Another Surprise
Claudia did not reply. This seemed a sadly mercenary view of work, and a little shocked her. But then Claudia had not to earn her own living.
Claudia's inquiries of Sarah Griffin were scarcely more cheerful. Sarah was at the shop from 8.30 until 7, and was unable, therefore, to see her friend during the day. Aunt Jane and Aunt Ruth insisted that Sarah should spend the evening at St. John's Wood, and promised that she should leave early in the morning.
She came. Again Claudia marvelled at the change in her friend. Already she seemed ten years older than her age; her clothes, if neat, cried aloud of a narrow purse. She had lost a good deal of the brightness which once marked her, and had gathered instead a patient, worn look which had a pathos of its own.
Sarah did not announce her poverty, but under the sympathetic hands of Aunt Ruth and Aunt Jane she in time poured out the history of her daily life.
She was thankful to be in work, even though it was poorly paid. When first in search of occupation, she had spent three weary weeks in going from one house of business to another. In some she was treated courteously, in a few kindly, in many coarsely, in some insultingly. But that was nothing; Sarah knew of girls, far more tenderly reared than she had been, whose experiences had been even sadder.
But Claudia hoped that now Sarah really was at work she was comfortable.
Sarah smiled a little wintry smile. Yes, she was comfortable, and very thankful to be at work.
Aunt Jane with many apologies wanted more detail.
Then it appeared that Sarah was living on 15s. a week. She lived at a home for young women in business; she fed chiefly on bread and butter. Her clothes depended upon occasional gifts from friends.
Claudia began to condemn the world for its hardness.
"But I am not clever," said Sarah; "I can do nothing in particular, and there are so many of us wanting work."
"And do all these people really need it?"
"Yes; and we all think it hard when girls come and, for the mere pleasure of doing something, take such work at a lower wage than those can take who must live."
"But look at me," said Claudia; "I don't want the money, but I want the occupation; I want to feel I have some definite duties, and some place of my own in the world."
Sarah looked a little puzzled. Then she said, "Perhaps Mrs. Warwick could help you."
"Who is Mrs. Warwick?"
"Mrs. Warwick is the presiding genius of a ladies' club to which some of my friends go. I daresay one of them will be very glad to take us there."
So they agreed to go. Claudia felt, it must be owned, a little disappointed at what she had heard from her friends, but was inclined to believe that between the old life at home and the drudgery for the bare means of existence there still lay many things which she could do. She revolved the subject in the course of a morning walk on the day they were to visit the club, and returned to the shelter of her aunts' home with something of her old confidence restored.
Despite their goodness—Claudia could not question that—how poor, she thought, looked their simple ways! Aunt Jane sat, as aforetime, at one side of the fireplace, Aunt Ruth at the other. Aunt Jane was knitting with red wool, as she had always knitted since Claudia had known her. Aunt Ruth, with an equal devotion to habit, was working her way through a piece of embroidery. Molossus, the toy terrier, was asleep in Aunt Jane's lap; Scipio reposed luxuriously at Aunt Ruth's feet.
Mild Excitement
It was a peaceful scene; yet it had its mild excitements. The two aunts began at once to explain.
"We are so glad you are come in," said Aunt Jane.
"Because old Rooker has been," said Aunt Ruth.
"And with such good news! He has heard from his boy——"
"His boy, you know, who ran away," continued Aunt Ruth.
"He is coming home in a month or two, just to see his father, and is then going back again——"
"Back again to America, you know——"
"Where he is doing well——"
"And he sends his father five pounds——"
"And now the old man says he will not need our half-a-crown a week any longer——"
"So we can give it to old Mrs. Wimple, his neighbour——"
"A great sufferer, you know, and oh, so patient."
"Really!" said Claudia, a little confused by this antiphonal kind of narrative.
"Yes," continued Aunt Jane, "and I see a letter has come in for you—from home, I think. So this has been quite an eventful morning."
Claudia took the letter and went up to her own room, reflecting a little ungratefully upon the contentment which reigned below.
She opened her letter. It was, she saw, from her mother, written, apparently, at two or three sittings, for the last sheet contained a most voluminous postscript. She read the opening page of salutation, and then laid it down to prepare for luncheon. Musing as she went about her room, time slipped away, and the gong was rumbling out its call before she was quite ready to go down.
She hurried away, and the letter was left unfinished. It caught her eye in the afternoon; but again Claudia was hurried, and resolved that it could very well wait until she returned at night.
The club was amusing. Mrs. Warwick, its leading spirit, pleasantly mingled a certain motherly sympathy with an unconventional habit of manner and speech. There was an address or lecture during the evening by a middle-aged woman of great fluency, who rather astounded Claudia by the freest possible assumption, and by the most sweeping criticism of the established order of things as it affected women. The general conversation of the members seemed, however, no less frivolous, though much less restrained, than she had heard in drawing-rooms at home.
She parted from Sarah Griffin at the door of the club, and drove to St. John's Wood in a hansom. The repose of the house had not been stirred in her absence. Aunt Jane, Aunt Ruth, Molossus, and Scipio, all were in their accustomed places.
"And here is another letter for you, my dear," said Aunt Jane. "I hope the other brought good news?"
Claudia blushed a healthy, honest, old-fashioned blush. She had forgotten that letter. Its opening page or so had alone been glanced at.
Aunt Jane looked astonished at the confession, but with her placid good-nature added: "Of course, my dear, it was the little excitement of this evening."
"So natural to young heads," said Aunt Ruth, with a shake of her curls.
But Claudia was ashamed of herself, and ran upstairs for the first letter.
Startling News
A hasty glance showed her that, whilst it began in ordinary gossip, the long postscript dealt with a more serious subject. Mr. Haberton was ill; he had driven home late at night from a distance, and had taken a chill. Mrs. Haberton hoped it would pass off; Claudia was not to feel alarmed; Pinsett had again proved herself invaluable, and between them they could nurse the patient comfortably.
Claudia hastened to the second letter. Her fears were justified. Her father was worse; pneumonia had set in; the doctor was anxious; they were trying to secure a trained nurse; perhaps Claudia would like to return as soon as she got the letter.
"When did this come?" asked Claudia eagerly.
"A very few moments after you left," said Aunt Jane. "Of course, if you had been here, you might just have caught the eight o'clock train—very late, my dear, for you to go by, but with your father so ill——" And Aunt Jane wiped a tear away.
Claudia also wept.
"Can nothing be done to-night?" she presently cried. "MustI wait till to-morrow? He may be——" But she did not like to finish the sentence.
Aunt Ruth had risen to the occasion; she was already adjusting her spectacles with trembling hands in order to explore theA B C Timetable. A very brief examination of the book showed that Claudia could not get home that night. They could only wait until morning.
Claudia spent a sleepless night. She had come up to London to find a mission in life. The first great sorrow had fallen upon her home in her absence, and by an inexcusable preoccupation she had perhaps madeit impossible to reach home before her father's death.
She knew that pneumonia often claimed its victims swiftly; she might reach home too late.
Her father had been good to her in his own rather stern way. He was not a small, weak, or peevish character. To have helped him in sickness would have seemed a pleasant duty even to Claudia, who had contrived to overlook her mother's frail health. And others were serving him—that weak mother; Pinsett, too; and perhaps a hired nurse. It was unbearable.
"My dear," said Aunt Jane, as Claudia wept aloud, "we are in our heavenly Father's hands; let us ask Him to keep your dear father at least until you see him."
So those two old maids with difficulty adjusted their stiff knees to kneeling, and, as Aunt Jane lifted her quavering voice in a few sentences of simple prayer, she laid a trembling hand protectingly on Claudia.
Would that night never go? Its hours to Claudia seemed weeks. The shock of an impending loss would of itself have been hard enough to bear; but to remember that by her own indifference to home she had perhaps missed seeing her father again alive—that was worse than all.
And then, as she thought of the sick-room, she remembered her mother. How had she contrived for years not to see that in the daily care of that patient woman there lay the first call for a dutiful daughter?
It was noble to work; and therewasa work for every one to do.
But why had she foolishly gone afield to look for occupation and a place in life, when an obvious duty and a post she alone could best fill lay at home? If God would only give her time to amend!
It was a limp, tear-stained, and humbled Claudia who reached home by the first train the next morning.
Her father was alive—that was granted to her. Her mother had borne up bravely, but the struggle was obvious.
A nurse was in possession of the sick-chamber, and Claudia could only look on where often she fain would have been the chief worker.
But the room for amendment was provided. Mr. Haberton recovered very slowly, and was warned always to use the utmost care. Mrs. Haberton, when the worst of her husband's illness was over, showed signs of collapse herself.
A New Ministry
Claudia gave herself up to a new ministry. Her mother no longer called for Pinsett; Mr. Haberton found an admirable successor to his trained nurse.
Claudia had found her place, and in gratitude to God resolved to give the fullest obedience to the ancient precept: "If any have children . . . let them learn first to show piety at home, and to requite their parents."
BY
Women explorers have been the helpers of men, and spurred them on towards their goals. Some such workers are here recalled.
A great deal has been said and written about the men who, in times past, opened up vast tracts of the unknown, and, by so doing, prepared new homes for their countrymen from England. Park and Livingstone, Raleigh and Flinders—the names of these and many more are remembered with gratitude wherever the English tongue is spoken.
Less often perhaps do we remember that there have been not only strong-willed and adventurous men but brave and enduring women who have gone where scarcely any white folks went before them, and who, while doing so, bore without complaint hardships no less severe than those endured by male pioneers.
To the shores of Cape Cod there came, on November 11, 1620, a little leaky ship, torn by North Atlantic gales and with sides shattered by North Atlantic rollers. Standing shivering upon her decks stood groups of men and women, plainly not sailor-folk, worn by a long voyage, and waiting to step upon a shore of which they knew no more than that it was inhabited by unmerciful savages and overlaid by denseforests. The first must be conciliated, and the second, to some extent at least, cleared away before there could be any hope of settlement.
What pictures of happy homes in the Old Country, with their green little gardens and honeysuckle creepers, rose up in the memory of those delicate women as they eyed the bleak, unfriendly shore! Yet, though the cold bit them and the unknown yawned before, they did not flinch, but waited for the solemn moment of landing.
The "Mayflower"
Perhaps a little of what they did that day they knew. Yet could they, we wonder, have realised that in quitting England with their husbands and fathers in order, with them, to worship God according to the manner bidden by their conscience, they were giving themselves a name glorious among women? Or that, because of them and theirs, the name of the little tattered, battered ship they were soon to leave, after weary months of danger from winds and seas, was to live as long as history. Thousands of great ships have gone out from England since the day on which the "Mayflower" sailed from Plymouth, yet which of them had a name like hers?
Tried as the "Mayflower" women were, their trials were only beginning. Even while they waited for their husbands to find a place of settlement, one of their number, wife of William Bradford—a man later to be their governor—fell overboard and was drowned. When they did at last land they had to face, not only the terrors of a North American winter, but sickness brought on by the hard work and poor food following the effects of overcrowding on the voyage.
Soon the death-rate in this small village amounted to as much as two to three persons a day. Wolves howled at night, Indians crept out to spy from behind trees, cruel winds shook their frail wooden houses and froze the dwellers in them, but the courage of the women pioneers of New England never faltered, and when, one by one, they died, worn out by hardship, they had done their noble part in building an altarto Him whom, in their own land, they had not been permitted to serve as they would.
For many years the task of helping to found settlements was the only work done by women in the way of opening up new territory. In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries most of our discoveries were still those of the mariner, who could scarcely take his wife to sea. But in the nineteenth came the rise of foreign missions, as well as the acknowledgment of the need of inland exploration, and in this work the explorer's wife often shared in the risks and adventures of her husband.
When Robert Moffat began his missionary labours in South Africa in 1816, he had not only to preach the gospel to what were often bloodthirsty savages, but he had to plunge into the unknown. Three years later he married Mary Smith, who was henceforth to be his companion in all his journeys, and to face, with a courage not less than his own, the tropical heat, the poisonous insects, the savage beasts, the fierce natives of a territory untrod by the white man, and who had to do all this in a day before medicine had discovered cures for jungle-sickness and poisons, before invention had improved methods of travel, and before knowledge had been able to prepare maps or to write guides.
It was the daughter of Mary Moffat who became the wife of the greatest of all explorers, David Livingstone, and who like her mother, was to set her foot where no white men or women had stood before.
Their first home was at Mabotsa, about two hundred miles from what is now the city of Pretoria. But soon Livingstone began the series of journeys which was to make his name famous. With his wife he travelled in a roomy wagon, drawn by bullocks at a rate of about two miles an hour. But they often suffered intensely from the heat and the scarcity of water. Then the mosquitoes were always troublesome, and frequently even the slow progress they were making would beinterrupted by the death of one of the bullocks, killed by the deadly tsetse. At other times they would halt before a dense bunch of trees, and would have to stop until a clearing had been cut through.
Such was the life of Mrs. Livingstone during her first years in Africa. For a time, following this, she lived in England with her children, and had there to endure sufferings greater than any she had shared with her husband, for during most of her time at home Livingstone was cut off from the world in the middle of Africa. When he reached the coast once more she went back to him, unable to endure the separation longer.
But, soon after landing, her health gave way. At the end of April her condition was hopeless; she lay upon "a rude bed formed of boxes, but covered with a soft mattress," and thus, her husband beside her, she died in the heart of the great continent for which she and those most dear to her had spent themselves.
Lady Baker
An even greater African explorer than Mrs. Livingstone was Lady Baker, wife of Sir Samuel Baker. She was a Hungarian, and married Baker in 1860, when he had already done some colonisation work by settling a number of Englishmen in Ceylon. In the year following their marriage, the Bakers went to Egypt, determined to clear up that greatest of all mysteries to African explorers—the secret of the Nile sources. Arrived at Khartoum, they fitted out an expedition and set off up the river with twenty-nine camels.
One day, as they pushed on slowly in that silent, burning land, they heard that white men were approaching; and sure enough, there soon appeared before them the figures of Speke and Grant, two well-known explorers who had gone out a year before and whom many feared to have been lost. These men had found the source of the Nile in the Victoria Nyanza. But they told the Bakers a wonderful story of how they had heard rumours from time to time of the existence of another lake into which the Nile was said to flow.
The minds of Baker and his wife were fired to emulation. Parting from their newly-met countrymen, they pressed onwards and southwards. They had to go a long distance out of their way to avoid the slave-traders who were determined to wreck their plans if they could.
"We have heard a good deal recently of lady travellers in Africa," said theTimesa long time afterwards, "but their work has been mere child's play compared with the trials which Lady Baker had to undergo in forcing her way into a region absolutely unknown and bristling with dangers of every kind."
But after encountering many adventures, the determined traveller and his brave wife at last reached the top of a slope from which, on looking down, they saw a vast inland ocean. No eye of white man had ever beheld this lake before, and to Lady Baker, not less than to her husband, belongs the glory of the discovery of the lake which all the world knows to-day as the Albert Nyanza.
"Thus," to quote an earlier passage in the sameTimesarticle, "amid many hardships and at the frequent risk of death at the hands of Arab slavers and hostile chiefs, Baker and his wife forged one of the most important links in the course of one of the world's most famous rivers."
After many further difficulties, the explorers found their way back to the coast, and thence to England. But their fame had gone before them, and everywhere they were welcomed. And though it was Baker who was awarded a gold medal by the Royal Geographical Society, all must have felt that the honour belonged, not less, to his courageous wife.
Mary Kingsley
It may be said that Lady Baker was not alone in her journeys. On the other hand, Mary Kingsley, another woman African traveller, led her own expeditions. Moreover, her travelling was often done through territory reeking with disease. At the age of twenty-nine she explored the Congo River, and visited OldCalabar, and in 1894 ascended the mountain of Mungo Mah Lobeh. After her return to England she lectured upon her adventures. One more journey, this time not of exploration, was she to make to the great African continent. In 1900 she volunteered as a nurse during the war, and went out to the Cape. Here she was employed to nurse sick Boer prisoners. But her work was done. Enteric fever struck her down and, before long, the traveller had set out upon her last journey.
The names we have mentioned have been those of famous travellers—women whose work is part of the history of discovery. But there are hundreds of courageous women to-day, not perhaps engaged in exploration, but who, nevertheless, are living in remote stations in the heart of Africa, in the midst of the Australian "never-never," in the lonely islands of the Pacific—women whose husbands, whose fathers, whose brothers are carrying on the work of Empire, or the greater work of the gospel.
Often one of these women is the only white person of her sex for hundreds of miles. Perhaps she is the first who has ever set foot in the region wherein she lives. Yet her courage does not fail. When, as sometimes she does, she writes a book describing her adventures, it is sure to be full of high spirits and amusing descriptions of the primitive methods of cooking and housekeeping to which she must submit. The other side of the picture, the loneliness, the intense heat or cold, the mosquitoes or other pests, the compulsion, through absence of assistance, to do what at home could be done by a servant—all this is absent.
Women may have changed, but certainly woman in the difficult places of the Empire, whether she be missionary, squatter, or consul's wife, has lost nothing in courage, in perseverance, in cheerful or even smiling submission to hard conditions.
BY
A rural story this—of adventurous youngsters and a pathetic figure that won their sympathy.
Ever since the twins could remember Poor Jane had lived in the village. In fact, she had lived there all her life, though one could not expect the twins to remember that, for they were very young indeed, and Poor Jane was quite old.
Poor Jane did not dress like other folks. Her boots were so large and sloppy that her feet seemed to shake about in them, and she shuffled along the ground when she walked. These boots could never have been cleaned since Jane had had them, and the twins firmly believed that they always had been that queer dust-colour, until one day Nan told them that when they were quite new they were black and shiny like ordinary boots.
Poor Jane always wore a brown, muddy, gingham skirt, frayed and tattered, and the torn pieces hung like a frill from her knees to the tops of her dust-coloured boots. Over her chest she wore a dark-grey woollen cross-over, and on her head was a dirty shawl, which hung down her back, and was pinned across her breast. Little straw-like wisps of straight brown hair stuck out from under the shawl over herforehead and ears. Her face was dried up and shrivelled, and her cheek-bones were so sharp that they tried to prick through the skin.
Poor Jane did not often wash, so her wrinkles, and what Dumpty called her "laughing lines," were marked quite black with dirt. Her lips were not rosy and fresh like mummie's or Dumpty's, but they were of a purple-grey colour, and when she opened her mouth, instead of a row of pearly white teeth showing, there was only one very large yellow tooth, which looked as if it could not stay much longer in the gum.
The twins always thought that she must live on milk, as babies do before they have any teeth, but to their amazement they heard that last Christmas, at the Old People's Tea, Poor Jane had eaten two plates of salt beef.
"Do you think she sucked it?" Dumpty asked her brother that evening when nurse was safely out of the way. Humpty asked daddy the next day at lunch how old people managed to eat when they had only one tooth.
Humpty's Experiment
Daddy said they "chewed," and showed Humpty how it was done, and there was a scene that afternoon in the nursery at tea, when Humpty practised "chewing" his bread and honey. And in the end Dumpty went down alone to the drawing-room for games that evening, with this message from Nan: "Master Humphrey has behaved badly at the tea-table, and been sent to bed."
BARBARA'S VISIT.BARBARA'S VISIT.
But although the children met Poor Jane every time that they went into the village they had never once spoken to her. That was because she was not one of nurse's friends, like old Mrs. Jenks, whom Barbara, the twins' elder sister, visited every week with flowers or fruit or other good things. Nan considered that Poor Jane was too dirty for one of her friends.
Poor Jane was so interesting because she had so much to say to herself, and, as daddy said, "gibbered like a monkey" when she walked alone.
All day long she would wander up and down the village street, and when the children came out of school and the boys began to tease, she would curl her long black-nailed fingers—which were so like birds' claws—at her persecutors, and would run towards them as if she meant to scratch out their eyes.
Early last spring the twins met with their first real adventure. They had had lots of little adventures before, such as the time when Humpty fell into the pond at his cousins' and was nearly drowned, and when Dumpty had a tooth drawn, and because she was brave and did not make a fuss, daddy and mummie each presented her with a shilling, and even the dentist gave her a penny and a ride in his chair.
But this time it was a real adventure because every one—twins included—was frightened.
The twins had just recovered from bad colds in their heads, which they had passed on to all the grown-ups in the house, and a cold in the head makes grown-ups particularly cross, so the twins found.
Mum came up to the nursery with a very hoarse voice and streaming eyes, but when she saw Nan she forgot about her own cold, and said that Nan must go to bed at once, and have something warm to drink, and put a nice hot-water bottle between the sheets. For a long time Nan said that nothing would make her go to bed, but at last mum, who is very sweet, and of whom Nan is really quite afraid, persuaded her to lie down, and herself brought up a dose of quinine.
It had rained all the morning, but the sun was shining so brightly now that the twins stood looking longingly out of the nursery window, while mummie helped Nan into bed.
"Can we go out, mum?" asked Humpty.
"There is no one to take you out, darling," said mummie thoughtfully; "but it is so nice and sunny now that I think you ought to go. It is too wet to play in the garden, and if you go alone you mustpromise to walk along the road to the end of the village, and straight back again. Now, remember to walk where it is clean and dry, and keep moving, and do not stop to play with the puddles, and when you come in you shall have tea with me."
"Hooray!" shouted the children; "two treats in one afternoon!"
It did not take the twins long to get ready for their walk that afternoon. They were so excited, for they had never been out alone for a walk before, though, of course, they used to play by themselves in the garden.
Each was inwardly hoping that they might meet Poor Jane, and so they did. As they came out of the drive gate they saw Poor Jane shuffling quickly up the road.
"Let's walk slowly," whispered Dumpty, quivering with excitement, "and perhaps she will catch us up."
In a few minutes the old woman had overtaken them.
Jane's New Gloves
All Nurse's injunctions were forgotten. The children stood still and stared, for Poor Jane was wearing a pair of brand new, red woollen gloves! Poor Jane saw them looking, and she crossed from the other side of the road and came near the children. Dumpty gave a little scream of terror, but Humpty caught her by the hand, so that she could not run away.
"Good afternoon," he said; "what nice red gloves you have!"
The old woman looked at her hands with great pride. "Beautiful red gloves," she said, spreading out her fingers. "I had the chilblains bad, so Mrs. Duke gave 'em to me. Beautiful red gloves!" She began cackling to herself, staring hard at the children as she did so. She had brown, staring eyes that looked very large and fierce in her thin face.
"Where's your nuss?" she asked, beginning to walk along by the side of the children.
"Our what?" asked Dumpty, puzzled.
"She means nurse," said Humpty, with greatemphasis. "Nan is ill with a cold in her head," he explained, "and mum has just made her go to bed and drink hot milk."
"I often see ye passin'," said Poor Jane conversationally.
"Yes," said Humpty, who was still holding his sister's hand tight, "we often come this way for a walk, and we always see you."
"You always walk this way, don't you?" said Dumpty bravely, though she still trembled with fright.
"Yes, I allus come along 'ere, every day, wet or fine."
"Why?" asked Humpty, who had an inquiring mind.
Then the old woman seized him by the arm. Humpty turned white with terror, but his courage did not forsake him.
"Why?" he repeated boldly.
The old woman pinched his arm.
"Don't you know why I come here?" she asked, her voice getting shriller and shriller; "don't you know why I walk up and down this road every day, fine or wet, through snow and hail?" She lowered her voice mysteriously, and clutched hold of Dumpty, who could not help shrieking. "You're a lucky little miss; you keep your brother as long as you can. Ah! my poor brother, my poor brother!"
"Is your brother dead?" asked Dumpty sympathetically. She was not so frightened now, for although the old woman still held her pretty tight she did not look as if she meant to hurt them.
"No, he is alive! He is alive! They tell me he is dead, but I know better. A circus came to Woodstead" (the little shopping-town two miles from the village), "and he joined that—he had to go; the circus people—they was gipsies most of 'em—forced him—and he 'ad to go; 'e is a clown now."
"A clown!" cried the twins.
"Yus, and they won't let 'im come back to hispoor old Jane. They're a keepin' us apart, they're a keepin' us apart!" And her voice died away in a wail. She stopped in the middle of the road.
"Poor Jane!" whispered Dumpty; "poor Jane! I am so sorry"; but Jane took no more notice of them, but went on murmuring to herself, "Keepin' us apart—keepin' us apart."
"Come on, Dump," said Humpty at last; "it's no good staying, she doesn't seem to want us." Dumpty joined him, and there were tears in her eyes. What Poor Jane had said was so very, very sad. The twins had so much to think about now that they talked very little during their walk, but when they did, it was all about Poor Jane and her brother, who was the clown in a circus.
When they got home the children had tea and games downstairs, and altogether it was great fun, but they did not mention their meeting with Poor Jane. That was their secret.
For days afterwards they talked it over and wondered whether Jane would speak to them the next time they met on the road, but when they went down the village again with nurse the old woman passed them by without a sign of recognition.
Three months passed and June had come, and one day Nan and the children went down to the village shop to buy slate-pencils.
Mrs. Moses' Question
"Are you taking the children to the circus?" asked Mrs. Moses, the shopwoman.
The twins pricked up their ears.
"When is it?" asked Nan.
"To-morrow, at Woodstead," answered Mrs. Moses; and she showed the children two large bills with pictures on them, of a beautiful young lady with yellow hair, who was walking on a tight-rope, a dark lady balancing herself on a golden globe, a young man riding, bare-back, on a fierce white horse, and a lion jumping through flames of fire, while in the corner was the picture of a clown grinning through a hoop.
"Oh, Nan!" said Humpty, when they were outside, "can we go?"
"I shall ask mummie when we get home what she thinks about it," said nurse, "but you are not to be disappointed or cross if she won't let you."
That evening when mummie came up to bid good-night to the twins in bed they were told that they might go. Nurse had been promised to-morrow off, so that she might have tea with her sister, who lived at Woodstead, but she had very kindly said that she would be quite willing to take the twins with her, and put them into seats in the circus, and then she would come for them at the end of the performance.
The twins were delighted, and almost too excited to speak. After mummie had gone they lay awake thinking.
"Humpty," said Dumpty presently, "what are you thinking about?"
"The circus," answered Humpty promptly.
"And I," said Dumpty pensively—"I have been thinking about Poor Jane."
"I have been thinking about her lots too," said Humpty.
"And oh, Humpty! supposing the clown should be her brother, what should we do?"
"We should bring him back to Poor Jane of course," said Humpty.
"But how shall we know whether he is her brother?"
"He will look like her, of course, stupid," replied Humpty, a little crossly, for he was beginning to feel sleepy.
At the Circus
They had an early dinner next day, and then Edward brought the pony round to the door, and they set off for Woodstead. Nurse was looking very smart in a black bonnet and silk mantle, and the children felt almost as if she were a stranger. Soon they came to a large meadow, where stood a great tent with steps leading up to it, and a man stood on the topof the steps beating a drum and crying, "Children half-price! Walk up! Walk up!"
There was a nice man inside, who led the children past rows of bare seats, raised one above the other, till he came to a part which was curtained off from the rest. He drew the curtain to one side to let the children pass in, and they saw four rows of comfortable seats with backs, covered with scarlet cloth.
"Yes, these will do nicely," said Nan; "and now, children, you must sit here quietly till the circus is over, and I shall come and fetch you at half-past four."
The children now had time to look about. A large plot of grass had been encircled with a low wooden fence, hung with more red cloth. Inside this ring some of the grass had been taken up, so that there was a narrow path where the horses would canter right round the ring. Quite close to the children was an elegant carriage—wagon-shaped—where the musicians sat, and made a great noise with their instruments. One of the men played the drum and cymbals at the same time. On their right the tent was open and led out on to the meadow, and this was the entrance for the horses and performers.
After playing the same tune through seven times, the band changed its music and began a quick, lively air, and in came trotting, mounted on a black horse with a white nose, a rather elderly lady with golden hair. She did not sit on an ordinary saddle, but on what appeared to be an oval tea-tray covered with blue satin. Behind her followed a serious, dignified gentleman, who was busily cracking a long whip. His name, the twins soon learned, was Mr. Brooks, for so all the performers addressed him.
The lady rode twice round the ring, and on dismounting kissed her hands to the audience in a friendly manner.
"I want to introduce to you, ladies and gentlemen, my wonderful performing horse Diamond. Diamond, make your bow."
Whereupon Diamond—with some difficulty—bent his knees, and thrust his head down to the ground.
The twins were enchanted.
But this was by no means the best of Diamond's accomplishments. By looking at a watch he could tell the time, and explained to the audience that it was now seventeen minutes past three, by pawing on a plank of wood with his hoof three times, and then, after a moment's pause, seventeen times. He could shake his head wisely to mean "yes" or "no"; he could find the lady's pocket-handkerchief amongst the audience, and, finally, he refused to leave the ring without his mistress, and when she showed no sign of accompanying him, he trotted behind her, and pushed her out with his soft white nose.
Next an acrobat came somersaulting in. He did all sorts of strange things, such as balancing himself upside down on the broad shoulders of Mr. Brooks, and tying himself into a kind of knot and so entangling his limbs that it became impossible to tell the legs from the arms.
After he had gone there was a long pause, and then came tottering in, with slow and painful footsteps, an old, old man. He was dressed in a dirty black suit, and wore an old battered bowler. His clothes were almost in rags, and he had muffled up his face with a long black comforter.
A strange hush came over the audience as he sat down in the ring to rest, only Humpty and Dumpty leaned forward eagerly to watch. "It is Poor Jane's brother," said Humpty very loudly.
Mr. Brooks went up to the tired old man. "I am afraid you are very tired, my good man," he said kindly.
"Very tired, very tired indeed, Mr. Brooks," sighed Poor Jane's brother.
"Mr. Brooks!" cried the owner of that name, "how, sir, do you know that my name is Brooks?" And then a wonderful thing happened. The old man sprangto his feet, his rags dropped from him, he tore off the black comforter, and behold! he was a clown with a large red nose, who cried, "Here we are again!"
How the children laughed and clapped, and how pleased the twins were to have discovered Poor Jane's brother!
Oh, the things that clown did! The familiar way in which he spoke to Mr. Brooks! The practical jokes that he played on him! Then in trotted old Diamond to join in the fun, and here was a chance for the clown to take a lesson in riding. He mounted by climbing up the tail, and then he rode sitting with his back to the horse's head. He tried standing upright whilst Diamond was galloping, but could not keep his balance, and fell forward with his arms clasped tightly round the animal's neck. In the end Diamond, growing tired of his antics, pitched him over his head, but the clown did not seem to mind, for before he had reached the ground he turned an immense somersault—then another—and the third carried him right through the entrance back into the meadow where the caravans were standing.
"Humpty," asked Dumpty, "what are we to do?"
To the Rescue!
"We must go at once and rescue him," answered the boy.
The twins slipped from their seats, and crept to the back of the tent.
"I think we can squeeze under this," said Humpty, as he began wriggling under the awning. He then helped Dumpty, who was rather fat, and showed signs of getting stuck.
"How cool it is outside!" remarked Dumpty, who had found it hot and stifling under the tent. "I would like to know what is going on, wouldn't you?" she added, as a peal of merry laughter came from the tent.
"We will go back presently," said Humpty; "but we must first find Poor Jane's brother."
There were two or three small tents, and one largeone, in which the horses were stabled. Dumpty longed to stop and talk to a dear little piebald pony, but Humpty carried her on till they came to the caravans.
Four or five men were lying face downwards on the grass—worn out and tired. Before the steps of one caravan a group of children were playing, whilst one woman in a red shawl sat on the steps smoking a clay pipe, and holding a dirty-looking baby in her arms.
The twins stole round the caravan, taking good care not to be seen. There was as yet no sign of the clown.
At last they found a smaller caravan which stood apart from the others, and the door was ajar. "Perhaps he is in there," suggested Humpty. "I am going to see." And he ran up the steps and peeped inside.
"Oh, do come, Dumpty!" he cried; "it is awfully interesting."
Dumpty tumbled up the steps.
"Oh, Humpty!" she said, "how lovely!"
It really was a very nice caravan, and spotlessly clean. There were dear little red curtains in front of the window and a red mat on the floor. All over the wall hung baskets made in pretty green and blue straw of all shapes and sizes. On the chair lay a bundle of peacock's feathers.
"These are like what the gipsies sell," remarked Dumpty. A gipsy's basket was lying on the floor, in which were tin utensils for cooking, and two or three saucepans. Bootlaces had been wound round the handle.
The twins were fascinated, and turned everything over with great interest. They found a large cupboard, too, containing all sorts of beautiful clothes—lovely velvet dresses, and robes of gold and silver.
"How dark it is getting!" said Humpty presently; "why did you shut the door?"
"I didn't shut the door," answered Dumpty; "I spect the wind did."
They took a long time in exploring the cupboard. Suddenly Humpty cried, "We have forgotten Poor Jane's brother!"
They made a rush for the door.
"Here, Humpty, will you open it? This handle is stiff."
Humpty pulled and struggled with the handle until he was red in the face.
"I can't get it open," he said at last.
"Let me try again," said Dumpty, and she pushed and struggled, but to no purpose.
For a long time she and Humpty tried alternately to open the door, but nothing that they could do was of any avail.