MOTHER'S HOME.
In the length and breadth of England there could hardly have been
found a more lovely little property than Maze Court. There were
larger houses in the neighbourhood, with more extensive grounds;
but as Brenda Dixon stood on the terrace and gazed down towards the
good old English park she felt a real glow of pride and pleasure in
belonging to such a place. It was the sort of feeling she had
whenever she brought a new school friend home for the holidays.
Beside her stood Herbert--long, lean, and very gentlemanly in his
flannels. It was one of his sister's great joys that he always
looked a gentleman in everything.
She was a striking-looking girl herself, with features a little too
pronounced for accurate beauty; but this very fault had the effect
of making her handsome. She had little personal vanity--mere
features she cared nothing for--but pride of birth and of the old
home were deeply rooted in her.
"I think Nesta and Eustace ought to be surprised," she was
thinking; "they won't have seen anything like it. It will seem so
big and splendid to them after the kind of life they have had."
Brenda was never very sure how to picture the Orbans' existence in
Queensland. There was a touch of pettiness about it--a feeling of
poverty and "hugger-muggerness," if one may coin such a word. The
thought of her uncle going daily to his work in his shirt-sleeves;
of her aunt helping in the housework; her cousins brought up just
anyhow, without a governess or any schooling, shocked her
sensibilities and gave vivid local colouring to her ideas about the
Orbans. Those were the sort of details she would never have
referred to at school.
And now she and Herbert were waiting for the arrival of the
travellers, whom their grandparents had driven to the station to
meet.
"Oh dear," she said with a sigh, "how I wish I didn't wish they
weren't coming! If they are fearfully eccentric, all the
neighbourhood will be talking about it in a week, and thinking it
funny we have such relations. One can't explain to every one that
they really are ladies and gentlemen gone to seed, can one?"
"Not exactly," said Herbert. "I jolly well hope you won't try; it
would be beastly bad form. Of course if one had a fellow staying in
the house one might have to explain."
"I simply couldn't ask any one," Brenda said. "It would be all over
the school next term my uncle was a common labourer, and my cousins
savages--or something!"
"Nice sort of friends you seem to have," said Herbert. "Is that a
girl's usual way?"
"Well," said Brenda, with some asperity, "boys aren't any better,
if you should have to explain matters to a chum of yours."
"That's different," Herbert said; "one doesn't want to give a bad
impression. What I hope is that Eustace isn't an awful little muff.
I expect he is, though--can't help being when he has never been
amongst any boys. It will have to be knocked out of him."
"Aunt Dorothy said he was a very nice little chap," Brenda quoted,
and then her voice broke, so that she could not go on.
It was the beginning of the summer holidays, and both she and
Herbert were feeling the death of Miss Chase most dreadfully. It
had been bad enough when she left before the end of the winter
holidays. Again at Easter the dullness of the house without her had
known no bounds. But now, when they knew she would never be with
them again, her very name choked them; they could scarcely speak of
her, because her absence proved at every turn all that her presence
had meant to them and to every one. How they had hated Australia
when she left! How much more they hated it now and everything to do
with it--even the coming of the cousins! Australia seemed the root
of all evil--the cause of Aunt Dorothy's death.
"Aunt Dorothy was a brick," said Herbert jerkily; "she saw niceness
in people whatever they were like. But girls don't really know when
fellows are muffs."
"I don't know about Eustace," said Brenda, "but Nesta looked
fearfully long-legged and queerly dressed in those snapshots Aunt
Dorothy did."
"I hope she won't want to kiss me when she says 'How-do-you-do,'"
said Herbert; "that is all I mind about her. But if that kid
Eustace fancies he is going to hang around with me perpetually, he
will find himself mistaken. I couldn't be bothered."
"But we shall have to look after them properly, and treat them just
as we would any other visitors," Brenda said anxiously; "we can't
sort of leave them to themselves, you know."
"Of course," said Herbert rather testily; "what do you take me for?
I hope I shan't behave like a cad in my own house! But that is just
the nuisance of it: they'll be visitors without being visitors, and
they'll be here such an awful time. Thank goodness, there will be
term time to look forward to!"
"If only Aunt Dorothy--" began Brenda.
"Oh, shut up," said Herbert roughly. Then added more gently, "I
think the carriage has just turned in at the park gate. Listen."
All through the voyage Eustace and Nesta had been picturing this
very day--this very hour. The parting with Bob and the farewell to
home necessarily dropped into the background of their thoughts; the
foreground was full of expectations. Now that they could realize
they were on their way to the fulfilment of what had originally
been the dream of their lives, all the old feeling of longing
possessed them. At last they would see England! At last they would
know what real "home" was like--their mother's old home, to which
she had given them such a sense of belonging by all the tales they
knew so well!
That England was not what they expected was natural enough. Mrs.
Orban had never pretended to describe England, but simply her own
particular corner of it on the borders of Wales. Leaving the ship
was all bustle and rush, but during the long train journey there
was plenty of time to look about, and English scenery struck all
three children as most peculiar.
"Why, it's just like a map!" exclaimed Peter, as he knelt up at a
window. "I'm certain if I was up in a balloon it would look like a
map with all those funny little hedges."
"I think it would look like a patchwork quilt," said Nesta.
"Father, why do people mark their land out into such funny little
bits?"
So spoke the children, used to wide tracts of land without
boundaries, hundreds of acres without fence or railing--such
country as England boasts of in miniature only on its wildest
moors.
The twins were speechless and almost suffocated with excitement
when the train at last ran into a little country station, and Mr.
Orban said briskly,--
"Here we are!"
"There they are!" exclaimed Mrs. Orban, with a little sob in her
voice.
"Who? who?" yelled Peter, dashing from the other side of the
carriage.
"Grannie and grandpapa," answered Mrs. Orban.
"Oh, where?" said Peter, as the train stopped. The children knew
Bob Cochrane's grandfather and grandmother--a very comfortable,
homely old pair of the typical "grannyish" type, rather bent,
rather deaf, and always referred to as "the old people." Trixy
invariably rushed at them when they came, and called them "the dear
old pets."
There was no one the least "grannyish" or cosy-looking on the
platform. Only a very erect, elderly gentleman with silver hair,
and a lady who might have been the Queen, so dignified, so stately
was she. They were the sort of people the twins had read of but
never seen.
A hush fell over the children as they scrambled out of the carriage
after their mother, and waited till their grandparents were ready
to notice them. Then they each received a kiss and a handshake
which made them instantly feel that nothing would be more
impossible than to rush upon this grandfather and grandmother and
call them either "dear," "old," or "pets."
All through the drive in the old-fashioned waggonette the sense of
unfamiliarity grew as the children stared--the twins furtively,
Peter openly--at Mr. and Mrs. Chase.
It seemed to the twins such a queer arrival, and so different to
anything they had expected, that they could scarcely believe it was
real. "Why," thought Nesta, "the Cochranes make much more fuss over
us when we go to see them for a day." But Eustace's thoughts were
too confused for description.
The conversation was funny and jerky, and just the sort of things
strangers say to each other. Mrs. Chase hoped they were not very
tired, and that they had had a nice journey. And Mr. Chase said it
was a hotter summer than there had been for the last ten years, and
so on.
"Oh dear," thought Eustace wearily, as they drove into the park,
"how different it would have been if Aunt Dorothy had been here!"
But still there was the place to be interested in, and when his
mother said, "This is home, Eustace," he roused himself, and looked
about him.
Even a Colonial child, accustomed to vastness, could not help
admiring such a place as this, full of fine old trees spreading
over the short cropped turf. The park was hilly, and swept away to
right and left towards thick woods.
Then, as the carriage reached a bend and came into full view of the
great house, standing gray, massive, and strong in the evening
light, the children's hearts did thrill with pride. This was
something better than their own slenderly-built, iron-roofed house
in Queensland.
"There are Herbert and Brenda waiting for us," said Mrs. Chase,
"but I don't see nurse. I have got you a charming woman as nurse
for Becky and Peter. You can't be tied down to looking after the
children, you know. I want you to be free to enjoy yourself."
Peter started as if he had been shot.
"Me have a nurse!" he exclaimed. "I don't want looking after."
Eustace and Nesta glanced quickly at their mother. Becky with a
nurse! This was something extraordinary. And mother "not to be tied
down to looking after the children." When had it ever been a tie to
mother to look after them? Such a strange idea had never occurred
to any of them before, and all in their own separate ways resented
it.
Mr. Chase looked at Peter in surprise.
"When I was your age," he said gravely, "I had what was given me,
no matter what I wanted."
"We've got to think about your mother's wants first," said Mrs.
Chase, "and she deserves a holiday after all these years."
"Quite right," said Mr. Orban; "she needs one badly. I am thankful
she should have it."
There was no time to say more, for just then the carriage pulled up
under the fine old portico.
Again there was that sense of stiffness and awkwardness as the
Dixons came forward to greet their cousins; there was no triumphant
entry and welcome to the old home. Mrs. Chase drew Mrs. Orban in;
Mr. Chase took Mr. Orban; Becky, sleepy and perfectly placid, was
whisked away by a grave-faced, elderly woman who said, "Come along,
sir," to Peter, and disappeared through a red baize door, whither
the little fellow had to follow.
"We're to have meals with the little ones in the schoolroom," said
Brenda, to whom this new rule was not pleasing. "Come and get
ready."
Now that she was a schoolgirl, and only home for holidays, she had
all her meals with her grandparents except late dinner; but the
arrival of the Orbans put an end to this. It was felt that the
perpetual presence of such a crowd of youngsters at meals would
never do. To Brenda and Herbert the change was typical of the whole
difference these unwelcome guests would make in their lives.
"Couldn't we just have one look round first?" said Nesta, staring
about her in proprietary admiration at the walls of the great hall,
where hung the horns and weapons, the family portraits and
trophies, of bygone Chases. "I would like just to see the secret
chamber. Let me see--it must be through that door and up some
steps--"
She stopped inquiringly.
"No, it isn't," Brenda said, with a look of surprise; "you go just
the other way. But there isn't time now; Herbert and I will show
you everything to-morrow."
Nesta looked taken aback.
"I don't expect I shall need much showing," she said, with a little
air of importance.
Her cousins both stared at her.
"You certainly will," said Herbert decidedly; "it isn't at all an
easy house to find one's way about in, I can tell you. You would go
blundering into all sorts of places you oughtn't to."
"Places we oughtn't to?" repeated Eustace in bewilderment.
"Yes, the servants' quarters, you know," said Herbert, as if he
were talking to a child of eight.
"Aren't you allowed to go into the servants' quarters?" asked Nesta
wonderingly.
"Oh, we're _allowed_, of course," said Herbert; "but one doesn't
go. I dare say things were rather mixed out with you, though."
"What do you mean?" asked Eustace abruptly.
"Oh, you had to rough it rather, hadn't you?" said the elder boy.
"I had a sort of idea you all had meals together."
"With the servants?" questioned Eustace.
"Yes," said Herbert, with perfect gravity.
Eustace flushed deeply.
"Oh, of course," he said, "coolies and every one had meals
together. We all ate out of a trough."
"Eustace!" exclaimed Nesta in dismay, wondering what had happened
to him all of a sudden.
The cousins stared at him blankly, hardly realizing for a moment
what he had said.
"Well, it is just as sensible as saying we had meals with the
servants," said the boy, in such a tone of disgust that Herbert was
left in no doubt as to his meaning.
"You needn't be cheeky, youngster," he said; "you can't expect me
to know your habits, can you? I do know people in the Colonies
can't pick and choose their company, and have to make friends with
cowboys and bushrangers, if they want any society."
"What!" shouted the twins. "Who told you that?"
"Oh, I've read it somewhere," Herbert said carelessly. "It said
'there are no class distinctions in Colonial life. Men and women
meet as equals.'"
"Then it is rot," said Eustace briefly. "I don't know how you could
believe it. Our friends were all gentlemen and ladies. Australians
are as particular as you are whom they have for friends."
"My good kid," said Herbert aggravatingly, "you don't know
everything, and you haven't been everywhere in the Colonies, you
know. But it really doesn't matter, does it? We were only saying
one doesn't do that sort of thing in England. Come and wash for
tea."
The small passage of arms left neither boy much pleased with the
other. Herbert foresaw that Eustace was likely to be uppish and
cheeky, and would want keeping in his place. Eustace thought
Herbert gave himself airs, and more than justified the criticism he
had long accorded his portrait. He did not look it in real life,
for Herbert was manly and unaffected in appearance. "All the
same," thought Eustace, "he's a silly ass."
Not so much what was said as the tone in which it was said left an
unpleasant impression upon both new-comers. They had planned
together that the very first thing they would do when they arrived
would be to rush all over the house and see everything. Nesta
declared she would not be able to sleep a wink for excitement if
she did not. It had never occurred to them there would be barriers
of any sort. Nothing in their own free lives hitherto had suggested
baize doors through which they "ought not to go."
Somehow those baize doors were suggestive of everything irksome and
disappointing; they were of a piece with all the other changes
which the twins began to feel from the outset.
Before the evening was over Eustace and Nesta had grasped something
of what coming to England really meant: it seemed a case of shut
doors all round--there was no feeling of home about it. Rather,
Eustace reflected bitterly, it was like prison, and all the freedom
of existence was gone. It appeared that here the grown-ups lived in
one part of the house, the children in another. There were certain
times at which the drawing-room or dining-room might be visited,
otherwise the grown-ups must not be interrupted. Becky and Peter
were provided with a sort of jailer, whose business it also was to
give all the young people their meals, and their mother seemed
utterly ungetatable.
Life on the veranda always together, always in the thick of
everything that was going on, with no shut doors anywhere, had
ill-prepared them for this.
Then there were Herbert and Brenda.
Strange to say, Eustace and Nesta had not thought of them as
anything but some one to play with--other children staying in the
same house as themselves. That they were really the son and
daughter of the place had never occurred to the new-comers. That
they would play the part of host and hostess, and treat the
Australians entirely as visitors, was a shock to Eustace and Nesta.
Not thus did they expect to be received into their mother's old
home, which she had always taught them to look on as their own.
Before the end of the day, however, they had realized this one
thing very vividly--Herbert and Brenda had lived here all their
lives, but the Orbans were outsiders, their very coldly-welcomed
guests.
"It is delightful," said Mrs. Orban, as she dressed for dinner, "to
think of the children getting to know each other at last. I do hope
they will be happy."
"All the happier for being thrown so much together," said Mr.
Orban. "We couldn't help it, of course, but ours have been thrown
far too much with older people. This sort of thing is much
healthier for them."
"It is all hateful," wept Nesta to her pillow that night. "Herbert
is a bully, and Brenda is a stuck-up pig--and I wish we had never
come."
And Eustace did not close his eyes for hours.
"Bob was quite right," he thought. "English people are horrid; they
freeze you right up the minute you see them. But oh! I believe it
would be better if only there was a veranda. They do live in such a
queer way, all divided up like this."
Back into his mind there came the refrain of one of Bob's
songs--the one he had sung to Aunt Dorothy the day of her arrival.
He went to sleep with the tune ringing in his head,--
"Certain for darkies dis is not de place,
Where eben de sun am ashamed to show his face."