[Cover Illustration]




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                            SUCCESSFUL STORIES
                                    by
                             MARY GRANT BRUCE
                               Published by
                          WARD, LOCK & CO., LTD.

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                “Mrs. Bruce has a story to tell and she sets
              about doing it in her own straightforward way,
              without resort to padding. Her style is never
              laboured, it matches its subject in its natural-
              ness. Smiles and tears, humour and pathos,
              blend in her books as they do in life itself.”
                                          —The Queen.
            ──────────────────────────────────────────────────

              BILLABONG’S DAUGHTER
              THE TWINS OF EMU PLAINS
              BACK TO BILLABONG
              DICK LESTER OF KURRAJONG
              CAPTAIN JIM
              DICK
              ’POSSUM
              JIM AND WALLY
              A LITTLE BUSH MAID
              MATES AT BILLABONG
              TIMOTHY IN BUSHLAND
              GLEN EYRE
              NORAH OF BILLABONG
              GRAY’S HOLLOW
              FROM BILLABONG TO LONDON
              THE HOUSES OF THE EAGLE
              THE STONE AXE OF BURKAMUKK
                (A volume of Australian legends)

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[Illustration: “He put out a long arm and mysteriously produced some
 jelly, with which he fed me.” (Page 240.)
 _The Tower Rooms_]                         [_Frontispiece_]




                                  THE
                              TOWER  ROOMS


                                   BY
                           MARY  GRANT  BRUCE

           W A R D ,   L O C K   &   C O . ,   L I M I T E D
                         LONDON  AND  MELBOURNE
                                  1926




   Printed in Great Britain by Butler & Tanner Ltd., Frome and London




                                CONTENTS

               CHAP.                                      PAGE
                   I I ANSWER AN ADVERTISEMENT.  .  .  .     7
                  II I BEGIN MY ADVENTURE.  .  .  .  .      18
                 III I MAKE A FRIEND.  .  .  .  .  .  .     29
                  IV I DISCOVER MANY THINGS.  .  .  .  .    40
                   V I WALK ABROAD AT NIGHT.  .  .  .  .    60
                  VI I MEET GOOD FORTUNE.  .  .  .  .  .    72
                 VII I FIND SHEPHERD’S ISLAND.  .  .  .     92
                VIII I HEAR STRANGE THINGS.  .  .  .  .    113
                  IX I BECOME A MEMBER OF THE BAND.  .     129
                   X I HEAR OF ROBBERS.  .  .  .  .  .     140
                  XI I SEE DOUBLE.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .    151
                 XII I HEAR STRANGE CONFIDENCES.  .  .     168
                XIII I GO ADVENTURING.  .  .  .  .  .  .   178
                 XIV I FIND MYSELF A CONSPIRATOR.  .  .    188
                  XV I SAIL WITH MY BAND.  .  .  .  .  .   202
                 XVI I FIND A LUCKY SIXPENCE.  .  .  .     217
                XVII I USE A POKER.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .   231
               XVIII I LOSE MY SITUATION.  .  .  .  .  .   239




                            THE TOWER ROOMS




                               CHAPTER I
                       I ANSWER AN ADVERTISEMENT


NATURALLY it was not news to me when old Dr. Grayson told me I was
tired. There are some things one knows without assistance: and for two
months I had suspected that I was getting near the end of my tether. The
twelve-year-olds I taught at school had become stupider and more
stupid—or possibly I had; and Madame Carr—there was no real reason why
she should be called “Madame,” but that she thought it sounded better
than plain “Mrs.”—had grown stricter and more difficult to please. She
had developed a habit of telling me, each afternoon, when school had
been dismissed, what a low standard of deportment I exacted from my
form. This also I knew; twelve-year-olds are not usually models of
deportment, and I suppose I was not very awe-inspiring. But the daily
information got on my nerves.

Then the examinations had been a nightmare. I used to wonder how the
girls who grumbled at the questions would have liked the task of
correcting the papers—taking bundles home at night and working at them
after I had cooked the dinner and helped Colin to wash up. I made
several mistakes, too; and of course Madame found them out. One is not
at one’s best, mentally, after a long day in school, and the little flat
in Prahran was horribly hot and stuffy. Colin had wanted to help me, but
of course I could not let him; the poor old boy used to work at his
medical books every evening, in a wild hope that something might yet
turn up to enable him to take his degree. I did my best at the wretched
papers, but after an hour or so my head would ache until it really did
not matter to me if I met the information that Dublin was situated on
the Ganges. There had been a hideous interview with Madame after the
breaking-up, in which she hinted, in an elephantine fashion, that unless
my services were shown to be of more value she would hardly be justified
in paying me as well as letting Madge have her education free.

It was scarcely a surprise, but, all the same, it staggered me.
Housekeeping, since Father died, had not been an easy matter. Colin was
just the best brother that ever lived, and when we found how little
money there was for us, he had promptly left the University—he was in
his fifth year, too, my poor boy. And how he loved the work! Father’s
practice brought something that we invested, and Colin got a position in
an office. His salary was not much; he helped it out by working overtime
whenever he could get the chance, and he had two pupils whom he coached
for their second year. The big thing was that nothing must interfere
with Madge’s work.

Madge, you see, was the really brilliant one of the family: if we could
keep her at school for another two years, she had a very good chance of
a scholarship that would take her on to the University; and she had
passed so many music exams that it would have been a tragedy not to have
kept that up, too. I was not at all brilliant, and it seemed wonderful
luck when Madame Carr offered me a minor post, at a small salary, with
Madge’s education thrown in. Of course, we knew that Madge was likely to
be a very good advertisement for the school; still, it might not have
happened, and that tiny salary of mine made all the difference in our
finances. We managed, somehow—Colin and I; Madge could not be allowed
to do any of the housework, for she was only fifteen, and she was
working furiously. She fought us very hard about it, especially when we
insisted that she should stay in bed to breakfast on Sunday mornings,
but we were firm: so at last she gave in, more or less gracefully. And
then I would find her sitting up in bed, darning my stockings. As I told
her, it gave me quite a lot of extra work on Saturday night, hiding away
everything she might possibly find to mend.

There never was anyone like Colin. He used to get up at some unearthly
hour and do all the dirty work until it was time for him to rush to the
office: and at night he helped just as cheerfully again. He was always
cheerful; to see him washing-up you would have thought it was the thing
he loved best on earth. I hated to see him scrubbing and polishing, with
the long, slender hands that were just made for a doctor’s. Nobody could
imagine how good he was to me; and we managed as I said, somehow. But as
I looked at Madame Carr’s hard face I did not know how we could possibly
manage without my little salary.

She relented a little towards the end of that unpleasant interview, and
said she would think it over, and give me another chance; and she
advised me to have a good rest, eat nourishing food, and take a few
weeks in the hills. I suppose I must have looked pretty white, and she
didn’t want me to be ill there; at any rate, she said good-bye in a
hurry, wished me a Merry Christmas, and hustled me off. I have no very
clear memory of how I got down the hill to my train. But when I reached
home I was idiotic enough to faint right off, which frightened poor
Madge horribly, and sent her tearing to the nearest telephone for old
Dr. Grayson, who had known us all our lives.

Dr. Grayson came, and was very kind, though his remarks were curiously
like Madame’s. He sounded me thoroughly, asked me innumerable questions,
and finally told me there was nothing organically wrong—I was just
tired, and needed rest and change. “Country air,” he said cheerfully.
“You won’t get well in a back street in Prahran. Get away for a
month—it’s lucky that it is holiday time!” And he went off, airily
oblivious of the fact that he might just as well have ordered me a trip
to Mars.

It did not worry me much, although the bare idea of the country made me
homesick. One expects doctors to say things, but it is not necessary to
acquaint one’s brother with all they say. Unfortunately, however, the
old man met Colin on the doorstep, and must needs say it all over again
to him; and Colin came in with the old worry-look in his eyes that I
hated more than anything. I could hear him and Madge consulting in
stage-whispers, in the kitchenette—they might have known that no
variety of whisper can fail to be heard in a flat the size of ours, the
four rooms of which would easily have fitted into our old dining-room at
home. One could almost hear them adjusting the cheerful looks with which
they presently came in.

They wouldn’t let me do anything but lie on the sofa. Madge cooked the
chops in a determined fashion that made the whole flat smell of burned
fat; and Colin did everything else. After dinner was over—it was a
gruesome meal, at which Colin was laboriously funny all the time—I was
graciously allowed to sit in the kitchenette while they washed up, and
we held a council of war.

All the talking in the world could not alter the main fact. There were
no funds to pay for country holidays. Our friends—they were not so many
as in the old days—were all in Melbourne: our only relations were
distant ones, distant in every sense of the word, for they lived in
Queensland, and might as well have been in Timbuctoo, Madge sourly
remarked, for all the practical use they were. Discuss it as we might,
there was no earthly chance of following my prescription.

Poor old Colin looked more like thirty-three than twenty-three as he
scrubbed the gridiron with sand-soap.

“You needn’t worry yourselves a bit,” I told them. “All I need is to be
away from that horrid old school and Madame Carr, and I’ve got two whole
beautiful months. Doctors don’t know everything. I’ll go and sit in
Fawkner Park every day and look at the cows, and imagine I’m in
Gippsland!”

Colin groaned.

“I don’t see why we haven’t a country uncle or something,” said Madge
vaguely: “a red-faced old darling with a loving heart, and a red-roofed
farm, and a beautiful herd of cows—Wyandottes, don’t you call them? If
we were girls in books we’d have one, and we’d go and stay with him and
get hideously fat, and Doris would marry the nearest squatter!” She
heaved a sigh.

“Hang the squatter!” Colin remarked; “but I’d give something to see
either of you fat. I’m afraid you’re a vain dreamer, Madge. Put down
that dish-cloth and let me finish: I’m not going to have you showing up
at a music-lesson with hands like a charlady’s.”

Madge gave up the dish-cloth with reluctance. She was silent for quite
three minutes—an unusual thing for Madge.

“Look here,” she said at length, with a funny little air of
determination. “There’s one thing a whole lot more important than music,
and that’s Doris’s health. I wonder we didn’t think of it before!”

“Well, I’d hate to contradict you,” Colin answered, slightly puzzled.
“But I don’t see that this highly-original discovery of yours makes it
any the more necessary for you to scour saucepans while I’m about.”

“Oh, bother the saucepans!” said Madge impatiently. “I didn’t mean
that—though it’s more my work than yours to wash them, anyhow.
Washing-up isn’t a man’s job.”

“There isn’t any man-and-woman business about this establishment,” said
Colin firmly, “except that I’m boss. Just get that clearly in your young
mind. And what did you mean, if you meant anything?”

“Why, it’s as clear as daylight,” Madge announced. “Doris’s health is
more important than music: you admitted that yourself. Well, then, let’s
sell the piano!”

We looked at each other in blank amazement. Sell the piano! Madge’s
adored piano, Father’s last gift to her. Beneath her fingers it was a
very wonder-chest of magic and delight: all the fairies of laughter, all
the melody of rippling water, all the dearest dreams come true were
there when Madge played. Already old Ferrari, her Italian music-master,
talked to us of triumphs ahead—triumphs in a wider field than
Australia. And she sat on the kitchen table, swinging her legs, and
talked of selling her Bechstein! No wonder we gasped.

“Talk sense!” growled Colin, when his breath came back.

“It _is_ sense,” Madge retorted. “It’s worth ever so much money: a
cheaper piano would do me just as well to practise on. Even if I gave up
music altogether it would be worth it to give Doris a rest. She can’t go
on as she is—you can see that for yourself, Colin Earle!”

“I certainly can’t go on hearing you rave!” I said. “Why, when you’re a
second Paderewski you have got to be the prop of our declining years. It
would be just about the finish for Colin and me if your music were
interfered with, and——” at which point I suddenly found something hard
in my throat. I suppose it was because I was a bit tired, for we aren’t
a weepy family, but I just howled.

It alarmed Colin and Madge very badly. They patted me on the back and
assured me I shouldn’t be bothered in any way, and begged me to drink
some water: and when I managed to get hold of my voice again I seized
the opportunity to make Madge promise that she wouldn’t mention the word
“selling” in connection with the Bechstein again, unless we were really
at our last gasp. This accomplished, we dispatched her to practice, and
Colin returned to the washing-up.

Madge went, rather reluctantly, and Colin rubbed away at the saucepans,
with the furrow deepening between his brows. I was in the midst of
explaining clearly to him that I did not need a change, quite conscious
the while of my utter failure to convince him, when there was a clatter
in the passage, and Madge burst in, waving a newspaper, and incoherent
with excitement.

“What on earth is the matter with the kid?” Colin asked, a little
wearily. “Do go easy, Madge, and say what you want to, when you have
finished brandishing that paper in your lily hand. Meanwhile, get off my
sand-soap.” He rescued it, and turned a critical eye on the bottom of a
saucepan. We were more or less used to Madge’s outbreaks, but to-night
they seemed to be taking an acute form.

“It’s the very thing!” she cried, the words tumbling over each other.
“Just what we want, and it’s in this morning’s paper, so I don’t suppose
anyone has got it yet, and now she’ll really get fat, and you needn’t be
scornful, Colin, so there!”

“I’m not,” said Colin. “But I’d love to know what it’s all about.”

“Why, this advertisement,” said Madge excitedly. “Listen, you two:

    Lady requiring rest and change offered pleasant country home,
    few weeks, return light services. Teacher preferred. References
    exchanged.”

There followed an address in the south-west of Victoria.

“Oh, get out!” Colin said. “Doris doesn’t want to leave off work to
carry bricks!”

“But it says ‘light services,’ don’t you see?” protested Madge. “There
might not be much to do at all—not more than enough to keep her from
‘broodin’ on bein’ a dorg’! And she’d get rest and change. It says so.
And ‘references exchanged’—it’s so beautifully circumspect.” Our
youngest put on a quaint little air of being at least seventy-five.
“Personally, I think it was made for Doris!”

“You always had a sanguine mind,” was Colin’s comment on this attitude.
“What does the patient think about it?”

“I’m not a patient,” I contradicted. “But—I don’t know—it sounds as if
it might be all right, Colin. The ‘pleasant country home’ sounds
attractive. I wouldn’t mind any ordinary housework, if they were nice
people.”

“But they might be beasts,” said my brother pithily. “I don’t feel like
letting you risk it.” He paused, frowning. “Wish I knew which might be
the greater risk. There’s no doubt that you ought to get away from
here.”

“Well, write for particulars—and references,” suggested Madge. “No harm
in that, at all events.”

Colin pondered heavily.

“I believe the kid has made an illuminating remark,” he said at length.
“You don’t commit yourself by writing: perhaps it would be as well to
give it a trial. Though I wouldn’t dream of it for a moment if I saw the
remotest chance of sending you out of Melbourne in any other way, old
white-face!” He put his arm round my shoulders as we went into the
dining-room—which was very unusual for Colin, and affected me greatly.
I began to wonder was I consumptive or something, but cheered up on
remembering that the doctor had said I was “organically sound.”

I wrote my letter, enclosing a testimonial from Dr. Grayson, as to my
general worth; he was very kind, and drew so touching a picture of my
character and capabilities that I was quite certain in my own mind I
could never live up to it. I told him so, after he made me read it, but
he would not alter it, and threatened me with all kinds of pains and
penalties if I failed to prove every word he had said about me. After
that, it seemed scarcely prudent to ask Madame Carr for a letter—the
difference between my two “references” might have been too marked. Much
to Madge’s disgust, I insisted on telling my prospective employer that I
was only eighteen. This excited the gloomiest forebodings in my sister.

“You’ll queer your pitch altogether,” she said. “Eighteen’s awfully
young; ten to one she wants an old frump of thirty!”

“Well, if she does, she had better not have me,” said I. “I don’t want
her to expect some one old and staid, and then have heart-failure when
she sees my extreme youth.”

“Perhaps not,” Madge agreed reluctantly. “Everything depends on first
impressions, and I suppose heart-failure wouldn’t be the best possible
beginning. Anyhow, you might say that you’re five feet eight and not
shingled. That would give her a vision of some one impressive and
dignified.”

“Then she might get a different kind of shock,” I said. “But I don’t
think we need worry; you may be certain that she’ll have dozens and
dozens of applications, and it isn’t a bit likely that she will want me.
I’m going to forget all about it, as soon as the letter has gone—and
you can look out for other advertisements. It’s foolish to expect to
catch your fish the moment you throw in the first bait.”

“I’m not at all certain that I want to catch her,” said Colin gloomily.
“It’s not much fun to catch your fish and find you’ve hooked a shark!”




                               CHAPTER II
                          I BEGIN MY ADVENTURE


THE letter went, and we waited for a reply: Madge feverishly, I
apathetically, and Colin with a good deal of unhappy anticipation: he
hated the whole business. I know the poor boy made frantic efforts
during those days to earn some extra money, and he did manage to secure
some overtime from a fellow-clerk who did not want it. But of course it
was very little.

“If I could only rake up enough to send you for a fortnight to
Frankston!” he said one evening. “That would be absolute rest for you;
far better than slogging at alleged ‘light duties’ in some strange
house. I can’t stick the idea of your going away to work, Dor.”

“But I’m quite able to work—truly, old boy,” I told him. “It was only
the long hours in school that knocked me up, and the rush every
morning.”

“And that will be just the same after the holidays,” he growled. It was
quite amazing to hear Colin growl: he had always been so cheery over our
misfortunes, and had never once shown that he minded his own bitter
disappointment. “If only I could earn enough to keep you at home! I
believe it would be more sensible if I worked as a dock labourer: I’d
make more money then, and my own expenses would be hardly anything.”

“Yes, and then a strike would come along, and you would go out with your
Union, and we should be worse off than ever,” I said practically. “I
wish you wouldn’t talk such absolute nonsense. I only needed a rest,
which I’m getting now. Don’t I look ever so much fitter already?”

“You do look a bit less like a scarecrow,” he admitted. “But I know that
you’re not getting the nourishing things the doctor ordered, and you
ought to be right away from Melbourne. January in Prahran isn’t going to
be any sort of a picnic for you.”

“When I have finished that bottle of Burgundy you brought home yesterday
you won’t know me,” I said. “Just you wait, and don’t worry. Something
may turn up at any time; and meanwhile, I’m going to spend every day in
the Gardens or on the beach. Isn’t it lucky that it costs so little to
get to them?” But all my well-meant efforts failed to cheer him much. He
got into a way of looking at me, with his forehead all wrinkled with
worry, that made me positively ache for a favourable answer from the
advertisement lady. Without telling him or Madge, I went into Melbourne
and spent a weary afternoon going round the registry-offices in search
of a holiday job in the country. But no one seemed to have the least
desire for my services except as a “general.” There, indeed, I could
have had my pick of hungry employers, only I didn’t dare to meet
them—with the prospect of facing Colin afterwards.

Christmas came and went, and we gave up all idea of getting any answer
to my letter. It was a very small Christmas we had—just sandwiches and
a thermos of coffee in a quiet corner of the Botanical Gardens, watching
the dabchicks in the lake, and building all sorts of castles for the
future. We made a solemn compact that no one should worry during the
day, and Colin kept to it nobly and played the fool all the time. So it
was really a very jolly Christmas, and we all felt better for it.

On Boxing Day Colin wanted to spring-clean the flat; but at that point
Madge and I felt we must put our collective feet down, and we did. So we
packed the basket again, and went to one of the nearer beaches—one
where it is still possible to find quiet corners in the scrub: and we
bathed and picknicked, and enjoyed watching Colin smoke the cigarettes
we had given him for Christmas—after Father died he had given up
smoking, declaring that it made his head ache. It was beautiful to see
how peaceful he looked. Altogether, the Earle family agreed that it was
probable that a good many people had not enjoyed the holidays as much as
we did.

And the next day came the answer to my letter—just as we had given up
all hope.

It arrived by the evening post, which was late. Colin had come home, and
we knew what it was by the way Madge came clattering along the corridor
and burst into the flat. She waved a thick white envelope round her
head.

“It’s her!” she shouted. “I know it is!”

“I wish Madame could hear you,” I said. “Is it for me?”

“Of course it is. Doesn’t it look opulent and splendid! Hurry up and
open it, Doris, or I’ll explode!”

My fingers were a little shaky as I tore open the envelope and read the
letter aloud:

    “DEAR MISS EARLE,—

    “I have received several letters in answer to my advertisement,
    but, after consideration, yours seems the most suitable. I
    require a lady in my home for a few weeks, to take off my hands
    some of the duties of caring for a house-party, and to assist in
    looking after my younger children during the absence of their
    governess, who is away on holiday. As the employment is light, I
    offer a salary of £1 per week, and would pay your travelling
    expenses to and from Melbourne.

    “I have hesitated in accepting your application because you are
    very young.”

“I _told_ you so!” breathed Madge disgustedly.

    “However, your testimonial is excellent; and the teaching
    experience to which it alludes should enable you to control the
    children. I trust that you are firm and tactful.”

“Firm and tactful!—I like that!” uttered Colin. “Will she let you
control the little beasts with a stick?”

    “Be quiet—there’s more yet. ‘My house is large, and I keep
    three maids. A dinner-dress is advisable, should you have one.
    If you decide to come to me, I should like you to leave
    Melbourne on the second of January.’” And she was mine
    faithfully, Marie McNab.

“Born—or christened, rather—plain Mary, I’ll bet,” was Colin’s
comment. “What’s the enclosure?”

The enclosure was the “references exchanged”: a vague sort of assurance
from the clergyman in Wootong that Mrs. McNab of “The Towers” was all
that she ought to be. Colin remarked that it seemed to deal more with
her religious beliefs than her ideas on feeding-up tired assistants,
which latter was the point on which he was more curious; but he supposed
it was all right. And then he and Madge sat and looked at me, waiting
for me to speak.

“I think I’ll go,” I said, when the silence was becoming oppressive.
“There can be no harm in trying—and, thank goodness, it doesn’t cost
anything.”

“The old cat might have offered you a bit more screw,” said Madge, with
that extreme elegance of diction which marks the college girl.
“Apparently she’s wading in wealth—three maids, and lives in Towers,
and has a crest as big as your head on her notepaper. Flamboyant
display, I call it. How about striking for more pay after you get
there?”

“Not done,” said Colin. “Doris doesn’t belong to a Union. I say, Dor,
have you got enough clothes for living in Towers?”

“Oh, they’ll do, I think,” I answered; “there’s some advantage of being
in half-mourning. I shall have to fix up a few little things, but not
much. Shoes are the worst; I do need a new pair. My brown ones are put
away; old Hoxon can stain them black for me.”

Madge sighed.

“I hate blacked-up brown,” she said. “And they were such pretty shoes,
Dor.”

“I can get new ones when you are a learned professor,” I told her,
laughing. “And you’ll be that in a year or two, if you leave off slang.
Gloves are an item—thank goodness we take the same size, and I can
borrow from you!”

Madge echoed my gratitude. She hated gloves.

“And you may have my big hat,” she said—“it’s just the sort of hat you
may need in the country. And my dressing-jacket; I’ll bet that will
impress the three maids!”

“My dear, I’m not going to rob you in that wholesale fashion,” I said.
“Also, I don’t contemplate parading before the staff in my
dressing-jacket—in the servants’ hall, I suppose. Possibly there is a
chauffeur, too!”

“Well, he’d love it,” Madge grinned. “All chauffeurs have an eye for
clothes; and it’s such a pretty blue. I wish you could wear it in to
dinner. What _will_ you wear for dinner, by the way, my child?”

“I’ll have to get out my old lace frock. It’s quite good, and I can make
it look all right with a little touching-up. Then there’s my black
_crêpe de Chine_: so suitable and dowagerish. Mrs. McNab will approve of
it, I’m sure. I know I could control the children well in black _crêpe
de Chine_!”

In which I spoke without knowing the Towers children. The words were to
come back to me later.

“What a mercy we’ve got decent luggage!” said Madge. “I’d hate you to
face battlemented Towers and proud chauffeurs with shabby suitcases.”

I echoed her thankfulness. Father had brought us up to think that there
was nothing like leather; our trunks, even as the Bechstein piano, were
among the few relics of a past in which money had never seemed to be a
consideration. It was comforting to think that one need not face the
unknown McNabs with a dress-basket.

Then Colin spoke.

“You’ve made up your mind to go, then, Doris?”

I looked at him. I knew how he hated it all.

“Don’t you think it is best, old boy?”

“Oh, I suppose so,” he said half savagely. He got up, looking for his
hat. Presently the door of the flat banged behind him.

I was glad when the next few days were over. They went with a rush, for
I was terribly busy: even if you are in half-mourning, and you think
your clothes are pretty well in order, you are sure to find heaps to do
when it comes to going away. Madge helped me like an angel; worked early
and late, took all the housekeeping off my shoulders, and found time to
do ever so many bits of mending. Between us, we just managed enough
clothes; as Madge said, it was very fortunate that her only wish was to
live the simple life during the holidays; but I felt horribly mean to
take her things. Still, I did not see what else to do. One must be clad.

We puzzled a good deal over what I should and should not take. Music had
not been mentioned by Mrs. McNab, but it seemed as well to put in a
little; and I found corners for a few of my best-beloved books, in case
the Towers should be barren in that respect. I looked longingly at my
golf-clubs, not used for eighteen months, with all their lovely heads
tied up in oily flannel. But I decided they were not in keeping with my
situation. I had an instinctive belief that my light duties would not
include golf. My tennis racket went in—but well at the bottom of my
trunk, where I thought it highly probable it would remain throughout my
stay at The Towers.

I packed on New Year’s night, with Colin and Madge both sitting on my
bed, offering flippant advice. Colin had spoken very little since Mrs.
McNab’s letter had come, and I knew he was making a violent effort to
“buck up.” Not that he had not always been a dear; but he could not bear
the idea of my going to strangers in such a way. He had come home on New
Year’s Eve with the loveliest pair of shoes for me. I don’t know how he
had managed to buy them—and they were such good ones, too, the very
sort my soul loved. I nearly cried when he gave them to me; and he
patted me on the back, very hard. He made me go to bed as soon as the
packing was over, and Madge brewed cocoa and made toast, with a
spendthrift lavishness of butter. We all had a midnight supper on my
bed. I often thought of that light-hearted supper in the days that
followed. It was very cheerful, and we drank the health of everybody,
including Mrs. McNab and the cat.

It was all a rush next morning. The carrier came very early for my
trunk, and I rushed round making final preparations and packing my
little suit-case. There seemed ever so much to say at the last moment.
Madge was quite cross with me because I stopped when I was putting on my
hat to tell her how to thicken soup. Just as I was ready to make a dash
for the train, to my joy Colin appeared—he had got an hour off from the
office, and had raced home to carry my things for me and save me any
trouble. They put me into the train at Spencer Street, and Colin
recklessly flung magazines and sweets into my lap. I have always said
that few could adorn riches better than Colin—his ideas are so
comfortable.

Then they hugged me vigorously, and the guard shouted “Stand clear!” and
the train started.

Colin ran alongside the window as long as he could.

“Mind—you’re to come back at once if it isn’t all right,” he said
authoritatively. “You understand, Doris?” I nodded—I couldn’t speak.
Then the porter yelled angrily at Colin, and he dropped back. I leaned
out until the train went round the curve, while he and Madge stood
waving on the platform.

I cried a little at first—I couldn’t help it. I had never been away by
myself before; it was so suddenly lonely, and they had been such dears
to me. It was not pleasant, either, to picture little Madge going back
to the flat by herself, to tidy up; then to spend all the afternoon,
until Colin came home, over dull old lesson-books. And I knew Colin
would miss me: we were such chums. I was missing him horribly already.

After awhile I cheered up. The thing had to be, and I might as well make
the best of it, and remember that my whole duty in life, according to
Madge, was to get fat. The country was pretty, too: it had been a wet
season, and all the paddocks were green and fresh, and the cattle and
sheep looked beautiful. Fate had made Father a doctor, but he had always
said that his heart lay in farming, and I had inherited his tastes. To
Colin and Madge a bullock was merely something that produced steak, but
to me it was a thing of beauty. It was so long since I had been for any
kind of a journey that the mere travelling was a pleasure. Mrs. McNab
had sent money for a first-class fare, which we all thought very decent
of her: she had explained in a stiff little note that she did not
approve of young girls travelling alone second-class. Colin had snorted,
remarking that he had never had the slightest intention of letting me do
so: but it was decent, all the same. I sent her a brainwave of thanks as
I leaned back in comfort, glad to rest after the racket of the last few
days. I did not even want to read my magazines, though a new magazine
was unfamiliar enough to us, nowadays, to be a treat. It was delightful
to watch the country, to do nothing, to enjoy the luxury of having the
compartment to myself.

That lasted for nearly half the journey. Then, just as the engine
whistled and the train began to move slowly out of a little station, a
porter flung open the door hurriedly, and some one dashed in, stumbling
over my feet, and distributing golf-clubs, fishing-rods, and other loose
impedimenta about the carriage. The porter hurled through the window
other articles—a stick, a kit-bag, an overcoat; and the new-comer,
leaning out, tossed him something that rattled loudly on the platform.
Then he sat down and panted.




                              CHAPTER III
                            I MAKE A FRIEND


‟I BEG your pardon for tumbling over you in such a way,” he said.
“Awfully rude of me—but I hadn’t time to think. The car went wrong, and
I never thought we’d catch the train—had to sprint the last two hundred
yards. I do hope I didn’t hurt you?”

He was a tall young man with the nicest ugly face I had ever seen. His
hair was red, and he was liberally freckled: he had a nondescript nose,
a mouth of large proportions, and quite good blue eyes. He seemed to
hang together loosely. There was something so friendly about his face
that I found myself answering his smile almost as if he were Colin.

“No, you didn’t hurt me,” I told him. “I would have moved out of the way
if I hadn’t been dreaming—but I had no time.”

“I should think you hadn’t!” he said, laughing. “It was the most
spectacular entry I ever made. But I’d have hated to miss the train.”

I murmured something vaguely polite, and relapsed into silence, bearing
in mind the fact that well-brought-up young persons do not talk in
railway carriages to strange men, even if the said men have fallen
violently over their feet. My fellow-traveller became silent, too,
though I felt him glance at me occasionally. The placid content which
had seemed to fill the carriage was gone, and I began to feel tired. I
read a magazine, wishing the journey would end.

Presently we stopped in a large station, and the red-haired man
disappeared. He was back in a few moments, looking a little sheepish, as
one who is afraid of his reception.

“I’ve brought you a cup of tea,” he said—“please don’t mind. You look
awfully tired, and you’ve a long way to go yet. I read the address on
your suit-case.” He cast a glance towards the rack, and held out the cup
meekly.

My training in etiquette had not covered this emergency, and I
hesitated. But he was so boyish and friendly—just as Colin would have
been—and so evidently afraid of being snubbed, that I couldn’t hurt
him; and also I wanted the tea very badly. It was quite good tea, too,
and the scone that accompanied it was a really superior one.

I felt much better when I had finished, and my fellow-traveller came
back for my cup, which he presented to a porter, for the train was about
to start.

“Girls are so various,” said he, sitting down opposite me, with his
friendly smile. “Some would hate you to offer them tea, and some would
hate you not to, and some would be just nice about it. I felt certain
you belonged to the third lot! It’s such a beastly long way to Wootong,
too: I’m going there myself, so I suppose that might be considered a
sort of introduction. And you looked just about knocked-up. Know Wootong
well?”

“I’ve never been there,” I said. “I’m going to a place called The
Towers.”

“What!—the McNabs?” exclaimed my companion. “But how ripping!—I’m
going there myself. I’m Dick Atherton; Harry McNab and I share rooms at
Trinity. I don’t think I’ve met you there before, have I? No, of course,
what an ass I am: you said it was your first visit.”

“I’m hardly a visitor,” I said. It wasn’t easy, but I thought it best to
have things on a straight footing. “I’m . . .” It came to me suddenly
that I hardly knew _what_ I was. “I’m—a sort of governess, I suppose.
I’m going up, just for the holidays, to help Mrs. McNab.”

“What a shame!” said Mr. Atherton promptly—apparently, before taking
thought. He pulled himself up, reddening. “At least—you know what I
mean. Those kids ought to have some one about six feet, and weighing
quite twelve stone, to keep them in order. They’re outlaws. Anyway, I’m
sure to see an awful lot of you, if you’ll let me. Won’t you tell me
what to call you?”

I told him, and we chatted on cheerfully. He was the most transparent
person possible, and though I am not considered astute—by Colin and
Madge, who should know—it was quite easy to find out from him a good
deal about my new post. I inferred that my appearance might be a shock
to Mrs. McNab, whose previous assistants had been more of the type
graphically depicted by Mr. Atherton—he referred to them simply as “the
cats.” Also, the children seemed to be something of a handful. There
were two, a boy and a girl, besides the brother at Trinity—and a
grown-up sister. It was only when I angled for information on the
subject of Mrs. McNab that my companion evaded the hook.

“She writes, you know,” he said, vaguely. I said I hadn’t known, and
looked for further particulars.

“’Fraid I haven’t read any of her books,” said the boy. “I suppose I
should, as I go to stay there: but I’m not much of a chap for reading,
unless it’s American yarns—you know, cowboy stuff. I can tackle those:
but Mrs. McNab’s would be a bit beyond me. I tried an article of hers
once, in a magazine my sister had, but even a wet towel round my head
couldn’t make it anything but Greek to me. And the Prof. could tell you
how much good I am at Greek!”

“She writes real books, then?” I asked, greatly thrilled. I had never
met anyone who actually wrote books, and in my innocence it seemed to me
that authors must be wholly wonderful.

“Oh, rather! She’s ‘Julia Smale,’ you see. Ever heard of her?”

I had—in a vague way: had even encountered a book by “Julia Smale,”
lent me by a fellow-teacher at Madame Carr’s, who had passed it on to me
with the remark that if I could make head or tail of it, it was more
than she had been able to do. I had found it a novel of the severe type,
full of reflections that were far too deep for me. With a sigh for
having wasted an opportunity that might be useful, I remembered that I
had not finished it. How I wished that I had done so! It would have been
such an excellent introduction to my employer, I thought, if I could
have lightly led the conversation to this masterpiece in the first
half-hour at The Towers. Now, I could only hope that she would never
mention it.

Mr. Atherton nodded sympathetically as I confided this to him.

“I’m blessed if I know anyone who does read them,” he said. “They may be
the sort of thing the Americans like: she publishes in America, you
know. Curious people, the Yanks: you wouldn’t think that the nation that
can produce a real good yarn like ‘The Six-Gun Tenderfoot’ would open
its heart to ‘Julia Smale.’ I’m quite sure Harry and Beryl—that’s her
daughter—don’t read her works. Certainly, I’ll say for her she doesn’t
seem to expect anyone to. She locks herself up alone to write, and
nobody dares to disturb her, but she doesn’t talk much about the work.
Not like a Johnny I knew who wrote a book; he used to wander down
Collins Street with it in his hand, and asked every soul he knew if
they’d read it. Very trying, because it was awful bosh, and nobody had.
Mrs. McNab isn’t like that, thank goodness!”

“And Mr. McNab?” I asked.

“Oh, he’s a nice old chap. Not so old, either, when I come to think of
it: I believe they were married very young. A bit hard, they say, but a
good sort. He’s away: sailed for England last month, on a year’s trip.”

I did not like to ask any more questions, so the conversation switched
on to something else, and the time went by quite quickly. The train was
a slow one, crawling along in a leisurely fashion and stopping for
lengthy periods at all the little stations; it would have been a dull
journey alone, and I was glad of my cheery red-haired companion. By the
time we reached Wootong we were quite old friends; and any feeling that
I might have had about the informality of our introduction to each other
was completely dissolved by the discovery that he had a wholesome
reverence for Colin’s reputation in athletics, which was apparently a
sort of College tradition. When Mr. Atherton found that I was “the”
Earle’s sister he gazed at me with a reverence which I fear had never
been excited by Mrs. McNab, even in her most literary moments. It was
almost embarrassing, but not unpleasing: and we talked of Colin and his
school and college record until we felt that we had known each other for
years. I didn’t know whether to be glad or sorry when, after a long run,
the train slackened speed, and Mr. Atherton began hurriedly to collect
our luggage, remarking, “By George, we’re nearly in!” And a moment later
I was standing, a little forlornly, on the Wootong platform.

Two girls were waiting, both plump and pretty, and very smart—perhaps a
shade too smart for the occasion, but very well turned-out. They greeted
my companion joyfully, and there was a little babel of chatter, while I
stood apart, hardly knowing what to do. Then I heard one of the girls
break off suddenly.

“We’ve got to collect one of Mother’s cats,” she said, not lowering her
voice at all. “Seen anything of her, Dicky? She was to come on this
train.”

Mr. Atherton turned as red as his hair. I had already done so.

“S-sh!” he said. “Steady, Beryl—she’ll hear you.” Apparently he thought
I should not hear him, but there wasn’t any escaping his voice. He came
over to me, and conducted me across the platform. “This is Miss Earle,
whom you are to collect,” he told her. “Miss Beryl McNab, Miss
Earle—and Miss Guest.”

Neither girl proffered a hand, and I was wildly thankful for the impulse
that had kept mine by my side. Instead, there was blank amazement on
their faces.

“Then you’ve known each other before?” Beryl McNab said.

“No—I introduced myself on the way down,” explained Mr. Atherton
hurriedly. “Tumbled into Miss Earle’s compartment, and fell violently
over her; and then I found she was coming here. It was great luck for
me.”

“Quite so,” said the elder girl; and there was something in her tone
that made me shrivel. “I needn’t ask if you had a pleasant journey, Miss
Earle. If you’re ready, we can start: the cart will bring your luggage.”
We all went out to a big blue motor, manned by a chauffeur who came up
to all Madge’s forecasts; and whisked away along a winding road fringed
with poplar-trees and hawthorn hedges.

Mr. Atherton made gallant attempts to include me in the conversation,
but there was a weight on my spirits, and I gave him back monosyllables:
I hope they were polite ones. The girls did not worry about me at all.
They chatted in a disjointed fashion, but I was quite ignored. This, I
realized, was the proper status of “a cat” at The Towers; probably a
shade more marked in my case, because I was a young cat, and had sinned.
Deeply did I regret that a friend of the family should have hurtled into
my carriage: bitterly I repented that welcome cup of tea. It seemed
ages, though it was really less than ten minutes, before we turned into
a big paddock, where, half a mile ahead, a grey house showed among the
box-trees fringing a hill.

We skimmed up a long drive, skirted a wide lawn where several people
were having tea under a big oak, and stopped before the hall-door. A
short, thick-set youth in a Trinity blazer, who was tormenting a
fox-terrier on the veranda, uttered a shout of welcome and precipitated
himself upon Mr. Atherton, who thumped him affectionately on the back.
Then there came racing through the hall a boy and girl of twelve and
fourteen, ridiculously alike; and beneath their joyful onslaught the
guest was temporarily submerged. Nobody took the slightest notice of me
until a tall angular woman in a tailor-made frock came striding along
the veranda, and, after greeting her son’s friend, glanced inquiringly
in my direction.

“Oh—this is Miss Earle, Mother,” Beryl McNab said. “She and Dicky came
down together.”

There was evident surprise in my employer’s face as she looked me over.
She gave me a limp hand.

“Then you and Mr. Atherton have met before?” she asked.

Dicky Atherton rushed into his explanation, which sounded, I must admit,
fairly unconvincing. I was conscious of a distinct drop in the
temperature: certainly Mrs. McNab’s voice had frozen perceptibly when
she spoke again.

“How curious!” she said: I had not imagined that two words could make
one feel so small and young. “You have met my daughter, of course: this
is my eldest son, and Judith and Jack are your especial charges.”

The college youth favoured me with a long stare, and the boy and girl
with a short one. Then Judith smiled with exceeding sweetness and put
out her hand.

“I wish you luck!” she said solemnly.

There was a general ripple of laughter.

“Miss Earle will need all the luck she can get if she’s to manage you
two imps,” said Harry McNab, shaking hands. “You might as well realize,
Miss Earle, that it can’t be done: at least no one has succeeded yet in
making them decent members of society.”

Mrs. McNab interposed.

“Don’t talk nonsense, Harry,” she said, severely. “If you will come with
me, Miss Earle, I will show you your room.” She led the way into the
house, and I followed meekly, my heart in my shoes.

A huge square hall, furnished as a sitting-room, opened at one end into
a conservatory. From one corner ascended a splendidly-carved staircase,
with wide, shallow steps, which formed, above, a gallery that ran round
two sides of the hall. Up this I trailed at my employer’s heels, and,
passing down a softly-carpeted passage, found myself in a room at the
end; small, but pleasant enough, with a large window overlooking the
back premises and part of the garden. Beyond the back yard came a
stretch of lightly-timbered paddock, which ended abruptly in what, I
found later on, was a steep descent to the beach. The shore itself was
hidden from the house by the edge of the cliff: but further out showed
the deep-blue line of the sea, broken by curving headlands that formed
the bay near which The Towers stood. It was all beautiful; in any other
circumstances I should have been wildly happy to be in such a place. But
as it was, I longed for the little back street in Prahran!

Mrs. McNab was speaking in her cool, hard voice.

“This is your room, Miss Earle. Judith’s is next door, and Jack’s just
across the passage. Judith will show you the schoolroom, which will be
your sitting-room, later on. You will generally have your evening meal
there with the children. To-morrow I will take you over the house and
explain your duties to you. You are probably tired after your journey; I
will send you up some tea, and then you had better rest until the
evening.”

The words were kind enough, but the voice would have chilled anyone. I
stammered out something in the way of thanks, and Mrs. McNab went out,
her firm tread sounding briskly along the passage. Presently a neat maid
brought in a tray and put it down with a long stare at me—a stare
compounded equally of superciliousness and curiosity; and I was left
alone in my new home.




[Illustration: “‘I’ve brought you a cup of tea,’ he said—
 ‘please don’t mind. You look awfully tired.’”
 _The Tower Rooms_]                         [_Page 30_]




                               CHAPTER IV
                         I DISCOVER MANY THINGS


TWO days later I had settled down fairly well to life at The Towers.

My responsibilities were varied. It was mine to superintend the early
toilet of Judith and Jack: mine to keep a watchful eye on the vagaries
of the parlourmaid, who was given to dreaming when laying the table, and
possessed a disregard, curious in one of her calling, for the placing of
correct spoons and forks. She admitted her limitations, but nevertheless
deeply resented my existence. I arranged flowers in all the
sitting-rooms, gave out linen, prepared picnic luncheons and teas, cut
sandwiches, helped to pick fruit, saw that trains were met whenever
necessary, wrote letters for Mrs. McNab, played accompaniments or
dance-music when desired, did odd jobs of mending, and, in short, was
required to be always on hand and never in evidence. Incidentally and
invariably, there were Judith and Jack.

They were a curious pair, alike in appearance and character; untamed
young savages in many ways, but with a kind of rough honesty that did
much to redeem their pranks. I used to wonder what was their attitude
towards their father; it would have been a comfort to think that they
paid him any reverence, for it was a quality conspicuously lacking in
their dealings with anyone else. Their mother made spasmodic efforts to
control them, generally ending with a resigned shrug and a sigh. For the
greater part of each day they pursued their own sweet will, unchecked.
Never had I met two youngsters so urgently needing the common sense
discipline of a good boarding-school, and it rejoiced me to learn that
after the holidays this was to be their portion; since their governess,
after leaving for her holidays, had decided that she was not equal to
the task of facing them again, and had written to resign her position.
Judy and Jack rejoiced openly. I inferred, indeed, that they had
deliberately laboured towards this end.

That the pair had a reputation for evil ways, and were determined to
uphold it, was plain to me from my first evening in the house. They
regarded every one as fair game: but the “holiday governess” was their
especial prey, and, so far as I could gather, their treatment of the
species partook of the nature of vivisection. Ostensibly, we were
supposed to be a good deal together, for I found that I was invariably
expected to know where they were; but as my duties kept me busy for the
greater part of the day, and the children were wont to follow their own
devices, we seldom foregathered much before afternoon tea, for which
function I wildly endeavoured to produce them seemly clad. We dined
together in the schoolroom at night, and afterwards descended decorously
to the drawing-room for an hour—if they did not give me the slip; and
Mrs. McNab had conveyed to me that there was no need for me to sit up
after their bed-time. It was this considerate hint that made me realize
what my employer meant by “rest and change.”

On that first evening I had my introduction to the merry characteristics
of Judy and Jack. Mrs. McNab had excused us from attendance in the
drawing-room, at which they had uttered yells of joy, forthwith racing
down the kitchen stairs to parts unknown. It did not seem worth while to
follow them, so I sat in the schoolroom, writing a letter to Colin and
Madge. I spread myself on description in that letter: Madge told me
later on that my eye for scenery had amazed them both. I hoped the
letter sounded more cheerful than I felt. But the writing of it made me
more homesick than ever, and when I had finished there seemed nothing
worth doing except to go to bed.

The sight of my room brought me up all standing. My luggage had come up
too late for me to do more than begin unpacking: and Judy and Jack had
been before me to complete the task. The engaging pair had literally
“made hay” of my possessions. My trunk stood empty, its contents
littering the floor; the bedposts were dressed in my raiment and crowned
with my hats, my shoes were knotted and buckled together in a wild heap
on the bed. On the table stood my three photographs—Father, Colin, and
Madge; each turned upside down in its frame. There was no actual damage:
merely everything that an impish ingenuity could suggest. It was
apparent that they had enjoyed themselves very much.

I was very tired, and my first impulse was of wild wrath, followed
swiftly by an almost uncontrollable desire to cry. Happily, I had
sufficient backbone left to check myself. I walked across the room,
rescued a petticoat which fluttered, flag-wise, from the window,
attached to my umbrella, and began to reverse the photographs. As I did
so, I heard a low giggle at the door.

“Come in,” I said politely. “Don’t be frightened.”

There was a moment’s pause, a whispered colloquy, and two flushed faces
appeared.

“We’re not frightened,” said Judy defiantly.

“So glad—why should you be?” I asked cheerfully. “Sit down, won’t
you?—if you can find a space.” I took up Colin’s outraged photograph
and adjusted it with fingers that itched for a cane, and for power to
use it.

“That your young man, Miss Earle?” Jack asked, nudging Judy.

“That is my brother,” I said.

“Oh! What does he do?”

“He does a good many things,” I answered. “He used to be pretty good at
athletics at school and Trinity.”

“I say!—was your brother at Trinity? Why, Harry’s there!”

“He was,” I said. “He was a medical student when this was taken.”

Sudden comprehension lit Judy’s face.

“Not Earle who was captain of the university football team?”

“Yes.”

“By Jupiter!” Jack uttered. “Why, I’ve read about him—he’s the chap
they call ‘the record-breaker.’ My word, I’d like to know him!”

“Would you?” I remarked pleasantly, polishing Colin’s photograph
diligently with my handkerchief. “Perhaps you and he wouldn’t agree very
well if you did meet; there are some things my brother would call
‘beastly bad form.’ He is rather particular.”

There was dead silence, and my visitors turned very red. Then Jack
mumbled something about helping me to tidy up, and the pair fell upon my
property. Jack disentangled my shoes while Judy unclothed the bedposts:
together they crawled upon the floor picking up stockings and
handkerchiefs, and laying them in seemly piles; and I sat in the one
chair the room boasted and polished Colin’s photograph. It was
excessively bright when my pupils said good night shamefacedly, and
departed, leaving order where there had been chaos. So I kissed it, and
went to bed. We met next morning as though nothing had occurred.

I scored again the following evening, through sheer luck, which sent me
before bed-time to my room, in search of a handkerchief. It was only
chance that showed me the pillow looking suspiciously dark as I turned
off the electric light. I switched it back, and held an inspection.
Pepper.

I knew a little more of my pupils now, and realized that ordinary
methods did not prevail with them. Jack’s room was across the passage: I
carried the peppered pillow there, and carefully shook its load upon the
one destined to receive his innocent head. Then I went downstairs and
played accompaniments for Harry McNab, who had less voice than anyone I
ever met.

The subsequent developments were all that I could have wished. The
children hurried to bed, so that they might listen happily to what might
follow; and the extinguishing of Jack’s light was succeeded by
protracted and agonized sneezing, interspersed by anxious questioning
from Judy, who dashed, pyjama-clad, to investigate her ally’s distress.
Some of the pepper appeared to come her way as well, for presently she
joined uncontrollably in the sneezing exercise. It was pleasant hearing.
When it abated, smothered sounds of laughter followed.

The pair were good sportsmen. They greeted me at breakfast next day with
a distinct twinkle, and—especially on Jack’s part—with an access of
respect that was highly gratifying. We went for a walk that day, and I
improved their young minds with an eloquent discourse on the early trade
from the Spice Islands. They received it meekly.

As for The Towers, in any other circumstances, to be in such a place
would have been a sheer delight. The house itself was square and
massive, with two jutting wings. It was built of grey stone, and crowned
by a square tower, round the upper part of which ran a small balcony.
Originally, I learned, the name had been The Tower House, but local
usage had shortened it to The Towers, in defiance of facts. All the
rooms were large and lofty, and there were wide corridors, while a very
broad veranda ran round three sides of the building. It stood in a
glorious garden, with two tennis-courts, beyond which stretched a deep
belt of shrubbery. Then came a tree-dotted paddock, half a mile wide
between the Wootong road and the house; while at the back there was but
three minutes’ walk to the sea.

Such a coast! Porpoise Bay, which appeared to be the special property of
the McNabs, was a smooth stretch of blue water, shut in by curving
headlands: wide enough for boating and sailing, but scarcely ever rough.
The shore sloped gently down from low hummocks near the house, making
bathing both safe and perfect. A stoutly-built jetty ran out into the
water, ending in a diving-board; and there were a dressing-shed,
subdivided into half a dozen cubicles, and a boat-house with room for a
powerful motor-launch and a twenty-foot yacht, besides several
rowing-boats.

The McNabs were as nearly amphibious as a family could be. All, even
Mrs. McNab, swam and dived like the porpoises that gave their bay its
name. I was thankful that Father and Colin had seen to it that I was
fairly useful in the water, but I wasn’t in the same class with the
McNabs. It seemed to be a family tradition that each child was cast into
the sea as soon as it could walk, and after that, took care of itself.
Weather made no difference to them; be the morning never so rough and
cold they all might be seen careering over the paddock towards the sea,
clad in bathing-suits. Mrs. McNab was the only one who troubled to add
to this attire, and on hot mornings she usually carried her Turkish
towelling dressing-gown, a confection of striped purple-and-white, over
her arm. My employer was, in the main, a severe lady; to see her long,
thin legs twinkling across the back paddock filled me with mingled
emotions.

Not alone in the early mornings did the McNabs bathe: at all times of
the day, and even late at night, they seemed to feel the sea calling
them, and forthwith fled to the shore. Visitors accompanied them or not,
as they chose. I realized, early in my stay, that to shirk bathing would
be a sure passport to the contempt of Judy and Jack, and accordingly I
swam with a fervour little short of theirs, though I realized that I
could never attain to their finished perfection in the water. They were
indeed sea-urchins.

Mrs. McNab took me over most of the house on the morning after my
arrival, and explained, in a vague way, what my duties were to be.

“You may have heard,” she remarked, “that I am a writer.”

I admitted that this was not news to me—wildly hoping that she would
not cross-question me as to my acquaintance with her works. Fortunately,
this did not seem to occur to her. Probably she thought—rightly—that I
should not understand them.

“My work means a great deal to me,” she went on. “Not from the point of
money-making: I write for the few. Australia does not understand me; in
America, where I hope to go next year, when Judith and Jack are at
school, I have my own following. That matters little: but what I wish
you to realize, Miss Earle, is, that when I am writing I must not be
disturbed.”

“Of course,” I murmured, much awed.

“Quiet—absolute quiet—is essential to me,” she went on. “My thoughts
go to the winds if I am rudely interrupted by household matters. Rarely
do my servants comprehend this. I had a cook who would break in upon me
at critical moments to inform me that the fish had not come, or to
demand whether I would have colly or cabbage prepared for dinner. Such
brutal intrusions may easily destroy the effects of hours of thought.”

I made sympathetic noises.

“Colly—or cabbage!” she murmured. Her hard face was suddenly dreamy.
“Just as the fleeting inspiration allowed itself to be almost captured!
Even the voices of my children may be destructive to my finest efforts:
the ringing of a telephone bell, the sound of visitors arriving, the
impact of tennis-balls against rackets—all the noises of the outer
world torture my nerves in those hours when my work claims me. And yet,
one cannot expect one’s young people to be subdued and gentle. That
would not be either right or natural. I realized long ago that the only
thing for me was to withdraw.”

“Yes?” I murmured.

“In most houses, to withdraw oneself is not easy,” said Mrs. McNab.
“Here, however, the architecture of the house has lent itself to my aid.
I will show you my sanctum: the part of The Towers in which I have my
real being.”

We had been exploring the linen-press and pantry before the opening of
this solemn subject; I had listened with a mind already striving to
recollect the differences between the piles of best and second-best
sheets. Now my employer turned and led the way up a narrow winding
staircase that led from the kitchen regions to the upper floor. Here it
grew even narrower, I followed her as it curved upward, and presently it
ended on a small landing from which one door opened, screened by a heavy
green curtain.

“These are the Tower rooms,” Mrs. McNab said. “No one enters this door
without my permission; no one, except on some very urgent matter,
ascends to this landing. Here, and nowhere else, I can have the quiet
which is necessary to my work.”

She opened the door, using a latch-key, and waved me into a room about
twelve feet square. It was thickly carpeted and very simply furnished;
there were a small heavy table, a chesterfield couch and a big
easy-chair, and, in a corner, a big roll-top writing desk. Low,
well-filled book-cases ran round the walls, which were broken on all
four sides by long and narrow windows. In another corner a tiny
staircase, little more than a ladder, gave access to the upper part of
the tower.

“Sit down,” said Mrs. McNab. “This is the sanctum, Miss Earle, and here
I am supposed to be proof against all invasion. My husband had these
rooms fitted up just as I desired them: my study as you see it, and
above, a tiny bedroom and a bathroom. The balcony opens from the
bedroom, and on hot nights I can work there if I choose. Sometimes I
retire here for days together, the housemaid placing meals at stated
intervals upon the table on the landing. In hot-water plates.”

“It’s a lovely place,” I said. “I don’t wonder you love to be here
alone, Mrs. McNab. It must help work wonderfully.”

She gave me a smile that was almost genial.

“I see you have comprehension,” she said approvingly. “But only a writer
could fully understand how dear, how precious is my solitude. It is your
chief duty, Miss Earle, to see that that solitude is not invaded.”

“I’ll do my very best,” I said. I didn’t know much about writing books,
but any girl who had ever swotted for a Senior Public exam. could
realize the peace and bliss of that silent room. There was nothing fussy
in it: nothing to distract the eye. The walls, bare save for the low
bookshelves, were tinted a deep cream that showed spotless against the
glowing brown of the woodwork; the deep recesses of the four windows
were guiltless of curtains; there were no photographs, no ornaments, no
draperies. The table bore a cigarette-box of dull oak, and a bronze
ash-tray, plain, like a man’s: the chair before the desk was a man’s
heavy office-chair, made to revolve. I pictured Mrs. McNab twirling
slowly in it, in search of inspiration, and I found my heart warming to
her. She looked rather like a man herself as she stood by the window,
tall and straight in her grey gown.

“Now and then, when I have not the wish to work, I let the housemaid
come up, to clean and polish,” she went on. “At all other times I keep
the rooms in order myself. A little cupboard on the balcony holds brooms
and mops—all my housekeeping implements. The exercise is good for me,
and, as you see, there is not much to dust and arrange; my little
bedroom is even more bare. A housemaid, coming daily with her battery of
weapons, would be as disturbing as the cook with her ill-timed questions
about vegetables for dinner. So I keep my little retreat to myself, and
my work can go on unchecked.”

I listened sympathetically, but more than a little afraid. It would be
rather terrible if my employer went into retreat for a week or so before
I knew my way about the house. The little I had seen of Beryl McNab did
not make me feel inclined to turn to her for instructions. But Mrs.
McNab’s next words were comforting.

“Just at present I am doing only light work,” she said. “A few hours
each day: more, perhaps, during the night. With so many in the house I
can scarcely seclude myself altogether. But I do not want to be
continually troubled with household matters. I shall, of course,
interview the cook each morning, to arrange the daily menu. Otherwise,
Miss Earle, I shall be glad if you will endeavour to act as my buffer.”

I was not very certain that I had been trained as a buffer. How did one
“buff,” I wondered? I tried not to look as idiotic as I felt.

“If I can, I shall be very glad to help,” I mumbled. “You must tell me
what to do.”

She sighed.

“Ah, that is where your extreme youth will be a handicap, I fear,” she
said. “I should have preferred an energetic woman of about forty: and
yet, Judith and Jack have such an aversion to what they call ‘old
frumps,’ and have contrived to cause several to resign. And I liked your
letter: you write a legible hand, for one thing—a rare accomplishment
nowadays. I can only hope that things will go smoothly. Just try to see
that the house runs as it should, and that the children do nothing
especially desperate. You will need to be tactful with the servants;
they resent interference, and yet, if left to themselves, everything
goes wrong. Should emergencies arise, try to cope with them without
disturbing me. I want my elder son and daughter to enjoy their visitors;
fortunately, their main source of delight seems to be an extraordinary
liking for picnics, and the basis of a successful picnic would appear to
be plenty to eat. Try to get on good terms with Mrs. Winter, the cook;
her last employer told me that she possessed a heart of gold, and you
may be able to find it. Tact does wonders, Miss Earle.”

As she delivered this encouraging address her gaze had been wandering
about: now raised to the ceiling, now dwelling on the roll-top
writing-desk. Towards the latter she began to edge almost as if she
could not help it.

“And now, I begin to feel the desire for work,” she said. “It comes upon
me like a wave. Just run away, Miss Earle, and do your best. It is
possible that I may not be down for luncheon.” And the next moment I
found myself on the landing, and heard the click of the Yale latch
behind me.

I went downstairs torn between panic and a wild desire to laugh. It
seemed to me that my employer was a little mad—or it might merely be a
bad case of artistic temperament, a disease of which I had read, but had
never before encountered in the flesh. In any case my job was likely to
be no easy one. I was only eighteen; and my very soul quailed before the
task of unearthing the golden heart of the cook.

In my bedroom I found Julia, the housemaid, flicking energetically with
a duster. She was an Irish girl, with a broad, good-natured face. I
decided that I might do worse than try to enlist her as an ally. But I
was not quite sure how to begin.

I looked out of the window, seeking inspiration.

“It’s pretty country, Julia,” I said affably.

“For thim as likes it,” said Julia. She continued to flick.

It was not encouraging. I sought in my mind for another opening, and
failed to find one. So I returned to my first line of attack.

“Don’t you care for the country, Julia?”

“I do not,” said Julia, flicking.

“Did you come from a town?” I laboured.

“I did.”

My brain felt like dough. Still, I liked Julia’s face, sullen as it
undoubtedly was at the moment. Her eyes looked as though, given the
opportunity, they might twinkle.

“Mrs. McNab told me you came from Ireland,” I ventured. “I’ve always
heard it’s such a lovely country.”

“It is, then,” said Julia. “Better than these big yalla paddocks.”

“Don’t you have big paddocks there?”

“Is it paddocks? Sure, we don’t have them at all. Little green fields we
do be having—always green.”

“It must look different from Australia—in summer, at all events,” I
said. “I’d like to see it, Julia.”

She glanced at me, for the first time.

“Would you, now? There’s not many Australians says that: they do be
pokin’ fun at a person’s country, as often as not. Maybe ’tis yourself
is pokin’ fun too?”

“Indeed, I’m not,” I said hastily. “My grandmother was Irish, and though
she died when I was a little girl, I can remember ever so many things
that she used to tell us about Ireland. My father said she was always
homesick for it.”

“And you’d be that all your life, till you got back there,” said Julia.
She looked full at me now, and I could see the home-sickness in her
eyes.

“Well, I’m homesick myself, Julia, so I can imagine how you feel,” I
said. She wasn’t much older than I—and just then I felt very young. “My
home is only a little flat in a Melbourne suburb, but it seems millions
of miles away!”

“Yerra, then, I suppose it might,” said Julia, half under her breath.
“An’ you only a shlip of a gerrl, f’r all you’re that tall!”

“And I’m scared of my job, Julia,” I said desperately. “I think it’s a
bit too big for me.”

She looked at me keenly.

“Bella’s afther sayin’ you’re only here to spy on us and interfere with
us,” she said. “But I dunno, now, is she right, at all?”

“Indeed, I’m not,” I said hastily. “I’d simply hate to interfere. But
Mrs. McNab says I am to see that the house runs smoothly, because of
course she can’t be disturbed when she’s at work: and that is what she
is paying me to do. I say, Julia—I do hope you’ll help me!”

The twinkle of which I had suspected the existence came into the Irish
girl’s eyes.

“Indeed, then, I’ve been lookin’ on you as me natural enemy, miss!” she
said. “Quare ould stories of the other lady-companions Mrs. Winter and
Bella do be havin’. Thim was the ones ’ud be pokin’ their noses into
everything, an’ carryin’ on as if they were the misthress of all the
house.”

“I won’t do that!” I said, laughing. “I’m far too frightened.”

“A rough spin was what we’d been preparin’ for you,” Julia said. “The
lasht was a holy terror: she’d ate the face off Mrs. Winter if the
grocer’s order was a bit bigger than usual—an’ you can’t run a house
like this without you’d have plenty of stores. Mrs. Winter’s afther
sayin’ she’d not stand it again, not if she tramped the roads lookin’
for work.”

“But doesn’t Mrs. McNab do the housekeeping?” I inquired.

“Her!” said Julia with a sniff. “Wance she gets up in them quare little
rooms of hers, you’d think she was dead, if it wasn’t for the amount
she’d be atin’. There’s the great appetite for you, miss! Me heart’s
broke with all the food I have to be carryin’ up them stairs! She’s the
quare woman, entirely.” She dropped her voice mysteriously. “Comin’ an’
goin’ like a shadow she do be, at all hours of the day an’ night, an’
never speakin’. I dunno, now, if people must write books, why couldn’t
they be like other people with it all? An’ the house must go like
clockwork, an’ no one bother her about annything! Them that wants to
live in spacheless solitude has no right to get married an’ have
childer. ’Tis no wonder Miss Judy an’ Master Jack ’ud be like wild asses
of the desert!”

I had a guilty certainty that I should not be listening to these
pleasant confidences. But I was learning much that would be as well for
me to know, and I hadn’t the heart to check Julia just as she showed
signs of friendliness. So far, Dicky Atherton was the only friend I had
in the house, and it was probable that Julia would be far more useful to
me than he could ever be. So I murmured something encouraging, and Julia
unfolded herself yet further.

“’Tis a quare house altogether. None of them cares much for the others,
only Miss Judy for Master Jack, an’ he for her. Swimmin’ an’ divin’ they
do be, at all times, an’ sailin’ in the sea, an’ gettin’ upset, an’
comin’ in streelin’ through the house drippin’ wet. An’ there’s
misfortunate sorts of sounds in the night: if ’twas in Ireland I’d say
there was a ghost in it, but sure, there’s no house in this country with
pedigree enough to own a ghost!”

“No—we haven’t many ghosts in Australia, Julia,” I said, laughing. “I
expect you hear the trees creaking.”

Julia sniffed.

“’Tis an unnatural creak they have, then. I don’t get me sleep well, on
account of me hollow tooth, an’ I hear quare sounds. If it wasn’t for
the money I can send home to me ould mother I’d not stay in it—but the
wages is good, an’ they treat you well on the whole. It’s no right thing
when the misthress is no real misthress, but more like a shadow you’d be
meetin’ on the stairs. But I oughtn’t to be puttin’ you against it,
miss, when you’ve your livin’ to make, same as meself. It’s terrible
young you are, to be out in the worrld.”

“I’m feeling awfully young for this job, Julia,” I said. “And I’m scared
enough without thinking of queer sounds, so I hope they won’t come in my
way. But I do want you and Bella and Mrs. Winter to believe that I’m not
an interfering person, and that I shall do my work without getting in
your way any more than I can help.”

“Sure, I’m ready enough to believe that same, now that I’ve had a quiet
chat with you,” replied Julia. “You’ve your juty to do, miss, same as
meself, an’ I’ll help you as far as I can. Bella’s not the aisiest
person in the worrld to get on with: she’s a trifle haughty, ’specially
since she got her head shingled along of the barber in Wootong: but Mrs.
Winter’s all right, wance you get on the good side of her. And Bence,
that’s the chauffeur, is a decent quiet boy. Sure, there’s none of us
’ud do annything but help to make things aisy for you, if you do the
same by us.”

She had gathered up her brooms and dustpan, and prepared to go. At the
door she hesitated.

“And don’t you be down-trodden by Miss Beryl, miss,” she said. “That
one’s the proud girl: there’s more human nature in Miss Judy’s little
finger than in her whole body.”

“Oh, I don’t think we’ll quarrel, Julia,” I said. “I can only do my
best. At any rate, I’m very glad to think I can count on you.”

She beamed on me.

“That you can, miss. An’ if there’s much mendin’, an’ I’ve a spare hour
or two, just you hand some of it over to me: I’m not too bad with me
needle. Sure, I knew Bella had made a mistake about you the minute I
seen your room, left all tidy an’ the bed made. I’ll be off now, an’
I’ll tell me fine Bella that I know a lady when I see one. Anyone that’s
reared in the County Cork can tell when she meets wan of the ould
stock!”

Father’s picture seemed to smile at me as she tramped away. I think he
was glad he had given me an Irish grandmother.




                               CHAPTER V
                         I WALK ABROAD AT NIGHT


HAPPILY for me, the spirit of work did not claim Mrs. McNab very
violently during my first week at The Towers. There were occasional
periods during which she remained in seclusion, and from the window of
my room, which commanded a view of her eyrie, I sometimes saw her light
burning far into the night; certainly she used to look pale and
heavy-eyed in the morning. But for the greater part of each day she
mingled with her family, and showed less vagueness in letting me know
what were my duties. I was kept pretty busy, but there was nothing
especially difficult. Already the seabathing and the country air were
telling upon me: I lost my headaches, and began to sleep better, and it
was glorious to feel energy coming back to me. I had visions of
returning to Colin and Madge fattened out of all recognition.

Julia had evidently paved the way for me with Mrs. Winter, the cook. I
found her a somewhat dour person, but by no means terrifying; she unbent
considerably when she found that I did not leave the kitchen in a mess
when I cut sandwiches. The last holder of my office, she told me, had
always made her domain into “a dirty uproar.” We exchanged notes on
cookery; she taught me much about making soup, and was graciously
pleased to approve of a recipe for salad that was new to her.

Bella was a harder nut to crack. She was a thoroughly up-to-date young
person with an excellent opinion of herself and a firm belief that I was
her natural enemy. Also, she was “work-shy,” and did just as little as
was possible, with a fixed determination to do nothing whatever that did
not fall within the prescribed duties of a parlourmaid. We clashed
occasionally: that was inevitable, though I tried hard to let the
clashing be all on her side. I recalled Mrs. McNab’s advice as to tact,
and struggled to cultivate that excellent commodity. But I don’t believe
that anyone of eighteen has much tact in dealing with a bad-tempered
parlourmaid of five-and-twenty. I did my best, but there were moments
when I ached to throw aside tact and use more direct measures.

The house-party increased rapidly, friends of Beryl and Harry McNab
arriving almost every day, until there was not a room to spare. They
were a cheery, good-hearted crowd, making their own amusements, for the
most part: they bathed, fished, yachted, played tennis and picnicked,
and there was dancing every night, interspersed by much singing. Madge
was the musical genius of our family, but I could play accompaniments
rather decently, and for that reason I was constantly in request. I
refused, at first, to dance, for it was quite evident that Beryl McNab
preferred me to remain in the background; but there were more men than
girls, and occasionally they made it impossible for me to refuse. I
protested to Harry McNab, who was one of the chief offenders, but my
remarks had not the slightest weight with him.

“Oh, rubbish!” he said. “Why on earth shouldn’t you dance? No one
expects you to work all day and all night, too—and you dance better
than nearly any girl here! Don’t tell me you don’t like it!”

“Of course I like it,” I said, with some irritation. “But I’m not here
to dance, Mr. McNab, and you know that very well. Ask your sister, if
you have any doubt on the matter.”

“Oh—Beryl!” he said with a shrug. “Who cares what she thinks? She’s not
your boss, Miss Earle.”

“She’s the daughter of the house,” I answered firmly. “And I think you
would find that your mother thinks as she does.”

“We’ll ask her,” he said. He dragged me up the long room to where his
mother was sitting. Mrs. McNab never stayed downstairs for long in the
evening; soon after the music was at its height she would slip away
quietly to the Tower rooms and be seen no more until the morning. She
greeted him with a smile that lit her rather grim face curiously.
Affection was not a leading characteristic among the McNabs, but Harry
was certainly first in his mother’s favour.

“Miss Earle says she won’t dance, Mother! Tell her it’s
ridiculous—three of us are standing out because we haven’t got
partners.”

“Possibly Miss Earle does not care for dancing?”

“Yes, she does, though. Only she’s got a stupid idea that you don’t want
her to.”

“I have no objection,” said his mother. “Still I do not think it would
be wise for you to tire yourself, Miss Earle.”

“Oh, we won’t let her do that. But I’m hanged if you’re going to act
Cinderella all the time, Miss Earle,” said Harry. “Come along—we’ve
wasted too much of this already.” He swept me out into the crowd, and I
gave in more or less meekly: it wasn’t difficult when every nerve in me
was already beating time to the music. And Harry danced so very much
better than he sang!

All the same, I never remained downstairs long after Mrs. McNab had
disappeared. I had next day to consider, and my days began pretty early:
besides which, I couldn’t help feeling an ugly duckling amongst the
other girls. My two dinner dresses were by no means up to date; I was
fully aware of their deficiencies beside the dainty, exquisite frocks of
which Beryl McNab and her friends seemed to have an unlimited supply. I
used to breathe a sigh of relief when I escaped from the drawing-room,
racing up the stairs until I gained the shelter of my own little room.

Judy and Jack were supposed to be in bed by nine o’clock. It was one of
the few rules that they did not scorn, since their days were strenuous
enough to make them feel sleepy early, and they had few evening
occupations. They loathed dancing, and neither was ever known to read a
book if it could possibly be avoided. The crowded state of the house had
made it necessary for them to give up their rooms to guests: they slept
on the balcony, and Judy used my room to dress, while Jack made his
toilet in a bathroom. Judy was a restless sleeper, and I had formed the
habit of going out to tuck her in before I went to bed.

I slipped away from the drawing-room one hot night when the dancing was
fast and furious. A little breeze from the sea was beginning to blow in
at my window, and I leaned out, enjoying its freshness and wondering if
Colin and Madge were grilling very unpleasantly in the stuffy Prahran
flat. Above my head a faint glimmer from the Tower rooms showed that
Mrs. McNab was at work—one never imagined her as doing anything but
writing steadily, once she had vanished to her sanctum. Sometimes she
wrote on her little balcony, which was fitted with electric light: the
scent of the cigarettes she continually smoked would drift down to my
window on still nights.

The lower balcony that ran partly round the house ended before it
reached my room, so that I had a clear view of part of the garden as
well as of the track across the paddock to the sea. As I leaned out a
faint sound came to me from below. Then two slight figures crossed the
strip of moonlit garden, running quietly and quickly, and disappeared in
the direction of the back of the house. I had been dreaming, but I came
to attention with a jerk. Unquestionably, they were Judy and Jack.

I looked at my watch. Ten o’clock: and the precious pair should have
been in bed an hour ago. I went down the passage and out upon the
balcony to where their beds stood peacefully side by side. At first
glance they appeared to be occupied by slumbrous forms; but a moment’s
investigation showed that a skilful arrangement of coats and pillows,
humped beneath the sheets, took the places of the rightful occupants.
Clearly, my charges were out upon the warpath.

I felt horribly responsible. Lawless as the two were, they were supposed
to be in my care, and it seemed to my town-bred mind an unthinkable
thing that two such urchins should be careering about in the dead of
night. Their elaborate precautions against discovery showed that it was
no excursion of a few moments. The direction of their flight was towards
the sea. Possibly the McNab urge for bathing had seized them; or they
would be quite equal to taking out a boat for a moonlight row. Whatever
their fell designs might be, it seemed to me that I should follow them.
I could not calmly go to bed, knowing that they were out of the house.

I was in anything but a gentle frame of mind while I hurriedly changed
my evening frock for something more serviceable and donned a pair of
tennis-shoes. Bed seemed to me a very pleasant place as I switched off
my light and stole quietly down the kitchen stairs, hearing the
gramophone grinding out a fox-trot in the drawing-room. I could only
hope that I would find the truants soon; and that, when found, they
would allow themselves to be gathered in peaceably. But I knew already
that it was no easy matter to turn Judy and Jack from any set purpose.

I am a good deal of a coward in the dark; the night seemed full of
ghostly sounds as I hunted up and down the dim shrubbery, hoping to find
my quarry near the house. But there was no sign of them: nothing living
could be seen except an old owl that flew out of a bush with a whir of
wings that sent my heart into my mouth. So I set off across the paddock
towards the shore.

The hummocks were fringed with low scrub, through which a dozen paths
wandered. I chose one at random, following its windings until it ended
in a deep, stony cleft, down which it would not be easy to scramble in
the moonlight. I was about to retrace my steps, to look for an easier
path to the beach, when a low giggle fell upon my ears, and looking
closely, I saw Judy and Jack crouched behind a boulder below me. They
had not heard me; that was clear: all their attention was focused on
something beyond them. As I watched, a tall figure came from the shadow
of the boat-house. I heard the scratch of a match being struck, and saw
the glow as the new-comer lit a cigarette. Then the figure strolled
slowly across the moonlit sand by the water, and I saw, with a start of
astonishment, that it was Mrs. McNab.

She paced backwards and forwards, with her head bent, her face shadowed
by one of the soft hats she always wore. She had changed her evening
dress for a dark gown in which she moved like a shadow, the dull glow of
her cigarette-tip the most living thing about her. There was something
eerie and ghost-like in the dim form, drifting with silent steps by the
gently heaving sea. I had an uneasy feeling that I was spying: that I
had no right to be there. Clearly, too, it was unnecessary for me to
shepherd Judy and Jack when their own mother was about. I was turning to
go quietly home when another giggle came from the pair just below me,
and I heard Judy’s voice, discreetly lowered.

“Rotten luck!” she whispered. “No earthly chance of getting a boat out,
with Mother there. Why on earth can’t she stay in the Tower, without
spoiling sport!”

“Let’s go and give her a fright,” Jack suggested. “P’raps she’ll think
it’s one of the ghosts Julia’s always talking about, and clear out!”

“Don’t be an ass,” counselled his sister. “She’d be awfully wild.” But
her words were wasted. Jack was already making his way softly down the
gully.

He went more quietly than I should have imagined was possible in that
cleft of shifting stones. Bending low, so that his head should not show
above the edge, in case his mother glanced upwards, he crept down, and
gained the beach unseen.

Mrs. McNab heard nothing. She had turned away, and was standing still,
looking out to sea—doubtless seeking inspiration from the softly
rippling water. I wondered would she come back presently, back to the
Tower room, to write through the night; or would dawn find her still
pacing by the sea. Nothing, I thought, would surprise me about my
eccentric employer.

And yet, she was to surprise me—and not me alone—very much indeed.

Jack came out of the protecting gloom and stole noiselessly across the
sand until he was only a dozen yards from the still figure. Then he
suddenly gave a long eldritch shriek—it made even Judy jump—danced
impishly for a moment, flinging about his arms and legs, and fled
towards the hummocks.

Quick as he was, his mother was quicker. At his wild cry she swung
round, her cigarette dropping from her fingers. She stood as if
petrified for a moment. Then she gave chase. Her long legs carried her
across the sand with amazing swiftness. Just as the boy gained the edge
of the gully her hand fell on his shoulder and held him fast.

“You would dare to spy on me!” I heard her say, in a choked voice.

She reversed Jack with a swift movement, and then, as if he were a tiny
child, she spanked him thoroughly. Jack was a strong boy and a sturdy
one, and he did not take the proceeding meekly. He kicked and fought and
struggled; but the grip in which he was held never slackened, and the
avenging hand rose and fell with a regularity astonishing to behold.
Never had I beheld a more competent spanker than Mrs. McNab. I had no
special sympathy in general with Jack, but I almost ached for him.

Her arm must have been tired when the resounding blows ceased and she
pitched him contemptuously on the sand. Then, without waiting to read
the lecture that usually accompanies a punishment, she plunged swiftly
up the gully. It is possible that she thought so thorough a spanking
spoke for itself: possible, also, that she had no breath left. In any
case, she did not speak. She went swiftly past me, her face lowering and
angry, and her swift steps died away across the grass.

Judy had crouched low under a bush while her mother passed her. Once the
avenging figure was out of sight, she sped downwards to her brother.

“My word, you caught it! I’ll bet it hurt!”

“Hurt!” said Jack. He had picked himself up, and was rubbing his
injuries with a comical air of bewilderment. “I’ll tell the world it
hurt! I’m all on fire! Great Scott! she did lay it on!” His voice took
on an unwonted note of reverence. “Judy, would you have thought she had
it in her?”

“I would not,” said Judy. “And goodness knows, you kicked like a steer!”

“Well, I bet I don’t run up against Mother again, if I can help it,”
Jack uttered. “I don’t want another licking like that. I don’t believe
I’ll be able to ride for a week! Judy, I tell you she held me as if I
was a bit of a kitten! I’m sore, but I tell you, I’m jolly proud of
Mother!”

“Well, it’s a good thing that’s the way it makes you feel,” said Judy,
regarding him with some amazement. “How about getting out that boat now?
She won’t come back again. She’s up in the Tower room now, I bet,
writing an article for the Americans on ‘How I Brought Up My Sons.’ Say
we get the boat?”

“You don’t catch me sitting in any boat to-night,” returned her brother,
still rubbing. “It’s light walking exercise for me for a bit, and just
now I think I’ll take it to bed. Come along home: it must be awfully
late, and there’s always the chance that she might come back. I say,
Judy, wasn’t my yell a beauty!”

“It was,” agreed his sister. “But it was a mistaken yell.”

Jack nodded agreement.

“Well, you don’t catch me trying to attract Mother’s attention again,”
he said. “She leaves her mark when you do attract it. Come along, Ju:
I’m off to bed.”

There seemed no reason for me to show myself, when Mrs. McNab had dealt
with the situation so thoroughly: I remained in my hiding-place while
they clambered up the gully, a proceeding clearly fraught with pain in
the case of Jack. Quite near me he paused.

“I say,” he said, “we’ve been pretty average annoying, a good many
times. I wonder why she never did that before?”

“Don’t know,” said Judy. “If I had a gift like that I guess I’d use it!”

“Well, I hope she won’t get the habit, that’s all,” said Jack. They went
slowly across the paddock, and I followed at a discreet distance. The
light burned brightly in the Tower room as I crossed the yard. Up there
Mrs. McNab would write and smoke throughout the night. For once I wanted
to read the result of that particular evening’s inspiration.




                               CHAPTER VI
                          I MEET GOOD FORTUNE


‟WE want to get up a big boating picnic, Mother,” Beryl McNab said one
morning at breakfast. “Everybody is coming: the crowds from Willow Park
and Karinyah, and a few people from Wootong. We’re going to make a very
early start, sail round some of the islands, bathe in the big
diving-pools on Rocky Spit and land on Shepherd’s Island for lunch.
After that we’ll do whatever the spirit moves us.”

“Or whatever we have any energy left to do,” Dicky Atherton said.
“Personally, I shall lie flat on a hot patch of sand and sleep all the
afternoon.”

“Then you’ll certainly find yourself marooned,” remarked Harry.
“However, if you fly a towel as a signal of distress some one will
probably pick you up within a few days. And the fishing’s pretty good
from Shepherd’s Island.”

“One might be worse off,” Mr. Atherton rejoined placidly. “I’m beginning
to need a rest-cure, thanks to the life you people lead down here.”

“We want to go on Thursday,” said Beryl. “Can we have an extra-special
lunch, Mother?”

“I suppose so,” Mrs. McNab answered vaguely. She had been deep in
thought, and it seemed an effort for her to rouse herself. It was
understood in the house that the spirit of work was harassing her; she
had spent most of the two previous days in the Tower rooms, and one
gathered that at any moment she might be expected to go into retreat
altogether. “Miss Earle, will you consult with Mrs. Winter about it?
Just tell Miss Earle if there is anything in particular that you would
like, Beryl.”

“We’re going, too!” chorused Judy and Jack.

“Oh, we don’t want kids!” Beryl said. “You two are a perfect nuisance on
a picnic.”

“Oh, rubbish, Beryl!” Harry said. “The kids from Willow Park are coming,
and they’ll want mates.”

Beryl shrugged her shoulders.

“Well, you can be responsible for them,” she said. “But you know
perfectly well, Harry, that no one ever can tell what Judy and Jack will
do.”

“Oh, they’ll behave—won’t you, kids?” said Harry easily. “I’ll hammer
you both if you don’t. I say, Mother, I don’t see how we can possibly
expect Miss Earle to have a big lunch ready as early as we want to
start. Why shouldn’t she come too? If she had the lunch down at the
boat-house about half-past twelve some of us could easily run across in
the launch and pick her up.”

“Good-oh!” said Jack. “I’ll come back for you, Miss Earle. I can run the
launch all right.”

“Not by yourself, young man, thank you,” said his brother. “But it would
be quite easy to arrange. How about it, Mother?”

“Certainly, if Miss Earle would like to go,” said Mrs. McNab, a little
less dreamily. “It would be good for her. Bence could carry the baskets
to the beach. You would care for the outing, Miss Earle?”

“I should like it very much, thank you,” I answered, trying to keep any
eagerness out of my voice. Except for bathing, I had scarcely been out
of the house for some days, and the prospect of a boating picnic was
alluring. Beryl had carefully refrained from making any comment, but
this time it didn’t worry me. There would be so many people at the
picnic that it would not be difficult to keep out of her way. I heaved
an inward sigh of thankfulness at the recollection of a white linen
frock that would be just right, and registered a vow to find time to
wash and iron it next day.

“Then that’s all settled,” said Harry gleefully. “I’ll telephone to the
other people. And just you youngsters make up your minds to behave as
decently as you know how. I don’t say that’s much, but it may carry you
through the day.”

I spent a hectic day in the kitchen on Wednesday. Mrs. Winter was
fighting a bad cold, and chose to resent the list of extra delicacies
which Beryl had airily handed in. “One ’ud think it was a ball supper at
Govinment House, instead of a picnic on a sandy island,” she grumbled,
and made a hundred difficulties. Beryl had disappeared; as a matter of
fact, she had never appeared at all, but had sent her list by Julia; and
Mrs. McNab was vaguer than ever, and had a kind of worried look that I
put down to trouble over her writing. Whatever delight her work might
give her when once she was shut up in her sanctum, the period while it
was hatching in her brain seemed to be something like what one endures
in cutting a wisdom-tooth. I felt sorry for her as she went about with
her dreamy look—she was so far apart from all the cheery,
happy-go-lucky house-party. At any rate, it was my job, as I
recollected, to act as her buffer; and the end of it was I pretended
that I had an easy day, rolled up my sleeves, and went to help in the
cooking.

That cheered Mrs. Winter a good deal. She was really very seedy, with
the kind of heavy head-cold that makes speech difficult and extra
brain-exertion a torment: she welcomed my cooperation even more than my
actual help in the work, and forgot a good many of her woes in the
course of the first hour. I made oyster-patties and charlotte russe and
fruit salad, and we thought out new ideas for sandwiches and cool
drinks. I even managed to enlist Judy and Jack, as the best means of
keeping them out of mischief; Mrs. Winter supplied them with aprons and
they beat up eggs and whipped cream, and became desperately interested
in my sponge-lilies and cheese-straws. “I’d be a cook myself, if I could
always make things like these,” Judy averred, as she sat on the table,
delicately licking the cream from a sponge-lily, with a red tongue that
seemed as long as an ant-eater’s. “How ever do you go on cooking things
like boiled mutton and steak-and-onions, Mrs. Winter, when you might
make gorgeous experiments all the time?”

Mrs. Winter sniffed.

“If you had to eat theb thigs for a week, Biss Judy, you’d be botherig
roud the kitched for good boiled buttod and sdeak-ad-odiods,” she said
severely—at which afflicted utterance the pair yelled with joy, and
spent much time in devising questions that could only be answered in
words containing letters impossible at the moment to the poor woman. By
four o’clock we had made all the preparations that could be finished
that day, and had got the dinner well under way as well. Mrs. Winter
sighed with relief as I washed the kitchen table.

“I thought this bordig I’d be id by bed before dight,” she said. “But
I’ve laughed at you three so buch by cold’s dearly god, I believe! Off
you go, Biss Earle—you bust be tired.”

“No, I’m not,” I said. “I have a dress to iron yet: I’ll come back and
help you when I’ve done it. You’re not to get yourself all hot over
dishing-up.”

“’Deed, an’ you’ve been enough in the kitchen for wan day,” said a new
voice; and Julia came in, with my rough-dry frock over her arm. “Let you
run off to your tay: I’m afther bringin’ this in from the line, and I’ll
have it ironed in two twos an’ be ready to do the dishin’-up meself.
Take her away, now, Miss Judy an’ Master Jack. An’ for pity’s sake wash
the two faces of ye before your Mother sees you, for there’s samples on
them of every blessed thing that’s been cooked to-day!” Whereat Judy and
Jack gripped each an arm and raced me off to my room.

I saw that they were respectable, made a hasty toilet myself, and we
went out to the lawn, where afternoon tea was in full swing. A stranger
was there, sitting in a basket-chair by Mrs. McNab: a spare, elderly man
with keen blue eyes, at sight of whom my charges uttered a delighted
yelp.

“Hallo, Dr. Firth! We’ve been cooking!”

“Then I won’t stay to dinner, thank you,” replied the stranger promptly.
“Not that I believe you have; you’re far too clean!”

“Oh, that’s thanks to Miss Earle—she’s awfully fussy about little
things like that,” said Judy, laughing. “This is Miss Earle, Dr. Firth.
She’s the worst we’ve had!”

“Judith!” said her mother in a voice of ice.

“I can well believe you think so, judging by your fine state of polish,”
said Dr. Firth, laughing. “You seem to have done wonders, Miss
Earle—congratulations.” He had risen to shake hands with me: I liked
his firm grip and his straight glance. “Now, where are you going to sit
while I get you some tea? Jack, my boy, there’s a chair over there”: and
Jack was off like a flash to fetch it.

To be waited upon at The Towers was something new to me. I looked round
nervously. But some one else had claimed Mrs. McNab’s attention and
every one appeared to be already supplied with tea; there was nothing
for me but to do as I was bid and sit down. I did so thankfully, for I
was tired enough after my day in the kitchen. Jack and Judy, already
full-fed, had wandered away, and presently I was enjoying my tea, with
my new friend sitting near me—our two chairs somewhat apart from the
crowd.

“Now you are not to move for twenty minutes,” he said, in a cool tone of
command. “Doctor’s orders, and therefore not to be disregarded. No, you
needn’t argue,” as I opened my mouth. His tone was so final that I
pretended that I had merely opened it to put cake into it, and he
laughed.

“That’s better. There are plenty of young fellows here to hand round
teacups. And I want to talk to you. Mrs. McNab has been telling me that
you are a doctor’s daughter. Not Denis Earle’s daughter, by any chance?”

“My father was Denis Earle,” I said, wondering—and wondered still more
at the change in his face.

“If you knew how glad I am to find you!” he said. “I knew you when you
were a baby, my dear. Did Denis ever speak to you of Gerald Firth?”

“Oh—often!” I cried. “But I thought you were in England. He—he just
loved you, you know!” I felt an ache in my throat; my eyes swam as I
looked at his kind face.

He moved his chair so that he sheltered me from every one else.

“Drink your tea,” he said quietly. “You’re tired, you poor child. And
I’ll do the talking.” He leaned forward, his voice low.

“I was in England for fifteen years—until six months ago,” he said.
“Then I came out hurriedly, to attend to business; my elder brother had
died, leaving me his property near here. It was only just before I
sailed from England that I heard that my old friend had gone; we were
both bad correspondents, and not many letters passed between us. I did
make inquiries about his children in Melbourne, but I couldn’t get on
your track: I have been intending to go down and find you, but all my
brother’s affairs were very tangled, and I have only just succeeded in
straightening them out. It’s the queerest thing that I should come
across you here!”

“Oh, I’m so glad,” I murmured. “It’s just lovely to find some one who
knew Father!”

“He and I were friends as boys and at the University,” Dr. Firth said.
“We took our degrees in the same year. I owe more to him than to anyone
in the world—more than I could tell anyone except his own children. I
was a pretty wild youngster, and I got into a horrible mess in my
University days. It would have been the end of my career as a doctor,
but for Denis. His help and his cool judgment pulled me through, but he
went poor for three years because of it. I paid him back in money—hard
enough it was to get him to take it, too. But the biggest part of it,
that wasn’t money, I never could repay. I’ll be his debtor all my life.”

He paused, and I could see that he was wrung with feeling.

“I don’t know anything about it, of course,” I stammered. “But Father
would never have thought anything of it. You were his great friend. He
often talked to us about you, and told us what mates you had been.” I
hesitated. “Colin is named after you: Colin Gerald Earle.”

“I know,” he said. “I’m rather proud of it. And where is Colin now? A
full-fledged doctor, I suppose? He was a great little boy.”

“He is a great boy still,” I said. “He is just like Father. But he isn’t
a doctor, and he never will be, now. He is just a clerk in an insurance
office.”

“A—clerk!” he uttered. “But Denis wrote me that his whole soul was in
medicine. He was to succeed your father in his practice. And you—why
are you here, bear-leading these youngsters? Surely there were no money
troubles?”

I told him, briefly, just how things had been. He did not say much, but
it seemed to me that his face grew older.

“If I had known!” he said, when I had finished. “Denis’s children! Well,
I can alter one thing, at any rate: you needn’t stay here as general
factotum a day longer. Come over to my place, and look after me,
instead: I’ve a huge house, and my old housekeeper will welcome you with
open arms. I won’t have you earning your living here.”

I felt myself turn scarlet with astonishment. It was a wonderful
prospect. I couldn’t take it all in, but it flashed on me that it would
be very soothing to meet Beryl McNab on equal terms. Then I caught sight
of Mrs. McNab’s face as she moved slowly across the lawn with her head
bent and the look of worry plainly in her face, and I knew I couldn’t do
it. Father would have said it wasn’t the square thing.

“It’s ever so good of you, Dr. Firth,” I told him, “and I’m very
grateful. Some other time it would be lovely. But I couldn’t throw over
my job here. I don’t think it would be fair to Mrs. McNab: her hands are
very full, and I do believe she is beginning to depend on me.”

“She could get some one else to depend upon.”

“Not in the middle of the holidays. She wouldn’t have taken me if she
could have found some one older and more experienced. And the children
are really pretty good with me—I think it’s because I am young enough
to play about with them now and then. They hate the elderly governess
type.”

“Are you working too hard?” he asked doubtfully. “You are far too thin,
you know, young lady.”

I told him I was by no means over-worked; there was plenty to do, but
nothing really difficult. He was not satisfied: that was clear. He asked
me a great many questions, and finally repeated that Mrs. McNab should
be asked to find some one to replace me.

We were supposed to be an obstinate family, and I may have a certain
share of the quality. At any rate, I shook my head.

“Please don’t ask me, Dr. Firth, for I hate saying ‘No’ to your
kindness. But I’ve undertaken a responsibility, and I don’t feel that I
can drop it. You know, Father always taught us that it was an
unpardonable thing to let anyone down.”

He looked at me keenly.

“Yes, you’re like Denis,” he said. “Well, I won’t try to persuade you
against your own judgment. But I warn you, I shall keep an eye upon you,
and if I see that you are getting fagged, I shall write to Colin and
take the law into my own hands. Give me his address, please”—he wrote
it down—“and promise that you will tell me if I can help you in any
difficulty. I know the McNabs pretty well.”

I promised that readily enough.

“But I don’t think there will be real difficulties,” I said. “I am
beginning to feel that I can hold down my job, and I like the children.
And it will all seem so different, now that I know I have a friend close
by. I shan’t be lonesome any more.”

“I’m glad you feel like that about it,” he said. “And now, I suppose, I
had better find my hostess: every one seems to have gone over to the
tennis-courts.” He made me go with him, and we looked for Mrs. McNab,
who was sitting alone, knitting, under a big jacaranda.

“You have had a long talk,” she said, her voice rather cold.

“We have,” Dr. Firth said cheerfully. “I have found an old friend, Mrs.
McNab: I knew this young lady in her cradle. Her father was my greatest
friend. It has been a very great pleasure to discover one of his
children.”

“That is very nice,” said Mrs. McNab absently. “Won’t you sit down? Dr.
Firth, have you heard anything of the robbery last night? Or is it only
a rumour?”

“No rumour, worse luck. Some mean scoundrel broke into the Parkers’
cottage—you know, those two old maiden sisters who live on the
outskirts of Wootong: they used to keep a little fancy shop, but they
retired last year. Last night they went to choir-practice, leaving their
place locked up, as usual. Some one managed to open the kitchen window
and climb in, and when they came home they found their writing-table
ransacked.”

Mrs. McNab leaned forward, looking anxious.

“Did they—was there much taken?”

“The thief was evidently looking for money only. Unfortunately, the old
ladies had money in the house: a foolish habit of theirs. The
writing-table drawers had flimsy modern locks, easily enough picked by
anyone with a little skill in that direction. The rascal got away with
five-and-twenty pounds.”

“How dreadful!” Mrs. McNab said. “I am so sorry for them. And—the
police? are they looking for the thief?”

Dr. Firth shrugged his shoulders.

“Oh, of course. But the Wootong policemen aren’t a very brilliant pair,
and the man left no trace, they say. It is so easy, nowadays, to get
away with the proceeds of a robbery; a motorcar or motor-cycle lands a
thief forty miles away in an hour. And the Parkers’ cottage is on the
main road, where cars pass every few minutes. I don’t suppose the poor
old ladies have much chance of seeing their money again. It is a heavy
loss for them: they have very little to live on, and the elder sister is
not strong.”

“Poor old things!” Mrs. McNab said, in a troubled tone. “It was a very
mean robbery.”

“It was; and it looks as though the thief knew something of their
circumstances. One would not expect a little cottage like that to be
burgled; the ordinary thief would hardly expect to get enough to make
his risk and trouble worth while. Some people are saying that the
burglar is not far off. It appears that Henessy, of the hotel, lost some
money last week; some one had helped himself from the till. Henessy had
been in and out of the bar a good deal, and a great many people had been
there during the day; he felt that he had no clue, so he held his tongue
at the time. But he told the constable about it this morning.”

“But that is very worrying to the whole neighbourhood,” said Mrs. McNab
anxiously. “You should be careful, Dr. Firth: your house is lonely, and
you have so many beautiful things in it.”

“Oh, they’re well enough secured, I fancy,” he said. “My brother had
very special locks for all his cabinets of curiosities. All the same, I
admit that I think there is too much there for prudence. I have none of
the collector’s fever, as my brother had, and a good many of his
treasures mean very little to me, valuable as they are. They would not
be much use to the average burglar, either.”

“Oh, but think!” Mrs. McNab urged, leaning forward. “The jewels set in
those barbaric ornaments—they would be easily removed. I don’t think
you should run the risk.”

“Well, yes, I suppose the jewels would make decent plunder,” Dr. Firth
admitted. “To tell you the truth, Mrs. McNab, I don’t seem to have had
time to learn my brother’s collections yet: there are ever so many
things of which I have only a hazy notion. They are all listed, of
course, and I had an expert down to value them, in connection with
Michael’s estate; but since then they have been locked away.” He looked
almost apologetic as he spoke. “I’m pretty busy, you know: there has
been so much business to see to, and so much writing to England—I left
at a moment’s notice when the news of Michael’s death came. And the
local people won’t believe that I am not a practising physician: they
come to me whenever Dr. Harkness is not to be found in Wootong. I tell
them it’s their own risk, considering that I haven’t practised my
profession for fifteen years. But one can’t refuse them. So my time is
sadly cut to waste. But for that I should have found out Miss Earle and
her brother and sister long ago: and then, I doubt if you’d have had
Miss Earle here, for I should have wanted her myself.”

To my astonishment, Mrs. McNab looked genuinely concerned.

“You do not want to take her away, I hope?”

I shot him a warning glance, and he laughed as he answered the quick
question.

“I don’t imagine that she would come if I suggested it,” he said
lightly. “But don’t let her over-do it, Mrs. McNab: she is not as strong
as she might be. I mean to exercise my rights as an old family friend
and keep a sharp eye upon her.”

“Oh!” said my employer. “Quite so. By all means, Dr. Firth. But I trust
that we are not overworking Miss Earle. Though indeed,” she added,
apparently recollecting something, “I was much horrified, on going to
the kitchen just now, to see how my cook is, to be shown all the cookery
you have done to-day. Piles of dainties. But quite unusual, I assure
you, Dr. Firth.”

“Quite,” I said, laughing. “I haven’t gone in for such a baking orgy
since I left my cookery class. It was really great fun, Mrs. McNab, and
Judy and Jack enjoyed it, too. Please don’t worry about me. I am really
much stronger than when I first came here.”

“I am very glad to hear you say so,” Mrs. McNab said. “Indeed, Dr.
Firth, I should be sadly lost without Miss Earle. For one so young she
has surprising tact in dealing with cooks and children!” At which I
turned a brilliant red, and Dr. Firth laughed and said good-bye. I
walked with him to the gate, where his car stood. Just as he started the
engine, Judy and Jack came tearing up.

“When are we to come over to see you? You said we were to come one day
in the holidays!”

“So you are. Miss Earle, too, if she will: I’ll telephone and fix a day.
And look here, you two: I knew Miss Earle when she was much younger than
either of you, and she is my charge. Just you behave decently to her, or
you needn’t expect to be friends with me.” He nodded over the wheel at
them, and was gone.

Judy and Jack looked at each other.

“Well, I like that!” uttered Jack. “He was about the only one in the
country that didn’t jaw at us, and now he’s begun!”

“And there wasn’t any need to jaw, either,” added his sister. “For we do
treat you quite beautifully, don’t we, Miss Earle?”

“Quite,” I told them. “We have established friendly relations.”

“I’m hanged if I’m friendly with most of my relations,” said Jack.
“They’re a moulty lot: always on the jump for what a fellow’s going to
do next. But you’re sensible, Miss Earle.”

“Yes,” said Judy. “You don’t expect us to behave like angels every bit
of our time.”

“I do not—and isn’t it a good thing?” said I. “But I would be really
glad if you would try to check your queer desire to put things into
people’s beds. I really didn’t mind the Jew-lizard you put into mine,
because I have met Jew-lizards before, and also because I found him
before I got into bed. But Miss Vaughan was quite peevish about the frog
she found in hers last night.”

“He was a gorgeous green one!” said Judy soulfully. “Do tell us what she
said, dear Miss Earle!”

“I will not: there was too much of it for me to remember. But you might
bear in mind that I reap the harvest when you sow frogs. If Dr. Firth
heard——”

“Oh, he mustn’t!” Judy cried. “Miss Earle, he’s got the jolliest place
ever. It belonged to old Mr. Michael Firth, who was a perfect Jew and
hated every one, so, of course, no one went there. Then he kindly died,
so this brother inherited it, and he’s a dear. The house is just full of
queer things that old Mr. Firth collected. He never would let anyone
look at them, except people as snuffy as himself, but Dr. Firth is going
to show us everything. I’m so glad he’s going to let you come too!”

I went to my room that night, tired enough, but with a heart lighter
than it had been since my arrival at The Towers. Mrs. Winter had beamed
upon me after dinner, and had forbidden me to come near the kitchen next
morning, remarking that if she could not pack a few baskets her name was
not Susad Widter. Julia had left my white frock on a hanger in my
wardrobe, ironed to a glossy smoothness of perfection that was heartsome
to see; and even Bella had unbent from her haughty pedestal to hope that
the weather to-morrow might be fine. I had not again encountered Mrs.
McNab, who had disappeared directly after dinner into her upper
fastness: but her words in the garden with Dr. Firth had been
reassuring. Judy and Jack were friendly—even roughly affectionate. It
really seemed that my holiday job might be a success.

And, best of all, I had found an old friend. A good many of our friends
had vanished after we fell on evil times. No one had been actively
unpleasant; we simply felt that we were outside the circle, and we had
made up our minds, rather bitterly, that money was the only thing that
counted. To meet Dr. Firth, with his warm memories of Father, had helped
me wonderfully, even though I had not felt able to do as he wished in
leaving The Towers. It was delightful to think that we were to have his
friendship after I had gone back to Prahran. Now—what a jolly letter I
could write to Colin and Madge! I could not wait a moment to begin: I
found writing materials hurriedly, and in a moment my pen was fairly
flying over the paper.

It was late when I finished. My eyes were aching, and I switched off the
light and leaned out of the window. Every one seemed to have gone to
bed: the house was very still, and the scent of a great bush of
bouvardia under my window came up to me in a wave. I stayed there
dreaming, until I began to feel cold, and found myself yawning.

Just as I turned to undress and go to bed a faint sound below caught my
ear. I held my breath to listen. Clearly there was some one below: the
muffled, stealthy steps were unmistakable. The memory of the Wootong
burglar flashed upon me. Was the thief about to try his luck at The
Towers?

As I listened, the soft movements passed from the path beneath my
window, and seemed to come from the direction of the yard. I heard a
faint crunch that could only be the gravel at the back. There, I knew,
everything was locked up—Mrs. Winter had a pious horror of unfastened
doors and windows, and saw that all were secure every night before she
went to her room. I resolved to reconnoitre a little farther before
alarming the house. In a moment I was running softly down the back
staircase.

Half-way down, a sudden sound brought me to a standstill, trembling.
Some one had come in and had closed a door, very gently. In a moment
stealthy steps were mounting the stairs towards me.

There was no time to get back to my room: quiet as the steps were, they
were swift—whoever was coming was almost on me. The scream which all
proper young persons should be able to produce refused to come from my
lips; my feet would not move. I put out my hand to the wall to steady
myself, shrinking away, and my fingers encountered an electric light
switch. Almost without knowing what I did, I turned it on.

The light, magically transforming the black darkness, shone full on Mrs.
McNab, coming up the stairs in her dark day gown and soft hat. She might
have been out for a morning walk. But the glimpse I had of her face
under the brim of the hat staggered me, so white was it and so haggard.

“I beg your pardon, Mrs. McNab!” I stammered. “I thought you were a
burglar!”

She had started violently when the light flashed out—started almost as
though she would run away. Then she came on swiftly, and brushed rudely
past me, without a word or glance. I stood staring after her, but she
did not turn. Her quick strides took her beyond the landing: I heard her
feet on the upper staircase, and then the click of her door as it shut.

I made my way upstairs, still trembling. Within the shelter of my room I
collapsed on my bed, thankful for its support.

“Well!” I uttered. “Literary genius may make you do queer things, Mrs.
McNab, but it needn’t give you the manners of a jungle pig!”




                              CHAPTER VII
                        I FIND SHEPHERD’S ISLAND


MY queer encounter with my employer did not, luckily, hinder my sleep: I
went to bed, and knew nothing more until Julia brought me a cup of tea
at seven o’clock. It was long after my usual time for rising, and I felt
almost panicky as I glanced at my watch.

“Oh, Julia, I’m awfully late!” I said ruefully. “Why didn’t you call me
before?”

“Is it me to be callin’ you?” was Julia’s inquiry. “Sure, it’s glad I am
to see you taking a bit of a rest. I dunno why would you always want to
be leppin’ from your bed before annywan in the house—you, that’s afther
tellin’ me you want to get fat!”

“And so I do,” I said. “But it makes all the day easier if I have a good
start. Julia, this tea is heavenly!”

“Drink it slow and aisy, then,” said Julia. “No need to gulp it as if
you were emptyin’ a cup for a wager. And you’ll do no more worrk than
you can’t help doin’ this fine day, miss: remember ’tis a picnic you
have before you, and the finest day ever I seen to enjoy it in. There’s
no sense in goin’ out worrn to the bone with slaving for them as doesn’t
notice it.”

“Don’t you believe it, Julia,” I told her, laughing. “Mrs. McNab as good
as said yesterday that she couldn’t do without me!”

“Yerra, I knew that,” said Julia with great calmness. “What I didn’t
know was that she’d woke up enough to find it out! Well, good luck to
the poor woman—it seems there’s sense comin’ to her in her ould age!”

“Why, she isn’t old at all,” I said. “I don’t think she is much over
forty—she told me she had married when she was just out of the
schoolroom.”

“That one’ll never see youth again, no matther how ould she may be,”
Julia said. “The only signs of youth ye’d see on her is when she do be
stridin’ across the paddock in her bathin’ clothes; all other times she
looks as ould as McFadden’s pig, with the look of trouble she have on
her. I dunno why wouldn’t she take life aisy instead of writin’ all day
an’ all night as well: an’ they say there’s no end to her riches.
’Tisn’t meself ’ud worrk if I had them.”

“How is Mrs. Winter?” I asked, to change the subject. I knew I should
not listen to Julia’s opinions of her mistress, but I had a guilty joy
in doing so, nevertheless.

“Her spache is no aisier to the poor woman, but her spirits is good. I
rubbed her shesht for her last night till I nearly brought the blood,
an’ then I gave her a good hot glass of lemon an’ other things to
comfort her—roarin’ at me she was to stop long before I’d finished. She
have flannin on it to-day, she’s afther tellin’ me, with oil on it, to
soothe the rawness. There’s nothin’ like a good rub to get rid of a cold
an’ keep it from settlin’ on the shesht. Don’t be worryin’ yourself
about her; she told me to tell you she felt gay as a lark!”

“She has great endurance,” I said solemnly.

Julia twinkled.

“I dunno would you have said so if you’d heard her last night,” she said
with a grin. “‘Lave me,’ says she, ‘while I have anny skin left on me
body!’ ‘I will not lave you,’ I says, ’till I have you in a nice,
plisant glow!’ ’Tis the grand muscle I have for rubbin’, along of
polishin’ the floors, an’ I med good use of it on her. She’ll be the
betther of it this manny a day.”

“Will you rub me, Julia, if I get a cold?” I asked, as well as I could
for laughter.

“I will that same.”

“Then I won’t get one,” I said firmly. “Julia, the tea was lovely, and I
could talk to you for a week—but I must get up. I wish it was time for
me to put on my white frock, for it was never ironed so beautifully in
its life!”

The Irish girl beamed.

“Did you like it? I’m glad. Me ould mother taught us ironin’, back in
Skibbereen; she’d have broke our legs from under us if we’d lef’ so much
as a crease in the tail of a shirt. There’ll be no frock among all them
fine young ladies at the picnic lookin’ betther than yours, miss. Just
you take it aisy, now, an’ don’t get tired; I’ll keep me eye on Bella
an’ see she don’t put down fish-knives for the quality to use for their
porridge!” She picked up my cup and departed.

I found myself singing as I dressed. Julia always had an uplifting
effect upon me: and with all her quaint friendliness there was never any
lack of respect. Occasionally I had daydreams, in which Colin had won
Tattersall’s sweep or found a gold-mine, so that we swam in amazing
wealth; and always in my dreams we transferred Julia from The Towers to
grace our newly acquired marble halls. Julia herself was much uplifted
at the prospect, rather dismaying me by a childlike belief that some day
the vision would become reality. I knew how little chance there was of
that; still—where would one be without even hopeless dreams?

I greeted Mrs. McNab at breakfast in some trepidation, the memory of the
tragic meeting of the previous night weighing upon me. To my relief, she
had evidently decided to ignore it: she gave me a pleasant “good
morning,” and actually inquired whether I had slept well—a courtesy
somewhat marred by the fact that she did not listen to my reply. That,
however, was nothing unusual with Mrs. McNab: her attention rarely
lasted beyond one’s first speech. It used to give one the rather
embarrassing feeling of talking into a telephone disconnected at the
other end.

The house-party trooped off as soon as breakfast was over, accompanied
by Judy and Jack, whose spotless condition would, I felt grimly certain,
not endure beyond the first landing-place. Harry McNab lingered to give
me final instructions.

“I’ve told Bence to be on hand when he’s wanted, in case Mother
forgets,” he said. “He’s to carry everything down to the
boat-house—don’t you go making a baggage-mule of yourself, Miss Earle.
Will you be down about half-past twelve? I can’t be quite certain of
being there for you on time, but I promise I won’t keep you waiting
long. We’ll all have enormous appetites, so I hope you and Mother Winter
have fixed up heaps of lunch, and that it isn’t all Beryl’s kickshaws!
I’ll want dozens of sandwiches—big, thick ones, with the crust left
on!”

“I’ll make you up a special package,” I told him. “But don’t let your
sister see them, or I’ll be eternally disgraced.”

“Great Scott, all the other fellows will want them, too!” he laughed.
“Make us plenty, and we’ll get behind a rock and devour them where Beryl
can’t see them. Beryl’s far too refined for the sort of picnic we’re
going to have to-day!”

I braved Mrs. Winter’s wrath by going to the kitchen to cut sandwiches
of a size remarkable enough to satisfy the hungriest; but this light
exercise was the only work I was permitted to do that morning, for Julia
and the cook effectually blocked any attempts I made to justify my
position as a paid helper. Finally, I gave up trying to find work, and
went off to my room, where I read _Greenmantle_ and spent a morning of
utter peace and enjoyment, until it was time to dress. Julia was waiting
for me when I came downstairs, and nodded approval of my frock.

“’Tis aisy seen that bit of linen came out of Ireland,” she said. “It do
hang lovely, miss: an’ that big black hat wit’ one rose in it is just
what it wants. You wouldn’t mind, now, comin’ out by way of the kitchen,
an’ lettin’ Mrs. Winter see you?”

“I meant to,” I said.

Their cheery good-byes rang pleasantly in my ears as I strolled down to
the shore. Bence had already taken the lunch. He met me near the edge of
the hummocks: a tall young fellow, with a quiet manner, and a dark,
good-looking face.

“Everything is stacked at the end of the jetty, miss,” he said. “I see
Mr. Harry comin’ across in the launch: he’ll be there in a few minutes.
It’s a great day for a picnic.”

“Thank you, Bence: yes, it is a perfect day,” I answered. And, indeed,
it was perfection; not too hot, yet hot enough to make bathing glorious;
a blue sea, flecked here and there with a little white cap, and air so
clear that the islands were golden against the blue. Seagulls and terns
strutted on the wet sand by the water: overhead, gannets wheeled and
hovered, now and then plunging downwards, throwing high the spray as
they disappeared in quest of darting fish. Across the bay the launch
came shooting swiftly: Harry McNab perched forward, with a rope ready,
while, as they drew nearer, I could see the flushed faces of Judy and
Jack, and shrill, triumphant cries greeted me:

“We ran her all by ourselves, Miss Earle! Harry didn’t do a thing! Jack
ran the engine, and I steered——”

“And you’d better stop talking, or you’ll scrape half her paint off on
the side of the jetty,” quoth Harry; to which Judy’s only answer was a
derisive snort. She brought the launch deftly alongside, and I caught
the rope round a bollard. Harry sprang out, and in a few moments the
baskets were stowed away, and we shoved off.

“The kids really managed fairly well,” said Harry, in the
half-contemptuous tone of an elder brother. “They were mad keen to come
over for you alone, but I didn’t see much point in that.”

“Pif—we didn’t need you!” said Judy loftily. “Bence has been teaching
us for ever so long; I bet we know as much about the engine as you do,
Mr. Harry, so there!”

“Bence says I’d make a jolly good mechanic,” stated Jack, looking up
from the engine with a happy face, to which a large streak of oil lent
pleasing variety.

“When you grow up I expect you might,” Harry jibed. “Anyhow, it’s not
very difficult. Ever run a launch, Miss Earle?”

I nodded.

“Yes—though I’m not an expert. But I like anything to do with an
engine.”

“You’re a queer girl,” said Harry reflectively. “Most Melbourne girls
don’t know a thing about the country, or engines, or anything of that
kind, but you’re different. You weren’t even scared of the bull the
other day!”

“That’s all you know,” I answered. “I was horribly scared, but I knew it
wouldn’t do to let the old bull see it. You see, though we were brought
up in Melbourne, Father took us to the country every summer: we
generally hired a launch and camped out. Father didn’t believe in any of
us being unable to manage the launch, if necessary, so we all had to
serve an apprenticeship. And I happen to like engines, so I picked up a
good bit. Father was a very stern camper!”

“How d’you mean, stern?” demanded Jack.

“Well, he believed in a camp being run properly. Everything had to be
ship-shape, and he made us do things really well, from digging
storm-water drains round the tents to burying and burning the rubbish
every day. Father used fairly to snort when he spoke of people who leave
greasy papers and tins lying about in the bush, to say nothing of
egg-shells and orange-peel. We had to take it in turns to be cook and
camp-manager, and he held a daily inspection of everything, from the
rolling of the blankets to the washing of the frying-pan.”

“I say—that’s making camping into a job of hard work!” uttered Harry.

“No, it wasn’t—not a bit. It only made us camp-proud, and I can tell
you, our camp was worth looking at. We enjoyed it ever so much more, and
we had hardly any bother with flies and ants. We had heaps of fun;
Father was the best mate that ever lived. Ship-shape camping is very
easy when every one knows his job and sticks to it. And it makes a big
difference when you come back tired and hungry after a long day, to find
firewood and water all ready, and everything clean.”

“There’s something in that,” Harry admitted. “Six of us were camping
last Christmas; we used to shoot off after breakfast, leaving things
anyhow, and the greasy plates were pretty beastly at night: and we were
eaten alive with flies and creepy things. Then rain came, and we were
flooded out. It wasn’t a whole heap jolly. I’ll try your idea of a drain
next time, Miss Earle.”

We had rounded the western headland of Porpoise Bay and were out in open
water. Before us was a long stretch of blue, dotted with a dozen little
islands—some mere heaps of rounded granite boulders, their sides washed
smooth by the waves, others clothed with trees and undergrowth. The
largest of these was a couple of miles ahead. It was a long, narrow
island, densely wooded at one end, and with smooth green slopes running
down to the water’s edge. A little building showed not far from the
beach, half hidden by the trees.

“That’s Shepherd’s Island,” Harry nodded.

“Is there a shepherd there? Surely there are no sheep?”

“There have been a good many sheep there, occasionally. There’s always
grass on the Island—a little creek runs through it, fed from a
spring—and the feed is quite good. In very dry seasons some of the
farmers used to ferry their sheep across, and they did very well there.
Then some bright spirits realized that it was an easy place to get
mutton, and the sheep began to disappear. That annoyed the owners, so
they clubbed together and put a man out there to watch the flock: they
built him a stone hut, and used to take him supplies every week. But the
seasons have been so good for some years that there has been no need to
send sheep across, so the old hut hasn’t been used.”

“What a lonely place for a man to live in!” I commented.

“Oh, it wasn’t too bad. The Island is only a mile in a direct line from
the shore, and some of the fishing-boats used to look him up from time
to time, besides the weekly supply-boat. And there was always the chance
of a scrap with sheep-stealers; the shepherds used to be provided with a
gun, though I think only one man ever used it—and then he killed a
sheep by mistake! There’s good fishing from the rocks at the far end,
too. I don’t fancy a fellow would be too badly off there,” Harry ended.
“I think Mother might do worse than go and camp there with her writing:
an island is just about what she wants, when a book is worrying her!”

That seemed to me a rather brilliant idea, and I was wondering how it
would appear to Mrs. McNab when we drew near to Shepherd’s Island. A
shelf of rock at the edge of a deep, tiny bay made a natural
landing-place; already two other launches were secured there, their
mooring-ropes tied to trees. We ran in gently, Judy at the helm. Several
people, Dicky Atherton among them, were waiting for us.

“Thought you were never coming,” he called out. “We’re all stiff with
hunger!”

“You’re very lucky to get us at all,” Harry retorted. “Catch the rope,
Dick. I hope you’ve got the billy boiling.”

“It ought to be, if it isn’t. Hallo, Miss Earle—you’re the
coolest-looking person on this island! We’re all hot and hungry and
sunburnt, but we’ve had a great time.” He helped me ashore and
introduced me to several people whom I had not seen before. The launch
was unloaded, and we set off up the smooth grassy slope to where the
main body of the picnickers could be seen gathered under a shady tree.
To the left the smoke of their fire drifted lazily upward.

Beryl McNab was cool and aloof, and did not attempt to make me known to
any of the strangers. But some of the other girls were kinder, and among
the Wootong contingent I discovered an old school-chum, and we fell on
each other’s necks with joy: I had not seen Vera Curthois for years, but
she was one of those to whom lack of money makes no difference. She
introduced me to the people with whom she was staying: merry, friendly
girls and boys. Harry and Dicky Atherton superintended lunch, not
permitting me to do anything; and presently I seemed to know every one,
and managed to forget that I was a kind of housekeeper and paid buffer
to Mrs. McNab. It was very refreshing to be simply Doris Earle once
more: I enjoyed every minute of the long, cheery luncheon.

We explored the island after everything was packed up and we had rested
for awhile under the trees. The shepherd’s cottage was not much to see;
a one-roomed hut built of slabs and heavy stones, joined by a kind of
rough mortar. Cobwebs festooned it, and birds had nested in the
crevices, but it was still water-tight, though the door sagged limply on
one hinge. I fancied that Mrs. McNab would prefer her snug retreat in
the Tower rooms. It was easy, looking at it, to picture the lonely
shepherd who had waited in the darkness, his gun across his knees, for
the sound of oars grating in rowlocks as the sheep-stealers’ boats drew
near. A man might well get jumpy enough to fire into the gloom and kill
his own sheep.

“It’s a big island, but the place where we landed is the only bit of the
shore that’s safe to bring a boat alongside,” said Harry. “Even there,
you want to be careful; there are sunken rocks everywhere. Most of the
visitors funk it, though of course it’s nothing when once you know the
way. The local people have rather exaggerated the difficulties, to
discourage boating parties from landing here when there were sheep:
there are plenty of city gentlemen, out for the first time with a rifle,
who would think it rather sporting to fire at a stray sheep on these
hills.”

“Sort of chaps who pot black swan and seagulls,” said Jack with disgust.

“Yes; the coast swarms with them in the holidays. However, they
generally let Shepherd’s Island alone, thank goodness!”

“But you can land near Smugglers’ Cave,” said Judy.

“Oh yes—if you know the entrance. But it’s so masked with rocks that no
one would dream of putting in there who wasn’t thoroughly familiar with
the place. It was rather lucky for the shepherds who had to camp here
that there is only one good landing: if they had had to watch all the
shore at night their job would have been a fairly tough one. As it was,
they could keep a look-out from the door of the hut.”

“This is a stuffy old place!” Judy said contemptuously. “Let’s go down
to the other end of the Island: I want to show you the Smugglers’ Cave,
Miss Earle.”

“Were there smugglers?” I asked.

“Never a smuggler!” Harry McNab answered, laughing. “But there’s a cave
of sorts, and of course it had to have a name.”

“All the best caves have smugglers,” Vera smiled. “Come and we’ll
explore it, Doris.”

We went along the shore of the Island. The sandy beach soon gave place
to rocks, at first low and scattered, but presently rugged and steep,
with masses of rounded boulders flung hither and thither. The outgoing
tide had left innumerable pools among them, fringed with red and bronze
seaweed and big crimson anemones. We lingered among them until eldritch
screams from Judy smote upon our ears, and we beheld her dancing on a
huge flat-topped rock and calling to us to hurry.

I was used to wild outcries on the part of Judy and Jack, but on this
occasion there seemed unusual urgency in the call, and I hurried
accordingly.

“I thought you were never coming!” she greeted me. “Jack’s stuck in a
rock, and we can’t get him out. I don’t believe anything ever will,
unless they use dynamite, and then they’ll dynamite him too!”

“But how exciting!” laughed Vera. “Lead us to the painful scene, Judy,
won’t you?”—and Judy suddenly turned upon her, her face aflame.

“You haven’t got anything to laugh at!” she flung at her. “If it was
your brother stuck you wouldn’t think it was so jolly funny. I suppose
you think it’s a joke for a little kid to be hurt!”

“Steady, Judy!” I said.

“Well, she laughed!” said Judy furiously.

“I wouldn’t have laughed, Judy dear, if I had known he was hurt,” Vera
said contritely. “Come on, and we’ll see if we can’t get him out.”

We found the prisoner with his feet tightly wedged between two rocks, in
a deep cleft. He had slipped from above, so that both feet were jammed:
and since it was impossible for him to get any purchase on the
water-worn granite, he was perfectly helpless. Three youngsters of his
own age, lying flat on the rock above the cleft, were hauling at his
arms, with no result whatever, except to cause him a considerable amount
of pain. His rosy face was very near tears as he looked up at us.

“I thought a grown-up would never get here!” he said dolefully. “What am
I going to do, Miss Earle? I can’t move an inch!”

“We’ll get you out, Jack, old man,” I said. “Don’t struggle, or you may
be more jammed than ever.”

Vera and I examined the situation, while the children stood about us
with anxious faces. We tried to lift him, but it was clear from the
first that it was beyond our strength. As I lay face downwards above him
a dull boom and a splash sounded behind me, and a swirl of green water
flowed into the cleft.

“Tide’s coming in,” said Jack between his teeth. “That’s the third wave,
and each has been a bit higher. It comes up from somewhere underneath
me. Could you hurry a bit, Miss Earle?”

“Judy,” I said quickly, “run for some of the men—your brother and Mr.
Atherton, if you can see them, but any of the men will do. You others
scatter and look for any long pieces of timber you can find. Stay with
him, Vera—I’m going to the boats for rope.”

I used to be a pretty good runner at school, when I captained the hockey
team, but I don’t think I ever ran as I did along that horrible island.
It seemed miles long; when I had to leave the grass the sand held my
feet back, and I ploughed through it in ungainly bounds. I saw no one:
all the others were on the western shore, where one of the boys had
landed a big fish—so big that every one had become excited and had
insisted on trying to fish too. Judy’s search was fruitless for a time:
a fact of which I was luckily unaware, as I raced to the launches, lying
lonely and quiet by the rocky shelf. I seized a coil of the stoutest
rope I could see, and fled back again. Every wave breaking lazily on the
beach below me, struck new terror into my heart. I knew how quickly the
tide turned on that coast: how swiftly such a cleft as the one in which
Jack was trapped would fill with water, drawn up into it by suction from
the rock-spaces beneath him. His set little face swam before my eyes, as
I ran, lending new strength to my lagging feet: the square, dirty
boy-face, with the honest eyes. I think I tried to pray, only no words
would come.

Others were running, too, as I neared the rocks again: I saw Dicky
Atherton and Harry, and a big young man in a gorgeous sweater, whose
colours had offended my eye at lunch—I welcomed it now, remembering how
big and strong he was. He carried a long pole: a young tree-trunk,
lopped for some purpose, and washed over from the mainland: even laden
as he was, he ran with the athlete’s long, easy strides. Panting, I
reached the cleft again, brushing through the group of scared children.

The water was waist-deep round Jack now, and as I came in sight of his
face a wave washed into the cleft, sending a hurrying rush of water to
his shoulders. And even so, he gave me a little smile.

“Golly, you must have run, Miss Earle!” he said.

“Rope!” said a voice at my shoulder. “Oh, by Jove, that’s good!” Dicky
Atherton snatched the coil from my hands and flung himself into the
cleft, knotting it swiftly under the boy’s arms.

“Don’t you get caught too, Dicky,” warned Jack.

“Don’t you worry, old man—my feet are too big,” Dicky said, laughing. I
wondered how he could laugh at such a moment; and wondered the more when
I saw how his face had whitened under its tan. But Jack grinned back.

Dicky Atherton sprang up to the top again, gathering the rope until it
was taut. The big young man had thrust his pole deep into the cleft near
Jack: on the other side, Harry had done the same with a long fence-rail
that some one had found on the shore. They glanced at each other.

“Ready—all together!” said Harry breathlessly. “Pull, Dicky!”

They bent on their levers, thrusting them deeper into the swirling
water, while Dicky leaned back against the rope. I saw Jack set his lips
as it tightened. For a moment nothing gave; and then the dry fence-rail
split and shivered under the strain, and Harry went staggering back with
a little gasp of despair. There was a kind of shudder through the group
round the rock. Then the good green timber found its grip and held, and
as the big man flung his weight on it, the rock moved and Jack’s
shoulders came up. Harry sprang to add his strength to the pull:
together he and Dicky drew the little prisoner up, and in a moment he
was safe upon the top.

Beryl McNab broke into noisy crying.

“Oh, I thought it was all over when that rail broke!” she sobbed.

“Not much!” said Jack. He was very white, and his voice shook, but his
eyes twinkled still. He put out a hand to Judy, who had neither moved
nor spoken. She went on her knees beside him, holding the grubby little
hand in a close grip.

“Hurt much, old Jack?” she asked with stiff lips.

“I feel as if I was all skinned with the rope,” Jack said, sitting up
and rubbing himself. “Oh, and, by Jove, look at my legs! I’ve lost my
sand-shoes!”

He had lost more than sand-shoes. Not only had they been pulled off, but
his feet and ankles were almost skinned, with deep cuts and grazes from
which the blood was now pouring.

“Golly, and I never felt a thing!” said Jack, much interested. “Why, I’m
like a skinned rabbit! Well, I guess I’ll keep out of that sort of hole
after this. Jolly lucky for me there were so many people about, wasn’t
it?”

“Jolly lucky we had that rope,” said the big man gravely. “Look at that
beastly place now.”

The cleft was almost full of water that moved to and fro with a dull
surge. The rescue had been only just in time. I think we all shuddered,
looking into the green depths. Then, since shuddering was not much use,
and the rock where we stood would soon be covered with water, I made a
collection of handkerchiefs and bound up Jack’s wounds, after soaking
them in water. The men proposed to carry him, but he scorned the idea,
declaring himself perfectly well able to walk.

“I’ll paddle round to the launch and get into my bathers,” he said,
standing up and shaking himself, his wet clothes clinging limply to his
little body. “Come along, Ju.” He went off, limping, but erect, Judy’s
arm round his shoulders. I think, of the two, I was more sorry for Judy.

Harry and I followed, to examine his other wounds—Beryl being
apparently too unnerved to do anything but sit on a rock in a becoming
attitude and bewail what might have been. We found that the rope had cut
through his thin shirt, marking him in an angry circle: it was sore
enough, but we could only be thankful that it was no worse. Jack himself
asked for no consolation.

“I’m all right,” he said sturdily. “It was all my own fault, anyhow. You
ought to make Miss Earle have a cup of tea, Harry; she ran all the way
to the launch and back for the rope, and she must be tired.”

“That’s a good idea, young ’un,” said Harry. “Come along, Miss Earle:
you sit under a tree, and I’ll boil the billy.”

The others came straggling back, and we had tea; and then, since Jack
was peacefully fishing from a rock in his bathing suit, and vigorously
protested against being taken home, we left him in Judy’s care and
strolled back to see the Smugglers’ Cave.

As Harry had said, it was not much of a cave. It was wide and shallow,
with a tiny compartment opening off it—a sub-cave, Vera called it. Both
were floored with smooth dry sand. The most interesting thing about the
place was the sea in front of the opening. The rocks ran far out into
the water all along that part of the Island shore; but just before the
cave there were none, and instead there stretched a little calm bay,
almost circled by the high rocks.

“That is really what gave the place its name,” Harry said. “Some one
started the yarn that smugglers used to run their boats in here: it’s a
perfect natural harbour. A boat might come in and anchor under the lee
of the rock, and people sailing past would be none the wiser. So a sort
of story grew up round it. As a matter of fact, there were never any
smugglers at all.”

Dicky Atherton told him he was an unsentimental beggar. “A pity to spoil
a good yarn,” he said. “Think how tourists would lap it up!” At which
Harry shuddered, and uttered pious thanks that, so far, tourists had not
discovered their part of the coast.

We went home slowly in the early evening, turning our backs upon a
sunset that made sea and sky a glory of scarlet and gold. It had been a
merry day, apart from the mishap that might so easily have ended in
tragedy: but since Jack was alive and well, we were young enough to
forget our brief time of terror, and we sang lustily, if not tunefully,
as the launches glided over the still sea. Jack, perched on the extreme
point of the bow, was loudest in the choruses. I could see, however,
that his wounds were beginning to stiffen; when we landed I hurried him
up to the house so that I might cleanse and dress them properly. He
wriggled with disgust at my scientific bandages.

“Much better give ’em a dab of iodine and let the air cure ’em,” he
said: at which I shivered. I hadn’t had the heart to apply iodine to so
wide an acreage of skinned boy.

“Comfortable?” I asked, as I adjusted the last safety-pin and pulled his
stocking gently over the whole.

“Oh yes. It’s all right. But I do feel an awful idiot, trussed up like
this!”

“But nobody can see, Jack.”

“No—that’s a comfort,” he said. And then he astonished me, for he
suddenly slipped an arm about my neck and gave me a rough hug. “Thanks,
awfully,” he said. “You’re no end of a brick, Miss Earle!”—and was
gone.




                              CHAPTER VIII
                         I HEAR STRANGE THINGS


DR. FIRTH appeared next day after breakfast and borrowed me, with the
children, for the day. Mrs. McNab was immersed in writing, and seemed
glad to let us go. She had shown real feeling over the news of Jack’s
escape, and had come to my room at night to thank me for my small share
in it. I had remarked that I was afraid she would blame me for letting
him out of my sight: to which she had replied mournfully that if one had
a hundred eyes it would be impossible always to keep Judy and Jack in
their line of vision. Then she had drifted away.

We went off in high spirits, my own raised to the seventh heaven because
Dr. Firth allowed me to drive. I had not had the wheel of a car in my
hands since the good days when I used to drive father on his rounds; one
of the bitterest moments of our poverty had been when we saw our beloved
Vauxhall driven away by the fat bookmaker who had bought her. He
couldn’t drive a bit, either: he scraped one mudguard at our very front
gate. Dr. Firth’s car was a Vauxhall also, and it was sheer joy to feel
her purring under one’s touch. We went for a fifty-mile run before we
came back to his house for lunch.

The house was a fine old place, of deep-red brick, half smothered in
Virginia creeper. Judy and Jack evidently knew their way about, and they
promptly disappeared towards the stables, where two ponies were at their
disposal. It was with difficulty that I retrieved them for lunch, which
we ate at a table on the verandah, in a corner shut in by a wall of
climbing roses. A delightful old housekeeper, motherly and gentle,
fussed over us. The whole place breathed an atmosphere of home.

When we had finished, Dr. Firth showed us all the quaint and beautiful
things that his brother had collected. They were almost bewildering in
their variety. One great room was given up to stuffed animals, far finer
specimens than the moth-eaten relics to be found in the City Museum.
There were marvellous cases of butterflies, mounted so exquisitely that
they almost seemed in flight: others of tropical birds, and a
particularly unpleasant section given up to reptiles, over which Judy
and Jack gibbered with delight. In one room were weapons, ancient and
modern, civilized and savage: in another, barbaric ornaments, set with
rough jewels. I recollect a beautiful cabinet filled with fans, of the
most delicate workmanship. So large was the collection that my brain was
bewildered long before I had seen everything. I sympathized with Judy
and Jack when at last they struck.

“They’re all awfully wonderful and all that,” Judy said bluntly. “But if
you won’t think us rude, Dr. Firth, Jack and I would rather go back to
the ponies!”

The Doctor laughed.

“I don’t blame you,” he said. “There is really too much for one day. I
think Doris has had enough, too. Some other time you must come and see
the rest: just now, I think we’ll lock them up again. Be off with
you!”—and the pair raced away.

Dr. Firth returned the jewelled Tibetan belt-clasp he had been showing
us to its blue-lined case, and locked the cabinet carefully.

“Mrs. McNab is convinced that the Wootong burglar will pay me a visit,”
he said, laughing. “I don’t think so: these things are hardly likely to
attract the average sneak-thief, though, of course, many of them are
almost priceless. They really should not be in a private house. I mean
to lend most of them to the Museum, and then I shan’t feel responsible.”

“I should love you to be burgled,” I said, laughing—“and the burglar to
find himself inside that stuffed Zoo of yours. Just fancy the feelings
of an enterprising thief who turned on his dark lantern and found
himself confronted by a python! It would be enough to give him a change
of heart, wouldn’t it?”

“It would certainly be worth seeing,” Dr. Firth agreed. “If he dropped
his dark lantern in his confusion and couldn’t find the way out, there
would be a very fair chance of adding a lunatic to the collection by the
morning! That room is uncommonly eerie in a dim light. I don’t care for
it myself. The animals always seem to me to come alive when the light
begins to fade: sometimes you’d swear you saw one move. They say my
brother used to sit there in the evening—he said the animals were
companionable!”

“It was a queer taste,” I said.

“An unhealthy one, I think. No—they’re out of place in an ordinary
man’s home. And the servants hate them; not one of the maids would go
near that room after dark if you offered her double wages. That big room
could be put to much better use than housing those silent avenues of
watching beasts. It would make a fine ballroom, wouldn’t it, Doris?”

“Oh, wouldn’t it!” I cried.

“I’d like to see it a ballroom,” he said, putting his keys into his
pocket, and leading the way out to the verandah. “I want to see young
people round me, Doris: the place is altogether too lonely and silent.
I’ll clear all the beasts out before the next holidays, and you and
Madge and Colin must come down here and we’ll fill the house with cheery
boys and girls. I think we could manage a pretty good time, don’t you?”

“It sounds too good to be true!” I answered. “But I would love to think
it might happen.”

“We’ll make it happen,” Dr. Firth said. “You three are to be my
property, in a way; you’re the nearest approach to nieces and nephews
that I have—and, indeed, I don’t believe that any nieces and nephews of
my own could have been as much to me as Denis’s children.” He put me
into a comfortable chair. “Now you have got to tell me all about him,”
he said. “I never could hear too much of Denis.”

I certainly could never have grown weary of talking. It seemed to bring
Father very near to be telling everything about him to this man whom he
had loved: who sat, leaning forward in his chair, letting his pipe go
out as he listened. I told him how dear and good Father had been to us
after Mother had died, when Madge was a very little girl: how, busy as
he was, he had always made time to be with us, and had set himself to
make our home what Mother would have liked it to be—a place of love and
happiness. I told him of our camping-out holidays in the bush; of the
half-hour before bed-time that he always kept free for us; of how he
used to come to tuck us in, when we were in bed, and say “God bless
you,” just as Mother would have done. There were so many dear and merry
memories of which it was happiness to tell. It was not so easy to speak
of the last dreadful days, when we had all, in our bewilderment, been
unable to realize that he was going away from us for ever.

“But he did not know, himself,” I said. “It was all so quick:
unconsciousness came so soon. We have always been thankful that he did
not know.”

“I wish I had been there,” Dr. Firth said. “You three children, to face
everything!”

He walked up and down for a few minutes saying nothing. Then he came
back and put his hand on my shoulder.

“You seem to have faced things like men, at all events,” he said. “And
in future, you have got to count me in: I’m not going to lose you, now
that I have found you. When you go back to Melbourne I mean to go too,
to make friends with Colin and Madge. Colin and I used to be friends,
years ago. He was a great little boy: the kind of boy a man would like
to have for a son.”

“He is certainly the kind of boy we like to have for a brother,” I said,
laughing. “Why, even his name helps to keep Judy and Jack McNab in
order!”

“And that speaks volumes!” said Dr. Firth. “Not that you would call them
extra-orderly now. Look at Judy, I ask you!”

The younger Miss McNab had just shot into view in the paddock beyond the
garden. She was mounted on a nuggety black pony, which had apparently
gone mad. Bucking was beyond the black pony, ordinarily an animal of
sedate habits and calm middle-age; but it fled across the paddock,
“pig-rooting,” kicking-up, and now and then pausing to twist and wriggle
in the most complex fashion. Behind the pair came Jack, who rolled in
his saddle, helpless with laughter: his shouts of mirth echoed as he
went.

“She’ll be killed!” I gasped.

“Not she,” said Dr. Firth. “That child is born to be hanged! But I would
certainly like to know what had come to my old Blackie. I didn’t think
he had it in him to be so gay.”

Blackie’s gaiety at the moment seemed to border on desperation. He
propped in his gallop, gave a series of ungainly bounds, and finally
commenced to kick as though nothing else could ease his spirits. At each
kick his hind-quarters shot higher and higher into the air, and Judy
slid a little farther forward. At last, a kick so high that it seemed
that nothing could save the pony from turning a somersault ended the
matter for his rider: she left the saddle, appeared to sit on Blackie’s
head for a moment, and came to earth in a heap. The pony stood still,
panting.

In their joyous career they had turned and were near the house, so that
it did not take us long to reach them. I ran with wild imaginings of
broken bones whirling in my brain: hugely relieved, as I came near, to
see Judy gather herself up from the grass, rubbing various portions of
her frame with extreme indignation. Beyond the fact that she was very
dirty there seemed little damage done. And after all, to be dirty was
nothing very unusual for the younger Miss McNab.

“That beast of a pony!” she uttered viciously. “What on earth happened
to him, Dr. Firth? He just went mad!”

“He isn’t given to excursions of that kind,” Dr. Firth said, looking
puzzled. “Blackie is always regarded as beyond the flights of youth.
What did you do to him, Judy?”

“Only rode him. And I could hardly get a move out of him until just now.
I told Jack the old slug wasn’t fit to ride!”

“So he went and slung you off!” put in Jack happily, from his pony.
“That’ll teach you to be polite to a pony, Ju!”

“You be quiet!” flashed his sister. She cast a look of sudden
inspiration at his innocent face. “I do believe——!” She broke off, and
hurriedly unfastened Blackie’s girth, lifting the saddle. A dry
thistle-head, considerably flattened, came into view.

“You did it!” she screamed, and darted at him. Jack’s movement of flight
was a thought too late: she grabbed his leg as he swung his pony round,
and in a moment he, too, lay on the grass, the injured Judy pounding him
scientifically. We dragged the combatants apart, holding them at a safe
distance.

“What do you mean by putting a thing like that under your sister’s
saddle, sir?” demanded Dr. Firth severely.

“Well, she wanted an exciting ride,” Jack grinned. “She wouldn’t do
anything but abuse poor old Blackie ’cause he wouldn’t go. She said he
ought to be in a Home for Decayed Animals, and she wouldn’t believe me
when I told her he only wanted a little handling. So I thought I’d show
her that he wasn’t as old as he looked, and I put that thistle under the
saddle while she was finding a new switch. And my goodness, didn’t he
go! Wasn’t it just scrumptious when he kicked her off!” He dissolved in
helpless laughter at the recollection, and Judy writhed in Dr. Firth’s
hands.

“It isn’t fair!” she protested. “Just let me get at him for a moment!”

“Murder is forbidden on this property,” answered her host sententiously.
“He deserves hanging, but you had better forgive him, Judy, and come in
for some tea.”

Judy submitted with a bad grace.

“Oh, all right,” she said. “Let’s go—I won’t kill him now, but I’ll pay
him out afterwards—you see if I don’t, young Jack!” With a swift
movement she possessed herself of Jack’s pony, scrambling into the
saddle and setting off at a gallop, a proceeding Jack vainly endeavoured
to check by clinging to the tail of his steed, and narrowly escaping
being kicked. He shrugged his shoulders, grinned cheerfully, girthed up
Blackie’s saddle, and went off in pursuit. They appeared together,
presently, on the verandah, washed and brushed, and apparently the best
of friends: and proceeded to demonstrate how many chocolate éclairs may
be consumed at an early age without fatal results to the consumers.

We found a silent house when we reached The Towers at six o’clock, for
the house-party had suddenly decided upon a moonlight picnic, and had
vanished into the bush. Mrs. McNab did not appear at all: genius was
working, and she had given orders that she was not to be disturbed. We
dined in the schoolroom in unwonted quiet; the children confessed to
being tired, and went off to bed early, leaving me free to answer long
letters that had awaited me from Colin and Madge—long, cheery letters,
written with the evident intention of making me believe that life in the
Prahran flat was one long dream of joy. I was reading them, for the
fourth time, when Julia dropped in to see me, on her way downstairs with
Mrs. McNab’s dinner-tray.

“I’d sooner be carryin’ it down than up,” she remarked, putting the tray
upon the schoolroom table. “’Tis herself has the great appetite when
she’s worrkin’: that tray was as heavy as lead when I tuk it up. Indeed,
though, wouldn’t the poor thing want nourishing an’ she writin’ her ould
books night afther night! ’Tis no wonder she looks annyhow next day.”

“No wonder, indeed,” I assented.

“Well, now, many’s the time I’ve said things agin her, but there’s no
doubt she’s got a feelin’ heart,” said Julia. “I’ll tell you, now, the
quare thing I heard to-day, miss. ’Twas me afthernoon out, an’ I walked
into Wootong to do me little bit of shoppin’, an’ who should I meet but
little Miss Parker—wan of thim two ould-maid sisters the thief’s afther
robbin’ the other night. They’re nice little ould things, them two
sisters: I often stop an’ have a chat wid them an’ I goin’ by. Little
Miss Sarah she med me go in to-day an’ have a cup of tay wid her an’ her
sister. An’ what do you think them two told me?”

I said I didn’t know.

“A baby cud have knocked me down wid a feather!” said Julia
dramatically. “This morning, who should call on them but the misthress
herself!”

“Mrs. McNab?” I asked.

Julia nodded.

“Herself, an’ no wan else. Bence druv her in, but he never let on to
annywan where she’d gone. She doesn’t know them well, so they were
surprised at her comin’. She didn’t waste much time in chat, but told
them she was terrible sorry to hear about the robbery. An’ finally she
brings out five-an’-twinty pounds, just what the thief stole from them,
an’ lays it on the table, sayin’ she was better able to afford the loss
than they were. They argued against her, but nothin’ ’ud move her from
the determination she had. ‘Let you take it now,’ she says, ‘or I’ll
throw it in the fire,’ says she. There was no fire there, by reason of
the hot weather that was in it, but the bare idea made the ould maids
shiver. So they gev in at the lasht, after they’d argued an’ protested,
but to no good: she wouldn’t listen to annything they’d be sayin’. An’
she lef the notes on the table an’ wished them a Happy New Year, an’
said good-bye. That was the lasht they saw of her, an’ they was still
fingerin’ the notes to make sure they was real. What would you make of
that now, miss?”—and Julia cocked her head on one side and looked at me
like an inquisitive bird.

It was a queer story, and I said so. Mrs. McNab did not strike one
ordinarily as a person of deep feeling or sympathy: and, despite the
surroundings of wealth at The Towers, she kept a fairly sharp eye upon
the household expenses and checked the bills with much keenness. It was
difficult to imagine her going out of her way to pay so large a sum as
twenty-five pounds to women of whom she knew personally very little. It
just showed that one shouldn’t judge anyone’s character by outward
appearances. Like Julia, I felt rather ashamed of having thought hardly
of Mrs. McNab.

“Me ould Mother used to say you couldn’t tell an apple by its skin,”
remarked Julia. “I’d have said plump enough that the misthress hadn’t
much feelin’ for annywan but herself. She’s that cold in her manner
you’d imagine all the warrm blood in her body had turned to ink—but
there you are! There’s a mighty lot of warmth in five-an’-twinty pounds,
so there is: particularly when you get it back afther havin’ lost it.
Mrs. Winter, she’s as surprised as I was. ‘To think of that, now!’ says
she—’an’ only this morning the misthress was down on me sharp enough
for all the butter we do be usin’. An’ indeed, there’s butter used in
this house to that extent you’d think they greased the motor with it,’
she says; ‘but where’s the use of scrapin’, an’ so I told her,’ says
she. Terrible stiff she was about it to Mrs. Winter. But you’d forgive
her for keepin’ one eye in the butter when she’d go off an’ make up all
that money to thim two poor ould maids.”

Julia took up her tray and turned to go. But at the door, she hesitated.

“Tell me now, miss,” she said. “Do you ever get thinkin’ you hear quare
noises in the night?—the sounds I was tellin’ you about when you first
came? I’d be aisier in me mind if I knew that some one else heard the
things I do be hearin’.”

“All rubbish, Julia,” I said, laughing. “In a house with so many people
as this place has in it, you’re bound to hear movements at night some
time. You’re very foolish to worry about it.”

Julia shook her head stubbornly.

“’Tis no right things I do be hearin’. People like the wild young things
that’s in this house don’t move about as if they were tryin’ not to
touch the floors with a foot. Bangin’ up an’ down stairs they are,
makin’ as much noise as they can—to hear Mr. Harry or that young Mr.
Atherton you’d say it was a regiment of horse they were. That’s the way
people should move when they’re young an’ full of spirits. But the
noises at night is very different—quare, muffled noises. If ’twas in
Ireland you’d just say it was a ghost an’ be done with it. Many’s the
good respectable house has its family ghost, just like the family
pictures an’ silver. Only there’s no ghosts in Australia.”

“Certainly not,” I agreed. “You hear the trees rustling, Julia.”

“Ah, trees!” sniffed Julia. “The other night I heard them ould muffled
noises till I couldn’t resht in me bed for them. I was that afraid, me
heart was poundin’ on me ribs, but I up an’ puts on me coat, an’ crep’
out. Downstairs I went, an’ if annywan had spoke to me I’d have let a
bawl fit to raise the roof!”

“And I’m certain you didn’t find anything,” I said.

“Well, I did not. But ’tis well known, miss, that them that goes lookin’
for them sounds isn’t the people that finds annything,” said Julia
darkly. “An’ indeed, if I didn’t see a ghost at all, I med certain
’twasn’t only me that was afraid.” She paused, looking at me with a
scared face.

I was trying hard to be practical and commonsensible, but in spite of
myself I gave a little shiver. There was something eerie in her tragic
tones.

“What do you mean?” I asked, forcing a smile that felt stiff at the
corners.

“I seen the misthress. She was huntin’, too: she had a little
flash-lamp, an’ she came out of the smokin’-room, movin’ like a ghost
herself. Sure, an’ I thought she was one for a moment. I’d have
screeched, only me tongue was stickin’ to the roof of me head! She
looked up an’ saw me, an’ I cud see she was as frightened as I was. We
stared at each other for a minute, me on the stairs an’ she by the door.
Never a worrd did she say, only she put her finger to her lips as if she
was tellin’ me to howld me noise—me, that couldn’t have said a worrd if
’twas to save me life!”

“And what then?”

“Then she shut off her lamp an’ went back into the room behind her. An’
I up the stairs as if the Sivin Divils were behind me, an’ lef’ her to
her huntin’. ‘If there’s ghosts in it, let you be findin’ them
yourself,’ thinks I; ‘sure, it’s your own house!’ An’ pretty soon I
heard her comin’ upstairs slow an’ careful, an’ she went back into the
Tower.”

“I think you are worrying yourself about nothing, Julia,” I said. “Mrs.
McNab is often about the house at night—I thought I had caught a
burglar myself the other night, and it turned out to be the mistress,
coming up the kitchen stairs. I think she often wanders round when her
work won’t go easily: and she is nervous about the safety of the place,
since the robbery at Miss Parker’s. At any rate, if she is wakeful and
watching there is no need for you or me to be anxious.”

Julia looked unconvinced. I could see that she hugged the idea of a
mystery. And, indeed, I did not feel half so commonsensible as I tried
to seem.

“Why wouldn’t she do it different, then?” she demanded. “If ’tis nervous
she is, she might call Mr. Harry an’ let him an’ the other young
gentlemen go huntin’, with all the lights turned on, an’ plenty of
noise! A good noise ’ud be heartenin’—betther than that silent prowlin’
round, like a lone cat.”

“It might—but it wouldn’t catch a burglar,” I said. “Anyhow, Mrs. McNab
might not have been after a burglar at all: she might have gone down for
a book.”

“She had not that appearance,” said Julia. “Stealthy, she was: an’ I
tell you, miss, there was fear on her face!”

“I should think so—with you creaking down the stairs!” I said,
laughing. “Probably she made sure that the burglar had caught her
instead. And when she saw that it was you, she was afraid you might
alarm the house. She’s awfully anxious that the house-party should have
a good time. I think it is rather nice to know that, even though she is
working so hard, she watches over everything at night.”

“I dunno,” said Julia doubtfully. “Sure, I’d a sight rather she laid
peaceful an’ quiet in her bed, an’ lef’ all the lights burnin’. Burglar
or ghost, either of them’s aisy discouraged with a strong light: it’s
worth all the prowlin’ a woman could do. Well, I’ve been lettin’ me
tongue run away with me, but you’re the only wan I can talk to, miss.
Mrs. Winter an’ Bella, they sleep like the dead, an’ never hear
annything: an’ if they thought there was either a ghost or a burglar in
The Towers they’d be off like scalded cats, without givin’ notice. An’
where’d you an’ I be then?”

“Cooking,” said I with alarmed conviction. “For goodness’ sake, don’t
say a word to frighten them, Julia! Do make up your mind there is
nothing wrong, and go to sleep at night like a sensible girl. Lock your
door, and if you hear anything, just remember that it is Mrs. McNab’s
house and she has a perfect right to prowl round it at any hour of the
night.”

“’Tis great sense you have, an’ you only a shlip of a gerrl yourself,
miss,” said Julia, looking at me respectfully—from which I gathered
that I sounded more impressive than I felt. “Well, I will try so. But
I’ll be believin’ all me days that it’s a quare house, entirely!”

Somehow, I thought so myself, after I had gone to bed—the picnickers
had come in, laughing and chattering, and then the house settled down to
quiet. I lay awake, thinking of what the Irish girl had said: and, so
thinking, it seemed to me that, gradually, queer, muffled sounds came to
me: furtive, stealthy movements, and the creaking of a stair. Once I got
up, and, opening my door very softly, peered out: but all was in
darkness, and there was no sound as I listened, except the thumping of
my own heart. I told myself, angrily, all the wise things I had said to
Julia, as I crept back to bed. But I will confess that I switched on my
light and looked under the bed before I got back into its friendly
shelter.




                               CHAPTER IX
                     I BECOME A MEMBER OF THE BAND


‟MISS EARLE—do you know where the children are?”

My employer’s voice made me jump. I had slipped away from the
drawing-room, where I had been playing accompaniments since dinner. It
was a still hot night, following upon a day of breathless heat, and I
was tired—in no mood for the dance for which Harry and his friends were
now energetically preparing the room. Like Cinderella, whom I often felt
that I resembled, I was hoping to make good my escape before my absence
was discovered.

Mrs. McNab stood on the landing above me, looking annoyed.

“Are they not in bed?” I asked. “They said good night an hour ago.”

“No; their beds are empty. And I cannot find them anywhere in the house.
I—I have just come in from a—from a little stroll”—she stammered
slightly, with a trace of confusion—“and I thought I heard voices in
the shrubbery. I wonder can they have gone out on some prank.”

“It’s quite likely,” I answered, feeling dismally certain that anything
might be expected of my charges. “I’ll go out and look for them, Mrs.
McNab.”

“You must not go alone,” she said unexpectedly. “Change your frock as
quickly as you can: I will come with you.”

“Oh, please don’t!” I protested. “I can easily find them alone, I’m
certain. You mustn’t disturb your work.”

“I—I am not working well to-night.” Her tone was awkward. “So it really
does not matter—and I could not let you go alone. I would call my son,
but that one does not like to disturb one’s guests—and Beryl does so
resent it if the children are troublesome. I have no doubt that we shall
find them easily.”

I had no doubt at all, as I hastily got out of my dinner-frock in my
room. For, as I glanced from the open window, a swift flame flickered up
into the sky, seemed to hang for a moment, and then curved and came back
to earth, leaving a trail of sparks across the blackness. In a flash as
vivid was revealed to me why Judy and Jack had been at such elaborate
pains that afternoon to find an errand for me at the railway-station
while they visited the one stationer’s shop in Wootong; I had a mental
vision of the queer-shaped packages they had stowed away in the
governess-cart when we drove back from the township. Had not Colin and I
burned our fingers over forbidden fireworks in the days of our wild
youth?

“I think I have tracked them,” I said, laughing, as I rejoined Mrs.
McNab. “There are bangings and poppings coming from the shrubbery, and I
saw a rocket above the trees. I think they must be holding a private
Fifth of November celebration.”

“Fireworks!” exclaimed Mrs. McNab, aghast. “But they are _never_
permitted!”

I kept my face grave, but it was an effort. If Judy and Jack had
restricted their energies to the list of permitted things, their lives
would have been on very different—and much duller—lines. Compared with
some of their highly-original occupations, a little indulgence in
fireworks seemed mild. But Mrs. McNab was extraordinarily concerned.

“We must hurry,” she said, darting out of a side-door with a swift
energy that recalled the night on the shore when she had swooped upon
Jack and spanked him with such unsuspected vigour. “I have an especial
dread of fireworks in the hands of children. The figures, my dear Miss
Earle, of accidents to American children who celebrate their Fourth of
July with firework displays, are harrowing in the extreme. Death and
disfigurement are common—terribly common.”

“They do things on such a grand scale in America,” I ventured, trotting
beside her. “I don’t think Judy would let Jack run any risk.”

“One never knows,” returned Judy’s mother, gloomily. “Not with Judith.
Even if she protected Jack, she would not hesitate to run any risk
herself. And fireworks are so very unexpected. One cannot possibly——”

Bang!

Something exploded close to us, in the very heart of a dense pittosporum
tree. For a moment sparks glittered among its myriad leaves: and then
hundreds of sparrows, which made their nightly home in its heart, flew
wildly out, chirping, twittering, terrified. We were the centre of a
cloud of fluttering little bodies; they struck against our faces, so
that we had to shelter our eyes with our hands. Above the clamour of the
bird-panic rose smothered shrieks and gurgles of delight from Judy and
Jack, unseen among the bushes.

“Crikey, that was a beauty, Ju!” came Jack’s voice.

“Jack!” uttered his mother in awful accents.

“Judy! It’s Mother! Grab ’em and run!”

A dim light guided us round the pittosporum, and Mrs. McNab darted
towards it. I followed, choking with laughter. A smoky lantern, hanging
on a bough, showed the culprits racing towards a heap of fireworks that
lay on the ground within the murky circle of light. Near them Jack
caught his foot in a creeper and pitched headlong on his face. Judy
halted in her stride and darted to pick him up.

And then something happened.

Near the little heap of forbidden delight a cracker that had been lit
and tossed aside as useless decided to fulfil its destiny and explode.
It was a large cracker, and it did so with vehemence. A shower of sparks
fell on a long trail of soft tissue-paper which had formed the wrapping
of the parcel; dry as tinder, and sprinkled with loose gunpowder, it
flared into flame, and a little breath of wind carried it fairly across
the heap of fireworks. There was a quick spitting and hissing as the
fuses caught. I seized Jack, who uttered a wail and sprang to save what
he could.

“No, you don’t, old chap!” I said, tightening my grip against his
struggles.

A string of crackers went off in a spitting volley, and a
Catherine-wheel suddenly began to revolve madly in the grass. Then
everything caught at once. Rockets dug themselves into the ground,
exploding harmlessly, while whizz-bangs and Roman candles and
basket-bombs leaped and sputtered and banged in a whirl of rainbow
sparks. It was a lavish and uplifting spectacle, produced for our
benefit regardless of expense. But the producers wailed aloud in their
despair.

“They cost every bit of pocket-money we had!” grieved Jack. “I could
have got half of them away if you’d given me a chance! Why on earth do
you want to come round poking your noses in?”

“We never get a show,” said Judy mournfully. “We’re just hunted down
like mad dogs! I should think persons of twelve and thirteen can be
trusted to do a few little things alone, occasionally, anyhow!”

She twisted round, and suddenly screamed. A long tongue of flame, a
licking, fiery tongue, ran up her thin frock, and in an instant it was
blazing fiercely. I dropped Jack and sprang to catch her, flinging her
down; Mrs. McNab, quicker than I, was beating at the burning silk. It
was over more quickly than one can tell of it. Judy, very white, sat on
the ground in the blackened remnants of her frock, while we gasped and
hunted for vagrant sparks. Jack burst into a terrified howl, rather
pitiful to hear.

“Oh, shut up, Jack!” Judy said. “I’m not killed. But I ’specs I would
have been but for Mother and Miss Earle.”

“Are you hurt, Judy?” her mother asked, her voice shaking.

“Not a bit—I’m not even singed, I think. Jolly sight luckier than I
deserve to be. I guess I can’t talk much about taking care of myself,
can I?”

“Judith,” said Mrs. McNab, solemnly—her solemnity rather handicapped by
the fact that she had passed a blackened hand across her face—“have I
not warned you from your childhood that in the event of clothes catching
fire one must cause the person in danger to assume an horizontal
position?”

“You have, Mother,” responded Judy. “And I stayed vertical—and ran.
Well, I’m a fool, that’s all!”

To this there seemed no answer. Mrs. McNab, regarding her daughter much
as an owl may who has hatched out an imp, rose slowly to her feet.
Suddenly Judy’s defiant look changed to one of swift concern. She sprang
towards her mother.

“I say, Mother—you’re hurt!”

“My hand is a little burned, I think,” said Mrs. McNab quietly. She held
out her left palm, on which big blisters were already forming.

“Oh, I am a beast!” uttered Judy. “Mother, dear, I’m so sorry! It’s all
my silly fault. Is it very bad?”

“It is rather painful,” Mrs. McNab admitted. She swayed a little, and I
put my arm round her.

“Do sit down,” I begged. “I’ll run in for dressings.”

“No, I am quite able to come with you,” she said. “There is no need to
alarm anyone. Just give me your arm, and I will walk slowly.”

We gained the house unseen, a sorry little procession, and Mrs. McNab
sent the disconsolate youngsters to bed while I dressed and bandaged her
hand. The burns were painful enough, but not serious; my patient made
light of them, and refused any stimulant except coffee, which she
permitted me to prepare for her, after some argument. We drank it
together, in the kitchen.

“Being bandaged is the worst infliction,” she said. “I do not take
kindly to being even partly helpless. I shall have to ask your
assistance in dressing, I am afraid, Miss Earle. It is fortunate that I
conformed to the fashion and had my hair cut—not that I might be in the
fashion, needless to say, but because I was thankful to be relieved of
the weight of my hair. It sadly hampered my work, and I have never
regretted that I sacrificed it, even though I have heard Judith remark
that I now resemble a turkey-hen.”

This was one of the remarks to which there seemed no tactful reply. At
any rate, I had none handy, so I merely murmured that I should be
delighted to assist in her toilet.

“I will not ask you to come up to the Tower rooms,” she said. “Perhaps
you will allow me to come to your room when I need a little help. I
should be glad, too, if nothing is said about the children’s escapade.
They have had a very severe fright, and I do not want them blamed by the
household. There is an old proverb about ‘a dog with a bad name’—and I
cannot but feel that my poor Judith and Jack have suffered by their
mother’s absorption in her work for some years. My daughter Beryl’s
remarks about to-night’s occurrence would certainly be very severe. I
think we may spare them any further punishment, Miss Earle.”

“I’m awfully glad,” I said—forgetting, in my haste, that
well-brought-up governesses do not say ‘awfully.’ Luckily Mrs. McNab
appeared not to notice my lapse. “They are very sorry, I know. May I
tell them, Mrs. McNab?”

“Do—or they will certainly blurt it out themselves. I will go to bed
now, and I think you should do the same as soon as possible.” She
refused any further help, saying that she was quite able to manage
alone. I watched her mount the stairs slowly, and then went off with my
message for the culprits, whom I found sitting together on Jack’s bed,
steeped in woe. They received my news with relief, though it did not
dispel their gloom.

“Jolly decent of Mother,” Judy said: “Beryl and Harry would have been
beasts—’specially Beryl. Not that we don’t deserve it; but I can’t
stick Beryl’s way of telling us we’re worms. Even if you feel wormy you
don’t want it rubbed in. And every one else would have despised us.” She
looked at me keenly. “Did you ask Mother not to tell, Miss Earle?”

“Indeed, I didn’t,” I hastened to assure her. “But I was ever so glad
that she said she wouldn’t.”

Judy’s lip quivered, and suddenly she broke into hard, choked sobbing.
It isn’t a pleasant thing to see the complete surrender of a person who
ordinarily shows no feeling whatever: I put my arm round her, not far
removed from tears myself, and was not surprised when Jack buried his
face in the pillow and howled too.

“Oh, you poor kids!” I uttered, entirely forgetting that I was a
governess. They seemed to forget it too, for they clung to me
desperately, and I hugged them and lent them my handkerchief in turn,
since neither possessed one. When they began to pull themselves
together, and to look shame-faced, I slipped away to the kitchen and
came back with some cake and hot milk, over which they became
comparatively cheerful.

“If you ask me,” said Jack, “it was a pretty hard-luck night. If you and
Mother hadn’t smelt us out we’d have had our fireworks without any
accident. Why, Ju and I have used fireworks since we were kids!”

“Rather!” agreed Judy. “And when they did go off in a general mix-up,
there was no need for me to catch fire. Why did it want to happen, I’d
like to know?”

“And when it happened it was bad luck that your Mother got burned,” I
supported. “Some bad-tempered gnome was certainly taking the place of
your fairy godmother to-night, chickens. Only none of it would have
happened at all if you hadn’t gone out when you were supposed to be in
bed. You didn’t have much luck the last time, either, did you, Jack?”

They regarded me, wide-eyed.

“How—did—you—know?” uttered Jack.

“I was there—in a bush,” I said, laughing. “But it didn’t seem
necessary for me to interfere, for you certainly got all that was coming
to you, didn’t you?”

“My Aunt, I did!” Jack said. “And you never said a thing! Why, all our
other governesses would have sung hymns of joy!”

“From this out,” said Judy solemnly, “I refuse to look on you as a
governess. You are a Member of the Band. Isn’t she, Jack?”

“Rather!” said Jack. “Will you, Miss Earle?”

“I will,” I said. “But if I belong to the Band, the Band has got to play
the game. No more night excursions unless I go too. Is it a bargain?”

They said it was, and we shook hands with all formality.

“We’ll back you up no end,” said Judy. “’Means we’ve got to be horribly
respectable, but it can’t be helped, Jack.” She heaved a sigh. “I’ve
always known we’d have to be respectable some day, but I hoped it
wouldn’t be until we were quite old. But you’ve been an awful brick,
Miss Earle, and we jolly well won’t let you down.”

“And when we’re at school in Melbourne, don’t you think the Band could
meet some Saturday?” Jack asked. The outlaw in him had vanished for the
moment; he looked just a wistful small boy, with the traces of tears
still on his freckled face.

“It will be arranged,” I told him. “And would you like my brother Colin
to come to the meeting?”

They gaped at me.

“The ‘record-breaker’ Earle?” Jack uttered. “My aunt, wouldn’t I!” He
flushed suddenly. “Would he come, Miss Earle? You know you told us once
he was jolly particular!”

“He is,” I said calmly. “Awfully particular. But he will come, if I ask
him. And I should like to ask him.”

The original Members of the Band regarded each other with glowing eyes.

“Well!” said Jack at last, drawing a long breath. “We lost seven bob
over those fireworks, Ju, but I reckon it was worth it, don’t you?”

“Rather!” agreed Judy.




                               CHAPTER X
                           I HEAR OF ROBBERS


MRS. McNAB kept to the Tower rooms all next day. Julia brought me a
message early in the morning.

“She put her head out at me when I did be sweepin’ the landin’ outside
her door. ‘Let you be tellin’ Miss Earle I’d like to see her up here,’
says she: ‘an’ I’ll be takin’ all me meals here to-day,’ she says. ‘The
work is troublin’ me,’ she says. An’ I’d say from the look she had on
her that something was afflictin’ her. Yerra, there’s a powerful lot of
misery over writin’ books. I never did read a book if I could help it,
but if ever I’m druv to it I’ll be pityin’ the poor soul that wrote it
all the time. It’s a poor trade for the spirits.”

As soon as I was dressed I ran up the narrow stairway and tapped at the
door. Mrs. McNab opened it immediately. She was very pale, and there
were dark circles under her eyes.

“I have not slept much,” she said, in answer to my inquiries. Evidently
she had not climbed the steep steps to her bedroom, for there were
tumbled rugs and cushions on the big couch; but she was fully dressed,
and her iron-grey shingled hair was as neat as usual. “I think it would
be as well if I did not go down-stairs to-day.” But she laughed at my
suggestion to call in the Wootong doctor.

“Oh no: my hand is really not bad. I suppose I must be feeling a certain
amount of shock, that is all. I will spend a lazy day. You can manage
without me, can you not?”

I begged her not to worry on that score, and proceeded to dress her
hand. The burns were nothing to be anxious about: there was no sign of
inflammation, and she possessed the clean, healthy skin that heals
rapidly. She was mildly proud of it as I adjusted the bandages.

“I always heal quickly—no cut or burn ever troubles me for long,” she
remarked. “Indeed, I rarely have to bandage a trifling hurt: but one has
to be careful with a blister. Perhaps you will not mind coming up after
luncheon and dinner to renew the dressings. Judith is quite well this
morning, I hope?”

“Quite—judging by the rate at which I saw her tearing over the paddock
to bathe, half an hour ago,” I said, laughing. “And she and Jack have
promised me that there will be no more unlawful excursions at night. We
have made a solemn alliance!”

“I am indeed relieved to hear it.” She looked at me with something like
warmth. “You manage them very well, my dear: they recognize something in
you that they can trust. There has been mutual abhorrence between them
and their other governesses. I had begun to despair of them—every one
has regarded them as outlaws.”

“There is nothing much wrong with Judy and Jack beyond high spirits,” I
defended. “And I think there is a good deal in what you said last night
about ‘a dog with a bad name’; they knew they were expected to be
outlaws, and they simply lived up to what was expected of them. But they
never do mean things, and I think that is all that really matters.”

“I am glad you say that,” Mrs. McNab said. “You are young enough to
understand them—and yet I was very much afraid of your youth when you
first came. But I have become thankful for it. You are a great comfort
to me, my dear!” Which so amazed me, coming from the lips of my dour
employer, that I got out of the room with all speed—to behold from my
window my “misunderstood” outlaws vigorously watering Mr. Atherton with
the garden hose—their victim having imprudently assailed them with
chaff from a somewhat helpless position in an apricot tree. By the time
he reached the ground he was so drenched that the only thing undamped in
him was his ardour for vengeance. Judy and Jack, however, fled in time,
and as the breakfast-gong boomed out at the moment, Mr. Atherton had to
beat a retreat to change his clothes. Nothing could have been more
lamb-like than my charges when I met them at the table. I decided that
the occurrence was one which I might profitably be supposed not to have
seen.

Nobody seemed to mind the non-appearance of the hostess, and the day
passed uneventfully. Too much fire the night before appeared to have
bred in Judy and Jack a burning desire for water; they spent most of the
day in the sea, and I had the pleasure of seeing Mr. Atherton duck them
both with a scientific thoroughness that seemed to repay him in part for
what he had suffered before breakfast. In the evening they behaved with
unwonted decorum—it drew anxious inquiries for their health from
several of the party, notably from the girl who had found a frog in her
bed. She announced her intention of making a very thorough search before
retiring, remarking gloomily that when the children acted like infant
cherubs a five-foot goanna under her sheet might well be expected. At
which Judy and Jack smiled dreamily. They went to bed early, and when I
tucked them up they were sleeping soundly, looking more innocent than
any lambs.

Mrs. McNab came down after breakfast next morning, evidently rested. She
made light of her bandaged hand, satisfying such inquiries as were made
with a vague remark about the careless use of matches. It was a busy
morning for me, for an all-day picnic was planned, and the preparations
had to be rushed. Just as I came out with the last basket of provisions
a motor came up the drive, and Dr. Firth got out. He greeted every one
cheerfully, declining the invitations that were showered upon him to go
to the picnic: he was too busy, he said, and certainly too old—which
produced a storm of protest. Certainly he did not look old, as he gave
back chaff for chaff. Not until the last car had driven away, loaded,
did he look grave. Then the face he turned to Mrs. McNab and me was
serious enough.

“I came with rather unpleasant news,” he said. “There didn’t seem any
need to worry all those light-hearted young people with it, but I felt I
must let you know. My place was pretty successfully burgled last night!”

Mrs. McNab went white to the lips.

“Dr. Firth!” she breathed. “Have you—did you lose much?”

“More than I care about. The thieves were discriminating: they didn’t
bother about anything bulky. They must have known a good deal about the
place. All the unset jewels have gone, and most of the smaller and more
valuable ornaments—some very valuable as rare specimens. I wish I had
done six months ago what I intended to do next week—sent the lot to a
museum. You were right in your warnings after all, Mrs. McNab.” He
smiled grimly.

“And you heard nothing?”

“Not a thing. I was writing until very late, and when I turned in I
slept like a top. My housekeeper is a light sleeper, but she heard
nothing. I am almost inclined to think that there was only one burglar.
The police believe more than one had a hand in it. But I think that if a
gang had been at work more would have been taken; to me, the small bulk
of what has gone points to a man working single-handed. And I wouldn’t
be surprised if both thief and booty are in the neighbourhood yet.”

If Mrs. McNab had been pale before, she was ghastly now.

“Why—why do you think so?”

“Because every one takes it for granted that he would get away. The
Wootong police—not that they’re especially intelligent—are quite
certain on the point: they have been keeping the telegraph-wires busy
with messages to Melbourne. I wish they’d show more anxiety to hunt the
neighbourhood. How easy it would be for a man to hide his plunder
somewhere in the bush and remain quietly here until the hue and cry died
away! In the cities the detectives have a fair working knowledge of
likely criminals. But a man could stay in the country, perhaps as a
farm-labourer, without suspicion ever being drawn to him.”

Judy and Jack had been listening open-mouthed. Now Judy burst forth.

“I say, I’ve a gorgeous idea! You and I’ll be detectives, Jack, and
we’ll hunt round everywhere! We’ll find out if there are any strangers
about, and do some scouting. I’m jolly glad they wouldn’t take us for
their beastly old picnic, aren’t you?”

“Rather!” said Jack. “Let’s go and hunt through the tea-tree near Dr.
Firth’s!”

“Not if I know it!” said the doctor hastily. “You keep well out of the
way, young people: there may be tracks, and I don’t want them confused.
I mean to get the black trackers down, Mrs. McNab: they may get on the
trail, especially if my theory is correct.”

“The black trackers!” ejaculated Mrs. McNab faintly. “Do you really
think——?” She paused, looking at him anxiously.

“There’s no harm in trying. Those black fellows are wonderfully quick at
picking up a track. And I must say, I should like to put up a fight to
get poor old Michael’s things back. They’re precious little good to me,
but he valued them. Besides, if the thief or thieves should be in the
neighbourhood, my house may not be the last to be robbed. He’s visited
the hotel and the poor little Parker ladies already: this may seem to
him a good district to work in.”

“I—wonder,” said Mrs. McNab. “Oh, I should think he would have got
away. He would not dare to stay.”

“It might be less risky to stay than to go—knowing that every detective
in the cities was on the watch for him. Of course, my theory may be all
wrong, but I mean to take precautions. And I want you to be on your
guard.”

“My Aunt!” said Judy. “We may be burgled next, Jack. What a lark!”

“Don’t be foolish, Judith!” said her mother sharply. “This is a matter
far too serious for silly joking. Not that I really feel afraid, Dr.
Firth. There is not much here that could be easily carried away, and I
never keep much money in the house.”

“No; but the thief might not know that. The enterprising gentleman who
knew all about the Parkers’ little hoard might well expect pickings in
The Towers. I don’t want to make you nervous, but it would be foolish
not to be on the watch.”

For all her attempt at unconcern, Mrs. McNab looked distinctly nervous,
though she again expressed the belief that the burglars had got well
away with their plunder, and threw cold water on the doctor’s scheme of
procuring the black trackers. I wondered at the haggard lines into which
her face set as she watched him drive away—he refused her invitation to
remain to lunch, remarking that all the Wootong police force were sure
to be waiting on his doormat, eager for him to sign more documents. “I
don’t know how many I’ve signed already,” he said, laughing. “It’s a
terrible thing to come into close quarters with the law!”

We lunched rather soberly: the children were repressed by their mother’s
grim face, and ate as quickly as possible, so that they might escape
from the table. Mrs. McNab seemed lost in thought; she let her cutlet go
away almost untasted, sitting with her fingers keeping a soft drumming
on the tablecloth, and her brow knitted. I wondered whether the
burglar-scare were troubling her, or if it were merely the perennial
worry of her work: and wished I could escape as quickly as Judy and
Jack, whose gay young voices could be heard in the shrubbery long before
their mother rose from the table. She walked to the window and stood
looking out for a moment. Then she turned to me.

“I hope you are not alarmed by this burglary,” she said. “I really do
not think we are likely to have trouble here.”

“Then you shouldn’t look as if you did,” I thought; but prudently
forbore to put my thought into words. Aloud, I said I didn’t think I was
likely to be nervous. Then I wondered was I right to keep silent about
the movements I had heard.

“I think I ought to tell you that I have noticed unusual sounds several
times at night,” I began. I got no further, for my employer took a quick
step forward, her face changing.

“What is that? _What_ did you hear?”

“There have been rustlings and movements in the shrubbery below my
window,” I said. “Quite a number of times; and more than once I have
heard steps on the gravel, sounding as though some one were trying to
walk as noiselessly as possible.”

She drew a long breath.

“Did you see anything?”

“Yes—just glimpses of a dark figure. But with so many in the house it
seemed foolish to worry: anyone might have gone there for a stroll. I
did feel as if some one were prowling for no good; but then, I know one
is apt to fancy things, especially at night. Still, I thought I ought to
tell you.”

Mrs. McNab looked relieved.

“You are quite level-headed,” she said approvingly. “And I am sure there
was nothing to cause alarm: as a matter of fact, I very frequently
stroll out at night myself, and I naturally try not to disturb anyone. A
little turn in the night-air clears my head when I am at work. So, quite
possibly I myself was your prowler.”

“Yes, I thought of that,” I answered. “Of course, there was the night I
met you on the back stairs I was sure I had trapped a burglar that
time!”

For a moment she stared at me with a look that seemed to lack
comprehension. Then she smiled nervously.

“Oh yes—yes,” she murmured. “Quite so. Well, I think we may agree that
Dr. Firth’s burglar has not paid us a visit yet. Personally, I do not
think he will ever do so.” She spoke hurriedly, almost incoherently.
“And I hope you will not worry, or keep any watch at night. We have
plenty of defenders, if anyone should break in. My son and his friends
would welcome the chance of dealing with a burglar—yes, think it great
fun!” The laugh with which she ended was a queer, forced cackle. Then
she turned on her heel abruptly, and hurried out of the room.

I went in search of Judy and Jack, and, seeing them safely ensconced in
the highest branches of a pine-tree, sat down on a garden-seat and gave
myself up to thought. For the first time, doubts as to my employer’s
mental balance assailed my mind. Undoubtedly, she was queer; that I had
known always, but never had she been quite so queer as in those few
minutes after lunch. Was she really afraid of thieves? Perhaps, unknown
to anyone, she had a secret hoard of money or jewels in the Tower rooms
that she guarded so jealously: but in that case it did not seem likely
that she would feel so sure that no thief would come. She would welcome
Dr. Firth’s black trackers, instead of trying to persuade him not to
employ them.

And yet—I did not believe that any mere danger of loss would make Mrs.
McNab look as she had looked; afraid, almost hunted. She was the
mistress of The Towers, secure, guarded, wealthy: no outside risk could
touch her. The more I thought, the more the conviction grew upon me that
her mind was unbalanced. There had been something hardly sane in her
nervous distress, her incoherence. And most of all I puzzled over her
blank look when I had spoken of our midnight meeting on the night when
she had brushed rudely by me. For, despite her quick effort to cover it,
I was very sure that Mrs. McNab had not the slightest recollection of
having met me on the kitchen stairs.




                               CHAPTER XI
                              I SEE DOUBLE


THE certainty that I possessed an employer with a mind more or less
unhinged deepened throughout a long afternoon during which I found it
difficult to adapt myself to the varying pursuits of my fellow-Members
of the Band. To let Judy and Jack out of my sight would not have been
prudent; they were filled with a wild yearning to go burglar-hunting,
and, had they been alone, I think no warnings from Dr. Firth would have
kept them from the neighbourhood of his house; wherefore I attached
myself firmly to them, and tried to show that I was indeed qualified to
belong to the illustrious ranks of their limited association. We played
at burglars and bushrangers in the scrub—no game without some criminal
element would have had the slightest attraction for Judy and Jack that
day. I believe I climbed trees; I certainly crawled into hollow logs and
miry hollows, to the utter wreck of a clean frock. Finally we decided to
be pirates and possessed ourselves of the small motor-launch, in which
we attacked and captured several of the small islands of Porpoise Bay,
in spite of gallant resistance from the gannets and gulls that inhabited
them. It was a bloodthirsty and exciting afternoon, and I should have
enjoyed it had it not been for the turmoil of my mind.

I had the usual theoretical dread of anyone insane. But, somewhat to my
own surprise, I did not feel at all afraid. Perhaps it was difficult to
realize that any danger might be feared from Mrs. McNab, who, dour and
grim though she undoubtedly was at times, was always gentle—if one
excepted the night when she had so violently beaten Jack, down by the
sea. That in itself, looked at in the new light, was like the sudden
strength and fury of insanity. But it was only one instance. And, after
all, many quite sane people must have wanted at times to spank Jack;
Beryl would have said that the desire to do so was a proof of sanity.
Apart from that one uncontrollable moment, Mrs. McNab had never been
violent: she was only deeply unhappy. And, remembering her haggard face,
I could only feel sorry for her. She was not an object of fear—only of
pity.

The question of what I ought to do beat backwards and forwards in my
brain while I bushranged and pillaged and led my band of cut-throats to
the Spanish Main—as represented by Porpoise Bay. One could not go to
Beryl and Harry McNab and express doubts as to their parent’s sanity: it
did not seem to be the kind of thing expected of governesses. If I wrote
to Colin I knew very well that he would appear by the earliest
train—even if he had to turn burglar himself to raise the money for the
journey: caring not at all for the McNabs or their concerns, but only
bent on snatching me from an environment so doubtful. Poor old Colin,
who believed me enjoying “rest and change”! The thought brought a short
laugh from me, which must have had something grim in it, since Jack, who
was at the moment delivering an oration on skulls and cross-bones,
evidently accepted it as a tribute to his blood-curdling words, and was
inspired to yet higher flights. No, I could not worry Colin, unless it
became quite necessary to do so: that was certain. Yet, it seemed to me
that something must be done: if my fears were well-founded, I ought not
to conceal the matter from every one. Then, with a great throb of
relief, I thought of Dr. Firth.

Beyond doubt, he was the person to be told. A doctor, even if he did not
practise, would be able to confirm my suspicions or to laugh at them as
ridiculous: and he would know what to do. The heavy sense of
responsibility lifted from me as I thought of his strong, kind face. I
had a wild impulse to escape from the children and make my way to his
house immediately; but common sense came to my aid, and I remembered
that I had promised Mrs. McNab not to let Judy and Jack out of my sight.
Besides, he might not be at home; and if he were, in all probability he
would be overwhelmed with business resulting from the burglary, with
policemen proffering him documents at short intervals. A little delay
could do no harm, I thought, especially if I were very watchful of the
children: the other inmates of The Towers could take care of themselves.
He was sure to be over within a day or two: very likely to-morrow would
bring him, and I could make an opportunity of speaking to him alone. So
I tried to put away my anxiety, and to be a good and thorough pirate, as
befitted a Member of the Band.

We became sated with bloodshed about six o’clock, and ran the launch
home, singing “Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest!” with intense
feeling. Not one of the Band was fit to be seen, wherefore we sneaked in
at the kitchen entrance and made our way up the back stairs, gaining,
unobserved, the shelter of the bathroom we so sorely needed. Half an
hour later we descended, using the main stairway, a well-scrubbed trio,
clad in fresh raiment, so that we looked patronizingly on the picnic
party, all of whom presented that part-worn appearance that follows a
long day in the bush. They had just returned, and were excitedly
discussing the burglary, news of which had just reached them. Several of
the girls looked nervous, and declared their intention of sleeping with
locked doors and windows—whereat Jack ejaculated “Frowsts!”
disgustedly, elevating a nose that was already tilted heavenwards.

“Well, if they come here they’ll get a warm reception,” Dicky Atherton
declared. “How about taking it in turns to sit up and watch?”

“Surely that is quite unnecessary, Dicky,” Mrs. McNab said in a hurried
voice. “The burglars are probably well out of the district by now; in
any case, they would never commit a robbery the very night after they
had broken into Dr. Firth’s. You had all better go to bed as usual and
forget about them.”

I wondered did any of the others see what was so plain to me—her
restless eyes, her hand that clenched and unclenched as she spoke.
Surely they must notice her strained and haggard face. But apparently
they thought it nothing unusual—Mrs. McNab never was quite like other
people, and anyone might be excited over a crime so near at hand. Dicky
Atherton laughed as he answered her.

“Well, that is true enough: I should think the beggars would lie quiet
for a bit, anyhow, and we should all get pretty sick of sitting up for
nothing.”

“We’ll go over to Dr. Firth’s in the morning, shall we, Dick?” said
Harry. “I’ve always wanted a chance of seeing black trackers at work.”

“How do they manage?” asked some one. “You let them smell a
finger-print, don’t you? And then they put their noses to the ground and
never stop until they’ve found the criminal!”

“Something like that,” grinned Harry. “They’re no end clever at picking
up a trail from next to no evidence. It would be a lark if they tracked
these fellows down to some hiding-place in the bush—I’d like to be in
at the death!”

Mrs. McNab looked more troubled than ever.

“I think the whole idea of getting in black trackers is very foolish,”
she said. “It will only alarm the district and cause a great deal of
unnecessary publicity. The daily papers always make a fuss about a case
when they are employed.”

“Yes, they think it’s romantic!” said Dicky. “We’ll have all the Press
photographers down, and the place will be overrun with them, taking
snapshots. We had all better go about in our best clothes, because if
they meet us in a body they will attack us with their cameras, and it
would be painful if ‘Mrs. McNab’s house-party at The Towers’ appeared as
we’re looking now!”

“I will not have that!” Mrs. McNab exclaimed heatedly. “Harry, I insist
that no one shall take photographs here—if you meet any newspaper
people you are to discourage them, no matter what they say. To
photograph a private house for a newspaper is an unwarrantable
impertinence! Do not let there be any mistake about it.”

“Be polite, if you must, Harry, but be plain!” laughed Dicky.

“I’ll be plain, all right,” rejoined Harry. “My boot shall, if
necessary, defend the sanctity of our home! What are you getting in such
a fuss about, Mother? I don’t for a moment suppose that any newspaper
would bother its head about us.”

“Newspapers nowadays would do anything for sensation,” answered his
mother gloomily. “And I hate publicity given to one’s private affairs:
it is insupportable. They would drag all one’s family history through
the mire for the sake of selling a few copies.” Her voice rose angrily.
“This robbery is spoiling all our peace! I warned Dr. Firth, but he
would not be careful—he might have saved himself if he had listened to
me.”

Every one was looking at her now curiously. Harry frowned.

“Oh, what’s the use of bothering your head about it, Mother! It’s not
going to spoil my peace—not if I know it: or my dinner either. I’m as
hungry as a hunter, and, thank goodness, there’s the dressing-gong! Come
along, everybody: I mean to have a jolly good dance to-night, burglar or
no burglar!”

The dressing-gong was the signal also for the schoolroom dinner, so I
herded the children upstairs, glad to escape from a scene that had had
its unpleasant side. Looking out for a moment as I closed the schoolroom
door I caught a glimpse of Mrs. McNab coming up the wide staircase. I
was glad that she did not see me, for she was uttering incoherent words
in a harsh whisper, with a little curious gesture of helplessness. There
was a look in her eyes that struck fear into my heart. I longed for
to-morrow and for Dr. Firth.

I kept my fellow-pirates with me in the schoolroom that evening. To go
down to the drawing-room and be drawn into dancing would have been
hateful to me; to my overwrought mind there seemed an air of mystery,
almost of tragedy, overhanging the house, and I wanted the children to
be where I could watch them all the time. They were sufficiently tired
to be willing to remain quietly while I read to them. I remember the
book was Newbolt’s _Happy Warrior_, and when I had finished the story of
Bayard we talked of the old ideals of knighthood and chivalry. It was
the point I liked best about my outlaws that they were perfectly sound
on matters of honour. A lie was to either an unthinkable thing, and they
held very definite views about betraying a confidence.

“Father says that’s the one thing a gentleman can’t do,” said Judy, who
had no intention of letting the mere accident of sex exclude her from
the knightly code. “He says that even when a secret is made public it
isn’t the square thing to let on that you knew about it beforehand.”

My father had taught us the same thing. I felt my heart warm towards the
absent Mr. McNab.

“Judy and I swore a Hearty Oath about it,” said Jack, who was lying full
length on the hearth-rug. “We said, cross-our-hearts we’d never do it.
It’s awful tempting, too, sometimes.”

“Yes, isn’t it?” Judy agreed. “I’d just love to be able to say, ‘Oh yes,
I knew all about that long ago!’ with my nose in the air, very often.
But it isn’t done, in the Band. Father’s a Member of the Band, too, you
know. He won’t let us swear many Hearty Oaths, ’cause he says they’d get
cheap, and they ought to be solemn. But he approved of that one, and he
swore it, too.”

“He told us lots of secrets,” Jack said. “’Cause he knew jolly well he
could trust us not to split.”

“Yes, he said it was good practice for us, even if we were pretty young.
He’d say, ‘This is confidential, kids,’ and of course that was all there
was about it.” Judy’s eyes were very bright. “Father’s awfully splendid,
you know, Miss Earle. He never asked us to promise to be good before he
went away——”

“I spec’s he knew that wasn’t a bit of use!” Jack interposed.

“That was why. But he said, ‘You’re awful scamps, but I know I can trust
you.’ And we’d just rather die than let him down.”

“Well, that is something to live up to,” I said. “Bayard hadn’t anything
better. I think I like being a Member of the Band. Shall we have that
meeting in Melbourne when your father comes back, so that Colin can meet
him too?”

“You do have the splendidest ideas!” Jack said. They beamed on me; and
when I went to tuck them in, later, they hugged me vigorously. My
charges were not, as a rule, demonstrative people, and I was fairly
dazzled by the honour.

I went back to the schoolroom, and sat down feeling rather at a loose
end. Strains of the gramophone were wafted upwards from the drawing-room
where the house-party were apparently fox-trotting with an ardour
undiminished by either picnics or burglars. I wondered was Mrs. McNab
working, or if she were prowling round in the night, a prey to her own
disordered and troubled mind. Then I remembered, with a start, that I
had not been up to renew the dressings on her injured hand. It was later
than I usually went: probably she had been waiting for me, feeling
neglected and annoyed. I was annoyed with myself as I ran swiftly up the
narrow stairs.

The door of the lower room was partly open: a faint scent of Turkish
tobacco drifted out. Since her injury, Mrs. McNab had left it ajar each
evening until I had paid my visit: I would hear the lock click as I went
back, before I had crossed the landing. Forgetting my customary tap, I
hurried in.

The tall figure in the grey gown was standing by the window, looking out
upon the moonlit garden far below. She did not turn as I entered and I
began my apology nervously.

“I’m afraid I’m late,” I said. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. McNab——”

The watching figure wheeled round swiftly. The words died on my lips as
I looked: looked at the tall, spare form, the straight shoulders, the
close-cropped iron-grey hair: looked most of all at the white, haggard
face. It was the face of my employer as I had learned to know it during
my four weeks in her house. But—_it was not Mrs. McNab!_

The moments dragged by as we stood, giving back stare for stare: I,
bewildered, terrified, unable to move, the other grim and watchful. I
caught my breath in a gasp at last, and a threat came to me like the
lash of a whip.

“You will be wise if you make no noise!”

I could not have made a noise if my life had depended upon it. I could
only gape and shiver, my eyes glued to the apparition that was, and yet
was not, Mrs. McNab. Yet so like was it that I began to think it was my
brain that had turned. Height, features, dress, voice—all were the
same; and still, the face was the face of a stranger.

Then came quick feet on the stair, a stifled exclamation of dismay
behind me, the door slammed—and I was looking at, not one Mrs. McNab,
but two! Each the very counterpart of the other, they stood together,
and I looked from one to the other with dazed eyes, utterly bewildered.
Then my glance fell on the hands of the first, and in a moment light
came to me. I pointed a shaking forefinger at those tell-tale hands.

“Why—you’re a man!” I cried feebly.

The room began to swim round me, so that at one instant the two figures
seemed to merge into one, and then divided and became two, four, ten,
twenty, long, grey forms, still and silent. Faster and faster they
whirled; and then came darkness, and when I opened my eyes I was lying
on the big couch, with Mrs. McNab rubbing my hands. Beyond her, the
other grey figure sat in her office-chair, smoking: all the time
watching me with steady eyes.

“You poor child!” Mrs. McNab said gently.

That was almost too much for me, and I sobbed suddenly. The form in the
chair became alert.

“Make her understand she must be quiet, Marie.”

“She will be quiet,” Mrs. McNab said, with a touch of impatience. “Don’t
be afraid, my dear Miss Earle: you have nothing to fear. You have only
managed to blunder upon a secret, that is all. I know you will give me
your word to keep it to yourself.”

“Of course I will,” I managed to stammer. “I am very sorry.”

“So am I—for my stupidity in leaving the door open. I had run down to
the bathroom for some hot water, and I forgot the door until I was on my
way back. Then it was too late. I would not have had it happen for the
world.”

I struggled to a sitting position and faced them. There had been excuse
for my collapse, for surely never were man and woman so amazingly alike!
Save for the hands, and now, I could see, the feet, no eye could detect
any outward difference. The man in the chair gave a short laugh, and
rose.

“Well, I’ll leave you, Marie,” he said, in the low, deep voice that was
the echo of her own. “You must get through a certain amount of
explanation, I suppose—but don’t let your tongue run away with you.
This young lady has too recently graduated from the schoolroom to be
oppressed with our affairs.” He bent a keen, cold gaze on me. “I trust
you are old enough to be able to hold your tongue.”

“I have no wish to do anything else,” I said, mustering what spirit I
could; and, somehow, from that moment there was never the slightest
confusion in my mind between Mrs. McNab and her duplicate. Like they
might be in every feature; but in him there was a cold wickedness akin
to that of a snake. I hated him then and afterwards, and he knew it.

“Well, good night,” he said lightly, and vanished up the steps into the
upper room. Mrs. McNab and I looked at each other, and there was
something in her eyes that made me ache with pity.

“Oh, you are unhappy!” I cried. “I wish I could help you.”

She caught my hand, holding it tightly.

“I am indeed unhappy,” she said. “I will tell you about it—I know I can
trust you.”

It was a queer story—the kind of thing that I had thought happened only
in romances. The man—Ronald Hull was his name—was her twin-brother:
she touched lightly on his career, but I gathered that from his boyhood
he had never been anything but an anxiety. Before the death of their
parents he had been compelled to leave the bank in which he was a clerk,
narrowly escaping prosecution for embezzling bank money. Then he had
gone from bad to worse, living on his wits, constantly appealing to her
for funds, always on the edge of trouble and disgrace. Her husband had
established him in an auctioneer’s firm in New South Wales some years
before, and they hoped that they had done with him; but during the
previous year he had again contrived to steal a large sum, and this time
they could not protect him. He had been arrested, convicted, and
sentenced to two years’ imprisonment.

Her voice failed when she told me this. I patted her hand—never had I
felt so helpless and so young.

“Don’t you think you have talked enough?” said a cold voice at the
opening above our heads. “I warned you to be careful, Marie.”

“Be quiet!” she said angrily. “Do you want your voice to be heard?” She
turned to me. “Go down to your room—I will come presently.”

When she came, she was flushed, and there was a light of battle in her
eyes.

“He is very angry with me,” she said. “But you must know enough to make
you understand. And I am worn out with silence and secrecy.” I put her
into a comfortable chair, and she went on with her story.

“We were almost thankful to know he was beyond the possibility of
troubling us for two years,” she said. “At least, so we thought; and my
husband went away with an easy mind. But two months ago Ronald came here
in the middle of the night, saying that I must hide him: he had escaped
from jail, and was penniless and in dread of recapture. What could I do?
I took him in—Harry and Beryl were away—and hid him in the Tower
rooms. It was easy enough: I had for years been in the habit of shutting
myself up here, and the place is like a little house in itself. I
procured dresses for him, like my own, so that if by chance he were seen
he would be mistaken for me—you have seen how remarkable is the
resemblance between us. I pretended to be almost always at work, so that
meals were sent up here—for him: and laid in a store of biscuits and
tinned foods for the times when I had to be downstairs.” She gave a
weary little laugh. “One of the minor problems of my life has been the
disposing of the empty tins!”

“And what have you lived on?” I demanded.

“Oh, anything. I had a good meal downstairs occasionally. Indeed, I have
had no appetite. It has been ceaseless misery; the dread of being found
out, the constant concealments and deceptions, the strain of being much
with him—for he is no easy companion to live with at close quarters.
Lately he has become very irritable, and almost from the first he
rebelled against his imprisonment and insisted on going out at night.
What I have endured on those nights, waiting here in fear and suspense!
Of course, he was always dressed in my clothes; but I knew that sooner
or later someone would meet him and speak to him—as you did one night
upon the stairs!”

“Then it was he!” I exclaimed. “Oh, I’m so glad—I never could make out
why you looked so cross and brushed past me so rudely!”

“I knew nothing about it until to-day,” she said. “He forgot to tell me.
And he encountered Julia, the housemaid, one night downstairs—he was
thoroughly frightened that time, and made sure he was found out.”

“And of course—it was he who caught Jack on the shore at night, and
thrashed him!” I cried. “He need not have done it: the little chap was
only playing.”

“Did the children tell you?”

“I saw it,” I said. “I had followed the children down, to see that they
were safe. They have puzzled over your unexpected strength ever since.”

“Ronald told me as a great joke,” she said. “No wonder my poor little
Jack was puzzled—I have not punished him in that fashion in his life.”

“As a matter of fact, he said he respected you highly!” I told her, and
she smiled a little.

“It might have made a difference in his feelings towards me if he were
not a sweet-tempered boy,” she said. “I was very angry with Ronald. Oh,
my dear, if you knew what these weeks have been, you would pity me! The
constant fear—the terrible uncertainty!” She shuddered. “There have
been many times when I have been tempted to send him away and let him
take his chance. But I could not do it. After all, though I cannot feel
any affection for him now, he was my little brother once—just such a
boy as Jack. That is the time I try to remember. And my mother left him
to my care.”

Her eyes were suddenly kind and soft. I wondered how I could ever have
thought her cold—or mad.

“But how long is it to go on?” I asked. “You can’t keep such a secret
for ever.”

“There is a chance of getting him out of Australia,” she said. “He has a
friend connected with a ship which will leave Adelaide next week—ten
days from now, or thereabouts. It is a cargo-ship only, and this friend
has promised to arrange a passport for him and get him on board, if I
can get him to Adelaide. We have been trying to work out a plan to go to
Southport farther down the coast; from there he could make his way up to
the main line and reach Adelaide by train. But now we are afraid to
move, for everything is complicated by the robberies in the
neighbourhood. With the police on the alert—with those terrible black
trackers about!—what can we dare to do? I am at my wits’ end.”

“But they will not come here,” I said. “Dr. Firth’s place is three miles
away, and there is nothing to bring the police to The Towers.”

“I do not know,” she said slowly. She was silent, gripping my hand so
tightly that it ached. Suddenly she dropped it, sprang up, and began to
pace the room, wrapped in thought; and I sat watching her helplessly.
The minutes went by while she went back and forth, like a caged animal.
Then she came back.

“It has been a relief to tell you,” she said. “I have longed to talk to
some one—the thing has been too hard to bear all alone. Listen—I will
tell you the worst fear of all.”




[Illustration: “Each the very counterpart of the other, they stood
 together, and I looked from one to the other with dazed eyes,
 utterly bewildered.”
 _The Tower Rooms_]                         [_Page 160_]




                              CHAPTER XII
                       I HEAR STRANGE CONFIDENCES


BUT when she sat down she did not appear able to speak. Twice she opened
her lips, but it seemed that no words would come.

“Don’t tell me unless you want to, Mrs. McNab,” I said, pitying the
poor, strained face. “You are just tired out, and I know that your hand
is hurting. Do rest quietly on my bed for a little while, and I will
dress it.”

To my surprise, she did not resist me. She let me put her on my bed,
lying silently, with closed eyes, while I dressed her hand and bandaged
it freshly. Then I had a new inspiration.

“Please don’t move,” I said. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

I ran down to the kitchen and made some strong coffee. Julia was there,
sewing. She wanted to relieve me of the task altogether, and insisted on
getting the tray ready.

“I’d not say ‘no’ to a cup, meself, miss, if you could spare it,” she
said. “This place do be gettin’ on me nerves. There’s the misthress
goin’ about all this day lookin’ like a walkin’ ghost—up an’ down the
stairs an’ in an’ out like a dog at a fair. Is it for her you’re makin’
the coffee now? But it’ll get cold on you before she comes in.”

I opened my mouth to say that Mrs. McNab was in my room; and then
changed my mind suddenly.

“Why do you say that, Julia?”

“Sure I’m afther seein’ her with me two eyes, goin’ out ten minutes ago.
Slippin’ along by the back wall she was, in her grey gown, as if she
didn’t want to be seen. I was comin’ in from the laundry, an’ me heart
rose in me throat at the sight of her—though the dear knows I’ve a
right to be used to seein’ her creepin’ round the place. If she’d so
much as pass the time of day to one, I’d not think her so queer; but
’tis like a silent grey ghost she is—never a worrd out of her. What
with that, an’ the thieves that may pay us a visit anny minute, it’s no
right place to be in: I’d take me pay an’ go, if it wasn’t for yourself
an’ Mrs. Winter.”

“Oh, you mustn’t do that, Julia,” I said, trying to speak lightly. “When
anyone is working as hard as Mrs. McNab she can’t interrupt herself to
talk. As for the thieves, I believe they are well out of the district;
remember, the police are watching for them everywhere now.”

“Yerra, the polis!” said Julia, with much scorn. “Is it the polis you’d
be puttin’ your dependence on, miss? Sure, as Bence says, they’re too
busy tryin’ to catch poor motor-drivers to be doin’ anny real worrk. Dr.
Firth’s seen the lasht of them jools of his, you mark my words. ’Tis
meself was in Ireland when all the fightin’ was goin’, but I never felt
as quare an’ lonesome as I do in this place.”

I poured her out a cup of coffee.

“Just drink that and you’ll feel better, Julia,” I said. “I’m not going
to be scared of any thieves, and I don’t believe you are, either. I’ll
take up a little saucepan: if Mrs. McNab isn’t back I can warm up her
coffee on my spirit-lamp when she does come in.”

But I knew, as I carried the tray away, that it was not Mrs. McNab whom
Julia had seen slinking by the wall. Ronald Hull must have come down the
stairs very softly while we had talked in my room. I wondered what he
was doing, out in the night.

Mrs. McNab had not moved, and for a moment I fancied that she was
asleep. But she stirred as I came near her, and drank her coffee as
though she were thirsty.

“That was very good,” she said, lying back. “You are a very kind child
to me: my own daughter does not think of such things. It is a shame to
burden you with my troubles.”

I told her not to worry about that. “Indeed,” I said, “I have been more
uneasy about you for some days than I am now. Ever since I have seen
more of you, in looking after your burnt hand, I knew something was
troubling you terribly, and I have been so anxious.”

“Was it so plain?” she sighed heavily. “I have done my best to seem
cheery and normal, but it has been hard; and all to-day I have felt
almost as if I were going mad. I think and think, until my brain feels
as though it were whirling in a circle.”

She lit a cigarette and smoked for a few moments without speaking.

“Oh, I must tell you!” she exclaimed. “Now that I have once spoken I
must go on and tell all. Your brain is young and clear, and you may be
able to think of a way out.”

“It won’t do any harm to talk it over, at all events,” I said, trying to
speak comfortingly. But I felt appallingly young and helpless, and I
wished with all my heart that Dr. Firth or Colin could be there.

“It is these robberies,” she said. “I had no peace before they took
place—but since then I have been in torment. I ask myself
ceaselessly—_Who is the thief?_ And only one answer comes to me.”

Light flashed upon me.

“You don’t think—you surely don’t think—your brother . . . ?”

“I do not know what to think. Nothing like this has ever before occurred
in our quiet neighbourhood. And stealing is nothing to him—we have had
bitter proof of that. He needs money: I have raised all I can, to give
him a fresh start when he gets away, but he grumbles at the amount and
says it is not enough. Night after night he goes out, declaring that he
must have fresh air and exercise, and I do not know where he goes. I
have questioned him, but he only laughs at me. He knows his power over
me—that I will not betray him—and he takes the fullest advantage of
it.”

With all my heart I yearned for Colin to deal with Mr. Ronald Hull.

Mrs. McNab leaned forward, crushing her cigarette between her fingers.

“And the danger is immediate,” she said. “If any trail brings the police
and the black trackers to The Towers or its neighbourhood, they may
insist on searching the house. Even if Ronald denied it, I would not
feel sure—he has lied so often. I do not know what to do.”

“You would not tell your son?”

“Tell Harry? I could not bear to do it. He is only a boy, and we have
managed to keep from him all knowledge of his uncle’s disgrace: it would
cast a shadow over his whole life. And I do not see how he could help
me. No one can help. If I could get Ronald away to Adelaide at once—but
he dares not go until the ship is ready to sail, for in any city he runs
a grave risk of recapture. And there is nowhere else that I can hide
him. It seems to me that I must get him out of The Towers
immediately—but where can he go? Everything has worked against me—even
this hand, with its wretched little injury that makes me half helpless.
I had planned to take him up the coast myself in the small launch; with
his aid I could have run it up to Southport, and hired some man to help
me back. But there is no chance of that now.”

“Couldn’t I help?” I asked. “I know a good deal about running the
launch.”

She shook her head.

“You are very good. But I could not drag you into it. And, besides, it
is not time to go. The next ten days are my great difficulty: I simply
must send him away from The Towers. Picture his being found here!—with
all this party in the house; the disgrace; the publicity for the boys
and girls in my care. Beryl and Harry would never forgive me. It would
ruin their lives; Harry could never go back to the University.”

I saw that, and my sense of helplessness increased. To drag young Harry
McNab into this tangle, just at the commencement of his manhood, was not
to be thought of. I suggested Dr. Firth, but Mrs. McNab recoiled from
the idea in horror.

“But he is the very man who has been robbed! He is kind, I know, but he
is only human—how could I expect help from him! He would be the first
to hand Ronald over to the police.”

And then a bright idea came to me.

“Mrs. McNab—what about Shepherd’s Island?”

“Shepherd’s Island!” she repeated, dully. “I don’t understand. You
mean——?”

“To hide your brother. Very few people ever go there now, your son told
me: no stock are taken there for grass this year, and the awkward
landing keeps picnic parties away. The hut is quite weather-proof: he
could be comfortable enough there.”

“I would not care if he were not comfortable,” said Mrs. McNab solemnly.
Something in her tone revealed what she had endured at the hands of her
refugee. “But—anyone might land there: he would not be secure.”

“But he isn’t secure anywhere. He might be found here at any moment, and
then, as you say, all the household would be dragged into it. It would
be no worse for him, if he should be caught, to be caught away from The
Towers; and in that case no one need know his real name. And he could
watch—he would have to watch; if he saw a boat coming he could easily
hide among the rocks; they’re full of holes and little caves. We could
leave him a good supply of food, and take more over to him at night. And
when the news of the ship comes it would be easy to take him off the
island and run him down to Southport.”

She stared at me as if I were an angel from heaven.

“You blessed child!” she uttered, “I believe he would indeed be safer
there than anywhere. But how would I get him there? I am so useless
now.”

I was warming to my idea.

“You and I could take him. I can run the launch with a little help—just
what you could give me with your good hand. Dear Mrs. McNab, it’s quite
simple! We could take all your tinned foods down to the launch—Mr. Hull
could help, of course—with rugs and blankets. He ought to hide
everything in the rocks during the day, in case of anyone’s landing on
the island. I should think he would welcome the chance of being there,
after having been shut up in the Tower rooms for so long. And then you
could laugh at policemen and black trackers, even if they came in
swarms!”

She drew a long breath.

“It would be like heaven to think he was out of the house!” she said.
“Oh, I have been desperate all day! But it is not right—not fair—to
bring you into it. What would your brother say?”

I knew very well that Colin would say a good deal, but it did not seem
worth while to dwell on that point.

“Colin would help if he were here,” I said. “And as he isn’t it’s right
for me to help. I don’t run any risk—but if Mr. Hull is found in The
Towers, think of what it means to your four children! And if he is on
the island you will be in peace at night, knowing that he is not roaming
about.”

“Yes,” she said—“yes! I would not wake each morning in dread of hearing
of fresh robberies.”

“Well, you might hear of them, all the same—which would be a sort of
comfort to you, because you would know that your suspicions had been
wrong. And it would not surprise me if they _were_ all wrong—surely a
man who is already in dread of the police would not deliberately do new
things that would bring them on his track! It isn’t common sense!”

“It would be a comfort to think that,” she said. “I have tried to think
it. But he is so foolhardy—so difficult to understand! My dear, the
more I think of your plan, the more hopeful I feel. Surely on that
lonely island he would be safer than he is here!”

“Why, of course he would. And every one in the house would be safer too.
Do make up your mind to take him over, Mrs. McNab. Let us go to-night!”

“To-night!” she uttered. “But it is already very late. I—I have not had
time to think—to plan.”

“But there really isn’t much to plan. There is moonlight enough to make
everything easy: we have only to get the things down to the shore as
soon as everyone is in bed. Mr. Hull could change into his own clothes
in one of the bathing-boxes when we are ready to start. The launch is
all in order; the children and I were running her this afternoon, and
there is plenty of petrol. There could not be a better chance. For all
we know the black trackers may be here in the morning.”

She shuddered.

“Indeed they may. That possibility has been burning into my mind all
day.”

“Well, then, we won’t have anyone here for them to find. Have you much
food upstairs?”

“Quite enough for a week, with care, I think,” she said. “He would not
starve, at all events: and there is fresh water on the island. He could
catch fish, too: if he made a fire among the rocks and cooked fish at
night, no one would see the smoke. There would be no difficulty or risk
about his being there unless anyone landed.”

“And that risk is less than his being here. Remember, too, even if a
picnic party saw him, they would probably think he was a lonely camper
and would scarcely notice him. The police are not likely to think of
going there—no boats will be missing and thieves could not reach the
island without a boat.”

“No,” she agreed. “Well, no course that I can adopt is without danger;
but I do believe that your plan holds less risk than any other. If he is
captured I cannot help it—at least, I shall have done my best. I will
go and tell him; I do not think that he will make any objection.”

I had a moment’s horror after she had gone, for I suddenly remembered
that Mr. Hull had gone out—perhaps he was still away, roaming in the
bush or on the shore: perhaps—who could say?—visiting some other house
as Dr. Firth’s had been visited the night before. Then all my excellent
plans would be upset, and we should have to take our chance of what the
morrow might bring. But I hardly had time to worry much over this
possibility when Mrs. McNab came hurrying back.

“He will go,” she said. “Keep a watch, Miss Earle, and come and tell us
when every one has gone to bed.”




                              CHAPTER XIII
                            I GO ADVENTURING


IT was lucky for us that all the house-party were tired that night.
Dancing was often kept up at The Towers until long after midnight; but
on this occasion the strenuous day in the bush had had its effect, so
that a move was made towards bed soon after half-past ten. One strong
soul cheerily suggested finishing up with a bathing excursion to the
beach—and never knew what malevolent brain-waves I wafted towards him
from my nook near the schoolroom door. Fortunately, Dicky Atherton
poured cold water upon the idea.

“Don’t be a lunatic, Billy,” he remarked. “If you haven’t had enough, I
guess the rest of us have. Go and bathe by yourself, if you want to.” At
which “Billy” yawned mightily, and said that bathing alone was a poor
game, and he guessed he’d go to bed, too. They all trooped upstairs, and
I noticed that several locks clicked as the doors were shut. Evidently
the girls had not forgotten the chance of the burglar. I wondered what
would have been their sensations had they known that we were preparing
to convey the suspected burglar out of the house!

I waited until ten minutes after the last light had gone out. The house
was wrapped in deep silence as I stole up the stairs to the Tower rooms.

Mrs. McNab was waiting for me on the landing.

“Come in,” she whispered. “We are all ready.”

Ronald Hull sat smoking in her study. Something of the sneering coldness
was gone from his face.

“You seem to be a most energetic planner,” he greeted me. “It was a
lucky chance that brought you in here this evening, though at the time I
must admit that I thought it a precious unlucky one. Are you sure you
can run the boat?”

“Quite sure,” I told him coldly. I couldn’t bear his face or his manner:
he repelled me as a snake repels. It was difficult even to be civil to
him.

There were many parcels and packages on the floor, ready for carrying.
Mr. Hull was still dressed like Mrs. McNab, but he carried a pile of
men’s clothing over his arm.

“Well, we might as well make a start, if you think it’s safe,” he said.
“This stuff will need more than one trip.”

It needed three, since Mrs. McNab could carry very little. Laden like
camels, we crept down the kitchen stairs, across the crunching gravel of
the yard, and over the paddock, stowing our burdens in the launch that
lay beside the little jetty. Backwards and forwards we went, almost
running on the return journeys to the house: the dread of detection
suddenly heavy upon us, so that every clump of tea-tree seemed to
contain the lurking shadow of a watching man. Just as we were leaving
the yard on our last trip, Mr. Hull well ahead with the heaviest
burdens, a window at the rear of the house was suddenly flung up. Mrs.
McNab and I stopped, petrified with fear. A voice shrilled out, that was
unmistakably the product of the County Cork: a voice in which wrath
struggled valiantly with nervousness:

“Who’s there? Tell me now, or I’ll loose the dogs on ye!”

“Answer her quickly!” I whispered.

“It is I, Julia,” said Mrs. McNab in icy tones. They were really the
only accents she could command, for she was shaking with dread; but they
must have sounded sufficiently awe-inspiring to Julia, who ejaculated,
“Howly Ann, ’tis the misthress!” and slammed down her window. We took to
our heels and fled after Mr. Hull.

At the shore we lost no time, Julia’s outcry might easily have aroused
the house, and for all we knew we might be followed already; so we
hurried Mr. Hull into the launch, not daring to risk delay while he
changed his clothes, which could just as well be done at the Island. He
grumbled a little, saying that he was sick and tired of living in
women’s garments; at which Mrs. McNab fixed him with a glance that, even
in the moonlight, must have been daunting, for he broke off in the
middle of a remark, and only muttered under his breath—Mrs. McNab took
the tiller, and I switched on the engine. And it would not start!

The minutes went by while I tinkered with every gadget I could find in
that abominable box of machinery. Mrs. McNab—how I loved her for
it!—sat absolutely silent, betraying no sign of impatience; but
presently her brother grew restive, and demanded angrily, “Won’t she
start?”—a query that seemed to me so singularly futile that I deigned
no answer. I tried everything that I could think of, and still no
response came from that very engine which had purred so happily on our
piratical expedition a few hours before. Ronald Hull broke out rudely at
last.

“I might have known as much! What fools we were, Marie, to believe in a
self-satisfied school-girl! We might as well unpack the boat and go
back—we can’t sit here until daylight comes and somebody finds us!”

“Oh, hold your tongue, Ronald!” Mrs. McNab said wearily. “We are doing
our best for you. And let me assure you that, whatever happens, you are
not going back to my house.”

He subsided at that, with an ill-tempered grunt. And then, I don’t know
in the least what I did—possibly my wrath communicated itself to the
spanner I was using—but the engine suddenly began to spit, and then to
purr. I heaved a sigh of relief, echoed by Mrs. McNab; and in a moment
we were slipping away from the jetty and heading towards the opening of
the bay. I took the tiller from Mrs. McNab, and in silence we shot
across the moonlit water.

Having recovered from its fit of bad temper, the engine decided to
behave beautifully. Its even throb was music in my ears. It was a still
and perfect night, a night of moonbeams and starshine and peace, in
which the load of anxiety and evil that we carried seemed to have no
part. Beyond the headland, when we turned westward, the sea rose in
long, gentle swells on which we rocked lazily as the launch sped
onwards. Every tiny island was a dim place of mysterious beauty. No
sound reached us, save, now and then, a seabird’s cry. None of us spoke.
Ronald Hull lit a cigarette and sprawled across the bow, looking ahead:
beside me, his sister leaned back, and on her white face was the
beginning of peace. So we travelled across the gleaming water, until
Shepherd’s Island loomed ahead, and I slowed down the engine, looking
for the opening to the tiny bay where we must land. Soon it came into
view. I ran the launch carefully beside the shelf of rock, and Ronald
Hull sprang out with a rope.

We made fast, and landed. One after another Mr. Hull passed out the
packages, until the launch was empty.

“You’d better go ahead with the lighter things,” he said. “I’ll change
in the boat. Is it safe to show a light to guide me to this hut of
yours?”

“I do not think it would be wise,” Mrs. McNab answered. “But you cannot
miss it—it is only a stone’s-throw away. Whistle softly when you are
ready, and we will come back.”

We left him, and went up the slope with what we could carry. Mrs. McNab
had brought a lantern, but, even had we dared to use it, we did not need
it; although the moon was thinking of setting, the night was wonderfully
clear and bright. We opened the sagging door of the hut to its fullest
width and put in our bundles—I wondered if Mrs. McNab was as much
afraid of spiders in the dark interior as I was, or if her mind rose
superior to such earthly considerations. Personally, I cannot imagine
any circumstances in which the thought of a spider in the dark will have
lost its power to give me chills down the back.

A low whistle came to us as we descended the slope, and we reached the
shore to find Mr. Hull arrayed in his own garments, and looking
decidedly more cheerful.

“Thank goodness for my own kit!” he remarked. “Your clothes have been
very useful, my dear Marie, but skirts are ‘the burden of an honour unto
which I was not born,’ and I’m uncommonly glad to see the last of them.
We’d better get this stuff up as soon as possible; you two must hurry
away.”

We loaded ourselves again, and returned to the hut. Our passenger was
not excited by its aspect.

“Pretty dingy sort of hole!” he remarked, peering into the darkness
within. “Thank goodness it’s a warm night: I’ll roll up in my blankets
under a tree. There are probably several varieties of things that creep
and crawl inside that shanty.”

“You will remember to keep out of sight of the mainland in daylight,
Ronald?”

“Oh yes—I’ll be careful,” he answered lightly.

“I hope you will. You should conceal everything in the morning, as soon
as it is light—there are rocks and hollows all over the island—you
will have no difficulty in stowing everything away. Do remember that
there will be many watchful eyes along the coast during the next few
days: you cannot be too cautious.”

“Well, you’ve done all you can for the present, so you needn’t worry,”
her brother replied. “If they get me now it will be plain John Smith
they will get, who does not know of even the existence of such a place
as The Towers, or such a family as that of McNab! When may I expect to
see you again?”

“We will come in three or four nights—it is impossible for me to say
exactly when I can get away unnoticed. By that time there may be news
from Adelaide about your future movements. You will have to listen for
the beat of the engine—we will try not to be later than ten o’clock.”

“Right,” he said. “Whistle three times when you stop, so that I may know
for certain that it is your engine and not a police-boat’s. I suppose
you can whistle, Miss Earle?—you look as if you could!”

“I suppose you can carry up the remainder of these things?” I gave back
icily. “It is quite time I got Mrs. McNab home—she is tired out.”

“Let us go,” Mrs. McNab said hastily. I believe she knew that I hungered
to throw things at him. “Remember, by the way, Ronald, that if bad
weather comes we may be prevented from taking out the launch—you had
better husband your provisions. We will do the best that we can for
you.”

“You’ve certainly done that always, Marie,” he admitted ungraciously.
“I’ve no doubt you’re deeply thankful to be rid of your Old Man of the
Sea for a time. Well, I hope it will be for good in a few days—I
promise I won’t come back again if once I get to America.”

I was already in the launch, starting the engine. Mrs. McNab took her
place, and Mr. Hull cast off the rope.

“Good night,” he said. Mrs. McNab answered him, but I pretended to be
deeply occupied with the engine, and said nothing. We slid away gently
from the rock, and in a moment the Island was only a dim blur behind us.

I believe we both enjoyed the voyage home, although scarcely a word was
spoken. Mrs. McNab relaxed limply into her corner of the seat, smoking
so slowly that twice she let her cigarette go out, when she would flick
it away into the water and light a fresh one—she managed wonderfully
with her one hand. As for me, I could have purred as contentedly as did
the engine. It was good to be without that evil presence in the launch;
better still to think that The Towers that night would be free from its
blight. I liked to think how welcome would be the solitude of her eyrie
in the tower to the tired woman beside me. Whatever the future might
hold for Mrs. McNab and her brother, I firmly believed that we had done
a good job in transferring him to Shepherd’s Island, where his
unpleasant temper would be restricted to gannets and gulls. It gave me
serene pleasure to think how dull he would be. When Mrs. McNab
recollected presently, with an exclamation of annoyance, that she had
omitted to pack for him a good supply of tobacco, I fear I chuckled
inwardly. I had small sympathy for Mr. Ronald Hull.

We swung round into Porpoise Bay and ran across to the jetty, slowing
down to lessen the sound of the engine, and watching keenly ahead in
case anyone should be prowling on the shore.

But there was no one: all was dark and silent, save for the waves
lapping gently against the jetty piles. I made the launch fast, while
Mrs. McNab gathered up her brother’s discarded dress, and, hurrying
across the paddock, we gained the house unseen, and felt our way up the
dark kitchen stairs.

Mrs. McNab came into my room, closing the door as I switched on the
light. She put her hand on my shoulder, and I saw that her eyes were
full of tears.

“You are a very brave girl, my dear,” she said. “I shall sleep to-night
in the nearest approach to peace that I have known for a long while, and
it is thanks to you. A month ago you were a stranger to me, and yet
to-night you have done me a service I could not ask from my own son.”

I mumbled something idiotic. Nothing that evening, unless it were the
time when the engine would not start, had been so terrible as this!

“You do not want to be thanked, I know,” she went on. “And, indeed, I
have no words to thank you. But I hope that you will never think hardly
of me for having allowed you to shoulder my burden—I know I should not
have done it, but it was growing too heavy for me. You came to me like
an angel of help. I hope you will always let me be your friend.” She
stooped and kissed me, and then, like Julia’s “grey ghost,” she was
gone.




                              CHAPTER XIV
                      I FIND MYSELF A CONSPIRATOR


HARRY McNAB and two of his ’Varsity friends took a car and went off to
Dr. Firth’s immediately after breakfast next morning. They returned some
hours later, much disgruntled.

“We thought you would be black-tracking all day,” the girls greeted
them. “Have you caught the burglars already?”

“There’ll be mighty little catching done, if you ask me,” was Harry’s
reply. “The black trackers can’t come: they’re busy on that murder case
up in the Mallee, and can’t be spared for a mere robbery. Dr. Firth’s
very disgusted. Of course the police are bobbing about everywhere, but I
don’t believe they’ll do any good. There are two Melbourne men down as
well—detectives.”

“Very disappointing people,” put in Dicky Atherton. “Not a bit like
sleuth-hounds in appearance. I expected to see something of the keen,
strong, silent type, like Sherlock Holmes, but they’re more like retired
undertakers.”

“And is there no clue to the burglars?” Mrs. McNab asked. I had seen the
flash of utter relief in her eyes when she heard that the black trackers
were not to come. She was looking better, but was evidently very tired.

“Not an earthly clue! The jewels and the burglars seem to have vanished
into thin air.”

“You can be jolly certain that they vanished into a high-powered car,”
remarked Mr. Atherton. “Burglars, as careful in their choice of
valuables as these people were, don’t do things in a haphazard way: I’ll
bet the whole thing was the work of an experienced gang, and that they
were all snug in Melbourne, with their loot, before daylight yesterday.
Well, it’s a good thing that his loss doesn’t trouble Dr. Firth as far
as his pocket goes. But he’s awfully annoyed at being bested—not that
he admits that he’s beaten yet, by a long way.”

“No,” said Harry. “I fancy that Dr. Firth will keep his teeth into the
matter for quite a while. And it wouldn’t be jam for the thief if he
caught him. As Dicky says, it’s the old chap’s pride that seems most
deeply hurt.”

So we gathered from Dr. Firth himself when he came over, later in the
day.

“The things were going to the Museum, in any case,” he remarked. “So far
as that goes, I am no worse off. But it is intensely annoying that, for
the sake of a handful of jewels, poor old Michael’s treasures are
deprived of all their value as specimens. He was tremendously proud of
them, and I feel as though I had failed in my trust as their custodian.”
He gave a little dry laugh. “I believe I feel it more because I really
didn’t care a hang for the things—a good horse or a good dog appeals to
me far more than all Michael’s hideous rarities.”

“And what about the things that are left?” Mrs. McNab asked.

“I take no more chances. A man from the Museum is coming down to-morrow
to oversee the packing of everything, and in a few days I hope the whole
lot will be gone—I shall send them all down to Melbourne by motor-van,
with the Museum man mounting guard over them.”

“No need for that,” put in Judy. “All you have to do is to put in a lion
or so, and drape a few pythons round the van! Nobody will go near them
then!”

“Wouldn’t they look gorgeous, going through Melbourne like that!” Jack
exclaimed.

“They would create a mild sensation in Collins Street,” Dr. Firth
agreed. “I’ll suggest it to the Museum official. Meanwhile, I have two
detectives about the house, both looking very wise and filling little
black notebooks with remarks on the situation. Do you know, I have the
queerest certainty that those jewels are not far off? The detectives
scoff at the notion, but it remains, all the same.”

“You have nothing to support the idea?” Mrs. McNab asked.

“Nothing whatever—it’s just a feeling. I suppose Michael would say that
his queer old jewels have a certain uncanny power of suggesting their
whereabouts!”

“What’s that mean?” queried Jack.

“Means they’re magic, silly, so’s they can tell you where they are,”
responded Judy.

“Hur!” said Jack. “Be a jolly sight better, then, if they said it
straight out! Wouldn’t the thieves get a shock if the jewels took to
yelling ‘Here I am!’ whenever they tried to hide them!”

“It would be a great advantage to me,” Dr. Firth said, laughing. “You
two might keep your ears well open, in your joyous wanderings—they say
that magic still lingers where there are children. An old fogy like
myself would have no chance of hearing my lost property bleat.”

“Is there a reward?” demanded the practical Jack.

“There is—I’ve offered £500, already, for the conviction of the thief.
If you get the jewels without the robber the reward will be less, so you
might as well make a thorough job of it.”

“I could do with £500,” said Jack solemnly. “I awfully want a yacht all
of my own!”

“You’re a nasty little grab-all,” stated his sister. “People don’t take
rewards from friends, do they, Mother?”

“Certainly not.”

“Oh well, the fun of getting them would be worth it,” said Jack, though
with some regret. “But you know jolly well you’d like that yacht
yourself, Ju. Anyhow, I vote we start hunting now. May we, Mother?”

“I suppose so,” she said—“if you don’t go into very wild places. No,
you are not to go, Miss Earle.” She put a restraining hand on mine as I
made a movement to rise. “They cannot get into much harm, and you know
that you did not sleep well. Be home in good time, children.”

“Right-oh!—we’ll go and get the ponies, Jack!” They raced off together.

Dr. Firth looked keenly at us both.

“I must say that neither of you look as fresh as you might,” he
observed. “I suppose you have been worrying over this wretched robbery.
You did not sit up on guard, did you?”

“Oh no!” Mrs. McNab replied hastily. “Harry suggested doing so, but it
seemed foolish and he gave up the idea. I am really not at all alarmed
about The Towers—we are such a large party, with several active young
men: a thief would meet with a warm reception here.”

“I think so, too. Still, if you should feel in the least nervous I would
send one of my men over here at night.”

This well-meant suggestion caused us both acute anxiety. The very last
thing we desired was a guardian for The Towers at night. Mrs. McNab was
so emphatic in declining the proposal that Dr. Firth looked at her
curiously.

“Well—just as you please. But if you are not worried, I should like to
see you looking rather more like yourself. Is the work going badly?”

Poor Mrs. McNab leaped at the suggestion.

“Very badly,” she said, with a wintry smile. “There are so many
interruptions—so much to think of throughout the day. I never can
expect really free time during the holidays; although Miss Earle does
everything in her power to spare me, and never spares herself.” She
patted my hand. “I do not know how much magic is in your jewels, Dr.
Firth, but my good fairy was certainly at work when she sent me this
kind girl.”

Dr. Firth beamed on us.

“I’m delighted to hear you say so,” he said. “One would not expect
anything but kindness from Denis Earle’s daughter. My luck was even
better than yours, for you have her only for the holidays: I am not
going to lose her again, if I can help it!”

“I should be very sorry to think our friendship would end with the
holidays,” said Mrs. McNab. “Indeed, after all the young people have
gone away I should like to keep you here awhile, my dear, for a thorough
rest—with nothing to do but lie about and read, or drive the car, or
bathe. It would be dull, but I think it would be good for you.”

“You’re awfully kind, Mrs. McNab,” I said. “But there’s school—and
Madame Carr. Think of the waiting twelve-year-olds to whom I teach
deportment!”

“Hang the twelve-year-olds!” said Dr. Firth explosively.

I felt inclined to agree with him. For me, school and Madame Carr were
only a fortnight away, and the prospect was a grim one. To see Colin and
Madge again would be sheer delight, of course; but apart from those
beloved ones I hated the very idea of leaving the country. My time at
The Towers had been by no means all joy. Still, I had managed my
job—that was some satisfaction; and I had made good friends, and had
found Dr. Firth. And there were my dear little Judy and Jack. It was no
small thing to be a Fellow-Member of the Band. I had yet to learn how
big a thing it could be.

“I don’t suppose the twelve-year-olds will be any more pleased to see me
than I shall be to meet them again,” I said, smiling at Dr. Firth’s
outburst. “Still, they are not bad youngsters, on the whole, and I feel
so well now that I’ll be able to tackle them in earnest. I was losing my
grip before the holidays, and they were fully aware of it.”

Dr. Firth said nothing, but he still looked explosive. It was Mrs. McNab
who answered.

“I hope that if they ever tire you out again you will remember that you
have a home at The Towers, my dear. And then I shall try to give you a
time without any worries—only peace.”

Poor soul—she looked as though she needed the peace herself. I was
trying to reply fittingly when Bella appeared with the tea-tray and
provided a welcome interruption. It was terribly embarrassing to have
speeches made at one.

The next few days went by uneventfully. Judy and Jack scoured the
country every day, returning in disgust at their lack of success in
finding the jewels, but always ready to go out again. We saw nothing of
Dr. Firth’s detectives. It was hinted that they had a clue, a possession
which Harry declared no self-respecting detective to be without; but
whatever it was, it seemed to lead them nowhere, and the belief grew in
the neighbourhood that the robbers had made good their escape, and were
not likely to trouble the Wootong district again. The girls ceased to
lock their doors at night; the Melbourne papers, which had given a good
deal of space to the burglary, dropped the subject in favour of
something more interesting. Only Dr. Firth still held to his idea that
his jewels were not far off. But as nobody agreed with him, he said
little, remarking that a man who had no foundation for his opinions was
wiser if he kept them to himself. He was very busy over the packing of
his remaining curios; load after load of stuffed animals left his house,
to the unconcealed joy of his servants, who declared—Julia reported to
me—that the place was becoming one in which a self-respecting girl
could move about at night without her hair rising erect upon her head.
“An’ that’s more than one can say of this place, miss,” added Julia
gloomily. “There’s more than poor dead beasts is in it at The Towers!”

Mrs. McNab and I paid another visit to the Island on the fourth night,
taking a fresh supply of food. We found our refugee in a distinctly bad
temper, loneliness and lack of tobacco being his principal grievances.
He became rather more cheerful when we supplied the latter need, but
muttered angrily when he learned that no letter had yet been received
from his friend in Adelaide. “A man can’t stay on this beastly rock for
ever!” I heard him say. “I’ll be in a pretty fix if Transom slips me up,
after all.”

“You do not think he will, Ronald?” Mrs. McNab’s voice was sharp with
anxiety.

“Oh, I don’t know. He seemed anxious enough to get me in with him, if I
could raise a little money—but he could easily find somebody with more
than I shall have. I’ll believe in him when I hear from him—and the
letter should have come before now. For goodness’ sake come back as soon
as you can, Marie; waiting in suspense in this hole is enough to send a
man out of his mind!” He stood glowering at us as we left the Island. To
my relief, he had not spoken to me at all.

I think that the doubt he put into Mrs. McNab’s mind about the friend in
Adelaide was the last straw that broke down her endurance. She had made
very certain of the prospect of help from this man, Transom: Mr. Hull
had never spoken of him, she told me, as if there were any chance that
his offer would not hold good. I did not believe it now: I felt sure
that Mr. Hull had only tried to worry her by expressing a doubt that he
did not really feel. It was one of his pleasant little ways, that he
liked to work on her feelings by dwelling on dangers, both real and
imaginary: she had told me this herself, and I ventured to remind her of
it now. But she shook her head.

“I do not know. He can be very cruel, but I hardly think he would be so
bitter as that. It may have been that his talk of Transom and America
was only a trick to induce me to raise the money—and I have raised all
that I can. But if Transom fails, whatever can we do? He has been my
only hope. Ronald cannot leave Australia without a passport—he dares
not try to get one himself, even under a false name. And nowhere in
Australia is he safe.”

There was not much that I could say to comfort her. She gripped the rail
of the launch, staring out to sea as we ran smoothly homeward: seeing, I
knew, all that might lie before her: bringing her brother back by
stealth to his old hiding-place in the Tower rooms, to enter again upon
the dreary life of concealment and deception, with the ever-present risk
of discovery, and of disgrace for them all. It was a bitter prospect.
She looked ten years older when she said good night to me after we got
back to the house. As I listened to her dragging footsteps, going
wearily up the stairs, once more I longed very heartily for a strong man
to deal with Mr. Ronald Hull.

It was not a surprise to me when Julia brought me word next morning that
Mrs. McNab was ill.

“I dunno is it a fever she have on her,” said the handmaiden. “She do be
all trembly-like, an’ as white as a hound’s tooth. Sorra a bit has she
seen of her bed lasht night; I’d say she was fearin’ that if she tried
to climb that small little ladder to her room it’s fallin’ back she’d
have been. A rug on the sofy is all the comfort she’s afther having.”

“Well, she can’t stay there,” I said. “Miss Carrick left yesterday,
Julia: we can bring Mrs. McNab down to her room.”

“’Twould be as good for her,” agreed Julia. “’Tis all ready, miss; as
warrm as it is, I’ll clap a hot bottle between the sheets, the way she
wouldn’t feel the chill. Let you go up to her now, for the poor soul’s
unaisy till she sees you. Herself sets terrible store by you these
days.”

There was no doubt that Mrs. McNab was ill—her appearance bore out all
Julia’s description. She tried to make as little of it as possible,
declaring that she was used to such attacks, and that a day in bed was
all she needed; she had taken the necessary medicine, and utterly
refused to see a doctor. But she did not resist being taken down to the
vacant room near mine, and leaned heavily upon me as I helped her down
the stairs. I was thankful when I saw her safely in bed.

“Don’t trouble about me,” she said weakly. “My head aches badly: I am
better alone. It will pass off after a time. But you must bring the
letters to me as soon as the post-bag comes from Wootong—promise me,
Miss Earle.”

I promised, seeing that nothing else would keep her quiet. But when the
mail arrived, the bundle of letters, which she turned over with shaking
fingers, did not contain the one for which she longed.

“There is nothing from Transom,” she declared tragically. “I am afraid
Ronald’s fear is only too well-founded.” She turned her face to the wall
with a smothered groan.

It was the longest day that I had spent in The Towers. There was
scarcely anything that I could do for my patient—she had no wishes, and
would take hardly any nourishment. Beryl paid her a casual visit, and
then left her to my care—Mother was like this occasionally, she said,
and wanted only to be let alone until she was better. Harry was more
concerned, but accepted philosophically the view that he could do
nothing in the sick-room and would be of more practical use if he kept
the house quiet by taking every one out: and presently all the party
went off for an excursion, and with the throb of the departing motors
The Towers settled down to silence. Judy and Jack had gone
treasure-hunting again, taking their lunch with them. There was nothing
for me to do but sit in my room, going often to steal a quiet look at my
patient, who generally lay with closed eyes, her face grey against the
white linen of the pillow.

She roused a little towards evening, and permitted me to take her
temperature, which I found far too high for my peace of mind, though the
thermometer’s reading did not trouble Mrs. McNab.

“Oh yes—it is often like that,” she said. “Give me some more of the
medicine: it will be better in the morning.” She smiled feebly at my
anxious face. “There is really no need for alarm, so far as I am
concerned. The worst feature is that these attacks leave me so terribly
weak: I am a wreck for days after one. And I have no time to be a wreck
just now.”

This was so true than any comment on my part was needless; I could only
beg her not to worry, which I felt to be a singularly stupid remark. She
took a little nourishment, and soon afterwards fell into a heavy sleep,
from which she did not stir until after midnight. Then she woke and
smiled at me, and asked the time.

“And you still up!” she said reproachfully. “You must go to bed at once,
Miss Earle. I am better, and there is no need whatever for you to sit up
any longer.”

She was evidently better, and the temperature, though not yet normal,
had gone down. I made her take a little chicken-broth and shook up her
pillows, putting on cool, fresh covers.

“That is so nice!” she said, as her hot face touched their coolness.
“Now I am going to sleep again, and you must do the same. I can ring if
I want anything—but indeed I shall want nothing. Run off to bed at
once, or I shall have to get up to make you go!”

I gave in, seeing that she was really worried about my being up, though
I was not at all sleepy. Nevertheless, once I was in bed I slept like a
log, and did not waken until I found Julia by my side with tea in the
morning. She beamed cheerfully at me.

“Let you take your tay in peace, now,” she said. “The misthress is
betther: she’s afther drinkin’ a cup, an’ she towld me to tell you to
take your time, for she’s needin’ nothin’.”

“Is she really better, Julia?” I asked anxiously.

“She is. There’s great virtue in that quare little glass stick she’s
afther suckin’; she med me give it to her, an’ she says it’s made her
norrmal. I dunno what is norrmal, but she says she’s cured. The fever’s
gone out of her entirely. But she have a strong wakeness on her yet;
sure I had to howld the cup when she drank, for there’s no more power in
her hand than a baby’s. But that’s nothin’ at all: we’ll have her as
well as ever she was in a few days, if only she’ll leave the owld
writin’ alone.”

Mrs. McNab greeted me with a smile when I hurried in.

“Ah, I told Julia to make you rest awhile,” she said. Her voice was
still faint, but her eyes were clear, and the pain had gone out of them.
“I am really better: the attack has passed off, and I have only to get
rid of this weakness. But it takes time.”

She was a very meek patient that morning. All her powers were
concentrated on getting back her strength: she took nourishment whenever
I brought it to her, and tried to keep herself as placid as possible by
sheer strength of will. But strength of will, even as great as Mrs.
McNab’s, does not work miracles: she was still weak enough to tremble
violently when I brought her her letters at twelve o’clock, and when she
came to one in a dingy blue envelope her hand shook so that she had to
let me open it for her. With a great effort she commanded herself to
read it.

“It is from Transom!” she gasped. “Everything is arranged, and he wants
Ronald to join him in Adelaide immediately—not to delay an hour longer
than he can help!”

The letter fluttered to the ground and I sprang to her side. She had
fainted.




                               CHAPTER XV
                          I SAIL WITH MY BAND


‟I WILL not let you go alone.”

“But I could manage quite well. It will be moonlight, and such a still
night. There would be no real difficulty.”

“I will not let you go.”

“But it will be days before you are fit to move. You know you cannot
risk the delay: it is your brother’s only chance. You can’t see it
wasted.”

“I can—if the price is too great to pay. I will not buy his safety at
the risk of a young girl. I will not let you go.”

“Then let me tell your son.”

The white face on the pillow worked pitifully.

“No—anything but that! Harry is so young—and so proud. I cannot let
him share the knowledge of disgrace. Life would never again be the same
to him. I have tried so hard to keep it to myself—to spare Harry.”

“Ah, let me go!” I said. “It would be so easy—the launch is ready, and
the run to Southport would be nothing. Think of it—to have all your
anxiety at an end! Say I may go, dear Mrs. McNab.”

We had argued at intervals all the afternoon. At first, after recovering
from the fainting-fit into which the arrival of Transom’s letter, urging
Ronald Hull to come without delay, had thrown her, Mrs. McNab had
declared that she herself would be well enough to go out that night: a
manifest absurdity, speedily proved when she tried to walk across the
room. She could only totter a few yards, and then was glad to catch at
my arm and let me support her to a chair. Again and again she had tried,
with no better success. I put her back to bed at last, and gave her a
stimulant, angry with myself for having assisted at the folly. And then
had begun the argument.

It seemed to me that the only thing to be done was for me to take the
launch and convey Ronald Hull to Southport. I didn’t like the idea of
doing it alone—who would? But there was no other way, since Mrs. McNab
steadfastly refused to tell Harry. A second reading of Transom’s letter
showed us that we should have received it a day earlier, and that to
reach Adelaide in time Mr. Hull must start that very night. It was now
or never; and Mrs. McNab had made up her mind that it must be never.

She turned her weary eyes in my direction now with a hopeless movement.

“I cannot. It is absolutely unthinkable that I could allow it. Even
Ronald’s disgrace, sore as it is, would not be as bitter to me as my own
conscience if I let you go. We must find some other plan of escape for
him. I am too tired to talk any more. Promise me you will not try to go
alone, and I will go to sleep.”

I promised, reluctantly, knowing that she had already strained her
endurance too far: she had a touch of fever again, and I feared that the
next day would find her much worse. She looked relieved, murmuring
something I could not catch; then she closed her eyes, and I went
quietly out of the room, tasting all the bitterness of failure. I had so
built on ridding her of her abominable brother. It was terrible to think
that this wonderful chance was to be lost—that when she struggled back
to health he would still be a millstone about her neck.

The sound of galloping hoofs came to me as I went out on the front
verandah, and I saw Judy and Jack come racing up the drive on their
ponies. They waved to me and shouted, but did not stop, tearing on to
the stable-yard. I sat down on a garden-seat to await them—and suddenly
hope flashed on me like a beacon-light.

Judy and Jack! They were only children, but they were strong and
sensible, when they chose: they knew the launch and its engine better
than I did, and the sea was their friend and playfellow. They would
come, my little Fellow-Members of the Band, and ask no questions that
would lead to unpleasant explanations. I could trust them, just as their
father had said he could trust them—not to betray a confidence, never
to let one down. It wasn’t done, in the Band.

I turned my great idea over and over in my mind while we were at dinner
in the schoolroom, and could find no flaw in it. I believed Mrs. McNab
would find none, either. To go out on the sea at night was nothing to
any McNab: that part of it I dismissed as not worth considering. The
chief thing to ponder was the necessity of letting them into at least
part of the secret: and there it was their very youth that gave me
confidence. Harry, if told, would have demanded every detail: Judy and
Jack would be content with what I chose to tell them, and I need tell
them nothing that would affect their peace of mind in the future. I
looked at my outlaws, unconsciously eating their dinner, with a
gratitude that would certainly have amazed them, had they suspected it.

I went in to consult Mrs. McNab when we had finished. Before dinner she
had not slept, and I had felt uneasy about her, for she was flushed and
hot and restless: but now I found her in a heavy slumber, breathing
deeply and regularly. She might remain so for hours, perhaps all night.
Why should I tell her at all? Why not let her sleep on, untroubled,
while the Band did her work? There was nothing to be gained by waking
her. I knew where to find, in the Tower room, the little suit-case that
held necessaries she had packed for her brother’s journey, and the money
she had procured for him. It had been ready for days, in case of a
hurried summons. I had only to take it, and go.

Slowly I went back to the schoolroom. The children were reading, their
mother’s illness making them unusually quiet; they glanced up at me, and
grinned in a friendly fashion. I sat down on the table and looked at
them.

“Do you remember,” I asked, “what you told me your father used to say
when he told you a secret?”

“Rather!” said Judy. “He always says, ‘Kids, this is confidential.’
Why?”

“Because I’m saying it now,” I said. “I have something to tell you,
and—‘Kids, it is confidential.’ Is it all right?”

“O-oh, Miss Earle, you’ve got a secret! ’Course it’s all right. Isn’t
it, Jack?”

“Cross-our-hearts,” said Jack solemnly. “Shall we swear a Hearty Oath?”

“Your word is good enough for me,” I answered. “But it has to be a very
solemn word, because this is a big secret, and it isn’t even mine.”

“We’ll never tell,” Judy said. “Jack and I never tell anything, you
know. Father understands that. Oh, Miss Earle, go on, or I’ll bust!”

“You two have got to help me to-night,” I said. “You have the biggest
job that has ever come into your lives. And then you have to keep quiet
about it for ever and ever.”

“_And_ ever!” said Judy. “Quick, Miss Earle!”

“I can’t tell you all the details, because they are not mine to tell,” I
said. “But your mother has a friend who is hiding from some people who
want to find him—why they want him is no business of ours. We will call
this friend Mr. Smith. He is living on Shepherd’s Island.”

“On Shepherd’s Island! In the old hut? Miss Earle, what a gorgeous
thrill!”

“That isn’t half the thrill there is,” I said, laughing in spite of
myself. “Mr. Smith wants to go to Southport—it is very important that
he should go there to-night. Your mother and I were going to take him
there, in the small launch.”

“You and Mother! Nobody else knowing anything at all?”

“Not a soul.”

“Do you mean you two were going out late to take him? All the way to
Southport? Why, it’s twenty miles!”

“Yes—to everything,” I said. “But your mother has gone and got ill, and
she can’t come. That is worrying her dreadfully, because she knows Mr.
Smith must be at Southport this very night. I wanted to go alone, but
she would not let me. And all through dinner I have been wondering if my
Fellow-Members of the Band would help me.”

“Any mortal thing!” declared Judy. “What can we do?”

“You can run a launch as well as I can—or better.”

“You mean——!” Light dawned on their eager faces. “You mean, you’d take
us to Southport?”

“I mean that you two should come to help me take Mr. Smith to Southport.
It has become a job for the Band.”

“It’s too wonderful to be true!” said Judy solemnly. “Oh, Miss Earle,
you darling! When do we start?”

“I think we might slip out about nine o’clock——”

“Just when we ought to be going to bed!” said Jack, with a blissful
chuckle.

“We had meant to go later, when every one was in bed—but I am very
anxious to get back before your mother wakes. She is fast asleep now. If
your brother or sister should come up after nine and find everything in
darkness they will think we are all in bed. It seems to me the safest
plan.”

“I suppose I’m really awake!” Judy remarked. “It would be too awful to
wake up and find I had only dreamed it! Pinch me, kid, will
you—Ouch!”—as Jack promptly complied. “Yes, I’m awake, all right. Miss
Earle, d’you mean that no one but you and Mother knows Mr. Smith is on
Shepherd’s Island?”

“No one.”

“How did he get there?”

“We took him one night some time ago.”

“What does he live on?”

“We gave him food. And he catches fish.”

“Where was he before?”

“Oh—different places.” The cross-examination was growing too searching.
“Judy, I don’t want you to ask me questions, dear.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Earle,” was the quick response.

“It isn’t my secret, but your mother’s. I am telling you without her
leave, and she may be worried when she knows. I want you to promise to
ask no questions—to try not to be curious, even though it’s hard, about
what really doesn’t concern you two or me. We are only acting as agents,
and it isn’t our business. And don’t ask your mother anything when she
is better. It is a matter to be silent about—on the honour of the
Band.”

“Cross-our-hearts!” they said in chorus—a touch of awe on their young
faces.

“That’s all right, then. Just look upon it that you’re doing a good turn
and helping a lame dog over a stile—and, of course, one doesn’t talk of
that sort of thing afterwards.”

“Rather not!” Jack said. “We’re never to speak of it again, ’cept when
we three are together.”

“And very little then,” I said. “I’m going to forget all about it from
the minute I come home to-night.”

“I don’t s’pose we could do that, because it’s the biggest adventure
we’ve ever had in the world, and we’re awfully obliged to you for giving
it to us—aren’t we, Ju? But it’s a deadly secret for ever and ever.
Will Mr. Smith know who we are?”

“He may. But he is rather down on his luck, and I don’t think he will
want to talk.”

“Well, goodness knows we don’t want to worry the poor beggar!” remarked
Jack, in masculine sympathy. “Can I be engine-man, Miss Earle?”

“Yes, please. And will you steer, Judy?”

“Don’t you want to? Oh, I’d love to—and then it’ll be all our
expedition and you’ll just be the Admiral and not do any work!” Judy
hugged me in her ecstasy. “We know Southport quite well, you see—we’ve
often been there in the launch, so we can do it all ourselves.” Joy
overcame her: she jumped up and pranced round the room wildly.

“Judy, you villain, be quiet, or I won’t let you be even a cabin-boy,” I
said, laughing. “You have got to be absolutely steady and silent—both
of you. Now go on with your reading while I get ready.”

I peeped at Mrs. McNab, who was still sleeping heavily; and then ran up
to her study, the key of which was in my care. The suit-case was on the
table: I glanced inside it, to make sure that the money was there. Yes,
it was all safe—a neat package of crisp bank-notes, tucked into a stout
envelope among the clothes. Locking the study, I carried the suit-case
down to my room, and found a long coat, into the pocket of which I
slipped an electric torch, with a dark veil to tie over my hair. Then I
scribbled on a half-sheet of notepaper: “Gone with Judy and Jack—please
don’t worry,” and put it on a little tray with nourishment: a glass of
milk and one of barley-water, with a saucer of chicken jelly. Mrs. McNab
did not stir as I put the tray on the table beside her bed.

“Please go on sleeping,” I whispered. “I’ll take great care of your
babies.” There was no sound but her heavy breathing, and I tiptoed out.
I found Judy and Jack returning ecstatically from arranging dummy
figures in their beds. We extinguished all the lights in our part of the
house, and in a few moments we were hurrying across the paddock. It was
barely nine o’clock.

There was no doubt that the presence of my two outlaws gave our
expedition the air of a joyous adventure. Mrs. McNab and I had come in
fear and trembling, seeing danger in every shadow; but with Judy and
Jack I raced merrily down to the shore, and we stowed ourselves in the
launch and pushed off with much ridiculous pomp and ceremony, as
befitted a lordly Admiral with a crew sworn to be faithful. To the
children it was simply a colossal lark, spiced with a glorious touch of
mystery; it was easy enough to take their view of it and share their
delight, until Shepherd’s Island suddenly showed before us. Then we ran
in silently, and I got out and went up the slope for a little way,
giving the signal of three low whistles—at which I could feel the new
thrill that ran through Judy and Jack. Three whistles—and a hunted man
in the dark! And to think that we, who shared this wonder, had a week
ago played at pirates, like children, with gulls for foes!

Ronald Hull came running down with long strides.

“Is that you, Marie?” he breathed. “Have you heard from Transom?”

“Mrs. McNab is ill,” I told him curtly. “She has sent me in her place.
The letter came this morning, and we are ready to take you to Southport,
now.”

“We! Whom have you told?”

“Nobody. I have Judy and Jack with me, to help with the boat, but they
do not know who you are. It was the only way: you have to be in Adelaide
as quickly as possible.”

“But have you the money? I can’t go without it.”

“I have everything, and here is Transom’s letter: you are to get out at
Mount Lofty, outside Adelaide, where he will meet you with a car. Is
there anything you want to ask me?—because I do not want you to talk
before the children. Your voice is so like their mother’s that it might
make them suspicious. And please keep your hat pulled down well over
your face.”

“You’re free enough with your orders,” he said with a sneer. “However, I
suppose I am in your hands. Where is the money?”

“In the launch, in your suit-case. Do you want to get anything from the
hut?”

“Yes—my hat and a few things. Get into the boat; I’ll be back in a few
minutes.” He ran back, and I went down to the shore, where Judy and Jack
waited in a solemn silence. But the launch seemed to quiver with their
ecstasy!

We carried no light as yet—the moon gave us sufficient to steer by,
though clouds hid it now and then. I was glad that a bank had drifted
across its broad face just as Ronald Hull came down, in a long
mackintosh, with a soft hat pulled over his eyes. He took his place on
the bow, and we edged away for the last time from Shepherd’s Island.

Never was there a more silent voyage. Not a word fell between us as we
ran the long miles along the coast, passing, one after another, the
lights of little villages. The sky grew more and more overcast, and the
air warmer, with little puffs of hot wind now and then. Had I been less
centred on getting to Southport and seeing the last of my passenger, I
might have been anxious about the weather; but I could only think of the
blessed certainty that soon he would be gone, and hug myself with joy
when I remembered the news I should have in the morning for Mrs. McNab.
Judy’s hand was light on the tiller: Jack crouched over the engine, a
queer, gnome-like figure, in the shadow. Ahead, the sinister figure sat
on the bow, his back to us, smoking. I wondered what his feelings were,
with freedom opening before him: and hardened my heart anew as I
recollected that he had made no inquiry whatever about Mrs. McNab’s
illness. Truly, it was a meritorious act, to rid a family of Mr. Ronald
Hull.

“There’s Southport!” Judy said softly.

The lights of a town showed ahead, scattered and dim, with a few
standing apart that marked the pier. We ran in gently, slowing the
engine. No one was to be seen as we crept alongside the pier, looking
for the steps at its side. The launch scraped them presently, and Mr.
Hull steadied her and sprang ashore, while I handed up his possessions.

“Thanks,” he said, in a low voice. “Good night.”

“Good night—and good luck!” I had to say that, because I was
representing Mrs. McNab. But I fear that, so long as he got clear of
Australia, I did not care in the least whatever might happen to Mrs.
McNab’s brother. I only hoped fervently that we might never see him
again. It is years ago now, but he still gives me unpleasant dreams.

We headed for home joyfully, dodging anchored fishing-boats until we
were out in the open and could go full speed ahead. Nothing mattered to
us now: we had dropped our dangerous cargo, and not one of us cared who
heard our engine as Jack opened the throttle and the launch shot over
the oily sea. Judy was the first to speak.

“I did want to see his face, so’s I could make him into a real hero,”
she said regretfully. “You can’t make a hero very well out of a
mackintosh and a felt hat!”

“I don’t see why you can’t,” I told her, laughing. “It makes it all the
more beautifully mysterious, like the Man in the Iron Mask. But you are
to wash him out of your memory as soon as you can, and only remember
that the Band had a gorgeous and exciting midnight voyage. As a matter
of fact, this isn’t a motor-launch at all: it’s the _Golden Hind_, and
I’m Drake, and you are my faithful captains!”

“And there’s a Spaniard ahead!” quoth Jack ferociously. “Up, Guards, and
at ’em!”

A hot puff of wind went by; and a dash of spray fell on board. I glanced
round, to see a dark line of clouds across the sky.

“There may or may not be Spaniards ahead, but there’s rain and wind
behind,” I said. “Get all you can out of her, Jack—I don’t want to take
you two home like drowned rats.”

“P’f!” Judy ejaculated. “What’s rain to us jolly mariners!”

We were to have an opportunity of seeing that. The clouds spread
rapidly, and the wind rose. We were yet five miles from home when the
moon was blotted out, and almost simultaneously the rain came down, in
gusty squalls that deepened to a steady downpour. I took the tiller from
Judy, who sat peering forward, picking up one shore-light after another
as we raced the leaping seas. They were staunch comrades, my
Fellow-Members: they sat as unconcernedly as if they were at dinner,
efficient and cheerful, while I wondered what I should have done had I
come alone, as I had wished. At intervals they apologized to me for the
unpleasant nature of their weather, and hoped I was not getting very
wet.

“We’ll have to turn and run back against it pretty soon, if it doesn’t
clear,” Judy remarked. “It won’t do to get among the islands in this
darkness.”

“It’s going to clear,” Jack said, scanning the horizon wisely.

“Well, you just slow down,” returned his sister. “I’d hate to hit an
island at this pace!”

Jack grunted, and slowed down—and grunted again as a wave hit us
squarely, deluging us with a rush of black water, just as the cover
slammed down on the engine. That was the last effort of the squall: it
lifted and blew away over the sea, and the moon came out and sailed
majestically through the flying clouds, revealing the fact that we were
quite unpleasantly near the islands which Judy would have hated to hit.
Nothing troubled us now; we sang a song of triumph in whispers as we
danced over the big seas and rounded the headland of Porpoise Bay. There
is great solace in a whispered chant of triumph if circumstances prevent
a full-throated chorus.

Drenched, but entirely cheerful, my outlaws and I made a burglarious
entry into the darkened house. I had taken the precaution of leaving a
big Thermos of hot milk, with which I regaled them when I had them
snugly tucked into bed, after a brisk rub-down.

“That was heavenly!” said Judy, snuggling into her pillow. “I’ve had the
most beautiful night of my life, Miss Earle, and I’ll bless you for it
always!”

“Me, too,” echoed Jack sleepily.

“I rather enjoyed it myself,” I said. “Go to sleep, Fellow-Members. I
shall certainly tell Colin that if he ever wants two mates in a tight
place I can supply him from the Band!”




[Illustration: “The letter fluttered to the ground and I sprang
 to her side. She had fainted.”
 _The Tower Rooms_]                         [_Page 201_]




                              CHAPTER XVI
                        I FIND A LUCKY SIXPENCE


AS soon as I was in dry things I slipped into Mrs. McNab’s room, my
heart thumping. All through our voyage I had pictured her waking up and
needing me: perhaps alarming the household, perhaps thrown into anxiety
by reading my note. There were a dozen unpleasant possibilities, and I
had explored them all.

But luck had held for me throughout that evening. She lay just as I had
left her hours before, breathing deeply and regularly: the tray was
untouched beside her, the note in its original fold. I pocketed it
thankfully and went to bed—to wake with a start in the early dawn.

I threw on a dressing-gown and went across to Mrs. McNab’s room. She was
lying awake and greeted me with a smile.

“You should not be up so early,” she said. “No, I am quite comfortable
and better, and I have taken some jelly. And I feel cheerful, though I
do not know why. I went to sleep so miserable, but a comforting dream
came to me: a dream in which I saw Ronald, safe and happy and good. Is
it not curious that I should have such a happy dream, just when all our
plans for him are ruined!”

“I don’t know,” I said, and smiled at her “I think it was a sensible
dream, sent as a warning.”

“I would like to think so,” she said wistfully. “But everything is so
dark and uncertain now, and I do not know how to plan.”

I suppose I grinned idiotically, for suddenly her face changed. She
looked at me keenly, rising on her elbow.

“Miss Earle, you have something to tell me! You—you did not break your
promise to me!”

“I did not,” I said. “To go alone was what I promised not to do, and I
didn’t go alone. I took Judy and Jack with me, bless their dear hearts:
they think we were assisting a gentleman named—possibly—Smith, and
they asked no questions, and will ask none in the future. Thanks to the
darkness they never saw his face. And we landed your brother at
Southport before midnight, dear Mrs. McNab, and his money and
everything. There wasn’t a hitch, and he’s well on his way to the
Adelaide line, I hope.”

For a full minute she lay and looked at me without speaking. Then she
suddenly put her face into the pillow and broke into a passion of sobs.

“Oh!” I uttered, horribly alarmed. “Oh, please don’t. Mrs. McNab, dear!
I shouldn’t have told you in such a hurry, but you guessed so quickly
that something had happened.” Dismally I felt that I had been a failure,
and I nearly howled, myself. “I—I thought you’d be glad!”

She put out her hand to me, as if groping, her face still hidden. I held
the hot hand tightly while the sobs grew less, and she struggled to
command herself.

“Glad!” she said presently. “Glad! When a burden of misery is suddenly
lifted glad is such a poor little word! My dear—my dear—what am I to
say to you?”

“Why, nothing at all,” I said, greatly relieved. “It was the very
easiest little job, thanks to Judy and Jack. I had scarcely to do
anything: they ran the launch, and I was a mere passenger. They were
hugely delighted at the adventure.”

“But will they say nothing?”

“They will not say a word, even to you. I have told them it is not a
matter to be discussed; that the man on the Island was a friend we were
helping, and that he wanted to get to Southport last night. I can trust
Judy and Jack—when they have given their word nothing on earth can
shake it. They understood that the matter was confided to them on
condition that they should keep silent and ask no questions, and they
are very proud of being trusted.”

She drew a long breath.

“Sit down, and tell me everything that happened,” she begged. “Every
little detail.”

I did so, touching very lightly on the rough journey home—hoping that
she would not ask me if her brother had sent her any message. Probably
she knew that a gentleman of Ronald Hull’s type would have no thought
for anyone but his precious self, for I had no awkward questions to
dodge.

“It was all so simple and straightforward that there really is very
little to tell,” I finished. “I asked Mr. Hull not to speak in the boat,
so that there would be no risk of the children’s recognizing his voice:
and I was so anxious to get back in case you needed me, that we didn’t
lose a moment. It was just a pleasure-trip. You don’t mind that I took
the children? Indeed, I meant to ask you, but you had gone to sleep
before I could do it.”

“I don’t mind anything,” she said. “There is no room in my heart for
anything but the utmost relief and gratitude; how could there be when my
burden is rolled away?” And she clung to my hand, and said a great many
things I couldn’t write down in cold blood—it made me feel an utter
fool to listen to them. I only know I was very thankful when she
stopped.

“Now, you are to go back to bed at once,” she said. “Do not worry about
me any more: you shall see how quickly I can get better now.” And
indeed, she looked almost like a girl, her cheeks flushed, and a light
of happiness in her eyes. “Julia can do anything for me—she is very
kind. I should be really glad if you would spend all day in bed.”

One does not do such things if one is a governess-head-companion with
buffering thrown in as a side-line. But I did sleep like a log until the
dressing-gong boomed, and Judy and Jack pounded on my door begging me to
go down for a swim. It gave one a thrill to run across the paddock as we
had run the night before: to see the launch rocking lazily by the pier.
Bence was busy in her. Jack scampered over to speak to him, dived in
from the pier-head, and swam round to meet us, with his face one broad
grin of impish joy.

“Bence is as wild as a meat-axe!” he said cheerfully. “Says it’s no good
cleaning out the launch every day when people ’liberately pour water
into her at night! She really is awfully messy: that last big sea we
shipped put gallons and gallons of water into her.”

“What did you say to him?”

“I said it was a jolly shame,” Jack chuckled. “’Tis, too—poor old
Bencey! I say, Miss Earle, haven’t you got anyone for us to go out and
rescue to-night?” He turned head-over-heels in the water, dived
underneath Judy, and pulled her under by the leg. I left them arguing
the matter out below the surface.

There was no holding my Fellow-Members of the Band that day. Their night
adventure had left them wild with excitement; they rioted like mad
things until I decided that exercise was the only possible treatment,
packed up a billy and sandwiches, and took them out for a long day in
the bush, leaving Mrs. McNab to the care of Julia, who liked nothing
better than to have some one ill enough to be fussed over. Miles from
home we came upon Dr. Firth, walking slowly through the scrub with his
big Airedale at his heels. He looked gloomy enough before he saw us, but
his face lit up when Judy and Jack hailed him joyfully.

“I was just deciding that treasure-hunting was a poor sort of game,” he
said. “This is about the tenth attempt I’ve made at scientific
detective-work: I try to put myself in the position of a burglar leaving
my house with his loot, desirous of avoiding all roads and tracks, and
of finding a safe hiding-place until excited policemen have calmed down
sufficiently to make it safe for him to get away. With this profound
idea in our minds Sandy and I strike out across country and look for
tracks!”

“I say—that’s a jolly game!” cried Judy.

“It is quite a jolly game,” he agreed. “Sandy entirely approves of it.
It has given us a great deal of fresh air and exercise, and our health
has benefited enormously—you can see for yourself how well Sandy
looks!” He pulled the Airedale’s ears. “But so far as finding the jewels
goes, it doesn’t seem to lead anywhere. That doesn’t trouble Sandy, but
it is hurtful to my pride. It would give me unbounded pleasure to be
able to flourish my property before those two superior detectives,
remarking airily, ‘I told you so!’”

“I think you need help,” Judy told him kindly. “Say we go with you and
lend a hand?”

“Say I go with you, and forget all about the wretched old jewels,” he
responded. “I think it would do me good to have the cheerful society of
you three merry people for a day. I don’t seem to have had a moment free
from the worry of them for the last week. By the way, my detectives have
a fresh thrill; they went out boating before breakfast, and landed on
Shepherd’s Island.”

Jack jumped, and Judy favoured him with a threatening glare.

“What’s up, Jack?” inquired Dr. Firth.

“Trod on a stick,” mumbled Jack, his face the colour of a beetroot. I
felt that mine resembled it, and could only hope that Dr. Firth would
put it down to sunburn.

But Judy did not turn a hair.

“What did they land for?” she inquired politely. “A picnic?”

“I think life is all a picnic to those two plump and worthy men,” Dr.
Firth responded. “I suppose they landed as a measure of exploration.
They came back in some excitement, though, to breakfast—nothing makes
my two sleuth-hounds forget their meals. A man has been camping in the
old hut, they say: they found blankets there. Indeed, for all they know,
he is still on the Island.”

“But I suppose anyone may camp there?” I asked. “It isn’t private
property.”

“Of course—dozens of people may use it, for all I know. However, the
detectives have made up their minds that he is their man, and off they
went after breakfast, to explore it thoroughly. I only hope they won’t
arrest some perfectly innocent holiday-maker and bring me his scalp!”

I did not dare to look at the children. They fell behind, affecting to
examine a plant, and I heard smothered shrieks of glee. For myself, I
found it difficult to listen to what my companion was saying: my brain
was all a-whirl. If we had not gone last night——! And then I fell to
wondering if anything that might be found on Shepherd’s Island would
bear marks that would be incriminating. The blankets, I knew, were plain
Army grey ones; the food-tins, even if discovered, were only such as
might be bought at any good store, and I knew Mrs. McNab had always
ordered them from Melbourne. Ronald Hull would have hidden them
carelessly: there was no hope that they would not be found by the
detectives. Well, I could only hope that Mrs. McNab’s prudence had
guarded against supplying evidence. She had had long enough to practise
prudence, poor soul.

We camped beside a little creek, boiled the billy, and shared our lunch
with Dr. Firth; fortunately, I had learned that it was wise to provide
amply for Judy and Jack’s appetites, and there were plenty of
sandwiches. Then Sandy dashed into the bush, to appear presently in
triumph with a rabbit, which he laid at his master’s feet. The sight of
the little, limp body filled Judy and Jack with ambition to fish for
yabbies, and Dr. Firth skilfully dissected a leg for each, while they
tied strings to tea-tree sticks. Then they sat, supremely happy, on the
bank, dangling their grisly baits, and drew up numbers of the hideous
little fresh-water crayfish, which they stowed in the billy, with a view
to supper. I had uneasy visions of Mrs. Winter’s probable comments on
the addition to her larder.

Dr. Firth and I sat under a tree, listening to their ecstatic yells, and
talked. It was always easy to talk to him: each time we met seemed to
show me more clearly what a friend I had found. Always he wanted to hear
more and more of Colin and Madge, and of our life since we had lost
Father; he knew all about the little Prahran flat, about Madge’s music
and her examination successes, and about Colin’s dearness to us both. We
laughed over our amateur housekeeping and over Colin’s droll stories of
his office—Colin had always made a joke of it, though Madge and I knew
well enough how sorely he hated it. And then the talk would swing back
to Father, and he would tell me stories of the youth they had spent
together, until I felt that I knew Father better than I had ever done
before, and had even greater cause for pride than I had dreamed of. The
future, that had been so drab to us, seemed quite different now.
Hardship and work there must be, of course, but not the loneliness that
had walled us round since Father had gone away.

We had been so deeply engrossed that we had not noticed that the
children had tired of fishing and had disappeared, leaving their rods on
the bank beside the billy that was half full of squirming captives. I
looked at my watch when we discovered their absence, and came back with
a start to the realization of my duties.

“We ought to be making a move homeward,” I said. “I don’t want Mrs.
McNab to be worried about us.”

“Oh, they won’t be far off,” Dr. Firth said.

He sent a long coo-ee ringing through the scrub. A faint answering sound
came, and following it, we went along the creek bank, to be greeted
presently by the spectacle of Judy and Jack perched in a tree that
partly overhung the water. Jack was feeling his way along a dead bough
towards a hole that might or might not contain a parrot’s nest. I cried
out in alarm at sight of him, for the branch was rickety, and the ground
below did not invite a fall—it was strewn with loose rocks, some of
which had tumbled bodily into the creek.

“Do be careful, Jack!” I called. “That branch isn’t safe.”

“P’f! It’s as safe as houses!” said Jack airily. “Don’t bother a chap,
Miss Earle—women are always fussy. I only want to get to this good old
nest, and then I’ll——”

There was a splintering crack and the branch sagged down suddenly. Jack
clung to it for a moment while I ran towards him wildly; then he fell,
as I made an ineffectual attempt to catch him. It failed, but it broke
his fall. We went down to the ground together. A loose rock on the edge
gave under us, and we rolled down the bank amid a scatter of stones and
loose earth, ending with our feet in the creek.

We were both up in a moment, laughing. Dr. Firth’s alarmed face peered
over the bracken-fringed bank above us.

“Anyone hurt?”

“Nothing but a few scratches,” I answered. “But we seem to have brought
down half the bank—it’s a regular avalanche. I don’t believe we can get
up there, Jack.”

“Oh, can’t we!” Jack uttered. “Bet you I can. I’ll go ahead, Miss Earle,
’n’ then I can pull you up.”

“You needn’t trouble,” I thanked him. “I prefer a place where it’s a
little cleaner. Not that that matters much, since we rolled down!” I
looked ruefully at my earth-stained frock.

“Well, I’ll show you!” said Jack sturdily.

He scrambled up, sending down showers of small stones and loose soil,
while I watched him, half expecting him to come sliding back to my feet.
Just as he neared the top, my eye caught sight of a tiny object half
hidden in our miniature avalanche—something that shone faintly. I
stooped forward and picked up a bright sixpence.

“Take care, Jack—you are dropping your money,” I called.

“Me?” inquired Jack, from the top. “Not me—I never had any. What’s the
use of bringing money out in the bush? Did you find any?”

“I found sixpence,” I answered. “That’s good luck for me, at all events.
I wonder how it came here.”

“Might be more lying about,” suggested Jack. “Have a look.”

I glanced up at him, laughing.

“If I find a silver-mine, I’ll buy you that yacht you were talking
about. What did you say her tonnage——?”

Something made me break off suddenly. There was a little recess in the
bank, just under his laughing face: a recess only revealed since we had
sent the rock that guarded it crashing down the bank. Something
glimmered in it faintly. I went up the broken bank even more quickly
than Jack had done, while the others sent a fire of laughing questions
at me. Putting my hand into the recess I drew out—an old tobacco-tin.

“Whatever have you got there, Doris?” Dr. Firth asked.

“Somebody’s ’baccy,” I answered, laughing, scrambling up over the edge.
“I suppose some poor old swagman has made a _cache_ here. I must put it
back.”

“You might look at it first,” he said quietly. But there was something
in his voice that made me glance at his face. I sat down on the ground
and got the lid open.

There was not tobacco inside, but moss—old soft moss, tightly rammed
down. It might well have contained a fisherman’s worms, but at the
moment I didn’t think of that, or I might not have acted as I did. I
shook it all out, with a jerk, into my lap. Dr. Firth caught his breath
in a gasp and the children gave a shout.

There was more than moss. Hidden among it were things that glittered and
sparkled in the sunlight—rough-cut rubies and emeralds and sapphires,
and softly-gleaming turquoises that bore the scratches of the tool that
had hewn them hurriedly from their setting. They twinkled at us, lying
among the soft bronze-green of the moss: Dr. Firth’s stolen jewels! I
sat and stared at them stupidly.

“You said they were magic!” shrilled Judy delightedly. “Oh, well done
you, Miss Earle!”

“There should be more,” said Dr. Firth quietly. “Pack them up again,
Doris, and let us see where you found them.”

We went over the edge in a body. There were two other little
tobacco-tins in my hole, packed in the same way, stowed well under a
rock. Half of it had broken away, and even then, only the smallest
corner of the first tin had been visible—but for the lucky avalanche
that Jack and I had brought down no one would ever have found that
hiding-place, even if it had been years before the thief came back to
remove his booty.

“I wouldn’t have seen it at all if he had left the paper wrapping on the
tin,” I said. “It was the little gleam of metal that caught my eye.”

“That was a small detail of extra carefulness,” Dr. Firth said. “People
have been tracked down before now by leaving something of which the
purchase could be traced. He was a careful burglar, bless him!”

“He wasn’t so smart when he dropped his sixpence!” exulted Jack. “It was
the sixpence that started you looking, Miss Earle.”

“It was. I was just turning away to look for a better place to get up
when I saw it half under a stone.”

“You ought to keep that sixpence for luck,” said Judy solemnly. “Oh, Dr.
Firth, are you going back to wave the jewels at the detectives? Do let
us come too! I’d love to see their faces!”

“I shan’t be in too much of a hurry,” he said, smiling. “It might be as
well to see what their new clue amounts to. Possibly there is something
suspicious about that Shepherd’s Island camper, after all.”

My heart gave a sudden sick leap. What if there were?—if it had indeed
been Ronald Hull who had hidden the jewels under the bank, trusting to
luck some day to come back and retrieve them! What if his willingness to
go to Adelaide were only a blind?—if he meant not to leave Australia at
all, but only to get out of immediate danger here? I thought of poor
Mrs. McNab’s face that morning, ten years younger in her utter relief
and thankfulness, and I shivered to think that her misery might not be
over yet.

“We’ll keep the matter to ourselves for a day or two, at any rate,” Dr.
Firth was saying. “You won’t say a word, children?”

“Cross-our-hearts!” said Judy and Jack in chorus.

“That’s all right. I’ll see what the detectives have to say; and
meanwhile I’ll put a man of my own to watch this place, in case the man
who planted those jewels comes back. Keep out of this part of the bush,
you two, until I see you again.”

They promised, wide-eyed. Life was indeed full of glory this week for
little Judy and Jack McNab.

“But you won’t wave them at the detectives without us?”

“Cross-my-heart!” said he solemnly. “I’ll bring you and Miss Earle over,
and you shall do the waving yourself, and see the sleuth-hounds collapse
before you! And now, if you are ready, I think we’d better get home. I
shall feel easier in my mind when these three tobacco-tins are locked
away in my safe.”




                              CHAPTER XVII
                             I USE A POKER


TO anyone who watched unseen, our progress homeward would undoubtedly
have presented itself as peculiar. Dr. Firth’s suggestion that the
jewels would be more secure in his safe filled Judy and Jack with a
vision of the thief coming to find his hidden booty. They scented danger
in every clump of scrub, and earnestly demanded of Dr. Firth whether he
had a revolver.

“Certainly I have—an excellent one,” he answered. “It’s in its case at
home.”

“Fancy you coming out to look for the jewels without it!” rebuked Judy.
“I never heard of anything so careless. And if you meet the thief he’s
simply certain to be armed to the teeth!”

“I shall defy him to his teeth—even if false!” said the Doctor stoutly.

“Precious lot of good defying would be if he had a six-shooter!” growled
Jack, who looked with a lofty scorn upon all literature that did not
deal with the Far West. “Why, you’re as good as a dead man if he gets
the drop on you! I think each of us three ought to take a tobacco-tin
and scoot—he’d never suspect any of us.”

“It’s a noble idea, but I like the feel of them in my pockets,”
responded the Doctor cheerfully. “I must e’en take my chance. Do you
really think any modest burglar is going to be foolhardy enough to
attack four desperadoes like ourselves—to say nothing of Sandy?”

“He’d pot you from behind a tree as soon as look at you,” said Judy,
with gloom. “Anyhow, Jack, you and me’ll go ahead and scout. And you
bring up the rear, Miss Earle—you might walk backwards as much as you
can, in case he tries to stalk us from behind!”

We obeyed. Thus might have been seen two small forms flitting through
the trees, peering in every direction: halting now and then, with lifted
hand, to scan a possible danger-point: then, reassured, darting off to
right or left, to reappear presently, perhaps examining a hollow stump,
perhaps up a tree to obtain a wider view. In the rear, I endeavoured to
be as sleuth-like as possible—dutifully walking backwards whenever I
fancied they glanced in my direction, wherefore I twice sat down heavily
on a tussock. In my next expedition of the kind the rear will be a
position I shall carefully shun. Between our two forces, Dr. Firth
stalked majestically, his chest thrown out, his hands clenched over his
pockets—looking rather like Papa in _The Swiss Family Robinson_. Sandy
was the only one of the party on whom life sat lightly. He hunted
rabbits with a joyous freedom that I envied greatly.

We parted where the track branched off towards The Towers. Judy and Jack
were profoundly uneasy at letting Dr. Firth continue his journey alone,
preferring to risk the loss of their dinner rather than let him go home
unguarded. It took all our persuasion, coupled with the reminder that
their mother would certainly be worried about them, to induce them to
say good-bye. They beguiled the way back to The Towers with the
dreariest predictions of what might be expected to happen to him and the
jewels deprived of their vigilance and mine.

We were very late for dinner, but Mrs. McNab had not worried. I do not
think, that day, that she was capable of worrying. She was a different
woman: there was a new light in her eyes, a little colour in her cheeks;
her voice had lost the hard ring that had made it so repellent. Julia
reported that she had taken her food like a Christian, and that you’d
hardly know her, for the spirit she had on her. “’Tis bein’ forced away
from the owld writin’,” said Julia. “If I’d me way the divil a pen she’d
see between now an’ Patrick’s Day!”

She made us sit in her room after dinner while the children told her
about their day. It was nervous work, for the discovery of the jewels
was naturally uppermost in their minds, and just as “all roads lead to
Rome,” so every topic we chose seemed only to merge into that crowning
achievement of the day. Luckily, their mother was too blissfully content
to notice occasional stumbling and hesitation. She gave them ready
sympathy and outward attention, but I knew that half her mind was so
busy rejoicing that she did not hear half they said.

As for Judy and Jack, they noticed nothing of her abstraction. They were
only amazed at the change in her. I found them discussing it in bed when
I went out on the balcony to tuck them in.

“Never knew Mother so jolly,” said Jack. “Did you, Miss Earle? She was
all smiling and int’rested—and generally about three minutes of us is
all she can stick!”

“She looked so pretty, too,” Judy added. “Her eyes were all big and
soft. Miss Earle, you do really think she’s better, don’t you?” The
child put her hand out and drew me down beside her. “She—she made me
frightened,” she said, with a catch in her voice. “You don’t think she’s
going to be very ill, do you?”

“No, she isn’t,” I answered quickly—not very sure of my own voice.
“She’s really ever so much better: in a few days she will be up. Mother
has had a great deal of worry for a long time, old Fellow-Members, and
now I hope that worry has gone.”

Jack made a spring across from his bed and snuggled down beside Judy and
me.

“Miss Earle—was the worry something to do with—with the job we helped
you with last night?”

“Yes, it was. But you aren’t going to ask questions.”

“No, of course not. But I just wanted to know that much. It wasn’t any
harm just to ask that, was it?”

“No, indeed it wasn’t, old man. You earned that, you and Judy.”

“I’m glad I know,” Judy said. “Will the worry ever come back! I do hope
it won’t, ’cause I’d love Mother to stay like she is now.”

“I don’t think it will,” I said: I spoke stoutly, but again there was
that sick fear at my heart. “It has been terribly hard for Mother to
carry on, because she couldn’t bear anyone but herself to have the
worry.”

“And things you keep to yourself are ever so much beastlier,” observed
Judy. “Do ask Mother to tell us, after you’ve gone, if it comes back,
Miss Earle. We might be able to help.”

“And anyhow, we’d take care of her,” said Jack. “We’d make her a Member
of the Band, if she’d like—only somehow, she’s never seemed exactly
Band-y before. She’d be a simply ripping Member if she stays like she is
to-night!”

He gave a great yawn, stood up, and dived back to his own bed.

“I’m awful sleepy,” he said. “But we’ve had two wonderful adventures,
haven’t we, Ju? These have been the best two days of my whole life!”

“Me, too,” said Judy.

Would the worry ever come back! The fear was strong on me as I sat by my
window before going to bed. Do as I might I could not shake off the
feeling that Ronald Hull had not done with us yet. Why, I asked myself,
should he go to America, when in Australia he had a sister ready to
beggar herself and risk disgrace to protect him? And if this last dread
were true—if it were he who had hidden the jewels in the hole under the
bank of the creek—was it to be expected that he would leave the country
without them? The evil face, with its cold eyes, seemed to hover before
me in answer. Whatever happened, Ronald Hull would consider nobody in
the world but himself.

I was very tired, and when I went to bed sleep came to me almost at
once, and I dreamed a cheerful dream that Colin and I were chasing Mr.
Hull across a paddock that ended in a precipice. We knew it was there,
and so did he, and he tried to break back and escape; but Colin had not
been a footballer for nothing, and he headed off every rush, countered
every dodge, edging him on all the time: until at last Mr. Hull gave it
up, and, running wildly and calling out unpleasant things, reached the
edge of the cliff and sprang out in mid-air, twisting and turning as he
fell, but never dropping his cigarette from his lips. He disappeared far
below, and I woke up. I do not think it was a lady-like dream, but I
felt astonishingly light-hearted. I knew how Sandy felt when he caught
his rabbit.

I was just dropping off to sleep again when a sound fell upon my ears.
It was so faint that at first I thought I was mistaken; then it came
again, more distinctly, and I sat up, very wide-awake. Surely, some one
was calling for help—a child’s voice.

I sprang out of bed, flung on my dressing-gown and slippers, and ran out
into the corridor. Something was happening downstairs: there was no
light save that of the moon, but I heard a scuffle, and a man’s voice,
low and furious. And then another, and it was Jack’s, crying, “Let go,
you brute!” At that I lost my head altogether. Any sensible person would
have summoned Harry McNab and his friends. But I fled downstairs without
stopping to think, and, following the sounds, dashed into the library.

There were two figures there in the moonlight: Jack, in his pyjamas, a
slight thing in the grip of a tall man who was trying to silence him. I
heard an oath and a low-voiced threat, as I picked up the poker and
struck at him. He let Jack go, turning on me savagely. I dodged his
blow, struck again, and felt the blow go home: heard Jack crying out,
“Look out, Miss Earle—he’ll kill you!” It seemed very likely, as he
rushed at me; but that was no reason for letting him kill Jack.

We circled round each other warily for a moment. Then he made another
rush, and Jack sprang in between us and gripped him by the legs. He fell
heavily over the boy: I sprang again, and hit wildly, caring not where I
hit, and only wishing there were more strength in the blows. And then
came another little figure—Judy, who flung herself across the
struggling man, pounding wildly with her fists. I saw her thrown aside,
and she did not move. Came racing feet, and the voice of Julia—“Let me
at him, the murdherin’ vilyun!” as I hit with my last ounce of strength,
and staggered back.

“Sit on his head, Julia!” shrilled Jack.

“I will so,” said Julia: and did.

I saw Jack crawling away, and flung myself across the struggling legs.
We thrashed backwards and forwards on the floor, Julia keeping up a
steady flow of threats, mingled with remarks addressed to the saints.
And then the light was switched on, and the room was full of
voices—men’s voices, tense and angry. I could not see any of them: I
was trying feebly to keep my hold, knowing I was done. Something like a
thunderbolt caught the side of my head. Then came blackness and silence.




                             CHAPTER XVIII
                          I LOSE MY SITUATION


I REMEMBER a dream of pain that seemed to last for years: a dream in
which lights flashed back and forth perpetually behind my eyes, and all
the time there was a buzz of low voices; it troubled me greatly that I
could never hear what they said. Then the dream faded, and there was
something cool and wet on my forehead: I tried to tell them how good it
was, but I seemed to have no tongue, so I gave up the attempt and went
to sleep instead. And after years more of sleep I woke up in a room of
dim twilight: and it was the most natural thing in the world to see
Colin sitting beside my bed.

He saw my eyes open, and gave me his own old smile.

“Better, old girl?” He held something to my lips, and I drank thirstily.

“Is it time to start for school?” I whispered.

“Not nearly,” he said. It was an immensely comforting statement to me.
“Go to sleep again, kiddie.” And I went obediently.

He was there the next time I awoke, but it was morning this time. They
told me afterwards that for three days and nights he scarcely ever left
my side, sitting just where I could see him if my eyes opened. No one
could ever guess how beautiful it was to see him there. I grew to
wondering would he still be there, before my heavy lids lifted: to be
almost afraid to lift them, in case he should have gone away. But always
his smile was ready for me, and I would drift away to sleep again,
trying to smile back.

Then one day I woke up with my brain quite clear, and the desire for
sleep all gone. Colin put his fingers on my wrist, and I lay watching a
little ray of sunlight that crept in by the blind and fell across his
crisp hair. He did not take his eyes from me, but spoke to some one I
could not see.

“All right,” he said quietly. “Come along and say good morning to her,
Madge.”

Madge came—which also seemed a most natural thing. She kissed me very
gently and stood back with her hand on Colin’s shoulder, and I grinned
foolishly at them both.

“I’ve had a tremendous sleep,” I said, “and all sorts of queer dreams.
And I’m ever so hungry!”

“That’s much better to think about than the dreams,” said Colin. He put
out a long arm and mysteriously produced some jelly, with which he fed
me like a baby. It was wonderfully good, and I ate six spoonfuls, and
then discovered that I wasn’t as hungry as I had thought. So I went to
sleep again, holding a hand of each.

It was quite a long while before they would let me talk about what had
happened in the library. They thought I did not remember much about it
at first, which was quite wrong: I remembered everything until the
stunning blow that put me out of action. But I did not know what I dared
ask. You see, I had never seen the thief’s face clearly, but his height
and build were the same as Ronald Hull’s. In my mind, as I lay finding
my strength again, I was quite sure that that estimable gentleman had
returned to pick up a little more loot.

Judy and Jack were safe—I knew that, because they came and peeped at me
every day and brought me flowers. And Julia also: she swept and polished
my room, and showed much hatred and jealousy of the stern little trained
nurse who wouldn’t let her do the dusting. But when I asked feebly for
Mrs. McNab they told me she was still too ill to get up; the shock of
the attempted robbery at The Towers had evidently made her worse. So I
held my peace as best I could, outwardly, though in my mind I ached to
know if Ronald Hull were the individual I had so heartily battered with
the poker. If so—well, I trembled for Mrs. McNab, but I was glad I had
done the battering.

Then, one day, Mrs. McNab came in, in her dressing-gown, looking like a
tall ghost: and Colin slipped out and left us alone. She kissed me and
sat down by my bed.

“Tell me——” I whispered.

“Tell you what, my dear?” She bent towards me.

“Did they get him?”

“Whom do you mean, Doris dear?” She looked puzzled.

“Your brother. Did the police get him?”

A great relief flashed into her face.

“Ronald! Oh no. He got quite safely away from Adelaide. His friend wrote
to me after the ship had sailed: there had been no difficulty at all.
That worry is ended, thank God!”

“Oh!” I said weakly. “Then it wasn’t he—in the library? I thought it
was.”

“In the library? You—you don’t mean the burglar? Why, my dear child,
that was Bence!”

“Bence! Not the chauffeur?” Bence had always been especially civil to
me. I felt a guilty pang, remembering how hard I had tried to hit him
with the poker.

“Yes, it was Bence. He turned out to be a very well-known criminal—the
police had been looking for him for some time. He was responsible for
all the robberies; some of Dr. Firth’s property was found in his room,
in addition to the jewels you children discovered in the bush. He has
made a full confession.” She looked at me doubtfully. “Will it excite
you to hear about it?”

“It will excite me far more _not_ to hear,” I said truthfully. “I’ve
been lying here for days, aching to see you: there was no one else I
dared to ask. Do tell me. Did I hit him very hard?”

“You got in one lucky blow that dazed him, and a good many that hurt him
a good deal. But for that I do not know what would have happened to you
and the children. As it was, Julia seems to have arrived just in time,
for he was getting his wits back. I don’t know that anyone is certain of
what actually happened—you were all struggling in the darkness, and
Judy was stunned. But just as Harry and Dicky arrived and turned on the
lights he kicked you with tremendous force on the head: I don’t know
whether he meant it, or if it were done blindly in his struggles.”

“I think it must have been that,” I said. “Bence was always very
courteous!”

Mrs. McNab gave a short laugh.

“He was past being courteous just then. The blow sent you flying, and
the other side of your head crashed into the carved leg of a table.
Then, of course, the boys mastered him easily enough, aided by Julia,
who fought with great fury. He was rather badly knocked about—they were
all beside themselves, seeing you and Judy unconscious. Judy was quite
well in half an hour. But you have been a more serious matter—though we
shall soon have you as strong as ever.” And then she put her grey head
down on my hand, and I felt it wet with her tears.

“And you got Colin and Madge for me! That was ever so dear of you.”

“That was the least we could do. Dr. Firth managed it for us: they were
here next day. I think they rather wanted to kill us all at first, but
they have forgiven us now. I have told Colin everything, Doris—about my
brother and Shepherd’s Island. It was right that he should know. And
though he was naturally distressed at all that you have undergone, I do
not think he blames me—perhaps not as much as I blame myself. ‘I don’t
see what else you could have done,’ he said. He has been wonderfully
kind to me. It is easy to see why you are so proud of him.”

“Well—yes,” I said. “There never was anyone like Colin.”

She smiled at me.

“Colin seems to have the same conviction about you,” she said. “Here he
comes: I am told he is terribly stern if your visitors stay too long.
Julia says he is the one person of whom the nurse is afraid!”

Colin came in and stood at the foot of the bed, very tall and good to
look at. We laughed at each other.

“I thought my patient might be tired,” he said. “But you are doing her
good, Mrs. McNab.”

“I was worrying over something that Mrs. McNab has explained to me,” I
said. “Now I shan’t worry any more. Colin, isn’t it a good thing you
made me practise boxing with you? I should never have landed my best
efforts on Bence if it hadn’t been for that!”

He stared at me.

“Why, I thought you had forgotten all about it,” he said. “Have you been
lying there gloating in secret over your savagery?”

“Something like that,” I laughed. “I feel I ought to have done
better—but a dressing-gown does cramp one’s style with a poker!”

He laughed too, but there was something in his eyes that brought a lump
into my throat.

“You blessed old kid!” he said softly. That was a good deal for Colin to
say, and it told me more than if anyone else had talked for a week.

They brought me downstairs a few days later, looking very interesting in
a wonderful blue teagown that Mrs. McNab had ordered for me from
Melbourne. Colin carried me, for my knees still bent under me in the
most disconcerting fashion when I tried to walk, and put me on a lounge
in the garden, with a rug over my feet. Most of the house-party had gone
away, but there were enough left to make quite a crowd, after my quiet
time in my room, and they all made a ridiculous fuss over me. Dicky
Atherton and Harry McNab plied me with unlimited offers of food. Even
Beryl was quite human; she brought me my tea herself, and actually ran
for an extra cushion. It was all very disconcerting, but when I got used
to it, it was lovely to be outside again. Judy and Jack had planted a
huge Union Jack at the head of my couch. They sat down, one on either
side of me, and declined to yield their positions to anyone. “You may
think you own her,” Judy said to Colin, her nose in the air. “But we’re
the Band!”

It was some days after when they took me out for my first drive. I could
walk now, and I was dressed, even though Madge did say my clothes looked
as if they were draped on a bean-pole: but they still took great care of
me, and anyone would have thought I was really important, to see how
Julia tucked the rug round me and slipped a little soft pillow behind my
back. “’Tis lookin’ well ye are, thank God!” she said, regarding the
effect judicially. “Let ye go aisy, now, over the bumps, sir. There’s a
pot-hole in the road beyant, that Bence druv me into wan time; an’ ’twas
a mercy the lid was on the car, or it’s out I’d have been. I have the
bump on me head yet!”

“I will, Julia,” said Colin, at the wheel. “Quite ready, Mrs. McNab?” as
she took her place beside me. “Hop in, Madge.” We slid off gently,
leaving Julia waving from the steps.

I don’t think I’ll ever forget that first drive. The country was all
dried-up, for no rain had fallen for weeks: but even the yellow paddocks
were beautiful to me, and every big red-gum tree seemed to welcome me
back. As we mounted the headland above Porpoise Bay the sea came in
sight, blue and peaceful, with little flecks of white foam far out, and
here and there the brown sails of a fishing-boat. The islands were like
jewels on its bosom. I looked at the green hills of Shepherd’s Island,
and thought of the night—how long ago it seemed!—when the children and
I had taken off our silent passenger, and of how narrowly we had escaped
running upon its rocks as we raced home before the driving storm. It had
been a wild enough venture, but it had succeeded; and it had given me
the two best little comrades anyone need want. Never were allies
stauncher than my Fellow-Members of the Band.

The drive was only a short one: Dr. Firth had asked us to afternoon tea,
saying that the distance was quite long enough for my first outing. He
seemed curiously young and happy as he ran down the steps to meet us.
Already he and Colin and Madge were firm friends. I liked to watch him
whenever his eyes rested on Colin. They made me think of Father’s eyes,
full of pride in a son.

The housekeeper came out to welcome me, and we had tea in the verandah,
among the ferns and palms. After we had finished, Mrs. McNab took out
her knitting and settled herself comfortably in a lounge-chair.

“I know you want to show these children the house,” she said. “I will
sit here, if you don’t mind, Dr. Firth. Be sure you do not let Doris
become tired. I heard her tell Colin this morning that her knees were
still ‘groggy.’ Of course, I can only guess at the meaning of that
expression—still——!” She laughed at me as I pulled down the corners
of my mouth.

“I’m afraid I’m pretty hopeless as a governess,” I said contritely.

“So hopeless that I fear we’ll have to find you other occupation,” said
the Doctor, laughing. He patted my shoulder. “Come and give me your
opinion of my spring-cleaning.”

The big house was very different now. The rooms that had been full of
cabinets and showcases were re-furnished: one a billiard-room, with a
splendid new table, the other a very charming sitting-room, dainty, yet
homelike, with comfortable chairs and couches, a piano, a writing-table,
and low book-cases full of enticing-looking books. I exclaimed at it.

“What a jolly room!”

“This is a home-y room, I think,” the Doctor said, looking round it with
satisfaction. “The drawing-room is too big and gorgeous for ordinary
use: I’m afraid of it. Later on I may become brave enough to go into it,
but it needs to be furnished with dozens of people. Oh, well, perhaps
that can be arranged in time. Now come and see where the wild beasts
lived.”

There were no grim beasts and reptiles now. Instead, the room was bare,
with a shining new floor—a floor that instinctively made one’s feet
long to dance. There was a little stage at one end for musicians: big
couches near the walls, where hung some fine old paintings. A double
door opened into a long conservatory. And that was all.

“Oh, what a ballroom!” Madge cried.

“Will it do?” he said.

“I should think it will! Isn’t it just perfect, Doris?”

“It is, indeed,” I said. “Do ask us to come when you give a ball, Dr.
Firth.”

“I will—if you will promise to give me the first dance. After that I’ll
let the youngsters have a chance, and take my place meekly with the
aged; but the first dance is my perquisite. Now I want to show you some
other rooms. Is she strong enough for the stairs, do you think, Colin?”

“Not to be thought of, with groggy knees!” said my brother. He picked me
up as if I were a baby and strode upstairs with me, disregarding my
protests.

“Yes, you’re putting on a little weight,” he said, setting me gently on
the landing. “Nothing to speak of, of course, but you’re rather more
noticeable to carry than you were a week ago—upstairs, at any rate.
Where next, sir?”

“Here,” said the Doctor.

He led us into one bedroom after another. A man’s room first, with a
little iron bedstead, big chairs, a heavy writing-table and book-cases,
and plenty of space. Next, a dainty room, all furnished in pink, where
roses sprawled in clusters on the deep cream ground of an exquisite
French wall-paper. From it opened a bare, panelled room, the sole
furniture of which was a grand piano and three chairs.

“Why, that’s the twin to your Bechstein, Madge!” I said.

Madge astonished me by suddenly turning scarlet.

“Is it?” she said awkwardly.

“Don’t stay to argue over pianos,” Dr. Firth said. “There’s another room
to see.”

It was a very lovely room. A little carved bed stood in an alcove under
a broad casement-window; all the colouring was delicate blue and grey,
and it was full of air and sunlight. The furniture was of beautiful grey
silky-oak: the chintzes were faintly splashed with pink here and there,
and there was pink in the cushions on the great Chesterfield couch.
Never, I think, was there so dainty a room.

“One has to ask a lady’s permission before one sits down in her room,”
said Dr. Firth, with a twinkle. “May we sit down in your apartment,
Doris?”

“Mine?” I stammered. And then I saw Colin’s face, and I knew there was
something I had not been told.

Colin came with one stride, and put me on the big couch.

“Listen, Dor, old girl,” he said. “Dr. Firth has been making great
plans: he’s such a strenuous planner that it isn’t the least bit of use
to argue with him, I find. They are very wonderful plans for us.” And
then the big fellow fairly choked. “I think you’d better go on, sir,” he
managed to say.

“I’m a very lonely man, Doris,” the Doctor said. “I’ve no one belonging
to me in the world, and far too much money for one man to use. And you
three are the children of the best friend I ever had, to whom, at one
time, I owed everything. Wherefore, I am about to adopt you. I may say,
I have already adopted you. I don’t know how one does it legally, but
I’m very sure no one is going to get you away from me.”

I could only look from him to Colin: and Colin’s face was very grave and
very happy. So I knew it was all right.

“Colin is a stiff-necked person,” the Doctor went on. “I have had most
tiring arguments with him, thanks to his abominable pride. Thank
goodness, I think I have succeeded in making him see that Denis Earle’s
son, cut out for a doctor if ever a fellow was, is thrown away in an
insurance office. As a matter of principle, it is all wrong. So Colin is
going back to the University to take his degree——”

“Oh!” I cried. “Colin—Colin!” I put my head against his coat and simply
howled. He held me very tightly. I believe he wasn’t much better
himself, big as he is.

“Madge is going to be a boarder for a couple of years. Personally, I
don’t want her to be a very learned lady and fag herself to a shadow
with innumerable examinations; but as to that, you three must settle the
matter and do as you think best. But she can go as far as she likes with
her music, with my full approval, if only she’ll come home here and play
to me on her Bechstein whenever she gets a chance.”

Madge was perched on the arm of his chair. She leaned across and kissed
the top of his head airily.

“Thank you,” said the Doctor. “I believe we can consider that signed and
sealed. As for you, we have told Madame Carr that she can find some one
else for her twelve-year-olds. I want some one to look after me and make
this place the sort of home we want it to be whenever Colin and Madge
can come back to us. It’s only a house at present, but I rather think it
will be a home when you are here.”

“And you can’t argue, Dor,” Madge said wildly. “’Cause we’ve sub-let the
flat in Prahran!” She hurled herself on me. “Say you’ll agree, Dor. It’s
going to be just perfect!”

I looked at Colin.

“It’s for you to say,” he said. “I’ll do whatever you like, old Dor. I
wasn’t tired of your housekeeping, you know—only of seeing you at it.”
He gave a big sigh. “To think of you in a place like this—not tired and
worried any more!”

“To think of you,” I said—“with your degree. Not washing saucepans?”

“Then may we call it a bargain?” the Doctor said.

I went over to him and kissed him just where Madge had kissed him.

“Signed and sealed,” he said contentedly.




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     4 GOOD WIVES                                            L. M. Alcott
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    24 THE LAMPLIGHTER                                       Miss Cummins
    25 ERIC                                                  F. W. Farrar
    26 THE BASKET OF FLOWERS                                 G. T. Bedell
    27 THE DOG CRUSOE                                    R. M. Ballantyne
    28 DAISY                                          Elizabeth Wetherell
    29 AT THE MERCY OF TIBERIUS                        A. J. Evans Wilson
    30 THE THREE MIDSHIPMEN                             W. H. G. Kingston
    31 DAISY IN THE FIELD                             Elizabeth Wetherell
    32 EAST LYNNE                                         Mrs. Henry Wood
    33 BEULAH                                          A. J. Evans Wilson
    34 BARRIERS BURNED AWAY                                     E. P. Roe
    35 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN                                 Mrs. Craik
    36 THE GORILLA HUNTERS                               R. M. Ballantyne
    37 A RING OF RUBIES                                  Mrs. L. T. Meade
    38 MACARIA                                         A. J. Evans Wilson
    39 MONICA                                            E. Everett-Green
    40 BEN-HUR                                                Lew Wallace
    41 QUEECHY                                        Elizabeth Wetherell
    42 JILL, A FLOWER GIRL                                    L. T. Meade
    43 THE WORLD OF ICE                                  R. M. Ballantyne
    44 THE CHANNINGS                                      Mrs. Henry Wood
    45 MELBOURNE HOUSE                                Elizabeth Wetherell
    46 PETER THE WHALER                                 W. H. G. Kingston
    47 A DWELLER IN TENTS                                     L. T. Meade
    48 DANESBURY HOUSE                                    Mrs. Henry Wood
    49 MARTIN RATTLER                                    R. M. Ballantyne
    50 FROM JEST TO EARNEST                                     E. P. Roe
    51 THE IVORY HUNTERS                               Dr. Gordon Stables
    52 THE HOUSE ON THE CLIFF                            E. Everett Green
    53 JULIAN HOME                                     Frederic W. Farrar
    54 A GOLDEN SHADOW                                        L. T. Meade
    55 THE RED ERIC                                      R. M. Ballantyne
    56 IN REGIONS OF PERPETUAL SNOW                    Dr. Gordon Stables
    57 SUNSHINE ALL THE WAY                                 L. G. Moberly
    58 GOD AND MAMMON                                      Joseph Hocking
    59 INCHFALLEN                                        E. Everett Green

               WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED, LONDON, E.C.4.




                           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.