A JOYFUL SURPRISE
IT was a wet winter in the west of England, that first one during the
war, but not a cold one, and March found primroses and white violets
peeping through the beautiful fern moss which grew so luxuriously in
the lanes around Midbury; so that when, one Saturday afternoon, after
a rainy morning, the sky cleared and the sun shone out on a world
full of the promise of spring, May, who had been standing at the
schoolroom window which she had opened, suddenly turned to Josephine
and said—
"Do let us go out! The air is lovely—full of delicious scents!
I'm longing for a walk, and I'm sure there must be primroses
in Durley Dell."
Josephine, who had been seated at the table, was putting away her
writing materials.
"Then do let us try and get some," she answered; "you know, I've
never seen a primrose yet."
Ten minutes later, having left word where they were going, the two
little girls passed out into the bright sunshine, and were soon
walking briskly along the road towards Midbury. Their way took them
straight past the blacksmith's and down a lane beyond Vine Cottage;
and then Durley Dell was reached. It was a charming spot in summer,
but damp and rather cheerless on this early spring day. Only a few
primrose buds were discovered, and those were very short-stemmed, and
took some while to find.
"I thought we should have found more," remarked May in a disappointed
tone; "some one must have been before us, I am sure."
"Never mind," Josephine answered, "we can come again another day. Oh,
how sweet these buds smell! I must add a postscript to my letter
to father, and tell him the primroses are coming out; he's often
talked to me of the primroses in Durley Dell. Oh, May, won't it be
splendid if he is able to come home for a few days soon, as, if all
goes well, he says he may?"
"Yes, indeed," May agreed. "I can imagine how you are longing to see
him," she added; "I think you've been ever so brave all through the
long, long winter."
"It's the suspense that's so hard to bear," Josephine said; "I feel
it here." She laid her hand on her breast as she spoke. "It's a kind
of sinking feeling," she explained; "I don't suppose you can
understand what I mean."
May did not, but she looked sympathetic. She had grown to love
Josephine, and admired her brave spirit; she knew now that that brave
spirit found its strength in Christ—in faith in His perfect wisdom
and love.
"How overcast it is," she said, as they left the dell for the lane,
"I did not notice that under the trees. I think we ought to walk
faster, don't you?"
Josephine agreed. She glanced up into the sky and noticed a heavy
cloud right overhead. The fine weather had been too bright to last.
In a few moments great drops of rain began to fall—slowly as yet.
"There's going to be a heavy shower!" exclaimed May. "Run, run!
Mrs. Rumbelow will let us stand under her porch, I'm sure! The rain
may not last very long!"
Two minutes later they had reached Vine Cottage, where they took
shelter under the porch. Josephine knew Mrs. Rumbelow by sight now,
for she had often seen her at the little mission church on Sunday
mornings; but neither she nor May had ever spoken to her. On hearing
their footsteps and voices, the old woman hastened to open her
cottage door, and looked out.
"Oh, please," began May, "may we wait here for a few minutes—just
until the shower is over?"
"You'll get wet, miss; the wind's blowing the rain this way,"
Mrs. Rumbelow answered. "Pray come inside."
"Shall we?" whispered May, and, Josephine nodding assent, they
followed Mrs. Rumbelow into the kitchen.
It was a very clean, tidy kitchen with a round deal table in the
centre, a dresser holding cheap blue and white china, and a few
wooden chairs. By the hearth, on which a cheerful log fire was
burning, stood a wicker arm-chair, upholstered in a pretty rosy
chintz, which looked quite new.
"Please sit down," said Mrs. Rumbelow hospitably. "Won't one of you
take this chair? It's very comfortable."
She pointed at the wicker arm-chair as she spoke, but her visitors
declined it. They seated themselves by the window, so that they might
see when the rain stopped.
"It looks a delightfully comfortable chair," Josephine said with her
bright, friendly smile; "won't you sit in it yourself, Mrs. Rumbelow,
and talk to us? We seem to know you quite well, though we've never
spoken to you before; we've heard of you from your niece, Jane. How
is your rheumatism to-day?"
"Better than it has been, thank you, miss."
Mrs. Rumbelow had a pale, pinched-looking face which told of much
suffering, and sunken eyes with a patient expression in them. She
looked with great interest at her visitors, more especially at
Josephine.
"Surely you didn't gather those yourself?" May asked, nodding at a
bunch of primroses in a vase on the table.
"No, miss," was the reply; "my son picked them in Durley Dell this
morning."
"Oh!" exclaimed May, "that's why we could find only these few buds
then! When did your son come home, Mrs. Rumbelow?"
"The day before yesterday, miss."
Young Rumbelow had been home once before during the winter, shortly
after his arrival in England—only for twenty-four hours, however.
Jane had spoken of the deep joy his visit had given his mother,
but she had not seen him herself, so had had little to tell
concerning him.
"After this I shan't see him again before he goes abroad,"
Mrs. Rumbelow continued; "he's going before long, he expects.
Yesterday he went into Midbury, and bought me this beautiful chair."
She smiled and patted the arm of the wicker arm-chair almost tenderly
as she spoke. "'There, mother,' he said, 'you'll be able to rest your
poor old bones in comfort in that!' And I shall, I hope. He bought me
that picture, too!"
She pointed to a cheap print in a frame over the mantelpiece. It was
a likeness of the King of the Belgians.
"I'm so pleased to have it," she said earnestly, "for I call him such
a noble man. He has a good, straight face, hasn't he?—the face of one
who would keep his word?"
Her visitors assented. She continued—
"I like to think that my boy is on his side. 'Dick,' I said to him
last night, when he hung up the picture for me, 'I shall spend many
an hour when you're gone sitting here in this beautiful comfortable
chair, looking at the likeness of that good king, and thinking of you
fighting, like him, for truth and honour—all that's best worth
fighting for—aye, and dying for!'"
"What did he say to that?" Josephine asked eagerly.
"Well, you see, miss, I don't think he'd looked at it quite in that
light before, so he didn't say anything."
The rain was descending in a deluge now. It lasted for about ten
minutes, then ceased almost suddenly.
"Would you like these primroses, miss?" Mrs. Rumbelow asked, rising
stiffly from her chair when her visitors, who had thanked her
gratefully for having sheltered them, were about to leave; "Dick will
get me some more to-morrow." It was May she addressed.
"Oh, no, no!" May answered quickly, "but thank you all the same!
These buds we have will open in water. She—" nodding at her
companion— "never saw a primrose before to-day."
"Then they don't grow in India?" said Mrs. Rumbelow inquiringly.
Josephine smiled at the idea.
"Oh, no!" she replied. "But my father had told me about them—how
sweet they are; and I had been looking forward to see them, of course
I dare say you know that my father's in France—somewhere?"
"Yes, miss, Jane's told me. May God Almighty bless and keep him."
"He will," Josephine said earnestly, "I know He will."
Her bright young eyes met the old woman's sympathetic gaze for a
minute, then grew misty. She took Mrs. Rumbelow's work-hardened hand,
the joints of which were swelled and knotted, and pressed it softly.
"May we come and see you again?" she asked.
"Indeed, I wish you would, miss," was the pleased response, "I should
be pleased!"
"Then of course we will!" May cried, adding: "I wish we'd thought
of coming to see you before!"
She echoed this wish as she and Josephine plodded home through the
thick mud of the high road.
"I expect the poor old soul leads a very dull life," she remarked,
"and after her son's gone again she'll feel very lonely. We must go
and try to keep up her spirits. I am sure Aunt Ann will let us."
As they passed the blacksmith's shop they noticed a young soldier
standing by the forge in conversation with the blacksmith, and
Josephine whispered—
"That must be Dick Rumbelow, May. Yes, he has 'Canada' on his
shoulder."
A little farther on the road they met the blacksmith's wife, and
stopped to exchange a few words with her. The recruits who had been
billeted at Midbury during the winter had left the previous week to
complete their training elsewhere, and with them, of course, young
Dicker; May inquired for him.
"He's quite well, thank you, miss," his mother answered, "and very
cheerful and happy. I hope you get good news of your father, miss?"
she questioned, addressing Josephine.
"He was safe and well the last time I heard from him," Josephine
replied. "We saw a Canadian soldier talking to your husband, Mrs.
Dicker; I wonder if he was Dick Rumbelow?"
"Sure to be, miss. You can't think how much he's improved since the
first time he had leave and came home to see his mother. I thought
then he was just the careless good-for-nothing he used to be—
he didn't seem to have altered very much; but now it strikes me that
he's sobered down wonderfully—it's the discipline that's done it may
be, or maybe it's in answer to his mother's prayers. Ah, he's got a
good mother, has Dick Rumbelow! I can't explain to you how patient
she's always been with him, and so hopeful—but there, love hopeth all
things, doesn't it?"
With this she nodded at them smilingly and went on her way. It took
the little girls but five minutes after that to reach the Glen.
Donald, who had watched their approach from the dining-room window,
met them in the hall. He looked at Josephine strangely, she thought,
and appeared very excited.
"You're wanted in Uncle John's study at once," he told her; "Aunt Ann
and Uncle John are there, and—"
"Oh, Donald," Josephine broke in, paling to the lips, "there's
nothing wrong, is there? There's no bad news of father? Oh, tell me
it's not that!"
"No, no!" he cried reassuringly, "your father's safe and sound,
and—why you've turned quite white! How silly! Go into the study!
What are you waiting for? Hurry!"
But Josephine stood as though rooted to the ground, her lips parted,
her ears strained—listening. From within the closed door of her
uncle's study came the murmur of voices—Miss Basset's, Mr. Basset's,
and one other's. Then, suddenly, a cry of intense joy burst from her
lips, and, springing to the closed door, she flung it open, no longer
pale, but with flushing cheeks and eyes full of yearning tenderness
and love.
"Father, oh, father!" she cried, "you have come! Oh, I have wanted
you so!"
She was in her father's arms by this time, half laughing,
half crying, her head upon his breast.
"Come away!" said Miss Basset to her brother. Then, as he followed
her from the room, closing the door behind him, she looked at him
with her eyes full of tears, and sighed—
"Dear me! oh, dear me!"
"There's nothing for you to trouble about now, Ann," remarked Mr.
Basset; nevertheless, his own sight was a trifle dim.
"No," she agreed, adding: "But I never until now realized how much
she has missed him! Oh, poor little thing!"