LITTLE BABY AND ITS MOTHER.
"Polly put the kettle on,
And let's have tea."
The latch was lifted from the inside, and there stood before Hoodie--not
an old woman with either "big" or little eyes, not a "grandmother" with
a frilly cap all round her face, such as she had been vaguely expecting,
yet certainly not a "woof" either! The person who stood in the doorway
smiling down on the little girl was a very pretty and pleasant-looking
young woman, with a fresh rosy face and merry eyes, and a sleeping baby
in her arms!
For the first moment Hoodie was too surprised to understand what she
saw.
At last, "I want my grandmother," she said. "_You_ aren't my
grandmother. I thought this was her cottage."
The young woman smiled again.
"No, Missy, you must have made a mistake. But _your_ grandmother doesn't
live in a little cottage like this, Missy, I'm sure. You must have quite
come out of your road. Whose little lady are you?"
Hoodie shook her head.
"I want to live with my grandmother," she replied. "I don't want to be
anybody's little lady. I've come such a long way--I know the cottage
should be aside a wood, just like this. And I'm _so_ tired and firsty."
The quiver in her voice told that the self-control was coming to an end.
The young woman's sympathy awoke at once.
"Poor dear," she said. "Tired, of course you must be tired. Come in,
dearie, and sit you down, and you shall have something to drink and to
eat too, if you please. What would you like?" she went on, after she had
established Hoodie on a funny little arm-chair by the fire--a chair
bought last fair-day by her husband in his extreme delight at being the
possessor of a fortnight old baby--"what would you like, Missy--a cup of
milk--or some tea? Kettle's boiling, and 'tis just upon tea-time."
"What a nice little chair," said Hoodie, making the observation that
first came into her head before replying to the questions asked her, as
was a habit of hers. "What a nice little chair! It just fits me,"
turning her fat little body--to confess the truth, a rather tight
fit--and the chair about together, like a snail congratulating itself on
its shell.
"Yes, Missy, and you're the first as has ever sat in it. It's to be for
baby, the dear, as soon as she's old enough to sit up in it. But about
what you'd like to drink, Missy?"
"I were going to tell you," said Hoodie, with a touch of her usual
authoritative manner. "I were going to tell you. I'd like tea--proper
tea on a table, 'cos I've got my bicsits and 'sings in my bastwick, and
we could put them out nicely. And if it's so far away to my
grandmother's perhaps I'd better stay here and fancy you're her"--she
glanced up in the young woman's face with such a queer, half-puzzled,
half-comical look in her eyes that her new friend really began to wonder
if the child was quite "right" in her head--"it would seem more like it,
if we had proper tea on a table. But asides that, I'm so firsty I'd like
a cup of milk first--just cold milk belone you know, to take away the
firsty. Martin _sometimes_ gives me a drink of milk like that just afore
tea when I'm very firsty, even though she says it spoils my tea."
"But I don't think it'll spoil your tea to-day, Missy," said the young
woman, as she fetched the cup of milk. "You've come a long way, you
see," she added, with a view to drawing Hoodie out as to her home and
belongings.
"And you'll give me _real_ tea, won't you, little baby's mother? Not
just milk and pertence?" inquired Hoodie, anxiously, as she watched the
preparations for the meal.
"Of course, Missy, you must have real tea, as you've come so far to see
me. Which way did you come? I don't think I've ever seen you before, but
then we've only been here a few weeks, since Thomas engaged with Farmer
Bright."
"I didn't come to see you, little baby's mother," said Hoodie, "I came
to look for a grandmother in a cottage. But you're very nice, only--oh,
do let me hold the little baby!" she exclaimed, seeing that the still
sleeping child was about to be deposited in its cradle, as it was rather
in its mother's way when lifting the kettle and so on;--"_do_ let me
hold it!"
She held out her arms and smoothed a place on her knees for it, all
ready. "Little baby's mother" had not the heart to refuse, though
somewhat misdoubting but that poor baby would have been better in its
cradle. But baby did not seem to think so; she gave one or two funny
little yawns, half opened her eyes, and then composed herself to sleep
again most philosophically in Hoodie's embrace. She was a nice baby and
daintily cared for, even though her home was only a stone-floored
cottage. She was number one in the first place, which says a good deal,
and she was an extremely healthy and satisfactory baby in herself--and
altogether as sweet and fresh and loveable as a wee baby buttercup under
a hedge.
The young mother eyed the little couple with great admiration.
"How cleverly she holds it, to be sure!" she said to herself; adding to
Hoodie, "You must have a baby at home, Miss, surely?" the remark as she
made it reminding her of her anxiety to find out where the "home" of her
mysterious little visitor was. "I cannot but give her her tea," she said
to herself; "but I hope I sha'n't get into blame for keeping her here,
if she's run away from her nurse unbeknown-like."
"No," said Hoodie, with a melancholy tone in her voice. "There isn't no
baby at home. Only Hec and Duke, and they're too big to be pettened, and
they like Maudie better than me."
"Do they really, Missy!" said the young woman. "Well, I'm sure I think
you're a very nice young lady, and baby thinks so too, it's plain to
see. See, she's waking, the darling."
Hoodie stared solemnly at the baby as if some extraordinary marvel were
about to happen. What did happen was this. Baby stretched itself,
doubled up its little pink fists, as if to box some one, yawned, half
opened its eyes, and then closed them again, having apparently
considered the question of waking up and thought better of it--rolled
over again, and again yawned, and finally opening its nice, baby blue
eyes and gazing up inquiringly into Hoodie's face, slowly and
deliberately _smiled_ at her--a sweet baby smile, half-patronizing,
half-mysterious, as if it had been away in some wonderful baby
fairy-land which it would have liked to tell her about if it could, and
rather pitied her for not having seen for herself. Hoodie gazed,
enraptured. A pretty bright smile, a smile, it must be confessed, not
too often seen there, broke over her own little face, and at the sight
baby's satisfaction expressed itself in a regular chuckle. Hoodie turned
to the young woman with a curious triumph.
"Little baby's mother," she said, half awe-struck as it were, "I do
believe she _loves_ me."
"Of course she does, and why shouldn't she?" replied the young mother
heartily, yet feeling conscious of not altogether understanding the
little girl. "Why shouldn't she love you, Missy? Little tiny babies like
her always does love those as is kind to them. Don't you love your dear
mamma, Missy? and your sisters if you have any--and what made you love
them first, before you could understand like, if it wasn't that they
loved you and were kind to you?"
Hoodie shook her head--her usual refuge in perplexity.
"I don't know," she said. "I like peoples to love me lots--gate lots. I
don't 'zink anybody loves me lots. If I was always to sit here holding
baby so nice, do you think she'd love me lots?"
Baby's mother laughed outright.
"I don't know that, Missy," she said, "she'd get very hungry and cry.
And you'd be hungry, too. Aren't you hungry now? The tea's all ready,
see, Missy, and your bread and butter's laid out. But I'm afraid it's
rather hard. Won't you have some of mine instead--its nice and fresh.
Has yours been packed up a long time?"
Hoodie's attention being drawn to the bread and butter, she allowed
baby's mother to regain possession of her treasure, and clambered up
herself to the chair placed for her. When safely installed she eyed the
provisions suspiciously.
"I 'zink yours is nicer, little baby's mother," she said graciously,
having first bitten a piece of her own rather uninviting bread. "It was
only packened up last night--but perhaps it was the taking it to bed. I
took it to bed acos I didn't want nobody to see. But the bicsits is
nice. Mayn't baby have a bicsit, little baby's mother? If I had got to
the grandmother's cottage there'd have been cake. You hasn't none cake,
has you?"
"No, Missy. You see I didn't know you were coming. If your mamma would
let you come another day and I knew in time, I could bake a nice cake."
"Yes," said Hoodie, "and baby might have some. Does baby like cake?"
"She hasn't no teeth to bite it with yet, Missy dear," said the young
woman.
"No teess!" exclaimed Hoodie, "what a funny baby. Did God forget zem?"
she added, in a lower voice.
The young woman turned away to hide her laughter; and just at this
moment there came a rap at the door--a well-known rap evidently, for up
jumped the young woman with a pleased face.
"David!" she exclaimed, as she opened the door, "I thought you wouldn't
be back till late, or I'd have waited tea."
"I came in to say as I've got to go out again," said the man--a
good-humoured looking young labourer--"little baby" had every reason to
be good-humoured with such pleasant tempered father and mother!--"I've
to drive over to Greenoaks to fetch some little pigs, so I mayn't be in
till late. But bless us!" he exclaimed, as he just then caught sight of
Hoodie seated in perfect satisfaction and evidently quite at home, at
the tea-table, "who ever's this you've got with you, Liz?"
His surprise was so comical that it set "Liz" off laughing again.
"Bless _me_ if I can tell you, David," she said. "She's the most
old-fashioned little piece of goods I ever came across. But such a nice
little lady too, and that taken with our baby! She won't tell me her
name nor nothing," and then she went on to describe to David, Hoodie's
arrival and all she had said.
David scratched his head, as, half hidden in the doorway, where Hoodie
had not yet caught sight of him, he glanced at the child, still deeply
interested in her "tea."
"It's my opinion," he said solemnly, as if what he was about to say was
something that could not possibly have struck any one else; "it's my
opinion as her nurse or some one has been cross to her and she's runned
away."
"But what shall we do?" said Mrs. Liz, a little anxiously. "How shall we
find out where she belongs to?"
"Oh, easy enough," said David. "She's but a baby. And even if she
wouldn't tell, you may be sure they'll soon be sending after her. I
could take her home on my way to Greenoaks if I knew where it was. Can't
be far off--maybe it's one of the clergyman's children down by
Springley."
"They've none so little," said Mrs. David. "But there's Squire
Caryll's--I heard say there's a sight o' little ones there. 'Twill be
there."
"Likely enough," said David. "But I'd like a cup o' tea, Liz, if the
young lady'll excuse my being rather rough like."
Lizzie laughed.
"She's but a baby," she said; and so David came forward and sat down at
the table.
Hoodie looked up from her tea and stopped half way through a "bicsit" to
take a good stare at the new comer.
"Who is zou, please?" she said at last.
[Illustration: "Who is zou, please?"]
David looked rather awkward. It was somewhat embarrassing to be calmly
challenged in this way at his own table, poor man, by a mite of a
creature like this! He relieved his feelings by a glance at his wife and
a faint whistle.
"Well, to be sure!" he exclaimed.
Lizzie understood the small questioner better.
"Why, Missy," she said, "'Tis David. He's baby's father, and this is his
house, and he's very pleased to see you here."
Hoodie looked again at David; this time he seemed to find more favour in
her eyes.
"At the grandmother's cottage there wouldn't have been no Davids," she
remarked. "His hands is rather dirty, isn't they, little baby's mother?"
This was too much for David--he went off into a roar. Hoodie looked up
doubtfully--was he laughing at _her_?--in her opinion, an unpardonable
crime--but David's funny, good-natured face gained the day, and after a
moment's hesitation Hoodie joined in the fun and laughed too, though at
what she certainly didn't know.
Friendly feeling thus established, David thought it time to begin his
inquiries.
"Hope you've enjoyed your tea, Miss," he said. "You must a been hungry
after such a long walk. Round by Springley way was it?"
"_What_ did you say?" said Hoodie, opening her eyes. David's tone and
accent were puzzling to her.
"He says, was it round by Springley way you came, Missy--the way the
church is?"
"Oh no, not the church way. I comed srough the wood and past Farmer
Bright's. Home is not the church way," said Hoodie unsuspiciously.
David and his wife nodded at each other. "Squire Caryll's," whispered
Lizzie.
"I'll be passing that way in the cart," said David. "Would you like a
ride, Miss?"
Hoodie shook her head.
"No," she said decidedly, "I want to stay and nurse baby. May I take her
now?" she added, preparing to descend from her chair.
David could not help bursting out laughing again.
"What wages is her to get, Liz?" he inquired.
Hoodie turned upon him indignantly.
"Ugly man," she exclaimed; "you'se not to laugh at me. I don't love you.
I love baby--_please_ give me baby," she said beseechingly to the young
woman. "I'm all zeady," for by this time she was again settled in the
little chair and had smoothed a place for baby.
Lizzie good-humouredly laid baby again in her arms.
"Hold her tight, please, Missy," she said, turning towards the door
with her husband at a sign from him, and Hoodie sat in perfect content
for some minutes till baby's mother returned.
"Has zat ugly man gone?" inquired Hoodie coolly. "I'll stay with you and
baby, but I don't like zat man."
"But he's a nice man, Missy," said Mrs. David. "I don't know about his
being very pretty, but he's very kind to baby and me, and that's better
than being pretty, isn't it, Missy?"
"I don't know," said Hoodie.
After a time, in spite of her devotion, baby's unaccustomed weight made
her little arms ache.
"When does baby go to bed?" she asked.
Baby's mother seized the opportunity.
"Now, I think," she said. "I'll put her in her cradle for a bit, and
then you and I can talk a little.--Don't you think, Missy?" she went on,
when baby was safely deposited and Hoodie was free to stretch her tired
little arms, "don't you think your poor mamma will be wondering where
you are all this time?"
"She's out d'iving in the calliage with Maudie. She won't know where I'm
goned," replied Hoodie.
"But your nurse, Missy--_she'll_ have missed you?" said Mrs. David.
"We haven't no nurse. We've only Martin," replied Hoodie, "and Martin
loves Hec and Duke and Maudie best. She 'zinks Hoodie's naughty. She
_always_ says Hoodie's naughty."
"Little baby's mother" did not know very well what to reply to this, so
she contented herself with a general reflection.
"All little girls are naughty sometimes," she said.
"Yes," said Hoodie, "but not _always_. I'd like to stay here with you
and baby, little baby's mother, 'cos baby loves me, if you wouldn't have
zat ugly man here."
"But it's his house, Missy. We couldn't turn him out of his own house,
could we? And I'm afeared there'd be many things you'd want we couldn't
give you? At home you've a nice little room now, all carpeted and
curtained, haven't you? And a pretty little bed all for yourself? We've
nothing like that--we've only one room besides the kitchen."
Hoodie did not at once reply. She appeared to be thinking things over.
"I'd _like_ to stay," she remarked after a while, "but I'd rather be let
alone with you and baby. I don't like zat man. But if you haven't a room
for me perhaps I'd better go and look for a grandmother's cottage again,
and I'll come and see you sometimes, and baby, little baby's mother."
"Yes, that you must, Missy, and bring little brothers too. You won't
think of going off to look for your grandmother again just yet. Perhaps
it's quite a long way off by the railway she lives. Couldn't you ask
your mamma to write her a letter and tell her how much you'd like to see
her?"
"But I want to go to her _cottage_," persisted Hoodie. "I know it is a
cottage, Martin said so. I shouldn't want her if she wasn't in a
cottage. And I saw it in the Hoodie-girl picture too."
This was getting beyond poor Mrs. David; and finding herself not
understood, added to Hoodie's irritation. She was half way, more than
half way, fully three-quarters of the way into one of her hopeless
crying fits, when fortunately there came an interruption.
Hasty steps were heard coming up the garden path, followed by a hasty
knock at the door. And almost before Lizzie could get to open it, two
people hurried into the room. They were Martin and Cross the coachman.
Hoodie looked up calmly.
"Has you come to fetch me?" she inquired. "I didn't _want_ to go home,
but little baby's mother hasn't got enough little beds, but I'm going to
come back here again. I _will_, whatever you say."
Well as Martin knew the child, this was a degree too much for her. To
have spent between two and three hours in really terrible anxiety about
the little girl; to have had to bear some amount of reproach for not
having sooner discovered Hoodie's escape; to have rushed off to fetch
her on receiving the joyful news from the young labourer as he drove
past Mr. Caryll's house, her heart full of the tenderest pity for her
stray nursling who she never doubted had somehow lost her way,--all this
had been trying enough for poor Martin. But to be met in this heartless
way by the child--before strangers, too--to be coolly defied beforehand,
as it were--it was too much. It was a toss-up between tears and temper.
Unfortunately Martin chose the latter.
"Miss Hoodie," she exclaimed, "you're a naughty, ungrateful little girl,
a really naughty-hearted little girl--to have upset us all at home so;
your poor mamma nearly ill with fright, and then to meet me like that.
Speaking about not wanting to come home, and you will and you won't. I
never heard anything like it. And to think of all the trouble you must
have given to this--this young woman," she added, turning civilly
enough, but with some little hesitation in her manner, to Mrs. Lizzie,
as if not _quite_ sure whether she did not deserve some share of the
blame.
Poor Lizzie had stood a little apart, looking rather frightened. In her
eyes Martin was a dignified and important person. But now she came
forward eagerly.
"Trouble," she repeated, "oh dear no, ma'am. Little Miss hasn't given me
one bit of trouble, and nothing but a pleasure 'twould have been, but
for thinking you'd all be put out so about her at home. But you'll let
her come again some day when she's passing, to see me and baby. She's
been so taken up with the baby, has Missy."
Martin hesitated. She wanted to be civil and kind--Mrs. Caryll had
expressly desired her to thank the cottager's wife for taking care of
the little truant, and Martin was by nature sensible and gentle, and not
the least inclined to give herself airs as if she thought herself better
than other people. But Hoodie's behaviour had quite upset her. She did
not feel at all ready to reply graciously to Lizzie's meek invitation.
So she stood still and hesitated. And seeing her hesitation, naughty
Hoodie darted forward and threw her arms round Lizzie's neck, hugging
and kissing her.
"I _sall_ come to see you, I will, I sall," she cried. "Never mind what
that naughty, ugly 'sing says. I _will_ come, dear little baby's
mother."
Martin was almost speechless with indignation. Poor Lizzie saw that she
was angry, yet she had not the heart to put away the child clinging to
her so affectionately, and David's words "perhaps her nurse is cross to
her at home," came back to her mind. Things might really have become
very uncomfortable indeed, but for Cross, the coachman, who unexpectedly
came to the rescue. He had been standing by, rather, to tell the
truth--now that the anxiety which he as well as the rest of the
household had felt, was relieved--enjoying the scene.
"Miss Hoodie's a rare one, to be sure," he said to himself, chuckling
quietly. But when he saw that Martin was really taking things seriously,
and that the young woman too looked distressed and anxious, he came
forward quietly, and before Hoodie knew what he was doing he had lifted
her up with a spring on to his shoulder, where she sat perched like a
little queen.
"Now, Miss Hoodie," he said, "if you'll be good, perhaps I'll carry you
home."
Hoodie, though extremely well pleased with her new and exalted position,
was true to her colours.
"_Carry_ me home, Coss," she said imperiously; "hasn't you brought the
calliage for me?"
"No, indeed I haven't," replied Cross; "little Misses as runs away from
home can't expect to be fetched back in a carriage and pair. I think
you're very well off as it is. But we must make haste home--just think
how frightened your poor mamma has been."
Hoodie tossed her head. Some very naughty imp seemed to have got her in
his possession just then.
"Gee-up, gee-who, get along, horsey," she cried, pummelling Cross's
shoulders unmercifully with her feet. "Gallop away, old horse Coss,
gee-up, gee-up. Good night, little baby's mother, I _sall_ come back;"
and Cross, thankful to get her away on any terms, turned to the door,
humouring her by pretending to trot and gallop. But half way down the
little garden path Hoodie suddenly pulled him up, literally pulled him
up, by clasping him with her two arms so tightly round the throat that
he was nearly strangled.
"Stop, stop, horsey," she cried, "I haven't kissed the baby. I must kiss
the baby."
Even Cross's good nature was nearly at an end, but he dared not oppose
her. He stood still, very red in the face, with some muttered
exclamation, while Hoodie screamed to Lizzie to bring out the baby to be
kissed, perfectly regardless of Martin's remonstrances.
And in this fashion at last Hoodie was brought home--Martin walking home
in silent despair alongside. Only when they got close to the lodge gate
Hoodie pulled up Cross again, but this time in much gentler fashion.
"Let me down, Coss, please," she said, meekly enough, "I'd rather walk
now."
And walk in she did, as demurely and comfortably as if she had just
returned from an ordinary walk with her nurse.
"Was there ever such a child?" said Martin to herself again.
And poor Cross, as he walked away wiping his forehead, decided in his
own mind that he'd rather have the breaking in of twenty young horses
than of such a queer specimen as little Miss Hoodie.
[Illustration: Poor Cross]