Littlebourne Lock Part 18

"Just this, young man," replied one of the policemen, "that if you want to walk about in this part of London you had better not wear such an enticing pin in your scarf."

Leonard put up his hand, and found that his turquoise pin was pulled half-way out of his scarf. He said angrily, "Then why don't you take the thief in charge?" And he pointed at the sickly-looking man who stood close by.

"Because he was too quick for us. He's on the other side of the river long before this."

"Why, there he stands!" cried Leonard, pointing again at the shabby figure.

"Begging your pardon, young sir, this is him that has saved your pin from them two thieves. You owe him many thanks, and something more substantial, in my humble opinion."

Then Leonard understood the affair, and how the poor delicate man had prevented the smart colleagues from making off with the valuable pin given him by his late mother, and therefore very greatly precious to him. He turned to his defender with warm thanks.

The two policemen sauntered away.

"I am awfully obliged to you, I'm sure," said Leonard. "You don't look well."

"No," replied the poor man; "I have had sickness and sorrow lately, and a little thing upsets me. I shall be better in a few minutes. You put your pin in your pocket, sir; and do not show any jewellery when you come through these shady slums."

"I think I must have come wrong."

"What street do you want?"

Leonard named it.

"Well, you have not come wrong exactly; but you had better have stuck to the main thoroughfares, and not have taken these short cuts, which are all very well for some of us, but not for young gents with 'turkeys' breast-pins. If you are not ashamed of my company I can take you straight to the street you've named."

After his late escape Leonard felt suspicious of every stranger in London; but as he really had reason to feel obliged to this man, he put aside that feeling and walked on for some time with his new acquaintance.

CHAPTER XI.

A THOROUGH CHANGE.

"I am afraid," Leonard said presently, "that I am taking you out of your way."

"Not at all, sir; I live in that same street. There's a good many of us live there. It is like a rabbit-warren."

"Really!" said Leonard.

"It swarms with old and young--young ones mostly. Too many of 'em. We ought not to grieve too much when they are taken from this hard world to rest and safety. But the mothers do grieve, poor things!--and the fathers too."

"Perhaps you have lost a child lately," said Leonard, very gently.

"He was buried yesterday."

They went on in silence until they turned into a street which appeared to begin much better than it ended. Leonard's guide said, "Here we are; this is your street."

"Oh, thank you; but don't come any further." And Leonard began to fumble in his pocket for a half-crown.

"It is my street too," said the poor man.

"All right then. I want No. 103."

"I live at 103 myself."

"That is curious. Do you know a Mr. Mitch.e.l.l in that house?"

"I know him pretty well; I am Thomas Mitch.e.l.l."

Then Leonard shook hands heartily with his guide, and as they walked slowly along the cooler side of the street he unfolded all the plans which Mr. Burnet had made for the Mitch.e.l.l family. They were already known in part to the father and mother, but the children had not been informed of what was in store for them. Mrs. Mitch.e.l.l had thought that such a prospect would excite them greatly, and that their disappointment would be great if anything occurred at the last moment to upset the plan.

But now it must be declared.

All the children were at home, it being holiday-time. Juliet sat at needlework, Albert was carpentering an old wooden box and turning it into a cupboard; the younger ones were playing with some firewood, and building castles with it. Mrs. Mitch.e.l.l was st.i.tching at one more mantle, and thinking over every little incident of her baby's life and death.

Into the midst of this quiet scene came Leonard Burnet, full of life and vigour, and overflowing with the happy message he had brought. He told them of the pretty cottage with honeysuckle on the porch, of the garden full of cauliflowers and scarlet-runners, of the clear bright river, of the open fields, of the shady woods, the winding lanes, and of all the pleasant things of rural life. Then he spoke of Mr. and Mrs. Rowles, and the lock, and the boats; of Philip and Emily; of the good vicar and Mrs. Webster; of Mrs. Bosher's brother, and the horses, cows, pigs, and poultry which he possessed.

How strange it all seemed to Juliet! How far away, and yet how well known! She was the only one of her family who had seen these places and persons, and the thought of them filled her with both sorrow and pleasure. Several times as Leonard talked he turned to her, saying, "You know the lock, Juliet?" or "You have seen Mrs. Bosher's brother, I think, Juliet?" or else "The fields and the river are very nice, are they not?" and to each of his appeals she had gravely bowed her head in a.s.sent.

In the end it was arranged that the following Monday should be spent by the Mitch.e.l.l family in packing up the few goods which they possessed, and that on Tuesday they should send off those goods by the Littlebourne carrier, who would be directed by Mr. Burnet to call for them; and then they should all go by omnibus to Paddington station, and be met at Littlebourne station by Mr. Burnet, or Leonard, or Mr.

Burnet's butler, or Mrs. Bosher's brother.

"Or perhaps by all of us!" said Leonard laughing.

These plans and hours being clearly understood, and Leonard having advanced Mitch.e.l.l a sovereign to help pay for the move, he took his leave, his scarf-pin safe in his waistcoat-pocket. He left the whole family in a state of wonder and delight, which would have been even greater had they guessed what further surprises were in store for them.

No week ever seemed so short and so long to people as that week appeared to the Mitch.e.l.ls. There was not time enough to finish up everything that ought to be finished, and to say good-bye to every one who had been kind and friendly to them in London. Then there were notices to be given the school, and to the society and the dispensary which had helped Thomas Mitch.e.l.l in his trouble. The clergyman and the schoolmaster and schoolmistress came to say farewell; and as for the neighbours, poor as they all were, and rude as some were, they crowded with wishes and gifts.

"Two gallipots," said one old woman, "for you to put your black currant jam in."

"A few cuttings of geraniums," said a young gardener who worked in Victoria Park; "try if you can get them to take."

"My school-prize," said a big girl, putting a red-and-gold-covered book into the hands of little Amy; "I've grown too old for it, so you may have it."

And Miss Sutton came with the good news that one great West-end draper had promised to meet his workwomen face to face, and no longer to employ any middlemen. "For which you will be thankful," said Miss Sutton to Mrs. Mitch.e.l.l, "though you will not yourself reap the benefit."

Yes, Mrs. Mitch.e.l.l was very thankful for many things; but there was one which brought ever-fresh tears to her eyes as she left the swarming city. "I leave three little graves!"

And Juliet! She hardly knew how she ought to feel or how she did.

Certainly there was a great deal of shame in her heart; and equally certainly there was a great deal of pride--not the old pride of self-conceit, but a reasonable pride in knowing so much about the things of the country. She had enough to do to explain to her brothers and sisters the many new things which they saw from the train, and to answer their hundreds of questions.

At Littlebourne there was quite a sensation on their arrival. Mr.

Burnet was there in his pony-carriage, and Leonard, and Mrs. Bosher's brother with a donkey-cart. Mrs. Rowles and Emily laughed and cried over their relations; and poor Mitch.e.l.l became so faint from fatigue and emotion that Mrs. Webster, who now arrived on the scene, hurried him and his wife and little ones into a "fly" to get them out of the hubbub.

The station-master and the porters were quite glad when this party moved off.

They went slowly along the roads, in the soft air sweetened by recent showers, talking all together, all at the same time. What did it matter? n.o.body wanted to hear anybody's words except his own. At the cottage they ceased talking, and all ran about through the small garden, up and down the flight of stairs, in and out the rooms.