HELEN HAS AN IDEA
‟TWINSES, are you awake?”
“Yes,” said Jean and Jo, together.
They had awakened early, and had lain for an hour discussing their
father’s news, and trying to face all that it meant for them. Last night
had been a kind of whirl, in which it was difficult to realize anything;
but in the quiet of the summer morning it was easier to look steadily at
the future. They had re-read Mr. Weston’s letter, with a fresh rush of
pity for the pain that lay between its lines. Dimly they realized what
it had cost him to write it. It made them ache to make things easier for
him.
Helen’s voice broke across a wild vision on the part of Jo, in which she
had just discovered a gold-mine in one of the back paddocks, and had so
put an end for ever to financial shortage. Jean was as thrilled as she
over this dazzling prospect, and they both started violently at the
interruption.
Helen came in, very tall and impressive in her kimono, with two long
plaits of fair hair.
“I thought you’d be awake,” she said, sitting down on the edge of a bed.
“I’ve had a gorgeous idea, and I simply couldn’t wait any longer to tell
you about it.”
“What is it?” burst from the twins.
“Well, you know, you mustn’t be offended. But you’ve got too much sense
to be that. You made me think of it by saying you wished you could make
some money to help your father.”
“Try us!” said Jo briefly.
“Well, it’s my young brother, Rex. You know I told you the other day
that he was rather a problem to us—we don’t know what to do with him
when we go to Colombo. Mother has been at her wits’ end for a place to
depot him. He had a bad illness eight months ago, and we don’t want to
send him to boarding-school until he’s twelve. Not that he isn’t strong
enough; but he just wants a bit of extra care—or Mother thinks he does,
which comes to the same thing. She would like him to run wild for a year
or two, with just enough teaching to keep him from being too much of a
dunce.”
“Yes?” said the twins.
“Well—we’re not short of money, you know, but it’s one of the places
where money doesn’t help one much. Mother said in her last letter that
she and Father wouldn’t care what they paid if only they could get the
sort of home they want for him. But they just couldn’t come across
anything, and they’ve been ever so worried, for Father simply _must_
start for Colombo this month.”
“Jolly rough on your mother,” said Jo sympathetically. “I wish we could
help, Helen: I know Mother would take Rex like a shot, only I suppose
I’d better not tell her now, with things as mixed as they are. If we
were even going to keep Sarah——”
“But that’s just it!” Helen cried excitedly. “I want you to take him.
Only you’ll have to make Mr. and Mrs. Weston put their pride in their
pocket and let us pay for him.”
The twins’ faces expressed blank amazement.
“Pay? For a friend? Well, you _are_ queer, Helen!”
“Oh, don’t be horrid and difficult!” Helen begged. “Don’t you see that’s
the only thing that makes it possible even for me to speak of it? We
must pay for him somewhere: if we can’t find the sort of place we want
we’ll probably have to send him to some boarding-house in the hills with
a governess that we don’t know anything about—a horrible arrangement,
and as far as payment goes it would cost ever so much more. But to send
him to you people would be just ideal for us: Mother would know that
Mrs. Weston would mother the little chap, and Mr. Weston would keep him
straightened up, and you two could teach him—you’re going to teach
Billy, and you might just as well have another pupil. Mother would go
off to Colombo feeling as if she hadn’t a care in the world if Rex were
at your place!”
“Well, we’d love to have him,” said Jean. “But—to be _paid_——”
“You were saying only last night how you wanted to earn money,” Helen
interrupted. “Well, does it matter from whom you earn it? If you were
trained nurses, do you mean to say you would only go to strangers? I
think it’s just splendid if we can manage to help each other, and make
things simpler all round.”
She glared triumphantly upon the twins, who sat in puzzled silence. She
was Captain, and her words sounded very like sense: but all their
instincts of hospitality and friendship were at war with her proposal.
“Think!” said the artful one. “You needn’t even ask your father and
mother—they’d never turn us down, once you’d made the arrangement. Such
a chance for you to help them—to say nothing of us! Why, it would mean
that you could keep old Sarah—and think what a difference that would
make! Even if you aren’t sixteen you can manage it.”
The twins drew a long breath. It was a dazzling prospect. Hard times
with Sarah seemed only a circumstance to hard times without that rock of
defence.
“I wonder—I wonder if Father would be awfully wild!” Jo pondered.
“Not he—once it was done. Your father has too much sense: how do you
think _he_ feels about parting Mrs. Weston from Sarah?”
“Why, I guess it’s a nightmare to him,” said Jo.
“Well, you’ve got it in your power to spare him that, at any rate.”
Jean caught at her twin’s hand.
“Oh, Jo, let’s do it!” she begged. “It’s only silly pride if we don’t,
as Helen says. And we’ll do our level best to give him a good time and
look after him. It will be lovely for Billy, too—he’s always wanted a
mate.”
“It would be altogether lovely,” said Jo,—“if only horrid old money
didn’t come into it. But I agree with you—we’d be stupid not to take
such a chance.”
“Oh, thank goodness!” said Helen. “Mother will feel simply years
younger. Now look here, twinses: I’m to meet her in town this afternoon,
so you had better write her a letter, and then she and I can fix
everything up.”
“All right,” said Jo. “Dig out a dictionary, will you, Jean?—we mustn’t
spoil our chances by putting in bad spelling!”
“If you spelt every other word wrong it wouldn’t worry Mother just now,”
Helen said, laughing. “It’s mothering and a jolly home she wants for
Rex, not higher flights of knowledge!”
“There are no higher flights about my spelling!” said Jo, with decision.
“You ask Miss Allpress!”
Whereupon the twins politely hinted that solitude would be helpful to
them, and applied themselves to composition; the result being a document
over which Mrs. Forester smiled in a Melbourne tea-room that afternoon.
“DEAR MRS. FORESTER,—
“Helen says you want a home for Rex, and she thinks you would
let him come to us. We think it is perfectly awful to take money
for having him, which we would love to do without any money at
all, but Helen says it must not be. So, as Father is having hard
times with the drought and other things, and we must leave
school and teach Billy, what would you think about trusting Rex
to us? Mother and Father would act as parents to him, we are
sure, and we would try to make him happy.” (“I _like_ the
division of duties!” murmured Mrs. Forester.) “We do not know if
we are any good at teaching, but we are up to Junior Public
work, and we are going to teach Billy, so he and Rex could have
lessons together. We would do our best, and each of us could
teach the subjects she was best at; as, for instance, I cannot
do French at all, while Jean is a whale at it, and she hates
mathematics, which I love. We can both teach him riding,
swimming, and gym. work, and see that he baths himself
thoroughly, and cleans his teeth. Mother and Father do not know
anything about our proposal, and we know they will hate taking
money, so we thought we would fix it up without them, if you
approve, which Helen says she thinks you will. We would give him
the best time we could, if you let us have him, and take
tremendous care of him, and Billy would love a mate. Wishing you
a happy Christmas, we are,
“Yours sincerely,
JEAN and JO WESTON.”
(Jo had said she didn’t think Christmas wishes were correct in a letter
that was strictly business. But Jean had contended that civility always
paid, and that kind wishes were only civil. She had carried her point,
after heated discussion.)
“They sound a most cheerful pair,” Mrs. Forester said, folding up the
letter and putting it carefully away in her hand-bag. “I haven’t seen
them for years.”
“Oh, they’re priceless!” said her daughter. “Thank goodness they didn’t
leave during my time—but I’m sorry for Ellen. They’re so cheery, and
absolutely straight; the sort of people who are a good influence in the
school, without having the least idea of it. You’ll let Rex go, won’t
you, Mother?”
“I must consult your father first. But so far as I am concerned, I think
it is a splendid opportunity. To get him with people we know—and
especially people like the Westons—well, it’s just a wonderful chance.
Even if he learned nothing at all, I should go away happily if I could
leave him with the Westons. I’ll see Father to-night, and talk it over
with him. Now I wonder how much those stiff-necked people will let us
pay for him?”
“They will try to make it about sixpence a week, unless you’re firm,”
said Helen.
“Yes. And boarding-school, with holiday expenses as well, would cost
about £150, and it wouldn’t be a quarter as satisfactory. Well, I must
try to clinch a bargain with the girls before they see their parents,
and bind them down to take a decent sum. Poor John Weston! I’m very
sorry he’s so hard-hit. It’s hard on the girls, too. You say they told
all the school?”
“Oh, yes—with their proud little noses well in the air. Every one was
awfully nice to them though, and no one pitied them except young Pearlie
Alexander, who reeks of money. And Jean looked at her and said, ‘Oh, but
it’s so horribly boring to stay at school after you’re sixteen!’—with
such an air that Pearlie actually believed her, and felt quite crushed.
All the small fry have been weeping on their necks—the juniors all love
them. Lots of girls might have their heads turned, but the twinses are
sublimely unconscious of being regarded with affection by the school. Jo
merely remarked to me that it was queer how decent everybody was to
people in a hole!”
“Are they very good-natured and easy-going, Helen? Or will they be firm
with Rex?”
“They have heaps of sense,” Helen said slowly. “Of course they haven’t
been tried out at school yet, but I should think, from their way with
the juniors, that they wouldn’t stand any nonsense.”
“Rex needs firmness,” Mrs. Forester said, a little anxiously. “He has
got rather out of hand lately—Father has had to be away so much, and I
have been busy preparing the house for being shut up. He has had no
lessons since Miss Green left.”
“Well, there will be Mr. Weston. I don’t suppose he is likely to let
Master Rex think he can do as he likes.”
“Not if he has time to be bothered with him. However, Rex is less likely
to get his own way in a household like the Westons’ than with a
governess in a boarding-house; and we were beginning to face that
possibility. If the twins are sensible with him, he will be all right—I
mean, if they don’t pet him. Not that Rex is altogether pettable!”
“You needn’t worry about that,” Helen said decidedly. “They have a
little brother of their own—I fancy the ways of small boys are quite
well known to them.”
“Yes, that’s a great help,” her mother said. “Well, I shan’t
worry—except as to the possibility of Mr. and Mrs. Weston putting a
veto on the proposal altogether.”
So Helen carried back a hopeful message to the anxiously awaiting twins;
and next evening they rushed into her study with excited faces, waving a
letter.
“It’s all settled, Helen! What a nice mother you’ve got!”
“I’ve suspected it for some years,” remarked Helen, laughing. “What has
she done now?”
“Listen! It sounds too splendid to be true.
“‘MY DEAR JEAN AND JO,—
“‘Your letter has relieved my mind of a very pressing problem.
Of course, I understand that you wrote without referring to your
parents, but I hope that when they realize how much Mr. Forester
and I would value the arrangement they will not refuse their
consent. We shall be delighted to leave Rex with you; I trust
you won’t find him a great nuisance—he has had rather too much
of his own way lately, and needs a firm hand.
“‘When I hear from your mother I will write more fully about
him. Just now, I would like to arrange the business side with
you girls—we wish to pay at the rate of £150 a year for the
privilege of leaving Rex with you all. And I am making so
certain that Mr. and Mrs. Weston won’t refuse that I have ceased
making inquiries for a governess or any other way of arranging
for him.
“‘Will you tell your mother that while we are deeply sorry that
hard times should come to our old friends, we find it hard not
to feel a selfish gladness that they make possible an
arrangement which ensures such a home for our small boy?
“‘Yours very sincerely,
“‘_Elaine Forester_.’
“So there!” said Jo. “Isn’t it scrumptious!”
“But—a hundred and fifty pounds!” ejaculated Jean. “It isn’t worth
it—three pounds a week for a bit of a shrimp like that!”
“That’s rubbish!” said Helen inelegantly. “We might easily have had to
pay much more, so, you see, you’re saving us goodness knows how much.
And the peace of mind you’ll be giving us is worth thousands!”
“That may be, but we don’t charge for peace of mind,” said Jo, laughing.
“It’s given in, like the coupon with the pound of tea. And it really is
a ridiculous sum to pay for a little chap.”
“Father’s fixed it,” said Helen stubbornly. “You’d better talk to
him—if you really feel you must. I wouldn’t advise it, because he would
simply wipe the floor with you; when Father fixes a thing it usually
remains so. And when you have finished arguing with Father there will be
Mother to tackle. And you can argue and argue, and at the end the sum
will still be £150!”
“I don’t think you’re a bit nice!” said the twins in chorus.
“I’m ever so much nicer than Father will be if you try to upset his
figures.”
“But what about _our_ father? He’ll certainly want to upset them.”
“He can’t if you’ve accepted the arrangement. It isn’t fair to Father:
he has written down the Rex page of his ledger as closed, and now he’s
off in full cry after income-tax arrangements or tea-plantation figures,
and you want to take him from them and drag him back to considering Rex
again. And he’s _so_ busy; there’ll be nothing left of him by the time
we sail. Please—please don’t worry him any more, twinses!”
She looked so appealing that the twins gave way.
“Well, I only hope Father won’t be very angry,” said Jo.
“Tell him if he tries to alter our very sensible and business-like
arrangement that Father will make the £150 into £200!” said Helen,
laughing. “That should reduce him to order. And when he’s had Rex for a
while he’ll think that even £200 wasn’t much!”
At the moment no one had much time to worry over private affairs,
however urgent; for it was the last evening of the term, and half
Melbourne was coming to the speech-night. The big schoolroom was gay
with flags and flowers, with pot-plants massed upon the little stage at
one end; and every one was getting into white frocks, while here and
there were the anxious faces of the harassed individuals responsible for
items on the programme. The twins had long looked forward to having
their father and mother down for the great occasion, but a worried
little note from Mrs. Weston had said plainly that at the moment the
expense of coming could not be faced. It took away half the joy of the
evening that the two dear faces were not to be among the long rows of
parents who were coming to beam upon excited daughters. Still, there was
no help for it, as the twins realized: and Helen had wisely kept them so
busy that they had no time to think. Now, although the evening could not
be all that they had hoped, it was still their first speech-night; and
to-morrow there would be home, with Mrs. Forester’s wonderful letter to
show. The twins found it quite beyond their power to feel gloomy.
Tea was a more or less sketchy meal, at which a junior teacher presided,
and Miss Dampier made only a fleeting appearance. No one really wanted
to eat; there were still odds and ends of packing to be done, farewells
to be said, final touches to be put to preparations for the evening.
Moreover, from time immemorial there had been Miss Dampier’s supper for
the boarders after the guests had gone, and it was a supper which made
tea beforehand seem a mere excrescence. So girls drifted in and out as
they liked, and the artistes of the evening brought books or music to
the table, studying the fingering of the Moonlight Sonata, or Portia’s
remarks on Mercy, while they absently consumed weak tea.
Day-girls concerned with the programme began to arrive soon, and there
was much dressing and undressing in studies and bedrooms, with anguished
appeals for forgotten burnt-cork and other aids to a good
stage-appearance: for there was a little play to be given, and in the
eyes of the cast Beethoven and Shakespeare were unimportant details
beside it. The twins made a brief but glorious appearance in the play,
as Corsican bandits—slim figures in tunics and gym. knickers, with
enormous slouch-hats concealing their darkened features and corked
moustaches, Neapolitan scarves knotted about their necks, and with
crimson silk sashes, in which were stuck a very arsenal of lethal
weapons, ranging from ancient duelling-pistols to Gurkha kukris and
Canary Island daggers—the species of outfit, in brief, without which no
self-respecting Corsican may be found. They fought, were slain, died
with artistic gurgles, and were dragged out by the heels; and the junior
school, with sighs of rapture, mourned openly that Merriwa was to know
them no more.
They appeared in different guise later on, in soft white frocks, their
curls clustering about faces scrubbed to a fine rosy polish—the
burnt-cork had taken some getting off. On this occasion it was their
fate to ascend the daïs modestly and receive prizes at the hands of the
Distinguished Person presiding—Jean an award for the French at which,
as has been previously stated, she was “a whale,” while Jo, to her own
amazement, found herself the owner of Miss Smith’s prize for cookery.
Her bewilderment at this was so profound that she almost forgot to bow,
and was only recalled to a sense of her position by a dig in the back
from the Domestic Economy prize-winner, who was behind her.
“Who’d have thought it!” she ejaculated inelegantly, regaining her seat.
“Will you ever forget Smithy’s remarks on the sausage-rolls that I mixed
up with sugar?”
“Oh, but that’s ever so long ago,” Gladys said. “I know—it’s that
Angels’ Food affair you compounded last cooking-day. You said yourself
it was poetic!”
“Yes, but I also said it was a fluke!” rejoined the artist. “And I
thought no one knew that better than Smithy!”
She was still regarding with astonishment the huge leather-bound copy of
“Mrs. Beeton” that Miss Smith had presented as a tribute to the Angels’
Food, when her name was again called, this time with Jean’s. Jo dumped
“Mrs. Beeton” on her neighbour’s knee, and the twins went up together to
receive little silver cups that were to remind them of the tennis
victory of that week. This time the junior school let itself loose. It
had been—unfortunately—not permitted to them to applaud the
spectacular decease of the Corsican bandits, since it had occurred at a
moment when applause would have wrecked the progress of the drama; and
French and cookery, while all very well in their way, made no special
appeal to the hordes of juniors. But the tennis cups were a different
matter—had they not palpitated _en masse_ throughout that last wild set
when the twins had snatched victory from the jaws of Kooringal?
Wherefore they made the long room ring with the noise of their
enthusiasm, clapping until their hard young hands rang again. The twins
stood, flushing, a little taken aback by the warmth of their reception.
Then they dived for cover among the applauding ranks.
“Such dear things!” murmured the Distinguished Person, looking after
them with a twinkle in her distinguished eye. “And they were such
_lovely_ bandits! Tell me, Miss Dampier, do you ever manage to tell them
apart?”
“Sometimes,” the Head admitted. “Not always, by any means—for their
first three months at school I never knew whether I was speaking to Jean
or Jo. Even now, if possible, I begin by saying the name of the one I
want, in a determined tone; the wrong twin won’t respond, to me, though
I believe they take an awful joy in doing so among their mates, out of
school. But there are many occasions when I am reduced to saying ‘dear’;
and I am always in doubt as to whether the twin I am addressing isn’t
well aware that my affection is only an insufficient cloak for
ignorance!”
The Distinguished Person bestowed a geography prize upon a quaking
junior.
“I wonder does their mother ever confuse them?’ she pondered.
“Oh, quite often, she has told me. The only person who never fails to
know them apart is a small brother who bluntly says that he fails to see
any likeness between them!”
“Dear me!” said the Distinguished One faintly. “How uncanny!” She gave
away the next prize with a bewildered air that the recipient imagined
was inspired by the spectacle of so much learning.
Visitors, distinguished and otherwise, vanished at the end of the
prize-giving. Day-girls bade farewell to the boarders, exulting in the
thought that to them the morrow would bring release from early rising
and racing for trains and trams. Jean and Jo were the centre of a
cheerful crowd—sorrow at parting lost in the overwhelming joy of the
Christmas holidays. Their arms ached with shaking hands when the last
farewells had been said, and they found themselves trooping with the
other boarders to Miss Dampier’s supper.
It was at these farewell suppers that Miss Dampier showed that she fully
understood the impossibility of making a decent tea on speech-night, and
the consequent need of later nourishment. The nourishment she provided
was of a kind that made the most irresponsible junior wonder if up till
now she had not misjudged her head mistress. Moreover, she presided with
a pleasant tact, bidding every one help herself, and restricting her
conversation to teachers and seniors until it was evident that even the
hungriest could eat no more. Then she moved about among her guests, with
an understanding word for each; and those who were not coming back found
themselves singled out for a special little chat and a few words that
lay warm at their hearts long after they had gone away.
“Somehow, I don’t feel as if it were really good-bye to you, twinses,”
she said; and Jean and Jo found nothing strange in the unfamiliar sound
of the familiar school nickname on the Head’s lips. “It’s more as though
you were going home on a visit—a long one, perhaps, but it may happen
that you will come back.”
“Oh—we’d love to, Miss Dampier. Do you think there’s really any
chance?”
“One never knows. Luck turns quickly in Australia.”
“O—o—oh!” said the twins, and looked longingly at each other. School
had never seemed so desirable as on this last night. It was a gay and
delightful place, with not even the spectre of an irregular verb or an
early-morning bell: full of pleasant people and understanding teachers.
They caught at the hope of returning to it.
“Oh, we’d love to come back!”
“Well, there would always be a big welcome for you. Tell your mother I
had counted upon having you to help me next term.” She smiled at them,
knowing she had summed up in those few words the answers to a dozen
questions that the mother would have asked. “And I know you’ll help her
through.” She drifted away through the throng, her grey head, with its
exquisitely dressed hair, towering above every one.
The twins were going by a very early train; all their good-byes had to
be said that night. Helen Forester came up with them to their little
bedroom.
“Got all your packing done?”
“Oh, yes. The trunks have gone down.”
“It seems queer to think it’s the last night,” Helen said. “And to-day I
was Captain, and to-morrow I’ll be—oh, very small potatoes! What fun
it’s all been! Oh, you ought to be coming back, twinses!”
“Perhaps we shall, some day. Miss Dampier seemed to think so,” Jean
said. “After all, we’re not so awfully old!”
Helen looked at the eager faces framed in the short curls.
“No, you’re not so awfully old,” she said. “Especially to have
responsibilities. Don’t grow up too soon, kiddies.”
“Gracious!” ejaculated Jo. “And you’ve given us the biggest
responsibility of all, you blessed old darling! Aren’t you nervous about
trusting us with Rex?”
Helen laughed.
“Why, I think to-night proves that you’re, together, an association
capable of dealing with any small boy,” she said. “One of you has a
prize for learning, and the other for cooking, and joint cups for
hard-hitting! What more could anyone want? Rex ought to come back to us
re-modelled in mind and body.”
“Oh—Helen!” protested the twins.
Helen put an arm about each.
“Don’t spoil him—that’s the only thing I’m afraid of,” she said.
“Good-bye, twinses dear: I’m so glad I was at school with you, ’cause
you’re a nice old pair!” She dropped a kiss on each face, and was gone.