The Railway Children
“No; and quite wild beasts--lions and elephants--they're immensely
gentle with the female beasts. And we've got to be, too.”
“I see,” said Peter.
“And their hearts are soft, too,” the Doctor went on, “and things that
we shouldn't think anything of hurt them dreadfully. So that a man has
to be very careful, not only of his fists, but of his words. They're
awfully brave, you know,” he went on. “Think of Bobbie waiting alone in
the tunnel with that poor chap. It's an odd thing--the softer and more
easily hurt a woman is the better she can screw herself up to do what
HAS to be done. I've seen some brave women--your Mother's one,” he ended
abruptly.
“Yes,” said Peter.
“Well, that's all. Excuse my mentioning it. But nobody knows everything
without being told. And you see what I mean, don't you?”
“Yes,” said Peter. “I'm sorry. There!”
“Of course you are! People always are--directly they understand.
Everyone ought to be taught these scientific facts. So long!”
They shook hands heartily. When Peter came home, his sisters looked at
him doubtfully.
“It's Pax,” said Peter, dumping down the basket on the table. “Dr.
Forrest has been talking scientific to me. No, it's no use my telling
you what he said; you wouldn't understand. But it all comes to you girls
being poor, soft, weak, frightened things like rabbits, so us men have
just got to put up with them. He said you were female beasts. Shall I
take this up to Mother, or will you?”
“I know what BOYS are,” said Phyllis, with flaming cheeks; “they're just
the nastiest, rudest--”
“They're very brave,” said Bobbie, “sometimes.”
“Ah, you mean the chap upstairs? I see. Go ahead, Phil--I shall put
up with you whatever you say because you're a poor, weak, frightened,
soft--”
“Not if I pull your hair you won't,” said Phyllis, springing at him.
“He said 'Pax,'” said Bobbie, pulling her away. “Don't you see,” she
whispered as Peter picked up the basket and stalked out with it, “he's
sorry, really, only he won't say so? Let's say we're sorry.”
“It's so goody goody,” said Phyllis, doubtfully; “he said we were female
beasts, and soft and frightened--”
“Then let's show him we're not frightened of him thinking us goody
goody,” said Bobbie; “and we're not any more beasts than he is.”
And when Peter came back, still with his chin in the air, Bobbie said:--
“We're sorry we tied you up, Pete.”
“I thought you would be,” said Peter, very stiff and superior.
This was hard to bear. But--
“Well, so we are,” said Bobbie. “Now let honour be satisfied on both
sides.”
“I did call it Pax,” said Peter, in an injured tone.
“Then let it BE Pax,” said Bobbie. “Come on, Phil, let's get the tea.
Pete, you might lay the cloth.”
“I say,” said Phyllis, when peace was really restored, which was not
till they were washing up the cups after tea, “Dr. Forrest didn't REALLY
say we were female beasts, did he?”
“Yes,” said Peter, firmly, “but I think he meant we men were wild
beasts, too.”
“How funny of him!” said Phyllis, breaking a cup.
* * * * * *
“May I come in, Mother?” Peter was at the door of Mother's writing room,
where Mother sat at her table with two candles in front of her. Their
flames looked orange and violet against the clear grey blue of the sky
where already a few stars were twinkling.
“Yes, dear,” said Mother, absently, “anything wrong?” She wrote a few
more words and then laid down her pen and began to fold up what she had
written. “I was just writing to Jim's grandfather. He lives near here,
you know.”
“Yes, you said so at tea. That's what I want to say. Must you write to
him, Mother? Couldn't we keep Jim, and not say anything to his people
till he's well? It would be such a surprise for them.”
“Well, yes,” said Mother, laughing, “I think it would.”
“You see,” Peter went on, “of course the girls are all right and all
that--I'm not saying anything against THEM. But I should like it if I
had another chap to talk to sometimes.”
“Yes,” said Mother, “I know it's dull for you, dear. But I can't
help it. Next year perhaps I can send you to school--you'd like that,
wouldn't you?”
“I do miss the other chaps, rather,” Peter confessed; “but if Jim could
stay after his leg was well, we could have awful larks.”
“I've no doubt of it,” said Mother. “Well--perhaps he could, but you
know, dear, we're not rich. I can't afford to get him everything he'll
want. And he must have a nurse.”
“Can't you nurse him, Mother? You do nurse people so beautifully.”
“That's a pretty compliment, Pete--but I can't do nursing and my writing
as well. That's the worst of it.”
“Then you MUST send the letter to his grandfather?”
“Of course--and to his schoolmaster, too. We telegraphed to them both,
but I must write as well. They'll be most dreadfully anxious.”
“I say, Mother, why can't his grandfather pay for a nurse?” Peter
suggested. “That would be ripping. I expect the old boy's rolling in
money. Grandfathers in books always are.”
“Well, this one isn't in a book,” said Mother, “so we mustn't expect him
to roll much.”
“I say,” said Peter, musingly, “wouldn't it be jolly if we all WERE in
a book, and you were writing it? Then you could make all sorts of jolly
things happen, and make Jim's legs get well at once and be all right
to-morrow, and Father come home soon and--”
“Do you miss your Father very much?” Mother asked, rather coldly, Peter
thought.
“Awfully,” said Peter, briefly.
Mother was enveloping and addressing the second letter.
“You see,” Peter went on slowly, “you see, it's not only him BEING
Father, but now he's away there's no other man in the house but
me--that's why I want Jim to stay so frightfully much. Wouldn't you like
to be writing that book with us all in it, Mother, and make Daddy come
home soon?”
Peter's Mother put her arm round him suddenly, and hugged him in silence
for a minute. Then she said:--
“Don't you think it's rather nice to think that we're in a book that
God's writing? If I were writing the book, I might make mistakes. But
God knows how to make the story end just right--in the way that's best
for us.”
“Do you really believe that, Mother?” Peter asked quietly.
“Yes,” she said, “I do believe it--almost always--except when I'm so sad
that I can't believe anything. But even when I can't believe it, I know
it's true--and I try to believe. You don't know how I try, Peter. Now
take the letters to the post, and don't let's be sad any more. Courage,
courage! That's the finest of all the virtues! I dare say Jim will be
here for two or three weeks yet.”
For what was left of the evening Peter was so angelic that Bobbie feared
he was going to be ill. She was quite relieved in the morning to find
him plaiting Phyllis's hair on to the back of her chair in quite his old
manner.
It was soon after breakfast that a knock came at the door. The children
were hard at work cleaning the brass candlesticks in honour of Jim's
visit.
“That'll be the Doctor,” said Mother; “I'll go. Shut the kitchen
door--you're not fit to be seen.”
But it wasn't the Doctor. They knew that by the voice and by the sound
of the boots that went upstairs. They did not recognise the sound of the
boots, but everyone was certain that they had heard the voice before.
There was a longish interval. The boots and the voice did not come down
again.
“Who can it possibly be?” they kept on asking themselves and each other.
“Perhaps,” said Peter at last, “Dr. Forrest has been attacked by
highwaymen and left for dead, and this is the man he's telegraphed for
to take his place. Mrs. Viney said he had a local tenant to do his work
when he went for a holiday, didn't you, Mrs. Viney?”
“I did so, my dear,” said Mrs. Viney from the back kitchen.
“He's fallen down in a fit, more likely,” said Phyllis, “all human aid
despaired of. And this is his man come to break the news to Mother.”
“Nonsense!” said Peter, briskly; “Mother wouldn't have taken the man
up into Jim's bedroom. Why should she? Listen--the door's opening. Now
they'll come down. I'll open the door a crack.”
He did.
“It's not listening,” he replied indignantly to Bobbie's scandalised
remarks; “nobody in their senses would talk secrets on the stairs. And
Mother can't have secrets to talk with Dr. Forrest's stable-man--and you
said it was him.”
“Bobbie,” called Mother's voice.
They opened the kitchen door, and Mother leaned over the stair railing.
“Jim's grandfather has come,” she said; “wash your hands and faces and
then you can see him. He wants to see you!” The bedroom door shut again.
“There now!” said Peter; “fancy us not even thinking of that! Let's have
some hot water, Mrs. Viney. I'm as black as your hat.”
The three were indeed dirty, for the stuff you clean brass candlesticks
with is very far from cleaning to the cleaner.
They were still busy with soap and flannel when they heard the boots
and the voice come down the stairs and go into the dining-room. And when
they were clean, though still damp--because it takes such a long time
to dry your hands properly, and they were very impatient to see the
grandfather--they filed into the dining-room.
Mother was sitting in the window-seat, and in the leather-covered
armchair that Father always used to sit in at the other house sat--
THEIR OWN OLD GENTLEMAN!
“Well, I never did,” said Peter, even before he said, “How do you do?”
He was, as he explained afterwards, too surprised even to remember that
there was such a thing as politeness--much less to practise it.
“It's our own old gentleman!” said Phyllis.
“Oh, it's you!” said Bobbie. And then they remembered themselves and
their manners and said, “How do you do?” very nicely.
“This is Jim's grandfather, Mr. ----” said Mother, naming the old
gentleman's name.
“How splendid!” said Peter; “that's just exactly like a book, isn't it,
Mother?”
“It is, rather,” said Mother, smiling; “things do happen in real life
that are rather like books, sometimes.”
“I am so awfully glad it IS you,” said Phyllis; “when you think of the
tons of old gentlemen there are in the world--it might have been almost
anyone.”
“I say, though,” said Peter, “you're not going to take Jim away, though,
are you?”
“Not at present,” said the old gentleman. “Your Mother has most kindly
consented to let him stay here. I thought of sending a nurse, but your
Mother is good enough to say that she will nurse him herself.”
“But what about her writing?” said Peter, before anyone could stop him.
“There won't be anything for him to eat if Mother doesn't write.”
“That's all right,” said Mother, hastily.
The old gentleman looked very kindly at Mother.
“I see,” he said, “you trust your children, and confide in them.”
“Of course,” said Mother.
“Then I may tell them of our little arrangement,” he said. “Your Mother,
my dears, has consented to give up writing for a little while and to
become a Matron of my Hospital.”
“Oh!” said Phyllis, blankly; “and shall we have to go away from Three
Chimneys and the Railway and everything?”
“No, no, darling,” said Mother, hurriedly.
“The Hospital is called Three Chimneys Hospital,” said the old
gentleman, “and my unlucky Jim's the only patient, and I hope he'll
continue to be so. Your Mother will be Matron, and there'll be a
hospital staff of a housemaid and a cook--till Jim's well.”
“And then will Mother go on writing again?” asked Peter.
“We shall see,” said the old gentleman, with a slight, swift glance at
Bobbie; “perhaps something nice may happen and she won't have to.”
“I love my writing,” said Mother, very quickly.
“I know,” said the old gentleman; “don't be afraid that I'm going to try