The Hawthorns Part 13

d.i.c.kie dismissed the subject for the moment, and turned her attention to the little green barrow full of sticks which she had just wheeled into the potting shed. There was a pleasant mingled scent of apples, earth, and withered leaves there; from the low rafters hung strings of onions, pieces of ba.s.s, and bunches of herbs, and in one corner there was a broken-backed chair, and Andrew's dinner upon it tied up in a blue checked handkerchief. Bending over his pots and mould by the window in his tall black hat, and looking as brown and dried-up as everything round him, was Andrew himself, and d.i.c.kie stood opposite, warmly m.u.f.fled up, but with a pink tinge on her small round nose from the frosty air.

She was always on good terms with Andrew, and could make him talk sometimes when he was silent for everyone else; so, although she very seldom understood his answers, they held frequent conversations, which seemed quite satisfactory on both sides.

Her questions to-day about the circus had been called forth by the fact that she had seen, when out walking with Nurse, a strange round white house in a field near the village. On asking what it was, she had been told that it was a tent. What for? A circus. And what was a circus?

A place where horses went round and round. What for? Little girls should not ask so many questions. d.i.c.kie felt this to be unsatisfactory, and she accordingly made further inquiries on the first opportunity.

She laid her dry sticks neatly in the corner, and grasping the handles of her barrow, stood facing Andrew silently, who did not raise his grave long face from his work; he did not look encouraging, but she was quite used to that.

"Did 'oo like it, Andoo?" she inquired presently with her head on one side.

"Well, you see, missie," replied Andrew, "I lost the best thing I had there, through being a fool."

"Tell d.i.c.kie all about it," said d.i.c.kie in a coaxing voice.

She turned her little barrow upside down as she spoke, sat down upon it, and placed one mittened hand on each knee.

"d.i.c.kie kite yeddy. Begin," she said in a cheerful and determined manner.

Andrew took off his hat, and feebly scratched his head; he looked appealingly at the little figure on the barrow as though he would gladly have been excused the task, but though placid, the round face was calmly expectant.

"I dunno as I can call it to mind," he said apologetically; "you see, missie, it wur a powerful time ago. A matter of twenty years, it wur.

It was when I lost my little gal."

"Where is 'oor 'ittle gal?" asked d.i.c.kie.

"Blessed if I know," said Andrew, shaking his head mournfully; "but wherever she be, she ain't not to call a _little_ gal now, missie. She wur jest five years old when I lost her, an' it's twenty years ago.

That'll make her a young woman of twenty-five, yer see, missie, by this time."

"Why did 'oo lose 'oor 'ittle gal?" pursued d.i.c.kie, avoiding the question of age.

"Because I wur a fool," replied Andrew frowning.

"Tell d.i.c.kie," repeated the child, to whom the "little gal" had now become more interesting than the circus; "tell d.i.c.kie 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 d.i.c.kie 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 sc.r.a.ps 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 d.i.c.kie inquiringly, looking down at her own stumpy black goloshes.

"Someone had giv' me a sc.r.a.p 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 la.s.s, Mollie wur."

Andrew stopped a minute with his eyes fixed thoughtfully on d.i.c.kie, and yet as though he scarcely saw her. She hugged herself with her little crossed arms, and murmured confidentially, "d.i.c.kie 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 gla.s.s 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 gla.s.s 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 hoa.r.s.ely but went on again after a minute, speaking more to himself than d.i.c.kie--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 gla.s.s 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 d.i.c.kie 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 d.i.c.kie.

"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 d.i.c.kie, 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.

d.i.c.kie looked up with a twinkling smile as Nurse came bustling in.

"Andoo tell d.i.c.kie 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 d.i.c.kie, I think; he don't favour other people much with it."

On their way to the house d.i.c.kie 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 d.i.c.kie came to the last sentence this was really the case, for she said in a decided voice:

"d.i.c.kie will go to the circus too."

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

It seemed to d.i.c.kie 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 d.i.c.kie! 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.

d.i.c.kie 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:

"d.i.c.kie too."

But Mrs Hawthorn only smiled and shook her head.

"No, not d.i.c.kie," she said; "she is too young to go. d.i.c.kie will stay at home with mother."