Queensland Cousins

by Eleanor Luisa Haverfield

  CHAPTER VIII.

  THE WITCH.

  Of course Peter's story jumped to every one's mind, and with ahorrified cry Mrs. Orban fell forward, fainting, on to the emptybed.

  The recent hunt through the house had been, as Eustace guessed, agreater strain than she had allowed any one to see; she could notbe certain that they were on a wild-goose chase. This, coming onthe top of it, was just too much for her.

  Instances of children being stolen had from time to time come toher knowledge--stories of little ones silently, mysteriouslydisappearing and never being heard of again. The twins had heardthe same from the servants, among other disturbing stories. Thislast terrible event seemed just to prove that the first visitor hadbeen no mere plantation hand; the stealing of a baby was more likethe work of the native blacks.

  Nesta wrung her hands and wept. Eustace dashed away to fetchRobertson. Mary lost her head completely, and nobody thought oftrying to restore poor Mrs. Orban to consciousness till motherlylittle Mrs. Robertson appeared on the scene.

  Robertson stood in the middle of the room looking the picture ofbewilderment.

  "This beats everything," he said in an awed voice.

  Every one was really too terrified to make a noise. Puzzled glanceswere exchanged, questions whispered, and Robertson said again,--

  "This beats everything! It doesn't seem possible, unless she hasbeen spirited away; for how could any one pass me on those stepswithout my seeing them?"

  "Could he have swarmed one of the posts?" Eustace asked.

  "I shouldn't say he could," Robertson replied, "but it looks as ifhe did. How could a man swarm a post with a sleeping child in hisarms?"

  "Black-fellows are dreadfully clever," said Kate.

  "Hush," said Mrs. Robertson, "the poor lady is coming to herself.Don't let her hear you talking like that. Oh dear, how will shebear it?"

  The poor woman's eyes were full of tears. She knew well enough whata mother's feelings would be under such awful circumstances.

  "Every corner of the house was searched," said Robertsonmeditatively.

  "We didn't look under the beds," said Nesta.

  "Silly," said Eustace. "As if a black-fellow would have stopped tobe looked for under a bed."

  "Yes--that's no go," said Robertson; and just at that moment therecame such a strange sound from under the very bed they werestanding by that every one jumped--a sound that brought Mrs. Orbanback to her senses far quicker than any of good Mrs. Robertson'srestoratives, for it was the voice of Becky herself.

  "Good gracious!" exclaimed all the women, after the first shock ofsurprise was over.

  "My patience," said Robertson, and down they all went on theirhands and knees like a party of kangaroos, peering under the bed.

  There lay Becky, rosy with sleep, safe and sound, with puckeredface and plaintive voice, evidently wondering what all the fuss wasabout.

  They hauled her from under the bed, and placed her on her mother'sknee, where she sat blinking at the light like a young owl.

  "Why," said Nesta, "she must have tumbled out of bed in her sleep,and rolled over underneath."

  "So she must," agreed every one.

  "That was the noise Peter heard," Eustace said.

  "Of course it was," said every one except Mrs. Orban; and she said,as she bent her face over the baby in her arms,--

  "Oh, you dreadful children! Have you a conspiracy amongst you tofrighten me out of my wits? Or are you trying to harden my nerves?I begin to wish your father would come home."

  She laughed a little, and it sounded much more like sobbing. Sokind Mrs. Robertson hurried every one off to bed, because she saidMrs. Orban must be quite worn out.

  Eustace was so upset by his mother's words that he could not get tosleep for hours. They seemed to hold a reproach specially forhimself--for had he not been the first to terrify his mother? Itwas not a good record to present to his father; and he had meant tobe such a stand-by and comfort. With all his heart he echoed Mrs.Orban's wish. He had dreaded his father's going away; he longed forhis return.

  The very next day the wish was fulfilled. News came up the hillthat the plantation schooner had been sighted the evening before;she was in the bay. By midday the travellers had arrived, and theclimax of the great excitement was reached.

  Every one had wondered a hundred times and more what that firstgreeting would be like--what words would be said. As a matter offact, when the time really came, nobody said anything at all exceptMr. Orban, who exclaimed when he caught sight of his wife,"Darling, what is the matter? You are looking ill."

  But Mrs. Orban stopped him with the promise to tell him everythinglater on. Meanwhile she nearly wept for joy over the meeting withAunt Dorothy, and was far too happy to remember or speak of thedistresses of the past week or so.

  The children hung back shyly and stared at the new-comer--a tall,slender girl, dressed, Nesta afterwards commented, just like aperson in a story book, so dainty was she.

  Dorothy Chase was not at all like Mrs. Orban. She was certainlypretty, but the most remarkable thing about her was her expression,so vivacious was it, so keenly interested and alert. She was agreat contrast to the people amongst whom she had come, fortropical heat saps a good deal of the enthusiasm of life out ofpeople--even the children were subject to lassitude.

  They looked a quiet enough set as Miss Chase cast a quick searchingglance around her after greeting her sister, and there flashedthrough her mind a contrast between them and the nephew and nieceshe had left but a few weeks ago in England--the children ofanother sister, orphans who lived with their grandparents in theold home.

  "Well, chicks," said Aunt Dorothy, with a laugh, "who is going tospeak to me first?"

  They were standing, all in an untidy row, Becky, with one finger inher mouth, hanging on to Nesta's skirt.

  To the new-comer they looked pasty-faced, spiritless beings. Theprints that the girls were dressed in were rather washed out; Peterhad outgrown his suit. They were ill-clad, shy, and awkward.

  Eustace flushed with an uncomfortable feeling that they were notbehaving very courteously, and came forward the instant Miss Chasespoke. Nesta followed, and then Peter, all as stiff as pokers intheir shyness. But Becky Miss Chase picked up with a playful littleshake, and kissed her heartily.

  "Oh, you dear, funny wee soul," she said, "how glad I am to seeyou. I've brought out a Kodak and I've promised to take all yourphotos almost every other day, for certainly no one at home couldguess the least little bit what you are like."

  Becky did not resent the unceremonious treatment at all, but tookit quite placidly in her own particular way. This gave Peterconfidence.

  "Have you brought lots of boxes?" he asked, with an interestedstare up into his young aunt's face.

  Eustace pulled his sleeve.

  "Shut up," he whispered. "Don't ask questions; it's rude."

  Eustace felt uncomfortable. He knew quite well whither his smallbrother's questions were trending. Peter was wondering what wouldbe in those boxes for himself.

  "A good many," answered Miss Chase; but she was allowed time to sayno more, because she was hurried into the house to rest andrefresh.

  At tea the children sat round as solemn as owls and listened to allthe questions and answers about the home folk. They picked upscraps of information most interesting to themselves, especiallyabout the English cousins, Herbert, who was sixteen, and Brenda,who was a month or so older than the twins. From time to time theyhad heard of these cousins in letters, but it made them seem muchmore real when they were talked about by some one who had just comeaway from them.

  "Herbert is a very big fellow," Miss Chase said. "He is doingfamously at Winchester."

  "Lucky chap," thought Eustace, who never read a school storywithout longing to go to a big English school.

  "And what about Brenda?" questioned Mrs. Orban.

  "You shall see a photo that was taken of her the other day," wasthe answer. "Most people think her very pretty."

  "Does
she go to school too?" said Mrs. Orban, asking the veryquestion Nesta was bursting to put.

  "Oh yes, Brenda is a regular schoolgirl. You see it would be solonely for her to have lessons at home with a governess."

  "Lucky girl," thought Nesta, and sighed.

  "She was quite green with envy when she heard I was coming outhere," Miss Chase said, "and threatened to have all sorts ofillnesses, necessitating change of air for recovery, so that shemight come with me."

  "Oh, I wish she had," Nesta said impulsively.

  "I don't think her grannie would agree with you," laughed MissChase. "She can hardly bear to part with her every term. If youwant to see her, I think your best plan is to have an illnessyourself, and let me take you back with me for change of air."

  "That would be better and better," Nesta exclaimed, "only I shouldwant mother and every one else to come too."

  "Well, why not?" asked Miss Chase gaily. "Let's make up a party andall go back together. I am only allowed to stay two months, andthen I must be off again. I will willingly pack you all up in myboxes and take you with me."

  "What did I tell you?" said a deep voice from the window, and therestood Bob Cochrane on the veranda. "I said she would bewitch youand spirit you all away."

  "You did, you did," said Peter, who had been drinking in everyword; "you said you wouldn't like her."

  "Oh, come, no tales out of school," said Bob, as he crossed thethreshold and came forward to be introduced; "you are giving me abad start, you know."

  "I am sorry to have made such a bad impression at the outset," MissChase responded merrily as she shook hands. "Would it appease youat all if I offered to pack you with the rest?"

  "I wouldn't if I were you, Dorothy," said Mr. Orban. "He would takesuch a fearful amount of room, even if you doubled him up."

  Miss Chase smiled as she eyed the great big fellow.

  "I wouldn't come if you paid me," Bob said lightly. "They tell meit is a toss up whether the climate or the people freeze you upmost in England."

  "Treason, treason, Bob," said Mrs. Orban. "Remember we areEnglish."

  "I guess you have mellowed in the sunshine," Bob saidimperturbably. "Children, don't you listen to a good word aboutEngland; don't you let yourselves be spirited away by bad fairies,or you'll regret it."

  "It's high treason," shouted Eustace. "England is our country. Offwith his head."

  Then suddenly Miss Chase saw what her nephews and nieces reallywere like.

  "He has got to be punished," Nesta sang out.

  Peter and Becky made a simultaneous dive at the unfortunate Bob,who had begun whistling with a great show of unconcern.

  "What's his punishment to be?" demanded Eustace.

  Mrs. Orban thought a minute while Peter suggested pommelling, andNesta mentioned a few tortures in the way of old-fashionedforfeits.

  "It's too hot for violent exercise," said Bob, when Nesta requestedhim to walk round the room three times on his head. "I shall gohome to mother if I am ill-used."

  "Have some tea, Bob," said Mr. Orban.

  "No, no," cried the bullying trio, "not till he has paid hispenalty for high treason."

  "Well," said Mrs. Orban gently, "suppose you fetch the banjo andmake him sing for his tea."

  "Good! Good!" was the immediate acclamation.

  Bob sat down resignedly.

  "I don't think a crueller sentence could have been passed," he saidwith a mock groan.

  "Between ourselves," said Mrs. Orban, as the children rushed intothe drawing-room to fetch the banjo, "there is no tea in the pot,and you may as well sing till the kettle is boiling."

  Bob took the banjo with the air of a martyr and tuned it skilfully.

  "I choose my own song," he said, struck a few chords, and began, inhis really beautiful voice,--

  "Dey told us darkies right away out west In England men make der money much de best, And I believed dat ebry word was true, So dat is why I come along wid you. Oho you and de banjo."

  "Oh, oh, oh," interrupted the children, "more treason! If you singthat song you will have to do another as well."

  "You can't hang a man after his head is cut off," said Bobstolidly, and went on,--

  "But now we're here, why, de money doesn't grow, And we ain't got nuffin' but de old banjo: So we rove the streets if de wedder's wet or dry, Till my heart most breaks and der's water in your eye. Oho you and de banjo."

  "Most pathetic," said Miss Chase, with a twinkle in her dark eyes."I think I begin to see where Mr. Cochrane gets his revolutionarysentiments from."

  "Then in sleep at night de nigger dreams ob home, Where de sun really shines and de frosts nebber come, Where we'd plenty to eat, and a little hut of logs, And we hadn't got to beg for our bread like de dogs. Oho you and de banjo."

  Bob's voice became more and more plaintive; he sat in a droopingattitude with his head on one side as he finished,--

  "But it ain't no good all dis singin' out of tune, For we can't get warm, tho' they say it's hot for June; It's certain for darkies dis is not de place, Where eben de sun am ashamed to show his face. Oho you and de banjo."

  "So that is your opinion of England, is it?" asked Miss Chase."Well, I am not surprised you don't want to come, then."

  "But of course it is all stuff, and nothing but a silly old darkiesong," said Eustace.

  "You wait till you get there, young man," said Bob, still with anair of mock gloom about him; "you'll remember my warning then. Itis so cold in England the natives have their windows glued in tokeep out the air, and they have front doors as thick as walls, allstudded with nails and brass knockers."

  "But what are the brass knockers for?" asked Nesta. "They wouldn'tkeep you warm."

  "Certainly not," was the answer; "the brass knockers are for thepurpose of waking the people inside the house, who are alwaysasleep with the cold--like dormice."

  "Mother," demanded Eustace, "do you think he ought to have any teaafter that? He hasn't done penance, and he isn't a bit sorry. He ismaking it worse and worse."

  "I think, darling, as he is a guest he must have his tea," Mrs.Orban said; "but I will send a note by him to his mother to say hehas not been good."

  "I'm not going home to-night--so there," said Bob complacently;"I'm going to sleep in a hammock on the veranda."

  "Oh, jolly!" exclaimed every one, and there was a chorus of, "Wecan stay up late, can't we, just for to-night--Aunt Dorothy's firstnight?"

  But Aunt Dorothy did not allow the compliment to deceive her. Notfor her but for Bob Cochrane did the young people want to stay uplater. He was certainly a great favourite.