Discussions and guesses alike failed to suggest any reasonable explanations of Mr and Mrs Saxon’s mysterious behaviour, and Miss Bruce steadily refused to be drawn, though there was a certain something in her manner which convinced her charges that she was in the secret.
And then on the morning of the fifth day the blow fell, in the shape of a short, decisive note ordering the young people to pack their belongings and repair down to “The Meads” for the remainder of the holidays. The mandate was so firm and decisive that there was no hope of escape. The girls might cry and the boys might storm, but both realised the uselessness of protest. Assisted by Miss Bruce and Nannie, once nurse and now schoolroom maid, the melancholy preparations were made in time to allow the party to catch the three o’clock train from Victoria.
To secure a carriage in which they could travel alone and be able to talk as they pleased was the ambition of the four elders, and while Miss Bruce was busily looking after the luggage, they took possession of a corridor coupé, slammed the door, and blocked the window with determined faces, though deep in each heart lurked the conviction that Miss Bruce’s morbidly acute conscience would feel it her duty to interfere.
“Nix for the Spider!” hissed Gurth, prising a hockey-stick against the handle of the door the while he gazed with elaborate calm at a poster on the station wall. It was inevitable that a person named Bruce should be given the nickname of “Spider” by young people who disdained correct appellations as heartily as did the Saxons, and, indeed, the busy little black figure darting to and fro on the platform might have been much less aptly named. She hustled the twins and Nannie into a carriage, turned her head to look for her elder pupils, and, upon realising the position, reared her head with the fighting gesture which they knew so well. For a moment, as she stood facing the coupé window, it seemed absolutely certain that she would insist upon joining the party, and so spoiling sport for the whole of the journey, but even as she looked her expression altered, a flicker of something—what was it?—affection, sympathy, pity passed over her face, she turned without a word, entered the carriage wherein the twins were seated, and disappeared from sight.
The plot had succeeded, but their success had left the conspirators dumb with wonder and surprise.
“I say! what’s taken her all of a sudden?” ejaculated Gurth. Hereward whistled loudly, while Dreda, ever the prey of her emotions, began to flush and quiver beneath the prickings of remorse.
“Oh, poor dear! Oh, she saw! She saw we didn’t want her! What brutes we are! Gurth, go!—go quickly, before the train starts, and tell her to come in here at once!”
“Not I! What a turncoat you are, Dreda! Of course she saw! We meant her to see. You were the worst of the lot, scowling as if she were an ogre. Don’t be a little sneak!”
“Not a sneak!” protested Dreda, hotly. “S’pose I did. I can be sorry, can’t I? She looked so—sick! It made me feel mean.”
“All right! Go in to the other carriage, then, and suck up! We don’t want her here, but there’s room for you in there, if you like to change! Say the word! We are off in a minute!”