"The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in its flight;
"But the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away."
No cares had Colonel Clarkson to trouble him. So everyone would have
told round the village or in the parish. It was then nearly the autumn
of life with the Colonel, but really and truly he seemed to be growing
old gracefully. Nor did he allow the little worries of life to
interfere in the least with the calm enjoyment of his placid existence.
He had been a busy man in his younger days. But that was years ago. He
had fought in the Crimea, he had waved his sword on Persian plains, and
on Afghanistan heights, and he had gone through all the horrors of the
Indian Mutiny. He had even been side by side with brave Havelock in the
rush for the Residency up that long street of death and fire where brave
Neill fell. Yet concerning these and his many other adventures he was
seldom very communicative, albeit there were times when his friend Uncle
Ben succeeded in drawing him out, and then his stories were well worth
listening to.
The Colonel was like many brave soldiers, a somewhat shy man, and
certainly kept himself personally very much in the background when
describing a battle or the storming of a trench against fearful odds.
That he had not kept himself in the background on the real field of
fight was evident enough from the medals he had won but seldom if ever
wore. And one of these was the Victoria Cross.
When the Colonel did suffer himself to be drawn out, as Sailor Ben
phrased it, he never told his stories excitedly, but in low calm tones,
and in earnest conversational English, that carried conviction of the
truthfulness of every item of his narrative to the hearts of his
listeners.
And who would these listeners be? I must tell you that, and having done
so I shall have introduced you to most of the personalities who figure
in this biography.
The listeners then may, indeed they must be, divided into two groups.
The first group was composed of human beings, the second of what I am
loth indeed to call the lower animals. It is mere conventionality on my
part to do so, for the creatures God has permitted us to domesticate,
and who are such faithful and trustworthy servants, are oftentimes quite
as interesting in a way as many of their masters--men.
On that very autumnal evening on which Shireen paid her visit to Uncle
Ben's bungalow, and made it so hot for the butcher's dog, our two groups
were all together around the fire at the Colonel's Castle, as the old
soldier's house was generally called, and Castle it once had been in
reality.
On this particular evening after Ben had finished his pipe and drank the
tea that Pedro had brought him, he had smoothed pussy once more, and
said:--"I think now, Shireen, we'll take a walk to the Castle and see
your master. By that time gloaming will be falling, and it will be what
my dear friend the Colonel calls the `Children's Hour.'"
"Meow!" said puss, as if she knew all about it, and quite understood
every word that Uncle Ben said when he repeated Longfellow's dreamy
lines:
"Between the dark and the daylight,
When the night is beginning to lower,
Comes a pause in the day's occupations,
That is known as the Children's Hour.
"I hear in the chamber above me
The patter of little feet,
The sound of a door that is opened,
And voices soft and sweet."
People who had met Uncle Ben this evening walking along towards the
Colonel's Castle, were not a bit astonished to see Shireen trotting
contentedly beside him, her tail in the air and head erect; nor to see
his wonderful cockatoo balancing himself uneasily on his shoulder, and
giving vent now and then to a war-whoop that would have scared a
Comanche Indian, and certainly frightened the dogs.
Uncle Ben's cockatoo was as often on his shoulder as anywhere else, and
the bird was a frequent visitor at the old Castle, only he insisted on
remaining on his master's shoulder all the time he stayed there,
generally taking stock of things around him; sometimes making a remark
or two of his own, or allaying his feelings with a little dance or a
song.
Well, Ben was one of Colonel Clarkson's listeners to-night. But there
were three others, namely, the Colonel's wife, a lady who was still
strangely interestingly pleasing to behold, although she was evidently
not English. People called her beautiful. She must have been many
years younger than her husband, all owing to the fact that women age
sooner than men. On the swaying, sighing trees outside yonder, the
leaves had assumed their autumn tints. There were autumn tints on
Colonel Clarkson's hair as well, but the tints on both were beautiful.
Tom, a handsome boy of some eight years of age, sat on his aunt's knee,
his head nestling on her shoulder, but his eyes on his soldier uncle.
On this uncle's knee sat a fairy fragile little maiden, the boy's
sister, and some two years his senior. They were orphans, and the
Castle was now their home. These then were the human group.
The other group were altogether on the skin hearthrug in front of the
fire--a group of undergraduates let me term them.
The members of this group were far indeed from uninteresting, each in
his or her own way. But their individualisms must develop themselves as
the story goes on, only I want you to be introduced to them here at
once.
Shireen you already know. She is seated on a footstool, singing low to
herself, and gazing somewhat pensively into the fire.
She is not the only cat in the group, however. There is a much younger
one stretched on the rug. A short-haired tabby.
And seated on top of her, busily preening his feathers very much to his
own satisfaction, is Dick. Now Dick is a starling, and it may surprise
some to learn that he is on terms the most friendly with both cats, and
that far from seeking to harm him, they would at any hour of the day
risk their lives in protecting him.
The particular trait in Dick's character, judging from his every look
and movement, is consummate _chic_ and independence.
But there are two dogs here also, both characters in their way.
One is a white Pomeranian. He is sitting as near as he can get to his
master's knee, for his love for Colonel Clarkson knows neither bounds
nor limits.
The other dog is the drollest, daftest, wildest little rascal you could
conceive. He is an iron-grey, hard-haired Scotch terrier. He comes of
a race of dogs that are simply indomitable, that know no such thing as
fear, who will, single-handed, face and fight either fox, badger, or
otter, and if vanquished, know at least how to die.
There is an old-world look in that doggie's face which is wonderful to
behold, and a depth of wisdom in his dark eyes that is unfathomable.
Warlock, for that is his name, is cheek-by-jowl with that young tabby
cat, for curiously enough, the two are inseparables. Almost every day
they go out by themselves to the fields and banks and woods, to hunt
together, and even at night they come trotting home side by side.
So that is all my group of undergraduates--no, stay a moment. There is
yet another, and in one way he or she is the drollest of the crew. In
yonder far-off corner there, but not a great way from the fire, a branch
of wood has been fixed in a block to keep it upright, and on one limb of
this artificial tree is stretched at length a large chameleon. Chammy,
as he is called, is very wide awake, and evidently enjoying the warmth
of the fire, for hand after hand he extends, time about at intervals of
about a minute to woo the welcome blaze.
And what a fire that is too! Pray do not let such a thing as a grate
arise up before your mind's eye at my mention of the word fire. The
idea of a tall ungainly grate would utterly dispel all ideas of romance.
This is a low fire, a fire of logs and coals and peat, all beautifully,
artistically, and thoughtfully arranged with the art that conceals art.
A fire that to sit in front of on a winter's evening would be an
entertainment in itself; a fire that would make the oldest and loneliest
man feel he had good company; a fire that laughs and talks to one; that
speaks to the very soul itself, while it warms the very heart, and that
carries the thought away back to pleasant scenes in past life, or
merrily forward to a hopeful future; verily a fire to be thankful for,
especially if wild winds are careering round the house, and moaning in
the old-fashioned chimney, while we think of sailors far at sea.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Colonel Clarkson finishes his story, and stretches out his hand to find
his pipe. Lizzie snuggles up closer to his chest, and pats his cheek
with her fingers.
"God brought you safely back, didn't he, dearest?" she says.
Uncle Clarkson kisses her brow for answer.
Ben clears his throat and is about to speak. But he seems to think
better of it, and commences to refill his pipe instead, smiling to
himself as he does so.