ITS SEQUEL.
My darling was recovered neither through Miss Clare's injunctions nor Mr.
Blackstone's bell-ringing. A woman was walking steadily westward, carrying
the child asleep in her arms, when a policeman stopped her at Turnham
Green. She betrayed no fear, only annoyance, and offered no resistance,
only begged he would not wake the child, or take her from her. He brought
them in a cab to the police-station, whence the child was sent home. As
soon as she arrived, Sarah gave her a warm bath, and put her to bed; but
she scarcely opened her eyes.
Jemima had run about the streets till midnight, and then fallen asleep on
the doorstep, where the policeman found her when he brought the child.
For a week she went about like one dazed; and the blunders she made were
marvellous. She ordered a brace of cod from the poulterer, and a pound of
anchovies at the crockery shop. One day at dinner, we could not think how
the chops were so pulpy, and we got so many bits of bone in our mouth: she
had powerfully beaten them, as if they had been steaks. She sent up melted
butter for bread-sauce, and stuffed a hare with sausages.
After breakfast, Percivale walked to the police-station, to thank the
inspector, pay what expenses had been incurred, and see the woman. I was
not well enough to go with him. My Marion is a white-faced thing, and her
eyes look much too big for her small face. I suggested that he should take
Miss Clare. As it was early, he was fortunate enough to find her at home,
and she accompanied him willingly, and at once recognized the woman as the
one she had befriended.
He told the magistrate he did not wish to punish her, but that there were
certain circumstances which made him desirous of detaining her until
a gentleman, who, he believed, could identify her, should arrive. The
magistrate therefore remanded her.
The next day but one my father came. When he saw her, he had little doubt
she was the same that had carried off Theo; but he could not be absolutely
certain, because he had seen her only by moonlight. He told the magistrate
the whole story, saying, that, if she should prove the mother of the
child, he was most anxious to try what he could do for her. The magistrate
expressed grave doubts whether he would find it possible to befriend her
to any effectual degree. My father said he would try, if he could but be
certain she was the mother.
"If she stole the child merely to compel the restitution of her own," he
said. "I cannot regard her conduct with any abhorrence. But, if she is not
the mother of the child, I must leave her to the severity of the law."
"I once discharged a woman," said the magistrate, "who had committed the
same offence, for I was satisfied she had done so purely from the desire to
possess the child."
"But might not a thief say he was influenced merely by the desire to add
another sovereign to his hoard?"
"The greed of the one is a natural affection; that of the other a vice."
"But the injury to the loser is far greater in the one case than in the
other."
"To set that off, however, the child is more easily discovered. Besides,
the false appetite grows with indulgence; whereas one child would still the
natural one."
"Then you would allow her to go on stealing child after child, until she
succeeded in keeping one," said my father, laughing.
"I dismissed her with the warning, that, if ever she did so again, this
would be brought up against her, and she would have the severest punishment
the law could inflict. It may be right to pass a first offence, and wrong
to pass a second. I tried to make her measure the injury done to the
mother, by her own sorrow at losing the child; and I think not without
effect. At all events, it was some years ago, and I have not heard of her
again."
Now came in the benefit of the kindness Miss Clare had shown the woman. I
doubt if any one else could have got the truth from her. Even she found it
difficult; for to tell her that if she was Theo's mother she should not
be punished, might be only to tempt her to lie. All Miss Clare could do
was to assure her of the kindness of every one concerned, and to urge her
to disclose her reasons for doing such a grievous wrong as steal another
woman's child.
"They stole my child," she blurted out at last, when the cruelty of the
action was pressed upon her.
"Oh, no!" said Miss Clare: "you left her to die in the cold."
"No, no!" she cried. "I wanted somebody to hear her, and take her in. I
wasn't far off, and was just going to take her again, when I saw a light,
and heard them searching for her. Oh, dear! Oh, dear!"
"Then how can you say they stole her? You would have had no child at all,
but for them. She was nearly dead when they found her. And in return you go
and steal their grandchild!"
"They took her from me afterwards. They wouldn't let me have my own flesh
and blood. I wanted to let them know what it was to have _their_ child
taken from them."
"How could they tell she was your child, when you stole her away like a
thief? It might, for any thing they knew, be some other woman stealing her,
as you stole theirs the other day? What would have become of you if it had
been so?"
To this reasoning she made no answer.
"I want my child; I want my child," she moaned. Then breaking out--"I shall
kill myself if I don't get my child!" she cried. "Oh, lady, you don't know
what it is to have a child and not have her! I shall kill myself if they
don't give me her back. They can't say I did their child any harm. I was as
good to her as if she had been my own."
"They know that quite well, and don't want to punish you. Would you like to
see your child?"
She clasped her hands above her head, fell on her knees at Miss Clare's
feet, and looked up in her face without uttering a word.
"I will speak to Mr. Walton," said Miss Clare; and left her.
The next morning she was discharged, at the request of my husband, who
brought her home with him.
Sympathy with the mother-passion in her bosom had melted away all my
resentment. She was a fine young woman, of about five and twenty, though
her weather-browned complexion made her look at first much older. With the
help of the servants, I persuaded her to have a bath, during which they
removed her clothes, and substituted others. She objected to putting them
on; seemed half-frightened at them, as if they might involve some shape of
bondage, and begged to have her own again. At last Jemima, who, although so
sparingly provided with brains, is not without genius, prevailed upon her,
insisting that her little girl would turn away from her if she wasn't well
dressed, for she had been used to see ladies about her. With a deep sigh,
she yielded; begging, however, to have her old garments restored to her.
She had brought with her a small bundle, tied up in a cotton handkerchief;
and from it she now took a scarf of red silk, and twisted it up with her
black hair in a fashion I had never seen before. In this head-dress she
had almost a brilliant look; while her carriage had a certain dignity
hard of association with poverty--not inconsistent, however, with what
I have since learned about the gypsies. My husband admired her even more
than I did, and made a very good sketch of her. Her eyes were large and
dark--unquestionably fine; and if there was not much of the light of
thought in them, they had a certain wildness which in a measure made up for
the want. She had rather a Spanish than an Eastern look, I thought, with an
air of defiance that prevented me from feeling at ease with her; but in the
presence of Miss Clare she seemed humbler, and answered her questions more
readily than ours. If Ethel was in the room, her eyes would be constantly
wandering after her, with a wistful, troubled, eager look. Surely, the
mother-passion must have infinite relations and destinies.
As I was unable to leave home, my father persuaded Miss Clare to accompany
him and help him to take charge of her. I confess it was a relief to me
when she left the house; for though I wanted to be as kind to her as I
could, I felt considerable discomfort in her presence.
When Miss Clare returned, the next day but one, I found she had got from
her the main points of her history, fully justifying previous conjectures
of my father's, founded on what he knew of the character and customs of the
gypsies.
She belonged to one of the principal gypsy families in this country. The
fact that they had no settled habitation, but lived in tents, like Abraham
and Isaac, had nothing to do with poverty. The silver buttons on her
father's coat, were, she said, worth nearly twenty pounds; and when a
friend of any distinction came to tea with them, they spread a table-cloth
of fine linen on the grass, and set out upon it the best of china, and a
tea-service of hall-marked silver. She said her friends--as much as any
gentleman in the land--scorned stealing; and affirmed that no real gypsy
would "risk his neck for his belly," except he were driven by hunger. All
her family could read, she said, and carried a big Bible about with them.
One summer they were encamped for several months in the neighborhood of
Edinburgh, making horn-spoons and baskets, and some of them working in tin.
There they were visited by a clergyman, who talked and read the Bible to
them, and prayed with them. But all their visitors were not of the same
sort with him. One of them was a young fellow of loose character, a clerk
in the city, who, attracted by her appearance, prevailed upon her to meet
him often. She was not then eighteen. Any aberration from the paths of
modesty is exceedingly rare among the gypsies, and regarded with severity;
and her father, hearing of this, gave her a terrible punishment with the
whip he used in driving his horses. In terror of what would follow when the
worst came to be known, she ran away; and, soon forsaken by her so-called
lover, wandered about, a common vagrant, until her baby was born--under the
stars, on a summer night, in a field of long grass.
For some time she wandered up and down, longing to join some tribe of her
own people, but dreading unspeakably the disgrace of her motherhood. At
length, having found a home for her child, she associated herself with a
gang of gypsies of inferior character, amongst whom she had many hardships
to endure. Things, however, bettered a little after one of their number
was hanged for stabbing a cousin, and her position improved. It was not,
however, any intention of carrying off her child to share her present lot,
but the urgings of mere mother-hunger for a sight of her, that drove her
to the Hall. When she had succeeded in enticing her out of sight of the
house, however, the longing to possess her grew fierce; and braving all
consequences, or rather, I presume, unable to weigh them, she did carry her
away. Foiled in this attempt, and seeing that her chances of future success
in any similar one were diminished by it, she sought some other plan.
Learning that one of the family was married, and had removed to London,
she succeeded, through gypsy acquaintances who lodged occasionally near
Tottenham Court Road, in finding out where we lived, and carried off Ethel
with the vague intent, as we had rightly conjectured, of using her as a
means for the recovery of her own child.
Theodora was now about seven years of age--almost as wild as ever. Although
tolerably obedient, she was not nearly so much so as the other children had
been at her age; partly, perhaps, because my father could not bring himself
to use that severity to the child of other people with which he had judged
it proper to treat his own.
Miss Clare was present, with my father and the rest of the family, when the
mother and daughter met. They were all more than curious to see how the
child would behave, and whether there would be any signs of an instinct
that drew her to her parent. In this, however, they were disappointed.
It was a fine warm forenoon when she came running on to the lawn where they
were assembled,--the gypsy mother with them.
"There she is!" said my father to the woman. "Make the best of yourself you
can."
Miss Clare said the poor creature turned very pale, but her eyes glowed
with such a fire!
With the cunning of her race, she knew better than bound forward and catch
up the child in her arms. She walked away from the rest, and stood watching
the little damsel, romping merrily with Mr. Wagtail. They thought she
recognized the dog, and was afraid of him. She had put on a few silver
ornaments which she had either kept or managed to procure, notwithstanding
her poverty; for both the men and women of her race manifest in a strong
degree that love for barbaric adornment which, as well as their other
peculiarities, points to an Eastern origin. The glittering of these in
the sun, and the glow of her red scarf in her dark hair, along with
the strangeness of her whole appearance, attracted the child, and she
approached to look at her nearer. Then the mother took from her pocket a
large gilded ball, which had probably been one of the ornaments on the top
of a clock, and rolled it gleaming golden along the grass. Theo and Mr.
Wagtail bounded after it with a shriek and a bark. Having examined it for a
moment, the child threw it again along the lawn; and this time the mother,
lithe as a leopard and fleet as a savage, joined in the chase, caught it
first, and again sent it spinning away, farther from the assembled group.
Once more all three followed in swift pursuit; but this time the mother
took care to allow the child to seize the treasure. After the sport had
continued a little while, what seemed a general consultation, of mother,
child, and dog, took place over the bauble; and presently they saw that
Theo was eating something.
"I trust," said my mother, "she won't hurt the child with any nasty stuff."
"She will not do so wittingly," said my father, "you may be sure. Anyhow,
we must not interfere."
In a few minutes more the mother approached them with a subdued look of
triumph, and her eyes overflowing with light, carrying the child in her
arms. Theo was playing with some foreign coins which adorned her hair, and
with a string of coral and silver beads round her neck.
For the rest of the day they were left to do much as they pleased; only
every one kept good watch.
But in the joy of recovering her child, the mother seemed herself to have
gained a new and childlike spirit. The more than willingness with which she
hastened to do what, even in respect of her child, was requested of her, as
if she fully acknowledged the right of authority in those who had been her
best friends, was charming. Whether this would last when the novelty of the
new experience had worn off, whether jealousy would not then come in for
its share in the ordering of her conduct, remained to be shown; but in the
mean time the good in her was uppermost.
She was allowed to spend a whole fortnight in making friends with her
daughter, before a word was spoken about the future; the design of my
father being through the child to win the mother. Certain people considered
him not eager enough to convert the wicked: whatever apparent indifference
he showed in that direction arose from his utter belief in the guiding
of God, and his dread of outrunning his designs. He would _follow_ the
operations of the Spirit.
"Your forced hot-house fruits," he would say, "are often finer to look at
than those which have waited for God's wind and weather; but what are they
worth in respect of all for the sake of which fruit exists?"
Until an opportunity, then, was thrown in his way, he would hold back; but
when it was clear to him that he had to minister, then was he thoughtful,
watchful, instant, unswerving. You might have seen him during this time,
as the letters of Connie informed me, often standing for minutes together
watching the mother and daughter, and pondering in his heart concerning
them.
Every advantage being thus afforded her, not without the stirring of some
natural pangs in those who had hitherto mothered the child, the fortnight
had not passed, before, to all appearance, the unknown mother was with the
child the greatest favorite of all. And it was my father's expectation, for
he was a profound believer in blood, that the natural and generic instincts
of the child would be developed together; in other words, that as she grew
in what was common to humanity, she would grow likewise in what belonged to
her individual origin. This was not an altogether comforting expectation to
those of us who neither had so much faith as he, nor saw so hopefully the
good that lay in every evil.
One twilight, he overheard the following talk between them. When they came
near where he sat, Theodora, carried by her mother, and pulling at her neck
with her arms, was saying, "Tell me; tell me; tell me," in the tone of one
who would compel an answer to a question repeatedly asked in vain.
"What do you want me to tell you?" said her mother. "You know well enough.
Tell me your name."
In reply, she uttered a few words my father did not comprehend, and took to
be Zingaree. The child shook her petulantly and with violence, crying,--
"That's nonsense. I don't know what you say, and I don't know what to call
you."
My father had desired the household, if possible, to give no name to the
woman in the child's hearing.
"Call me mam, if you like."
"But you're not a lady, and I won't say ma'am to you," said Theo, rude as a
child will sometimes be when least she intends offence.
Her mother set her down, and gave a deep sigh. Was it only that the child's
restlessness and roughness tired her? My father thought otherwise.
"Tell me; tell me," the child persisted, beating her with her little
clenched fist. "Take me up again, and tell me, or I will make you."
My father thought it time to interfere. He stepped forward. The mother
started with a little cry, and caught up the child.
"Theo," said my father, "I cannot allow you to be rude, especially to one
who loves you more than any one else loves you."
The woman set her down again, dropped on her knees, and caught and kissed
his hand.
The child stared; but she stood in awe of my father,--perhaps the more that
she had none for any one else,--and, when her mother lifted her once more,
was carried away in silence.
The difficulty was got over by the child's being told to call her mother
_Nurse_.
My father was now sufficiently satisfied with immediate results to carry
out the remainder of his contingent plan, of which my mother heartily
approved. The gardener and his wife being elderly people, and having no
family, therefore not requiring the whole of their cottage, which was
within a short distance of the house, could spare a room, which my mother
got arranged for the gypsy; and there she was housed, with free access to
her child, and the understanding that when Theo liked to sleep with her,
she was at liberty to do so.
She was always ready to make herself useful; but it was little she could
do for some time, and it was with difficulty that she settled to any
occupation at all continuous.
Before long it became evident that her old habits were working in her and
making her restless. She was pining after the liberty of her old wandering
life, with sun and wind, space and change, all about her. It was spring;
and the reviving life of nature was rousing in her the longing for motion
and room and variety engendered by the roving centuries which had passed
since first her ancestors were driven from their homes in far Hindostan.
But my father had foreseen the probability, and had already thought over
what could be done for her if the wandering passion should revive too
powerfully. He reasoned that there was nothing bad in such an impulse,--one
doubtless, which would have been felt in all its force by Abraham himself,
had he quitted his tents and gone to dwell in a city,--however much its
indulgence might place her at a disadvantage in the midst of a settled
social order. He saw, too, that any attempt to coerce it would probably
result in entire frustration; that the passion for old forms of freedom
would gather tenfold vigor in consequence. It would be far better to favor
its indulgence, in the hope that the love of her child would, like an
elastic but infrangible cord, gradually tame her down to a more settled
life.
He proposed, therefore, that she should, as a matter of duty, go and visit
her parents, and let them know of her welfare. She looked alarmed.
"Your father will show you no unkindness, I am certain, after the lapse of
so many years," he added. "Think it over, and tell me to-morrow how you
feel about it. You shall go by train to Edinburgh, and once there you will
soon be able to find them. Of course you couldn't take the child with you;
but she will be safe with us till you come back."
The result was that she went; and having found her people, and spent a
fortnight with them, returned in less than a month. The rest of the year
she remained quietly at home, stilling her desires by frequent and long
rambles with her child, in which Mr. Wagtail always accompanied them. My
father thought it better to run the risk of her escaping, than force the
thought of it upon her by appearing not to trust her. But it came out that
she had a suspicion that the dog was there to prevent, or at least expose,
any such imprudence. The following spring she went on a second visit to her
friends, but was back within a week, and the next year did not go at all.
Meantime my father did what he could to teach her, presenting every truth
as something it was necessary she should teach her child. With this duty,
he said, he always baited the hook with which he fished for her; "or, to
take a figure from the old hawking days, her eyas is the lure with which I
would reclaim the haggard hawk."
What will be the final result, who dares prophesy? At my old home she
still resides; grateful, and in some measure useful, idolizing, but not
altogether spoiling her child, who understands the relation between them,
and now calls her mother.
Dora teaches Theo, and the mother comes in for what share she inclines
to appropriate. She does not take much to reading, but she is fond of
listening; and is a regular and devout attendant at public worship. Above
all, they have sufficing proof that her conscience is awake, and that she
gives some heed to what it says.
Mr. Blackstone was right when he told me that good I was unable to foresee
would result from the loss which then drowned me in despair.