Queensland Cousins

by Eleanor Luisa Haverfield

  CHAPTER XVII.

  MOTHER'S HOME.

  In the length and breadth of England there could hardly have beenfound a more lovely little property than Maze Court. There werelarger houses in the neighbourhood, with more extensive grounds;but as Brenda Dixon stood on the terrace and gazed down towards thegood old English park she felt a real glow of pride and pleasure inbelonging to such a place. It was the sort of feeling she hadwhenever she brought a new school friend home for the holidays.

  Beside her stood Herbert--long, lean, and very gentlemanly in hisflannels. It was one of his sister's great joys that he alwayslooked a gentleman in everything.

  She was a striking-looking girl herself, with features a little toopronounced for accurate beauty; but this very fault had the effectof making her handsome. She had little personal vanity--merefeatures she cared nothing for--but pride of birth and of the oldhome were deeply rooted in her.

  "I think Nesta and Eustace ought to be surprised," she wasthinking; "they won't have seen anything like it. It will seem sobig and splendid to them after the kind of life they have had."

  Brenda was never very sure how to picture the Orbans' existence inQueensland. There was a touch of pettiness about it--a feeling ofpoverty and "hugger-muggerness," if one may coin such a word. Thethought of her uncle going daily to his work in his shirt-sleeves;of her aunt helping in the housework; her cousins brought up justanyhow, without a governess or any schooling, shocked hersensibilities and gave vivid local colouring to her ideas about theOrbans. Those were the sort of details she would never havereferred to at school.

  And now she and Herbert were waiting for the arrival of thetravellers, whom their grandparents had driven to the station tomeet.

  "Oh dear," she said with a sigh, "how I wish I didn't wish theyweren't coming! If they are fearfully eccentric, all theneighbourhood will be talking about it in a week, and thinking itfunny we have such relations. One can't explain to every one thatthey really are ladies and gentlemen gone to seed, can one?"

  "Not exactly," said Herbert. "I jolly well hope you won't try; itwould be beastly bad form. Of course if one had a fellow staying inthe house one might have to explain."

  "I simply couldn't ask any one," Brenda said. "It would be all overthe school next term my uncle was a common labourer, and my cousinssavages--or something!"

  "Nice sort of friends you seem to have," said Herbert. "Is that agirl's usual way?"

  "Well," said Brenda, with some asperity, "boys aren't any better,if you should have to explain matters to a chum of yours."

  "That's different," Herbert said; "one doesn't want to give a badimpression. What I hope is that Eustace isn't an awful little muff.I expect he is, though--can't help being when he has never beenamongst any boys. It will have to be knocked out of him."

  "Aunt Dorothy said he was a very nice little chap," Brenda quoted,and then her voice broke, so that she could not go on.

  It was the beginning of the summer holidays, and both she andHerbert were feeling the death of Miss Chase most dreadfully. Ithad been bad enough when she left before the end of the winterholidays. Again at Easter the dullness of the house without her hadknown no bounds. But now, when they knew she would never be withthem again, her very name choked them; they could scarcely speak ofher, because her absence proved at every turn all that her presencehad meant to them and to every one. How they had hated Australiawhen she left! How much more they hated it now and everything to dowith it--even the coming of the cousins! Australia seemed the rootof all evil--the cause of Aunt Dorothy's death.

  "Aunt Dorothy was a brick," said Herbert jerkily; "she saw nicenessin people whatever they were like. But girls don't really know whenfellows are muffs."

  "I don't know about Eustace," said Brenda, "but Nesta lookedfearfully long-legged and queerly dressed in those snapshots AuntDorothy did."

  "I hope she won't want to kiss me when she says 'How-do-you-do,'"said Herbert; "that is all I mind about her. But if that kidEustace fancies he is going to hang around with me perpetually, hewill find himself mistaken. I couldn't be bothered."

  "But we shall have to look after them properly, and treat them justas we would any other visitors," Brenda said anxiously; "we can'tsort of leave them to themselves, you know."

  "Of course," said Herbert rather testily; "what do you take me for?I hope I shan't behave like a cad in my own house! But that is justthe nuisance of it: they'll be visitors without being visitors, andthey'll be here such an awful time. Thank goodness, there will beterm time to look forward to!"

  "If only Aunt Dorothy--" began Brenda.

  "Oh, shut up," said Herbert roughly. Then added more gently, "Ithink the carriage has just turned in at the park gate. Listen."

  All through the voyage Eustace and Nesta had been picturing thisvery day--this very hour. The parting with Bob and the farewell tohome necessarily dropped into the background of their thoughts; theforeground was full of expectations. Now that they could realizethey were on their way to the fulfilment of what had originallybeen the dream of their lives, all the old feeling of longingpossessed them. At last they would see England! At last they wouldknow what real "home" was like--their mother's old home, to whichshe had given them such a sense of belonging by all the tales theyknew so well!

  That England was not what they expected was natural enough. Mrs.Orban had never pretended to describe England, but simply her ownparticular corner of it on the borders of Wales. Leaving the shipwas all bustle and rush, but during the long train journey therewas plenty of time to look about, and English scenery struck allthree children as most peculiar.

  "Why, it's just like a map!" exclaimed Peter, as he knelt up at awindow. "I'm certain if I was up in a balloon it would look like amap with all those funny little hedges."

  "I think it would look like a patchwork quilt," said Nesta."Father, why do people mark their land out into such funny littlebits?"

  So spoke the children, used to wide tracts of land withoutboundaries, hundreds of acres without fence or railing--suchcountry as England boasts of in miniature only on its wildestmoors.

  The twins were speechless and almost suffocated with excitementwhen the train at last ran into a little country station, and Mr.Orban said briskly,--

  "Here we are!"

  "There they are!" exclaimed Mrs. Orban, with a little sob in hervoice.

  "Who? who?" yelled Peter, dashing from the other side of thecarriage.

  "Grannie and grandpapa," answered Mrs. Orban.

  "Oh, where?" said Peter, as the train stopped. The children knewBob Cochrane's grandfather and grandmother--a very comfortable,homely old pair of the typical "grannyish" type, rather bent,rather deaf, and always referred to as "the old people." Trixyinvariably rushed at them when they came, and called them "the dearold pets."

  There was no one the least "grannyish" or cosy-looking on theplatform. Only a very erect, elderly gentleman with silver hair,and a lady who might have been the Queen, so dignified, so statelywas she. They were the sort of people the twins had read of butnever seen.

  A hush fell over the children as they scrambled out of the carriageafter their mother, and waited till their grandparents were readyto notice them. Then they each received a kiss and a handshakewhich made them instantly feel that nothing would be moreimpossible than to rush upon this grandfather and grandmother andcall them either "dear," "old," or "pets."

  All through the drive in the old-fashioned waggonette the sense ofunfamiliarity grew as the children stared--the twins furtively,Peter openly--at Mr. and Mrs. Chase.

  It seemed to the twins such a queer arrival, and so different toanything they had expected, that they could scarcely believe it wasreal. "Why," thought Nesta, "the Cochranes make much more fuss overus when we go to see them for a day." But Eustace's thoughts weretoo confused for description.

  The conversation was funny and jerky, and just the sort of thingsstrangers say to each other. Mrs. Chase hoped they were not verytired, and that they had had a nice journey. And M
r. Chase said itwas a hotter summer than there had been for the last ten years, andso on.

  "Oh dear," thought Eustace wearily, as they drove into the park,"how different it would have been if Aunt Dorothy had been here!"

  But still there was the place to be interested in, and when hismother said, "This is home, Eustace," he roused himself, and lookedabout him.

  Even a Colonial child, accustomed to vastness, could not helpadmiring such a place as this, full of fine old trees spreadingover the short cropped turf. The park was hilly, and swept away toright and left towards thick woods.

  Then, as the carriage reached a bend and came into full view of thegreat house, standing gray, massive, and strong in the eveninglight, the children's hearts did thrill with pride. This wassomething better than their own slenderly-built, iron-roofed housein Queensland.

  "There are Herbert and Brenda waiting for us," said Mrs. Chase,"but I don't see nurse. I have got you a charming woman as nursefor Becky and Peter. You can't be tied down to looking after thechildren, you know. I want you to be free to enjoy yourself."

  Peter started as if he had been shot.

  "Me have a nurse!" he exclaimed. "I don't want looking after."

  Eustace and Nesta glanced quickly at their mother. Becky with anurse! This was something extraordinary. And mother "not to be tieddown to looking after the children." When had it ever been a tie tomother to look after them? Such a strange idea had never occurredto any of them before, and all in their own separate ways resentedit.

  Mr. Chase looked at Peter in surprise.

  "When I was your age," he said gravely, "I had what was given me,no matter what I wanted."

  "We've got to think about your mother's wants first," said Mrs.Chase, "and she deserves a holiday after all these years."

  "Quite right," said Mr. Orban; "she needs one badly. I am thankfulshe should have it."

  There was no time to say more, for just then the carriage pulled upunder the fine old portico.

  Again there was that sense of stiffness and awkwardness as theDixons came forward to greet their cousins; there was no triumphantentry and welcome to the old home. Mrs. Chase drew Mrs. Orban in;Mr. Chase took Mr. Orban; Becky, sleepy and perfectly placid, waswhisked away by a grave-faced, elderly woman who said, "Come along,sir," to Peter, and disappeared through a red baize door, whitherthe little fellow had to follow.

  "We're to have meals with the little ones in the schoolroom," saidBrenda, to whom this new rule was not pleasing. "Come and getready."

  Now that she was a schoolgirl, and only home for holidays, she hadall her meals with her grandparents except late dinner; but thearrival of the Orbans put an end to this. It was felt that theperpetual presence of such a crowd of youngsters at meals wouldnever do. To Brenda and Herbert the change was typical of the wholedifference these unwelcome guests would make in their lives.

  "Couldn't we just have one look round first?" said Nesta, staringabout her in proprietary admiration at the walls of the great hall,where hung the horns and weapons, the family portraits andtrophies, of bygone Chases. "I would like just to see the secretchamber. Let me see--it must be through that door and up somesteps--"

  She stopped inquiringly.

  "No, it isn't," Brenda said, with a look of surprise; "you go justthe other way. But there isn't time now; Herbert and I will showyou everything to-morrow."

  Nesta looked taken aback.

  "I don't expect I shall need much showing," she said, with a littleair of importance.

  Her cousins both stared at her.

  "You certainly will," said Herbert decidedly; "it isn't at all aneasy house to find one's way about in, I can tell you. You would goblundering into all sorts of places you oughtn't to."

  "Places we oughtn't to?" repeated Eustace in bewilderment.

  "Yes, the servants' quarters, you know," said Herbert, as if hewere talking to a child of eight.

  "Aren't you allowed to go into the servants' quarters?" asked Nestawonderingly.

  "Oh, we're _allowed_, of course," said Herbert; "but one doesn'tgo. I dare say things were rather mixed out with you, though."

  "What do you mean?" asked Eustace abruptly.

  "Oh, you had to rough it rather, hadn't you?" said the elder boy."I had a sort of idea you all had meals together."

  "With the servants?" questioned Eustace.

  "Yes," said Herbert, with perfect gravity.

  Eustace flushed deeply.

  "Oh, of course," he said, "coolies and every one had mealstogether. We all ate out of a trough."

  "Eustace!" exclaimed Nesta in dismay, wondering what had happenedto him all of a sudden.

  The cousins stared at him blankly, hardly realizing for a momentwhat he had said.

  "Well, it is just as sensible as saying we had meals with theservants," said the boy, in such a tone of disgust that Herbert wasleft in no doubt as to his meaning.

  "You needn't be cheeky, youngster," he said; "you can't expect meto know your habits, can you? I do know people in the Coloniescan't pick and choose their company, and have to make friends withcowboys and bushrangers, if they want any society."

  "What!" shouted the twins. "Who told you that?"

  "Oh, I've read it somewhere," Herbert said carelessly. "It said'there are no class distinctions in Colonial life. Men and womenmeet as equals.'"

  "Then it is rot," said Eustace briefly. "I don't know how you couldbelieve it. Our friends were all gentlemen and ladies. Australiansare as particular as you are whom they have for friends."

  "My good kid," said Herbert aggravatingly, "you don't knoweverything, and you haven't been everywhere in the Colonies, youknow. But it really doesn't matter, does it? We were only sayingone doesn't do that sort of thing in England. Come and wash fortea."

  The small passage of arms left neither boy much pleased with theother. Herbert foresaw that Eustace was likely to be uppish andcheeky, and would want keeping in his place. Eustace thoughtHerbert gave himself airs, and more than justified the criticism hehad long accorded his portrait. He did not look it in real life,for Herbert was manly and unaffected in appearance. "All thesame," thought Eustace, "he's a silly ass."

  Not so much what was said as the tone in which it was said left anunpleasant impression upon both new-comers. They had plannedtogether that the very first thing they would do when they arrivedwould be to rush all over the house and see everything. Nestadeclared she would not be able to sleep a wink for excitement ifshe did not. It had never occurred to them there would be barriersof any sort. Nothing in their own free lives hitherto had suggestedbaize doors through which they "ought not to go."

  Somehow those baize doors were suggestive of everything irksome anddisappointing; they were of a piece with all the other changeswhich the twins began to feel from the outset.

  Before the evening was over Eustace and Nesta had grasped somethingof what coming to England really meant: it seemed a case of shutdoors all round--there was no feeling of home about it. Rather,Eustace reflected bitterly, it was like prison, and all the freedomof existence was gone. It appeared that here the grown-ups lived inone part of the house, the children in another. There were certaintimes at which the drawing-room or dining-room might be visited,otherwise the grown-ups must not be interrupted. Becky and Peterwere provided with a sort of jailer, whose business it also was togive all the young people their meals, and their mother seemedutterly ungetatable.

  Life on the veranda always together, always in the thick ofeverything that was going on, with no shut doors anywhere, hadill-prepared them for this.

  Then there were Herbert and Brenda.

  Strange to say, Eustace and Nesta had not thought of them asanything but some one to play with--other children staying in thesame house as themselves. That they were really the son anddaughter of the place had never occurred to the new-comers. Thatthey would play the part of host and hostess, and treat theAustralians entirely as visitors, was a shock to Eustace and Nesta.Not thus did they expect to be received into their mother's
oldhome, which she had always taught them to look on as their own.

  Before the end of the day, however, they had realized this onething very vividly--Herbert and Brenda had lived here all theirlives, but the Orbans were outsiders, their very coldly-welcomedguests.

  "It is delightful," said Mrs. Orban, as she dressed for dinner, "tothink of the children getting to know each other at last. I do hopethey will be happy."

  "All the happier for being thrown so much together," said Mr.Orban. "We couldn't help it, of course, but ours have been thrownfar too much with older people. This sort of thing is muchhealthier for them."

  "It is all hateful," wept Nesta to her pillow that night. "Herbertis a bully, and Brenda is a stuck-up pig--and I wish we had nevercome."

  And Eustace did not close his eyes for hours.

  "Bob was quite right," he thought. "English people are horrid; theyfreeze you right up the minute you see them. But oh! I believe itwould be better if only there was a veranda. They do live in such aqueer way, all divided up like this."

  Back into his mind there came the refrain of one of Bob'ssongs--the one he had sung to Aunt Dorothy the day of her arrival.He went to sleep with the tune ringing in his head,--

  "Certain for darkies dis is not de place, Where eben de sun am ashamed to show his face."