"My! What a pretty pair of clogs baby's gotten!"
The street was narrow and very steep, and paved with round stones; on
each side of it were slate-coloured houses, some high, some low; and in
the middle of it stood baby, her curly yellow head bare, and her blue
cotton frock lifted high with both fat hands. She could not speak, but
she wanted to show that on her feet were tiny new clogs with bright
brass tips.
She stopped in front of all her acquaintances, men, women, children, and
even dogs. Each of them, except the last, made much the same remark,
and she then toddled cheerfully on, until nearly everyone in the village
of Haworth knew of this wonderful new thing.
The baby's mother lived in Haworth, but all day long she had to work in
the town of Keighley down below in the valley, for she was a
factory-girl. From the hillside you could see the thick veil of smoke,
never lifted, which hung over the tall chimneys and grey houses; the
people there very seldom saw the sky clear and blue, but up at Haworth
the wind blew freshly off the wide moor just above, and there was
nothing to keep away the sunshine. This was the reason that Maggie
Menzies still lived there, after she had taken to working in the
factory; it was a long walk to and from Keighley, but it was healthier
for the "li'le lass" to sleep in the fresh air. Everything in Maggie's
life turned upon that one small object; the "li'le lass" was her one
treasure, her one golden bit of happiness, the reason why she cared to
see the sun shine, or to eat, or drink, or rest, or to be alive at all.
Except for the child she was alone in the world, for her husband had
been killed in an accident two years ago, when the baby was only a month
old. Since then she had been Maggie's one thought and care; no one who
has not at some time in their lives spent all their affection on a
single thing or person can at all understand what she felt, or how
strong her love was. It made all her troubles and hardships easy merely
to think of the child; just to call to mind the dimples, and yellow
hair, and fat hands, was enough to make her deaf to the whirr and rattle
of the restless machinery, and the harsh tones of the overseer. When
she began her work in the morning she said to herself, "I shall see her
in the evening;" and when it was unusually tiresome during the day, and
things went very wrong, she could be patient and even cheerful when she
remembered "it's fur _her_." The factory-girls with boisterous
good-nature had tried to make her sociable when she first came; they
invited her to stroll with them by the river in the summer evenings, to
stand and gossip with them at the street corners, to join in their
parties of pleasure on Sundays. But they soon found it was of no use;
Maggie's one idea, when work was over, was to throw her little checked
shawl over her head, and turn her steps quickly towards a certain house
in a narrow alley near the factory, for there, under the care of a
neighbour, she left her child during the day.
It would have been much better, everyone told her, to leave her up at
Haworth instead of bringing her into the smoky town; Maggie knew it, but
her answer was always the same to this advice:
"I couldn't bring myself to it," she said. "I niver could git through
the work if I didn't know she was near me."
So winter and summer, through the damp cold or the burning heat, she
might be seen coming quickly down the steep hill from Haworth every
morning clack, clack, in her wooden shoes, with her child in her arms.
In the evening her pace was slower, for she was tired, and the road was
hard to climb, and the child, generally asleep, weighed heavily. For
the baby was getting beyond a baby now; she was nearly two years old.
How pretty she was, how clever, what dear little knowing ways she had,
what tiny feet and hands! How yellow her hair was, how white her skin!
She was unlike any child in Haworth; she was matchless!
And indeed, quite apart from her mother's fond admiration, the baby was
a beautiful child, delicately formed, and very different from the
blunt-featured children of those parts; she was petted by everyone in
the village, and had in consequence such proud, imperious little ways
that she was a sort of small queen there; the biggest and roughest man
among them was her humble subject, and ready to do her bidding when she
wished to be tossed in the air or to ride pickaback. She could say very
few words yet, but nothing could exceed her brightness and
intelligence--a wonderful baby indeed!
She had been christened Betty; but the name was almost forgotten in all
sorts of loving nicknames, and lately the people of Haworth had given
her a new one, which she got in the following manner:--
Nearly at the bottom of the steep village street there was a cobbler's
stall which Maggie passed every day in her journeys to and from
Keighley. It was open to the road, and in it hung rows and rows of
clogs of all sizes--some of them big enough to fit a man, and some for
children, quite tiny. They all had wooden soles, and toes slightly
turned-up tipped with gleaming brass, and a brass buckle on the instep;
nearly all the people in Haworth and all the factory-girls in Keighley
wore such shoes, but they were always called "clogs." Inside the stall
sat an old man with twinkling blue eyes, and a stumpy turned-up nose: he
sat and cobbled and mended, and made new clogs out of the old ones which
lay in great heaps all round him. Over his stall was the name "T Monk,"
but in the village he was always known as Tommie; and though he was a
silent and somewhat surly character, Tommie's opinion and advice were
often asked, and much valued when given. Maggie regarded him with
admiration and respect. When she passed with her child in her arms he
always looked up and nodded, though he seldom gave any other answer to
her "Good-day, Master Monk." Tommie never wasted his words: "Little
words mak' bonnie do's," he was accustomed to say.
But one evening the sun happened to shine on the row of brass-tipped
clogs, and made them glisten brightly just as Maggie went by. It caught
the baby's attention, and she held out her arms to them and gave a
little coo of pleasure.
"T'little lass is wantin' clogs, I reckon," said Tommie with a grim
smile.
Maggie held out the baby's tiny foot with a laugh of pride.
"Here's a foot for a pair of clogs, Master Monk," she said; "t'wouldn't
waste much leather to fashion 'em."
Tommie said nothing more, but a week afterwards he beckoned to Maggie
with an important air as she went by.
"You come here," he said briefly.
Maggie went into the stall, and he reached down from a nail a pair of
tiny, neatly finished clogs. They had jaunty brass-bound toes, and a
row of brass nails all round where the leather joined the wooden sole,
and on the instep there gleamed a pair of smart brass clasps with a
pattern chased on them.
"Fur her," said Tommie as he gave them to Maggie. As he did so the baby
stretched out her hands to the bright clasps.
"See!" exclaimed the delighted Maggie; "she likes 'em ever so. Oh,
Master Monk, how good of yo'!"
"Them clasps _is_ oncommon," said Tommie, regarding his work
thoughtfully, his blue eyes twinkling with satisfaction, "I cam' at 'em
by chance like."
Maggie had now taken off her baby's shoe, and fitted the clog on to the
soft little foot.
"Ain't they bonnie?" she said.
The baby leaned forward and, seizing one toe in each hand, rocked
herself gently to and fro.
Tommie looked on approvingly.
"Yo'll find 'em wear well," he said; "they're the best o' leather and
the best o' workmanship."
After six months more were gone the baby began to walk, and you might
hear a sharp little clatter on the pavement, like the sound of some
small iron-shod animal. Tommie heard it one morning just as it was
Maggie's usual time to pass, and looked out of his stall. There was
Maggie coming down the road with a proud smile on her face, and the baby
was there too. But not in her mother's arms. No, she was erect on her
own small feet, tottering along in the new wooden clogs.
"My word!" exclaimed Tommie, his nose wrinkling with gratification;
"we'll have to call her Little Clogs noo."
It was in this way that Maggie's child became known in the village as
"Little Clogs." Not that it was any distinction to wear clogs in
Haworth, everyone had them; but the baby's feet were so tiny, and she
was so eager to show her new possession, that the clogs were as much
noticed as though never before seen. When she stopped in front of some
acquaintance, lifted her frock with both hands, and gazed seriously
first at her own feet and then up in her friend's face, it was only
possible to exclaim in surprise and admiration:
"Eh! To be sure. What pretty, pretty clogs baby's gotten!"
It was the middle of summer. Baby was just two years old and a month,
and the clogs were still glossy and new, when one morning Maggie took
the child with her down to Keighley as usual. It was stiflingly hot
there, after the cool breeze which blew off the moor on the hillside;
the air was thick with smoke and dust, and, as Maggie turned into the
alley where she was to leave her child, she felt how close and stuffy it
was.
"'Tain't good for her here," she thought, with a sigh. "I reckon I must
mak' up my mind to leave her up yonder this hot weather."
But the baby did not seem to mind it. Maggie left her settled in the
open doorway talking cheerfully to one of her little clogs which she had
pulled off. This she filled with sand and emptied, over and over again,
chuckling with satisfaction as a stray sunbeam touched the brass clasps
and turned them into gold. In the distance she could hear the noise of
the town, and presently amongst them there came a new sound--the beating
of a drum. Baby liked music. She threw down the clog, lifted one
finger, and said "Pitty!" turning her head to look into the room. But
no one was there, for the woman of the house had gone into the back
kitchen. The noise continued, and seemed to draw baby towards it: she
got up on her feet, and staggered a little way down the alley, tottering
a good deal, for one foot had the stout little clog on it, and the other
nothing but a crumpled red sock. By degrees, however, after more than
one tumble, she got down to the end of the alley, and stood facing the
bustling street.
It was such a big, noisy world, with such a lot of people and horses and
carts in it, that she was frightened now, put out her arms, and screwed
up her face piteously, and cried, "Mammy, mammy!"
Just then a woman passed with a tambourine in her hand and a bright
coloured handkerchief over her head. She shook the tambourine and
smiled kindly at baby, showing very white teeth.
"Mammy, mammy!" said baby again, and began to sob.
"Don't cry, then, deary, and I'll take you to mammy," said the woman.
She looked quickly up the alley, no one in sight. No one in the crowded
street noticed her. She stooped, raised the child in her arms, wrapped
a shawl round her, and walked swiftly away. And that evening, when
Maggie came to fetch her little lass, she was not there; the only trace
of her was one small clog, half full of sand, on the door-step!
The woman with the tambourine hurried along, keeping the child's head
covered with her shawl, at her heels a dirty-white poodle followed
closely. The street was bustling and crowded, for it was past twelve
o'clock, and the workpeople were streaming out of the factories to go to
their dinners. If Maggie had passed the woman, she would surely have
felt that the bundle in her arms was her own little lass, even if she
had not seen one small clogged foot escaping from under the shawl. Baby
was quiet now, except for a short gasping sob now and then, for she
thought she was being taken to mammy.
On and on went the woman through the town, past the railway-station, and
at last reached a lonely country road; by that time, lulled by the
rapid, even movement and the darkness, baby had forgotten her troubles,
and was fast asleep. She slept almost without stirring for a whole
hour, and then, feeling the light on her eyes, she blinked her long
lashes, rubbed them with her fists, and stretched out her fat legs.
Next she looked up into mammy's face, as she thought, expecting the
smile which always waited for her there; but it was not mammy's face, or
anything like it. They were sharp black eyes which were looking down at
her, and instead of the familiar checked shawl, there was a bright
yellow handkerchief over the woman's head, and dangling ornaments in her
ears. Baby turned up her lip in disgust, and looked round for someone
she knew, but everything was strange to her. The woman, in whose lap
she was lying, sat in a small donkey-cart, with two brown children and
some bundles tightly packed in round her; a dark man walked by the side
of it, and a dirty-white poodle ran at his heels. Discovering this
state of things baby lost no time, but burst at once into loud wailing
sobs and cries of "Mammy, mammy; me want mammy."
She cried so long and so bitterly that the woman, who had tried at first
to soothe her by coaxing and petting, lost patience, and shook her
roughly.
"Be still, little torment," she said, "or I'll throw you into the pond."
They were the first angry words baby had ever heard, and the experience
was so new and surprising that she checked her sobs, staring up at the
woman with frightened tear-filled eyes. She soon began to cry again,
but it was with much less violence, only a little distressed whimper
which no one noticed. This went on all day, and by the evening, having
refused to touch food, she fell into an exhausted slumber, broken by
plaintive moans. It was now dark, and being some miles from Keighley,
the tramps thought it safe to stop for the night; they turned off the
main road, therefore, tethered the donkey in a grassy lane, and crept
into an old disused barn for shelter. The two children, boys of eight
or nine years old, curled themselves up in a corner, with Mossoo, the
poodle, tucked in between them, and all three covered with an old
horse-cloth. The gypsy and his wife sat talking in the entrance over a
small fire of dry wood they had lighted.
"You've bin a fool, Seraminta," said the man, looking down at the baby
as she lay flushed with sleep on the woman's lap, her cheeks still wet
with tears. "The child'll git us into trouble. That's no common child.
Anyone 'ud know it agen, and then where are we? In quod, sure as my
name's Perrin."
"You're the fool," replied the woman, looking at the man scornfully.
"Think I'm goin' to take her about with a lily-white skin like that? A
little walnut-juice'll make her as brown as Bennie yonder, so as her own
mother wouldn't know her."
"Well, what good is she to us anyhow?" continued the man sulkily. "Only
another mouth ter feed. 'Tain't wuth the risk."
"You hav'n't the sperrit of a chicken," replied the woman. "One 'ud
think you was born yesterday, not to know that anyone'll give a copper
to a pretty little kid like her. Once we git away down south, an' she
gives over fretting, I mean her to go round with the tambourine after
the dog dances in the towns. She'll more than earn her keep soon."
The man muttered and growled to himself for a short time, and said some
very ugly words, but presently, stretched on the ground near the fire,
he settled himself to sleep. The short summer night passed quickly
away, and nothing disturbed the sleepers; the owls and bats flitted in
and out of the barn, as was their custom, and, surprised to find it no
longer empty, flapped suddenly up among the rafters, and looked down at
the strangers by the dim light of the moon; at the two children huddled
in the corner, with Mossoo's tangled head between them; at the dark form
of Perrin, near the ashes of the fire; and at the fair child in
Seraminta's arms, sleeping quietly at last. Before the cock in the
farmyard near had answered a shrill friend in the distance more than
twice, the whole party, except the baby, was awake, the donkey
harnessed, and the journey continued.
Day after day passed in the same manner, and baby still cried for
"Mammy," but every day less and less, for the tramps were kind to her in
their rough way, and fortunately her memory was short, and soon ceased
to recall Maggie's loving care and caresses. So before she had led her
new life a week, she had found things to smile at again; sometimes
flowers which the freckled Bennie picked for her in the hedges,
sometimes the gay rattle of the tambourine, sometimes a ride on the
donkey's back; the poodle also, from having been an object of fear, had
now become a friend.
Mossoo was a dog who had known trouble. He well remembered the days
when he had had to learn to dance, and what it was to shrink from blows,
and to howl with pain and fear under punishment. Times were not so bad
for him now, because his education was over, but still he had to work
hard for his living. In every town they passed he must stiffen his long
thin back, raise himself on his small feet, and dance gravely to the
sound of the tambourine; if this happened at the end of a long day's
tramp, it was both difficult and painful, but he seldom failed, for he
knew the consequences--no supper and a beating.
Accordingly, until a certain sign was given, he kept one pink-rimmed eye
on his mistress's face, and revolved slowly round and round, with
drooping paws and an elegant curtsying movement, the centre of an
admiring ring. Sometimes, when the performance was over, and he carried
round a small tin plate for coppers, the spectators would drop off one
by one, and give him nothing; sometimes he got a good deal, and took it
to his mistress with joyful wags of his ragged tasselled tail. Now,
Mossoo had noticed the addition of baby to the accustomed party, and
also her passionate sobs and cries. She was in trouble, as he had often
been, and one day this trouble was even deeper than usual. They had
stopped to rest in a little wayside copse, and after the donkey was
unharnessed the man and the two boys had started off on a foraging
expedition, or, in other words, to see what they could beg or steal from
the farmyards and houses near. Mossoo was left behind. Crouched on the
ground, with his nose between his paws, he kept a watchful eye on
Seraminta, who was busying herself with the child. She was going to
make her "so as her own mother wouldn't know her." And first with a
piece of rag she smeared over her pretty white skin with some dark juice
out of a bottle; next she took off the little frock and underclothes
which Maggie had always kept so neatly, and put on her a frock and
petticoat of stiff striped stuff. Then she proceeded to remove the one
little clog, but this baby resented. She had been quiet till now, and
allowed her things to be changed without resistance, but this last
indignity was too much. She fought, and kicked, and cried, and pushed
at the woman with her tiny hands. Poor baby! They were far too small
and weak to be of any use. In no time the friendly little clog, with
its glistening clasp and bright toe, was gone, and in its place there
was an ugly broken-out boot which had once belonged to Bennie. Her work
done, Seraminta put the child on the ground and gave her a hard crust to
play with. Baby immediately threw it from her with all her strength,
cast herself flat on her face, and shrieked with anger and distress.
She was heartbroken to have the clog taken from her, and cried as
violently for it as she had done for mammy.
"You've got a fine temper of yer own, my young queen," said Seraminta,
looking down at the small sobbing form. She did not attempt to quiet
her, but turning away proceeded to arrange some bundles in the cart
which stood at a short distance.
Mossoo was not so indifferent; he had watched the whole affair, and if
he did not understand why the baby cried, at least he knew she was in
trouble. True he had not seen a stick used, but here was the same
result. He went and sat down near her, and wagged his tail to show he
sympathised, but as she was lying on her face she did not even know he
was there, and the sobs continued. Finding this, Mossoo sat for some
time with his tongue hanging out, uncertain how to proceed, but
presently noticing a little bit of bare fat neck he gave it a gentle
lick. Baby turned her head; there were two bright eyes with pink rims
close to her, and a ragged fringe of dirty-white hair, and a red tongue
lolling out; she was so startled at this that she screamed louder than
ever, and hid her face again. Unsuccessful, but full of zeal and
compassion, the poodle next bethought himself of finding her a stick or
a stone to throw for him; Bennie was never tired of playing this game
with him, and perhaps the baby might like it too. He ran sniffing about
with his nose to the ground, and presently caught sight of something
that glistened, lying in the grass near the cart. It was the little
clog. Quite unconscious of making a lucky hit, he took it in his mouth,
carried it to her, and placed it with gentle care close to her ear.
This time Mossoo had done the right thing, for when she saw what he had
brought, a watery little smile gleamed through baby's tears, her sobs
ceased, she sat up and seized the clog triumphantly. Waving it about in
her small uncertain hands, she hit the friendly poodle smartly on the
nose with it as he stood near; then leaning forward, grasped his
drooping moustache and pulled it, which hurt him still more; but he did
not cease to wag his tail with pleasure at his success.
From that day "Mossy," as she called the dog, was added to the number of
baby's friends--the other two were Bennie and the little clog. To this
last she confided, in language of her own, much that no one else
understood, and Seraminta did not again attempt to take it from her.
She was thankful that the child had something to soothe her in the
stormy fits of crying which came when she was offended or thwarted in
her will. At such times she would kick and struggle until her little
strength was exhausted, and at last drop off to sleep with the clog
cuddled up to her breast. Seraminta began to feel doubtful as to the
advantages of her theft, and Perrin, the gypsy man, swore at his wife
and reproached her in the strongest language for having brought the
child away.
"I tell you what, my gal," he said one day, "the proper place for that
child's the house, an' that's where she'll go soon as I git a chance.
She've the sperrit of a duchess an' as 'orty in her ways as a queen.
She'll never be no good to us in our line o' bizness, an' I'm not agoin'
to keep her."
They wrangled and quarrelled over the subject continually, for
Seraminta, partly from obstinacy, and partly because the child was so
handsome, wished to keep her, and teach her to perform with the poodle
in the streets. But all the while she had an inward feeling that Perrin
would outwit her, and get his own way. And this turned out to be the
case.
Travelling slowly but steadily along, sometimes stopping a day or so in
a large town, where Seraminta played the tambourine in the streets, and
Mossoo danced, they had now left the north far behind them. They were
bound for certain races near London, and long before they arrived there
Perrin had determined to get rid of the child whom he daily disliked
more; he would leave her in the workhouse, and the burden would be off
his hands. Baby's lucky star, however, was shining, and a better home
was waiting for her.
One evening after a long dusty journey they came to a tiny village in a
pleasant valley; Perrin had made up his mind to reach the town, two
miles further on, before they stopped for the night, but by this time
the whole party was so tired and jaded that he saw it would be
impossible to push on. The donkey-cart came slowly down the hill past
the vicarage, and the vicar's wife cutting roses in her garden stopped
her work to look at it. At Seraminta seated in the cart with her knees
almost as high as her nose, and her yellow handkerchief twisted round
her head; at the dark Perrin, striding along by the donkey's side; at
Mossoo, still adorned with his last dancing ribbon, but ragged and
shabby, and so very very tired that he limped along on three legs; at
the brown children among the bundles in the cart; and finally at baby.
There her eyes rested in admiration: "What a lovely little child!" she
said to herself. Baby was seated between the two boys, talking happily
to herself; her head was bare, and her bush of golden hair was all the
more striking from its contrast with her walnut-stained skin. It made a
spot like sunlight in the midst of its dusky surroundings.
"Austin! Austin!" called out the vicar's wife excitedly as the cart
moved slowly past. There was no answer for a moment, and she called
again, until Austin appeared in the porch. He was a middle-aged
grey-haired clergyman, with bulging blue eyes and stooping shoulders; in
his hand he held a large pink rose. "Look," said his wife, "do look
quickly at that beautiful child. Did you ever see such hair?" The
Reverend Austin Vallance looked.
"An ill-looking set, to be sure," he said. "I must tell Joe to leave
Brutus unchained to-night."
"But the child," said his wife, taking hold of his arm eagerly, "isn't
she wonderful? She's like an Italian child."
"We shall hear of hen-roosts robbed to-morrow," continued Austin,
pursuing his own train of thought.
"I feel perfectly convinced," said his wife leaning over the gate to
look after the gypsies, "that that little girl is not theirs--she's as
different as possible from the other children. How I should like to see
her again!"
"Well, my dear," said Austin, "for my part I decidedly hope you won't.
The sooner that fellow is several miles away from here, the better I
shall be pleased."
"She was a lovely little thing," repeated Mrs Vallance with a sigh.
"Well, well," said her husband; "I daresay. But here's something quite
as lovely. Just look at this Captain Christie. It's the best rose I've
seen yet. I don't believe Chelwood has a finer."
"Not one of the little Chelwoods was ever a quarter as pretty as that
gypsy child, even when they were babies," continued his wife gazing
absently at the rose, "and now they're getting quite plain."
She could not forget the beautiful child all that evening, though she
did not receive the least encouragement to talk of her from her husband.
Mr Vallance was not so fond of children as his wife, and did not
altogether regret that he had none of his own. His experience of them,
drawn from Squire Chelwood's family who lived a little further up the
valley, did not lead him to think that they added to the comfort of a
household. When they came to spend the day at the vicarage he usually
shut himself into his study, and issuing forth after they were gone, his
soul was vexed to find footmarks on his borders, his finest fruit
picked, and fragments of a meal left about on his smooth lawn. But Mrs
Vallance grudged them nothing, and if she could have found it in her
heart to envy anyone, it would have been Mrs Chelwood at the White
House, who had a nursery and school-room full of children.
On the morning after the gypsies had passed, the Reverend Austin
Vallance was out even earlier than usual in his garden. He was always
an early riser, for he liked time for a stroll before taking the service
in his little church. Just now his roses were in full perfection, and
the weather was remarkably fine, so that it was scarcely six o'clock
before he was out of doors. It was certainly a beautiful morning. By
and by it would be hot and sultry, only fit for a sensible man to sit
quietly in his study and doze a little, and make extracts for his next
sermon. Now, it was deliciously cool and fresh. The roses were
magnificent! What a pity that the blaze of the sun would soon dim their
glorious colours and scorch their dewy fragrance. It would be a good
plan to cut a few at once before they were spoilt by the heat. He took
his knife out of his pocket and hesitated where to begin, for he never
liked to cut his roses; but, remembering that Priscilla would insist on
having some indoors, he set to work on the tree nearest him, and
tenderly detached a full-blown Baroness Rothschild. He stood and looked
at it complacently.
"I don't believe," he said to himself, "that Chelwood, with all his
gardeners, will ever come up to my roses. There's nothing like personal
attention. Roses are like children--they want individual, personal
attention. And they pay for it. Children don't always do that."
At this very moment, and just as he was turning to another tree, a
little chuckling laugh fell on his ear. It was such a strange sound in
the stillness of the garden, and it seemed so close to him, that he
started violently and dropped his knife. Where did it come from? He
looked vaguely up in the sky, and down on the earth--there was nothing
living to be seen, not even a bird. "I must have been mistaken," he
thought, "but it's very odd; I never heard anything more clearly in my
life." He picked up his knife, and moved further along the turf walk, a
good deal disturbed and rather nervous. At the end of it there was a
rustic sort of shed, which had once been an arbour, but was now only
used for gardening tools, baskets, and rubbish: over the entrance hung a
mass of white climbing roses. Walking slowly towards this, and cutting
a rose or two on his way, Mr Vallance was soon again alarmed by the
same noise--a low laugh of satisfaction; this time it came so distinctly
from within the shed, that he quickened his pace at once and, holding
back the dangling branches, looked in with a half feeling of dread.
What he saw there so astonished him that he stood motionless for some
moments, as though struck by some sight of horror. On the floor was a
large wooden marketing basket, and in this, wrapped in an old shawl, lay
a little child of two years old. She had bright yellow hair, and a
brown skin, and in her fat hands she held a queer little shoe with brass
nails in it and brass clasps; she was making small murmuring sounds to
herself, and chuckling now and then in perfect contentment. Mr
Vallance stared at her in great perplexity; here was a puzzling thing!
Where did the child come from, and who had left it there? Whoever it
was must come and take it away at once. He would go and tell Priscilla
about it--she would know what to do. But just as he let the creepers
fall back over the entrance a tiny voice issued from the basket.
"Mossy," it said; "me want Mossy."
"Now, who on earth is Mossy?" thought the troubled vicar, and without
waiting to hear more he sped into the house and told his tale to.
Priscilla.
In a very short time Priscilla was on the spot, full of interest and
energy. She knelt beside the basket and looked at the child, who stared
back at her with solemn brown eyes.
"I suppose it's one of the village children," said her husband, standing
by.
"Village children, Austin!" repeated his wife looking round at him; "do
you really mean to say that you don't recognise the child?"
"Certainly not, my dear; I never saw it before to my knowledge."
"Why, _of course_ it's the gypsy child we saw yesterday. And now you
see I was right."
"What an awful thing!" exclaimed Mr Vallance. He sat down suddenly on
the handle of a wheel-barrow close by, in utter dejection. "Then
they've left it here on purpose!"
"Of course they have," said Mrs Vallance; "and you see I was right,
don't you?"
"I don't know what you mean," said the vicar getting up again, "by being
_right_. Everything's as wrong as it can be, I should say."
"I mean, that she doesn't belong to those gypsies. I was sure of it."
"Why not?" asked her husband helplessly.
"Because no mother would have given up a darling like this--she would
have died first."
Mrs Vallance had taken the child on her knee while she was speaking and
opened the old shawl: baby seemed to like her new position, she leaned
her curly head back, stretched out her limbs easily, and gazed gravely
up at the distracted vicar.
"Well," he said, "whoever she belongs to, there are only two courses to
be pursued, and the first is to try and find the people who left her
here. If we can't do that, there only remains--"
"What?" asked his wife looking anxiously up at him.
"There only remains--the workhouse, my dear Priscilla."
Priscilla pressed the child closer to her and stood upright facing him.
"Austin," she said, "I couldn't do it. You mustn't ask me to. I'll try
and find her mother. I'll put an advertisement in the paper; but I
won't send her to the workhouse. And _you_ couldn't either. You
couldn't give up a little helpless child when Heaven has laid it at your
very threshold."
Mr Vallance strode quickly up and down the garden path; he foresaw that
he would have to yield, and it made him very angry.
"Nonsense, my dear," he said testily; "people are much too fond of
talking about Heaven doing this and that. That ill-looking scamp of a
gypsy fellow hadn't much to do with Heaven, I fancy."
"Heaven chooses its own instruments," said Priscilla quietly; and Mr
Vallance made no answer, for he had said that very same thing in his
last sermon.
"I'll have those tramps looked after at any rate," he said, rousing
himself with sudden energy. "I'll send Joe one way, and drive the other
way myself in the pony-cart. They can't have got far yet."
He hurried out of the garden, and Mrs Vallance was left alone with her
prize. It was almost too good to be true. Already her mind was busy
with arrangements for the baby's comfort and making plans for her
future--the blue-room looking into the garden for the nursery, and the
blacksmith's eldest daughter for a nurse-maid, and some little white
frocks and pinafores made; and what should she be called? Some simple
name would do. Mary, perhaps. And then suddenly Mrs Vallance checked
herself.
"What a foolish woman I am!" she said. "Very likely those horrible
people will be found, and I shall have to give her up. But nothing
shall induce me to believe that she belongs to them."
She kissed the child, carried her into the house, and fed her with some
bread and milk, after which baby soon fell into a sound sleep. Mrs
Vallance laid her on the sofa, and sat near with her work, but she could
not settle at all quietly to it. Every moment she got up to look out of
the window, or to listen to some sound which might be Austin coming back
triumphant with news of the gypsies. But the day went on and nothing
happened. The vicarage was full of suppressed excitement, the maids
whispered softly together, and came creeping in at intervals to look at
the beautiful child, who still clasped the little clog in her hands.
"Yonder's a queer little shoe, mum," said the cook, "quite a cur'osity."
"I think it's a sort of toy," replied Mrs Vallance, for she had never
been to the north of England and had never seen a clog.
"Bless her pretty little 'art!" said the cook, and went away.
It was evening when Mr Vallance returned, hot, tired, and vexed in
spirit. His wife ran out to meet him at the gate, having first sent the
child upstairs.
"No trace whatever," he said in a dejected voice.
"Dear me!" exclaimed Priscilla, trying not to look too pleased, and just
then a casement-window above their heads was thrown open, a white-capped
head was thrust out, and an excited voice called out, "Ma'am! Ma'am!"
"Well, what?" said Mrs Vallance, looking up alarmed.
"It's all come off, mum--the brown colour has--and she's got a skin as
white as a lily."
Mrs Vallance cast a glance of triumph at her husband, but forebore to
say anything, in consideration of his depressed condition; then she
rushed hurriedly upstairs to see the new wonder.
And thus began baby's life in her third home, and she brought nothing of
her own to it except her one little clog.