The second day's journey was as delightful as the first. The weather
continued fine, and Seth Dumbrick, recovering his spirits, did his
best to entertain the children, to whom the ride itself would have
been a sufficiently satisfying enjoyment. During the day Seth confided
his plans to the good-natured wagoner, and his desire to obtain cheap
lodgings for a few days for himself and the children at some modest
cottage in the country.
"Would near the seaside suit you?" asked the wagoner.
"Capitally," replied Seth; "but your place lies inland."
"I have time to go a little out of my way, and will take you to a
cottage near the sea belonging to a friend of mine, who'll be able to
lodge you reasonable."
"Nothing could be better," said Seth, thankfully.
"It's obliging her and you, and won't trouble me much. Come up, Daisy!
Now then, Cornflower! Four mile more for you, and plenty of time to do
it in."
If Daisy and Cornflower understood that an additional task was imposed
upon them they did not take it sadly, but shook their bells briskly
and trotted out of their regular track with a willing spirit.
"Round this bend," said the wagoner, "and a fine stretch of the sea'll
be before us."
It appeared almost incredible, for the trees and hedges in the path
they were riding along were so thick and the path itself so winding as
to obscure the view.
"The children have never seen the sea," said Seth.
"You don't say so! Well, I wouldn't be a Londoner, bound to live there
all my days, for the best fifty houses you could offer me. And never
seen a ship sailing, I'll be bound!"
"Never."
"It will be something for them to remember, then. Now, shut your eyes,
my little lasses, and don't open them till I say 'Presto!'"
Sally and the Duchess shut their eyes tight, their hearts throbbing
with eager expectation.
"Up then, Daisy! Up, Cornflower! Round the bend we go. Presto!"
The Duchess and Sally opened their eyes and uttered exclamations of
delight. The glorious sea lay before them, with large ships in the
distance and fishing boats in the foreground. In one part the sun,
playing on the water, transformed it into an island of flashing
jewels. It was a veritable wonderland to the children--a dream of
beauty never to be forgotten.
"Do I see the waves creeping up, Sally?" asked Seth, gaily.
Sally raised her face to his and kissed him.
"It's all through that money that was sent to the Duchess, Daddy."
"All through that, Sally."
"Then I love money, Daddy," said Sally; "and I'd like to be a lady, so
that the Duchess and me might live always by the sea. How far does it
stretch? More than we can see?"
"Thousands, and thousands, and thousands of miles more. Away into
other countries, where it's night at the present moment while it's
daylight here."
"I don't understand it," said Sally, with a sigh of ecstasy, "and I
don't want to. Oh, we're going away from it!"
"We're going to the cottage I spoke of my little woman," said the
wagoner; "it's not three hundred yards off--just down this lane."
Down the lane they drove, and drew up at a small house with a garden
before and behind. The front of the cottage was covered with ivy, and
the windows in their framework of glossy leaves looked wonderfully
pretty.
"This is nice, too," said Sally, disposed to enjoy everything.
"There's beauty everywhere, Sally," said Seth, with a touch of his old
philosophy, "if we'll only look out for it."
"This comes without looking out for it," replied Sally; "and that's
why I like it. Ain't it better than anything ever was, Duchess?"
The Duchess nodded an assent, and in another moment the whole party
were in the little parlour, and Seth and the wagoner were talking to
the mistress of the house. The bargain was soon struck, the terms
asked for board and lodging being much less than Seth had ventured to
hope they would be. They were to have the two rooms on the first floor
for sleeping apartments, one looking over the front the other over the
back of the house.
"Daddy must have this," said Sally, as they stood in the front room;
"it's the best."
"That's the reason why you and the Duchess shall sleep in it. I came
into the country for your sakes, children, not for my own."
Everything in the place was sweet and fresh; and the garden at the
back of the house contained apple and pear trees and currant-bushes,
as well as flowers.
"My good man," said the mistress, "will be glad to have two such
pretty children in the house for a little while. We've none of our
own. It'll brighten us up a bit."
The woman was sad-looking and spoke in a sad tone; and Sally wondered
how it was possible that one who lived in the fairy-house, with
flowers and fruit trees and the sea within a stone's throw of them,
should need brightening up. She was sure if such a paradise were hers,
that there would never be a dull hour in it. While the woman was
attending to the children upstairs, assisting them to wash after their
long day's ride, and showing them all the wonders of the fairy house,
Seth and the wagoner had a conversation in the room below. It was a
friendly one, resulting from the wagoner's refusal to accept payment
for the ride.
"It'll be a pleasure to me," said the wagoner, "not to take the money.
I don't want it, having enough and to spare, as I've already told you.
I don't mean to say I do it for your sake----"
"Not likely," said Seth, good-humouredly.
"--But for the sake of the pretty little one you call the Duchess. And
that's puzzled me. I'd take it as a favour if you'd tell me, why
Duchess?"
"Well, it was a fancy of Sally's," said Seth, "who worships the
Duchess----"
"It's plain enough that she thinks a mighty deal more of her than she
does of herself."
"That she does. Well, the Duchess came to me in a strange way that'll
take too long to explain here. The child was left in our neighbourhood
in a most mysterious manner--brought in mysteriously, deserted
mysteriously. She and Sally were thrown together, and Sally adopted
her, if one helpless mite can be said to adopt another helpless mite.
Sally's mother fell into misfortune, and the children happened to drop
in my way. Sally had a name--the other one didn't--and one night we
had a curious little party of children in my cellar----"
"In your cellar?"
"I live in a cellar in Rosemary Lane--and Sally, quite seriously, put
the fancy in my head of calling the child the Duchess of our quarter.
All the neighbours take to it kindly, and everyone that knows her
loves her. Look there. Who could help being attracted to her?"
The wagoner looked up at the window of the children's room, and saw
the Duchess standing within a framework of dark-green ivy leaves. The
light was shining full upon her beautiful face, and touched, also, the
darker face of Sally, who stood at the back of the Duchess, looking
over her shoulder.
"It's a picture one don't often see," said the wagoner, with a
thoughtful air; "but if I had my choice of the two girls for a
daughter, I reckon I'd choose the dark-skinned one."
It did not displease Seth to hear this, for Sally and the Duchess
really occupied an equal place in his heart. If the beauty of the
Duchess awoke the tenderness of his nature, the devotion,
unselfishness, and many rare qualities displayed by Sally were no less
powerful in their effect upon his sympathies. Bearing in mind the
scene that had occurred at Springfield on the preceding evening, he
asked the wagoner, if any inquiries were made of him, not to divulge
where he and the children were rusticating.
"I've brought them into the country," he said, "as much for peace and
quietness as for fresh air."
There was to the wagoner's mind something suspicious both in the words
and the nervous manner in which Seth made the request. He showed in
his countenance the impression he received, and Seth, wishing to stand
well with him, gave an account of the incident which had so disturbed
him.
"When I heard the lady say she would like to buy my child," he said,
in conclusion, "it seemed to me that she had so much faith in the
power of money, and so little in the power of love, that I could not
keep my temper. I spoke hotly, and with reason, I think."
"It would have roused my blood," responded the wagoner; "you never saw
any of the gentlefolk before?"
"Never, and I never wish to see them again. I said as much to the
master of Springfield, if I'm not mistaken."
"From what I've heard of him, he's not a man either to forget or
forgive."
"You'll promise me, then, for the sake of the children, not to set any
one on our track?"
He spoke anxiously, his fears exaggerating a danger which, in all
likelihood was wholly imaginary.
"Yes," replied the wagoner, "there's no harm in promising. They've no
right to worry you, as far as I can see, and they sha'n't get me to
put them in the way of it. How long are you going to stop here?"
"We can live here so cheaply," said Seth, with a lightened heart,
"that my purse will hold out for two or three weeks; we'll stay that
time, I dare say."
"I'll be going up to London about then, mayhap," said the wagoner; "if
so, I'll be glad to give the little lasses a lift; and mayhap I may be
passing this way in a few days with the wagon. A ride through the
lanes will do them no harm."
Seth expressed his thanks to the kind-hearted old fellow, and they
shook hands and parted, the wagoner smiling goodbye to the children,
who stood at the window watching him until he was out of sight.
Then commenced a happy time. The children were in a new world, and the
little cottage, with its bit of garden back and front, was a very
heaven to them. Everything was so new and bright, the air was so
sweet, the trees and flowers so beautiful, that Sally could scarcely
believe it was all real. On the first night, when they were abed,
listening to the strange sound of the waves beating on the shore,
Sally whispered to the Duchess:
"Isn't it lovely, Duchess?"
"Yes, oh, yes," sighed the Duchess; and this precise form of words was
used at least a dozen times, each time with the belief that it
embodied an observation of an especially original nature. Once Sally,
creeping out of bed, drew aside the snowy white curtains from the
window and looked out.
"Oh, come, Duchess, come!" she cried, and the Duchess scrambled after
her. It was full moon, and the glorious light shining on the trees and
hedges was a vision of beauty to them.
"That's a different moon from the one we've got in Rosemary Lane,"
said Sally; "I wish we could take it back with us."
"Are we going back?" asked the Duchess regretfully.
Sally did not reply. The prospect was too distressing. But she was
happily so constituted as to be grateful for present joys and
pleasures, and she dismissed Rosemary Lane from her thoughts. Her one
fear was that she would wake up.
"Do you like the noise the sea makes?" she inquires of her idol, when
they were in bed again.
"It's beautiful," said the Duchess. "Are the ships there?"
Sally never hesitated to impart information on subjects of which she
was ignorant.
"They're there," she said, "but they don't move till daylight comes."
"I'm sleepy," said the Duchess, with a yawn.
"I'm frightened to go to sleep," said Sally, battling with fatigue; "I
want to be like this always. I hope it ain't a dream--oh, I hope it
ain't a dream!"
Before she had finished, the Duchess was asleep.
"I'll pinch myself hard," thought Sally, "as hard as I can, and if
there's a black-and-blue mark on my arm to-morrow morning, I shall know
it's real."
Sally did pinch herself--so hard that she could not help crying out
with the pain, but she obtained her reward on the following morning,
when she saw the black-and-blue marks. The joy of the day, however,
was so great that as she sat on the pebbly beach, watching the waves
creep up and the ships and fishing-boats floating away into
wonderland, she found it hard to convince herself that she was not
dreaming. At the end of the week she said to Seth:
"Daddy, every night I go to bed, I am frightened that I shall wake up
and find myself in Rosemary Lane."
Thereupon he read her and the Duchess a lecture on contentment and
gratitude, not so much needed by Sally as by the Duchess.
"I know you're right," said Sally; "it will always be a pleasure to
think of, but I shall be awful sorry too, that it didn't last for
ever. It can't, Daddy, can it?"
"No, my dear, it can't."
"I wish I was rich," sighed Sally.
"Supposing you had lived a hundred years ago," suggested Seth, with
grave humour; and paused.
"Well, Daddy. Supposing I did?"
"It would be all the same to you whether you had a hundred boxes full
of gold or whether you had twopence-halfpenny."
Sally was shrewd enough to understand this without having to ask for
an explanation.
"What do you say to it all?" asked Sally of the Duchess.
"I don't care for a hundred years ago," said the Duchess; "I don't
know what it means. I care for Now." And she echoed Sally's words, "I
wish I was rich."
This set Seth pondering, and in his endeavour to extract honey out of
unpromising material and to improve the occasion, it is to be feared
that he soared above the understanding of his children. In this way:
"Did I ever tell you, Sally"--he always appealed to Sally at such
times, although he addressed both her and the Duchess--"of a man I
once knew called Billy Spike?"
"No, Daddy."
"He was a friend of mine a good many years ago. Older than me by
thirty years was Billy Spike--and he was always Billy, never William,
to the day of his death. Nearly everybody who knew him thought he was
crazy."
"Why?"
"Because of one thing he was never tired of saying, 'What I don't get
is profit.' That's what sweetened the world for Billy Spike. 'What I
don't get is profit,' was always on his lips."
"Was _he_ a rich man, Daddy?"
"I doubt if Billy Spike ever had twenty shillings in his pocket at one
time. I doubt if ever he had a new suit of clothes to his back. I
doubt if he ever had quite as much to eat as he could have taken in.
He was as poor as a church-mouse."
"Why is a church-mouse poor?" asked practical Sally.
"It's no use my trying to explain that, Sally. It's a saying, and a
true one I dare say. But about Billy Spike. He was the poorest and the
happiest man in the world, and all the philosophy of life was
contained in his saying, 'What I don't get is profit.' 'Billy,' I said
to him, 'what do you mean by it?' He looked at me with his eyes
twinkling. 'Seth Dumbrick,' said he, 'you're a man of sense. Look at
me. Here I am.' And he stood up straight before me, showing large
holes in his coat, under his arms, and being generally a picture of
rags. 'If,' said I, 'all the profit you make comes from what you've
got, and not from what you haven't got, your returns must be small.'
'I've got a pair of arms, Seth Dumbrick,' said Billy. 'Thank you for
nothing,' said I. 'You call that nothing!' cried Billy. 'Wait a bit.
My limbs are all sound, my eyesight's good. I never had a headache or
a toothache in my life, and I sleep like a top. Now, tell me who's
that crossing the road?' It was a sailor we knew who hopped through
life on a wooden leg. Me and Billy and the wooden-legged sailor went
and had a glass together, and Billy drew the sailor out to tell us all
about the miseries of having only one leg--what shootings he had in
the one that was chopped off--yes, he said that, Sally, though it does
sound funny--and how he couldn't walk where he wanted to walk, and
couldn't do what he wanted to do, all through having a wooden leg. It
was plain enough that his wooden leg made him real unhappy and
miserable. When he was gone Billy Spike said to me, with a wink, 'What
I don't get is profit: I don't get wooden legs.' Just then we saw a
woman that we knew; her face was twice its proper size, and she had a
bandage round it. 'What's the matter, mother?' asked Billy Spike. 'I'm
almost dead with the pain, Billy,' she said. 'I've been and had two of
my teeth out at the hospital and the doctor's almost broke my jaw.
It's enough to drive a poor woman mad.' 'The toothache is,' said
Billy. 'Yes, the toothache,' said she; 'I've had it on and off for the
last twenty years, and I'm pretty well crazed with it.' Billy Spike
winked at me again. 'What I don't get is profit. I don't get
toothaches.' Then we came across a blind man, and Billy drew _him_
out, and a pretty bad case it was. 'I'd sooner be dead than alive,'
said he. He couldn't see the wink that Billy gave. What I don't get is
profit,' said Billy. 'I don't get blind.' And so Billy would have gone
on all the day, I don't doubt, if I hadn't already caught his
meaning."
In which respect Seth had the advantage of those to whom he was
relating, as a possibly useful lesson, this story of Billy Spike's
philosophy. Sally's face denoted that she did not see the application,
and the Duchess said again, "I wish I was rich." So Seth resolved to
throw aside philosophy as not suitable for the occasion, and to devote
himself entirely to pleasure. It was none the less sweet because it
was taken in a modest humble way, and because it cost but little
money. Country walks, rides in carts and wagons, generally given for
nothing--for the beauty of the Duchess soon attracted admirers even in
this out-of-the-way spot--frolics in hayfields, rambles by the
seaside, fully occupied their hours, and did not afford opportunity
for a moment's weariness. And one day a travelling photographer passed
their road and offered to "take" the Duchess for a song, as the saying
is. Being an artist he saw the value of Seth's suggestion that she
should be taken standing in a framework of ivy leaves, and the
prettiest of pictures was produced. The photographer, falling in love
with his work, and seeing future profit in it, took negatives of the
Duchess in various attitudes, she falling into them so naturally as to
excite his wonder and admiration. In truth it was a task which pleased
and delighted her. Seth, shrewd as he always was, and careful of his
pocket as he was compelled to be, made a good bargain with the artist,
and for a very small sum obtained copies of all their portraits: the
Duchess in three different positions, Sally in one, Sally and the
Duchess together, and lastly, himself with the children on either side
of him. The day following this excitement another pleasure came. The
old wagoner who had driven them from London arrived early in the
morning with Daisy and Cornflower, and after giving them the most
beautiful ride in their holiday, took them to his own cottage where he
had lived from boyhood. There his old wife awaited them, and feasted
the party to their hearts' content, and a peaceful ride back in the
peaceful night was the fitting ending to the happy day. So the time
passed on until one morning Seth said to Sally.
"Home to-morrow, Sally."
She sighed with grateful regret.
"Our little girl is better than ever she was," he continued, with a
fond look at the Duchess, "and we'll endeavour to keep her so. Such
roses as these"--caressing the Duchess's cheek--"will be something for
the Rosemary Lane folk to stare at. They've never seen such bright
ones before. We've had a happy time, haven't we?"
"Yes, yes," they both replied, nestling to him.
"Let us be thankful, then----"
"For what we haven't had?" asked Sally, with a sly look.
"No," he said with a laugh, "for what we have enjoyed;" adding in a
graver tone, "I never thought the world was so good as it is."
On the second evening from this they returned to Rosemary Lane, and
were received with smiles and hearty welcome by all.