Dusty Diamonds Cut and Polished: A Tale of City Arab Life and Adventure

“Now children,” said Mrs Twitter, sitting down in front of the row with an aspect so solemn that they all immediately made their mouths very small and their eyes very large—in which respect they brought themselves into wonderful correspondence with Alice’s doll. “Now children, your dear brother Sammy has come home.”

“Oh! how nice! Where has he been? What has he seen? Why has he been away so long? How jolly!” were the various expressions with which the news was received.

“Silence.”

The stillness that followed was almost oppressive, for the little Twitters had been trained to prompt obedience. To say truth they had not been difficult to train, for they were all essentially mild.

“Now, remember, when he comes down to breakfast you are to take no notice whatever of his having been away—no notice at all.”

“Are we not even to say good-morning or kiss him, mamma?” asked little Alice with a look of wonder.

“Dear child, you do not understand me. We are all charmed to see Sammy back, and so thankful—so glad—that he has come, and we will kiss him and say whatever we please to him except,” (here she cast an awful eye along the line and dropped her voice), “except ask him where—he—has—been.”

“Mayn’t we ask him how he liked it, mamma?” said Alice.

“Liked what, child?”

“Where he has been, mamma.”

“No, not a word about where he has been; only that we are so glad, so very glad, to see him back.”

Fred, who had an argumentative turn of mind, thought that this would be a rather demonstrative though indirect recognition of the fact that Sammy had been somewhere that was wrong, but, having been trained to unquestioning obedience, Fred said nothing.

“Now, dolly,” whispered little Alice, bending down, “’member dat—you’re so glad Sammy’s come back; mustn’t say more—not a word more.”

“It is enough for you to know, my darlings,” continued Mrs Twitter, “that Sammy has been wandering and has come back.”

“Listen, Dolly, you hear? Sammy’s been wandering an’ come back. Dat’s ’nuff for you.”

“You see, dears,” continued Mrs Twitter, with a slightly perplexed look, caused by her desire to save poor Sammy’s feelings, and her anxiety to steer clear of the slightest approach to deception, “you see, Sammy has been long away, and has been very tired, and won’t like to be troubled with too many questions at breakfast, you know, so I want you all to talk a good deal about anything you like—your lessons,—for instance, when he comes down.”

“Before we say good-morning, mamma, or after?” asked Alice, who was extremely conscientious.

“Darling child,” exclaimed the perplexed mother, “you’ll never take it in. What I want to impress on you is—”

She stopped, suddenly, and what it was she meant to impress we shall never more clearly know, for at that moment the foot of Sammy himself was heard on the stair.

“Now, mind, children, not a word—not—a—word!”

The almost preternatural solemnity induced by this injunction was at once put to flight by Sammy, at whom the whole family flew with one accord and a united shriek—pulling him down on a chair and embracing him almost to extinction.

Fortunately for Sammy, and his anxious mother, that which the most earnest desire to obey orders would have failed to accomplish was brought about by the native selfishness of poor humanity, for, the first burst of welcome over, Alice began an elaborate account of her Dolly’s recent proceedings, which seemed to consist of knocking her head against articles of furniture, punching out her own eyes and flattening her own nose; while Fred talked of his latest efforts in shipbuilding; Willie of his hopes in regard to soldiering, and Lucy of her attempts to draw and paint.

Mr and Mrs Twitter contented themselves with gazing on Sammy’s somewhat worn face, and lying in watch, so that, when Alice or any of the young members of the flock seemed about to stray on the forbidden ground, they should be ready to descend, like two wolves on the fold, remorselessly change the subject of conversation, and carry all before them.

Thus tenderly was that prodigal son received back to his father’s house.

Chapter Twenty Five.

Canada again—and Surprising News

It is most refreshing to those who have been long cooped up in a city to fly on the wings of steam to the country and take refuge among the scents of flowers and fields and trees. We have said this, or something like it, before, and remorselessly repeat it—for it is a grand truism.

Let us then indulge ourselves a little with a glance at the farm of Brankly in Canada.

Lake Ontario, with its expanse of boundless blue, rolls like an ocean in the far distance. We can see it from the hill-top where the sweet-smelling red-pines grow. At the bottom of the hill lies Brankly itself, with its orchards and homestead and fields of golden grain, and its little river, with the little saw-mill going as pertinaciously as if it, like the river, had resolved to go on for ever. Cattle are there, sheep are there, horses and wagons are there, wealth and prosperity are there, above all happiness is there, because there also dwells the love of God.

It is a good many years, reader, since you and I were last here. Then, the farm buildings and fences were brand-new. Now, although of course not old, they bear decided traces of exposure to the weather. But these marks only give compactness of look and unity of tone to everything, improving the appearance of the place vastly.

The fences, which at first looked blank and staring, as if wondering how they had got there, are now more in harmony with the fields they enclose. The plants which at first struggled as if unwillingly on the dwelling-house, now cling to it and climb about it with the affectionate embrace of old friends. Everything is improved—Well, no, not everything. Mr Merryboy’s legs have not improved. They will not move as actively as they were wont to do. They will not go so far, and they demand the assistance of a stick. But Mr Merryboy’s spirit has improved—though it was pretty good before, and his tendency to universal philanthropy has increased to such an extent that the people of the district have got into a way of sending their bad men and boys to work on his farm in order that they may become good!

Mrs Merryboy, however, has improved in every way, and is more blooming than ever, as well as a trifle stouter, but Mrs Merryboy senior, although advanced spiritually, has degenerated a little physically. The few teeth that kept her nose and chin apart having disappeared, her mouth has also vanished, though there is a decided mark which tells where it was—especially when she speaks or smiles. The hair on her forehead has become as pure white as the winter snows of Canada. Wrinkles on her visage have become the rule, not the exception, but as they all run into comical twists, and play in the forms of humour, they may, perhaps, be regarded as a physical improvement. She is stone deaf now, but this also may be put to the credit side of her account, for it has rendered needless those awkward efforts to speak loud and painful attempts to hear which used to trouble the family in days gone by. It is quite clear, however, when you look into granny’s coal-black eyes, that if she were to live to the age of Methuselah she will never be blind, nor ill-natured, nor less pleased with herself, her surroundings, and the whole order of things created!

But who are these that sit so gravely and busily engaged with breakfast as though they had not the prospect of another meal that year? Two young men and a young girl. One young man is broad and powerful though short, with an incipient moustache and a fluff of whisker. The other is rather tall, slim, and gentlemanly, and still beardless. The girl is little, neat, well-made, at the budding period of life, brown-haired, brown-eyed, round, soft—just such a creature as one feels disposed to pat on the head and say, “My little pet!”

Why, these are two “waifs” and a “stray!” Don’t you know them? Look again. Is not the stout fellow our friend Bobby Frog, the slim one Tim Lumpy, and the girl Martha Mild? But who, in all London, would believe that these were children who had bean picked out of the gutter? Nobody—except those good Samaritans who had helped to pick them up, and who could show you the photographs of what they once were and what they now are.

Mr Merryboy, although changed a little as regards legs, was not in the least deteriorated as to lungs. As Granny, Mrs Merryboy, and the young people sat at breakfast he was heard at an immense distance off, gradually making his way towards the house.

“Something seems to be wrong with father this morning, I think,” said Mrs Merryboy, junior, listening.

Granny, observing the action, pretended to listen, and smiled.

“He’s either unusually jolly or unusually savage—a little more tea, mother,” said Tim Lumpy, pushing in his cup.

Tim, being father-and-motherless, called Mr Merryboy father and the wife mother. So did Martha, but Bobby Frog, remembering those whom he had left at home, loyally declined, though he did not object to call the elder Mrs Merryboy granny.

“Something for good or evil must have happened,” said Bobby, laying down his knife and fork as the growling sound drew nearer.

At last the door flew open and the storm burst in. And we may remark that Mr Merryboy’s stormy nature was, if possible, a little more obtrusive than it used to be, for whereas in former days his toes and heels did most of the rattling-thunder business, the stick now came into play as a prominent creator of din—not only when flourished by hand, but often on its own account and unexpectedly, when propped clumsily in awkward places.

“Hallo! good people all, how are ’ee? morning—morning. Boys, d’ee know that the saw-mill’s come to grief?”

“No, are you in earnest, father?” cried Tim, jumping up.

“In earnest! Of course I am. Pretty engineers you are. Sawed its own bed in two, or burst itself. Don’t know which, and what’s more I don’t care. Come, Martha, my bantam chicken, let’s have a cup of tea. Bother that stick, it can’t keep its legs much better than myself. How are you, mother? Glorious weather, isn’t it?”

Mr Merryboy ignored deafness. He continued to speak to his mother just as though she heard him.

And she continued to nod and smile, and make-believe to hear with more demonstration of face and cap than ever. After all, her total loss of hearing made little difference, her sentiments being what Bobby Frog in his early days would have described in the words, “Wot’s the hodds so long as you’re ’appy?”

But Bobby had now ceased to drop or misapply his aitches—though he still had some trouble with his R’s.

As he was chief engineer of the saw-mill, having turned out quite a mechanical genius, he ran down to the scene of disaster with much concern on hearing the old gentleman’s report.

And, truly, when he and Tim reached the picturesque spot where, at the water’s edge among fine trees and shrubs, the mill stood clearly reflected in its own dam, they found that the mischief done was considerable. The machinery, by which the frame with its log to be sawn was moved along quarter-inch by quarter-inch at each stroke, was indeed all right, but it had not been made self-regulating. The result was that, on one of the attendant workmen omitting to do his duty, the saw not only ripped off a beautiful plank from a log, but continued to cross-cut the end of the heavy framework, and then proceeded to cut the iron which held the log in its place. The result, of course, was that the iron refused to be cut, and savagely revenged itself by scraping off, flattening down, turning up, and otherwise damaging, the teeth of the saw!

“H’m! that comes of haste,” muttered Bob, as he surveyed the wreck. “If I had taken time to make the whole affair complete before setting the mill to work, this would not have happened.”