Brothers of Pity and Other Tales of Beasts and Men Read online

  CHAPTER IV.

  "My son's first wife died after Christian was born," said the old woman."I've a sharp tongue, as you know, Sybil Stanley, and I'm doubtful ifshe was too happy while she lived; but when she was gone I knew she'dbeen a good 'un, and I've always spoken of her accordingly.

  "You're too young to remember that year; it was a year of slack tradeand hard times all over. Farmer-folk grudged you fourpence to mend thekettle, and as to broken victuals, there wasn't as much went in at thefront door to feed the family, as the servants would have thrown out atthe back door another year to feed the pigs.

  "When one gets old, my daughter, and sits over the fire at night andthinks, instead of tramping all day and sleeping heavy after it, as onedoes when one is young--things comes back; things comes back, I say, asthey says ghosts does.

  "And when we camps near trees with long branches, like them over there,that waves in the wind and confuses your eyes among the smoke, Isometimes think I sees her face, as it was before she died, with apinched look across the nose. That is Christian's mother, my son's firstwife; and it comes back to me that I believes she starved herself to lethim have more; for he's a man with a surly temper, like my own, is myson George. He grumbled worse than the children when he was hungry, andbecause she was so slow in getting strong enough to stand on her legsand carry the basket. You see he didn't hold his tongue when things werebad to bear, as she could. Men doesn't, my daughter."

  "I know, I know," said the girl.

  "I thinks I was jealous of her," muttered the old woman; "it comes backto me that I begrudged her making so much of my son, but I knows nowthat she was a good 'un, and I speaks of her accordingly. She frettedherself about getting strong enough to carry the child to bechristened, while we had the convenience of a parson near at hand, and Iwasn't going to oblige her; but the day after she died, the child wasailing, and thinking it might require the benefit of a burial-service aswell as herself, I wrapped it up, and made myself decent, and took myway to the village. I was half-way up the street, when I met a younggentlewoman in a grey dress coming out of a cottage.

  "'Good-day, my pretty lady,' says I. 'Could you show an old woman theresidence of the clergyman that would do the poor tinkers the kindnessof christening a sick child whose mother lies dead in a tilted cart atthe meeting of the four roads?'

  "'I'm the clergyman's wife,' says she, with the colour in her face, 'andI'm sure my husband will christen the poor baby. Do let me see it.'

  "'It's only a tinker's child,' says I, 'a poor brown-faced morsel for apretty lady's blue eyes to rest upon, that's accustomed to the delicatesight of her own golden-haired children; long may they live, and manymay you and the gentle clergyman have of them!'

  "'I have no children,' says she, shortly, with the colour in her facebreaking up into red and white patches over her cheeks. 'Let me carrythe baby for you,' says she, a taking it from me. 'You must be tired.'

  "All the way she kept looking at it, and saying how pretty it was, andwhat beautiful long eyelashes it had, which went against me at the time,my daughter, for I knowed it was like its mother.

  "The clergyman was a pleasing young gentleman of a genteel appearance,with a great deal to say for himself in the way of religion, as wasright, it being his business. 'Name this child,' says he, and she givesa start that nobody sees but myself. So, thinking that the child beinglikely to die, there was no loss in obliging the gentlefolk, says I,looking down into the book as if I could read, 'Any name the lady thinkssuitable for the poor tinker's child;' and says she, the colour comingup into her face, 'Call him Christian, for he shall be one.' So he wasnamed Christian, a name to give no manner of displeasure to myself or tomy family; it having been that of my husband's father, who wasunfortunate in a matter of horse-stealing, and died across the water."

  "What did _she_ want with naming the baby, mother?" asked Sybil.

  "I comes to that, my daughter, I comes to that, though it's hard tospeak of. I hate myself worse than I hates the police when I thinks ofit. But ten pounds--pieces of gold, my daughter, when half-pence werehard to come by--and small expectation that he would outlive his motherby many days--and a feeling against him then, for her sake, though Ithinks differently now--"

  "You sold him to the clergy-folks?" said Sybil.

  "Ten pieces of gold! You never felt the pains of starvation, mydaughter--nor perhaps those of jealousy, which are worse. The youngclergywoman had no children, on which score she fretted herself; andmust have fretted hard, before she begged the poor tinker's child out ofthe woods."

  "What did Tinker George say?" asked the girl.

  "He used a good deal of bad language, and said I might as easily havegot twenty pounds as ten, if I had not been as big a fool as the child'smother herself. Men are strange creatures, my daughter."

  "So you left Christian with them?"

  "I did, my daughter. I left him in the arms of the young clergywomanwith the politest of words on both sides, and a good deal of religiousconversation from the parson, which I does not doubt was well meant, ifit was somewhat tedious."

  "And then--mother?"

  "And then we moved to Banbury, where my son took his second wife, havingmade her acquaintance in an alehouse; and then, my daughter, I begins toknow that Christian's mother had been a good 'un."

  "George isn't as happy with this one, then?"

  "Men are curious creatures, my daughter, as you will discover for yourown part without any instructions from me. He treats her far better thanthe other, because she treats him so much worse. But between them theysoon put me a-one-side, and when I sat long evenings alone, sometimes ina wood, as it might be this, where the branches waves and makes aconfusion of the shadows--and sometimes on the edge of a Hampshire heathwhere we camps a good deal, and the light is as slow in dying out of thebottom of the sky as he and she are in coming home, and the bits ofwater looks as if people had drownded themselves in them--when I satalone, I say, minding the fire and the children--I wondered if Christianhad lived, till I was all but mad with wondering and coming no nearer toknowing.

  "'His mother was a good daughter to you,' I thinks; 'and if you hadn'tsold him--sold your own flesh and blood--for ten golden sovereigns tothe clergywoman, he might have been a good son to your old age.'

  "At last I could bear idleness and the lone company of my own thoughtsno longer, my daughter, and I sets off to travel on my own account,taking money at back-doors, and living on broken meats I begged into thebargain, and working at nights instead of thinking. I knows a few arts,my daughter, of one sort and another, and I puts away most of what Itakes, and changes it when the copper comes to silver, and _the silvercomes to gold_."

  "I wonder you never went to see if he was alive," said Sybil.

  "I did, my daughter. I went several times under various disguisements,which are no difficulty to those who know how to adopt them, and withservant's jewellery and children's toys, I had sight of him more thanonce, and each time made me wilder to get him back."

  "And you never tried?"

  "The money was not ready. One must act honourably, my daughter. Icouldn't pick up my own grandson as if he'd been a stray hen, or a fewclothes off the line. It took me five years to save those ten pounds.Five long miserable years."

  "Miserable!" cried the gipsy girl, flinging her hair back from her eyes."Miserable! Happy, you mean; too happy! It is when one can do nothing--"

  She stopped, as if talking choked her, and the old woman, who seemed topay little attention to any one but herself, went on,

  "It was when it was all but saved, and I hangs about that country,making up my plans, that he comes to me himself, as I sits on theoutskirts of a wood beyond the village, in no manner of disguisement,but just as I sits here."

  "He came to you?" said Sybil.

  "He comes to me, my daughter; dressed like any young nobleman of eightyears old, but bareheaded and barefooted, having his cap in one hand,and his boots and stockings in the other.

  "'Good-morning, old gip
sy woman,' says he. 'I heard there was an oldgipsy woman in the wood; so I came to see. Nurse said if I went about inthe fields, by myself, the gipsies would steal me; but I told her Ididn't care if they did, because it must be so nice to live in a wood,and sleep out of doors all night. When I grow up, I mean to be a wildman on a desert island, and dress in goats' skins. I sha'n't wearhats--I hate them; and I don't like shoes and stockings either. When Ican get away from Nurse, I always take them off. I like to feel what I'mwalking on, and in the wood I like to scuffle with my toes in the deadleaves. There's a quarry at the top of this wood, and I should so haveliked to have thrown my shoes and stockings and my cap into it; but itvexes mother when I destroy my clothes, so I didn't, and I am carryingthem.'

  "Those were the very words he said, my daughter. He had a swiftness oftongue, for which I am myself famous, especially in fortune-telling;but he used the language of gentility, and a shortness of speech whichyou will observe among those who are accustomed to order what they wantinstead of asking for it. I had hard work to summon voice to reply tohim, my daughter, and I cannot tell you, nor would you understand it ifI could find the words, what were my feelings to hear him speak withthat confidence of the young clergywoman as his mother.

  "'A green welcome to the woods and the fields, my noble littlegentleman,' says I. 'Be pleased to honour the poor tinker-woman byaccepting the refreshment of a seat and a cup of tea.'

  "'I mayn't eat or drink anything when I am visiting the poor people,'says he, 'Mother doesn't allow me. But thank you all the same, andplease don't give me your stool, for I'd much rather sit on the grass;and, if you please, I should like you to tell me all about living inwoods, and making fires, and hanging kettles on sticks, and going aboutthe country and sleeping out of doors.'"

  "Did you tell him the truth, or make up a tale for him?" asked Sybil.

  "Partly one and partly the other, my daughter. But when persons setstheir minds on anything, they sees the truth in a manner according totheir own thoughts, which is of itself as good as a made-up tale.

  "He asks numberless questions, to which I makes suitable replies. Themthat lives out of doors--can they get up as early as they likes, withoutbeing called? he asks.

  "Does gipsies go to bed in their clothes?

  "Does they sometimes forget their prayers, with not regularly dressingand undressing?

  "Did I ever sleep on heather?

  "Does we ever travel by moonlight?

  "Do I see the sun rise every morning?

  "Did I ever meet a highwayman?

  "Does I believe in ghosts?

  "Can I really tell fortunes?

  "I takes his shapely little hand--as brown as your own, my daughter, forhis mother, like myself, was a pure Roman, and looked down upon by herpeople in consequence for marrying my son, who is of mixed blood (myhusband being in family, as in every other respect, undeserving of theslightest mention).

  "'Let me tell you your fortune, my noble little gentleman,' I says. 'Thelines of life are crossed early with those of travelling. Far will youwander, and many things will you see. Stone houses and houses of brickwill not detain you. In the big house with the blue roof and the greencarpet were you born, and in the big house with the blue roof and thegreen carpet will you die. The big house is delicately perfumed, mynoble little gentleman, especially in the month of May; at which timethere is also an abundance of music, and the singers sits overhead. Givethe old gipsy woman a sight of your comely feet, my little gentleman, bythe soles of which it is not difficult to see that you were born towander.'

  "With this and similar jaw I entertained him, my daughter, and his eyeslooks up at me out of his face till I feels as if the dead had comeback; but he had a way with him besides which frightened me, for I knewthat it came from living with gentlefolk.

  "'Are you mighty learned, my dear?' says I. 'Are you well instructed inbooks and schooling?'

  "'I can say the English History in verse,' he says, 'and I do compoundaddition; and I know my Catechism, and lots of hymns. Would you like tohear me?'

  "'If you please, my little gentleman,' I says.

  "'What shall I say?' he asks. 'I know all the English History, only I amnot always quite sure how the kings come; but if you know the kings andcan just give me the name, I know the verses quite well. And I know theCatechism perfectly, but perhaps you don't know the questions withoutthe book. The hymns of course you don't want a book for, and I know thembest of all.'

  "'I am not learned, myself,' says I, 'and I only know of two kings--theking of England--who, for that matter, is a queen, and a very goodwoman, they say, if one could come at her--and the king of the gipsies,who is as big a blackguard as you could desire to know, and by no meansentitled to call himself king, though he gets a lot of money by it,which he spends in the public-house. As regards the other thing, mydear, I certainly does not know the questions without the book, nor,indeed, should I know them with the book, which is neither here northere; so if the hymns require no learning on my part, I gives thepreference to them.'

  "'I like _them_ best, myself,' he says; and he puts his hat and hisshoes and stockings on the ground, and stands up and folds his handsbehind his back, and repeats a large number of religious verses, withthe same readiness with which the young clergyman speaks out of a book.

  "It partly went against me, my daughter, for I am not religious myself,and he was always too fond of holy words, which I thinks bringsill-luck. But his voice was as sweet as a thrush that sits singing in athorn-bush, and between that and a something in the verses which had atendency to make you feel uncomfortable, I feels more disturbed than Icares to show. But oh, my daughter, how I loves him!

  "'The blessing of an old gipsy woman on your young head,' I says. 'Fairbe the skies under which you wanders, and shady the spots in which yourests!

  "'May the water be clear and the wood dry where you camps!

  "'May every road you treads have turf by the wayside, and thepatteran[B] of a friend on the left.'

  "'What is the patteran?' he asks.

  "'It is a secret,' I says, looking somewhat sternly at him. 'The roadskeeps it, and the hedges keeps it--'

  "'I can keep it,' he says boldly. 'Pinch my finger, and try me!'

  "As he speaks he holds out his little finger, and I pinches it, mydaughter, till the colour dies out of his lips, though he keeps themset, for I delights to see the nobleness and the endurance of him. So Iexplains the patteran to him, and shows him ours with two bits ofhawthorn laid crosswise, for I does not regard him as a stranger, and Isees that he can keep his lips shut when it is required.

  "He was practising the patteran at my feet, when I hears the cry of'Christian!' and I cannot explain to you the chill that came over myheart at the sound.

  "Trouble and age and the lone company of your own thoughts, my daughter,has a tendency to confuse you; and I am not by any means rightly certainat times about things I sees and hears. I sees Christian's mother whenI knows she can't be there, and though I believes now that only oneperson was calling the child, yet, with the echo that comes from thequarry, and with worse than twenty echoes in my own mind, it seems to methat the wood is full of voices calling him.

  "In my foolishness, my daughter, I sits like a stone, and he springs tohis feet, and snatches up his things, and says, 'Good-bye, old gipsywoman, and thank you very much. I should like to stay with you,' hesays, 'but Nurse is calling me, and Mother does get so frightened if Iam long away and she doesn't know where. But I shall come back.'

  "I never quite knows, my daughter, whether it was the echo that repeatedhis words, or whether it was my own voice I hears, as I stretches my oldarms after him, crying, 'Come back!'

  "But he runs off shouting, 'Coming, coming!'

  "And the wood deafens me, it is so full of voices.

  "_Christian! Christian!--Coming! Coming!_

  "And I thinks I has some kind of a fit, my daughter, for when I wakes,the wood is as still as death, and he is gone, as dreams goes."