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

Автор книги: Джордж МакДональд

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Текущая страница: 28 (всего у книги 35 страниц)

and lay fast asleep. One after the other each of the troop dropped his

pickaxe or shovel from his listless hands, and lay fast asleep by his

work.

“Ah!” thought Diamond to himself, with delight, “now the girl-angels are

coming, and I, not being an angel, shall not fall asleep like the rest,

and I shall see the girl-angels.”

But the same moment he felt himself growing sleepy. He struggled hard

with the invading power. He put up his fingers to his eyelids and pulled

them open. But it was of no use. He thought he saw a glimmer of pale

rosy light far up the green hill, and ceased to know.

When he awoke, all the angels were starting up wide awake too. He

expected to see them lift their tools, but no, the time for play had

come. They looked happier than ever, and each began to sing where he

stood. He had not heard them sing before.

“Now,” he thought, “I shall know what kind of nonsense the angels sing

when they are merry. They don't drive cabs, I see, but they dig for

stars, and they work hard enough to be merry after it.”

And he did hear some of the angels' nonsense; for if it was all sense to

them, it had only just as much sense to Diamond as made good nonsense of

it. He tried hard to set it down in his mind, listening as closely as

he could, now to one, now to another, and now to all together. But

while they were yet singing he began, to his dismay, to find that he was

coming awake–faster and faster. And as he came awake, he found that,

for all the goodness of his memory, verse after verse of the angels'

nonsense vanished from it. He always thought he could keep the last,

but as the next began he lost the one before it, and at length awoke,

struggling to keep hold of the last verse of all. He felt as if the

effort to keep from forgetting that one verse of the vanishing song

nearly killed him. And yet by the time he was wide awake he could not be

sure of that even. It was something like this:

         White hands of whiteness

           Wash the stars' faces,

         Till glitter, glitter, glit, goes their brightness

           Down to poor places.

This, however, was so near sense that he thought it could not be really

what they did sing.

CHAPTER XXVI. DIAMOND TAKES A FARE THE WRONG WAY RIGHT

THE next morning Diamond was up almost as early as before. He had

nothing to fear from his mother now, and made no secret of what he was

about. By the time he reached the stable, several of the men were there.

They asked him a good many questions as to his luck the day before, and

he told them all they wanted to know. But when he proceeded to harness

the old horse, they pushed him aside with rough kindness, called him a

baby, and began to do it all for him. So Diamond ran in and had another

mouthful of tea and bread and butter; and although he had never been so

tired as he was the night before, he started quite fresh this morning.

It was a cloudy day, and the wind blew hard from the north–so hard

sometimes that, perched on the box with just his toes touching the

ground, Diamond wished that he had some kind of strap to fasten himself

down with lest he should be blown away. But he did not really mind it.

His head was full of the dream he had dreamed; but it did not make him

neglect his work, for his work was not to dig stars but to drive old

Diamond and pick up fares. There are not many people who can think about

beautiful things and do common work at the same time. But then there are

not many people who have been to the back of the north wind.

There was not much business doing. And Diamond felt rather cold,

notwithstanding his mother had herself put on his comforter and helped

him with his greatcoat. But he was too well aware of his dignity to

get inside his cab as some do. A cabman ought to be above minding the

weather–at least so Diamond thought. At length he was called to a

neighbouring house, where a young woman with a heavy box had to be taken

to Wapping for a coast-steamer.

He did not find it at all pleasant, so far east and so near the river;

for the roughs were in great force. However, there being no block, not

even in Nightingale Lane, he reached the entrance of the wharf, and set

down his passenger without annoyance. But as he turned to go back, some

idlers, not content with chaffing him, showed a mind to the fare the

young woman had given him. They were just pulling him off the box, and

Diamond was shouting for the police, when a pale-faced man, in very

shabby clothes, but with the look of a gentleman somewhere about him,

came up, and making good use of his stick, drove them off.

“Now, my little man,” he said, “get on while you can. Don't lose any

time. This is not a place for you.”

But Diamond was not in the habit of thinking only of himself. He saw

that his new friend looked weary, if not ill, and very poor.

“Won't you jump in, sir?” he said. “I will take you wherever you like.”

“Thank you, my man; but I have no money; so I can't.”

“Oh! I don't want any money. I shall be much happier if you will get in.

You have saved me all I had. I owe you a lift, sir.”

“Which way are you going?”

“To Charing Cross; but I don't mind where I go.”

“Well, I am very tired. If you will take me to Charing Cross, I shall be

greatly obliged to you. I have walked from Gravesend, and had hardly a

penny left to get through the tunnel.”

So saying, he opened the door and got in, and Diamond drove away.

But as he drove, he could not help fancying he had seen the

gentleman–for Diamond knew he was a gentleman–before. Do all he could,

however, he could not recall where or when. Meantime his fare, if we may

call him such, seeing he was to pay nothing, whom the relief of being

carried had made less and less inclined to carry himself, had been

turning over things in his mind, and, as they passed the Mint, called to

Diamond, who stopped the horse, got down and went to the window.

“If you didn't mind taking me to Chiswick, I should be able to pay you

when we got there. It's a long way, but you shall have the whole fare

from the Docks–and something over.”

“Very well, sir” said Diamond. “I shall be most happy.”

He was just clambering up again, when the gentleman put his head out of

the window and said–

“It's The Wilderness–Mr. Coleman's place; but I'll direct you when we

come into the neighbourhood.”

It flashed upon Diamond who he was. But he got upon his box to arrange

his thoughts before making any reply.

The gentleman was Mr. Evans, to whom Miss Coleman was to have been

married, and Diamond had seen him several times with her in the garden.

I have said that he had not behaved very well to Miss Coleman. He had

put off their marriage more than once in a cowardly fashion, merely

because he was ashamed to marry upon a small income, and live in a

humble way. When a man thinks of what people will say in such a case, he

may love, but his love is but a poor affair. Mr. Coleman took him

into the firm as a junior partner, and it was in a measure through his

influence that he entered upon those speculations which ruined him. So

his love had not been a blessing. The ship which North Wind had sunk was

their last venture, and Mr. Evans had gone out with it in the hope

of turning its cargo to the best advantage. He was one of the single

boat-load which managed to reach a desert island, and he had gone

through a great many hardships and sufferings since then. But he was

not past being taught, and his troubles had done him no end of good, for

they had made him doubt himself, and begin to think, so that he had come

to see that he had been foolish as well as wicked. For, if he had had

Miss Coleman with him in the desert island, to build her a hut, and hunt

for her food, and make clothes for her, he would have thought himself

the most fortunate of men; and when he was at home, he would not marry

till he could afford a man-servant. Before he got home again, he had

even begun to understand that no man can make haste to be rich without

going against the will of God, in which case it is the one frightful

thing to be successful. So he had come back a more humble man, and

longing to ask Miss Coleman to forgive him. But he had no idea what

ruin had fallen upon them, for he had never made himself thoroughly

acquainted with the firm's affairs. Few speculative people do know their

own affairs. Hence he never doubted he should find matters much as he

left them, and expected to see them all at The Wilderness as before. But

if he had not fallen in with Diamond, he would not have thought of going

there first.

What was Diamond to do? He had heard his father and mother drop

some remarks concerning Mr. Evans which made him doubtful of him. He

understood that he had not been so considerate as he might have been.

So he went rather slowly till he should make up his mind. It was, of

course, of no use to drive Mr. Evans to Chiswick. But if he should tell

him what had befallen them, and where they lived now, he might put off

going to see them, and he was certain that Miss Coleman, at least, must

want very much to see Mr. Evans. He was pretty sure also that the best

thing in any case was to bring them together, and let them set matters

right for themselves.

The moment he came to this conclusion, he changed his course from

westward to northward, and went straight for Mr. Coleman's poor little

house in Hoxton. Mr. Evans was too tired and too much occupied with his

thoughts to take the least notice of the streets they passed through,

and had no suspicion, therefore, of the change of direction.

By this time the wind had increased almost to a hurricane, and as they

had often to head it, it was no joke for either of the Diamonds. The

distance, however, was not great. Before they reached the street where

Mr. Coleman lived it blew so tremendously, that when Miss Coleman, who

was going out a little way, opened the door, it dashed against the wall

with such a bang, that she was afraid to venture, and went in again.

In five minutes after, Diamond drew up at the door. As soon as he had

entered the street, however, the wind blew right behind them, and when

he pulled up, old Diamond had so much ado to stop the cab against it,

that the breeching broke. Young Diamond jumped off his box, knocked

loudly at the door, then turned to the cab and said–before Mr. Evans

had quite begun to think something must be amiss:

“Please, sir, my harness has given away. Would you mind stepping in here

for a few minutes? They're friends of mine. I'll take you where you like

after I've got it mended. I shan't be many minutes, but you can't stand

in this wind.”

Half stupid with fatigue and want of food, Mr. Evans yielded to the

boy's suggestion, and walked in at the door which the maid held with

difficulty against the wind. She took Mr. Evans for a visitor, as indeed

he was, and showed him into the room on the ground-floor. Diamond, who

had followed into the hall, whispered to her as she closed the door–

“Tell Miss Coleman. It's Miss Coleman he wants to see.”

“I don't know” said the maid. “He don't look much like a gentleman.”

“He is, though; and I know him, and so does Miss Coleman.”

The maid could not but remember Diamond, having seen him when he and his

father brought the ladies home. So she believed him, and went to do what

he told her.

What passed in the little parlour when Miss Coleman came down does not

belong to my story, which is all about Diamond. If he had known that

Miss Coleman thought Mr. Evans was dead, perhaps he would have managed

differently. There was a cry and a running to and fro in the house, and

then all was quiet again.

Almost as soon as Mr. Evans went in, the wind began to cease, and was

now still. Diamond found that by making the breeching just a little

tighter than was quite comfortable for the old horse he could do very

well for the present; and, thinking it better to let him have his bag in

this quiet place, he sat on the box till the old horse should have eaten

his dinner. In a little while Mr. Evans came out, and asked him to come

in. Diamond obeyed, and to his delight Miss Coleman put her arms round

him and kissed him, and there was payment for him! Not to mention the

five precious shillings she gave him, which he could not refuse because

his mother wanted them so much at home for his father. He left them

nearly as happy as they were themselves.

The rest of the day he did better, and, although he had not so much

to take home as the day before, yet on the whole the result was

satisfactory. And what a story he had to tell his father and mother

about his adventures, and how he had done, and what was the result! They

asked him such a multitude of questions! some of which he could answer,

and some of which he could not answer; and his father seemed ever so

much better from finding that his boy was already not only useful to his

family but useful to other people, and quite taking his place as a man

who judged what was wise, and did work worth doing.

For a fortnight Diamond went on driving his cab, and keeping his family.

He had begun to be known about some parts of London, and people would

prefer taking his cab because they liked what they heard of him. One

gentleman who lived near the mews engaged him to carry him to the

City every morning at a certain hour; and Diamond was punctual as

clockwork–though to effect that required a good deal of care, for his

father's watch was not much to be depended on, and had to be watched

itself by the clock of St. George's church. Between the two, however, he

did make a success of it.

After that fortnight, his father was able to go out again. Then Diamond

went to make inquiries about Nanny, and this led to something else.

CHAPTER XXVII. THE CHILDREN'S HOSPITAL

THE first day his father resumed his work, Diamond went with him as

usual. In the afternoon, however, his father, having taken a fare to the

neighbourhood, went home, and Diamond drove the cab the rest of the

day. It was hard for old Diamond to do all the work, but they could

not afford to have another horse. They contrived to save him as much as

possible, and fed him well, and he did bravely.

The next morning his father was so much stronger that Diamond thought he

might go and ask Mr. Raymond to take him to see Nanny. He found him at

home. His servant had grown friendly by this time, and showed him in

without any cross-questioning. Mr. Raymond received him with his usual

kindness, consented at once, and walked with him to the Hospital, which

was close at hand. It was a comfortable old-fashioned house, built in

the reign of Queen Anne, and in her day, no doubt, inhabited by rich and

fashionable people: now it was a home for poor sick children, who were

carefully tended for love's sake. There are regions in London where a

hospital in every other street might be full of such children, whose

fathers and mothers are dead, or unable to take care of them.

When Diamond followed Mr. Raymond into the room where those children who

had got over the worst of their illness and were growing better lay, he

saw a number of little iron bedsteads, with their heads to the walls,

and in every one of them a child, whose face was a story in itself.

In some, health had begun to appear in a tinge upon the cheeks, and a

doubtful brightness in the eyes, just as out of the cold dreary winter

the spring comes in blushing buds and bright crocuses. In others there

were more of the signs of winter left. Their faces reminded you of

snow and keen cutting winds, more than of sunshine and soft breezes

and butterflies; but even in them the signs of suffering told that the

suffering was less, and that if the spring-time had but arrived, it had

yet arrived.

Diamond looked all round, but could see no Nanny. He turned to Mr.

Raymond with a question in his eyes.

“Well?” said Mr. Raymond.

“Nanny's not here,” said Diamond.

“Oh, yes, she is.”

“I don't see her.”

“I do, though. There she is.”

He pointed to a bed right in front of where Diamond was standing.

“That's not Nanny,” he said.

“It is Nanny. I have seen her many times since you have. Illness makes a

great difference.”

“Why, that girl must have been to the back of the north wind!” thought

Diamond, but he said nothing, only stared; and as he stared, something

of the old Nanny began to dawn through the face of the new Nanny. The

old Nanny, though a good girl, and a friendly girl, had been rough,

blunt in her speech, and dirty in her person. Her face would always

have reminded one who had already been to the back of the north wind

of something he had seen in the best of company, but it had been coarse

notwithstanding, partly from the weather, partly from her living amongst

low people, and partly from having to defend herself: now it was so

sweet, and gentle, and refined, that she might have had a lady and

gentleman for a father and mother. And Diamond could not help thinking

of words which he had heard in the church the day before: “Surely it is

good to be afflicted;” or something like that. North Wind, somehow or

other, must have had to do with her! She had grown from a rough girl

into a gentle maiden.

Mr. Raymond, however, was not surprised, for he was used to see

such lovely changes–something like the change which passes upon the

crawling, many-footed creature, when it turns sick and ill, and revives

a butterfly, with two wings instead of many feet. Instead of her having

to take care of herself, kind hands ministered to her, making her

comfortable and sweet and clean, soothing her aching head, and giving

her cooling drink when she was thirsty; and kind eyes, the stars of the

kingdom of heaven, had shone upon her; so that, what with the fire of

the fever and the dew of tenderness, that which was coarse in her had

melted away, and her whole face had grown so refined and sweet that

Diamond did not know her. But as he gazed, the best of the old face, all

the true and good part of it, that which was Nanny herself, dawned upon

him, like the moon coming out of a cloud, until at length, instead of

only believing Mr. Raymond that this was she, he saw for himself that it

was Nanny indeed–very worn but grown beautiful.

He went up to her. She smiled. He had heard her laugh, but had never

seen her smile before.

“Nanny, do you know me?” said Diamond.

She only smiled again, as if the question was amusing.

She was not likely to forget him; for although she did not yet know

it was he who had got her there, she had dreamed of him often, and had

talked much about him when delirious. Nor was it much wonder, for he was

the only boy except Joe who had ever shown her kindness.

Meantime Mr. Raymond was going from bed to bed, talking to the little

people. Every one knew him, and every one was eager to have a look, and

a smile, and a kind word from him.

Diamond sat down on a stool at the head of Nanny's bed. She laid her

hand in his. No one else of her old acquaintance had been near her.

Suddenly a little voice called aloud–

“Won't Mr. Raymond tell us a story?”

“Oh, yes, please do! please do!” cried several little voices which also

were stronger than the rest. For Mr. Raymond was in the habit of telling

them a story when he went to see them, and they enjoyed it far more than

the other nice things which the doctor permitted him to give them.

“Very well,” said Mr. Raymond, “I will. What sort of a story shall it

be?”

“A true story,” said one little girl.

“A fairy tale,” said a little boy.

“Well,” said Mr. Raymond, “I suppose, as there is a difference, I may

choose. I can't think of any true story just at this moment, so I will

tell you a sort of a fairy one.”

“Oh, jolly!” exclaimed the little boy who had called out for a fairy

tale.

“It came into my head this morning as I got out of bed,” continued Mr.

Raymond; “and if it turns out pretty well, I will write it down, and get

somebody to print it for me, and then you shall read it when you like.”

“Then nobody ever heard it before?” asked one older child.

“No, nobody.”

“Oh!” exclaimed several, thinking it very grand to have the first

telling; and I daresay there might be a peculiar freshness about it,

because everything would be nearly as new to the story-teller himself as

to the listeners.

Some were only sitting up and some were lying down, so there could not

be the same busy gathering, bustling, and shifting to and fro with which

children generally prepare themselves to hear a story; but their faces,

and the turning of their heads, and many feeble exclamations of expected

pleasure, showed that all such preparations were making within them.

Mr. Raymond stood in the middle of the room, that he might turn from

side to side, and give each a share of seeing him. Diamond kept his

place by Nanny's side, with her hand in his. I do not know how much of

Mr. Raymond's story the smaller children understood; indeed, I don't

quite know how much there was in it to be understood, for in such a

story every one has just to take what he can get. But they all listened

with apparent satisfaction, and certainly with great attention. Mr.

Raymond wrote it down afterwards, and here it is–somewhat altered no

doubt, for a good story-teller tries to make his stories better every

time he tells them. I cannot myself help thinking that he was somewhat

indebted for this one to the old story of The Sleeping Beauty.