Then the Library bell rang, and everyone heaved a breath of relief.
“They're going now,” said Phyllis; “he's rung to have them shown out.”
But instead of showing anybody out, Ruth showed herself in, and she looked queer, the children thought.
“Please'm,” she said, “the Master wants you to just step into the study. He looks like the dead, mum; I think he's had bad news. You'd best prepare yourself for the worst, 'm--p'raps it's a death in the family or a bank busted or--”
“That'll do, Ruth,” said Mother gently; “you can go.”
Then Mother went into the Library. There was more talking. Then the bell rang again, and Ruth fetched a cab. The children heard boots go out and down the steps. The cab drove away, and the front door shut. Then Mother came in. Her dear face was as white as her lace collar, and her eyes looked very big and shining. Her mouth looked like just a line of pale red--her lips were thin and not their proper shape at all.
“It's bedtime,” she said. “Ruth will put you to bed.”
“But you promised we should sit up late tonight because Father's come home,” said Phyllis.
“Father's been called away--on business,” said Mother. “Come, darlings, go at once.”
They kissed her and went. Roberta lingered to give Mother an extra hug and to whisper:
“It wasn't bad news, Mammy, was it? Is anyone dead--or--”
“Nobody's dead--no,” said Mother, and she almost seemed to push Roberta away. “I can't tell you anything tonight, my pet. Go, dear, go NOW.”
So Roberta went.
Ruth brushed the girls' hair and helped them to undress. (Mother almost always did this herself.) When she had turned down the gas and left them she found Peter, still dressed, waiting on the stairs.
“I say, Ruth, what's up?” he asked.
“Don't ask me no questions and I won't tell you no lies,” the red-headed Ruth replied. “You'll know soon enough.”
Late that night Mother came up and kissed all three children as they lay asleep. But Roberta was the only one whom the kiss woke, and she lay mousey-still, and said nothing.
“If Mother doesn't want us to know she's been crying,” she said to herself as she heard through the dark the catching of her Mother's breath, “we WON'T know it. That's all.”
When they came down to breakfast the next morning, Mother had already gone out.
“To London,” Ruth said, and left them to their breakfast.
“There's something awful the matter,” said Peter, breaking his egg. “Ruth told me last night we should know soon enough.”
“Did you ASK her?” said Roberta, with scorn.
“Yes, I did!” said Peter, angrily. “If you could go to bed without caring whether Mother was worried or not, I couldn't. So there.”
“I don't think we ought to ask the servants things Mother doesn't tell us,” said Roberta.
“That's right, Miss Goody-goody,” said Peter, “preach away.”
“I'M not goody,” said Phyllis, “but I think Bobbie's right this time.”
“Of course. She always is. In her own opinion,” said Peter.
“Oh, DON'T!” cried Roberta, putting down her egg-spoon; “don't let's be horrid to each other. I'm sure some dire calamity is happening. Don't let's make it worse!”
“Who began, I should like to know?” said Peter.
Roberta made an effort, and answered:--
“I did, I suppose, but--”
“Well, then,” said Peter, triumphantly. But before he went to school he thumped his sister between the shoulders and told her to cheer up.
The children came home to one o'clock dinner, but Mother was not there. And she was not there at tea-time.
It was nearly seven before she came in, looking so ill and tired that the children felt they could not ask her any questions. She sank into an arm-chair. Phyllis took the long pins out of her hat, while Roberta took off her gloves, and Peter unfastened her walking-shoes and fetched her soft velvety slippers for her.
When she had had a cup of tea, and Roberta had put eau-de-Cologne on her poor head that ached, Mother said:--
“Now, my darlings, I want to tell you something. Those men last night did bring very bad news, and Father will be away for some time. I am very worried about it, and I want you all to help me, and not to make things harder for me.”
“As if we would!” said Roberta, holding Mother's hand against her face.
“You can help me very much,” said Mother, “by being good and happy and not quarrelling when I'm away”--Roberta and Peter exchanged guilty glances--“for I shall have to be away a good deal.”
“We won't quarrel. Indeed we won't,” said everybody. And meant it, too.
“Then,” Mother went on, “I want you not to ask me any questions about this trouble; and not to ask anybody else any questions.”
Peter cringed and shuffled his boots on the carpet.
“You'll promise this, too, won't you?” said Mother.
“I did ask Ruth,” said Peter, suddenly. “I'm very sorry, but I did.”
“And what did she say?”
“She said I should know soon enough.”
“It isn't necessary for you to know anything about it,” said Mother; “it's about business, and you never do understand business, do you?”
“No,” said Roberta; “is it something to do with Government?” For Father was in a Government Office.
“Yes,” said Mother. “Now it's bed-time, my darlings. And don't YOU worry. It'll all come right in the end.”
“Then don't YOU worry either, Mother,” said Phyllis, “and we'll all be as good as gold.”
Mother sighed and kissed them.
“We'll begin being good the first thing tomorrow morning,” said Peter, as they went upstairs.
“Why not NOW?” said Roberta.
“There's nothing to be good ABOUT now, silly,” said Peter.
“We might begin to try to FEEL good,” said Phyllis, “and not call names.”
“Who's calling names?” said Peter. “Bobbie knows right enough that when I say 'silly', it's just the same as if I said Bobbie.”
“WELL,” said Roberta.
“No, I don't mean what you mean. I mean it's just a--what is it Father calls it?--a germ of endearment! Good night.”
The girls folded up their clothes with more than usual neatness--which was the only way of being good that they could think of.
“I say,” said Phyllis, smoothing out her pinafore, “you used to say it was so dull--nothing happening, like in books. Now something HAS happened.”
“I never wanted things to happen to make Mother unhappy,” said Roberta. “Everything's perfectly horrid.”
Everything continued to be perfectly horrid for some weeks.
Mother was nearly always out. Meals were dull and dirty. The between-maid was sent away, and Aunt Emma came on a visit. Aunt Emma was much older than Mother. She was going abroad to be a governess. She was very busy getting her clothes ready, and they were very ugly, dingy clothes, and she had them always littering about, and the sewing-machine seemed to whir--on and on all day and most of the night. Aunt Emma believed in keeping children in their proper places. And they more than returned the compliment. Their idea of Aunt Emma's proper place was anywhere where they were not. So they saw very little of her. They preferred the company of the servants, who were more amusing. Cook, if in a good temper, could sing comic songs, and the housemaid, if she happened not to be offended with you, could imitate a hen that has laid an egg, a bottle of champagne being opened, and could mew like two cats fighting. The servants never told the children what the bad news was that the gentlemen had brought to Father. But they kept hinting that they could tell a great deal if they chose--and this was not comfortable.
One day when Peter had made a booby trap over the bath-room door, and it had acted beautifully as Ruth passed through, that red-haired parlour-maid caught him and boxed his ears.
“You'll come to a bad end,” she said furiously, “you nasty little limb, you! If you don't mend your ways, you'll go where your precious Father's gone, so I tell you straight!”
Roberta repeated this to her Mother, and next day Ruth was sent away.
Then came the time when Mother came home and went to bed and stayed there two days and the Doctor came, and the children crept wretchedly about the house and wondered if the world was coming to an end.
Mother came down one morning to breakfast, very pale and with lines on her face that used not to be there. And she smiled, as well as she could, and said:--
“Now, my pets, everything is settled. We're going to leave this house, and go and live in the country. Such a ducky dear little white house. I know you'll love it.”
A whirling week of packing followed--not just packing clothes, like when you go to the seaside, but packing chairs and tables, covering their tops with sacking and their legs with straw.
All sorts of things were packed that you don't pack when you go to the seaside. Crockery, blankets, candlesticks, carpets, bedsteads, saucepans, and even fenders and fire-irons.
The house was like a furniture warehouse. I think the children enjoyed it very much. Mother was very busy, but not too busy now to talk to them, and read to them, and even to make a bit of poetry for Phyllis to cheer her up when she fell down with a screwdriver and ran it into her hand.
“Aren't you going to pack this, Mother?” Roberta asked, pointing to the beautiful cabinet inlaid with red turtleshell and brass.
“We can't take everything,” said Mother.