The Railway Children

Ruth—she was the parlour-maid and had red hair—came in and said that two gentlemen wanted to see the master.

“I’ve shown them into the Library, Sir,” said she.

“I expect it’s the subscription to the Vicar’s testimonial,” said Mother, “or else it’s the choir holiday fund. Get rid of them quickly, dear. It does break up an evening so, and it’s nearly the children’s bedtime.”

But Father did not seem to be able to get rid of the gentlemen at all quickly.

“I wish we HAD got a moat and drawbridge,” said Roberta; “then, when we didn’t want people, we could just pull up the drawbridge and no one else could get in. I expect Father will have forgotten about when he was a boy if they stay much longer.”

Mother tried to make the time pass by telling them a new fairy story about a Princess with green eyes, but it was difficult because they could hear the voices of Father and the gentlemen in the Library, and Father’s voice sounded louder and different to the voice he generally used to people who came about testimonials and holiday funds.

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?”