CHAPTER VIII
GOING HOME
IN Deptford the seven months had almost gone by; Dickie had worked much,learned much, and earned much. Mr. Beale, a figure of cleanly habit andincreasing steadiness, seemed like a plant growing quickly towards thesun of respectability, or a lighthouse rising bright and important outof a swirling sea--of dogs.
For the dog-trade prospered exceedingly, and Mr. Beale had grown knowingin thoroughbreeds and the prize bench, had learned all about distemperand doggy fits, and when you should give an ailing dog sal-volatile andwhen you should merely give it less to eat. And the money in the bankgrew till it, so to speak, burst the bank-book, and had to be allowed tooverflow into a vast sea called Consols.
The dogs also grew, in numbers as well as in size, and the neighbors,who had borne a good deal very patiently, began, as Mr. Beale said, to"pass remarks."
"It ain't so much the little 'uns they jib at," said Mr. Beale, takinghis pipe out of his mouth and stretching his legs in the back-yard,"though to my mind they yaps far more aggravatin'. It's the cockerspannel and the Great Danes upsets them."
"The cocker spannel has got rather a persevering bark," said Dickie,looking up at the creeping-jenny in the window-boxes. No flowers wouldgrow in the garden, now trampled hard by the india-rubber-soled feet ofmany dogs; but Dickie did his best with window-boxes, and every windowwas underlined by a bright dash of color--creeping-jenny, Bromptonstocks, stonecrop, and late tulips, and all bought from the barrows inthe High Street, made a brave show.
"I don't say as they're actin' unneighborly in talking about the pleece,so long as they don't do no _more_ than talk," said Beale, with studiedfairness and moderation. "What I do say is, I wish we 'ad moreelbow-room for 'em. An' as for exercisin' of 'em all every day, like thebooks say--well, 'ow's one pair of 'ands to do it, let alone legs, andyou in another line of business and not able to give yer time to 'em?"
"I wish we had a bigger place, too," said Dickie; "we could afford onenow. Not but what I should be sorry to leave the old place, too. We've'ad some good times here in our time, farver, ain't us?" He sighed withthe air of an old man looking back on the long-ago days of youth.
"You lay to it we 'as," said Mr. Beale; "but this 'ere back-yard, itain't a place where dogs can what you call exercise, not to _call_ itexercise. Now is it?"
"Well, then," said Dickie, "let's get a move on us."
"Ah," said Mr. Beale, laying his pipe on his knee, "now you're talkin'.Get a move on us. That's what I 'oped you'd say. 'Member what I says toyou in the winter-time that night Mr. Fuller looked in for his bit o'rent--about me gettin' of the fidgets in my legs? An' I says, 'Why nottake to the road a bit, now and again?' an' you says, 'We'll see aboutthat, come summer.' And 'ere _is_ come summer. What if we was to takethe road a bit, mate--where there's room to stretch a chap's legswithout kickin' a dog or knockin' the crockery over? There's the olepram up-stairs in the back room as lively as ever she was--only wants alittle of paint to be fit for a dook, she does. An' 'ere's me, an''ere's you, an' 'ere's the pick of the dogs. Think of it, matey--the bedwith the green curtains, and the good smell of the herrings you toastsyerself and the fire you makes outer sticks, and the little starsesa-comin' out and a-winkin' at you, and all so quiet, a-smokin' yer pipetill it falls outer yer mouth with sleepiness, and no fear o' settin'the counterpin afire. What you say, matey, eh?"
Dickie looked lovingly at the smart back of the little house--its crispwhite muslin blinds, its glimpses of neat curtains, its flowers; andthen another picture came to him--he saw the misty last light faintingbeyond the great shoulders of the downs, and the "little starses"shining so bright and new through the branches of fir trees thatinterlaced above, a sweet-scented bed of soft fallen brown pine-needles.
"What say, mate?" Mr. Beale repeated; and Dickie answered--
"Soon as ever you like's what I say. And what I say is, the sooner thebetter."
Having made up his mind to go, Mr. Beale at once found a dozen reasonswhy he could not leave home, and all the reasons were four-footed, andwagged loving tails at him. He was anxious, in fact, about the dogs.Could he really trust Amelia?
"Dunno oo you _can_ trust then," said Amelia, tossing a still handsomehead. "Anybody 'ud think the dogs was babbies, to hear you."
"So they are--to me--as precious as, anyway. Look here, you just comeand live 'ere, 'Melia--see? An' we'll give yer five bob a week. An' thenipper 'e shall write it all down in lead-pencil on a bit o' paper foryou, what they're to 'ave to eat an' about their physic and which of'em's to have what."
This took some time to settle, and some more time to write down. Andthen, when the lick of paint was nearly dry on the perambulator and alltheir shirts and socks were washed and mended, and lying on the kitchenwindow-ledge ready for packing, what did Mr. Beale do but go out onemorning and come back with a perfectly strange dachshund.
"An' I can't go and leave the little beast till he knows 'imself a bitin 'is noo place," said Mr. Beale, "an' 'ave 'im boltin' off graciousknows where, and being pinched or carted off to the Dogs' Home, or that.Can I, now?"
The new dog was very long, very brown, very friendly and charming. Whenit had had its supper it wagged its tail, turned a clear and gentle eyeon Dickie, and without any warning stood on its head.
"Well," said Mr. Beale, "if there ain't money in that beast! A trick dog'e is. 'E's wuth wot I give for 'im, so 'e is. Knows more tricks thanthat 'ere, I'll be bound."
He did. He was a singularly well-educated dog. Next morning Mr. Beale,coming down-stairs, was just in time to bang the front door in the faceof Amelia coming in, pail-laden, from "doing" the steps, and this toprevent the flight of the new dog. The door of one of the dog-rooms wasopen, and a fringe of inquisitive dogs ornamented the passage.
"What you open that door at all for?" Mr. Beale asked Amelia.
"I didn't," she said, and stuck to it.
That afternoon Beale, smoking in the garden, got up, as he often did, tolook through the window at the dogs. He gazed a moment, mutteredsomething, and made one jump to the back door. It was closed. Amelia wasgiving the scullery floor a "thorough scrub over," and had fastened thedoor to avoid having it opened with suddenness against her steaming pailor her crouching form.
But Mr. Beale got in at the back-door and out at the front just in timeto see the dachshund disappearing at full speed, "like a bit of browntoffee-stick," as he said, round the end of the street. They never sawthat dog again.
"Trained to it," Mr. Beale used to say sadly whenever he told the story;"trained to it from a pup, you may lay your life. I see 'im as plain asI see you. 'E listens an' 'e looks, and 'e doesn't 'ear nor see nobody.An' 'e ups on his 'ind legs and turns the 'andle with 'is little twistyfront pawses, clever as a monkey, and hout 'e goes like a harrow in abow. Trained to it, ye see. I bet his master wot taught 'im that's soldhim time and again, makin' a good figure every time, for 'e was a'andsome dawg as ever I see. Trained the dawg to open the door and bunk'ome. See? Clever, I call it."
"It's a mean trick," said Dickie when Beale told him of the loss of thedog; "that's what I call it. I'm sorry you've lost the dog."
"I ain't exactly pleased myself," said Beale, "but no use crying overbroken glass. It's the cleverness I think of most," he said admiringly."Now I'd never a thought of a thing like that myself--not if I'd livedto a hundred, so I wouldn't. _You_ might 'ave," he told Dickieflatteringly, "but I wouldn't myself."
"We don't need to," said Dickie hastily. "We earns our livings. We don'tneed to cheat to get our livings."
"No, no, dear boy," said Mr. Beale, more hastily still; "course wedon't. That's just what I'm a-saying, ain't it? We shouldn't never 'avethought o' that. No need to, as you say. The cleverness of it!"
This admiration of the cleverness by which he himself had been cheatedset Dickie thinking. He said, very gently and quietly, after a littlepause--
"This 'ere walking tower of ours. We pays our own way? No cadging?"
"I should 'ope
you know me better than that," said Beale virtuously;"not a patter have I done since I done the Rally and started in the dogline."
"Nor yet no dealings with that redheaded chap what I never see?"
"Now, is it likely?" Beale asked reproachfully. "I should 'ope we're acut above a low chap like wot 'e is. The pram's dry as a bone and shinyas yer 'at, and we'll start the first thing in the morning."
And in the early morning, which is fresh and sweet even in Deptford,they bade farewell to Amelia and the dogs and set out.
Amelia watched them down the street and waved a farewell as they turnedthe corner. "It'll be a bit lonesome," she said. "One thing, I shan't beburgled, with all them dogs in the house."
The voices of the dogs, as she went in and shut the door, seemed toassure her that she would not even be so very lonely.
And now they were really on the road. And they were going to Arden--tothat place by the sea where Dickie's uncle, in the other life, had acastle, and where Dickie was to meet his cousins, after his seven monthsof waiting.
You may think that Dickie would be very excited by the thought ofmeeting, in this workaday, nowadays world, the children with whom he hadhad such wonderful adventures in the other world, the dream world--tooexcited, perhaps, to feel really interested in the little every-dayhappenings of "the road." But this was not so. The present was after allthe real thing. The dreams could wait. The knowledge that they werethere, waiting, made all the ordinary things more beautiful and moreinteresting. The feel of the soft dust underfoot, the bright, dewy grassand clover by the wayside, the lessening of houses and the growingwideness of field and pasture, all contented and delighted Dickie. Hefelt to the full all the joy that Mr. Beale felt in "'oofing it," andwhen as the sun was sinking they overtook a bent, slow-going figure, itwas with a thrill of real pleasure that Dickie recognized the woman whohad given him the blue ribbon for True.
True himself, now grown large and thick of coat, seemed to recognize afriend, gambolled round her dreadful boots, sniffed at her witheredhand.
"Give her a lift with her basket, shall us?" Dickie whispered to Mr.Beale and climbed out of the perambulator. "I can make shift to do thislast piece."
So the three went on together, in friendly silence. As they nearedOrpington the woman said, "Our road parts here; and thank you kindly. Akindness is never wasted, so they say."
"That ain't nothing," said Beale; "besides, there's the blue ribbon."
"That the dog?" the woman asked.
"Same ole dawg," said Beale, with pride.
"A pretty beast," she said. "Well--so long."
She looked back to smile and nod to them when she had taken her basketand the turning to the right, and Dickie suddenly stiffened all over, asa pointer does when it sees a partridge.
"I say," he cried, "you're the nurse----"
"I've nursed a many in my time," she called back.
"But in the dream ... you know."
"Dreams is queer things," said the woman. "And," she added, "least saidis soonest mended."
"But ..." said Dickie.
"Keep your eyes open and your mouth shut's a good motto," said she,nodded again, and turned resolutely away.
"Not very civil, I don't think," said Beale, "considerin'----"
"Oh, she's all right," said Dickie, wondering very much, and veryanxious that Beale should not wonder. "May I ride in the pram, farver?My foot's a bit blistered, I think. We ain't done so much walkin'lately, 'ave us?"
"Ain't tired in yourself, are you?" Mr. Beale asked, "'cause there's aplace called Chevering Park, pretty as a picture--I thought we might layout there. I'm a bit 'ot in the 'oof meself; but I can stick it if youcan."
Dickie could; and when they made their evening camp in a deep gully softwith beech-leaves, and he looked out over the ridge--cautiously, becauseof keepers--at the smoothness of a mighty slope, green-gray in the dusk,where rabbits frisked and played, he was glad that he had not yielded tohis tiredness and stopped to rest the night anywhere else. CheveringPark is a very beautiful place, I would have you to know. And thetravellers were lucky. The dogs were good and quiet, and no keeperdisturbed their rest or their masters. Dickie slept with True in hisarms, and it was like a draught of soft magic elixir to lie once more inthe still, cool night and look up at the stars through the trees.
"Can't think why they ever invented houses," he said, and then he fellasleep.
By short stages, enjoying every step of every day's journey, they wentslowly and at their ease through the garden-land of Kent. Dickie lovedevery minute of it, every leaf in the hedge, every blade of grass by theroadside. And most of all he loved the quiet nights when he fell asleepunder the stars with True in his arms.
It was all good, all.... And it was worth waiting and working for sevenlong months, to feel the thrill that Dickie felt when Beale, as theytopped a ridge of the great South Downs, said suddenly, "There's thesea," and, a dozen yards further on, "There's Arden Castle."
There it lay, gray and green, with its old stones and ivy--the sameCastle which Dickie had seen on the day when they lay among the furzebushes and waited to burgle Talbot Court. There were red roofs at oneside of the Castle where a house had been built among the ruins. As theydrew nearer, and looked down at Arden Castle, Dickie saw two littlefigures in its green courtyard, and wondered whether they could possiblybe Edred and Elfrida, the little cousins whom he had met in King Jamesthe First's time, and who, the nurse said, really belonged to the timesof King Edward the Seventh, or Nowadays, just as he did himself. Itseemed as though it could hardly be true; but, if it were true, howsplendid! What games he and they could have! And what a play-place itwas that spread out before him--green and glorious, with the sea on oneside and the downs on the other, and in the middle the ruins of ArdenCastle.
But as they went on through the furze bushes Dickie perceived that Mr.Beale was growing more and more silent and uneasy.
"What's up?" Dickie asked at last. "Out with it, farver."
"It ain't nothing," said Mr. Beale.
"You ain't afraid those Talbots will know you again?"
"Not much I ain't. They never see my face; and I 'adn't a beard thattime like what I've got now."
"Well, then?" said Dickie.
"Well, if you must 'ave it," said Beale, "we're a-gettin' very near myole dad's place, and I can't make me mind up."
"I thought we was settled we'd go to see 'im."
"I dunno. If 'e's under the daisies I shan't like it--I tell youstraight I shan't like it. But we're a long-lived stock--p'raps 'e's allright. I dunno."
"Shall I go up by myself to where he lives and see if he's all right?"
"Not much," said Mr. Beale; "if I goes I goes, and if I stays away Istays away. It's just the not being able to make me mind up."
"If he's there," said Dickie, "don't you think you _ought_ to go, juston the chance of him being there and wanting you?"
"If you come to oughts," said Beale, "I oughter gone 'ome any time thistwenty year. Only I ain't. See?"
"Well," said Dickie, "it's your lookout. I know what I should do if itwas me."
Remembrance showed him the father who had leaned on his shoulder as theywalked about the winding walks of the pleasant garden in oldDeptford--the father who had given him the little horse, and insistedthat his twenty gold pieces should be spent as he chose.
"I dunno," said Beale. "What you think? Eh, matey?"
"I think _let's_," said Dickie. "I lay if he's alive it 'ud be as goodas three Sundays in the week to him to see you. You was his little boyonce, wasn't you?"
"Ay," said Beale; "he was wagoner's mate to one of Lord Arden's men. 'Eused to ride me on the big cart-horses. 'E was a fine set-up chap."
To hear the name of Arden on Beale's lips gave Dickie a very odd,half-pleasant, half-frightened feeling. It seemed to bring certainthings very near.
"Let's," he said again.
"All right," said Beale, "only if it all goes wrong it ain't myfault--an' there used to be a foot-path a
bit further on. You cutthrough the copse and cater across the eleven-acre medder, and bearalong to the left by the hedge an' it brings you out under Arden Knoll,where my old man's place is."
So they cut and catered and bore along, and came out under Arden Knoll,and there was a cottage, with a very neat garden full of gay flowers,and a brick pathway leading from the wooden gate to the front door. Andby the front door sat an old man in a Windsor chair, with a brownspaniel at his feet and a bird in a wicker cage above his head, and hewas nodding, for it was a hot day, and he was an old man and tired.
"Swelp me, I can't do it!" whispered Beale. "I'll walk on a bit. Youjust arst for a drink, and sort of see 'ow the land lays. It might turn'im up seeing me so sudden. Good old dad!"
He walked quickly on, and Dickie was left standing by the gate. Then thebrown spaniel became aware of True, and barked, and the old man said,"Down, Trusty!" in his sleep, and then woke up.
His clear old eyes set in many wrinkles turned full on Dickie by thegate.
"May I have a drink of water?" Dickie asked.
"Come in," said the old man.
And Dickie lifted the latch of smooth, brown, sun-warmed iron, and wentup the brick path, as the old man slowly turned himself about in thechair.
"Yonder's the well," he said; "draw up a bucket, if thy leg'll let thee,poor little chap!"
"I draws water with my arms, not my legs," said Dickie cheerfully.
"There's a blue mug in the wash-house window-ledge," said the old man."Fetch me a drop when you've had your drink, my lad."
Of course, Dickie's manners were too good for him to drink first. Hedrew up the dripping oaken bucket from the cool darkness of the well,fetched the mug, and offered it brimming to the old man. Then he drank,and looked at the garden ablaze with flowers--blush-roses and damaskroses, and sweet-williams and candytuft, white lilies and yellow lilies,pansies, larkspur, poppies, bergamot, and sage.
It was just like a play at the Greenwich Theatre, Dickie thought. He hadseen a scene just like that, where the old man sat in the sun and theProdigal returned.
Dickie would not have been surprised to see Beale run up the brick pathand throw himself on his knees, exclaiming, "Father, it is I--yourerring but repentant son! Can you forgive me? If a lifetime ofrepentance can atone ..." and so on.
If Dickie had been Beale he would certainly have made the speech,beginning, "Father, it is I." But as he was only Dickie, he said--
"Your name's Beale, ain't it?"
"It might be," old Beale allowed.
"I seen your son in London. 'E told me about yer garden."
"I should a thought 'e'd a-forgot the garden same as 'e's forgot me,"said the old man.
"'E ain't forgot you, not 'e," said Dickie; "'e's come to see you, an'e's waiting outside now to know if you'd like to see 'im."
"Then 'e oughter know better," said the old man, and shouted in a thin,high voice, "Jim, Jim, come along in this minute!"
Even then Beale didn't act a bit like the prodigal in the play. He justunlatched the gate without looking at it--his hand had not forgotten theway of it, for all it was so long since he had passed through that gate.And he walked slowly and heavily up the path and said, "Hullo, dad!--howgoes it?"
And the old man looked at him with his eyes half shut and said, "Why, it_is_ James--so it is," as if he had expected it to be some one quitedifferent.
And they shook hands, and then Beale said, "The garden's looking well."
And the old man owned that the garden 'ud do all right if it wasn't forthe snails.
That was all Dickie heard, for he thought it polite to go away. Ofcourse, they could not be really affectionate with a stranger about. Sohe shouted from the gate something about "back presently," and went offalong the cart track towards Arden Castle and looked at it quiteclosely. It was the most beautiful and interesting thing he had everseen. But he did not see the children.
When he went back the old man was cooking steak over the kitchen fire,and Beale was at the sink straining summer cabbage in a colander, asthough he had lived there all his life and never anywhere else. He wasin his shirt-sleeves too, and his coat and hat hung behind theback-door.
So then they had dinner, when the old man had set down the frying-panexpressly to shake hands with Dickie, saying, "So this is the lad youtold me about. Yes, yes." It was a very nice dinner, with coldgooseberry pastry as well as the steak and vegetables. The kitchen waspleasant and cozy though rather dark, on account of the white climbingrose that grew round the window. After dinner the men sat in the sun andsmoked, and Dickie occupied himself in teaching the spaniel and Truethat neither of them was a dog who deserved to be growled at. Dickie hadjust thrown back his head in a laugh at True's sulky face and stifflyplanted paws, when he felt the old man's dry, wrinkled hand under hischin.
"Let's 'ave a look at you," he said, and peered closely at the child."Where'd you get that face, eh? What did you say your name was?"
"Harding's his name," said Beale. "Dickie Harding."
"Dickie _Arden_, I should a-said if you'd asked _me_," said the old man."Seems to me it's a reg'lar Arden face he's got. But my eyes ain't sogood as wot they was. What d'you say to stopping along of me a bit, myboy? There's room in the cottage for all five of us. My son James heretells me you've been's good as a son to him."
"I'd love it," said Dickie. So that was settled. There were two bedroomsfor Beale and his father, and Dickie slept in a narrow, whitewashed slipof a room that had once been a larder. The brown spaniel and True slepton the rag hearth-rug in the kitchen. And everything was as cozy as cozycould be.
"We can send for any of the dawgs any minute if we feel we can't stickit without 'em," said Beale, smoking his pipe in the front garden.
"You mean to stay a long time, then," said Dickie.
"I dunno. You see, I was born and bred 'ere. The air tastes good, don'tit? An' the water's good. Didn't you notice the tea tasted quitedifferent from what it does anywhere else? That's the soft water, thatis. An' the old chap.... Yes--and there's one or two otherthings--yes--I reckon us'll stop on 'ere a bit."
And Dickie was very glad. For now he was near Arden Castle, and couldsee it any time that he chose to walk a couple of hundred yards andlook down. And presently he would see Edred and Elfrida. Would they knowhim? That was the question. Would they remember that he and they hadbeen cousins and friends when James the First was King?