FAR, FAR AWAY!
"The leaves were reddening to their fall,
'Coo!' said the gray doves, 'coo!'
As they sunned themselves on the garden wall,
And the swallows round them flew.
'Whither away, sweet swallows?
Coo!' said the gray doves, 'coo!'
'Far from this land of ice and snow
To a sunny southern clime we go,
Where the sky is warm and bright and gay:
Come with us, away, away!'"
F. E. WEATHERLY.
Just as they paused on the last note Joan uttered a scream of delight.
"Look, Darby, look!" she cried, clutching at her brother's arm. "The
star! the star! God has sended it soon, hasn't He? He must have been
listenin' close by when we sang. Auntie Alice says He is every place at
once."
"Where?" eagerly asked Darby, peering anxiously into the darkness, but
looking in the wrong direction.
"There--right behind you," replied Joan, pointing with her finger. "It's
comin' nearer and nearer. Don't you see it?"
Yes, sure enough there was moving slowly towards them, out of the
shadows, a small bright light not unlike the twinkle of a tiny star. It
came steadily on, then stopped, wavered, and was gone.
"Holloa! who's there? Speak up!" called out a loud, hearty voice.
Heavy footsteps followed the voice--footsteps that halted and stumbled
among the gnarled tree-roots and spreading branches, yet kept straight
on--and in another instant the kind, ruddy face of Mr. Grey looked down
upon the children.
"The babes in the wood, by George!" he ejaculated, at the same time
stooping to peer into the small, eager faces which were so fearlessly
upturned to meet his gaze. Then, when he made out who the
forlorn-looking little objects really were, he gave expression to his
astonishment in a long whistle, which frightened the birds in the trees,
the rabbits within their burrows, and the wicked man and woman behind
the hazel bushes, so that they cowered closer beneath the branches,
wishing themselves well out of the way of Farmer Grey's stout blackthorn
staff.
"Oh, it's you, Mr. Grey!" said Darby, with a curious catch in his voice
of glad relief to find that the face bending over them with such kindly,
quizzical scrutiny was not that of either gipsy, tramp, or poacher; for
in spite of his lofty scorn of unknown dangers, he had grown terribly
frightened for the possibilities which might lurk in the gloom of
Copsley Wood.
"Ay, it's me, an' no mistake," replied Mr. Grey readily. "But I'm
blessed if I knew ye at first in the dusk. 'They're tramps,' says I to
myself, 'or gipsy weans.' But then, when I got a good look at ye, I saw
that it was the little folks from Firgrove--Miss Turner's youngsters."
"We isn't Miss Turner's youngsters," struck in Joan stoutly; "we's
daddy's chil'ens."
"Ho, ho! so that's the way the wind blows!" laughed Mr. Grey. "Ye're a
pair o' pickles, anyway, an' no mistake! Who would think _ye_ were the
little angels whose pretty speeches my missis was divertin' me with all
the time I was at my tea! An' what may the two o' ye be doin' here in
the dark, I should like to know?" he demanded, in his big, gruff voice.
"We were lost--quite lost," cried Joan, "just like the babes in the
wood. If God hadn't sended you to find us, I s'pose robin redbreast
would have comed by-and-by to cover us up wif leaves and twigs and
fings."
"Tush!" and Mr. Grey laughed into the little girl's earnest face,
although he was moved at the thought of the anxiety and distress these
small creatures must have endured. "Lost! why, you're not more'n half a
dozen yards off the highroad."
"You must excuse Joan, please," put in Darby formally. "If she says
silly things sometimes, it's because she's so little. At least, that's
how I 'splains her to myself," he added.
Then he went on to give Mr. Grey a clear and full account of how and why
they were wandering at what was for them such an unusual hour in the
mazes of Copsley Wood--frankly owning up to more than his own share in
the escapade, casting not a shadow of blame upon his little sister.
"So, so!" said Mr. Grey, much amused by the lad's quaint manner and
grown-up air. "But I thought I heard some kind o' singin' as I came up
the hill. It was that fetched me into the wood. I had been down at
Firdale seein' about some seed-wheat for sowin' to-morrow, an' I was in
a hurry home."
"It was us you heard," Joan told him gravely. "We were askin' God to
send a star to show us the way out of the darkness."
"I'm afraid you'll certainly think my sister very childish," said Darby,
in an apologetic tone. "But you see, just when we had finished the first
verse of our hymn, a light really did shine. We didn't know at the time
that it was only the matches you were striking for your pipe, and Joan
thought (in fact, we _both_ thought--for a moment, you know) that God
had really sent a star to point us out the path, just as long ago He
guided the wise men to the place where the dear little baby Jesus lay."
For a space there was silence. Joan was almost asleep on her seat on the
tree-stump; not a quiver of the hazel bushes betrayed the presence of
the couple lurking there. And into the big farmer's eyes a sudden
moisture had sprung as he heard these little ones expressing in simple
speech their perfect confidence in the ability and readiness of their
heavenly Father to make good His own promise: "I will guide thee with
mine eye."
"That's right, my boy," spoke Mr. Grey at length, in deep, earnest
tones. "Always look out for God, an' you'll find Him close beside you,
in the darkest forest as well as in the starry sky. An' now we must be
movin', or the ladies'll be sendin' the police to look for the pair o'
ye.--Eh! Anybody there?" he shouted, as the sudden snapping of a twig
broke the stillness about them.
There was no answer, only the flutter of a belated bird as it failed to
find its accustomed perch among the pines, and the sighing of the wind
through the tree-tops overhead.
"Some beast, I expect, or a poacher, maybe," Mr. Grey muttered to
himself. Then he turned towards the children. "I was never reckoned much
o' _a star_," he said, with a chuckle of amusement, "but I guess I'll
manage to steer ye straight to Firgrove."
"Do you think you could carry Joan, please, Mr. Grey? She's not _very_
heavy; I sometimes carry her myself," added Darby, as if doing so were a
mere trifle instead of a feat of which he was privately proud. "She's
tired, I'm afraid.--Joan! Waken up! Aren't you tired?"
"Yes, werry, werry tired," assented Joan sleepily, as the farmer cradled
her comfortably in his strong arms; and with Darby holding hard by his
coat-tail they started.
"The eggs, Darby! Is you forgettin' Aunt Catharine's eggs, and the
bantam's too?" Joan cried, when they neared the opening in the wood.
Outside the fringe of dark trees twilight still lingered, and there,
just where Darby had set it down, was the basket, safe and sound.
With a whoop of delight at the welcome sight of the basket--for its
possible loss had lain heavily on his tender conscience--Darby sprang
forward to seize it. But in the dusk he did not notice a long, twisted
tree-root that straggled between him and his desire. His toe caught in
it; he suddenly tripped, swayed, and fell flat forward, crunching right
smash down into the shallow basket of smooth brown Cochin eggs.
"Whoa, there! steady, my man!" called the farmer, vainly struggling to
suppress his amusement at sight of Darby's deplorable and moist
condition. "You forget that you've a heavier seat on the eggs than a
hen, young sir, an' you must sit down easy."
A sharp sob, however, and the smothered cry of "The bantams! we're
bantams!" that burst from the little creature in his arms, indicated
that what was a joke to him was a catastrophe to the children, and that
his mirth was ill-timed and unseemly.
"Never mind, sonny," he added, in a soothing tone; "just tell the
ladies when you get home that it was all an accident. Here, rub down
your clothes wi' this wisp o' grass, an' I'll see if my missis can't
coax them Cochins to lay some more eggs between this an' Christmas."
Then, with Joan cuddled cosily against his broad shoulder, and Darby's
small hand clinging closely to his, the party set off down the winding
road towards Firgrove.
At the same time two figures raised themselves from their cramped
position behind the hazel thicket. The man stretched himself, hitched up
on his shoulder a bag, from which peeped the tail of a pheasant and the
paw of a rabbit, while he muttered savagely and shook his fist in the
direction of the retreating farmer.
"Spoiled yer little game, did he?" and the dark-eyed woman laughed
wickedly as she rearranged the faded scarlet shawl more closely round
her shoulders. "Well, better luck next time, Joe my dear," she added
airily.
"Shut up!" said the gentleman called Joe, with a heavy scowl. "It's kids
like they I've been lookin' out for this many a day, an' I'll have them
yet," he growled, "as sure as yer name's Moll! See if I don't! Come on!"
And in another moment they were not to be seen, they had plunged into
the heart of Copsley Wood.
At the gate of Firgrove Mr. Grey set Joan down, and watched until she
and Darby reached the front door. There a curious group had
collected--Auntie Alice, who was softly sobbing; Aunt Catharine, wearing
her garden-hat and strongest boots; Nurse Perry, Mary the cook; and
Green the gardener, armed with a stout staff and the stable lantern. It
was the search-party in the act of setting out to explore the recesses
of Copsley Wood in quest of the missing children.
Mr. Grey thought it would be in better taste to retire. He knew Miss
Turner, and he guessed that probably the next scene in the drama would
be purely private. Well, the youngsters had unquestionably disobeyed
orders, and on their own showing. They must be punished, if by no other
means they could be taught obedience, which is the first if not the
chief lesson of life. Still, it was a pity, thought the big,
soft-hearted man; and the confiding eyes of the children followed him as
he sauntered up the hill, forgetting that he was in a hurry home. The
words that had floated from their pure lips through the gloom of the
pines rang in his ears, and as he went along he hummed softly to
himself, in his deep, bass voice,--
"Ever journeying onward,
Guided by a star."
"Aunt Catharine's real angry this time, and no mistake," Darby thought,
as in almost perfect silence she gave him and Joan their supper, then
helped Perry to undress, bath, and put them to bed. "She's sure to
punish us somehow to-morrow though she's saying nothing about it
to-night. Oh dear! if she would not look so cold and cross, but just
give me enough spanking for us both and get it over, I'd much rather."
But Aunt Catharine had decided not to administer any bodily chastisement
to her nephew's children, although she considered that a smart whipping
now and again was almost as necessary to the well-being of young people
as cooling medicine in the spring. She had talked the matter over with
Auntie Alice, who could not bear the idea of either Darby or Joan being
put to any avoidable pain. They had been very disobedient certainly, she
was obliged to admit, and must be taught somehow to do as they were
told--Darby especially, who should have been so much wiser than Joan.
She would herself have cheerfully borne the penalty of all their
misdemeanours if she could. That was impossible, however; but she
succeeded in impressing upon her sister that perhaps Captain Dene might
not like his motherless children to be subjected to such old-fashioned
discipline. Aunt Catharine, consequently, had laid her plans for a
different course of action.
Next morning Darby slept quite late--for him--being tired out from the
fatigue of the previous evening. He awoke refreshed and brisk, however,
and was about to spring out of bed and dress himself in readiness for
the fun, frolic, and mischief of a new day, when the nursery door was
thrown wide open, and Aunt Catharine sailed into the room, arrayed in
all the glory of a Paisley-pattern morning-gown and black crochet
breakfast-cap. Now, Miss Turner was one of those people sometimes to be
met with whose moods usually match their clothes. Darby understood this
peculiarity of his aunt's in a vague sort of way, so that the moment he
set eyes on the many-coloured wrapper and sombre headgear he knew that
now they were in for it and no mistake.
"Well, what have you to say for yourselves?" she demanded in a loud
voice, seating herself solemnly in a chair between the two cribs, and
looking from one child to the other with her severest expression. "You
can answer me, Guy; Doris is hardly awake yet."
She addressed them as Guy and Doris; and knowing what that meant as well
as what was indicated by her awful attire, Darby discreetly held his
peace.
Joan sat up in bed, rubbed her eyes with her dimpled knuckles, nodded
her tangled curls towards her aunt, and, sweetly smiling, murmured,
"Mornin'!" to which cheery greeting her aunt did not respond.
There was a prophetic pause for a while; then Miss Turner spoke.
"I am pleased that at least you have the grace to be silent, to make no
excuses; because there is nothing you could say that would make your sin
appear any less heinous in my eyes--and in God's eyes," she added as an
after-thought.
"Where's the 'henas,' Aunt Catharine?" cried Joan, peeping in the
direction of the door. "I'd love to see a 'hena!' There's a picter of
some in Darby's Nat'ral Hist'ry book. They's just like wolves."
"Hush, Joan!" said Darby, in a frightened undertone; "there's no hyenas
here. Aunt Catharine means 'heenyus,' and that's a thing in the
Catechism--far on! It's only me that has come to it yet."
"You have both been guilty of the gravest disobedience," continued Miss
Turner, "and it is my duty to punish you. I have therefore decided to
keep you in bed until you repent of your naughtiness."
Here Darby started up in anger. His gray eyes flashed, his cheeks were
scarlet, his small fists clenched under the bedclothes.
"This is Saturday," went on his aunt, in her relentless voice. "You
shall stay where you are until to-morrow, Sabbath morning. Then, if you
are in a proper frame of mind, you may both get up as usual; but for one
week you shall not go beyond the garden.--And you, Guy, because you are
older than Doris, and should set your sister a good example instead of
leading her at your heels into every mischief you can devise--you are to
have an additional punishment. I desire that while you are in bed you
shall occupy yourself with your Catechism. And to-morrow, before
breakfast, I will hear you repeat the fifth commandment, with the three
following questions and the proofs thereto. After that perhaps you shall
have a clearer conception of your duty to your parents, which means, in
your case, those who are in charge of you." And having delivered herself
thus, Aunt Catharine sailed away as majestically as she had come.
Darby flung himself about in his wrath.
"Parents indeed!" he cried, in passionate scorn. "_She's_ not our
parents! she's nobody's parent. Why, I heard Postie telling Perry the
other day that the Miss Turners were both old maids when he was a kid;
and people can't be old maids and parents as well! Oh, if daddy hadn't
gone away, or if mother was only here!" he wailed in his dire distress.
Then he buried his head in the blankets, for his feelings were too
deeply wounded to find relief in words.
For a while Joan howled lustily, but by-and-by, when she had eaten her
breakfast of porridge and milk, she tumbled off to sleep again, being
still weary after her recent wanderings.
Darby, however, lay wide awake, feeling, now that his burst of anger had
passed away, very tired of things in general, and of himself in
particular. It was too dreadful, he thought, to be kept in bed on a fine
day when he was quite well, only stiff and aching all over. Outside the
air was balmy and still. The garden was ablaze with late dahlias,
hollyhocks, and asters; and down by the tool-shed Mistress Pussy and her
family would be contentedly sunning themselves beside the boxwood
border--the close-clipped boxwood border, which always gave out such a
strong, queer, haunting smell.
Oh dear, how tiresome it all was, and what a pity a fellow could not
_sometimes_ do as he liked without being called naughty and then
punished! Should life always be like that, Darby wondered. Surely not,
he told himself, or else he felt that already he had had about enough of
it. But he did not believe things were quite the same with other
children. They were different for him and Joan, because daddy was abroad
and mother dead. If they had only not been left at Firgrove with Aunt
Catharine! There were plenty of pleasant places in the world besides
Firgrove. Could not he and Joan go away somewhere, just themselves
together, where they would want only to be good, because there should be
no temptation to be naughty; where there should be no Catechism, no Aunt
Catharine, and no more punishment, especially putting to bed, which was
Darby's detestation? He really wished to be obedient, this little lad of
seven years old, and tried very hard to remember everything he was
told. But forgetting comes easy; consequently he was frequently in
trouble. He was often good for days together--quite good, as Joan said.
But the difficulty with Darby, as with older folk, was not the _being_
good, but the _keeping_ good.
For a long time the boy lay pondering some of the problems of life which
from the beginning have puzzled many a wiser head than his. But Darby
did not know that he was only going over a well-beaten track. He just
knew that he was wishful of finding some pleasant spot where, without
effort or trouble, he could be happy after his own fashion, untrammelled
and untroubled by restrictions or consequences.
The morning had glided on to noonday. Joan, having had her sleep out,
was playing with Miss Carolina in her crib. Outside a family of
lingering swallows sat on the meadow fence discussing their plans for a
hurried departure on the morrow; and from the dovecot in the yard came
the soft, continuous cooing of Auntie Alice's pigeons as they strutted
about the flags or preened their feathers in the sun. The distant
barking of Mr. Grey's collie, Scott, as he followed the sheep to the
pasture, floated in through the open window; while from the next room
came the soothing murmur of nurse's low, droning voice, singing baby
Eric over to his midday sleep.
What was it she sang? but, indeed, she seemed always singing it. Nothing
much; only a snatch here and there from that old hymn she was so fond
of, or perhaps sang almost unconsciously from habit:--
"Oh, we shall happy be,
When from sin and sorrow free!
"Bright in that happy land
Beams every eye;
Kept by a Father's hand,
Love cannot die.
"Come to this happy land,
Come, come away;
Why will ye doubting stand?
Why still delay?"
Suddenly Darby sat up in bed in his excitement. A brilliant thought had
struck him. Why had it not occurred to him sooner? The Happy Land!
that's where they would go. It was far, far away, certainly; but they
should take some food with them, and ask the road from time to time.
Joan was soon weary of nursing Miss Carolina. She had slipped out of her
crib and trotted over to the window, where she was occupying herself
happily in catching and shutting up in an empty pill-box the flies that
buzzed drowsily in the warm, bright sunshine.
She paused for an instant in the act of conveying with her nimble little
fingers another captive to its dungeon, when she noticed Darby's flushed
cheeks and shining eyes.
"What's the matter, dear?" inquired the tiny, white-robed maiden, in
quite a motherly manner. "Has you got a pain, Darby? or was you dreamin'
about somefin' werry nice? You does look awful funny, I fink."
"I'm not sick, and I haven't been dreaming," answered her brother, in
earnest assurance. "But I've been thinking, and I've made up my mind.
We're not going to stay here any longer. I've 'cided where we'll go.
We'll go to the Happy Land--that place nurse is often singing about,
where we shall always be good, and never be naughty, or sick, or
punished, or put to bed any more. It'll never be dark or raining either,
but always fine, and bright, bright as day!"
"How lovely!" cried Joan, clapping her hands in ecstasy, at the same
time dropping the pill-box, from which the autumn flies crawled lazily,
as if too indolent or too stupid to enjoy their newly-regained liberty.
"Just wouldn't it!" said Darby, with quivering lips and sparkling eyes,
for he was terribly excited over his scheme. "And you'll come, Joan,
won't you, lovey?"
"Yes," assented Joan, without the slightest hesitation, giving a
decisive nod of her golden head that set all her curls bobbing up and
down like daffodils in a March breeze--"yes, I'm comin' wif you, Darby
dear. When's we goin'?" she inquired anxiously, as if in haste to be
off.
Darby drew her into bed beside him, tucked up her cold pink toes in the
blankets, and in earnest, subdued tones the two discussed the how and
the when of their projected pilgrimage.
They could not set off that day, for they were prisoners. The next day
was Sunday. They would be sure to be out; but then Sunday was not a
suitable day on which to start on a lengthy journey. Monday would be a
more fitting time, and Darby remembered with a thrill of thankfulness
that early on Monday morning the aunts were going away to spend a couple
of nights at Denescroft, as grannie's charming, China-rose-trimmed
cottage was called. That would be their chance! Nurse would be almost
entirely occupied with Eric, and they two should be left to do pretty
much as they pleased. By the time their aunts returned on Wednesday
evening the little travellers would be far away, or perhaps they should
be safe within the boundaries of the Happy Land.
Before breakfast the following morning Darby repeated his appointed
task, proofs and all, without so much as a single blunder. The children
went with their aunts to church as usual. In the evening Auntie Alice
remarked to her sister how very quiet the little ones had been all day.
Aunt Catharine also had noticed their subdued demeanour. She set it down
to the chastening effect of penitence for their recent disobedience, and
hoped that it might continue during the days of their absence at least.
"Good-bye, pets," said Auntie Alice to the children the next day, as
they hung about the basket-carriage and Billy, waiting to take his
mistresses to the station. "Cheer up, Darby," she whispered. "Be a good
brother, and take care of Joan; and see and be happy until we come
back."
"Yes, Auntie Alice, I'll take care of her, sure. And we're going to be
very, very happy," he added, with a look of exultation in his eyes that
haunted his aunt until she saw him again.--"Aren't we, Joan?"
"Yes, werry, werry happy!" murmured Joan out of a tousle of sunny hair.
"Good-bye, Auntie Alice. Kiss Joan again."
"There, that will do. Stand clear of the wheel, both of you," said Aunt
Catharine, settling her ample figure comfortably into the little
basket-chaise. "Don't dirty that nice clean pinafore, Joan; and Darby,
see that you wash your hands properly before dinner."
The aunts departed, and by the time they had reached the first stage on
their journey, two little travellers stepped bravely out at the front
door, down the gravelled drive, through the wide gate, and there they
halted to hold a hurried council as to which way they should go.
Up the hill in one direction sloped the broad white road that led past
Copsley Wood. No Happy Land lay in its vicinity! By another route, along
which Billy and the basket-carriage had vanished, was the station; but
who ever heard of any one arriving at the Happy Land by rail! Some other
way still they must seek to bring them to their destination.
From the gable end of Firgrove the fields slid gradually down until they
were merged in a long, level stretch of meadow ground, through which was
cut a deep, straight canal, whose waters reached like a shining silver
belt across the emerald sward of the surrounding pasture-lands. Many a
time Darby and Joan had sat on the garden wall watching the dingy
barge-boat come and go. They had listened curiously to the voices of the
man and boy on board chatting to each other, or shouting to the patient,
plodding horse that towed along the clumsy craft, laden with this and
that for the villages and hamlets that dotted the landscape thickly
between Firdale and the far-off range of hills, which rose so proudly up
to meet the sunset and the sky.
The October day was mild, and bright as days not always are, even in
midsummer. Great gold-tinged clouds floated slowly across the high, wide
dome of the azure sky. The hilltops were bathed in a warm, soft glow;
the placid waters of the canal sparkled, dimpled, and smiled beneath the
caress of the passing breeze, until they broke into tiny ripples and
wavelets against their sedge-grown banks.
Along that silvery waterway they shall go, the children decide. Up
there, beyond the hills, they say, rise the walls of the Beautiful
City. That radiance is assuredly reflected from its streets of gold.
Those big, fleecy clouds certainly curtain the approach to the portals
of pearl!
Just then, emerging from behind a screening clump of trees, the _Smiling
Jane_, as the dingy old boat was called, slowly hove in sight. They
would run fast and coax the man to take them on board when he stopped to
get his vessel through the lock; or, better still, they would slip in
unnoticed when he was otherwise engaged. Without a thought of wrong,
with never a qualm of fear as to failure or consequences, hand in hand
they raced along in the direction of the canal, casting not so much as a
glance behind.
And thus it came about that Darby and Joan set out to seek the Happy
Land.