_AT THE FAIR_
"For a Crowd is not Company."--_Bacon's Essays_.
The High Street of Carsham, generally so quiet and deserted, was
crowded and noisy enough that day. The wide space in front of the
old market-place was filled up with swinging boats and
merry-go-rounds, and rows of booths ran down each side of the wide
street next the pavement. A field between the street and the river
was occupied by shows--a wild-beast show, a theatre, a
shooting-gallery, and all the various amusements that attracted the
country people who stood staring in groups, or wandered slowly in and
out of one tent or another. Every hour the crowd went on slowly
increasing, the noise and life of the fair strengthening. A band was
playing in the street, and music was also going on in hot and stuffy
dancing-saloons at the back of several public-houses. These were
doing a fine trade.
Altogether it seemed that Carsham and its neighbourhood was
determined to have a day of thorough enjoyment, to spend as much
money as could be scraped together. It was an opportunity that only
came once in three years, and people were determined to make the best
of it. Whole families flowed in from quiet villages and lonely
commons; old and young, on foot or on wheels, they kept on coming;
and this would go on till late in the evening, till the fair, which
had always a few London roughs mingled with its crowd, was neither a
safe nor respectable place for quiet people.
But there was not much rowdyism to be seen in the afternoon, when
Mary walked in from Markwood; the amusements in the street were
harmless enough; the gay booths were crowded with women and children,
many of whom she knew, busily buying all manner of rubbish. The
crowd was dressed in its Sunday clothes, and only now and then some
rough lads with their horse-play disturbed its generally quiet
enjoyment. The scene was lively enough, and noisy enough; but the
noise was harmless. Mary met with no pushing or rudeness of any kind
as she made her way along the street, and her eyes were attracted by
many sights that amused them; but she did not stop to look at
anything or buy anything. She could not be happy till Lily's hand
was in hers. Then she thought she would buy the child a fairing, and
would insist on her coming home at once. They would be at home long
before John was; and he could hardly be angry with his mother for
letting the child go. Though the more Mary thought of that the more
astonished she felt that Mrs. Randal should have done it. A
particular person like her! it seemed unnatural.
Mary suddenly stood still in front of a toy-stall, at which she
appeared to stare with the deepest interest. But in reality she saw
nothing; it was a new thought that had stopped her. Was it possible
that Lily had been left alone in the house for a few minutes, and had
dressed herself and run away to join the other children? She wanted
to go to the fair, Mary knew; she had been crying about it the day
before. And it was very possible that, if she had done it, Mrs.
Alfrick would not have taken the trouble to send her back. The fact
of her wearing the locket seemed to make this a reasonable idea, for
Mrs. Randal was even less likely to send the locket, the one means of
identifying Lily, than to send the child herself.
[Illustration: "Mary suddenly stood still in front of a toy-stall."]
"Well, she _is_ a naughty little thing!" said Mary to herself. "And
John won't have her punished. Well, I do sometimes wish that child
was back where she came from."
Here Mary was roused by the keeper of the toy-stall, who began
bringing forward her best goods to tempt such a respectable-looking
purchaser, and seemed a good deal injured when she shook her head and
walked away.
She went on to the very end of the street, looking eagerly about
among the women and children that crowded her path, but nowhere did
she see the Alfrick children, or their mother, or Lily. They were
not in the boats, or on the merry-go-rounds, they were not standing
about listening to the band near the market-place, they were not to
be seen among the ever-thickening crowd that made its way slowly
along the line of booths. Mary began to feel lonely, as well as
anxious. Some of the ruder people, the strangers, stared at her, and
she felt that Carsham Fair was hardly the place for a girl of her age
to be wandering about alone. Her presence there would not please
John, she knew, any more than Lily's--and if he could see her there
alone, he would certainly be angry. However, Mary had not time to
think much of this. She must find Lily--that was her first work, her
first duty; and then they would both turn their backs on Carsham Fair
quickly enough--gladly enough too, as far as she was concerned, for
she had seldom felt more anxious or more miserable.
She began to think that Mrs. Alfrick must have taken the children
into one of the shows. Making her way slowly back down the street,
towards the part of the town where these were, she now met a few
neighbours from Markwood, who stared and grinned at the sight of her.
Was this Miss Mary Alfrick, who generally treated common amusements
with scorn? Mary stopped in spite of their looks, and asked if they
had seen any of her people. "No." One woman had noticed Farmer
Alfrick going into the Wheatsheaf Inn; but there was nobody else with
him.
"Anything wrong at home, as you want him back in a hurry?" asked
another.
"No, thank you," Mary answered civilly. "But they're all here, Mrs.
Alfrick and the children and all--and I wanted to find them."
She went on down the street, instantly losing these acquaintances in
the crowd.
"Her young man had ought to be with her," said one of the women; but
then they stopped in front of one of those fascinating booths, and
forgot all about Mary.
She stood about for some time at the gate of the field where the
wild-beast show, the theatre, and other attractions were set up. It
was not a nice place for waiting; there were a good many
unpleasant-looking people about, and a little way down the lane there
was an old and not very respectable public-house, much patronised at
these times by the roughs and tramps who came from London. For some
time Mary stood looking down the lane towards this house, which was
actually hidden from her, however, by two great chestnut trees that
had not yet lost the orange masses of their leaves. Music, though
only of a barrel-organ, was going on merrily; there were shouts of
laughter now and then, and sounds as of people dancing on the other
side of the trees.
Mary saw and listened to all this without realising it much. She was
trying to make up her mind to go inside one of these shows after
another in search of Mrs. Alfrick and the children. It did occur to
her that she might follow her father to the Wheatsheaf and ask for
his help. But she shrank with a sort of pride and disgust from
facing him and his companions there. He was likely enough to answer
her rudely. And after all, the rest of the party could not be very
far off; they must be somewhere in the fair. Mary tried to persuade
herself that it would be all right--and still she was miserable.
The afternoon was closing in fast, too; it would soon begin to get
dusk; she must have been standing about Carsham more than an hour
already, and now another half-hour was soon wasted, while she waited
about the entrance of the shows. She was just making up her mind to
venture inside the wild-beast show--they might be there--though the
roars and growls to be heard were more likely to frighten children
than to attract them--when suddenly a crowd of people came pouring
out of a large tent, the entrance of which was ornamented with a
terrifying picture of an immense black man with an axe, and an
announcement that The Black Giant, a drama in three acts, would be
performed twice that day.
In another moment Mary had rushed among these people and seized her
stepmother by the arm. Three or four children were clinging to her,
but Lily was not among them; a moment's glance showed Mary that.
"Mother, where's Lily?" she cried. "You've left her in the tent!
Come along back and fetch her. I expect they won't let me go in."
Mrs. Alfrick was flushed, tired, and extremely cross.
"Plague take the girl!" she exclaimed. "So you've come after all!
You might as well have stopped away. Nothing but Lily, Lily, from
morning till night--I'm out of patience, and no wonder. Lily ain't a
baby in arms, and I've got my own children to think of first--and as
for that John of yours as picked her up in the ditch, he'd better
stop at home and look after her, and you may just go and tell him so."
Mary turned white. She held Mrs. Alfrick's arm fast, and drew her to
one side, while the other people hurried on to the gate.
"Look here," she said in a low voice. "Tell me this moment--what
have you done with that child?"
"She's a naughty girl, Lily is," protested Mrs. Alfrick, while the
other children began to cry; they found no enjoyment in a quarrel
between Mary and their mother, for Mary's crimes were usually visited
on them. "I gave her buns and sweets just like my own--I told her to
come along with them and we'd all enjoy ourselves together."
"Where is she?"
"I paid a penny for her to go into that there theatre along of
us--and it's more than many would have done for a brat like her--and
we hadn't been there a quarter of an hour when she begins to cry and
say she's frightened, just because there was a few murders on the
stage--like there always is, you know. Well, I couldn't have her
making a disturbance in there--they'd have turned out the lot of us
in no time--so I just sent her along out with Lizzie, and told 'em
both they was to stop about the gate till we come. Lizzie's a good
girl and does as she's bid. She was pleased to go out with Lily; you
know what a fuss she always makes of her."
"But where are they now?"
"Do just stop your noise, Mary. Ain't I telling you? They're
somewhere outside here, waiting for us. I won't deny as that
performance was longer than I expected--but don't you worrit now.
They're as right as they can be."
"I hope so," said Mary grimly. "But all I can say is, I've been
waiting about here for you half-an-hour or more, and I've seen
nothing of them."
"Oh, it was longer ago than half-an-hour," said Mrs. Alfrick.
"They've got back to the stalls and the music. Lily wanted to stop
by the music before."
"Lily ought never to have come here at all, that's where it is," said
Mary. "You don't mean to tell me Mrs. Randal sent her?"
She would hardly have confessed it, but she was rather more at ease
now. Lizzie Alfrick was a steady child of nine years old, the best
of the family. She would indeed, with a better bringing up, have
been a nice little girl; but Mrs. Alfrick's system of alternate
spoiling and knocking about was not likely to improve any character.
Mary had no satisfactory answer to her question.
"Well, and if she did," said Mrs. Alfrick, "it's no business of
yours, as I can see. You ain't married to John yet. When you are,
take my word for it, you'll have a bigger dose of Lily than you care
for. Him and his mother, they're both right down silly over that
child."
Mary knew her stepmother too well to go on asking questions. After
all, it did not much matter how Lily got there. The next thing was
to find the two children, who had evidently strayed away and lost
themselves in the fair. This was not an easy business, for the crowd
had thickened very much since Mary first came, and the advancing
dusk, and the lights which were beginning to glimmer everywhere, made
it extremely difficult to find anybody.
Mary set out to make her way along that crowded street once more. It
was becoming like a bad dream, this perpetual hurrying up and down
through the noisy fair, her ears and brain bewildered by the sound of
voices, of music, or the discordant shriek of penny trumpets. She
pushed along through the people. There were plenty of children
wedged in among those groups that surrounded the lighted booths, but
nowhere could she find either of the children she was looking for.
She soon, being active and not encumbered with clinging hands, had
left Mrs. Alfrick and her family some distance behind, and was
working her way desperately through those stationary crowds. Flushed
with trouble and fatigue, no summer night could have seemed to her
more exhausting. The heavy air of that street weighed on her as if
it had been a close and suffocating room, though some of the people
were shivering, and a cold little October wind was whistling along,
shaking the tents and making the lights flicker wildly.
"It's going to rain," said a voice. "It always do rain on Carsham
Fair."
Mary searched to the end of the street, and round the market-place,
without success. Then she turned back, and after a little while met
her stepmother and the children. Mrs. Alfrick was crying now, and
telling one or two sympathisers in the crowd that she had lost her
little girl, that Lizzie had been led away into mischief by the worst
child in the village, a nasty good-for-nothing who had been picked up
in a ditch.
"I've heard tell of that child," said one of the women near. "It was
John Randal, the blacksmith over at Markwood, weren't it? He was a
soft, not to send the child to the Union."
"I wish to goodness he had," said Mrs. Alfrick, with a deep sigh.
At that moment Mary pushed her way through the crowd to her
stepmother's side.
"It's no good," she said. "I've looked in every corner. We must
fetch father out of the Wheatsheaf and have a proper search made.
There's bad characters about, and those children may have been
stolen. We must go to the police."
"Fetch your father out of the Wheatsheaf! You may do it yourself,
then!" cried Mrs. Alfrick, sobbing again, while several of the
bystanders laughed.
Mary hesitated. She knew it was too true that her father, after a
couple of hours at the Wheatsheaf, at fair-time too, was not likely
to come out in a state to give any reasonable help. Every moment the
curtain of dusk seemed to descend lower and lower above that flaring
street; the shadows, the dark corners, the crowd that thickened
perpetually--all made it harder from moment to moment to find what
was lost. And yet--"They must be found!" said Mary to herself:
though she wondered how long her brain would bear the bewilderment,
the pushing, the noise and clamour in which this search had to be
carried on.
If she could only see or speak to some respectable person with a
grain of feeling and sense! But alas! as a rule, such persons were
not to be met with at Carsham Fair.
As she looked round with distracted eyes, there was a sudden movement
in the little crowd that surrounded them, and Lizzie Alfrick broke
through and rushed to her mother, burying her face in her gown.
Mary's joyful exclamation was checked upon her lips. For the child
was alone and crying bitterly; there was no sign of Lily; and then a
terror seized on Mary, compared with which her former anxiety had
been nothing. Now, for the first time, she had to think of John's
treasure, John's Lily, really alone, deserted and lost in the fair.
For a minute the confusion was too great; Mrs. Alfrick's sobs and
scoldings, Lizzie's screams, the loud chatter of the people standing
by--Mary could do nothing in the midst of all this. But presently
she took Lizzie's hand and pulled her away from her mother.
"There, stop that noise," she said impatiently. "Be a good girl and
tell me where Lily is."
"I don't know," said Lizzie, looking solemnly up into her face. "We
lost each other. We was dancing to the organ over there, and it got
so dark, and a man brought a lantern, and then I couldn't see a bit;
and I went dancing round the trees and come back again, and Lily was
gone, and then I couldn't find mother; and I went back to the house
and they drove me out and telled me not to come bothering there. I
thought I was lost too."
"But why were you such naughty children as not to stop where mother
told you till she came out? If you had, I should have seen you
there," said Mary.
"We didn't go far off. Only as far as them big trees, Polly. We
went and picked up chestnuts--and then there was a man playing the
organ and some children dancing, and we came and danced too. There
was a woman too, and she brought Lily a stick of candy and said she
was the prettiest little girl she ever saw in her life. Lily gave me
half."
"Who was the woman? Did she belong to the house down there--the
Travellers' Joy?"
"I don't think so," Lizzie said vaguely. "I didn't see her when I
went back."
Mary stood still and thought for a moment. Somehow, all her
distraction and bewilderment were gone. In spite of all the
deafening confusion, her head was now clear.
"We must go to the Travellers' Joy and inquire there," she said to
Mrs. Alfrick.
"Go where you please," was the answer. "I ain't coming. Lily ain't
my child, and I won't be plagued with her any longer. She's up to
some mischief, I'll be bound. You'll find her dancing in front o'
that organ and getting more sticks of candy."
Mary turned away, only saying--"If you won't come with me, take my
advice and go home with the children. It's nearly dark now. Lizzie
can come with me; she may be a help, and I'll take care of her."
"She shan't then," cried the mother. "When I've just lost her and
found her again! I always did say you was the most selfish girl
living."
"Very well. Stay with your mother."
Mary let the little girl's hand go, and in another moment was alone
in the crowd.
Without much difficulty, now that she knew where she must go, she
made her way to the end of the street, turning down past the meadow
where the shows were. The crowd was not so thick here, but it was
very unpleasant in the gathering dusk. Under the chestnut-trees it
was nearly dark; no playing or dancing was going on there now, but
the windows of the old inn beyond were lit up brilliantly, and a
great noise of stamping and shouting was to be heard from within.
Mary knew that it was not a place for a girl like herself, but
without hesitation she went straight to the open door, and asked a
rough-looking woman who was crossing the passage if she had seen a
pretty little girl with fair hair. She was answered by a torrent of
bad language that drove her away from the door, her face burning with
indignation and horror.
For a long time she waited about, as near as she dared, watching
everybody who went in or came out. Something in the woman's look and
manner, though she seemed to be anything but sober, made her suspect
that she had seen Lily, that she knew where she was.
Mary was almost in despair. She thought, as she moved restlessly
round and round in the darkness under the great trees, for a time
which seemed to her quite awful in its length and hopelessness, that
there must be respectable people in Carsham who would help her if she
could get hold of them--police if she knew where to find them--a
clergyman's house, if she could venture to apply to a total stranger.
Mary was a shy, reserved girl, and had lived all her life at lonely
Markwood--but now she would have had courage to do anything, if she
had only known what to do. In the meanwhile, it grew darker every
moment; the autumn night, black and starless, was settling down on
Carsham Fair.