A WILD-GOOSE CHASE.
Donkeys are proverbially obstinate animals, and Mrs. Henchman's this
afternoon proved no exception to the rule. He had evidently made up
his mind that the road to the Landslip was not a congenial one. In
vain the boy who drove him cheered him onwards, in vain Denys tugged
at his bridle, in vain Audrey walked in front holding out an inviting
thistle. At length Mrs. Henchman got flurried and nervous.
"Boy!" she called, "what is your name?"
The boy turned a smiling round face, "Billy Burr, ma'am!"
"Billy Burr! if you can't make your donkey go, I shall get out."
"If you please, ma'am," answered Billy Burr serenely, "it's not my
donkey. That's why he won't go, ma'am! It's Dickie Lowe's donkey, but
he's got a cold and he had to save up for to-night, ma'am, to sing in
the Stainer. Whoa--there--get on, you! That's better!"
The donkey broke into a trot, and Denys and Audrey and Billy were
forced to do the same, but in a minute that was over and the donkey
appeared to have recovered his right mind and walked on stolidly.
Billy and Denys walking at his bridle fell into a confidential chat.
"I told Dickie how it would be," Billy said apologetically, "this one
won't go for nobody else and the other one was lame."
"Are you going to sing in Stainer's Crucifixion to-night at All
Saints'?" asked Denys with interest. "I am going to hear it. Are you
one of the boys of All Saints'? One of Miss Dolly Allan's boys?"
Billy nodded cheerily, "Do you know her?" he inquired. "When is she
coming down again?"
But the donkey had come to a standstill, and the party were forced to
do the same.
"It is perfectly ridiculous going on like this," exclaimed Audrey. "We
are a laughing stock to the neighbourhood! Billy Burr, if that is your
name, why don't you give the animal a good thrashing and _make_ him
go?"
"'Twouldn't be no use," said Billy vexedly. "I'm real sorry, ma'am.
Would you like to try another road? It's just the road he's taken
offence at."
"No, indeed! the only road I shall go is home again," cried Mrs.
Henchman. "It's too bad, though, to spoil all my afternoon like this.
Turn him round, boy, and let us get back as fast as possible. It's a
wasted afternoon."
"He'll go all right _that_ way," said Billy.
"But what about Gertrude and Mr. Greyburne?" said Denys as the little
cavalcade turned back. Oh, how she wished Gertrude had been more
amenable and had not broken up the party.
"I am sure I should not trouble about _them_," said Audrey walking on,
"I don't know why Gertrude did not stay with her hostess!"
"Yes!" said Mrs. Henchman, too worried and annoyed to remember what
she had said to make it easy for Gertrude, "that is just what I
thought. Now, what is to be done? I am not going home by myself with
this donkey for anybody."
Denys was ready to cry with vexation, and yet as Gertrude and Cecil
had been told to wait at the cottage till they came, they could not be
left there indefinitely. She ignored the remarks on Gertrude with what
grace she could, and tried to make the best of the situation.
"We can all go back together," she said soothingly, "and then I must
go and find Gertrude and tell her how unfortunate we have been."
"You could cycle," suggested Audrey, relenting a little.
Denys shook her head, "Gertrude has my bicycle," she said; "something
has happened to hers. Oh, I can easily walk."
"Mine has gone wrong too," said Audrey. "Look here, mother, surely I
am capable of taking you home. I've looked after you all these years
without help! If Denys has got to walk she had far better go straight
on."
"Whatever you like," said Mrs. Henchman wearily. "I shall be truly
thankful to be safe back in my own bedroom. I shall have a heart
attack, I know! Go on, boy, at once!"
Denys stood and watched them out of sight, the donkey going quite
amiably now, and then she turned to her own path. How tiresome it was!
and oh, how disagreeable to have got into a bother with those she so
much wished to please, through no fault of her own.
But Charlie was coming down that evening, and when he came everything
would be all right!
She trudged on cheerily after that, trying to plan out the time
between now and half-past seven, when she was to meet Charlie at the
station, and they were to go together to hear Stainer's Crucifixion
sung at All Saints'.
It was wonderfully pretty in the Landslip, though the trees were only
just showing a green tinge in the sunlight, but she hurried on as fast
as she could, and reached the cottage at last.
It was a pretty little ivy-clad cottage, with a bench outside and a
table set invitingly for visitors, but the bench was unoccupied, and
she looked about in vain for any sign of Gertrude or Cecil.
Upon inquiry she found that she was the first visitor that afternoon.
People had hardly come down yet, the woman explained; they generally
came into Whitecliff this evening, Thursday, and this was a favourite
Good Friday walk.
Denys sat down to wait and had not been seated long, before the little
voice that was so like Jerry's, fell upon her ear.
"Hullo!" said little Harry, peeping round the door at her.
"How did you come here?" asked Denys, but before she could get a
reply, a sound of terrible coughing came from within, and a voice
said, "Harry! Harry! you've left the door open!"
Harry darted back, but returned very quickly. He seemed to like
talking to Denys, but while she talked, Denys was watching for
Gertrude and listening to that rending cough. Harry seemed to listen
to it too. "That's mother," he said, "aren't you coming to see her?"
"Oh, no!" said Denys shrinkingly, "she would not like it."
Harry was off with his little petticoats flying, and was back again
like a flash.
"She wants you," he said triumphantly, "she's been a-listening to your
voice!"
He seized her hand, and led her into a little room behind the parlour,
and on a low bed by the open window Denys saw a young woman with a
pretty face, so like Harry's as to proclaim her his mother at once.
She looked up at Denys with a smile.
"Harry told me about you this morning," she said. "Won't you sit down,
Miss? It is very kind of you to come in."
Denys sat down. The window commanded a view of the garden gate, so she
was in no danger of missing Gertrude. She wondered whatever had become
of her.
She found Mrs. Lyon very easy to talk to--and while Denys and his
mother chatted, Harry climbed into the bed and fell fast asleep.
Mrs. Lyon looked down at him tenderly.
"It's hard to leave him," she said softly, "oh, so hard! My brother,
Jim, who lives at Mixham Junction, has promised to take him, but I
don't know what his wife is like. Jim don't never say much about her,
and he'd be sure to if she was the right one for him, but Jim will be
good to him, I know, and the Lord Jesus is our best Friend and He
is the Good Shepherd. I often have to say that to myself to comfort
myself."
"Yes!" said Denys, sympathetically, her eyes on the almost baby face
nestled on the pillow, her thoughts busy with wondering whether she
could have left Jerry so trustingly in God's care. And Jerry had been
her brother, not her child. She felt she could more willingly have had
Jerry die, than have died herself and left him to other people to care
for.
Her thoughts came back to the present with a start. "Mixham Junction!"
she said, "that is only five miles from my home in Old Keston!"
The sick woman's face flushed and she laid her hand beseechingly on
Denys's.
"Oh, Miss!" she said, "would you--would you sometimes--just sometimes
go and see my Harry, just to let them know there is somebody as takes
an interest, that he isn't quite friendless, and you could remind him
of Jesus? I'm not sure about Jim's doing that. Would you, Miss?"
Once more Denys looked at the little face, and thought of Jerry.
"Yes!" she said, "while I am in Old Keston or going there to see
mother, and while Harry is in Mixham, I certainly will."
Nellie Lyon's eyes filled with tears.
"I thank you from the bottom of my heart," she said.
Denys rose. A glance at her watch had told her it was getting very
late. What could have become of Gertrude?
She went out once more. No one at all like the missing couple had
come. Indeed she herself had been sitting in full view of the gate for
more than an hour. Already the sun was sinking and the air was growing
chill, and a mist was gathering under the trees in the Landslip. If
she waited much longer she would have a dreary enough walk under those
trees in the dusk. It was not a cheerful prospect, and what would
Charlie think if she were not at the station to meet him?
That and the growing darkness decided her. Hastily scribbling a note
to be left with the woman in case Gertrude and Cecil turned up, she
hurried away.
It was not a pleasant walk. The sea sounded mournfully at the foot
of the rocks below her, and the darkness under the trees was not
reassuring, and seemed to fall deeper each moment. She wished she had
taken the upper, though much longer road, or that she had started half
an hour earlier and left Gertrude and Cecil to their own devices. Even
when the moon, the great round moon, came up out of the sea and shone
through the trees upon her path, it only seemed to make the shadows
blacker and more eerie, till she remembered that it was the Easter
moon, and thought of Him who had knelt beneath the trees of Gethsemane
under that moon, on this night of His agony.
After that, thinking of Him, she did not feel afraid, and at last she
rang at Mrs. Henchman's door.
Audrey ran out to open it.
"Well! I thought you were never coming! Where are the others?"
"I don't know," said Denys, "I can't think."