THE RAILWAY CHILDREN
PART 7
Chapter VII. For valour.
I hope you
don't mind my telling you a good deal about Roberta. The fact is I am growing
very fond of her. The more I observe her the more I love her. And I notice all
sorts of things about her that I like.
For
instance, she was quite oddly anxious to make other people happy. And she could
keep a secret, a tolerably rare accomplishment. Also she had the power of
silent sympathy. That sounds rather dull, I know, but it's not so dull as it
sounds. It just means that a person is able to know that you are unhappy, and
to love you extra on that account, without bothering you by telling you all the
time how sorry she is for you. That was what Bobbie was like. She knew that
Mother was unhappy—and that Mother had not told her the reason. So she just
loved Mother more and never said a single word that could let Mother know how
earnestly her little girl wondered what Mother was unhappy about. This needs
practice. It is not so easy as you might think.
Whatever
happened—and all sorts of nice, pleasant ordinary things happened—such as
picnics, games, and buns for tea, Bobbie always had these thoughts at the back
of her mind. “Mother's unhappy. Why? I don't know. She doesn't want me to know.
I won't try to find out. But she IS unhappy. Why? I don't know. She doesn't—” and
so on, repeating and repeating like a tune that you don't know the stopping
part of.
The
Russian gentleman still took up a good deal of everybody's thoughts. All the
editors and secretaries of Societies and Members of Parliament had answered
Mother's letters as politely as they knew how; but none of them could tell
where the wife and children of Mr. Szezcpansky would be likely to be. (Did I
tell you that the Russian's very Russian name was that?)
Bobbie had
another quality which you will hear differently described by different people.
Some of them call it interfering in other people's business—and some call it
“helping lame dogs over stiles,” and some call it “loving-kindness.” It just
means trying to help people.
She racked
her brains to think of some way of helping the Russian gentleman to find his
wife and children. He had learned a few words of English now. He could say
“Good morning,” and “Good night,” and “Please,” and “Thank you,” and “Pretty,”
when the children brought him flowers, and “Ver' good,” when they asked him how
he had slept.
The way he
smiled when he “said his English,” was, Bobbie felt, “just too sweet for
anything.” She used to think of his face because she fancied it would help her
to some way of helping him. But it did not. Yet his being there cheered her
because she saw that it made Mother happier.
“She likes
to have someone to be good to, even beside us,” said Bobbie. “And I know she
hated to let him have Father's clothes. But I suppose it 'hurt nice,' or she
wouldn't have.”
For many
and many a night after the day when she and Peter and Phyllis had saved the
train from wreck by waving their little red flannel flags, Bobbie used to wake
screaming and shivering, seeing again that horrible mound, and the poor, dear
trustful engine rushing on towards it—just thinking that it was doing its swift
duty, and that everything was clear and safe. And then a warm thrill of
pleasure used to run through her at the remembrance of how she and Peter and
Phyllis and the red flannel petticoats had really saved everybody.
One
morning a letter came. It was addressed to Peter and Bobbie and Phyllis. They
opened it with enthusiastic curiosity, for they did not often get letters.
The letter
said:—
“Dear Sir,
and Ladies,—It is proposed to make a small presentation to you, in
commemoration of your prompt and courageous action in warning the train on the
—- inst., and thus averting what must, humanly speaking, have been a terrible
accident. The presentation will take place at the —- Station at three o'clock
on the 30th inst., if this time and place will be convenient to you.
“Yours faithfully,
“Jabez Inglewood.
“Secretary, Great Northern and Southern Railway Co.”
There
never had been a prouder moment in the lives of the three children. They rushed
to Mother with the letter, and she also felt proud and said so, and this made
the children happier than ever.
“But if
the presentation is money, you must say, 'Thank you, but we'd rather not take
it,'” said Mother. “I'll wash your Indian muslins at once,” she added. “You
must look tidy on an occasion like this.”
“Phil and
I can wash them,” said Bobbie, “if you'll iron them, Mother.”
Washing is
rather fun. I wonder whether you've ever done it? This particular washing took
place in the back kitchen, which had a stone floor and a very big stone sink
under its window.
“Let's put
the bath on the sink,” said Phyllis; “then we can pretend we're out-of-doors
washerwomen like Mother saw in France.”
“But they
were washing in the cold river,” said Peter, his hands in his pockets, “not in
hot water.”
“This is a
HOT river, then,” said Phyllis; “lend a hand with the bath, there's a dear.”
“I should
like to see a deer lending a hand,” said Peter, but he lent his.
“Now to
rub and scrub and scrub and rub,” said Phyllis, hopping joyously about as
Bobbie carefully carried the heavy kettle from the kitchen fire.
“Oh, no!”
said Bobbie, greatly shocked; “you don't rub muslin. You put the boiled soap in
the hot water and make it all frothy-lathery—and then you shake the muslin and
squeeze it, ever so gently, and all the dirt comes out. It's only clumsy things
like tablecloths and sheets that have to be rubbed.”
The lilac
and the Gloire de Dijon roses outside the window swayed in the soft breeze.
“It's a
nice drying day—that's one thing,” said Bobbie, feeling very grown up. “Oh, I
do wonder what wonderful feelings we shall have when we WEAR the Indian muslin
dresses!”
“Yes, so
do I,” said Phyllis, shaking and squeezing the muslin in quite a professional
manner.
“NOW we
squeeze out the soapy water. NO—we mustn't twist them—and then rinse them. I'll
hold them while you and Peter empty the bath and get clean water.”
“A
presentation! That means presents,” said Peter, as his sisters, having duly
washed the pegs and wiped the line, hung up the dresses to dry. “Whatever will
it be?”
“It might
be anything,” said Phyllis; “what I've always wanted is a Baby elephant—but I
suppose they wouldn't know that.”
“Suppose
it was gold models of steam-engines?” said Bobbie.
“Or a big
model of the scene of the prevented accident,” suggested Peter, “with a little
model train, and dolls dressed like us and the engine-driver and fireman and
passengers.”
“Do you
LIKE,” said Bobbie, doubtfully, drying her hands on the rough towel that hung
on a roller at the back of the scullery door, “do you LIKE us being rewarded
for saving a train?”
“Yes, I
do,” said Peter, downrightly; “and don't you try to come it over us that you
don't like it, too. Because I know you do.”
“Yes,”
said Bobbie, doubtfully, “I know I do. But oughtn't we to be satisfied with
just having done it, and not ask for anything more?”
“Who did
ask for anything more, silly?” said her brother; “Victoria Cross soldiers don't
ASK for it; but they're glad enough to get it all the same. Perhaps it'll be
medals. Then, when I'm very old indeed, I shall show them to my grandchildren
and say, 'We only did our duty,' and they'll be awfully proud of me.”
“You have
to be married,” warned Phyllis, “or you don't have any grandchildren.”
“I suppose
I shall HAVE to be married some day,” said Peter, “but it will be an awful
bother having her round all the time. I'd like to marry a lady who had trances,
and only woke up once or twice a year.”
“Just to
say you were the light of her life and then go to sleep again. Yes. That
wouldn't be bad,” said Bobbie.
“When I
get married,” said Phyllis, “I shall want him to want me to be awake all the
time, so that I can hear him say how nice I am.”
“I think
it would be nice,” said Bobbie, “to marry someone very poor, and then you'd do
all the work and he'd love you most frightfully, and see the blue wood smoke
curling up among the trees from the domestic hearth as he came home from work
every night. I say—we've got to answer that letter and say that the time and
place WILL be convenient to us. There's the soap, Peter. WE'RE both as clean as
clean. That pink box of writing paper you had on your birthday, Phil.”
It took
some time to arrange what should be said. Mother had gone back to her writing,
and several sheets of pink paper with scalloped gilt edges and green
four-leaved shamrocks in the corner were spoiled before the three had decided
what to say. Then each made a copy and signed it with its own name.
The
threefold letter ran:—
“Dear Mr.
Jabez Inglewood,—Thank you very much. We did not want to be rewarded but only
to save the train, but we are glad you think so and thank you very much. The
time and place you say will be quite convenient to us. Thank you very much.
“Your affecate little friend,”
Then came
the name, and after it:—
“P.S.
Thank you very much.”
“Washing
is much easier than ironing,” said Bobbie, taking the clean dry dresses off the
line. “I do love to see things come clean. Oh—I don't know how we shall wait
till it's time to know what presentation they're going to present!”
When at
last—it seemed a very long time after—it was THE day, the three children went
down to the station at the proper time. And everything that happened was so odd
that it seemed like a dream. The Station Master came out to meet them—in his
best clothes, as Peter noticed at once—and led them into the waiting room where
once they had played the advertisement game. It looked quite different now. A
carpet had been put down—and there were pots of roses on the mantelpiece and on
the window ledges—green branches stuck up, like holly and laurel are at
Christmas, over the framed advertisement of Cook's Tours and the Beauties of
Devon and the Paris Lyons Railway. There were quite a number of people there
besides the Porter—two or three ladies in smart dresses, and quite a crowd of gentlemen
in high hats and frock coats—besides everybody who belonged to the station.
They recognized several people who had been in the train on the
red-flannel-petticoat day. Best of all their own old gentleman was there, and
his coat and hat and collar seemed more than ever different from anyone else's.
He shook hands with them and then everybody sat down on chairs, and a gentleman
in spectacles—they found out afterwards that he was the District
Superintendent—began quite a long speech—very clever indeed. I am not going to
write the speech down. First, because you would think it dull; and secondly,
because it made all the children blush so, and get so hot about the ears that I
am quite anxious to get away from this part of the subject; and thirdly,
because the gentleman took so many words to say what he had to say that I
really haven't time to write them down. He said all sorts of nice things about
the children's bravery and presence of mind, and when he had done he sat down,
and everyone who was there clapped and said, “Hear, hear.”
And then
the old gentleman got up and said things, too. It was very like a prize-giving.
And then he called the children one by one, by their names, and gave each of
them a beautiful gold watch and chain. And inside the watches were engraved
after the name of the watch's new owner:—
“From the
Directors of the Northern and Southern Railway in grateful recognition of the
courageous and prompt action which averted an accident on —- 1905.”
The
watches were the most beautiful you can possibly imagine, and each one had a
blue leather case to live in when it was at home.
“You must
make a speech now and thank everyone for their kindness,” whispered the Station
Master in Peter's ear and pushed him forward. “Begin 'Ladies and Gentlemen,'”
he added.
Each of
the children had already said “Thank you,” quite properly.
“Oh,
dear,” said Peter, but he did not resist the push.
“Ladies
and Gentlemen,” he said in a rather husky voice. Then there was a pause, and he
heard his heart beating in his throat. “Ladies and Gentlemen,” he went on with
a rush, “it's most awfully good of you, and we shall treasure the watches all
our lives—but really we don't deserve it because what we did wasn't anything,
really. At least, I mean it was awfully exciting, and what I mean to say—thank
you all very, very much.”
The people
clapped Peter more than they had done the District Superintendent, and then
everybody shook hands with them, and as soon as politeness would let them, they
got away, and tore up the hill to Three Chimneys with their watches in their
hands.
It was a
wonderful day—the kind of day that very seldom happens to anybody and to most
of us not at all.
“I did
want to talk to the old gentleman about something else,” said Bobbie, “but it
was so public—like being in church.”
“What did
you want to say?” asked Phyllis.
“I'll tell
you when I've thought about it more,” said Bobbie.
So when
she had thought a little more she wrote a letter.
“My
dearest old gentleman,” it said; “I want most awfully to ask you something. If
you could get out of the train and go by the next, it would do. I do not want
you to give me anything. Mother says we ought not to. And besides, we do not
want any THINGS. Only to talk to you about a Prisoner and Captive. Your loving
little friend,
“Bobbie.”
She got
the Station Master to give the letter to the old gentleman, and next day she
asked Peter and Phyllis to come down to the station with her at the time when
the train that brought the old gentleman from town would be passing through.
She
explained her idea to them—and they approved thoroughly.
They had
all washed their hands and faces, and brushed their hair, and were looking as
tidy as they knew how. But Phyllis, always unlucky, had upset a jug of lemonade
down the front of her dress. There was no time to change—and the wind happening
to blow from the coal yard, her frock was soon powdered with grey, which stuck
to the sticky lemonade stains and made her look, as Peter said, “like any
little gutter child.”
It was
decided that she should keep behind the others as much as possible.
“Perhaps
the old gentleman won't notice,” said Bobbie. “The aged are often weak in the
eyes.”
There was
no sign of weakness, however, in the eyes, or in any other part of the old
gentleman, as he stepped from the train and looked up and down the platform.
The three
children, now that it came to the point, suddenly felt that rush of deep
shyness which makes your ears red and hot, your hands warm and wet, and the tip
of your nose pink and shiny.
“Oh,” said
Phyllis, “my heart's thumping like a steam-engine—right under my sash, too.”
“Nonsense,”
said Peter, “people's hearts aren't under their sashes.”
“I don't
care—mine is,” said Phyllis.
“If you're
going to talk like a poetry-book,” said Peter, “my heart's in my mouth.”
“My
heart's in my boots—if you come to that,” said Roberta; “but do come on—he'll
think we're idiots.”
“He won't
be far wrong,” said Peter, gloomily. And they went forward to meet the old
gentleman.
“Hullo,”
he said, shaking hands with them all in turn. “This is a very great pleasure.”
“It WAS
good of you to get out,” Bobbie said, perspiring and polite.
He took
her arm and drew her into the waiting room where she and the others had played
the advertisement game the day they found the Russian. Phyllis and Peter
followed. “Well?” said the old gentleman, giving Bobbie's arm a kind little
shake before he let it go. “Well? What is it?”
“Oh,
please!” said Bobbie.
“Yes?”
said the old gentleman.
“What I
mean to say—” said Bobbie.
“Well?”
said the old gentleman.
“It's all
very nice and kind,” said she.
“But?” he
said.
“I wish I
might say something,” she said.
“Say it,”
said he.
“Well,
then,” said Bobbie—and out came the story of the Russian who had written the
beautiful book about poor people, and had been sent to prison and to Siberia
for just that.
“And what
we want more than anything in the world is to find his wife and children for
him,” said Bobbie, “but we don't know how. But you must be most horribly
clever, or you wouldn't be a Direction of the Railway. And if YOU knew how—and
would? We'd rather have that than anything else in the world. We'd go without
the watches, even, if you could sell them and find his wife with the money.”
And the
others said so, too, though not with so much enthusiasm.
“Hum,”
said the old gentleman, pulling down the white waistcoat that had the big gilt
buttons on it, “what did you say the name was—Fryingpansky?”
“No, no,”
said Bobbie earnestly. “I'll write it down for you. It doesn't really look at
all like that except when you say it. Have you a bit of pencil and the back of
an envelope?” she asked.
The old
gentleman got out a gold pencil-case and a beautiful, sweet-smelling, green
Russian leather note-book and opened it at a new page.
“Here,” he
said, “write here.”
She wrote
down “Szezcpansky,” and said:—
“That's
how you write it. You CALL it Shepansky.”
The old
gentleman took out a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles and fitted them on his
nose. When he had read the name, he looked quite different.
“THAT man?
Bless my soul!” he said. “Why, I've read his book! It's translated into every
European language. A fine book—a noble book. And so your mother took him
in—like the good Samaritan. Well, well. I'll tell you what, youngsters—your
mother must be a very good woman.”
“Of course
she is,” said Phyllis, in astonishment.
“And
you're a very good man,” said Bobbie, very shy, but firmly resolved to be
polite.
“You
flatter me,” said the old gentleman, taking off his hat with a flourish. “And
now am I to tell you what I think of you?”
“Oh,
please don't,” said Bobbie, hastily.
“Why?”
asked the old gentleman.
“I don't
exactly know,” said Bobbie. “Only—if it's horrid, I don't want you to; and if
it's nice, I'd rather you didn't.”
The old
gentleman laughed.
“Well,
then,” he said, “I'll only just say that I'm very glad you came to me about
this—very glad, indeed. And I shouldn't be surprised if I found out something
very soon. I know a great many Russians in London, and every Russian knows HIS
name. Now tell me all about yourselves.”
He turned
to the others, but there was only one other, and that was Peter. Phyllis had
disappeared.
“Tell me
all about yourself,” said the old gentleman again. And, quite naturally, Peter
was stricken dumb.
“All
right, we'll have an examination,” said the old gentleman; “you two sit on the
table, and I'll sit on the bench and ask questions.”
He did,
and out came their names and ages—their Father's name and business—how long
they had lived at Three Chimneys and a great deal more.
The
questions were beginning to turn on a herring and a half for three halfpence,
and a pound of lead and a pound of feathers, when the door of the waiting room
was kicked open by a boot; as the boot entered everyone could see that its lace
was coming undone—and in came Phyllis, very slowly and carefully.
In one
hand she carried a large tin can, and in the other a thick slice of bread and
butter.
“Afternoon
tea,” she announced proudly, and held the can and the bread and butter out to
the old gentleman, who took them and said:—
“Bless my
soul!”
“Yes,”
said Phyllis.
“It's very
thoughtful of you,” said the old gentleman, “very.”
“But you
might have got a cup,” said Bobbie, “and a plate.”
“Perks
always drinks out of the can,” said Phyllis, flushing red. “I think it was very
nice of him to give it me at all—let alone cups and plates,” she added.
“So do I,”
said the old gentleman, and he drank some of the tea and tasted the bread and
butter.
And then
it was time for the next train, and he got into it with many good-byes and kind
last words.
“Well,”
said Peter, when they were left on the platform, and the tail-lights of the
train disappeared round the corner, “it's my belief that we've lighted a candle
to-day—like Latimer, you know, when he was being burned—and there'll be
fireworks for our Russian before long.”
And so
there were.
It wasn't
ten days after the interview in the waiting room that the three children were
sitting on the top of the biggest rock in the field below their house watching
the 5.15 steam away from the station along the bottom of the valley. They saw,
too, the few people who had got out at the station straggling up the road
towards the village—and they saw one person leave the road and open the gate
that led across the fields to Three Chimneys and to nowhere else.
“Who on
earth!” said Peter, scrambling down.
“Let's go
and see,” said Phyllis.
So they
did. And when they got near enough to see who the person was, they saw it was
their old gentleman himself, his brass buttons winking in the afternoon
sunshine, and his white waistcoat looking whiter than ever against the green of
the field.
“Hullo!”
shouted the children, waving their hands.
“Hullo!”
shouted the old gentleman, waving his hat.
Then the
three started to run—and when they got to him they hardly had breath left to
say:—
“How do
you do?”
“Good
news,” said he. “I've found your Russian friend's wife and child—and I couldn't
resist the temptation of giving myself the pleasure of telling him.”
But as he
looked at Bobbie's face he felt that he COULD resist that temptation.
“Here,” he
said to her, “you run on and tell him. The other two will show me the way.”
Bobbie
ran. But when she had breathlessly panted out the news to the Russian and
Mother sitting in the quiet garden—when Mother's face had lighted up so
beautifully, and she had said half a dozen quick French words to the
Exile—Bobbie wished that she had NOT carried the news. For the Russian sprang
up with a cry that made Bobbie's heart leap and then tremble—a cry of love and
longing such as she had never heard. Then he took Mother's hand and kissed it
gently and reverently—and then he sank down in his chair and covered his face
with his hands and sobbed. Bobbie crept away. She did not want to see the
others just then.
But she
was as gay as anybody when the endless French talking was over, when Peter had
torn down to the village for buns and cakes, and the girls had got tea ready
and taken it out into the garden.
The old
gentleman was most merry and delightful. He seemed to be able to talk in French
and English almost at the same moment, and Mother did nearly as well. It was a
delightful time. Mother seemed as if she could not make enough fuss about the
old gentleman, and she said yes at once when he asked if he might present some
“goodies” to his little friends.
The word
was new to the children—but they guessed that it meant sweets, for the three
large pink and green boxes, tied with green ribbon, which he took out of his
bag, held unheard-of layers of beautiful chocolates.
The
Russian's few belongings were packed, and they all saw him off at the station.
Then
Mother turned to the old gentleman and said:—
“I don't
know how to thank you for EVERYTHING. It has been a real pleasure to me to see
you. But we live very quietly. I am so sorry that I can't ask you to come and
see us again.”
The
children thought this very hard. When they HAD made a friend—and such a
friend—they would dearly have liked him to come and see them again.
What the
old gentleman thought they couldn't tell. He only said:—
“I
consider myself very fortunate, Madam, to have been received once at your
house.”
“Ah,” said
Mother, “I know I must seem surly and ungrateful—but—”
“You could
never seem anything but a most charming and gracious lady,” said the old
gentleman, with another of his bows.
And as
they turned to go up the hill, Bobbie saw her Mother's face.
“How tired
you look, Mammy,” she said; “lean on me.”
“It's my
place to give Mother my arm,” said Peter. “I'm the head man of the family when
Father's away.”
Mother
took an arm of each.
“How
awfully nice,” said Phyllis, skipping joyfully, “to think of the dear Russian
embracing his long-lost wife. The baby must have grown a lot since he saw it.”
“Yes,”
said Mother.
“I wonder
whether Father will think I'VE grown,” Phyllis went on, skipping still more
gaily. “I have grown already, haven't I, Mother?”
“Yes,”
said Mother, “oh, yes,” and Bobbie and Peter felt her hands tighten on their
arms.
“Poor old
Mammy, you ARE tired,” said Peter.
Bobbie
said, “Come on, Phil; I'll race you to the gate.”
And she
started the race, though she hated doing it. YOU know why Bobbie did that.
Mother only thought that Bobbie was tired of walking slowly. Even Mothers, who
love you better than anyone else ever will, don't always understand.