Two Little Travellers Part 17

"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 s.n.a.t.c.hes 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 ca.n.a.l. 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 amus.e.m.e.nt 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 G.o.d'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 hoa.r.s.e, 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 b.u.t.ter--the best his locker afforded--and to this repast he made his pa.s.sengers 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 ident.i.ty to an open-mouthed and delighted audience, no one would have suspected that the two little ragam.u.f.fins 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 ca.n.a.l 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 st.u.r.dily 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.

CHAPTER XV.

BAMBO'S FRIEND.

"After the night comes the morning, After the winter the spring; We can begin again, Dolly, And be sorry for everything.

"We love, and so we are happy; No beautiful thing ever ends; 'Tis good to cry and be sorry, But better to kiss and be friends."

E. c.o.xHEAD.

This evening the sisters were pacing arm in arm up and down the long, wide gravel walk between the front door and the gate. Miss Turner looked pinched and worn, with pale cheeks and great hollows about her eyes, which were dim and dry as if from want of sleep. Her head was bent, her step was slow like the step of an old person; and indeed she seemed old--ten years older than the brisk and vigorous Aunt Catharine who had trodden the same path with such a stately air only a week ago.

Miss Alice's gentle face also was thin and white. Her eyes, which were big and gray like Darby's, and usually soft and calm in their glance, were alert, bright, and restless, as if always on the watch for something they could not see, while in her nut-brown hair there were nearly twice as many silver streaks as had been visible when Darby and Joan went away.

They had been speaking of the lost little ones, but now a silence had fallen upon them which neither showed any desire to break. There was nothing more to say except what had already been said over and over again. Everything had been done that they and wise, kind neighbours could do or suggest; and on the morrow Dr. King and Mr. Grey would put the case into the hands of the Barchester police--more to satisfy Miss Turner than from any faith in the result on their own part. The Firdale men had done their best and failed; what cleverer would they be in Barchester?

The air had grown chilly, although the sun was not yet set, and Miss Turner shivered, as much from nervousness as from cold. Her sister was drawing her within doors, when the latch of the gate clicked sharply, and both ladies turned round to look in its direction.

And what did they see as the wide iron gate swung slowly back on its hinges? The oddest looking group that had ever sought entrance to Firgrove--the most pathetic, yet the most grotesque! First and foremost was a small boy in soiled, sodden garments--hatless, unwashed, unbrushed, tired, drooping, and travel-stained, yet with an expression of unutterable gladness beaming from out a pair of clear gray eyes that seemed far too big for the thin white face which they illumined. By his side, holding fast by the boy's hand, stood a little girl--bedraggled, unkempt, untidy, with a glimmer of pearly teeth, and great blue eyes gleaming out from a mop of tangled curls that glittered as if they had caught within their burnished strands all the sunbeams which had lighted up that bright October day. And leaning against the pillar of the gate was the third figure of the party, and the queerest--a tiny man, not much taller than the little girl, with huge head, long arms, shrivelled, haggard face, and deep-set, eager eyes--a dwarf, in short, and, at the first glance, the most uncouth that ever was seen.

Miss Turner drew herself up in astonishment and annoyance at the ill-timed intrusion of the three little tramps. A something in the boy's eyes, however, arrested the words of rebuke and dismissal which hung ready to fall from her lips, and she looked at them again before stepping forward to shut the gate in their faces.

But Miss Alice's sight was quicker than her sister's, her instincts truer, her faith stronger, and with a low, glad cry of "My dears! my dears!" she sprang, swift as a girl, toward the children, bent down, and Darby and Joan felt themselves gathered close and tight within Auntie Alice's loving arms; while from Aunt Catharine's eyes the thankful tears rained thick and fast, mingled with a shower of kisses, upon their smiling, upturned faces.

"We's comed home again, Aunt Catharine," announced Joan cheerfully and easily, as if the pair of them had just returned from church. "Is you glad to see us?" she asked, smiling sweetly into her aunt's swimming eyes.

"Yes, Joan, very, very glad; I don't think you'll ever know _how_ glad,"

answered Miss Turner gravely.

"Darby and me went away to look for the Happy Land--like what nurse sings 'bout, don't you know?--far, far away," explained the little girl. "But we didn't find it after goin' miles and miles and miles; we only finded a old carawan, and some bad peoples, and Puck, and a _ee-mornous_ (enormous) bear! Now we's back, and I's awful hung'y!

Is there any cake or cold puddin', or anythin' good for tea?" she inquired anxiously, looking audaciously up into the familiar face of Aunt Catharine--familiar, of course, yet with a something so new and strange in its softened lines that the little one instinctively put up a dirty hand and softly stroked her aunt's cheek, murmuring as she did so, in her sweet, cooing voice, "Poor Aunt Catharine! Joan loves you, and willn't never, never go away from you any more. Now, please tell me, _is_ there anythin' good for tea?" she demanded.

"Joan!" exclaimed Darby in a shocked undertone, as if mere creature comforts like cake and cold pudding were not to be thought of at such a time. Then he addressed his aunt.

"Joan's quite correc'," he said, standing right in front of her, bravely bent on confession of his naughtiness and getting it over as quickly as possible, so that he could start fair with a clean sheet. "I was mad because you punished me, and we made up a plan--at least I did--to run away and find the Happy Land, and I coaxed Joan to come with me. It's all my fault, Aunt Catharine; so whatever putting to bed or catechism there is I'll take it, for I was the naughty one. But we found out that there's no Happy Land at all--at least not like what I thought. Our Happy Land's here at Firgrove, and oh, but we're glad to get back to it!--Aren't we, Joan?"

"Yes, werry, werry glad," agreed Joan readily.

"And I'm never going to be disobedient or troublesome, never, never any more, if you'll forgive me this time, Aunt Catharine, and let me begin over again," begged the boy, slipping a grimy little paw into Aunt Catharine's spotless hand.

"Forgive you, child!" cried Aunt Catharine, in a broken voice. "Why, of course I'll forgive you, and we'll both begin over again, Darby," she whispered.

"That's right," he replied cheerily. "And I'm going to try to make a Happy Land all about me wherever I am. Mr. Bambo 'splained it to me ever so nicely. He's very clever, you know. This is he," said Darby, pointing to the dwarf, who still leaned, as if for support, against the pillar of the gate.

Bambo advanced a step, tried to speak, but his voice was too hoa.r.s.e to be intelligible.

"He's my own dear dwarf!" declared Joan, patting the little man's shoulder with gentle, caressing touch.

"He is called Bambo, but his real own name is Green--Jimmy Green; Green, our gardener's grandson, Aunt Catharine," explained Darby in rapid sentences. "The wicked man and woman took us to their caravan when we were on our way to look for the Happy Land, and only for Bambo we should not have known where to find it. We love him, Aunt Catharine, Auntie Alice. He is ill--very ill, I think. Won't you please be good to him, both of you?" pleaded the boy, in eager, coaxing accents.

The ladies looked from Darby to the dwarf in a bewildered way. Again he attempted to explain his presence there, and again he failed. He was about to steal quietly away--for was not his work done, his mission accomplished?--when all at once the ground seemed to slip from beneath his feet; he swayed, reeled, and with a low moan, as of a hurt animal, fell on the gra.s.s border within the gate, at the very feet of the children whose safety he had counted of so much more consequence than his own life.