diff options
Diffstat (limited to 'old/8886-0.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | old/8886-0.txt | 12755 |
1 files changed, 12755 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/old/8886-0.txt b/old/8886-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..eef0fbc --- /dev/null +++ b/old/8886-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,12755 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Rough Shaking, by George MacDonald + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: A Rough Shaking + +Author: George MacDonald + + +Release Date: September, 2005 [EBook #8886] +This file was first posted on August 20, 2003 +Last Updated: March 9, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A ROUGH SHAKING *** + + + + +Produced by Distributed Proofreaders + + + + + + + +A ROUGH SHAKING + +By George MacDonald + + + +Contents. + + Chap. + I. How I came to know Clare Skymer + II. With his parents + III. Without his parents + IV. The new family + V. His new home + VI. What did draw out his first smile + VII. Clare and his brothers + VIII. Clare and his human brothers + IX. Clare the defender + X. The black aunt + XI. Clare on the farm + XII. Clare becomes a guardian of the poor + XIII. Clare the vagabond + XIV. Their first helper + XV. Their first host + XVI. On the tramp + XVII. The baker's cart + XVIII. Beating the town + XIX. The blacksmith and his forge + XX. Tommy reconnoitres + XXI. Tommy is found and found out + XXII. The smith in a rage + XXIII. Treasure trove + XXIV. Justifiable burglary + XXV. A new quest + XXVI. A new entrance + XXVII. The baby has her breakfast + XXVIII. Treachery + XXIX. The baker + XXX. The draper + XXXI. An addition to the family + XXXII. Shop and baby + XXXIII. A bad penny + XXXIV. How things went for a time + XXXV. Clare disregards the interests of his employers + XXXVI. The policeman + XXXVII. The magistrate + XXXVIII. The workhouse + XXXIX. Away + XL. Maly + XLI. The caravans + XLII. Nimrod + XLIII. Across country + XLIV. A third mother + XLV. The menagerie + XLVI. The angel of the wild beasts + XLVII. Glum Gunn + XLVIII. The Puma + XLIX. Glum Gunn's revenge + L. Clare seeks help + LI. Clare a true master + LII. Miss Tempest + LIII. The gardener + LIV. The kitchen + LV. The wheel rests for a time + LVI. Strategy + LVII. Ann Shotover + LVIII. Child-talk + LIX. Lovers' walks + LX. The shoe-black + LXI. A walk with consequences + LXII. The cage of the puma + LXIII. The dome of the angels + LXIV. The panther + LXV. At home + LXVI. The end of Clare Skymer's boyhood + + + Illustrations. + + Clare, Tommy, and the baby in custody + Mrs. Porson finds Clare by the side of his dead mother + Clare is heard talking to Maly + Clare makes friends during Mr. Porson's absence + The blacksmith gives Clare and Tommy a rough greeting + Clare and Abdiel at the locked pump + Clare proceeds to untie the ropes from the ring in the bull's nose + Clare finds the advantage of a powerful friend + The gardener's discomfiture + Clare asks Miss Shotover to let him carry Ann home + Clare is found giving the shoeblack a lesson + Clare asleep in the puma's cage + + + +Dedicated to my great-nephew, Norman MacKay Binney, aged seven, +because his Godfather and Godmother love him dearly. + +Hampstead, August 26, 1890. + + + + +A ROUGH SHAKING. + + + +Chapter I. + +How I Came to know Clare Skymer. + + +It was a day when everything around seemed almost perfect: everything +does, now and then, come nearly right for a moment or two, preparatory +to coming all right for good at the last. It was the third week in +June. The great furnace was glowing and shining in full force, driving +the ship of our life at her best speed through the ocean of space. For +on deck, and between decks, and aloft, there is so much more going on +at one time than at another, that I may well say she was then going at +her best speed, for there is quality as well as rate in motion. The +trees were all well clothed, most of them in their very best. Their +garments were soaking up the light and the heat, and the wind was +going about among them, telling now one and now another, that all was +well, and getting through an immense amount of comfort-work in a +single minute. It said a word or two to myself as often as it passed +me, and made me happier than any boy I know just at present, for I was +an old man, and ought to be more easily made happy than any mere +beginner. + +I was walking through the thin edge of a little wood of big trees, +with a slope of green on my left stretching away into the sunny +distance, and the shadows of the trees on my right lying below my +feet. The earth and the grass and the trees and the air were together +weaving a harmony, and the birds were leading the big orchestra--which +was indeed on the largest scale. For the instruments were so +different, that some of them only were meant for sound; the part of +others was in odour, of others yet in shine, and of still others in +motion; while the birds turned it all as nearly into words as they +could. Presently, to complete the score, I heard the tones of a man's +voice, both strong and sweet. It was talking to some one in a way I +could not understand. I do not mean I could not understand the words: +I was too far off even to hear them; but I could not understand how +the voice came to be so modulated. It was deep, soft, and musical, +with something like coaxing in it, and something of tenderness, and +the intent of it puzzled me. For I could not conjecture from it the +age, or sex, or relation, or kind of the person to whom the words were +spoken. You can tell by the voice when a man is talking to himself; it +ought to be evident when he is talking to a woman; and you can, +surely, tell when he is talking to a child; you could tell if he were +speaking to him who made him; and you would be pretty certain if he +was holding communication with his dog: it made me feel strange that I +could not tell the kind of ear open to the gentle manly voice saying +things which the very sound of them made me long to hear. I confess to +hurrying my pace a little, but I trust with no improper curiosity, to +see--I cannot say the interlocutors, for I had heard, and still heard, +only one voice. + +About a minute's walk brought me to the corner of the wood where it +stopped abruptly, giving way to a field of beautiful grass; and then I +saw something it does not need to be old to be delighted withal: the +boy that would not have taken pleasure in it, I should count half-way +to the gallows. Up to the edge of the wood came, I say, a large +field--acres on acres of the sweetest grass; and dividing it from both +wood and path stood a fence of three bars, which at the moment +separated two as genuine lovers as ever wall of “stones with lime and +hair knit up” could have sundered. On one side of the fence stood a +man whose face I could not see, and on the other one of the loveliest +horses I had ever set eyes upon. I am no better than a middling fair +horseman, but, for this horse's sake, I may be allowed to mention that +my friends will all have me look at any horse they think of buying. +He was over sixteen hands, with well rounded barrel, clean limbs, +small head, and broad muzzle; hollows above his eyes of hazy blue, and +delicacy of feature, revealed him quite an old horse. His ears pointed +forward and downward, as if they wanted on their own account to get a +hold of the man the nose was so busily caressing. Neither, I presume, +had heard my approach; for all true-love-endearments are shy, and the +man had his arm round the horse's neck, and was caressing his face, +talking to him much as Philip Sidney's lady, whose lips “seemed at +once to kiss and speak,” murmured to her pet sparrow, only here the +voice was a musical baritone. That there was something between them +more than an ordinary person would be likely to understand appeared +patent. + +Whether or not I made an involuntary sound I cannot tell: I was so +taken with the sight, bearing to me an aspect of something eternal, +that I do not know how I carried myself; but the horse gave a little +start, half lifted his head, saw me, threw it up, uttered a shrill +neigh of warning, stepped hack a pace, and stood motionless, waiting +apparently for an order from his master--if indeed I ought not rather +to call them friends than master and servant. + +The man looked round, saw me, turned toward me, and showing no sign +that my appearance was unexpected, lifted his hat with a courtesy most +Englishmen would reserve for a lady, and advanced a step, almost as if +to welcome a guest. I may have owed something of this reception to the +fact that he saw before him a man advanced in years, for my beard is +very gray, and that by no means prematurely. I saw before me one +nearly, if not quite as old as myself. His hair and beard, both rather +long, were quite white. His face was wonderfully handsome, with the +stillness of a summer sea upon it. Its features were very marked and +regular and fine, for the habit of the man was rather spare. What with +his white hair and beard, and a certain radiance in his pale +complexion, which, I learned afterward, no sun had ever more than +browned a little, he reminded me for a moment as he turned, of Cato on +the shore of Dante's purgatorial island. + +“I fear,” I said, “I have intruded!” There was no path where I had +come along. + +The man laughed--and his laugh was more friendly than an invitation to +dinner. + +“The land is mine,” he answered; “no one can say you intrude.” + +“Thank you heartily. I live not very far off, and know the country +pretty well, but have got into a part of which I am ignorant.” + +“You are welcome to go where you will on my property,” he answered. +“I could not close a field without some sense of having thrown a +fellow-being into a dungeon. Whatever be the rights of land, space can +belong to the individual only '_as it were_,' to use a Shakspere-phrase. +All the best things have to be shared. The house plainly was designed +for a family.” + +While he spoke I scarce heeded his words for looking at the man, so +much he interested me. His face was of the palest health, with a faint +light from within. He looked about sixty years of age. His forehead +was square, and his head rather small, but beautifully modelled; his +eyes were of a light hazel, friendly as those of a celestial +dog. Though slender in build, he looked strong, and every movement +denoted activity. + +I was not ready with an answer to what he said. He turned from me, and +as if to introduce a companion and so render the interview easier, he +called, in tone as gentle as if he spoke to a child, but with that +peculiar intonation that had let me understand it was not to a child +he was speaking, “Memnon! come;” and turned again to me. His movement +and words directed my attention again to the horse, who had stood +motionless. At once, but without sign of haste, the animal walked up +to the rails, rose gently on his hind legs, came over without +touching, walked up to his master, and laid his head on his shoulder. + +I bethought me now who the man was. He had been but a year or two in +the neighbourhood, though the property on which we now stood had been +his own for a good many years. Some said he had bought it; others knew +he had inherited it. All agreed he was a very peculiar person, with +ways so oddly unreasonable that it was evident he had, in his +wanderings over the face of the earth, gradually lost hold of what +sense he might at one time have possessed, and was in consequence a +good deal cracked. There seemed nothing, however, in his behaviour or +appearance to suggest such a conclusion: a man could hardly be counted +beside himself because he was on terms of friendship with his +horse. It took me but a moment to recall his name--Skymer--one odd +enough to assist the memory. I caught it ere he had done mingling +fresh caresses with those of his long-tailed friend. When I came to +know him better, I knew that he had thus given me opportunity--such as +he would to a horse--of thinking whether I should like to know him +better: Mr. Skymer's way was not to offer himself, but to give easy +opportunity to any who might wish to know him. I learned afterward +that he knew my name and suspected my person: being rather prejudiced +in my favour because of the kind of thing I wrote, he was now waiting +to see whether approximation would follow. + +“Pardon my rude lingering,” I said; “that lovely animal is enough to +make one desire nearer acquaintance with his owner. I don't think I +ever saw such a perfect creature!” + +I remembered the next moment that I had heard said of Mr. Skymer that +he liked beasts better than men, but I soon found this was only one of +the foolish things constantly said of honest men by those who do not +understand them. + +There are women even who love dogs and dislike children; but, nauseous +fact as this is, it is not so nauseous as the fact that there are men +who believe in no animal rights, or in any God of the animals, and +think we may do what we please with them, indulging at their cost an +insane thirst after knowledge. Injustice may discover facts, but never +truth. + +“I grant him nearly a perfect creature,” he answered, “But he is far +more nearly perfect than you yet know him! Excuse me for speaking so +confidently; but if we were half as far on for men, as Memnon is for a +horse, the kingdom of heaven would be a good deal nearer!” + +“He seems an old horse!” + +“He is an old horse--much older than you can think after seeing him +come over that paling as he did. He is forty.” + +“Is it possible!” + +“I know and can prove his age as certainly as my own. He is the son of +an Arab mare and an English thoroughbred.--Come here, Memnon!” + +The horse, who had been standing behind like a servant in waiting, put +his beautiful head over his master's shoulder. + +“Memnon,” said Mr. Skymer, “go home and tell Mrs. Waterhouse I hope to +bring a gentleman with me to lunch.” + +The horse walked gently past us, then started at a quick trot, which +almost immediately became a gallop. + +“The dear fellow,” said his master, “would not gallop like that if he +were on the hard road; he knows I would not like it.” + +“But, excuse me, how can the animal convey your message?--how +communicate what he knows, if he does understand what you say to him?” + +“He will at least take care that the housekeeper look in his mane for +the knot which perhaps you did not observe me tie in it.” + +“You have a code of signals by knots then?” + +“Yes--comprising about half a dozen possibilities.--I hope you do not +object to the message I sent! You will do me the honour of lunching +with me?” + +“You are most kind,” I answered--with a little hesitation, I suppose, +fearing to bore my new acquaintance. + +“Don't make me false to horse and housekeeper, Mr. Gowrie,” he +resumed.--“I put the horse first, because I could more easily explain +the thing to Mrs. Waterhouse than to Memnon.” + +“Could you explain it to Memnon?” + +“I should have a try!” he answered, with a peculiar smile. + +“You hold yourself bound then to keep faith with your horse?” + +“Bound just as with a man--that is, as far as the horse can understand +me. A word understood is binding, whether spoken to horse, or man, or +pig. It makes it the more important that we can do so little, must +work so slowly, for the education of the lower animals. It seems to me +an absolute horror that a man should lie to an inferior creature. Just +think--if an angel were to lie to us! What a shock to find we had been +reposing faith in a devil.” + +“Excuse me--I thought you said _an angel_!” + +“When he lied, would he not be a devil?--But let us follow Memnon, and +as we walk I will tell you more about him.” + +He turned to the wood. + +“The horse,” I said, pointing, “went that way!” + +“Yes,” answered his master; “he knew it was nearer for him to take the +long way round. If I had started him and one of the dogs together, the +horse would have gone that way, and the dog taken the path we are now +following.” + +We walked a score or two of yards in silence. + +“You promised to tell me more about your wonderful horse!” I said. + +“With pleasure. I delight in talking about my poor brothers and +sisters! Most of them are only savages yet, but there would be far +fewer such if we did not treat them as slaves instead of friends. One +day, however, all will be well for them as for us--thank God.” + +“I hope so,” I responded heartily. “But please tell me,” I said, +“something more about your Memnon.” + +Mr. Skymer thought for a moment. + +“Perhaps, after all,” he rejoined, “his best accomplishment is that he +can fetch and carry like a dog. I will tell you one of his feats that +way. But first you must know that, having travelled a good deal, and +in some wild countries, I have picked up things it is well to know, +even if not the best of their kind. A man may fail by not knowing the +second best! I was once out on Memnon, five and twenty miles from +home, when I came to a cottage where I found a woman lying ill. I saw +what was wanted. The country was strange to me, and I could not have +found a doctor. I wrote a little pencil-note, fastened it to the +saddle, and told the horse to go home and bring me what the +housekeeper gave him--and not to spare himself. He went off at a +steady trot of ten or twelve miles an hour. I went into the cottage, +and, awaiting his return, did what I could for the woman. I confess I +felt anxious!” + +“You well might,” I said: “why should you say _confess_?” + +“Because I had no business to be anxious.” + +“It was your business to do all for her you could.” + +“I was doing that! If I hadn't been, I should have had good cause to +be anxious! But I knew that another was looking after her; and to be +anxious was to meddle with his part!” + +“I see now,” I answered, and said nothing more for some time. + +“What a lather poor Memnon came back in! You should have seen him! He +had been gone nearly five hours, and neither time nor distance +accounted for the state he was in. I did not let him do anything for a +week. I should have had to sit up with him that night, if I had not +been sitting up at any rate. The poor fellow had been caught, and had +made his escape. His bridle was broken, and there were several long +skin wounds in his belly, as if he had scraped the top of a wall set +with bits of glass. How far he had galloped, there was no telling.” + +“Not in vain, I hope! The poor woman?” + +“She recovered. The medicine was all right in a pocket under the flap +of the saddle. Before morning she was much better, and lived many +years after. Memnon and I did not lose sight of her.--But you should +have seen the huge creature lying on the floor of that cabin like a +worn-out dog, abandoned and content! I rubbed him down carefully, as +well as I could, and tied my poncho round him, before I let him go to +sleep. Then as soon as my patient seemed quieted for the night, I made +up a big fire of her peats, and they slept like two babies, only they +both snored.--The woman beat,” he added with a merry laugh. “It was +the first, almost the only time I ever heard a horse snore.--As we +walked home next day he kept steadily behind me. In general we walked +side by side. Either he felt too tired to talk to me, or he was not +satisfied with himself because of something that had happened the day +before. Perhaps he had been careless, and so allowed himself to be +taken. I do not think it likely.” + +“What a loss it will be to you when he dies!” I said. + +He looked grave for an instant, then replied cheerfully-- + +“Of course I shall miss the dear fellow--but not more than he will +miss me; and it will be good for us both.” + +“Then,” said I,--a little startled, I confess, “you really think--” + and there I stopped. + +“Do _you_ think, Mr. Gowrie,” he rejoined, answering my unpropounded +question, “that a God like Jesus Christ, would invent such a delight +for his children as the society and love of animals, and then let +death part them for ever? I don't.” + +“I am heartily willing to be your disciple in the matter,” I replied. + +“I know well,” he resumed, “the vulgar laugh that serves the poor +public for sufficient answer to anything, and the common-place retort: +'You can't give a shadow of proof for your theory!'--to which I +answer, 'I never was the fool to imagine I could; but as surely as you +go to bed at night expecting to rise again in the morning, so surely +do I expect to see my dear old Memnon again when I wake from what so +many Christians call the sleep that knows no waking.'--Think, +Mr. Gowrie, just think of all the children in heaven--what a +superabounding joy the creatures would be to them!--There is one +class, however,” he went on, “which I should like to see wait a while +before they got their creatures back;--I mean those foolish women who, +for their own pleasure, so spoil their dogs that they make other +people hate them, doing their best to keep them from rising in the +scale of God's creation.” + +“They don't know better!” I said. For every time he stopped, I wanted +to hear what he would say next. + +“True,” he answered; “but how much do they want to know the right way +of anything? They have good and lovely instincts--like their dogs, but +do they care that there is a right way and a wrong way of following +them?” + +We walked in silence, and were now coming near the other side of the +small wood. + +“I hope I shall not interfere with your plans for the day!” I said. + +“I seldom have any plans for the day,” he answered. “Or if I have, +they are made to break easily. In general I wait. The hour brings its +plans with it--comes itself to tell me what is wanted of me. It has +done so now. And see, there is Memnon again in attendance on us!” + +There, sure enough, was the horse, on the other side of the paling +that here fenced the wood from a well-kept country-road. His long neck +was stretched over it toward his master. + +“Memnon,” said Mr. Skymer as we issued by the gate, “I want you to +carry this gentleman home.” + +I had often enough in my youth ridden without a saddle, but seldom +indeed without some sort of bridle, however inadequate: I did not, at +the first thought of the thing, relish mounting without one a horse of +which all I knew was that he and his master were on better terms than +I had ever seen man and horse upon before. But even while the thought +was passing through my head, Memnon was lying at my feet, flat as his +equine rotundity would permit. Ashamed of my doubt, I lost not a +moment in placing myself in the position suggested by Sir John +Falstaff to Prince Hal for the defence of his own bulky +carcase--astride the body of the animal, namely. At once he rose and +lifted me into the natural relation of man and horse. Then he looked +round at his master, and they set off at a leisurely pace. + +“You have me captive!” I said. + +“Memnon and I,” answered Mr. Skymer, “will do what we can to make your +captivity pleasant.” + +A silence followed my thanks. In this procession of horse and foot, we +went about half a mile ere anything more was said worth setting +down. Then began evidence that we were drawing nigh to a house: the +grassy lane between hedges in which we had been moving, was gradually +changing its character. First came trees in the hedge-rows. Then the +hedges gave way to trees--a grand avenue of splendid elms and beeches +alternated. The ground under our feet was the loveliest sward, and +between us and the sun came the sweetest shadow. A glad heave but +instant subsidence of the live power under me, let me know Memnon's +delight at feeling the soft elastic turf under his feet: he had said +to himself, “Now we shall have a gallop!” but immediately checked the +thought with the reflection that he was no longer a colt ignorant of +manners. + +“What a lovely road the turf makes!” I said. “It is a lower +sky--solidified for feet that are not yet angelic.” + +My host looked up with a brighter smile than he had shown before. + +“It is the only kind of road I really like,” he said, “--though turf +has its disadvantages! I have as much of it about the place as it will +bear. Such roads won't do for carriages!” + +“You ride a good deal, I suppose?” + +“I do. I was at one time so accustomed to horseback that, without +thinking, I was not aware whether I was on my horse's feet or my own.” + +“Where, may I ask, does my friend who is now doing me the favour to +carry 'this weight and size,' come from?” + +“He was born in England, but his mother was a Syrian--of one of the +oldest breeds there known. He was born into my arms, and for a week +never touched the ground. Next month, as I think I mentioned, he will +be forty years old!” + +“It is a great age for a horse!” I said. + +“The more the shame as well as the pity!” he answered. + +“Then you think horses might live longer?” + +“Much longer than they are allowed to live in this country,” he +answered. “And a part of our punishment is that we do not know +them. We treat them so selfishly that they do not live long enough to +become our friends. At present there are but few men worthy of their +friendship. What else is a man's admiration, when it is without love +or respect or justice, but a bitter form of despite! It is small +wonder there should be so many stupid horses, when they receive so +little education, have such bad associates, and die so much too young +to have gained any ripe experience to transmit to their +posterity. Where would humanity be now, if we all went before +five-and-twenty?” + +“I think you must be right. I have myself in my possession at this +moment, given me by one who loved her, an ink-stand made from the hoof +of a pony that died at the age of at least forty-two, and did her part +of the work of a pair till within a year or two of her death.--Poor +little Zephyr!” + +“Why, Mr. Gowrie, you talk of her as if she were a Christian!” + exclaimed Mr. Skymer. + +“That's how you talked of Memnon a moment ago! Where is the +difference? Not in the size, though Memnon would make three of +Zephyr!” + +“I didn't say _poor Memnon_, did I? You said _poor Zephyr_! That is +the way Christians talk about their friends gone home to the grand old +family mansion! Why they do, they would hardly like one to tell them!” + +“It is true,” I responded. “I understand you now! I don't think I ever +heard a widow speak of her departed husband without putting _poor_, or +_poor dear_, before his name.--By the way, when you hear a woman speak +of her _late_ husband, can you help thinking her ready to marry +again?” + +“It does sound as if she had done with him! But here we are at the +gate!--Call, Memnon.” + +The horse gave a clear whinny, gentle, but loud enough to be heard at +some distance. It was a tall gate of wrought iron, but Memnon's +summons was answered by one who could clear it--though not open it any +more than he: a little bird, which I was not ornithologist enough to +recognize--mainly because of my short-sightedness, I hope--came +fluttering from the long avenue within, perched on the top of the +gate, looked down at our party for a moment as if debating the +prudent, dropped suddenly on Memnon's left ear, and thence to his +master's shoulder, where he sat till the gate was opened. The little +one went half-way up the inner avenue with us, making several flights +and returns before he left us. + +The boy that opened the gate, a chubby little fellow of seven, looked +up in Mr. Skymer's face as if he had been his father and king in one, +and stood gazing after him as long as he was in sight. I noticed +also--who could have failed to notice?--that every now and then a bird +would drop from the tree we were passing under, and alight for a +minute on my host's head. Once when he happened to uncover it, seven +or eight perched together upon it. One tiny bird got caught in his +beard by the claws. + +“You cannot surely have tamed _all_ the birds in your grounds!” I +said. + +“If I have,” he answered, “it has been by permitting them to be +themselves.” + +“You mean it is the nature of birds to be friendly with man?” + +“I do. Through long ages men have been their enemies, and so have +alienated them--they too not being themselves.” + +“You mean that unfriendliness is not natural to men?” + +“It cannot be human to be cruel!” + +“How is it, then, that so many boys are careless what suffering they +inflict?” + +“Because they have in them the blood of men who loved cruelty, and +never repented of it.” + +“But how do you account for those men loving cruelty--for their being +what you say is contrary to their nature?” + +“Ah, if I could account for that, I should be at the secret of most +things! All I meant to half-explain was, how it came that so many who +have no wish to inflict suffering, yet are careless of inflicting it.” + +I saw that we must know each other better before he would quite open +his mind to me. I saw that though, hospitable of heart, he threw his +best rooms open to all, there were others in his house into which he +did not invite every acquaintance. + +The avenue led to a wide gravelled space before a plain, low, long +building in whitish stone, with pillared portico. In the middle of the +space was a fountain, and close to it a few chairs. Mr. Skymer begged +me to be seated. Memnon walked up to the fountain, and lay down, that +I might get off his back as easily as I had got on it. Once down, he +turned on his side, and lay still. + +“The air is so mild,” said my host, “I fancy you will prefer this to +the house.” + +“Mild!” I rejoined; “I should call it hot!” + +“I have been so much in real heat!” he returned. “Notwithstanding my +love of turf, I keep this much in gravel for the sake of the desert.” + +I took the seat he offered me, wondering whether Memnon was +comfortable where he lay; and, absorbed in the horse, did not see my +host go to the other side of the basin. Suddenly we were “clothed +upon” with a house which, though it came indeed from the earth, might +well have come direct from heaven: a great uprush of water spread +above us a tent-like dome, through which the sun came with a cool, +broken, almost frosty glitter. We seemed in the heart of a huge +soap-bubble. I exclaimed with delight. + +“I thought you would enjoy my sun-shade!” said Mr. Skymer. “Memnon and +I often come here of a hot morning, when nobody wants us. Don't we, +Memnon?” + +The horse lifted his nose a little, and made a low soft noise, a chord +of mingled obedience and delight--a moan of pleasure mixed with a +half-born whinny. + +We had not been seated many moments, and had scarcely pushed off the +shore of silence into a new sea of talk, when we were interrupted by +the invasion of half a dozen dogs. They were of all sorts down to no +sort. Mr. Skymer called one of them Tadpole--I suppose because he had +the hugest tail, while his legs were not visible without being looked +for. + +“That animal,” said his master, “--he looks like a dog, but who would +be positive what he was!--is the cleverest in the pack. He seems to me +a rare individuality. His ancestors must have been of all sorts, and +he has gathered from them every good quality possessed by each. Think +what a man might be--made up that way!” + +“Why is there no such man?” I said. + +“There may be some such men. There must be many one day,” he answered, +“--but not for a while yet. Men must first be made willing to be +noble.” + +“And you don't think men willing to be made noble?” + +“Oh yes! willing enough, some of them, to be _made_ noble!” + +“I do not understand. I thought you said they were not!” + +“They are willing enough _to be made_ noble; but that is very +different from being willing _to be_ noble: that takes trouble. How +can any one become noble who desires it so little as not to fight for +it!” + +The man drew me more and more. He had a way of talking about things +seldom mentioned except in dull fashion in the pulpit, as if he cared +about them. He spoke as of familiar things, but made you feel he was +looking out of a high window. There are many who never speak of real +things except in a false tone; this man spoke of such without an atom +of assumed solemnity--in his ordinary voice: they came into his mind +as to their home--not as dreams of the night, but as facts of the day. + +I sat for a while, gazing up through the thin veil of water at the +blue sky so far beyond. I thought how like that veil was to our little +life here, overdomed by that boundless foreshortening of space. The +lines in Shelley's _Adonais_ came to me: + + “Life, like a dome of many-coloured glass, + Stains the white radiance of Eternity, + Until Death tramples it to fragments.” + +Then I thought of what my host had said concerning the too short lives +of horses, and wondered what he would say about those of dogs. + +“Dogs are more intelligent than horses,” I said: “why do they live a +yet shorter time?” + +“I doubt if you would say so in an Arab's tent,” he returned. “If you +had said, 'still more affectionate,' I should have known better how to +answer you.” + +“Then I do say so,” I replied. + +“And I return, that is just why they live no longer. They do not find +the world good enough for them, die, and leave it.” + +“They have a much happier life than horses!” + +“Many dogs than some horses, I grant.” + +That instant arose what I fancied must be an unusual sound in the +place: two of the dogs were fighting. The master got up. I thought +with myself, “Now we shall see his notions of discipline!” nor had I +long to wait. In his hand was a small riding-whip, which I afterward +found he always carried in avoidance of having to inflict a heavier +punishment from inability to inflict a lighter; for he held that in +all wrong-doing man can deal with, the kindest thing is not only to +punish, but, with animals especially, to punish at once. He ran to the +conflicting parties. They separated the moment they heard the sound of +his coming. One came cringing and crawling to his feet; the other--it +was the nondescript Tadpole--stood a little way off, wagging his tail, +and cocking his head up in his master's face. He gave the one at his +feet several pretty severe cuts with the whip, and sent him off. The +other drew nearer. His master turned away and took no notice of him. + +“May I ask,” I said, when he returned to his seat, “why you did not +punish both the animals for their breach of the peace?” + +“They did not both deserve it.” + +“How could you tell that? You were not looking when the quarrel +began!” + +“Ah, but you see I know the dogs! One of them--I saw at a glance how +it was--had found a bone, and dog-rule about finding is, that what you +find is yours. The other, notwithstanding, wanted a share. It was +Tadpole who found the bone, and he--partly from his sense of +justice--cannot endure to have his claims infringed upon. Every dog of +them knows that Tadpole must be in the right.” + +“He looked as if he expected you to approve of his conduct!” + +“Yes, that is the worst of Tadpole! he is so self-righteous as to +imagine he deserves praise for standing on his rights! He is but a +dog, you see, and knows no better!” + +“I noticed you disregarded his appeal.” + +“I was not going to praise him for nothing!” + +“You expect them to understand your treatment?” + +“No one can tell how infinitesimally small the beginnings of +understanding, as of life, may be. The only way to make animals +reasonable--more reasonable, I mean--is to treat them as +reasonable. Until you can go down into the abysses of creation, you +cannot know when a nature begins to see a difference in quality +of action.” + +“I confess,” I said, “Mr. Tadpole did seem a little ashamed as he went +away.” + +“And you see Blanco White at my feet, taking care not to touch +them. He is giving time, he thinks, for my anger to pass.” + +He laughed the merriest laugh. The dog looked up eagerly, but dropped +his head again. + +If I go on like this, however, I shall have to take another book to +tell the story for which I began the present! In short, I was drawn to +the man as never to another since the friend of my youth went where I +shall go to seek and find him one day--or, more likely, one solemn +night. I was greatly his inferior, but love is a quick divider of +shares: he that gathers much has nothing over, and he that gathers +little has no lack. I soon ceased to think of him as my _new_ friend, +for I seemed to have known him before I was born. + +I am going to tell the early part of his history. If only I could tell +it as it deserves to be told! The most interesting story may be so +narrated as that only the eyes of a Shakspere could spy the shine +underneath its dull surface. + +He never told me any great portion of the tale of his life +continuously. One thing would suggest another--generally with no +connection in time. I have pieced the parts together myself. He did +indeed set out more than once or twice to give me his history, but +always we got discussing something, and so it was interrupted. + +I will not write what I have set in order as if he were himself +narrating: the most modest man in the world would that way be put at a +disadvantage. The constant recurrence of the capital _I_, is apt to +rouse in the mind of the reader, especially if he be himself +egotistic, more or less of irritation at the egotism of the +narrator--while in reality the freedom of a man's personal utterance +_may_ be owing to his lack of the egotistic. Partly for my +friend's sake, therefore, I shall tell the story as--what indeed it +is--a narrative of my own concerning him. + + + +Chapter II + +With his parents. + + +The lingering, long-drawn-out _table d'hôte_ dinner was just over in +one of the inns on the _cornice_ road. The gentlemen had gone into the +garden, and some of the ladies to the _salotto_, where open windows +admitted the odours of many a flower and blossoming tree, for it was +toward the end of spring in that region. One had sat down to a +tinkling piano, and was striking a few chords, more to her own +pleasure than that of the company. Two or three were looking out into +the garden, where the diaphanous veil of twilight had so speedily +thickened to the crape of night, its darkness filled with thousands of +small isolated splendours--fire-flies, those “golden boats” never seen +“on a sunny sea,” but haunting the eves of the young summer, pulsing, +pulsing through the dusky air with seeming aimlessness, like sweet +thoughts that have no faith to bind them in one. A tall, graceful +woman stood in one of the windows alone. She had never been in Italy +before, had never before seen fire-flies, and was absorbed in the +beauty of their motion as much as in that of their golden +flashes. Each roving star had a tide in its light that rose and ebbed +as it moved, so that it seemed to push itself on by its own radiance, +ever waxing and waning. In wide, complicated dance, they wove a huge, +warpless tapestry with the weft of an ever vanishing aureate +shine. The lady, an Englishwoman evidently, gave a little sigh and +looked round, regretting, apparently, that her husband was not by her +side to look on the loveliness that woke a faint-hued fairy-tale in +her heart. The same moment he entered the room and came to her. He was +a man above the middle height, and from the slenderness of his figure, +looked taller than he was. He had a vivacity of motion, a readiness to +turn on his heel, a free swing of the shoulders, and an erect carriage +of the head, which all marked him a man of action: one that speculated +on his calling would immediately have had his sense of fitness +satisfied when he heard that he was the commander of an English +gun-boat, which he was now on his way to Genoa to join. He was +young--within the twenties, though looking two or three and thirty, +his face was so browned by sun and wind. His features were regular and +attractive, his eyes so dark that the liveliness of their movement +seemed hardly in accord with the weight of their colour. His wife was +very fair, with large eyes of the deepest blue of eyes. She looked +delicate, and was very lovely. They had been married about five +years. A friend had brought them in his yacht as far as Nice, and they +were now going on by land. From Genoa the lady must find her way home +without her husband. + +The lights in the room having been extinguished that the few present +might better see the fire-flies, he put his arm round her waist. + +“I'm so glad you're come, Henry!” she said, favoured by the piano. “I +was uncomfortable at having the lovely sight all to myself!” + +“It is lovely, darling!” he rejoined; then, after a moment's pause, +added, “I hope you will be able to sleep without the sea to rock you!” + +“No fear of that!” she answered. “The stillness will be delightful. I +was thoroughly reconciled to the motion of the yacht,” she went on, +“but there is a satisfaction in feeling the solid earth under you, and +knowing it will keep steady all night.” + +“I am glad you like the change. I never sleep the first night on +shore.--I cannot tell what it is, but somehow I keep wishing Fyvie +could have taken us all the way.” + +“Never mind, love. I will keep awake with you.” + +“It's not that! How could I mind lying awake with you beside me! Oh +Grace, you don't know, you cannot know, what you are to me! I don't +feel in the least that you're my other half, as people say. You're not +like a part of myself at all; to think so would be sacrilege! You are +quite another, else how could you be mine! You make me forget myself +altogether. When I look at you, I stand before an enchanted mirror +that cannot show what is in front of it.” + +“No, Harry; I'm a true mirror, for I hold that inside me which remains +outside me.” + +“I fear you've got beyond me!” said her husband, laughing. “You always +do!” + +“Yes, at nonsense, Harry.” + +“Then your speech was nonsense, was it?” + +“No; it was full of sense. But think of something you would like me to +say; I must fetch the boy to see the fire-flies; when I come back I +will say it.” + +She left the room. Her husband stood where he was, gazing out, with a +tender look in his face that deepened to sadness--whether from the +haunting thought of his wife's delicate health and his having to leave +her, or from some strange foreboding, I cannot tell. When presently +she returned with their one child in her arms, he made haste to take +him from her. + +“My darling,” he said, “he is much too heavy for you! How stupid of me +not to think of it! If you don't promise me never to do that at home, +I will take him to sea with me!” + +The child, a fair, bright boy, the sleep in whose eyes had turned to +wonder, for they seemed to see everything, and be quite satisfied with +nothing, went readily to his father, but looked back at his +mother. The only sign he gave that he was delighted with the +fire-flies was, that he looked now to the one, now to the other of his +parents, speechless, with shining eyes. He knew they were feeling just +like himself. Silent communion was enough. + +The father turned to carry him back to bed. The mother turned to look +after them. As she did so, her eyes fell upon two or three delicate, +small-leaved plants--I do not know what they were--that stood in pots +on the balcony in front of the open window: they were shivering. The +night was perfectly still, but their leaves trembled as with an +ague-fit. + +“Look, Harry! What is that?” she cried, pointing to them. + +He turned and looked, said it must be some loaded wagon passing, and +went off with the child. + +“I hope to-morrow will be just like to-day!” said his wife when he +returned. “What shall we do with it?--our one real holiday, you know!” + +“I have a notion in my head,” he answered. “That little town Georgina +spoke of, is not far from here--among the hills: shall we go and see +it?” + + + +Chapter III. + +Without his parents. + + +The sun in England seems to shine because he cannot help it; the sun +in Italy seems to shine because he means it, and wants to mean +it. Thus he shone the next morning, including in his attentions a +curious little couple, husband and wife, who, attended by a guide, and +borne by animals which might be mules and might be donkeys, and were +not lovely to look on except through sympathy with their ugliness, +were slowly ascending a steep terraced and zigzagged road, with olive +trees above and below them. They were on the south side of the hill, +and the olives gave them none of the little shadow they have in their +power, for the trees next the sun were always below the road. The man +often wiped his red, innocent face, and looked not a little +distressed; but the lady, although as stout as he, did not seem to +suffer, perhaps because she was sheltered by a very large bonnet After +a silence of a good many minutes, she was the first to speak. + +“I can't say but I'm disappointed in the olives, Thomas,” she +remarked. “They ain't much to keep the sun off you!” + +“They wouldn't look bad along a brookside in Essex!” returned her +husband. “Here they do seem a bit out of place!” + +“Well, but, poor things! how are they to help it--with only a trayful +of earth under their feet! If you planted a priest on a terrace he +would soon be as thin as they!” + +They had just passed a very stout priest, in a low broad hat, and +cassock, and she laughed merrily at her small joke. They were an +English country parson and his wife, abroad for the first time in +their now middle-aged lives, and happy as children just out of +school. Incapable of disliking anybody, there was no unkindness in +Mrs. Porson's laughter. + +“I don't see,” she resumed, “how they ever can have a picnic in such a +country!” + +“Why not?” + +“There's no place to sit down!” + +“Here's a whole hill-side!” + +“But so hard!” she answered. “There's not an inch of turf or grass in +any direction!” + +The pair--equally plump, and equally good-natured--laughed together. + +I need not give more of their talk. It was better than most talk, yet +not worth recording. Their guide, perceiving that they knew no more of +Italian than he did of English, had withdrawn to the rear, and stumped +along behind them all the way, holding much converse with his donkeys +however, admonishing now this one, now that one, and seeming not a +little hurt with their behaviour, to judge from the expostulations +that accompanied his occasionally more potent arguments. Assuredly the +speed they made was small; but it was a festa, and hot. + +They were on the way to a small town some distance from the shore, on +the crest of the hill they were now ascending. It would, from the +number of its inhabitants, have been in England a village, but there +are no villages in the Riviera. However insignificant a place may be, +it is none the less a town, possibly a walled town. Somebody had told +Mr. and Mrs. Person they ought to visit Graffiacane, and to +Graffiacane they were therefore bound: why they ought to visit it, and +what was to be seen there, they took the readiest way to know. + +The place was indeed a curious one, high among the hills, and on the +top of its own hill, with approaches to it like the trenches of a +siege. All the old towns in that region seem to have climbed up to +look over the heads of other things. Graffiacane saw over hills and +valleys and many another town--each with its church standing highest, +the guardian of the flock of houses beneath it; saw over many a +water-course, mostly dry, with lovely oleanders growing in the middle +of it; saw over multitudinous oliveyards and vineyards; saw over mills +with great wheels, and little ribbons of water to drive them--running +sometimes along the tops of walls to get at their work; saw over +rugged pines, and ugly, verdureless, raw hillsides--away to the sea, +lying in the heat like a heavenly vat in which all the tails of all +the peacocks God was making, lay steeped in their proper dye. Numerous +were the sharp turns the donkeys made in their ascent; and at this +corner and that, the sweetest life-giving wind would leap out upon the +travellers, as if it had been lying there in wait to surprise them +with the heavenliest the old earth, young for all her years, could +give them. But they were getting too tired to enjoy anything, and were +both indeed not far from asleep on the backs of their humble beasts, +when a sudden, more determined yet more cheerful assault of their +guide upon his donkeys, roused both them and their riders; and looking +sleepily up, with his loud _heeoop_ ringing in their ears, and a sense +of the insidious approach of two headaches, they saw before them the +little town, its houses gathered close for protection, like a brood of +chickens, and the white steeple of the church rising above them, like +the neck of the love-valiant hen. + +Passing through the narrow arch of the low-browed gateway, hot as was +the hour, a sudden cold struck to their bones. For not a ray of light +shone into the narrow street. The houses were lofty as those of a +city, and parted so little by the width of the street that friends on +opposite sides might almost from their windows have shaken +hands. Narrow, rough, steep old stone-stairs ran up between and inside +the houses, all the doors of which were open to the air--here, +however, none of the sweetest. Everywhere was shadow; everywhere one +or another evil odour; everywhere a look of abject and dirty +poverty--to an English eye, that is. Everywhere were pretty children, +young, slatternly mothers, withered-up grandmothers, the gleam of +glowing reds and yellows, and the coolness of subdued greens and fine +blues. Such at least was the composite first impression made on Mr. +and Mrs. Porson. As it was a festa, more men than usual were looking +out of cavern-like doorways or over hand-wrought iron balconies, were +leaning their backs against door-posts, and smoking as if too lazy to +stop. Many of the women were at prayers in the church. All was +orderly, and quieter than usual for a festa. None could have told the +reason; the townsfolk were hardly aware that an undefinable oppression +was upon them--an oppression that lay also upon their visitors, and +the donkeys that had toiled with them up the hills and slow-climbing +valleys. + +It added to the gloom and consequent humidity of the town that the +sides of the streets were connected, at the height of two or perhaps +three stories, by thin arches--mere jets of stone from the one house +to the other, with but in rare instance the smallest superstructure to +keep down the key of the arch. Whatever the intention of them, they +might seem to serve it, for the time they had straddled there +undisturbed had sufficed for moss and even grass to grow upon those +which Mr. Porson now regarded with curious speculation. A bit of an +architect, and foiled, he summoned at last what Italian he could, +supplemented it with Latin and a terminational _o_ or _a_ tacked to +any French or English word that offered help, and succeeded, as he +believed, in gathering from a by-stander, that the arches were there +because of the earthquakes. + +He had not language enough of any sort to pursue the matter, else he +would have asked his informant how the arch they were looking at could +be of any service, seeing it had no weight on the top, and but a +slight endlong pressure must burst it up. Turning away to tell his +wife what he had learned, he was checked by a low rumbling, like +distant thunder, which he took for the firing of festa guns, having +discovered that Italians were fond of all kinds of noises. The next +instant they felt the ground under their feet move up and down and +from side to side with confused motion. A sudden great cry arose. One +moment and down every stair, out of every door, like animals from +their holes, came men, women, and children, with a rush. The +earthquake was upon them. + +But in such narrow streets, the danger could hardly be less than +inside the houses, some of which, the older especially, were ill +constructed--mostly with boulder-stones that had neither angles nor +edges, hence little grasp on each other beyond what the friction of +their weight, and the adhesion of their poor old friable cement, gave +them; for the Italians, with a genius for building, are careless of +certain constructive essentials. After about twenty seconds of +shaking, the lonely pair began to hear, through the noise of the cries +of the people, some such houses as these rumbling to the earth. + +They were far more bewildered than frightened. They were both of good +nerve, and did not know the degree of danger they were in, while the +strangeness of the thing contributed to an excitement that helped +their courage. I cannot say how they might have behaved in an hotel +full of their countrymen and countrywomen, running and shrieking, and +altogether comporting themselves as if they knew there was no God. The +fear on all sides might there have infected them; but the terror of +the inhabitants who knew better than they what the thing meant, did +not much shake them. For one moment many of the people stood in the +street motionless, pale, and staring; the next they all began to run, +some for the gateway, but the greater part up the street, staggering +as they ran. The movement of the ground was indeed small--not more, +perhaps, than half an inch in any direction--but fear and imagination +weakened all their limbs. They had not run far, however, before the +terrible unrest ceased as suddenly as it had begun. + +The English pair drew a long breath where they stood--for they had not +stirred a step, or indeed thought whither to run--and imagining it +over for a hundred years, looked around them. Their guide had +disappeared. The two donkeys stood perfectly still with their heads +hanging down. They seemed in deep dejection, and incapable of +movement. A few men only were yet to be seen. They were running up the +street. In a moment more it would be empty. They were the last of +those that had let the women go to church without them. They were +hurrying to join them in the sanctuary, the one safe place: the rest +of the town might be shaken in heaps on its foundations, but the +church would stand! Guessing their goal, the Porsons followed +them. But they were neither of a build nor in a condition to make +haste, and the road was uphill. No one place, however, was far from +another within the toy-town, and they came presently to an open +_piazza_, on the upper side of which rose the great church. It had a +square front, masking with its squareness the triangular gable of the +building. Upon this screen, in the brightest of colours, magenta and +sky-blue predominating, was represented the day of judgment--the +mother seated on the right hand of the judge, and casting a pitiful +look upon the miserable assembly on her left. The square was a good +deal on the slope, and as they went slowly up to the church, they kept +looking at the picture. The last tatters of the skirt of the crowd had +disappeared through the great door, and but for themselves the square +was empty. All at once the picture at which they were gazing, the +spread of wall on which it was painted, the whole bulk of the huge +building began to shudder, and went on shuddering--“just,” Mr. Porson +used to say when describing the thing to a friend, “like the skin of a +horse determined to get rid of a gad-fly.” The same moment the tiles +on the roof began to clatter like so many castanets in the hands of +giants, and the ground to wriggle and heave. But they were too much +absorbed in what was before their eyes to heed much what went on under +their feet. The oscillatory displacement of the front of the church +did not at most seem to cover more than a hand-breadth, but it was +enough. Down came the plaster surface, with the judge and his mother, +clashing on the pavement below, while the good and the bad yet stood +trembling. A few of the people came running out, thinking the open +square after all safer than the church, but there was no rush to the +open air. The shaking had lasted about twenty seconds, or at most half +a minute, when, without indication to the eyes watching the front, +there came a roaring crash and a huge rumbling, through and far above +which, rose a multitudinous shriek of terror, dismay, and agony, and a +number of men and women issued as if shot from a catapult. Then a few +came straggling out, and then--no more. The roof had fallen upon the +rest. + +With the first rush from the church, the shaking ceased utterly, and +the still earth seemed again the immovable thing the English +spectators had conceived her. Of what had taken place there was little +sign on the earth, no sign in the blue sun-glorious heaven; only in +the air there was a cloud of dust so thick as to look almost solid, +and from the cloud, as it seemed, came a ghastly cry, mingled of +shrieks and groans and articulate appeals for help. The cry kept on +issuing, while the calm front of the church, dominated by that +frightful canopy, went on displaying the assembled nations delivered +from their awful judge. While the multitude groaned within, it spread +itself out to the sun in silent composure, welcoming and cherishing +his rays in what was left of its gorgeous hues. + +The Porsons stood for a moment stunned, came to their senses, and made +haste to enter the building. With white faces and trembling hands, +they drew aside the heavy leather curtain that hung within the great +door, but could for a moment see nothing; the air inside seemed filled +with a solid yellow dust As their eyes recovered from the sudden +change of sunlight for gloom, however, they began to distinguish the +larger outlines, and perceived that the floor was one confused heap of +rafters and bricks and tiles and stones and lime. The centre of the +roof had been a great dome; now there was nothing between their eyes +and the clear heaven but the slowly vanishing cloud of ruin. In the +mound below they could at first distinguish nothing human--could not +have told, in the dim chaos, limbs from broken rafters. Eager to help, +they dared not set their feet upon the mass--not that they feared the +walls which another shock might bring upon their heads, but that they +shuddered lest their own added weight should crush some live human +creature they could not descry. Three or four who had received little +or no hurt, were moving about the edges of the heap, vaguely trying to +lift now this, now that, but yielding each attempt in despair, either +from its evident uselessness, or for lack of energy. They would give a +pull at a beam that lay across some writhing figure, find it +immovable, and turn with a groan to some farther cry. How or where +were they to help? Others began to come in with white faces and +terror-stricken eyes; and before long the sepulchral ruin had little +groups all over it, endeavouring in shiftless fashion to bring rescue +to the prisoned souls. + +The Porsons saw nothing they could do. Great beams and rafters which +it was beyond their power to move an inch, lay crossed in all +directions; and they could hold little communication with those who +were in a fashion at work. Alas, they were little better than vainly +busy, while the louder moans accompanying their attempts revealed that +they added to the tortures of those they sought to deliver! The two +saw more plainly now, and could distinguish contorted limbs, and here +and there a countenance. The silence, more and more seldom broken, was +growing itself terrible. Had they known how many were buried there, +they would have wondered so few were left able to cry out. At moments +there was absolute stillness in the dreadful place. The heart of +Mrs. Porson began to sink. + +“Do come out,” she whispered, afraid of her own voice. “I feel so sick +and faint, I fear I shall drop.” + +As she spoke something touched her leg. She gave a cry and started +aside. It was a hand, but of the body to which it belonged nothing +could be seen. It must have been its last movement; now it stuck there +motionless. Then they spied amid sad sights a sadder still. Upon the +heap, a little way from its edge, sat a child of about three, dressed +like a sailor, gazing down at something--they could not see +what. Going a little nearer, they saw it--the face of a fair woman, +evidently English, who lay dead, with a great beam across her +heart. The child showed no trace of tears; his white face seemed +frozen. The stillness upon it was not despair, but suggested a world +in which hope had never yet been born. Pity drove Mrs. Porson's +sickness away. + +“My dear!” she said; but the child took no heed. Her voice, however, +seemed to wake something in him. He started to his feet, and rushing +at the beam, began to tug at it with his tiny hands. Mrs. Porson burst +into tears. + +“It's no use, darling!” she cried. + +“Wake mamma!” he said, turning, and looking up at her. + +“She will not wake,” sobbed Mrs. Porson. + +Her husband stood by speechless, choking back the tears of which, +being an Englishman, he was ashamed. + +“She _will_ wake,” returned the boy. “She always wakes when I kiss +her.” + +He knelt beside her, to prove upon her white face the efficacy of the +measure he had never until now known to fail. That he had already +tried it was plain, for he had kissed away much of the dust, though +none of the death. When once more he found that she did not even close +her lips to return his passionate salute, he desisted. With that +saddest of things, a child's sigh, and a look that seemed to Mrs. +Porson to embody the riddle of humanity, he reseated himself on the +beam, with his little feet on his mother's bosom, where so often she +had made them warm. He did not weep; he did not fix his eyes on his +mother; his look was level and moveless and set upon nothing. He +seemed to have before him an utter blank--as if the outer wall of +creation had risen frowning in front, and he knew there was nothing +behind it but chaos. + +“Where is your papa?” asked Mr. Porson. + +The boy looked round bewildered. + +“Gone,” he answered; nor could they get anything more from him. + +“Was your papa with you here?” asked Mrs. Porson. + +He answered only with the word _Gone_, uttered in a dazed fashion. + +By this time all the men left in the town were doing their best, under +the direction of an intelligent man, the priest of a neighbouring +parish. They had already got one or two out alive, and their own +priest dead. They worked well, their terror of the lurking earthquake +forgotten in their eagerness to rescue. From their ignorance of the +language, however, Mr. Porson saw they could be of little use; and in +dread of doing more harm than good, he judged it better to go. + +They stood one moment and looked at each other in silence. The child +had dropped from the beam, and lay fast asleep across his mother's +bosom, with his head on a lump of mortar. Without a word spoken, +Mrs. Person, picking her way carefully to the spot, knelt down by the +dead mother, tenderly kissed her cheek, lifted the sleeping child, and +with all the awe, and nearly all the tremulous joy of first +motherhood, bore him to her husband. The throes of the earthquake had +slain the parents, and given the child into their arms. Without look +of consultation, mark of difference, or sign of agreement, they turned +in silence and left the terrible church, with the clear summer sky +looking in upon its dead. + +As they passed the door, the sun met them shining with all his +might. The sea, far away across the tops of hills and the clefts of +valleys, lay basking in his glory. The hot air quivered all over the +wide landscape. From the flight of steps in front of the church they +looked down on the streets of the town, and beyond them into space. It +looked the best of all possible worlds--as neither plague, famine, +pestilence, earthquakes, nor human wrongs, persuade me it is not, +judged by the high intent of its existence. When a man knows that +intent, as I dare to think I do, _then_ let him say, and not till +then, whether it be a good world or not. That in the midst of the +splendour of the sunny day, in the midst of olives and oranges, grapes +and figs, ripening swiftly by the fervour of the circumambient air, +should lie that charnel-church, is a terrible fact, neither to be +ignored, nor to be explained by the paltry theory of the greatest good +to the greatest number; but the end of the maker's dream is not this. + +When they turned into the street that led to the gate, they found the +donkeys standing where they had left them. Their owner was not with +them. He had gone into the church with the rest, and was killed. When +they caught sight of the patient, dejected animals, unheeded and +unheeding, then first they spoke, whispering in the awful stillness of +the world: they must take the creatures, and make the best of their +way back without a guide! They judged that, as the road was chiefly +down hill, and the donkeys would be going home, they would not have +much difficulty with them. At the worst, short and stout as they were, +they were not bad walkers, and felt more than equal to carrying the +child between them. Not a person was in the street when they mounted; +almost all were in the church, at its strange, terrible service. Mrs. +Porson mounted the strongest of the animals, her husband placed the +sleeping child in her arms, and they started, he on foot by the side +of his wife, and his donkey following. No one saw them pass through +the gate of the town. + +They were not sure of the way, for they had been partly asleep as they +came, but so long as they went downward, and did not leave the road, +they could hardly go wrong! The child slept all the way. + + + +Chapter IV. + +The new family. + + +How shall a man describe what passed in the mind of a childless wife, +with a motherless boy in her arms! It is the loveliest provision, +doubtless, that every child should have a mother of his own; but there +is a mother-love--which I had almost called more divine--the love, +namely, that a woman bears to a child because he is a child, +regardless of whether he be her own or another's. It is that they may +learn to love thus, that women have children. Some women love so +without having any. No conceivable treasure of the world could have +once entered into comparison with the burden of richness Mrs. Porson +bore. She told afterward, with voice hushed by fear of irreverence, +how, as they went down one of the hills, she slept for a moment, and +dreamed that she was Mary with the holy thing in her arms, fleeing to +Egypt on the ass, with Joseph, her husband, walking by her side. For +years and years they had been longing for a child--and here lay the +divinest little one, with every mark of the kingdom upon him! His +father and mother lying crushed under the fallen dome of that fearful +church, was it strange he should seem to belong to her? + +But there might be some one somewhere in the world with a better +claim; possibly--horrible thought!--with more need of him than she! Up +started a hideous cupidity, a fierce temptation to dishonesty, such as +she had never imagined. We do not know what is in us until the +temptation comes. Then there is the devil to fight. And Mrs. Porson +fought him. + +Mr. Porson was, in a milder degree, affected much as his wife. He +could not help wishing, nor was he wrong in wishing, that, since the +child's father and mother were gone, they might take their place, and +love their orphan. They were far from rich, but what was one child! +They might surely manage to give him a good education, and set him +doing for himself! But, alas, there might be others--others with +love-property in the child! The same thoughts were working in each, +but neither dared utter them in the presence of the sleeping treasure. + +As they descended the last slope above the town, with the wide +sea-horizon before them, they beheld such a glory of after-sunset as, +even on that coast, was unusual. A chord of colour that might have +been the prostrate fragment of a gigantic rainbow, lay along a large +arc of the horizon. The farther portion of the sea was an indigo blue, +save for a grayish line that parted it from the dusky red of the +sky. This red faded up through orange and dingy yellow to a pale green +and pale blue, above which came the depth of the blue night, in which +rayed resplendent the evening star. Below the star and nearer to the +west, lay, very thin and very long, the sickle of the new moon. If +death be what it looks to the unthinking soul, and if the heavens +declare the glory of God, as they do indeed to the heart that knows +him, then is there discord between heaven and earth such as no +argument can harmonize. But death is not what men think it, for +“Blessed are they that mourn for the dead.” + +The sight enhanced the wonder and hope of the two honest good souls in +the treasure they carried. Out of the bosom of the skeleton Death +himself, had been given them--into their very arms--a germ of life, a +jewel of heaven! At the thought of what lay up the hill behind them, +they felt their joy in the child almost wicked; but if God had taken +the child's father and mother, might they not be glad in the hope that +he had chosen them to replace them? That he had for the moment at +least, they were bound to believe! + +They travelled slowly on, through the dying sunset, and an hour or two +of the star-bright night that followed, adorned rather than lighted by +the quaint boat of the crescent moon. Weary, but lapt in a voiceless +triumph, they came at last, guided by the donkeys, to their hotel. + +All were talking of the earthquake. A great part of the English had +fled in a panic terror, like sheep that had no shepherd--hunted by +their own fears, and betrayed by their imagined faith. The steadiest +church-goer fled like the infidel he reviled. The fool said in his +heart, “There is no God,” and fled. The Christian said with his mouth, +“Verily there is a God that ruleth in the earth!” and fled--far as he +could from the place which, as he fancied, had shown signs of a +special presence of the father of Jesus Christ. + +After the Persons were in the house, there came two or three small +shocks. Every time, out with a cry rushed the inhabitants into the +streets; every time, out into the garden of the hotel swarmed such as +were left in it of Germans and English. But our little couple, who had +that day seen so much more of its terrors than any one else in the +place, and whose chamber was at the top of the house where the swaying +was worst, were too much absorbed in watching and tending their lovely +boy to heed the earthquake. Perhaps their hearts whispered, “Can that +which has given us such a gift be unfriendly?” + +“If his father and mother,” said Mrs. Person, as they stood regarding +him, “are permitted to see their child, they shall see how we love +him, and be willing he should love us!” + +As they went up the stairs with him, the boy woke When he looked and +saw a face that was not his mother's, a cloud swept across the heaven +of his eyes. He closed them again, and did not speak. The first of the +shocks came as they were putting him to bed: he turned very white and +looked up fixedly, as if waiting another fall from above, but sat +motionless on his new mother's lap. The instant the vibration and +rocking ceased, he drank from the cup of milk she offered him, as +quietly as if but a distant thunder had rolled away. When she put him +in the bed, he looked at her with such an indescribable expression of +bewildered loss, that she burst into tears. The child did not cry. He +had not cried since they took him. The woman's heart was like to break +for him, but she managed to say, + +“God has taken her, my darling. He is keeping her for you, and I am +going to keep you for her;” and with that she kissed him. + +The same moment came the second shock. + +Need wakes prophecy: the need of the child made of the parson a +prophet. + +“It is God that does the shaking,” he said. “It's all right. Nobody +will be the worse--not much, at least!” + +“Not at all,” rejoined the boy, and turned his face away. + +From the lips of such a tiny child, the words seemed almost awful. + +He fell fast asleep, and never woke till the morning. Mrs. Porson lay +beside him, yielding him, stout as she was, a good half of the little +Italian bed. She scarcely slept for excitement and fear of smothering +him. + +The Persons were honest people, and for all their desire to possess +the child, made no secret of how and where they had found him, or of +as much of his name as he could tell them, which was only _Clare_. But +they never heard of inquiry after him. On the gunboat at Genoa they +knew nothing of their commander's purposes, or where to seek him. Days +passed before they began to be uneasy about him, and when they did +make what search for him they could, it was fruitless. + + + +Chapter V. + +His new home. + + +The place to which the good people carried the gift of the +earthquake--carried him with much anxiety and more exultation--had no +very distinctive features. It had many fields in grass, many in crop, +and some lying fallow--all softly undulating. It had some trees, and +everywhere hedges dividing fields whose strange shapes witnessed to a +complicated history, of which few could tell anything. Here and there +in the hollows between the motionless earth-billows, flowed, but did +not seem to flow, what they called a brook. But the brooks there were +like deep soundless pools without beginning or end. There was no life, +no gaiety, no song in them, only a sullen consent to exist. That at +least is how they impress one accustomed to real brooks, lark-like, +always on the quiver, always on the move, always babbling and gabbling +and gamboling, always at their games, always tossing their pebbles +about, and telling them to talk. A man that loved them might say there +was more in the silence of these, than in the speech of those; but +what silence can be better than a song of delight that we are, that we +were, that we are to be! The stillness may be full of solemn fish, +mysterious as itself, and deaf with secrets; but blessed is the brook +that lets the light of its joy shine. + +Dull as the place must seem in this my description, it was the very +country for the boy. He would come into more contact with its modest +beauty in a day than some of us would in a year. Nobody quite knows +the beauty of a country, especially of a quiet country, except one who +has been born in it, or for whom at least childhood and boyhood and +youth have opened door after door into the hidden phases of its +life. There is no square yard on the face of the earth but some one +can in part understand what God meant in making it; while the same +changeful skies canopy the most picturesque and the dullest +landscapes; the same winds wake and blow over desert and pasture land, +making the bosoms of youth and age swell with the delight of their +blowing. The winds are not all so full as are some of delicious odours +gathered as they pass from gardens, fields, and hill-sides; but all +have their burden of sweetness. Those that blew upon little Clare were +oftener filled with the smell of farmyards, and burning weeds, and +cottage-fires, than of flowers; but never would one of such odours +revisit him without bringing fresh delight to his heart. Its mere +memorial suggestion far out on the great sea would wake the old child +in the man. The pollards along the brooks grew lovely to his heart, +and were not the less lovely when he came to understand that they were +not so lovely as God had meant them to be. He was one of those who, +regarding what a thing _is_, and not comparing it with other things, +descry the thought of God in it, and love it; for to love what is +beautiful is as natural as to love our mothers. + +The parsonage to which his new father and mother brought him was like +the landscape--humble. It was humble even for a parsonage--which has +no occasion to be fine. For men and women whose business it is to +teach their fellows to be true and fair, and not covet fine things, +are but hypocrites, or at best intruders and humbugs, if they want +fine things themselves. Jesus Christ did not care about fine +things. He loved every lovely thing that ever his father made. If any +one does not know the difference between fine things and lovely +things, he does not know much, if he has all the science in the world +at his finger-ends. + +One good thing about the parsonage was, that it was aid, and the +swallows had loved it for centuries. That way Clare learned to love +the swallows--and they are worth loving. Then it had a very old +garden, nearly as old-fashioned as it was old, and many flowers that +have almost ceased to be seen grew in it, and did not enjoy their +lives the less that they were out of fashion. All the furniture in the +house was old, and mostly shabby; it was possible, therefore, to love +it a little. Who on earth could be such a fool as to love a new piece +of furniture! One might prize it; one might admire it; one might like +it because it was pretty, or because it was comfortable; but only a +silly woman whose soul went to bed on her new sideboard, could say she +loved it. And then it would not be true. It is impossible that any but +an _old_ piece of furniture should be loved. + +His father and mother had a charming little room made for him in the +garret, right up among the swallows, who soon admitted him a member of +their society--an honorary member, that is, who was not expected to +fly with them to Africa except he liked. His new parents did this +because they saw that, when he could not be with them, he preferred +being by himself; and that moods came upon him in which he would steal +away even from them, seized with a longing for loneliness. In general, +next to being with his mother anywhere, he liked to be with his father +in the study. If both went out, and could not take him with them, he +would either go to his own room, or sit in the study alone. It was a +very untidy room, crowded with books, mostly old and dingy, and in +torn bindings. Many of them their owner never opened, and they +suffered in consequence; a few of them were constantly in his hands, +and suffered in consequence. All smelt strong of stale tobacco, but +that hardly accounts for the fact that Clare never took to smoking. +Another thing perhaps does--that he was always too much of a man to +want to look like a man by imitating men. That is unmanly. A boy who +wants to look like a man is not a manly boy, and men do not care for +his company. A true boy is always welcome to a true man, but a +would-be man is better on the other side of the wall. + +His mother oftenest sat in a tiny little drawing-room, which smelt of +withered rose-leaves. I think it must smell of them still. I believe +it smelt of them a hundred years before she saw the place. Clare loved +the smell of the rose-leaves and disliked the smell of the tobacco; +yet he preferred the study with its dingy books to the pretty +drawing-room without his mother. + +There was a village, a very small one, in the parish, and a good many +farm-houses. + +Such was the place in which Clare spent the next few years of his +life, and there his new parents loved him heartily. The only thing +about him that troubled them, besides the possibility of losing him, +was, that they could not draw out the tiniest smile upon his sweet, +moonlight-face. + + + +Chapter VI. + +What did draw out his first smile. + + +Mr. Porson was a man about five and forty; his wife was a few years +younger. His theories of religion were neither large nor lofty; he +accepted those that were handed down to him, and did not trouble +himself as to whether they were correct. He did what was better: he +tried constantly to obey the law of God, whether he found it in the +Bible or in his own heart. Thus he was greater in the kingdom of +heaven than thousands that knew more, had better theories about God, +and could talk much more fluently concerning religion than he. By +obeying God he let God teach him. So his heart was always growing; and +where the heart grows, there is no fear of the intellect; there it +also grows, and in the best fashion of growth. He was very good to his +people, and not foolishly kind. He tried his best to help them to be +what they ought to be, to make them bear their troubles, be true to +one another, and govern themselves. He was like a father to them. For +some, of course, he could do but little, because they were locked +boxes with nothing in them; but for a few he did much. Perhaps it was +because he was so good to his flock that God gave him little Clare to +bring up. Perhaps it was because he and his wife were so good to +Clare, that by and by a wonderful thing took place. + +About three years after the earthquake, Mrs. Porson had a baby-girl +sent her for her very own. The father and mother thought themselves +the happiest couple on the face of the earth--and who knows but they +were! If they were not, so much the better! for then, happy as they +were, there were happier yet than they; and who, in his greatest +happiness, would not be happier still to know that the earth held +happier than he! + +When Clare first saw the baby, he looked down on her with solemn, +unmoved countenance, and gazed changeless for a whole minute. He +thought there had been another earthquake, that another church-dome +had fallen, and another child been found and brought home from the +ruin. Then light began to grow somewhere under his face. His mother, +full as was her heart of her new child, watched his countenance +anxiously. The light under his face grew and grew, till his face was +radiant. Then out of the midst of the shining broke the heavenliest +smile she had ever seen on human countenance--a smile that was a +clearer revelation of God than ten thousand books about him. For what +must not that God be, who had made the boy that smiled such a smile +and never knew it! After this he smiled occasionally, though it was +but seldom. He never laughed--that is, not until years after this +time; but, on the other hand, he never looked sullen. A quiet peace, +like the stillness of a long summer twilight in the north, dwelt upon +his visage, and appeared to model his every motion. Part of his life +seemed away, and he waiting for it to come back. Then he would be +merry! + +He was never in a hurry, yet always doing something--always, that is, +when he was not in his own room. There his mother would sometimes find +him sitting absolutely still, with his hands on his knees. Nor was she +sorry to surprise him thus, for then she was sure of one of his rare +smiles. She thought he must then be dreaming of his own mother, and a +pang would go through her at the thought that he would one day love +her more than herself. “He will laugh then!” she said. She did not +think how the gratitude of that mother would one day overwhelm her +with gladness. + +He never sought to be caressed, but always snuggled to one that drew +him close. Never once did he push any one away. He learned what +lessons were set him--not very fast, but with persistent endeavour to +understand. He was greatly given to reading, but not particularly +quick. He thus escaped much, fancying that he knew when he did not +know--a quicksand into which fall so many clever boys and girls. Give +me a slow, steady boy, who knows when he does not know a thing! To +know that you do not know, is to be a small prophet. Such a boy has a +glimmer of the something he does not know, or at least of the place +where it is; while the boy who easily grasps the words that stand for +a thing, is apt to think he knows the thing itself when he sees but +the wrapper of it--thinks he knows the church when he has caught sight +of the weather-cock. Mrs. Porson could see the understanding of a +thing gradually burst into blossom on the boy's face. It did not +smile, it only shone. Understanding is light; it needs love to change +light into a smile. + +There was something in the boy that his parents hardly hoped to +understand; something in his face that made them long to know what was +going on in him, but made them doubt if ever in this life they +should. He was not concealing anything from them. He did not know that +he had anything to tell, or that they wanted to know anything. He +never doubted that everybody saw him just as he felt himself; his soul +seemed bare to all the world. But he knew little of what was passing +in him: child or man never knows more than a small part of that. + +When first he was allowed to take the little one in his arms, he +sitting on a stool at his mother's feet, it was almost a new start in +his existence. A new confidence was born in his spirit. Mrs. Person +could read, as if reflected in his countenance, the pride and +tenderness that composed so much of her own conscious motherhood. A +certain staidness, almost sternness, took possession of his face as he +bent over the helpless creature, half on his knees, half in his +arms--the sternness of a protecting divinity that knew danger not +afar. He had taken a step upward in being; he was aware in himself, +without knowing it, of the dignity of fatherhood. Even now he knew +what so many seem never to learn, that a man is the defender of the +weak; that, if a man is his brother's keeper, still more is he his +sister's. She belonged to him, therefore he was hers in the slavery of +love, which alone is freedom. So reverential and so careful did he +show himself, that soon his mother trusted him, to the extent of his +power, more than any nurse. + +By and by she made the delightful discovery that, when he was alone +with the baby, the silent boy could talk. Where was no need or hope of +being understood, his words began to flow--with a rhythmical cadence +that seemed ever on the verge of verse. When first his mother heard +the sweet murmur of his voice, she listened; and then first she +learned what a hold the terrible thing that had given him into her +arms had upon him. For she heard him half singing, half saying-- + +“Baby, baby, do not grow. Keep small, and lie on my lap, and dream of +walking, but never walk; for when you walk you will run, and when you +run you will go away with father and mother--away to a big place where +the ground goes up to the sky; and you will go up the ground that goes +up to the sky, and you will come to a big church, and you will go into +the church; and the ground and the church and the sky will go _hurr, +hurr, hurr_; and the sky, full of angels, will come down with a great +roar; and all the yards and sails will drop out of the sky, and tumble +down father and mother, and hold them down that they cannot get up +again; and then you will have nobody but me. I will do all I can, but +I am only brother Clare, and you will want, want, want mother and +father, mother and father, and they will be always coming, and never +be come, not for ever so long! Don't grow a big girl, Maly!” + +The mother could not think what to say. She went in, and, in the hope +of turning his thoughts aside, took the baby, and made haste to +consult her husband. + +“We must leave it,” said Mr. Person. “Experience will soon correct +what mistake is in his notion. It is not so very far wrong. You and I +must go from them one day: what is it but that the sky will fall down +on us, and our bodies will get up no more! He thinks the time nearer +at hand than for their sakes I hope it is; but nobody can tell.” + +Clare never associated the church where the awful thing took place, +with the church to which he went on Sundays. The time for it, he +imagined, came to everybody. To Clare, nothing ever _happened_. The +way out of the world was a church in a city set on a hill, and there +an earthquake was always ready. + +The heart of his adoptive mother grew yet more tender toward him after +the coming of her own child. She was not quite sure that she did not +love him even more than Mary. She could not help the feeling that he +was a child of heaven sent out to nurse on the earth; and that it was +in reward for her care of him that her own darling was sent her. That +their love to the boy had something to do with the coming of the girl, +I believe myself, though what that something was, I do not precisely +understand. + +She left him less often alone with the child. She would not have his +thoughts drawn to the church of the earthquake; neither would she have +the mournfulness of his sweet voice much in the ears of her baby. He +never sang in a minor key when any one was by, but always and solely +when the baby and he were alone together. + + + +Chapter VII. + +Clare and his brothers. + + +After a year or two, Mr. Person became anxious lest the boy should +grow up too unlike other boys--lest he should not be manly, but of a +too gently sad behaviour. He began, therefore, to take him with him +about the parish, and was delighted to find him show extraordinary +endurance. He would walk many miles, and come home less fatigued than +his companion. To be sure, he had not much weight to carry; but it +seemed to Mr. Porson that his utter freedom from thought about himself +had a large share in his immunity from weariness. He continued slight +and thin--which was natural, for he was growing fast; but the muscles +of his little bird-like legs seemed of steel. The spindle-shanks went +striding, striding without a check, along the roughest roads, the pale +face shining atop of them like a sweet calm moon. To Mr. Person's +eyes, the moon, stooping, as she sometimes seems to do, downward from +the sky, always looked like him. The child woke something new in the +heart and mind of every one that loved him, but was himself +unconscious of his influence. His company was no check to his father +when meditating, after his habit as he walked, what he should say to +his people the next Sunday. For the good man never wrote or read a +sermon, but talked to his people as one who would meet what was in +them with what was in him. Hence they always believed “the parson +meant it.” He never said anything clever, and never said anything +unwise; never amused them, and never made them feel scornful, either +of him or of any one else. + +Instead of finding the presence of Clare distract his thoughts, he had +at times a curious sense that the boy was teaching him--that his +sermon was running before, or walking sedately on this side of him or +that. For Clare could run like the wind; and did run after +butterflies, dragon-flies, or anything that offered a chance of seeing +it nearer; but he never killed, and seldom tried to catch anything, if +but for a moment's examination. The swiftest run would scarcely +heighten the colour of his pale cheeks. + +He soon came to be known in the farm-houses of the parish. The +farmer-families were a little shy of him at first, fancying him too +fine a little gentleman for them; but as they got to know him, they +grew fond of him. They called him “the parson's man,” which pleased +Clare. But one old woman called him “the parson's cherubim.” + +One day Mr. Porson was calling at the house of the largest farm in the +parish, the nearest house to the parsonage. The farmer's wife was ill, +and having to go to her room to see her, he said to the boy-- + +“Clare, you run into the yard. Give my compliments to any one you +meet, and ask him to let you stay with him.” + +When the time came for their departure, Mr. Porson went to find +him. He did not call him; he wanted to see what he was about. Unable +to discover him, and coming upon no one of whom he might inquire, for +it was hay-time and everybody in the fields, he was at last driven to +use his voice. + +He had not to call twice. Out of the covered part of the pigsty, not +far from which the parson stood, the boy came creeping on all fours, +followed by a litter of half-grown, grunting, gamboling pigs. + +“Here I am, papa!” he cried. + +“Clare,” exclaimed his father, “what a mess you have made of +yourself!” + +“I gave them your compliments,” answered the boy, as he scrambled over +the fence with his father's assistance, “and asked them if I might +stay with them till you were ready. They said yes, and invited me +in. I went in; and we've been having such games! They were very kind +to me.” + +His father turned involuntarily and looked into the sty. There stood +all the pigs in a row, gazing after the boy, and looking as sorry as +their thick skins and bony snouts would let them. Their mother rose in +a ridge behind them, gazing too. Mr. Skymer always spoke of pigs as +about the most intelligent animals in the world. + +I do not know when or where or how his love of the animals began, for +he could not tell me. If it began with the pigs, it was far from +ending with them. + +The next day he asked his father if he might go and call upon the +pigs. + +“Have you forgotten, Clare,” said his mother, “what a job Susan and I +had with your clothes? I wonder still how you could have done such a +thing! They were quite filthy. When I saw you, I had half a mind to +put you in a bath, clothes and all. I doubt if they are sweet yet!” + +“Oh, yes, they are, indeed, mamma!” returned Clare; “and you know I +shall be careful after this! I shall not go into their house, but get +the farmer to let them out. I've thought of a new game with them!” + +His mother consented; the farmer did let the pigs out; and Clare and +they had a right good game together among the ricks in the yard. + +His growing nature showed itself in a swiftly widening friendship for +live things. The spreading ripples of his affection took in the cows +and the horses, the hens and the geese, and every creature about the +place, till at length it had to pull up at the moles, because he could +not get at them. I doubt if he would have liked them if he had seen +one eat a frog! He called the pigs little brothers, and the horses and +cows big brothers, and was perfectly at home with them before people +knew he cared for their company. I think his absolute simplicity +brought him near to the fountain of life, or rather, prevented him +from straying from it; and this kept him so alive himself, that he was +delicately sensitive to all life. He felt himself pledged to all other +life as being one with it. Its forms were therefore so open to him as +to seem familiar from the first. He knew instinctively what went on in +regions of life differing from his own--knew, without knowing how, +what the animals were thinking and feeling; so was able to interpret +their motions, even the sudden changes in their behaviour. + +There was one dangerous animal on the place--a bull, of which the +farmer had often said he must part with him, or he would be the death +of somebody. One morning he was struck with terror to find Clare in +the stall with Nimrod. The brute was chained up pretty short, but was +free enough for terrible mischief: Clare was stroking his nose, and +the beast was standing as still as a bull of bronze, with one curved +and one sharp, forward-set, wicked-looking horn in alarming proximity +to the angelic face. The farmer stood in dismay, still as the bull, +afraid to move. Clare looked up and smiled, but his delicate little +hand went on caressing the huge head. It was one of God's small high +creatures visiting with good news of hope one of his big low +creatures--a little brother of Jesus Christ bringing a taste of his +father's kingdom to his great dull bull of a brother. The farmer +called him. The boy came at once. Mr. Goodenough told him he must not +go near the bull; he was fierce and dangerous. Clare informed him that +he and the bull had been friends for a long time; and to prove it ran +back, and before the farmer could lay hold of him, was perched on the +animal's shoulders. The bull went on eating the grass in the manger +before him, and took as little heed of the boy as if it were but a fly +that had lighted on him, and neither tickled nor stung him. + +By degrees he grew familiar with all the goings on at the farm, and +drew nearer to a true relation with the earth that nourishes +all. Where the soil was not too heavy, the ploughman would set him on +the back of the near horse, and there he would ride in triumph to the +music of the ploughman's whistle behind. His was not the pomp of the +destroyer who rides trampling, but the pomp of the saviour drawing +forth life from the earth. In the summer the hayfield knew him, and in +the autumn the harvest-field, where busily he gathered what the earth +gave, and for himself strength, a sense of wide life and large +relations. The very mould, not to say the grass-blades and the +daisies, was dear to him. He was more sympathetic with the daisies +ploughed down than was even Burns, for he had a strong feeling that +they went somewhere, and were the better for going; that this was the +way their sky fell upon them. + +All the people on the farm, all the people of the village, every one +in the parish knew the boy and his story. From his gentleness and +lovingkindness to live things, there were who said he was half-witted; +others said he saw ghosts. The boys of the village despised, and some +hated him, because he was so unlike them. They called him a girl +because where they tormented he caressed. At this he would smile, and +they durst not lay hands on him. + +The days are long in boyhood, and Clare could do a many things in +one. There was the morning, the forenoon, and the long afternoon and +evening! He could help on the farm; he could play with ever so many +animals; he could learn his lessons, which happily were not heavy; he +could read any book he pleased in his father's library, where +_Paradise Lost_ was his favourite; he could nurse little Maly. He had +the more time for all these that he had no companion of his own age, +no one he wanted to go about with after school-hours. His father was +still his chief human companion, and neither of them grew tired of the +other. + +The most remarkable thing in the child was the calm and gentle +greatness of his heart. You often find children very fond of one or +two people, who, perhaps, in evil return, want to keep them all to +themselves, and reproach them for loving others. Many persons count it +a sign of depth in a child that he loves only one or two. I doubt it +greatly. I think that only the child who loves all life can love right +well, can love deeply and strongly and tenderly the lives that come +nearest him. Low nurses and small-hearted mothers dwarf and pervert +their children, doing their worst to keep them from having big hearts +like God. Clare had other teaching than this. He had lost his father +and mother, but many were given him to love; and so he was helped to +wait patiently till he found them again. God was keeping them for him +somewhere, and keeping him for them here. + +The good for which we are born into this world is, that we may learn +to love. I think Clare the most enviable of boys, because he loved +more than any one of his age I have heard of. There are people--oh, +such silly people they are!--though they may sometimes be +pleasing--who are always wanting people to love them. They think so +much of themselves, that they want to think more; and to know that +people love them makes them able to think more of themselves. They +even think themselves loving because they are fond of being loved! +You might as soon say because a man loves money he is generous; +because he loves to gather, therefore he knows how to scatter; because +he likes to read a story, therefore he can write one. Such lovers are +only selfish in a deeper way, and are more to blame than other selfish +people; for, loving to be loved, they ought the better to know what an +evil thing it is not to love; what a mean thing to accept what they +are not willing to give. Even to love only those that love us, is, as +the Lord has taught us, but a pinched and sneaking way of +loving. Clare never thought about being loved. He was too busy loving, +with so many about him to love, to think of himself. He was not the +contemptible little wretch to say, “What a fine boy I am, to make +everybody love me!” If he had been capable of that, not many would +have loved him; and those that did would most of them have got tired +of loving a thing that did not love again. Only great lovers like God +are able to do that, and they help God to make love grow. But there is +little truth in love where there is no wisdom in it. Clare's father +and mother were wise, and did what they could to make Clare wise. + +Also the animals, though they were not aware of it, did much to save +him from being spoiled by the humans whom the boy loved more than +them. For Clare's charity began at home. Those who love their own +people will love other people. Those who do not love children will +never love animals right. + +Here I will set down a strange thing that befell Clare, and caused him +a sore heart, making him feel like a traitor to the whole animal race, +and influencing his life for ever. I was at first puzzled to account +for the thing without attributing more imagination to the animals--or +some of them--than I had been prepared to do; but probably the main +factor in it was heart-disease. + +He had seen men go out shooting, but had never accompanied any +killers. I do not quite understand how, as in my story, he came even +to imitate using a gun. There was nothing in him that belonged to +killing; and that is more than I could say for myself, or any other +man I know except Clare Skymer. + +He was at the bottom of the garden one afternoon, where nothing but a +low hedge came between him and a field of long grass. He had in his +hand the stick of a worn-out umbrella. Suddenly a half-grown rabbit +rose in the grass before him, and bolted. From sheer unconscious +imitation, I believe, he raised the stick to his shoulder, and said +_Bang_. The rabbit gave a great bound into the air, fell, and lay +motionless. With far other feelings than those of a sportsman, Clare +ran, got through the hedge, and approached the rabbit trembling. He +could think nothing but that the creature was playing him a trick. Yet +he was frightened. Only how could he have hurt him! + +“I dare say the little one knows me,” he said to himself, “and wanted +to give me a start! He couldn't tell what a start it would be, or he +wouldn't have done it.” + +When he drew near, however, “the little one” did not, as he had hoped +and expected, jump up and run again. With sinking heart Clare went +close up, and looked down on it. It lay stretched out, motionless. +With death in his own bosom he stooped and tenderly lifted it. The +rabbit was stone-dead! The poor boy gazed at it, pressed it tenderly +to his heart, and went with it to find his mother. The tears kept +pouring down his face, but he uttered no cry till he came to her. Then +a low groaning howl burst from him; he laid the dead thing in her lap, +and threw himself on the floor at her feet in an abandonment of +self-accusation and despair. + +It was long before he was able to give her an intelligible account of +what had taken place. She asked him if he had found it dead. In answer +he could only shake his head, but that head-shake had a whole tragedy +in it. Then she examined “the little one,” but could find no mark of +any wound upon it. When at length she learned how the case was, she +tried to comfort him, insisting he was not to blame, for he did not +mean to kill the little one. He would not hearken to her loving +sophistry. + +“No, mother!” he said through his sobs; “I wouldn't have blamed +myself, though I should have been very sorry, if I had killed him by +accident--if I had stepped upon him, or anything of that kind; but I +meant to frighten him! I looked bad at him! I made him think I was an +enemy, and going to kill him! I shammed bad--and so was real bad.” + +He stopped with a most wailful howl. + +“Perhaps he knew me,” he resumed, “and couldn't understand it. It was +much worse than if I had shot him. He wouldn't have known then till he +was dead. But to die of terror was horrible. Oh, why didn't I think +what I was doing?” + +“Nobody could have thought of such a thing happening.” + +“No; but I ought to have thought, mother, of what I was doing. I was +trying to frighten him! I must have been in a cruel mood. Why didn't I +think love to the little one when I saw him, instead of thinking death +to him? I shall never look a rabbit in the face again! My heart must +have grown black, mother!” + +“I don't believe there is another rabbit in England would die from +such a cause,” persisted his mother thoughtfully. + +“Then what a superior rabbit he must have been!” said Clare. “To think +that I pulled down the roof of his church upon him!” + +He burst into a torrent of tears, and ran to his own room. There his +mother thought it better to leave him undisturbed. She wisely judged +that a mind of such sensibility was alone capable of finding the +comfort to fit its need. + +Such comfort he doubtless did find, for by the time his mother called +him to tea, calmness had taken the place of the agony on his +countenance. His mother asked him no questions, for she as well as her +husband feared any possible encouragement to self-consciousness. I +imagine the boy had reflected that things could not go so wrong that +nobody could set them right. I imagine he thought that, if he had done +the rabbit a wrong, as he never for a moment to the end of his life +doubted he had, he who is at the head of all heads and the heart of +all hearts, would contrive to let him tell the rabbit he was sorry, +and would give him something to do for the rabbit that would make up +for his cruelty to him. He did once say to his mother, and neither of +them again alluded to the matter, that he was sure the rabbit had +forgiven him. + +“Little ones are _so_ forgiving, you know, mother!” he added. + +Is it any wonder that my friend Clare Skymer should have been no +sportsman? + + + +Chapter VIII. + +Clare and his human brothers + + +Another anecdote of him, that has no furtherance of the story in it, I +must yet tell. + +One cold day in a stormy March, the wind was wildly blowing broken +clouds across the heavens, and now rain, now sleet, over the shivering +blades of the young corn, whose tender green was just tinging the dark +brown earth. The fields were now dark and wintry, heartless and cold; +now shining all over as with repentant tears; one moment refusing to +be comforted, and the next reviving with hope and a sense of new +life. Clare was hovering about the plough. Suddenly he spied, from a +mound in the field, a little procession passing along the +highway. Those in front carried something on their shoulders which +must be heavy, for it took six of them to carry it. He knew it was a +coffin, for his home was by the churchyard, and a funeral was no +unfamiliar sight. Behind it one man walked alone. For a moment Clare +watched him, and saw his bowed head and heavy pace. His heart filled +from its own perennial fount of pity, which was God himself in him. He +ran down the hill and across the next field, making for a spot some +distance ahead of the procession. As it passed him, he joined the +chief mourner, who went plodding on with his arms hanging by his +sides. Creeping close up to him, he slid his little soft hand into the +great horny hand of the peasant. Instinctively the big hand closed +upon the small one, and the weather-beaten face of a man of fifty +looked down on the boy. Not a word was said between them. They walked +on, hand in hand. + +Neither had ever seen the other. The man was following his wife and +his one child to the grave. “Nothing almost sees miracles but misery,” + says Kent in _King Lear_. Because this man was miserable, he saw a +miracle where was no miracle, only something very good. The thing was +true and precious, yea, a message from heaven. Those deep, upturned, +silent eyes; the profound, divine sympathy that shone in them; the +grasp of the tiny hand upon his large fingers, made the heart of the +man, who happened to be a catholic, imagine, and for a few moments +believe, that he held the hand of the infant Saviour. The cloud lifted +from his heart and brain, and did not return when he came to +understand that this was not _the_ lamb of God, only another lamb from +the same fold. + +When they had walked about two miles, the boy began to fear he might +be intruding, and would have taken his hand from the other, but the +man held it tight, and stooping whispered it was not far now. The +child, who, without knowing it, had taken the man under the +protection of his love, yielded at once, went with him to the grave, +joined in the service, and saw the grave filled. They went again as +they had come. Not a word was spoken. The man wept a little now and +then, drew the back of his brown hand across his eyes, and pressed a +little closer the hand he held. At the gate of the parsonage the boy +took his leave. He said they would be wondering what had become of +him, or he would have gone farther. The man released him without a +word. + +His mother had been uneasy about him, but when he told her how it was, +she said he had done right. + +“Yes,” returned the boy; “I belong there myself.” + +The mother knew he was not thinking of the grave. + +One more anecdote I will give, serving to introduce the narrative of +the following chapter, and helping to show the character of the +boy. He was so unlike most boys, that one must know all he may about +him, if he would understand him. + +Never yet, strange as the assertion must seem, had the boy shown any +anger. His father was a little troubled at the fact, fearing such +absence of resentment might indicate moral indifference, or, if not, +might yet render him incapable of coping with the world. He had +himself been brought up at a public school, and had not, with all his +experience of life, come to see, any more than most of the readers of +this story now see, or for a long time will see, that there lies no +nobility, no dignity in evil retort of any kind; that evil is evil +when returned as much as when given; that the only shining thing is +good--and the most shining, good for evil. + +One day a coarse boy in the village gave him a sharp blow on the +face. It forced water from his eyes and blood from his nose. He was +wiping away both at once with his handkerchief, when a kindly girl +stopped and said to him-- + +“Never mind; don't cry.” + +“Oh, no!” answered Clare; “it's only water, it's not crying. It would +be cowardly to cry.” + +“That's a brave boy! You'll give it him back one of these days.” + +“No,” he returned, “I shall not I couldn't.” + +“Why?” + +“Because it hurts so. My nose feels as if it were broken. I know it's +not broken, but it feels like it.” + +The girl, as well as the boys who stood around him, burst into +laughter. They saw no logic in his reasoning. Clare's was the divine +reasoning that comes of loving your neighbour; theirs was the earthly +reasoning that came of loving themselves. They did not see that to +Clare another boy was another of himself; that he was carrying out the +design of the Father of men, that his creatures should come together +into one, not push each other away. + +The next time he met the boy who struck him, so far was he both from +resentment and from the fear of being misunderstood, that he offered +him a rosy-cheeked apple his mother had given him as he left for +school. The boy was tyrant and sneak together--a combination to be +seen sometimes in a working man set over his fellows, and in a rich +man grown poor, and bent upon making money again. The boy took the +apple, never doubted Clare gave it him to curry favour, ate it up +grinning, and threw the core in his face. Clare turned away with a +sigh, and betook himself to his handkerchief again, The boy burst into +a guffaw of hideous laughter. + + + +Chapter IX. + +Clare the defender. + + +This enemy was a trouble, more or less, to every decent person in the +neighbourhood. It was well his mother was a widow, for where she was +only powerless to restrain, the father would have encouraged. He was a +big, idle, sneering, insolent lad--such that had there been two more +of the sort, they would have made the village uninhabitable. It was +all the peaceable vicar could do to keep his hands off him. + +One day, little Mary being then about five years old, Clare had her +out for a walk. They were alone in a narrow lane, not far from the +farm where Clare was so much at home. To his consternation, for he had +his sister in charge, down the lane, meeting them, came the village +tyrant. He strolled up with his hands in his pockets, and barred their +way. But while, his eye chiefly on Clare, he “straddled” like +Apollyon, but not “quite over the whole breadth of the way,” Mary +slipped past him. The young brute darted after the child. Clare put +down his head, as he had seen the rams do, and as Simpson, who ill +deserved the name of the generous Jewish Hercules, was on the point of +laying hold of her, caught him in the flank, butted him into the +ditch, and fell on the top of him. + +“Run, Maly!” he cried; “I'll be after you in a moment.” + +“Will you, you little devil!” cried the bully; and taking him by the +throat, so that he could not utter even a gurgle, got up and began to +beat him unmercifully. But the sounds of their conflict had reached +the ears of the bull Nimrod, who was feeding within the hedge. He +recognized Clare's voice, perhaps knew from it that he was in trouble; +but I am inclined to think pure bull-love of a row would alone have +sent him tearing to the quarter whence the tyrant's brutal bellowing +still came. There, looking over the hedge, he saw his friend in the +clutches of an enemy of his own, for Simpson never lost a chance of +teasing Nimrod when he could do so with safety. Over he came with a +short roar and a crash. Looking up, the bully saw a bigger bully than +himself, with his head down and horns level, retreating a step or two +in preparation for running at him. Simpson shoved the helpless Clare +toward the enemy and fled. Clare fell. Nimrod jumped over his +prostrate friend and tore after Simpson. Clare got up and would at +once have followed to protect his enemy, but that he must first see +his sister safe. He ran with her to a cottage hard by, handed her to +the woman at the door of it, and turning pursued Simpson and the bull. + +Nimrod overtook his enemy in the act of scrambling over a five-barred +gate. Simpson saw the head of the bull coming down upon him like the +bows of a Dutchman upon a fishing-boat, and, paralyzed with terror, +could not move an inch further. Crash against the gate came the horns +of Nimrod, with all the weight and speed of his body behind them. Away +went the gate into the field, and away went Simpson and the bull with +it, the latter nearly breaking his neck, for his horns were entangled +in the bars, one of them by the diagonal bar. Simpson's right leg was +jammed betwixt the gate and the head and horns of the bull. He roared, +and his roars maddened Nimrod, furious already that he could not get +his horns clear. Shake and pull as he might, the gate stuck to them; +and Simpson fared little the better that the bull's quarrel was for +the moment with the gate, and not with the leg between him and it. + +Clare had not seen the catastrophe, and did not know what had become +of pursuer or pursued, until he reached the gap where the gate had +been. He saw then the odd struggle going on, and ran to the aid of his +foe, in terror of what might already have befallen him. The moment he +laid hold of one of the animal's horns, infuriated as Nimrod was with +his helpless entanglement, he knew at once who it was, and was quiet; +for Clare always took him by the horn when first he went up to +him. Without a moment's demur he yielded to the small hands as they +pushed and pulled his head this way and that until they got it clear +of the gate. But then they did not let him go. Clare proceeded to take +him home, and Nimrod made no objection. Simpson lay groaning. + +When Clare returned, his enemy was there still. He had got clear of +the gate, but seemed in much pain, for he lay tearing up the grass and +sod in handfuls. When Clare stooped to ask what he should do for him, +he struck him a backhanded blow on the face that knocked him +over. Clare got up and ran. + +“Coward!” cried Simpson; “to leave a man with a broken leg to get home +by himself!” + +“I'm going to find some one strong enough to help you,” said Clare. + +But Simpson, after his own evil nature, imagined he was going to let +the bull into the field again, and fell to praying him not to leave +him. Clare knew, however, that, if his leg was broken, he could not +get him home, neither could he get home by himself; so he made haste +to tell the people at the farm, and Simpson lay in terror of the bull +till help came. + +From that hour he hated Clare, attributing to him all the ill he had +brought on himself. But he was out of mischief for a while. The +trouble fell on his mother--who deserved it, for she would believe no +ill of him, because he was _hers_. One good thing of the affair was, +that the bully was crippled for life, and could do the less harm. + +It was a great joy to Mr. Person to learn how Clare had defended his +sister. Clergyman as he was, and knowing that Jesus Christ would never +have returned a blow, and that this spirit of the Lord was what saved +the world, he had been uneasy that his adopted child behaved just like +Jesus. That a man should be so made as not to care to return a blow, +never occurred to Mr. Porson as possible. It was therefore an +immeasurable relief to his feelings as an Englishman, to find that the +boy was so far from being destitute of pluck, that in defence of his +sister he had attacked a fellow twice his size. + +“Weren't you afraid of such a big rascal?” he said. + +“No, papa,” answered the boy. “Ought I to have been?” + +He put his hand to his forehead, as if trying to understand. His +father found he had himself something to think about. + +There was a certain quiescence about Clare, ill to describe, +impossible to explain, but not the less manifest. Like an infant, he +never showed surprise at anything. Whatever came to him he received, +questioning nothing, marvelling at nothing, disputing nothing. What he +was told to do he went to do, never with even a momentary show of +disinclination, leaving book or game with readiness but no +eagerness. He would do deftly what was required of him, and return to +his place, with a countenance calm and sweet as the moon in highest +heaven. He seldom offered a caress except to little Mary; yet would +choose, before anything else, a place by his mother's knee. The moment +she, or his father in her absence, entered the room and sat down, he +would rise, take his stool, and set it as near as he thought he +might. When caressed he never turned away, or looked as if he would +rather be let alone; at the same time he received the caress so +quietly, and with so little response, that often, when his heavenly +look had drawn the heart of some mother, or spinster with motherly +heart, he left an ache in the spirit he would have gone to the world's +end to comfort. He never sought love--otherwise than by getting near +the loved. When anything was given him, he would look up and smile, +but he seldom showed much pleasure, or went beyond the regulation +thanks. But if at such a moment little Mary were by, he had a curious +way of catching her up and presenting her to the giver. Whether this +was a shape his thanks took, whether Mary was to him an incorporate +gratitude, or whether he meant to imply that she was the fitter on +whom to shower favour, it were hard to say. His mother observed, and +in her mind put the two things together, that he did not seem to prize +much any mere possession. He looked pleased with a new suit of +clothes, but if any one remarked on his care of them, he would answer, +“I mustn't spoil what's papa and mamma's!” He made no hoard of any +kind. He did once hoard marbles till he had about a hundred; then it +was discovered that they were for a certain boy in the village who was +counted half-witted--as indeed was Clare himself by many. When he +learned that the boy had first been accused of stealing them--for no +one would believe that another boy had given them to him--and after +that robbed of them by the other boys, on the ground that he did not +know how to play with them, Clare saw that it was as foolish to hoard +for another as for himself. + +He was a favourite with few beyond those that knew him well. Many who +saw him only at church, or about the village, did not take to him. His +still regard repelled them. In Naples they would have said he had the +evil eye. I think people had a vague sense of rebuke in his +presence. Even his mother, passionately loving her foundling, was +aware of a film between them through which she could not quite see +him, beyond which there was something she could not get at, Clare knew +nothing of such a separation. He seemed to himself altogether close to +his mother, was aware of nothing between to part them. The cause of +the thing was, that Clare was not yet in flower. His soul was a white +half-blown bud, not knowing that it was but half-blown. It basked in +the glory of the warm sun, but only with the underside of its +flower-leaves; it had not opened its heart, the sun-side of its +petals, to the love in which it was immerged. He received the love as +a matter of course, and loved it as a matter of course. But for the +cruel Simpson he would not have known there could be any other way of +things. He did not yet know that one must not only love but mean to +love, must not only bask in the warmth of love, but know it as love, +and where it comes from--love again the fountain whence it flows. + + + +Chapter X. + +The black aunt. + + +Clare was yet in his tenth year when an unhealthy summer came. The sun +was bright and warm as in other summers, and the flowers in field and +garden appeared as usual when the hour arrived for them to wake and +look abroad; but the children of men did not fare so well as the +children of the earth. A peculiar form of fever showed itself in the +village. It was not very fatal, yet many were so affected as to be +long unable to work. There was consequently much distress beyond the +suffering of the fever itself. The parson and his wife went about from +morning to night among the cottagers, helping everybody that needed +help. They had no private fortune, but the small blanket of the +benefice they spread freely over as many as it could be stretched to +cover, depriving themselves of a good part of the food to which they +had been accustomed, and of several degrees of necessary warmth. When +at last the strength of the parson gave way, and the fever laid hold +of him, he had to do without many comforts his wife would gladly have +got for him. They were both of rather humble origin, having but one +relative well-to-do, a sister of Mrs. Porson, who had married a rich +but very common man. From her they could not ask help. She had never +sent them any little present, and had been fiercely indignant with +them for adopting Clare. + +Neither of them once complained, though Mrs. Person, whose strength +was much spent, could not help weeping sometimes when she was alone +and free to weep. They knew their Lord did not live in luxury, and a +secret gladness nestled in their hearts that they were allowed to +suffer a little with him for the sake of the flock he had given into +their charge. + +The children of course had to share in the general gloom, but it did +not trouble them much. For Clare, he was not easily troubled with +anything. Always ready to help, he did not much realize what suffering +was; and he had Mary to look after, which was labour and pleasure, +work and play and pay all in one. His mother was at ease concerning +her child when she knew her in Clare's charge, and was free to attend +to her husband. She often said that if ever any were paid for being +good to themselves, she and her husband were vastly overpaid for +taking such a child from the shuddering arms of the earthquake. + +But John Porson's hour was come. He must leave wife and children and +parish, and go to him who had sent him. If any one think it hard he +should so fare in doing his duty, let him be silent till he learn what +the parson himself thought of the matter when he got home. People talk +about death as the gosling might about life before it chips its +egg. Take up their way of lamentation, and we shall find it an +endless injustice to have to get up every morning and go to bed every +night. Mrs. Porson wept, but never thought him or herself +ill-used. And had she been low enough to indulge in self-pity, it +would have been thrown away, for before she had time to wonder how she +was to live and rear her children, she too was sent for. In this world +she was not one of those mothers of little faith who trust God for +themselves but not for their children, and when again with her +husband, she would not trust God less. + +Clare was in the garden when Sarah told him she was dead. He stood +still for a moment, then looked up, up into the blue. Why he looked +up, he could not have told; but ever since that terrible morning of +which the vague burning memory had never passed, when the great dome +into which he was gazing, burst and fell, he had a way every now and +then of standing still and looking up. His face was white. Two slow +tears gathered, rolled over, and dried upon his face. He turned to +Mary, lifted her in his arms, and, carrying her about the garden, once +more told her his strange version of what had happened in his +childhood. Then he told her that her papa and mamma had gone to look +for his papa and mamma--“somewhere up in the dome,” he said. + +When they wanted to take Mary to see what was left of her mother, the +boy contrived to prevent them. From morning till night he never lost +sight of the child. + +One cold noon in October, when the clouds were miles deep in front of +the sun, when the rain was falling thick on the yellow leaves, and all +the paths were miry, the two children sat by the kitchen fire. Sarah +was cooking their mid-day meal, which had come from her own +pocket. She was the only servant either of them had known in the +house, and she would not leave it until some one should take charge of +them. The neighbours, dreading infection, did not come near +them. Clare sat on a little stool with Mary on his knees, nestling in +his bosom; but he felt dreary, for he saw no love-firmament over him; +the cloud of death hid it. + +With a sudden jingle and rattle, up drove a rickety post-chaise to the +door of the parsonage. Out of it, and into the kitchen, came stalking +a tall middle-aged woman, in a long black cloak, black bonnet, and +black gloves, with a face at once stern and peevish. + +“I am the late Mrs. Porson's sister,” she said, and stood. + +Sarah courtesied and waited. Clare rose, with Mary in his arms. + +“This is little Maly, ma'am,” he said, offering her the child. + +“Set her down, and let me see her,” she answered. + +Clare obeyed. Mary put her finger in her mouth, and began to cry. She +did not like the look of the black aunt, and was not used to a harsh +voice. + +“Tut! tut!” said the black aunt. “Crying already! That will never do! +Show me her things.” + +Sarah felt stunned. This was worse than death! “If only the mistress +had taken them with her!” she said to herself. + +Mary's things--they were not many--were soon packed. Within an hour +she was borne off, shrieking, struggling, and calling Clay. The black +aunt, however,--as the black aunt Clare always thought of her--cared +nothing for her resistance; and Clare, who at her first cry was +rushing to the rescue, ready once more to do battle for her, was +seized and held back by Farmer Goodenough. Sarah had sent for him, and +he had come--just in time to frustrate Clare's valour. + +The carriage was not yet out of sight, when Farmer Goodenough began to +repent that he had come: his presence was an acknowledgment of +responsibility! Something must be done with the foundling! There was +nobody to claim him, and nobody wanted him! He had always liked the +boy, but he did not want him! His wife was not fond of the boy, nor of +any boy, and did not want him! He had said to her that Clare could not +be left to starve, and she had answered, “Why not?”! What was to be +done with him? Nobody knew--any more than Clare himself. But which of +us knows what is going to be done with him? + +Clare was nobody's business. English farmers no more than French are +proverbial for generosity; and Farmer Goodenough, no bad type of his +class, had a wife in whose thoughts not the pence but the farthings +dominated. She was one who at once recoiled and repelled--one of those +whose skin shrinks from the skin of their kind, and who are specially +apt to take unaccountable dislikes--a pitiable human animal of the +leprous sort. She “never took to the foundling,” she said. To have +neither father nor mother, she counted disreputable. But I believe the +main source of her dislike to Clare was a feeling of undefined reproof +in the very atmosphere of the boy's presence, his nature was so +different from hers. What urged him toward his fellow-creatures, made +her draw back from him. In truth she hated the boy. The very look of +him made her sick, she said. It was only a certain respect for the +parson, and a certain fear of her husband, who, seldom angry, was yet +capable of fury, that had prevented her from driving the child, “with +his dish-clout face,” off the premises, whenever she saw him from door +or window. It was no wonder the farmer should he at his wits' end to +know what, as churchwarden, guardian of the poor, and friend of the +late vicar--as friendly also to the boy himself, he was bound to do. + +“Where are _you_ going?” he asked Sarah. + +“Where the Lord wills,” answered the old woman. Her ark had gone to +pieces, and she hardly cared what became of her. + +“We've got to look to ourselves!” said the farmer. + +“Parson used to say there was One as took that off our hands!” replied +Sarah. + +“Yes, yes,” assented Mr. Goodenough, fidgeting a little; “but the +Almighty helps them as helps themselves, and that's sound +doctrine. You really must do something, Sarah! We can't have you on +the parish, you know!” + +“I beg your pardon, sir, but until the child here is provided for, or +until they turn us out of the parsonage, I will not leave the place.” + +“The furniture is advertised for sale. You'll have nothing but the +bare walls!” + +“We'll manage to keep each other warm!--Shan't we, Clare?” + +“I will try to keep you warm, Sarah,” responded the boy sadly. + +“But the new parson will soon be here. Our souls must be cared for!” + +“Is the Lord's child that came from heaven in an earthquake to be +turned out into the cold for fear the souls of big men should perish?” + +“Something must be done about it!” said the farmer. + +“What it's to be I can't tell! It's no business o' mine any way!” + +“That's what the priest, and the Levite, and the farmer says!” + returned Sarah. + +“Won't you ask Mr. Goodenough to stay to dinner?” said Clare. + +He went up to the farmer, who in his perplexity had seated himself, +and laid his arm on his shoulder. + +“No, I can't,” answered Sarah. “He would eat all we have, and not have +enough!” + +“Now Maly is gone,” returned Clare, “I would rather not have any +dinner.” + +The farmer's old feeling for the boy, which the dread of having him +left on his hands had for the time dulled, came back. + +“Get him his dinner, Sarah,” he said. “I've something to see to in the +village. By the time I come back, he'll be ready to go with me, +perhaps.” + +“God bless you, sir!” cried Sarah. “You meant it all the time, an' I +been behavin' like a brute!” + +The farmer did not like being taken up so sharply. He had promised +nothing! But he had nearly made up his mind that, as the friend of the +late parson, he could scarcely do less than give shelter to the child +until he found another refuge. True, he was not the parson's child, +but he had loved him as his own! He would make the boy useful, and so +shut his wife's mouth! There were many things Clare could do about the +place! + + + +Chapter XI. + +Clare on the farm. + + +When Mr. Goodenough appeared at the house-door with the boy, his +wife's face expressed what her tongue dared not utter without some +heating of the furnace behind it. But Clare never saw that he was +unwelcome. He had not begun to note outward and visible signs in +regard to his own species; his observation was confined to the +animals, to whose every motion and look he gave heed. But he was +hardly aware of watching even them: his love made it so natural to +watch, and so easy to understand them! He was not drawn to study +Mrs. Goodenough, or to read her indications; he was content to hear +what she said. + +True to her nature, Mrs. Goodenough, seeing she could not at once get +rid of the boy, did her endeavour to make him pay for his +keep. Nominally he continued to attend the village school, where the +old master was doing his best for him; but, oftener than not, she +interposed to prevent his going, and turned him to use about the +house, the dairy, and the poultry-yard. + +His new mode of life occasioned him no sense of hardship. I do not +mean because of his patient acceptance of everything that came; but +because he had been so long accustomed to the ways of a farm, to all +the phases of life and work in yard and field, that nothing there came +strange to him--except having to stick to what he was put to, and +having next to no time to read. Many boys who have found much +amusement in doing this or that, find it irksome the moment it is +required of them: Clare was not of that mean sort; he was a +gentleman. Happily he was put to no work beyond his strength. + +At first, and for some time, he had to do only with the creatures more +immediately under the care of “the mistress,” whence his acquaintance +with the poultry and the pigs, the pigeons and the calves--and +specially with such as were delicate or had been hurt--with their ways +of thinking and their carriage and conduct, rapidly increased. + +By and by, however, having already almost ceased to attend school, the +farmer, requiring some passing help a boy could give, took him from +his wife--not without complaint on her part, neither without sense of +relief, and would not part with him again. He was so quick in doing +what was required, so intelligent to catch the meaning not always +thoroughly expressed, so cheerful, and so willing, that he was a +pleasure to Mr. Goodenough--and no less a pleasure to the farmer that +dwelt in Mr. Goodenough, and seemed to most men all there was of him; +for, instead of an expense, he found him a saving. + +It was much more pleasant for Clare to be with his master than with +his mistress, but he fared the worse for it in the house. The woman's +dislike of the boy must find outlet; and as, instead of flowing all +day long, it was now pent up the greater part of it, the stronger it +issued when he came home to his meals. I will not defile my page with +a record of the modes in which she vented her spite. It sought at +times such minuteness of indulgence, that it was next to impossible +for any one to perceive its embodiments except the boy himself. + +He now came more into contact with the larger animals about the place; +and the comfort he derived from them was greater than most people +would readily or perhaps willingly believe. He had kept up his +relations with Nimrod, the bull, and there was never a breach of the +friendship between them. The people about the farm not unfrequently +sought his influence with the animal, for at times they dared hardly +approach him. Clare even made him useful--got a little work out of him +now and then. But his main interest lay in the horses. He had up to +this time known rather less of them than of the other creatures on the +place; now he had to give his chief attention to them, laying in love +the foundation of that knowledge which afterward stood him in such +stead when he came to dwell for a time among certain eastern tribes +whose horses are their chief gladness and care. He used, when alone +with them, to talk to this one or that about the friends he had +lost--his father and mother and Maly and Sarah--and did not mind if +they all listened. He would even tell them sometimes about his own +father and mother--how the whole sky full of angels fell down upon +them and took them away. But he said most about his sister. For her he +mourned more than for any of the rest. Her screams as the black aunt +carried her away, would sometimes come back to him with such +verisimilitude of nearness, that, forgetting everything about him, he +would start to run to her. He felt somehow that it was well with the +others, but Maly had always needed _him_, and more than ever in the +last days of their companionship. He wept for nobody but Maly. In the +night he would wake up suddenly, thinking he heard her crying out for +him. Then he would get out of bed, creep to the stable, go to +Jonathan, and to him pour out his low-voiced complaint. Jonathan was +the biggest and oldest horse on the farm. + +How much he thought they understood of what he told them, I cannot +say. He was never silly; and where we cannot be sure, we may yet have +reason to hope. He believed they knew when he was in trouble, and +sympathized with him, and would gladly have relieved him of his +pain. I suspect most animals know something of the significance of +tears. More animals shed tears themselves than people think. + +For dogs, bless them, they are everywhere, and the boy had known them +from time immemorial. + +In the village, some of Clare's old admirers began to remark that he +no longer “looked the little gentleman.” This was caused chiefly by +the state of his clothes. They were not fit for the work to which he +was put, and within a few weeks were very shabby. Besides, he was +growing rapidly, so that he and his garments were in too evident +process of parting company. Accustomed to a mother's attentions, he +had never thought of his clothes except to take care of them for her +sake; now he tried to mend them, but soon found his labour of little +use. He had no wages to buy anything with. His clothes or his health +or his education were nothing to Mrs. Goodenough. It was no concern of +hers whether he looked decent or not. What right had such as he to +look decent? It was more than enough that she fed him! The shabbiness +of the beggarly creature was a consolation to her. + +But Clare's toil in the open air, and his constant and willing +association with the animals, had begun to give him a bucolic +appearance. He grew a trifle browner, and showed here and there a +freckle. His health was splendid. Nothing seemed to hurt him. Hardship +was wholesome to him. To the eyes that hated him, and grudged the hire +of the mere food by which he grew, he seemed every day to enlarge +visibly. Already he gave promise of becoming a man of more than +ordinary strength and vigour. Possibly the animals gave him something. + +What may have been his outlook and hope all this time, who shall tell! +He never grumbled, never showed sign of pain or unwillingness, gave +his mistress no reason for fault-finding. She found it hard even to +discover a pretext. She seemed always ready to strike him, but was +probably afraid to do so without provocation her husband would count +sufficient. Clare never showed discomfort, never even sighed except he +were alone. Chequered as his life had been, if ever he looked forward +to a fresh change, it was but as a far possibility in the slow current +of events. But he was constantly possessed with a large dim sense of +something that lay beyond, waiting for him; something toward which the +tide of things was with certainty drifting him, but with which he had +nothing more to do than wait. He did not see that to do the things +given him to do was the only preparation for whatever, in the dim +under-world of the future, might be preparing for him; but he did feel +that he must do his work. He did not then think much about duty. He +was actively inclined, had a strong feeling for doing a thing as it +ought to be done; and was thoroughly loyal to any one that seemed to +have a right over him. In this blind, enduring, vaguely hopeful way, +he went on--sustained, and none the less certainly that he did not +know it, from the fountain of his life. When the winter came, his +sufferings, cared for as he had been, and accustomed to warmth and +softness, must at times have been considerable. In the day his work +was a protection, but at night the house was cold. He had, however, +plenty to eat, had no ailment, and was not to be greatly pitied. + + + +Chapter XII. + +Clare becomes a guardian of the poor. + + +Simpson, the bully of Clare's childhood, went limping about on a +crutch, permanently lame, and full of hatred toward the innocent +occasion of the injury he had brought upon himself. Ever since his +recovery, he had, loitering about in idleness, watched the boy, to +waylay and catch him at unawares. Not until Clare went to the farm, +however, did he once succeed; for it was not difficult to escape him, +so long as he had not laid actual hold on his prey. But he grew more +and more cunning, and contrived at last, by creeping along hedges and +lying in ambush like a snake, to get his hands upon him. Then the poor +boy fared ill. + +He went home bleeding and torn. The righteous churchwarden rebuked him +with severity for fighting. His mistress told him she was glad he had +met with some one to give him what he deserved, for she could hardly +keep her hands off him. He stared at her with wondering eyes, but said +nothing. She turned from them: the devil in her could not look in the +eyes of the angel in him. The next time he fell into the snare of his +enemy, he managed to conceal what had befallen him. After that he was +too wide awake to be caught. + +There was in the village a child whom nobody heeded. He was far more +destitute than Clare, but had too much liberty. He lived with a +wretched old woman who called him her grandson: whether he was or not +nobody cared. She made her livelihood by letting beds, in a cottage or +rather hovel which seemed to be her own, to wayfarers, mostly tramps, +with or without trades. The child was thus thrown into the worst of +company, and learned many sorts of wickedness. He was already a thief, +and of no small proficiency in his art. Though village-bred, he could +pick a pocket more sensitive than a clown's. Small and deft, he had +never stood before a magistrate. He was a miserable creature, +bare-footed and bare-legged; about eight years of age, but so stunted +that to the first glance he looked less than six--with keen ferret +eyes in red rims, red hair, pasty, freckled complexion, and a +generally unhealthy look; from which marks all, Clare conceived a +pitiful sympathy for him. Their acquaintance began thus:-- + +One day, during his father's last illness, he happened to pass the +door of the grandmother's hovel while the crone was administering to +Tommy a severe punishment with a piece of thick rope: she had been +sharp enough to catch him stealing from herself. Clare heard his +cries. The door being partly open, he ran in, and gave him such +assistance that they managed to bolt together from the hut. A +friendship, for long almost a silent one, was thus initiated between +them. Tommy--Clare never knew his other name, nor did the boy +himself--would off and on watch for a sight of him all day long, but +had the instinct, or experience, never to approach him if any one was +with him. He was careful not to compromise him. The instant the most +momentary _tête-à-tête_ was possible, he would rush up, offer him +something he had found or stolen, and hurry away again. That he was a +thief Clare had not the remotest suspicion. He had never offered him +anything to suggest theft. + +By and by it came to the knowledge of Clare's enemy that there was a +friendship between them, and the discovery wrought direness for +both. One day Simpson saw Clare coming, and Tommy watching him. He +laid hold of Tommy, and began cuffing him and pulling his hair, to +make him scream, thinking thus to get hold of Clare. But +notwithstanding the lesson he had received, the rascal had not yet any +adequate notion of the boy's capacity for action where another was +concerned. He flew to the rescue, caught up the crutch Simpson had +dropped, and laid it across his back with vigour. The fellow let Tommy +go and turned on Clare, who went backward, brandishing the crutch. + +“Run, Tommy,” he cried. + +Tommy retreated a few steps. + +“Run yourself,” he counselled, having reached a safe distance. “Take +his third leg with you.” + +Clare saw the advice was good, and ran. But the next moment reflection +showed him the helplessness of his enemy. He turned, and saw him +hobbling after him in such evident pain and discomfiture, that he went +to meet him, and politely gave him his crutch. He might have thrown it +to him and gone on, but he had a horror of rudeness, and handed it to +him with a bow. Just as he regained his perpendicular, the crutch +descended on his head, and laid him flat on the ground. There the +tyrant belaboured him. Tommy stood and regarded the proceeding. + +“The cove's older an' bigger an' pluckier than me,” he said to +himself; “but he's an ass. He'll come to grief unless he's looked +after. He'll be hanged else. He don't know how to dodge. I'll have to +take him in charge!” + +When he saw Clare free, an event to which he had contributed nothing, +he turned and ran home. + +Simpson redoubled now his persecution of Clare, and persecuted Tommy +because of Clare. He lurked for Tommy now, and when he caught him, +tormented him with choice tortures. In a word, he made his life +miserable. After every such mischance Tommy would hurry to the farm, +and lie about in the hope of a sight of Clare, or possibly a chance of +speaking to him. His repute was so bad that he dared not show himself. + +Hot tears would come into Clare's eyes as he listened to the not +always unembellished tale of Tommy's sufferings at the hands of +Simpson; but he never thought of revenge, only of protection or escape +for the boy. It comforted him to believe that he was growing, and +would soon be a match for the oppressor. + +Whether at this time he felt any great interest in life, or recognized +any personal advantage in growing, I doubt. But he had the friendship +of the animals; and it is not surprising that creatures their maker +thinks worth making and keeping alive, should yield consolation to one +that understands them, or even fill with a mild joy the pauses of +labour in an irksome life. + +Then each new day was an old friend to the boy. Each time the sun +rose, new hope rose with him in his heart. He came every morning fresh +from home, with a fresh promise. The boy read the promise in his great +shining, and believed it; gazed and rejoiced, and turned to his work. + +But the hour arrived when his mistress could bear his presence no +longer. Some petty loss, I imagine, had befallen her. Nothing touched +her like the loss of money--the love of which is as dread a passion as +the love of drink, and more ruinous to the finer elements of the +nature. It was like the tearing out of her heart to Mrs. Goodenough to +lose a shilling. Her self-command forsook her, perhaps, in some such +moment of vexation; anyhow, she opened the sluices of her hate, and +overwhelmed him with it in the presence of her husband. + +The farmer knew she was unfair, knew the orphan a good boy and a +diligent, knew there was nothing against him but the antipathy of his +wife. But, annoyed with her injustice, he was powerless to change her +heart. Since the boy came to live with them, he had had no pleasure in +his wife's society. She had always been moody and dissatisfied, but +since then had been unbearable. Constantly irritated with and by her +because of Clare, he had begun to regard him as the destroyer of his +peace, and to feel a grudge against him. He sat smouldering with +bodiless rage, and said nothing. + +Clare too was silent,--for what could he say? Where is the wisdom that +can answer hatred? He carried to his friend Jonathan a heart heavy and +perplexed. + +“Why does she hate me so, Jonathan?” he murmured. + +The big horse kissed his head all over, but made him no other answer. + + + +Chapter XIII. + +Clare the vagabond. + + +The next morning Clare happened to do something not altogether to the +farmer's mind. It was a matter of no consequence--only cleaning that +side of one of the cow-houses first which was usually cleaned last. He +gave him a box on the ear that made him stagger, and then stand +bewildered. + +“What do you mean by staring that way?” cried the farmer, annoyed with +himself and seeking justification in his own eyes. “Am I not to box +your ears when I choose?” And with that he gave him another blow. + +Then first it dawned on Clare that he was not wanted, that he was no +good to anybody. He threw down his scraper, and ran from the +cow-house; ran straight from the farm to the lane, and from the lane +to the high road. Buffets from the hand of his only friend, and the +sudden sense of loneliness they caused, for the moment bereft Clare of +purpose. It was as if his legs had run away with him, and he had +unconsciously submitted to their abduction. + +At the mouth of the lane, where it opened on the high road, he ran +against Tommy turning the corner, eager to find him. The eyes of the +small human monkey were swollen with weeping; his nose was bleeding, +and in size and shape scarce recognizable as a nose. At the sight, the +consciousness of his protectorate awoke in Clare, and he stopped, +unable to speak, but not unable to listen. Tommy blubbered out a +confused, half-inarticulate something about “granny and the other +devil,” who between them had all but killed him. + +“What can I do?” said Clare, his heart sinking with the sense of +having no help in him. + +Tommy was ready to answer the question. He had been hatching vengeance +all the way. Eagerly came his proposition--that they should, in their +turn, lie in ambush for Simpson, and knock his crutch from under +him. That done, Clare should belabour him with it, while he ran like +the wind and set his grandmother's house on fire. + +“She'll be drunk in bed, an' she'll be burned to death!” cried +Tommy. “Then we'll mizzle!” + +“But it would hurt them both very badly, Tommy!” said Clare, as if +unfolding the reality of the thing to a foolish child. + +“Well! all right! the worse the better! 'Ain't they hurt us?” rejoined +Tommy. + +“That's how we know it's not nice!” answered Clare. “If they set it a +going, we ain't to keep it a going!” + +“Then they'll be at it for ever,” cried Tommy, “an' I'm sick of it! +I'll _kill_ granny! I swear I will, if I'm hanged for it! She's said a +hundred times she'd pull my legs when I was hanged; but _she_ won't be +at the hanging!” + +“Why shouldn't you run for it first?” said Clare. “Then they wouldn't +want to hang you!” + +“Then I shouldn't have nobody!” replied Tommy, whimpering. + +“I should have thought Nobody was as good as granny!” said Clare. + +“A big bilin' better!” answered Tommy bitterly. “I wasn't meanin' +granny--nor yet stumpin' Simpson.” + +“I don't know what you're driving at,” said Clare. Tommy burst into +tears. + +“Ain't you the only one I got, up or down?” he cried. + +Tommy had a little bit of heart--not much, but enough to have a chance +of growing. If ever creature had less than that, he was not human. I +do not think he could even be an ape. + +Some of the people about the parson used to think Clare had no heart, +and Mrs. Goodenough was sure of it. He had not a spark of gratitude, +she said. But the cause of this opinion was that Clare's affection +took the shape of deeds far more than of words. Never were judges of +their neighbours more mistaken. The chief difference between Clare's +history and that of most others was, that his began at the unusual +end. Clare began with loving everybody; and most people take a long +time to grow to that. Hence, those whom, from being brought nearest to +them, he loved specially, he loved without that outbreak of show which +is often found in persons who love but a few, and whose love is +defiled with partisanship. He loved quietly and constantly, in a +fashion as active as undemonstrative. He was always glad to be near +those he specially loved; beyond that, the signs of his love were +practical--it came out in ministration, in doing things for +them. There are those who, without loving, desire to be loved, because +they love themselves; for those that are worth least are most precious +to themselves. But Clare never thought of the love of others to +him--from no heartlessness, but that he did not think about +himself--had never done so, at least, until the moment when he fled +from the farm with the new agony in his heart that nobody wanted him, +that everybody would be happier without him. Happy is he that does not +think of himself before the hour when he becomes conscious of the +bliss of being loved. For it must be and ought to be a happy moment +when one learns that another human creature loves him; and not to be +grateful for love is to be deeply selfish. Clare had always loved, but +had not thought of any one as loving him, or of himself as being loved +by any one. + +“Well,” rejoined Clare, struggling with his misery, “ain't I going +myself?” + +“You going!--That's chaff!” + +“'Tain't chaff. I'm on my way.” + +“What! Going to hook it? Oh golly! what a lark! Won't Farmer +Goodenough look blue!” + +“He'll think himself well rid of me,” returned Clare with a sigh. “But +there's no time to talk. If you're going, Tommy, come along.” + +He turned to go. + +“Where to?” asked Tommy, following. + +“I don't know. Anywhere away,” answered Clare, quickening his pace. + +In spite of his swollen visage, Tommy's eyes grew wider. + +“You 'ain't cribbed nothing?” he said. + +“I don't know what you mean.” + +“You 'ain't stole something?” interpreted Tommy. + +Clare stopped, and for the first time on his own part, lifted his hand +to strike. It dropped immediately by his side. + +“No, you poor Tommy,” he said. “I don't steal.” + +“Thought you didn't! What are you running away for then?” + +“Because they don't want me.” + +“Lord! what will you do?” + +“Work.” + +Tommy held his tongue: he knew a better way than that! If work was the +only road to eating, things would go badly with _him_! But he thought +he knew a thing or two, and would take his chance! There were degrees +of hunger that were not so bad as the thrashings he got, for in his +granny's hands the rope might fall where it would; while all cripple +Simpson cared for was to make him squeal satisfactorily. But work was +worse than all! He would go with Clare, but not to work! Not he! + +Clare kept on in silence, never turning his head--out into the +untried, unknown, mysterious world, which lay around the one spot he +knew as the darkness lies about the flame of the candle. They walked +more than a mile before either spoke. + + + +Chapter XIV. + +Their first helper + + +It was a lovely spring morning. The sun was about thirty degrees above +the horizon, shining with a liquid radiance, as if he had already +drawn up and was shining through the dew of the morning, though it lay +yet on all the grasses by the roadside, turning them into gem-plants. +Every sort of gem sparkled on their feathery or beady tops, and their +long slender blades. At the first cottages they passed, the women were +beginning their day's work, sweeping clean their floors and +door-steps. Clare noted that where were most flowers in the garden, +the windows were brightest, and the children cleanest. + +“The flowers come where they make things nice for them!” he said to +himself. “Where the flowers see dirt, they turn away, and won't come +out.” + +From childhood he had had the notion that the flowers crept up inside +the stalks until they found a window to look out at. Where the +prospect was not to their mind they crept down, and away by some door +in the root to try again. For all the stalks stood like watch-towers, +ready for them to go up and peep out. + +They came to a pond by a farm-house. Clare had been observing with +pity how wretched Tommy's clothes were; but when he looked into the +pond he saw that his own shabbiness was worse than Tommy's downright +miserableness. Nobody would leave either of them within reach of +anything worth stealing! What he wore had been his Sunday suit, and it +was not even worth brushing! + +“I'm 'orrid 'ungry,” said Tommy. “I 'ain't swallered a plug this +mornin', 'xcep' a lump o' bread out o' granny's cupboard. That's what +I got my weltin' for. It were a whole half-loaf, though--an' none so +dry!” + +Clare had eaten nothing, and had been up since five o'clock--at work +all the time till the farmer struck him: he was quite as hungry as +Tommy. What was to be done? Besides a pocket-handkerchief he had but +one thing alienable. + +The very day she was taken ill, he had been in the store-room with his +mother, and she, knowing the pleasure he took in the scent of brown +Windsor-soap, had made him a present of a small cake. This he had kept +in his pocket ever since, wrapt in a piece of rose-coloured paper, his +one cherished possession: hunger deadening sorrow, the time was come +to bid it farewell. His heart ached to part with it, but Tommy and he +were so hungry! + +They went to the door of the house, and knocked--first Clare very +gently, then Tommy with determination. It was opened by a matron who +looked at them over the horizon of her chin. + +“Please, ma'am,” said Clare, “will you give us a piece of bread?--as +large a piece, please, as you can spare; and I will give you this +piece of brown Windsor-soap.” + +As he ended his speech, he took a farewell whiff of his favourite +detergent. + +“Soap!” retorted the dame. “Who wants your soap! Where did you get it? +Stole it, I don't doubt! Show it here.” + +She took it in her hand, and held it to her nose. + +“Who gave it you?” + +“My mother,” answered Clare. + +“Where's your mother?” + +Clare pointed upward. + +“Eh? Oh--hanged! I thought, so!” + +She threw the soap into the yard, and closed the door. Clare darted +after his property, pounced upon it, and restored it lovingly to his +pocket. + +As they were leaving the yard disconsolate, they saw a cart full of +turnips. Tommy turned and made for it. + +“Don't, Tommy,” cried Clare. + +“Why not? I'm hungry,” answered Tommy, “an' you see it's no use +astin'!” + +He flew at the cart, but Clare caught and held him. + +“They ain't ours, Tommy,” he said. + +“Then why don't you take one?” retorted Tommy. + +“That's why you shouldn't.” + +“It's why you should, for then it 'ud be yours.” + +“To take it wouldn't make it ours, Tommy.” + +“Wouldn't it, though? I believe when I'd eaten it, it would be +mine--rather!” + +“No, it wouldn't. Think of having in your stomach what wasn't yours! +No, you must pay for it. Perhaps they would take my soap for a +turnip. I believe it's worth two turnips.” + +He spied a man under a shed, ran to him, and made offer of the soap +for a turnip apiece. + +“I don't want your soap,” answered the man, “an' I don't recommend +cold turmits of a mornin'. But take one if you like, and clear +out. The master's cart-whip 'ill be about your ears the moment he sees +you!” + +“Ain't you the master, sir?” + +“No, I ain't.” + +“Then the turnips ain't yours?” said Clare, looking at him with +hungry, regretful eyes, for he could have eaten a raw potato. + +“You're a deal too impudent to be hungry!” said the man, making a blow +at him with his open hand, which Clare dodged. “Be off with you, or +I'll set the dog on you.” + +“I'm very sorry,” said Clare. “I did not mean to offend you.” + +“Clear out, I say. Double trot!” + +Hungry as the boys were, they must trudge! No bread, no turnip for +them! Nothing but trudge, trudge till they dropped! + +When they had gone about five miles further, they sat down, as if by +common consent, on the roadside; and Tommy, used to crying, began to +cry. Clare did not seek to stop him, for some instinct told him it +must be a relief. + +By and by a working-man came along the road. Clare hesitated, but +Tommy's crying urged him. He rose and stood ready to accost him. As +soon as he came up, however, the man stopped of himself. He questioned +Clare and listened to his story, then counselled the boys to go back. + +“I'm not wanted, sir,” said Clare. + +“They'd kill _me_,” said Tommy. + +“God help you, boys!” returned the man. “You may be telling me lies, +and you may be telling me the truth!--A liar may be hungry, but +somehow I grudge my dinner to a liar!” + +As he spoke he untied the knots of a blue handkerchief with white +spots, gave them its contents of bread and cheese, wiped his face with +it, and put it in his pocket; lifted his bag of tools, and went his +way. He had lost his dinner and saved his life! + +The dinner, being a man's, went a good way toward satisfying them, +though empty corners would not have been far to seek, had there been +anything to put in them. As it was, they started again refreshed and +hopeful. What had come to them once might reasonably come again! + + + +Chapter XV. + +Their first host. + + +As the evening drew on, and began to settle down into night, a new +care arose in the mind of the elder boy. Where were they to pass the +darkness?--how find shelter for sleep? It was a question that gave +Tommy no anxiety. He had been on the tramp often, now with one party, +now with another of his granny's lodgers, and had frequently slept in +the open air, or under the rudest covert. Tommy had not much +imagination to trouble him, and in his present moral condition was +possibly better without it; but to inexperienced Clare there was +something fearful in having the night come so close to him. Sleep out +of doors he had never thought of. To lie down with the stars looking +at him, nothing but the blue wind between him and them, was like being +naked to the very soul. Doubtless there would be creatures about, to +share the night with him, and protect him from its awful bareness; but +they would be few for the size of the room, and he might see none of +them! It was the sense of emptiness, the lack of present life that +dismayed him. He had never seen any creatures to shrink from. He +disliked no one of the things that creep or walk or fly. Before long +he did come to know and dislike at least one sort; and the sea held +creatures that in after years made him shudder; but as yet, not even +rats, so terrible to many, were a terror to Clare. It was Nothing that +he feared. + +My reader may say, “But had no one taught him about God?” Yes, he had +heard about God, and about Jesus Christ; had heard a great deal about +them. But they always seemed persons a long way off. He knew, or +thought he knew, that God was everywhere, but he had never felt his +presence a reality. He seemed in no place where Clare's eyes ever +fell. He never thought, “God is here.” Perhaps the sparrows knew more +about God than he did then. When he looked out into the night it +always seemed vacant, therefore horrid, and he took it for as empty as +it looked. And if there had been no God there, it would have been +reasonable indeed to be afraid; for the most frightful of notions is +_Nothing-at-all_. + +It grew dark, and they were falling asleep on their walking legs, when +they came to a barn-yard. Very glad were they to creep into it, and +search for the warmest place. It was a quiet part of the country, and +for years nothing had been stolen from anybody, so that the people +were not so watchful as in many places. + +They went prowling about, but even Tommy with innocent intent, eager +only after a little warmth, and as much sleep as they could find, and +came at length to an open window, through which they crawled into +what, by the smell and the noises, they knew to be a stable. It was +very dark, but Clare was at home, and felt his way about; while Tommy, +who was afraid of the horses, held close to him. Clare's hand fell +upon the hind-quarters of a large well-fed horse. The huge animal was +asleep standing, but at the touch of the small hand he gave a low +whinny. Tommy shuddered at the sound. + +“He's pleased,” said Clare, and crept up on his near side into the +stall. There he had soon made such friends with him, that he did not +hesitate to get in among the hay the horse had for his supper. + +“Here, Tommy!” he cried in a whisper; “there's room for us both in the +manger.” + +But Tommy stood shaking. He fancied the darkness full of horses' +heads, and would not stir. Clare had to get out again, and search for +a place to suit his fancy, which he found in an untenanted loose-box, +with remains of litter. There Tommy coiled himself up, and was soon +fast asleep. + +Clare returned to the hospitality of the big horse. The great nostrils +snuffed him over and over as he lay, and the boy knew the horse made +him welcome. He dropped asleep stroking the muzzle of his +chamber-fellow, and slept all the night, kept warm by the horse's +breath, and the near furnace of his great body. + +In the morning the boys found they had slept too long, for they were +discovered. But though they were promptly ejected as vagabonds, and +not without a few kicks and cuffs, these were not administered without +the restraint of some mercy, for their appearance tended to move pity +rather than indignation. + + + +Chapter XVI. + +On the tramp. + + +With the new day came the fresh necessity for breakfast, and the fresh +interest in the discovery of it. But breakfast is a thing not always +easiest to find where breakfasts most abound; nor was theirs when +found that morning altogether of a sort to be envied, ill as they +could afford to despise it. Passing, on their goal-less way, a +flour-mill, the door of which was half-open, they caught sight of a +heap, whether floury dust or dusty flour, it would have been hard to +say, that seemed waiting only for them to help themselves from +it. Fain to still the craving of birds too early for any worm, they +swallowed a considerable portion of it, choking as it was, nor met +with rebuke. There was good food in it, and they might have fared +worse. + +Another day's tramp was thus inaugurated. How it was to end no one in +the world knew less than the trampers. + +Before it was over, a considerable change had passed upon Clare; for a +new era was begun in his history, and he started to grow more +rapidly. Hitherto, while with his father or mother, or with his little +sister, making life happy to her; even while at the farm, doing hard +work, he had lived with much the same feeling with which he read a +story: he was in the story, half dreaming, half acting it. The +difference between a thing that passed through his brain from the +pages of a book, or arose in it as he lay in bed either awake or +asleep, and the thing in which he shared the life and motion of the +day, was not much marked in his consciousness. He was a dreamer with +open eyes and ready hands, not clearly distinguishing thought and +action, fancy and fact. Even the cold and hunger he had felt at the +farm had not sufficed to wake him up; he had only had to wait and they +were removed. But now that he did not know whence his hunger was to be +satisfied, or where shelter was to be had; now also that there was a +hunger outside him, and a cold that was not his, which yet he had to +supply and to frustrate in the person of Tommy, life began to grow +real to him; and, which was far more, he began to grow real to +himself, as a power whose part it was to encounter the necessities +thus presented. He began to understand that things were required of +him. He had met some of these requirements before, and had satisfied +them, but without knowing them as requirements. He did it half awake, +not as a thinking and willing source of the motion demanded. He did it +all by impulse, hardly by response. Now we are put into bodies, and +sent into the world, to wake us up. We might go on dreaming for ages +if we were left without bodies that the wind could blow upon, that the +rain could wet, and the sun scorch, bodies to feel thirst and cold and +hunger and wounds and weariness. The eternal plan was beginning to +tell upon Clare. He was in process of being changed from a dreamer to +a man. It is a good thing to be a dreamer, but it is a bad thing +indeed to be _only_ a dreamer. He began to see that everybody in the +world had to do something in order to get food; that he had worked for +the farmer and his wife, and they had fed him. He had worked willingly +and eaten gladly, but had not before put the two together. He saw now +that men who would be men must work. + +His eyes fell upon a congregation of rooks in a field by the +roadside. “Are _they_ working?” he thought; “or are they stealing? If +it be stealing they are at, it looks like hard work as well. It can't +be stealing though; they were made to live, and _how_ are they to live +if they don't grub? that's their work! Still the corn ain't theirs! +Perhaps it's only worms they take! Are the worms theirs? A man should +die rather than steal, papa said. But, if they are stealing, the crows +don't know it; and if they don't know it, they ain't thieves! Is that +it?” + +The same instant came the report of a gun. A crowd of rooks rose +cawing. One of them dropped and lay. + +“He must have been stealing,” thought Clare, “for see what comes of +it! Would they shoot me if I stole? Better be shot than die of hunger! +Yes, but better die of hunger than be a thief!” + +He had read stories about thieves and honest boys, and had never seen +any difficulty in the matter. Nor had he yet a notion of how difficult +it is not to be a thief--that is, to be downright honest. If anybody +thinks it easy, either he has not known much of life, or he has never +tried to be honest; he has done just like other people. Clare did not +know that many a boy whose heart sided with the honest boy in the +story, has grown up a dishonourable man--a man ready to benefit +himself to the disadvantage of others; that many a man who passes for +respectable in this disreputable world, is counted far meaner than a +thief in the next, and is going there to be put in prison. But he +began to see that it is not enough to mean well; that he must be +sharp, and mind what he was about; else, with hunger worrying inside +him, he might be a thief before he knew. He was on the way to discover +that to think rightly--to be on the side of what is honourable when +reading a story, is a very different thing from doing right, and being +honourable, when the temptation is upon us. Many a boy when he reads +this will say, “Of course it is!” and when the time comes, will be a +sneak. + +Those crows set Clare thinking; and it was well; for if he had not +done as those thinkings taught him, he would have given a very +different turn to his history. Meditation and resolve, on the top of +honourable habit, brought him to this, that, when he saw what was +right, he just did it--did it without hesitation, question, or +struggle. Every man must, who would be a free man, who would not be +the slave of the universe and of himself. + + + +Chapter XVII. + +The baker's cart. + + +The sweepings of the mill-floor did not last them long, and by the +time they saw rising before them the spires and chimneys of the small +county town to which the road had been leading them, they were very +hungry indeed--as hungry as they well could be without having begun to +grow faint. The moment he saw them, Clare began revolving in his mind +once more, as many times on the way, what he was to do to get work: +Tommy of course was too small to do anything, and Clare must earn +enough for both. He could think of nothing but going into the shops, +or knocking at the house-doors, and asking for something to do. So +filled was he with his need of work, and with the undefined sense of a +claim for work, that he never thought how much against him must be the +outward appearance which had so dismayed himself when he saw it in the +pond; never thought how unwilling any one would be to employ him, or +what a disadvantage was the company of Tommy, who had every mark of a +born thief. + +I do not know if, on his tramps, Tommy had been in a town before, but +to Clare all he saw bore the aspect of perfect novelty, +notwithstanding the few city-shapes that floated in faintest shadow, +like memories of old dreams, in his brain. He was delighted with the +grand look of the place, with its many people and many shops. His hope +of work at once became brilliant and convincing. + +Noiselessly and suddenly Tommy started from his side, but so much +occupied was he with what he beheld and what he thought, that he +neither saw him go nor missed him when gone. He became again aware of +him by finding himself pulled toward the entrance of a narrow lane. +Tommy pulled so hard that Clare yielded, and went with him into the +lane, but stopped immediately. For he saw that Tommy had under his arm +a big loaf, and the steam of newly-baked bread was fragrant in his +nostrils. Never smoke so gracious greeted those of incense-loving +priest. Tommy tugged and tugged, but Clare stood stock-still. + +“Where did you get that beautiful loaf, Tommy?” he asked. + +“Off on a baker's cart,” said Tommy. “Don't be skeered; he never saw +me! That was my business, an' I seed to 't.” + +“Then you stole it, Tommy?” + +“Yes,” grumbled Tommy, “--if that's the name you put upon it when your +trousers is so slack you've got to hold on to them or they'd trip you +up!” + +“Where's the cart?” + +“In the street there.” + +“Come along.” + +Clare took the loaf from Tommy, and turned to find the baker's +cart. Tommy's face fell, and he was conscious only of bitterness. Why +had he yielded to sentiment--not that he knew the word--when he longed +like fire to bury his sharp teeth in that heavenly loaf? Love--not to +mention a little fear--had urged him to carry it straight to Clare, +and this was his reward! He was going to give him up to the baker! +There was gratitude for you! He ought to have known better than trust +_anybody_, even Clare! Nobody was to be trusted but yourself! It did +seem hard to Tommy. + +They had scarcely turned the corner when they came upon the cart. The +baker was looking the other way, talking to some one, and Clare +thought to lay down the loaf and say nothing about it: there was no +occasion for the ceremony of apology where offence was unknown. But in +the very act the baker turned and saw him. He sprang upon him, and +collared him. The baker was not nice to look at. + +“I have you!” he cried, and shook him as if he would have shaken his +head off. + +“It's quite a mistake, sir!” was all Clare could get out, so fierce +was the earthquake that rattled the house of his life. + +“Mistaken am I? I like that!--Police!” + +And with that the baker shook him again. + +A policeman was not far off; he heard the man call, and came running. + +“Here's a gen'leman as wants the honour o' your acquaintance, Bob!” + said the baker. + +But Tommy saw that, from his size, he was more likely to get off than +Clare if he told the truth. + +“Please, policeman,” he said, “it wasn't him; it was me as took the +loaf.” + +“You little liar!” shouted the baker. “Didn't I see him with his hand +on the loaf?” + +“He was a puttin' of it back,” said Tommy. “I wish he'd been +somewheres else! See what he been an' got by it! If he'd only ha' let +me run, there wouldn't ha' been nobody the wiser. I _am_ sorry I +didn't run. Oh, I _ham_ so 'ungry!” + +Tommy doubled himself up, with his hands inside the double. + +“'Ungry, are you?” roared the baker. “That's what thieves off a +baker's cart ought to be! They ought to be always 'ungry--'ungry to +all eternity, they ought! An' that's what's goin' to be done to 'em!” + +“Look here!” cried a pale-faced man in the front of the crowd, who +seemed a mechanic. “There's a way of tellin' whether the boy's +speakin' the truth _now_!” + +He caught up the restored loaf, halved it cleverly, and handed each of +the boys a part. + +“Now, baker, what's to pay?” he said, and drew himself up, for the man +was too angry at once to reply. + +The boys were tearing at the delicious bread, blind and deaf to all +about them. + +“P'r'aps you would like to give _me_ in charge?” pursued their +saviour. + +“Sixpence,” said the man sullenly. + +The mechanic laid sixpence on the cover of the cart. + +“I ought to ha' made you weigh and make up,” he said. “Where's your +scales?” + +“Mind your own business.” + +“I mean to. Here! I want another sixpenny loaf--but I want it weighed +this time!” + +“I ain't bound to sell bread in the streets. You can go to the +shop. Them loaves is for reg'lar customers.” + +He moved off with his cart, and the crowd began to disperse. The boys +stood absorbed, each in what remained of his half-loaf. + +When he looked up, Clare saw that they were alone. But he caught sight +of their benefactor some way off, and ran after him. + +“Oh, sir!” he said, “I was so hungry, I don't know whether I thanked +you for the loaf. We'd had nothing to-day but the sweepings of a +mill.” + +“God bless my soul!” said the man. “People say there's a God!” he +added. + +“I think there must be, sir, for you came by just then!” returned +Clare. + +“How do you come to be so hard-up, my boy? Somebody's to blame +somewheres!” + +“There ain't no harm in being hungry, so long as the loaf comes!” + rejoined Clare. “When I get work we shall be all right!” + +“That's your sort!” said the man. “But if there had been a God, as +people say, he would ha' made me fit to gi'e you a job, i'stead o' +stan'in' here as you see me, with ne'er a turn o' work to do for +myself!” + +“I'll work my hardest to pay you back your sixpence,” said Clare. + +“Nay, nay, lad! Don't you trouble about that. I ha' got two or three +more i' my pocket, thank God!” + +“You have two Gods, have you, sir?” said Clare;”--one who does things +for you, and one who don't?” + +“Come, you young shaver! you're too much for me!” said the man +laughing. + +Tommy, having finished his bread, here thought fit to join them. He +came slyly up, looking impudent now he was filled, with his hands +where his pockets should have been. + +“It was you stole the loaf, you little rascal!” said the workman, +seeing thief in every line of the boy. + +“Yes,” answered Tommy boldly, “an' I don't see no harm. The baker had +lots, and he wasn't 'ungry! It was Clare made a mull of it! He's such +a duffer you don't know! He acshally took it back to the brute! He +deserved what he got! The loaf was mine. It wasn't his! _I_ stole it!” + +“Oh, ho! it wasn't his! it was yours, was it?--Why do you go about +with a chap like this, young gentleman?” said the man, turning to +Clare. “I know by your speech you 'ain't been brought up alongside o' +sech as him!” + +“I had to go away, and he came with me,” answered Clare. + +“You'd better get rid of him. He'll get you into trouble.” + +“I can't get rid of him,” replied Clare. “But I shall teach him not to +take what isn't his. He don't know better now. He's been ill-used all +his life.” + +“You don't seem over well used yourself,” said the man. + +He saw that Clare's clothes had been made for a boy in good +circumstances, though they had been long worn, and were much +begrimed. His face, his tone, his speech convinced him that they had +been made for _him_, and that he had had a gentle breeding. + +“Look you here, young master,” he continued; “you have no right to be +in company with that boy. He'll bring you to grief as sure as I tell +you.” + +“I shall be able to bear it,” answered Clare with a sigh. + +“He'll be the loss of your character to you.” + +“I 'ain't got a character to lose,” replied Clare. “I thought I had; +but when nobody will believe me, where's my character then?” + +“Now you're wrong there,” returned the man. “I'm not much, I know; but +I believe every word you say, and should be very sorry to find myself +mistaken.” + +“Thank you, sir,” said Clare. “May I carry your bag for you?” + +If Clare had seen what then passed in Tommy's mind, at the back of +those glistening ferret-eyes of his, he would have been almost +reconciled to taking the man's advice, and getting rid of him. Tommy +was saying to himself that his pal wasn't such a duffer after all--he +was on the lay for the man's tools! + +Tommy never reasoned except in the direction of cunning self-help--of +fitting means and intermediate ends to the one main object of +eating. It is wonderful what a sharpener of the poor wits hunger is! + +“I guess I'm the abler-bodied pauper!” answered the man; and picking +up the bag he had dropped at his feet while they conversed, he walked +away. + +There are many more generous persons among the poor than among the +rich--a fact that might help some to understand how a rich man should +find it hard to enter into the kingdom of heaven. It is hard for +everybody, but harder for the rich. Men who strive to make money are +unconsciously pulling instead of pushing at the heavy gate of the +kingdom. + +“Tommy!” said Clare, in a tone new to himself, for a new sense of +moral protection had risen in him, “if ever you steal anything again, +either I give you a hiding, or you and I part company.” + +Tommy bored his knuckles into his red eyes, and began to +whimper. Again it was hard for Tommy! He had followed Clare, thinking +to supply what was lacking to him; to do for him what he was not +clever enough to do for himself; in short, to make an advantageous +partnership with him, to which he should furnish the faculty of +picking up unconsidered trifles. Tommy judged Clare defective in +intellect, and quite unpractical. He was of the mind of the +multitude. The common-minded man always calls the man who thinks of +righteousness before gain, who seeks to do the will of God and does +not seek to make a fortune, unpractical. He _will_ not see that the +very essence of the practical lies in doing the right thing. + +Tommy, in a semi-conscious way, had looked to Clare to supply the +strength and the innocent look, while he supplied the head and the +lively fingers; and here was Clare knocking the lovely plan to pieces! +He did well to be angry! But Clare was the stronger; and Tommy knew +that, when Clare was roused, though it was not easy to rouse him, he +could and would and did fight--not, indeed, as the little coward said +to himself _he_ could fight, like a wild cat, but like a blundering +hornless old cow defending her calf from a cur. + +In the heart of all his selfishness, however, Tommy did a little love +Clare; and his love came, not from Tommy, but from the same source as +his desire for food, namely, from the God that was in Tommy, the God +in whom Tommy lived and had his being with Clare. Whether Tommy's love +for Clare would one day lift him up beside Clare, that is, make him an +honest boy like Clare, remained to be seen. + +Finding his demonstration make no impression, Tommy took his knuckles +out of his eye-holes and thrust them into his pocket-holes, turned his +back on his friend, and began to whistle--with a lump of self-pity in +his throat. + + + +Chapter XVIII. + +Beating the town. + + +They turned their faces again toward the centre of the town, and +resumed their walk, taking in more of what they saw than while they +had not yet had the second instalment of their daily bread. What a +thing is food! It is the divineness of the invention--the need for the +food, and the food for the need--that makes those who count their +dinner the most important thing in the day, such low creatures: +nothing but what is good in itself can be turned into vileness. It is +a delight to see a boy with a good honest appetite; a boy that _loves_ +his dinner is a loathsome creature. Eat heartily, my boy, but be ready +to share, even when you are hungry, and have only what you could eat +up yourself, else you are no man. Remember that you created neither +your hunger nor your food; that both came from one who cares for you +and your neighbours as well. + +In the strength of the half-loaf he had eaten, the place looked to +Clare far more wonderful, and his hopes of earning his bread grew yet +more radiant. But he passed one shop after another, and always +something prevented him from going in. One after another did not look +just the right sort, did not seem to invite him: the next might be +better! I dare say but for that half-loaf, he would have made a trial +sooner, but I doubt if he would have succeeded sooner. He did not +think of going to parson, doctor, or policeman for advice; he went +walking and staring, followed by Tommy with his hands in his +pocketless pocket-holes. Clare was not yet practical in device, though +perfect in willingness, and thorough in design. Up one street and down +another they wandered, seeing plenty of food through windows, and in +carts and baskets, but never any coming their way, except in the form +of tempting odours that issued from almost every house, and grew in +keenness and strength toward one o'clock. Oh those odours!--agonizing +angels of invisible yet most material good! Of what joys has not the +Father made us capable, when the poorest necessity is linked with such +pain! What a tormenting thing--and what a good must be meant to come +out of it!--to be hungry, downright, cravingly hungry with the whole +microcosm, and not a halfpenny to buy a mouthful of assuagement!--to +be assailed with wafts of deliriously undefined promise, not one of +which seems likely to be fulfilled!--promise true to men hurrying home +to dinner or luncheon, but only rousing greater desire in such as +Clare and Tommy. Not one opportunity of appropriation presented +itself, else it would have gone ill with Tommy, now that the eyes and +ears of his guardian were on the alert. For Clare thought of him now +as a little thievish pup, for whose conduct, manners, and education he +was responsible. + +The agony began at length to abate--ready to revive with augmented +strength when the next hour for supplying the human furnace should +begin to approach. Few even of those who know what hunger is, +understand to what it may grow--how desire becomes longing, longing +becomes craving, and craving a wild passion of demand. It must be +terrible to be hungry, and not know God! + +As the evening came down upon them, worn out, faint with want, +shivering with cold, and as miserable in prospect as at the moment, +yet another need presented itself with equally imperative +requisition--that of shelter that they might rest. It was even more +imperative: they could not eat; they _must_ lie down! + +Whether it be a rudiment retained from their remote ancestry, I cannot +tell, but any kind of suffering will wake in some a masterful impulse +to burrow; and as the boys walked about in their misery, white with +cold and hunger, Clare's eyes kept turning to every shallowest +archway, every breach in wall or hedge that seemed to offer the least +chance of covert, while, every now and then, Tommy would bolt from his +side to peer into some opening whose depth was not immediately patent +to his ferret-gaze. Once, in a lane on the outskirts of the town, he +darted into a narrow doorway in the face of a wall, but instantly +rushed back in horror: within was a well, where water lay still and +dark. Then first Clare had a hint of the peculiar dread Tommy had of +water, especially of water dark and unexpected. Possibly he had once +been thrown into such water to be got rid of. But Clare at the moment +was too weary to take much notice of his dismay. + +It was an old town in which they were wandering, and change in the +channels of traffic had so turned its natural nourishment aside, that +it was in parts withering and crumbling away. Not a few of the houses +were, some from poverty, some from utter disuse, yielding fast to +decay. But there were other causes for the condition of one, which, +almost directly they came out of the lane I have just mentioned, into +the end of a wide silent street, drew the roving, questing eyes of +Clare and Tommy. The moon was near the full and shining clear, so that +they could perfectly see the state it was in. Most of its windows were +broken; its roof was like the back of a very old horse; its +chimney-pots were jagged and stumped with fracture; from one of them, +by its entangled string, the skeleton of a kite hung half-way down the +front. But, notwithstanding such signs of neglect, the red-brick wall +and the wrought-iron gate, both seven feet high, that shut the place +off from the street, stood in perfect aged strength. The moment they +saw it, the house seemed to say to them, “There's nobody here: come +in!” but the gate and the wall said, “Begone!” + + + +Chapter XIX. + +The blacksmith and his forge. + + +At the end of the wall was a rough boarded fence, in contact with it, +and reaching, some fifty yards or so, to a hovel in which a +blacksmith, of unknown antecedents, had taken possession of a forsaken +forge, and did what odd jobs came in his way. The boys went along the +fence till they came to the forge, where, looking in, they saw the +blacksmith working his bellows. To one with the instincts of Clare's +birth and breeding, he did not look a desirable acquaintance. Tommy +was less fastidious, but he felt that the scowl on the man's brows +boded little friendliness. Clare, however, who hardly knew what fear +was, did not hesitate to go in, for he was drawn as with a cart-rope +by the glow of the fire, and the sparks which, as they gazed, began, +like embodied joys, to fly merrily from the iron. Tommy followed, +keeping Clare well between him and the black-browed man, who rained +his blows on the rosy iron in his pincers, as if he hated it. + +“What do you want, gutter-toads?” he cried, glancing up and seeing +them approach. “This ain't a hotel.” + +“But it's a splendid fire,” rejoined Clare, looking into his face with +a wan smile, “and we're so cold!” + +“What's that to me!” returned the man, who, savage about something, +was ready to quarrel with anything. “I didn't make my fire to warm +little devils that better had never been born!” + +“No, sir,” answered Clare; “but I don't think we'd better not have +been born. We're both cold, and nobody but Tommy knows how hungry I +am; but your fire is so beautiful that, if you would let us stand +beside it a minute or two, we wouldn't at all mind.” + +“Mind, indeed! Mind what, you preaching little humbug?” + +“Mind being born, sir.” + +“Why do you say _sir_ to me? Don't you see I'm a working man?” + +“Yes, and that's why. I think we ought to say _sir_ and _ma'am_ to +every one that can do something we can't. Tommy and I can't make iron +do what we please, and you can, sir! It would be a grand thing for us +if we could!” + +“Oh, yes, a grand thing, no doubt!--Why?” + +“Because then we could get something to eat, and somewhere to lie +down.” + +“Could you? Look at me, now! I can do the work of two men, and can't +get work for half a man!” + +“That's a sad pity!” said Clare. “I wish I had work! Then I would +bring you something to eat.” + +The man did not tell them why he had not work enough--that his +drunkenness, and the bad ways to which it had brought him, with the +fact that he so often dawdled over the work that was given him, caused +people to avoid him. + +“Who said I hadn't enough to eat? I ain't come to that yet, young 'un! +What made you say that?” + +“Because when I had work, I had plenty to eat; and now that I have +nothing to do, I have nothing to eat. It's well I haven't work now, +though,” added Clare with a sigh, “for I'm too tired to do any. Please +may I sit on this heap of ashes?” + +“Sit where you like, so long 's you keep out o' my way. I 'ain't got +nothing to give you but a bar of iron. I'll toast one for you if you +would like a bite.” + +“No, thank you, sir,” answered Clare, with a smile. “I'm afraid it +wouldn't be digestible. They say toasted cheese ain't. I wish I had a +try though!” + +“You're a comical shaver, you are!” said the blacksmith. “You'll come +to the gallows yet, if you're a good boy! Them Sunday-schools is doin' +a heap for the gallows!--That ain't your brother?” + +By this time Tommy had begun to feel at home with the blacksmith, from +whose face the cloud had lifted a little, so that he looked less +dangerous. He had edged nearer to the fire, and now stood in the light +of it. + +“No,” answered Clare, with an odd doubtfulness in his tone. “I ought +to say _yes_, perhaps, for all men are my brothers; but I mean I +haven't any particular one of my very own.” + +“That ain't no pity; he'd ha' been no better than you. I've a brother +I would choke any minute I got a chance.” + +While they talked, the blacksmith had put his iron in the fire, and +again stood blowing the bellows, when his attention was caught by the +gestures of the little red-eyed imp, Tommy, who was making rapid signs +to him, touching his forehead with one finger, nodding mysteriously, +and pointing at Clare with the thumb of his other hand, held close to +his side. He sought to indicate thus that his companion was an +innocent, whom nobody must mind. In the blacksmith Tommy saw one of +his own sort, and the blacksmith saw neither in Tommy nor in Clare any +reason to doubt the hint given him. Not the less was he inclined to +draw out the idiot. + +“Why do you let him follow you about, if he ain't your brother?” he +said. “He ain't nice to look at!” + +“I want to make him nice,” answered Clare, “and then he'll be nice to +look at. You mustn't mind him, please, sir. He's a very little boy, +and 'ain't been well brought up. His granny ain't a good woman--at +least not very, you know, Tommy!” he added apologetically. + +“She's a damned old sinner!” said Tommy stoutly. + +The man laughed. + +“Ha, ha, my chicken! you know a thing or two!” he said, as he took his +iron from the fire, and laid it again on the anvil. + +But besides the brother he would so gladly strangle, there was an +idiot one whom he had loved a little and teazed so much, that, when he +died, his conscience was moved. He felt therefore a little tender +toward the idiot before him. He bethought himself also that his job +would soon be at a stage where the fewer the witnesses the better, for +he was executing a commission for certain burglars of his +acquaintance. He would do no more that night! He had money in his +pocket, and he wanted a drink! + +“Look here, cubs!” he said; “if you 'ain't got nowhere to go to, I +don't mind if you sleep here. There ain't no bed but the bed of the +forge, nor no blankets but this leather apron: you may have them, for +you can't do them no sort of harm. I don't mind neither if you put a +shovelful of slack and a little water now and then on the fire; and if +you give it a blow or two with the bellows now and then, you won't be +stone-dead afore the mornin'!--Don't be too free with the coals, now, +and don't set the shed on fire, and take the bread out of my poor +innocent mouth. Mind what I tell you, and be good boys.” + +“Thank you, sir,” said Clare. “I thought you would be kind to us! I've +one friend, a bull, that's very good to me. So is Jonathan. He's a +horse. The bull's name is Nimrod. He wants to gore always, but he's +never cross with me.” + +The blacksmith burst into a roar of laughter at the idiotic +speech. Then he covered the fire with coal, threw his apron over +Clare's head, and departed, locking the door of the smithy behind him. + +The boys looked at each other. Neither spoke. Tommy turned to the +bellows, and began to blow. + +“Ain't you warm yet?” said Clare, who had seen his mother careful over +the coals. + +“No, I ain't. I want a blaze.” + +“Leave the fire alone. The coal is the smith's, and he told us not to +waste it.” + +“He ain't no count!” said Tommy, as heartless as any grown man or +woman set on pleasure. + +“He has given us a place to be warm and sleep in! It would be a shame +to do anything he didn't like. Have you no conscience, Tommy?” + +“No,” said Tommy, who did not know conscience from copper. The germ of +it no doubt lay in the God-part of him, but it lay deep. Tommy--no +worse than many a boy born of better parents--was like a hill full of +precious stones, that grows nothing but a few little dry shrubs, and +shoots out cold sharp rocks every here and there. + +“If you have no conscience,” answered Clare, “one must serve for +both--as far as it will reach! Leave go of that bellows, or I'll make +you.” + +Tommy let the lever go, turned his back, and wandered, in such dudgeon +as he was capable of, to the other side of the shed. + +“Hello!” he cried, “here's a door!--and it ain't locked, it's only +bolted! Let's go and see!” + +“You may if you like,” answered Clare, “but if you touch anything of +the blacksmith's, I'll be down on you.” + +“All right!” said Tommy, and went out to see if there was anything to +be picked up. + +Clare got on the stone hearth of the forge, and lay down in the hot +ashes, too far gone with hunger to care for the clothes that were +almost beyond caring for. He was soon fast asleep; and warmth and +sleep would do nearly as much for him as food. + + + +Chapter XX. + +Tommy reconnoitres. + + +Tommy, out in the moonlight, found himself in a waste yard, scattered +over with bits of iron, mostly old and rusty. It was not an +interesting place, for it was not likely to afford him anything to +eat. Yet, with the instinct of the human animal, he went shifting and +prying and nosing about everywhere. Presently he heard a curious +sound, which he recognized as made by a hen. More stealthily yet he +went creeping hither and thither, feeling here and feeling there, in +the hope of laying his hand on the fowl asleep. Urged by his natural +impulse to forage, he had forgotten Clare's warning. His hand did find +her, and had it been his grandmother instead of Clare in the smithy, +he would at once have broken the bird's neck before she could cry out; +but with the touch of her feathers came the thought of Clare, and by +this time he understood that what Clare said, Clare would do. + +He had some knowledge of fowls; he had heard too much talk about them +at his grandmother's not to know something of their habits; and +finding she sat so still, he concluded that under her might be +eggs. To his delight it was so. The hen belonged to a house at some +distance, and had wandered from it, in obedience to the secretive +instinct of animal maternity, strong in some hens, to seek a hidden +shelter for her offspring. This she had found in the smith's yard, +beneath the mould-board of a plough that had lain there for +years. Slipping his hand under her, Tommy found five eggs. In greedy +haste he took them, every one. + +I must do him the justice to say that his first impulse was to dart +with them to Clare. But before he had taken a step toward him, again +he remembered his threat. With the eggs inside him, he could run the +risk; he would not mind a few blows--not much; but if he took them to +Clare, the unbearable thing was, that he would assuredly give every +one of them back to the hen. He was an idiot, and Tommy was there to +look after him; but, in looking after Clare, was Tommy to neglect +himself? If Clare would not eat the eggs Tommy carried him, as most +certainly he would not, the best thing was for Tommy to eat them +himself! What a good thing that it was no use to steal for Clare! The +steal would be all for himself! Not a step from the spot did Tommy +move till he had sucked every one of the five eggs. But he made one +mistake: he threw away the shells. + +When he had sucked them, he found himself much lighter-hearted, but, +alas, nearly as hungry as before! The spirit of research began again +to move him: where were eggs, what might there not be beside? + +The moon was nearly at the full; the smith's yard was radiantly +illuminated. But even the moon could lend little enchantment to a +scene where nothing was visible but rusty, broken, deserted, +despairful pieces of old iron. Tommy lifted his eyes and looked +further. + +The enclosure was of small extent, bounded on one side by the garden +wall of the house they had just passed, and at the bottom by a broken +fence, dividing it from a piece of waste land that probably belonged +to the house. As he roamed about, Tommy spied a great heap of old iron +piled up against the wall, and made for it, in the hope of enlarging +his horizon. He scrambled to the top, and looked over. His gaze fell +right into a big but, full of dark water. Twice that evening he met +the same horror! There was a legendary report, though he had not heard +it, I fancy, that his mother drowned herself instead of him: she fell +in, and he was fished out. Whether this was the origin of his fear or +not, so far from getting down by means of the water-but, Tommy dared +not cross at that point. With much trembling he got on the top of the +wall, turned his back on the butt, and ran along like a cat, in search +of a place where he could descend into the garden. He went right to +the end, round the corner, and half-way along the bottom before he +found one. There he came to a doorway that had been solidly walled up +on the outside, while the door was left in position on the +inside--ready for use when the court of chancery should have decided +to whom the house belonged. Its frame was flush with the wall, so that +its bolts and lock afforded Tommy foothold enough to descend, and +confidence of being able to get up again. + +He landed in a moonlit wilderness--such a wilderness as a deserted +garden speedily becomes, the wealth in the soil converting it the +sooner to a savage chaos. Full of the impulse of discovery, and the +hope of presenting himself with importance to Clare as the bringer of +good tidings, Tommy forced his way through or crept under the +overgrown bushes, until he reached a mossy rather than gravelly walk, +where it was more easy to advance. It led him to the house. + +Had he been a boy of any imagination, he would have shuddered at the +thought of attempting an entrance. All the windows had outside +shutters. Those of the ground floor were closed--except one that swung +to and fro, and must have swung in many a wind since the house was +abandoned. The moon shone with a dull whitish gleam on the dusty +windows of the first and second stories, and on the great dormers that +shot out from the slope of the roof, and cast strange shadows upon +it. The door to the garden had had a porch of trellis-work, over which +jasmine and other creeping plants were trained; but whether anything +of the porch was left, no one could have told in that thicket of +creepers, interlaced and matted by antagonist forces of wind and +growth so that not a hint of door was visible. Clearly there was +nobody within. + +Tommy sought the window with the open shutter. Through the dirty +glass, and the reflection of the moon, he could see nothing. He tried +the sash, but could not stir it. He went round the corner to one end +of the house, and saw another door. But an enemy stepped between: the +moon shone suddenly up from the ground. In a hollow of the pavement +had gathered a pool from the drip of the neglected gutters, and out of +its hidden depth the staring round looked at him. It was the third +time Tommy's nerves had been shaken that night, and he could stand no +more. At the awful vision he turned and fled, fell, and rose and fled +again. It was not imagination in Tommy; it was an undefined, +inexplicable horror, that must have had a cause, but could have no +reason. Young as he was he had already more than once looked on the +face of death, and had felt no awe; he had listened to the gruesomest +of tales, told not altogether without art, and had never moved a hair +Only one material and two spiritual things had power with him; the one +material thing was hunger, the two spiritual things were a feeble love +for Clare, and a strong horror of water of any seeming depth. Now a +new element was added to this terror by the meddling of the moon in +the fiendish mystery--the secret of which must, I think, have been the +bottomless depth she gave the water. + +He rushed down the garden. With frightful hindrance from the +overgrowth, he found the prisoned door by strange perversion become a +ladder, gained by it the top of the wall, and sped along as if pursued +by an incarnate dread. Horror of horrors! all at once the moon again +looked up at him from below: he was within a yard or two of the big +water-butt! Right up to it he must go, for, close to it, on the other +side of the wall, was the heap of iron by which alone he could get +down. He tightened every nerve for the effort. He assured himself that +the thing would be over in a moment; that the water was quiet, and +could not follow him; that presently he would find himself in the +smithy by the warm forge-fire. The scaring necessity was, that he must +stoop and kneel right over the water-but, in order to send his legs in +advance down the wall to the top of the mound. It was a moment of +agony. That very moment, with an appalling unearthly cry, something +dark, something hideous, something of inconceivable ghastliness, as it +seemed to Tommy, sprang right out of the water into the air. He +tumbled from the wall among the iron, and there lay. + +The stolen eggs were avenged. The hen, feverish and unhappy from the +loss of her hope of progeny, had gone to the butt to sip a little +water. Tommy, appearing on the wall above her, startled her. She, +flying up with a screech, startled Tommy, and became her own unwitting +avenger. + + + +Chapter XXI. + +Tommy is found and found out. + + +When Clare woke from his first sleep, which he did within an hour--for +he was too hungry to sleep straight on, and the door, imperfectly +closed by Tommy, had come open, and let in a cold wind with the +moonlight--he raised himself on his elbow, and peered from his stone +shelf into the dreary hut. He could not at once tell where he was, but +when he remembered, his first thought was Tommy. He looked about for +him. Tommy was nowhere. Then he saw the open door, and remembered he +had gone out. Surely it was time he had come back! Stiff and sore, he +turned on his longitudinal axis, crept down from the forge, and went +out shivering to look for his imp. The moon shone radiant on the rusty +iron, and the glamour of her light rendered not a few of its shapes +and fragments suggestive of cruel torture. Picking his way among +spikes and corners and edges, he walked about the hideous wilderness +searching for Tommy, afraid to call for fear of attracting attention. +The hen too was walking about, disconsolate, but she took no notice of +him, neither did the sight of her give him any hint or rouse in him +the least suspicion: how could he suspect one so innocent and troubled +for the avenging genius through whom Tommy's white face lay upturned +to the white moon! Her egg-shells lay scattered, each a ghastly point +in the moonshine, each a silent witness to the deed that had been +done. Tommy scattered and forgot them; the moon gathered and noted +them. But they told Clare nothing, either of Tommy's behaviour or of +Tommy himself. + +He came at last to the heap of metal, and there lay Tommy, caught in +its skeleton protrusions. A shiver went through him when he saw the +pallid face, and the dark streak of blood across it. He concluded that +in trying to get over the wall he had failed and fallen back. He +climbed and took him in his arms. Tommy was no weight for Clare, weak +with hunger as he was, to carry to the smithy. He laid him on the +hearth, near the fire, and began to blow it up. The roaring of the +wind in the fire did not wake him. Clare went on blowing. The heat +rose and rose, and brought the boy to himself at last, in no +comfortable condition. He opened his eyes, scrambled to his feet, and +stared wildly around him. + +“Where is it?” he cried. + +“Where's what?” rejoined Clare, leaving the bellows, and taking a hold +of him lest he should fall off. + +“The head that flew out of the water-but,” answered Tommy with a +shudder. + +“Have you lost your senses, Tommy?” remonstrated Clare. “I found you +lying on a heap of old iron against the wall, with the moon shining on +you.” + +“Yes, yes!--the moon! She jumped out of the water-but, and got a hold +of me as I was getting down. I knew she would!” + +“I didn't think you were such a fool, Tommy!” said Clare. + +“Well, you hadn't the pluck to go yourself! You stopt in!” cried +Tommy, putting his hand to his head, but more sorely hurt that an +idiot should call him a fool. + +“Come and let me see, Tommy,” said Clare. + +He wanted to find out if he was much hurt; but Tommy thought he wanted +to go to the water-but, and screamed. + +“Hold your tongue, you little idiot!” cried Clare. “You'll have all +the world coming after us! They'll think I'm murdering you!” + +Tommy restrained himself, and gradually recovering, told Clare what he +had discovered, but not what he had found. + +“There's something yellow on your jacket! What is it?” said Clare. “I +do believe--yes, it is!--you've been eating an egg! Now I remember! I +saw egg-shells, more than two or three, lying in the yard, and the +poor hen walking about looking for her eggs! You little rascal! You +pig of a boy! I won't thrash you this time, because you've fetched +your own thrashing. But--!” + +He finished the sentence by shaking his fist in Tommy's face, and +looking as black at him as he was able. + +“I do believe it was the hen herself that frighted you!” he added. +“She served you right, you thief!” + +“I didn't know there was any harm,” said Tommy, pretending to sob. + +“Why didn't you bring me my share, then?” + +“'Cos I knowed you'd ha' made me give 'em back to the hen!” + +“And you didn't know there was any harm, you lying little brute!” + +“No, I didn't.” + +“Now, look here, Tommy! If you don't mind what I tell you, you and I +part company. One of us two must be master, and I will, or you must +tramp. Do you hear me?” + +“I can't do without wictuals!” whimpered Tommy. “I didn't come wi' +_you_ a purpose to be starved to death!” + +“I dare say you didn't; but when I starve, you must starve too; and +when I eat, you shall have the first mouthful. What did you come with +me for?” + +“'Acos you was the strongest,” answered Tommy, “an' I reckoned you +would get things from coves we met!” + +“Well, I'm not going to get things from coves we meet, except they +give them to me. But have patience, Tommy, and I'll get you all you +can eat. You must give me time, you know! I 'ain't got work yet!--Come +here. Lie down close to me, and we'll go to sleep.” + +The urchin obeyed, pillowed his head on Clare's chest, and went fast +asleep. + +Clare slept too after a while, but the necessities of his relation to +Tommy were fast making a man of him. + + + +Chapter XXII. + +The smith in a rage. + + +They had not slept long, when they were roused by a hideous clamour +and rattling at the door, and thunderous blows on the wooden sides of +the shed. Clare woke first, and rubbed his eyelids, whose hinges were +rusted with sleep. He was utterly perplexed with the uproar and +romage. The cabin seemed enveloped in a hurricane of kicks, and the +air was in a tumult of howling and brawling, of threats and curses, +whose inarticulateness made them sound bestial. There never came pause +long enough for Clare to answer that they were locked in, and that the +smith must have the key in his pocket. But when Tommy came to himself, +which he generally did the instant he woke, but not so quickly this +time because of his fall, he understood at once. + +“It's the blacksmith! He's roaring drunk!” he said. + +“Let's be off, Clare! The devil 'ill be to pay when he gets in! He'll +murder us in our beds!” + +“We ought to let him into his own house if we can,” replied Clare, +rising and going to the door. It was well for him that he found no way +of opening it, for every instant there came a kick against it that +threatened to throw it from lock and hinges at once. He protested his +inability, but the madman thought he was refusing to admit him, and +went into a tenfold fury, calling the boys hideous names, and swearing +he would set the shed on fire if they did not open at once. The boys +shouted, but the man had no sense to listen with, and began such a +furious battery on the door, with his whole person for a ram, that +Tommy made for the rear, and Clare followed--prudent enough, however, +in all his haste, to close the back-door behind them. + +Tommy was in front, and led the way to the bottom of the yard, and +over the fence into the waste ground, hoping to find some point in +that quarter where he could mount the wall. He could not face the +water-but--with the moon in it, staring out of the immensity of the +lower world. He ran and doubled and spied, but could find no +foothold. Least of all was ascent possible at the spot where the door +stood on the other side; the bricks were smoother than elsewhere. He +turned the corner and ran along a narrow lane, Clare still following, +for he thought Tommy knew what he was about; but Tommy could find no +encouragement to attempt scaling the wall. They might have fled into +the fields that lay around; but the burrowing instinct was strong, and +the deserted house drew them. Then Clare, finding Tommy at fault, +bethought him that the little rascal had got up by the heap on which +he discovered him, and must be afraid to go that way again. He faced +about and ran, in his turn become leader. Tommy wheeled also, and +followed, but with misgiving. When they reached the farther corner of +the bottom wall, they stopped and peeped round before they would turn +it: they might run against the blacksmith in chase of them! But the +sound of his continued hammering at the door came to them, and they +went on. They crossed the fence and ran again, ran faster, for now +every step brought them nearer to their danger: the heap of iron lay +between them and the smithy, and any moment the smith might burst into +the shed, rush through, and be out upon them. + +They reached the heap. Clare sprang up; and Tommy, urged on the one +side by the fear of the drunken smith, and drawn on the other by the +dread of being abandoned by Clare, climbed shuddering after him. + +“Mind the water-but, Clare!” he gasped; “an' gi' me a hand up.” + +Clare had already turned on the top of the wall to help him. + +“Now let me go first!” said Tommy, the moment he had his foot on +it. “I know how to get down.” + +He scudded along the wall, glad to have Clare between him and the +butt. Clare followed swiftly. He was not so quick on the cat-promenade +as Tommy, but he had a good head, and was spurred by the apprehension +of being seen up there in the moonlight. + + + +Chapter XXIII. + +Treasure trove. + + +In a few moments they were safe in the thicket at the foot of what had +been their enemy and was now their friend--the garden-wall. How many +things and persons there are whose other sides are altogether +friendly! These are their true selves, and we must be true to get at +them. + +Tommy again took the lead, though with a fresh sinking of the heart +because of that other place with the moon in it. Through the tangled +thicket they made or found their way--and there stood the house, with +the moon looking down on its roof, and the drunkard's thunder +troubling her still pale light--her _moon-thinking_. But for the noise +and the haste, Clare would have been frightened at them. There seemed +some secret between the house and the moon which they were determined +no one else should share. They were of one mind to terrify man or boy +who should attempt to cross the threshold! There was no time, however, +to heed such fancies. “If we could only get in without spoiling +anything!” thought Clare. Once in, they would hurt nothing, take but +the shelter and rest lying there of no good to anybody, and leave them +there all the same when they had done with them! + +While they stood looking at the house, the thundering at the door of +the smithy ceased. Presently they heard voices in altercation. One +voice was that of the smith, quieter than when last they heard it, but +ill-tempered and growling as at first. The other seemed that of a +woman. She had been able so far to quiet him, probably, that he +remembered he had the key in his pocket; for they thought they heard +the door of the smithy open. Then all was silent, and the outcasts +pursued their quest of an entrance to the house. + +Clare went ferreting as Tommy had done. He also tried to get a peep +through the window with the swinging shutter, but had no better +success than Tommy. Then he started to go round the corner next the +blacksmith's yard. + +“Look out!” cried Tommy in a loud whisper, when he saw where he was +going. + +“Why?” asked Clare. + +“Because there's a horrible hole there, full of water,” answered +Tommy. + +“I'll keep a look out,” returned Clare, and went. + +When he was about half-way along the end of the house, he heard a +noise he did not understand, and stopped to listen. Some one seemed +moving somewhere. + +Then came a kind of scrambling sound, and presently the noise of a +great watery splash. Clare shivered from head to foot. + +“Something has fallen into the hole Tommy mentioned!” he said to +himself, and ran on to see. A few steps brought him to what Tommy had +taken for a great hole. It was nothing but a pool of rain-water: the +splash could not have come from that! + +Then it occurred to him that the water-but could not be far off. He +forced his way through shrubs of various kinds, and reaching the wall, +went back along it until he came to the butt. A ray of moonlight showed +him that the side of it was wet, as if the water had lately come over +the edge. He looked about for some means of getting a peep into the +huge thing. It stood on a brick stand, of which it left a narrow edge +clear, but on this edge the bulge of the butt would not permit him to +mount. With the help of a small tree, however, he got on the wall, +which was better. + +Spying into the butt, he could see nothing at first, for a chimney was +now between it and the moon. A moment more, however, and he descried +something white in the dull iron gleam of the water. It was under the +water, but floating near the surface. He lay down on the wall, plunged +his arm into the butt, laid hold of it, and drew it out. It was a +little heavy for the size, for what should it be but a tiny baby, in a +flannel night-gown, which, as he drew it out, sent back little noisy +streams into the butt! It lay perfectly still in his arms, he did not +know whether dead or alive, but he thought it could hardly be drowned +so soon after the splash. It had been drugged, and the antagonism of +the two means employed to kill it was probably the saving of its life. + +Clare stood in stony bewilderment. What was he to do? Certainly not to +go after the mother! The first thing was to get it down from the +wall. That he could easily have done on the other side, by the heap; +but that was the side whence it must have been thrown, and they would +be but in worse difficulty there! He must get the baby down inside the +wall! With at least one arm occupied, the tree-way was impracticable. +There was only one other way, and that full of danger! But where there +is only one way, that way must be taken, and Clare did not hesitate. +He started along the top of the wall, with the poor unconscious germ +of humanity in his arms. He had lifted it from its watery coffin, out +of the cold arms of death, up into the clear air of life! True, that +air was cold, and filled only with moonshine; but there was the house +whose seal might be broken! and the moon saw the sun making warm the +under world! Along the narrow way, through the still, keen glimmer, +unseen, probably, by any eye in the sleeping town, he bore his burden, +speeding as fast as he dared, for he must not set a foot down amiss! + +Had any one caught sight of him, what a commotion would not the tale +have roused--of the spectre of a boy with a baby in his arms, gliding +noiseless in the moon and the middle night, along the top of the high +brick wall of a deserted house, where no one had lived within the +memory of man! + +When he reached the door-ladder, he found descent difficult but +possible. It was more difficult to make his way through the tangled +bushes without scratching the baby, which, after all, might, alas, be +beyond hurt! He held it close to his bosom, life coaxing life to “stay +a little.” + +Thus laden, he appeared before Tommy, who had heard the splash, and +thought Clare had fallen into the deep hole, but had not had courage +to go and see, partly from the fear of verifying his fear, but more +from his horror of the watery abyss. He stood trembling where Clare +had left him. + +To save the baby was now Clare's only thought. The baby was now the +one thing in the universe! If only the light that shone on it were +that of the hot sun instead of the cold moon, which looked far more +like killing than bringing to life! “And,” thought Clare with himself, +“there ain't much more heat in my body than in that shivery moon!” But +the sun would wake and mount the sky, and send the moon down, and all +would be different! Only, if nothing could be done in the meantime, +where would baby be by then! + +“Here, Tommy,” he cried, “come and see what I found in the water-butt.” + +At the word, Tommy turned to flee; but confidence in Clare, and +curiosity to see what, in Clare's arms, could hardly hurt him, +prevailed, and he drew near cautiously. + +“Lord, it's a kid!” he cried. + +“It's not a kid,” said Clare, who had no slang; “it's a baby!” + +“Well! ain't a baby a kid, just?” + +Tommy did not know that the word stood for anything else than a child, +which was indeed its meaning long before it was specially applied to +the young of the goat. A _kidnapper_ or _kidnabber_ is a stealer of +children. Mr. Skeat tells us that _kid_ meant at first just a young +one. + +“You can't tell me what to do with it, I'm afraid, Tommy!” said Clare. + +Already it was as if from all eternity he had loved this helpless +little waif of Time, with its small, thin, blue-gray, gin-drugged +face; this tiny life, so hopeless, so miserable, yet so uncomplaining: +the thing that was, was the thing for it to bear; it had come into the +world to bear it! Ready to die, even Death would not have it; it must +live where it was not wanted, where it was not welcome! + +“Yes, I can!” answered Tommy with evil promptitude. “Put it in again.” + +“But that would drown it, you know, Tommy!” answered Clare, treating +him like the child he was not. “We want it to live, Tommy!” + +His tenderness for the baby made him speak with foolish gentleness. + +“No, we don't!” returned Tommy. “What business has _it_ to live, when +we can't get nothing to eat?” + +Clare held faster to the baby with one arm, and with the fist of the +other struck straight out at Tommy, hit him between the eyes, and +knocked him flat. It was a miserable thing to have to do, and it made +Clare miserable, for Tommy was not half his size, and was still +suffering from his fall on the iron. But then the dying baby was not +half Tommy's size, and any milder argument would have been lost on +him: he was thus sent on the way to understand that the baby had +rights; and that if the baby could not enforce them, there was one in +the world that could and would. Never in his life did Clare show more +instinctive wisdom than in that knock-down blow to the hardly blamable +little devil! + +Tommy got up at once. He was not much hurt, for he had a hard head +though he was easily knocked over. From that moment he began to +respect Clare. He had loved him before in a way; he had patronized +him, and feared to offend him because he was stronger than he; but +until now he had had no respect for him, believing little Tommy a much +finer fellow than big Clare. There are thousands for whom a blow is a +better thing than expostulation, persuasion, or any sort of +kindness. They are such that nothing but a blow will set their door +ajar for love to get in. That is why hardships, troubles, +disappointments, and all kinds of pain and suffering, are sent to so +many of us. We are so full of ourselves, and feel so grand, that we +should never come to know what poor creatures we are, never begin to +do better, but for the knock-down blows that the loving God gives us. +We do not like them, but he does not spare us for that. + + + +Chapter XXIV. + +Justifiable burglary. + + +Tommy rose rubbing his forehead, and crying quietly. He did not dare +say a word. It was well for him he did not. Clare, perplexed and +anxious about the baby, was in no mood to accept annoyance from +Tommy. But the urchin remaining silent, the elder boy's indignation +began immediately to settle down. + +The infant lay motionless, its little heart beating doubtfully, like +the ticking of a clock off the level, as if the last beat might be +indeed the last. + +“We _must_ get into the house, Tommy!” said Clare. + +“Yes, Clare,” answered Tommy, very meekly, and went off like a shot to +renew investigation at the other end of the house. He was back in a +moment, his face as radiant with success as such a face could be, with +such a craving little body under it. + +“Come, come,” he cried. “We can get in quite easy. I ha' _been_ in!” + +The keen-eyed monkey had found a cellar-window, sunk a little below +the level of the ground--a long, narrow, horizontal slip, with a +grating over its small area not fastened down. He had lifted it, and +pushed open the window, which went inward on rusty hinges--so rusty +that they would not quite close again. That he had been in was a +lie. _He_ knew better than go first! He belonged to the school of +_No. 1!_--all mean beggars. + +Clare hastened after him. + +“Gi' me the kid, an' you get in; you can reach up for it better, +'cause ye're taller,” said Tommy. + +“Is it much of a drop?” asked Clare. + +“Nothing much,” answered Tommy. + +Clare handed him the baby, instructing him how to hold it, and +threatening him if he hurt it; then laid himself on his front, shoved +his legs across the area through the window, and followed with his +body. Holding on to the edge of the window-sill, he let his feet as +far down as he could, then dropped, and fell on a heap of coals, +whence he tumbled to the floor of the cellar. + +“You should have told me of the coals!” he said, rising, and calling +up through the darkness. + +“I forgot,” answered Tommy. + +“Give me the baby,” said Clare. + +When Tommy took the baby, he renewed that moment, and began to cherish +the sense of an injury done him by the poor helpless thing. He did not +pinch it, only because he dared not, lest it should cry. When he heard +Clare fall on the coals, and then heard him call up from the depth of +the cellar, he was greatly tempted to turn with it to the other end of +the house, and throw it in the pool, then make for the wall and the +fields, leaving Clare to shift for himself. But he durst not go near +the pool, and Clare would be sure to get out again and be after him! +so he stood with the hated creature in his unprotective arms. When +Clare called for it, he got into the shallow area, and pushed the baby +through the window, grasping the extreme of its garment, and letting +it hang into the darkness of the cellar, head downward. I believe then +the baby was sick, for, a moment after, and before Clare could get a +hold of it, it began to cry. The sound thrilled him with delight. + +“Oh, the darling!--Can't you let her down a bit farther, Tommy?” he +said, with suppressed eagerness. + +He had climbed on the heap of coals, and was stretching up his arms to +receive her. In the faint glimmer from the diffused light of the moon, +he could just distinguish the window, blocked up by Tommy; the baby he +could not see. + +“No, I can't,” answered Tommy. “Catch! There!” + +So saying he yielded to his spite, and waiting no sign of preparedness +on the part of Clare, let go his hold, and dropped the little one. It +fell on Clare and knocked him over; but he clasped it to him as he +fell, and they hurtled to the bottom of the coals without much damage. + +“I have her!” he cried as he got up. “Now you come yourself, Tommy.” + +He had known no baby but his lost sister, and thought of all babies as +girls. + +“You'll catch me, won't you, Clare?” said Tommy. + +“The thing you've done once you can do again! I can't set down the +baby to catch you!” replied the unsuspicious Clare, and turned to seek +an exit from the cellar. He had not had time yet to wonder how Tommy +had got out. + +Tommy came tumbling on the top of the coals: he dared not be left with +the water-but and the pool and the moon. + +“Where are you, Clare?” he called. + +Clare answered him from the top of the stone stair that led to the +cellar, and Tommy was soon at his heels. Going along a dark passage, +where they had to feel their way, they arrived at the kitchen. The +loose outside shutter belonged to it, and as it was open, a little of +the moonlight came in. The place looked dreary enough and cold enough +with its damp brick-floor and its rusty range; but at least they were +out of the air, and out of sight of the moon! If only they had some of +that coal alight! + +“I don't see as we're much better off!” said Tommy. “I'm as cold as +pigs' trotters!” + +“Then what must baby be like!” said Clare, whose heart was brimful of +anxiety for his charge. It seemed to him he had never known misery +till now. Life or death for the baby--and he could do nothing! He was +cold enough himself, what with hunger, and the night, and the wet and +deadly cold little body in his arms; but whatever discomfort he felt, +it seemed not himself but the baby that was feeling it; he imputed it +all to the baby, and pitied the baby for the cold he felt himself. + +“We needn't stay here, though,” he said. “There must be better places +in the house! Let's try and find a bedroom!” + +“Come along!” responded Tommy. + +They left the kitchen, and went into the next room. It seemed warmer, +because it had a wooden floor. There was hardly any light in it, but +it felt empty. They went up the stair. When they turned on the landing +half-way, they saw the moon shining in. They went into the first room +they came to. Such a bedroom!--larger and grander than any at the +parsonage! + +“Oh baby! baby!” cried Clare, “now you'll live--won't you?” + +He seemed to have his own Maly an infant again in his arms. The +thought that the place was not his, and that he might get into trouble +by being there, never came to him. Use was not theft! The room and its +contents were to him as the water and the fire which even pagans +counted every man bound to hand to his neighbour. There was the bed! +Through all the cold time it had been waiting for them! The +counterpane was very dusty; and oh, such moth-eaten blankets! But +there were sheets under them, and they were quite clean, though dingy +with age! The moths--that is, their legs and wings and dried-up +bodies--flew out in clouds when they moved the blankets. Not the less +had they discovered Paradise! For the moths, they must have found it +an island of plum-cake! + +I do not know the history of the house--how it came to be shut up with +so much in it. I only know it was itself shut up in chancery, and +chancery is full of moths and dust and worms. I believe nobody in the +town knew much about it--not even the thieves. It was of course said +to be haunted, which had doubtless done something for its +protection. No one knew how long it had stood thus deserted. Nobody +thought of entering it, or was aware that there was furniture in +it. It was supposed to be somebody's property, and that it was +somebody's business to look after it: whether it was looked after or +not, nobody inquired. Happily for Clare and the baby and Tommy, that +was nobody's business. + +With deft hands--for how often had he not seen his baby-sister +undressed!--Clare hurried off the infant's one garment, gently rubbed +her little body till it was quite dry, if not very clean, and laid her +tenderly in the heart of the blankets, among the remains and eggs and +grubs of the mothy creatures--they were not wild beasts, or even +stinging things--and covered her up, leaving a little opening for her +to breathe through. She had not cried since Clare took her; she was +too feeble to cry; but, alas, there was no question about feeding her, +for he had no food to give her, were she crying ever so much! He threw +off his clothes, and got into the mothy blankets beside her. In a few +minutes he began to glow, for there was a thick pile of woolly +salvation atop of him. He took the naked baby in his arms and held her +close to his body, and they grew warmer together. + +“Now, Tommy,” he said, “you may take off your clothes, and get in on +the other side of me.” + +Tommy did not need a second invitation, and in a moment they were all +fast asleep. A few months, even a few days before, it would have been +a right painful thing to Clare to lie so near a boy like Tommy, but +suffering had taken the edge off nicety and put it on humanity. The +temple of the Lord may need cleansing, but the temple of the Lord it +is. Clare had in him that same spirit which made _the_ son of man go +beyond the healingly needful, and lay his hand--the Sinaitic +manuscript says his _hands_--upon the leper, where a word alone would +have served for the leprosy: the hands were for the man's +heart. Repulsive danger lay in the contact, but the flesh and bones +were human, and very cold. + + + +Chapter XXV. + +A new quest. + + +Though as comfortable as one could be who so sorely lacked food, Clare +slept lightly. His baby was heavy on his mind, and he woke very +early--woke at once to the anxious thought of a boy without food, +money, or friends, and with a hungry baby. He woke, however, with a +new train of reasoning in his mind. Babies could not work; babies +always had their food given them; therefore babies who hadn't food had +a right to ask for it; babies couldn't ask for it; therefore those who +had the charge of them, and hadn't food to give them, had a right to +do the asking for them. He could not beg for himself as long as he was +able to ask for work; but for baby it was his duty to beg, because she +could not wait: she would not live till he found work. If he got work +that very day, he would have to work the whole day before he got the +money for it, and baby would be dead by that time! He crept out, so as +not to awake the sleepers, and put on his clothes. They were not dry, +but they would dry when the sun rose. He did not at all like leaving +his baby with Tommy, but what was he to do? She might as well die of +Tommy as of hunger! Perhaps it might be easier! + +He thought over the nature of the boy, and what it would be best to +say to him. He saw what many genial persons are slow to see, that +kindness, in its natural shape, is to certain dispositions a great +barrier in the way of learning either love or duty. With multitudes, +nothing but undiluted fear or pain or shame can open the door for love +to enter. + +He searched the house for a medicine-bottle, such as he had seen +plenty of at the parsonage, and found two. He chose the smaller, lest +size should provoke disinclination. Then he woke Tommy, and said to +him, + +“Tommy, I'm going out to get baby's breakfast.” + +“Ain't you going to give _me_ any? Is the kid to have _everything_?” + +“Tommy!” said Clare, with a steady look in his eyes that frightened +him, “your turn will come next. You won't die of want for a day or two +yet. I'll see to you as soon as I can. Only, remember, baby comes +first! I'm going to leave her with you. You needn't take her up. +You're not able to carry her. You would let her fall. But if, when I +come home, I find anything has happened to her, _I'll put you in the +water-butt_--I WILL. And I'll do it when the moon is in it.” + +Tommy pulled a hideous face, and began to yell. Clare seized him by +the throat. + +“Make that noise again, you rascal, and I'll choke you. If you're good +to baby while I'm away, I won't eat a mouthful till you've had some; +if you're not good to her, you know what will happen! You've got the +thing in your own hands!” + +“She'll go an' do something I can't help, an' then you'll go for to +drown me!” + +Again he began to howl, but Clare checked him as before. “If you wake +her up, I'll--” He had no words, and shook him for lack of any. “I +see,” he resumed, “I shall have to lock you up in the coal-cellar till +I come back! Here! come along!” + +Tommy was quiet instantly, and fell to pleading. Clare lent a gracious +ear, and yielding to Tommy's protestations, left him with his +treasure, and set out on his quest. + +He got out through the kitchen, the rustiness of the fastenings of its +door delaying him a little, and over the wall by the imprisoned door, +taking care to lift as little as possible of his person above the +coping as he crossed. He dared not go along the wall in the daylight, +or get down in the smith's yard; he dropped straight to the ground. + +The country was level, and casting his eyes about, he saw, at no great +distance, what looked like a farmstead. He knew cows were milked +early, but did not know what time it was. Hoping anyhow to reach the +place before the milk was put away in the pans, he set out to run +straight across the fields. But he soon found he could not run, and +had to drop into a walk. + +When he got into the yard, he saw a young woman carrying a foaming +pail of milk across to the dairy. He ran to her, and addressed her +with his usual “Please, ma'am;” but the pail was heavy, and she kept +on without answering him. Clare followed her, and looking into the +dairy, saw an elderly woman. + +“Please, ma'am, could you afford me as much fresh milk as would fill +that bottle?” he said, showing it. + +“Well, my man,” she answered pleasantly, “I think we might venture as +far without fear of the workhouse! But what on earth made you bring +such a thimble of a bottle as that?” + +“I have no money to pay for it, you see, ma'am; and I thought a little +bottle would be better to beg with; it wouldn't be so hard on the +farmer!” + +“Bless the boy! Much good a drop of milk like that will do him!” said +the woman, turning to the girl “Is it for your mother's tea?” + +“No, ma'am; it's for a baby--a very little baby, ma'am!--I think it +will hold enough,” he added, giving an anxious glance at the bottle in +his hand, “to keep her alive till I get work.” + +The woman looked, and her heart was drawn to the boy who stood gazing +at her with his whole solemn, pathetic yet strong face--with his wide, +clear eyes, his decided nose, large and straight, his rather long, +fine mouth, trembling with eager anxiety, and his confident chin. She +saw hunger in his grimy cheeks; she saw that his manners were those of +a gentleman, and his clothes poor enough for any tramp, though +evidently not made for a tramp. She would have concluded him escaped +from cruel guardians, for she was a reader of _The Family Herald_; but +that would not account for the baby! The baby did not tally! + +“How old's the baby?” she asked. + +“I don't know, ma'am; she only came to us last night.” + +“Who brought her?” + +She imagined the boy a simpleton, and expected one of such answers as +inconvenient questions in natural history receive from nurses. + +“I don't know, ma'am. I took her out of the water-butt.” + +The thing grew bewildering. + +“Who put her there?” + +“I don't know, ma'am.” + +“Whose baby is she, then?” + +“Mine, I think, ma'am.” + +“God bless the boy!” said the woman impatiently, and stared at him +speechless. + +Her daughter in the meantime had filled the phial with new milk. She +handed it to him. He grasped it eagerly. Tears of joy came in his big +hungry eyes. + +“Oh, _thank_ you, ma'am!” he said. “But, please, would you tell me,” + he continued, looking from the one to the other, “how much water I +must put in the milk to make it good for baby? I know it wants water, +but I don't know how much!” + +“Oh, about half and half,” answered the elder woman. “'Ain't she got +no mother?” she resumed. + +“I think she must have a mother, but I daresay she's a tramp,” + answered Clare. + +“I don't want to give my good milk to a tramp!” she rejoined. + +“_I_'m not a tramp, please, ma'am!--at least I wasn't till the day +before yesterday.” + +The woman looked at him out of motherly eyes, and her heart swelled +into her bosom. + +“Wouldn't you like some milk yourself?” she said. + +“Oh, yes, ma'am!” answered Clare, with a deep sigh. + +She filled a big cup from the warm milk in the pail, and held it out +to him. He took it as a man on the scaffold might a reprieve from +death, half lifted it to his lips, then let his hand sink. It trembled +so, as he set the cup down on a shelf beside him, that he spilled a +little. He looked ruefully at the drops on the brick floor. + +“Please, ma'am, there's Tommy!” he faltered. + +His promise to Tommy had sprung upon him like a fiery flying serpent. + +“Tommy! I thought you said the baby was a girl?” + +“Yes, the baby's a girl; but there's Tommy as well! He's another of +us.” + +“Your brother, of course!” + +“No, ma'am; I'm afraid he's a tramp. But there he is, you see, and I +must share with him!” + +It grew more and more inexplicable! + +A gruff, loud voice came from the yard. It was the farmer's. He was a +bitter-tempered man, and his dislike of tramps was almost hatred. His +wife and daughter knew that if he saw the boy he would be worse than +rude to him. + +“There's the master!” cried the mother. “Drink, and make haste out of +his way.” + +“If it's stealing,--” said Clare. + +“Stealing! It's no stealing! The dairy's mine! I can give my milk +where I please!” + +“Well, ma'am, if the milk's mine because you gave it me, it's not +begging to ask you to give me a piece of bread for it! I could take a +share of that to Tommy!” + +“Run, Chris,” cried the mother, hurriedly; “take the innocent with +you--round outside the yard. Give him a hunch of bread, and let him +go. For God's sake don't let your father see him! Run, my boy, run! +There's no time to drink the milk now!” + +She poured it back into the pail, and set the cup out of the way. + +There was a little passage and another door, by which they left as the +farmer entered. The kick he would have given Clare with his heavy boot +would, in its consequences, have reached the baby too. The girl ran +with him to the back of the house. + +“Wait a moment at that window,” she said. + +Now whether it was loving-kindness all, or that she dared not take the +time to divide it, I cannot tell, but she handed Clare a whole loaf, +and that a good big one, of home-made bread, and disappeared before he +could thank her, telling him to run for his life. + +He was able now. With the farmer behind, and the hungry ones before +him, he _must_ run; and with the phial in his pocket and the loaf in +his hands, he _could_ run. Happily the farmer did not catch sight of +him. His wife took care he should not. I believe, indeed, she got up a +brand-new quarrel with him on the spur of the moment, that he might +not have a chance. + + + +Chapter XXVI. + +A new entrance. + + +Clare sped jubilant. But soon came a check to his jubilation: it was +one thing to drop from the wall, and quite another to climb to the top +of it without the help of the door! The same moment he heard the clink +of the smith's hammer on his anvil, and to go by his yard in daylight +would be to risk too much! For what would become of them if their +retreat was discovered! He stood at the foot of the brick precipice, +and stared up with helpless eyes and failing strength. Baby was +inside, hungry, and with no better nurse than ill conditioned Tommy; +her milk was in his pocket, Tommy's bread in his hand, the +insurmountable wall between him and them! He had the daylight now, +however, and there was hardly any one about: perhaps he could find +another entrance! Round the outside of the wall, therefore, like the +Midianite in the rather comical hymn, did Clare prowl and prowl. But +the wall rose straight and much too smooth wherever he looked. +Searching its face he went all along the bottom of the garden, and +then up the narrow lane between it and the garden of the next house, +with increasing fear that there was no way but by the smith's yard, +and no choice but risk it. + +A dozen yards or so, however, from the end of the lane, where it took +a sharp turn before entering the street, he spied an opening in the +wall--the same from which, the night before, Tommy had returned with +such a frightened face. Clare went through, and found a narrow passage +running to the left for a short distance between two walls. At the +end, half on one side, half on the other of the second wall, lay the +well that had terrified Tommy. The wall crossed it with a low arch. On +the further side of the well was a third wall, with a space of about +two feet and a half between it and the side of the round well. Through +that wall there might be a door!--or, if not, there might be some way +of getting over it! To cross the well would be awkward, but he must do +it! He tied the loaf in his pocket-handkerchief--he was far past +fastidiousness, and Tommy knew neither the word nor the thing--and +knotted the ends of it round his neck. But his chief anxiety was not +to break the bottle in his jacket-pocket. He got on his knees on the +parapet. How deep and dark the water looked! For a moment he felt a +fear of it something like Tommy's. How was he to cross the awful gulf? +It was not like a free jump; he was hemmed in before and behind, and +overhead also. But the baby drew him over the well, as the name of +Beatrice drew Dante through the fire. The baby was waiting for him, +and it had to be done! He made a cat-leap through beneath the arch, +reaching out with his hands and catching at the parapet beyond. He did +catch it, just enough of it to hold on by, so that his body did not +follow his legs into the water. Oh, how cold they found it after his +run! He held on, strained and heaved up, made a great reach across the +width of the parapet with one hand, laid hold of its outer edge, made +good his grasp on it, and drew himself out of the water, and out of +the well. + +He was in a narrow space, closed in with walls much higher than his +head, out of which he saw no way but that by which he had come +in--across the fearful well, that seemed, so dark was its water, to go +down and down for ever. + +He felt in his pocket. If then he had found baby's bottle broken, I +doubt if Clare would ever have got out of the place, except by the +door into the next world. What little strength he had was nearly gone, +and I think it would then have gone quite. But the bottle was safe and +his courage came back. + +He examined his position, and presently saw that the narrowness of his +threatened prison would make it no prison at all. He found that, by +leaning his back against one wall, pushing his feet against the +opposite wall, and making of the third wall a rack for his shoulder, +he could worm himself slowly up. It was a task for a strong man, and +Clare, though strong for his years, was not at that moment strong. But +there was the baby waiting, and here was her milk! He fell to, and, +with an agony of exertion, wriggled himself at last to the top--so +exhausted that he all but fell over on the other side. He pulled +himself together, and dropped at once into, the garden. Happier boy +than Clare was not in all England then. Hunger, wet, incipient +nakedness, for he had torn his clothes badly, were nowhere. Baby was +within his reach, and the milk within baby's! + +He ran, dripping like a spaniel, to find her, and shot up the stair to +the room that held his treasure. To his joy he found both Tommy and +the baby fast asleep, Tommy tired out with the weary tramping of the +day before, and the baby still under the influence of the opiate her +mother had given her to make her drown quietly. + + + +Chapter XXVII. + +The baby has her breakfast. + + +He waked Tommy, and showed him the loaf. Tommy sprang from his lair +and snatched at it. + +“No, Tommy,” said Clare, drawing back, “I can't trust you! You would +eat it all; and if I died of hunger, what would become of baby, left +alone with you? I don't feel at all sure you wouldn't eat _her_!” + +Baby started a feeble whimper. + +“You must wait now till I've attended to her,” continued Clare. “If +you had got up quietly without waking her, I would have given you your +share at once.” + +As he spoke, he pulled a blanket off the bed to wrap her in, and made +haste to take her up. A series of difficulties followed, which I will +leave to the imagination of mothers and aunts, and nurses in +general--the worst being that there was no warm water to wash her in, +and cold water would be worse than dangerous after what she had gone +through with it the night before. Clare comforted himself that washing +was a thing non-essential to existence, however desirable for +well-being. + +Then came a more serious difficulty: the milk must be mixed with +water, and water as cold as Clare's legs would kill the drug-dazed +shred of humanity! What was to be done? It would be equally dangerous +to give her the strong milk of a cow undiluted. There was but one way: +he must feed her as do the pigeons. First, however, he must have +water! The well was almost inaccessible: to get to it and return would +fearfully waste life-precious time! The rain-water in the little pool +must serve the necessity! It was preferable to that in the butt! + +Until many years after, it did not occur to Clare as strange that +there should be even a drop of water in that water-butt. Whence was it +fed? There was no roof near, from which the rain might run into it. If +there had ever been a pipe to supply it, surely, in a house so long +forsaken, its continuity must have given way One always sees such +barrels empty, dry, and cracked: this one was apparently known to be +full of water, for what woman in her senses, however inferior those +senses, would throw her child into an empty butt! How did it happen to +be full? Clare was almost driven to the conclusion that it had been +filled for the evil purpose to which it was that night put. Against +this was the fact that it would not have been easy to fill such a huge +vessel by hand. I suggested that the blacksmith and his predecessors +might have used it for the purposes of the forge, and kept it and its +feeder in repair. Mr. Skymer endeavoured repeatedly to find out what +had become of the blacksmith, but never with any approach to success; +the probability being that he had left the world long before his +natural time, by disease engendered or quarrel occasioned through his +drunkenness. + +Clare laid the baby down, and fetched water from the pool. Then he +mixed the milk with what seemed the right quantity, again took the +baby up, who had been whimpering a little now and then all the time, +laid a blanket, several times folded, on his wet knees, and laid her +in her blanket upon it. These preparations made, he took a small +mouthful of the milk and water, and held it until it grew warm. It was +the only way, I condescend to remind any such reader as may think it +proper to be disgusted. When then he put his mouth to the baby's, +careful not to let too much go at once, they managed so between them +that she successfully appropriated the mouthful. It was followed by a +second, a third, and more, until, to Clare's delight, the child seemed +satisfied, leaving some of the precious fluid for another meal. He put +her in the bed again, and covered her up warm. All the time, Tommy had +been watching the loaf with the eyes of a wild beast. + +“Now, Tommy,” said Clare, “how much of this loaf do you think you +ought to have?” + +“Half, of course!” answered Tommy boldly, with perfect conviction of +his fairness, and pride in the same. + +“Are you as big as I am?” + +Tommy held his peace. + +“You ain't half as big!” said Clare. + +“I'm a bloomin' lot hungrier!” growled Tommy. + +“You had eggs last night, and I had none!” + +“That wurn't my fault!” + +“What did you do to get this bread?” + +“I staid at home with baby.” + +“That's true,” answered Clare. “But,” he went on, “suppose a horse and +a pony had got to divide their food between them, would the pony have +a right to half? Wouldn't the horse, being bigger, want more to keep +him alive than the pony?” + +“Don't know,” said Tommy. + +“But you shall have the half,” continued Clare; “only I hope, after +this, when you get anything given to you, you'll divide it with me. I +try to be fair, and I want you to be fair.” + +Tommy made no reply. He did not trouble himself about fair play; he +wanted all he could get--like most people; though, thank God, I know a +few far more anxious to give than to receive fair play. Such men, be +they noblemen or tradesmen, I worship. + +Clare carefully divided the loaf, and after due deliberation, handed +Tommy that which seemed the bigger half. Without a word of +acknowledgment, Tommy fell upon it like a terrier. He would love Clare +in a little while when he had something more to give--but stomach +before heart with Tommy! His sort is well represented in every +rank. There are not many who can at the same time both love and be +hungry. + + + +Chapter XXVIII. + +Treachery. + + +“Now, Tommy,” said Clare, having eaten his half loaf, “I'm going out +to look for work, and you must take care of baby. You're not to feed +her--you would only choke her, and waste the good milk.” + +“I want to go out too,” said Tommy. + +“To see what you can pick up, I suppose?” + +“That's my business.” + +“I fancy it mine while you are with me. If you don't take care of baby +and be good to her, I'll put you in the water-butt I took her out +of--as sure as you ain't in it now!” + +“That you shan't!” cried Tommy; “I'll bite first!” + +“I'll tie your hands and feet, and put a stick in your mouth,” said +Clare. “So you'd better mind.” + +“I want to go with you!” whimpered Tommy. + +“You can't. You're to stop and look after baby. I won't be away longer +than I can help; you may be sure of that.” + +With repeated injunctions to him not to leave the room, Clare went. + +Before going quite, however, he must arrange for returning. To swarm +up between the two walls as he had done before, would be to bid +good-bye to his jacket at least, and he knew how appearances were +already against him. Spying about for whatever might serve his +purpose, he caught sight of an old garden-roller, and was making for +it, when Tommy, never doubting he was gone, came whistling round the +corner of the house with his hands in his pocket-holes, and an +impudent air of independence. Clare away, he was a lord in his own +eyes! He could kill the baby when he pleased! Plainly his mood was, +“He thinks I'm going to do as he tells me! Not if I knows it!” Clare +saw him before he saw Clare, and rushed at him with a roar. + +“You thought I was gone!” he cried. “I told you not to leave the room! +Come along to the water-butt!” + +Tommy shivered when he heard him, and gave a shriek when he saw him +coming. He shook till his teeth chattered. But terror not always +paralyzes instinct in the wild animal. As Clare came running, he took +one step toward him, and dropped on the ground at his feet. Clare shot +away over his head, struck his own against a tree, and lay for a +minute stunned. Tommy's success was greater than he had hoped. He +scudded into the house, and closed and bolted the door to the kitchen. + +When Clare came to himself, he found he had a cut on his head. It +would never do to go asking for work with a bloody face! The little +pool served at once for basin and mirror, and while he washed he +thought. + +He had no inclination to punish Tommy for the trick he had played him; +he had but done after his kind! It would serve a good end too: Tommy +would imagine him lurking about to have his revenge, and would not +venture his nose out. He discovered afterward that the little wretch +had made fast the cellar-door, so that, if he had entered that way, he +would have been caught in a trap, and unable to go or return. + +He got the iron roller to the foot of the wall, where he had come over +the night before, and where now first he perceived there had once been +a door; managed, with its broken handle for a lever, to set it up on +end, filled it with earth, and heaped a mound of earth about it to +steady it, placed a few broken tiles and sherds of chimney-pots upon +it, and from this rickety perch found he could reach the top easily. + +The next thing was to arrange for getting up from the other side. For +this he threw over earth and stones and whatever rubbish came to his +hand, the sole quality required in his material being, that it should +serve to lift him any fraction of an inch higher. The space was so +narrow that his mound did not require to be sustained by the width of +its base except in one direction; everywhere else the walls kept in +the heap, and he made good speed. At length he descended by it, sure +of being able to get up again. + +He had been gone an hour before Tommy dared again leave the room where +the baby was. He had planned what to do if Clare got into it: he would +threaten, if he came a step nearer, to kill the baby! But if he had +him in the coal-cellar, he would make his own conditions! A tramp +would not keep a promise, but Clare would! and until he promised not +to touch him, he should not come out--not if he died of hunger! + +At length he could bear imprisonment no longer. He opened the +room-door with the caution of one who thought a tiger might be lying +against it. He saw no one, and crept out with half steps. By slow +degrees, interrupted by many an inroad of terror and many a swift +retreat, he got down the stair and out into the garden; whence, after +closest search, he was at length satisfied his enemy had departed. For +a time he was his own master! To one like Tommy--and such are not +rare--it is a fine thing to be his own master. But the same person who +is the master is the servant--and what a master to serve! Tommy, +however, was quite satisfied with both master and servant, for both +were himself. What was he to do? Go after something to eat, of course! +He would be back long before Clare! He had gone to look for work--and +who would give _him_ work? If Tommy were as big as Clare, lots of +people would give him work! But catch him working! Not if he knew +it!--not Tommy! + +Never till she was grown up, never, indeed, until she was a +middle-aged woman and Mr. Skymer's housekeeper, did the baby know in +what danger she was that morning, alone with surnameless Tommy. + +His first sense of relation to any creature too weak to protect +itself, was the consciousness of power to torment that creature. But +in this case the exercise of the power brought him into another +relation, one with the water-butt! He went back to the room where the +child lay in her blankets like a human chrysalis, and stood for a +moment regarding her with a hatred far from mild: was he actually +expected to give time and personal notice to that contemptible thing +lying there unable to move? _He_ wasn't a girl or an old woman! He +must go and get something to eat! that was what a man was for! Better +twist her neck at once and go! + +But he could not forget the water-butt--proximate mother of the +child. Its idea came sliding into Tommy's range, grew and grew upon +Tommy, came nearer and nearer, until the baby was nowhere, and nothing +in the world but the water-butt. His consciousness was possessed with +it. It was preparing to swallow him in its loathsome deep! All at once +it jumped back from him, and stood motionless by the side of the +wall. Now was his chance! Now he must mizzle! Not a moment longer +would he stop in the same place with the horrible thing! + +But the baby! Clare would bring him back and put him in the butt! No, +he wouldn't! What harm would come to the brat? She was not able to +roll herself off the bed! She could do nothing but go to sleep again! +Out he must and would go! He wanted something to eat! He would be in +again long before Clare could get back! + +He left the room and the house, ran down the garden, scrambled up the +door, got on the top of the wall, and dropped into the waste land +behind it--nor once thought that the only way back was by the very +jaws of the water-butt. + + + +Chapter XXIX. + +The baker. + + +Clare went over the wall and the well without a notion of what he was +going to do, except look for work. He had eaten half a loaf, and now +drew in his cap some water from the well and drank. He felt better +than any moment since leaving the farm. He was full of hope. + +All his life he had never been other than hopeful. To the human being +hope is as natural as hunger; yet how few there are that hope as they +hunger! Men are so proud of being small, that one wonders to what +pitch their conceit will have arrived by the time they are nothing at +all. They are proud that they love but a little, believe less, and +hope for nothing. Every fool prides himself on not being such a fool +as believe what would make a man of him. For dread of being taken in, +he takes himself in ridiculously. The man who keeps on trying to do +his duty, finds a brighter and brighter gleam issue, as he walks, from +the lantern of his hope. + +Clare was just breaking into a song he had heard his mother sing to +his sister, when he was checked by the sight of a long skinny mongrel +like a hairy worm, that lay cowering and shivering beside a heap of +ashes put down for the dust-cart--such a dry hopeless heap that the +famished little dog did not care to search it: some little warmth in +it, I presume, had kept him near it. Clare's own indigence made him +the more sorry for the indigent, and he felt very sorry for this +member of the family; but he had neither work nor alms to give him, +therefore strode on. The dog looked wistfully after him, as if +recognizing one of his own sort, one that would help him if he could, +but did not follow him. + +A hundred yards further, Clare came to a baker's shop. It was the +first he felt inclined to enter, and he went in. He did not know it +was the shop from whose cart Tommy had pilfered. A thin-faced, +bilious-looking, elderly man stood behind the counter. + +“Well, boy, what do you want?” he said in a low, sad, severe, but not +unkindly voice. + +“Please, sir,” answered Clare, “I want something to do, and I thought +perhaps you could help me.” + +“What can you do?” + +“Not much, but I can _try_ to do anything.” + +“Have you ever learned to do anything?” + +“I've been working on a farm for the last six months. Before that I +went to school.” + +“Why didn't you go on going to school?” + +“Because my father and mother died.” + +“What was your father?” + +“A parson.” + +“Why did you leave the farm?” + +“Because they didn't want me. The mistress didn't like me.” + +“I dare say she had her reasons!” + +“I don't know, sir; she didn't seem to like anything I did. My mother +used to say, 'Well done, Clare!' my mistress never said 'Well done!”' + +“So the farmer sent you away?” + +“No, sir; but he boxed my ears for something--I don't now remember +what.” + +“I dare say you deserved it!” + +“Perhaps I did; I don't know; he never did it before.” + +“If you deserved it, you had no right to run away for that.” + +The baker taught in a Sunday-school, and was a good teacher, able to +make a class mind him. + +“I didn't run away for that, sir; I ran away because he was tired of +me. I couldn't stay to make him uncomfortable! He had been very kind +to me; I fancy it was mistress made him change. I've been thinking a +good deal about it, and that's how it looks to me. I'm very sorry not +to have him or the creatures any more.” + +“What creatures?” + +“The bull, and the horses, and the cows, and the pigs--all the +creatures about the farm. They were my friends. I shall see them all +again somewhere!” + +He gave a great sigh. + +“What do you mean by that?” asked the baker. + +“I hardly know what I mean,” answered Clare. + +“When I'm loving anybody I always feel I shall see that person again +some time, I don't know when--somewhere, I don't know where.” + +“That don't apply to the lower animals; it's nothing but a foolish +imagination,” said the baker. + +“But if I love them!” suggested Clare. + +“Love a bull, or a horse, or a pig! You can't!” asserted the baker. + +“But I _do_,” rejoined Clare. “I love my father and mother much more +than when they were alive!” + +“What has that to do with it?” returned the baker. + +“That I know I love my father and mother, and I know I love that +fierce bull that would always do what I told him, and that dear old +horse that was almost past work, and was always ready to do his +best.--I'm afraid they've killed him by now!” he added, with another +sigh. + +“But beasts 'ain't got souls, and you can't love them. And if you +could, that's no reason why you should see them again.” + +“I _do_ love them, and perhaps they have souls!” rejoined Clare. + +“You mustn't believe that! It's quite shocking. It's nowhere in the +Bible.” + +“Is everything that is not in the Bible shocking, sir?” + +“Well, I won't say that; but you're not to believe it.” + +“I suppose you don't like animals, sir! Are you afraid of their going +to the same place as you when they die?” + +“I wouldn't have a boy about me that held such an unscriptural notion! +The Bible says--the spirit of a man that goeth upward, and the spirit +of a beast that goeth downward!” + +“Is that in the Bible, sir?” + +“It is,” answered the baker with satisfaction, thinking he had proved +his point. + +“I'm so glad!” returned Clare. “I didn't know there was anything about +it in the Bible! Then when I die I shall only have to go down +somewhere, and look for them till I find them!” + +The baker was silenced for a moment. + +“It's flat atheism!” he cried. “Get out of my shop! What is the world +coming to!” + +Clare turned and went out. + +But though a bilious, the baker was not an unreasonable or unjust man +except when what he had been used to believe all his life was +contradicted. Clare had not yet shut the door when he repented. He was +a good man, though not quite in the secret of the universe. He vaulted +over the counter, and opened the door with such a ringing of its +appended bell as made heavy-hearted Clare turn before he heard his +voice. The long spare white figure appeared on the threshold, framed +in the doorway. + +“Hi!” it shouted. + +Clare went meekly back. + +“I've just remembered hearing--but mind I _know_ nothing, and pledge +myself to nothing----” + +He paused. + +“I didn't say I was _sure_ about it,” returned Clare, thinking he +referred to the fate of the animals, “but I fear I'm to blame for not +being sure.” + +“Come, come!” said the baker, with a twist of his mouth that expressed +disgust, “hold your tongue, and listen to me.--I did hear, as I was +saying, that Mr. Maidstone, down the town, had one of his errand-boys +laid up with scarlet fever. I'll take you to him, if you like. Perhaps +he'll have you,--though I can't say you look respectable!” + +“I 'ain't had much chance since I left home, sir. I had a bit of soap, +but----” + +He bethought him that he had better say nothing about his +family. Tommy had picked his pocket of the soap the night before, and +tried to eat it, and Clare had hidden it away: he wanted it to wash +the baby with as soon as he could get some warm water; but when he +went to find it to wash his own face, it was gone. He suspected Tommy, +but before long he had terrible ground for a different surmise. + +“You see, sir,” he resumed, “I had other things to think of. When your +tummy's empty, you don't think about the rest of you--do you, sir?” + +The baker could not remember having ever been more than decently, +healthily hungry in his life; and here he had been rough on a +well-bred boy too hungry to wash his face! Perhaps the word _one of +these little ones_ came to him. He had some regard for him who spoke +it, though he did talk more about him on Sundays than obey him in the +days between. + +“I don't know, my boy,” he answered. “Would you like a piece of +bread?” + +“I'm not much in want of it at this moment,” replied Clare, “but I +should be greatly obliged if you would let me call for it by and +by. You see, sir, when a man has no work, he can't help having no +money!” + +“A man!” thought the baker. “God pity you, poor monkey!” + +He called to some one to mind the shop, removed his apron and put on a +coat, shut the door, and went down the street with Clare. + + + +Chapter XXX. + +The draper. + + +At the shop of a draper and haberdasher, where one might buy almost +anything sold, Clare's new friend stopped and walked in. He asked to +see Mr. Maidstone, and a shopman went to fetch him from behind. He +came out into the public floor. + +“I heard you were in want of a boy, sir,” said the baker, who carried +himself as in the presence of a superior; and certainly fine clothes +and a gold chain and ring did what they could to make the draper +superior to the baker. + +“Hm!” said Mr. Maidstone, looking with contempt at Clare. + +“I rather liked the look of this poor boy, and ventured to bring him +on approval,” continued the baker timidly. “He ain't much to look at, +I confess!” + +“Hm!” said the draper again. “He don't look promising!” + +“He don't. But I think he means performing,” said the baker, with a +wan smile. + +“Donnow, I'm sure! If he 'appened to wash his face, I could tell +better!” + +Clare thought he had washed it pretty well that morning because of his +cut, though he had, to be sure, done it without soap, and had been at +rather dirty work since! + +“He says he's been too hungry to wash his face,” answered the baker. + +“Didn't 'ave his 'ot water in time, I suppose!--Will you answer for +him, Mr. Ball?” + +“I can't, Mr. Maidstone--not one way or another. I simply was taken +with him. I know nothing about him.” + +Here one of the shopmen came up to his master, and said, + +“I heard Mr. Ball's own man yesterday accuse this very boy of taking a +loaf from his cart.” + +“Yesterday!” thought Clare; “it seems a week ago!” + +“Oh! this is the boy, is it?” said the baker. “You see I didn't know +him! All the same, I don't believe he took the loaf.” + +“Indeed I didn't, sir! Another boy took it who didn't know better, and +I took it from him, and was putting it back on the cart when the man +turned round and saw me, and wouldn't listen to a word I said. But a +working-man believed me, and bought the loaf, and gave it between us.” + +“A likely story!” said the draper. + +“I've heard that much,” said the baker, “and I believe it. At least I +have no reason to believe my man against him, Mr. Maidstone. That same +night I discovered he had been cheating me to a merry tune. I +discharged him this morning.” + +“Well, he certainly don't look a respectable boy,” said the draper, +who naturally, being all surface himself, could read no deeper than +clothes; “but I'm greatly in want of one to carry out parcels, and I +don't mind if I try him. If he do steal anything, he'll be caught +within the hour!” + +“Oh, thank you, sir!” said Clare. + +“You shall have sixpence a day,” Mr. Maidstone continued, “--not a +penny more till I'm sure you're an honest boy.” + +“Thank you, sir,” iterated Clare. “Please may I run home first? I +won't be long. I 'ain't got any other clothes, but----” + +“Hold your long tongue. Don't let me hear it wagging in my +establishment. Go and wash your face and hands.” Clare turned to the +baker. + +“Please, sir,” he said softly, “may I go back with you and get the +piece of bread?” + +“What! begging already!” cried Mr. Maidstone. + +“No, no, sir,” interposed the baker. “I promised him a piece of +bread. He did not ask for it.” + +The good man was pleased at his success, and began to regard Clare +with the favour that springs in the heart of him who has done a good +turn to another through a third. Had he helped him out of his own +pocket, he might not have been so much pleased. But there had been no +loss, and there was no risk! He had beside shown his influence with a +superior! + +“I am so much obliged to you, sir!” said Clare as they went away +together. “I cannot tell you how much!” + +He was tempted to open his heart and reveal the fact that three people +would live on the sixpence a day which the baker's kindness had +procured him, but prudence was fast coming frontward, and he saw that +no one must know that they were in that house! If it were known, they +would probably be turned out at once, which would go far to be fatal +to them as a family. For, if he had to pay for lodgings, were it no +more than the tramps paid Tommy's grandmother, sixpence a day would +not suffice for bare shelter. So he held his tongue. + +“Thank me by minding Mr. Maidstone's interests,” returned his +benefactor. “If you don't do well by him, the blame will come upon +me.” + +“I will be very careful, sir,” answered Clare, who was too full of +honesty to think of being honest; he thought only of minding orders. + +They reached the shop; the baker gave him a small loaf, and he hurried +home with it The joy in his heart, spread over the days since he left +the farm, would have given each a fair amount of gladness. + +Taking heed that no one saw him, he darted through the passage to the +well, got across it better this time, rushed over the wall like a cat, +fell on the other side from the unsteadiness of his potsherds, rose +and hurried into the house, with the feeble wail of his baby in his +ears. + + + +Chapter XXXI. + +An addition to the family. + + +The door to the kitchen was open: Tommy must be in the garden again! +When he reached the nursery, as he called it to himself, he found the +baby as he had left her, but moaning and wailing piteously. She looked +as if she had cried till she was worn out. He threw down the clothes +to take her. A great rat sprang from the bed. On one of the tiny feet +the long thin toes were bleeding and raw. The same instant arose a +loud scampering and scuffling and squealing in the room. Clare's heart +quivered. He thought it was a whole army of rats. He was not a bit +afraid of them himself, but assuredly they were not company for baby! +Already they had smelt food in the house, and come in a swarm! What +was to be done with the little one? If he stayed at home with her, she +must die of hunger; if he left her alone, the rats would eat her! They +had begun already! Oh, that wretch, Tommy! Into the water--but he +should go! + +I hope their friends will not take it ill that, all his life after, +Clare felt less kindly disposed toward rats than toward the rest of +the creatures of God. + +But things were not nearly so bad as Clare thought: the scuffling came +from quite another cause. It suddenly ceased, and a sharp scream +followed. Clare turned with the baby in his arms. Almost at his feet, +gazing up at him, the rat hanging limp from his jaws, stood the little +castaway mongrel he had seen in the morning, his eyes flaming, and his +tail wagging with wild homage and the delight of presenting the rat to +one he would fain make his master. + +“You darling!” cried Clare, and meant the dog this time, not the +baby. The animal dropped the dead rat at his feet, and glared, and +wagged, and looked hunger incarnate, but would not touch the rat until +Clare told him to take it. Then he retired with it to a corner, and +made a rapid meal of it. + +He had seen Clare pass the second time, had doubtless noted that now +he carried a loaf, and had followed him in humble hope. Clare was too +much occupied with his own joy to perceive him, else he would +certainly have given him a little peeling or two from the outside of +the bread. But it was decreed that the dog should have the honour of +rendering the first service. Clare was not to do _all_ the +benevolences. + +What a happy day it had been for him! It was a day to be remembered +for ever! He had work! he had sixpence a day! he had had a present of +milk for the baby, and two presents of bread--one a small, and one a +large loaf! And now here was a dog! A dog was more than many meals! +The family was four now! A baby, and a dog to take care of the +baby!--It was heavenly! + +He made haste and gave his baby what milk and water was left. Then he +washed her poor torn foot, wrapped it in a pillow-case, for he would +not tear anything, and laid her in the bed. Next he cut a good big +crust from the loaf and gave it to the dog, who ate it as if the rat +were nowhere. The rest he put in a drawer. Then he washed his face and +hands--as well as he could without soap. After that, he took the dog, +talked to him a little, laid him on the bed beside the baby and talked +to him again, telling him plainly, and impressing upon him, that his +business was the care of the baby; that he must give himself up to +her; that he must watch and tend, and, if needful, fight for the +little one. When at length he left him, it was evident to Clare, by +the solemnity of the dog's face, that he understood his duty +thoroughly. + + + +Chapter XXXII. + +Shop and baby. + + +Once clear of the well and the wall, Clare set off running like a +gaze-hound. Such was the change produced in him by joy and the +satisfaction of hope, that when he entered the shop, no one at first +knew him. His face was as the face of an angel, and none the less +beautiful that it shone above ragged garments. But Mr. Maidstone, the +moment he saw him, and before he had time to recognize him, turned +from the boy with dislike. + +“What a fool the beggar looks!” he said to himself;--then aloud to one +of the young men, “Hand over that parcel of sheets.--Here, +you!--what's your name?” + +“Clare, sir.” + +“I declare against it!” he rejoined, with a coarse laugh of pleasure +at his own fancied wit. “I shall call you Jack!” + +“Very well, sir!” + +“Don't you talk.--Here, Jack, take this parcel to Mrs. +Trueman's. You'll see the address on it.--And look sharp.--You can +read, can't you?” + +The people in the shop stood looking on, some pitifully, all +curiously, for the parcel was of considerable size, and linen is +heavy, while the boy looked pale and thin. But Clare was strong for +his age, and present joy made up for past want. He scarcely looked at +the parcel which the draper proceeded to lay on his shoulder, stooped +a little as he felt its weight, heaved it a little to adjust its +balance, and holding it in its place with one hand, started for the +door, which the master himself held open for him. + +“Please, sir, which way do I turn?” he asked. + +“To the left,” answered Mr. Maidstone. “Ask your way as you go.” + +Clare forgot that he had heard only the lady's name. Her address was +on the parcel, no doubt, but if he dropped it to look, he could not +get it up again by himself. A little way on, therefore, meeting a boy +about his own age returning from school, he asked him to be kind +enough to read the address on his back and direct him. The boy read it +aloud, but gave him false instructions for finding the place. Clare +walked and walked until the weight became almost unendurable, and at +last, though loath, concluded that the boy must have deceived him. He +asked again, but this time of a lady. She took pains not only to tell +him right, but to make him understand right: she was pleased with the +tired gentle face that looked up from beneath the heavy +burden. Perhaps she thought of the proud souls growing pure of their +pride, in Dante's _Purgatorio_. Following her directions, he needed no +further questioning to find the house. But it was hours after the +burden was gone from his shoulder before it was rid of the phantom of +its weight. + +His master rated him for having been so long, and would not permit him +to explain his delay, ordering him to hold his tongue and not answer +back; but the rest of his day's work was lighter; there was no other +heavy parcel to send out. There were so many smaller ones, however, +that, by the time they were all delivered, he had gained something +more than a general idea of how the streets lay, and was a weary wight +when, with the four-pence his master hesitated to give him on the +ground that he was doubtful of his character, he set out at last, +walking soberly enough now, to spend it at Mr. Ball's and the +milk-shop. Of the former he bought a stale three-penny loaf, and the +baker added a piece to make up the weight. Clare took this for +liberality, and returned hearty thanks, which Mr. Ball, I am sorry to +say, was not man enough to repudiate. The other penny he laid out on +milk--but oh, how inferior it was to that the farmer's wife had given +him! The milk-woman, however, not ungraciously granted him the two +matches he begged for. + +On his way to baby, he almost hoped Tommy would not return: he would +gladly be saved putting him in the water-butt! + +He forgot him again as he drew near the nursery, and for a long while +after he reached it. He found the infant and the dog lying as he had +left them. The only sign that either had moved was the strange +cleanness of the tiny gray face which Clare had not ventured to +wash. It gave indubitable evidence that the dog had been licking it +more than a little--probably every few minutes since he was left +curate in charge. + +And now Clare did with deliberation a thing for which his sensitive +conscience not unfrequently reproached him afterward. His defence was, +that he had hurt nobody, and had kept baby alive by it. Having in his +mind revolved the matter many a time that day, he got some sticks +together from the garden, and with one of the precious matches lighted +a small fire of coals that were not his own, and for which he could +merely hope one day to restore amends. But baby! Baby was more than +coals! He filled a rusty kettle with water, and while it was growing +hot on the fire, such was his fear lest the smoke should betray them, +that he ran out every other minute to see how much was coming from the +chimney. + +While the fire was busy heating the water, he was busier preparing a +bottle for baby--making a hole through the cork of a phial, putting the +broken stem of a clean tobacco pipe he had found in the street through +the hole, tying a small lump of cotton wool over the end of the +pipe-stem, and covering that with a piece of his pocket-handkerchief, +carefully washed with the brown Windsor soap, his mother's last present. +For the day held yet another gladness: in looking for a kettle he had +found the soap--which probably the rat had carried away and hidden +before finding baby. Through the pipe-stem and the wool and the +handkerchief he could without difficulty draw water, and hoped therefore +baby would succeed in drawing her supper. As soon as the water was warm +he mixed some with the milk, but not so much this time, and put the +mixture in the bottle. To his delight, the baby sucked it up splendidly. +The bottle, thought out between the heavy linen and the hard street, was +a success! Labour is not unfriendly to thought, as the annals of weaving +and shoe-making witness. + +And now at last was Clare equipped for a great attempt: he was going +to wash the baby! He was glad that disrespectful Tommy was not in the +house. With a basin of warm water and his precious piece of soap he +set about it, and taking much pains washed his treasure perfectly +clean. It was a state of bliss in which, up to that moment, I presume, +she had never been since her birth. In the process he handled her, if +not with all the skill of a nurse, yet with the tenderness of a +mother. His chief anxiety was not to hurt, more than could not be +helped, the poor little rat-eaten toes. He felt he must wash them, but +when in the process she whimpered, it went all through the calves of +his legs. When the happy but solicitous task was over, during which +the infant had shown the submission of great weakness, he wrapped her +in another blanket, and laid her down again. Soothed and comfortable, +as probably never soothed or comfortable before, she went to sleep. + +As soon as she was out of his arms, he took a piece of bread, and with +some of the hot water made a little sop for the dog, which the small +hero, whose four legs carried such a long barrel of starvation, ate +with undisguised pleasure and thankfulness. For his own supper Clare +preferred his bread dry, following it with a fine draught of water +from the well. + +Then, and not till then, returned the thought--what had Tommy done +with himself? Left to himself he was sure to go stealing! He might +have been taken in the act! Clare could hardly believe he had actually +run away from him. On the other hand, he had left the baby, and knew +that if he returned he would be put in the water-butt! He might have +come to the conclusion that he could do better without Clare, who +would not let him steal! It was clear he did not like taking his share +in the work of the family, and looking after the baby! Had he been +anything of a true boy, Clare would have taken his bread in his hand +and gone to look for him; being such as he was, he did not think it +necessary. He felt bound to do his best for him if he came back, but +he did not feel bound to leave the baby and roam the country to find a +boy with whom baby's life would be in constant danger. + + + +Chapter XXXIII. + +A bad penny. + + +Before Clare had done his thinking, darkness had fallen, and, weary to +the very bones, he threw himself on the bed beside the baby. The dog +jumped up and laid himself at his feet, as if the place had been his +from time immemorial--as it had perhaps been, according to time in +dog-land. The many pleasures of that blessed day would have kept Clare +awake had they not brought with them so much weariness. He fell fast +asleep. Tommy had not had a happy day: he had been found out in +evil-doing, had done more evil, and had all the day been in dread of +punishment. He did not foresee how ill things would go for him--did +not see that a rat had taken his place beside the baby, and that he +would not get back before Clare; but the vision of the water-butt had +often flashed upon his inner eye, and it had not been the bliss of his +solitude. He deserted his post in the hope of finding something to +eat, and had not had a mouthful of anything but spongy turnip, and +dried-up mangel-wurzel, or want-root. If he had been minding his work, +he would have had a piece of good bread--so good that he would have +wanted more of it, whereas, when he had eaten the turnip and the +beetroot, he had cause to wish he had not eaten so much! He had been +set upon by boys bigger than himself, and nearly as bad, who, not +being hungry, were in want of amusement, and had proceeded to get it +out of Tommy, just as Tommy would have got it out of the baby had he +dared. They bullied him in a way that would have been to his heart's +content, had he been the bully instead of the bullied. They made him +actually wish he had stayed with the baby--and therewith came the +thought that it was time to go home if he would get back before +Clare. As to what had taken place in the morning, he knew Clare's +forgivingness, and despised him for it. If he found the baby dead, or +anything happened to her that he could not cover with lying, it would +be time to cut and run in earnest! So the moment he could escape from +his tormenters, off went Tommy for home. But as he ran he remembered +that there was but one way into the house, and that was by the very +lip of the water-butt. + +Clare woke up suddenly--at a sound which all his life would wake him +from the deepest slumber: he thought he heard the whimpering of a +child. The baby was fast asleep. Instantly he thought of Tommy. He +seemed to see him shut out in the night, and knew at once how it was +with him: he had gone out without thinking how he was to get back, and +dared not go near the water-butt! He jumped out of bed, put on his +shoes, and in a minute or two was over the wall and walking along the +lane outside of it, to find the deserter. + +The moon was not up, and the night was dark, yet he had not looked +long before he came upon him, as near the house as he could get, +crouching against the wall. + +“Tommy!” said Clare softly. + +Tommy did not reply. The fear of the water-butt was upon him--a fear +darker than the night, an evil worse than hunger or cold--and Clare +and the water-butt were one. + +“You needn't think to hide, Tommy; I see you, you bad boy!” whispered +Clare. “After all I said, you ran away and left the baby to the rats! +They've been biting her horribly--one at least has. You can stay away +as long as you like now; I've got a better nurse. Good-night!” Tommy +gave a great howl. + +“Hold your tongue, you rascal!” cried Clare, still in a +whisper. “You'll let the police know where we are!” + +“Do let me in, Clare! I'm so 'ungry and so cold!” + +“Then I shall have to put you in the water-butt! I said I would!” + +“If you don't promise not to, I'll go straight to the police. They'll +take the brat from you, and put her in the workhouse!” + +Clare thought for a moment whether it would not be right to kill such +a traitor. His mind was full of history-tales, and, like Dante, he put +treachery in its own place, namely the deepest hell. But with the +thought came the words he had said so many times without thinking what +they meant--“Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that +trespass against us,” and he saw that he was expected to forgive +Tommy. + +“Tommy, I forgive you,” he said solemnly, “and will be friends with +you again; but I have said it, and I was right to say it, and into the +water-butt you must go! I can't trust your word now, and I think I +shall be able to trust it after that.” + +Ere he had finished the words, Tommy lifted up his voice in a most +unearthly screech. + +Instantly Clare had him by the throat, so that he could not utter a +sound. + +“Tommy,” he said, “I'm going to let you breathe again, but the moment +you make a noise, I'll choke you as I'm doing now.” + +With that he relaxed his hold. But Tommy had paid no heed to what he +said, and began a second screech the moment he found passage for +it. Immediately he was choked, and after two or three attempts, +finally desisted. + +“I won't!” he said. + +“You shall, Tommy. You're going head over in the butt. We're going to +it now!” + +Tommy threw himself upon the ground and kicked, but dared not +scream. It was awful! He would drop right through into the great place +where the moon was! + +Clare threw him over his shoulder, and found him not half the weight +of the parcel of linen. Tommy would have bitten like a weasel, but he +feared Clare's terrible hands. He was on the back of Giant Despair, in +the form of one of the best boys in the world. Clare took him round +the wall, and over the fence into the blacksmith's yard. The smithy +was quite dark. + +“Please, I didn't mean to do it!” sobbed Tommy from behind him, as +Clare bore him steadily up the yard. It was all he could do to say the +words, for the thought of what they were approaching sent a scream +into his throat every time he parted his lips to speak. + +Clare stopped. + +“What didn't you mean to do?” he asked. + +“I didn't mean to leave the baby.” + +“How did you do it then?” + +“I mean I didn't mean to stay away so long. I didn't know how to get +back.” + +“I told you not to leave her! And you could have got back perfectly, +you little coward!” + +Tommy shuddered, and said no more. Though hanging over Clare's back he +knew presently, by his stopping, that they had come to the heap. There +was only that heap and the wall between him and the water-butt! Up and +up he felt himself slowly, shakingly carried, and was gathering his +breath for a final utterance of agony that should rouse the whole +neighbourhood, when Clare, having reached the top, seated himself upon +the wall, and Tommy restrained himself in the hope of what a parley +might bring. But he sat down only to wheel on the pivot of his spine, +as he had seen them do on the counter in the shop, and sit with his +legs alongside of the water-butt. Then he drew Tommy from his shoulder, +in spite of his clinging, and laid him across his knees; and Tommy, +divining there were words yet to be said, and hoping to get off with a +beating, which he did not mind, remained silent. + +“Your hour is come, Tommy!” said Clare. “If you scream, I will drop +you in, and hold you only by one leg. If you don't scream, I will hold +you by both legs. If you scream when I take you out, in you go again! +I do what I say, Tommy!” + +The wretched boy was nearly mad with terror. But now, much as he +feared the water, he feared yet more for the moment him in whom lay +the power of the water. Clare took him by the heels. + +“I'm sorry there's no moon, as I promised you,” he said; “she won't +come up for my calling. I should have liked you to see where you were +going. But if you ain't an honest boy after this, you shall have +another chance; and next time we will wait for the moon!” + +With that he lifted Tommy's legs, holding him by the ankles, and would +have shoved his body over the edge of the butt into the water. But +Tommy clung fast to his knees. + +“Leave go, Tommy,” he said, “or I'll tumble you right in.” + +Tommy yielded, his will overcome by a greater fear. Clare let him hang +for a moment over the black water, and slowly lowered him. Tommy clung +to the side of the butt. Clare let go one leg, and taking hold of his +hands pulled them away. Tommy's terror would have burst in a frenzied +yell, but the same instant he was down to the neck in the water, and +lifted out again. He spluttered and gurgled and tried to scream. + +“Now, Tommy,” said Clare, “don't scream, or I'll put you in again.” + +But Tommy never believed anything except upon compulsion. The moment +he could, that moment he screamed, and that moment he was in the water +again. The next time he was taken out, he did not scream. Clare laid +him on the wall, and he lay still, pretending to be drowned. Clare got +up, set him on his feet in front of him, and holding him by the +collar, trotted him round the top of the wall to the door, and dropped +him into the garden. He was quiet enough now--more than +subdued--incapable even of meditating revenge. But when they entered +the nursery, the dog, taking Tommy for a worse sort of rat, made a +leap at him right off the bed, as if he would swallow him alive, and +the start and the terror of it brought him quite to himself again. + +“Quiet, Abdiel!” said Clare. + +The dog turned, jumped up on the bed, and lay down again close to the +baby. + +Clare, who, I have said, was in old days a reader of _Paradise Lost_, +had already given him the name of _Abdiel_. + +“Please, I couldn't help yelling!” said Tommy, very meekly. “I didn't +know you'd got _him_!” + +“I know you couldn't help it!” answered Clare. “What have you had to +eat to-day?” + +“Nothing but a beastly turnip and a wormy beet,” said Tommy. “I'm +awful hungry.” + +“You'd have had something better if you'd stuck by the baby, and not +left her to the rats!” + +“There ain't no rats,” growled Tommy. + +“Will you believe your own eyes?” returned Clare, and showed him the +skin of the rat Abdiel had slain. “I've a great mind to make you eat +it!” he added, dangling it before him by the tail. + +“Shouldn't mind,” said Tommy. “I've eaten a rat afore now, an' I'm +that hungry! Rats ain't bad to eat. I don't know about their skins!” + +“Here's a piece of bread for you. But you sha'n't sleep with honest +people like baby and Abdiel. You shall lie on the hearth-rug. Here's a +blanket and a pillow for you!” + +Clare covered him up warm, thatching all with a piece of loose carpet, +and he was asleep directly. + +The next day all terror of the water-butt was gone from the little +vagabond's mind. He was now, however, thoroughly afraid of Clare, and +his conceit that, though Clare was the stronger, he was the cleverer, +was put in abeyance. + + + +Chapter XXXIV. + +How things went for a time. + + +Clare's next day went much as the preceding, only that he was early at +the shop. When his dinner-hour came, he ran home, and was glad to find +Tommy and the dog mildly agreeable to each other. He had but time to +give baby some milk, and Tommy and Abdiel a bit of bread each. + +His look when he returned, a look of which he was unaware, but which +one of the girls, who had a year ago been hungry for weeks together, +could read, made her ask him what he had had for dinner. He said he +had had no dinner. + +“Why?” she asked. + +“Because there wasn't any.” + +“Didn't your mother keep some for you?” + +“No; she couldn't.” + +“Then what will you do?” + +“Go without,” answered Clare with a smile. + +“But you've got a mother?” said the girl, rendered doubtful by his +smile. + +“Oh, yes! I've got two mothers. But their arms ain't long enough,” + replied Clare. + +The girl wondered: was he an idiot, or what they called a poet? +Anyhow, she had a bun in her pocket, which she had meant to eat at +five o'clock, and she offered him that. + +“But what will you do yourself? Have you another?” asked Clare, +unready to take it. + +“No,” she answered; “why shouldn't I go without as well as you?” + +“Because it won't make things any better. There will be just as much +hunger. It's only shifting it from me to you. That will leave it all +the same!” + +“No, not the same,” she returned. “I've had a good dinner--as much as +I could eat; and you've had none!” + +Clare was persuaded, and ate the girl's bun with much satisfaction and +gratitude. + +When he had his wages in the evening, he spent them as before--a penny +for the baby, and fivepence at Mr. Ball's for Tommy, Abdiel, and +himself. + +Observing that he came daily, and spent all he earned, except one +penny, on bread; seeing also that the boy's cheeks, though plainly he +was in good health, were very thin, Mr. Ball wondered a little: a boy +ought to look better than that on five pennyworth of bread a day! + +They were a curious family--Clare, and Tommy, and the baby, and +Abdiel. But the only thing sad about it was, that Clare, who was the +head and the heart of it, and provided for all, should be upheld by no +human sympathy, no human gratitude; that he should be so high above +his companions that, though he never thought he was lonely, he could +not help feeling lonely. Not once did he wish himself rid of any +single member of his adopted family. It was living on his very body; +he was growing a little thinner every day; if things had gone on so, +he must before long have fallen ill; but he never thought of himself +at all, body or soul. + +He had no human sympathy or gratitude, I say, but he had both sympathy +and gratitude from Abdiel. The dog never failed to understand what +Clare wished and expected him to understand. In Clare's absence he +took on himself the protection of the establishment, and was Tommy's +superior. + +Though Tommy was of no use to earn bread, Clare did not therefore +allow him to be idle. He insisted on his keeping the place clean and +tidy, and in this respect Tommy was not quite a failure. He even made +him do some washing, though not much could be accomplished in that way +where there was so little to wash. Now that Abdiel was nurse, Tommy +had the run of the garden, and often went beyond it for an hour or two +without Clare's knowledge, but always took good care to be back before +his return. + +A bale of goods happening to be unpacked in his presence one day, +Clare begged the head-shopman, who was also a partner, for a piece of +what it was wrapped in; and he, having noted how well he worked, and +being quite aware they could not get another such boy at such wages, +gave him a large piece of the soiled canvas. Now Mrs. Person had +taught Clare to work,--as I think all boys ought to be taught, so as +not to be helpless without mother or sister,--and with the help of a +needle and some thread the friendly girl gave him, he soon made of the +packing-sheet a pair of trousers for Tommy, of a primitive but not +unserviceable cut, and a shirt for himself, of fashion more primitive +still. He managed it this way: he cut a hole in the middle of a piece +of the stuff, through which to put his head, and another hole on each +side of that, through which to put his arms, and hemmed them all +round. Then, having first hemmed the garment also, he indued it, and +let the voluminous mass arrange itself as it might, under as much of +his jacket and trousers as cohered. + +My reader may well wonder how, in what was called a respectable shop, +he could be permitted to appear in such poverty; but Mr. Maidstone +disliked the boy so much that he meant to send him away the moment he +found another to do his work, and gave orders that he should never +come up from the basement except when wanted to carry a parcel. The +fact was that his still, solemn, pure face was a haunting rebuke to +his master, although he did not in the least recognize the nature, or +this as the cause, of his dislike. + + + +Chapter XXXV. + +Clare disregards the interests of his employers. + + +Things went on for nearly a month, every one thriving but Clare. Yet +was Clare as peaceful as any, and much happier than Tommy, to whose +satisfaction adventure was needful. + +One day, a lady, attracted by a muff in the shop-window labelled with +a very low price, entered, and requested to see it. + +“We can offer you a choice from several of the sort, madam,” said the +shopman. “It is one of a lot we bought cheap, but quite uninjured, +after a fire.” + +“I want to see the one in the window,” the lady answered. + +“I hope you will excuse me, madam,” returned the shopman. “The muff is +in a position hard to reach. Besides, we must ask leave to take +anything down after the window is dressed for the day, and the master +is out. But I will bring you the same fur precisely.” + +So saying, he went, and returned presently with a load of muffs and +other furs, which he threw on the counter. But the lady had heard that +“there's tricks i' the world,” and persisted in demanding a sight of +the muff in the window. Being a “tall personage” and cool, she carried +her point. The muff was hooked down and brought her--not +graciously. She glanced at it, turned it over, looked inside, and +said, + +“I will take it. Please bring a bandbox for it.” + +“I will, madam,” said the man, and would have taken the muff. But she +held it fast, sought her purse, and laid the price on the counter. The +shopman saw that she knew what both of them were about, took up the +money, went and fetched a bandbox, put the muff in it before her eyes, +and tied it up. The lady held out her hand for it. + +“Shall I not send it for you, madam?” he said. + +“I do not live here,” she answered. “I am on my way to the station.” + +“Here, Jack,” cried the shopman to Clare, whom he caught sight of that +moment going down to the basement, “take this bandbox, and go with the +lady to the station.” + +If his transaction with the lady had pleased the man, he would not +have sent such a scarecrow to attend her, although she did not belong +to the town, and they might never see her again! The lady, on her +part, was about to insist on carrying the bandbox herself; but when +Clare came forward, and looked up smiling in her face, she was at once +aware that she might trust him. The man stood watching for the moment +when she should turn her back, that he might substitute another +bandbox for the one Clare carried; but Clare never looked at him, and +when the lady walked out of the shop, walked straight out after +her. Along the street he followed her steadily, she looking round +occasionally to see that he was behind her. + +They had gone about half-way to the station, when from a side street +came a lad whom Clare knew as one employed in the packing-room. He +carried a box exactly like that Clare had in his hand, and came softly +up behind him. Clare did not turn his head, for he did not want to +talk to him while he was attending on the lady. + +“Look spry!” he said in a whisper. “She don't twig! It's all right! +Maidstone sent me.” + +Clare looked round. The lad held out his bandbox for him to take, and +his empty hand to take Clare's instead. But Clare had by this time +begun to learn a little caution. Besides, the lady's interests were in +his care, and he could be party to nothing done behind her back! He +had not time to think, but knew it his duty to stick by the +bandbox. If we have come up through the animals to be what we are, +Clare must have been a dog of a good, faithful breed, for he did right +now as by some ancient instinct. He held fast to the box, neither +slackening his pace nor uttering a word. The lad gave him a great +punch. Clare clung the harder to the box. The lady heard something, +and turned her head. The boy already had his back to her, and was +walking away, but she saw that Clare's face was flushed. + +“What is the matter?” she asked. + +“I don't rightly know, ma'am. He wanted me to give him my bandbox for +his, and said Mr. Maidstone had sent him. But I couldn't, you +know!--except he asked you first. You did pay for it--didn't you, +ma'am?” + +“Of course I did, or he wouldn't have let me take it away! But if you +don't know what it means, I do.--You haven't been in that shop long, +have you?” + +“Not quite a month, ma'am.” + +“I thought so!” + +She said no more, and Clare followed in silence, wondering not a +little. When they reached the station, she took the bandbox, and +looked at the boy. He returned her gaze, his gray eyes wondering. She +searched her purse for a shilling, but, unable to find one, was not +sorry to give him a half-crown instead. + +“You had better not mention that I gave you anything?” she said. + +“I will not, ma'am, except they ask me,” he answered. + +“But,” he added, his face in a glow of delight, “is all this for me?” + +“To be sure,” she answered. “I am much obliged to you for--carrying my +parcel. Be a honest boy whatever comes, and you will not repent it.” + +“I will try, ma'am,” said Clare. + +But, to speak accurately, he did not know what it was to _try_ to be +honest: he had never been tempted to be anything else, and had +scarcely had the idea of dishonesty in his mind except in relation to +Tommy. Do you say, “Then it was no merit to him”? Certainly it was +none. Who was thinking of merit? Not Clare. He is a sneak who thinks +of merit. He is a cad who can't do a gentlemanly action without +thinking himself a fine fellow! It might be a merit in many a man to +act as Clare did, but in Clare it was pure rightness--or, if you like +the word better, righteousness. + +Clare as little thought what awaited him. Had there been any truth, +any appreciation of honesty in his vulgar heart, Mr. Maidstone could +not have done as now he did. When his messenger came back with the +tale of how he had been foiled, he said nothing, but his lips grew +white. He closed them fast, and went and stood near the door. When +Clare, unsuspecting as innocent, opened it, he was met by a blow that +dazed him, and a fierce kick that sent him on his back to the +curbstone. Almost insensible, but with the impression that something +was interfering between him and his work, he returned to the door. As +he laid his hand on it, it opened a little, and his master's face, +with a hateful sneer upon it, shot into the crack, and spit in +his. Then the door shut so sharply that his fingers caught an +agonizing pinch. At last he understood: he was turned off, and his +day's wages were lost! + +What would have become of him now but for the half-crown the lady had +given him! She was not _quite_ a lady, or she would have walked out of +the shop, and declined to gain by frustrating a swindle; but she was a +good-hearted woman, and God's messenger to Clare. He bought a bigger +loaf than usual, at which, and the time of the day when he bought it, +and the half-crown presented in payment, Mr. Ball wondered; but +neither said anything--Mr. Ball from indecision, Clare from eagerness +to get home to his family. + + + +Chapter XXXVI. + +The policeman. + + +But, alas! Clare had made another enemy--the lad whose attempt to +change the bandboxes he had foiled. The fellow followed him, +lurkingly, all the way home--on the watch for fit place to pounce upon +him, and punish him for doing right when he wanted him to do wrong. He +saw him turn into the opening that led to the well, and thought now he +had him. But when he followed him in, he was not to be seen! He did +not care to cross the well, not knowing what might meet him on the +other side; but here was news to carry back! He did so; and his master +saw in them the opportunity of indulging his dislike and revenge, and +a means of invalidating whatever Clare might reveal to his discredit! + +Clare and the baby and Tommy and Abdiel had taken their supper with +satisfaction, and were all asleep. It was to them as the middle of the +night, though it was but past ten o'clock, when Abdiel all at once +jumped right up on his four legs, cocked his ears, listened, leaped +off the bed, ran to the door, and began to bark furiously. He was +suddenly blinded by the glare of a bull's-eye-lantern, and received a +kick that knocked all the bark out of him, and threw him to the other +side of the room. A huge policeman strode quietly in, sending the +glare of his bull's-eye all about the room like a vital, inquiring +glance. It discovered, one after the other, every member of the +family. So tired was Clare, however, that he did not wake until seized +by a rough hand, and at one pull dragged standing on the floor. + +“Take care of the baby!” he cried, while yet not half awake. + +“_I'll_ take care o' the baby, never fear!--an' o' you too, you young +rascal!” returned the policeman. + +He roused Tommy, who was wide awake, but pretending to be asleep, with +a gentle kick. + +“Up ye get!” he said; and Tommy got up, rubbing his ferret eyes. + +“Come along!” said the policeman. + +“Where to?” asked Clare. + +“You'll see when you get there.” + +“But I can't leave baby!” + +“Baby must come along too,” answered the policeman, more gently, for +he had children of his own. + +“But she has no clothes to go in!” objected Clare. + +“She must go without, then.” + +“But she'll take cold!” + +“She don't run naked in the house, do she?” + +“No; she can't run yet. I keep her in a blanket. But the blanket ain't +mine; I can't take it with me.” + +“You're mighty scrup'lous!” returned the policeman. “You don't mind +takin' a 'ole 'ouse an' garding, but you wouldn' think o' takin' a +blanket!--Oh, no! Honest boy _you_ are!” + +He turned sharp round, and caught Tommy taking a vigorous sight at +him. Tommy, courageous as a lion behind anybody's back, dropped on the +rug sitting. + +“We've done the house no harm,” said Clare, “and I will _not_ take the +blanket. It would be stealing!” + +“Then I will take it, and be accountable for it,” rejoined the man. “I +hope that will satisfy you!” + +“Certainly,” answered Clare. “You are a policeman, and that makes it +all right.” + +“Rouse up then, and come along. I want to get home.” + +“Please, sir, wouldn't it do in the morning?” pleaded Clare. “I've no +work now, and could easily go then. That way we should all have a +sleep.” + +“My eye ain't green enough,” replied the policeman. “Look sharp!” + +Clare said no more, but went to the baby. With sinking but courageous +heart, he wrapped her closer in her blanket, and took her in his +arms. He could not help her crying, but she did not scream. Indeed she +never really screamed; she was not strong enough to scream. + +“Get along,” said the policeman. + +Clare led the way with his bundle, sorely incommoded by the size and +weight of the wrapping blanket, the corners of which, one after the +other, would keep working from his hold, and dropping and trailing on +the ground. Behind him came Tommy, a scarecrow monkey, with +mischievous face, and greedy beads for eyes--type not unknown to the +policeman, who brought up the rear, big enough to have all their sizes +cut out of him, and yet pass for a man. Down the stair they went, and +out at the front door, which Clare for the first time saw open, and so +by the iron gate into the street. + +“Which way, please?” asked Clare, turning half round with the +question. + +“To the right, straight ahead. The likes o' you, young un, might know +the way to the lock-up without astin'!” + +Clare made no answer, but walked obedient. It was a sad +procession--comical indeed, but too sad when realized to continue +ludicrous. The thin, long-bodied, big-headed, long-haired, +long-tailed, short-legged animal that followed last, seemed to close +it with a never-ending end. + +There was no moon; nothing but the gas-lamps lighted Clare's _Via +dolorosa_. He hugged the baby and kept on, laying his cheek to hers to +comfort her, and receiving the comfort he did not seek. + +They came at last to the _lock-up_, a new building in the rear of the +town-house. There this tangle of humanity, torn from its rock and +afloat on the social sea, drifted trailing into a bare brilliant room, +and at its head, cast down but not destroyed, went heavy-laden Clare, +with so much in him, but only his misery patent to eyes too much used +to misery to reap sorrow from the sight. + +The head policeman--they called him the inspector--received the +charge, that of house-breaking, and entered it. Then they were taken +away to the lock-up--all but the faithful Abdiel, who, following, +received another of the kicks which that day rained on every member of +that epitome of the human family except the baby, who, small enough +for a mother to drown, was too small for a policeman to kick. The door +was shut upon them, and they had to rest in that grave till the +resurrection of the morning should bring them before the magistrate. + +Their quarters were worse than chilly--to all but the baby in her +blanket manifoldly wrapped about her, and in Clare's arms. Tommy would +gladly have shared that blanket, more gladly yet would have taken it +all for himself and left the baby to perish; but he had to lie on the +broad wooden bench and make the best of it, which he did by snoring +all the night. It passed drearily for Clare, who kept wide awake. He +was not anxious about the morrow; he had nothing to be ashamed of, +therefore nothing to fear; but he had baby to protect and cherish, and +he dared not go to sleep. + + + +Chapter XXXVII. + +The magistrate. + + +The dawn came at last, and soon after the dawn footsteps, but they +approached only to recede. When the door at length opened, it was but +to let a pair of eyes glance round on them, and close again. The hours +seemed to be always beginning, and never going on. But at the long +last came the big policeman. To Clare's loving eyes, how friendly he +looked! + +“Come, kids!” he said, and took them through a long passage to a room +in the town-hall, where sat a formal-looking old gentleman behind a +table. + +“Good morning, sir!” said Clare, to the astonishment of the +magistrate, who set his politeness down as impudence. + +Nor was the mistake to be wondered at; for the baby in Clare's arms +hid, with the mountain-like folds of its blanket, the greater part of +his face, and the old gentleman's eyes fell first on Tommy; and if +ever _scamp_ was written clear on a countenance, it was written clear +on Tommy's. + +“Hold your impudent tongue!” said a policeman, and gave Clare a cuff +on the head. + +“Hold, John,” interposed the magistrate; “it is my part to punish, not +yours.” + +“Thank you, sir,” said Clare. + +“I will thank _you_, sir,” returned the magistrate, “not to speak till +I put to you the questions I am about to put to you.--What is the +charge against the prisoners?” + +“Housebreaking, sir,” answered the big man. + +“What! Housebreaking! Boys with a baby! House-breakers don't generally +go about with babies in their arms! Explain the thing.” + +The policeman said he had received information that unlawful +possession had been taken of a building commonly known as The Haunted +House, which had been in Chancery for no one could tell how many +years. He had gone to see, and had found the accused in possession of +the best bedroom--fast asleep, surrounded by indications that they had +made themselves at home there for some time. He had brought them +along. + +The magistrate turned his eyes on Clare. + +“You hear what the policeman says?” he said. + +“Yes, sir,” answered Clare. + +“Well?” + +“Sir?” + +“What have you to say to it?” + +“Nothing, sir.” + +“Then you allow it is true?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“What right had you to be there?” + +“None, sir. But we had nowhere else to go, and nobody seemed to want +the place. We didn't hurt anything. We swept away a multitude of dead +moths, and killed a lot of live ones, and destroyed a whole granary of +grubs; and the dog killed a great rat.” + +“What is your name?” + +“Clare--Porson,” answered Clare, with a little intervening hesitation. + +“You are not quite sure?” + +“Yes; that is my name; but I have another older one that I don't +know.” + +“A bad answer! The name you go by is not your own! Hum! Is that boy +your brother?” + +“No, sir.” + +“Your cousin?” + +“No, sir; he's not any relation of mine. He's a tramp.” + +“And what are you?” + +“Something like one now, sir, but I wasn't always.” + +“What were you?” + +“Not much, sir. I didn't _do_ anything till just lately.” + +He could not bear at the moment to talk of his be-loved dead. He felt +as if the old gentleman would be rude to them. + +“Is the infant there your sister?” + +“She's my sister the big way: God made her. She's not my sister any +other way.” + +“How does she come to be with you then?” + +“I took her out of the water-butt. Some one threw her in, and I heard +the splash, and went and got her out.” + +“Why did you not take her to the police?” + +“I never thought of that. It was all I could do to keep her alive. I +couldn't have done it if we hadn't got into the house.” + +“How long ago is that?” + +“Nearly a month, sir.” + +“And you've kept her there ever since?” + +“Yes, sir--as well as I could. I had only sixpence a day.” + +“And what's that boy's name?” + +“Tommy, sir.--I don't know any other.” + +“Nice respectable company you keep for one who has evidently been well +brought up!” + +“Baby's quite respectable, sir!” + +“Hum!” + +“And for Tommy, if I didn't keep him, he would steal. I'm teaching him +not to steal.” + +“What woman have you got with you?” + +“Baby's the only woman we've got, sir.” + +“But who attends to her?” + +“I do, sir. She only wants washing and rolling round in the blanket; +she's got no clothes to speak of. When I'm away, Tommy and Abdiel take +care of her.” + +“Abdiel! Who on earth is that? Where is he?” said the magistrate, +looking round for some fourth member of the incomprehensible family. + +“He's not on earth, sir; he's in heaven--the good angel, you know, +sir, that left Satan and came back again to God.” + +“You must take him to the county-asylum, James!” said the magistrate, +turning to the tall policeman. + +“Oh, he's all right, sir!” said James. + +“Please, sir,” interrupted Clare eagerly, “I didn't mean the dog was +in heaven yet. I meant the angel I named him after!” + +“They _had_ a little dog with them, sir!” + +“Yes--Abdiel. He wanted to be a prisoner too, but they wouldn't let +him in. He's a good dog--better than Tommy.” + +“So! like all the rest of you, you can keep a dog!” + +“He followed me home because he hadn't anybody to love,” said +Clare. “He don't have much to eat, but he's content. He would eat +three times as much if I could give it him; but he never complains.” + +“Have you work of any sort?” + +“I had till yesterday, sir.” + +“Where?” + +“At Mr. Maidstone's shop.” + +“What wages had you?” + +“Sixpence a day.” + +“And you lived, all three of you, on that?” + +“Yes; all four of us, sir.” + +“What do you do at the shop?” + +“Please your worship,” interposed policeman James, “he was sent about +his business yesterday.” + +“Yes,” rejoined Clare, who did not understand the phrase, “I was sent +with a lady to carry her bandbox to the station.” + +“And when you came back, you was turned away, wasn't you?” said James. + +“Yes, sir.” + +“What had you done?” asked the magistrate. + +“I don't quite know, sir.” + +“A likely story!” + +Clare made no reply. + +“Answer me directly.” + +“Please, sir, you told me not to speak unless you asked me a +question.” + +“I said, 'A likely story!' which meant, 'Do you expect me to believe +that?'” + +“Of course I do, sir.” + +“Why?” + +“Because it is true.” + +“How am I to believe that?” + +“I don't know, sir. I only know I've got to speak the truth. It's the +person who hears it that's got to believe it, ain't it, sir?” + +“You've got to prove it.” + +“I don't think so, sir; I never was told so; I was only told I must +speak the truth; I never was told I must prove what I said.--I've been +several times disbelieved, I know.” + +“I should think so indeed!” + +“It was by people who did not know me.” + +“Never by people who did know you?” + +“I think not, sir. I never was by the people at home.” + +“Ah! you could not read what they were thinking!” + +“Were you not believed when you were at home, sir?” + +The magistrate's doubt of Clare had its source in the fact that, +although now he was more careful to speak the truth than are most +people, it was not his habit when a boy, and he had suffered severely +in consequence. He was annoyed, therefore, at his question, set him +down as a hypocritical, boastful prig, and was seized with a strong +desire to shame him. + +“I remand the prisoner for more evidence. Take the children to the +workhouse,” he said. + +Tommy gave a sudden full-sized howl. He had heard no good of the +workhouse. + +“The baby is mine!” pleaded Clare. + +“Are you the father of it?” said the big policeman. + +“Yes, I think so: I saved her life.--She would have been drowned if I +hadn't looked for her when I heard the splash!” reasoned Clare, his +face drawn with grief and the struggle to keep from crying. + +“She's not yours,” said the magistrate. “She belongs to the +parish. Take her away, James.” + +The big policeman came up to take her. Clare would have held her +tight, but was afraid of hurting her. He did draw back from the +outstretched hands, however, while he put a question or two. + +“Please, sir, will the parish be good to her?” he asked. + +“Much better than you.” + +“Will it let me go and see her?” he asked again, with an outbreaking +sob. + +“You can't go anywhere till you're out of this,” answered the big +policeman, and, not ungently, took the baby from him. + +“And when will that be, please?” asked Clare, with his empty arms +still held out. + +“That depends on his worship there.” + +“Hold your tongue, James,” said the magistrate. “Take the boy away, +John.” + +“Please, sir, where am I going to?” asked Clare. + +“To prison, till we find out about you.” + +“Please, sir, I didn't mean to steal her. I didn't know the parish +wanted her!” + +“Take the boy away, I tell you!” cried the magistrate angrily. “His +tongue goes like the hopper of a mill!” + +James, carrying the baby on one arm, was already pushing Tommy before +him by the neck. Tommy howled, and rubbed his red eyes with what was +left him of cuffs, but did not attempt resistance. + +“Please, don't let anybody hold her upside down, policeman!” cried +Clare. “She doesn't like it!--Oh, baby! baby!” + +John tightened his grasp on his arm, and hurried him away in another +direction. + +Where the big policeman issued with his charge, there was Abdiel +hovering about as if his spring were wound up so tight that it +wouldn't go off. How he came to be at that door, I cannot imagine. + +When he spied Tommy, he rushed at him. Tommy gave him a kick that +rolled him over. + +“Don't want _you_, you mangy beast!” he said, and tried to kick him +again. + +Abdiel kept away from him after that, but followed the party to the +workhouse, where also, to his disgust, plainly expressed, he was +refused admittance. He returned to the entrance by which Clare had +vanished from his eyes the night before, and lay down there. I suspect +he had an approximate canine theory of the whole matter. He knew at +least that Clare had gone in with the others at that door; that he had +not come out with them at the other door; that, therefore, in all +probability, he was within that door still. + +The police made inquiry at Mr. Maidstone's shop. Reasons for his +dismissal were there given involving no accusation: there was little +desire in that quarter to have the matter searched into. There was +therefore nothing to the discredit of the boy, beyond his running to +earth in the neglected house like a wild animal. After three days he +was set at liberty. + +As the big policeman led the way to the door to send him out, Clare +addressed him thus: + +“Please, Mr. James, may I go back to the house for a little while?” + +“Well, you _are_ an innocent!” said James; “--or,” he added, “the +biggest little humbug ever I see!--No, it's not likely!” + +“I only wanted,” explained Clare, “to set things straight a bit. The +house is cleaner than it was, _I_ know, but it is not in such good +order as when we went into it. I don't like to leave it worse than we +found it.” + +“Never you heed,” said James, believing him perfectly before he knew +what he was about. “The house don't belong to nobody, so far as ever I +heerd, an' the things'll rot all the same wherever they stand.” + +“But I should like,” persisted Clare. + +“I couldn't do it off my own hook, an' his worship would think you +only wanted to steal something. The best thing you can do is to leave +the place at once, an' go where nobody knows nothing agin you.” + +Thought Clare with himself, “If the house doesn't belong to anybody, +why wouldn't they let me stay in it?” + +But the policeman opened the door, and as he was turning to say +good-bye to him, gave him a little shove, and closed it behind him. + + + +Chapter XXXVIII. + +The workhouse. + + +He went into the street with a white face and a dazed look--not from +any hardship he had experienced during his confinement, for he had +been in what to him was clover, but because he had lost the baby and +Abdiel, and because his mind had been all the time in perplexity with +regard to the proceedings of justice: he did not and could not see +that he had done anything wrong. Throughout his life it never mattered +much to Clare to be accused of anything wrong, but it did trouble him, +this time at least, to be punished for doing what was right. He took +it very quietly, however. + +Indignation may be a sign of innocence, but it is no necessary +consequence of innocence any more than it is a proof of +righteousness. A man will be fiercely indignant at an accusation that +happens to be false, who did the very thing last week, and is ready to +do it again. Indignation against wrong to another even, is no proof of +a genuine love of fair play. Clare hardly resented anything done to +himself. His inward unconscious purity held him up, and made him look +events in the face with an eye that was single and therefore at once +forgiving and fearless. The man who has no mote in his own eye cannot +be knocked down by the beam in his neighbour's; while he who is busy +with the mote in his neighbour's may stumble to destruction over the +beam in his own. + +White and dazed as he came out, the moment he stepped across the +threshold, Clare met the comfort of God waiting for him. His eyes +blinded with the great light, for it was a glorious morning in the +beginning of June, he found himself assailed in unknightly fashion +below the knee: there, to his unspeakable delight, was Abdiel, +clinging to him with his fore-legs, and wagging his tail as if, like +the lizards for terror, he would shake it off for gladness! What a +blessed little pendulum was Abdiel's tail! It went by that weight of +the clock of the universe called devotion. It was the escapement of +that delight which is of the essence of existence, and which, when God +has set right “our disordered clocks,” will be its very consciousness. + +Clare stood for a moment and looked about him. The needle of his +compass went round and round. It had no north. He could not go back to +the shop; he could not go back to the house; baby was in the +workhouse, but he could not stay there even if they would let him! +Neither could he stop in the town; the policeman said he must go away! +Where was he to go? There was not in the world one place for him +better than another! But they would let him see baby before he +went!--and off he set to find the workhouse. + +Abdiel followed quietly at his heel, for his master walked lost in +thought, and Abdiel was too hungry to make merry without his +notice. Clare, fresh to the world, had been a great reader for one so +young, and could encounter new experience with old knowledge. In his +mind stood a pile of fir-cones, and dried sticks, and old olive wood, +which the merest touch of experience would set in a blaze of practical +conclusion. But the workhouse was so near that his reflections before +he reached it amounted only to this--that there are worse places than +a prison when you have done nothing to deserve being put in it. A +palace may be one of them. You get enough to eat in a prison; in a +palace you do not; you get too much! + +The porter at the workhouse informed him it was not the day for seeing +the inmates; but the tall policeman had given Clare a hint, and he +requested to see the matron. After much demur and much entreaty, the +man went and told the matron. She, knowing the story of the baby, +wanted to see Clare, and was so much pleased with his manners and +looks, that his sad clothes pleaded for and not against him. She took +him at once to the room where the baby was with many more, telling him +he must prove she was his by picking her out. It was not wonderful +that Clare, who knew the faces of animals so well, should know his own +baby the moment he saw her, notwithstanding that she was decently +clothed, and had already improved in appearance. But the nurses +declared they had never before seen a man, not to say a boy, who could +tell one baby from another. + +“Why,” rejoined Clare, “my dog Abdiel could pick out the baby he was +nurse to!” + +“Ah, but he's a dog!” + +“And I'm a boy!” said Clare. + +He descried her on the lap of an old woman, seeming to him very old, +who was at the head of the nursery-department. Old as she was, +however, she had a keen eye, and a handsome countenance, with a +quantity of white hair. Unlike the rest of the women, though not far +removed from them socially, she knew several languages, so far as to +read and enjoy books in them. Now and then a great woman may be found +in a workhouse, like a first folio of Shakspere on a bookstall, +among--oh, such companions! + +“Let me take her,” said Clare modestly, holding out his hands for the +baby. + +“Are you sure you will not let her drop?” + +“Why, ma'am,” answered Clare, “she's my own baby! It was I took her +out of the water-butt! I washed and fed her every day!--not that I +could do it so well as you, ma'am!” + +She gave him the baby, and watched him with the eye of a seeress, for +she had a wonderful insight into character, and that is one of the +roots of prophecy. + +“You are a good and true lad,” she said at length, “and a hard success +lies before you. I don't know what you will come to, but, with those +eyes, and that forehead, and those hands, if you come to anything but +good, you will be terribly to blame.” + +“I will try to be good, ma'am,” said Clare simply. “But I wish I knew +what they put me in prison for!” + +“What, indeed, my lamb!” she returned; and her eyes flashed with +indignation under the cornice of her white hair. “They'll be put in +prison one day themselves that did it!” + +“Oh, I don't mind!” said Clare. “I don't want them to be punished. You +see I'm only waiting!” + +“What are you waiting for, sonny?” asked the old woman. + +“I don't exactly know--though I know better than what I was put in +prison for. Nobody ever told me anything, but I'm always waiting for +something.” + +“The something will come, child. You will have what you want! Only go +on as you're doing, and you'll be a great man one day.” + +“I don't want to be a great man,” answered Clare; “I'm only waiting +till what is coming does come.” + +The woman cast down her eyes, and seemed lost in thought. Clare +dandled the baby gently in his arms, and talked loving nonsense to +her. + +“Well,” said the old woman, raising at length her eyes, with a look of +reverence in them, to Clare's, “I can't help you, and you want no help +of mine. I've got no money, but--” + +“I've got plenty of money, ma'am,” interrupted Clare. “I've got a +whole shilling in my pocket!” + +“Bless the holy innocent!” murmured the woman. “--Well, I can only +promise you this--that as long as I live, the baby sha'n't forget you; +and I ain't so old as I look.” + +Here the matron came up, and said he had better be going now; but if +he came back any day after a month, he should see the baby again. + +“Thank you, ma'am,” replied Clare. “Keep her a good baby, please. I +will come for her one day.” + +“Please God I live to see that day!” said the old woman. “I think I +shall.” + +She did live to see it, though I cannot tell that part of the story +now. + + + +Chapter XXXIX. + +Away. + + +So Clare went once more into the street, where Abdiel was again +watching for him, and stood on the pavement, not knowing which way to +turn. The big policeman had told him that no one there would give him +work after what had happened; and now, therefore, he was only waiting +for a direction to present itself. In a moment it occurred to him +that, having come in at one end of the town, he had better go out at +the other. He followed the suggestion, and Abdiel followed him--his +head hanging and his tail also, for the joy of recovering his master +had used up all the remnant of wag there was in his clock. He had no +more frolic or scamper in him now than when Clare first saw him. How +the poor thing had subsisted during the last few days, it were hard to +tell. It was much that he had escaped death from ill-usage. Meanest of +wretches are the boys or men that turn like grim death upon the +helpless. Except they change their way, helplessness will overtake +them like a thief, and they will look for some one to deliver them and +find none. Traitors to those whom it is their duty to protect, they +will one day find themselves in yet more pitiful plight than ever were +they. But I fear they will not believe it before their fate has them +by the throat. + +Clare saw that the dog was famished. He stopped at a butcher's and +bought him a scrap of meat for a penny. Then he had elevenpence with +which to begin the world afresh, and was not hungry. + +Out on the highway they went, in a perfect English summer day, with +all the world before them. It was not an oyster for Clare to open with +sword, pen, or _sesame_; but he might find a place on the outside of +it for all that, and a way over it into a better--one that he _could_ +open and get at the heart of. The sun shone as on the day of the +earthquake--deep in Clare's dimmest memorial cavern;--shone as if he +knew, come what might, that all was well; that if he shone his heart +out and went dark, nothing would go wrong; while, for the present, +everything depended on his shining his glorious best. + +“Come along, Abdiel,” said Clare; “we're going to see what comes +next. At the worst, you know what hunger is, doggie, and that a good +deal of it can be borne pretty well--though I'm not fond of it any +more than you, doggie! We'll not beg till we're downright forced, and +we won't steal. When that's the next thing, we'll just sit down, wag +our tails, and die.--There!” + +He gave him the last piece of his meat, and they trudged on for some +time without speaking. + +The sun was very hot, for it was past noon an hour or two, when they +came to a public-house, with a pump before it, and a trough. Clare +grew very thirsty when he saw the pump, and imagined the rush of a +thick sparkling curve from its spout. But its handle was locked with a +chain, to keep men and women from having water instead of beer. He +went with longing to the trough, but the water in it was so unclean +that, thirsty as he was, he could not look on it even as a last +resource. He walked into the house. + +“Please, ma'am,” he said to the woman at the bar, “would you allow me +to pump myself a little water to drink?” + +“You think I've got nothing to do but serve tramps with water!” she +answered, throwing back her head till her nostrils were at right +angles with the horizon. + +“I'm not a tramp, ma'am,” said Clare. + +“Show me your money, then, for a pot of beer, like other honest folk.” + +“I'm afraid I told you wrong, ma'am,” returned Clare. “I'm afraid I +_am_ a tramp after all; only _I_'m looking for work, and most tramps +ain't, I fancy.” + +“They all _say_ they are,” answered the woman. “That's your story, and +that's theirs!” + +“I've got elevenpence, ma'am; and could, I dare say, buy a pot of +beer, though I don't know the price of one; but I don't see where I'm +going to get any more money, and what we have must serve Abdiel and me +till we do.” + +“What right have _you_ to a dog, when you ain't fit to pay your penny +for a half-pint o' beer?” + +“Don't be hard on the young 'un, mis'ess; he don't look a bad sort!” + said a man who stood by with a pewter pot in his hand. + +Clare wondered why he had his cord-trousers pulled up a few inches and +tied under his knees with a string, which made little bags of them +there. He had to think for a mile after they left the public-house +before he discovered that it was to keep them from tightening on his +knees when he stooped, and so incommoding him at his work. + +“Thank you, sir,” he said. “I'm not a bad sort. I didn't know it was +any harm to ask for water. It ain't begging, is it, sir?” + +“Not as I knows on,” replied the man. “Here, take the lot!” + +He offered Clare his nearly emptied pewter. + +“No, thank you, sir,” answered Clara “I am thirsty--but not so thirsty +as to take your drink from you. I can get on to the next pump. Perhaps +that won't be chained up like a bull!” + +“Here, mis'ess!” cried the man. “This is a mate as knows a neighbour +when he sees him. I'll stand him a half-pint. There's yer money!” + +Without a word the woman flung the man's penny in the till, and drew +Clare a half-pint of porter. Clare took it eagerly, turned to the man, +said, “I thank you, sir, and wish your good health,” and drained the +pewter mug. He had never before tasted beer, or indeed any drink +stronger than tea, and he did not like it. But he thanked his +benefactor again, and went back to the trough. + +“Dogs don't drink beer,” he said to himself. “They know better!” and +lifting Abdiel he held him over the trough. Abdiel was not so +fastidious as his master, and lapped eagerly. Then they pursued their +uncertain way. + +Ready to do anything, he thought the shabbiness of his clothes would +be a greater bar to indoor than to outdoor work, and applied therefore +at every farm they came to. But he did not look so able as he was, and +boys were not much wanted. He never pitied himself, and never +entreated: to beg for work was beggary, and to beggary he would not +descend until driven by approaching death. But now and then some +tender-hearted woman, oftener one of ripe years, struck with his +look--its endurance, perhaps, or its weariness mingled with +hope--would perceive the necessity of the boy, and offer him the food +he did not ask--nor like him the less that, never doubting what came +to one was for both, he gave the first share of it to Abdiel. + + + +Chapter XL. + +Maly. + + +Travelling on in vague hope, meeting with kindness enough to keep him +alive, but getting no employment, sleeping in what shelter he could +find, and never missing the shelter he could not find, for the weather +was exceptionally warm for the warm season, he came one day to a +village where the strangest and hardest experience he ever encountered +awaited him. What part of the country he was in, or what was the name +of the village, he did not know. He seldom asked a question, seldom +uttered word beyond a polite greeting, but kept trudging on and on, as +if the goal of his expectation were ever drawing nigher. He felt no +curiosity as to the names of the places he passed through. Why should +the names of towns and villages strung on a road to nowhere in +particular, interest him? He did, however, long afterward, come to +know the name of this village, and its topographical relations: the +place itself was branded on his brain. + +He entered it in the glow of a hot noon, and had walked nearly through +it without meeting any one, for it was the dinner-hour, and savoury +odours filled the air, when a little girl came from a neat house, and +ran farther down the street. He was very tired, very dusty, had eaten +nothing that day, had begun to despair of work, and was wishing +himself clear of the houses that he might throw himself down. But +something in the look of the child made him quicken his weary step as +he followed her. He overtook her, passed her, and saw her face. +Heavens! it was Maly, grown wonderfully bigger! He turned and caught +her up in his arms. She gave a screech of terror, and he set her down +in keenest dismay. Finding that he was not going to run away with her, +she did not run farther from him than to safe parleying distance. + +“You bad boy!” she cried; “you're not to touch me! I will tell mamma!” + +“Why, Maly! don't you know me?” + +“No, I don't You are a dirty boy!” + +“But, Maly!--” + +“My name is not Maly; it's Mary; and I don't know you.” + +“Have you forgotten Clare, Maly?--Clare that used to carry you about +all day long?” + +“Yes; I have forgotten you. You're a dirty, ragged beggar-boy! You're +a bad boy! Boys with holes in their clothes are bad boys.--Nursie told +me so, and she knows everything! She told me herself she knew +everything!” + +She gave another though milder scream: involuntarily, Clare had taken +a step toward her, with his hand in his pocket, searching, as in the +old days when she cried, for something to give her. But, alas, his +pockets were now as empty as his stomach! there was _nothing_ in +them--not even a crumb saved from a scanty meal! While he was yet +searching, the little child, his heart's love--if indeed it was +she--stooped, gathered a handful of dust, and threw it at him. The big +boy burst into tears. The child mocked him for a minute, and when +Clare looked up again, drying his eyes with a rag, she was gone. + +He felt no resentment; love, old memories, his strange gentleness, and +pity for Maly and Maly's mother, saved him from it. The child was big +and plump and rosy, but oh, how fallen from his little Maly! And, her +child grown such, the mother was poor indeed, though up in the dome of +the angels! If she did not know the change in her, it was the worse, +for she could not help! Clare, like most of my readers, had not yet +learned to trust God for everything. But he was true to +Maly. Miserable over her backsliding, he said to himself that evil +counsellors were more to blame than she. + +“Did she know me at all?” he pondered; “or has she forgot me +altogether?” + +He began to doubt whether the girl was really Maly, or one very like +her. About half an hour after, he met a poor woman with a bundle on +her bowed back, who gave him a piece of bread. When he had eaten that, +he began to doubt whether he had met any little girl. He remembered +that he had often come to himself, as he wandered along the road, to +find he had been lost in fancies of old scenes or imaginary new ones; +waked up, he did not at once realize himself a poor lad on the tramp +for work he could not find: his conceptions were for a time stronger +than the things around him. He was thereupon comforted with the hope +that he had not in reality seen Maly, but had imagined the whole +affair. How was it possible, though, that he should imagine such +horrible things of his little sister? On the other hand, was it not +more possible for a fainting brain to imagine such a misery, than for +the live child to behave in such a fashion? Every day for many days he +tormented himself with like reasonings; but by degrees the occurrence, +whether fancy or fact, receded, and he grew more conscious of +tramping, tramping along. He grew also more hopeless of getting work, +but not more doubtful that everything was right. For he knew of +nothing he had done to bring these things upon him. + +His quiet content never left him. At the worst pinch of hunger and +cold, he never fell into despair. I do not know what merit he had in +this, for he was constituted more hopeful and placid than I ever knew +another. What he had merit in was, that not for a hungry boy's most +powerful temptation, something to eat, would he even imagine himself +doing what must not be done. He would not lead himself into +temptation. Thus he pleased the Power--let me rather say, ten times +more truly--the Father from whom he came. + + + +Chapter XLI. + +The caravans. + + +Within a fortnight or so after the police had dismissed him, blowing +him loose on the world like a dandelion-seed in the wind, Clare had an +adventure which not only gave him pleasure, but led to work and food +and interest in life. + +Passing one day from a cross-country road into the highway, he came +straight on the flank of a travelling menagerie. It was one of some +size, and Clare saw at a glance that its horses were in fair +condition. The front part of the little procession had already gone +by, and an elephant was passing at the moment with a caravan--of +feline creatures, as Clare afterwards learned, behind him. He drew it +with absolute ease, but his head seemed to be dragged earthward by the +weight of his trunk, as he plodded wearily along. A world of delight +woke in the heart of the boy. He had read much about strange beasts, +but had never seen one. His impulse was to run straight to the +elephant, and tell him he loved him. For he was a live beast, and +Clare loved every creature, common or strange, wild or tame, ordinary +or wonderful. But prudent thought followed, and he saw it better to +hover around, in the hope of a chance of being useful. Oh, the +treasures of wonder and knowledge on the other side of those thin +walls of wood, so slowly drawn along the dusty highway! If but for a +moment he might gaze on their living marvels! He had no money, but +things came to him without money--not so plentifully as he could +sometimes wish--but they came, and so might this! Employment among +those animals would be well worth the long hungry waiting! This might +be the very work he had been looking for without knowing it! It was +for this, perhaps, he had been kept so long waiting--till the caravans +should come along the road, and he be at the corner as they passed! He +did not know how often a man may think thus and see it come to +nothing--because there is better yet behind, for which more waiting is +wanted. + +At the end of the procession came a bear, shuffling along +uncomfortably. It went to Clare's heart to see how far from +comfortable the poor beast appeared. “What a life it would be,” he +thought, “to have all the creatures in all those caravans to make +happy! That would be a life worth living!” + +It was a worthy ambition--infinitely higher than that of boys who want +to do something great, or clever, or strong. As to those who want to +be rich--for their ambition I have an utter contempt. How gladly would +I drive that meanness out of any boy's heart! To fall in with the work +of the glad creator, and help him in it--that is the only ambition +worth having. It may not look a grand thing to do it in a caravan, but +it takes the mind of Christ to do it anywhere. + +Behind the bear, closing the procession, came a stoutish, +good-tempered-looking man, in a small spring-cart, drawn by a small +pony: he was the earthly owner of that caged life, with all its +gathered discomforts. Clare lifted his cap as he passed him--a +politeness of which the man took no notice, because the boy was +ragged. The moment he was past, Clare fell in behind as one of the +procession. He was prudent enough, however, not to go so near as to +look intrusive. + +When he had followed thus for a mile or two, he saw, by signs patent +to every wanderer, that they were coming near a town. Before reaching +it, however, they arrived at a spot where the hedges receded from the +road, leaving a little green sward on the sides of it, and there the +long line came to a halt. + +The menagerie had, the day before, been exhibited at a fair, and was +now on its way to another, to be held the next day in the town they +were approaching: they had made the halt in order to prepare their +entrance. To let a part of their treasure be seen, was the best way to +rouse desire after what was yet hidden: they were going, therefore, to +take out an animal or two more to walk in parade. Clare sat down at a +little distance, and wondered what was coming next. + +Experience of tramps had made the men suspicious, and it may be they +disliked having their proceedings watched by anybody; but, happily for +Clare, it was the master himself who came up to him, not without +something of menace in his bearing. The boy was never afraid, and hope +started up full grown as the man approached. He rose and took off his +cap--a very ready action with Clare, which sprung from pure +politeness, and from nothing either selfish or cringing. But the man +put his own interpretation on the civility. + +“What are you hanging about here for?” he said rudely. + +Now Clare had a perfect right to answer, had he so pleased, that he +was on the king's highway, where no one had a right to interfere with +him. But he had the habit--he could not help it; it was natural to +him--of thinking first of the other party's side of a question--a rare +gift, which served him better than he knew. For the other may be in +the right, and it is an ugly thing to interfere with any man's right; +while a man's own rights are never so much good to him as when he +waives them. + +“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said; “I did not understand you wished to +be alone. I never thought you would mind me. Will it be far enough if +I go just out of sight, for I am very tired? It is pleasant, besides, +to know there are friends near!” + +The man recognized in Clare the modes and speech of a gentleman; and +having, in the course of his wandering life, seen and known a good +many strange things, he suspected under the rags a history. But he was +not interested enough to stop and inquire into it. + +“Never mind,” he said, in altered tone; “I see you're after no +mischief!” and with that walked away, leaving Clare to do as he +pleased. + +A few minutes more went by. Clare sat hungry and sleepy on the grass +by the roadside. Before he knew, he was on his feet, startled by a +terrible noise. The lion had opened his great jaws, and his brown +leathery sides, working like a pair of bellows, had sent from his +throat a huge blast, half roar, half howl. When Clare came to himself +he knew, though he had never heard it before, that the fearful sound +was the voice of the lion. He did not know that all it meant was, that +his majesty had thought of his dinner. It was not indeed much more +than an audible gape. He stood for a moment, not at all terrified, but +half expecting to see a huge yellow animal burst out of one of the +caravans--he could not guess which: the roar was much too loud to +indicate one rather than another. He sat down again, but was not any +longer inclined to sleep. For a time, however, no second roar came +from the ribs of the captive monarch. + + + +Chapter XLII. + +Nimrod. + + +That there had been a fair not far off will partly account for what +follows. As Clare sat resting, which was all he could do, with sleep +fled and food nowhere, a roar of a different kind invaded his ears. It +came along the road this time, not from the caravans. He looked, and +spied what would have brought the heart into the throat of many a +grown man. Away on the road, in the direction whence the menagerie had +come, he saw a cloud of dust and a confused struggle, presently +resolved into two men, each at the end of a rope, and an animal +between them attached to the ropes by a ring in his nose. It was a +bull, in terrible excitement, bounding this way and that, dragging and +driving the men--doing his best in fact to break away, now from the +one of them, now from the other, and now from both at once. It must +have tortured him to pull those strong men by the cartilage of his +nose, but he was in too great a rage to feel it much. Every other +moment his hoofs would be higher than his head, and again hoofs and +head and horns would be scraping the ground in a fruitless rush to +send one of his tormentors into space beyond the ken of bulls. With +swift divergence, like a scenting hound, he twisted and shot his huge +body. The question between men and bull seemed one of endurance. + +The pale-faced boy, though full of interest in the strife, yet having +had no food that day, was not in sufficient spirits to run and meet +the animal whirlwind, so as to watch closer its chances; but the +struggle came at length near enough for him to follow almost every +detail of it: he could see the bloody foam drip from the poor beast's +nostrils. When about fifty yards away, the bull, by a sudden twist, +wrenched the rope from the hands of one of the men. He fell on his +back. The other dropped his rope and fled. The bull came scouring down +the highway. + +A second roar, as of muffled thunder, issued from the leathery flanks +of the lion. The bull made a sudden stop, scoring up the ground with +his hoofs. It seemed as if in full career he started back. Then down +went his head, and like a black flash, its accompanying thunder a +bellow of defiant contempt and wrath, he charged one of the +caravans. He had taken the hungry lion's roar for a challenge to +combat. It was nothing to the bull that the voice was that of an +unknown monster; he was ready for whatever the monster might prove. + +The men busy about the caravans and wagons, caught sight of him +coming, and in the first moment of terror at a beast to which they +were not accustomed, bolted for refuge behind or upon them: they would +sooner have encountered their tiger broke loose. The same moment, with +astounding shock, the head of the bull went crack against the near +hind-wheel of the caravan in whose shafts stood the elephant, +patiently waiting orders. The bull had not caught sight of the +elephant, or he would doubtless have “gone for” him, not the +caravan. His ear, finer than Clare's, must have distinguished whence +the roar proceeded: in that caravan, sure enough, was the lion, with +the rest of the great cats. He answered the blow of the bull's head +with a roar thunderously different from his late sleepy leonine +sigh. It roused every creature in the menagerie. From the greatest to +the smallest each took up its cry. Out burst a tornado of terrific +sound, filling with horror the quiet noontide. The roaring and yelling +of lion, tiger, and leopard, the laughter of hyena, the howling of +jackal, and the snarling of bear, mingled in hideous dissonance with +the cries of monkeys and parrots; while certain strange gurgles made +Clare's heart, lover of animals though he was, quiver, and his blood +creep. The same instant, however, he woke to the sense that he might +do something: he ran to the caravans. + +By this time the men, master and all, fully roused to the far worse +that might follow the attack of the bull, had caught up what weapons +were at hand, and rushed to repel the animal For more than one or two +of them it might have proved a fatal encounter, but that the enraged +beast had entangled his horns in the spokes and rim of the wheel. In +terror of what might be approaching him from behind, he was struggling +wildly to extricate them. Peril upon peril! What if in the contortions +of his mighty muscles he pulled off the wheel, and the carriage +toppled over, every cage in it so twisted and wrenched that the +bearings of its iron bars gave way! The results were too terrible to +ponder! This way and that, and every way at once, he was writhing and +pushing and prising and dragging. The elephant turned the shafts +slowly round to see what was the matter behind. If the bull and the +elephant yoked to the caravan came to loggerheads, ruin was +inevitable. The master thought whether he had not better loose the +elephant while the bull was yet entangled by the horns. With one blow +of his trunk he would break the ruffian's back and end the affray! It +were good even, if one knew how, to loose the wicked-looking horns: +the brute's struggles to free them were more dangerous far than could +be the horns themselves! + +While he hesitated, Clare came running up, with Abdiel at his heels +ready as any hornet to fly at bull or elephant, let his master only +speak the word. But the moment Clare saw how the bull's horns were +mixed up with the spokes and fellies of the wheel, a glad suspicion +flashed across him: that was old Nimrod's way! could it be Nimrod +himself? If it were, the trouble was as good as over! The suspicion +became a certainty the instant it woke. But never could Clare +altogether forgive himself for not at first sight recognizing his old +friend. I believe myself that hunger was to blame, and not Clare. + +The men stood about the animal, uncertain what to do, as he struggled +with his horns, and heaved and tore at the wheel to get them out of +it, the roars and howls and inarticulate curses going on all the +time. The elephant must have been tired, to stand so and do nothing! +For a moment Clare could not get near enough. He was afraid to call +him while the bull could not see him: Nimrod might but struggle the +more, in order to get to him! + +Up rushed a fellow, white with rage and running, bang into the middle +of the spectators, and shook the knot of them asunder. It was one of +the two men from whom Nimrod had broken. He had a pitchfork in his +hands which he proceeded to level. Clare flung his weight against him, +threw up his fork, shoved him aside, and got close to the maddened +animal. It was his past come again! How often had he not interfered to +protect Nimrod--and his would-be masters also! With instinctive, +unconscious authority, he held up his hand to the little crowd. + +“Leave him alone,” he cried. “I know him; I can manage him! Please do +not interfere. He is an old friend of mine.” + +They saw that the bull was already still: he had recognized the boy's +voice! They kept his furious attendant back, and looked on in anxious +hope while Clare went up to the animal. + +“Nimrod!” he whispered, laying a hand on one of the creature's horns, +and his cheek against his neck. + +Nimrod stood like a bull in bronze. + +“I'm going to get your horns out, Nimrod,” murmured Clare, and laid +hold of the other with a firm grasp. “You must let me do as I like, +you know, Nimrod!” + +His voice evidently soothed the bull. + +By the horns Clare turned his head now one way, now another, Nimrod +not once resisting push or pull. In a moment more he would have them +clear, for one of them was already free. Holding on to the latter, +Clare turned to the bystanders. + +“You mustn't touch him,” he said, “or I won't answer for him. And you +mustn't let either of those men there”--for the second of Nimrod's +attendants had by this time come up--“interfere with him or me. They +let him go because they couldn't manage him. He can't bear them; and +if he were to break loose from them again, it might be quite another +affair! Then he might distrust me!” + +The menagerie men turned, and looking saw that the man with the +pitchfork had revenge in his heart. They gave him to understand that +he must mind what he was about, or it would be the worse for him. The +man scowled and said nothing. + +Clare gently released the other horn, but kept his hold of the first, +moving the creature's head by it, this way and that. A moment more and +he turned his face to the company, which had scattered a little. When +the inflamed eyes of Nimrod came into view, they scattered wider. +Clare still made the bull feel his hand on his horn, and kept speaking +to him gently and lovingly. Nimrod eyed his enemies, for such plainly +he counted them, as if he wished he were a lion that he might eat as +well as kill them. At the same time he seemed to regard them with +triumph, saying in his big heart, “Ha! ha! you did not know what a +friend I had! Here he is, come in the nick of time! I thought he +would!” Clare proceeded to untie the ropes from the ring in his +nose. The man with the pitchfork interfered. + +“That wonnot do!” he said, and laid his hand on Clare's arm. “Would +you send him ramping over the country, and never a hold to have on +him?” + +“It wasn't much good when you had a hold on him--was it now?” returned +the boy. “Where do you want to take him?” + +“That's my business,” answered the man sulkily. + +“I fancy you'll find it's mine!” returned Clare. “But there he is! +Take him.” + +The man hesitated. + +“Then leave me to manage him,” said Clare. + +A murmur of approbation arose. The caravan people felt he knew what he +was saying. They believed he had power with the bull. + +While yet he was untying the first of the ropes from the animal's +bleeding nostrils, Clare's fingers all at once refused further +obedience, his eyes grew dim, and he fell senseless at the bull's +feet. + +“Don't tell Nimrod!” he murmured as he fell. + +“Oh, that explains it!” cried the man with the pitchfork to his +mate. “He knows the cursed brute!” For Clare had hitherto spoken his +name to the bull as if it were a secret between them. + +Neither had the sense to perceive that the explanation lay in the +bull's knowing Clare, not in Clare's knowing the bull. They made haste +to lay hold of the ropes. Nimrod stood motionless, looking down on his +friend, now and then snuffing at the pale face, which the +thorough-bred mongrel, Abdiel, kept licking continuously. Noses of +bull and dog met without offence on the loved human countenance. But +had the men let the bull feel the ropes, that moment he would have +been raging like a demon. + +The men of the caravan, admiring both Clare's influence over the +animal and his management of him, grateful also for what he had done +for them, hastened to his help. When they had got him to take a little +brandy, he sat up with a wan smile, but presently fell sideways on his +elbow, and so to the ground again. + +“It's nothing,” he murmured; “it's only I'm rather hungry.” + +“Poor boy!” said a woman, who had followed her brandy from the +house-caravan, afraid it might disappear in occult directions, “when +did you have your last feed?” + +She stood looking down on the white face, almost between the fore-feet +of the bull. + +“I had a piece of bread yesterday afternoon, ma'am,” faltered Clare, +trying to look up at her. + +“Bless my soul!” she cried, “who's been a murderin' of you, child?” + +She thought he was in company with the two men; and they had been +ill-treating him. + +“I can't get any work, ma'am, so I don't want much to eat. Now I think +of it, I believe it was the gladness of seeing an old friend again, +and not the hunger, that made me feel so queer all at once.” + +“Where's your friend?” she asked, looking round the assembly. + +“There he is!” answered Clare, putting up his hand, and stroking the +big nose that was right over his face. + +“Couldn't you rise now?” said the woman, after a moment's silent +regard of him. + +“I'll try, ma'am; I don't feel quite sure.” + +“I want you to come into the house, and have a good square meal.” + +“If you would be so kind, ma'am, as let me have a bit of bread here! +Nimrod would not like me to leave him. He loves me, ma'am, and if I +went away, he might be troublesome. Those men will never do anything +with him: he doesn't like them! They've been rough to him, I don't +doubt. Not that I wonder at that, for he is a terrible beast to most +people. They used to say he never was good with anybody but me. I +suppose he knew I cared for him!” + +His eyes closed again. The woman made haste to get him something. In a +few minutes she returned with a basin of broth. He took it eagerly, +but with a look of gratitude that went to her heart Before he tasted +it, however, he set it on the ground, broke in half the great piece of +bread she had brought with it, and gave the larger part to his +dog. Then he ate the other with his broth, and felt better than for +many a day. Some of the men said he could not be very hungry to give a +cur like that so much of his dinner; but the evil thought did not +enter the mind of the woman. + +“You'd better be taking your beast away,” said the woman, who by this +time understood the affair, to the two men. + +They were silent, evidently disinclined for such another tussle. + +“You'd better be going,” she said again. “If anything should happen +with that animal of yours, and one of ours was to get loose, the devil +would be to pay, and who'd do it?” + +“They'd better wait for me, ma'am,” said Clare, rising. “I'm just +ready!--They won't tell me where they want to take him, but it's all +one, so long as I'm with him. He's my friend!--Ain't you, Nimrod? +We'll go together--won't we, Nimrod?” + +While he spoke, he undid the ropes from the ring in the bull's +nose. Gathering them up, he handed them politely to one of the men, +and the next moment sprang upon the bull's back, just behind his +shoulders, and leaning forward, stroked his horns and neck. + +“Give me up the dog, please,” he said. + +The owner of the menagerie himself did as Clare requested. All stood +and stared, half expecting to see him flung from the creature's back, +and trampled under his hoofs. Even Nimrod, however, would not easily +have unseated Clare, who could ride anything he had ever tried, and +had tried everything strong enough to carry him, from a pig +upward. But Nimrod was far from wishing to unseat his friend, who with +hands and legs began to send him toward the road. + +“Are you going that way?” he asked, pointing. The men answered him +with a nod, sulky still. + +“Don't go with those men,” said the woman, coming up to the side of +the bull, and speaking in a low voice. “I don't like the look of +them.” + +“Nimrod will be on my side, ma'am,” answered Clare. “They would never +have got him home without me. They don't understand their +fellow-creatures.” + +“I'm afraid you understand your fellow-creatures, as you call them, +better than you do your own kind!” + +“I think they are my own kind, ma'am. That is how they know me, and do +what I want them to do.” + +“Stay with us,” said the woman coaxingly, still speaking low. “You'll +have plenty of your fellow-creatures about you then!” + +“Thank you, ma'am, a thousand times!” answered Clare, his face +beaming; “but I couldn't leave poor Nimrod to do those men a mischief, +and be killed for it!” + +“You'd have plenty to eat and drink, and som'at for your pocket!” + persisted the woman. + +“I know I should have everything I wanted!” answered Clare, “and I'm +very thankful to you, ma'am. But you see there's always something, +somehow, that's got to be done before the other thing!” + +Here the master came up. He had himself been thinking the boy would be +a great acquisition, and guessed what his wife was about; but he was +afraid she might promise too much for services that ought to be had +cheap. Few scruple to take advantage of the misfortune of another to +get his service cheap. It is the economy of hell. + +“I sha'n't feel safe till that bull of yours is a mile off!” he said. + +“Come along, Nimrod!” answered Clare, always ready with the responsive +deed. + +Away went Nimrod, gentle as a lamb. + + + +Chapter XLIII. + +Across country. + + +The two men came after at their ease. No sooner was Nimrod on the +road, however, than he began to quicken his pace. He quickened it +fast, and within a minute or so was trotting swiftly along. The men +ran panting and shouting behind. The more they shouted, the faster +Nimrod went. Ere long he was out of their sight, though Clare could +hear them cursing and calling for a time. + +He had endeavoured to stop Nimrod, but the bull seemed to have made up +his mind that he had obeyed enough for one day. He did not heed a word +Clare said to him, but kept on and on at a swinging trot. Clare would +have jumped off had he been sure the proceeding would stop him; but, +now that he would not obey him, he feared lest, in doing so, he might +let him loose on the country, when there was no saying what mischief +he might not work. On the other hand, he felt sure that he could +restrain him from violence, though he might not prevent his +frolicking. He must therefore keep his seat. + +For a few miles Nimrod was content with the highway, now trotting +beautifully, now breaking into a canter. But all at once he turned at +right angles in the middle of the road, cleared the skirting fence +like a hunter, and took a bee-line across the fields. Compelled +sometimes to abandon it, he showed great judgment in choosing the +place at which to get out of the enclosure, or cross the natural +obstruction. On and on he went, over hedge after hedge, through field +after field, until Clare began to wonder where all the people in the +world had got to. Then a strange feeling gradually came over +him. Surely at some time or other he had seen the meadow he was +crossing! Was he asleep, and dreaming the jolly ride he was having on +Nimrod's back? What a strong creature Nimrod was! Would he never be +tired? How oddly he felt! Were his senses going from him? It was like +the strangest mixture of a bad dream and a good! + +There seemed at length no further room for doubt or +mistake. Everything was in its place! It was plain why Nimrod was so +obstinate! The dear old fellow was carrying him back to where they had +been together so many happy days! They were nigh Mr. Goodenough's +farm, and making straight for it! How strange it was! he had felt +himself a measureless distance from it! But in his wandering he had +taken many turns he did not heed, and Nimrod had come the shortest +way. Delight filled his heart at the thought of seeing once more the +places where his father and mother seemed yet to live. But instantly +came the thought of Maly, and drowned the other thought in +bitterness. Then he felt how worthless place is, when those who made +it dear are gone. Father and mother are home--not the house we were +born in! + +They were soon upon the farm where once he had abundance of labour, +abundance to eat, and abundance of lowly friendship. Nimrod was making +for his old stable. He was weary now, and breathing heavily, though +not at all spent. Was he dreaming of a golden age, in which Clare +should be ever at his beck and call? + +Clare had little inclination to encounter any of the people of the +farm. He would indeed have been glad, from a little way off, to get a +sight of his once friend and master, the farmer himself; and very +gladly would he have gone into the stable in the hope of a greeting +from old Jonathan; but he would not willingly meet “the mistress!” + Nimrod should take him to his old stall; there he would tie him up, +and flee from the place! The evening was now come, and in the dusk he +would escape unseen. + +When they reached Nimrod's door, they found it closed; and Clare, +stiff enough by this time, slipped off to open it. Nimrod began to paw +the stones, and blow angry puffs from his wounded nose. When Clare got +the door open, he saw, to his confusion, a vague dark bulk, another +bull, in Nimrod's stall! The roar that simultaneously burst from each +was ferocious, and down went Nimrod's head to charge. It was a +terrible moment for Clare: the new bull was fast by the head, and, +unable to turn it to his adversary, would be gored to death almost in +a moment! He could not let Nimrod be guilty of such unfairness! And +the mistress would think he had brought him back for the very purpose! +He all but jumped on the horns of his friend, making him yield just +ground enough for the shutting of the door. He knew well, however, +that not three such doors in one would keep Nimrod from an enemy. With +his back to it he stood facing him and talking to him, and all the +while they heard the bull inside struggling to get free. He stood +between two horned rages, only a chain and a plank betwixt him and the +one at his back, with which he had no influence. A coward would have +escaped, and left the two bullies to settle between them which had the +better right to the stall--not without blood, almost as certainly not +without loss of life, perhaps human as well as bovine. But Clare was +made of other stuff. + +Before he could get Nimrod away, the bellowing brought out the +farmer. All his men had gone to the village; only himself and his wife +were at home. + +“What's got the brute?” he cried on the threshold, but instantly began +to run, for he saw through the gathering darkness a darker shape he +knew, roaring and pawing at the door of his old quarters, and a boy +standing between him and it, with marvellous courage in mortal danger. +He understood at once that Nimrod had broken loose and come back. But +when he came near enough to recognize Clare, astonishment, and +something more sacred than astonishment, held him dumb. Ever since the +unjust blow that sent the boy from him, his heart had been aware of a +little hollow of remorse in it. Now all his former relations with him +while his adoptive father yet lived, came back upon him. He remembered +him dressed like the little gentleman he always was--and there he +stood, the same gentle fearless creature, in absolute rags! If his +wife saw him! The farmer had no fear of Nimrod in his worst rages, but +he feared his wife in her gentlest moods. Happily for both, a critical +moment in the cooking of the supper had arrived. + +“Clare!” he stammered. + +“Yes, sir,” returned Clare, and laid hold of Nimrod's horn. The animal +yielded, and turned away with him. The farmer came nearer, and put his +arm round the boy's neck. The boy rubbed his cheek against the arm. + +“I'm sorry I struck you, Clare!” faltered the big man. + +“Oh, never mind, sir! That was long ago!” answered the boy. + +“Tell me how you've been getting on.” + +“Pretty well, sir! But I want to tell you first how it is I'm here +with Nimrod. Only it would be better to put him somewhere before I +begin.” + +“It would,” agreed the farmer; and between them, with the enticements +of a pail of water and some fresh-cut grass, they got him into a shed, +where they hoped he would forget the proximity of the usurper, and, +with the soothing help of his supper, go to sleep. + +Then Clare told his story. Mr Goodenough afterward asseverated that, +if he had not known him for a boy that would not lie, he would not +have believed the half of it. + +“Come, Abdiel!” said Clare, the moment he ended--and would have +started at once. + +“Won't you have something after your long ride?” said the farmer. + +Clare looked down at his clothes, and laughed. The farmer knew what he +meant, and did not ask him into the house. + +“When had you anything to eat?” he inquired. + +“I shall do very well till to-morrow,” answered Clare. + +“Then if you will go, I'm glad of the opportunity of paying you the +wages I owed you,” said the farmer, putting his hand in his pocket. + +“You gave me my food! That was all I was worth!” protested Clare. + +“You were worth more than that! I knew the difference when I had +another boy in your place! I wish I had you again!--But it wouldn't +do, you know! it wouldn't do!” he added hastily. + +With that he succeeded in pulling a sovereign from the depth of a +trowser-pocket, and held it out to Clare. It was neither large wages +nor a greatly generous gift, but it seemed to the boy wealth +enormous. He could not help holding out his hand, but he was ashamed +to open it. What the giver regarded as a debt, the receiver regarded +as a gift. He stood with his hand out but clenched. There was a combat +inside him. + +“It's too much!” he protested, looking at the sovereign almost with +fear. “I never had so much money in my life!” + +“You earned it well,” said the farmer magnanimously. + +The moral cramp forsook his hand. He took the money with a hearty +“Thank you, sir.” As he put it in his pocket, he felt its corners +carefully, lest there should be a hole. But his pockets had not had +half the wear of the clothes they inhabited. + +“Where are you going?” asked the farmer. + +Clare mentioned the small town in whose neighbourhood he had left the +caravans, and said he thought the people of the menagerie would like +him to help them with the beasts. The farmer shook his head. + +“It's not a respectable occupation!” he remarked. + +Clare did not understand him. + +“Do they cheat?” he asked. + +“No; I don't suppose they cheat worse than anybody else. But it ain't +respectable.” + +Had he known a little more, Clare might have asserted that the men +about the menagerie were at least as respectable as almost any farmer +with a horse to sell. But he knew next to nothing of wickedness, +whence many a man whose skull he had brains enough to fill three +times, regarded him as a simpleton. + +Clare thought everything honest honourable. When people said +otherwise, he did not understand, and continued to act according as he +understood. A thousand dishonourable things are done, and largely +approved, which Clare would not have touched with one of his fingers: +he could see nothing more dishonourable in having to do with wild +beasts than in having to do with tame ones. If any boy wants to know +the sort of thing I count in that thousand, I answer him--“The next +thing you are asked to do, or are inclined to do--if you have any +doubt about it, DON'T DO IT.” That is the way to know the honourable +thing from the dishonourable. + +Clare made no attempt to argue the question with the farmer. He +inquired of him the nearest way to the town, and went--the quicker +that he heard the voice of Mrs. Goodenough, calling her husband to +supper. + + + +Chapter XLIV. + +A third mother. + + +Who ever had a sovereign for the first time in his life, and did not +feel rich? Clare trudged along merrily, and Abdiel shared his +joy. They had to sleep out of doors nevertheless; for by this time +Clare knew that a boy, especially a boy in rags, must mind whom he +asks to change a sovereign. In the lee of a hay-mow, on a little loose +hay, they slept, Abdiel in Clare's bosom, and slept well. + +There was not much temptation to lie long after waking, and the +companions were early on their way. It was yet morning when they came +to the public house where Clare had his first and last half-pint of +beer. The landlady stood at the newly opened door, with her fists in +her sides, looking out on the fresh world, lost in some such thought +as was possible to her. Clare pulled off his cap, and bade her good +morning as he passed. Perhaps she knew she did not deserve politeness; +anyhow she took Clare's for impudence, and came swooping upon him. He +stopped and waited her approach, perplexed as to the cause of it; and +was so unprepared for the box on the ear she dealt him, that it almost +threw him down. Her ankle was instantly in Abdiel's sharp teeth. She +gave a frightful screech, and Clare, coming to himself, though still +stupid from her blow and his own surprise, called off the dog. The +woman limped raging to the house, and Clare thought it prudent to go +his way. He talked severely to Abdiel as they went; but though the dog +could understand much, I doubt if he understood that lecture. For +Abdiel was one of the few, even among dogs, with whom the defence of +master or friend is an inborn, instinctive duty; and strong temptation +even has but a poor chance against the sense of duty in a dog. + +It was night when they entered the town. They were already a weary +pair when the far sounds of the brass band of the menagerie, mostly +made up of attendants on the animals, first entered their ears. The +marketing was over; the band was issuing its last invitation to the +merry-makers to walk up and see strange sights; its notes were just +dying to their close, when the wayfarers arrived at the foot of the +steps leading to the platform where the musicians stood. Clare +ascended, and Abdiel crept after him. + +At a table in a small curtained recess on the platform, sat the +mistress to receive the money of those that entered. Clare laid his +sovereign before her. She took it up without looking at him, but at it +she looked doubtfully. She threw it on her table. It would not ring. +She bit it with her white teeth, and looked at it again; then at +length gave a glance at the person who offered it. Her dull lamp +flickered in the puffs of the night-wind, and she did not recognize +Clare. She saw but a white-faced, ragged boy, and threw him back his +sovereign. + +“Won't pass,” she said with decision, not unmingled with contempt. She +sat at the receipt of money, where too many men and women cease to be +ladies and gentlemen. + +Clare did not at first understand. He stood motionless and, for the +second time that day, bewildered. How could money be no money? + +“'Ain't you got sixpence?” she asked. + +“No, ma'am,” answered Clare. “I haven't had sixpence for many a day.” + +The moment he spoke, the woman looked him sharply in the face, and +knew him. + +“Drat my stupid eyes!” she said fervently. “That I shouldn't ha' known +you! Walk in, walk in. Go where you please, and do as you +please. You're right welcome.--Where did you get that sov.?” + +“From Farmer Goodenough.” + +“Good enough, I hope, not to take advantage of an innocent prince! Was +it for taking home the bull?” + +“No, ma'am. I didn't take the bull home. The bull took me to the old +home where we used to be together. He didn't want a new one!” + +“Well, never mind now. Give me the sovereign. I'll talk to you by and +by. Go in, or the show 'ill be over. Look after your dog, though. We +don't like dogs. He mustn't go in.” + +“I'll send him right outside, if you wish it, ma'am.” + +“I do.--But will he stay out?” + +“He will, ma'am.” + +Clare took up Abdiel, and setting him at the top of the steps, told +him to go down and wait. Abdiel went hopping down, like a dirty little +white cataract out on its own hook, turned in under the steps, and +deposited himself there until his master should call him. + + + +Chapter XLV. + +The menagerie. + + +A strange smell was in Clare's nostrils, and as he went down the steps +inside, it grew stronger. He did not dislike it; but it set him +thinking why it should so differ from that of domestic animals. He was +presently in the midst of a vision attractive to all boys, but which +few had ever looked upon with such intelligent wonder as he; for Clare +had read and re-read every book about animals upon which he could lay +his hands. He had a great power too of remembering what he read; for +he never let a description glide away over the outside of his eyes, +but always put it inside his thinking place. What with pictures and +descriptions, he seemed to know, as he looked around him, every animal +on which his eyes fell. + +The area was by no means crowded. There had been many visitors during +the day, but now it was late. He could see into all the cages that +formed the sides of the enclosure. Many of the creatures seemed +restless, few sleepy: night was the waking time for most of them. How +should a great roaming, hunting cat go to sleep in a little cube of +darkness! “Oh,” thought Clare, “how gladly would I help them to bear +it! I could bear it myself with somebody near to be kind to me!” + +He had begun to feel that the quiet happiness to which he was once so +accustomed that he did not think much about it, was his because it was +_given_ him. He had begun to see that it did not come to him of +itself, but from the love of his father and mother. He had yet to +learn that it was given to them to give to him by the Father of +fathers and mothers. But he was beginning to prize every least +kindness shown him. This re-acted on his desire to make the happiness +greater and the pain less everywhere about him. He had little chance +of doing much for people, he thought; but he knew how to do things for +some animals, and perhaps it was only necessary to know others to be +able to do something for them too! + +Thoughts like these passing through his mind, and his gaze wandering +hither and thither over the shifting shapes, his eyes rested on the +tenant of one of the cages, and his heart immediately grew very sore, +for he seemed unable to lift his head. He was a big animal, alone in +his prison, of a blackish colour, and awkward appearance. He went +nearer, and found he had a big ring in his nose like Nimrod. But to +the ring was fastened a strong chain, and the chain was bolted down to +the floor of the cage, which was of iron covered with boards, in their +turn covered with a thick sheet of lead. The chain was so short that +it held the poor creature's head within about a foot of the floor. He +could not lift it higher, or move it farther on either side; but he +kept moving it constantly. It was a pitiful sight, and Clare went +nearer still, drawn far more by compassion, and indeed sympathy, than +by curiosity. He was a terrible brute, a big grizzly bear, ugly to +repulsiveness. The snarling scorn, the sneering, lip-writhing hate of +the demoniacal grin with which he received the boy, was hideous; the +rattling, pebble-jarring growl that came from his devilish throat was +loathing embodied. What if spirits worse than their own get into some +of the creatures by virtue of the likeness between them! One day will +be written, perhaps, a history of animals very different from any +attempted by mere master in zoology. Clare spoke to the beast again +and again, but was unvaryingly answered by the same odious snarl, +curling his lip under his nose-ring. It seemed to express the imagined +delight of tearing him limb from limb. + +“Poor fellow!” said Clare, “how can he be good-tempered with that +torturing ring and chain! His unalterable position must make his every +bone ache!” + +But had his nose been set free, such a raging-bear-struggle to get at +the nearest of his fellow-prisoners would have ensued, as must soon +have torn to shreds the partition between them. For he was a +beast-bedlamite, an animal volcano, a furnace of death, an incarnate +paroxysm of wrath. The inspiration of the creature, so far as one +could see, was pure hate. + +The boy turned aside with quivering heart--sore for the grizzly's +nose, and sorer still for the grizzly himself that he was so +unfriendly. + +Right opposite, a creature of a far differing disposition seemed +casting defiance to all the ills of life. As he turned with a sad +despair from the grizzly, Clare caught sight of his pranks, and +hastened across the area. The creature kept bounding from side to side +of his cage, agile and frolicsome as a kitten. But the light was poor, +and Clare could not even conjecture to which of the cat-kinds he +belonged. When he came near his cage, he saw that he was yellowish +like a lion, and thought perhaps he might be a young lion. He had no +mane. Clare judged him four feet in length without the tail--or +perhaps four and a half. A little way off was the real lion--a young +one, it is true, but quite grown, with a thin ruffy mane, and lordly +carriage and gaze. It was he whose roar had challenged Nimrod, giving +the topmost flutter to the flame of his wrath. But Clare was so taken +with the frolicsome creature before him, that he gave but a glance at +the grand one as he walked up and down his prison, and turned again to +the merry one disporting himself alone, who seemed to find the +pleasure of life in great games with companions no one saw but +himself. For minutes he stood regarding the gladness of God's +creature. A wild thing of the woods and plains, he made the most of +the bars and floor and roof of his cage. No one careless of liberty +could make such bounds as those; yet he was joyous in closest +imprisonment! His liberty gone, his freedom contracted to a few cubic +feet, his space diminished almost to the mould of his body, the great +wild philosopher created his own liberty, made it out of his own love +of it. Like a live, erratic shuttle he went to and fro, unweaving, +unravelling, unwinding, drawing out the knot of confinement, flinging +out, radiating and spreading and breathing out space in all +directions, by multitudinous motion of disentanglement! Space gone +from him, space in the abstract should replace it! He would not be +slave to condition! Space unconditioned should be his! For him liberty +should not lie in space, but in his own soul. Room should be but the +poor out-aide symbol of his inward freedom! He would spin out, he +would weave, he would unroll essential liberty into spiritual space! +His mind to him a kingdom was. Not a grumble, not a snarl! He left +discontent to men, to build their own prisons withal. A proud man with +everything he longs for, if such a man there be, is but a slave; this +creature of the glad creator was and would be free, because he was a +free soul. Prison bars could not touch that by whose virtue he was and +would be free! + +The germ of this thinking was in the mind of Clare while he stood and +gazed; and as he told me the story, its ripeness came thus, or nearly +thus, from his lips; for he had thought much in lonely places. + +As he gazed and sympathized, there awoke within him that strange +consciousness which my reader must, at one time or another, have +known--of being on the point of remembering something. It was not a +memory that came, but a memory of a memory--the shadow of a memory +gone, but trying to come out from behind a veil--a sense of having +once known something. It gave another aspect to the blessed creature +before him. The creature and himself seemed for a moment to belong +together to another time. Could he have seen such an animal before? He +did not think so! He could never have visited a menagerie and +forgotten it! If he had known such a creature, his after-reading would +have recalled it, he would know it now! He could tell the lion and the +tiger and the leopard, although he seemed to know he had never seen +one of them; he could not tell this animal, and yet--and yet!--what +was it? The feeling itself lasted scarce an instant, and went no +farther. No memory came to him. The foiled expectation was all he +had. The very reasoning about it helped to obliterate the shape of the +feeling itself. He could not even recall how the thing had felt; he +could only remember it had been there. It was now but the shadow of +the shadow of a dream--a yet vaguer memory than that thinnest of +presences which had at the first tantalized him. We remember what we +cannot recall. + +Perhaps the rousing of the odd, fantastic feeling had been favoured by +the slumber beginning to encroach on tody and brain. While he stood +looking at the one creature, all the wonderful creatures began to get +mixed up together, and he thought it better to go and search for some +field of sleep, where he might mow a little for his use. He said +good-night to the great, gentle, jubilant cat, turned from him +unwillingly, and went up the steps. Almost every spectator was +gone. At the top of them he turned for a last look, but could +distinguish nothing except the dim form of the young lion, as he +thought him, still gamboling in the presence of his maker. + +He thought to see the mistress of the menagerie, but she was no longer +in her curtained box. He went out on the deserted platform, and down +the steps. Abdiel was already at the foot when he reached it, wagging +his weary little tail. + +They set out to look for a shelter. Their search, however, was so much +in vain, that at last they returned and lay down under one of the +wagons, on the hard ground of the public square. Sleeping so often out +of doors, he had never yet taken cold. + + + +Chapter XLVI. + +The angel of the wild beasts. + + +When Clare looked up he saw nothing between him and the sky. They had +dragged the caravan from above him, and he had not moved. Abdiel +indeed waked at the first pull, but had lain as still as a +mouse--ready to rouse his master, but not an instant before it should +be necessary. + +Clare saw the sky, but he saw something else over him, better than the +sky--the face of Mrs. Halliwell, the mistress of the menagerie. In it, +as she stood looking down on him, was compassion, mingled with +self-reproach. + +Clare jumped up, saying, “Good morning, ma'am!” He was yet but half +awake, and staggered with sleep. + +“My poor boy!” answered the woman, “I sent you to sleep on the cold +earth, with a sovereign of your own in my pocket! I made sure you +would come and ask me for it! You're too innocent to go about the +world without a mother!” + +She turned her face away. + +“But, ma'am, you know I couldn't have offered it to anybody,” said +Clare. “It wasn't good!--Besides, before I knew that,” he went on, +finding she did not reply, “there was nobody but you I dared offer it +to: they would have said I stole it--because I'm so shabby!” he added, +looking down at his rags. “But it ain't in the clothes, ma'am--is it?” + +Getting the better of her feelings for a moment, she turned her face +and said,-- + +“It was all my fault! The sov. is a good one. It's only cracked! I +ought to have known, and changed it for you. Then all would have been +well!” + +“I don't think it would have made any difference, ma'am. We would +rather sleep on the ground than in a bed that mightn't be +clean--wouldn't we, Abby?” The dog gave a short little bark, as he +always did when his master addressed him by his name.--“But I'm so +glad!” Clare went on. “I was sure Mr. Goodenough thought the sovereign +all right when he gave it me!--Were you ever disappointed in a +sovereign, ma'am?” + +“I been oftener disappointed in them as owed 'em!” she answered. “But +to think o' me snug in bed, an' you sleepin' out i' the dark night! I +can't abide the thought on it!” + +“Don't let it trouble you, ma'am; we're used to it. Ain't we, Abby?” + +“Then you oughtn't to be! and, please God, you shall be no more! But +come along and have your breakfast We don't start till the last.” + +“Please, ma'am, may Abdiel come too?” + +“In course! 'Love me, love my dog!' Ain't that right?” + +“Yes, ma'am; but some people like dogs worse than boys.” + +“A good deal depends on the dog. When folk brings up their dogs as bad +as they do their childern, I want neither about me. But your dog's a +well-behaved dog. Still, he must learn not to come in sight o' the +animals.” + +“He will learn, ma'am!--Abdiel, lie down, and don't come till I call +you.” + +At the word, the dog dropped, and lay. + +The house-caravan stood a little way off, drawn aside when they began +to break up. They ascended its steps behind, and entered an enchanting +little room. It had muslin curtains to the windows, and a small stove +in which you could see the bright red coals. On the stove stood a +coffee-pot and a covered dish. How nice and warm the place felt, after +the nearly shelterless night! + +The breakfast-things were still on the table. Mr. Halliwell had had +his breakfast, but Mrs. Halliwell would not eat until she had found +the boy. She had been unhappy about him all the night. Her husband had +assured her the sovereign was a good one, and the boy had told her he +had no money but the sovereign! She little knew how seldom he fared +better than that same night! When he got among hay or straw, that was +luxury. + +They sat down to breakfast, and the good woman was very soon confirmed +in the notion that the boy was a gentleman. + +“Call your dog now,” she said, “an' let's see if he'll come!” + +“May I whistle, ma'am?” + +“Why not!--But will he hear you?” + +“He has very sharp ears, ma'am.” + +Clare gave a low, peculiar whistle. In a second or two, they heard an +anxious little whine at the door. Clare made haste to open it. There +stood Abdiel, with the words in his eyes, as plain almost as if he +spoke them--“Did you call, sir?” The woman caught him and held him to +her bosom. + +“You blessed little thing!” she said. + +And surely if there be a blessing to be had, it is for them that obey. + +Clare heard and felt the horses put-to, but the hostess of this +Scythian house did not rise, and he too went on with his +breakfast. When they were in motion, it was not so easy to eat nicely, +but he managed very well. By the time he had done, they had left the +town behind them. He wanted to help Mrs. Halliwell with the +breakfast-things, but whether she feared he would break some of them, +or did not think it masculine work, she would not allow him. + +Nothing had been said about his going with them; she had taken that +for granted. Clare began to think perhaps he ought to take his leave: +there was nothing for him to do! He and Abdiel ought at least to get +out and walk, instead of burdening the poor horses with their weight, +when they were so well rested, and had had such a good breakfast! But +when he said so to Mrs. Halliwell, she told him she must have a little +talk with him first, and formally proposed that he should enter their +service, and do whatever he was fit for in the menagerie. + +“You're not frightened of the beasts, are you?” she said. + +“Oh no, ma'am; I love them!” answered Clare. “But are you sure +Mr. Halliwell thinks I could be of use?” + +“Don't you think yourself you could?” asked Mrs. Halliwell. + +“I know I could, ma'am; but I should not like him to take me just +because he was sorry for me!” + +“You innocent! People are in no such hurry to help their +neighbours. My husband's as good a man as any going; but it don't mean +he would take a boy because nobody else would have him. A fool of a +woman might--I won't say; but not a man I ever knew. No, no! He saw +the way you managed that bull!--a far more unreasonable creature than +any we have to do with!” + +“Ah! you don't know Nimrod, ma'am!” + +“I don't, an' I don't want to!--Such wild animals ought to be put in +caravans!” she added, with a laugh. + +“Well, ma'am,” said Clare, “if you and Mr. Halliwell are of one mind, +nothing would please me so much as to serve you and the beasts. But I +should like to be sure about it, for where husband and wife are not of +one mind--well, it is uncomfortable!” + +Thereupon he told her how he had stood with the farmer and his wife; +and from that she led him on through his whole story--not +unaccompanied with tears on the part of his deliverer, for she was a +tender-souled as well as generous and friendly woman. In her heart she +rejoiced to think that the boy's sufferings would now be at an end; +and thenceforward she was, as he always called her, his third mother. + +“My poor, ill-used child!” she said. “But I'll be a mother to you--if +you'll have me!” + +“You wouldn't mind if I thought rather often of my two other mothers, +ma'am--would you?” he said. + +“God forbid, boy!” she answered. “If I were your real mother, would I +have my own flesh and blood ungrateful? Should I be proud of him for +loving nobody but me? That's like the worst of the beasts: they love +none but their little ones--and that only till they're tired of the +trouble of them!” + +“Thank you! Then I will be your son Clare, please, ma'am.” + +The next time they stopped, she made her husband come into her +caravan, and then and there she would and did have everything +arranged. When both her husband and the boy would have left his wages +undetermined, she would not hear of it, but insisted that so much a +week should be fixed at once to begin with. She had no doubt, she +said, that her husband would soon be ready enough to raise his wages; +but he must have his food and five shillings a week now, and +Mr. Halliwell must advance money to get him decent clothes: he might +keep the wages till the clothes were paid for! + +Everything she wished was agreed to by her husband, and at the next +town, Clare's new mother saw him dressed to her satisfaction, and to +his own. She would have his holiday clothes better than his present +part in life required, and she would not let his sovereign go toward +paying for them: that she would keep ready in case he might want it! +Her eyes followed him about with anxious pride--as if she had been his +mother in fact as she was in truth. + +He had at once plenty to do. The favour of his mother saved him from +no kind of work, neither had he any desire it should. Every morning he +took his share in cleaning out the cages, and in setting water for the +beasts, and food for the birds and such other creatures as took it +when they pleased. At the proper intervals he fed as many as he might +of those animals that had stated times for their meals; and found the +advantage of this in its facilitating his friendly approaches to +them. He helped with the horses also--with whose harness and ways he +was already familiar. In a very short time he was known as a friend by +every civilized animal in and about the caravans. + +He did all that was required of him, and more. Not everyone of course +had a right to give him orders, but Clare was not particular as to who +wanted him, or for what. He was far too glad to have work to look at +the gift askance. He did not make trouble of what ought to be none, by +saying, with the spirit of a slave, “It's not my place.” He did many +things which he might have disputed, for he never thought of disputing +them. Thus, both for himself and for others, he saved a great deal of +time, and avoided much annoyance and much quarrelling. Thus also he +gained many friends. + + + +Chapter XLVII. + +Glum Gunn. + + +He had but one enemy, and he did not make him such: he was one by +nature. For he was so different from Clare that he disliked him the +moment he saw him, and it took but a day to ripen his dislike into +hatred. Like Mr. Maidstone, he found the innocent fearlessness of +Clare's expression repulsive. His fingers twitched, he said, to have a +twist at the sheep-nose of him. Unhappily for Clare, he was of +consequence in the menagerie, having money in the concern. He was +half-brother to the proprietor, but so unlike him that he might not +have had a drop of blood from the same source. An ill-tempered, +imperious man, he would hurt himself to have his way, for he was the +merest slave to what he fancied. When a man _will_ have a thing, right +or wrong, that man is a slave to that thing--the meanest of slaves, a +willing one. He was the terror of the men beneath him, heeding no man +but his brother--and him only because he knew “he would stand no +nonsense.” To his sister-in-law he was civil: she was his brother's +wife, and his brother was proud of her! Also he knew that she was +perfect in her part of the business. So it was reason to stand as well +as he might with her! + +Clare had no suspicion that he more than disliked him. It took him +days indeed to discover even that he did not love him--notwithstanding +the bilious eye which, when its owner was idle, kept constantly +following him. And idle he often was, not from laziness, but from the +love of ordering about, and looking superior. + +It was natural that such a man should also be cruel. There are who +find their existence pleasant in proportion as they make that of +others miserable. He had no liking for any of the animals, regarding +them only as property with never a right;--as if God would make +anything live without thereby giving it rights! To Glum Gunn, as he +was commonly called behind his back, the animals were worth so much +money to sell, and so much to show. Yet he prided himself that he had +a great influence as well as power over them, an occult superiority +that made him their lord. It was merely a phase of the vulgarest +self-conceit. He posed to himself as a lion-tamer! He had never tamed +a lion, or any creature else, in his life; but when he had a wild +thing safe within iron bars, then he “let him know who was his +master!” By the terror of his whip, and means far worse, he compelled +obedience. The grizzly alone, of the larger animals, he never +interfered with. + +From the first he received Clare's “_Good-morning, sir_,” with a +silent stare; and the boy at last, thinking he did not like to be so +greeted, gave up the salutation. This roused Gunn's anger and +increased his hate. But indeed any boy petted by his sister-in-law, +would have been odious to him; and any boy whatever would have found +him a hard master. Clare was for a while protected by the man's +unreadiness to have words with his brother, who always took his wife's +part; but the tyrant soon learned that he might venture far. + +For he saw, by the boy's ready smile, that he never resented anything, +which the brute, as most boys would have done, attributed to +cowardice; and he learned that he never carried tales to his sister, +of which, instead of admiring him for his reticence, he took +advantage, and set about making life bitter to him. + +It was some time before he began to succeed, for Clare was hard to +annoy. Patient, and right ready to be pleased, he could hardly imagine +offence intended; the thought was all but unthinkable to Clare's +nature; so he let evil pass and be forgotten as if it had never been. +Once, as he ran along with a heavy pail of water, Gunn shot out his +foot and threw him down: he rose with a cut in his forehead, and a +smile on his lips. He carried the mark of the pail as long as he +carried his body, but it was long before he believed he had been +tripped up. Had it been proved to him at the time, he would have taken +it as a joke, intending no hurt. He did not see the lurid smile on the +man's face as he turned away, a smile of devilish delight at the +discomfiture of a hated fellow-creature. Gunn put him to the dirtiest +work--only to find that it did not trouble him: the boy was a rare +gentleman--unwilling another should have more that he might have less +of the disagreeable. I have two or three times heard him say that no +man had the right to require of another the thing he would think +degrading to himself. He said he learned this from the New Testament. +“But,” he said, “nothing God has made necessary, can possibly be +degrading. It may not be the thing for this or that man, at this or +that time, to do, but it cannot in itself be degrading.” + +The boy had to take his turn with several in acting showman to the +gazing crowd, and by and by the part fell to him oftenest. Each had +his own way of filling the office. One would repeat his information +like a lesson in which he was not interested, and expected no one else +to be interested. Another made himself the clown of the exhibition, +and joked as much and as well as he could. Gunn delighted in telling +as many lies as he dared: he must not be suspected of making fools of +his audience! Clare, who from books knew far more than any of the +others concerning the creatures in their wild state, and who, by +watching them because he loved them, had already noted things none of +the others had observed, and was fast learning more, talked to the +spectators out of his own sincere and warm interest, giving them from +his treasure things new and old--things he had read, and things he had +for himself discovered. Group after group of simple country people +would listen intently as he led them round, eager after every word; +and as any peg will do to hang hate upon, even this success was noted +with evil eye by Glum Gunn. Almost anything served to increase his +malignity. Whether or not it grew the faster that he had as yet found +no wider outlet for it, I cannot tell. + +At last, however, the tyrant learned how to inflict the keenest pain +on the tender-hearted boy, counting him the greater idiot that he +could so “be got at,” as he phrased it, and promising himself much +enjoyment from the discovery. But he did not know--how should he +know--what love may compel! + + + +Chapter XLVIII. + +The puma. + + +I need hardly say that by this time all the beasts with any +friendliness in them had for Clare a little more than their usual +amount of that feeling. But there was one between whom and him--I +prefer _who_ to _which_ for certain animals--a real friendship had +begun at once, and had grown and ripened rapidly till it was strong on +both sides. Clare's new friend--and companion as much as circumstance +permitted--was the same whose lonely gambols had so much attracted him +the night he first entered the menagerie. The animal, whom Clare had +taken for a young lion--without being so far wrong, for he has often +been called the American lion--was the puma, or couguar, peculiar to +America, with a relation to the jaguar, also American, a little +similar to that of the lion to the tiger. But while the jaguar is as +wicked a beast as the tiger, the puma possesses, in relation to man, +far more than the fabulous generosity of the lion. Like every good +creature he has been misunderstood and slandered, but a few have known +him, He has doubtless degenerated in districts, for as the wild animal +must gradually disappear before the human, he cannot help becoming in +the process less friendly to humanity; but an essential and +distinctive characteristic of the puma is his love for the human +being--a love persistent, devoted, and long-suffering. + +Between such an animal and Clare, it is not surprising that friendship +should at once have blossomed. He stroked the paw of the Indian lion +the first morning, but the day was not over when he was stroking the +cheek of the puma; while all he could do with the grizzly at the end +of the month was to feed him a little on the sly, and get for thanks a +growl of the worse hate. There are men that would soonest tear their +benefactors, loathing them the more that they cannot get at them. I +suspect that in some mysterious way Glum Gunn and the bear were own +brothers. With the elephant Clare did what he pleased--never pleasing +anything that was not pleasing to the elephant. + +They came to a town where they exhibited every day for a week, and +there it was that the friendship of Clare and the puma reached its +perfection. One night the boy could not sleep, and drawn by his love, +went down among the cages to see how his fellow-creatures were getting +through the time of darkness. There was just light enough from a small +moon to show the dim outlines of the cages, and the motion without the +form of any moving animal. The puma, in his solitary yet joyous +gymnastics, was celebrating the rites of freedom according to his +custom. When Clare entered, he made a peculiar purring noise, and +ceased his amusement--a game at ball, with himself for the ball. Clare +went to him, and began as usual to stroke him on the face and nose; +whereupon the puma began to lick his hand with his dry rough +tongue. Clare wondered how it could be nice to have such a dry thing +always in his mouth, but did not pity him for what God had given +him. He had his arm through between the bars of the cage, and his face +pressed close against them, when suddenly the face of the animal was +rubbing itself against what it could reach of his. The end was, that +Clare drew aside the bolt of the cage-door, and got in beside the +puma. The creature's gladness was even greater than if he had found a +friend of his own kind. Noses and cheeks and heads were rubbed +together; tongue licked, and hand stroked and scratched. Then they +began to frolic, and played a long time, the puma jumping over Clare, +and Clare, afraid to jump lest he should make a noise, tumbling over +the puma. The boy at length went fast asleep; and in the morning found +the creature lying with his head across his body, wide awake but +motionless, as if guarding him from disturbance. Nobody was stirring; +and Clare, who would not have their friendship exposed to every +comment, crept quietly from the cage, and went to his own bed. + +The next night, as soon as the place was quiet, Clare went down, and +had another game with the puma. Before their sport was over, he had +begun to teach him some of the tricks he had taught Abdiel; but he +could not do much for fear of making a noise and alarming some keeper. + +The same thing took place, as often as it was possible, for some +weeks, and Clare came to have as much confidence, in so far at least +as good intention was concerned, in the puma as in Abdiel. If only he +could have him out of the cage, that the dear beast might have a +little taste of old liberty! But not being certain how the puma would +behave to others, or if he could then control him, he felt he had no +right to release him. + +Now and then he would fall asleep in the cage, whereupon the puma +would always lie down close beside him. Whether the puma slept, I do +not know. + +On one such occasion, Clare started to his feet half-awake, roused by +a terrific roar. Right up on end stood the couguar, flattening his +front against the bars of the cage, which he clawed furiously, +snarling and spitting and yelling like the huge cat he was, every +individual hair on end, and his eyes like green lightning. Clatter, +clatter, went his great feet on the iron, as he tore now at this bar +now at that, to get at something out in the dim open space. It was too +dark for Clare to see what it was that thus infuriated him, but his +ear discovered what his eye could not. For now and then, woven into +the mad noise of the wild creature, in which others about him were +beginning to join, he heard the modest whimper of a very tame +one--Abdiel, against whose small person, gladly as he would have been +“naught a while,” this huge indignation was levelled. Must there not +be a deeper ground for the enmity of dogs and cats than evil human +incitement? Their antipathy will have to be explained in that history +of animals which I have said must one day be written. + +Clare had taken much pains to make Abdiel understand that he was not +to intrude where his presence was not desired--that the show was not +for him, and thought the dog had learned perfectly that never on any +pretence, or for any reason, was he to go down those steps, however +often he saw his master go down. This prohibition was a great trial to +Abdiel's loving heart, but it had not until this night been a trial +too great for his loving will. + +When Clare left him, he thought he had taken his usual pains in +shutting him into a small cage he had made to use on such occasions, +lest he might be tempted to think, when he saw nobody about, that the +law no longer applied. But he had not been careful enough; and Abdiel, +sniffing about and finding his door unfastened, had interpreted the +fact as a sign that he might follow his master. Hence all the +coil. For pumas--whereby also must hang an explanation in that book of +zoology, have an intense hatred of dogs. Tame from cubhood, they never +get over their antipathy to them. With pumas it is “Love you, hate +your dog.” In the present case there could be no individual jealousy, +of which passion beasts and birds are very capable, for Pummy had +never seen Abby before. There may be in the puma an inborn jealousy of +dogs, as a race more favoured than pumas by the man whom yet they love +perhaps more passionately. + +As soon as Clare saw what the matter was, he slipped out of the cage, +and catching up the obnoxious offender--where he stood wagging all +over as if his entire body were but a self-informed tail--sped with +him to his room, and gave him a serious talking-to. + +The puma was quiet the moment the dog was out of his sight. Doubtless +he regarded Clare as his champion in distress, and blessed him for the +removal of that which his soul hated. But, alas, mischief was already +afoot! Gunn, waked by the roaring, came flying with his whip, and the +remnants of poor Pummy's excitement were enough to betray him to the +eyes of the tamer of caged animals. Clare would have recognized by the +roar itself the individual in trouble; but Glum Gunn had little +knowledge even of the race. He counted the couguar a coward, because +he showed no resentment. A man may strike him or wound him, and he +will make no retaliation; he will even let a man go on to kill him, +and make no defence beyond moans and tears. But Gunn knew nothing of +these facts; he only knew that this puma would not touch _him_. He was +not aware that if he turned the two into the arena of the show, the +puma would kill the grizzly; or that in their own country, the puma +persecutes the jaguar as if he hated him for not being like himself, +the friend of man: the Gauchos of the Pampas call him “The Christians' +Friend.” Gunn did not even know that the horse is the puma's favourite +food: he will leap on the back of a horse at full speed, with his paws +break his neck as he runs, and come down with him in a rolling +heap. Neither did he know that, while submissive to man--as if the +maker of both had said to him, “Slay my other creatures, but do my +anointed no harm,”--he could yet upon occasion be provoked to punish +though not to kill him. + +Glum Gunn rushed across the area, jumped into the cage of the puma, +and began belabouring him with his whip. The beast whimpered and wept, +and the brute belaboured him. Clare heard the changed cry of his +friend, and came swooping like the guardian angel he was. When he saw +the patient creature on his haunches like a dog, accepting Gunn's +brutality without an attempt to escape it--except, indeed, by dodging +any blows at his head so cleverly that the ruffian could not once hit +it--he bounded to the cage, wild with anger and pity. But Gunn stood +with his back against the door of it, and he was reduced to entreaty. + +“Oh, sir! sir!” he cried, in a voice full of tears; “it was all my +fault! Abby came to look for me, and I didn't know Pummy disliked +dogs!” + +“Do you tell me, you rascal, that you were down among the hanimals +when I supposed you in your bed?” + +“Yes, sir, I was. I didn't know there was any harm. I wasn't doing +anything wrong.” + +“Hold your jaw! What _was_ you doing?” + +“I was only in the cage with the puma.” + +“You was! You have the impudence to tell me that to my face! I'll +teach you, you cotton-face! you milk-pudding! to go corrupting the +hanimals and making them not worth their salt!” + +He swung himself out of the cage-door in a fury, but Clare, with his +friend in danger, would not run. The wretch seized him by the collar, +and began to lash him as he had been lashing the puma. Happily he was +too close to him to give him such stinging blows. + +With the first hiss of the thong, came a tearing screech from the +puma, as he flung himself in fury upon the door of his cage. Gunn in +his wrath with Clare had forgotten to bolt it. Dragging with his +claws, he found it unfastened, pulled it open, and like a huge shell +from a mortar, shot himself at Gunn. Down he went. For one moment the +puma stood over him, swinging his tail in great sweeps, and looking at +him, doubtless with indignation. Then before Clare could lay hold of +him, for Clare too had fallen by the onset, Pummy turned a scornful +back upon his enemy, and walking away with a slow, careless stride, as +if he were not worth thinking of more, leaped into his cage, and lay +down. The thing passed so swiftly that Clare did not see him touch the +man with his paw, and thought he had but thrown him down with his +weight. The beast, however, had not left the brute without the lesson +he needed; he had given him just one little pat on the side of the +head. + +Gunn rose staggering. The skin and something more was torn down his +cheek from the temple almost to the chin, and the blood was +streaming. Clare hastened to help him, but he flung him aside, +muttering with an oath, “I'll make you pay for this!” and went out, +holding his head with both hands. + +Clare went and shot the bolt of the cage. Pummy sprang up. His tail +and swift-shifting feet showed eager expectation of a romp. He had +already forgotten the curling lash of the terrible whip! But Clare +bade him good-night with a kiss through the bars. + +Glum Gunn kept his bed for more than a week. When at length he +appeared, a demonstration of the best art of the surgeon of the town, +he was not beautiful to look upon. To the end of his evil earthly days +he bore an ugly scar; and neither his heart nor his temper were the +better for his well deserved punishment. + +Mrs. Halliwell questioned Clare about the whole thing, inquiring +further and further as his answers suggested new directions. Her +catechism ended with a partial discovery of Gunn's behaviour to her +_protegé_, whom she loved the more that he had been so silent +concerning it. She stood perturbed. One moment her face flushed with +anger, the next turned pale with apprehension. She bit her lip, and +the tears came in her eyes. + +“Never mind, mother,” said Clare, who saw no reason for such emotion; +“I'm not afraid of him.” + +“I know you're not, sonny,” she answered; “but that don't make me the +less afraid for you. He's a bad man, that brother-in-law of mine! I +fear he'll do you a mischief. I'm afraid I did wrong in taking you! I +ought to have done what I could for you without keeping you about +me. We can't get rid of him because he's got money in the business. +Not that he's part owner--I don't mean that! If we'd got the money +handy, we'd pay him off at once!” + +“I don't care about myself,” said Clare. “I don't mean I like to be +kicked, but it don't make me miserable. What I can't bear is to see +him cruel to the beasts. I love the beasts, mother--even cross old +Grizzly.--But Mr. Gunn don't meddle much with _him_!” + +“He respects his own ugly sort!” answered Mrs. Halliwell, with a +laugh. + +For a while it was plain to Clare that the master kept an eye on his +brother, and on himself and the puma. On one occasion he told the +assembled staff that he would have no tyranny: every one knew there +was among them but one tyrant. Gunn saw that his brother was awake and +watching: it was a check on his conduct, but he hated Clare the +worse. For the puma, he was afraid of him now, and went no more into +his cage. + +With the rest of the men Clare was a favourite, for they knew him true +and helpful, and constantly the same: they could always depend on him! +Abdiel shared in the favour shown his master. They said the dog was no +beauty, and had not a hair of breeding, but he was almost a human +creature, if he wasn't too good for one, and it was a shame to kick +him. + + + +Chapter XLIX. + +Glum Gunn's revenge. + + +They had opened the menagerie in a certain large town. It was the +evening-exhibition, and Clare was going his round with his wand of +office, pointing to the different animals, and telling of them what he +thought would most interest his hearers, when another attendant, the +most friendly of all, came behind him, and whispered that Glum Gunn +had got hold of Abby, and must be going to do the dog a +mischief. Clare instantly gave him his wand, and bolted through the +crowd, reproaching himself that, because Abby seemed restless, he had +shut him up: if he had not been shut up, Gunn would not have got hold +of him! + +When he reached the top of the steps, there was Gunn on the platform, +addressing the crowd. It was plain to the boy, by this time not +inexperienced, that he had been drinking, and, though not drunk, had +taken enough to rouse the worst in him. He had the poor dog by the +scruff of the neck, and was holding him out at arm's-length. Abdiel +was the very picture of wretchedness. Except in colour and size, he +was more like a flea than like any sort of dog--with his hind legs +drawn up, his tail tucked in tight between them, and his back-bone +curved into a half circle. In this uncomfortable plight, the tyrant +was making a burlesque speech about him. + +“Here you see, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, resuming a little, for +a few fresh spectators were in the act of joining the border of the +crowd, “as I have already had the honour of informing you, one of the +most extraordinary productions of the vegetable kingdom. It is not +unnatural that you should be, as I see you are, inclined to dispute +the assertion. I am, indeed, far from being surprised at your +scepticism; the very strangeness of the phenomenon consists in his +being to all appearance neither more nor less than a dog. But when I +have the honour of leaving you to your astonishment, I shall have +convinced you that he is in reality nothing but a vegetable. I would +plainly call him what he is--a cucumber, did I not fear the statement +would demand of you more than your powers of credence, evidently +limited, could well afford. But when I have, before your eyes, cut the +throat of this vegetable, so extremely like an ugly mongrel, and when +those eyes see no single drop of blood follow the knife, then you will +be satisfied of the truth of my assertion; and, having gazed on such a +specimen of Nature's jugglery, will, I hope, do me the honour to walk +up and behold yet greater wonders within.” + +He ceased, and set about getting his knife from his pocket. + +Clare, watching Gunn's every motion, had partially sheltered himself +behind the side of the doorway. One who did not know Gunn, might well +have taken the thing for a practical joke, as innocent as it was +foolish, the pretended conclusion of which would be met by some +comical frustration, probably the dog's escape; but Clare saw that his +friend was in mortal peril. With the eye of one used to wild animals +and the unexpectedness of their sudden motions, he stood following +every movement of Gunn's hands, ready to anticipate whatever action +might indicate its own approach: he watched like the razor-clawed +lynx. While Gunn held Abdiel as he did, he could not seriously injure +him; and although he was hurting him dreadfully, his hate-possessed +fingers, like a live, writhing vice, worrying and squeezing the skin +of his poor little neck, it yet was better to wait the right moment. + +When he saw the arm that held the dog drawn in, and the other hand +move to the man's pocket, he knew that in a moment more, with a +theatrical cry of dismay from the murderer, the body of his friend +would be dashed on the ground, his head half off, and the blood +streaming from his neck. They were mostly a rather vulgar people that +stood about the platform, not a few of them capable of being delighted +with such an end to a joke poor without some catastrophe. + +The wretch had stooped a little, and slightly relaxed his hold on the +dog to open his knife, when with a bound that doubled the force of the +blow Clare struck him on the side of the head. He had no choice where +to hit him, and his fist fell on the spot so lately torn by the claws +of Pummy. The tyrant fell, and lay for a moment stunned. Abdiel flung +himself on his master, exultant at finding the thing after all the +joke he had been trying in vain to believe it. Clare caught him up and +dashed down the steps, one instant before Glum Gunn rose, cursing +furiously. Clare charged the crowd: it was not a time to be civil! +Abdiel's life was in imminent danger! That his own was in the same +predicament did not occur to him. + +His sudden rush took the crowd by surprise, or those next the caravans +would, I fear, have stopped him. Some started to follow him, but the +portion of the crowd he came to next, had more in it of a better sort, +and closed up behind him. There all the women and most of the men took +the part of the boy that loved his dog. + +“What be you a-shovin' at?” bawled a huge country-man, against whom +Gunn made a cannon as he rushed in pursuit. “Aw'll knock 'ee flat--aw +wull! Let little un an's dawg aloan! Aw be for un! Hit me an'ye +choose--aw doan't objec'!” + +Every attempt Gunn made to pass him, the man pushed his great body in +his way, and he soon saw there was no chance of overtaking Clara The +wings of Hate are swift, but not so swift as those of rescuing Love; +and Help is far readier to run to Love than to Hate. + + + +Chapter L. + +Clare seeks help. + + +Clare got out of the crowd, and was soon beyond sight of anyone that +knew what had taken place, his heart exulting that he had saved his +friend who trusted in him. He hurried on, heedless whither, his only +thought to get away from the man that would murder Abby; and the town +was a long way behind ere the question of what they were to do for +supper and shelter presented itself. This had grown a strange thought, +so long had the caravan been to him a house of warmth and plenty. But +comfort has its disadvantages; and Clare discovered, with some dismay, +that he was not quite so free as ere the luxurious life of the last +few weeks began: both Abby and he would be less able, he feared, to +bear hunger and cold. It was but to start afresh, however, and grow +abler! One consolation was, that, if they felt hunger more, it could +not do them so much harm: they had more capital to go upon. He must +not gather cowardice instead of courage from a season of prosperity! +He was glad for Abdiel, though, that he grew his own clothes: he had +left his warmest behind him. + +It made him ashamed to find himself regretting his clothes when he had +lost a mother! Then it pleased him to think that she had his +sovereign, and the wages due since his clothes were paid for. They +would help to give Glum Gunn his own, and set the beasts free from +him! Then he would go back and spend his life with his mother and +Pummy! Poor Pummy! But though Gunn hated him, he was now afraid of him +too; and his fear would be the creature's protection! He had imagined +it his might that cowed the puma, when it was the animal's human +gentleness that made him submissive to man: he knew better now! Clare +clasped Abdiel to his bosom, and trudged on. They had gone miles ere +it occurred to him that it might be more comfortable for both if each +carried his individual burden. He set Abdiel down, and the dog ran +vibrating with pleasure. Clare felt himself set down, but with no tail +to wag. + +It was late in the autumn: they could do without supper, but they must +if possible find shelter! A farm-house came in sight. It recalled so +vividly Clare's early experiences of houselessness, that beasts and +caravans, his mother and Glum Gunn, grew hazy and distant, and the old +time drew so near that he seemed to have waked into it out of a long +dream. They were back in the old misery--a misery in which, however, +his heart had not been pierced as now with the pangs of innocent +creatures unable or unwilling to defend themselves from their natural +guardian! It was long before he learned that for weeks Gunn was unable +to hurt one of them; that his drinking, his late wound, and the blow +Clare had given him, brought on him a severe attack of erysipelas. + +When they reached the farm-yard, Clare knew by the aspect of things +that the cattle were housed and the horses suppered. He crept unseen +into one of the cow-houses: the bodies and breath of the animals would +keep them warm! How sweet the smell seemed to him after that of the +caravans! An empty stall was before him, like a chamber prepared for +his need. He gathered a few straws from under each of the cows, taking +care that not one of them should be the less comfortable, and spread +with them for Abby and himself a thin couch. + +But with the excitement of what had happened, his wonder as to what +would come next, and the hunger that had begun to gnaw at him, Clare +could not sleep. And as he lay awake, thoughts came to him. + +Whence do the thoughts come to us? Of one thing I am sure--that I do +not make or even send for my own thoughts. If some greater one did not +think about us, we should not think about anything. Then what a wonder +is the night! How it works compelling people to think! Surely somehow +God comes nearer in the night! Clare began to think how helpless he +was. He was not thinking of food and warmth, but of doing things for +the beings he loved. It seemed to him hard that he could but love, and +nothing more. There was his mother! he could do nothing to deliver her +from that villainous brother-in-law! There was Pummy, exposed to the +cruelty of the same evil man! and again he could do nothing for him! +There was Maly! he could do nothing for her--nothing to make her +father and mother glad for her up in the dome of the angels! + +Was it possible that he really could do nothing? + +Then came the thought that people used to say prayers in the days when +he went with his mother to church. He had been taught to say prayers +himself, but had begun to forget them when there was no bed to kneel +beside. What did saying prayers mean? In the Bible-stories people +prayed when they were in trouble and could not help themselves! Did it +matter that he had no church and no bedside? Surely one place must be +as good as another, if it was true that God was everywhere! Surely he +could hear him wherever he spoke! Neither could there be any necessity +for speaking loud! God would hear, however low he spoke! Then he +remembered that God knew the thoughts of his creatures: if so, he +might think a prayer to him; there was no need for any words! + +From the moment of that conclusion, Clare began to pray to God. And +now he prayed the right kind of prayer; that is, his prayers were real +prayers; he asked for what he wanted. To say prayers asking God for +things we do not care about, is to mock him. When we ask for something +we want, it may be a thing God does not care to give us; but he likes +us to speak to him about it. If it is good for us, he will give it us; +if it is not good, he will not give it to us, for it would hurt +us. But Clare only asked God to do what he is always doing: his prayer +was that God would be good to all his mothers, and to his two fathers, +and Mr. Halliwell, and Maly, and Sarah, and his own baby, and +Tommy--and poor Pummy, and would, if Glum Gunn beat him, help him to +bear the blows, and not mind them very much. He ended with something +like this: + +“God, I can't do anything for anybody! I wish I could! You can get +near them, God: please do something good to every one of them because +I can't. I think I could go to sleep now, if I were sure you had +listened!” + +Having thus cast all his cares on God, he did go to sleep; and woke in +the morning ready for the new day that arrived with his waking. + + + +Chapter LI. + +Clare a true master. + + +It would take a big book to tell all the things of interest that +happened to Clare in the next few weeks. They would be mainly how and +where he found refuge, and how he and Abdiel got things to eat. Verily +they did not live on the fat of the land. Now and then some benevolent +person, seeing him in such evident want, would contrive a job in order +to pay him for it: in one place, although they had no need of him, +certain good people gave him ten days' work under a gardener, and +dismissed him with twenty shillings in his pocket. + +One way and another, Clare and Abdiel did not die of hunger or of +cold. That is the summary of their history for a good many weeks. + +One night they slept on a common, in the lee of a gypsy tent, and +contrived to get away in the morning without being seen. For Clare +feared they might offer him something stolen, and hunger might +persuade him to ask no questions. Many respectable people will laugh +at the idea of a boy being so particular. Such are immeasurably more +to be pitied than Clare. No one could be hard on a boy who in such +circumstances took what was offered him, but he would not be so honest +as Clare--though he might well be more honest than such as would laugh +at him. + +Another time he went up to a large house, to see if he might not there +get a job. He found the place, for the time at least, abandoned: I +suppose the persons in charge had deserted their post to make +holiday. He lingered about until the evening fell, and then got with +Abdiel under a glass frame in the kitchen-garden. But the glass was so +close to them that Clare feared breaking it; so they got out again, +and lay down on a bench in a shed for potting plants. + +Clare was waked in the morning by a sound cuff on the side of the +head. He got off the bench, took up Abdiel, and coming to himself, +said to the gardener who stood before him in righteous indignation, + +“I'm much obliged to you for my bedroom, sir. It was very cold last +night.” + +His words and respectful manner mollified the gardener a little. + +“You have no business here!” he returned. + +“I know that, sir; but what is a boy to do?” answered Clare. “I wasn't +hurting anything, and it was so cold we might have died if we had +slept out of doors.” + +“That's no business of mine!” + +“But it is of mine,” rejoined Clare; “--except you think a boy that +can't get work ought to commit suicide. If he mustn't do that, he +can't always help doing what people with houses don't like!” + +The gardener was not a bad sort of fellow, and perceived the truth in +what the boy said. + +“That's always the story!” he replied, however. “Can't get work! No +idle boy ever could get work! I know the sort of you--well!” + +“Would you mind giving me a chance?” returned Clare eagerly. “I +wouldn't ask much wages.” + +“You wouldn't, if you asked what you was worth!” + +“We'd be worth our victuals anyhow!” answered Clare, who always +counted the dog. + +“Who's we?” asked the man. “Be there a hundred of you?” + +“No; only two. Only me and Abdiel here!” + +“Oh, that beast of a mongrel?” + +The gardener made a stride as if to seize the dog. Clare bounded from +him. The man burst into a mocking laugh. + +“He's a good dog, indeed, sir!” said Clare. + +“You'll give him the sack before I give you a job.” + +“We're old friends, sir; we can't be parted!” + +“I thought as much!” cried the gardener. “They're always ready to +work, an' so hungry! But will they part with the mangy dog? Not they! +Hard work and good wages ain't nowhere beside a mongrel pup! Get out! +Don't I know the whole ugly bilin' of ye!” + +Clare turned away with a gentle good-morning, which the man did not +get out of his heart for a matter of two days, and departed, hugging +Abdiel. + +He was often cold and always hungry, but his life was anything but +dull. The man who does not know where his next meal is to come from, +is seldom afflicted with ennui. That is the monopoly of the enviable +with nothing to do, and everything money can get them. A foolish +west-end life has immeasurably more discomfort in it than that of a +street Arab. The ordinary beggar, while in tolerable health, finds far +more enjoyment than most fashionable ladies. + +Thus Clare went wandering long, seeking work, and finding next to +none--all the time upheld by the feeling that something was waiting +for him somewhere, that he was every day drawing nearer to it. Not +once yet had he lost heart. In very virtue of unselfishness and lack +of resentment, he was strong. Not once had he shed a tear for himself, +not once had he pitied his own condition. + + + +Chapter LII. + +Miss Tempest. + + +Without knowing it, he was approaching the sea. Walking along a chain +of downs, he saw suddenly from the top of one of them, for the first +time in his memory though not in his life, the sea--a pale blue cloud, +as it appeared, far on the horizon, between two low hills. The sight +of it, although he did not at first know what it was, brought with it +a strange inexplicable feeling of dolorous pleasure. For this he could +not account. It was the faintest revival of an all but obliterated +impression of something familiar to his childhood, lying somewhere +deeper than the memory, which was a blank in regard to it. But that +feeling was not all that the sight awoke in him. The pale blue cloud +bore to him such a look of the eternal, that it seemed the very place +for God to live in--the solemn, stirless region of calm in which the +being to whom now of late he had first begun in reality to pray, kept +his abode. The hungry, worn, tattered boy, with nothing to call his +own but a great hope and a little dog, fell down on his bare knees on +the hard road, and stretched out his hands in an ecstasy toward the +low cloud. + +The far-off ringing tramp of a horse's feet aroused him. He rose light +as an athlete, the great hope grown twice its former size, and hunger +forgotten. + +The blue cloud kept in sight, and by and by he knew it was the sea he +saw, though how or at what moment the knowledge came to him he could +not have told. The track was leading him toward one of the principal +southern ports. + +By this time he was again very thin; but he had brown cheeks and clear +eyes, and, save when suffering immediately from hunger, felt perfectly +well. Hunger is a sad thing notwithstanding its deep wholesomeness; +but there is immeasurably more suffering in the world from eating too +much than from eating too little. + +Well able by this time to read the signs of the road, he perceived at +length he must be drawing near a town. He had already passed a house +or two with a little lawn in front, and indications of a garden +behind; and he hoped yet again that here, after all, he might get +work. To door after door he carried his modest request: some doors +were shut in his face almost before he could speak; at others he had a +civil word from maid, or a rough word from man; from none came sound +of assent. It had become harder too to find shelter. Ever as he went, +space was more and more appropriated and enclosed; less and less room +was left for the man for whom had been made no special cubic provision +of earth and air, and who had no money--the most disreputable of +conditions in the eyes of such as would be helpless if they had +none. A rare philosopher for eyes capable of understanding him, he was +a despicable being in the eyes of the common man. To know a human +being one must be human--that is, the divine must be strong in him. + +For some days now, neither Clare nor Abdiel had come even within sight +of food enough to make a meal. The dog was rather thinner than his +master. + +“Abdiel,” said Clare to him one day, “I fear you will soon be a +serpent! Your body gets longer and longer, and your legs get shorter +and shorter: you'll be crawling presently, rubbing the hair off your +useless little belly on the dusty road! Never mind, Abdiel; you'll be +a good serpent. Satan was turned into a bad serpent because he was a +bad angel; you will be a good serpent, because you are a good dog! I +hope, however, we shall yet put a stop to the serpent-business!” + +Abdiel wagged his tail, as much as to say, “All right, master!” + +The nights were now very cold; winter was coming fast. Had Clare been +long enough in one place for people to know him, he would never have +been allowed to go so cold and hungry; but he had always to move on, +and nobody had time to learn to care about him. So the terrible +sunless season threatened to wrap him in its winding-sheet, and lay +him down. + +One evening, just before sunset, grown sleepy in spite of the +gathering cold, he sat down on one of the two steep grassy slopes that +bordered the road. His feet were bare now, bare and brown, for his +shoes had come to such plight that it was a relief to throw them away; +but his soles had grown like leather. They rested in the dry shallow +rain-channel, and his body leaned back against the slope. Abdiel, +instead of jumping on the bank and lying in the soft grass, lay down +on the leathery feet, and covered them from the night with his long +faithful body and its coat of tangled hair. + +The sun was shooting his last radiance along the road, and its redness +caressed the sleeping companions, when an elderly lady came to her +gate at the top of the opposite slope, and looked along the road with +the sun. Her reverting glance fell upon the sleepers--the Knight of +Hope lying in rags, not marble, his feet not upon his dog, but his dog +upon his feet. It was a touching picture, and the old lady's heart was +one easily touched. She looked and saw that the face of the boy, whose +hunger was as plain as his rags, was calm as the wintry sky. She +wondered, but she needed not have wondered; for storm of anger, +drought of greed, nor rotting mist of selfishness, had passed or +rested there, to billow, or score, or waste. + +Her mere glance seemed to wake Abdiel, who took advantage of his +waking to have a lick at the brown, dusty, brave, uncomplaining feet, +so well used to the world's _via dolorosa_. She saw, and was touched +yet more by this ministration of the guardian of the feet. Gently +opening the gate she descended the slope, crossed the road, and stood +silent, regarding the outcasts. No cloudy blanket covered the sky: ere +morning the dew would lie frozen on the grass! + +“You shouldn't be sleeping there!” she said. + +Abdiel started to his four feet and would have snarled, but with one +look at the lady changed his mind. Clare half awoke, half sat up, made +an inarticulate murmur, and fell back again. + +“Get up, my boy,” said the old lady. “You must indeed!” + +“Oh, please, ma'am, must I?” answered Clare, slowly rising to his +feet. “I had but just lain down, and I'm so tired!--If I mayn't sleep +_there_,” he continued, “where _am_ I to sleep?--Please, ma'am, why is +everybody so set against letting a boy sleep? It don't cost them +anything! I can understand not giving him work, if he looks too much +in want of it; but why should they count it bad of him to lie down and +sleep?” + +The lady wisely let him talk; not until he stopped did she answer him. + +“It's because of the frost, my boy!” she said. “It would be the death +of you to sleep out of doors to-night!” + +“It's a nice place for it, ma'am!” + +“To sleep in? Certainly not!” + +“I didn't mean that, ma'am. I meant a nice place to go away from--to +die in, ma'am!” + +“That is not ours to choose,” answered the old lady severely, but the +tone of her severity trembled. + +“I sha'n't find anywhere so nice as this bank,” said Clare, turning +and looking at it sorrowfully. + +“There are plenty of places in the town. It's but a mile farther on!” + +“But this is so much nicer, ma'am! And I've no money--none at all, +ma'am. When I came out of prison,--” + +“Came out of _where_?” + +“Out of prison, ma'am.” + +He had never been in prison in a legal sense, never having been +convicted of anything; but he did not know the difference between +detention and imprisonment. + +“Prison!” she exclaimed, holding up her hands in horror. “How dare you +mention prison!” + +“Because I was in it, ma'am.” + +“And to say it so coolly too! Are you not ashamed of yourself?” + +“No, ma'am.” + +“It's a shame to have been in prison.” + +“Not if I didn't do anything wrong.” + +“Nobody will believe that, I'm afraid!” + +“I suppose not, ma'am! I used to feel very angry when people wouldn't +believe me, but now I see they are not to blame. And now I've got used +to it, and it don't hurt so much.--But,” he added with a sigh, “the +worst of it is, they won't give me any work!” + +“Do you always tell people you've come out of prison?” + +“Yes, ma'am, when I think of it.” + +“Then you can't wonder they won't give you work!” + +“I don't, ma'am--not now. It seems a law of the universe!” + +“Not of the universe, I think--but of this world--perhaps!” said the +old lady thoughtfully. + +“But there's one thing I do wonder at,” said Clare. “When I say I've +been in prison, they believe me; but when I say I haven't done +anything wrong, then they mock me, and seem quite amused at being +expected to believe that. I can't get at it!” + +“I daresay! But people will always believe you against yourself.--What +are you going to do, then, if nobody will give you work? You can't +starve!” + +“Indeed I _can_, ma'am! It's just the one thing I've got to do. We've +been pretty near the last of it sometimes--me and Abdiel! Haven't we, +Abby?” + +The dog wagged his tail, and the old lady turned aside to control her +feelings. + +“Don't cry, ma'am,” said Clare; “I don't mind it--not _much_. I'm too +glad I didn't _do_ anything, to mind it much! Why should I! Ought I to +mind it much, ma'am? Jesus Christ hadn't done anything, and they +killed _him_! I don't fancy it's so very bad to die of only hunger! +But we'll soon see!--Sha'n't we, Abby?” + +Again the dog wagged his tail. + +“If you didn't do anything wrong, what _did_ you do?” said the old +lady, almost at her wits' end. + +“I don't like telling things that are not going to be believed. It's +like washing your face with ink!” + +“I will _try_ to believe you.” + +“Then I will tell you; for you speak the truth, ma'am, and so, +perhaps, will be able to believe the truth!” + +“How do you know I speak the truth?” + +“Because you didn't say, 'I will believe you.' Nobody can be sure of +doing that. But you can be sure of _trying_; and you said, 'I will +_try_ to believe you.'” + +“Tell me all about it then.” + +“I will, ma'am.--The policeman came in the middle of the night when we +were asleep, and took us all away, because we were in a house that was +not ours.” + +“Whose was it then?” + +“Nobody knew. It was what they call in chancery. There was nobody in +it but moths and flies and spiders and rats;--though I think the rats +only came to eat baby.” + +“Baby! Then the whole family of you, father, mother, and all, were +taken to prison!” + +“No, ma'am; my fathers and my mothers were taken up into the dome of +the angels.”--What with hunger and sleepiness, Clare was talking like +a child.--“I haven't any father and mother in this world. I have two +fathers and two mothers up there, and one mother in this world. She's +the mother of the wild beasts.” + +The old lady began to doubt the boy's sanity, but she went on +questioning him. + +“How did you have a baby with you, then?” + +“The baby was my own, ma'am. I took her out of the water-butt.” + +Once more Clare had to tell his story--from the time, that is, when +his adoptive father and mother died. He told it in such a simple +matter-of-fact way, yet with such quaint remarks, from their very +simplicity difficult to understand, that, if the old lady, for all her +trying, was not able quite to believe his tale, it was because she +doubted whether the boy was not one of God's innocents, with an +angel-haunted brain. + +“And what's become of Tommy?” she asked. + +“He's in the same workhouse with baby. I'm very glad; for what I +should have done with Tommy, and nothing to give him to eat, I can't +think. He would have been sure to steal! I couldn't have kept him from +it!” + +“You must be more careful of your company.” + +“Please, ma'am, I was very careful of Tommy. He had the best company I +could give him: I did try to be better for Tommy's sake. But my trying +wasn't much use to Tommy, so long as he wouldn't try! He was a little +better, though, I think; and if I had him now, and could give him +plenty to eat, and had baby as well as Abdiel to help me, we might +make something of Tommy, I think.--_You_ think so--don't you, Abdiel?” + +The dog, who had stood looking in his master's face all the time he +spoke, wagged his tail faster. + +“What a name to give a dog! Where did you find it?” + +“In Paradise Lost, ma'am. Abdiel was the one angel, you remember, +ma'am, who, when he saw what Satan was up to, left him, and went back +to his duty.” + +“And what was his duty?” + +“Why of course to do what God told him. I love Abdiel, and because I +love the little dog and he took care of baby, I call him Abdiel +too. Heaven is so far off that it makes no confusion to have the same +name.” + +“But how dare you give the name of an angel to a dog?” + +“To a _good_ dog, ma'am! A good dog is good enough to go with any +angel--at his heels of course! If he had been a bad dog, it would have +been wicked to name him after a good angel. If the dog had been +Tommy--I mean if Tommy had been the dog, I should have had to call him +Moloch, or Belzebub! God made the angels and the dogs; and if the dogs +are good, God loves them.--Don't he, Abdiel?” + +Abdiel assented after his usual fashion. The lady said nothing. Clare +went on. + +“Abdiel won't mind--the angel Abdiel, I mean, ma'am--he won't mind +lending his name to my friend. The dog will have a name of his own, +perhaps, some day--like the rest of us!” + +“What is _your_ name?” + +“The name I have now is, like the dog's, a borrowed one. I shall get +my own one day--not here--but there--when--when--I'm hungry enough to +go and find it.” + +Clare had grown very white. He sat down, and lay back on the grass. He +had talked more in those few minutes than for weeks, and want had made +him weak. He felt very faint. The dog jumped up, and fell to licking +his face. + +“What a wicked old woman I am!” said the lady to herself, and ran +across the road like some little long-legged bird, and climbed the +bank swiftly. + +She disappeared within the gate, but to return presently with a +tumbler of milk and a huge piece of bread. + +“Here, boy!” she cried; “here is medicine for you! Make haste and take +it.” + +Clare sat up feebly, and stared at the tumbler for a moment. Either he +could hardly believe his eyes, or was too sick to take it at +once. When he had it in his hand, he held it out to the dog. + +“Here, Abdiel, have a little,” he said. + +This offended the old lady. + +“You're never going to give the dog that good milk!” she cried. + +“A little of it, please, ma'am!” + +“--And feed him out of the tumbler too?” + +“He's had nothing to-day, ma'am, and we're comrades!” + +“But it's not clean of you!” + +“Ah, you don't know dogs, ma'am! His tongue is clean as clean as +anybody's.” + +Abdiel took three or four little laps of the milk, drew away, and +looked up at his master--as much as to say, “You, now!” + +“Besides,” Clare went on, “he couldn't get at it so well in the bottom +of the tumbler.” + +With that he raised it to his own lips, drank eagerly, and set it on +the road half empty, looking his thanks to the giver with a smile she +thought heavenly. Then he broke the bread, and giving the dog nearly +the half of it, began to eat the rest himself. The old lady stood +looking on in silence, pondering what she was to do with the celestial +beggar. + +“Would you mind sleeping in the greenhouse, if I had a bed put up for +you?” she said at length, in tone apologetic. + +“This is a better place--though I wish it was warmer!” said Clare, +with another smile as he looked up at the sky, in which a few stars +were beginning to twinkle, and thought of the gardeners he had +met. “--Don't you think it better, ma'am?” + +“No, indeed, I don't!” she answered crossly; for to her the open air +at night seemed wrong, disreputable. There was something unholy in it! + +“I would rather stay here,” said Clare. + +“Why?” + +“Because you don't quite believe me, ma'am. You can't; and you can't +help it. You wouldn't be able to sleep for thinking that a boy just +out of prison was lying in the greenhouse. There would be no saying +what he might not do! I once read in a newspaper how an old lady took +a lad into her house for a servant, and he murdered her!--No, ma'am, +thank you! After such a supper we shall sleep beautifully!--Sha'n't +we, Abby? And then, perhaps, you could give me a job in the garden +to-morrow! I daresay the gardener wants a little help sometimes! But +if he knew me to have slept in the greenhouse, he would hate me.” + +The old lady said nothing, for, like most old ladies, she feared her +gardener. She took the tumbler from the boy's hand, and went into the +house. But in two minutes she came again, with another great piece of +bread for Clare, and a bone with something on it which she threw to +Abdiel. The dog's ears started up, erect and alive, like individual +creatures, and his eyes gleamed; but he looked at his master, and +would not touch the bone without his leave--which given, he fell upon +it, and worried it as if it had been a rat. + +Clare was now himself again, and when the old lady left them for the +third time, he walked with her across the way, bread in hand, to open +the gate for her. When she was inside, he took off his cap, and bade +her good-night with a grace that won all that was left to be won of +her heart. + +Before she had taken three steps from the gate, the old lady turned. + +“Boy!” she called; and Clare, who was making for his couch under the +stars, hastened back at the sound of her voice. + +“I shall not be able to sleep,” she said, “for thinking of you out +there in the bleak night!” + +“I am used to it, ma'am!” + +“Oh, I daresay! but you see I'm not! and I don't like the thought of +it! You may like hoarfrost-sheets, for what I know, but I don't! You +may like the stars for a tester--because you want to die and go to +them, I suppose!--but I have no fancy for the stars! You are a foolish +fellow, and I am out of temper with you. You don't give a thought to +me--or to my feelings if you should die! I should never go to bed +again with a good conscience!--Besides, I should have to nurse you!” + +The last member of her expostulation was hardly in logical sequence, +but it had not the less influence on Clare for that. + +“I will do whatever you please, ma'am,” he answered humbly. “--Come, +Abdiel!” + +The dog came running across the road with his bone in his mouth. + +“You mustn't bring that inside the gate, Ab!” said Clare. + +The dog dropped it. + +“Good dog! It's a lady's garden, you know, Abdiel!” Then turning to +his hostess, Clare added, “I always tell him when I'm pleased with +him: don't you think it right, ma'am?” + +“I daresay! I don't know anything about dogs.” + +“If you had a dog like Abdiel, he would soon teach you dogs, ma'am!” + rejoined Clare. + +By this time they were at the house-door. The lady told him to wait +there, went in, and had a talk with her two maids. In half an hour, +Clare and his four-footed angel were asleep--in an outhouse, it is +true, but in a comfortable bed, such as they had not seen since their +flight from the caravans. The cold breeze wandered moaning like a lost +thing round the bare walls, as if every time it woke, it went abroad +to see if there was any hope for the world; but it did not touch them; +and if through their ears it got into their dreams, it made their +sleep the sweeter, and their sense of refuge the deeper. + +But although the bewitching boy and his good dog were not lying in the +open air over against her gate, and although never a thought of murder +or theft came to trouble her, it was long before the old lady found +repose. Her heart had been deeply touched. + + + +Chapter LIII. + +The gardener. + + +From the fact that his hostess made him no answer when he breathed the +hope of a job in her garden, Clare concluded that he had presumed in +suggesting the thing to her, and that she would be relieved by their +departure. When he woke in the morning, therefore, early after a grand +sleep, he felt he had no right to linger: he had been invited to +sleep, and he had slept! He also shrank from the idea of being +supposed to expect his breakfast before he went. So, as soon as he got +up, he walked out of the gate, crossed the road, and sat down on the +spot he had occupied the night before, there to wait until the house +should be astir. For, although he could not linger within gates where +he was unknown, neither could he slink away without morning-thanks for +the gift of a warm night. + +As he sat, he grew drowsy, and leaning back, fell fast asleep. + +The thoughts of his hostess had been running on very different lines, +and she woke with feelings concerning the pauper very different from +those the pauper imagined in her. She must do something for him; she +must give or get him work! As to giving him work, her difficulty lay +in the gardener. She resolved, however, to attempt over-coming it. + +She rose earlier than usual, therefore, and as the man, who did not +sleep in the house, was not yet come, she went down to the gate to +meet him and have the thing over--so eager was she, and so nervous in +prospect of such an interview with her dreaded servant. + +“Good gracious!” she murmured aloud, “does it rain beggars?” For +there, on the same spot, lay another beggar, another boy, with a dog +in his bosom the facsimile of the ugly white thing named after +Milton's angel! She did not feel moved to go and make his +acquaintance. It could not be another of the family, could it? that +had already heard of his brother's good luck, and come to see whether +there might not be a picking for him too! She turned away hurriedly +lest he should wake, and went back to the house. + +But looking behind her as she mounted the steps, she caught sight of +the gardener at the other gate, casting a displeased look across the +road before he entered: he did not like to see tramps about! Her heart +sank a little, but she was not to be turned aside. + +The gardener came in, and his mistress joined him and walked with him +to his work, telling him as much as she thought fit concerning the +boy, and interspersing her narrative with hints of the duty of giving +every one a chance. She took care not to mention that he had come out +of a prison somewhere. + +“No one should be driven to despair,” she said, little thinking she +used almost the very words of the Lord, according to the Sinaitic +reading of a passage in St. Luke's gospel. + +The argument had little force with the rough Scotchman: his mistress +was soft-hearted! He shook his head ominously at the idea of giving a +tramp the chance of doing decent work, but at last consented, with a +show of being over-persuaded to an imprudent action, to let the boy +help him for a day, and see how he got on, stipulating, however, that +he should not be supposed to have pledged himself to anything. + +Miss Tempest's plans went beyond the gardener's scope. She had for +some months been inclined to have a boy to help in the house--an +inclination justified by a late unexpected accession of income: if +this boy were what he seemed, he would make a more than valuable +servant; and nothing could clear her judgment of him better, she +thought, than putting him to the test of a brief subjection to the +cross-grained, exacting Scotchman. By that she would soon know whether +to dismiss him, or venture with him farther! + +She had but just wrung his hard consent from the gardener, when the +cook came running, to say the boy was gone. Upon poor Miss Tempest's +heart fell a cold avalanche. + +“But we've counted the spoons, ma'am, and they're all right!” said the +cook. + +This additional statement, however, did not seem to give much +consolation to the benevolent old lady. She stood for a moment with +her eyes on the ground, too pained to move or speak. Then she started, +and ran to the gate. The cook ran after, thinking her mistress gone +out of her mind--and was sure of it when she saw her open the gate, +and run straight down the bank to the road. But when she reached the +gate herself, she saw her standing over a boy asleep on the grass of +the opposite bank. + +Abdiel, lying on his bosom, watched her with keen friendly eyes. Clare +was dreaming some agreeable morning-dream; for a smile of such +pleasure as could haunt only an innocent face, nickered on it like a +sunny ripple on the still water of a pool. + +“No!” said Miss Tempest to herself; “there's no duplicity there! +Otherwise, a tree is not known by its fruit!” + +Clare opened his eyes, and started lightly to his feet, strong and +refreshed. + +“Good morning, ma'am!” he said, pulling off his cap. + +“Good morning--what am I to call you?” she returned. + +“Clare, if you please, ma'am.” + +“What is your Christian name?” + +“That is my Christian name, ma'am--Clare.” + +“Then what is your surname?” + +“I am called Porson, ma'am, but I have another name. Mr. Porson +adopted me.” + +“What is your other name?” + +“I don't know, ma'am. I am going to know one day, I think; but the day +is not come yet.” + +He told her all he could about his adoptive parents, and little Maly; +but the time before he went to the farm was growing strangely +dreamlike, as if it had sunk a long way down in the dark waters of the +past--all up to the hour when Maly was carried away by the long black +aunt. + +The story accounted to Miss Tempest both for his good speech and the +name of his dog. The adopted child of a clergyman might well be +acquainted with _Paradise Lost_, though she herself had never read +more of it than the apostrophe to Light in the beginning of the third +book! That she had learned at school without understanding phrase or +sentence of it; while Clare never left passage alone until he +understood it, or, failing that, had invented a meaning for it. + +“Well, then, Clare, I've been talking to my gardener about you,” said +Miss Tempest. “He will give you a job.” + +“God bless you, ma'am! I'm ready!” cried Clare, stretching out his +arms, as if to get them to the proper length for work. “Where shall I +find him?” + +“You must have breakfast first.” + +She led the way to the kitchen. + +The cook, a middle-aged woman, looked at the dog, and her face +puckered all over with points of interrogation and exclamation. + +“Please, cook, will you give this young man some breakfast? He wanted +to go to work without any, but that wouldn't do--would it, cook?” said +her mistress. + +“I hope the dog won't be running in and out of my kitchen all day, +ma'am!” + +“No fear of that, cook!” said Clare; “he never leaves me.” + +“Then I don't think--I'm afraid,” she began, and stopped. “--But +that's none of my business,” she added. “John will look after his +own--and more!” + +Miss Tempest said nothing, but she almost trembled; for John, she +knew, had a perfect hatred of dogs. Nor could anyone wonder, for, gate +open or gate shut, in they came and ran over his beds. She dared not +interfere! He and Clare must settle the question of Abdiel or no +Abdiel between them! She left the kitchen. + +The cook threw the dog a crust of bread, and Abdiel, after a look at +his master, fell upon it with his white, hungry little teeth. Then she +proceeded to make a cup of coffee for Clare, casting an occasional +glance of pity at his garments, so miserably worn and rent, and his +brown bare feet. + +“How on the face of this blessed world, boy, do you expect to work in +the garden without shoes?” she said at length. + +“Most things I can do well enough without them,” answered Clare; +“--even digging, if the ground is not very hard. My feet used to be +soft, but now the soles of them are like leather.--They've grown their +own shoes,” he added, with a smile, and looked straight in her eyes. + +The smile and the look went far to win her heart, as they had won that +of her mistress: she felt them true, and wondered how such a +fair-spoken, sweet-faced boy could be on the tramp. She poured him out +a huge cup of coffee, fried him a piece of bacon, and cut him as much +bread and butter as he could dispose of. He had not often eaten +anything but dry bread, in general very dry, since he left the +menagerie, and now felt feasted like an emperor. Pleased with the +master, the cook fed the dog with equal liberality; and then, curious +to witness their reception by John, between whom and herself was +continuous feud, she conducted Clare to the gardener. From a distance +he saw them coming. With look irate fixed upon the dog, he started to +meet them. Clare knew too well the meaning of that look, and saw in +him Satan regarding Abdiel with eye of fire, and the words on his +lips-- + + “And fly, ere evil intercept thy flight.” + +The moment he came near enough, without word, or show of malice beyond +what lay in his eye, he made, with the sharp hoe he carried, a sudden +downstroke at the faithful angel, thinking to serve him as Gabriel +served Moloch. But Abdiel was too quick for him: he had read danger in +his very gait the moment he saw him move, and enmity in his eyes when +he came nearer. He kept therefore his own eyes on the hoe, and never +moved until the moment of attack. Then he darted aside. The weapon +therefore came down on the hard gravel, jarring the arm of his +treacherous enemy. With a muttered curse John followed him and made +another attempt, which Abdiel in like manner eluded. John followed and +followed; Abdiel fled and fled--never farther than a few yards, +seeming almost to entice the man's pursuit, sometimes pirouetting on +his hind legs to escape the blows which the gardener, growing more and +more furious with failure, went on aiming at him. Fruitlessly did +Clare assure him that neither would the dog do any harm, nor allow any +one to hit him. It was from very weariness that at last he desisted, +and wiping his forehead with his shirt-sleeve, turned upon Clare in +the smothered wrath that knows itself ridiculous. For all the time the +cook stood by, shaking with delighted laughter at his every fresh +discomfiture. + +“Awa', ye deil's buckie,” he cried, “an tak' the little Sawtan wi' ye! +Dinna lat me see yer face again.” + +“But the lady told me you would give me a job!” said Clare. + +“I didna tell her I wad gie yer tyke a job! I wad though, gien he wad +lat me!” + +“He's given you a stiff one!” said the cook, and laughed again. + +The gardener took no notice of her remark. + +“Awa' wi' ye!” he cried again, yet more wrathfully, “--or--” + +He raised his hand. + +Clare looked in his eyes and did not budge. + +“For shame, John!” expostulated the cook. “Would you strike a child?” + +“I'm no child, cook!” said Clare. “He can't hurt me much. I've had a +good breakfast!” + +“Lat 'im tak' awa' that deevil o' a tyke o' his, as I tauld him,” + thundered the gardener, “or I'll mak' a pulp o' 'im!” + +“I've had such a breakfast, sir, as I'm bound to give a whole day's +work in return for,” said Clare, looking up at the angry man; “and I +won't stir till I've done it. Stolen food on my stomach would turn me +sick!” + +“Gien it did, it wadna be the first time, I reckon!” said the +gardener. + +“It _would_ be the first time!” returned Clara “You are very rude.--If +Abdiel understood Scotch, he would bite you,” he added, as the dog, +hearing his master speak angrily, came up, ears erect, and took his +place at his side, ready for combat. + +“Ye'll hae to tak' some ither mode o' payin' the debt!” said John. +“Stick spaud in yird here, ye sall not! You or I maun flit first!” + +With that he walked slowly away, shouldering his hoe. + +“Come, Abdiel,” said Clare; “we must go and tell Miss Tempest! Perhaps +she'll find something else for us to do. If she can't, she'll forgive +us our breakfast, and we'll be off on the tramp again. I thought we +were going to have a day's rest--I mean work; that's the rest we want! +But this man is an enemy to the poor.” + +The gardener half turned, as if he would speak, but changed his mind +and went his way. + +“Never mind John!” said the cook, loud enough for John to hear. “He's +an old curmudgeon as can't sleep o' nights for quarrellin' inside +him. I'll go to mis'ess, and you go and sit down in the kitchen till I +come to you.” + + + +Chapter LIV. + +The Kitchen. + + +Clare went into the kitchen, and sat down. The housemaid came in, and +stood for a moment looking at him. Then she asked him what he wanted +there. + +“Cook told me to wait here,” he answered. + +“Wait for what?” + +“Till she came to me. She's gone to speak to Miss Tempest.” + +“I won't have that dog here.” + +“When I had a home,” remarked Clare, “our servant said the cook was +queen of the kitchen: I don't want to be rude, ma'am, but I must do as +she told me.” + +“She never told you to bring that mangy animal in here!” + +“She knew he would follow me, and she said nothing about him. But he's +not mangy. He hasn't enough to eat to be mangy. He's as lean as a +dried fish!” + +The housemaid, being fat, was inclined to think the remark personal; +but Clare looked up at her with such clear, honest, simple eyes, that +she forgot the notion, and thought what a wonderfully nice boy he +looked. + +“He's shamefully poor, though! His clothes ain't even decent!” she +remarked to herself. + +And certainly the white skin did look through in several places. + +“You won't let him put his nose in anything, will you?” she said quite +gently, returning his smile with a very pleasant one of her own. + +“Abdiel is too much of a gentleman to do it,” he answered. + +“A dog a gentleman!” rejoined the housemaid with a merry laugh, +willing to draw him out. + +“Abdiel can be hungry and not greedy,” answered Clare, and the young +woman was silent. + +Miss Tempest and Mrs. Mereweather had all this time been turning over +the question of what was to be done with the strange boy. They agreed +it was too bad that anyone willing to work should be prevented from +earning even a day's victuals by the bad temper of a gardener. But his +mistress did not want to send the man away. She had found him +scrupulously honest, as is many a bad-tempered man, and she did not +like changes. The cook on her part had taken such a fancy to Clare +that she did not want him set to garden-work; she would have him at +once into the house, and begin training him for a page. Now Miss +Tempest was greatly desiring the same thing, but in dread of what the +cook would say, and was delighted, therefore, when the first +suggestion of it came from Mrs. Mereweather herself. The only obstacle +in the cook's eyes was that same long, spectral dog. The boy could not +be such a fool, however,--she said, not being a lover of animals--as +let a wretched beast like that come betwixt him and a good situation! + +“It's all right, Clare,” said Mrs. Mereweather, entering her queendom +so radiant within that she could not repress the outshine of her +pleasure. “Mis'ess an' me, we've arranged it all. You're to help me in +the kitchen; an' if you can do what you're told, an' are willin' to +learn, we'll soon get you out of your troubles. There's but one thing +in the way.” + +“What is it, please?” asked Clare. + +“The dog, of course! You must part with the dog.” + +“That I cannot do,” returned Clare quietly, but with countenance +fallen and sorrowful. “--Come, Abdiel!” + +The dog started up, every hair of him full of electric vitality. + +“You don't mean you're going to walk yourself off in such a beastly +ungrateful fashion--an' all for a miserable cur!” exclaimed the cook. + +“The lady has been most kind to us, and we're grateful to her, and +ready to work for her if she will let us;--ain't we, Abdiel? But +Abdiel has done far more for me than Miss Tempest! To part with +Abdiel, and leave him to starve, or get into bad company, would be +sheer ingratitude. I should be a creature such as Miss Tempest ought +to have nothing to do with: I might serve her as that young butler I +told her of! It's just as bad to be ungrateful to a dog as to any +other person. Besides, he wouldn't leave me. He would be always +hanging about.” + +“John would soon knock him on the head.” + +“Would he, Abdiel?” said Clare. + +The dog looked up in his master's face with such a comical answer in +his own, that the cook burst out laughing, and began to like Abdiel. + +“But you don't really mean to say,” she persisted, “that you'd go off +again on the tramp, to be as cold and hungry again to-morrow as you +were yesterday--and all for the sake of a dog? A dog ain't a +Christian!” + +“Abdiel's more of a Christian than some I know,” answered Clare: “he +does what his master tells him.” + +“There's something in that!” said the cook. + +“If I parted with Abdiel, I could never hold up my head among the +angels,” insisted Clare. “Think what harm it might do him! He could +trust nobody after, his goodness might give way! He might grow worse +than Tommy!--No; I've got to take care of Abdiel, and Abdiel's got to +take care of me!--'Ain't you, Abby?” + +“We can't have him here in the kitchen nohow!” said the cook in +relenting tone. + +“Poor fellow!” said the housemaid kindly. + +The dog turned to her and wagged his tail + +“What wouldn't I give for a lover like that!” said the housemaid--but +whether of Clare or the dog I cannot say. + +“I know what I shall do!” cried Clare, in sudden resolve. “I will ask +Miss Tempest to have him up-stairs with her, and when she is tired of +either of us, we will go away together.” + +“A probable thing!” returned the cook. “A lady like Miss Tempest with +a dog like that about her! She'd be eaten up alive with fleas! In ten +minutes she would!” + +“No fear of that!” rejoined Clare. “Abdiel catches all his _own_ +fleas!--Don't you, Abby?” + +The dog instantly began to burrow in his fell of hair--an answer which +might be taken either of two ways: it might indicate comprehension and +corroboration of his master, or the necessity for a fresh hunt. The +women laughed, much amused. + +“Look here!” said Clare. “Let me have a tub of water--warm, if you +please--he likes that: I tried him once, passing a factory, where a +lot of it was running to waste. Then, with the help of a bit of soap, +I'll show you a body of hair to astonish you.” + +“What breed is he?” asked the housemaid. + +“He's all the true breeds under the sun, I fancy,” returned his +master; “but the most of him seems of the sky-blue terrier sort.” + +The more they talked with Clare, the better the women liked him. They +got him a tub and plenty of warm water. Abdiel was nothing loath to be +plunged in, and Clare washed him thoroughly. Taken out and dried, he +seemed no more for a lady's chamber unmeet. + +“Now,” said Clare, “will you please ask Miss Tempest if I may bring +him on to the lawn, and show her some of his tricks?” + +The good lady was much pleased with the cleverness and instant +obedience of the little animal. Clare proposed that she should keep +him by her. + +“But will he stay with me? and will he do what _I_ tell him?” she +asked. + +Clare took the dog aside, and talked to him. He told him what he was +going to do, and what he expected of him. How much Abdiel understood, +who can tell! but when his master laid him down at Miss Tempest's +feet, there he lay; and when Clare went with the cook, he did not +move, though he cast many a wistful glance after the lord of his +heart. When his new mistress went into the house, he followed her +submissively, his head hanging, and his tail motionless. He soon +recovered his cheerfulness, however, and seemed to know that his +friend had not abandoned him. + + + +Chapter LV. + +The wheel rests for a time. + + +That part of the human race which is fond of dolls, may now imagine +the pleasure of the cook in going to the town in the omnibus to buy +everything for a live doll so big as Clare! In a very few days she had +him dressed to her heart's content, and the satisfaction of her +mistress, who would not have him in livery, but in a plain suit of +dark blue cloth: for she loved blue, all her men-people being, or +having been in the navy. Thus dressed, he looked as much of a +gentleman as before: his look of refinement had owed nothing to the +contrast of his rags. Better clothes make not a few seem commoner. + +When Mrs. Mereweather came back from the town the first day, she found +that the ragged boy had got her kitchen and scullery as nice and +clean, and everything as ready to her hand, as if she had got her work +done before she went, which the omnibus would not permit. This +rejoiced her much; but being a woman of experience, she continued a +little anxious lest his sweet ways should go after his rags, lest his +new garments should breed bumptiousness and bad manners. For such a +change is no unfrequent result of prosperity. But such had been +Mr. Porson's teaching and example, such Mrs. Person's management, and +such the responsiveness of the boy's disposition, that the thought +never came to him whether this or that was a thing fit for him to do: +if the thing was a right thing, and had to be done, why should not he +do it as well as another! To earn his own and Abdiel's bread, he would +do anything honest, setting up his back at nothing. But when about a +thing, he forgot even his obligation to do it, in the glad endeavour +to do it well. + +As the days went on, Mrs. Mereweather was not once disappointed in +him. He did everything with such a will that both she and the +housemaid were always ready to spare and help him. Very soon they +began to grow tender over him; and on pretence of his being the +earlier drest to open the door, did certain things themselves which he +had been quite content to do, but which they did not like seeing him +do. Many--I am afraid most boys would have presumed on their +generosity, but Clare was nowise injured by it. + +Nothing could be kinder than the way his mistress treated him. Having +lent him some books, and at once perceived that he was careful of +them, she let him have the run of her library when his day's work was +over. For he not only read but respected books. Nothing shows +vulgarity more than the way in which some people treat books. No +gentleman would write his remarks on the margins of another person's +book; no lady would brush her hair as she read one of her own. + +From hungry days and cold nights, Clare and Abdiel found themselves +_in clover_--the phrase surely of some lover of cows!--and they were +more than content. Clare had longed so much for work, and had for so +many a weary day sought it in vain, that he valued it now just because +it was work. And he seemed to know instinctively that a man ranks, not +according to the thing he does, but according to the way he does +it. In life it is far higher to do an inferior thing well than to do a +superior thing passably. + +Clare made good use of his privileges, and read much, educating +himself none the worse that he did it unconsciously. He read whatever +came in his way. He read really--not as most people read, leaving the +sentences behind them like so many unbroken nuts, the kernel of whose +meaning they have not seen. He learned more than most boys at school, +more even than most young men at college; for it is not what one +knows, but what one uses, that is the true measure of learning. +Whatever he read, he read from the point of practice. In history or +romance he saw--not merely what a man ought to be or do, but what he +himself must, at that moment, be or do. There is a very common sort of +man calling himself practical, but neglecting to practise the most +important things, who would laugh at the idea of Clare being +practical, seeing he did not trouble his head about money, or “getting +on in the world”--what servants call “bettering themselves;” but such +a practical man will find he has been but a practical fool. Clare took +heed to do what was right, and grow a better man. Such a life is the +only really practical one. + +People wondered how Miss Tempest had managed to get hold of such a +nice-looking page, and the good lady was flattered by their +wonder. But she knew the world too well to be sure of him yet. She +knew that it is difficult, in the human tree, to distinguish between +blossom and fruit. Deeds of lovely impulse are the blossom; unvarying, +determined Tightness is the fruit. + + + +Chapter LVI. + +Strategy. + + +Miss Tempest was the last of an old family, with scarce a relation, +and no near one, in the world. Hence the pieces of personal property +that had continued in the possession of various branches of the family +after land and money, through fault or misfortune, were gone, had +mostly drifted into the small pool of Miss Tempest's life now slowly +sinking in the sands of time, there to gleam and sparkle out their +tale of its old splendour. She did not think often of their +money-worth: had she done so, she would have kept them at her +banker's; but she valued them greatly both for their beauty and their +associations, constantly using as many of them as she could. More than +one of her friends had repeatedly tried to persuade her that it was +not prudent to have so much plate and so many jewels in the house, for +the fact was sure to be known where it was least desirable it should: +she always said she would think about it. At times she would for a +moment contemplate sending her valuables to the bank; but her next +thought--by no means an unwise one--would always be, “Of what use will +they be at the bank? I might as well not have them at all! Better sell +them and do some good with the money!--No; I must have them about me!” + +There are predatory persons in every large town, who either know or +are learning to know the houses in it worth the risk of robbing. When +it falls to the lot of this or that house to be attempted, one of the +gang will make the acquaintance of some servant in it, with the object +of discovering beforehand where its treasure lies, and so reducing the +time to be spent in it, and the risk of frustration or capture. Often +they seduce one of the household to let them in, or hand out the +things they want. Any such gang, however, must soon have become +convinced that at Miss Tempest's corruption was impossible, and that +they could avail themselves solely of their own internal resources. + +It was well now for Miss Tempest that she was so faithful herself as +to encourage faithfulness in others: gladly would she have had Abdiel +sleep in her room, but she would not take the pleasure of his company +from his old master and companion in suffering. The dog therefore +slept on Clare's bed, just as he did when the bed was as hard to +define as to lie upon, only now he had to take the part neither of +blanket nor hot bottle. + +One night, about half-past twelve, watchful even in slumber, he sprang +up in his lair at his master's feet, listened a moment, gave a low +growl, again listened, and gave another growl. Clare woke, and found +his bed trembling with the tremor of his little four-footed +guardian. Telling him to keep quiet, he rose on his elbow, and in his +turn listened, but could hear nothing. He thought then he would light +his candle and go down, but concluded it wiser to descend without a +light, and listen under cloak of the darkness. If he could but save +Miss Tempest from a fright! He crept out of bed, and went first to the +window--a small one in the narrowing of the gable-wall of his attic +room: the night was warm, and, loving the night air, he had it +open. Hearkening there for a moment, he thought he heard a slight +movement below. Very softly he put out his head, and looked +down. There was no moon, but in the momentary flash of a lantern he +caught sight of a small pair of legs disappearing inside the scullery +window, which was almost under his own. Swift and noiseless he hurried +down, and reached the scullery door just in time for a little fellow +who came stealing out of it, to run against him. + +Now Clare had heard the housemaid read enough from the newspapers to +guess, the moment he looked from the garret window, that the legs he +saw were those of a boy sent in to open a door or window, and when the +boy, feeling his way in the dark, came against him, he gripped him by +the throat with the squeeze that used to silence Tommy. The prowler +knew the squeeze. The moment Clare relaxed it, in a piping whisper +came the words, + +“Clare! Clare! they said they'd kill me if I didn't!” + +“Didn't what?” + +“Open the door to them.” + +“If you utter one whimper, I'll throttle you,” said Clare. + +He tightened his grasp for an instant, and Tommy, who had not +forgotten that what Clare said, he did, immediately gave in, and was +led away. Clare took him in his arms and carried him to his room, tied +him hand and foot, and left him on the floor, fast to the bedstead. +Then he crept swiftly to the servants' room, and with some difficulty +waking them, told them what he had done, and asked them to help him. + +Both women of sense and courage, they undertook at once to do their +part. But when he proposed that they should open a window, as if it +were done by Tommy, and so enticing the burglars to enter, secure the +first of them, they, naturally enough, and wisely too, declined to +encounter the risk. + +The burglars, perplexed by the lack of any sign from Tommy yet the +utter quiet of the house, concluded probably that he had fallen +somewhere, and was lying either insensible, or unable to move and +afraid to cry out--in which case they would be at the mercy of what he +might say when he was found. + +Those within could hear as little noise without. They went from door +to window, wherever an attempt might be made, but all was still. Then +it occurred to Clare that he had left the scullery window +unwatched. He hastened to it--and was but just in time: two long thin +legs were sticking through, and showed by their movements that +considerable effort was being made by the body that belonged to them, +to enter after them. Legs first was the wrong way, but the youth +feared the unknown fate of Tommy, and being pig-headed, would go that +way or not at all. + +A boy in courage equal to Clare, but of less coolness, would at once +have made war on the intrusive legs; but Clare bethought him that, so +long as that body filled the window, no other body could pass that +way; so it would be well to keep it there, a cork to the house, making +it like the nest of a trap-door-spider. He begged the women, +therefore, who had followed him, to lay hold each of an ankle, and +stick to it like a clamp, while he ran to get some string. + +The women, entering heartily into the business, held on bravely. The +owner of the legs made vigorous efforts to release them, more anxious +a good deal to get out than he had been to get in, but he was not very +strong, and had no scope. His accomplices laid hold of him and pulled; +then, with good mother-wit, the women pulled away from each other, and +so made of his legs a wedge. + +Clare came back with a piece of clothes-line, one end of which he +slipped with a running knot round one ankle, and the other in like +fashion round the other. Then he cut the line in halves, and drawing +them over two hooks in the ceiling, some distance apart, so that the +legs continued widespread like a V upside down, hauled the feet up as +high as he could, and fastened the ends of the lines. Hold lines and +hooks, it was now impossible to draw the fellow out. + +Leaving the women to watch, and telling them to keep a hand on each of +the lines because the scullery was pitch-dark, he went next to his +room and looked again from the window. He feared they might be trying +to get in at some other place, for they would not readily abandon +their accomplices, and doubtless knew what a small household it was! +He would see first, therefore, what was doing outside the scullery, +and then make a round of doors and windows! + +Right under him when he looked out, stood a short, burly figure; +another man was taking intermittent hauls at the arms of their +leg-tied companion, regardless of his stifled cries of pain when he +did so. Clare went and fetched his water-jug, which was half full, and +leaning out once more, with the jug upright in his two hands, moved it +this way and that until he had it, as nearly as he could determine, +just over the man beneath him, and then dropped it. The jug fell +plumb, and might have killed the man but that he bent his head at the +moment, and received it between his shoulders. It knocked the breath +out of him, and he lay motionless. The other man fled. The +window-stopper, hearing the crash of the jug, wrenched and kicked and +struggled, but in vain. There he had to wait the sunrise, for not a +moment sooner would the cook open the door. + +When they went out at last, the stout man too was gone. He had risen +and staggered into the shrubbery, and there fallen, but had risen once +more and got away. + +Their captive pretended to be all but dead, thinking to move their +pity and be set free. But Clare went to the next house and got the +man-servant there to go for the police, begging him to make haste: he +knew that his tender-hearted mistress, if she came down before the +police arrived, would certainly let the fellow go, and Tommy with him; +and he was determined the law should have its way if he could compass +it What hope was there for the wretched Tommy if he was allowed to +escape! And what right had they to let such people loose on their +neighbours! It was selfishness to indulge one's own pity to the danger +of others! He would be his brother's keeper by holding on to his +brother's enemy! + +Going at last to his room, he found Tommy asleep. The boy was better +dressed, but no cleaner than when first he knew him. Clare proceeded +to wash and dress. Tommy woke, and lay staring, but did not utter a +sound. + +“Have your sleep out,” said Clare. “The police won't be here, I +daresay, for an hour yet.” + +“I believe you!” returned Tommy, as impudent as ever. His +contemplation of Clare had revived his old contempt for him. “I mean +to go. I 'ain't done nothing.” + +“Go, then,” said Clare, and took no more heed of him. + +“If it's manners you want, Clare,” resumed Tommy, “_please_ let me +go!” + +Clare turned and looked at him. The evil expression was hardened on +his countenance. He gave him no answer. + +“You ain't never agoin' to turn agin an old pal, aire you?” said +Tommy. + +“I ain't a pal of yours, Tommy, or of any other thief's!” answered +Clare. + +“I'll take my oath on it to the beak!” + +“You'll soon have the chance; I've sent for the police.” Tommy changed +his tone. + +“Please, Clare, let me go,” he whined. + +“I will not. I did what I could for you before, and I'll do what I can +for you now. You must go with the police.” + +Tommy began to blubber, or pretend--Clare could not tell which. + +“This beastly string's a cuttin' into me!” he sobbed. + +Clare examined it, and found it easy enough. + +“I won't undo one knot,” he answered, “until there's a policeman in +the room. If you make a noise, I will stuff your mouth.” + +His dread was that his mistress might hear, and spoil all. “It's her +house,” he said to himself, “but they're my captives!” + +Tommy lay still, and the police came. + +When they untied and drew out the cork of the scullery window, Clare +thought he had seen him before, but could not remember where. One of +the policemen, however, the moment his eyes fell on his face, cried +out joyfully, + +“Ah, ha, my beauty! I've been a lookin' for you!” + +“Never set eyes on ye afore,” growled the fellow. + +“Don't ye say now ye ain't a dear friend o' mine,” insisted the +policeman, “when I carry yer pictur' in my bosom!” + +He drew out a pocket-book, and from it a photograph, at which he gazed +with satisfaction, comparing it with the face before him. In another +moment Clare recognized the lad sent by Maidstone to exchange +band-boxes with him. + +“Her majesty the queen wants you for that robbery, you know!” said the +policeman. + +A boy who loved romance and generosity more than truth and +righteousness, would now have regretted the chance he had lost of +doing a fine action, and sought yet to set the rascal free. There are +men who cheat and make presents; there are men who are saints abroad +and churls at home, as Bunyan says; there are men who screw down the +wages of their clerks and leave vast sums to the poor; men who build +churches with the proceeds of drunkenness; men who promote bubble +companies and have prayers in their families morning and evening; men, +in a word, who can be very generous with what is not their own; for +nothing ill-gotten is a man's own any more than the money in a thief's +pocket: Clare was not of the contemptible order of the falsely +generous. + +Profiting, doubtless, by Maidstone's own example, the fellow had, as +Clare now learned, run away from his master, carrying with him the +contents of the till: whether he deserved punishment more than his +master, may be left undiscussed. + +When first Miss Tempest's friends heard of the attempt to break into +her house, they said--what could she expect if she took tramps into +her service! They were consider-ably astonished, however, when they +read in the newspaper the terms in which the magistrate had spoken of +the admirable courage and contrivance of Miss Tempest's page, and the +resolution with which the women of her household had seconded him. If +every third house were as well defended, he said, the crime of +burglary would disappear. + +After the trial, Clare begged and was granted an interview with the +magistrate. He told him what he knew about Tommy, and entreated he +might be sent to some reformatory, to be kept from bad company until +he was able to distinguish between right and wrong, which he thought +he hardly could at present The magistrate promised it should be done, +and with kind words dismissed him. + +Things returned to their old way at Miss Tempest's. Her friends never +doubted she would now at last commit her plate to her banker's strong +room, but they found themselves mistaken: she was convinced that, with +such servants and Abdiel, it was safe where it was. + +The leader of the gang, injured by Clare's water-jug, was soon after +captured, and the gang was broken up. + + + +Chapter LVII. + +Ann Shotover. + + +So void of self-assertion was Clare, so prompt at the call of whoever +needed him, so quiet yet so quick, so silent in his sympathetic +ministrations, so studious and so capable, that, after two years, Miss +Tempest began to feel she ought to do what she could to “advance his +prospects,” even at the loss to herself of his services. + +He never came to regard Miss Tempest as he did the other women who had +saved him: he never thought of her as his fourth mother. Truly good +and kind she was, but she had a certain manner which prevented him +from feeling entirely comfortable with her. It did not escape him, +however, that Abdiel was thoroughly at his ease in her company; and he +believed therefore that the dog knew her better, or at least was more +just to her, than he. + +The fact was Miss Tempest kept down all her feelings, with a vague +sense that to show them would be to waste her substance: it was the +one shape that the yet lingering selfishness of a very unselfish +person took. Thus she kept him at a distance, and he stayed at a +distance, she on her part wondering that he did not open out to her +more, but neither doubting that all was right between them. Nothing, +indeed, was wrong--only they might have come a little nearer. Perhaps, +also, Miss Tempest was a little too conscious of being his patroness, +his earthly saviour. + +It was natural that, after the defeated robbery, Clare should become a +little known to the friends of the mistress he had so well served; +when, therefore, Miss Tempest spoke to her banker concerning the +ability of her page, mentioning that, in his spare time, he had been +reading hard, as well as attending an evening-school for mathematics, +where he gained much approbation from his master, she spoke of one +already known by him to one accustomed to regard character. + +The banker listened with a solemn listening from which she could not +tell what he was thinking. No one ever could tell what Mr. Shotover +was thinking: his face was not half a face; it was more a mask than a +face. High in the world's regard, rich, and of unquestioned integrity, +he was believed to have gathered a large fortune; but he kept his +affairs to himself. That he liked his own way so much as never to +yield it, I give up to the admiration of such as himself: often +kind--when the required mode of the kindness pleased him, a constant +church-goer and giver of money, always saying less the more he made up +his mind, he had generally no trouble in getting it. + +Priding himself on his moral discrimination, he had, now and then, as +suited his need, taken from a lower position a young man he thought +would serve his purpose, and modelled him to it. He had had his eye on +Clare ever since reading the magistrate's eulogy of his contrivance +and courage; but when Miss Tempest spoke, he had not made up his mind +about him, for something in the boy repelled him. He had scarcely +troubled himself to ask what it was, nor do I believe he could have +discovered, for the root of the repulsion lay in himself. + +Moved in part, however, by the representations of Miss Tempest, in +part also, I think, by a desire to discover that the boy was a +hypocrite, Mr. Shotover consented to give him a trial, whereupon Miss +Tempest made haste to disclose to her _protegé_ the grand thing she +had done for him. + +She was disappointed at the coolness and lack of interest with which +Clare heard her great news. She could not but be gratified that he did +not want to leave her, but she was annoyed that he seemed unaware of +any advantage to be gained in doing so--high as the social ascent from +servitude to clerkship would by most be considered. But Clare's +horizon was not that of the world. He had no inclination to more of +figures and less of persons. Miss Tempest, however, insisting that she +knew what was best for him, and what it was therefore his duty to do, +he listened in respectful silence to all she had to say. But what she +counted her most powerful argument--that he owed it to himself to rise +in the world--did not even touch him, did not move the slightest +response in a mind nobly devoid of ambition. Her argument was in truth +nonsense; for a man owes himself nothing, owes God everything, and +owes his neighbour whatever his own conscience goes on to require of +him for his neighbour. Feeling at the same time, however, that she had +a huge claim on his compliance with her wishes, Clare consented to +leave her kitchen for her friend's bank, where he had of course to +take the lowest position, one counted by the rest of the clerks, +especially the one just out of it, _menial_, requiring him to be in +the bank earlier by half an hour than the others, to be the last to go +away at night, and to sleep in the house--where a not uncomfortable +room in the attic story was appointed him. + +Mr. Shotover himself lived above the bank--with his family, consisting +of his wife and two daughters. Mrs. Shotover suffered from a terrible +disease--that of thinking herself ill when nothing was the matter with +her except her paramount interest in herself--the source of at least +half the incurable disease among idle people. The elder daughter was a +high-spirited girl about twenty, with a frank, friendly manner, +indicating what God meant her to be, not what she was, or had yet +chosen to be. She was not really frank, and seemed far more friendly +than she was, being more selfish than she knew, and far more selfish +than she seemed: she was merry, and that goes a great way in +seeming. Her mother spent no regard upon her; her heart was too full +of herself to have in it room for a grown-up daughter as well, with +interests of her own. The younger was a child about six, of whom the +mother took not so much care by half as a tigress of her cub. + +One morning, a little before eight o'clock, as Clare was coming down +from his room to open the windows of the bank, he just saved himself +from tumbling over something on the attic stair, which was dark, and +at that point took rather a sharp turn. The something was a child, who +gave a low cry, and started up to run away: there was not light enough +for either to discern easily what the other was like. But Clare, to +whom childhood was the strongest attraction he yet knew, bent down his +face from where he stood on the step above her, and its moonlight glow +of love and faith shone clear in the eyes of the little girl. The +moment she saw his smile, she knew the soul that was the light of the +smile, and her doll dropped from her hands as she raised them to lay +her arms gently about his neck. + +“Oh!” she said, “you're come!” + +He saw now, in the dusk, a pale, ordinary little face, with rather +large gray eyes, a rather characterless, tiny, up-turned nose, and a +rather pretty mouth. + +“Yes, little one. Were you expecting me?” he returned, with his arms +about her. + +“Yes,” she answered, in the tone of one stating what the other must +know. + +“How was it I frightened you, then?” + +“Only at first I thought you was an ogre! That was before I saw +you. Then I knew!” + +“Who told you I was coming?” + +“Nobody. Nobody knew you was coming but me. I've known it--oh, for +such a time!--ever since I was born, I think!” + +She turned her head a little and looked down where the doll lay a step +or two below. + +“You can go now, dolly,” she said. “I don't want you any more.” Here +she paused a while, as if listening to a reply, then went on: “I am +much obliged to you, dolly; but what am I to do with you? You won't +never speak! It has made me quite sad many a time, you know very well! +But you can't help it! So go away, please, and be nobody, for you +never would be anybody! I did my best to get you to be somebody, but +you wouldn't! Thank you all the same! I will take you and put you +where you can be as dull as you please, and nobody will mind.”--Here +she left Clare, went down, and lifted her plaything.--“Dolly, dolly,” + she resumed, “he's come! I knew he would! And you don't know it +because you're nobody!” + +Without looking back, or a word of adieu to Clare, she went slowly +down the steps, one by one, with the doll in her arms, manifesting for +it neither contempt nor tenderness. Many a child would have carried +the discrowned favourite by one leg; she carried her in both hands. + +Clare waited a while on the narrow, closed-in, wooden stair, not a +little wondering, and full of thought. His wonder, however, had no +puzzlement in it. The child's behaviour involved no difficulty. The +two existences came together, and each understood the other in virtue +of its essential nature. In after years Clare could put the thing into +such words; he sought none at the time. The child was lonely. She had +done her best with her doll, but it had failed her. It was not +companionable. The moment she looked in Clare's face, she knew that he +loved her, and that she had been waiting for _him_! She was not +surprised to see him; how should it be otherwise than just so! He was +come: good bye, dolly! The child had imagination--next to conscience +the strongest ally of common sense. She knew, like St. Paul, that an +idol is nothing. As men and women grow in imagination and common +sense, more and more will sacred silly dolls be cast to the moles and +the bats. But pretty Fancy and limping Logic are powerful usurpers in +commonplace minds. + +Clare saw nothing more of her that day, neither tried to see her; but +he did his work in an atmosphere of roses. The work was not nearly so +interesting as house-work, but Clare was an honest gentleman, +therefore did it well: that it was not interesting was of no account; +it was his work! But to know that a child was in the house, not merely +a child for him to love, but a child that already loved him so that he +could be her servant indeed, changed the stupid bank almost into the +dome of the angels. + +His fellow clerks took little notice of him beyond what, in the +routine of the day, was unavoidable. He had been a page-boy: the less +they did with him the better! Were they not wronged by his +introduction into their company? The poorest creature of them believed +he would have served out the burglars better if the chance had been +his. + + + +Chapter LVIII. + +Child-talk. + + +As Clare came down the next morning but one, there was the child again +on the dark narrow stair. She had no doll. Her hands lay folded in her +lap. She sat on the same step, the very image of child-patience. As he +approached she did not move. I believe she held solemn revel of +expectation. He laid his hand on the whitey-brown hair smoothed flat +on her head with a brush dipped in water. Not much dressing was wasted +on Ann--common little name! + +She rose, turned to him, and again laid her arms about his neck. No +kiss followed: she had not been taught to kiss. + +“Where's dolly?” asked Clare. + +“Nowhere. Buried,” answered the child. + +“Where did you bury her? In the garden?” + +“No. The garden wouldn't be nowhere!” + +“Where, then?” + +“Nowhere. I threw her out of the window.” + +“Into the street?” + +“Yes. She did fell on a horse's back, and he jumped. I was sorry.” + +“It didn't hurt him. I hope it didn't hurt dolly!” + +The moment he said it, Clare's heart reproached him: he was not +talking true! he was not talking out of his real heart to the child! +Almost with indignation she answered:-- + +“_Things_ don't be hurt! Dolly was a thing! She's _no_ thing now!” + +“Why?” + +“Because she fell under the horse, and was seen no more.” + +“Is she old enough,” thought Clare, “to read the Pilgrim's Progress?” + +“Will you tell me, please,” he said, “_when_ a thing is only a thing?” + +“When it won't mind what you do or say to it.” + +“And when is a thing no thing any more?” + +“When you never think of it again.” + +“Is a fly a thing?” + +“I _could_ make a fly mind, only it would hurt it!” + +“Of course we wouldn't do that!” + +“No; we don't want to make a fly mind. It's not one of our creatures.” + +Clare thought that was far enough in metaphysics for one morning. + +“I waited for you yesterday,” he said, “but you didn't come!” + +“Dolly didn't like to be buried. I mean, I didn't like burying +dolly. I cried and wouldn't come.” + +“Then why did you bury dolly?” + +“She _had_ to be buried. I told you she couldn't _be_ anybody! So I +_made_ her be buried.” + +“I see! I quite understand.--But what have you to amuse yourself with +now?” + +“I don't want to be mused now. You's come! I'm growed up!” + +“Yes, of course!” answered Clare; but he was puzzled what to say next. + +What could he do for her? Glad would he have been to take her down to +the sea, or to the docks, or into the country somewhere, till +dinner-time, and then after dinner take her out again! But there was +his work--ugly, stupid work that had to be done, as dolly _had_ to be +buried! Alas for the child who has discarded her toys, and is suddenly +growed up! What is she to do with herself? Clare's coming had caused +the loss of Ann's former interests: he felt bound to make up to her +for that loss. But how? It was a serious question, and not being his +own master, he could not in a moment answer it. + +“I wish I could stay with you all day!” he said. “But your papa wants +me in the bank. I must go.” + +Clare had not had a good sight of the child, and was at a loss to +think what must be her age. Her language, both in form and utterance, +was partly precise and _grown-up_, and partly childish; but her wisdom +was child-like--and that is the opposite both of precise and +childish. It was the wisdom that comes of unity between thought and +action. + +“Is there anything I can do for you before I go--for I must go?” said +Clare. + +“Who says _must_ to you? Nurse says _must_ to me.” + +“Your papa says _must_ to me.” + +“If you didn't say _yes_ when papa said _must_, what would come next?” + +“He would say, 'Go out of my house, and never come in again.'” + +“And would you do it?” + +“I must: the house is his, not mine.” + +“If I didn't say _yes_ when papa said _must_, what would happen?” + +“He would try to make you say it.” + +“And if I wouldn't, would he say, 'Go out of my house and never come +in again'?” + +“No; you are his little girl!” + +“Then I think he shouldn't say it to you.--What is your name?” + +“Clare.” + +“Then, Clare, if my papa sends you out of his house, I will go with +you.--You wouldn't turn me out, would you, when I was a _little_ +naughty?” + +“No; neither would your papa.” + +“If he turned you out, it would be all the same. Where you go, I will +go. I must, you know! Would you mind if he said 'Go away'?” + +“I should be very sorry to leave you.” + +“Yes, but that's not going to be! Why do you stay with papa? Were you +in the house always--ever so long before I saw you?” + +“No; a very little while only.” + +“Did you come in from the street?” + +“Yes; I came in from the street. Your papa pays me to work for him.” + +“And if you wouldn't?” + +“Then I should have no money, and nothing to eat, and nowhere to sleep +at night.” + +“Would that make you uncomfable?” + +“It would make me die.” + +“Have you a papa?” + +“Yes, but he's far away.” + +“You could go to him, couldn't you?” + +“One day I shall.” + +“Why don't you go now, and take me?” + +“Because he died.” + +“What's _died_?” + +“Went away out of sight, where we can't go to look for him till we go +out of sight too.” + +“When will that be?” + +“I don't know.” + +“Does anybody know?” + +“Nobody.” + +“Then perhaps you will never go?” + +“We must go; it's only that nobody knows when.” + +“I think the when that nobody knows, mayn't never come.--Is that why +you have to work?” + +“Everybody has to work one way or another.” + +“I haven't to work!” + +“If you don't work when you're old enough, you'll be miserable.” + +“_You're_ not old enough.” + +“Oh, yes, indeed I am! I've been working a long time now.” + +“Where? Not for papa?” + +“No; not for papa.” + +“Why not? Why didn't you come sooner? Why didn't you come _much_ +sooner--_ever_ so much sooner? Why did you make me wait for you all +the time?” + +“Nobody ever told me you were waiting.” + +“Nobody ever told me you were coming, but I knew.” + +“You had to wait for me, and you knew. I had to wait for you, and I +didn't know! When we have time, I will tell you all about myself, and +how I've been waiting too.” + +“Waiting for me?” + +“No.” + +“Who for?” + +“For my father and mother--and somebody else, I think.” + +“That's me.” + +“No; I'm waiting yet. I didn't know I was coming to you till I came, +and there you were!” + +The child was silent for a moment. Then she said thoughtfully, + +“You will tell me _all_ about yourself! That _will_ be nice!--Can you +tell stories?” she added. “--Of course you can! You can do +_every_thing!” + +“Oh, no, I can't!” + +“Can't you?” + +“No; I can do _some_ things--not many. I can love you, little +one!--Now I must go, or I shall be late, and nobody ever ought to be +late.” + +“Go then. I will go to my nursery and wait again.” + +She went down the stair without once looking behind her. Clare +followed. On the next floor she went one way to her nursery, and he +another to the back-stairs. + +One of the causes and signs of Clare's manliness was, that he never +aimed at being a man. Many men continue childish because they are +always trying to act like men, instead of simply trying to do +right. Such never develop true manliness, Clare's manhood stole upon +him unawares. That which at once made him a man and kept him a child, +was, that he had no regard for anything but what was real, that is, +true. + +All the day the thought kept coming, what could he do for the little +girl Perhaps what stirred his feeling for her most, was a suspicion +that she was neglected. But the careless treatment of a nurse was +better for her than would have been the capricious blandishments and +neglects of a mother like Mrs. Shotover. Clare, however, knew nothing +yet about Ann's mother. He knew only, by the solemnly still ways of +the child, that she must be much left to her own resources, and was +wonderfully developed in consequence--whether healthily or not, he +could not yet tell. The practical question was--how to contrive to be +her occasional companion; how to offer to serve her. + +After much thinking, he concluded that he must wait: opportunity might +suggest mode; and he would rather find than make opportunity! + + + +Chapter LIX. + +Lovers' walks. + + +He had not long to wait. That very afternoon, going a message for the +head-clerk, he met Ann walking with a young lady--who must be Miss +Shotover. Neither sister seemed happy with the other. Ann was very +white, and so tired that she could but drag her little feet after +her. Miss Shotover, flushed with exertion, and annoyed with her part +of nursemaid, held her tight and hauled her along by the hand. She +looked good-natured, but not one of the ministering sort. Every now +and then she would give the little arm a pull, and say, though not +_very_ crossly, “Do come along!” The child did not cry, but it was +plain she suffered. It was plain also she was doing her best to get +home, and avoid rousing her sister's tug. + +Keen-sighted, Clare had recognized Ann at some distance, and as he +approached had a better opportunity than on the dark stair of seeing +what his little friend was like. He saw that her eyes were unusually +clear, and, paces away, could distinguish the blue veins on her +forehead: she looked even more delicate than he had thought her. The +lines of her mouth were straightened out with the painful effort she +had to make to keep up with her sister. Her nose continued +insignificant, waiting to learn what was expected of it. + +For Miss Shotover, there was not a good feature in her face, and even +to a casual glance it might have suggested a measure of meanness. But +a bright complexion, and the youthful charm which vanishes with youth, +are pleasant in their season. Her figure was lithe, and in general she +had a look of fun; but at the moment heat and impatience clouded her +countenance. + +Clare stopped and lifted his hat. Then first the dazed child saw him, +for she was short-sighted, and her observation was dulled by +weariness. She said not a word, uttered no sound, only drew her hand +from her sister's, and held up her arms to her friend--in dumb prayer +to be lifted above the thorns of life, and borne along without pain. +He caught her up. + +“I beg your pardon, ma'am,” he said, “but the little one and I have +met before:--I live in the house, having the honour to be the youngest +of your father's clerks. If you will allow me, I will carry the +child. She looks tired!” + +Miss Shotover was glad enough to be relieved of her clog, and gave +smiling consent. + +“If you would be so kind as to carry her home,” she said, “I should be +able to do a little shopping!” + +“You will not mind my taking her a little farther first, ma'am? I am +on a message for Mr. Woolrige. I will carry her all the way, and be +very careful of her.” + +Miss Shotover was not one to cherish anxiety. She already knew Clare +both by report and by sight, and willingly yielded. Saying, with one +of her pleasant smiles, that she would hold him accountable for her, +she sailed away, like a sloop that had been dragging her anchor, but +had now cut her cable. Clare thought what a sweet-looking girl she +was--and in truth she was sweet-_looking_. Then, all his heart turned +to the little one in his arms. + +What a walk was that for both of them! Little Ann seemed never to have +lived before: she was actually happy! She had been long waiting for +Clare, and he was come--and such as she had expected him! It was bliss +to glide thus along the busy street without the least exertion, +looking down on the heads of the people, safe above danger and fear +amid swift-moving things and the crowding confusions of life! To be in +Clare's arms was better than being in the little house on the +elephant's back in her best picture-book! True, little one! To be in +the arms of love, be they ever so weak, is better than to ride the +grandest horse in all the stables of God--and God would have you know +it! Never mind your pale little face and your puny nose! While your +heart is ready to die for love-sake, you are blessed among women! +Only remember that to die of disappointment is not to die either of or +for love! + +And to Clare, after all those days upon days during which only a dog +would come to his arms, what a glory of life it was to have a human +child in them, the little heart of the pale face beating against his +side! He was not going to forget Abdiel. Abdiel was not a fact to be +forgotten. Abdiel was not a doll, Abdiel was not a thing that would +not come alive. Abdiel was a true heart, a live soul, and Clare would +love him for ever!--not an atom the less that now he had one out upon +whom a larger love was able to flow! All true love makes abler to +love. It is only false love, the love of those who take their own +meanest selfishness, their own pleasure in being loved, for love, that +shrinks and narrows the soul. + +To the pale-faced, listening child, Clare talked much about the +wonderful Abdiel, and about the kind good Miss Tempest who was keeping +him to live again at length with his old master; and Ann loved the dog +she had never seen, because the dog loved the Clare who was come at +last. + +When they returned, Clare rang the house-bell, and gave up his charge +to the man who opened the door. Without word or tone, gesture or look +of objection, or even of disinclination, the child submitted to be +taken from Clare's loving embrace, and carried to a nurse who was +neither glad nor sorry to see her. + +He had been so long gone that Mr. Woolrige found fault with him for +it. Clare told him he had met Miss Shotover with her sister, and the +child seemed so tired he had asked leave to carry her with him, +Mr. Woolrige was not pleased, but he said nothing; on the spot the +clerks nicknamed him _Nursie_; and Clare did his best to justify the +appellation-he never lost a chance of acting up to it, and always +answered when they summoned him by it. + +Before the week was ended, he sought an interview with Miss Shotover, +and asked her whether he might not take little Ann out for a walk +whenever the evening was fine. For at five o'clock the doors of the +bank were shut, and in half an hour after he was free. Miss Shotover +said she saw no objection, and would tell the nurse to have her ready +as often as the weather was fit; whereupon Clare left her with a +gratitude far beyond any degree of that emotion by her conceivable. +The nurse, on her part, was willing to gratify Clare, and not sorry to +be rid of the child, who was not one, indeed, to interest any ordinary +woman. + +The summer came and was peculiarly fine, and almost every evening +Clare might be seen taking his pleasure--neither like bank-clerk nor +like nurse-maid, for always he had little Ann in his arms, or was +leading her along with care and entire attention: he never let her +walk except on entreaty, and not always then. To his fellow clerks +this proof of an utter lack of dignity seemed consistent with his +origin--of which they knew nothing; they knew only his late +position. To themselves they were fine gentlemen with cigars in their +mouths, and he was a lackey to the bone! To himself Clare was the +lover of a child; and about them he did not think. Theirs was the life +of a town; Clare's was a life of the universe. + +The pair came speedily to understand and communicate like twin brother +and sister. Clare, as he carried her, always knew when Ann wanted a +change of position; Ann always knew when Clare began to grow +weary--knew before Clare himself--and would insist on walking. +Neither could remember how it came, but it grew a custom that, when +they walked hand in hand, Clare told her stories of his life and +adventures; when he carried her, he told her fairy-tales, which he +could spin like a spider: she preferred the former. + +So neither bank nor nursery was any longer dreary. + +At length came the gray, brooding winter, causing red fingers and +aches and chilblains. But it was not unfriendly to little Ann. True, +she was not permitted to go out in the evening any more, but Clare, +with the help of the cook, devoted to her his dinner-hour instead. It +was no hardship to eat from a basket in place of a table, to one who +never troubled himself as to the kind, quality, or quantity of his +food itself. He had learned, like a good soldier, to endure +hardness. I have heard him say that never did he enjoy a dinner more +than when, in those homeless days of his boyhood, he tore the flakes +off a loaf fresh from the baker's oven, and ate them as he walked +along the street. The old highlanders of Scotland were trained to +think it the part of a gentleman not to mind what he ate--sign of +scant civilization, no doubt, in the eyes of some who now occupy but +do not fill their place--as time will show, when the call is for men +to fight, not to eat. + + + +Chapter LX. + +The shoe-black. + + +The head-clerk, while he had not a word against him, as he confessed +to Mr. Shotover, yet thought Clare would never make a man of +business. When pressed to say on what he grounded the opinion, he +could only answer that the lad did not seem to have his heart in it. +But if, to be a man of business, it is not enough to do one's duty +scrupulously, but the very heart must be in it, then is there +something wrong with business. The heart fares as its treasure: who +would be content his heart should fare as not a few sorts of treasure +must? Mr. Woolrige passed no such judgment, however, upon certain +older young men in the bank, whose hearts certainly were not in the +business, but even worse posited. + +One cold, miserable day, at once damp and frosty, on which it was +quite unfit to take Ann out, Clare, having eaten a hasty dinner, and +followed it with a walk, was returning through the town in good time +for the recommencement of business, when he came upon a little boy, at +the corner of a street, blowing his fingers, and stumping up and down +the pavement to keep his blood moving while he waited for a job: his +brushes lay on the top of his blacking-box on the curbstone. Clare saw +that he was both hungry and cold--states of sensation with which he +was far too familiar to look on the signs of them with indifference. +To give him something to do, and so something to eat, he went to his +block and put his foot on it. The boy bustled up, snatched at his +brushes, and began operations. But, whether from the coldness or +incapacity of his hands, Clare soon saw that his boots would not be +polished that afternoon. + +“You don't seem quite up to your business, my boy!” he said. “What's +the matter?” + +The boy made no answer, but went on with his vain attempt. A moment +more, and Clare saw a tear fall on the boot he was at work upon. + +“This won't do!” said Clare. “Let me look at _your_ boots.” + +The boy stood up, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. + +“Ah!” said Clare, “I don't wonder you can't polish my boots, when you +don't care to polish your own!” + +“Please, sir,” answered the boy, “it's Jim as does it! He's down wi' +the measles, an' I ain't up to it.” + +“Look here, then! I'll give you a lesson,” said Clare. “Many's the +boot I've blacked. Up with your foot! I'll soon show you how the +thing's done!” + +“Please, sir,” objected the boy, “there ain't enough boot left to take +a polish!” + +“We'll see about that!” returned Clare. “Put it up. I've worn worse in +my time.” + +The boy obeyed. The boot was very bad, but there was enough leather to +carry some blacking, and the skin took the rest. + +Clare was working away, growing pleasantly hot with the quick, sharp +motion, while two of his fellow clerks were strolling up on the other +side of the corner, who had been having more with their lunch than was +good for them. Swinging round, they came upon a well dressed youth +brushing a ragged boy's boots. It was an odd sight, and one of them, +whose name was Marway, thought to get some fun out of the phenomenon. + +“Here!” he cried, “I want my boots brushed.” + +Clare rose to his feet, saying, + +“Brush the gentleman's boots. I will finish yours after, and then you +shall finish mine.” + +“Hullo, Nursie! it's you turned boot-black, is it?--Nice thing for the +office, Jack!” remarked Marway, who was the finest gentleman, and the +lowest blackguard among the clerks. + +He put his foot on the block. The boy began his task, but did no +better with his boots than he had done with Clare's. + +“Soul of an ass!” cried Marway, “are you going to keep my foot there +till it freezes to the block? Why don't you do as Nursie tells you? +_He_ knows how to brush a boot! _You_ ain't worth your salt! You ain't +fit to black a donkey's hoofs!” + +“Give me the brushes, my boy,” said Clare. + +The boy rose abashed, and obeyed. After a few of Clare's light rapid +strokes, the boots looked very different. + +“Bravo, Nursie!” cried Marway. “There ain't a flunkey of you all could +do it better!” + +Clare said nothing, finished the job, and stood up. Marway, turning on +the other heel as he set his foot down, said, “Thank you, Nursie!” + and was walking off. + +“Please, Mr. Marway, give the boy his penny,” said Clare. + +But Marway wanted to _take a rise out of_ Clare. + +“The fool did nothing for me!” he answered. “He made my boot worse +than it was.” + +“It was I did nothing for you, Mr. Marway,” rejoined Clare. “What I +did, I did for the boy.” + +“Then let the boy pay you!” said Marway. + +The shoe-black went into a sudden rage, caught up one of his brushes, +and flung it at Marway as he turned. It struck him on the side of the +head. Marway swore, stalked up to Clare and knocked him down, then +strode away with a grin. + +The shoe-black sent his second brush whizzing past his ear, but he +took no notice. Clare got up, little the worse, only bruised. + +“See what comes of doing things in a passion!” he said, as the boy +came back with the brushes he had hastened to secure. “Here's your +penny! Put up your foot.” + +The boy did as he was told, but kept foaming out rage at the bloke +that had refused him his penny, and knocked down his friend. It did +not occur to him that he was himself the cause of the outrage, and +that his friend had suffered for him. Clare's head ached a good deal, +but he polished the boy's boots. Then he made him try again on his +boots, when, warmed by his rage, he did a little better. Clare gave +him another penny, and went to the bank. + +Marway was not there, nor did he show himself for a day or two. Clare +said nothing about what had taken place, neither did the others. + + + +Chapter LXI. + +A walk with consequences. + + +Clare had been in the bank more than a year, and not yet had +Mr. Shotover discovered why he did not quite trust him. Had Clare +known he did not, he would have wondered that he trusted him with such +a precious thing as his little Ann. But was his child very precious to +Mr. Shotover? When a man's heart is in his business, that is, when he +is set on making money, some precious things are not so precious to +him as they might be--among the rest, the living God and the man's own +life. He would pass Clare and the child without even a nod to indicate +approval, or a smile for the small woman. He had, I presume, +sufficient regard for the inoffensive little thing to be content she +should be happy, therefore did not interfere with what his clerks +counted so little to the honour of the bank. But although, as I have +said, he still doubted Clare, true eyes in whatever head must have +perceived that the child was in charge of an angel. The countenance of +Clare with Ann in his arms, was so peaceful, so radiant of simple +satisfaction, that surely there were some in that large town who, +seeing them, thought of the angels that do alway behold the face of +the Father in heaven. + +One evening in the early summer, when they had resumed their walks +after five o'clock, they saw, in a waste place, where houses had been +going to be built for the last two years, a number of caravans drawn +up in order. + +A rush of hope filled the heart of Clare: what if it should be the +menagerie he knew so well! And, sure enough, there was Mr. Halliwell +superintending operations! But if Glum Gunn were about, he might find +it awkward with the child in his arms! Gunn might not respect even +her! Besides he ought to ask leave to take her! He would carry her +home first, and come again to see his third mother and all his old +friends, with Pummy and the lion and the rest of the creatures. + +Little Ann was eager to know what those curious houses on wheels +were. Clare told her they were like her Noah's ark, full of beasts, +only real, live beasts, not beasts made of bits of stick. She became +at once eager to see them--the more eager that her contempt of things +like life that wouldn't come alive had been growing stronger ever +since she threw her doll out of the window. Clare told her he could +not take her without first asking leave. This puzzled her: Clare was +her highest authority. + +“But if _you_ take me?” she said. + +“Your papa and mamma might not like me to take you.” + +“But I'm yours!” + +“Yes, you're mine--but not so much,” he added with a sigh, “as +theirs!” + +“Ain't I?” she rejoined, in a tone of protesting astonishment mingled +with grief, and began to wriggle, wanting to get down. + +Clare set her down, and would have held her, as usual, by the hand, +but she would not let him. She stood with her eyes on the ground, and +her little gray face looking like stone. It frightened Clare, and he +remained a moment silent, reviewing the situation. + +“You see, little one,” he said at length, “you were theirs before I +came! You were sent to them. You are their own little girl, and we +must mind what they would like!” + +“It was only till you came!” she argued. “They don't care _very_ much +for me. Ask them, please, to sell me to you. I don't think they would +want much money for me! How many shillings do you think I am worth, +Clare? Not many, I hope!--Six?” + +“You are worth more than all the money in your papa's bank,” answered +Clare, looking down at her lovingly. + +The child's face fell. + +“Am I?” she said. “I'm so sorry! I didn't know I was worth so +much!--and not yours!” she added, with a sigh that seemed to come from +the very heart of her being. “Then you're not able to buy me?” + +“No, indeed, little one!” answered Clare. “Besides, papas don't sell +their little girls!” + +“Oh, yes, they do! Gus said so to Trudie!” Clare knew that _Trudie_ +meant her sister Gertrude. + +“Who is Gus?” he asked. + +“Trudie calls him Gus. I don't know more name to him. Perhaps they +call him something else in the bank.” + +“Oh! he's in the bank, is he?” returned Clare. “Then I think I know +him.” + +“He said it to her one night in my nursery. Jane went down; I was in +my crib. They talked such a long time! I tried to go to sleep, but I +couldn't. I heard all what he said to her. It wasn't half so nice as +what you talk to me!” + +This was not pleasant news to Clare. Augustus Marway was, if half the +tales of him were true, no fit person for his master's daughter to be +intimate with! He had once heard Mr. Shotover speak about gambling in +such terms of disapprobation as he had never heard him use about +anything else; and it was well known in the bank that Marway was in +the company of gamblers almost every night. He was so troubled, that +at first he wished the child had not told him. For what was he to do? +Could it be right to let the thing go on? Clare felt sure Mr. Shotover +either did not know that Marway gambled, or did not know that he +talked in the nursery with his daughter. But, alas, he could do +nothing without telling, and they all said none but the lowest of cads +would carry tales! For the young men thought it the part of gentlemen +_to stick by each other_, and hide from Mr. Shotover some things he +had a right to know. But Clare saw that, whatever they might think, he +must act in the matter. Little Ann wondered that he scarcely spoke to +her all the way home. But she did not say anything, for she too was +troubled: she did not belong to Clare so much as she had thought she +did! + +Clare reflected also as he went, how much he owed Ann's sister for +letting him have the little one. She had always spoken to him kindly +too, and never seemed, like the clerks, to look down upon him because +he had been a page-boy--though, he thought, if they were to be as +often hungry as he had been, they would be glad to be page-boys +themselves! For himself, he liked to be a page-boy! He would do +anything for Miss Tempest! And he must do what he could for Miss +Shotover! It would be wicked to let her marry a man that was wicked! +He had himself seen him drunk! Would it be fair, knowing she did not +know, not to tell? Would it not be helping to hurt her? Was he to be a +coward and fear being called bad names? Was he, for the sake of the +good opinion of rascals, to take care of the rascal, and let the lady +take care of herself? There was this difficulty, however, that he +could assert nothing beyond having seen him drunk! + +He carried Ann to the nursery, and set out for the menagerie. When he +knocked at the door of the house-caravan, Mrs. Halliwell opened it, +stared hardly an instant, threw her arms round his neck, and kissed +him. + +“Come in, come in, my boy!” she said. “It makes me a happy woman to +see you again. I've been just miserable over what might have befallen +you, and me with all that money of yours! I've got it by me safe, +ready for you! I lie awake nights and fancy Gunn has got hold of you, +and made away with you; then fall asleep and am sure of it. He's been +gone several times, a looking for you, I know! I think he's afraid of +you; I know he hates you. Mind you keep out of his sight; he'll do you +a mischief if he has the chance. He's the same as ever, a man to make +life miserable.” + +“I've never done him wrong,” said Clare, “and I'm not going to keep +out of his way as if I were afraid of him! I mean to come and see the +animals to-morrow.” + +A great deal more passed between them. They had their tea +together. Mr. Halliwell, who did not care for tea, came and went +several times, and now the night was dark. Then they spoke again of +Gunn. + +“Well, I don't think he'll venture to interfere with you,” said +Mrs. Halliwell, “except he happens to be drunk.--But what's that +talking? _We_'re all quiet for the night. Listen.” + +For some time Clare had been conscious of the whispered sounds of a +dialogue somewhere near, but had paid no attention. The voices were +now plainer than at first When his mother told him to listen, he did, +and thought he had heard one of them before. It was peculiar--that of +an old Jew whom he had seen several times at the bank. As the talking +went on, he began to think he knew the other voice also. It was that +of Augustus Marway. The two fancied themselves against a caravan full +of wild beasts. + +Marway was the son of the port-admiral, who, late in life, married a +silly woman. She died young, but not before she had ruined her son, +whose choice company was the least respectable of the officers who +came ashore from the king's ships. + +He had of late been playing deeper and having worse luck; and had +borrowed until no one would lend him a single sovereign more. His +father knew, in a vague way, how he was going on, and had nearly lost +hope of his reformation. Having yet large remains of a fine physical +constitution, he seldom failed to appear at the bank in the +morning--if not quite in time, yet within the margin of lateness that +escaped rebuke. Mr. Shotover was a connection by marriage, which gave +Marway the privilege of being regarded by Miss Shotover as a cousin--a +privilege with desirable possibilities contingent, making him anxious +to retain the good opinion of his employer. + +Clare heard but a portion here and there of the conversation going on +outside the wooden wall; but it was plain nevertheless that Marway was +pressing a creditor to leave him alone until he was married, when he +would pay every shilling he owed him. + +The young fellow had a persuasive tongue, and boasted he could get the +better of even a Jew. Clare heard the money-lender grant him a renewal +for three months, when, if Marway did not pay, or were not the +accepted suitor of the lady whose fortune was to redeem him, his +creditor would take his course. + +The moment he perceived they were about to part, Clare hastened from +the caravan, and went along the edge of the waste ground, so as to +meet Marway on his road back to the town: at the corner of it they +came jump together. Marway started when Clare addressed him. Seeing, +then, who claimed his attention, he drew himself up. + +“Well?” he said. + +“Mr. Marway,” began Clare, “I heard a great deal of what passed +between you and old Lewin.” + +Marway used worse than vulgar language at times, and he did so now, +ending with the words, + +“A spy! a sneaking spy! Would you like to lick my boot? By Jove, you +shall know the taste of it!” + +“Nobody minds being overheard who hasn't something to conceal! If I +had low secrets I would not stand up against the side of a caravan +when I wanted to talk about them. I was inside. Not to hear you I +should have had to stop my ears.” + +“Why didn't you, then, you low-bred flunkey?” + +“Because I had heard of you what made it my duty to listen.” + +Marway cursed his insolence, and asked what he was doing in such a +place. He would report him, he said. + +“What I was doing is my business,” answered Clare. “Had I known you +for an honest man I would not have listened to yours. I should have +had no right.” + +“You tell me to my face I'm a swindler!” said Marway between his +teeth, letting out a blow at Clare, which he cleverly dodged. + +“I do!” + +“I don't know what you mean, but bitterly shall you repent your +insolence, you prying rascal! This is your sweet revenge for a blow +you had not the courage to return!--to dog me and get hold of my +affairs! You cur! You're going to turn informer next, of course, and +bear false witness against your neighbour! You shall repent it, I +swear!” + +“Will it be bearing false witness to say that Miss Shotover does not +know the sort of man who wants to marry her? Does she know why he +wants to marry her? Does her father know that you are in the clutches +of a money-lender?” + +Marway caught hold of Clare and threatened to kill him. Clare did not +flinch, and he calmed down a little. + +“What do you want to square it?” he growled. + +“I don't understand you,” returned Clare. + +“What's the size of your tongue-plaster?” + +“I don't know much slang.” + +“What bribe will silence you then? I hope that is plain enough--even +for _your_ comprehension!” + +“If I had meant to hold my tongue, I should have held it.” + +“What do you want, then?” + +“To keep you from marrying Miss Shotover.” + +“By Jove! And suppose I kick you into the gutter, and tell you to mind +your own business--what then?” + +“I will tell either your father or Mr. Shotover all about it.” + +“Even you can't be such a fool! What good would it do you? You're not +after her yourself, are you?--Ha! ha!--that's it! I didn't nose +that!--But come, hang it! where's the _use_?--I'll give you four +flimsies--there! Twenty pounds, you idiot! There!” + +“Mr. Marway, nothing will make me hold my tongue--not even your +promise to drop the thing.” + +“Then what made you come and cheek me? Impudence?” + +“Not at all! I should have been glad enough not to have to do it! I +came to you for my own sake.” + +“That of course!” + +“I came because I would do nothing underhand!” + +“What are you going to do next, then?” + +“I am going to tell Mr. Shotover, or Admiral Marway--I haven't yet +made up my mind which.” + +“What are you going to tell them?” + +“That old Lewin has given you three months to get engaged to Miss +Shotover, or take the consequences of not being able to pay what you +owe him.” + +“And you don't count it underhand to carry such a tale?” + +“I do not. It would have been if I hadn't told you first. I would tell +Miss Shotover, only, if she be anything of a girl, she wouldn't +believe me.” + +“I should think not! Come, come, be reasonable! I always thought you a +good sort of fellow, though I _was_ rough on you, I confess. There! +take the money, and leave me my chance.” + +“No. I will save the lady if I can. She shall at least know the sort +of man you are.” + +“Then it's war to the knife, is it?” + +“I mean to tell the truth about you.” + +“Then do your worst. You shall black my boots again.” + +“If I do, I shall have the penny first.” + +“You cringing flunkey!” + +“I haven't cringed to you, Mr. Marway!” + +Marway tried to kick him, failed, and strode into the dark between him +and the lamps of the town. + + + +Chapter LXII. + +The cage of the puma. + + +Marway was a fine, handsome fellow, whose manners, where he saw +reason, soon won him favour, and two of the young men in the office +were his ready slaves. Every moment of the next day Clare was +watched. Marway had laid his plans, and would forestall +frustration. Clare could hardly do anything before the dinner-hour, +but Marway would make assurance double sure. + +At anchor in the roads lay a certain frigate, whose duty it was to +sail round the islands, like a duck about her floating brood. Among +the young officers on board were two with whom Marway was intimate. He +had met them the night before, and they had together laid a plot for +nullifying Clare's interference with Marway's scheme--which his +friends also had reason to wish successful, for Marway owed them both +money. Clare had come in the way of all three. + +Now little Ann was a guardian cherub to the object of their enmity, +and he and she must first of all be separated. Clare had asked leave +of Miss Shotover to take the child to Noah's ark, as she called it, +that evening, and Marway had learned it from her: Clare's going would +favour their plan, but the child's presence would render it +impracticable. + +One thing in their favour was, that Mr. Shotover was from home. If +Clare had resolved on telling him rather than the admiral, he could +not until the next evening, and that would give them abundant time. On +the other hand, having him watched, they could easily prevent him from +finding the admiral. But Clare had indeed come to the just conclusion +that his master had the first right to know what he had to tell. His +object was not the exposure of Marway, but the protection of his +master's daughter: he would, therefore, wait Mr. Shotover's return. +He said to himself also, that Marway would thereby have a chance to +bethink himself, and, like Hamlet's uncle, “try what repentance can.” + +As soon as he had put the bank in order for the night, he went to find +his little companion, and take her to Noah's ark. The child had been +sitting all the morning and afternoon in a profound stillness of +expectation; but the hour came and passed, and Clare did not appear. + +“You never, never, never came,” she said to him afterward. “I had to +go to bed, and the beasts went away.” + +It was many long weeks before she told him this, or her solemn little +visage smiled again. + +He went to the little room off the hall, where he almost always found +her waiting for him, dressed to go. She was not there. Nobody came. He +grew impatient, and ran in his eagerness up the front stair. At the +top he met the butler coming from the drawing-room--a respectable old +man, who had been in the family as long as his master. + +“Pardon me, Mr. Porson,” said the butler, who was especially polite to +Clare, recognizing in him the ennoblement of his own order, “but it is +against the rules for any of the gentlemen below to come up this +staircase.” + +“I know I'm in the wrong,” answered Clare; “but I was in such a hurry +I ventured this once. I've been waiting for Miss Ann twenty minutes.” + +“If you will go down, I will make inquiry, and let you know directly,” + replied the butler. + +Clare went down, and had not waited more than another minute when the +butler brought the message that the child was not to go out. In vain +Clare sought an explanation; the old man knew nothing of the matter, +but confessed that Miss Shotover seemed a little put out. + +Then Clare saw that his desire to do justice had thwarted his +endeavour: Marway had seen Miss Shotover, he concluded, and had so +thoroughly prejudiced her against anything he might say, that she had +already taken the child from him! He repented that he had told him his +purpose before he was ready to follow it up with immediate +action. Distressed at the thought of little Ann's disappointment, he +set out for the show, glad in the midst of his grief, that he was +going to see Pummy once more. + +The weather had been a little cloudy all day, but as he left the +closer part of the town, the vaporous vault gave way, and the west +revealed a glorious sunset. Troubled for the trouble of little Ann, +Clare seemed drawn into the sunset. The splendour said to him: “Go on; +sorrow is but a cloud. Do the work given you to do, and the clouds +will keep moving; stop your work and the clouds will settle down +hard.” + +“When I was on the tramp,” thought Clare, “I always went on, and +that's how I came here. If I hadn't gone on, I should never have found +the darling!” + +As little as during any day's tramp did he know how his reflection was +going to be justified. + +He wandered on, and the minutes passed slowly: it was wandering now +with no child in his arms! He was in no haste to go to the menagerie; +he would be in good time for the beasts; and the later he was, the +sooner he would see his mother alone and have a talk with her! + +At last, it being now quite dark, he turned, and made for the +caravans. + +A crowd was going up the steps, passing Mrs. Halliwell slowly, and +descending into the area surrounded by the beasts. Clare went up, and +laid his money on the little white table. The good woman took it with +a smile, threw it in her wooden bowl, and handed him, as if it had +been his change, three bright sovereigns. Clare turned his face +away. He could not take them. He felt as if it would break one bond +between them. + +“The money's your own!” she said, in a low voice. + +“By and by, mother!” he answered. + +“No, no, take it now,” she insisted, in an almost angry whisper; but +the same moment threw the sovereigns among the silver, and some +coppers that lay on the table over them. + +Judging by her look that he had better say nothing, he turned and went +down the steps. Before he reached the bottom of them, Glum Gunn +elbowed his way past him, throwing a scowl on him from his ugly eyes +at the range of a few inches. + +The place was fuller than it had been all the evening, and with a +rougher sort of company. The show would close in about an hour. It +seemed to Clare not so well lighted as usual. Perhaps that was why he +did not observe that he was watched and followed by Marway, with two +others, and one burly, middle-aged, sailor-looking fellow. But I doubt +whether he would have seen them in any light, for he had no +suspicions, and was not ready to analyze a crowd and distinguish +individuals. + +He avoided making straight for Pummy, contenting himself for the +moment with an occasional glimpse of him between the moving heads, now +opening a vista, now closing it again, for he hoped to get gradually +nearer unseen, so as to be close to the animal when first he should +descry him, for he dreaded attracting attention by becoming, while yet +at a distance, the object of an uproarious outbreak of affection on +the part of the puma. + +But while he was yet a good way from him, a most ferocious yell sprang +full grown into the air, which the very fibres of his body knew as one +of the cries of the puma when most enraged. There he was on his hind +legs, ramping against the front of the cage, every hair on him +bristling, his tail lashing his flanks. The same instant arose a +commotion in the crowd behind Clare, a pushing and stooping and +swaying to and fro, with shouts of, “Here he is! here he is!” + +Filled with a foreboding that was almost a prescience, he fell to +forcing his way without ceremony, and had got a little nearer to the +puma, when, elbowing roughly through the spectators, with red, evil +face, in drink but not drunk, Glum Gunn appeared, almost between him +and the cage--once more, to the horror of Clare, holding by the neck +his poor little Abdiel, curled up into the shape of a flea. The brute +was making his way with him to the cage of the puma, whose wrath, +grown to an indescribable frenzy, now blazed point-blank at the dog. + +I think some waft of the wild odour of the menagerie must have reached +the nostrils of the loving creature, brought back old times and his +master, and waked the hope of finding him. That he had but just +arrived was plain, for he had not had time to get to his master. + +Clare was almost at the edge of the close-packed, staring crowd, +absorbed in the sight of the huge raving cat. Breaking through its +outermost ring in the strength of sudden terror, he darted to the cage +to reach it before Glum Gunn. A man crossed and hustled him. Gunn +opened the door of the cage, and flung Abdiel to the puma. Ere he +could close it, Clare struck him once more a stout left-hander on the +side of his head. Gunn staggered back. Clare sprang into the +cage--just as Pummy spying him uttered a jubilant roar of +recognition. His jumping into the cage just prevented the puma from +getting out, and the crowd from trampling each other to death to +escape The Christians' Friend; but now that Clare was in, the +cage-door might have swung all night open unheeded--so long, that is, +as no dog appeared. + +As for Abdiel the puma had forgotten him: the dog was out of his sight +for the moment, though only behind him, while his friend and he were +rubbing recognizant noses. Abdiel showed his wisdom by keeping in the +background. The moment he was flung into the cage, he had got into a +corner of it, and stood up on his hind legs. + +His master believed that, knowing how the puma loved the human form +divine, he thought to prejudice him in his favour by showing how near +he could come to it. There he yet stood, his head sunk on his chest, +watching out of his eyes for the terrible moment when his enemy should +again catch sight of him. + +The moment came. The puma's delight had broken out in wildest +motion. He sprang to the roof of his cage, and grappling there, looked +down with retorted neck, and saw the dog. Poor Abdiel immediately +raised his head, and in hope of propitiation all but forlorn, began a +little dance his master had taught him. + +What Pummy would have done with him, I fear, but I cannot tell. Clare +sprang to the rescue, and the weight of the puma's bulk descended, not +on Abdiel, but on the shoulders of Clare who had the dog in his +bosom. In a moment more it was evidenced that a common love, however +often the cause of jealousy, is the most powerful mediator between the +generous. The puma forgot his hate, the dog forgot his fear, and +presently, to the admiration of the crowd, Clare and Pummy and Abby +were rolling over and over each other on the floor of the cage. + +Pummy had the best of the rough game. One moment he would be a bend in +a seemingly unloosable knot of confused animality, the next he would +be clinging to the top of his cage, where the others could not follow +him. Perhaps to have a human to play with, was even better than dreams +of loveliest frolics with brothers and sisters, and a mother as madly +merry as they, in still, moonlit nights among the rocks, where neither +sound nor scent of horse woke the devil in any of their bosoms! + +Glum Gunn, too angry to speak, stood watching with a scowl fit for +Lucifer when he rose from his first fall from heaven. He could do +nothing! If he touched one, all three would be upon him! Experience +had taught him what the puma would do in defence of Clare! He must +bide his time!--But he must keep hold of his chance! He drew from his +pocket his master-key, and at a moment when Clare was under the other +two, slid it into the key-hole, and locked the door of the cage. He +had him now--and his beast of a dog too! If he could have turned the +puma mad, and made him tear them both to shreds, he would not have +delayed an instant. But he must think! He must say, like Hamlet, +“About, my brains!” + +The man, however, who wishes to do evil, will find as ready helpers as +he who wishes to do well: in the place were those who wanted Gunn's +aid, and would give him theirs. + +He felt a touch on his arm, glanced sullenly round, and saw a face +under whose beauty lay the devil. Marway, with eye and thumb, +requested him to withdraw for a moment, and he did not hesitate. As he +went he chuckled to himself at the thought of Clare when he found the +door locked. + +Marway's three accomplices had drifted off one by one to wait him +outside: he rejoined them with Gunn; and, retiring a little way from +the caravans, the five held a council, the results of which make an +important part of Clare's history. + +Clare seemed absorbed in his game with his four-footed, one-tailed +friends, but he was wide awake: he had Abdiel to deliver, and kept, +therefore, all the time, at least half an eye on Glum Gunn. He saw +Marway come up to him, and saw them retire together: it was the very +moment to leave the cage with Abdiel! He rose, not without difficulty, +because of the jumping of his playmates upon him and over him, and +went to the door. + +The moment he did so, the crowd was greatly amused to see the puma +turn upon the dog with a snarl, and the dog, at the fearful sound of +altered mood, immediately put on the man, rise to one pair of feet, +and begin to dance. The puma turned from him, went to the heel of his +chosen master, and there stood. + +In vain Clare endeavoured to open the gate. He had never known it +locked, and could not think when it had been done. At length, amid the +laughter of the spectators, he desisted, and the three resumed their +frolics. + +At this the admiration of the visitors broke out. They had seen the +door made fast, and had kept pretty quiet, waiting what would come: +they had thus earned their amusement when he sought in vain to open +it. When his withdrawal confessed him foiled, the merrier began to +mock and the ruder to jeer. But when they saw him laugh, and all three +return to their gambols, they applauded heartily. + +Just before this last portion of the entertainment, Mr. Halliwell, who +had been looking on for a while, retired, not knowing the cage-door +was locked. He went to his wife and said, that, if they had but the +boy and his dog again, and were but free of that brother of his, the +menagerie would be a wild-beast paradise. He would have had her go and +see the pranks in the puma's cage, but she was too tired, she said; so +he strolled out with his pipe, and left his men to close the +exhibition. Mrs. Halliwell fastened her door and went to bed, a little +hurt that Clare did not come to her. + +Gradually the folk thinned away; and at last only a few who had got in +at half-price remained. To them the attendants hinted that they were +going to shut shop, and one by one they shuffled out, the readier that +Clare was now so tired that Pummy could not get up the merest tail of +a lark more. He was quite fresh himself, and had he been out in the +woods, would certainly not have gone home till morning. But he was +such a human creature that he would not insist when he saw Clare was +weary; and that he had no inclination to play with Abdiel when his +master was out of the game, was quite as well for Abdiel, for Pummy +might have forgot himself. When Abby, not free from fear, as knowing +well he was not free from danger, crept to his master's bosom, Pummy +gave a low growl, and shoving his nose under the long body of the dog, +with one jerk threw him a yard off upon the floor, whence Abdiel +returned to content himself with his master's feet, abandoning the +place of honour to one who knew himself stronger, and probably counted +himself better. So they all fell asleep in peace. For although Clare +knew himself and Abdiel Gunn's prisoners, he feared no surprise with +two such rousable companions. + + + +Chapter LXIII. + +The dome of the angels. + + +When Clare awoke, he knew he had been asleep a long time. It was, +notwithstanding, quite dark, and there was something wrong with +him. His head ached: it had never ached before. He put out his hands: +Pummy's hairy body was nowhere near. He called Abdiel: no whimper +answered; no cold nose was thrust into his hand. He had gone to sleep, +surely between his two friends! Could he have only dreamed it? + +Why was the darkness so thick? There must surely be light in the +clouds by this time! He felt half awake and half dreaming. + +What was the curious motion he grew aware of? Was something trying to +keep him asleep, or was something trying to wake him? Had they put him +in a big cradle? Were they heaving him about to rouse him? Or could it +be a gentle earthquake that was rocking him to and fro? Would it wake +up in earnest presently, and pull and push, and shake and rattle, +until the dome of the angels came shivering down upon him? + +Where was he? Not on the hard floor of Pummy's cage, but on something +much harder--like iron. Was he in the wagon in which they carried the +things for setting up the show? Something had happened to him, and his +mother was taking him with her! But in that case he would be lying +softer! _She_ would not have given him a bed so full of aches! + +What would they think at the bank? What would little Ann think if he +came to her no more? + +He could not be in a caravan; the motion was much too smooth and +pleasant for that! + +He put his hand to his face: what was it wet on his cheek? It did not +feel nice; it felt like blood! Had he had a blow on the head? Was that +what gave him this headache? He felt his head all over, but could find +no hurt. + +Why was he lying like a log, wondering and wondering, instead of +getting up and seeing what it all meant? It must be the darkness and +the headache that kept him down! The place was very close! He +_must_ get out of it! + +He tried to get on his feet, but as he rose, his head struck +something, and he dropped back. He got again on his knees and groped +about. On all sides he was closed in. But he was not shut in a dungeon +of stone. He seemed to be in a great wooden box--small enough to be a +box, much too large for a coffin. Could it be one of the oubliettes in +the roof of the doge's palace at Venice? He laughed at the idea, for +the motion continued, the gentle earthquake that seemed trying to rock +him to sleep: the doge's palace could hardly be afloat on the grand +canal! + +What could it all mean? What would little Ann do without him? She +would not cry: she never cried--at least, he had never seen her cry! +but that would not make it easier for her! + +What had become of Abdiel? Had Glum Gunn got him? Then the wet on his +face was Abdiel's blood--shed in his defence, perhaps, when his +enemies were taking him away! + +Fears and anxieties, such as he had never known before, began to crowd +upon him--not for himself; he was not made to think of himself, either +first or second. Something dreadful might be going on that he could +not prevent! He had never been so miserable. It was high time to do +something--to ask the great one somewhere, he did not know where, who +could somehow, he did not know how, hear the thoughts that were not +words, to do what ought to be done for little Ann, and Abdiel, and +Pummy! He prayed in his heart, lay still, and fell fast asleep. + +He came to himself again, in the act of drawing a deep breath of cool, +delicious air. He was no longer shut in the dark, stifling box. He was +coming alive! A comforting wind blew all about him. It was like a live +thing putting its own life into him. But his eyelids were heavy; he +was unable to open them. + +All at once they opened of themselves. + +The dome of the angels had come down and closed in round him, but +bringing room for him, taking none away. It was blue, and filled with +the loveliest white clouds, possessed by a blowing wind that never was +able to blow them away. They were of strangely regular shapes; not the +less were they alive--piled one above the other, up and up--up ever so +high! They all kept their places, and some had the loveliest blue +shadows upon them, which glided about a little. But the dome of the +angels rose high, and ever higher still, above them. The dome of the +angels was at home, and the clouds were at home in it. He gazed +entranced at the sight. Then came a sudden strong heave and roll of +the earthquake, and a light shone in his eyes that blinded him. + +It was but the strong friendly sun. When Clare opened his eyes again, +he knew that he was lying on the deck of one of the great ships he had +so frequently looked at from the shore. Oh, how often had he not +longed after this one and that one of them, as if in some one +somewhere, perhaps in that one, lay something he could not do without, +which yet he could never set his eyes, not to say his hands upon. He +had his heart's desire, and what was to come of it? He lay on the +ship, and the ship lay on the sea, a little world afloat on the water, +moving as a planet moves through the heavens, but carrying her own +heaven with her, attended by her own clouds, bearing her whither she +would. Up into those clouds he lay gazing, up into the dome of the +angels, drawing deeper and deeper breaths of gladness, too happy to +think--when a foot came with a kick in the ribs, and a voice ordered +him to get up: was he going to lie there till the frigate was paid +off? + + + +Chapter LXIV. + +The panther. + + +Clare scrambled to his feet, and surveyed the man who had thus roused +him. He had a vague sense of having seen him before, but could not +remember where. Feeling faint, and finding himself beside a gun, he +leaned upon it. + +The sailor regarded him with an insolent look. + +“Wake up,” he said, “an' come along to the cap'n. What's the service a +comin' to, I should like to know, when a beggarly shaver like you has +the cheek to stow hisself away on board one o' his majesty's frigates! +Wouldn' nothin' less suit your highness than a berth on the Panther?” + +“Is that the name of the ship?” asked Clare. + +“Yes, that's the name of the ship!” returned the man, mimicking +him. “You'll have the Panther, his mark, on the back o' _you_ +presently! Come along, I say, to the cap'n! We ha' got to ask _him_, +what's to be done wi' rascals as rob their masters, an' then stow +theirselves away on board his majesty's ships!” + +“Take me to the captain,” said Clare. + +The man seemed for a moment to doubt whether there might not be some +mistake: he had expected to see him cringe. But he took him by the +collar behind, and pushed him along to the quarter-deck, where an +elderly officer was pacing up and down alone. + +“Well, Tom,” said the captain, stopping in his walk, “what's the +matter? Who's that you've got?” + +“Please yer honour,” answered the boatswain, giving Clare a shove, +“this here's a stowaway in his majesty's ship, Panther. I found him +snug in the cable-tier.--Salute the captain, you beggar!” + +Clare had no cap to lift, but he bowed like the gentleman he was. The +captain stood looking at him. Clare returned his gaze, and smiled. A +sort of tremble, much like that in the level air on a hot summer day, +went over the captain's face, and he looked harder at Clare. + +A sound arose like the purring of an enormous cat, and, sure enough, +it was nothing else: chained to the foot of the forward binnacle stood +a panther, a dark yellow creature with black spots, bigger than Pummy, +swinging his tail. Clare turned at the noise he made. The panther made +a bound and a leap to the height and length of his chain, and uttered +a cry like a musical yawn. Clare stretched out his arms, and staggered +toward him. The next moment the animal had him. The captain darted to +the rescue. But the beast was only licking him wherever there was a +bare spot to lick; and Clare wondered to find how many such spots +there were: he was in rags! The panther kept tossing him over and over +as if he were a baby, licking as he tossed, and in his vibrating body +and his whole behaviour manifested an exceeding joy. The captain stood +staring “like one that hath been stunned.” + +The boatswain was not astonished: he had seen Clare at home among wild +animals, and thought the panther was taken with the wild-beast smell +about him. + +“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Clare, rolling himself out of the +panther's reach, and rising to his feet, “but wild things like me, +somehow! I slept with a puma last night. He and this panther, sir, +would have a terrible fight if they met!” + +The captain threw a look of disappointment at the panther. + +“Go forward, Tom,” he said. + +The man did not like the turn things had taken, and as he went wore +something of the look of one doomed to make the acquaintance of +another kind of cat. + +“What made you come on board this ship, my lad?” asked the captain, in +a voice so quiet that it sounded almost kind. + +“I did not come on board, sir.” + +“Don't trifle with _me_,” returned the captain sternly. + +Clare looked straight at him, and said-- + +“I have done nothing wrong, sir. I know you will help me. I fell +asleep last night, as I told you, sir, in the cage of a puma. I knew +him, of course! How I came awake on board your ship, I know no more +than you do, sir.” + +The smile of Clare's childhood had scarcely altered, and it now shone +full on the captain. He turned away, and made a tack or two on the +quarter-deck. He was a tall, thin man, with a graceful carriage, and a +little stoop in the shoulders. He had a handsome, sad face, growing +old. His hair was more than half way to gray, and he seemed somewhere +about fifty. He had the sternness of a man used to command, but under +the sternness Clare saw the sadness. + +The attention of the boy was now somewhat divided between the captain +and his panther, which seemed possessed with a fierce desire to get at +him, though plainly with no inimical intent. The attention of the +captain seemed divided between the boy and the panther; his eyes now +rested for a moment on the animal, now turned again to the boy. Two +officers on the port side of the quarter-deck stole glances at the +strange group--the stately, solemn, still man; the ragged creature +before him, who looked in his face without fear or anxiety, and with +just as little presumption; and the wildly excited panther, whose +fierce bounding alternated with cringing abasement of his beautiful +person, accompanied by loving sweeps of his most expressive tail. + +The captain made a tack or two more on the quarter-deck, then turned +sharp on the boy. + +“What is your name?” he asked. + +“I don't quite know, sir,” answered Clare. + +“Come with me,” said the captain. + +To the surprise of the officers, he led the way to his state-room, and +the boy followed. The panther gave a howl as Clare disappeared. The +officers remarked that the captain looked strange. His lips were +compressed as if with vengeance, but the muscles of his face were +twitching. + + + +Chapter LXV. + +At home. + + +Clare followed, wondering, but nowise anxious. He saw nothing to make +him anxious. The captain looked a good man, and a good man was a +friend to Clare! But when he entered the state-room, and saw himself +from head to foot in a mirror let into a bulkhead, he was both +startled and ashamed: how could the captain take such a scarecrow into +his room! he thought. He did not reflect that it was just the sort of +thing he did himself. He had indeed felt dirty and disreputable, and +been aware of the dry, rasping tongue of the panther on many patches +of bare skin, but he had had no idea what a wretched creature he +looked. Not one of the garments he saw in the mirror was his own, and +they were disgracefully torn. His hair was sticking out every way, and +his face smeared with blood. His feet were bare, and one trouser-leg +rent to the knee. His enemies had done their best to ensure prejudice, +and frustrate belief. They did not see in his look what no honest man +could misread. Innocent as he knew himself, he could not help feeling +for a moment disconcerted. But his faithfulness threw him on the mercy +of the man before him. + +The captain turned and sat down. The boy stood in the doorway, staring +at his reflex self in the mirror. The captain understood his +consternation. + +“Come along, my poor boy,” he said. “How did you get into this mess?” + +“I think I know,” answered Clare, “but I'm not sure.” + +“You must have been drunk,” sighed the captain. + +“Oh, no, sir!” returned Clare, with one of his radiant smiles. “I've +had but one glass of beer in my life, and I didn't like it.” + +The captain smiled too, and gazed at him for several moments without +speaking. + +“It seems to me,” he said at last, but as if he were thinking of +something quite different, “you must be in want of food.” + +“Oh, no, sir!” answered Clare again, “I'm used to going without.” + +Like a child the sport of an evil fairy, he was again the boy of the +old wanderings, in the old, hungry times. But did he ever look so lost +as in the mirror before him? he wondered. + +“You haven't told me----” said the captain, and stopped short, as if +he dreaded going further. + +“I will tell you anything you want to know, sir. Please ask me.” + +“You say you did not come on board the frigate: what am I to +understand by that?” + +“That I was brought, sir, in my sleep. It wouldn't be fair, would it, +sir, to mention names, when I don't know for certain who they were +that brought me? I never knew anything till I opened my eyes, and +thought I was in----” + +He paused. + +“_Where_ did you think you were?” asked the captain eagerly. + +“In the dome of the angels, sir,” answered Clare. + +The captain's face fell. He thought him an innocent, on whom rascals +had been playing a practical joke. But that made no difference! If he +were a simpleton, he might none the less be----! Was _her_ boy left +to----? + +He shuddered visibly, and again was silent. + +“Tell me,” he said at length, “what you remember.” + +He meant--of the circumstances that immediately preceded his coming to +himself on board the Panther; but Clare began with the first thing his +memory presented him with. Perhaps he was yet a little dazed. He had +not got through a single sentence, when he saw that something earlier +wanted telling first; and the same thing happening again and again +within the first five minutes of his narration, sir Harry saw he had +before him a boy either of fertile imagination, or of “strange, +eventful history.” But either supposition had its difficulty. If, on +the one hand, he had had the tenth part of the experiences hinted at; +if, for one thing, he had been but a single month on the tramp, how +had he kept such an innocent face, such an angelic smile? If, on the +other hand, he was making up these tales, why did he not look sharper? +and whence the angelic smile? Did the seeming innocence indicate only +such a lack of intellect as occasionally accompanies a remarkable +individual gift? He must make him begin at the beginning, and tell +everything he knew, or might pretend to know about himself! + +“Stop,” he said. “You told me you did not quite know your name: what +did they call you as far back as you can remember?” + +“Clare Porson,” answered the boy. + +At the first word the captain gave a little cry, but repressed his +emotion, and went on. His face was very white, and his breath came and +went quickly. + +“Why did you say you did not _quite_ know your name?” + +“My father and mother called me by their name because there was nobody +to tell them what my real name was.” + +“Then they weren't your own father and mother that gave you the name?” + +“No, sir. I'm but using theirs till I get my own. I shall one day.” + +“Why do you think so?” + +“Don't _you_ think, sir, that everything will come right one day?” + +“God grant it!” responded the captain with a groan, self-reproached +for the little faith beside the strong desire. + +“Do you think it wrong, sir, to use a name that is not quite my own?” + said Clare. “People sometimes seem to think so.” + +“Not at all, my boy! You must have a name. You did not steal it. They +gave it you.” + +The look of the boy when he thus answered him, completely restored sir +Harry's confidence in his mental soundness, while both the mode and +the nature of his answer to every question he put to him, bore the +strongest impress of truth. + +“If the boy be a liar,” he said to himself, “I will never more trust +my kind. I will turn to the wild-beasts, and believe in panthers and +hyenas!” + +“They did, sir,” answered Clare. “Mr. Porson gave me his own name, and +he was a clergyman. So I thought afterwards, when I had to think about +it, that it couldn't be wrong to use it.” + +But how could sir Harry palter so with himself? He might have got at +the necessary facts so much quicker! + +Sir Harry shrank from seeing his suddenly wakened hope, dead for many +a year, crumble before his eyes. He dared not yet drive question +close. + +“Did Mr. Porson give you both your names?” he asked. + +“No, sir. My mother said I brought the first with me. She said I told +them--I don't remember myself--that my name was Clare.” + +The captain drove back the words that threatened to break from his +lips in spite of him. His boy's name was Clarence, but his mother, +whose dearest friend was a _Clara_, called her child always _Clare_! + +“I mean my second mother, sir,” explained Clare; “my own mother is in +the dome of the angels.” + +A flash lightened from the captain's eyes, but he seemed to himself to +have gone blind. Clare saw the flash, and wondered. + +Again _the dome of the angels_! The words burst into meaning. Out of +the depths of the world of life rose to his mind's eye the terrible +thing that had made him a lonely man. Again he stood with his head +thrown back, looking up at the Assumption of the Virgin painted in +that awful dome; again the earthquake seized the church, and shook the +painted heaven down upon them. He knew no more. His little boy had +been standing near him, holding his mother's hand, but staring up like +his father! + +He had to force the next words from his throat. + +“Where did the good people who gave you their name find you?” + +“Sitting on my mother--my own mother. The angels fell down on her, and +when they went up again, she had got mixed with them, and went up +too.” + +Some people thought my friend Skymer “a little queer, you know!” I +leave my reader to his own thought: he will judge after his +kind. Clare's father no longer doubted his perfect faculty. + +All through Clare's life, as often as the old, vague, but ever ready +vision brought back its old feelings, with them came the old thoughts, +the old forms of them, and the old words their attendant shadows; and +then Clare talked like a child. + +The stern, sorrowful man hid his face In his hands. + +“Grace,” he murmured--and Clare knew somehow that he spoke to his +wife, “we have him again! We will never distrust him more!” + +His frame heaved with the choking of his sobs. + +Then Clare understood that the grand man was his father. The awe of a +perfect gladness fell upon him. He knelt before him, and laid his +hands together as in prayer. + +“Why did you distrust me, father?” said the half-naked outcast. + +“It was not my child, it was my father I distrusted. I am ashamed,” + said sir Harry, and clasped him in his arms. + +The boy laid his blood-stained face against his father's bosom, and +his soul was in a better home than a sky full of angels, a home better +than the dome itself of all the angels, for his home was his father's +heart. + +How long they remained thus I cannot tell. It seemed to both as if so +it had been from eternity, and so to eternity it would be. When a +thing is as it should be, then we know it is from eternity to +eternity. The true is. + +The father relaxed at length the arms that strained his child to his +heart. Clare looked up with white, luminous face. He gazed at his +father, cried like little Ann, “You're come!” and slid to his feet. He +clasped and kissed and clung to them--would hardly let them go. + +All this time the officers on the quarter-deck were wondering what the +captain could have to do with the beggarly stowaway. The panther stood +on his feet, anxiously waiting, his ears starting at every sound. He +was longing for the boy with whom he had played, panther cub with +human infant, in the years long gone by. The sweet airs of his +childhood were to the panther plainly recognizable through all the +accretions that disfigured but could not defile him. The two were the +same age. They had rolled on floor and deck together when neither +could hurt--and now neither would. For the animal was perfectly +harmless, and chained only because apt to be unseasonably +frolicsome. When they let him loose, it was a season of high jinks and +rare skylarking. Then the men had to look out! He had twice knocked a +man overboard, and had once tumbled overboard himself. But he had +never killed a creature, was always gentle with children, and might be +trusted to look after any infant. + +Sir Harry raised his son, kissed him, set him on his own chair, and +retired into an inner cabin. + +A knock came to the door. Clare said, “Come in.” The quartermaster +entered. Instead of sir Harry, he saw the miserable stowaway, seated +in the captain's own chair. He swore at him, and ordered him out, +prepared to give him a kick as he passed. + +“Out with you!” he cried. “Go for'ard. Tell the bo's'n to look out a +rope's end. I'll be after you.” + +“The captain told me to sit here,” answered Clare, and sat. + +The officer looked closer at him, begged his pardon, saluted, and +withdrew. + +The father heard, and said to himself, “The boy is a gentleman: he +knows where to take his orders.” + +He called him into the inner cabin, and there washed him from head to +foot, rejoicing to find under his rags a skin as clean as his own. + +“Now what are we to do for clothes, Clare?” said sir Harry. + +“Perhaps somebody would lend me some,” answered Clare. “Mayn't I be +your cabin-boy, father? You will let me be a sailor, won't you, and +sail always with you?” + +“You shall be a sailor, my boy,” answered sir Harry, “and sail with me +as long as God pleases. You know to obey orders!” + +“I will obey the cook if you tell me, father.” + +“You shall obey nobody but myself,” returned sir Harry; “--and the +lord high admiral,” he added, with a glance upward, and a smile like +his son's. + +For that day Clare kept to the captain's state-room; the next, he went +on deck in a midshipman's uniform, which he wore like a gentleman that +could obey orders. + + + +Chapter LXVI. + +The end of Clare Skymer's boyhood. + + +His father had a hammock slung for him in the state-room; he could not +be parted from him even when they slept. + +One night sir Harry, lying awake, heard a movement in the state-room, +and got up. It was a still, star-lit night. The frigate was dreaming +away northward with all sail set. Through the windows shone the level +stars. From a beam above hung a dim lamp. He could see no one. He went +to the hammock. There was no boy in it. Then he spied him, kneeling +under the stern-windows, with his head down. + +“Anything the matter, Clare?” he asked. + +“No, father.” + +“What are you doing?” + +“Trying to say _Thank you for my father!_” + +“Oh, thank him, thank him, my boy!” returned sir Harry. “Thank him +with all your heart. He will give us _her_ some day!” + +“Yes, father, he will!” responded Clare. + +His father knelt beside him, but neither said word that the other +heard. + +The next night, Clare was on the quarter-deck with his father, and +heard him give certain orders to the officers of the watch. He had +never heard orders given in such a way: he spoke so quietly, so +directly, so simply! The night was gusty and dark, threatening foul +weather. The captain measured the quarter-deck as when first Clare saw +him, but with a mien how different! He walked as slow and stately as +before, but with a look almost of triumph in his eyes, glancing often +at the clouds. The thought of having such a father made Clare tremble +with delight from head to foot. His father was the power of the +sea-planet that bore them! Him the great vessel, and all aboard of +her, obeyed! He was the life of her motions, the soul of her! At his +pleasure she bowed her obedient head, and swept over the seas! Clare's +heart swelled within him. + +But this father had, the night before, knelt with him in the presence +of one unseen, worshipping and thanking a higher than himself! As the +captain of the Panther sailed his frigate through the seas, so the +great father, the father of his father, the father of all fathers, to +whom the captain kneeled as a little child, sailed through the heaven +of heavens the huge ship of the world, guided fleet upon fleet +innumerable through trackless space! And over an infinitely grander +sea than the measureless ocean of worlds, the Father was carrying +navies of human souls, every soul a world whose affairs none but the +Father could understand, through many a storm, and waterspout, and +battle with the powers of evil, safe to the haven of the children, the +Father's house! And Clare began to understand that so it was. + +One day his father said to him-- + +“Clare, whatever you forget, whatever you remember, mind this--that +you and I and your mother are the children of one father, and that we +have all three to be good children to that father. If we do as he +tells us, he will bring us all at length to the same port. Our admiral +is Jesus Christ. We take our orders from him. But each has to sail his +own ship.” + +The boatswain shook in his wide shoes, but Clare never showed him the +least disfavour. He recognized at once the two officers he had seen at +the menagerie, but beyond giving each a look he could hardly mistake, +he showed no sign of having any knowledge of them. + +He set himself to be a sailor, and learned fast. I need scarcely say +he was as precise in obeying any superior officer as the best sailor +on board. In a few weeks he felt and looked to the manner born--as +indeed he was, for not only his father, but his grandfather, and his +great-grandfather, and more yet of his ancestors,--how many I do not +know, were sailors. + +He had had a rough shaking. The earthquake had come and gone, and come +again and gone a many times. But the shaking earth was his nurse, and +she taught him to dwell in a world that cannot be shaken. + +[Illustration: Clare, Tommy, and the baby in custody.] + +[Illustration: Mrs. Porson finds Clare by the side of his dead mother.] + +[Illustration: Clare is heard talking to Maly.] + +[Illustration: Clare makes friends during Mr. Porson's absence.] + +[Illustration: The blacksmith gives Clare and Tommy a rough greeting.] + +[Illustration: Clare and Abdiel at the locked pump.] + +[Illustration: Clare proceeds to untie the ropes from the ring in the +bull's nose.] + +[Illustration: Clare finds the advantage of a powerful friend.] + +[Illustration: The gardener's discomfiture.] + +[Illustration: Clare asks Miss Shotover to let him carry Ann home.] + +[Illustration: Clare is found giving the shoeblack a lesson.] + +[Illustration: Clare asleep in the puma's cage.] + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of A Rough Shaking, by George MacDonald + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A ROUGH SHAKING *** + +***** This file should be named 8886-0.txt or 8886-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/8/8/8/8886/ + +Produced by Distributed Proofreaders + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project +Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at + www.gutenberg.org/license. + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” + or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project +Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +“Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.” + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +“Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right +of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at 809 +North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email +contact links and up to date contact information can be found at the +Foundation's web site and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. +To donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For forty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + |