At the moment no one had much time to worry over private affairs, however urgent; for it was the last evening of the term, and half Melbourne was coming to the speech-night. The big schoolroom was gay with flags and flowers, with pot-plants massed upon the little stage at one end; and every one was getting into white frocks, while here and there were the anxious faces of the harassed individuals responsible for items on the programme. The twins had long looked forward to having their father and mother down for the great occasion, but a worried little note from Mrs. Weston had said plainly that at the moment the expense of coming could not be faced. It took away half the joy of the evening that the two dear faces were not to be among the long rows of parents who were coming to beam upon excited daughters. Still, there was no help for it, as the twins realized: and Helen had wisely kept them so busy that they had no time to think. Now, although the evening could not be all that they had hoped, it was still their first speech-night; and to-morrow there would be home, with Mrs. Forester’s wonderful letter to show. The twins found it quite beyond their power to feel gloomy.
Tea was a more or less sketchy meal, at which a junior teacher presided, and Miss Dampier made only a fleeting appearance. No one really wanted to eat; there were still odds and ends of packing to be done, farewells to be said, final touches to be put to preparations for the evening. Moreover, from time immemorial there had been Miss Dampier’s supper for the boarders after the guests had gone, and it was a supper which made tea beforehand seem a mere excrescence. So girls drifted in and out as they liked, and the artistes of the evening brought books or music to the table, studying the fingering of the Moonlight Sonata, or Portia’s remarks on Mercy, while they absently consumed weak tea.
Day-girls concerned with the programme began to arrive soon, and there was much dressing and undressing in studies and bedrooms, with anguished appeals for forgotten burnt-cork and other aids to a good stage-appearance: for there was a little play to be given, and in the eyes of the cast Beethoven and Shakespeare were unimportant details beside it. The twins made a brief but glorious appearance in the play, as Corsican bandits—slim figures in tunics and gym. knickers, with enormous slouch-hats concealing their darkened features and corked moustaches, Neapolitan scarves knotted about their necks, and with crimson silk sashes, in which were stuck a very arsenal of lethal weapons, ranging from ancient duelling-pistols to Gurkha kukris and Canary Island daggers—the species of outfit, in brief, without which no self-respecting Corsican may be found. They fought, were slain, died with artistic gurgles, and were dragged out by the heels; and the junior school, with sighs of rapture, mourned openly that Merriwa was to know them no more.
They appeared in different guise later on, in soft white frocks, their curls clustering about faces scrubbed to a fine rosy polish—the burnt-cork had taken some getting off. On this occasion it was their fate to ascend the daïs modestly and receive prizes at the hands of the Distinguished Person presiding—Jean an award for the French at which, as has been previously stated, she was “a whale,” while Jo, to her own amazement, found herself the owner of Miss Smith’s prize for cookery. Her bewilderment at this was so profound that she almost forgot to bow, and was only recalled to a sense of her position by a dig in the back from the Domestic Economy prize-winner, who was behind her.
“Who’d have thought it!” she ejaculated inelegantly, regaining her seat. “Will you ever forget Smithy’s remarks on the sausage-rolls that I mixed up with sugar?”
“Oh, but that’s ever so long ago,” Gladys said. “I know—it’s that Angels’ Food affair you compounded last cooking-day. You said yourself it was poetic!”
“Yes, but I also said it was a fluke!” rejoined the artist. “And I thought no one knew that better than Smithy!”
She was still regarding with astonishment the huge leather-bound copy of “Mrs. Beeton” that Miss Smith had presented as a tribute to the Angels’ Food, when her name was again called, this time with Jean’s. Jo dumped “Mrs. Beeton” on her neighbour’s knee, and the twins went up together to receive little silver cups that were to remind them of the tennis victory of that week. This time the junior school let itself loose. It had been—unfortunately—not permitted to them to applaud the spectacular decease of the Corsican bandits, since it had occurred at a moment when applause would have wrecked the progress of the drama; and French and cookery, while all very well in their way, made no special appeal to the hordes of juniors. But the tennis cups were a different matter—had they not palpitated en masse throughout that last wild set when the twins had snatched victory from the jaws of Kooringal? Wherefore they made the long room ring with the noise of their enthusiasm, clapping until their hard young hands rang again. The twins stood, flushing, a little taken aback by the warmth of their reception. Then they dived for cover among the applauding ranks.
“Such dear things!” murmured the Distinguished Person, looking after them with a twinkle in her distinguished eye. “And they were such lovely bandits! Tell me, Miss Dampier, do you ever manage to tell them apart?”
“Sometimes,” the Head admitted. “Not always, by any means—for their first three months at school I never knew whether I was speaking to Jean or Jo. Even now, if possible, I begin by saying the name of the one I want, in a determined tone; the wrong twin won’t respond, to me, though I believe they take an awful joy in doing so among their mates, out of school. But there are many occasions when I am reduced to saying ‘dear’; and I am always in doubt as to whether the twin I am addressing isn’t well aware that my affection is only an insufficient cloak for ignorance!”