THE TURNING OF THE LONG LANE
IT was barely dawn next morning when the twins’ alarum-clock roused
them. They sprang up, dressed with swift movements, and tiptoed to the
larder. No one else was astir.
“Whatever we do, we mustn’t wake Sarah!”
“No—and we mustn’t take what will be noticed too much,” Jean said.
“Here’s a tin of sheep’s tongue, and another of sardines.” She rummaged
among the spare foodstuffs that are to be found in every station
store-room. “A pot of peach jam, Jean—I hope he likes peach; and a tin
of tomatoes. There’s a jar of anchovy paste here.”
“No—make him too thirsty,” objected Jo. “He can’t crawl up and down the
bank for water, with that ankle. Look, I’ll pack butter into this little
pot—it’s got a screw-top, and he can put it in a tin of water if it
gets too soft. We must take a spare billy and a cup—oh, and grab a
tin-opener! And a knife.”
“Right!” whispered her twin. “Plenty of bread, thank goodness: Sarah
baked yesterday. No wonder she was cooked at night, poor old dear! I
believe we can spare him some cake.” They progressed to the meat-safe
under the walnut-tree, and abstracted some cold beef. A bottle of milk
finished their depredations, and they set off, laden, across the
paddock. The house still slumbered peacefully.
So, apparently, did their patient when they appeared at the door of the
hut; but he woke with a terrified start.
“It’s all right,” Jean assured him. “No one knows you are here. How are
you?”
“Better,” he whispered. Speech seemed difficult to him; he lay quietly
while they bathed his injuries. They gave him milk, which he drank
thirstily, but he refused food.
“We’ll bring you more milk as soon as we can,” Jean said. “It was no use
bringing more now, because it would only go sour—it’s going to be
another blazing day. Sour milk would be bad for you, so finish that
soon.” She spoke in the tone of an understanding mother to a fractious
child, and he looked at her gratefully for a moment. Then his heavy lids
drooped over his eyes again.
“It’s hard to believe he’s a criminal; he looks such a boy,” Jean said,
as they hurried home. “Oh, I do hope the police won’t come this way. I
feel as if I’d do anything to keep him out of their clutches!”
“So do I,” Jo said. “After all, the police have so many criminals that
they could easily spare one! And if he gets a chance now he may live a
good life for ever after. But I do wonder, Jean, if he oughtn’t to have
a doctor.”
“But that means the police!” Jean cried. “Dr. Lawrence never could visit
him without letting the police know.” She thought a moment. “I’ll tell
you what, Jo: we’ll see how he is this evening, and if he’s not better
we’ll get Sarah to see him. She’s as good as a doctor, and we could
swear her to secrecy.” The phrase struck her with a pleasant flavour of
conspiracy and mystery: she repeated it to herself, ending with a little
chuckle.
“It really is fun, Jo! To think of the police scouring the country for
that poor fellow, and you and I have him planted in that hut! Don’t you
wish we could tell them at school!”
“Rather!” Jo agreed. “Wouldn’t there be excitement! By the way, I wonder
if we’re likely to get into a jolly row!”
“Well, there’s a pretty good chance, I suppose,” Jean said. “But it’s
worth it. Goodness me, Jo, there’s Father!”
Mr. Weston, in riding-breeches and shirt, was in full view, going to the
house-paddock, a bridle over his arm. The twins ducked guiltily behind a
bush, waiting until a high fence hid him; then they rose and bolted to
the garden, and climbed over its pittosporum hedge with the kindly aid
of an overhanging pepper-tree. They gained the house without being
seen—it was only a little after five o’clock; and were soon hard at
work. Presently Sarah appeared.
“Tea’s ready,” she informed them. “Yes, it’s early, but the Master’s
wanting breakfast; he’s off to Reedy Creek, after some sheep. I thought
you would ’ave your tea in the dining-room with ’im an’ see that he eats
somethin’; there was mighty little eaten in this ’ouse yesterday!”
“Too hot to eat, Sarah,” said Jo.
“Too ’ot _not_ to eat,” responded Sarah. “People’s gotter keep up their
strength in weather like this. Just you go an’ bully the Master, now: he
told me to give ’im just some bre’n’butter, but I’ve done ’im some bacon
the way ’e likes it. You two go an’ be firm with ’im.”
They found their father rather ruefully contemplating the bacon-dish,
and induced him to eat by representing Sarah’s wounded feelings should
he send it out untouched.
“I suppose I’d better; but it’s too early to eat,” he said. “And later
it will be too hot, so Sarah’s cookery doesn’t get a fair chance.
However, I’ve a twenty-mile ride, so it really would be wiser to have
something.”
“Are you going to buy sheep, Father?” Jo asked, pouring out tea.
“I believe I am. It’s a gamble, of course—but they’re very cheap, and I
need not move them for a month. Your mother will tell you about it. It’s
going to be a worse day than yesterday, I believe: I’m going to get back
as soon as I can, and get the trip over. Take care of your mother,
girls: she was awfully done yesterday.”
“We’ll take her a nice little breakfast-tray before she gets up,” Jean
said. “Perhaps she may eat something if we do. I’ll make her an omelette
à la Smithy.”
“Do,” he said, smiling at her. “And have one for me when I come back.
I’ll need it after spending as much money as I’ve got to spend this
morning!” He pushed his chair back. “Well, Cruiser’s had his feed by
now, I expect: I’ll be off.”
Jean’s brow had a little furrow as she gathered up the breakfast dishes.
“Poor darling!” she said. “Jo, did you notice how grey he’s getting?”
“Do you wonder?” Jo said. “Oh, I do wish we could get a few more small
boys to teach!”
It was a day of blistering heat. Lessons were voted impossible, and
teachers and pupils spent the morning in the river, accompanied, for
once, by Mrs. Weston, whom the twins conveyed carefully on Merrilegs.
The bathe refreshed her, and afterwards she sat in the shade and laughed
to watch their porpoise-like gambols at water-polo. But she was restless
and uneasy, and before they were ready to come out she mounted the grey
pony and rode back to the house, declaring that her stock-riding days
were not so far behind her that she should need assistance now.
As she neared the garden, she saw her husband coming. He was riding up
the track slowly, his head bent down. She turned and rode to meet him,
laughing at his astonished face.
“You!” he said. “Whatever are you out for, on such a day?”
“Oh, I’ve been with the children,” she answered. “I couldn’t rest, John:
I had to know. Did you get the sheep?”
“Yes, I got them,” he said. “But, Mary, what is it? Aren’t you well? Why
are you troubling about it?”
“I’m all right,” she said. “But I wanted you desperately to buy those
sheep, and I couldn’t rest until I knew. I don’t know why—perhaps
because my silly toe still aches! Tell me about them, dear. Was Murphy
glad to sell?”
“Oh, Murphy’s gone!” her husband answered.
“Couldn’t wait any longer: he cleared out two days ago, and I believe he
sails for the old country to-day. He left the sheep in the agents’ hands
to sell, if possible: if they were not sold when the lease of his place
expired they were to put them in the yards and let them go for what
they’d fetch. The agents didn’t expect to get rid of them: neither did
Murphy himself. But he said, ‘Is it a mob of sheep will be keeping me
from Ireland? Begob, it is not!’—and went.”
“And they’re really ours?”
“Really and truly—signed, sealed, and delivered. I saw them
first—they’re not bad sheep, considering—and then fixed up the deal
with the agents, in Reedy Creek. They’ve got my cheque, and I’ve got
their receipt. Now, are you satisfied, you worrying woman!” He smiled
down upon her from Cruiser’s back.
“Yes, I’m satisfied,” she said. “Perhaps I’ll be sorry afterwards, but
I’ve faith in my old toe!”
“I hope we shan’t all be sorry afterwards,” he said gravely. “But it’s a
big thing, Mary-girl.” He helped her to the ground. “Go on to the house
while I let the horses go: it’s far too hot for you to be out.”
The long day dragged to evening—an evening that brought little relief
from the overpowering heat. There was something almost malignant in the
heavy air. Even Billy and Rex were subdued by it: they lay on the floor
in their room, in the minimum of clothing, and would not face the short
journey to the river, declaring that one couldn’t actually _live_ in the
water, and that one felt worse on coming out. The twins tried to read,
and found it impossible to keep their attention on a book: slept, lying
on the floor, and awoke in a bath of perspiration, acutely sorry they
had slept. Mrs. Weston would not come into the house. She lay on a
lounge on the verandah, pretending to read; but whenever her husband
looked at her, her eyes were fixed upon the western sky, where the sun,
a ball of lurid fire, was sinking into the bank of dull cloud that
waited for it every evening.
Sarah—who had ironed all the afternoon with steady persistency—made no
attempt to induce people to eat what she termed a “proper” meal. She
marched through the house towards evening with a tray of sandwiches and
a huge jug of cold coffee—the said coffee having been immersed, in
bottles, in the underground tank. Jean and Jo nibbled their sandwiches,
and then, taking a bottle of milk with them, slipped away to the hut by
the creek.
It was evident that their patient was ill. He lay in the stifling little
hut, his breath coming in gasps, his face deadly white. But he was more
alive now: he looked at them with more recognition, and muttered thanks
as they bathed his head and foot; and he drank the milk greedily. They
conferred together in low tones.
“I’m sure he needs a doctor,” Jean said.
“We’ll get Sarah,” said Jo.
“Don’t get anyone,” begged the patient, unexpectedly. “I’m all
right—want sleep—brute of a headache—sorry!” He closed his eyes and
seemed to sleep. They watched him for a little while, and then, as he
made no movement, they set off home.
“He’ll simply have to be moved,” said Jean. “It’s enough to kill him, to
be in that awful little hut. We couldn’t risk another day of it for
him.”
“Yes,” Jo agreed. She heaved a sigh. “Better to let the police have him
than for him to die—and he looks awful to-night. But who wouldn’t look
awful, to have spent to-day in that hut!”
“Oh, we’ll beg and beg Father!” said Jean. “Perhaps he’ll take the risk
and not tell the police. No one would think of looking for the prisoner
in the homestead; as far as that went, he’d be safer than in the hut.”
“But if we have to get the doctor?”
“I forgot the doctor,” Jean admitted gloomily. “He’s a magistrate
himself: he’d simply _have_ to tell. Well, we’ve done our best, Jo: we
can’t do any more. And look here: we’d better tell Father at once, for
he’ll have to be brought up to the house before dark, and Sarah couldn’t
do it—Father would have to help.”
“Yes, that’s true,” Jo said. “There’s Father, coming across from the
lucerne patch. Let’s go and tell him.”
Mr. Weston heard their story in utter astonishment.
“Well, if you aren’t the most amazing twins!” he ejaculated. “And I was
assuring a very hot policeman at Reedy Creek, only this morning, that no
strangers had been out our way! I’ll go down at once. No, I’m not angry:
I don’t see what else you could have done. Tell Sarah to get a room
ready, but don’t say anything to your mother: she isn’t well enough to
be worried. Do you think we can move him on a pony?”
“I don’t know,” Jean said. “But if you can’t, how can you?”
“That’s just what I don’t know: we can’t get a buggy down to that
corner.” He thought for a moment. “Look, Jean: send Sarah out here to
me, and you go on getting the room ready. I’ll need Sarah’s help to lift
him. Jo, get Merrilegs and bring him down to the hut. You’d better go
first: I don’t want to startle the poor wretch.”
So it was that Mrs. Weston, moving restlessly about the garden, caught
sight of a queer little procession: Jo, slowly leading the grey pony, on
whose bare back was a white-faced young man with his head tied up in a
sock, and one foot curiously wrapped in its fellow. On one side her
husband supported him, and on the other, Sarah: he wobbled rather
painfully between them.
“It’s all right, Mother darling,” said Jean’s voice behind her. “It’s
only our prisoner!” She explained briefly. “And oh, Mother!—do you
think we’ll have to give him up to the police?”
“I don’t see how we can get out of it,” her mother said. “But the main
thing is, to get him better. Poor fellow! what a dreadful day he must
have had!” She hurried to the verandah to meet him, all her weariness
forgotten.
It was half an hour later when she came out to the anxious twins on the
verandah.
“He’s asleep,” she said. “We have fixed him up comfortably, and I hope
he’ll sleep all night; Father means to camp near his room. Poor
fellow—he’s only a boy! But we must tell the police, twinses dear;
Father says there’s no help for it. We’ll get the doctor in the morning
and let the police know.”
The twins sighed heavily.
“I suppose it’s got to be,” Jean said. “It’s hard: but I don’t think he
can have a wife and children, as I was afraid he had—he’s too young.”
“He certainly is,” said Mrs. Weston, smiling.
“And, perhaps, after he’s served his sentence he’ll be a reformed
character, and Father will give him a job.”
“And he’ll marry Sarah!” finished Billy, who, with Rex, had been hugely
interested in the prisoner.
“And meanwhile, we’ll look out for our valuables!” said Mr. Weston, who
had come out, unperceived—darkness had fallen suddenly. “Sorry,
twinses, when he’s your pet criminal—but really, it’s as well to be
careful. However, he’s helpless enough to-night, poor wretch!”
“I’m thankful he’s out of that horrid little hut,” Jo said. “We were
awfully keen on taking care of him; but the job got a bit too big for
us. Of course, in books, he’d get better and escape in the night,
leaving a note of thanks on the pin-cushion!”
“And taking the spoons with him!” finished her father, callously. “No,
he won’t do any escaping: his head and his ankle will see to that.” He
drew a long breath. “My word, isn’t it hot! Are you all right, Mary? I
can hardly see you, it’s so dark—but you’re very quiet.”
Mrs. Weston did not answer him for a moment. She stood up and moved a
few steps into the darkness.
“John—I smell rain!” she said.
Something in her voice made him suddenly anxious. He came quickly and
put his arm round her.
“Sure you’re all right, dear?”
She did not seem to notice the question. Her face was raised to the
western sky.
“Listen!” she said. “It’s coming—it’s coming, John! I’ve been feeling
it for three days. I know it’s coming—now!”
A scorching breath of wind swept across their faces. Then, as they stood
in tense silence, a great flash of lightning cut across the blackness of
the night: and suddenly big drops fell around them. They heard them
splash heavily on the iron roof of the verandah: they felt them through
their thin clothes on their heated bodies. The boys gave a great shout,
springing forward, and suddenly Sarah came running through the house.
“Did ye hear it?” she was saying. “Are ye there, ma’am?—did ye hear
it?”
Then it was on them in a sudden torrent—blinding, rushing rain. They
heard it drumming on the baked earth, beating furiously on the echoing
roof. In a moment they were soaked to the skin, but no one noticed it:
they stood together on the lawn, with faces upraised to the wonder of
it, afraid to speak. It seemed to hiss round them, beating through the
hot air. Then, as the thirsty ground grew damp, the smell of it came up
to them: the unforgettable smell of rain after long drought. Another
vivid flash of lightning showed them standing together, with Sarah
peering anxiously from the verandah.
“Come in!” she cried. “Make her come in, sir! Are ye all gone mad?”
“I think so,” John Weston said. His arm was round his wife: he picked
her up suddenly and carried her to the verandah. “There you are,
Sarah—take care of her,” he said. “She’s soaking wet—soaking wet,
thank God! Go in, kiddies!” He turned and strode out into the storm.
“Come in yourself, sir!” Sarah cried. “Aren’t ye wet enough?”
“I don’t think I’ll be wet enough if it goes on for a week!” he said. He
felt Billy beside him, catching at his hand. “Go in, Sonnie—it’s enough
for one of us to be mad!”
“I’m goin’ to stay with you!” Billy uttered. “I’ll get wet with you. I’m
wet already!”
His father put his arm round the thin little shoulders in the soaked
shirt.
“Ah, well, then, we’ll go in together, old Son,” he said gently. “Go and
change now, all of you.”
He stood awhile on the verandah, looking out into the storm. The
lightning flashed, and thunder followed it in long rattling peals: but
the drumming of the rain never ceased, and every drop was music to him.
Presently he turned and went through the hall to his wife’s room.
She lay on a couch near the window, listening to the roar on the roof.
Her face was very pale, but she smiled up at him.
“Well!” she said. “And you bought Murphy’s sheep to-day!”
He bent down and kissed her foot.
“Thanks to your old toe!” he said.