flashed, and thunder followed it in long rattling peals: but the drumming of the rain never ceased, and every drop was music to him. Presently he turned and went through the hall to his wife’s room.

She lay on a couch near the window, listening to the roar on the roof. Her face was very pale, but she smiled up at him.

“Well!” she said. “And you bought Murphy’s sheep to-day!”

He bent down and kissed her foot.

“Thanks to your old toe!” he said.