WAGTAIL COMES TO HONOR.
As they rode out of the gate, one of the men, a trustworthy man, who cared
for his horses like his children, and knew all their individualities as few
men know those of their children, rode up along side of my father, and told
him that there was an encampment of gypsies on the moor about five miles
away, just over Gorman Slope, remarking, that if the woman had taken the
child, and belonged to them, she would certainly carry her thither. My
father thought, in the absence of other indication, they ought to follow
the suggestion, and told Burton to guide them to the place as rapidly as
possible. After half an hour's sharp riding, they came in view of the
camp,--or rather of a rising ground behind which it lay in the hollow. The
other servant was an old man, who had been whipper-in to a baronet in the
next county, and knew as much of the ways of wild animals as Burton did
of those of his horses; it was his turn now to address my father, who had
halted for a moment to think what ought to be done next.
"She can't well have got here before us, sir, with that child to carry. But
it's wonderful what the likes of her can do. I think I had better have a
peep over the brow first. She may be there already, or she may not; but, if
we find out, we shall know better what to do."
"I'll go with you," said my father.
"No, sir; excuse me; that won't do. You can't creep like a sarpent. I can.
They'll never know I'm a stalking of them. No more you couldn't show fight
if need was, you know, sir."
"How did you find that out, Sim?" asked my father, a little amused,
notwithstanding the weight at his heart.
"Why, sir, they do say a clergyman mustn't show fight."
"Who told you that, Sim?" he persisted.
"Well, I can't say, sir. Only it wouldn't be respectable; would it, sir?"
"There's nothing respectable but what's right, Sim; and what's right always
_is_ respectable, though it mayn't _look_ so one bit."
"Suppose you was to get a black eye, sir?"
"Did you ever hear of the martyrs, Sim?"
"Yes, sir. I've heerd you talk on 'em in the pulpit, sir."
"Well, they didn't get black eyes only,--they got black all over, you
know,--burnt black; and what for, do you think, now?"
"Don't know, sir, except it was for doing right."
"That's just it. Was it any disgrace to them?"
"No, sure, sir."
"Well, if I were to get a black eye for the sake of the child, would that
be any disgrace to me, Sim?"
"None that I knows on, sir. Only it'd _look_ bad."
"Yes, no doubt. People might think I had got into a row at the Griffin.
And yet I shouldn't be ashamed of it. I should count my black eye the more
respectable of the two. I should also regard the evil judgment much as
another black eye, and wait till they both came round again. Lead on, Sim."
They left their horses with Burton, and went toward the camp. But when
they reached the slope behind which it lay, much to Sim's discomfiture,
my father, instead of lying down at the foot of it, as he expected, and
creeping up the side of it, after the doom of the serpent, walked right up
over the brow, and straight into the camp, followed by Wagtail. There was
nothing going on,--neither tinkering nor cooking; all seemed asleep; but
presently out of two or three of the tents, the dingy squalor of which no
moonshine could silver over, came three or four men, half undressed, who
demanded of my father, in no gentle tones, what he wanted there.
"I'll tell you all about it," he answered. "I'm the parson of this parish,
and therefore you're my own people, you see."
"We don't go to _your_ church, parson," said one of them.
"I don't care; you're my own people, for all that, and I want your help."
"Well, what's the matter? Who's cow's dead?" said the same man.
"This evening," returned my father, "one of my children is missing; and a
woman who might be one of your clan,--mind, I say _might be_; I don't know,
and I mean no offence,--but such a woman was seen about the place. All
I want is the child, and if I don't find her, I shall have to raise the
county. I should be very sorry to disturb you; but I am afraid, in that
case, whether the woman be one of you or not, the place will be too hot for
you. I'm no enemy to honest gypsies; but you know there is a set of tramps
that call themselves gypsies, who are nothing of the sort,--only thieves.
Tell me what I had better do to find my child. You know all about such
things."
The men turned to each other, and began talking in undertones, and in a
language of which what my father heard he could not understand. At length
the spokesman of the party addressed him again.
"We'll give you our word, sir, if that will satisfy you," he said, more
respectfully than he had spoken before, "to send the child home directly if
any one should bring her to our camp. That's all we can say."
My father saw that his best chance lay in accepting the offer.
"Thank you," he said. "Perhaps I may have an opportunity of serving you
some day."
They in their turn thanked him politely enough, and my father and Sim left
the camp.
Upon this side the moor was skirted by a plantation which had been
gradually creeping up the hill from the more sheltered hollow. It was here
bordered by a deep trench, the bottom of which was full of young firs.
Through the plantation there was a succession of green rides, by which the
outskirts of my father's property could be reached. But, the moon being now
up, my father resolved to cross the trench, and halt for a time, watching
the moor from the shelter of the firs, on the chance of the woman's making
her appearance; for, if she belonged to the camp, she would most probably
approach it from the plantation, and might be overtaken before she could
cross the moor to reach it.
They had lain ensconced in the firs for about half an hour, when suddenly,
without any warning, Wagtail rushed into the underwood and vanished. They
listened with all their ears, and in a few moments heard his joyous bark,
followed instantly, however, by a howl of pain; and, before they had got
many yards in pursuit, he came cowering to my father's feet, who, patting
his side, found it bleeding. He bound his handkerchief round him, and,
fastening the lash of Sim's whip to his collar that he might not go too
fast for them, told him to find Theodora. Instantly he pulled away through
the brushwood, giving a little yelp now and then as the stiff remnant of
some broken twig or stem hurt his wounded side.
Before we reached the spot for which he was making, however, my father
heard a rustling, nearer to the outskirts of the wood, and the same moment
Wagtail turned, and tugged fiercely in that direction. The figure of a
woman rose up against the sky, and began to run for the open space beyond.
Wagtail and my father pursued at speed; my father crying out, that, if she
did not stop, he would loose the dog on her. She paid no heed, but ran on.
"Mount and head her, Sim. Mount, Burton. Ride over every thing," cried my
father, as he slipped Wagtail, who shot through the underwood like a bird,
just as she reached the trench, and in an instant had her by the gown. My
father saw something gleam in the moonlight, and again a howl broke from
Wagtail, who was evidently once more wounded. But he held on. And now the
horsemen, having crossed the trench, were approaching her in front, and my
father was hard upon her behind. She gave a peculiar cry, half a shriek,
and half a howl, clasped the child to her bosom, and stood rooted like a
tree, evidently in the hope that her friends, hearing her signal, would
come to her rescue. But it was too late. My father rushed upon her the
instant she cried out. The dog was holding her by the poor ragged skirt,
and the horses were reined snorting on the bank above her. She heaved up
the child over her head, but whether in appeal to Heaven, or about to dash
her to the earth in the rage of frustration, she was not allowed time to
show; for my father caught both her uplifted arms with his, so that she
could not lower them, and Burton, having flung himself from his horse and
come behind her, easily took Theodora from them, for from their position
they were almost powerless. Then my father called off Wagtail; and the
poor creature sunk down in the bottom of the trench amongst the young firs
without a sound, and there lay. My father went up to her; but she only
stared at him with big blank black eyes, and yet such a lost look on her
young, handsome, yet gaunt face, as almost convinced him she was the mother
of the child. But, whatever might be her rights, she could not be allowed
to recover possession, without those who had saved and tended the child
having a word in the matter of her fate.
As he was thinking what he could say to her, Sim's voice reached his ear.
"They're coming over the brow, sir,--five or six from the camp. We'd better
be off."
"The child is safe," he said, as he turned to leave her.
"From _me_," she rejoined, in a pitiful tone; and this ambiguous utterance
was all that fell from her.
My father mounted hurriedly, took the child from Burton, and rode away,
followed by the two men and Wagtail. Through the green rides they galloped
in the moonlight, and were soon beyond all danger of pursuit. When they
slackened pace, my father instructed Sim to find out all he could about the
gypsies,--if possible to learn their names and to what tribe or community
they belonged. Sim promised to do what was in his power, but said he did
not expect much success.
The children had listened to the story wide awake. Wagtail was lying at my
father's feet, licking his wounds, which were not very serious, and had
stopped bleeding.
"It is all your doing, Wagtail," said Harry, patting the dog.
"I think he deserves to be called _Mr._ Wagtail," said Charley.
And from that day he was no more called bare Wagtail, but Mr. Wagtail, much
to the amusement of visitors, who, hearing the name gravely uttered, as it
soon came to be, saw the owner of it approach on all fours, with a tireless
pendulum in his rear.