THE BABES IN THE WOOD.
“Are you very hungry, Nello?’
“Oh, very, _very_. Are you? I have not had any breakfast. It was night,
dark night when I came away. Have you had any breakfast, Lily?”
“How could I, when I have been in the railway all the night? Do you
think you can get over the ditch? Jump! I jumped, and you always could
jump better than I.”
“You forget everything when you go to school,” said Nello, mournfully,
“and I am all trembling, I cannot help it. It is so cold. Oh Lily, if
they come up--if they find us--you will not let them take me back?”
“Never, Nello! but let us get on, let us get on to the railway. Quick,
it is not far off. If you would only jump. Now give me your hand. I am
cold too, but we must get over it, we _must_ get over it!” said Lilias,
almost crying. Poor Nello’s limbs were cramped, he was chilled to the
heart. He did not feel it possible to get on, all the courage was gone
out of him. He had kept up until, after scrambling through many rough
places, his poor little feet had sunk in that soft, newly-ploughed
furrow. This had taken all the life out of him, and perhaps his meeting
with Lilias, and the tumult of joyful emotion it caused, had not
increased Nello’s power of endurance. He had always had the habit of
trusting to her. But Lily it was quite certain could not drag him over
the ditch. He made an effort at last to jump and failed, and stuck in
the mud. That accident seemed at the moment to make an end of them both
in their utter weariness. They mingled their tears, Lilias hanging on
upon the bank above, Nello in the heavy soil below. The cry relieved
them however, and by and by, by the help of his sister’s hand, he
managed to scramble up the bank, and get through the scattered bushes on
to the highroad. One of his feet was wet and clogged with the mud, and
oh, how tired they both were, fit for nothing but to lie down and cry
themselves to sleep.
“Oh, Nello, if you were at home, should you ever--ever want to go away
again?”
Nello did not make any reply. He was too tired for anything but a dull
little sob now and then, involuntary, the mere breathing of his
weakness. And the highway looked so long, longer even than the fields.
There was always some hope at the end of a field that deliverance might
come round the corner, but a long unchangeable highway, how endless it
was! They went on thus together for a little way in silence; then: “Oh,
Lily, I am so hungry,” said Nello. What could she do? She was hungry
too, more hungry than he was, for she had eaten nothing since the
afternoon of the previous day.
“I have a shilling in my pocket, but we cannot eat a shilling,” said
poor Lilias.
“And I have a shilling too--more than that--I have the golden sovereign
Mary gave me.”
“We must just hurry--hurry to the railway, Nello, for we cannot eat
money, and the railway will soon take us home; or there is a place, a
big station, where we could buy a cake. Oh!’ cried Lilias, with a gleam
of eager satisfaction in her eyes.
“What is it, Lily?”
“Look, only look?” She dragged him forward by the arm in her eagerness.
“Oh, a few steps further, Nello--only a few steps further--look!”
The roadside cottage which had been so blank as she passed had awoke--a
woman stood by the door--but the thing that caught Lilias’ eye was a few
stale cakes and opaque glasses with strange confectionery in them. It
was these that gave strength to her wearied feet. She hurried forward,
while the woman looked at the strange little pair in wonder. “Oh, will
you give us a little breakfast,” she said, “a little milk to drink, and
some bread and butter for this little boy?”
“Where have you come from, you two children, at this hour in the
morning?” cried the woman in consternation.
“Oh, we are going to the train,” said Lilias. “We are obliged to go; we
must get the early train, and we don’t know, we don’t quite know when it
goes; and my poor little brother has fallen into the mud--see! and--he
got his breakfast so very early before he came away that he is hungry
again. We have plenty of money,” cried the little girl, “plenty of
money! We will give you a shilling if you will give us some milk and
bread.”
“A shilling--two, three shillings,” said Nello, interposing. He was so
hungry; and what was the good of shillings?--you could not eat them. The
woman looked at them suspiciously. They were not little tramps; they
were nicely dressed children, though the little boy was so muddy. She
did not see what harm it could do to take them in; likewise her heart
was touched by the poor little things standing there looking up at her
as though she was the arbiter of their fate.
“You may come in and sit by the fire; there’s no train for two hours
yet. It’s not six o’clock. Come in, you poor little things, and rest,
and I’ll give you some nice hot tea. But you must tell me all the truth,
for I know you’ve run away from somewhere,” she said.
“No,” said Lilias, looking her in the face. “Oh no, I have not run away
from anywhere. My little brother was not happy, and I came to fetch him,
that is all. I did not run away.”
“And what sort of people was it that sent a baby like you?” said the
woman. “Come in, you poor little things, and sit by the fire. What could
your mother be thinking of to send you----”
“We have not got any mother.” Nello took no share in this conversation.
He was quite lost in the delight of the hard old settle that stood by
the fire. Nestling up into the corner he thought he should like to fall
asleep there, and never move any more. “We have not got any mother,”
Lilias said, “and who could come but me? No one. I travelled all night,
and now I am going to take him home. We are children without any
mother.” Lilias could not but know that these words were a sure passport
to any woman’s heart.
“You poor little things!” the woman said, with the tears in her eyes.
Whether it has its origin in the self-complacency of womankind, it is
difficult to say, but whereas men are generally untouched by the
unhappiness of being fatherless, women are without defence in most cases
before a motherless child. Such a plea has instant recognition with high
and low. No mother!--everything is pardoned, everything conceded to a
creature with such a plea. She was not quite satisfied with the story,
which seemed to her very improbable, but she could not refuse her
succour to the motherless children. Her little shop, such as it was, had
no visitors till much later in the day, when the village children went
past her door to school. She had made her own tea, which stood keeping
itself hot upon the hob, and she came in hastily and put out cups and
saucers, and shared the hot and comfortable fluid, though it was very
weak and would not have suited more fastidious palates than the
children’s. What life it seemed to pour into their wearied little
frames! The bread was coarse and stale, but it tasted like bread from
heaven. Nello in his corner of the settle began to blink and nod. He was
even falling asleep, when suddenly a gig rattled past the windows. The
child sprang up in a moment. “Oh, Lily, Lily!” he cried in horror, “they
are after me! what shall I do?”
The woman had gone to the back of the house with the cups they had used,
and so was not near to hear this revelation.
“Who is it?” cried Lilias, peering out of the window. She was restored
to herself, and the name of an enemy, a pursuer, put her on her mettle.
She had never encountered such a thing before, but she knew everything
about it, how to behave. “Come, Nello, come,” she said, “we will go out
the back way while nobody is looking. Let us go away, let us go away
before any one can come here.”
Lilias seized some of the cakes which the woman had put in paper for
them; wonderful productions, which nothing but a child’s appetite could
contemplate, and put down two shillings in the centre of the table. On
second thoughts it seemed better to her to go out at the front and get
round under cover of the hedge to the wood on the other side of the
station, which appeared temptingly near, rather than incur the risk of
speaking to the woman. It did not occur to her that her own presence was
enough to put any one completely off the scent who was seeking Nello.
She got him away out of the house successfully, and through the gap
behind the hedge where was a little footpath. “Now we must run--run! We
must get past, while they are asking at the station. We must not say a
word to the woman or any one. Oh, Nello, run--run!” Nello, still more
anxious than she was, managed to run for a little way, but only for a
little way. He broke down of all places in the world opposite to the
station, where Mr. Swan was standing talking to the keeper. When Nello
saw him through the hedge he turned round and clasped his sister
convulsively, hiding his face on her shoulder. Lilias did not dare to
say a word. They were hid from view, yet any movement might betray them,
or any sound. She stood with trembling limbs, bearing Nello’s weight
upon her shoulder, and watched through the hawthorn bush.
“Nobody has been here, not a mouse, far less a little boy. The train is
not due for two hours,” said the station-keeper.
“A bit of a little fellow,” said Mr. Swan. “I can’t think he could have
got so far; more likely he’s lying behind a hedge somewhere; but I
thought it best to try first here.”
“He’s not here,” the station-keeper said again. He answered curtly, his
sympathies being all with the fugitive, and he could not but give the
troubled schoolmaster a corner of his mind. “It’s only a month since you
lost the last one,” he said. “If it was my house the boys ran away from
I should not like it.”
“Talk of things you know something of,” said Mr. Swan hotly; and then he
added, shaking his head; “It is not my fault. My wife and I do
everything we can, but it’s those rough boys and their practical jokes.”
“Little fellows, they don’t seem to understand them kind of jokes,” said
the railway man.
Mr. Swan shook his head. It was not his fault. He was sorry, and vexed,
and ashamed. “I would rather have lost the money twice over,” he said.
Then he turned and gave a searching glance all around. Lilias quaked,
and her heart sank within her. She held her little brother close to her
breast. If he should stir, if he should cry, all would be over. She knew
her situation well enough. Either their enemy would go away and get
bloodhounds and fierce wicked men to put on their track, during which
time the fugitives would have time to get into some wonderful cave, or
to be taken into some old, old house by some benevolent stranger, and so
escape; or else he would come straight to the very place where they
were, guided by some influence unfavourable to them. Lilias stood and
held her breath. “Oh, be still, Nello, be still, he is looking!” she
whispered into Nello’s ear. Her limbs were nearly giving way, but she
resisted fate and held out.
The schoolmaster made long inspection of all the landscape. “He was
specially commended to me, too--I was warned--I was warned,” he said.
Then he turned to the station-keeper, giving him the most urgent
injunctions. “If he comes here you will secure him at once,” he said,
filling Lilias with dismay, who did not see the shrug of the man’s
shoulders, and the look with which he turned aside. Thus their retreat
was cut off, the little girl thought, with anguish indescribable; how
then were they to get home? This thought was so dreadful that Lilias was
not relieved as she otherwise would have been by the sound of the wheels
and the horse’s hoofs as the gig turned, and their enemy drove away. He
had gone in his own person, but had he not left a horrible retainer to
guard the passage? And how, oh how was she to take Nello home? She did
not know where the next station was. She did not know the way in this
strange, desolate, unknown country. “Nello,” she cried, in a whisper of
despair, “we must get into that wood, it is the only thing we can do;
they will not look for us there. I don’t know why, but I feel sure they
will not look for us there. And perhaps we shall meet some one who will
take care of us. Oh, Nello, rouse up, come quick, come quick. Perhaps
there may be a hermit living there, perhaps----. Come, Nello, can you
not go a little further? Oh, try, try.”
“Oh, Lily, I am so tired--I am so sleepy”
“I am tired too,” she said, a little rush of tears coming to her eyes;
and then they stumbled on together, holding each other up. The wood
looked gay and bright in the early morning. The sun had come out, which
warmed everything, and the bright autumn colour on the trees cheered the
children as a similar hour, and the beauty of the wild creatures of the
woods, cheered the poet:--
“Si che a bene sperar m’era cagione
Di quella fera alla gaietta pelle
L’ora del tempo, e la dolce stagione.”
The trees seemed to sweep with a great luxuriance of shadow over a broad
stretch of country. It must be possible to find some refuge there. There
might be--a hermit, perhaps, in a little cell, who would give them nuts
and some milk from his goat--or a charcoal burner, wild but kind, like
those Lilias remembered to have seen in the forest with wild locks
hanging over their eyes. If only no magician should be there to beguile
them into his den, pretending to be kind! Thus Lilias mixed fact and
fiction, her own broken remembrances of Italian woods sounding as
fictitious among the English elms and beeches as the wildest visions of
fancy. For this wood, though it had poetic corners in it, was traversed
by the highroad, from end to end, and was as innocent of
charcoal-burners as of magicians. And it turned out a great deal further
off than they thought. They walked and walked, and still it lay before
them, smiling in its yellow and red, waving and beckoning in the
breeze, which was less chilly now that the sun was up. The sun reached
to the footpath behind the hedge, and warmed the little wayfarers
through and through--that was the best thing that had happened to
them--for how good it is to be warmed when one is chilled and weary; and
what a rising of hope and courage there is when the misty dawn disperses
before the rising of the brave sun!
Nello almost recovered his spirits when he got within the wood. There
were side-aisles even to the highroad, and deep corners in its depths
where shelter could be had, and the ground was all flaked with shadow
and sunshine; and there were green glades, half visible at every side,
with warm grass all lit by the sun.
“Let us go and sit down, Lily. Oh, what a pretty place to sit down! Oh,
Lily, I cannot--I cannot walk any more; I am so tired,” cried Nello.
“I am tired too,” she said, with a quiver in her mouth, looking vainly
round for some trace of the charcoal-burner or of the hermit. All was
silent, sunny, fresh with the morning, but vacant as the fields. And
Lilias could not be satisfied with mere rest, though she wanted it so
much. “How are we to get home, if we dare not go to the railway? and
there is no other way,” she said. “Oh, Nello, it will be very nice to
rest--but how are we to get home?”
“Oh, never mind; I am so tired,” said weary little Nello. “Look, Lily,
what a warm place. It is quite dry, and a tree to lean against. Let us
stay here.”
Never had a more tempting spot been seen; green soft turf at one side of
the big tree, and beech-mast, soft and dry and brown, the droppings of
the trees, on the other. The foot sank in it, it was so soft, and the
early sun had dried it, and the thick boughs overhead had kept off the
dew. It was as soft as a bed of velvet, and the little branches waved
softly over it, while the greater boughs, more still, shaded and
protected the children. They sat down, utterly worn out, and Lilias took
out her cakes, which they ate together with delight, though these
dainties were far from delicious; and there, propped up against each
other, an arm of each round the other, Nello lying across Lilias’ lap,
with his head pillowed upon her; she, half-seated, half-reclining,
holding him, and held in her turn by a hollow of the tree: these babes
in the wood first nodded, then dozed, and woke and dozed again, and
finally, the yellow leaves dropping now and then upon them like a caress
of nature, the sun cherishing their little limbs, fell fast asleep in
the guardianship of God.