THE WITCH.
Of course Peter's story jumped to every one's mind, and with a
horrified cry Mrs. Orban fell forward, fainting, on to the empty
bed.
The recent hunt through the house had been, as Eustace guessed, a
greater strain than she had allowed any one to see; she could not
be certain that they were on a wild-goose chase. This, coming on
the top of it, was just too much for her.
Instances of children being stolen had from time to time come to
her knowledge--stories of little ones silently, mysteriously
disappearing and never being heard of again. The twins had heard
the same from the servants, among other disturbing stories. This
last terrible event seemed just to prove that the first visitor had
been no mere plantation hand; the stealing of a baby was more like
the work of the native blacks.
Nesta wrung her hands and wept. Eustace dashed away to fetch
Robertson. Mary lost her head completely, and nobody thought of
trying to restore poor Mrs. Orban to consciousness till motherly
little Mrs. Robertson appeared on the scene.
Robertson stood in the middle of the room looking the picture of
bewilderment.
"This beats everything," he said in an awed voice.
Every one was really too terrified to make a noise. Puzzled glances
were exchanged, questions whispered, and Robertson said again,--
"This beats everything! It doesn't seem possible, unless she has
been spirited away; for how could any one pass me on those steps
without my seeing them?"
"Could he have swarmed one of the posts?" Eustace asked.
"I shouldn't say he could," Robertson replied, "but it looks as if
he did. How could a man swarm a post with a sleeping child in his
arms?"
"Black-fellows are dreadfully clever," said Kate.
"Hush," said Mrs. Robertson, "the poor lady is coming to herself.
Don't let her hear you talking like that. Oh dear, how will she
bear it?"
The poor woman's eyes were full of tears. She knew well enough what
a mother's feelings would be under such awful circumstances.
"Every corner of the house was searched," said Robertson
meditatively.
"We didn't look under the beds," said Nesta.
"Silly," said Eustace. "As if a black-fellow would have stopped to
be looked for under a bed."
"Yes--that's no go," said Robertson; and just at that moment there
came such a strange sound from under the very bed they were
standing by that every one jumped--a sound that brought Mrs. Orban
back to her senses far quicker than any of good Mrs. Robertson's
restoratives, for it was the voice of Becky herself.
"Good gracious!" exclaimed all the women, after the first shock of
surprise was over.
"My patience," said Robertson, and down they all went on their
hands and knees like a party of kangaroos, peering under the bed.
There lay Becky, rosy with sleep, safe and sound, with puckered
face and plaintive voice, evidently wondering what all the fuss was
about.
They hauled her from under the bed, and placed her on her mother's
knee, where she sat blinking at the light like a young owl.
"Why," said Nesta, "she must have tumbled out of bed in her sleep,
and rolled over underneath."
"So she must," agreed every one.
"That was the noise Peter heard," Eustace said.
"Of course it was," said every one except Mrs. Orban; and she said,
as she bent her face over the baby in her arms,--
"Oh, you dreadful children! Have you a conspiracy amongst you to
frighten me out of my wits? Or are you trying to harden my nerves?
I begin to wish your father would come home."
She laughed a little, and it sounded much more like sobbing. So
kind Mrs. Robertson hurried every one off to bed, because she said
Mrs. Orban must be quite worn out.
Eustace was so upset by his mother's words that he could not get to
sleep for hours. They seemed to hold a reproach specially for
himself--for had he not been the first to terrify his mother? It
was not a good record to present to his father; and he had meant to
be such a stand-by and comfort. With all his heart he echoed Mrs.
Orban's wish. He had dreaded his father's going away; he longed for
his return.
The very next day the wish was fulfilled. News came up the hill
that the plantation schooner had been sighted the evening before;
she was in the bay. By midday the travellers had arrived, and the
climax of the great excitement was reached.
Every one had wondered a hundred times and more what that first
greeting would be like--what words would be said. As a matter of
fact, when the time really came, nobody said anything at all except
Mr. Orban, who exclaimed when he caught sight of his wife,
"Darling, what is the matter? You are looking ill."
But Mrs. Orban stopped him with the promise to tell him everything
later on. Meanwhile she nearly wept for joy over the meeting with
Aunt Dorothy, and was far too happy to remember or speak of the
distresses of the past week or so.
The children hung back shyly and stared at the new-comer--a tall,
slender girl, dressed, Nesta afterwards commented, just like a
person in a story book, so dainty was she.
Dorothy Chase was not at all like Mrs. Orban. She was certainly
pretty, but the most remarkable thing about her was her expression,
so vivacious was it, so keenly interested and alert. She was a
great contrast to the people amongst whom she had come, for
tropical heat saps a good deal of the enthusiasm of life out of
people--even the children were subject to lassitude.
They looked a quiet enough set as Miss Chase cast a quick searching
glance around her after greeting her sister, and there flashed
through her mind a contrast between them and the nephew and niece
she had left but a few weeks ago in England--the children of
another sister, orphans who lived with their grandparents in the
old home.
"Well, chicks," said Aunt Dorothy, with a laugh, "who is going to
speak to me first?"
They were standing, all in an untidy row, Becky, with one finger in
her mouth, hanging on to Nesta's skirt.
To the new-comer they looked pasty-faced, spiritless beings. The
prints that the girls were dressed in were rather washed out; Peter
had outgrown his suit. They were ill-clad, shy, and awkward.
Eustace flushed with an uncomfortable feeling that they were not
behaving very courteously, and came forward the instant Miss Chase
spoke. Nesta followed, and then Peter, all as stiff as pokers in
their shyness. But Becky Miss Chase picked up with a playful little
shake, and kissed her heartily.
"Oh, you dear, funny wee soul," she said, "how glad I am to see
you. I've brought out a Kodak and I've promised to take all your
photos almost every other day, for certainly no one at home could
guess the least little bit what you are like."
Becky did not resent the unceremonious treatment at all, but took
it quite placidly in her own particular way. This gave Peter
confidence.
"Have you brought lots of boxes?" he asked, with an interested
stare up into his young aunt's face.
Eustace pulled his sleeve.
"Shut up," he whispered. "Don't ask questions; it's rude."
Eustace felt uncomfortable. He knew quite well whither his small
brother's questions were trending. Peter was wondering what would
be in those boxes for himself.
"A good many," answered Miss Chase; but she was allowed time to say
no more, because she was hurried into the house to rest and
refresh.
At tea the children sat round as solemn as owls and listened to all
the questions and answers about the home folk. They picked up
scraps of information most interesting to themselves, especially
about the English cousins, Herbert, who was sixteen, and Brenda,
who was a month or so older than the twins. From time to time they
had heard of these cousins in letters, but it made them seem much
more real when they were talked about by some one who had just come
away from them.
"Herbert is a very big fellow," Miss Chase said. "He is doing
famously at Winchester."
"Lucky chap," thought Eustace, who never read a school story
without longing to go to a big English school.
"And what about Brenda?" questioned Mrs. Orban.
"You shall see a photo that was taken of her the other day," was
the answer. "Most people think her very pretty."
"Does she go to school too?" said Mrs. Orban, asking the very
question Nesta was bursting to put.
"Oh yes, Brenda is a regular schoolgirl. You see it would be so
lonely for her to have lessons at home with a governess."
"Lucky girl," thought Nesta, and sighed.
"She was quite green with envy when she heard I was coming out
here," Miss Chase said, "and threatened to have all sorts of
illnesses, necessitating change of air for recovery, so that she
might come with me."
"Oh, I wish she had," Nesta said impulsively.
"I don't think her grannie would agree with you," laughed Miss
Chase. "She can hardly bear to part with her every term. If you
want to see her, I think your best plan is to have an illness
yourself, and let me take you back with me for change of air."
"That would be better and better," Nesta exclaimed, "only I should
want mother and every one else to come too."
"Well, why not?" asked Miss Chase gaily. "Let's make up a party and
all go back together. I am only allowed to stay two months, and
then I must be off again. I will willingly pack you all up in my
boxes and take you with me."
"What did I tell you?" said a deep voice from the window, and there
stood Bob Cochrane on the veranda. "I said she would bewitch you
and spirit you all away."
"You did, you did," said Peter, who had been drinking in every
word; "you said you wouldn't like her."
"Oh, come, no tales out of school," said Bob, as he crossed the
threshold and came forward to be introduced; "you are giving me a
bad start, you know."
"I am sorry to have made such a bad impression at the outset," Miss
Chase responded merrily as she shook hands. "Would it appease you
at all if I offered to pack you with the rest?"
"I wouldn't if I were you, Dorothy," said Mr. Orban. "He would take
such a fearful amount of room, even if you doubled him up."
Miss Chase smiled as she eyed the great big fellow.
"I wouldn't come if you paid me," Bob said lightly. "They tell me
it is a toss up whether the climate or the people freeze you up
most in England."
"Treason, treason, Bob," said Mrs. Orban. "Remember we are
English."
"I guess you have mellowed in the sunshine," Bob said
imperturbably. "Children, don't you listen to a good word about
England; don't you let yourselves be spirited away by bad fairies,
or you'll regret it."
"It's high treason," shouted Eustace. "England is our country. Off
with his head."
Then suddenly Miss Chase saw what her nephews and nieces really
were like.
"He has got to be punished," Nesta sang out.
Peter and Becky made a simultaneous dive at the unfortunate Bob,
who had begun whistling with a great show of unconcern.
"What's his punishment to be?" demanded Eustace.
Mrs. Orban thought a minute while Peter suggested pommelling, and
Nesta mentioned a few tortures in the way of old-fashioned
forfeits.
"It's too hot for violent exercise," said Bob, when Nesta requested
him to walk round the room three times on his head. "I shall go
home to mother if I am ill-used."
"Have some tea, Bob," said Mr. Orban.
"No, no," cried the bullying trio, "not till he has paid his
penalty for high treason."
"Well," said Mrs. Orban gently, "suppose you fetch the banjo and
make him sing for his tea."
"Good! Good!" was the immediate acclamation.
Bob sat down resignedly.
"I don't think a crueller sentence could have been passed," he said
with a mock groan.
"Between ourselves," said Mrs. Orban, as the children rushed into
the drawing-room to fetch the banjo, "there is no tea in the pot,
and you may as well sing till the kettle is boiling."
Bob took the banjo with the air of a martyr and tuned it skilfully.
"I choose my own song," he said, struck a few chords, and began, in
his really beautiful voice,--
"Dey told us darkies right away out west
In England men make der money much de best,
And I believed dat ebry word was true,
So dat is why I come along wid you.
Oho you and de banjo."
"Oh, oh, oh," interrupted the children, "more treason! If you sing
that song you will have to do another as well."
"You can't hang a man after his head is cut off," said Bob
stolidly, and went on,--
"But now we're here, why, de money doesn't grow,
And we ain't got nuffin' but de old banjo:
So we rove the streets if de wedder's wet or dry,
Till my heart most breaks and der's water in your eye.
Oho you and de banjo."
"Most pathetic," said Miss Chase, with a twinkle in her dark eyes.
"I think I begin to see where Mr. Cochrane gets his revolutionary
sentiments from."
"Then in sleep at night de nigger dreams ob home,
Where de sun really shines and de frosts nebber come,
Where we'd plenty to eat, and a little hut of logs,
And we hadn't got to beg for our bread like de dogs.
Oho you and de banjo."
Bob's voice became more and more plaintive; he sat in a drooping
attitude with his head on one side as he finished,--
"But it ain't no good all dis singin' out of tune,
For we can't get warm, tho' they say it's hot for June;
It's certain for darkies dis is not de place,
Where eben de sun am ashamed to show his face.
Oho you and de banjo."
"So that is your opinion of England, is it?" asked Miss Chase.
"Well, I am not surprised you don't want to come, then."
"But of course it is all stuff, and nothing but a silly old darkie
song," said Eustace.
"You wait till you get there, young man," said Bob, still with an
air of mock gloom about him; "you'll remember my warning then. It
is so cold in England the natives have their windows glued in to
keep out the air, and they have front doors as thick as walls, all
studded with nails and brass knockers."
"But what are the brass knockers for?" asked Nesta. "They wouldn't
keep you warm."
"Certainly not," was the answer; "the brass knockers are for the
purpose of waking the people inside the house, who are always
asleep with the cold--like dormice."
"Mother," demanded Eustace, "do you think he ought to have any tea
after that? He hasn't done penance, and he isn't a bit sorry. He is
making it worse and worse."
"I think, darling, as he is a guest he must have his tea," Mrs.
Orban said; "but I will send a note by him to his mother to say he
has not been good."
"I'm not going home to-night--so there," said Bob complacently;
"I'm going to sleep in a hammock on the veranda."
"Oh, jolly!" exclaimed every one, and there was a chorus of, "We
can stay up late, can't we, just for to-night--Aunt Dorothy's first
night?"
But Aunt Dorothy did not allow the compliment to deceive her. Not
for her but for Bob Cochrane did the young people want to stay up
later. He was certainly a great favourite.