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 redheaded 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 teatime.
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 armchair. 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 bedtime, 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
