E-text prepared by Chris Curnow, Lindy Walsh, Mary Meehan, and the Project
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TWO LITTLE TRAVELLERS
A Story for Girls
by
RAY CUNNINGHAM
(FRANCES BROWNE ARTHUR)
Author of "For Gilbert's Sake," "John Carew's Daughter," &c., &c.
Thomas Nelson and Sons
London, Edinburgh, and New York
1903
"Oh! there's nothing on earth half so holy
As the innocent heart of a child."
CHARLES DICKENS.
TO
MY CHILDREN
CONTENTS.
I. UNDER THE CEDAR TREE
II. LEFT BEHIND!
III. THE BABES IN THE WOOD
IV. FAR, FAR AWAY!
V. GONE AMISSING!
VI. THE CRUISE OF H.M.S. "DREADNOUGHT"
VII. HILL DIFFICULTY
VIII. BAMBO AND BRUNO
IX. THE NEXT MORNING
X. THE HAPPY LAND
XI. A SUDDEN FLIGHT
XII. FOLLOWED BY THE ENEMY
XIII. A TERRIBLE FRIGHT
XIV. AT EVENING TIME
XV. BAMBO'S FRIEND
XVI. COMING AND GOING
XVII. ADIEU!
TWO LITTLE TRAVELLERS.
CHAPTER I.
UNDER THE CEDAR TREE.
"There are twelve months throughout the year,
From January to December,
And the primest month of all the twelve
Is the merry month of September!
Then apples so red
Hang overhead,
And nuts, ripe-brown,
Come showering down
In the bountiful days of September!"
MARY HOWITT.
It was pleasant under the shade of the huge cedar tree on the lawn at
Firgrove that golden Sunday afternoon. It was autumn, really and truly,
going by the calendar at the back of the small cat-eared diary which
Darby had coaxed from his father and always carried in his pocket. Yet
the sunshine was so bright and warm, the birds were singing so joyously
in the thickets, the rooks cawed so loudly as they wheeled and circled
like a dense black battalion at drill up against the cloudless blue of
the sky, that it was hard to believe the diary people had not made a
mistake in their reckonings or stupidly mixed their dates.
Indeed, one would have been quite sure they had done something of the
sort, and that it was still summer, only for the unmistakable signs and
tokens of harvest that everywhere met the eye. In the fields on the
hillside sloping up to meet the sky there were stooks of rich, ripe,
yellow grain still standing, waiting to be carted home to Mr. Grey's
stackyard, and there heaped into high domed castles round which children
loved to play or linger silently, watching the sleek dun mice that
darted so swiftly hither and thither, planning for themselves such
glorious games in and out and round about their well-stocked
store-houses amongst the crisp, rustling corn. Red-cheeked apples,
dark-skinned winter pears ripened slowly on the orchard trees. Big
bronze plums and late Victorias mellowed against the garden wall. And
now and then when a breeze, gentle as the flutter of a fairy's wing,
fanned the branches of the stately spreading lime tree that was comrade
of the shining cedar on the lawn, there dropped on the grass border
beside the tall hollyhocks a pale dry leaf, falling softly to the earth
from which it grew, silently as a tired bird sinks to her nest amongst
the clover blooms of summer.
On a wide wooden seat beneath the sheltering branches of the cedar tree
Captain Dene sat with his little ones close beside him. They were very
close to him indeed--as close as they could come: for Darby was bunched
up on the bench, legs and all, with his head tucked under his father's
elbow; while Joan was folded in his arms so tightly that the golden
tangle of her shining curls mingled with the deeper hue of the dark
cropped head which bent so lovingly over hers.
And no wonder that those three cuddled so close together this balmy
September afternoon. No wonder they looked sad in spite of the sunbeams
that boldly forced their way through the spikes on the cedar branches in
long, slanting shafts of light that rested lovingly on Joan's burnished
hair like the tender touch of caressing fingers. And no wonder, either,
if they were all three silent--not because there was nothing to say, but
because there were so many things they wanted to speak about, and yet
the words would not come. For on the morrow, early in the morning, at
day-dawn even, when the birds should be yet only half awake in their
nests, while Darby and Joan should be still sleeping in their cribs
disturbed by neither dream nor fear, their father was to leave them. He
must be up and away to join the company of brave fellows who called him
captain, and with them go aboard the big transport ship that even then
was lying at anchor in Southampton Water, waiting to carry them, with
many of their comrades, away, away--far, far away!--over the sweeping,
separating sea, to fight for their beloved Queen and country amidst
perils and privations on the wide, lonely veldts of South Africa.
How were they to live without him--the dear, darling daddy who had been
to them father and mother for almost a year now? And that is a long time
to little children, a large slice from the lives of such mites as Joan
and Darby Dene. Darby was not quite seven, with thick, short brown hair
and great gray eyes. Joan was five. Her hair was long and curly; it had
a funny trick of falling over her face in golden tangles, from which her
eyes, velvety as the heart of a pansy, blinked out solemnly like stars
from the purple darkness of a summer night: while her cheeks were
exactly the colour of the China roses that bloomed so freely, month in
month out, about the porch at Grannie Dene's front door.
Their names were not really Darby and Joan. They had been baptized Guy
and Doris; but their father had begun to call them Darby and Joan when
they were tiny toddlers, just for fun, because they were such devoted
chums; and after a time nearly every one called them by these names,
even their mother. Only grannie, who was very much of an invalid, and
whom in consequence they did not often visit, kept to Guy and Doris. But
for that they should soon have forgotten that these charming names were
actually theirs.
Their mother had died about nine months previously, just before
Christmas, shortly after the birth of baby Eric, the wee, fragile
brother whom Perry, the careful, kindly nurse, seemed always hushing to
sleep and rarely permitted the others to touch. Already Joan had ceased
to remember her mother, except at odd times, and in a hazy sort of
fashion; and to Darby it appeared quite a great while since that day
when he had heard the servants say to each other that their mistress was
dead.
It was a bright, crisp winter day outside--Darby knew, because he had
been sliding on the pond behind the barrack wall quite early after
breakfast--but inside the house it was chill and gloomy; for all the
blinds were down, and every room seemed strange and still.
At twilight their father came up to the nursery. He stood for a minute
or two looking down upon Joan lying asleep in her crib. Then he took
Darby in his arms, and drawing a low chair close to the window, together
they sat there until from the fleckless blue of the frosty sky the
little stars shone out one by one, twinkling soft bright eyes towards
Darby as if to say, "Good-night, you poor little motherless lamb! Go to
bed; sleep sound, and we shall watch your pillow the whole night
through."
But these memories were nearly a year old now. Already they were
becoming less vivid in Darby's mind, and being gradually pushed aside in
order to leave room in the storehouse for more recent impressions. Many
things had happened since then. Baby Eric had grown from a tiny pink
morsel into quite an armful, Nurse Perry declared, and a heavy handful
as well, whatever that meant. They had dwelt in different places, too,
during that time; because when the regiment moved the officers also
moved, and Captain Dene kept his motherless children as constantly with
him as it was possible to do. Recently, however, it had become no longer
possible--quite impossible, in fact--for Captain Dene's company was
under orders for active service in South Africa. Darby and Joan would
have been more than willing to accompany their father to the ends of the
earth, riding at the tail of a baggage-wagon, seated on a gun-carriage,
or perched on the hump of a camel. But Captain Dene only smiled and
shook his head at the eager little ones. Then he made for them the best
arrangement that circumstances permitted.
In consequence, just the previous Thursday he had brought his three
children, with Perry their nurse, to Firgrove, where they were to remain
during his absence, under the care and guardianship of his own two
aunts, the Misses Turner.
Aunt Catharine and Auntie Alice, as Darby and Joan were told to call the
maiden ladies (who in the children's eyes looked old enough to be the
grandmothers of all the young folks in the neighbourhood around their
country home), were sisters of Captain Dene's mother. They were not
really old at all, although Aunt Catharine's thick black hair was shaded
by a lace cap, and in Auntie Alice's nut-brown waves there were streaks
of silver that lent a chastened charm to her faded face. Firgrove was
their birthplace, and there in his boyhood Captain Dene had spent many a
happy holiday.
Auntie Alice was a little, slender body, whose gentle voice and quiet
ways just matched her meek brown eyes; while Aunt Catharine was a tall
and stately lady, with a prim, severe manner, and a fixed belief in the
natural naughtiness of all children, whom she kept down accordingly. And
although he knew how truly good and kind she was at heart, Captain Dene
wondered somewhat anxiously how Darby's unbroken spirit would bear the
curb of such strict, stern rule. But there was Auntie Alice as well, and
Captain Dene smiled as he remembered how she had petted and indulged him
in his juvenile days. The aunts between them, like John Gilpin's
bottles, would keep the balance true. The children would be all right.
Besides, he did not expect to be very long away--six months or a year at
most. The time would soon pass, and when he came home from Africa he
would have his little ones to live with him again, until Darby should be
old enough for school at any rate.