THE JOURNEY'S END.
BILLY sat silent and observant by his grandfather's side as he made
his first journey through Exeter. The rain had come on again in a
soft drizzle; but the streets were full of people, for it was market
day. They passed the market and drove into High Street, the principal
street, which surprised Billy by being so narrow and old; and a quarter
of an hour later they had turned their backs on the city, and Jenny,
who had been plodding along at a walk, suddenly began to trot.
"Why, she goes as fast as a pony!" exclaimed Billy, admiringly.
His grandfather nodded.
"I wouldn't change her for the best pony in Devonshire!" he declared.
"I had her as a foal, and broke her in myself. You'll have to learn to
drive her, Billy."
"Shall I?" cried Billy, his pale face aglow with pleasure.
William Brown smiled, then sighed whilst he brushed his hand across his
eyes, which had suddenly become dim.
"I'm thinking of your father," he said, as the little boy looked at him
inquiringly; "you're like what he was at your age, except that you're
delicate looking and he was the picture of health. I'm real glad to
see you, Billy, but I wish your poor mother'd come with you. Often
I've wanted to invite you both to visit us, but the Missus don't take
much to strangers, and—well, I let the time slip by—" He broke off, a
regretful, troubled expression on his good-natured countenance.
"Who is the Missus?" inquired Billy, rather anxiously.
"My wife," was the brief response.
The little boy looked curious. He knew that his father's mother had
died when his father had been a baby, and that his father had had a
stepmother, but he had been told nothing about his grandfather's second
wife.
"She isn't really my grandmother," he remarked, after a few minutes'
thought.
"But you must try to please her and obey her as much as though she
was," William Brown said quickly.
"Oh, of course I will," Billy agreed.
"She was a widow when I married her, with one little girl," his
grandfather explained. "That little girl's the wife of John Dingle, the
postmaster now—they keep the village shop. They've two children—Harold,
about your age, and poor little May."
"Why do you say 'poor little May?'" asked Billy.
"Because she's rather wanting here," William Brown said, tapping his
forehead meaningly; "not silly exactly, but—well, you'll see for
yourself. Cut along, Jenny!"
There was no need to tell Jenny that. Fast and faster she trotted.
By-and-by her master pulled her up, descended, and lit the lamps of the
market cart. A minute later they were off again.
"I didn't know a donkey could go so well!" cried Billy, who was
enjoying this new experience exceedingly.
"She's thinking of her supper," laughed his grandfather. "She'll have a
good feed as soon as she gets home, and she knows it. Are you keeping
warm, my boy?"
"Oh, yes, indeed, Grandfather! And I don't mind the rain at all! It's
so soft! And so's the wind! Have we much further to go?"
"No. If it wasn't so misty and nearly dark you'd be able to have a good
view of the Teign Valley from here. Ashleigh's in the Teign Valley,
you know; but my little place—Rowley Cottage—is a mile and a half from
Ashleigh Station. We shall soon be home now."
Ten minutes or so later the donkey came to a sudden stop before a
field-gate in a narrow road.
"Here we are!" William Brown said, getting down and opening the gate;
whereupon Jenny passed through the gateway, and began the descent of a
hill.
"Stay where you are!" he commanded. "I'm going to lead Jenny
down—there's a cart track through the field by the hedge which leads
right into our yard. Hold tight!"
Billy, who was secretly rather nervous, did hold tight. Daylight
had quite failed now, but, looking far down into what seemed dense
darkness, he saw a light. As the market cart proceeded, every now and
again jolting over a stone, he held his breath, fearing that it would
upset or that Jenny would stumble and fall. But no accident happened.
The yard was reached in safety, and the donkey came to a standstill
before an open door through which a light was shining from the kitchen
within.
"Here we are!" cried William Brown. "Now then, Billy, my boy!" He
lifted his grandson down from the market cart, and turned to pat a
sheep dog which had come out of the house.
"This is Scout," he said; "I leave him in charge here on market days
when I go to Exeter. Don't be afraid of him—he won't hurt you."
Scout was sniffing Billy's legs. The little boy spoke to him, calling
him by name, then extended his hand to him fearlessly. The dog sniffed
the hand and licked it. At that moment a woman appeared in the doorway.
"You're later than I expected you'd be, William!" she exclaimed.
"Very sorry, my dear," William Brown answered; "I thought we were in
good time—the train wasn't late."
"Your grandson's there? Yes? Then why doesn't he come in?"
"He's coming, Maria. Go in, please, Billy!"
Billy obeyed, and found himself in a large, comfortable kitchen, facing
his grandfather's wife. She was a tall, handsome woman who did not
look more than fifty, though she was actually much older. She smiled
as she shook hands with Billy, and kissed him, but the smile was only
on her lips, whilst her eyes did not soften. Somehow she gave him the
impression that he was not altogether welcome.
"You can call me 'Granny' as my daughter's children do," she told him.
"I've two grandchildren—that's May, the younger of them."
Billy's eyes followed the direction of her pointing finger, and saw a
little girl seated on a wooden stool near the fire, into which she was
gazing.
"Come here, May!" said Mrs. Brown, in a peremptory tone.
The child rose and came to her. She was a beautiful little creature of
about eight years old, with a fair complexion, fair curly hair, and
eyes so deeply blue that they looked quite purple.
"This boy is going to live with your grandfather and me," her
grandmother said; "his name's Billy. Will you remember?"
May nodded.
"Billy," she said softly, "Billy." She spoke as though trying to
impress the name on her memory.
"He's not a cousin," Mrs. Brown went on to explain, "but he'll be just
like one. He's lost his mother—" She paused as her husband entered the
kitchen, carrying Billy's box, then exclaimed sharply: "Mind to wipe
your boots, William!"
"All right, Maria!" he answered good temperedly, adding: "Please give
Billy a candle; he'll light me upstairs."
"Very well. But be quick, for I'm going to make tea."
Billy found he was to have a good-sized bedroom. It was spotlessly
clean, with a white-curtained window and a white-curtained bed. He
washed his face and hands, whilst his grandfather waited for him; then
they went downstairs together. A stout woman, clad in a waterproof,
the hood of which was pulled over her head, had come upon the scene in
their absence. The minute she saw Billy she made a rush at him, flung
her arms around him, and kissed him heartily again and again.
"Oh, the dear little fellow!" she cried, hugging him and half crying.
"To think of all he's gone through—the poor, motherless lamb!"
"Elizabeth," said Mrs. Brown sternly, "show more sense! If you go on
like that you'll upset him! This is my daughter, Mrs. Dingle, Billy."
"Aunt Elizabeth to you, my dear!" said Mrs. Dingle, kissing the little
boy once more before she released him.
Billy looked at her with glowing eyes. He liked her, he had no doubt
about that. She had a fresh, rosy face, and eyes as deeply blue as
her little daughter's; but what won his heart so quickly was her
expression—it was so motherly and kind.
"Well, tea's ready!" exclaimed Mrs. Brown, rather impatiently. "If you
won't stay, Elizabeth—"
"I'd best go at once," interrupted Mrs. Dingle. "All right, mother! Oh,
you've put May on her coat and hat! Ready, my birdie?"
May nodded. She kissed her grandmother and "dear grandfer" as she
called William Brown, then came to Billy, put her arms around his neck
and kissed him, too.
"The poor little boy's lost his mother, mummy," she said, as her mother
took her by the hand to lead her away.
"I know, dear, I know!" Mrs. Dingle answered. "Come!"
She hurried the child out of the kitchen, and shut the door quickly.
Mrs. Brown was already seated at the head of the table. She motioned
Billy to a chair on her left, whilst her husband took one on her right.
William Brown said grace very reverently, and the meal began.
After tea Mrs. Brown took Billy upstairs with her, and unpacked his
box. She showed him where he was to keep his belongings, and told him
she would be seriously displeased if he was not tidy. Then, as he was
very tired, she advised him to go to bed, and left him, returning later
to take away his candle. He was just going to get into bed.
"Good-night, Billy," she said. "I'll call you in the morning."
"Thank you," Billy answered. "Good-night!"
As soon as she was gone he crept into bed. A sense of utter loneliness
had taken possession of him, and, putting the bedclothes over his head,
he gave way to a fit of weeping.
"Oh, mother, mother, mother!" he sobbed, "it's dreadful to think I
shall never see you again."
Then suddenly he remembered how Tom Turpin had reminded him that
he would be with his mother through all Eternity, and the load of
desolation and grief was lifted from his heart.
"'The gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord,'" he
whispered to himself, and was comforted.