COMRADES
He was called Bunchy because, when a very little boy, his clotheswouldbunch; the tiny petticoats were short for their width, and everything stuck out all round him like a frill.
Now that he was five, and wore breeches with four little buttons at the knee, the name still stuck to him, though it was no longer appropriate.
Bunchy was lonely.
If Pussy had been there it would have been very different; but she had been sent for quite suddenly to go and nurse dad, who had incontinently fallen ill with influenza just three days after mother (Bunchy always called her Pussy), Nana, and he had settled down for a fortnight’s holiday in a Cotteswold village.
It was a delightful village! It had a green with noisy geese upon it, a stream that gurgled and splashed and told fairy tales on sleepy September afternoons, and real woods surrounded it.
The cottage where Pussy had taken rooms was ever so pretty, and had a garden full of currant-bushes and celery.
For three days they had a lovely time. They sought giants in the woods, finding squirrels instead—which were prettier and only less exciting;they paddled their feet in the stream and caught minnows in a bottle; they pretended that the geese on the green were “Trolls,” and routed them with great slaughter; and they had found mushrooms before breakfast in a neighboring field.
Then Pussy had to go away, and for Bunchy the face of Nature was changed and clouded. Only Nana was left, and, although very kind, she was not an exciting companion. She knew nothing of giants, and seemed to care very little about Trolls. Moreover, on this particular morning she sat indoors making a cotton dress, and told Bunchy to “run and play in the garden like a good little boy, and not worry.” How can people, he thought, sit in a room and sew when all the beautiful out-of-doors seems clamoring for them to come and admire it?
However, he played in the garden for a while; but it was rather a small garden, and he grew tired of being a “third son” all by himself, with no one to admire him, so he came in again and climbed the steep little staircase. Finding the door of his mother’s room open, he went in. The dressing-table faced the door, and the first thing he saw was a pair of Pussy’s slippers standing in front of it. They had tall curly heels and buckles, such as she loved, and he remembered how, even with the tall heels, she did not reach to daddy’s shoulder. Somehow the sight of those slippers made him want her so dreadfully that he couldn’t stay in the room or in the garden. He went out into the road to walk and walk until he should come to Yorkshire, where daddy was laid up in the houseof a bachelor friend with whom he had gone to shoot.
It was a very straight road, with a trim path by the side. By and by he came to some big gates. There was a little house inside them, all covered with purple clematis. The gate stood open, and as Bunchy was rather tired of the neat, straight road, he turned in, and went down a very broad gravel path. A little way inside the gate stood two little churches, one on each side of the path; beyond them, as far as Bunchy could see, it was all garden. There were flowering shrubs, and trees, and lots of grass, but it was unlike any garden he had ever seen before, for it was full of little mounds, and there were crosses, and slabs of stone, and marble angels dotted about among the mounds.
He turned down a side-path to investigate further in this strange garden. Nobody was in sight, and he wandered on by himself till, turning a corner suddenly, he came upon a man.
The man was dressed in black, and was sitting on a big stone slab—a very grew old slab; but close at his feet there was one of those curious mounds that puzzled Bunchy, and although this one had no grass upon it, you could hardly see the brown earth, for it was almost covered with scattered flowers—all of one kind.
Bunchy knew the flower by sight, for Pussy always wore a bit in her tam-o’-shanter when she came back from Scotland. The man did not move as Bunchy came up to him. The little boy regarded him with grave brown eyes, and somethingin his expression made Bunchy sure that the man was sorry.
Now, in Bunchy’s house, when people are sorry, Pussy talks about something else, and she does it so beautifully that they straightway forget their sorrow in the interest of her remarks. Bunchy felt that he ought to talk about something else to this man who looked so sorry; but how can you change a subject when no subject has been broached?
So the child went up to the sorry man and lifted his tam-o’-shanter, saying politely:
“Can you, please, tell me whose garden this is?”
Now it is an easy thing to take off a tam-o’-shanter, but when you try to put it on again it has a shabby way of curling up and sitting on the top of your head so insecurely that it topples off again directly. Pussy generally put Bunchy’s on again for him, and as she wasn’t there he left the matter alone and held it in his hand. The man started a little as Bunchy spoke, then he said slowly:
“I think it is God’s garden.”
Bunchy was not surprised. He felt that he knew God very well indeed. When you say prayers morning and evening, and know that there is a benevolent Somebody somewhere, who gives you your home, and your parents, and your little white bed, who likes you to be truthful and courteous, and to have clean hands at meals, it is quite natural to hear that this benevolent Person has a garden. All nice people ought to have gardens, so Bunchy said:
“Why does God have so many little rockeriesin His garden? Why are there all these stones, and figures, and little mounds?”
“When people die they are buried in this garden, and their friends put up the crosses and stones——”
“And angels?” interrupted Bunchy admiringly; and as he looked up in the man’s face he noticed that his eyes were very kind, but that there were big black shadows round them, and their lids looked red and heavy.
“They put up the crosses, and stones, and angels to show where their friends are sleeping,” continued the tall man.
“Then it’s a funeral,” said Bunchy solemnly, and there was silence.
The man looked sorrier than ever, and Bunchy felt that now was the time to talk of something else, so he said:
“Can you tell me the nearest way to Yorkshire?”
The man seemed to give himself a shake, as though he were trying to wake up. He held out his hand to Bunchy, who placed his own in it confidingly; then he drew the child toward him and set him on his knee, asking:
“Why do you want to go to Yorkshire, old chap?”
“Because Pussy is there and I am so lonely,” Bunchy’s voice broke. “I went into her room, and I saw her shoes—the ones with the curly heels—and they made me want her so bad. They’re such tall heels.”
“She had such little feet,” murmured the man.
And Bunchy saw that he had gone to sleep again, so he sat very still for a minute or two, then he said mournfully:
“I’m so lonely!”
“So am I,” said the man. “My Pussy has gone to sleep. She is not coming back any more. She is sleeping under the heather here.”
Bunchy felt the man’s shoulder heave as he leant against him, but he said nothing. He felt that this was not a time to talk of something else; this sorryness was something beyond him; so he stroked the man’s face with a soft, sticky little hand, and the corners of his mouth drooped, but he did not feel quite so lonely.
The man seemed to like the feel of the little hand, for he bent his head, and, laying his cheek against Bunchy’s, said in a queer broken voice:
“How is it that you understand, you quaint little boy?”
“Sorry people always understand, and I feel to love you! Will you come to Yorkshire too? We should be such nice company.”
The man seemed to consider; then he said:
“It’s a long way. I’m afraid we shouldn’t get there by candle-light. You’d be very tired, and your shoes would be quite worn out.”
“Couldn’t you carry me a bit sometimes? Daddy does when I’m very tired.”
“Well, I might do that; but even then we shouldn’t get there to-day. How is it you are here all alone?”
The man seemed waking up, and waited quite anxiously for Bunchy’s answer.
“Well, you see, Nana was busy sewing, and I was lonely wivout Pussy, so I thought I’d walk to Yorkshire just to see her.”
“Suppose you come to lunch with me instead. It’s not so far as Yorkshire; still, it’s a good way, and we’ll go and tell Nana you’re coming, then she won’t be anxious. I don’t think Pussy would like you to walk all that way to-day. She’ll come back as soon as she can, you may be quite sure. Will you come? We’d be nice company, as you say.”
Bunchy looked up into the man’s eyes; then he slid off his knee, saying:
“I’ll come, thank you.”
The man got up off the big flat stone and held out his hand to Bunchy; but the little boy had knelt down by the mound all covered with heather. He stooped his curly head and kissed the flowers, saying in his sweet child’s voice:
“Good-bye, man’s Pussy! I hope you are happy in God’s garden.”
Then he took the man’s hand and they walked away together.
But the man had gone to sleep again, for he said:
“Nay! And though all men, seeing, had pity on me, she would not see.”