eyes opened. She settled the shawl over her other shoulder, and the
bairns were soon on their way again. The dusty road beneath appeared
to stream monotonously between their feet, and so weary did they grow
that sometimes they seemed to be only standing still. Sometimes, on the
contrary, they appeared to be going forward with incredible speed. Vara
bore the aching of her carrying-arm till it became agony unspeakable,
and the weight of Gavin dragged on her very brain. Then, for a treat,
she would shift him to the other arm, and for a few minutes the keen
twingeing ache deadened to a dull ache, as the tired wrist and elbow
dropped to her side. But soon in the other arm the same stounding agony
began.
Still the children fared on, spurred forward by the fear of that which
was behind them. The thought and hope of their father had greatly died
out of Vara's mind, though not altogether. But the mighty instinct
of hiding from days and nights like those which had gone over her
head recently drove her restlessly forward. Yet she began sadly to
acknowledge that, though she might be able to stumble on a little
longer that night, little Hugh could not go much further. He began to
lag behind at every turn, and whenever they stopped a moment he fairly
dropped asleep on his feet, and his head fell flaccidly against her
side.
The bells of a little town on the slope of a hill were just striking
six and the mill-folk were streaming homeward, when the children
had their first great piece of luck. They were just by a stone
watering-trough at the curve of a long brae, when a smart light cart
with yellow wheels came past. It was driven by a young man, who sat,
looking very bright and happy, with his sweetheart beside him. As the
pair came slowly up the brae they had been talking about the children,
whom they could see dragging on before them weary-foot, sick with pain
and weariness.
Perhaps the young man's heart was touched. Or mayhap his sweetheart
asked him to give them a penny, and he wished to show his generosity.
But in either case certain it is that as he passed up the hill he
nodded brightly back to the children and threw them a coin. It rolled
on its edge to Vara's feet, who stooped and picked it up, solacing her
independent soul as the silver lay apparent in her hands by telling
herself that she had not asked for it. Her mother had found all her
savings the night before, and had emptied them into the hand of her
companion, out of the cup in which they had stood on the shelf which
served for the mantelpiece of the construction hut. So that but for
this happy young man's sixpence Vara and her charges were absolutely
penniless.
ADVENTURE XXXIII.
THE BABES IN THE HAYSTACK.
But even Hugh brightened at the sight of the silver, and when Vara
proposed to go back and buy something for them while he stayed with
Gavin and gathered him flowers to play with, the lad said determinedly,
"Hugh Boy come too!"
So they all went back to the village. They stood looking long and
wistfully into the shop-windows, for what to buy was so momentous a
question that it took them some time to decide. At last Vara made up
her mind to have twopence-worth of stale bread at a baker's. She was
served by the baker's wife, who, seeing the girl's weary look, gave
her a fourpenny loaf of yesterday's baking for her coppers, together
with some salt butter in a broad cabbage leaf into the bargain. Vara's
voice broke as she thanked the woman, who had many bairns of her own,
and knew the look of trouble in young eyes. Then at another shop Vara
bought a pennyworth of cheese, which (as she well knew) satisfies
hunger better than any other food. Then came a pennyworth of milk for
the baby, with which she filled his bottle, and gave what was over to
Hugh Boy, who drank it out of the shopkeeper's measure.
When the children came out, Vara took Hugh by the hand, and they
marched past the baker's without stopping. For the boy had set his
love upon a certain gingerbread lion with a pair of lack-lustre eyes
of currants, and as they passed the baker's shop he set up a whining
whimper to have it. But his sister marched him swiftly past before
the dews in his eyes had time to fall. The baker's wife had come to
the door to look after them, and seeing Hugh Boy's backward-dragging
look, she sent her little girl after them with the very gingerbread
lion of Hugh's dreams. Hugh Boy stood speechless, open-mouthed with
thankfulness. The little girl smiled at his surprise.
"We hae lots o' them at our house," she said, and hurried back to her
mother.
They mounted the hill once more and sat on the grassy bank by the side
of the watering-trough, into which a bright runlet of water fell, and
in which little stirring grains of sand dimpled and danced.
Never was anything sweeter than the flavour of yesterday's bread,
except the gingerbread lion, from which Hugh had already picked one
black currant eye, leaving a yellow pitted socket which leered at him
with horrid suggestiveness of stomach-ache. But hunger-ache was Hugh
Boy's sole enteric trouble, so that the suggestion was lost upon him.
The water of the hill spring, splashing into the stone trough, sounded
refreshing beyond expressing. The baby dreamed over his bottle, and lay
with his eyes fixed on the clear heavens above—from which, if all tales
be true, he had come to a world of whose kindness he had had so little
experience since his arrival.
For the first time that day Vara took a bite for herself and many a
draught of the dimpling springwater, whose untiring crystal rush into
the basin it was so pleasant to watch. Then Vara washed Hugh's feet and
her own in the overflow of the trough, just at the place where the burn
ran under the road. On Hugh Boy's feet was a painful pink flush, but no
blister appeared. On her own feet, however, there were two or three.
Vara was glad that Hugh was fit for his journey.
They started again, and, with the refreshment of the food and the
rest, they managed to make two or three miles further before the dark
fell. But soon it was evident that the three wanderers could go little
further that night. The babe's eyes were long closed with sleep, and
poor little Hugh could only keep awake and stagger on by constantly
rubbing his knuckles into the corners of his eyes.
They were now on a high wild moor, and there was no house within sight.
They still went onward, however, blindly and painfully. The roadsides
trailed past them black and indistinct till they came to a farmhouse.
They could see tall buildings against the skies and hear the lash of an
unseen mill-stream over a wheel into a pool. A blackcap sang sweetly
down in some reeds by the mill-dam.
Vara did not dare to knock at the door of the house. She was just about
to go into the farmyard in search of a shed to lie down in, when she
remembered that she had heard from Cleg how there were always fierce
dogs about every farmhouse. For Hugh's sake she could not risk it.
Instead of going forward, therefore, she groped her way with one hand
into a field where there were many stacks of hay and corn. Vara could
tell by the rustling as her hand passed over them. Soon she came to a
great stack in a kind of covered shed, which stood between wooden posts
like trees. One end of it was broken down and cut into platforms. Vara
mounted upon one with the baby, and reached down a hand for Boy Hugh.
For the last few miles, indeed ever since it grew dark, Hugh had been
more than half asleep, and his weariful sobbing had worn down to a
little clicking catch in his throat, which still recurred at intervals.
It was by the sound that Vara found him. She leaned over as far as she
dared, and drew him up beside her. He was asleep in her arms before she
could lay him down.
Vara thought the people of the farm would not be very angry in the
morning if she pulled out a little of the hay.
"It is for the baby's sake!" she said, to excuse herself.
So she scooped out of the higher step of the stack where it was
broadest a little cave among the hay, and into this she thrust Boy Hugh
gently, putting his legs in first and leaving only his head without.
Then she rolled the babe and herself in the shawl and crawled in beside
him. She drew the hay close like a coverlet about them. She listened
awhile to Hugh Boy's breathing, which still had the catch of bygone
tears in it. She kissed Gavin, closed her eyes, and instantly fell
asleep herself. Vara said no prayers. But the incense of good deeds and
sweetest essential service went up to God from that haystack.
ADVENTURE XXXIV.
THAT OF MARY BELL, BYRE LASS.
The morning came all too soon, with a crowing of cocks and the clashing
hurrahs of the rooks, circling up from their nesting in the tall trees.
But the tired children slept on. The life of the farm began about them,
with its cheerful sounds of clinking head-chains as the cattle came
in, and of tinkling harness as the teams went afield. But still the
children did not wake. It was not till Mary Bell, byre lass, came to
get an armful of fodder from the stack that they were found.
"Lord, preserve us! what's that?" she cried when, with her knees upon
the step of the stack, she saw the children—Vara's wearied face turned
to the babe, and the dew damp on the white cheeks of Boy Hugh.
"I maun fetch the mistress!" said Mary Bell.
And then these two women stood and marvelled at the children.
"Mary," said the mistress of the farm, "d'ye mind the text last
Sabbath?"
Mary Bell looked indignantly at her employer.
"How do ye think I can mind texts wi' as mony calves to feed?" she
asked, like one of whom an unfair advantage is taken.
"O Mary!" said her mistress, "how often hae I telled you no to set your
mind on the vainities o' this wicked world?"
"An' whatna ane do ye pay me for?—to keep mind o' texts or to feed the
calves?" asked the byre lass, pertinently.
"Mary," said the other, ignoring the argument, "the text was this: 'I
will both lay me down and sleep'—dod, but I declare I forget the rest
o't," she concluded, breaking down with some ignominy.
"In the land o' the leal," suggested Mary Bell, either wickedly or with
a real desire to help. Her superior promptly accepted the emendation.
"That's it!" she said. "Is it no bonny to look at thae bairns and mind
the text, 'I will both lay me down and sleep, in the land o' the leal'?"
"I'll wauken them," said practical Mary Bell, "and bring them into the
hoose for some breakfast."
"Na, na," said her mistress, "ye maunna do that. What wad the guidman
say? Ye ken he canna be doin' wi' folk that gang the country. A wee
drap o' yestreen's milk noo—or the scrapins o' the parritch pot!"
"Aye," said Mary Bell, "'in the land o' the leal.' Ye had better gang
ben and look up the text, mistress; I'll attend to the bairns."
"Aye, do that," said the good wife, with perfect unconsciousness of
Mary Bell's sarcasm, "but be sparin'. Mind ye, this is hard times for
farm folk! And we canna spend gear and graith recklessly on unkenned
bairns."
"Ye will be free o' that crime, mistress," murmured Mary, as her
mistress took her way into the house; "gin ye could tak' a' that ye hae
saved wi' ye, what a bien and comfortable doon-sitting wad ye no hae in
heeven! Itherwise, I'm nane sae sure—in spite o' your texts."
Then Mary sat down and took the children one by one, touching their
faces to make them waken. Vara sat up suddenly, with wild eyes and a
cry of fear. In her terror she clasped the baby so hard that it waked
and cried. With the other hand she brushed away the elf locks about
her own eyes. But her heart stilled its fluttering as she caught the
kindly eyes of Mary Bell, set in a brown sun-coarsened face of broad
good humour.
"O," said Vara, "I thought ye were my mother!"
And Mary Bell, who, though a byre lass and daughter of toil, was born
with the gentle heart of courtesy within her, refrained from asking why
this wandering girl should be so greatly afraid of her own mother.
"Are you hungry?" she said, instead.
And little Boy Hugh awoke, rolled out of the hay, and shook himself
like a young puppy. He stretched his arms wide, clasping and unclasping
his fingers.
"I'm _that_ hungry!" he said, as if he had heard Mary Bell's words in a
dream.
"That's answer enough!" said the byre lass. "Certes, ye are a bonny
laddie; come here to me."
And Mary Bell, who was born to love children and to bear them, snatched
him up and kissed him warmly and roughly. But Hugh wriggled out of her
arms, and as soon as he found himself on the ground he wiped his mouth
deliberately and ungratefully with the back of his hand.
"Hae ye ony pieces and milk for wee boys?" he said.
The byre lass laughed.
"Ye like pieces and milk better than kisses," said she. "Hoo does that
come?"
"Pieces and milk are better for ye!" said Boy Hugh, stating an
undeniable truth.
"It's a peety," said Mary Bell, sententiously, "that we dinna aye ken
what's guid for us." And she was thoughtful for some moments. "Come
awa', bairns," she said, taking Gavin from Vara, and carrying him
herself into a milk house, which was filled with a pleasant smell of
curds and cheese.
Hugh Boy went wandering about, wondering at the great tin basins
filled with milk to the brim, some fresh and white, and some covered
smoothly with a thick yellow coating of cream.
"I never thocht there was as muckle milk in the world!" said Boy Hugh.
So here the children ate and drank, and were refreshed. And as she set
before them each new dainty—farles of cake, thick new scones, milk with
the cream still generously stirred amongst it, fresh new milk yet warm
from the cow for Gavin, Mary Bell said: "This is better than mindin'
a text! Sirce me, heard ye ever the like o' it—'To the land o' the
leal'?' An' she took it a' in. She reads a' the Bible ever she reads
between her sleeps in the kirk, I'se warrant. Wait till I see Jamie
Mailsetter; I'll hae a rare bar to tell him!"
It was an hour after, much comforted and refreshed, with a back load
of provisions and one of Mary Bell's hardly-earned shillings, that the
wanderers set out. They continued to wave her their farewells till they
were far down the loaning.
And they might well be sorry, for there were not many people so kind
and strong-hearted as Mary Bell to be met with between the Town of
Pilgrimage and the City of the Twelve Foundations. And some of these
are rough-handed and weather-beaten men and women, who work out their
Christianity in feeding calves and bairns instead of parading texts,
keeping the word of God in their hearts according to the commandment.
ADVENTURE XXXV.
THE KNIGHT IN THE SOFT HAT.
And so their second day was a good day, as most days are that are well
begun with a good breakfast. For, together with a good conscience, that
makes all the difference. And especially when you are Hugh Boy's age,
for then even the conscience does not so much matter.
Hugh Boy had never been in the country before, and, being a lad of
much observation, he had to watch all that there was there. And there
were many things for Hugh Boy to see that day. Robin redbreasts peeped
with their summer shyness upon them from the low bushes on the banks.
Sparrows pecked among flower patches, instead of at the mud in the
streets, as Hugh Boy had always seen them do before. There was a big
bird which floated above the farmyard of one of the farms they passed.
Hugh wondered what sort of bird it could be. He heard a motherly hen,
which had been scraping and clucking among the dust when they came
round the corner, suddenly give a strange screech, just like that which
Vara had given the other night when the "awfu' woman" came to their
door. He saw the hen droop her wings and crouch in the dust, keeping
her beak up in the air, her timid eyes glittering with anger.
Hugh Boy questioned Vara, but Vara had the baby to attend to, and
answered that it was just a bird. But soon the big shadow on the sky
with the outstretched wings floated away, and the hen went back to its
contented picking. The children also went along the wayside to-day with
many more rests and lingerings. For they had no longer the instant spur
of pursuit driving them on.
They stopped to take their meal by a little bridge, under which a
moorland burn ran bickering down to join a big river which flowed to
the distant sea.
They sat down in the dark of the arch, and Vara had spread out all
the provision which her kind friend, Mary Bell, had given her before
she saw that at the other end a young man was sitting close in by the
wall. At sight of him Vara started, and would have put her bread and
milk back again. But the man cried over to her, "Not so fast, my pretty
dears; there's another hungry stomach here."
"You are welcome to a share o' what we have," said Vara, who had been
too often hungry herself not to know the pain it meant.
The youth came and sat down by them. He was a lean and
unwholesome-looking vagrant. The whites of his eyes had turned an
unpleasant lead colour, while the pupils were orange-coloured, like the
stripes on a tiger's skin.
Vara gave him one of the largest of Mary Bell's scones, and some of the
butter they had got from the baker's wife the day before. The young man
ate these up greedily, and reached out his hand for more. Vara offered
him some of the loaf which she had bought.
"None o' that dry choko-tuck for me; gimme the soft bread!" said he,
rudely snatching at it.
Vara told him civilly that it was not for herself that she wanted to
keep it, but to break up in the baby's milk.
In spite of her pitiful protest, however, the young man snatched the
scone and ate it remorselessly, looking at Vara all the time with evil
eyes, and smiling a smirk of satisfaction. There was no snivelling
weakness about him. Hugh Boy never took his eyes off him. Then, when
he had finished, the lout rose, coolly stuffed the remainder of their
provision into his pocket, and came over towards Vara with his hand
stretched out. He caught her by the wrist and sharply twisted her arm.
"Shell out your tin," he said. "Out with it now, and no bones about it!"
Vara bore the pain as well as she could without crying out. Suddenly,
however, the rascal dropped her hand, and snatched Gavin from her arms.
He stood on the edge of the ravine over which the bridge went, holding
the child, and threatened to throw him over if she did not give him
all the money she had. He was, of course, as he told himself, only
"kidding" her, but Vara was in wild terror for Gavin. Her particular
evil genius had never hesitated to carry out such threatenings.
"I will! I will!" cried Vara. And she took the byre lass's shilling out
of her pocket and gave it to the man.
"Any more?" said he. "Yes, I see there is. Out with it!"
And Vara drew out the remainder of the sixpence which the young lover
had thrown to her from his cart yesterday.
Then the cruel hobbledehoy tossed her the child with a laugh, and
sprang sharply round the parapet of the bridge. Pale as ivory, Vara ran
after him to watch. The rascal was quite at his ease, for he stopped
to light his pipe and take a drink out of a little square bottle. This
he stowed away in the tails of his coat, which were very long. Then he
waved his hand humorously at Vara and Boy Hugh as they stood by the
arch of the bridge.
A tall, well-built young fellow, was coming down the road, and a hope
sprang up in Vara's mind that he might do something for her. The
stranger's round soft hat and dark clothes marked him for a clergyman.
But he swung his stick and whistled, which were new things to Vara in
one of his cloth.
At sight of him the thief pulled down the corners of his mouth and put
on his regulation mendicant's whine.
"For the love o' God, sir, help a poor fellow that's dyin' o' hunger.
I've walked fifty miles without a bite—hope to die if I haven't, sir. I
wouldn't tell you a lie, sir."
The stalwart young minister smiled, and gave his stick another swing
before he spoke.
"You have not walked five miles without drinking, anyway, as my nose
very plainly tells me. And your pipe is setting your coat on fire at
this very moment!"
The hobbledehoy plucked his lighted pipe out of his pocket and set his
thumb in the bowl.
"You are one of the good kind," he persisted; "you are not the sort
that would deny a poor chap a sixpence because he takes a draw of
tobacco when he can get it?"
"Not a bit," said the minister, good-humouredly; "I can take a whiff
myself. But I don't ask anybody else to pay for it. It's a fine
business, yours, my lad. But I'm not keeping a free rum and tobacco
shop. So you had best tramp, my man."
At this the tramp began to pour forth a volley of the most foul-mouthed
abuse, cursing all parsons for rogues, liars, and various other things.
The minister listened patiently for some time.
"Now," he said, when at last there came a pause, "I have given you your
say—away with you! And if I hear another foul word out of your mouth, I
will draw my stick soundly across your back."
"Oh!" said the other impudently, "I thought you were one of the softish
kind—the sort that when you smote them on the one cheek, turned the
other also."
The young man in the round hat squared his shoulders.
"Did anyone smite me on the one cheek?" he asked. "If they did, I
didn't know it. Perhaps you would like to try?"
And he came nearer to the rascal, who drew off as if not at all
inclined to make the experiment. He made no reply.
"But," said the minister, "since you are so ready with your Scripture,
you will not object to another text, just as good, and more suitable
for application to the like of you. It is—'A rod for the fool's back!'"
And with that he lifted his stick and brought it down on the young
rough's shoulders with the swing of a cricketer cutting a high ball to
the boundary.
Never was there a more astonished scoundrel. He turned on the instant
and ran. But Vara was close beside them by this time.
"He stole my money!" she cried; "catch him! O dinna let him away!"
The young minister clapped his hat firmly on the back of his head and
gave chase. The thief was for the moment the swifter, but he had not
the wind nor the training of his opponent.
"Stop!" cried the pursuer.
The thief glanced about, and seeing the stick he had tasted before
hovering in the air, he dropped in a heap across the path to trip
his pursuer. The minister cleared him in his stride and turned upon
him. The rascal kept perfectly still till his captor approached. Then
suddenly he shot out his foot in a vicious kick. But the young fellow
in the round hat had been in France and knew all about that game. He
caught the foot in his hand and turned the fellow over on his back.
Vara came panting up.
"Give this girl her money," said the minister. "How much was it, my
lassie?"
"It was a shilling and two pence," said Vara.
"Out with it or I'll go through you!" said the minister. And the thick
stick again hovered an ultimatum.
So Vara got her money, and without even a parting curse the cowed
and frightened rascal took himself off down the road at a slow trot,
keeping his eyes on the ground all the way.
Vara was left alone with her knight of the soft hat.
ADVENTURE XXXVI.
THE MADNESS OF HUGH BOY.
The young minister put out his hand to Vara and the two walked quietly
back to where Boy Hugh was kneeling on the grass, and baby Gavin was
sitting grasping a dandelion with one hand and looking with wide
deep-set eyes of philosophic calm upon the world.
"Tell me all about it," said her champion. And Vara told the tale with
her heart again beginning to beat with terror. "But how is it that you
are here?" said he. And Vara explained as much as she could.
"To look for your father in Liverpool?" he said. "It is a long, sad
way—a terrible journey." He mused.
He had a passion for setting things right, this young fellow, and it
occurred to him that it would be a good thing if he could get these
children into a home of some kind, and then communicate with the police
on the subject of their father.
But as soon as the young man began to speak in his low, persuasive
tones of a home where they could be safe and quiet, Vara stood up.
"O no, sir, I thank you, but we can not bide. Somebody might come and
find us."