BILLY HAS A FRIGHT.
BILLY'S grandfather was a prosperous market-gardener now-a-days, but
before his second marriage he had been only a farm labourer. He had
married the widow of the former tenant of Rowley Cottage, and together
they had worked hard to save money, and were now in a comfortable
position. Billy's father had not got on with his stepmother, so he had
never gone home after he had settled in London and married.
Rowley Cottage, which was really a fair-sized house, was situated far
down the side of a steep hill, with a hill equally steep facing it.
Before the house sloped a flower garden, at the end of which was a
shallow, rippling stream, spanned by a wooden footbridge, and beyond
the stream was a large vegetable and fruit garden. Surrounding the
house and gardens were apple orchards.
Billy's first morning in his new home was a dull one. It rained hard,
so he had to stay indoors. After breakfast his grandfather, clad in
oilskins, went out, and did not return till dinner-time. He then said
that there was a prospect of the weather clearing.
"If it does I'll show you about a bit," he said to Billy. "We might get
as far as the post office—Elizabeth will give us some tea. Won't you
come with us, Maria?" he asked his wife.
"No, thank you," answered Mrs. Brown. "I've work to do at home if you
haven't. Besides, I've no liking for traipsing about in the mud."
About three o'clock the rain began to cease, and a little later the sun
shone out. Billy and his grandfather left the house by the front door.
They stood for a minute under the porch, whilst William Brown pointed
out a house—the only human habitation in sight—almost on the summit of
the opposite hill.
"That's Mount Farm," he said, "farmer Turpin's place. You can see
Exeter from there. I used to work for farmer Turpin's father when I was
a lad. Ah, the wind's rising! We shall have no more rain for a bit!
Come along, Billy!"
He led the way to a little green gate in the garden hedge, by which
they passed into an orchard. There was a footpath through the orchard
to steep ploughed fields beyond, and a footpath through the fields to a
gateway which led into the high road.
Billy was panting when at length the high road was reached, so that his
grandfather had to wait for him to regain his breath.
"Oh, look at my boots!" exclaimed the little boy, as they moved on
again; "they're all over mud!"
William Brown laughed.
"You'll get accustomed to mud," he said; "but you must have thicker
boots. I must take you to Exeter one day and get you fitted out
properly for bad weather."
"Oh, thank you!" Billy answered, gratefully. "Shall I have leather
leggings like yours, Grandfather?" he asked.
"We'll see!" was the smiling response.
A ten minutes' walk brought them to the village—a few thatched cottages
dotted around the church and churchyard. The railway-station, Billy
learnt, was half a mile distant in the valley, and the vicarage was
midway between the church and the railway-station.
"That's the post office," said William Brown, pointing at a
semi-detached cottage with several bottles of sweets and some groceries
in the window. "And there's Elizabeth!" he added, as a stout figure, in
a dark stuff gown nearly covered by a big white apron, appeared in the
doorway.
Mrs. Dingle nodded to her stepfather, and kissed Billy, telling them
she had been on the look-out for them ever since dinner.
"And here's Uncle John!" she cried, pulling Billy inside the door and
presenting him to a little dark man wearing spectacles, who came from
behind the shop counter and peered at him in a near-sighted way.
"Very glad to make your acquaintance, my boy!" declared John Dingle,
shaking Billy's hand heartily. "Yes," he said, "I see he's like his
father, Elizabeth; but he looks very pale—"
"He's been through enough to make him pale!" broke in his wife. "Come
into the parlour, Billy, and talk to me whilst I get tea."
Leaving his grandfather with the postmaster, Billy followed Mrs. Dingle
into a tiny parlour behind the shop. It was divided from the shop by
a door, the top half of which was of glass with a lace curtain across
it. Mrs. Dingle put the kettle on the fire and laid the table for tea.
The children were at school, she said, but would be home very shortly,
and she did hope he and her boy, Harold, would be friends. Very soon
Billy felt quite at ease with her, and began telling her about himself
and how sadly he missed his mother. She shed tears when he spoke of his
mother, whilst an expression of deep regret settled on her rosy face.
"I wish I'd known her!" she sighed. "Often I used to think I'd write to
her, but I never did—not being much of a hand with my pen. And now it's
too late! Hark! The children are out of school!"
Billy listened. He heard a babel of children's voices mingled with
merry laughter in the road outside the shop. A few minutes later the
door between the shop and parlour opened softly, and little May came
in. The instant she caught sight of her mother's visitor her look
became eager.
"Have you found her?" she cried, her blue eyes fixed anxiously on
Billy's face.
"Found who?" Billy inquired, not understanding.
"She's thinking of your poor mother," Mrs. Dingle explained hastily;
"she doesn't realise she's dead." Then, addressing her little daughter,
she asked: "Where's Harold?"
"In the road, mummy," was the reply.
"Run and fetch him, there's a dear!"
After the child had gone Mrs. Dingle said—
"You mustn't mind if she questions you about your mother. May is
backward for her age—there are many things she can't understand, though
she's sharp enough in some ways. She learns hardly anything at school.
She can't read, or write, or do sums. The mistress doesn't bother her
to learn, for she knows she can't. Still, it's good for her to be with
other children. By-and-by, perhaps, but God only knows—"
She broke off abruptly, May having returned, followed by her brother.
Harold was very like his mother in appearance, being a stout,
rosy-cheeked boy. His blue eyes had a merry twinkle in them, and he
looked full of fun.
Tea now being quite ready the two men were called from the shop, the
lace curtain was pulled back from the glass-top door, and, grace having
been said, the meal began.
"Now, make yourself at home, my boy," the postmaster said to Billy,
"and let me tell you once for all that you'll always find a welcome
here."
"Thank you, Mr. Dingle!" Billy replied, his eyes alight with gratitude.
"Uncle John, please!" corrected Mr. Dingle.
Billy smiled, and flushed with pleasure.
"Thank you, Uncle John!" he said, adding: "Oh, I wish mother knew how
kind you all are to me!"
Twice during tea customers came to the shop, and the postmaster had to
go to serve them. On the second occasion Billy thought he recognised
the customer's voice, and glanced quickly at his grandfather.
"Yes!" nodded William Brown, "it's Master Tom! Why, here he comes!"
A smiling face peeped around the half-open glass-top door, whilst its
owner said—
"What a jolly tea-party! Mrs. Dingle, won't you please give me a cup of
tea?"
Mrs. Dingle was answering that she would be delighted, when there was
the sound of a loud report at no great distance, and Billy sprang to
his feet with a terrified shriek.
"Oh! Oh!" he gasped, horror-stricken; "it's a bomb!—it's a bomb!"
"No, no, no!" Tom Turpin assured him, "nothing of the kind! It's
blasting—that is, blowing up rock with dynamite—at the stone quarry.
Don't be frightened! Really, there's nothing to be alarmed at. You
won't hear the noise, this afternoon, again."
Billy sank into his chair. He was white to the lips, and shaking. The
elders of the party looked at him with sympathy and much concern. May's
eyes expressed only wonderment, but Harold's sparkled with amusement
and scorn.
"The stone quarry's only a couple of miles away, so you'll get
accustomed to the sound of blasting," Tom Turpin continued, "and you'll
not be scared another time, for you'll know what the sound means."
"Yes—oh, yes!" murmured Billy. He was ashamed of the terror he had felt
and exhibited. Everyone would consider him such a coward. His lips
quivered, whilst tears rose to his eyes.
"Did you think the Germans were coming?" asked Harold, with a wide grin.
"I thought a German airship might be dropping bombs," admitted Billy.
"I—I'm ashamed of myself."
"You've no call to be that!" Mrs. Dingle told him. "It's no wonder
you're nervy, I'm sure. There, you're all right now, aren't you? Have
another cup of tea, won't you? It'll do you good."
Billy shook his head. It was with difficulty he kept from crying. He
sat in miserable silence whilst Tom Turpin talked with the others and
took his tea, and, when the young soldier left, his voice was unsteady
as he said "good-bye" to him. He was sure Tom must despise him for
having shown such fear.
It was dark long before Billy and his grandfather started for home. A
walk in complete darkness was a novel experience for the little boy,
but he was not timid, because his grandfather was with him. He said so,
adding, as the hand which held his tightened its clasp—
"I know you'll look after me, Grandfather!"
"Aye," William Brown assented, "to the best of my power. And there's
One above, Billy, Who'll look after us both. You'll soon learn to find
your way about in the darkness, and won't mind it—why, even little May
doesn't."
"Doesn't she?" cried Billy in surprise. "How brave of her!"
"You know it says in one of the psalms, 'The Lord my God shall make my
darkness to be light,'" his grandfather said thoughtfully; "and I think
that, though there's a sort of cloud over May's mind, behind the cloud
there's God's own light. The soul that has that light knows no fear."