THE BAREFOOT VISITOR.
When Mr. Orban came home to dinner he brought with him another
excitement--the mail letters that Hadji ought to have brought with
the parcel the day before.
To Bob Cochrane, whose parents were Australian born and bred, this
meant nothing; but he was so intimate with the Orbans that he
understood their feelings on the subject. He sat silently puffing
at his pipe while Mr. and Mrs. Orban read their letters. Eustace,
Nesta, and Peter had seized on some packets which they knew to
contain English papers and magazines.
Suddenly Mrs. Orban gave a curious exclamation, and all eyes were
turned questioningly upon her.
"Mother, mother, what is it?" cried Nesta, noting the colour
flooding her mother's usually pale face.
"Any news, darling?" asked Mr. Orban.
"I should just think it is news," said Mrs. Orban unsteadily.
"Listen to this, Jack: 'Dorothy has been so very slow in her
recovery from the terrible bout of typhoid she had in spring that
the doctor advises a long sea voyage at once, and we have decided
to send her out to you by the first boat available. We go up to
London to-morrow to get her outfit.'"
"Aunt Dorothy!" yelled the children. "Aunt Dorothy coming here!"
It was a most surprising piece of news, almost incredibly so. The
children had never seen any of their parents' people, as none of
them had been over to Queensland. They knew them only by name and
the oft-repeated tales of childhood, which were their favourite
stories of all Mr. and Mrs. Orban told.
This was their mother's unmarried sister, Dorothy Chase, who lived
with her father and mother in Herefordshire, in the "old home" the
children knew so well by hearsay, and longed so much to see. Some
one coming out from England was next best to going home, and the
news produced the wildest commotion of questions and suggestions.
"When will she come, mother? When can she be here?" came in chorus.
"Well, I am sure I don't know," Mrs. Orban said; "but it seems to
me she will not be very far behind this letter."
"Not more than a fortnight, I should think," said Mr. Orban. "You
see they are hurrying her off."
"O mummie, this is exciting!" Nesta exclaimed. "Do tell us how old
Aunt Dorothy is!"
"Just twenty-three. She was a little child when I last saw her, and
I can never picture her grown up."
"Twenty-three is a decent age for girls," said Eustace.
"Out of a vast and varied experience speaks Sir Eustace," laughed
Bob--and Eustace reddened.
"Twenty-three," said Mr. Orban. "Fancy little Dot twenty-three!
There'll be a big change in her."
"There must be a big change in every one, Jack," Mrs. Orban sighed.
"What wouldn't I give to see them all!"
"The next thing we shall hear," remarked Bob solemnly, "is that you
will be clearing out to England--the whole lot of you. I don't
think I like the idea of Miss Dorothy coming at all. She will
bewitch you, and off you will all go."
"No such luck," cried Nesta impulsively.
"Alas! an impossibility," said Mrs. Orban.
Mr. Orban said nothing, but looked very grave.
These few words, however, could only shadow the great excitement a
moment. Mrs. Orban returned to her letter, and read interesting
little scraps from time to time, such as "'I am cudgelling my
brains in the hurry to think of everything I can send you--it is
such a grand opportunity--I wish I had time to get a list of wants
from you--but I dare say nothing will come amiss. Frocks for the
girls and yourself, of course--'"
"Darling gran!" cried Nesta.
"Then I needn't get the duster stuff," said Mr. Orban.
"No, none of the clothes," said Mrs. Orban. "I know what grannie is
when she gets a chance to send a box."
Nesta and Peter went off in high spirits with Bob later in the day,
Nesta exacting many promises that should Aunt Dorothy by some
miracle appear before she was expected, Mrs. Orban would send for
the children back.
Eustace let the party go without a pang; he was actually glad not
to be going. So taken up was he with the new idea that he even
forgot his fear lest he had made a bad impression on the great Bob.
There was so much to be thought of in the preparations for Miss
Chase's arrival that even Mr. Orban's departure two mornings later
left no one depressed. Up to the last Mrs. Orban was wondering
whether there was anything she could think of that could be brought
from Brisbane for their visitor's greater comfort.
"She will be used to such a different life," Mrs. Orban said. "I do
hope she won't mind roughing it."
"Not she," said Mr. Orban heartily. "She will like it all the
better if we make no changes for her, but just let her see life as
we live it. After all, it is only for a time with her."
* * * * *
"Well, my darling old man," said Mrs. Orban gaily that evening, as
she and Eustace sat alone at late dinner, "how does it feel to be
'man of the house'? Do you feel a great burden of responsibility as
mummie's guardian and protector?"
"I don't know, mummie," said Eustace.
He was looking very grave, for now that the lamps were lighted and
it was dusk outside everything felt different again.
The veranda ran round the entire house; only on one side was there
a flight of steps down to the ground. The drawing-room opened out
on to the other side of the house, facing the sea. It was here Mrs.
Orban and Eustace went after dinner, for the day had been
exhaustingly hot, and now a slight breeze blew landwards.
But for the rustling of leaves and a distant murmur from the
plantation, the night was very still. As she meant to go to bed so
early, Mrs. Orban did not have lamps brought out on to the veranda;
she and Eustace sat close together in the gloom, their only light a
faint golden streak from the drawing-room.
Becky had been in bed a long time, and was fast asleep. For a while
they could hear the servants clearing away the dinner; then there
was silence even in that quarter, and they knew that Mary and Kate
had gone to bed.
"We ought to be going too, I think, my man," Mrs. Orban said
softly.
Eustace slipped down on to a stool at her feet and rested his head
against her knee.
"O mummie," he pleaded, "not just yet. Couldn't you tell me a story
first?"
"I could, of course," Mrs. Orban admitted slowly, "but the question
is, Ought I to? It is getting late for you."
"But it is awfully early for you," Eustace argued. "I don't believe
you will sleep if you go now. You always say you can't if you go to
bed too soon. You see, we needn't get up quite so early, as father
isn't here to go out to the plantation."
"That is true," said Mrs. Orban with a laugh. "I really think we
shall have to make a barrister of you, Eustace, you plead a cause
so eloquently. But what kind of story shall I tell you?"
"Oh, one of the old home stories, please," he said instantly. "I
should like to know all I can about it before Aunt Dorothy comes."
"I wonder if there are any I have not told you," Mrs. Orban said
thoughtfully.
"There must be hundreds," Eustace said. "I always think Maze Court
must have stories without end."
"We used to think so, I remember," said his mother; "but I suppose
that is always the case with a house when one family has possessed
and occupied it for so many generations."
"It is a sixteenth-century house, isn't it?" Eustace asked.
"Seventeenth century," was the answer, "built in 1688 by Eustace
Chase, a loyal subject of the king. His father lost everything for
the cause, and the young man was rewarded for following the
Royalist fortunes--or rather misfortunes--soon after the king came
to his own again."
Eustace gave a huge sigh.
"I do like belonging to people like that," he said with
satisfaction.
There was a long silence.
"Mummie--the story," prompted Eustace at last.
"I was just hunting my memory for one," said his mother. "Did you
ever hear how we lost Aunt Dorothy?"
Eustace shook his head and settled himself comfortably to listen,
so Mrs. Orban went on:--
"One summer we gave a large party for young people. It happens that
several of us have birthdays in the summer, and this was a sort of
combined birthday treat. So we invited friends varying in age from
five, suitable for Dorothy, to seventeen or eighteen, and a very
merry party it promised to be. The day began gloriously, but father
prophesied it was going to be too hot to be perfect; and he was
right. About the middle of the afternoon thunder-clouds gathered
quickly, and by tea-time there was a raging storm; but it was as
short as it was sharp, and all over in an hour. There was no
question as to going out again, the ground was too sopping wet
after the rain to dream of such a thing, so it was proposed that we
should have a good game of hide-and-seek all over the house. I wish
I could tell you what a lovely place home is for hide-and-seek.
There are so many rooms with doors between that you can almost go
the round of the house on any landing without coming out into the
passage more than twice or three times. Then there are several
staircases, and lastly the turret, which was always used for
'home,' because it was a regular trap for hiding in. Once found,
you could never get away from there."
"O mummie," breathed Eustace softly, "how it does make me want to
go and see it all."
"I am glad it does, sonny," Mrs. Orban said. "I want you to want to
go--I always pray some day you will. It is a home to be proud of."
"Go on, please," said Eustace in the little pause that followed.
"I don't think people ever get tired of hide-and-seek," Mrs. Orban
continued. "It is the one game that seems to suit all ages--I mean
among young people. We played on and on till dusk, and then the
game was only stopped by people coming for or sending to fetch
their children home. Just in the middle of the first 'good-byes,'
mother, who had been entertaining grown-ups most of the afternoon,
came and asked for Dorothy. No one knew where she was. 'Who had
seen her last?' It was impossible to find out, but apparently she
had not been seen by any one for a long time. Dorothy at five years
old was a very independent little person, and resented being
obviously looked after. She always liked to hide by herself, for
instance. Well, then, there began a game of hide-and-seek in real
earnest, and it became more and more serious every minute, when
white-faced groups met in the hall declaring that every corner had
been searched, and still there was no trace of Dorothy."
"Didn't grannie nearly go mad?" asked Eustace feelingly. He well
knew what the loss of Becky would mean to his mother.
"Very nearly," was the answer; "but I think your grandfather was
even worse. All the tiny children were taken home, but many of the
elder boys and girls begged to be allowed to stay and help, and now
the hunt began outside with lanterns among outhouses and stables.
The echoes rang with Dorothy's name, but in vain; the hunt was
useless, and some of us straggled back into the house and began
calling and looking all over the same ground again. I cannot tell
you what terrible thoughts had got into our heads by that time. We
remembered the story of the lady who hid herself in the old spring
chest and could not get out--"
"The Mistletoe Bough lady," breathed Eustace.
"Yes; and we hunted every box, chest, and cupboard in the house,
but Dorothy was in none of them. She seemed literally to have been
spirited away. It became so late that at last all the other
children were taken home, and we were left just ourselves--a very
miserable family."
Eustace sat up suddenly and held his breath, his face blanched, his
eyes alert.
"At last, close on midnight," Mrs. Orban went on in a low voice.
"Mother, mother," Eustace said in a sharp whisper, kneeling and
putting an arm protectingly round her, "did you hear something?"
"Yes, darling," Mrs. Orban continued, "close on midnight--"
"No, no," Eustace said, "not then--now--this minute, as you were
speaking!"
Mrs. Orban started perceptibly.
"No, darling," she answered. "Why? Did you?"
There was an instant's tense silence.
"It is some one coming round the veranda--barefoot," Eustace
whispered.
"One of the maids, perhaps," said Mrs. Orban, but her voice
quivered.
"They would come through the house," said the boy. "This fellow has
come up the veranda steps. I heard them creak."
A lifetime in great solitude sharpens the hearing to the most
extraordinary extent. Children born and brought up in the wilds
often have this sense more keenly developed than any other. The
Orban children seemed to hear without listening--sounds which, even
when she was told of them, Mrs. Orban, with her English training,
did not catch till several minutes later.
But now the pad-pad-pad of bare feet was unmistakable--a
pad-pad-pad, then a halt, as if the visitor stopped to listen.
Below in the scrub--that wild thick undergrowth among trees,
harbouring so many strange creatures--there were hoarse cries, and
now and then the howl of a dingo, so horribly suggestive of a human
being in an agony of pain.
The pair on the veranda clung together for an instant--one only.
"I must go to Becky," whispered Mrs. Orban, recovering herself.
But Eustace held her down.
"Oh, don't--don't for one moment," he implored; "wait and see what
it is."
"Pad-pad-pad" came the steps, nearer and nearer. A shadow fell
aslant the corner of the veranda--the shadow of a man thrown by the
light from the drawing-room side window.
[Illustration: The shadow of a man fell aslant the corner of the
veranda.]