Cleg Kelly, Arab of the City 17

Cleg Kelly, Arab of the City 17

"Aye, here she comes that sets up for being better than your mother!

But we'll show you before we are through with you, my man and me, you——"

 

However, it does not enter into the purpose of this tale to blacken

a page with the foul excrement of a devilish woman's hate of her own

child. The scripture holdeth—the mother may forget. She may indeed have

no compassion on the child of her womb. And Vara Kavannah sat still

and listened, till the burning shame dulled to a steady throbbing ache

somewhere within her. The woman's threats of future torture and outrage

passed idly over her, meaningless and empty. The man drank steadily,

and grew ever silenter and more sullen; for, to his credit be it said,

the situation was not to his taste, and he looked but seldom at Vara.

The girl sat clasping the babe to her bosom with a secret sense that

in little Gavin she had her best and indeed her only protector. For

even the very bad man in his senses will hardly hurt an infant—though a

bad woman will, as we may read in the records of our police courts.

 

So Vara sat till the man reeled to the door, carrying the unfinished

bottle with him, and Sal Kavannah, her orgie logically completed, sank

in a fœtid heap on the floor with the empty one beside her.

 

The man as he stumbled out left the door open, and in a little while

Vara could hear Boy Hugh's plaintive voice, asking from the wood-pile

in the corner whether the "awfu' woman" was gone yet.

 

As Vara sat and listened all through the short hours of that midsummer

night to the clocks of the city churches, the stertorous breathing of

her mother and the babe's occasional feeble wail were the only sounds

within the hut itself. But Boy Hugh's plaint detached itself fitfully

from the uneasy hum of the midnight city without. A resolve, new-born

indeed, but seemingly old and determinate as the decrees of the God she

had learned about in the Catechism, took hold upon her.

 

It seemed to Vara that it did not matter if she died—it did not even

matter whether Hugh and Gavin died, if only she could find her father,

and die far away from her mother and all this misery.

 

The girl was so driven to the last extremity by the trials of the

day and the terrors of the night that she rose and put on her hat

as calmly as though she had been going for a walk with Cleg and the

children across the park. As calmly also she made her preparations,

stepping carefully to and fro across her mother on the floor. She put

all the scraps of bread that were left from Cleg's windfall into her

pocket, together with the baby's feeding bottle and a spare tube.

Then she added Hugh's whistle and a certain precious whip with a short

bone handle and a long lash, which Cleg had given him. Vara was sure

that Hugh Boy would cry for these, and want to go back if she did not

take them with her. She had nothing of her own to take, except the

indiarubber umbrella ring which Cleg Kelly had given her. So she took

that, though she had never possessed an umbrella in her life. Groping

in Gavin's crib, she found her shawl, and wrapped it about her with a

knowing twist. Then she deftly took up the baby. The shawl went over

her left shoulder and was caught about her waist at the right side, in

a way which all nurses and mothers know, but which no man can ever hope

to describe. The babe was still asleep, and Vara's tender touch did not

awake it as she stepped out into the night to walk to Liverpool to find

her father.

 

But as a first step she must find Boy Hugh. And that young man was

exceedingly shy. He had got it in his obstinate little head that his

sister wished to drag him back to the "awfu' woman." It was not,

therefore, till Vara had managed to persuade him in the most solemn

way that she had no intention of ever going back that he consented to

accompany her upon her desperate quest.

 

At last Boy Hugh took her hand and the three bairns left Callendar's

yard behind them for ever. What happened there that night after they

left we already know. It is with the children's wanderings that we now

have to do.

 

 

 

 

ADVENTURE XXXII.

 

MAID GREATHEART AND HER PILGRIMS.

 

 

It was grey day when the children fared forth from the city. Vara's

chief anxiety was lest they should not be able to escape out of the

town before the light came, so that some officious neighbour might

be able to direct her enemy upon their track. It was not long before

they emerged out of the side-alleys on a broad paved street which led

towards the south.

 

Vara paused and asked a policeman if this was the way to Liberton.

 

"And what are you going to do at Liberton so early in the morning?"

said the policeman. He asked because he was a Lothian man, who always

puts a second question before he can bring himself to answer the first.

 

"We are gaun to see our faither," said Vara, speaking the truth.

 

"Weel," said the policeman, "that is the road to Liberton. But if I was

you I would wait till the milk-cairts were drivin' hame. Then I could

get ye a lift to Liberton fine."

 

He was a kind-hearted "poliss," and in fact the same officer who had

looked over the screen by the watch-shelter behind which Tyke was

spinning his yarns to Cleg Kelly.

 

So that—thus strange is the working of events when they take the reins

into their own hands—at the very moment when Cleg Kelly was sleeplessly

turning over in his mind the problem of the life-fate of Vara and the

children by the dying fire at the Grange crossing, Vara herself with

the baby on her arm was trudging down the pavement opposite. As she

passed she looked across, and only the timbered edge of the shelter

prevented her from seeing Cleg Kelly.

 

Thus, without the least hindrance or observation, the three children

escaped out of their thrice-heated fiery furnace into the cool of the

country hedges and upon the clean hard surface of the upland roads.

 

With the inevitable instinct of hunted things Vara turned aside

whenever she heard the brisk clapper of the hoofs of a milk-cart, or

the slower rumble of a market waggon. For she knew that it was of such

early comers into the city that questions would be asked. So, when Cleg

set about his inquisition, he was foiled by the very forethought which

had only desired to defeat an enemy, not to mystify a friend.

 

Thus hour by hour they left quiet, kindly red-tiled villages behind,

set in heartsome howes and upon windy ridges. And, as they went ever

forwards, morning broadened into day; day crept dustily forward to hot

noon; noon drowsed into afternoon; with the scent of beanfields in the

air, dreamily sweet. Vara's arm that held the baby grew numb and dead.

Her back ached acutely from the waist downwards as though it would

break in two. Sometimes the babe wailed for food. Little Hugh dragged

leadenly upon her other hand, and whinged on, with the wearisome

iteration of the corncrake, that he wished to go back to Callendar's

yard, till Vara had to remind him, because nothing else would stay his

plaining, of the "awfu' woman" waiting for him there.

 

Vara did not rest long that whole day. They sat down as seldom as

possible, and then only for a few minutes. Vara poured a little of

the water from a wayside spring upon the crumbs that were left, and

gave them to little Gavin, mixing them with the remaining milk in his

bottle. Hugh begged incessantly that Vara would let him take off his

boots and walk barefoot. But his sister knew that he would certainly

become lame in a mile or two. Yet there might have been pleasure in

it too, for they sat down in the pleasantest places all that fine,

bough-tossing day. The shadows were sprinkled on the grassy hillsides,

like a patchwork quilt which Vara had once seen in their house when

Hugh was very little, but which had long ago become only a memory and a

lost pawn-ticket.

 

Never before had the children seen such quaint woodland places—nooks

where the rabbits tripped and darted, or sat on the bank washing faces

pathetically innocent and foolish. Little runnels of water trickled

down the gullies of the banks and dived under the road. But for Vara

there was no enjoyment, no resting all that day. They soon spent their

store of food. By noon Hugh had eaten all the cold potatoes. The babe

had taken, at first with difficulty, then, under the pressure of

hunger, greedily, the thin water and milk with the crushed crumbs in

it which Vara had made at the brook-side. So that also was finished.

Hunger began, not for the first time, to grip them.

 

But they could not rest long. In a little, just as Hugh Boy was

beginning to drop asleep and lean heavily against Vara, there came

again upon her without warning a terrible fear. She looked down the

road they had come, and she seemed to see the cruel eyes of her mother,

to hear again the foul threats of the life she was to be compelled to

lead for "setting herself up to be better than her mother," all the

words which she had listened to during those last hours of terror and

great darkness in the old construction hut.

 

So Vara shook Hugh awake, stroking his cheeks down gently till his

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.