Текст книги "Страна Северного Ветра / At the Back of the North Wind"

Автор книги: Джордж МакДональд

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Текущая страница: 23 (всего у книги 35 страниц)

CHAPTER XIII. THE SEASIDE

DIAMOND and his mother sat down upon the edge of the rough grass that

bordered the sand. The sun was just far enough past its highest not to

shine in their eyes when they looked eastward. A sweet little wind blew

on their left side, and comforted the mother without letting her know

what it was that comforted her. Away before them stretched the sparkling

waters of the ocean, every wave of which flashed out its own delight

back in the face of the great sun, which looked down from the stillness

of its blue house with glorious silent face upon its flashing children.

On each hand the shore rounded outwards, forming a little bay. There

were no white cliffs here, as further north and south, and the place was

rather dreary, but the sky got at them so much the better. Not a house,

not a creature was within sight. Dry sand was about their feet, and

under them thin wiry grass, that just managed to grow out of the

poverty-stricken shore.

“Oh dear!” said Diamond's mother, with a deep sigh, “it's a sad world!”

“Is it?” said Diamond. “I didn't know.”

“How should you know, child? You've been too well taken care of, I

trust.”

“Oh yes, I have,” returned Diamond. “I'm sorry! I thought you were taken

care of too. I thought my father took care of you. I will ask him about

it. I think he must have forgotten.”

“Dear boy!” said his mother, “your father's the best man in the world.”

“So I thought!” returned Diamond with triumph. “I was sure of it!–Well,

doesn't he take very good care of you?”

“Yes, yes, he does,” answered his mother, bursting into tears. “But

who's to take care of him? And how is he to take care of us if he's got

nothing to eat himself?”

“Oh dear!” said Diamond with a gasp; “hasn't he got anything to eat? Oh!

I must go home to him.”

“No, no, child. He's not come to that yet. But what's to become of us, I

don't know.”

“Are you very hungry, mother? There's the basket. I thought you put

something to eat in it.”

“O you darling stupid! I didn't say I was hungry,” returned his mother,

smiling through her tears.

“Then I don't understand you at all,” said Diamond. “Do tell me what's

the matter.”

“There are people in the world who have nothing to eat, Diamond.”

“Then I suppose they don't stop in it any longer. They–they–what you

call–die–don't they?”

“Yes, they do. How would you like that?”

“I don't know. I never tried. But I suppose they go where they get

something to eat.”

“Like enough they don't want it,” said his mother, petulantly.

“That's all right then,” said Diamond, thinking I daresay more than he

chose to put in words.

“Is it though? Poor boy! how little you know about things! Mr. Coleman's

lost all his money, and your father has nothing to do, and we shall have

nothing to eat by and by.”

“Are you sure, mother?”

“Sure of what?”

“Sure that we shall have nothing to eat.”

“No, thank Heaven! I'm not sure of it. I hope not.”

“Then I can't understand it, mother. There's a piece of gingerbread in

the basket, I know.”

“O you little bird! You have no more sense than a sparrow that picks

what it wants, and never thinks of the winter and the frost and, the

snow.”

“Ah–yes–I see. But the birds get through the winter, don't they?”

“Some of them fall dead on the ground.”

“They must die some time. They wouldn't like to be birds always. Would

you, mother?”

“What a child it is!” thought his mother, but she said nothing.

“Oh! now I remember,” Diamond went on. “Father told me that day I went

to Epping Forest with him, that the rose-bushes, and the may-bushes, and

the holly-bushes were the bird's barns, for there were the hips, and the

haws, and the holly-berries, all ready for the winter.”

“Yes; that's all very true. So you see the birds are provided for. But

there are no such barns for you and me, Diamond.”

“Ain't there?”

“No. We've got to work for our bread.”

“Then let's go and work,” said Diamond, getting up.

“It's no use. We've not got anything to do.”

“Then let's wait.”

“Then we shall starve.”

“No. There's the basket. Do you know, mother, I think I shall call that

basket the barn.”

“It's not a very big one. And when it's empty–where are we then?”

“At auntie's cupboard,” returned Diamond promptly.

“But we can't eat auntie's things all up and leave her to starve.”

“No, no. We'll go back to father before that. He'll have found a

cupboard somewhere by that time.”

“How do you know that?”

“I don't know it. But I haven't got even a cupboard, and I've always had

plenty to eat. I've heard you say I had too much, sometimes.”

“But I tell you that's because I've had a cupboard for you, child.”

“And when yours was empty, auntie opened hers.”

“But that can't go on.”

“How do you know? I think there must be a big cupboard somewhere, out of

which the little cupboards are filled, you know, mother.”

“Well, I wish I could find the door of that cupboard,” said his mother.

But the same moment she stopped, and was silent for a good while. I

cannot tell whether Diamond knew what she was thinking, but I think I

know. She had heard something at church the day before, which came back

upon her–something like this, that she hadn't to eat for tomorrow as

well as for to-day; and that what was not wanted couldn't be missed.

So, instead of saying anything more, she stretched out her hand for the

basket, and she and Diamond had their dinner.

And Diamond did enjoy it. For the drive and the fresh air had made him

quite hungry; and he did not, like his mother, trouble himself about

what they should dine off that day week. The fact was he had lived so

long without any food at all at the back of the north wind, that he knew

quite well that food was not essential to existence; that in fact, under

certain circumstances, people could live without it well enough.

His mother did not speak much during their dinner. After it was over she

helped him to walk about a little, but he was not able for much and soon

got tired. He did not get fretful, though. He was too glad of having the

sun and the wind again, to fret because he could not run about. He lay

down on the dry sand, and his mother covered him with a shawl. She then

sat by his side, and took a bit of work from her pocket. But Diamond

felt rather sleepy, and turned on his side and gazed sleepily over the

sand. A few yards off he saw something fluttering.

“What is that, mother?” he said.

“Only a bit of paper,” she answered.

“It flutters more than a bit of paper would, I think,” said Diamond.

“I'll go and see if you like,” said his mother. “My eyes are none of the

best.”

So she rose and went and found that they were both right, for it was a

little book, partly buried in the sand. But several of its leaves were

clear of the sand, and these the wind kept blowing about in a very

flutterful manner. She took it up and brought it to Diamond.

“What is it, mother?” he asked.

“Some nursery rhymes, I think,” she answered.

“I'm too sleepy,” said Diamond. “Do read some of them to me.”

“Yes, I will,” she said, and began one.–“But this is such nonsense!”

 she said again. “I will try to find a better one.”

She turned the leaves searching, but three times, with sudden puffs, the

wind blew the leaves rustling back to the same verses.

“Do read that one,” said Diamond, who seemed to be of the same mind as

the wind. “It sounded very nice. I am sure it is a good one.”

So his mother thought it might amuse him, though she couldn't find any

sense in it. She never thought he might understand it, although she

could not.

Now I do not exactly know what the mother read, but this is what Diamond

heard, or thought afterwards that he had heard. He was, however, as I

have said, very sleepy. And when he thought he understood the verses he

may have been only dreaming better ones. This is how they went–

I know a river whose waters run asleep run run ever singing in the

shallows dumb in the hollows sleeping so deep and all the swallows that

dip their feathers in the hollows or in the shallows are the merriest

swallows of all for the nests they bake with the clay they cake with

the water they shake from their wings that rake the water out of the

shallows or the hollows will hold together in any weather and so the

swallows are the merriest fellows and have the merriest children and

are built so narrow like the head of an arrow to cut the air and go just

where the nicest water is flowing and the nicest dust is blowing for

each so narrow like head of an arrow is only a barrow to carry the

mud he makes from the nicest water flowing and the nicest dust that is

blowing to build his nest for her he loves best with the nicest cakes

which the sunshine bakes all for their merry children all so callow with

beaks that follow gaping and hollow wider and wider after their father

or after their mother the food-provider who brings them a spider or a

worm the poor hider down in the earth so there's no dearth for their

beaks as yellow as the buttercups growing beside the flowing of the

singing river always and ever growing and blowing for fast as the sheep

awake or asleep crop them and crop them they cannot stop them but up

they creep and on they go blowing and so with the daisies the little

white praises they grow and they blow and they spread out their crown

and they praise the sun and when he goes down their praising is done and

they fold up their crown and they sleep every one till over the plain

he's shining amain and they're at it again praising and praising such

low songs raising that no one hears them but the sun who rears them and

the sheep that bite them are the quietest sheep awake or asleep with the

merriest bleat and the little lambs are the merriest lambs they forget

to eat for the frolic in their feet and the lambs and their dams are

the whitest sheep with the woolliest wool and the longest wool and the

trailingest tails and they shine like snow in the grasses that grow by

the singing river that sings for ever and the sheep and the lambs are

merry for ever because the river sings and they drink it and the lambs

and their dams are quiet and white because of their diet for what they

bite is buttercups yellow and daisies white and grass as green as the

river can make it with wind as mellow to kiss it and shake it as never

was seen but here in the hollows beside the river where all the swallows

are merriest of fellows for the nests they make with the clay they cake

in the sunshine bake till they are like bone as dry in the wind as a

marble stone so firm they bind the grass in the clay that dries in the

wind the sweetest wind that blows by the river flowing for ever but

never you find whence comes the wind that blows on the hollows and over

the shallows where dip the swallows alive it blows the life as it goes

awake or asleep into the river that sings as it flows and the life it

blows into the sheep awake or asleep with the woolliest wool and the

trailingest tails and it never fails gentle and cool to wave the wool

and to toss the grass as the lambs and the sheep over it pass and tug

and bite with their teeth so white and then with the sweep of their

trailing tails smooth it again and it grows amain and amain it grows and

the wind as it blows tosses the swallows over the hollows and down on

the shallows till every feather doth shake and quiver and all their

feathers go all together blowing the life and the joy so rife into the

swallows that skim the shallows and have the yellowest children for the

wind that blows is the life of the river flowing for ever that washes

the grasses still as it passes and feeds the daisies the little white

praises and buttercups bonny so golden and sunny with butter and honey

that whiten the sheep awake or asleep that nibble and bite and grow

whiter than white and merry and quiet on the sweet diet fed by the river

and tossed for ever by the wind that tosses the swallow that crosses

over the shallows dipping his wings to gather the water and bake the

cake that the wind shall make as hard as a bone as dry as a stone it's

all in the wind that blows from behind and all in the river that flows

for ever and all in the grasses and the white daisies and the merry

sheep awake or asleep and the happy swallows skimming the shallows and

it's all in the wind that blows from behind.

Here Diamond became aware that his mother had stopped reading.

“Why don't you go on, mother dear?” he asked.

“It's such nonsense!” said his mother. “I believe it would go on for

ever.”

“That's just what it did,” said Diamond.

“What did?” she asked.

“Why, the river. That's almost the very tune it used to sing.”

His mother was frightened, for she thought the fever was coming on

again. So she did not contradict him.

“Who made that poem?” asked Diamond.

“I don't know,” she answered. “Some silly woman for her children, I

suppose–and then thought it good enough to print.”

“She must have been at the back of the north wind some time or other,

anyhow,” said Diamond. “She couldn't have got a hold of it anywhere

else. That's just how it went.” And he began to chant bits of it here

and there; but his mother said nothing for fear of making him, worse;

and she was very glad indeed when she saw her brother-in-law jogging

along in his little cart. They lifted Diamond in, and got up themselves,

and away they went, “home again, home again, home again,” as Diamond

sang. But he soon grew quiet, and before they reached Sandwich he was

fast asleep and dreaming of the country at the back of the north wind.

CHAPTER XIV. OLD DIAMOND

AFTER this Diamond recovered so fast, that in a few days he was quite

able to go home as soon as his father had a place for them to go. Now

his father having saved a little money, and finding that no situation

offered itself, had been thinking over a new plan. A strange occurrence

it was which turned his thoughts in that direction. He had a friend in

the Bloomsbury region, who lived by letting out cabs and horses to the

cabmen. This man, happening to meet him one day as he was returning from

an unsuccessful application, said to him:

“Why don't you set up for yourself now–in the cab line, I mean?”

“I haven't enough for that,” answered Diamond's father.

“You must have saved a goodish bit, I should think. Just come home with

me now and look at a horse I can let you have cheap. I bought him only a

few weeks ago, thinking he'd do for a Hansom, but I was wrong. He's got

bone enough for a waggon, but a waggon ain't a Hansom. He ain't got go

enough for a Hansom. You see parties as takes Hansoms wants to go like

the wind, and he ain't got wind enough, for he ain't so young as he once

was. But for a four-wheeler as takes families and their luggages, he's

the very horse. He'd carry a small house any day. I bought him cheap,

and I'll sell him cheap.”

“Oh, I don't want him,” said Diamond's father. “A body must have time

to think over an affair of so much importance. And there's the cab too.

That would come to a deal of money.”

“I could fit you there, I daresay,” said his friend. “But come and look

at the animal, anyhow.”

“Since I lost my own old pair, as was Mr. Coleman's,” said Diamond's

father, turning to accompany the cab-master, “I ain't almost got the

heart to look a horse in the face. It's a thousand pities to part man

and horse.”

“So it is,” returned his friend sympathetically.

But what was the ex-coachman's delight, when, on going into the stable

where his friend led him, he found the horse he wanted him to buy was

no other than his own old Diamond, grown very thin and bony and

long-legged, as if they, had been doing what they could to fit him for

Hansom work!

“He ain't a Hansom horse,” said Diamond's father indignantly.

“Well, you're right. He ain't handsome, but he's a good un” said his

owner.

“Who says he ain't handsome? He's one of the handsomest horses a

gentleman's coachman ever druv,” said Diamond's father; remarking to

himself under his breath–“though I says it as shouldn't”–for he did

not feel inclined all at once to confess that his own old horse could

have sunk so low.

“Well,” said his friend, “all I say is–There's a animal for you, as

strong as a church; an'll go like a train, leastways a parly,” he added,

correcting himself.

But the coachman had a lump in his throat and tears in his eyes. For the

old horse, hearing his voice, had turned his long neck, and when his

old friend went up to him and laid his hand on his side, he whinnied

for joy, and laid his big head on his master's breast. This settled the

matter. The coachman's arms were round the horse's neck in a moment, and

he fairly broke down and cried. The cab-master had never been so fond of

a horse himself as to hug him like that, but he saw in a moment how it

was. And he must have been a good-hearted fellow, for I never heard of

such an idea coming into the head of any other man with a horse to sell:

instead of putting something on to the price because he was now pretty

sure of selling him, he actually took a pound off what he had meant to

ask for him, saying to himself it was a shame to part old friends.

Diamond's father, as soon as he came to himself, turned and asked how

much he wanted for the horse.

“I see you're old friends,” said the owner.

“It's my own old Diamond. I liked him far the best of the pair, though

the other was good. You ain't got him too, have you?”

“No; nothing in the stable to match him there.”

“I believe you,” said the coachman. “But you'll be wanting a long price

for him, I know.”

“No, not so much. I bought him cheap, and as I say, he ain't for my

work.”

The end of it was that Diamond's father bought old Diamond again, along

with a four-wheeled cab. And as there were some rooms to be had over the

stable, he took them, wrote to his wife to come home, and set up as a

cabman.

CHAPTER XV. THE MEWS

IT WAS late in the afternoon when Diamond and his mother and the baby

reached London. I was so full of Diamond that I forgot to tell you a

baby had arrived in the meantime. His father was waiting for them with

his own cab, but they had not told Diamond who the horse was; for his

father wanted to enjoy the pleasure of his surprise when he found it

out. He got in with his mother without looking at the horse, and his

father having put up Diamond's carpet-bag and his mother's little trunk,

got upon the box himself and drove off; and Diamond was quite proud of

riding home in his father's own carriage. But when he got to the mews,

he could not help being a little dismayed at first; and if he had never

been to the back of the north wind, I am afraid he would have cried a

little. But instead of that, he said to himself it was a fine thing all

the old furniture was there. And instead of helping his mother to be

miserable at the change, he began to find out all the advantages of the

place; for every place has some advantages, and they are always

better worth knowing than the disadvantages. Certainly the weather was

depressing, for a thick, dull, persistent rain was falling by the time

they reached home. But happily the weather is very changeable; and

besides, there was a good fire burning in the room, which their

neighbour with the drunken husband had attended to for them; and the

tea-things were put out, and the kettle was boiling on the fire. And

with a good fire, and tea and bread and butter, things cannot be said to

be miserable.

Diamond's father and mother were, notwithstanding, rather miserable, and

Diamond began to feel a kind of darkness beginning to spread over his

own mind. But the same moment he said to himself, “This will never do.

I can't give in to this. I've been to the back of the north wind. Things

go right there, and so I must try to get things to go right here. I've

got to fight the miserable things. They shan't make me miserable if I

can help it.” I do not mean that he thought these very words. They are

perhaps too grown-up for him to have thought, but they represent the

kind of thing that was in his heart and his head. And when heart and

head go together, nothing can stand before them.

“What nice bread and butter this is!” said Diamond.

“I'm glad you like it, my dear” said his father. “I bought the butter

myself at the little shop round the corner.”

“It's very nice, thank you, father. Oh, there's baby waking! I'll take

him.”

“Sit still, Diamond,” said his mother. “Go on with your bread and

butter. You're not strong enough to lift him yet.”

So she took the baby herself, and set him on her knee. Then Diamond

began to amuse him, and went on till the little fellow was shrieking

with laughter. For the baby's world was his mother's arms; and the

drizzling rain, and the dreary mews, and even his father's troubled

face could not touch him. What cared baby for the loss of a hundred

situations? Yet neither father nor mother thought him hard-hearted

because he crowed and laughed in the middle of their troubles. On the

contrary, his crowing and laughing were infectious. His little heart was

so full of merriment that it could not hold it all, and it ran over into

theirs. Father and mother began to laugh too, and Diamond laughed till

he had a fit of coughing which frightened his mother, and made them all

stop. His father took the baby, and his mother put him to bed.

But it was indeed a change to them all, not only from Sandwich, but from

their old place, instead of the great river where the huge barges with

their mighty brown and yellow sails went tacking from side to side like

little pleasure-skiffs, and where the long thin boats shot past with

eight and sometimes twelve rowers, their windows now looked out upon a

dirty paved yard. And there was no garden more for Diamond to run into

when he pleased, with gay flowers about his feet, and solemn sun-filled

trees over his head. Neither was there a wooden wall at the back of

his bed with a hole in it for North Wind to come in at when she liked.

Indeed, there was such a high wall, and there were so many houses about

the mews, that North Wind seldom got into the place at all, except when

something must be done, and she had a grand cleaning out like other

housewives; while the partition at the head of Diamond's new bed only

divided it from the room occupied by a cabman who drank too much beer,

and came home chiefly to quarrel with his wife and pinch his children.

It was dreadful to Diamond to hear the scolding and the crying. But it

could not make him miserable, because he had been at the back of the

north wind.

If my reader find it hard to believe that Diamond should be so good,

he must remember that he had been to the back of the north wind. If he

never knew a boy so good, did he ever know a boy that had been to the

back of the north wind? It was not in the least strange of Diamond to

behave as he did; on the contrary, it was thoroughly sensible of him.

We shall see how he got on.