MATILDA JANE.
“Come to me, my little gentleman,” said our hostess, lifting Bruno into
her lap, “and tell me everything.”
“I ca’n’t,” said Bruno. “There wouldn’t be time. Besides, I don’t _know_
everything.”
The good woman looked a little puzzled, and turned to Sylvie for help.
“Does he like _riding_?” she asked.
“Yes, I _think_ so,” Sylvie gently replied. “He’s just had a ride on
_Nero_.”
“Ah, Nero’s a grand dog, isn’t he? Were you ever outside a _horse_, my
little man?”
“_Always!_” Bruno said with great decision. “Never was _inside_ one. Was
_oo_?”
Here I thought it well to interpose, and to mention the business on
which we had come, and so relieved her, for a few minutes, from Bruno’s
perplexing questions.
“And those dear children will like a bit of cake, _I’ll_ warrant!” said
the farmer’s hospitable wife, when the business was concluded, as she
opened her cupboard, and brought out a cake. “And don’t you waste the
crust, little gentleman!” she added, as she handed a good slice of it to
Bruno. “You know what the poetry-book says about wilful waste?”
“No, I don’t,” said Bruno. “What doos he say about it?”
“Tell him, Bessie!” And the mother looked down, proudly and lovingly, on
a rosy little maiden, who had just crept shyly into the room, and was
leaning against her knee. “What’s that your poetry-book says about
wilful waste?”
“_For wilful waste makes woeful want_,” Bessie recited, in an almost
inaudible whisper: “_and you may live to say ‘How much I wish I had the
crust that then I threw away!’_”
“Now try if _you_ can say it, my dear! _For wilful_——”
“_For wifful_—sumfinoruvver—” Bruno began, readily enough; and then
there came a dead pause. “Ca’n’t remember no more!”
“Well, what do you _learn_ from it, then? You can tell us _that_, at any
rate?”
Bruno ate a little more cake, and considered: but the moral did not seem
to him to be a very obvious one.
“Always to——” Sylvie prompted him in a whisper.
“Always to——” Bruno softly repeated: and then, with sudden inspiration,
“always to look where it goes to!”
“Where _what_ goes to, darling?”
“Why the _crust_, a course!” said Bruno. “Then, if I lived to say ‘_How
much I wiss I had the crust_—’ (and all that), I’d know where I frew it
to!”
This new interpretation quite puzzled the good woman. She returned to
the subject of ‘Bessie.’ “Wouldn’t you like to see Bessie’s doll, my
dears! Bessie, take the little lady and gentleman to see Matilda Jane!”
Bessie’s shyness thawed away in a moment. “Matilda Jane has just woke
up,” she stated, confidentially, to Sylvie. “Wo’n’t you help me on with
her frock? Them strings _is_ such a bother to tie!”
“I can tie _strings_,” we heard, in Sylvie’s gentle voice, as the two
little girls left the room together. Bruno ignored the whole proceeding,
and strolled to the window, quite with the air of a fashionable
gentleman. Little girls, and dolls, were not at all in his line.
And forthwith the fond mother proceeded to tell me (as what mother is
not ready to do?) of all Bessie’s virtues (and vices too, for the matter
of that) and of the many fearful maladies which, notwithstanding those
ruddy cheeks and that plump little figure, had nearly, time and again,
swept her from the face of the earth.
When the full stream of loving memories had nearly run itself out, I
began to question her about the working men of that neighbourhood, and
specially the ‘Willie,’ whom we had heard of at his cottage. “He was a
good fellow once,” said my kind hostess: “but it’s the drink has ruined
him! Not that I’d rob them of the drink—it’s good for the most of
them—but there’s some as is too weak to stand agin’ temptations: it’s a
thousand pities, for _them_, as they ever built the Golden Lion at the
corner there!”
“The Golden Lion?” I repeated.
“It’s the new Public,” my hostess explained. “And it stands right in the
way, and handy for the workmen, as they come back from the brickfields,
as it might be to-day, with their week’s wages. A deal of money gets
wasted that way. And some of ’em gets drunk.”
“If only they could have it in their own houses—” I mused, hardly
knowing I had said the words out loud.
“That’s it!” she eagerly exclaimed. It was evidently a solution, of the
problem, that she had already thought out. “If only you could manage,
so’s each man to have his own little barrel in his own house—there’d
hardly be a drunken man in the length and breadth of the land!”
And then I told her the old story—about a certain cottager who bought
himself a little barrel of beer, and installed his wife as bar-keeper:
and how, every time he wanted his mug of beer, he regularly paid her
over the counter for it: and how she never would let him go on ‘tick,’
and was a perfectly inflexible bar-keeper in never letting him have more
than his proper allowance: and how, every time the barrel needed
refilling, she had plenty to do it with, and something over for her
money-box: and how, at the end of the year, he not only found himself in
first-rate health and spirits, with that undefinable but quite
unmistakeable air which always distinguishes the sober man from the one
who takes ‘a drop too much,’ but had quite a box full of money, all
saved out of his own pence!
“If only they’d all do like that!” said the good woman, wiping her eyes,
which were overflowing with kindly sympathy. “Drink hadn’t need to be
the curse it is to some——”
“Only a _curse_,” I said, “when it is used wrongly. Any of God’s gifts
may be turned into a curse, unless we use it wisely. But we must be
getting home. Would you call the little girls? Matilda Jane has seen
enough of company, for _one_ day, I’m sure!”
“I’ll find ’em in a minute,” said my hostess, as she rose to leave the
room. “Maybe that young gentleman saw which way they went?”
“Where are they, Bruno?” I said.
“They ain’t in the field,” was Bruno’s rather evasive reply, “’cause
there’s nothing but _pigs_ there, and Sylvie isn’t a pig. Now don’t
imperrupt me any more, ’cause I’m telling a story to this fly; and it
won’t attend!”
“They’re among the apples, I’ll warrant ’em!” said the Farmer’s wife. So
we left Bruno to finish his story, and went out into the orchard, where
we soon came upon the children, walking sedately side by side, Sylvie
carrying the doll, while little Bess carefully shaded its face, with a
large cabbage-leaf for a parasol.
As soon as they caught sight of us, little Bess dropped her cabbage-leaf
and came running to meet us, Sylvie following more slowly, as her
precious charge evidently needed great care and attention.
“I’m its Mamma, and Sylvie’s the Head-Nurse,” Bessie explained: “and
Sylvie’s taught me ever such a pretty song, for me to sing to Matilda
Jane!”
“Let’s hear it once more, Sylvie,” I said, delighted at getting the
chance I had long wished for, of hearing her sing. But Sylvie turned shy
and frightened in a moment. “No, _please_ not!” she said, in an earnest
‘aside’ to me. “Bessie knows it quite perfect now. Bessie can sing it!”
“Aye, aye! Let Bessie sing it!” said the proud mother. “Bessie has a
bonny voice of her own,” (this again was an ‘aside’ to me) “though I say
it as shouldn’t!”
Bessie was only too happy to accept the ‘encore.’ So the plump little
Mamma sat down at our feet, with her hideous daughter reclining stiffly
across her lap (it was one of a kind that wo’n’t sit down, under _any_
amount of persuasion), and, with a face simply beaming with delight,
began the lullaby, in a shout that _ought_ to have frightened the poor
baby into fits. The Head-Nurse crouched down behind her, keeping herself
respectfully in the back-ground, with her hands on the shoulders of her
little mistress, so as to be ready to act as Prompter, if required, and
to supply ‘_each gap in faithless memory void_.’
[Illustration: BESSIE’S SONG]
The shout, with which she began, proved to be only a momentary effort.
After a very few notes, Bessie toned down, and sang on in a small but
very sweet voice. At first her great black eyes were fixed on her
mother, but soon her gaze wandered upwards, among the apples, and she
seemed to have quite forgotten that she had any other audience than her
Baby, and her Head-Nurse, who once or twice supplied, almost inaudibly,
the right note, when the singer was getting a little ‘flat.’
“Matilda Jane, you never look
At any toy or picture-book:
I show you pretty things in vain—
You must be blind, Matilda Jane!
“I ask you riddles, tell you tales,
But _all_ our conversation fails:
You _never_ answer me again—
I fear you’re dumb, Matilda Jane!
“Matilda, darling, when I call,
You never seem to hear at all:
I shout with all my might and main—
But you’re _so_ deaf, Matilda Jane!
“Matilda Jane, you needn’t mind;
For, though you’re deaf, and dumb, and blind,
There’s _some one_ loves you, it is plain—
And that is _me,_ Matilda Jane!”
She sang three of the verses in a rather perfunctory style, but the last
stanza evidently excited the little maiden. Her voice rose, ever clearer
and louder: she had a rapt look on her face, as if suddenly inspired,
and, as she sang the last few words, she clasped to her heart the
inattentive Matilda Jane.
“Kiss it now!” prompted the Head-Nurse. And in a moment the simpering
meaningless face of the Baby was covered with a shower of passionate
kisses.
“What a bonny song!” cried the Farmer’s wife. “Who made the words,
dearie?”
“I—I think I’ll look for Bruno,” Sylvie said demurely, and left us
hastily. The curious child seemed always afraid of being praised, or
even noticed.
“Sylvie planned the words,” Bessie informed us, proud of her superior
information: “and Bruno planned the music—and _I_ sang it!” (this last
circumstance, by the way, we did not need to be told).
So we followed Sylvie, and all entered the parlour together. Bruno was
still standing at the window, with his elbows on the sill. He had,
apparently, finished the story that he was telling to the fly, and had
found a new occupation. “Don’t imperrupt!” he said as we came in. “I’m
counting the Pigs in the field!”
“How many are there?” I enquired.
“About a thousand and four,” said Bruno.
“You mean ‘about a thousand,’” Sylvie corrected him. “There’s no good
saying ‘_and four_’: you _ca’n’t_ be sure about the four!”
“And you’re as wrong as ever!” Bruno exclaimed triumphantly. “It’s just
the _four_ I _can_ be sure about; ’cause they’re here, grubbling under
the window! It’s the _thousand_ I isn’t pruffickly sure about!”
“But some of them have gone into the sty,” Sylvie said, leaning over him
to look out of the window.
“Yes,” said Bruno; “but they went so slowly and so fewly, I didn’t care
to count _them_.”
“We must be going, children,” I said. “Wish Bessie good-bye.” Sylvie
flung her arms round the little maiden’s neck, and kissed her: but Bruno
stood aloof, looking unusually shy. (“I never kiss _nobody_ but Sylvie!”
he explained to me afterwards.) The farmer’s wife showed us out: and we
were soon on our way back to Elveston.
“And that’s the new public-house that we were talking about, I suppose?”
I said, as we came in sight of a long low building, with the words ‘The
Golden Lion’ over the door.
“Yes, that’s it,” said Sylvie. “I wonder if _her_ Willie’s inside? Run
in, Bruno, and see if he’s there.”
I interposed, feeling that Bruno was, in a sort of way, in _my_ care.
“That’s not a place to send a child into.” For already the revelers were
getting noisy: and a wild discord of singing, shouting, and meaningless
laughter came to us through the open windows.
“They wo’n’t _see_ him, you know,” Sylvie explained. “Wait a minute,
Bruno!” She clasped the jewel, that always hung round her neck, between
the palms of her hands, and muttered a few words to herself. What they
were I could not at all make out, but some mysterious change seemed
instantly to pass over us. My feet seemed to me no longer to press the
ground, and the dream-like feeling came upon me, that I was suddenly
endowed with the power of floating in the air. I could still just _see_
the children: but their forms were shadowy and unsubstantial, and their
voices sounded as if they came from some distant place and time, they
were so unreal. However, I offered no further opposition to Bruno’s
going into the house. He was back again in a few moments. “No, he isn’t
come yet,” he said. “They’re talking about him inside, and saying how
drunk he was last week.”
While he was speaking, one of the men lounged out through the door, a
pipe in one hand and a mug of beer in the other, and crossed to where we
were standing, so as to get a better view along the road. Two or three
others leaned out through the open window, each holding his mug of beer,
with red faces and sleepy eyes. “Canst see him, lad?” one of them asked.
“I dunnot know,” the man said, taking a step forwards, which brought us
nearly face to face. Sylvie hastily pulled me out of his way. “Thanks,
child,” I said. “I had forgotten he couldn’t see us. What would have
happened if I had staid in his way?”
“I don’t know,” Sylvie said gravely. “It wouldn’t matter to _us_; but
_you_ may be different.” She said this in her usual voice, but the man
took no sort of notice, though she was standing close in front of him,
and looking up into his face as she spoke.
“He’s coming now!” cried Bruno, pointing down the road.
“He be a-coomin noo!” echoed the man, stretching out his arm exactly
over Bruno’s head, and pointing with his pipe.
“Then _chorus_ agin!” was shouted out by one of the red-faced men in the
window: and forthwith a dozen voices yelled, to a harsh discordant
melody, the refrain:—
“There’s him, an’ yo’ an’ me,
Roarin’ laddies!
We loves a bit o spree,
Roarin’ laddies we,
Roarin’ laddies
Roarin’ laddies!”
The man lounged back again to the house, joining lustily in the chorus
as he went: so that only the children and I were in the road when
‘Willie’ came up.