Chapter XVIII: Conclusion

JOHN WESTON slept but little that night. It was as though he were afraid to close his eyes for fear the rain might stop. Too well he knew that the breaking of the drought could be no affair of a thunderstorm! many inches of rain must fall before they could hope to recover from the long months of heat and dryness. He woke every half-hour, dreading to find the rain had stopped; but always there was the steady drumming on the roof—no music had ever been so sweet to him. He would go to the window and look out into the blackness: sometimes he went out to the verandah, and walked up and down, all his being rejoicing in the rain, just as the thirsty earth was rejoicing. There was splashing now, mingled with the steady pelting on the roof: splashing from leaking spouting, untried for a year; splashing of deluged trees, discharging their burden of water on the ground; splashing of a miniature torrent, running past the house on the gravel path. And towards morning the ceaseless downpour began to conquer the heat, and cold fresh air seemed to rush to greet him when he came out of the still, stifling house. He flung on a coat, and then tiptoed round the verandah to put blankets on the children. Jean woke as he covered her.

“Is it still raining, Father?” she asked sleepily. She could just see his face in the growing dawn.

“Still raining, thank God!” he said. “Go to sleep, little daughter.” He watched her for a moment as she turned over, snuggling her face into the pillow. When he tiptoed away he took the alarum-clock with him. There should be no programme that morning.

Daylight showed leaden skies and a drenched landscape. Not for a moment did the rain cease; it fell as though determined to make up long arrears. The fowls, many of which had never seen rain, cowered under any available shelter, draggled and miserable: the ducks paddled about happily, swam in the big pools that had formed in the hollows by the gates, and quacked their complete approval of the weather. Every garden path, its surface baked to the hardness of cement, was a torrent. The underground tank gave back a thunderous echo as the water from the roof rushed into it. Already the garden looked freshened and more green, washed clean from the coating of dust that had covered everything; the dahlias and chrysanthemums lifted revived heads, sparkling under their veil of moisture, and spoke mutely of blossoms to come. The boys had dashed out early, clad in shirt and trousers, and now were rather like the ducks, splashing in every pool for the mere joy of splashing. They raced to the bathing-pool, shouting with glee to see the river already rising and flowing with something like a current once more: they flung themselves in, just as they were, since it was impossible to be more thoroughly soaked: then, coming up, caught Punch and Merrilegs, and went galloping madly round the paddock—until Merrilegs, finding a baby watercourse that had long been only a dry hollow, jumped it, and finished up with a long slither on the wet ground, whereat Rex, unprepared for such acrobatics, shot over his head, landing in a pool, while Billy yelled with laughter. They capered back to the house, turning somersaults on the flooded lawn; then, discovering that it was breakfast-time, and that they were very muddy, brought out the long-disused garden hose and sluiced each other thoroughly.

“Wish we could, too,” said the twins enviously.

The prisoner awoke, evidently better, but still unable to say more than one or two disconnected words. It puzzled them that he seemed happiest when anyone except the twins was with him: the sight of Jean and Jo invariably brought a look of worry to his face, so that after a time they reluctantly decided to keep away from him. This was sad, seeing that he was their very own prisoner. He fell into a sound sleep after breakfast; and when the doctor arrived—summoned by a passing neighbour, who had called in on his way to Barrabri to mention that the rain was glorious—he was still sleeping soundly.

“Concussion, of course,” Dr. Lawrence said. “He’s had a fall. Sleep’s the best thing for him; I don’t want to rouse the poor beggar. Keep him very quiet: your old Sarah can nurse him.” He grinned. “Fancy the twins getting him, with all the police in the district after him! Did you send word to Ransome, by the way?”

“No, I didn’t,” Mr. Weston said. “I didn’t want the police out here worrying him before you had been out. He can’t run away, that’s certain. I suppose you must tell them.”

“Oh, yes, I’d better. I’ll wait until to-morrow, though; I fancy they’ll have to put a constable on here, to watch him, and there’s no need to give you that bother to-day. I’ll come out in the morning. Great rain, isn’t it, old man? I said that before, didn’t I?”

“Three times, I think,” said John Weston, laughing. “You could say it three times a minute, and it wouldn’t be too much for me. Listen to it!” as a sudden downpour, heavier than usual, suddenly pelted on the roof. “Was there ever such a sound!”

“I’m resenting having the hood on the car,” the doctor said. “Naturally, it wouldn’t be common-sense to arrive at my patients’ bedsides as soaked as Billy and young Rex, whom I met in a puddle on the track—but I understand how they feel. I want the rain on my skin. We all do.”

“I’ve been wet through twice this morning,” said his friend, laughing. “It’s a gorgeous feeling. Of course, I’m not counting on the rain yet; we haven’t had anything like what we need. But it really does look like keeping on.”

“There’s every sign of it. Well, I’ll have a word with Mrs. Weston and the girls, and be off: I’d two cases of sunstroke yesterday. Worst day I ever knew.” He spoke to Mrs. Weston, and immediately prescribed a tonic for her, saying he would bring it with him next day: and chaffed the twins on their ability as detectives. “I’ll have to bring a constable out to stay with your friend to-morrow,” he said.

Jean made a little face.

“I’d hide him from you, if I could,” she defied him. “We were going to help him to escape, only he was too sick. We’re awfully sorry for him—he’s so young!”

“You’re a nice young law-breaking person!” said the doctor, with mock severity. “Don’t forget I’m a magistrate—I believe there’s a special penalty for harbouring criminals. And he was old enough to annex quite a nice little sum of other people’s money!”

“Well—he may have had his reasons!” said Jo—a mild sentiment which evoked mirth among her hearers.

“A good many people have—that’s why magistrates exist,” said the doctor. “Well, I’m afraid you’ll have to lose your friend as soon as he’s well enough to be moved.” He said good-bye, splashing out to his car through the pouring rain.

It was still pouring when he returned next day, this time with two policemen: a senior man from an adjoining town, and a tall, downcast young constable, the unlucky wight who had been careless enough to lose his prisoner.

“He’s conscious, I think, but still very stupid,” Mr. Weston told them. “He doesn’t attempt to speak, but he has taken a little nourishment. You can’t move him yet, surely, Sergeant.”

“That’s for the doctor to say,” said the sergeant. “But I’ll have to leave a man in charge of him: we can’t run the risk of losing him again. Constable Wilkins will relieve you of some of the care of him.”

“Lemme have a look at him!” said Constable Wilkins sourly. “I’ll bet he don’t give me the slip again!”

“I’ll see him first,” said the doctor.

He came out presently.

“You can go in, to identify him,” he said. “But don’t worry him with talk yet; he’s not fit for it. Don’t take your helmets in, either—no need to make him feel he’s in the hands of the police. I’m not keen on his having a shock. . . . And the sight of that chap’s sulky face is enough to give anyone assorted shocks!” he added to himself, as he followed the policemen in. In the background Jean and Jo hovered with downcast looks.

If Constable Wilkins’s face had been sour when he entered the room, it was frankly furious as he turned and strode out. Only the doctor’s lifted finger had prevented the angry words that sprang to his lips.

“Whose little joke is this?” he queried wrathfully. “That’s not my man!”

“Not your man?” queried the Sergeant.

“Not a criminal?” yelped Jean.

“I’m jolly well hanged if I know what he is,” quoth the angry policeman. “But he’s no more Dawson than I am! Why, he ain’t even like him! Not remotely. And we’ve wasted half a day on a wild-goose chase!”

What more Constable Wilkins might have said was lost in a curious demonstration. The twins, who had been staring, with shining eyes, suddenly seized each other and executed a wild two-step down the hall. The door stood open; they danced through, and disappeared; the sound of their prancing feet died away upon the verandah. The doctor shook with silent laughter.

“But who said he was Dawson?” demanded the Sergeant.

“Why, I’m afraid we’d rather taken it for granted,” Mr. Weston admitted. “Perhaps I adopted my daughters’ view too readily; they seemed to have no doubt. Of course, he has been practically unconscious since they found him. He was a stranger—a delicate-looking man in a grey suit—and he seemed to be a fugitive.” He smiled a little. “Possibly I might have asked more questions if the rain hadn’t come just as we brought him home. But the rain seemed so much more important!”

“It did,” said the doctor. “After all, the circumstantial evidence was good enough to go on: you’d have censured them for not reporting their find, Sergeant.”

“I would,” admitted that officer. “Matter of fact, we’ve been calling them the ’uman sleuth-hounds since we heard! Oh, well, he’s not our man, so we needn’t worry you further, Mr. Weston.” They said good-bye, Constable Wilkins’s face still a study in mingled emotions.

On the verandah, the twins faced each other.

“But there’s no doubt he didn’t want the police on his track, Jo,” Jean said. “Do you think we ought to tell them?”

“I won’t!” said Jean obstinately. “He’s our discovery, and he’s sick, even if he _is_ a criminal—and I don’t believe he is! We’ll tell Father, when the poor fellow is better. Fancy imagining any one ever would get better, with a horror like that Wilkins creature looking at one. He’d be clinking the handcuffs at you all the time!”

The mystery, however, was cleared up two days later, when a hue-and-cry was suddenly raised for one of two young Englishmen who were farming together five miles up the river. He had gone out with his gun, intending to reach a neighbour’s place and remain all night, so that his mate felt no anxiety when he did not return. It was not until the third day that he discovered that nothing had been seen of the absentee, and at once raised the alarm. Therefore a very harassed young man arrived on a very tired horse at Emu Plains, and begged to be allowed to see the Westons’ guest.

“He’s sure to be Harry,” he said. “The police in Barrabri described him to me.”

The guest was by that time regaining full consciousness, and greeted his friend with a faint grin, although he showed no disposition to talk to him. It was several days before he was able to give a coherent account of himself. He had put his gun down on a log while he pursued a wounded rabbit into some thick scrub, and then had been unable to find it again. In the search he had lost his way completely, and had wandered all day in the heat, until, in the evening, he had found himself near the ruined hut at Emu Plains. He had climbed a tree to get his bearings: and, just as he caught sight of the homestead roofs, a limb had given way with him, and he had fallen, damaging his head and ankle. He had managed to crawl to the hut when the twins found him.

“You were godsends, of course,” he said. “But you worried me dreadfully.”

“We didn’t mean to,” Jean said, rather pained. “We only did what we could for you.”

“Oh, I don’t mean that!” Harry Jeffries said, rather appalled at his own apparent ingratitude. “Why, if ever a fellow had two ministering angels looking after him it was I! But it was the fact that you were two that worried me—especially when I came up here, and began to feel better.”

“But why?”

“Because I thought I was off my head permanently. I could see your mother and father, and Sarah, all right: they were normal and natural. But whenever I looked at you I thought I was seeing double!”

“Good gracious!” said the twins in chorus.

“And each said to the other, ‘That’s your fault!’ as Kipling has it,” put in Mr. Weston, laughing.

“But there’s another thing,” Jean said. “Why were you so worried in the hut when we spoke of the police?”

The patient reddened.

“Well, you mustn’t give me away,” he said. “The fact is, I’d been making a collection of platypus skins—the little beggars are very thick in the creek near our place. And it was only the day before that I found out they were strictly protected, and that I was liable to imprisonment, or beheading, or something, for having the skins in my possession. So, when you talked police, of course I thought it was my poor old platypi!”

* * * * *

But this was after the rain had stopped—it had poured for four days and nights without cessation—and already there was a green tinge all over Emu Plains. The river was running almost a banker: the creeks had overflowed for miles, and the flood-waters were beginning to recede, leaving the paddocks covered with a muddy silt, as good as a dressing of fertilizer. All over the country, thankful men spoke of the wonderful rain, and predicted wonderful grass to follow; the land had rested for a year, and now there would be such a season as would wipe out the memory of the evil time. Already there was talk of bringing back the stock from Gippsland: owners were beginning to plan to stock up their places again, and sheep and cattle had risen sharply in price.

“I’m going to make a hatful of money over those sheep of Murphy’s,” John Weston told his wife. “By the time I’m ready to sell them sheep will be four or five times what they are to-day! and they’re worth twice what I gave for them now.” He looked down at her very tenderly. “You can begin to choose the colour of your motor—I reckon that old toe of yours has earned a car! It shall be carried in luxury for the rest of its time.”

“Then it might not do its duty so well,” she said, laughing.

“It has done its job,” he answered. “I don’t want it ever to ache again!”

They looked out across the paddocks, faintly green. About them was the smell of growing things: although the land was still bare, it was different—there was no longer the feeling of barren desolation. The garden was already bursting into new life, and new life was stirring in every one.

“I don’t want a motor particularly, John,” she said. “But I want to give a good time to my twinses!”

“They’ll have their good time,” he said masterfully. “Your motor will be part of it. And we’re all going away for a holiday, as soon as I get things settled—a real holiday—Sydney, Tasmania, or wherever you like, where we’ll forget about droughts. We’ll let the twins choose, shall we? They’ve been great little daughters to us when we needed them.”

“Great little daughters!” Mrs. Weston echoed softly.

“Then we’ll get a tutor for the boys, and the twins can go back to Merriwa next term. We’ll tell Miss Dampier not to make them prefects yet awhile. I want them to be kiddies again—to forget they ever had responsibilities.”

He was silent for a moment, pulling hard at his pipe.

“It isn’t so much what they did for us,” he said; “though goodness knows they did enough. It was how they did it: how they brought youth and freshness and laughter back to us—how they ‘kept smiling.’ Will you ever forget how they sang as they swept the verandahs?—the little bricks! And never a whine or a murmur from them, though I’ll bet they often ached for the old good times!”

“I know they ached,” the mother said. “Please God we’ll keep that sort of ache from them in future—at least while they are children.”

* * * * *

At the moment the twins were not manifesting any ache, unless it were the ache that comes from overmuch laughter. They had dismissed Rex and Billy after morning school, and had watched those graceless urchins tear down the paddock on their ponies. Then they had turned to tidy up the schoolroom table, and in doing so a sheet of paper had fluttered from an exercise book. It was covered with Rex’s small, neat writing.

“It’s not a letter,” Jo said, picking it up. “I don’t suppose it’s private. Oh, my goodness, Jean, he’s dropped into poetry!”

They bent delighted heads over Master Forester’s outpourings. The path of spelling was always strewn with rocks to Rex, but his sentiments were definite.

“Why, it’s an ode to you, Jean,” said Jo, chuckling. “Prepare to blush!”

“Girls are fat and girls are lean,
Just allright is danety Jean.

“She has prety curly hair,
And she has a lovely stare!

“Once I swetted with Miss Green,
She was a cat, but now I’ve Jean.

“Other chaps may plump for Jo,
Phurmly I would anser ‘No.’

“I have known ful many a girl,
Danety Jean she is the purl!”

“And I’m the plain, I suppose!” commented Jo ecstatically. But Jean frowned.

“The little villain!” she said. “I must say he’s managed to conceal his sentiments pretty well. I don’t believe he likes me a bit better than you.”

“Shows his sense if he does,” said Jo, laughing. “What on earth does it matter?”

“I don’t suppose it does,” said her twin. “And it’s a gorgeous poem! Did you know I had ‘a lovely stare’?”

“I suppose that’s your look of fixed horror when he shows up a bad copy. Next time you can remember that he’s wallowing in enjoyment of it!” Jo laughed.

“I’ll wallow him!” said Jean. “How dare he make any difference between us—aren’t we twins? He wants spanking!” She flipped the paper contemptuously away.

“Now, that’s foolish!” Jo said. “Remember, you’re never likely to have an ode written to you again!” She picked up the sheet of paper. “Why, my stars, Jeanie! there’s another ode on the back!”

They read together:

“Pharest of all girls I’ve seen
Is the joly Josypheen.

“She is very tall and slim.
Like a porpus she can swim.

“Just to see her makes you glad.
Chasing savige bulls like mad.

“She is nerely always kind.
To play the gote she does not mind.

“Fokes may say the best is Jean—
Me for joly Josypheen!”

“He’s all things to all men, isn’t he!” gasped Jo, when she could speak.

“Did you ever see anything so priceless!” Jean uttered, wiping her eyes. “Twin odes to twinses! Look, he’s grouped us in a grand finale at the bottom—in his best writing, and flourishes all round it, too!”

“I have known ful many a girl,
Danety Jean she is the purl!

“Fokes may say the best is Jean—
Me for joly Josypheen!”

TRANSCRIBER NOTES

Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple spellings occur, majority use has been employed.

Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors occur.

Some illustrations were moved to facilitate page layout.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Twins of Emu Plains, by Mary Grant Bruce