Cleg Kelly, Arab of the City 18

Cleg Kelly, Arab of the City 18

"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."

 

At the mere thought she began to tremble and hastily to put her

scattered belongings together. The young minister made no further

objection. He walked with them a little along the way, and before he

parted from them he put another shilling into Vara's hand. Then he

leaped over the stone dyke on his way to a farmhouse where there was

a sick man waiting for him. From the other side of the fence he told

Vara shyly to remember that she had another Father to care for her,

who could always be found. But he was shy about saying so much, this

remarkable young man. However, he had a high sense of duty, and he felt

that the circumstances justified the observation.

 

"Thank ye," said Vara; "I'll no forget."

 

This, their second day, had become one of brooding heat, and Vara was

glad to have enough to buy a good meal for them all at the next little

town they passed through. They were fortunate also in the afternoon,

for at a little house by the wayside, a cottage with red creepers

growing all along the wall, the mistress took them all in and gave them

a cup of tea and some of the fresh white scones she was baking. There

was milk too for little Gavin. And as they went away a thought seemed

to strike the woman. She bade them wait a little while. She climbed up

into the attic, and presently returned with a shawl, which she wrapped

about Vara, and settled the baby into the nook of it with her own hands.

 

"But this is a good shawl. We must not take it from you," said Vara.

 

"Nonsense," said the good woman; "it is a fair exchange. Leave me the

auld ane; it will make very decent floor-clouts."

 

[Illustration: "Out with it!" said the minister.]

 

So it was on the whole a good day for them. And it was not till late

in the evening that misfortune again befell them. Vara's hands were

usually so full of Gavin that she had little thought for anything else.

But at one resting place she put her hand into her pocket and her heart

stood still because she failed to find the slim coins upon which she

had put her trust. She felt the pennies, but not the shilling or the

sixpence. She laid Gavin down on the grass and turned the pocket inside

out. There was nothing whatever there. But Vara found instead a little

slit in the lining, and the thought of her great loss, together with

what it meant to them all, turned her faint and sick.

 

"The man might just as well have had them, after all," she said.

 

Night fell with them still upon the road. They had found no friendly

shelter, and they seemed to be alone on the wide moor, through which

the road ran unfenced, like a tangle of string which has been loosely

thrown down. Hugh Boy cried bitterly to be allowed to lie down. Vara

looked about her anxiously and long. But she could see nothing but the

wild moorish hilltops girdling the horizon, too like one another to

give her any idea of the direction in which a habited house might lie.

She only saw the slow twilight of midsummer in the north creeping down

over the brown moors, and in the moist hollows of the bogs shallow

pools of mist gathering.

 

For the distance, the sound of a voice was borne in the still air.

 

"Hurley, hurley, hie away hame!" it said. And Vara went to the top of

a heathery knowe and called loudly. But only the moorbirds, making

ready for bed, answered her. They flew round, circling and complaining,

especially the peewits, which, being reassured by the small size of

the three, came almost offensively near.

 

Boy Hugh filled his pockets with stones to drive them away. He also

got out his whip. He had heard of the Babes in the Wood, and, being

a sensible boy, he did not want any Robin Redbreast nonsense. It was

not that he so much objected to die, but he felt the humiliation of

being covered with leaves by the whaups. He complained bitterly to

Vara, who was preoccupied with Gavin, that the Drabble had stolen from

him the iron barrel of the pistol which Cleg Kelly had given him. Had

it not been for that felony, they would not now have found themselves

defenceless in that wild place.

 

"Boy Hugh thinks there's sure to be lions an' teegers here!" he said.

 

It was not long before Vara decided that they must spend another night

out of doors, and looked about for a suitable spot where they could get

water and shelter.

 

At last she settled upon the lee of a large boulder, and began to

give Gavin what remained of his milk. Boy Hugh thought this was his

opportunity to make sure that they were well defended against their

enemies. The moon was rising, and he remembered that Cleg Kelly

had told him how lions and tigers always hunted by moonlight. That

widely-read journal, "The Bully Boys of New York," was Cleg's authority

for this statement.

 

There was certainly an appalling silence on the face of the moorland.

Boy Hugh could see, indeed, the rock behind which Vara and Gavin

were. But he tried to forget it. He wanted the sensation of perfect

loneliness. Then the devil entered into Boy Hugh, and he wanted

to explore. The moon came out from behind a cloud, and everything

became bleached and flat, melting away into vague immensities and

nerve-shaking mysteries which vanished as you approached. Of course

that was not the way Boy Hugh put it to himself. It only made him want

to run away. But suddenly a vague fear struck him to the heart, and he

started to run back (as he thought) towards Vara and Gavin. He imagined

that he could hear the sound of some animal trampling about the moss in

search of wandering little boys. And it occurred to him that he had no

means of defence except the whip, and even that served him not so well

now, for the lash was broken. So this was the reason why Boy Hugh ran

away.

 

Though, indeed, his progress could hardly be called running. For at

every few steps he tripped in some intricate twist of heather, tough

as wire, and, falling forward, he instinctively bent his body into a

half-hoop, like a young hedgehog. Thus he rolled down the brae, often

coming upon his feet at the bottom and continuing his flight with

energy unabated and without pausing a single moment even to ascertain damages.