CHAPTER XXIX

This was the last of Mr. Twist’s worries before the opening day.

Remorseful that he should have shirked helping the Annas to bear Mrs. Bilton, besides having had a severe fright on perceiving how near his shirking had brought the party to disaster, he now had his meals with the others and spent the evenings with them as well.  He was immensely grateful to Mrs. Bilton.  Her grit had saved them.  He esteemed and respected her.  Indeed, he shook hands with her then and there at the end of her speech, and told her he did, and the least he could do after that was to come to dinner.  But this very genuine appreciation didn’t prevent his finding her at close quarters what Anna-Rose, greatly chastened, now only called temperately “a little much,” and the result was a really frantic hurrying on of the work.  He had rather taken, those first four days of being relieved of responsibility in regard to the twins, to finnicking with details, to dwelling lovingly on them with a sense of having a margin to his time, and things accordingly had considerably slowed down; but after twenty-four hours of Mrs. Bilton they hurried up again, and after forty-eight of her the speed was headlong.  At the end of forty-eight hours it seemed to Mr. Twist more urgent than anything he had ever known that he should get out of the shanty, get into somewhere with space in it, and sound-proof walls—­lots of walls—­and long passages between people’s doors; and before the rooms in the inn were anything like finished he insisted on moving in.

“You must turn to on this last lap and help fix them up,” he said to the twins.  “It’ll be a bit uncomfortable at first, but you must just take off your coats to it and not mind.”

Mind?  Turn to?  It was what they were languishing for.  It was what, in the arid hours under the ilex tree, collected so ignominiously round Mrs. Bilton’s knee they had been panting for, like thirsty dogs with their tongues out.  And such is the peculiar blessedness of work that instantly, the moment there was any to be done, everything that was tangled and irritating fell quite naturally into its proper place.  Magically life straightened itself out smooth, and left off being difficult. Arbeit und Liebe, as their mother used to say, dropping into German whenever a sentence seemed to her to sound better that way—­Arbeit und Liebe:  these were the two great things of life; the two great angels, as she assured them, under whose spread-out wings lay happiness.

With a hungry zeal, with the violent energy of reaction, the Annas fell upon work.  They started unpacking.  All the things they had bought in Acapulco, the linen, the china, the teaspoons, the feminine touches that had been piled up waiting in the barn, were pulled out and undone and carried indoors.  They sorted, and they counted, and they arranged on shelves.  Anna-Rose flew in and out with her arms full.  Anna-Felicitas slouched zealously after her, her arms full too when she started, but not nearly so full when she got there owing to the way things had of slipping through them and dropping on to the floor.  They were in a blissful, busy confusion.  Their faces shone with heat and happiness.  Here was liberty; here was freedom; here was true dignity—­Arbeit und Liebe....