COMING AND GOING.
"For me, my heart that erst did go
Most like a tired child at a show,
That sees through tears the mummers leap,
Would now its wearied vision close,
Would childlike on His love repose
Who giveth His beloved--sleep."
E. B. BROWNING.
The winter, which proved a mild and open one, passed very pleasantly at
Firgrove. By Dr. King's orders Darby and Joan were granted a long
holiday, for Darby was still fragile and delicate looking. He had never
quite got over the effects of the excitement and fatigue of his travels
in search of the Happy Land. They now lived almost out of doors, with
the dwarf as their faithful attendant and constant companion. The little
ones never wearied of his company, he could entertain them in so many
different ways. He showed Darby how to make whistles of the hollow
bore-tree stem, and a huge kite, with a lion painted on its surface, the
Union Jack flying at its head, and an old map of Africa cut into strips
to form the tail. Darby considered this a masterpiece, and laid it
carefully by until he could display it to his father in its full
significance. He caught a squirrel in the wood for Joan, and tamed the
little animal so that it would nibble a nut from her hand, or hold it in
its own paws, looking at her the while with fearless, shining eyes, as
much as to say,--
"Thank you, little lady. If all children were as good and kind to us
wild creatures as you at Firgrove are, we should have a better time of
it than many of us often have."
He brought primrose roots from the glen, and planted a bank with them
behind the house. He filled the rockeries with rare ferns, and covered
over all the waste corners about the grounds with delicate anemones,
variegated hyacinths, and the sweet, wild white bluebell, rifled from
the darkest recesses of Copsley Wood.
He carved curious wooden animals and toys for Eric, attracting the
little fellow so strongly to himself that often he would cry for
"Bam'o," and stay quite happily with him for hours, when all poor
Perry's nursery tricks had failed to divert him from brooding over a
coming tooth or some other infant ailment. Nurse soon grew to count the
dwarf among her blessings at Firgrove; while Miss Alice used to smile,
and say to her friend Dr. King that she did not know how ever the
children had amused themselves before he came.
And day by day, by his little acts of fore-thought for others and
loving-kindness towards all with whom he came in contact, he showed them
what a Happy Land even the humblest, the youngest can create around
them, what an atmosphere of love, what a foretaste of the existence
whose essence is love, because God is its centre--that heaven wherein
the pure in heart shall dwell for evermore!
And what of Bambo himself? How can one picture or describe such deep
happiness as his? He was well aware that he could not live long. At any
time a cold or a chill might hasten the end, yet the knowledge caused
him no real regret. During his years of loneliness and privation he had
learned to regard death as an open door through which he should escape
from drudgery, ill-treatment, desolation, into the rest, the love, the
happiness that remain to the children of God in that home where there
is no death, "neither sorrow, nor crying, nor any more pain: for the
former things are passed away." Now, the wretchedness was all behind.
His daily path was hedged around by affection and watchfulness; but
Bambo felt that it could not continue. His friends would by-and-by weary
of their self-imposed burden. The children would grow up, go away, form
new friendships, find fresh interests in life, and where should he be
then? No, no; life was a grand, a satisfying, a beautiful thing for the
clever, the strong, the brave; but the like of him could have no
continuous part, no fixed place in its keen warfare; so for him he felt
that it was better to depart than to hang on a weary, sickly weakling.
Therefore, when Darby and Joan were looking forward to the coming summer
and making their plans for enjoying it, in all of which they included
their little friend, the dwarf would smile--his sweet, childlike
smile--and say nothing. He did not want to cast a shadow upon their
gladness.
The children frequently had letters from their father, for whom they
longed with an eagerness that grew keener as the months went by and
still the cruel warfare continued, and always the date of his return
was put back from time to time. Oh, why did he not come, they cried.
They had so much to tell, so many things to show--lots of precious
trifles given and gathered since he went away.
Slowly the winter seemed to pass, day by day, week after week, month in
month out. Then spring came shyly creeping over the land, with snowdrops
nestling in her breast, primroses and violets budding in the grassy
banks beneath her feet. Later on pink and white blossoms crowned the
orchard trees, balmy breezes gently stirred the opening leaves, azure
skies stretched high overhead, daisies carpeted the ground under foot.
At length it was actually summer--summer in the first flush of her
fresh, untarnished loveliness. And as the children looked out of the
nursery window one bright May morning, they remembered with a sudden
thrill of joy that at last daddy was coming home. Any day he might be
with them--any hour, in fact; for even at that moment the ship might be
lying snug and safe at anchor in Southampton Water!
That very evening he arrived--not Captain, but Major Dene, for he had
been promoted while he was away. Joan flung herself wildly upon her
father, hugging and kissing him with all her might for a minute or two;
then she turned her attentions and her fingers towards his pockets, in
search of whatever spoil she could find. Darby stood silent and shy,
gazing with wide, troubled eyes upon the tall, gaunt man who carried
such a cruel scar across the hollow of his bronzed cheek. Then with a
low, sobbing cry of "Father! father!" the little lad clasped his arms
about his father's neck, and on his father's breast wept out some of the
ache, the loneliness, the longing which for many lagging months had lain
in such a heavy weight upon his tender, faithful, loving heart.
* * * * *
"Why mayn't we go up to see Bambo this morning, Aunt Catharine?" asked
Darby next day, as soon as he and Joan had eaten their breakfast. "We
didn't see him at all yesterday, and I have so much to tell him about
father and the Boers and Africa and--and--everything."
"And I wants to take him some marigolds," said Joan, holding up a huge
bunch nearly as big as her own head.
Aunt Catharine was silent, and Darby almost dropped the rod he was
trimming into a stick for baby and looked up into his aunt's face. It
was pale and sad, and there were tears in her eyes. "What is it, Aunt
Catharine?" inquired the boy. "Has anything vexed you, or are you angry
with us?" he added timidly; while Joan rubbed her rosy face up and down
against her aunt's hand, for all the world like a confident kitten.
"No, dears, I'm not angry with either of you; why should I?" answered
Aunt Catharine quickly. "But I have something to say that will make you
both sad, and I don't like doing so."
"It is about Bambo, I am certain," said Darby slowly, throwing down the
rod he was whittling, shutting up his precious knife and putting it into
his pocket, while a shadow fell upon his face, and clouded the gladness
in his eyes. "He's not up yet, and when we were going to his room after
we were dressed, nurse dragged us downstairs again; and she looked so
funny, as if something had frightened her."
"Please let me go to my dear dwarf, Aunt Catharine," coaxed Joan. "One
of Topsy's legs is comin' off, and nobody knows how to mend it 'cept
Bambo."
"Bam'o! Bam'o!" cried Eric, at the top of his voice. "Bam'o! tum an' div
baby swing--high, high!"
"There, Alice, you tell them, for upon my word I can't," whispered Miss
Turner to her sister, who had come into the breakfast-room just behind
the children; and catching Eric up in her arms, Aunt Catharine carried
him outside into the glory and promise which the beauty of the summer
morning held for her saddened spirit.
"Bambo won't be able to mend your doll to-day, Joan," said Auntie Alice
gently, lifting the little girl on to her lap and drawing Darby close
beside her knee. "He will never talk to you, or amuse you, or do
anything for any of us again; because last night, after we were all
asleep except your father and Aunt Catharine, God's messenger came and
whispered to him that he was wanted--that his errand on earth was done.
And early this morning, long before you were awake, when the young birds
were yet nestling in the warmth of their mother's wing, ere the lambs
were astir in the fields, when the world was hushed in that sweet
stillness which awaits the dawn, he went away--away where he will not be
weak or sickly any more, where he will no longer be Jimmy Green, the
gardener's poor grandson, or Bambo, Joe Harris's musical dwarf, but a
new creature, with a new name--a name that is written in the Lamb's book
of life!"
Then Auntie Alice soothed and petted the little creatures, talking to
them in her soft, caressing voice, telling them once again of that fair
country to which their friend had gone. And when their sorrow had sobbed
itself dry they stole away to find their father, going on tiptoe, as if
they feared to disturb the slumber of their little comrade.
Three days later the dwarf was laid to rest in a corner of the Firdale
churchyard beside his mother. Major Dene erected over the spot a rugged
granite cross with his name upon it, his age, and the date of his death.
And below this he caused to be cut another name--the name by which the
dwarf always seemed to know himself best, because by it he was known to
those whom he had loved and served so faithfully and so well:--
BAMBO.
"_Sown in dishonour, raised in glory._"
"Now, what you all require is a thorough change," said Dr. King when he
called at Firgrove a few days after Bambo's death. "The young people
here have both been through a great deal.--You, my dear sir," to Major
Dene, "must make the most of your time, and build up your strength as
firmly as possible before you go back to Africa. The ladies, too," he
continued, addressing Miss Turner and Miss Alice, "will be all the
better of a little holiday, a complete change before--ah--in short,
before any further changes take place." And the staid elderly doctor
beamed upon Miss Alice, who held down her head, toyed with Joan's curls,
and blushed in a most becoming way--the sort of blush which made her
gentle face look almost like a girl's again.
"What's you's cheeks gettin' so red for--just like as if you'd got the
toofache, eh?" demanded Joan, with awkward directness.
"Are you too hot, Auntie Alice? Shall I draw down the blind?" asked
Darby politely. "Or would you prefer to come out into the garden?"
"Yes--no--thank you, dear--that is--" stammered Auntie Alice, in such
painful confusion that, although intensely amused, Major Dene felt
obliged to come to her rescue.
"Look here, kids!" he said: "I expect you're bound to know later on, so
you may as well be told now. Come, and be introduced to your future new
uncle--_our_ new uncle!" he added with a laugh, at the same time leading
the little ones up to Dr. King.
"Oh!" exclaimed Joan, drawing a long breath and surveying the doctor
with her head sideways, like a fastidious young robin eyeing a crumb.
"Is that why you was allus comin' to ask if we had headiks, or
stumukiks, or if baby wanted castor-oil, and to look at our tongues? I
s'pose uncles is like that. Never had none before," she added, still
gazing at the stout, bald-headed gentleman in front of her, as if the
honour of being her future relative had invested him with a new
personality and lent him fresh interest in her eyes.
"What'll Aunt Catharine do without you?" asked Darby of Auntie Alice
somewhat reproachfully, and giving but a limp, indifferent shake to the
hand which Dr. King held out as a peace-offering.
Auntie Alice glanced timidly and sadly at her sister, for this was the
one bitter drop in her cup of sweetness--this severing of the ties which
for years and years had bound the two Misses Turner as closely together
as the Siamese twins almost.
"Tush!" cried Aunt Catharine briskly, although there were tears in her
eyes. "She's not going out of the country. Beechfield is but a short
walk from Firgrove; we can meet every day, if we want to. Besides, I
have you children, and your father will be back and forward between this
and Denescroft--for a while, anyway," added she, laying a loving hand
on Darby's head.
The boy pressed closely to her side; but Joan confidently clambered upon
her knee, and laid her golden head against her aunt's shoulder.
"Aunt Catharine has got me," she announced, flinging her arms round that
lady's neck, creasing the dainty lace collar, crumpling the delicate
lilac ribbons, tumbling the neatly-banded hair. But Aunt Catharine did
not seem to mind; in fact, she looked as if she rather enjoyed the feel
of those soft little hands upon her face, the pressure of those clinging
arms about her neck. "I'll stay wif her allus and allus. I used to like
Auntie Alice best, but she's got _him_," Joan went on, pointing a small
pink finger at Dr. King, who, it must be admitted, looked a trifle
sheepish at being so frankly and openly sat upon in family council; "so
now I's goin' to give the most of the love to Aunt Catharine," she
declared, bestowing upon her aunt a shower of hearty kisses. "And I'm
never goin' to leave her, never, never--unless," she added thoughtfully,
"she gets a doctor man too, by-and-by. Then I'd just have to stay wif
daddy."
Darby giggled behind Aunt Catharine's back, and the others laughed
heartily.
"What would you say to Scotland?" asked Dr. King, well pleased to get
gracefully away from a subject which he had been feeling rather
personal. "That would be a change indeed--the very thing after South
Africa," he added, looking with a keen professional eye at Major Dene's
gaunt cheeks and too sharply outlined profile. "There are some pleasant
places on the west coast--bracing, yet not too cold. In my boyhood I
spent a summer in a village called St. Aidens. It was out of the way,
certainly, but you could not go to a more delightful spot."
"St. Aidens!" echoed Miss Turner, with a note of pleasure in her voice.
"Why, I stayed there one year too, long ago, with my father. Yes, let us
go to St. Aidens by all means," she said heartily. "Your mother could
come with us," she continued, addressing her nephew.--"And you," turning
to the doctor, "I daresay Alice will make you welcome if you will join
us during our stay."
So there and then the question was settled, and by the second week in
June to St. Aidens the family went.
* * * * *
It is the time of the yearly fair at St. Aidens. The buying and selling
are done, and now the people who have flocked thither in crowds are free
to enjoy the shows and performances which make the fair a festival to
be looked forward to and back upon as the chief outing of the season.
There are many items of attraction. Here Punch and Judy make public
their domestic broils for the benefit of the onlookers--old, young, and
middle-aged--whom this sample pair never fail to draw around them
wherever they appear. There an Indian juggler squats, the centre of a
gaping circle, as without a grimace he swallows swords, scissors,
knives, old nails, and scraps of metal that would tax the stomach of an
ostrich. Farther away is an Italian basket-maker, with olive skin and
oily manners; while leaning listlessly against the railing behind him is
a woman--his wife, probably--with dusky hair, and sad dark eyes which
hardly seem to see her green love-birds pecking knowingly at their pack
of dirty cards. Along near the pier a negro minstrel with his banjo is
singing one of the simple melodies of his race, its sad, sweet refrain
almost drowned in the roars of laughter called forth by a chalky-faced
clown, who appears to be not a compound of flesh, blood, and nerves like
ordinary mortals, but just a bundle of wire springs and india-rubber
balls.
The hobby-horses go round and round, with their ever-changing load, in
monotonous regularity. The switchback railway sways up and down to the
time of its own mechanical music, amid shrieks of delight and peals of
merriment; while youngsters yell aloud with excitement or fear as the
gaudily-painted gondolas swing them up higher and higher than before.
The noise is deafening. Between the cries of ice-cream vendors, the
high-pitched eloquence of medicine-men, peddlers, tired children, and
scolding mothers, it is well-nigh maddening. Still the crowd elbows and
jostles along, gradually growing noisier and denser. There they mingle
shoulder to shoulder, the squalid and the well-to-do, lads and lasses,
boys and girls, husbands and wives, grave and gay; while friendly
greetings are exchanged, light jests bandied as they move backwards and
forwards, intent upon the fun of the fair, with hardly a glance for the
feast of beauty which nature has spread around them with such a lavish
hand.
Along the level ground above the beach the tents and caravans are drawn
up in orderly array. Stretching away from the shore is the bay, lying
calm and unruffled under the summer sky, except when its glassy surface
is rippled by the dip of an oar or churned into froth by the restless
pulsations of a passing steamer. Across the bay the hills rise
beautiful and purple-blue through the evening glow, throwing out
encircling arms around the villages dotted thick and white along their
base, as the arms of a mother are open wide to infold her nestling
children.
Away to the left the bay stretches on till its waters are merged in
ocean; while to the east, above the little town, with its swarming
streets, its bustling railway station, its quiet cemetery, its chimneys,
and its spires, rises another range of hills, seeming in their nearness
like a God-built barrier between that old-world village on the Scottish
coast and the steadily advancing steps of the great city which lies
beyond.