The Hawthorns by Amy Walton (ebook reader browser txt) 📖

all about 'oor 'ittle gal."

"Well, missie," began Andrew with a sigh, "it wur like this. After her mother died my little gal an' I lived alone. I wasn't a gardener then, I was in the cobblin' line, an' sat all day mendin' an' patchin' the folks' boots an' shoes. Mollie wur a lovin' little thing, an' oncommon sensible in her ways. She'd sit at my feet an' make-believe to be sewin' the bits of leather together, an' chatter away as merry as a wren. Then when I took home a job, she'd come too an' trot by my side holdin' me tight by one finger--a good little thing she was, an' all the folks in the village was fond of her, but she always liked bein' with me best--bless her 'art, that she did."

Andrew stopped suddenly, and drew out of his pocket a red cotton handkerchief.

"Why did 'oo lose her?" repeated Dickie impatiently.

"It wur like this, missie," resumed Andrew. "One day there come a circus to the village, like as it might be that out in the field yonder, an' there was lots of 'orses, and dogs that danced, an' fine ladies flyin' through hoops, an suchlike. Mollie, she wanted to go an' see 'em. Nothing would do but I must take her. I can see her now, standin' among the scraps of leather, an' the tools, an' the old boots, an' saying so pleadin', `Do'ee take Molly, daddie, to see the gee-gees.' So, though I had a job to finish afore that night, I said I'd take her, an' I left my work, an' put on her red boots--"

"Yed boots?" said Dickie inquiringly, looking down at her own stumpy black goloshes.

"Someone had giv' me a scrap of red leather, an' I'd made her a pair of boots out of it," said Andrew; "they didn't cost me nothin' but the work--so I put 'em on, an tied on her little bonnet an' her handkercher, an' we went off. Mollie was frighted at first to see the 'orses go round so fast, an' the people on their backs cuttin' all manner of capers, just as if they wur on dry ground. She hid her face in my weskit, an' wouldn't look up; but I coaxed her a bit, an' when she did she wur rarely pleased. She clapped her hands, an' her cheeks wur red with pleasure, an' her blue eyes bright. She wur a pretty little lass, Mollie wur."

Andrew stopped a minute with his eyes fixed thoughtfully on Dickie, and yet as though he scarcely saw her. She hugged herself with her little crossed arms, and murmured confidentially, "Dickie will go to the circus too."

"There wur a chum of mine sittin' next," continued Andrew, "an' by and by, when the place was gettin' very hot, an' the sawdust the horses threw up with their heels was fit to choke yer, he says to me, `Old chap,' he says, `come out an' take a glass of summat jest to wet yer whistle.'

"`I can't,' says I, `I've got my little gal to look after. I can't leave her.' But I _was_ dry, an' the thought of a glass of beer was very temptin', `no call to be anxious over that,' says he; `you won't be gone not five minutes, an 'ere's this lady will keep an eye on her fur that little while, I'm sure.' `Certingly,' says the woman sitting next, who was a stranger to me but quite respectable-lookin'. `You come to me, my dearie!' and she lifted Mollie on to her knee an' spoke kind to her, an' the child seemed satisfied; an' so I went."

Andrew coughed hoarsely but went on again after a minute, speaking more to himself than Dickie--who, indeed, did not understand nearly all he had been saying.

"When I got into the `Blue Bonnet' there wur three or four more of my chums a-settin' round the fire an' havin' a argyment. `'Ere,' says one, `we'll hear what Andrew Martin's got to say to it. He's a tough hand at speakin'--he'll tell us the rights on it.' An' before I knew a'most I wur sittin' in my usual place next the fire, with a glass of beer in my hand. I wur pleased, like a fool, to think I could speak better nor any of 'em; an' I went on an' on, an' it wasn't till I heard the clock strike that I thought as how I'd left my little gal alone in the circus for a whole hour. I got up pretty quick then, for I thought she'd be frighted, but not that she could come to any harm. So I went back straight to where I left her with the woman, an'--"

"What does 'oo stop for?" said Dickie impatiently.

"She wur _gone_, missie!" said Andrew solemnly, spreading out his hands with a despairing gesture--"gone, an' the woman too! I've never seen my little gal since that day."

"Where is 'oor 'ittle gal?" asked Dickie.

"Lost, missie! lost!" said Andrew shaking his head mournfully. "I sha'n't never see her no more now. Parson he was very kind, an' offered a reward, an' set the perlice to work to find her. 'Twarn't all no good. So I giv' up the cobblin' an' went about the country doin' odd jobs, because I thought I might hear summat on her; but I never did, an' after years had gone by I come ere an' settled down again. So that's how I lost my little gal, an' it's nigh twenty years ago."

At this moment Nurse's voice was heard outside calling for Dickie, and Andrew's whole manner changed at the sound. He thrust the red handkerchief into his pocket, clapped his hat firmly over his eyes, and bent towards his work with his usual cross frown.

Dickie looked up with a twinkling smile as Nurse came bustling in.

"Andoo tell Dickie pitty story," she said.

"Ho, indeed!" said Nurse with a sharp glance at Andrew's silent figure. "Mr Martin keeps all his conversation for you, Miss Dickie, I think; he don't favour other people much with it."

On their way to the house Dickie did her best to tell Nurse all she had heard from Andrew; but it was not very clear, and left her hearer in rather a confused state of mind. There was something about a 'ittle gal, and red boots, and a circus, and something that was lost; but whether it was the red boots that were lost, or the little girl, was uncertain. However, Nurse held up her hands at proper intervals and exclaimed, "Only fancy!" "Gracious me!" and so on, as if she understood perfectly; and when Dickie came to the last sentence this was really the case, for she said in a decided voice:

"Dickie will go to the circus too."

"No, no," replied Nurse; "Dickie is too little to go--she will stay at home with poor Nursie and baby."

It seemed to Dickie that they always said she was too little when she wanted to do anything nice, but if ever she cried or was naughty they said she was too big: "Oh, fie, Miss Dickie! a great girl like you!" If she was a great girl she ought to go to the circus; and she repeated firmly, "Me _will_ go," adding a remark about "Andoo's 'ittle gal," which Nurse did not hear.

At dinner-time there was nothing spoken of but the circus; the children came in from their walk quite full of it, and of all the wonderful things they had seen in the village. Outside the blacksmith's forge there was a great bill pasted, which showed in bright colours the brilliant performance of "Floretta the Flying Fairy" on horseback; there was also a full-length portrait of Mick Murphy the celebrated clown.

Even more exciting were the strange caravans and carts arriving in the field where the large tent had already been put up; and Ambrose had caught sight of a white poodle trimmed like a lion, which he felt quite sure was one of the dancing-dogs.

The circus was to stop two days--might the children go to-morrow afternoon?

There was a breathless silence amongst them whilst this question was being decided, and mother said something to Miss Grey in French; but after a little consultation it was finally settled that they were to go. Dickie had listened to it all, leaving her rice-pudding untasted; now she stretched out her short arm, and, pointing with her spoon at her mother, said:

"Dickie too."

But Mrs Hawthorn only smiled and shook her head.

"No, not Dickie," she said; "she is too young to go. Dickie will stay at home with mother."

Now the vicar was not there--if he had been he would probably have said, "Let her go;" and Dickie knew this--it had happened sometimes before. So now, although she turned down the corners of her mouth and pushed up one fat shoulder, she murmured rather defiantly:

"Dickie will ask father."

The next day was Saturday--sermon day, and the vicar was writing busily in his study when he heard some uncertain sounds outside, as though some little animal were patting the handle of the door--the cat most likely-- and he paid no attention to it, until he felt a light touch on his arm. Looking down he saw that it was Dickie, who, having made her way in, stood at his elbow with eager eyes and a bright flush of excitement on her cheeks.

"Please, father," she said at once, "take Dickie to see the gee-gees."

The vicar pushed back his chair a little and lifted her on to his knee. He would have liked to go on with his sermon, but he always found it impossible to send Dickie away if she once succeeded in getting into his study.

"What does Dickie want?" he asked rather absently.

"Please, father, take Dickie to see gee-gees," she repeated in exactly the same tone as at first.

The vicar took up his pen again and made a correction in the last sentence he had written, still keeping one arm round Dickie. But this divided attention did not please her; she stuck out two little straight brown legs and said reflectively:

"Dickie got no yed boots."

"No, no," said the vicar with his eyes on his sermon; "Dickie's got pretty black boots."

"Andoo's 'ittle gal got yed boots," pursued Dickie.

"Andrew's little girl! Andrew hasn't got a little girl," said her father.

For answer Dickie pursed-up her lips, looked up in his face, and began to nod very often and very quickly.

"Where is she, then?" asked the vicar.

Dickie stopped nodding, and, imitating Andrew as well as she could, shook her head mournfully, spread out her hands, and said:

"Lost! lost!"

"You funny little thing!" said the vicar, laying down his pen and looking at her. "I wonder what you've got into your head. Wouldn't Dickie like to run upstairs now?"

But she only swung herself backwards and forwards on his knee and repeated very fast, as if she were saying a lesson:

"Please, father, take Dickie to see gee-gees."

There was evidently no chance of getting rid of her unless this question were answered, and the sermon must really be finished. The vicar looked gravely at her and spoke slowly and impressively:

"If Dickie is a good little girl, and