Chapter VII: The Twins’ Surprise-Packet

MOTHER was at the gate to meet them—a slender, pretty woman, looking not so much older than her tall daughters. She disappeared under their onslaught, emerging from a bear’s hug presently, dishevelled, but cheery.

“Well, you dear things,” she said. “It’s good to get you home. And you’ve had _such_ a hot journey—you’ll want baths, but you must have some tea first. And here’s Sarah.”

Sarah had come out to the gate, contrary to her usual habit. Generally she prepared to be sought in her kitchen, a spotless place where she reigned supreme amid the glory of a shining stove, gleaming brass taps, and tables and dressers scrubbed to a whiteness that was almost past belief. But to-day she chose to come out; and there was something in the hard old face that made the twins suddenly rush at her and hug her almost as thoroughly as they had hugged their mother. Sarah had not any words for them. She held them tightly and looked over their heads at their mother and father with a half-defiant question in her eyes. Mrs. Weston could not meet her piteous look. She put her hand gently on her shoulder, going past her on her way to the house.

“Come on, children,” she called. “Tea is ready. Sarah made it as soon as we heard the buggy coming over the bridge. And I’m sure you are both ready for it.”

The twins rushed to the bathroom, to remove the more recent layers of journey grime, and in a few moments they were all in the big comfortable dining-room, where afternoon tea was on a scale calculated to soothe hungry travellers. So far there was no sign that they had come to a poverty-stricken home. The room was just as well-kept as ever, with big bowls of flowers here and there: the glass and silver were shining, the table-linen was as exquisite as they had always known it. Mother was just as dainty as ever, in the soft blue dress that was the colour of her eyes. Everything was simply home: home, as they had pictured it a thousand times, away at school.

But when they looked more closely, the change was there—in the faces of their mother and father. Mr. Weston’s eyes were deeply sunken, with dark shadows under them, and threads of grey were thickly sown in his crisp dark hair; and there were lines in their mother’s face that were new, and an unfamiliar hint of repression about her mouth. Both tried to talk as though nothing was the matter: there were a hundred questions to be asked and answered, and the revelation that the twins had actually brought home prizes elicited satisfactory expressions of awe and respect on the part of their family. But through all the cheery chatter there was an under-current of something wrong—something kept down. It was like a shadow lurking in a corner of the room.

Sarah came in presently to take away the tea-things. She looked approvingly at an empty plate which had held scones, and with less good-will at others not entirely cleared of cakes. The twins glanced at their mother inquiringly as the door closed behind her. It was not usual for Sarah to appear in the dining-room. Mrs. Weston understood the glance.

“Amy has gone, you know, girls,” she said placidly, taking up her knitting. “She didn’t want to go until after Christmas; but Mrs. Holmes needed a housemaid, and it was too good a place for her to lose: I persuaded her to go.”

“Of course,” said the twins hurriedly. There fell an awkward silence.

“Mother and I have made up our minds that it’s best to let you know just how we stand,” said Mr. Weston, speaking as a man speaks who faces a disagreeable task. “It’s only fair, seeing that you youngsters are so much affected by our bad luck. We’re not going to be permanently ruined, so you needn’t worry too much: unless the drought stretches out indefinitely I’ll pull round all right, once the rain comes. You know, droughts with us generally mean extra good seasons afterwards: the ground has had a rest, and grass and crops come on splendidly.”

Jean and Jo nodded acquiescence. They understood the ways of droughts.

“Well—I’ll be right enough if I don’t have to sacrifice more of my stock. The few I have left on the place ought to be able to scratch up a living: those I’ve sent to Gippsland will be our salvation, if only I can hang on to them. If I am forced to sell, things will be very bad, for of course stock are fetching the very lowest prices. I could have gone on without making any special change in our way of living but for the money I told you about—the sum I lent. I lent it to a good friend—he’d done me more than one good turn years ago—and I don’t regret it. Mother says she doesn’t, either.”

“Then nobody does,” said Jo, and Jean nodded vehemently.

“I knew you’d say so,” said Father, and smiled at them. “Still—that’s our trouble. It leaves me horribly short of ready money. The place is bringing in nothing whatever: the small income I have, apart from it, isn’t nearly enough to pay household expenses, school bills, a governess for Billy, a big wages-list, and a dozen other things. So there was nothing for it but to cut down expenses in every way, and bring you home to help.”

“We’re jolly glad you did,” said the twins.

“Oh, we knew we could depend on you. Still, we’re awfully sorry. If you could, we’d like you to go on with some decent reading, and with your music—you’re such kids, to be leaving off studies altogether, and we hate it for you; but we quite realize that you won’t have much time. Sarah is to go after Christmas, and there will be loads for you to do, with Billy’s teaching thrown in, and we don’t want life to be all work for you.”

“We won’t make it all work,” said Mother gently. “We’ll try to have lots of fun mixed in.”

“Why, we couldn’t help it,” said Jean laughing.

“I know you’ll look after your mother,” said Mr. Weston. “I feel pretty desperate at letting Sarah go, for she’s a standby in everything, and she takes such care of Mother if she’s sick.”

“I decline to be sick—ever!” said Mother firmly. At which her husband ran his fingers through his hair, and looked at her with an air of desperation that would have been almost comical if it had not been so miserable.

“I’m afraid of that very thing,” he said. “You’ll hang on and hang on, long after you should give in, if you do get seedy. Sarah would know at a glance, and put you firmly to bed; but the girls and I won’t be as quick to see. If I were sure that you would be sensible, and take care of yourself, I wouldn’t be half so worried. But yourself is the one person about whom you haven’t any sense!”

“Now, don’t meet trouble half-way,” said Mrs. Weston. “We’re going to manage very comfortably, girls. I can get a good woman from the township for a day each week, for washing and rough cleaning, and the rest will be quite easy to us. And if I do feel sick, I promise to stay in bed and call loudly for nourishment. So——”

“Jean,” said Jo, “if I don’t tell I shall burst.”

“Me too,” said Jean.

“Then why don’t you tell?”

“I was waiting for you. You’re five minutes older.”

“I wish you always remembered it!” said Jo severely. “Well, we’ll tell together. You see——”

“There’s nothing wrong, is there, girls?” queried Mrs. Weston anxiously. “You’re not ill, Jo?”

“Do I look it?” asked Jo. “No, but we’ve been fixing up a bit of business on our own. We do hope you won’t mind.”

“You simply mustn’t mind,” said Jean. “It was so dreadful to think we couldn’t earn any money to help you——”

“And when you’re fifteen and a half there doesn’t seem _any_ way to earn money. And we were tearing our hair about it at school——”

“And Helen—er—one of the senior girls happened to hear——”

“The tearing of the hair?” asked Mr. Weston solemnly.

“Yes, it made an awful row. Like tearing calico. And she started thinking, and so she came up in her kimono early next morning——”

“And offered us her little brother!” Jean finished triumphantly. She glared at her father and mother as if defying them to make any protest.

“It seems more like a way out of the other girl’s difficulties than yours,” remarked Mr. Weston, much puzzled. “Did you mention to her that you had a little brother of your own? Or perhaps you offered Billy in exchange?”

Billy, who had been sitting in a corner of the big sofa in unwonted silence, snorted indignantly.

“No, we didn’t. But we took hers.”

“My dear girls, what _do_ you mean?” asked Mrs. Weston.

“Why, I thought we’d made it quite clear,” said Jean, rather aggrieved. “You see, they want to get rid of her little brother——”

“That sounds as if he were pretty beastly, but he’s not,” said Jo. “Only they’re all going away to Colombo, and——”

“And he can’t go, ’cause of the climate, and——”

“My beloved daughters,” remarked Mr. Weston, “if you would only speak one at a time, and say what you really _do_ mean, we’d know more about it. You first, Jo—you’re the eldest.”

“Well, but we told you, didn’t we? They’re going to Colombo, and they can’t take him, ’cause he’s only nine, and not very strong. And they were wondering what on earth to do with him—they didn’t want to send him to school. They were at their wits’ end. And then they thought of us. And we’ve made an arrangement—that is, if you approve, only you simply _can’t_ disapprove, or it’ll put them in the most frightful fix—that we’re to take him, and look after him and teach him with Billy, for——You tell them, Jean.”

“For £150 a year!” said Jean solemnly.

They ceased, and looked for the effect of their bomb. It was all they could have desired.

“Whew-w-w!” whistled their father.

“My dear little girls!” Mrs. Weston put down her work and stared at them. “You aren’t joking?”

“As if we’d joke about anything so amazing as £150 a year!” uttered Jo.

“But who is it?”

“We don’t want to tell you until you’ve consented,” said Jo. They had decided in the train to keep the identity of the new pupil a secret, believing that Mr. and Mrs. West on would find it easier to accept a stranger than a friend’s son. “It’s all right, of course; they’re nice people. Say we may have him, Dad. You simply can’t refuse.”

“But can you teach him?”

“They don’t want him to have many lessons. They only want him to learn a little, and play about and get strong—and to be made to mind his manners. _You_’ve got to do that part of the job, Dad.”

Billy got down from the sofa and came forward, his eyes dancing.

“Do you mean to say,” he demanded, “that you’re going to bring a boy here—a real boy, that I can play with and go about with? I never thought sisters were so much good before! Oh, Mother, say you’ll have him!”

“Yes, and if you do, Sarah needn’t go, need she?” exploded Jo. “That’s the loveliest part of it—we can keep Sarah to look after Mother.”

“By—Jove!” said John Weston, very slowly. His eyes met his wife’s with a passion of relief in them.

“But it’s too much to pay for a child,” she objected.

“They won’t pay less,” Jean said. “If they had to send him away with a governess it would cost them more. And they’re _longing_ for him to come here. They’re counting on your not saying No.”

“I’m not going to say it,” said John Weston. “If you think you can stand another small boy about, dear—it will mean we can keep Sarah.”

Mrs. Weston had taken up her knitting, but there were tears falling on it, and she dropped three stitches. Suddenly the twins’ arms were round her.

“Oh, don’t cry, darling! We’re going to look after you, but we know we can’t do it as well as Sarah.”

“Was ever anyone so looked after?” Mrs. Weston smiled through her tears. “I don’t know why I’m crying, only you’re such darlings. Yes, we’ll have your boy, and we’ll keep Sarah——”

“And bless you both,” said John Weston, putting his arms round all his feminine belongings. “Billy, go and tell Sarah we want her. By the way, Jo, who is he?”

“Rex Forester—only you’re not to mind that.”

“George Forester’s boy!—whew-w! I wish it wasn’t a friend’s son.”

“But it’s that that makes them so happy about it. Mrs. Forester wrote us a lovely letter, and she’s writing to Mother. They’re just frightfully relieved.” The feelings of the twins overcame them, and they jazzed frantically together round the room—a demonstration that brought them into violent collision with Sarah, who entered silently, with Billy, flushed and excited, at her heels.

“Sarah, will you stay with us?” Mrs. Weston asked.

Sarah blinked rapidly thrice.

“Will I stay?”

“Miss Jean and Miss Jo are to have a pupil,” Mrs. Weston said. “A little boy, to teach with Master Billy. It gives us a little more money, so—will you stay with us, old friend?”

Sarah uttered a loud sniff.

“I wouldn’t have gone,” she declared stoutly. “Not if it was ever so. What’s wages, between you and me? and who’d know how to treat your brownkities, when they come?” She put her apron to her eyes. “And why them poor lambs should have to teach some ’orrid little boy, just to keep me on the place, _I_ dunno, seein’ I’d never have gone!”

“I can’t afford Amy too, you know, Sarah,” said Mrs. Weston.

“I’m not conshis of havin’ ever said I needed a second pair of ’ands to ’elp me run a place like this,” said Sarah stiffly. “The work ain’t nothing. Many a time ’ave I said to myself, with Amy talkin’ about her boys and the new way of doin’ her ’air, that I’d rather be on me own.” Suddenly her hard old face worked, and her voice trembled. “I couldn’t never have gone!” she cried loudly, and turned swiftly from the room. They heard her sobbing as she went.

“Go after her, girls,” Mrs. Weston said, crying softly herself. “Tell her all about it. She has been breaking her heart for a month.”

Left alone, John Weston looked long at his wife.

“I seem to remember Sarah once remarking that you’d never know where you were with them twins!” he said.