THE LAST STRAW.
The words fell like a thunderbolt into the midst of the group.
Eustace moved involuntarily to Peter's side and put a protecting
arm round him, as if he had been struck. The little fellow himself
looked utterly bewildered.
"How can you say such a wicked, wicked thing?" exclaimed Nesta in
astonishment; "just as if it was poor Peter's fault."
"Well, wasn't it?" demanded Herbert bitterly, his face still
hidden. "If Peter hadn't been at the other side of the ship--if
Aunt Dorothy had not had to go away and find him--but you all got
into the boat and went away and left her!"
"Don't!" exclaimed Eustace sharply. "You don't know what a wreck in
the dark is like, or you wouldn't talk like that. There isn't time
to know anything. We didn't know Aunt Dorothy was left."
"I should have known," said Herbert, with all the confidence of
ignorance, "and I would have stayed and drowned with her."
He broke off short, rose abruptly, and stumbled in a queer, blind
way from the room. He could not bear that any one should witness
his grief.
Brenda turned a tear-stained face from the window and stared at
the trio now standing close together.
"He isn't thinking what he is saying," she said chokily; "but we
are so frightfully unhappy about Aunt Dorothy--and this seems to
make it worse--I mean that she might so easily have been saved. Of
course you didn't really know her, so you can't understand. But
ever since our mother died Aunt Dorothy--"
But here Brenda's voice broke utterly, and she, too, hurriedly left
the room.
"Well," exclaimed Nesta, "I think it just horrid of them. I shall
never, never like them now."
Eustace turned a pair of surprised brown eyes upon her.
"Won't you?" he said wonderingly. "Why, I like them better than I
did, ever so much."
"What!" Nesta said, "you like them better for saying a horrid thing
like that? To make out it was Peter's fault! Poor little Peter, who
was so nearly drowned himself!"
"It wasn't that part I was thinking of," said Eustace, "but just
how they loved her. Somehow I never thought of it before. Same way
we love mother, I guess; and I don't know what I should have
thought if mother had been drowned saving some one else's brother."
Nesta stared at him blankly. There were things about Eustace lately
that she did not understand. She knew nothing of Bob's maxim about
looking at two sides of a question, so she could see no reason for
the strange things he sometimes said, and he was far too reticent
to have explained.
"Well, all I can say is, I wish we had never come," said Nesta for
about the twentieth time. "Nothing is nice, and it will be more
hateful than ever now they feel like that about Peter. We had
better tell mother and father, and ask them to take us away."
"What's that I hear?" said an astonished voice at the door.
The children all jumped and turned round, for there stood their
grandfather. They were speechless with dismay; they could not have
pictured a worse thing happening.
"What did you say, Nesta?" asked Mr. Chase again, in a tone that
made the twins' hearts stand still.
He looked angry, surprised, and very commanding. But how were they
to repeat what they had been saying? Nesta remembered they had been
warned not to speak of Aunt Dorothy before him. Eustace felt it
would be mean and ungenerous to get Herbert into trouble behind his
back. But Peter had no such scruples. Dropping his head into his
arms on the table, he broke out sobbingly,--
"Herbert says it was me drowned Aunt Dorothy."
"What!" exclaimed Mr. Chase incredulously; "he surely never said
such a thing? Explain this to me, Eustace, at once."
His tone was so severe that the boy literally shook. He had never
seen any one really angry in his life before.
"He didn't say quite that," Eustace said with difficulty; "he only
meant it was because of Peter."
"Kindly give me his exact words," Mr. Chase said, still in that
awful voice.
Eustace closed his thin lips tight, with an expression that meant
wild horses would not drag it from him. His grandfather scanned his
face closely, then turned to Nesta.
"As Eustace seems to have lost his tongue, I must ask you to tell
me what Herbert said in exactly his own words."
Nesta glanced furtively at her twin, but she was angry with Herbert
and saw no reason why he should be protected.
"He said," she replied, "if Peter had not been at the other side of
the boat, and Aunt Dorothy had not had to go and find him, she
wouldn't have been drowned. He said we all went away and left
her--"
"How dared he!" Mr. Chase thundered. "I am ashamed that a grandson
of mine should have behaved in such a way. Whatever he thought, he
had no right to say such a thing."
"He--he was most fearfully unhappy," said Eustace nervously.
"That is no excuse for his making other people so too," Mr. Chase
replied. "Eustace, go and tell Herbert to come here at once."
It was a disagreeable errand, and the boy whitened as he turned to
obey. Mr. Chase's prompt, old-fashioned methods were something new
to him. Fault-finding at home had always been reserved for quiet
talks alone with father or mother; they were never made big public
affairs like this.
Eustace found Herbert in his own room pacing up and down the floor
with his hands in his pockets. He had got control of himself by
then, and he turned on his visitor with a look of impatient
surprise.
"What do you want?" he said.
"I'm awfully sorry," Eustace began lamely, "but you've got to come
to grandfather. We were talking about what you said, and he came in
without our hearing. He made us tell him the rest, and I'm afraid
he--he is going to lecture you."
"You--you told tales?" said Herbert scathingly. Without waiting for
a reply he marched past his cousin to the schoolroom. Eustace could
not bear to follow and see him humiliated. It would be just a
little better for him with one person less present, he thought.
"Grandfather was fearfully severe," said Nesta later, when she had
found Eustace prowling about like a bear with a sore head alone in
the grounds. "So you see it was a beastly thing to say. He said
Herbert was no gentleman if he didn't apologize."
"And did he?" asked Eustace shortly.
"He said he was sorry if he hadn't behaved like a gentleman, and it
shouldn't occur again. Most awfully stiffly he spoke, just like a
grown-up, and then grandfather said he might go."
"And that before you and Peter!" exclaimed Eustace in tones of
disgust. "I'm jolly glad I wasn't there; it would have made me feel
a low-down black-fellow if Herbert had apologized to me. I don't
think Peter behaved like a white man, and I mean to tell him so,
too, when I get him to myself."
"Grandfather seems to have taken a fancy to Peter," said Nesta. "He
had come up to fetch him when he overheard me. He said Peter had
already broken his morning, and he had better have the rest of it
and take him a walk. Brenda says she never knew him do such a
queer thing before; he is not generally supposed to be fond of
children, and that is why we have no meals downstairs."
Every one was surprised at Mr. Chase's sudden partiality for Peter,
but the reason was a very simple one. From Peter he could hear more
about Miss Chase than from any one else. No tears choked little
Peter's voice when he described Aunt Dorothy's first day, or told
the story of her quaint mistakes. He quite forgot the sad part of
her visit, and lost himself in his stories. The old man led him on
from point to point, and learned all that he could of his beloved
daughter's stay in Queensland without Peter's guessing what he was
really doing.
The little fellow was radiantly happy. They walked about the
grounds together, and presently Mr. Chase said Peter must learn to
ride--he would teach him himself. Accordingly, out went Peter on a
little pony with Mr. Chase at its head, and the riding lessons
began.
"It doesn't look as if grandfather thought it was Peter's fault,"
said Nesta to Eustace; "he seems fonder of him than any one."
If Peter was content, not so the twins. The scene with Herbert had
produced a very uncomfortable state of affairs. He no longer played
the part of host, but kept out of his cousins' way as much as
possible, going out on long expeditions by himself, and never
joining the schoolroom party when he could help it.
Nesta thought him detestable, but Eustace had a feeling that
Herbert had been very hardly treated in his own home. He could not
forget how genuine had been the big fellow's unhappiness over the
awful loss of his beloved aunt, and Eustace could have forgiven
much more than the outburst against Peter in the face of such real
distress. But he had no chance of showing his sympathy; Herbert
would have resented any exhibition of sentiment most haughtily.
Eustace only felt exceedingly awkward whenever he was with him, and
wished with all his heart he could awake to find all these
unfortunate English experiences nothing but a bad dream.
Between her loyalty to her brother and the sense of courtesy that
bade her look after her cousins, Brenda had a very difficult course
to steer; being proud and reserved by nature, she only succeeded in
being exceedingly stiff in her attempts at civility to the twins.
"It gets horrider and horrider," Nesta said after two or three days
of it.
But the secret treaty not to trouble their mother and disturb her
enjoyment held good through everything.
"It will come to an end in a year," Eustace said bravely; "and we
couldn't bear it after we got back if we had to remember we had
spoiled mother's trip. She has been longing for it such a long
time."
Because they saw so comparatively little of their mother, it was
always possible to keep their grievances from her; and she was so
certain her children must be sharing the pleasures with herself, it
never occurred to her to suspect that anything was wrong.
"It wouldn't be us spoiling her trip," Nesta objected; "it would be
Brenda's and Herbert's faults, because they are so disagreeable."
"It would be because of us," Eustace held out, "and I'll never
forgive you if you go whining about it to mother or any one. We can
bear it for a year, or we aren't worth anything."
But even Eustace's courage received a check one evening when he and
Nesta were called into their mother's room for a talk before she
dressed for dinner. Her face was aglow with some pleasant thoughts,
yet she was very serious--a strange mixture that immediately struck
the twins as portending something very big and out of the way.
"Chicks," she said, drawing them down on each side of her on
the sofa, "I have got something very special to say to you
to-day--something I scarcely know whether to be most glad or
sorry about, for it cuts two ways. It fulfils the ambition of
my life for you, and at the same time it costs me my twins."
There was a breathless, expectant silence.
"I think for you the happiness will outweigh the pain," she went on
gently, "because it means new interests, new life, everything you
must most desire. And, dears, we have to thank grandfather for it;
he insists on sending you both to school."
"To school!" shouted the twins simultaneously.
"Yes," Mrs. Orban said, "actually to school. He wishes you to have
exactly the same advantages as Brenda and Herbert. Won't it be
splendid for you?"
There was dead silence. Mrs. Orban glanced from one grave face to
the other. Nesta's was crumpled and bewildered; Eustace's very
white, and his expression sadly strained.
"Why, darlings," Mrs. Orban said, "you have always wanted to go to
school. Hasn't it nearly made me cry again and again to hear you
craving for a thing we could not give you? And now your wishes have
been granted as it were by magic, I do believe you are not glad
after all."
There was such a ring of disappointment in their mother's voice
that even Nesta was roused.
"We've wanted it awfully," stammered Eustace awkwardly, "but we--we
didn't think of it coming quite so soon."
"Oh, is that it, you dears?" Mrs. Orban said in a tone between
laughter and tears. "I was afraid something much worse was the
matter--that you had changed your minds, for instance, or that you
didn't like England after all; but of course that couldn't be."
She spoke with such perfect certainty that the twins were dumb;
they could think of nothing to say.
"There really is rather a blessing in disguise in your going to
school at once, though I can't bear parting with you," Mrs. Orban
went on after a little silence. "I shall be quite close to you
while you are still feeling strange in your new life; I shall hear
all about everything from you by word of mouth in the holidays; and
I shall go away next year feeling content that you are settled
down, and likely to be nothing but a tiny bit mammy-sick at my
departure."
Eustace rubbed his head against her shoulder.
"More than a tiny bit, mummie," he said.
"We needn't think about that yet, though," said Mrs. Orban
cheerily; "it is a long way off, with plenty of lovely times
between. I only wish father had not to go so soon."
"How soon?" queried Nesta sharply.
"He says he must be off the end of this month," was the answer;
"that is why the school-going has had to be settled so hurriedly.
But he has a lovely dream for the future: before you have left
school he hopes to be able to come to England for good and settle
down here."
"How long would it be before that, mother?" Eustace asked.
"Oh, four or five years, perhaps," said Mrs. Orban.
"But shan't we ever go back to Australia again?" Nesta said with a
gulp.
"You won't want to, my dear, once you get used to England," said
her mother gently. "Of course it would not be possible for you to
come home all that distance for holidays, but you will soon learn
not to mind if you have our home-coming to look forward to. Now I
will tell you a little about the schools you are going to."
It was easy to listen with apparent interest to this, to put in a
question here and there and glean all the information possible. But
when the pair left the room Nesta suddenly gripped her brother's
arm.
"Eustace," she said huskily, "I--I can't bear it."
"You just must," said the boy sturdily. "I guess there is nothing
else to do."
The words were so hopeless that Nesta's tears began to fall thick
and fast, and he drew her almost roughly down the passage out of
earshot. They reached the picture gallery, and sat down in a deep
window-seat overlooking the front drive and the beautiful park
beyond. Here Nesta buried her face in her hands and fairly sobbed.
Eustace bore it for some seconds, then,--
"Look here, old girl," he said, "don't be silly. You'll have a red
nose for dessert."
"I don't care," Nesta blurted out.
"But you must care," Eustace said a little impatiently, "because
then mother will see you have been crying and find out we're
miserable."
"I don't care," sobbed Nesta again. "I can't hide it any more, and
I don't want to. I shall ask father to let me go home with him.
Nothing will make me stay here with these--these horrid people."
"Nesta!" Eustace exclaimed.
"Well, I can't help it; they are horrid, even if they are our
people. I never thought of them being anything like this. And I
can't--I won't stay with them."
"Rot," said Eustace angrily. "You know we can't help staying if
every one says we are to."
"Then," said Nesta, drawing herself up with a sudden attempt at
dignity, "I shall run away."
"Silly!" Eustace exclaimed irritably.
"You'll see it isn't silly when I do it," said Nesta gloomily. "I
shall tell father and mother everything about how horrid it is for
us, and then if they won't take us home--"
She stopped dramatically, leaving Eustace to fill in the threat for
himself.
"You really will tell mother, and spoil everything for her?" he
asked in a low, angry tone.
Nesta nodded defiantly.
"Then you are a little beast," said Eustace furiously--"a cruel
little beast."
Nesta rose with her nose very high in the air.
"Thank you," she said; "you are most awfully polite. I shall take
care not to tell you anything ever again."
Eustace knelt up on the seat, and leant out of the open window into
the soft evening air. He was too angry to speak coherently, too
bewildered to know what to say. With a toss of her head Nesta
turned and left him.
He heard her determined footsteps die away down the gallery, and
knew he was meant to understand he had her sincerest disapproval. A
few months earlier, he would presently have thrown off his sense of
irritation and laughed at Nesta's little airs of importance.
To-night he had no heart for the funny side of it. He was vexed to
have lost his influence over Nesta, and worried at the thought of
what an upset her headstrong course would make. Let alone his
mother's disappointment, there would be the grandparents'
indignation to reckon with, and Herbert's and Brenda's scornful
surprise. They would indeed think them wild Bush children, and be
justified in their present attitude of cool unfriendliness.
Yet to be left in these uncongenial surroundings for a space of
time that seemed like an eternity to a lad of fourteen; to be
forced to remain with these unsympathetic companions for the next
four or five years, with no one to turn to and without a home,
meant desolation as complete for Eustace as for Nesta.
Away in the park some rooks cawed fussily over the choice of their
night quarters. Nearer, a blackbird piped an evening song. They
sounded restless and plaintive to the lonely boy, and he hid his
face in his hands, covering eyes and ears that he might see
nothing, hear nothing. Then into his mind there surged a
recollection of the dear old free days at home, never to come
again. Right in the midst of every memory stood Bob--his friend Bob
whom he would never see again. That was the thought that broke his
spirit, and had he been a girl he would have cried; but Eustace
shed no tears--this sorrow was beyond them, for a boy.
Something hard suddenly struck him with a sharp tap on the
shoulder, and, as he started back in surprise, fell with a clatter
back on the gravel below.
Then Eustace gasped, rubbed his eyes, and stared, feeling as if he
must suddenly have taken leave of his senses; for there in the
drive, his hand poised ready to throw another stone if the first
had missed its mark, stood Bob Cochrane.