"COME LIFE, COME DEATH, THEY'RE SAFE."
DURING the next few days, the weather continuing fine, May was a
constant visitor at Rowley Cottage, coming and going as she pleased.
She spent most of her time with her grandfather and Billy in the
garden, but sometimes she would leave them and wander about the orchard
with the live-stock there. She had no fear of any living creature, and
even the big, grey gander, which hissed so fiercely, would eat from her
hand.
"She's not like any other little girl I ever knew," Billy remarked to
his grandfather one evening, as they sat on the settle by the kitchen
fire, Scout asleep at their feet, discussing May, who had gone home
shortly before tea.
"I expect not," William Brown answered, "she's different from most
children, poor dear! She learns nothing at school, but—"
"She's only backward," his wife broke in sharply. She was seated near
the table, sewing by the light of an oil lamp. "You needn't speak as
though she's stupid," she added, in a tone full of resentment, "for she
can learn some things quick enough."
"Just what I was going to say when you interrupted me," William Brown
said mildly. "She can't remember if you try to teach her to read or
add up figures, but tell her anything about an animal or a bird, or a
flower, and she'll remember it. Oh, yes! If she's a bad memory for some
things—"
"Oh, her memory will be all right by-and-by!" broke in Mrs. Brown
again. "It'll strengthen as she grows older, you'll find!"
"I hope so, I'm sure," her husband muttered to himself. Aloud he said:
"I suppose you've no objection to Billy's spending to-morrow with his
cousins, Maria? Being Saturday, Harold will have a holiday. I saw
Elizabeth when I went to the post office this afternoon, and she asked
if Billy might come. Of course, I said 'yes.'"
"Then why ask me anything about it?" questioned Mrs. Brown tartly. "You
said 'yes,' so that's enough. Billy and his cousins indeed!"
"Aunt Elizabeth said I was to look on May and Harold as cousins,"
explained Billy, adding in a disappointed tone, "If you don't want me
to go, Granny, of course I won't."
"Oh, go!" said Mrs. Brown impatiently. "Why should I want to keep you
here?"
Accordingly Billy went. He consulted his grandfather as to the time he
ought to go, and was told as early after breakfast as he pleased. So
soon after nine o'clock found him at the top of the hill, hastening in
the direction of the village. At the first turn of the road he met May
and Harold.
"Oh, here you are!" exclaimed Harold. "We were coming to meet you.
She—" nodding at his sister—"would come too! Now what would you like to
do before dinner? I thought we wouldn't go to the allotment field till
this afternoon, then father'll be there. Father can't leave the post
office in the morning, because mother's too busy about the house to
attend to the shop. I say, don't you think it would be nice to go down
to the bridge by the railway-station? We might sit on it and watch the
Canadians."
"The Canadians?" echoed Billy, inquiringly.
"Yes—the Canadian lumbermen. They've been taking down trees in the
valley, and they've got a steam saw near the station cutting them up.
It's great fun looking on. You'd like it, wouldn't you?"
"Yes," agreed Billy, "I expect I should."
So the children spent the morning seated on top of one of the arches
of an old stone bridge close to the railway-station, watching a great
steam saw at work, and a lot of khaki-clad Canadian lumbermen loading
trucks with timber. Some of the men spoke to them good-naturedly in
passing, and one, a grey-headed, middle-aged man who seemed to be in
command of the others, stopped, and, after exchanging a few words with
the boys, addressed himself to May.
"I've a little daughter at home in Canada with fair hair like yours,"
he told her, with a smile. "Guess she's about your age, my dear. Real
smart she is. See!"
He took a letter from his pocket, opened it, looked at it admiringly
for a few moments, then showed it to May.
"Her own handwriting," he said proudly; "her own spelling too. Guess,
now, you can't write or spell much better than that yourself."
"May can't either write or spell," Harold said, as his little sister
did not attempt to answer; "she goes to school, but she can't
learn—it's not her fault."
The Canadian put his great brown hand under May's chin, lifted her face
and looked long and earnestly into the depths of her dark-blue eyes.
What he saw there brought a very tender expression into his own eyes.
"No," he said gently, "it's not her fault. What's your name, little
one?" he asked May.
When she had told him, he remarked that it was a very pretty name. Then
he asked for a kiss, and, having received it, went across the bridge
and away.
"Nice man!" May exclaimed. "Where's Canada, Harold?"
"Oh, ever so far off," he answered.
"Further away than Exeter?" questioned the little girl.
Her brother nodded, laughing. "It's across the sea," he explained. "To
get there you've to go in a ship."
"Oh, how lovely!" cried May, clasping her hands.
"She stayed by the sea once," Harold told Billy. "Mother took her to
Teignmouth for a week because she'd been ill; that was two years ago,
but she's never forgotten it. Now, what do you say to making a move?
I'm getting so hungry that I'm sure it must be nearly dinner-time."
Dinner was being dished when the children reached the post office.
Billy, who was quite at his ease with his adopted relations, enjoyed
his dinner—a share of a large rabbit-pie, which was the nicest he had
ever tasted, he thought. He did not talk much himself, but listened to
the conversation of the others. He learnt that on Saturday afternoons
Mrs. Varcoe came to "scrub up," and that Aunt Elizabeth took charge of
the post office so that her husband might go gardening.
As soon as ever dinner was over Uncle John said, "Now then, boys!" and
a start was made for the allotment gardens.
The allotment gardens were in a field which sloped right down to
the river. Many of their owners were there on this sunny November
afternoon, tidying their patches of ground against the coming winter.
Several large bonfires were burning finely, and it was not long before
Harold and Billy were busily engaged making a bonfire of their own.
Meanwhile John Dingle was weeding the ground between his winter greens,
pausing now and again to exchange a few words with other allotment
holders.
"There's going to be a change in the weather before long," Billy
overheard him say by-and-by to a man who was passing.
"Aye, aye!" was the answer; "the wind's changing—veering round to the
west."
"Does a west wind bring rain, Uncle John?" Billy inquired.
"Very often. But there are other signs the fine weather's going to
break up. See those long fleecy clouds? Mares' tails we call 'em. They
mean wind—high wind. It wouldn't surprise me if there was a westerly
gale before morning. Where's May?"
May had followed her father and the boys to the allotment field, but
had wandered away from her father's garden. She was now seen returning
with the Vicar—he often came there on Saturday afternoons, Billy
afterwards learnt.
"Oh, she's with Mr. Singleton!" John Dingle exclaimed; "that's all
right! I don't like her to get away to the river by herself for fear
she should fall in. You haven't spoken to our Vicar yet, have you,
Billy? He was in the post office this morning and spoke of you—he
noticed you on Sunday."
"Yes," said Mr. Singleton, who had come up with May and heard the
postmaster's last words; "and I want to make the acquaintance of my new
parishioner."
He shook hands with Billy. Although he was really old his eyes looked
young, the little boy noticed. Those eyes were smiling at him now in
the kindliest, friendliest fashion. "So you've come to live with your
grandfather," he said. "I hope you'll like the country. You're going in
for gardening, I understand! Ah, you wonder how I know that! A friend
of yours told me—Mr. Tom Turpin."
"Oh!" cried Billy, flushing. So the Vicar considered Mr. Tom Turpin his
friend! His heart swelled with happiness at that thought.
"He came to see me to say 'good-bye,'" the Vicar continued; "dropped in
for a few minutes with his father on his way to the railway-station.
He's gone to-day."
"Ah, poor lad!" sighed the postmaster. "I hope God will keep him safe."
"He will," the Vicar answered; "be sure He will. We know the Lord is
mindful of His own—come life, come death, they're safe."
Come life, come death, they're safe! Those words, spoken by the old man
with child-like faith and conviction, sounded in Billy's ears again and
again during the remainder of the day, bringing joy and consolation
with them. They eased the ache there was always in his heart when he
thought of his mother, the innocent victim of the cruel war, and he
murmured them to himself that night, as he lay in bed in the darkness,
listening to the rising wind which was beginning to moan and to sob
around the house.
The postmaster had been a true prophet. The fine weather had broken up.
The after-glow of summer had gone.