CONCLUSION
JOHN WESTON slept but little that night. It was as though he were afraid
to close his eyes for fear the rain might stop. Too well he knew that
the breaking of the drought could be no affair of a thunderstorm! many
inches of rain must fall before they could hope to recover from the long
months of heat and dryness. He woke every half-hour, dreading to find
the rain had stopped; but always there was the steady drumming on the
roof—no music had ever been so sweet to him. He would go to the window
and look out into the blackness: sometimes he went out to the verandah,
and walked up and down, all his being rejoicing in the rain, just as the
thirsty earth was rejoicing. There was splashing now, mingled with the
steady pelting on the roof: splashing from leaking spouting, untried for
a year; splashing of deluged trees, discharging their burden of water on
the ground; splashing of a miniature torrent, running past the house on
the gravel path. And towards morning the ceaseless downpour began to
conquer the heat, and cold fresh air seemed to rush to greet him when he
came out of the still, stifling house. He flung on a coat, and then
tiptoed round the verandah to put blankets on the children. Jean woke as
he covered her.
“Is it still raining, Father?” she asked sleepily. She could just see
his face in the growing dawn.
“Still raining, thank God!” he said. “Go to sleep, little daughter.” He
watched her for a moment as she turned over, snuggling her face into the
pillow. When he tiptoed away he took the alarum-clock with him. There
should be no programme that morning.
Daylight showed leaden skies and a drenched landscape. Not for a moment
did the rain cease; it fell as though determined to make up long
arrears. The fowls, many of which had never seen rain, cowered under any
available shelter, draggled and miserable: the ducks paddled about
happily, swam in the big pools that had formed in the hollows by the
gates, and quacked their complete approval of the weather. Every garden
path, its surface baked to the hardness of cement, was a torrent. The
underground tank gave back a thunderous echo as the water from the roof
rushed into it. Already the garden looked freshened and more green,
washed clean from the coating of dust that had covered everything; the
dahlias and chrysanthemums lifted revived heads, sparkling under their
veil of moisture, and spoke mutely of blossoms to come. The boys had
dashed out early, clad in shirt and trousers, and now were rather like
the ducks, splashing in every pool for the mere joy of splashing. They
raced to the bathing-pool, shouting with glee to see the river already
rising and flowing with something like a current once more: they flung
themselves in, just as they were, since it was impossible to be more
thoroughly soaked: then, coming up, caught Punch and Merrilegs, and went
galloping madly round the paddock—until Merrilegs, finding a baby
watercourse that had long been only a dry hollow, jumped it, and
finished up with a long slither on the wet ground, whereat Rex,
unprepared for such acrobatics, shot over his head, landing in a pool,
while Billy yelled with laughter. They capered back to the house,
turning somersaults on the flooded lawn; then, discovering that it was
breakfast-time, and that they were very muddy, brought out the
long-disused garden hose and sluiced each other thoroughly.
“Wish we could, too,” said the twins enviously.
The prisoner awoke, evidently better, but still unable to say more than
one or two disconnected words. It puzzled them that he seemed happiest
when anyone except the twins was with him: the sight of Jean and Jo
invariably brought a look of worry to his face, so that after a time
they reluctantly decided to keep away from him. This was sad, seeing
that he was their very own prisoner. He fell into a sound sleep after
breakfast; and when the doctor arrived—summoned by a passing neighbour,
who had called in on his way to Barrabri to mention that the rain was
glorious—he was still sleeping soundly.
“Concussion, of course,” Dr. Lawrence said. “He’s had a fall. Sleep’s
the best thing for him; I don’t want to rouse the poor beggar. Keep him
very quiet: your old Sarah can nurse him.” He grinned. “Fancy the twins
getting him, with all the police in the district after him! Did you send
word to Ransome, by the way?”
“No, I didn’t,” Mr. Weston said. “I didn’t want the police out here
worrying him before you had been out. He can’t run away, that’s certain.
I suppose you must tell them.”
“Oh, yes, I’d better. I’ll wait until to-morrow, though; I fancy they’ll
have to put a constable on here, to watch him, and there’s no need to
give you that bother to-day. I’ll come out in the morning. Great rain,
isn’t it, old man? I said that before, didn’t I?”
“Three times, I think,” said John Weston, laughing. “You could say it
three times a minute, and it wouldn’t be too much for me. Listen to it!”
as a sudden downpour, heavier than usual, suddenly pelted on the roof.
“Was there ever such a sound!”
“I’m resenting having the hood on the car,” the doctor said. “Naturally,
it wouldn’t be common-sense to arrive at my patients’ bedsides as soaked
as Billy and young Rex, whom I met in a puddle on the track—but I
understand how they feel. I want the rain on my skin. We all do.”
“I’ve been wet through twice this morning,” said his friend, laughing.
“It’s a gorgeous feeling. Of course, I’m not counting on the rain yet;
we haven’t had anything like what we need. But it really does look like
keeping on.”
“There’s every sign of it. Well, I’ll have a word with Mrs. Weston and
the girls, and be off: I’d two cases of sunstroke yesterday. Worst day I
ever knew.” He spoke to Mrs. Weston, and immediately prescribed a tonic
for her, saying he would bring it with him next day: and chaffed the
twins on their ability as detectives. “I’ll have to bring a constable
out to stay with your friend to-morrow,” he said.
Jean made a little face.
“I’d hide him from you, if I could,” she defied him. “We were going to
help him to escape, only he was too sick. We’re awfully sorry for
him—he’s so young!”
“You’re a nice young law-breaking person!” said the doctor, with mock
severity. “Don’t forget I’m a magistrate—I believe there’s a special
penalty for harbouring criminals. And he was old enough to annex quite a
nice little sum of other people’s money!”
“Well—he may have had his reasons!” said Jo—a mild sentiment which
evoked mirth among her hearers.
“A good many people have—that’s why magistrates exist,” said the
doctor. “Well, I’m afraid you’ll have to lose your friend as soon as
he’s well enough to be moved.” He said good-bye, splashing out to his
car through the pouring rain.
It was still pouring when he returned next day, this time with two
policemen: a senior man from an adjoining town, and a tall, downcast
young constable, the unlucky wight who had been careless enough to lose
his prisoner.
“He’s conscious, I think, but still very stupid,” Mr. Weston told them.
“He doesn’t attempt to speak, but he has taken a little nourishment. You
can’t move him yet, surely, Sergeant.”
“That’s for the doctor to say,” said the sergeant. “But I’ll have to
leave a man in charge of him: we can’t run the risk of losing him again.
Constable Wilkins will relieve you of some of the care of him.”
“Lemme have a look at him!” said Constable Wilkins sourly. “I’ll bet he
don’t give me the slip again!”
“I’ll see him first,” said the doctor.
He came out presently.
“You can go in, to identify him,” he said. “But don’t worry him with
talk yet; he’s not fit for it. Don’t take your helmets in, either—no
need to make him feel he’s in the hands of the police. I’m not keen on
his having a shock. . . . And the sight of that chap’s sulky face is
enough to give anyone assorted shocks!” he added to himself, as he
followed the policemen in. In the background Jean and Jo hovered with
downcast looks.
If Constable Wilkins’s face had been sour when he entered the room, it
was frankly furious as he turned and strode out. Only the doctor’s
lifted finger had prevented the angry words that sprang to his lips.
“Whose little joke is this?” he queried wrathfully. “That’s not my man!”
“Not your man?” queried the Sergeant.
“Not a criminal?” yelped Jean.
“I’m jolly well hanged if I know what he is,” quoth the angry policeman.
“But he’s no more Dawson than I am! Why, he ain’t even like him! Not
remotely. And we’ve wasted half a day on a wild-goose chase!”
What more Constable Wilkins might have said was lost in a curious
demonstration. The twins, who had been staring, with shining eyes,
suddenly seized each other and executed a wild two-step down the hall.
The door stood open; they danced through, and disappeared; the sound of
their prancing feet died away upon the verandah. The doctor shook with
silent laughter.
“But who said he was Dawson?” demanded the Sergeant.
“Why, I’m afraid we’d rather taken it for granted,” Mr. Weston admitted.
“Perhaps I adopted my daughters’ view too readily; they seemed to have
no doubt. Of course, he has been practically unconscious since they
found him. He was a stranger—a delicate-looking man in a grey suit—and
he seemed to be a fugitive.” He smiled a little. “Possibly I might have
asked more questions if the rain hadn’t come just as we brought him
home. But the rain seemed so much more important!”
“It did,” said the doctor. “After all, the circumstantial evidence was
good enough to go on: you’d have censured them for not reporting their
find, Sergeant.”
“I would,” admitted that officer. “Matter of fact, we’ve been calling
them the ’uman sleuth-hounds since we heard! Oh, well, he’s not our man,
so we needn’t worry you further, Mr. Weston.” They said good-bye,
Constable Wilkins’s face still a study in mingled emotions.
On the verandah, the twins faced each other.
“But there’s no doubt he didn’t want the police on his track, Jo,” Jean
said. “Do you think we ought to tell them?”
“I won’t!” said Jean obstinately. “He’s our discovery, and he’s sick,
even if he _is_ a criminal—and I don’t believe he is! We’ll tell
Father, when the poor fellow is better. Fancy imagining any one ever
would get better, with a horror like that Wilkins creature looking at
one. He’d be clinking the handcuffs at you all the time!”
The mystery, however, was cleared up two days later, when a hue-and-cry
was suddenly raised for one of two young Englishmen who were farming
together five miles up the river. He had gone out with his gun,
intending to reach a neighbour’s place and remain all night, so that his
mate felt no anxiety when he did not return. It was not until the third
day that he discovered that nothing had been seen of the absentee, and
at once raised the alarm. Therefore a very harassed young man arrived on
a very tired horse at Emu Plains, and begged to be allowed to see the
Westons’ guest.
“He’s sure to be Harry,” he said. “The police in Barrabri described him
to me.”
The guest was by that time regaining full consciousness, and greeted his
friend with a faint grin, although he showed no disposition to talk to
him. It was several days before he was able to give a coherent account
of himself. He had put his gun down on a log while he pursued a wounded
rabbit into some thick scrub, and then had been unable to find it again.
In the search he had lost his way completely, and had wandered all day
in the heat, until, in the evening, he had found himself near the ruined
hut at Emu Plains. He had climbed a tree to get his bearings: and, just
as he caught sight of the homestead roofs, a limb had given way with
him, and he had fallen, damaging his head and ankle. He had managed to
crawl to the hut when the twins found him.
“You were godsends, of course,” he said. “But you worried me
dreadfully.”
“We didn’t mean to,” Jean said, rather pained. “We only did what we
could for you.”
“Oh, I don’t mean that!” Harry Jeffries said, rather appalled at his own
apparent ingratitude. “Why, if ever a fellow had two ministering angels
looking after him it was I! But it was the fact that you were two that
worried me—especially when I came up here, and began to feel better.”
“But why?”
“Because I thought I was off my head permanently. I could see your
mother and father, and Sarah, all right: they were normal and natural.
But whenever I looked at you I thought I was seeing double!”
“Good gracious!” said the twins in chorus.
“And each said to the other, ‘That’s your fault!’ as Kipling has it,”
put in Mr. Weston, laughing.
“But there’s another thing,” Jean said. “Why were you so worried in the
hut when we spoke of the police?”
The patient reddened.
“Well, you mustn’t give me away,” he said. “The fact is, I’d been making
a collection of platypus skins—the little beggars are very thick in the
creek near our place. And it was only the day before that I found out
they were strictly protected, and that I was liable to imprisonment, or
beheading, or something, for having the skins in my possession. So, when
you talked police, of course I thought it was my poor old platypi!”
* * * * *
But this was after the rain had stopped—it had poured for four days and
nights without cessation—and already there was a green tinge all over
Emu Plains. The river was running almost a banker: the creeks had
overflowed for miles, and the flood-waters were beginning to recede,
leaving the paddocks covered with a muddy silt, as good as a dressing of
fertilizer. All over the country, thankful men spoke of the wonderful
rain, and predicted wonderful grass to follow; the land had rested for a
year, and now there would be such a season as would wipe out the memory
of the evil time. Already there was talk of bringing back the stock from
Gippsland: owners were beginning to plan to stock up their places again,
and sheep and cattle had risen sharply in price.
“I’m going to make a hatful of money over those sheep of Murphy’s,” John
Weston told his wife. “By the time I’m ready to sell them sheep will be
four or five times what they are to-day! and they’re worth twice what I
gave for them now.” He looked down at her very tenderly. “You can begin
to choose the colour of your motor—I reckon that old toe of yours has
earned a car! It shall be carried in luxury for the rest of its time.”
“Then it might not do its duty so well,” she said, laughing.
“It has done its job,” he answered. “I don’t want it ever to ache
again!”
They looked out across the paddocks, faintly green. About them was the
smell of growing things: although the land was still bare, it was
different—there was no longer the feeling of barren desolation. The
garden was already bursting into new life, and new life was stirring in
every one.
“I don’t want a motor particularly, John,” she said. “But I want to give
a good time to my twinses!”
“They’ll have their good time,” he said masterfully. “Your motor will be
part of it. And we’re all going away for a holiday, as soon as I get
things settled—a real holiday—Sydney, Tasmania, or wherever you like,
where we’ll forget about droughts. We’ll let the twins choose, shall we?
They’ve been great little daughters to us when we needed them.”
“Great little daughters!” Mrs. Weston echoed softly.
“Then we’ll get a tutor for the boys, and the twins can go back to
Merriwa next term. We’ll tell Miss Dampier not to make them prefects yet
awhile. I want them to be kiddies again—to forget they ever had
responsibilities.”
He was silent for a moment, pulling hard at his pipe.
“It isn’t so much what they did for us,” he said; “though goodness knows
they did enough. It was how they did it: how they brought youth and
freshness and laughter back to us—how they ‘kept smiling.’ Will you
ever forget how they sang as they swept the verandahs?—the little
bricks! And never a whine or a murmur from them, though I’ll bet they
often ached for the old good times!”
“I know they ached,” the mother said. “Please God we’ll keep that sort
of ache from them in future—at least while they are children.”
* * * * *
At the moment the twins were not manifesting any ache, unless it were
the ache that comes from overmuch laughter. They had dismissed Rex and
Billy after morning school, and had watched those graceless urchins tear
down the paddock on their ponies. Then they had turned to tidy up the
schoolroom table, and in doing so a sheet of paper had fluttered from an
exercise book. It was covered with Rex’s small, neat writing.
“It’s not a letter,” Jo said, picking it up. “I don’t suppose it’s
private. Oh, my goodness, Jean, he’s dropped into poetry!”
They bent delighted heads over Master Forester’s outpourings. The path
of spelling was always strewn with rocks to Rex, but his sentiments were
definite.
“Why, it’s an ode to you, Jean,” said Jo, chuckling. “Prepare to blush!”
“Girls are fat and girls are lean,
Just allright is danety Jean.
“She has prety curly hair,
And she has a lovely stare!
“Once I swetted with Miss Green,
She was a cat, but now I’ve Jean.
“Other chaps may plump for Jo,
Phurmly I would anser ‘No.’
“I have known ful many a girl,
Danety Jean she is the purl!”
“And I’m the plain, I suppose!” commented Jo ecstatically. But Jean
frowned.
“The little villain!” she said. “I must say he’s managed to conceal his
sentiments pretty well. I don’t believe he likes me a bit better than
you.”
“Shows his sense if he does,” said Jo, laughing. “What on earth does it
matter?”
“I don’t suppose it does,” said her twin. “And it’s a gorgeous poem! Did
you know I had ‘a lovely stare’?”
“I suppose that’s your look of fixed horror when he shows up a bad copy.
Next time you can remember that he’s wallowing in enjoyment of it!” Jo
laughed.
“I’ll wallow him!” said Jean. “How dare he make any difference between
us—aren’t we twins? He wants spanking!” She flipped the paper
contemptuously away.
“Now, that’s foolish!” Jo said. “Remember, you’re never likely to have
an ode written to you again!” She picked up the sheet of paper. “Why, my
stars, Jeanie! there’s another ode on the back!”
They read together:
“Pharest of all girls I’ve seen
Is the joly Josypheen.
“She is very tall and slim.
Like a porpus she can swim.
“Just to see her makes you glad.
Chasing savige bulls like mad.
“She is nerely always kind.
To play the gote she does not mind.
“Fokes may say the best is Jean—
Me for joly Josypheen!”
“He’s all things to all men, isn’t he!” gasped Jo, when she could speak.
“Did you ever see anything so priceless!” Jean uttered, wiping her eyes.
“Twin odes to twinses! Look, he’s grouped us in a grand finale at the
bottom—in his best writing, and flourishes all round it, too!”
“I have known ful many a girl,
Danety Jean she is the purl!
“Fokes may say the best is Jean—
Me for joly Josypheen!”
TRANSCRIBER NOTES
Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple
spellings occur, majority use has been employed.
Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors
occur.
Some illustrations were moved to facilitate page layout.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Twins of Emu Plains, by Mary Grant Bruce