AT EVENING TIME.
"Ah! what would the world be to us
If the children were no more?
We should dread the desert behind us
Worse than the dark before.
"Ye are better than all the ballads
That ever were sung or said;
For ye are living poems,
And all the rest are dead."
--LONGFELLOW.
It was not quite a week since Darby and Joan had so suddenly and
mysteriously disappeared from Firgrove; yet to the distracted aunts it
seemed as if years instead of days had dragged away since that bright
morning when they had bidden the little ones good-bye, and left them
standing among the pussies and the flowers, looking the picture of
health, beauty, and innocence. And where were they now? Dead, drowned,
Aunt Catharine felt convinced, although she had no further proof of
their fate than what was indicated by the finding of Darby's hat; for,
notwithstanding all their efforts, not another trace of the missing
children had been discovered. They had assuredly fallen into the canal,
argued Miss Turner. The locks were so often open, the keepers so dull
and unobservant, that their bodies might easily have drifted by without
being noticed. Then, once past Barchester, they would be washed away by
the next outgoing tide--far, far away, wrapped in a tangle of brown and
green seaweed; or perhaps they were lying fathoms deep beneath the
restless, shifting waters, whence they should rise no more until that
day "when the sea gives up its dead."
Nurse Perry took the same hopeless view of the children's fate as Miss
Turner. She wandered about from morning till night with Eric in her
arms, searching the most unlikely places, questioning everybody she met
in her eager desire to discover the lost little ones--"for all the
world," said cook, "like a creature that was off her head!" She grew
quite pale and thin, with a sad, frightened look in her eyes which even
the blandishments of Mr. Jenkins, when he came of a morning for orders,
could not banish; their rims were red, too, as from frequent tears, for
many a good cry poor Perry had. She blamed herself unreservedly for the
disappearance of her charges; and as Miss Turner believed that _she_
also was in fault, far more than Perry, they mourned and lamented in
company.
For during those days of sad suspense Aunt Catharine appeared an altered
woman. No longer stern and stately, self-satisfied and self-sufficient,
she and her sister seemed to have changed places. She it was who clung
to Miss Alice for sympathy and support in the sore trouble that had
befallen them. Miss Alice it was who kept brave and cheery--hoping
against hope that things were not actually so black as they looked; but
Miss Turner could not be coaxed to take any comfort to herself.
"It's very easy for _you_ to keep hopeful and calm," she would say to
her sister. "_You_ have nothing to reproach yourself with. You were
always soft and sweet and loving with them, whereas I--I was afraid to
let them see how closely they had wound themselves about my heart for
fear they should become petted and spoiled: so they thought me stern and
harsh, when I only meant to be firm and judicious; they believed me hard
and unsympathetic, when I was trying to teach them self-command and
obedience. Oh, why did I not win their hearts by tenderness, and gain
their allegiance by kindness, rather than seek to mould them after my
pattern by laying down laws and holding constantly before their eyes the
fear of punishment!"
"Don't grieve so, dear sister. You never were either unkind or harsh to
Darby and Joan. I'm sure no one could ever imagine any such thing,"
answered Miss Alice soothingly. "Every one knows, and Guy knew too,
before he went away, how dearly you loved the children."
"Yes, yes," said Miss Turner impatiently; "of course people would take
it for granted that I loved my nephew's little ones--and who could help
it?--but what I am angry with myself for is that I did not let them see
it. What good is love if one only shuts it up in one's heart to be
looked at in private? It must be seen and felt if it is to be of any
value, or to make any impression on its object. Ah! I was blind before,
but now I see things more plainly. Those two--Darby especially--have
gone away, wherever they are, with the idea that Aunt Catharine was in a
sense their enemy, who grudged them every bit of happiness they wanted
to have, while all the time I would willingly have given my life for
either of them. Oh, if they were only back, how different I would be!"
sobbed poor Aunt Catharine, leaning her aching head and faded face upon
her sister's shoulder.
"Hush, dear," coaxed Auntie Alice, in her soft, cooing voice. "You will
make yourself ill, and what should I do then? Besides, there is no use
in giving way like that--until we are sure there is no longer room for
hope, at any rate. It is not a week yet since the children disappeared.
There's no guessing where they may have gone--off to Africa to find
their father, as likely as not!" laughed Auntie Alice. "Darby would
start in a minute--you know how hazy are his ideas of places and
distance--and Joan follows wherever he leads. Some one will be finding
them wandering about and bringing them back to us directly, you'll see.
I shouldn't be a bit surprised," she added, in answer to her sister's
look of astonishment, in which there was mingled a faint ray of hope.
"And Dr. King agrees with me that it's some wild scheme or other that
has taken them off, although perhaps not just Africa."
"Dr. King!" exclaimed Miss Turner, with a touch of her former asperity;
"what does Dr. King know about the affair more than I do? But, of
course, he would agree with you--ay, if you said the moon was made of
green cheese!"
Miss Alice blushed prettily at her sister's words; indeed, she always
did blush when Dr. King's name was mentioned. Even Darby used to notice
it, and invariably fixed his eye upon his aunt to see the soft
rose-colour rise in the cheeks which were still smooth and round enough
to show off a blush becomingly.
"It's not alone Dr. King who believes they've gone off on some
wild-goose chase," continued Miss Alice presently. "The rector thinks so
too; and Mrs. Grey gets quite angry when her husband declares the
children are drowned."
"Maybe, maybe," replied, Miss Turner gloomily; "and I'm sure I hope
you're right. But one thing I'm certain of is that they've not set out
for Africa. Darby would never take such a ridiculous notion into his
head. He knew perfectly well how far away it is, and how people go
there. Why, if there was one thing I drummed into him thoroughly over
and above everything else--except the commandments, perhaps--it was
Africa! But all the same, it's the thought of Africa that's just killing
me, sister," moaned the poor lady in piteous tones. "What will their
father say? What will he think of us? How are we to tell him? for tell
him we must without further delay. That cablegram has got to go
to-morrow. It's all very well for Dr. King and Mr. Grey and the rest of
them to say, 'Wait, wait; time enough.' But we've waited too long
already, so to-morrow the message goes, as sure as my name's Catharine
Anne Turner. Then there's granny--Guy's poor mother at Denescroft. We've
put her off and kept her in the dark quite long enough, even if there is
a risk in letting her know the truth. I'm going there myself, Alice
Turner," announced Aunt Catharine resolutely, "the minute I get that
cablegram off my mind. I, and I alone, shall bear the pain of telling
her that the grandchildren she adored have gone to be with their mother
in heaven--her son's dear dead Dorothy. After that, I suppose the next
thing will be seeing about our black gowns," whispered the elder lady,
with a grievous burst of sorrow for which her sister had no words of
comfort ready, because she too was softly sobbing.
"Come, cheer up," said Miss Alice at length, after she had dried her
eyes. "Try to keep brave--for this one day at least. Who knows what may
happen! Why, at any moment they may walk in," she added brightly, and
her cheerfulness was not altogether assumed. For Auntie Alice could not
bring herself to believe that the children were really lost, or gone
from their sight for all time--that until they met together, small and
great, around the throne of God in heaven they should see them no more.
In the dead of night, when the house was still and baby sleeping quietly
in his bassinet by Perry's bedside, she would leave her room and go into
the nursery, where the sight of the empty cribs, the waiting garments,
the books and toys lying in their usual places, was almost more than she
could bear. Then she would feel with her sister that they were indeed
gone for ever, and an earnest prayer for the absent father, upon whom
the sudden blow would fall with stunning force, would wing its way out
of the silence of the midnight hours to the God who is so specially a
children's God. And would He not watch over them faithfully and keep
them in safety? Ay, surely. But whether He should give them back in life
to those who grieved so deeply for their loss, or fold them gently in
the everlasting security of His own bosom, was a question to which as
yet there had come no answer.
But in broad daylight, when the sky was blue, the sun shining, and the
kittens whisking merrily round after their own tails among the autumn
flowers in the garden, Auntie Alice was able to put away from her the
dread fears which in the darkness took such real and awful shapes, and
to agree with Dr. King and Mrs. Grey that the children had only gone off
for a frolic somewhere, and, like bad halfpence, would certainly come
back when least expected. They were not dead, she told herself; they
_could_ not be dead, she said in her heart over and over again. Darby,
the wise, manly little lad, many of whose quaint, sweet sayings were
carefully stored in his aunt's memory--Darby, with his clear eyes and
winning ways, lying among the mud and slime of the canal! Horrible! And
Joan, bright, merry, loving Joan--"little jumping Joan," she sometimes
called herself--the very sunbeam of prim, quiet Firgrove--Joan sleeping
among the fishes with folded hands and curtained eyes! Awful! And a long
shudder would seize Auntie Alice's slender figure. No, no! the children
were not drowned, she was certain; they would come back to them some day
and somehow: so from hour to hour she watched and waited, hoped and
prayed.
* * * * *
And now it is time to return to the old lime-kiln and our little
travellers hidden there.
Being abruptly left to himself by Moll in the darkness--for the moon
was now hidden behind a bank of dense black cloud--Joe prowled and
stamped and beat furiously among the furze bushes, while now and again a
snarl of baffled rage broke from him which boded ill for the future of
the fugitives--if he could only lay his hands upon them!
In a short time, however, he concluded apparently that further search in
that quarter, and with no light to guide him save "the cold light of
stars," would prove fruitless, for his retreating footsteps seemed to
follow Moll's. Then Darby and the dwarf felt free to breathe again, and
held each other's hands in mute thanksgiving for their deliverance.
But hark! what was that? Steps once more--Joe, probably, come back with
the newly-lighted lantern to take a final look around. This time he
would search the kiln himself. Then--And the dwarf noiselessly changed
his position so that the dark bundle which was Joan lay behind him, and
wrapped his long arms tightly round the boy, determined to shield them
to the last against all danger.
The steps came nearer and nearer, slow and deliberate; then they stopped
as if in indecision, then came on again--not down the incline this time,
but advancing from the front. Faster and louder thumped the hearts of
Darby and the dwarf as they watched and waited; nearer and nearer drew
the black, shapeless _something_, until it halted right opposite the
mouth of the kiln, only a few yards away.
It must be Joe Harris, Bambo was sure. He had paused to strike a light,
and in another minute they should be discovered. Darby clung to his
protector with all his strength. His teeth chattered in terror, but the
brave little lad did not utter a sound.
The footsteps again, and Bambo closed his eyes an instant while his soul
rose to heaven in one of those earnest petitions which ofttimes are
prayed without a word. Then he looked towards the entrance to the kiln,
fully prepared to see the wicked face of Thieving Joe leering in upon
them--to hear his shout of satisfaction at beholding his prey so
securely caught in a trap from which there was no escape.
But instead of their enemy, what do you think stood there? Just an
innocent-looking red and white calf--probably one of the family, now at
grass, which had formerly occupied the snug house in the farmyard. It
was, doubtless, in the habit of coming to the old kiln occasionally for
a change, or for shelter in wet weather. And now it stood and surveyed
the intruders with solemn, serious eyes, as much as to say, "What are
you funny little folks doing in my place, pray?"
The sense of relief was so great, the situation seemed so ludicrous,
that Darby broke into a peal of shrill, nervous laughter, which he as
suddenly suppressed; while the dwarf again lifted his heart to Heaven in
grateful acknowledgment of deliverance from danger.
Darby fondled the calf's cold nose and stroked his rough, wet coat; and
Master Calf, seeing that his self-invited guests were not so odd or
fearsome as they looked, marched slowly inside, deliberately lay down in
what apparently was his own particular corner, and calmly commenced
chewing his cud. Then, with his hand in Bambo's and his head resting
against the animal's warm, shaggy side, Darby soon fell asleep; and the
dwarf dozed at intervals until the first streaks of dawn broke up the
blackness of the eastern sky.
* * * * *
The _Smiling Jane_ came crawling along the canal towards Engleton,
gradually slowed, then stopped altogether as she hove abreast of the
wharf. It was thick with people standing about in twos and threes
awaiting the arrival of the boat. The bargeman jumped ashore, strutted
hither and thither, chatting with this one and that, discussing the
weather, retailing the latest gossip from Barchester, when, from behind
the pile of miscellaneous stuff collected on the wharf waiting transit
by the _Smiling Jane_, three small figures appeared suddenly, as if they
had sprung from the water beneath the planks. It was Bambo with his
little charges.
"Well, well!" exclaimed bargee, staring at the trio in open-mouthed
astonishment.
"Did ee ever!" cried a woman who was mounting guard over some hampers of
quacking ducks and cackling hens.
"The pretty dears!" ejaculated another; "eh, the sweet crayters! But
just look at _him_! See his big, ugly head, an' the arms o' him like the
flappers o' a win'mill! Save us all!" she piously added, gazing her fill
at the dwarf and the children, whose winsome faces and uncommon
appearance could not be concealed under a few days' smudges, nor
disguised beneath a cotton frock or faded velveteen suit.
Darby, who was to be spokesman for the party, here approached the
bargeman with frank, courteous manner; while the dwarf hung timidly in
the rear, still keeping Joan well within the shelter of his arm.
"Please, Mr. Bargee, will you take us in your boat as far as Firdale?"
begged the boy, in gentle, winning tones. "We've come a long way, and
Mr. Bambo here," pointing to the dwarf, "has such a bad cold that he's
not able to walk any further. Do say 'yes;' won't you, Mr. Bargee?"
For an instant the young fellow hesitated, looking from the boy to the
dwarf and the golden-haired girl. Then he shook his head decisively.
"Can't do it, little un," he said kindly. "It's agin the rules, an' I
durstn't break them. I was near gettin' the sack not long ago because a
couple o' tramps or play-actor folks over-persuaded me to give them a
lift. The perlice was on their track. Reg'lar sharpers they was. That
was only two or three days back, when them kids belongin' to Dene o'
Firgrove disappeared," explained bargee to the gaping loungers hanging
about the wharf.
"But we're Dene's kids! we come from Firgrove! Father--Captain Dene, you
know--left us there with Aunt Catharine and Auntie Alice when he went to
Africa," cried Darby, in eager, rapid snatches of speech.
"Likely!" laughed bargee good-humouredly. "Tell that to the marines,
chappie. Maybe _they'll_ b'lieve you, for Will Spiers don't. He's not
sich a green un as to be took in by a tale like that. Dene's kids was
drownded in the canal. Their clo'es or boots or somethin' was found the
other evenin'. Leastways, so I heerd," he added, with a look round the
company, as if challenging confirmation of his words.
"Ay, they was drownded, sure enough," spoke a woman's shrill voice, high
above the cackle of the hens and the quack-quack of the ducks--"drownded
dead, an' more's the pity; an' their ma dead, too, an' their pa in
Africa, an' their aunties takin' on terrible 'bout them."
"We isn't dwowned," called out Joan in her clear, sweet voice, shaking
back her yellow mane and surveying the faces about her with merry eyes.
"We was lost--quite lost--and now we's founded and goin' home again."
"Don't you see that we're not drowned?" said Darby seriously, turning
round and round before the amused onlookers. "We wouldn't be here if we
were _drownded_, would we? I'm really and truly Darby Dene--I mean Guy
Dene, for that's my proper name; and this is my sister Joan--Doris, I
should say--with kind Mr. Bambo, who has helped us to run away from some
wicked people who wanted to keep us always. Now, please, won't you let
us on board the barge? We'll go below into the little house where we hid
before, and not disturb you a bit. You see, we came with you, and you
ought to take us back again," added the boy, with a sudden gleam of
amusement in his big gray eyes.
Here the dwarf came slowly forward, painfully conscious that all eyes
were fixed upon him. Yet he did not flinch. He beckoned the bargeman
aside, and in a few broken, gasping sentences told him the main facts of
the children's story.
The instant the young fellow clearly grasped the situation and
understood his own share in the adventure, he generously cast all fear
of consequences to the winds, and there and then agreed to take the
travellers with him to Firdale as fast as his boat could bear them.
And as the old brown horse pulled slowly off, dragging the big red
barge-boat away behind him, a hearty cheer broke from the watchers on
the wharf, and "A safe journey!" was flung from every lip after the
_Smiling Jane_ and the little voyagers whom she bore on board.
It was a mild, mellow day, such as not infrequently comes towards the
end of October--a day whose brightness almost deludes one into thinking
that summer is not entirely gone, yet with a hint of change in the
still, waiting earth, the silently-falling leaves; a touch of crispness
in the air which foretells winter, and at the same time indicates that
winter is not really a bad time after all.
On the deck of the barge Joan made herself quite at home. She had been
so shielded that she was really none the worse, except for outward tear
and wear, of all she had gone through. She trotted hither and thither,
watching the patient horse plodding along the tow-path, throwing bits of
bread to the white-winged gulls which hovered in the wake of the boat,
chattering to bargee, who had speedily become her willing captive,
enchained in the meshes of her sunny hair, held fast by the innocent
witchery of her long-lashed violet eyes.
Down in the bunker below lay Bambo, too worn out now to do ought but
toss and tumble in the fever and restlessness which were hourly becoming
more consuming and distressing, thankful to be at liberty just to let
himself go, without fear or danger. For now he felt that the children
were, beyond a doubt, safe out of reach of Thieving Joe, and he himself
separated at last and for ever from all further connection with the
Satellite Circus Company. Soon the little ones should be safe at home
with their own people, and he, Bambo, homeless and friendless, should be
free from future care concerning them--free to creep away somewhere,
unnoticed and alone, to lie down and rest--sleep--suffer--or maybe die,
if such were God's will for him.
Beside the dwarf's pallet Darby kept loving watch, dozing from time to
time when Bambo seemed sleeping; again, rousing up to hang over him in
distress when he babbled so queerly about Firgrove, his mother, Thieving
Joe, Moll, and the bear. Then the raving would cease, and the dwarf
would look up with intelligent, grateful eyes into the white, anxious
face of the boy bending over him.
"It's only my head, sonny; you needn't be frightened," he would gasp, in
his hoarse, croaking whisper. "I was just wandering a bit, I think. Sick
folk often does that. There, deary, don't cry! we'll soon be at home
now--ay, soon, very soon," murmured the little man to himself, while
that faint, sweet smile, which Darby thought made the haggard face quite
beautiful, played around his poor parched lips, and a glad light shone
from his sunken eyes.
In the afternoon the good-natured bargeman brewed a can of tea. Along
with it he produced some solid slices of bread and butter--the best his
locker afforded--and to this repast he made his passengers warmly
welcome. Joan ate a hearty meal, but Darby was not hungry, and the dwarf
could take only a deep draught of the strong, hot tea. It revived him
somewhat, so that by the time the barge slowed up at Firdale he was
able, with the help of Darby's willing hand, to creep out of his bunker
up on deck.
The _Smiling Jane_ was in that evening rather before her regular time.
There were, therefore, none of the idlers on the wharf who usually
awaited her arrival, only a few people, beside the wharf-keeper, who had
come to receive or send off stuff. These were too much occupied to
notice, except by an amused or curious glance, the odd-looking trio who
slipped so quietly through their midst and away up the field-path
towards Firgrove. Indeed, had not bargee, after their backs were turned,
told their story and made known their identity to an open-mouthed and
delighted audience, no one would have suspected that the two little
ragamuffins in company with the outlandish-looking mountebank were the
lost children whose tragic fate had cast quite a gloom over the
neighbourhood, and elicited such universal sympathy with the ladies at
Firgrove and the poor bereaved father fighting for his country far, far
away in Africa.
It was almost sunset when the little travellers reached their journey's
end. The western sky was ablaze with crimson and gold, the hilltop was
flushed with warmth and beauty, the streak of sluggish water which was
the canal lay athwart the level land like a shining, jewelled belt,
while every window-pane in the quaint old house shone and glowed as if
there were an illumination within by way of welcome for the wanderers.
But Darby and Joan heeded none of these things. They trudged sturdily on
as fast as their short legs could carry them and the dwarf's failing
strength would permit, until they came to the gate. There they paused,
with their backs to the glory of the sun-setting, the blush on the
hilltop, and the radiance beyond. For now they knew that at last they
had found the country they had travelled so far to seek, while all the
time it was spread out wide and fair about their very feet, shut up
within themselves, whence it should well forth in an atmosphere of
obedience, love, duty--the chief elements which go to make a truly happy
land.