The Railway Children
“and Peter had better go for the Doctor.”
But it was Bobbie who went for the Doctor.
“I hate to tell you,” she said breathlessly when she came upon him
in his shirt sleeves, weeding his pansy-bed, “but Mother's got a very
shabby Russian, and I'm sure he'll have to belong to your Club. I'm
certain he hasn't got any money. We found him at the station.”
“Found him! Was he lost, then?” asked the Doctor, reaching for his coat.
“Yes,” said Bobbie, unexpectedly, “that's just what he was. He's been
telling Mother the sad, sweet story of his life in French; and she said
would you be kind enough to come directly if you were at home. He has a
dreadful cough, and he's been crying.”
The Doctor smiled.
“Oh, don't,” said Bobbie; “please don't. You wouldn't if you'd seen him.
I never saw a man cry before. You don't know what it's like.”
Dr. Forrest wished then that he hadn't smiled.
When Bobbie and the Doctor got to Three Chimneys, the Russian was
sitting in the arm-chair that had been Father's, stretching his feet
to the blaze of a bright wood fire, and sipping the tea Mother had made
him.
“The man seems worn out, mind and body,” was what the Doctor said; “the
cough's bad, but there's nothing that can't be cured. He ought to go
straight to bed, though--and let him have a fire at night.”
“I'll make one in my room; it's the only one with a fireplace,” said
Mother. She did, and presently the Doctor helped the stranger to bed.
There was a big black trunk in Mother's room that none of the children
had ever seen unlocked. Now, when she had lighted the fire, she unlocked
it and took some clothes out--men's clothes--and set them to air by the
newly lighted fire. Bobbie, coming in with more wood for the fire, saw
the mark on the night-shirt, and looked over to the open trunk. All
the things she could see were men's clothes. And the name marked on the
shirt was Father's name. Then Father hadn't taken his clothes with him.
And that night-shirt was one of Father's new ones. Bobbie remembered its
being made, just before Peter's birthday. Why hadn't Father taken his
clothes? Bobbie slipped from the room. As she went she heard the key
turned in the lock of the trunk. Her heart was beating horribly. WHY
hadn't Father taken his clothes? When Mother came out of the room,
Bobbie flung tightly clasping arms round her waist, and whispered:--
“Mother--Daddy isn't--isn't DEAD, is he?”
“My darling, no! What made you think of anything so horrible?”
“I--I don't know,” said Bobbie, angry with herself, but still clinging
to that resolution of hers, not to see anything that Mother didn't mean
her to see.
Mother gave her a hurried hug. “Daddy was quite, QUITE well when I heard
from him last,” she said, “and he'll come back to us some day. Don't
fancy such horrible things, darling!”
Later on, when the Russian stranger had been made comfortable for the
night, Mother came into the girls' room. She was to sleep there in
Phyllis's bed, and Phyllis was to have a mattress on the floor, a
most amusing adventure for Phyllis. Directly Mother came in, two white
figures started up, and two eager voices called:--
“Now, Mother, tell us all about the Russian gentleman.”
A white shape hopped into the room. It was Peter, dragging his quilt
behind him like the tail of a white peacock.
“We have been patient,” he said, “and I had to bite my tongue not to
go to sleep, and I just nearly went to sleep and I bit too hard, and it
hurts ever so. DO tell us. Make a nice long story of it.”
“I can't make a long story of it to-night,” said Mother; “I'm very
tired.”
Bobbie knew by her voice that Mother had been crying, but the others
didn't know.
“Well, make it as long as you can,” said Phil, and Bobbie got her arms
round Mother's waist and snuggled close to her.
“Well, it's a story long enough to make a whole book of. He's a writer;
he's written beautiful books. In Russia at the time of the Czar one
dared not say anything about the rich people doing wrong, or about the
things that ought to be done to make poor people better and happier. If
one did one was sent to prison.”
“But they CAN'T,” said Peter; “people only go to prison when they've
done wrong.”
“Or when the Judges THINK they've done wrong,” said Mother. “Yes, that's
so in England. But in Russia it was different. And he wrote a beautiful
book about poor people and how to help them. I've read it. There's
nothing in it but goodness and kindness. And they sent him to prison for
it. He was three years in a horrible dungeon, with hardly any light, and
all damp and dreadful. In prison all alone for three years.”
Mother's voice trembled a little and stopped suddenly.
“But, Mother,” said Peter, “that can't be true NOW. It sounds like
something out of a history book--the Inquisition, or something.”
“It WAS true,” said Mother; “it's all horribly true. Well, then they
took him out and sent him to Siberia, a convict chained to other
convicts--wicked men who'd done all sorts of crimes--a long chain of
them, and they walked, and walked, and walked, for days and weeks, till
he thought they'd never stop walking. And overseers went behind them
with whips--yes, whips--to beat them if they got tired. And some of them
went lame, and some fell down, and when they couldn't get up and go on,
they beat them, and then left them to die. Oh, it's all too terrible!
And at last he got to the mines, and he was condemned to stay there for
life--for life, just for writing a good, noble, splendid book.”
“How did he get away?”
“When the war came, some of the Russian prisoners were allowed to
volunteer as soldiers. And he volunteered. But he deserted at the first
chance he got and--”
“But that's very cowardly, isn't it”--said Peter--“to desert? Especially
when it's war.”
“Do you think he owed anything to a country that had done THAT to him?
If he did, he owed more to his wife and children. He didn't know what
had become of them.”
“Oh,” cried Bobbie, “he had THEM to think about and be miserable about
TOO, then, all the time he was in prison?”
“Yes, he had them to think about and be miserable about all the time he
was in prison. For anything he knew they might have been sent to prison,
too. They did those things in Russia. But while he was in the mines some
friends managed to get a message to him that his wife and children had
escaped and come to England. So when he deserted he came here to look
for them.”
“Had he got their address?” said practical Peter.
“No; just England. He was going to London, and he thought he had to
change at our station, and then he found he'd lost his ticket and his
purse.”
“Oh, DO you think he'll find them?--I mean his wife and children, not
the ticket and things.”
“I hope so. Oh, I hope and pray that he'll find his wife and children
again.”
Even Phyllis now perceived that mother's voice was very unsteady.
“Why, Mother,” she said, “how very sorry you seem to be for him!”
Mother didn't answer for a minute. Then she just said, “Yes,” and then
she seemed to be thinking. The children were quiet.
Presently she said, “Dears, when you say your prayers, I think you might
ask God to show His pity upon all prisoners and captives.”
“To show His pity,” Bobbie repeated slowly, “upon all prisoners and
captives. Is that right, Mother?”
“Yes,” said Mother, “upon all prisoners and captives. All prisoners and
captives.”
Chapter VI. Saviours of the train.
The Russian gentleman was better the next day, and the day after that
better still, and on the third day he was well enough to come into the
garden. A basket chair was put for him and he sat there, dressed in
clothes of Father's which were too big for him. But when Mother had
hemmed up the ends of the sleeves and the trousers, the clothes did
well enough. His was a kind face now that it was no longer tired and
frightened, and he smiled at the children whenever he saw them. They
wished very much that he could speak English. Mother wrote several
letters to people she thought might know whereabouts in England a
Russian gentleman's wife and family might possibly be; not to the people
she used to know before she came to live at Three Chimneys--she never
wrote to any of them--but strange people--Members of Parliament and
Editors of papers, and Secretaries of Societies.
And she did not do much of her story-writing, only corrected proofs as
she sat in the sun near the Russian, and talked to him every now and
then.
The children wanted very much to show how kindly they felt to this man
who had been sent to prison and to Siberia just for writing a beautiful
book about poor people. They could smile at him, of course; they could
and they did. But if you smile too constantly, the smile is apt to
get fixed like the smile of the hyaena. And then it no longer looks
friendly, but simply silly. So they tried other ways, and brought him
flowers till the place where he sat was surrounded by little fading
bunches of clover and roses and Canterbury bells.
And then Phyllis had an idea. She beckoned mysteriously to the others
and drew them into the back yard, and there, in a concealed spot,
between the pump and the water-butt, she said:--
“You remember Perks promising me the very first strawberries out of his
own garden?” Perks, you will recollect, was the Porter. “Well, I should
think they're ripe now. Let's go down and see.”
Mother had been down as she had promised to tell the Station Master the
story of the Russian Prisoner. But even the charms of the railway had
been unable to tear the children away from the neighbourhood of the
interesting stranger. So they had not been to the station for three
days.
They went now.
And, to their surprise and distress, were very coldly received by Perks.
“'Ighly honoured, I'm sure,” he said when they peeped in at the door of
the Porters' room. And he went on reading his newspaper.
There was an uncomfortable silence.
“Oh, dear,” said Bobbie, with a sigh, “I do believe you're CROSS.”
“What, me? Not me!” said Perks loftily; “it ain't nothing to me.”
“What AIN'T nothing to you?” said Peter, too anxious and alarmed to
change the form of words.
“Nothing ain't nothing. What 'appens either 'ere or elsewhere,” said
Perks; “if you likes to 'ave your secrets, 'ave 'em and welcome. That's
what I say.”
The secret-chamber of each heart was rapidly examined during the pause
that followed. Three heads were shaken.
“We haven't got any secrets from YOU,” said Bobbie at last.
“Maybe you 'ave, and maybe you 'aven't,” said Perks; “it ain't nothing
to me. And I wish you all a very good afternoon.” He held up the paper
between him and them and went on reading.
“Oh, DON'T!” said Phyllis, in despair; “this is truly dreadful! Whatever
it is, do tell us.”
“We didn't mean to do it whatever it was.”
No answer. The paper was refolded and Perks began on another column.
“Look here,” said Peter, suddenly, “it's not fair. Even people who do
crimes aren't punished without being told what it's for--as once they
were in Russia.”
“I don't know nothing about Russia.”
“Oh, yes, you do, when Mother came down on purpose to tell you and Mr.
Gills all about OUR Russian.”
“Can't you fancy it?” said Perks, indignantly; “don't you see 'im
a-asking of me to step into 'is room and take a chair and listen to what
'er Ladyship 'as to say?”
“Do you mean to say you've not heard?”
“Not so much as a breath. I did go so far as to put a question. And he
shuts me up like a rat-trap. 'Affairs of State, Perks,' says he. But I
did think one o' you would 'a' nipped down to tell me--you're here sharp
enough when you want to get anything out of old Perks”--Phyllis
flushed purple as she thought of the strawberries--“information about