Lob Lie By the Fire.
LIE-BY-THE-FIRE–the Lubber-fiend, as Milton calls him–is a rough kind
of Brownie or House Elf, supposed to haunt some north-country
homesteads, where he does the work of the farm labourers, for no
grander wages than
"–to earn his cream-bowl duly set."
Not that he is insensible of the pleasures of rest, for
"–When, in one night, ere glimpse of morn,
His shadowy flail hath threshed the corn
That ten day-labourers could not end,
Then lies him down the Lubber-fiend,
And, stretched out all the chimney's length,
Basks at the fire his hairy strength."
was said that a Lob Lie-by-the-fire once haunted the little old Hall at
Lingborough. It was an old stone house on the Borders, and seemed to
have got its tints from the grey skies that hung above it. It was
cold-looking without, but cosy within, "like a north-country heart,"
said Miss Kitty, who was a woman of sentiment, and kept a commonplace
book. [Page 5]
It was long before Miss Kitty's time that Lob
Lie-by-the-fire first came to Lingborough. Why and whence he came is
not recorded, nor when and wherefore he withdrew his valuable help,
which, as wages rose, and prices rose also, would have been more
welcome than ever.
This tale professes not to record more of him than comes within the memory of man.
(as Fletcher says) he were the son of a witch, if curds and cream won
his heart, and new clothes put an end to his labours, it does not
pretend to tell. His history is less well-known than that of any other
sprite. It may be embodied in some oral tradition that shall one day be
found; but as yet the mists of forgetfulness hide it from the
story-teller of to-day as deeply as the sea fogs are wont to lie
between Lingborough and the adjacent coast.
THE LITTLE OLD LADIES–ALMS DONE IN SECRET.
The little old ladies of Lingborough were heiresses.
mind you, in the sense of being the children of some mushroom
millionare, with more money than manners, and (as Miss Betty had seen
with her own eyes, on the daughter of a manufacturer who shall be
nameless) dresses so fine in quality and be-furbelowed in construction
as to cost a good quarter's income (of the little old ladies), but
trailed in the dirt from "beggarly extravagance," or kicked out behind
at every step by feet which fortune (and a very large fortune, too) had
never taught to walk properly.
"And how should she know how to
walk?" said Miss Betty. "Her mother can't have taught her, poor body!
that ran through the streets of Leith, with a creel on her back, as a
lassie; and got out of her coach (lined with satin, you mind, sister
Kitty?) to her dying day, with a bounce, all in a heap, her dress
caught, and her stockings exposed (among ourselves, ladies!) like some
good wife that's afraid to be late for the market. Aye, aye! Malcolm
Midden–good man!–made a fine pocket of silver in a dirty trade, but his
women'll jerk, and toss, and bounce, and fuss, and [Page 7]
fluster for a generation or two yet, for all the silks and satins he
can buy 'em."
From this it will be seen that the little old
ladies inherited some prejudices of their class, and were also endowed
with a shrewdness of observation common among all classes of
But to return to what else they inherited.
They were heiresses, as the last representatives of a family as old in
that Border country as the bold blue hills which broke its horizon.
They were heiresses also in default of heirs male to their father, who
got the land from his uncle's dying childless–sons being scarce in the
family. They were heiresses, finally, to the place and the farm, to the
furniture that was made when folk seasoned their wood before they
worked it, to a diamond brooch which they wore by turns, besides two
diamond rings, and two black lace shawls, that had belonged to their
mother and their Auntie Jean, long since departed thither where neither
moth nor rust corrupt the true riches.
As to the incomings of
Lingborough, "It was nobody's business but their own," as Miss Betty
said to the lawyer who was their man of business, and whom they
consulted on little matters of rent and repairs at as much length, and
with as much formal solemnity, as would have gone elsewhere to the
changing hands of half a million of money. Without violating their
confidence, however, we may say that the estate paid its way, kept them
in silk stockings, and gave them new tabbinet dresses once in three
years. It supplied their wants the better that they had inherited house
plenishing from their parents, "which they thanked their stars was not
made of tag-rag, and would last their time," and that they were quite
content with an old home and old neighbours, and never desired to
change the grand air that blew about their native hills for worse, in
order to be poisoned with bad butter, and make the fortunes of
extortionate lodging-house keepers.
The rental of Lingborough
did more. How much more the little old ladies did not know themselves,
and no one else shall know, till that which was done in secret is
proclaimed from the housetops. [Page 8]
For they had a
religious scruple, founded upon a literal reading of the scriptural
command that a man's left hand should not know what his right hand
gives in alms, and this scruple had been ingeniously set at rest by the
parson, who, failing in an attempt to explain the force of eastern
hyperbole to the little ladies' satisfaction, had said that Miss Betty,
being the elder, and the head of the house, might be likened to the
right hand, and Miss Kitty, as the younger, to the left, and that if
they pursued their good works without ostentation, or desiring the
applause even of each other, the spirit of the injunction would be
The parson was a good man and a clever. He had (as
Miss Betty justly said) a very spiritual piety. But he was also gifted
with much shrewdness in dealing with the various members of his flock.
And his word was law to the sisters.
Thus it came about that the
little ladies' charities were not known even to each other–that Miss
Betty turned her morning camlet twice instead of once, and Miss Kitty
denied herself in sugar, to carry out benevolent little projects which
were accomplished in secret, and of which no record appears in the
AT TEA WITH MRS. DUNMAW.
ladies of Lingborough were very sociable, and there was, as they said,
"as much of gaiety as was good for anyone" within their reach. There
were at least six houses at which they drank tea from time to time, all
within a walk. As hosts or guests, you always meet the same people,
which was a friendly arrangement, and the programmes of the
entertainments were so uniform, that no one could possibly feel
awkward. The best of manners and home-made wines distinguished these
tea parties, where the company was strictly genteel, if a little faded.
Supper was served at nine, and the parson and the lawyer played whist
for love with different partners on different evenings with strict
Small jealousies are apt to be weak points in
small societies, but there was a general acquiescence in the belief
that the parson had a friendly preference for the little ladies of
Lingborough. [Page 9]
He lived just beyond them, too, which
led to his invariably escorting them home. Miss Betty and Miss Kitty
would not for worlds have been so indelicate as to take his attention
for granted, though it was a custom of many years' standing. The older
sister always went through the form of asking the younger to "see if
the servant had come," and at this signal the parson always bade the
lady of the house good night, and respectfully proffered his services
as an escort to Lingborough.
It was a lovely evening in June,
when the little ladies took tea with the widow of General Dunmaw at her
cottage, not quite two miles from their own home.
It was a
memorable evening. The tea party was an agreeable one. The little
ladies had new tabbinets on, and Miss Kitty wore the diamond brooch.
Miss Betty had played whist with the parson, and the younger sister
(perhaps because of the brooch) had been favoured with a good deal of
conversation with the lawyer. It was an honour, because the lawyer bore
the reputation of an esprit fort, and was supposed to have, as a rule,
a contempt for feminine intellects, which good manners led him to veil
under an almost officious politeness in society. But honours are apt to
be uneasy blessings, and this one was at least as harassing as
gratifying. For a somewhat monotonous vein of sarcasm, a painful power
of producing puns, and a dexterity in suggesting doubts of everything,
were the main foundation of his intellectual reputation, and Miss Kitty
found them hard to cope with. And it was a warm evening.
women have much courage, especially to defend a friend or a faith, and
the less Miss Kitty found herself prepared for the conflict the harder
she esteemed it her duty to fight. She fought for Church and State, for
parsons and poor people, for the sincerity of her friends, the virtues
of the Royal Family, the merit of Dr. Drugson's prescriptions, and for
her favourite theory that there is some good in everyone and some
happiness to be found everywhere.
She rubbed nervously at the
diamond brooch with her thin little mittened hands. She talked very
fast; and if the lawyer were guilty of feeling any ungallant
indifference to her observations, she [Page 10] did not so much
as hear his, and her cheeks became so flushed that Mrs. Dunmaw crossed
the room in her China crape shawl and said, "My dear Miss Kitty, I'm
sure you feel the heat very much. Do take my fan, which is larger than
But Miss Kitty was saved a reply, for at this moment
Miss Betty turned on the sofa, and said, "Dear Kitty, will you kindly
see if the servant–"
And the parson closed the volume of
'Friendship's Offering' which lay before him, and advanced towards Mrs.
Dunmaw and took leave in his own dignified way.
Miss Kitty was
so much flustered that she had not even presence of mind to look for
the servant, who had never been ordered to come, but the parson
relieved her by saying in his round, deep voice, "I hope you will not
refuse me the honour of seeing you home, since our roads happen to lie
together." And she was glad to get into fresh air, and beyond the
doubtful compliments of the lawyer's nasal suavity–"You have been very
severe upon me to-night, Miss Kitty. I'm sure I had no notion I should
find so powerful an antagonist," &c.
MIDSUMMER EVE.–A LOST DIAMOND.
was Midsummer Eve. The long light of the North was pale and clear, and
the western sky shone luminous through the fir-wood that bordered the
road. Under such dim lights colours deepen, and the great bushes of
broom, that were each one mass of golden blossom, blazed like fairy
watch-fires up the lane.
Miss Kitty leaned on the left arm of
the parson and Miss Betty on his right. She chatted gaily, which left
her younger sister at leisure to think of all the convincing things she
had not remembered to say to the lawyer, as the evening breeze cooled
"A grand prospect for the crops, sir," said Miss
Betty; "I never saw the broom so beautiful." But as she leaned forward
to look at the yellow blaze which foretells good luck to farmers, as it
shone in the hedge on the left-hand side of the road, she caught
"A grand prospect for the crops, sir," said Miss Betty;
"I never saw the broom so beautiful."–Page 10.
11] sight of the brooch in Miss Kitty's lace shawl. Through a gap
in the wood the light from the western sky danced among the diamonds.
But where one of the precious stones should have been, there was a
little black hole.
"Sister, you've lost a stone out of your
brooch!" screamed Miss Betty. The little ladies were well-trained, and
even in that moment of despair Miss Betty would not hint that her
sister's ornaments were not her sole property.
When Miss Kitty
burst into tears the parson was a little astonished as well as
distressed. Men are apt to be so, not perhaps because women cry on such
very small accounts, as because the full reason does not always
transpire. Tears are often the climax of nervous exhaustion, and this
is commonly the result of more causes than one. Ostensibly Miss Kitty
was "upset" by the loss of the diamond, but she also wept away a good
deal of the vexation of her unequal conflict with the sarcastic lawyer,
and of all this the parson knew nothing.
Miss Betty knew nothing of that, but she knew enough of things in general to feel sure that the diamond was not all the matter.
is amiss, sister Kitty?" said she. "Have you hurt yourself? Do you feel
ill? Did you know the stone was out?"–"I hope you're not going to be
hysterical, sister Kitty," added Miss Betty anxiously; "there never was
a hysterical woman in our family yet."
"Oh dear no, sister
Betty," sobbed Miss Kitty; "but it's all my fault. I know I was
fidgeting with it whilst I was talking; and it's a punishment on my
fidgety ways, and for ever presuming to wear it at all, when you're the
head of the family, and solely entitled to it. And I shall never
forgive myself if it's lost, and if it's found I'll never, never wear
it any more." And as she deluged her best company pocket-handkerchief
(for the useful one was in a big pocket under her dress, and could not
be got at, the parson being present), Church, State, the Royal Family,
the family Bible, her highest principles, her dearest affections, and
the diamond brooch, all seemed to swim before her disturbed mind in one
sea of desolation.
There was not a kinder heart than the
parson's towards women [Page 12] and children in distress. He
tucked the little ladies again under his arms, and insisted upon going
back to Mrs. Dunmaw's, searching the lane as they went. In the pulpit
or the drawing-room a ready anecdote never failed him, and on this
occasion he had several. Tales of lost rings, and even single gems,
recovered in the most marvellous manner and the most unexpected
places–dug up in gardens, served up to dinner in fishes, and so forth.
"Never," said Miss Kitty afterwards, "never, to her dying day, could
she forget his kindness."
She clung to the parson as a support
under both her sources of trouble, but Miss Betty ran on and back, and
hither and thither, looking for the diamond. Miss Kitty and the parson
looked too, and how many aggravating little bits of glass and silica,
and shining nothings and good-for-nothings there are in the world, no
one would believe who has not looked for a lost diamond on a high road.
another story of found jewels was to be added to the parson's stock. He
had bent his long back for about the eighteenth time, when such a
shimmer as no glass or silica can give flashed into his eyes, and he
caught up the diamond out of the dust, and it fitted exactly into the
little black hole.
Miss Kitty uttered a cry, and at the same
moment Miss Betty, who was farther down the road, did the same, and
these were followed by a third, which sounded like a mocking echo of
both. And then the sisters rushed together.
"A most miraculous discovery!" gasped Miss Betty.
"You must have passed the very spot before," cried Miss Kitty.
I'm sure, sister, what to do with it now we have found it, I don't
know," said Miss Betty, rubbing her nose, as she was wont to do when
"It shall be taken better care of for the future,
sister Betty," said Miss Kitty, penitently. "Though how it got out I
can't think now."
"Why, bless my soul! you don't suppose it got
there of itself, sister?" snapped Miss Betty. "How it did get there is
another matter." [Page 13]
"I felt pretty confident about it, for my own part," smiled the parson as he joined them.
"Do you mean to say, sir, that you knew it was there?" asked Miss Betty, solemnly.
"I didn't know the precise spot, my dear madam, but–"
"You didn't see it, sir, I hope?" said Miss Betty.
"Bless me, my dear madam, I found it!" cried the parson.
Miss Betty bridled and bit her lip.
never contradict a clergyman, sir," said she, "but I can only say that
if you did see it, it was not like your usual humanity to leave it
"Why, I've got it in my hand, ma'am!"
He's got it in his hand, sister!"
cried the parson and Miss Kitty in one breath. Miss Betty was too much puzzled to be polite.
"What are you talking about?" she asked.
"The diamond, oh dear, oh dear! The diamond! " cried Miss Kitty. "But what are you talking about, sister?"
"The Baby," said Miss Betty.
WHAT MISS BETTY FOUND.
was found under a broom-bush. Miss Betty was poking her nose near the
bank that bordered the wood, in her hunt for the diamond, when she
caught sight of a mass of yellow of a deeper tint than the mass of
broom-blossom above it, and this was the baby.
colour, less opaque than "deep chrome" and a shade more orange, seems
to have a particular attraction for wandering tribes. Gipsies use it,
and it is a favourite colour with Indian squaws. To the last dirty rag
it is effective, whether it flutters near a tent on Bagshot Heath, or
in some wigwam doorway makes a point of brightness against the grey
shadows of the pine forest.
A large kerchief of this, wound
about its body, was the baby's only robe, but he seemed quite
comfortable in it when Miss Betty [Page 14] found him, sleeping
on a pillow of deep hair moss, his little brown fists closed as fast as
his eyes, and a crimson toadstool grasped in one of them.
Miss Betty screamed the baby awoke, and his long black lashes tickled
his cheeks and made him wink and cry. But by the time she returned with
her sister and the parson, he was quite happy again, gazing up with
dark eyes full of delight into the glowing broom-bush, and fighting the
evening breeze with his feet, which were entangled in the folds of the
yellow cloth, and with the battered toadstool which was still in his
"And, indeed, sir," said Miss Betty, who had rubbed her
nose till it looked like the twin toadstool to that which the baby was
flourishing in her face, "you don't suppose I would have left the poor
little thing another moment, to catch its death of cold on a [Page
15] warm evening like this; but having no experience of such
cases, and remembering the murder at the inn in the Black Valley, and
that the body was not allowed to be moved till the constables had seen
it, I didn't feel to know how it might be with foundlings, and–"
still Miss Betty did not touch the bairn. She was not accustomed to
children. But the parson had christened too many babies to be afraid of
them, and he picked up the little fellow in a moment, and tucked the
yellow rag round him, and then addressing the little ladies precisely
as if they were sponsors, he asked in his deep round voice, "Now where
on the face of the earth are the vagabonds who have deserted this
The little ladies did not know, the broom bushes were silent, and the question has remained unanswered from that day to this.
THE BABY, THE LAWYER, AND THE PARSON.
were no railways near Lingborough at this time. The coach ran three
times a week, and a walking postman brought the letters from the town
to the small hamlets. Telegraph wires were unknown, and yet news
travelled quite as fast then as it does now, and in the course of the
following morning all the neighbourhood knew that Miss Betty had found
a baby under a broom bush, and the lawyer called in the afternoon to
inquire how the ladies found themselves after the tea party at Mrs.
Miss Kitty was glad on the whole. She felt nervous,
but ready for a renewal of hostilities. Several clinching arguments had
occurred to her in bed last night, and after hastily looking up a few
lines from her common-place book, which always made her cry when she
read them, but which she hoped to be able to hurl at the lawyer with a
steady voice, she followed Miss Betty to the drawing-room.
was half a relief and half a disappointment to find that the lawyer was
quite indifferent to the subject of their late contest. He overflowed
with compliments; was quite sure he must have [Page 16] had the
worst of the argument, and positively dying of curiosity to hear about
The little ladies were very full of the subject
themselves. An active search for the baby's relations, conducted by the
parson, the clerk, the farm-bailiff, the constable, the cowherd, and
several supernumeraries, had so far proved quite vain. The country folk
were most anxious to assist, expecially by word of mouth. Except a
small but sturdy number who had seen nothing, they had all seen
"tramps," but unluckily no two could be got together whose accounts of
the tramps themselves, of the hour at which they were seen, or of the
direction in which they went, would tally with each other.
little ladies were quite alive to the possibility that the child's
parents might never be traced, indeed the matter had been constantly
before their minds ever since the parson had carried the baby to
Lingborough, and laid it in the arms of Thomasina, the servant.
Betty had sat long before her toilette-table that evening, gazing
vacantly at the looking-glass. Not that the reflection of the eight
curl-papers she had neatly twisted up was conveyed to her brain. She
was in a brown study, during which the following thoughts passed
through her mind, and they all pointed one way:
That the fine little fellow was not to blame for his people's misconduct.
That they would never be found.
That it would probably be the means of the poor child's ruin, body and soul, if they were.
That the master of the neighbouring workhouse bore a bad character.
That a child costs nothing to keep–where cows are kept too–for years.
just at the age when a boy begins to eat dreadfully and wear out his
clothes, he is very useful on a farm (though not for those reasons).
That Thomasina had taken to him.
there need be no nonsense about it, as he could be [Page 17]
brought up in his proper station in life in the kitchen and the
That tramps have souls.
That he would be taught to say his prayers.
Betty said hers, and went to bed; but all through that midsummer night
the baby kept her awake, or flaunted his yellow robe and crimson
toadstool through her dreams.
The morning brought no change in
Miss Betty's views, but she felt doubtful as to how her sister would
receive them. Would she regard them as foolish and impractical, and her
respect for Miss Betty's opinion be lessened thenceforward?
fear was needless. Miss Kitty was romantic and imaginative. She had
carried this baby through his boyhood about the Lingborough fields
whilst she was dressing; and he was attending her own funeral in the
capacity of an attached and faithful servant, in black livery with
worsted frogs, as she sprinkled salt on her buttered toast at
breakfast, when she was startled from this affecting daydream by Miss
"Dear sister Kitty, I wish to consult you as to
our plans in the event of those wicked people who deserted the baby not
The little ladies resolved that not an inkling of
their benevolent scheme must be betrayed to the lawyer. But they
dissembled awkwardly, and the tone in which they spoke of the
tramp-baby aroused the lawyer's quick suspicions. He had a real respect
for the little ladies, and was kindly anxious to save them from their
"My dear ladies," said he, "I do hope your
benevolence–may I say your romantic benevolence?–of disposition is not
tempting you to adopt this gipsy waif?"
"I hope we know what is
due to ourselves, and to the estate–small, as it is–sir," said Miss
Betty, "as well as to Providence, too well to attempt to raise any
child, however handsome, from that station of life in which he was
"Bless me, madam! I never dreamed you would adopt a
beggar child as your heir; but I hope you mean to send it to the
workhouses, if the gipsy tramps it belongs to are not to be found?"
"We have not made up our minds, sir, as to the
course we propose to pursue," said Miss Betty, with outward dignity
proportioned to her inward doubts.
"My dear ladies," said the
lawyer anxiously, "let me implore you not to be rash. To adopt a child
in the most favourable circumstances is the greatest of risks. But if
your benevolence will take that line, pray adopt some little boy out of
one of your tenants' families. Even your teaching will not make him
brilliant, as he is likely to inherit the minimum of intellectual
capacity; but he will learn his catechism, probably grow up
respectable, and possibly grateful, since his forefathers have (so Miss
Kitty assures me) had all these virtues for generations. But this baby
is the child of a heathen, barbarous, and wandering race. The
propensities of the vagabonds who have deserted him are in every drop
of his blood. All the parsons in the diocese won't make a Christian of
him, and when (after anxieties I shudder to foresee) you flatter
yourselves that he is civilised, he will run away and leave his shoes
and stockings behind him."
"He has a soul to be saved, if he is a gipsy," said Miss Kitty, hysterically.
"The soul, my dear Miss Kitty"–began the lawyer, facing round upon her.
say anything dreadful about the soul, sir, I beg," said Miss Betty,
firmly. And then she added in a conciliatory tone, "Won't you look at
the little fellow, sir? I have no doubt his relations are shocking
people; but when you see his innocent little face and his beautiful
eyes, I think you'll say yourself that if he were a duke's son he
couldn't be a finer child."
"My experience of babies is so
limited, Miss Betty," said the lawyer, "that really–if you'll excuse
me–but I can quite imagine him. I have before now been tempted myself
to adopt stray–puppies, when I have seen them in the round, soft,
innocent, bright-eyed stage. And when they have grown up in the hands
of more credulous friends into lanky, ill-conditioned, misconducted
curs, I have congratulated myself that I was not misled by the graces
of an age at which ill-breeding is less apparent than later in life."
The little ladies both rose. "If you see no
difference, sir," said Miss Betty in her stateliest manner, "between a
babe with an immortal soul and the beasts that perish, it is quite
useless to prolong the conversation."
"Reason is apt to be
useless when opposed to the generous impulses of a sex so full of
sentiment as yours, madam, " said the lawyer, rising also. "Permit me
to take a long farewell, since it is improbable that our friendship
will resume its old position until your protegé has–run away."
words "long farewell" and "old friendship" were quite sufficient to
soften wrath in the tender hearts of the little ladies. But the lawyer
had really lost his temper, and, before Miss Betty had decided how to
offer the olive branch without conceding her principles he was gone.
The weather was warm. The little ladies were heated
by discussion and the parson by vain scouring of the country on foot,
when they asked his advice upon their project, and related their
conversation with the lawyer. The two gentlemen had so little in common
that the parson felt it his duty not to let his advice be prejudiced by
this fact. For some moments he sat silent, then he began to walk about
as if he were composing a sermon; then he stopped before the little
ladies (who were sitting as stiffly on the sofa as if it were a pew)
and spoke as if he were delivering one.
"If you ask me, dear
ladies, whether it is your duty to provide for this child because you
found him, I say that there is no such obligation. If you ask if I
think it wise in your own interests, and hopeful as to the boy's
career, I am obliged to agree with your legal advisor. Vagabond ways
are seldom cured in one generation, and I think it is quite probable
that, after much trouble and anxiety spent upon him, he may go back to
a wandering life. But, Miss Betty," continued the parson in deepening
tones, as he pounded his left palm with his right fist for want of a
pulpit, "If you ask me whether I believe any child of any race is born
incapable of improvement, and beyond benefit from the charities we owe
to each other, I should deny my faith if I could say yes. I shall not,
madam, confuse the end of your connection with him with the end of your
training in him, even if he runs away, or fancy that I see the one
because I see the other. I do not pretend to know how much evil he
inherits from his forefathers as accurately as our graphic friend; but
I do know that he has a Father Whose image is also to be found in His
children–not quite effaced in any of them–and Whose care of this one
will last when yours, madam, may seem to have been in vain."
As the little ladies rushed forward and each shook a hand of the parson, he felt some compunction for his speech.
fear I am encouraging you in a grave indiscretion," said he. "But,
indeed, my dear ladies, I am quite against your project, for you do not
realise the anxieties and disappointments that are before you, I am
sure. The child will give you infinite trouble. I think he will run
away. And yet I cannot in good conscience [Page 21] say that I
believe love's labour must be lost. He may return to the woods and
wilds; but I hope he will carry something with him."
reverend gentleman mean Miss Betty's teaspoons?" asked the lawyer,
stroking his long chin, when he was told what the parson had said.
BABYHOOD.–PRETTY FLOWERS.–THE ROSE-COLOURED TULIPS.
matter of the baby's cap disturbed the little ladies. It seemed so like
the beginning of a fulfilment of the lawyer's croakings.
Kitty had made it. She had never seen a baby without a cap before, and
the sight was unusual, if not indecent. But Miss Kitty was a quick
needlewoman, and when the new cap was fairly tied over the thick crop
of silky black hair, the baby looked so much less like Puck, and so
much more like the rest of the baby world, that it was quite a relief.
Kitty's feelings may therefore be imagined when, going to the baby just
after the parson's departure, she found him in open rebellion against
his cap. It had been tied on whilst he was asleep, and his eyes were no
sooner open than he commenced the attack. He pulled with one little
brown hand and tugged with the other; he dragged a rosette over his
nose and got the frills into his eyes; he worried it as a puppy worries
your handkerchief if you tie it round its face and tell it to "look
like a grandmother." At last the strings gave way, and he cast it
triumphantly out of the clothes-basket which served him for cradle.
efforts to induce him to wear it proved vain, so Thomasina said the
weather was warm and his hair was very thick, and she parted this and
brushed it, and Miss Kitty gave the cap to the farm-bailiff's baby, who
took to it as kindly as a dumpling to a pudding-cloth. [Page 22]
the boy was ever kept inside his christening clothes, Thomasina said
she did not know. But when he got into the parson's arms he lay quite
quiet, which was a good omen. That he might lack no advantage, Miss
Betty stood godmother for him, and the parish clerk and the sexton were
He was named John.
"A plain, sensible
name," said Miss Betty. "And while we are about it," she added, "we may
as well choose his surname. For a surname he must have, and the sooner
it is decided upon the better."
Miss Kitty had made a list of
twenty-seven of her favourite Christian names, which Miss Betty had
sternly rejected, that everything might be plain, practical and
respectable at the outset of the tramp-child's career. For the same
reason she refused to adopt Miss Kitty's suggestions for a surname.
so seldom there's a chance of choosing a surname for anybody, sister,"
said Miss Kitty, "it seems a pity not to choose a pretty one."
Kitty," said Miss Betty, "don't be romantic. The boy is to be brought
up in that station of life for which one syllable is ample. I should
have called him Smith if that had not been Thomasina's name. As it is,
I propose to call him Broom. He was found under a bush of broom, and it
goes very well with John, and sounds plain and respectable."
Miss Betty brought a Bible, and on the fly-leaf of it she wrote in her
fine, round, gentlewoman's writing–"John Broom. With good wishes for
his welfare, temporal and eternal. From a sincere friend." And when the
inscription was dry the Bible was wrapped in brown paper, and put by in
Thomasina's trunk till John Broom should come to years of discretion.
He was slow to reach them, though in other respects he grew fast.
he began to walk he would walk barefoot. To be out of doors was his
delight, but on the threshold of the house he always sat down and
discarded his shoes and stockings. Thomasina bastinadoed the soles of
his feet with the soles of his shoes "to teach [Page 23] him the
use of them," so she said. But Miss Kitty sighed, and thought of the
There was no blinking the fact that the
child was as troublesome as he was pretty. The very demon of mischief
danced in his black eyes, and seemed to possess his feet and fingers as
if with quicksilver. And if, as Thomasina said, you "never knew what he
would be at next," you might also be pretty sure that it would be
something he ought to have left undone.
John Broom early
developed a taste for glass and crockery, and as the china cupboard was
in that part of the house to which he by social standing also belonged,
he had many chances to seize upon cups, jugs, and dishes. If detected
with anything that he ought not to have had, it was his custom to drop
the forbidden toy and toddle off as fast as his unpractised feet would
carry him. The havoc which this caused amongst the glass and china was
bewildering in a household where tea-sets and dinner-sets had passed
from generation to generation, where slapdash, giddy-pated kitchenmaids
never came, where Miss Betty washed the best teacups in the parlour,
where Thomasina was more careful than her mistress, and the breaking of
a single plate was a serious matter, and, if beyond riveting, a
Thomasina soon found that her charge was safest, as
he was happiest, out of doors. A very successful device was to shut him
up in the drying ground, and tell him to "pick the pretty flowers."
John Broom preferred flowers even to china cups with gilding on them.
He gathered nosegays of daisies and buttercups, and the winning way in
which he would present these to the little ladies atoned, in their
benevolent eyes, for many a smashed teacup.
But the tramp-baby's
restless spirit was soon weary of the drying-ground, and he set forth
one morning in search of "fresh woods and pastures new." He had seated
himself on the threshold to take off his shoes, when he heard the sound
of Thomasina's footsteps, and hastily staggering to his feet, toddled
forth without further delay. The sky was blue above him, the sun was
shining, and the air was very sweet. He ran for a bit and then tumbled,
and picked himself up again, and got a fresh [Page 24]
and so on till he reached the door of the kitchen garden, which was
open. It was an old-fashioned kitchen-garden with flowers in the
borders. There were single rose-coloured tulips which had been in the
garden as long as Miss Betty could [Page 25] remember, and they
had been so increased by dividing the clumps that they now stretched in
two rich lines of colour down both sides of the long walk. And John
Broom saw them.
"Pick the pretty f'owers, love," said he, in
imitation of Thomasina's patronising tone, and forthwith beginning at
the end, he went steadily to the top of the right-hand border, mowing
the rose-coloured tulips as he went.
Meanwhile, when Thomasina
came to look for him he could not be found, and when all the back
premises and the drying-ground had been searched in vain, she gave the
alarm to the little ladies.
Miss Kitty's vivid imagination
leaped at once to the conclusion that the child's vagabond relations
had fetched him away, and she became rigid with alarm. But Miss Betty
rushed out into the shrubbery, and Miss Kitty took a whiff of her
vinaigrette and followed her.
When they came at last to the
kitchen-garden, Miss Betty's grief for the loss of John Broom did not
prevent her observing that there was something odd about the borders,
and when she got to the top, and found that all the tulips had been
picked from one side, she sank down on the roller which happened to be
lying beside her.
And John Broom staggered up to her, and
crying, "For 'oo, Miss Betty," fell headlong with a sheaf of
rose-coloured tulips into her lap.
As he did not offer any to Miss Kitty, her better judgment was not warped, and she said, "You must slap him, sister Betty."
"Put out your hand, John Broom," said Miss Betty, much agitated.
John Broom, who was quite composed, put out both his grubby little paws
so trustfully that Miss Betty had not the heart to strike him. But she
scolded him, "Naughty boy!" and she pointed to the tulips and shook her
head. John Broom looked thoughtfully at them, and shook his.
"Naughty boy!" repeated Miss Betty, and she added in very impressive tones, "John Broom's a very naughty boy!"
which she took him to Thomasina, and Miss Kitty col- [Page 26]
lected the rose-coloured tulips and put them into water in the best old
china punch bowl.
In the course of the afternoon she
peeped into the kitchen, where John Broom sat on the floor, under the
window, gazing thoughtfully up into the sky.
"As good as gold,
bless his little heart!" murmured Miss Kitty. For as his feet were
tucked under him, she did not know that he had just put his shoes and
stockings into the pig-tub, into which he all but fell himself from the
exertion. He did not hear Miss Kitty, and thought on. He wanted to be
out again, and he had a tantalising remembrance of the ease with which
the tender juicy stalks of the tulips went snap, snap, in that new
place of amusement he had discovered. Thomasina looked into the kitchen
and went away again. When she had gone, John Broom went away also.
went both faster and steadier on his bare feet. And when he got into
the kitchen garden, it recalled Miss Betty to his mind. [Page 27]
And he shook his head, and said, "Naughty boy!" And then he went up the
left-hand border, mowing the tulips as he went; after which he trotted
home, and met Thomasina at the back door. And he hugged the sheaf of
rose-coloured tulips in his arms, and said, "John Broom a very naughty
Thomasina was not sentimental, and she slapped him well–his hands for picking the tulips, and his feet for going barefoot.
But his feet had to be slapped with Thomasina's slipper, for his own shoes could not be found.
spite of all his pranks, John Broom did not lose the favour of his
friends. Thomasina spoiled him, and Miss Betty and Miss Kitty tried not
to do so.
The parson had said, "Treat the child fairly. Bring
him up as he will have to live hereafter. Don't make him half pet and
half servant." And following this advice, and her own resolve that
there should be "no nonsense" in the matter, Miss Betty had made it a
rule that he should not be admitted to the parlour. It bore more
heavily on the tender hearts of the little ladies than on the light
heart of John Broom, and led to their waylaying him in the passages and
gardens with little gifts, unknown to each other. And when Miss Kitty
kissed his newly-washed cheeks, and pronounced them "like ripe
russets," Miss Betty murmured, "Be judicious, sister Kitty;" and Miss
Kitty would correct any possible ill effects by saying, "Now make your
bow to your betters, John Broom, and say 'Thank you, ma'am!' " which
was accomplished by the child's giving a tug to the forelock of his
thick black hair, with a world of mischief in his eyes.
When he was old enough, the little ladies sent him to the village school.
total failure of their hopes for his education was not the smallest of
the disappointments Miss Betty and Miss Kitty [Page 28] endured
on his behalf. The quarrel with the lawyer had been made up long ago,
and though there was always a touch of raillery in his inquiries after
"the young gipsy," he had once said, "If he turns out anything of a
genius at school, I might find a place for him in the office,
by-and-by." The lawyer was kind-hearted in his own fashion, and on this
hint Miss Kitty built up hopes, which unhappily were met by no
responsive ambition in John Broom.
As to his fitness to be an
errand boy, he could not carry a message from the kitchen to the
cowhouse without stopping by the way to play with the yard-dog, and a
hedgehog in the path would probably have lead him astray, if Thomasina
had had a fit and he had been despatched for the doctor.
school hours he spent most of his time under the fool's-cap when he was
not playing truant. With his schoolmates he was good friends. If he was
seldom out of mischief, he was seldom out of temper. He could beat any
boy at a foot race (without shoes); he knew the notes and nests of
every bird that sang, and whatever an old pocket-knife is capable of,
that John Broom could and would do with it for his fellows.
Betty had herself tried to teach him to read, and she continued to be
responsible for his religious instruction. She had longed to to stir up
his industry by showing him the Bible, and promising that when he could
read it he should have it for his "very own." But he either could not
or would not apply himself, so the prize lay unearned in Thomasina's
trunk. But he would listen for any length of time to Scripture stories,
if they were read or told to him, especially to the history of Elisha,
and the adventures of the Judges.
Indeed, since he could no
longer be shut up in the drying-ground, Thomasina had found that he was
never so happy and so safe as when he was listening to tales, and many
a long winter evening he lay idle on the kitchen hearth, with his head
on the sheep dog, whilst the more industrious Thomasina plied her
knitting-needles, as she sat in the ingle-nook, with the flickering
firelight playing among the plaits of her large cap, and told tales of
the country side. [Page 29]
Not that John Broom was her only
hearer. Annie "the lass" sat by the hearth also, and Thomasina took
care that she did not "sit with her hands before her." And a little
farther away sat the cowherd.
He had a sleeping-room above the
barn, and took his meals in the house. By Miss Betty's desire he always
went in to family prayers after supper, when he sat as close as
possible to the door, under an uncomfortable sensation that Thomasina
did not think his boots clean enough for the occasion, and would find
something to pick off the carpet as she followed him out, however
hardly he might have used the door-scraper beforehand.
be a difficult matter to decide which he liked best, beer or John
Broom. But next to these he liked Thomasina's stories.
was kind to him. With all his failings and the dirt on his boots, she
liked him better than the farm-bailiff. The farm-bailiff was thrifty
and sensible and faithful, and Thomasina was faithful and sensible and
thrifty, and they each had a tendency to claim the monopoly of those
virtues. Notable people complain, very properly, of thriftless and
untidy ones, but they sometimes agree better with them than with rival
notabilities. And so Thomasina's broad face beamed benevolently as she
bid the cowherd "draw up" to the fire, and he who (like Thomasina) was
a native of the country, would confirm the marvels she related, with a
proper pride in the wonderful district to which they both belonged.
would help her out sometimes with names and dates in a local biography.
By his own account he knew the man who was murdered at the inn in the
Black Valley so intimately that it turned Annie the lass as white as a
dish-cloth to sit beside him. If Thomasina said that folk were yet
alive who had seen the little green men dance in Dawborough Croft, the
cowherd would smack his knees and cry, "Scores on 'em!" And when she
whispered of the white figure which stood at the cross roads after
midnight, he testified to having seen it himself–tall beyond mortal
height, and pointing four ways at once. He had a legend of his own,
too, which Thomasina sometimes gave him the chance of telling, of [Page
30] how he was followed home one moonlight night by a black
Something as big as a young calf, which "wimmled and wammled" around
him till he fell senseless into the ditch, and being found there by the
farm-bailiff on his return from market, was unjustly accused of the
vice of intoxication.
"Fault-finders should be free of flaws,"
Thomasina would say with a prim chin. She had seen the farm-bailiff
himself "the worse" for more than his supper beer.
But there was
one history which Thomasina was always loth to relate, and it was that
which both John Broom and the cowherd especially preferred–the history
of Lob Lie-by-the-fire.
Thomasina had a feeling (which was
shared by Annie the lass) that it was better not to talk of "anything"
peculiar to the house in which you were living. One's neighbours'
ghosts and bogles are another matter.
But to John Broom and the
cowherd no subject was so interesting as that of the Lubber-fiend. The
cowherd sighed to think of the good old times when a man might sleep on
in spite of cocks, and the stables be cleaner, and the beasts better
tended than if he had been up with the lark. And John Broom's curiosity
was never quenched about the rough, hairy Good-fellow who worked at
night that others might be idle by day, and who was sometimes caught at
his hard-earned nap, lying, "like a great hurgin bear," where the boy
loved to lie himself, before the fire, on this very hearth.
and where he had gone, Thomasina could not tell. She had heard that he
had originally come from some other household, where he had been
offended. But whether he had gone elsewhere when he forsook
Lingborough, or whether "such things had left the country" for good,
she did not pretend to say.
And when she had told, for the third
or fourth time, how his porridge was put into a corner of the cowhouse
for him overnight, and how he had been often overheard at his work, but
rarely seen, and then only lying before the fire, Miss Betty would ring
for prayers, and Thomasina would fold up her knitting and lead the
[Page 31] way, followed by Annie the lass, whose nerves John
Broom would startle by treading on her heels, the rear being brought up
by the cowherd, looking hopelessly at his boots.
Miss Betty and
Miss Kitty did really deny themselves the indulgence of being
indulgent, and treated John Broom on principles, and for his own good.
But they did so in their own tremulous and spasmodic way, and got
little credit for it. Thomasina, on the other hand, spoiled him with
such a masterful managing air, and so much sensible talk, that no one
would have thought that the only system she followed was to conceal his
misdemeanours, and to stand between him and the just wrath of the
The farm-bailiff, or grieve, as he liked to call
himself, was a Scotchman, with a hard-featured face (which he washed on
the Sabbath), a harsh voice, a good heart rather deeper down in his
body than is usual, and a shrewd, money-getting head, with a speckled
straw hat on top of it. No one could venture to imagine when that hat
was new, or how long ago it was that the farm-bailiff went to the
expense of purchasing those work-day clothes. But the dirt on his face
and neck was an orderly accumulation, such as gathers on walls,
oil-paintings, and other places to which soap is not habitually
applied; it was not a matter of spills and splashes, like the dirt John
Broom disgraced himself with. And his clothes, if old, fitted neatly
about him; they never suggested raggedness, which was the normal
condition of the tramp-boy's jackets. They only looked as if he had
been born (and occasionally buried) in them. It is needful to make this
distinction, that the good man may not be accused of inconsistency in
the peculiar vexation which John Broom's disorderly appearance caused
In truth, Miss Betty's protegé had reached the age at which
he was to "eat dreadfully, wear out his clothes, and be useful on the
farm;" and the last condition was quite unfulfilled. At eleven years
old he could not be trusted to scare birds, and at half that age the
farm-bailiff's eldest child could drive cattle.
"And no' just
ruin the leddies in new coats and compliments, [Page 32] either,
like some ne'er-do-weels," added the farm-bailiff, who had heard with a
jealous ear of sixpences given by Miss Betty and Miss Kitty to their
When the eleventh anniversary of
John Broom's discovery was passed, and his character at school gave no
hopes of his ever qualifying himself to serve the lawyer, it was
resolved that–"idleness being the mother of mischief," he should be put
under the care of the farm-bailiff, to do such odd jobs about the place
as might be suited to his capacity and love of out-door life. And now
John Broom's troubles began. By fair means or foul, with [Page
33] here an hour's weeding, and there a day's bird scaring, and
with errands perpetual, the farm-bailiff contrived to "get some work
out of" the idle little urchin. His speckled hat and grim face seemed
to be everywhere, and always to pop up when John Broom began to play.
lived "at daggers drawn." I am sorry to say that John Broom's fitful
industry was still kept for his own fancies. To climb trees, to run
races with the sheep dog, to cut grotesque sticks, gather hedge fruits,
explore a bog, or make new friends among beasts and birds–at such
matters he would labour with feverish zeal. But so far from trying to
cure himself of his indolence about daily drudgery, he found a new and
pleasant excitement in thwarting the farm-bailiff at every turn.
would not sound dignified to say that the farm-bailiff took pleasure in
thwarting John Broom. But he certainly did not show his satisfaction
when the boy did do his work properly. Perhaps he thought that praise
is not good for young people; and the child did not often give him the
chance of trying. Of blame he was free enough. Not a good scolding to
clear the air, such as Thomasina would give to Annie the lass, but his
slow, caustic tongue was always growling, like muttered thunder, over
John Broom's incorrigible head.
He had never approved of the
tramp-child, who had the overwhelming drawbacks of having no pedigree
and of being a bad bargain as to expense. This was not altogether John
Broom's fault, but with his personal failings the farm-bailiff had even
less sympathy. It has been hinted that he was born in the speckled hat,
and whether this were so or not, he certainly had worn an old head
whilst his shoulders were still young, and could not remember the time
when he wished to waste his energies on anything that did not earn or
at least save something.
Only once did anything like approval of the lad escape his lips.
Betty's uncle's second cousin had returned from foreign parts with a
good fortune and several white cockatoos. He kept the fortune himself,
but he gave the cockatoos to his friends, and he sent one of them to
the little ladies of Lingborough. [Page 34]
He was a lovely
creature (the cockatoo, not the cousin, who was plain), and John
Broom's admiration of him was boundless. He gazed at the
sulphur-coloured crest, the pure white wings with their deeper-tinted
lining, and even the beak and the fierce round eyes, as he had gazed at
the broom bush in his babyhood, with insatiable delight.
cousin did things handsomely. He had had a ring put round one of the
cockatoo's ankles, with a bright steel chain attached and a fastener to
secure it to the perch. The cockatoo was sent in the cage by coach, and
a perch, made of foreign wood, followed by the carrier.
Betty and Miss Kitty were delighted both with the cockatoo and the
perch, but they were a good deal troubled as to how to fasten the two
together. There was a neat little ring on the perch, and the cockatoo's
chain was quite complete, and he evidently wanted to get out, for he
shook the walls of his cage in his gambols. But he put up his crest and
snapped when any one approached, in a manner so alarming that Annie the
lass shut herself up in the dairy, and the farm-bailiff turned his
speckled hat in his hands, and gave cautious counsel from a safe
"How he flaps!" cried Miss Betty. "I'm afraid he has a very vicious temper."
"He only wants to get out, Miss Betty," said John Broom. "He'd be all right with his perch, and I think I can get him on it."
Heaven save us from the sin o' presumption!" cried the farm-bailiff,
and putting on the speckled hat, he added, slowly: "I'm thinking, John
Broom, that if ye're engaged wi' the leddies this morning it'll be time
I turned my hand to singling these few turnips ye've been thinking
about the week past."
On which he departed, and John Broom pressed the little ladies to leave him alone with the bird.
"We shouldn't like to leave you alone with a wild creature like that," said Miss Betty.
"He's just frightened on ye, Miss Betty. He'll be like a lamb when you're gone," urged John Broom.
"Besides, we should like to see you do it," said Miss Kitty. [Page 35]
"You can look in through the window, miss. I must fasten the door, or he'll be out."
should never forgive myself if he hurt you, John," said Miss Betty,
irresolutely, for she was very anxious to have the cockatoo and perch
in full glory in the parlour.
"He'll none hurt me, miss," said John, with a cheerful smile on his rosy face. "I likes him, and he'll like me."
settled the matter. John was left with the cockatoo. He locked the
door, and the little ladies went into the garden and peeped through the
They saw John Broom approach the cage, on which the
cockatoo put up his crest, opened his beak slowly, and snarled, and
Miss Betty tapped on the window and shook her black satin workbag.
"Don't go near him!" she cried. But John Broom paid no attention.
are you putting up that top-knot of yours at me for?" said he to the
cockatoo. "Don't ye know your own friends? I'm going to let ye out, I
am. You're going on to your perch, you are."
"Eh, but you're a bonny creature!" he added, as the cockatoo filled the cage with snow and sulphur flutterings.
"Keep away, keep away!" screamed the little ladies, playing a duet on the window panes.
"Out with you!" said John Broom, as he unfastened the cage door.
just about when Miss Betty had run around, and as she shouted through
the keyhole, "Open the door, John Broom. We've changed our minds. We've
decided to keep it in it cage," the cockatoo strode solemnly forth on
his eight long toes.
"Pretty Cocky!" said he.
Betty got back to the window, John Broom had just made an injudicious
grab at the steel chain, on which Pretty Cocky flew fiercely at him,
and John, buring his face in his arms, received the attack on his thick
poll, laughing into his sleeves and holding fast to the chain, whilst
the cockatoo and the little ladies screamed against each other. [Page
"It'll break your leg–you'll tear its eyes out!" cried Miss Kitty.
Kitty means that you'll break its leg, and it will tear your eyes out,"
Miss Betty explained through the glass. "John Broom! Come away! Lock it
in! Let it go!"
But Cocky was now waddling solemly round
the room, and John Broom was creeping after him, with the end of the
chain in one hand, and the perch in the other, and in a moment more he
had joined the chain and the ring, and just as Miss Betty was about to
send for the constable and have the door broken open, [Page 37]
Cocky–driven into a corner–clutched his perch and was raised
triumphantly to his place in the bow-window.
He was now a
parlour pet, and John Broom saw little of him. This vexed him, for he
had taken a passionate liking for the bird. The little ladies rewarded
him well for his skill, but this brought him no favour from the
farm-bailiff, and matters went on as ill as before.
One day the
cockatoo got his chain entangled, and Miss Kitty promptly advanced to
put it right. She had unfastened that end which secured it to the
perch, when Cocky, who had been watching the proceeding with much
interest, dabbed at her with his beak. Miss Kitty fled, but with great
presence of mind shut the door after her. She forgot, however, that the
window was open, in front of which stood the cockatoo scanning the
summer sky with his fierce eyes, and flapping himself in the breeze.
just as the little ladies ran into the garden, and Miss Kitty was
saying, "One comfort is, sister Betty, that it's quite safe in the
room, until we can think what to do next," he bowed his yellow crest,
spread his noble wings, and sailed out into the æther.
In ten minutes the whole able-bodied population of the place was in the grounds of Lingborough, including the farm-bailiff.
cockatoo was on the top of a fir-tree, and a fragment of the chain was
with him, for he had broken it, and below on the lawn stood the little
ladies, who, with the unfailing courage of women in a hopeless cause,
were trying to dislodge him by waving their pocket-handkerchiefs and
He looked composedly down out of one eye for some time, and then he began to move.
"I think it's coming down now," said Miss Kitty.
in a quarter of a minute, Cocky had sailed a quarter of a mile, and was
rocking himself on the top of an old willow-tree. And at this moment
John Broom joined the crowd which followed him.
he's got his chain fast," said the farm-bailiff; "if onybody that
understood the beastie daured to get near him–" [Page 38]
"I'll get him," said John Broom, casting down his hat.
"Ye'll get your neck thrawed," said the farm-bailiff.
"We won't hear of it," said the little ladies.
to their horror, John Broom kicked off his shoes, after which he spat
upon his hands (a shock which Miss Kitty thought she never could have
survived), and away he went up the willow.
It was not an easy
tree to climb, and he had one or two narrow escapes, which kept the
crowd breathless, but he shook the hair from his eyes, moistened his
hands afresh, and went on. The farm-bailiff's far-away heart was
stirred. No Scotchman is insensible to gallantry. And courage is the
only thing a "canny" Scot can bear to see expended without return.
"John Broom," screamed Miss Betty, "come down! I order, I command you to come down."
The farm-bailiff drew his speckled hat forward to shade his upward gaze, and folded his arms.
call on him, leddies," he said, speaking more quickly than usual.
"Dinna mak him turn his head. Steady, lad! Grip wi' your feet. Spit on
your pawms, man."
Once the boy trod on a rotten branch, and as
he drew back his foot, and it came crashing down, the farm-bailiff set
his teeth, and Miss Kitty fainted in Thomasina's arms.
reward anyone who'll fetch him down," sobbed Miss Betty. But John Broom
seated himself on the same branch as the cockatoo, and undid the chain
and prepared his hands for the downward journey.
"You've got a
rare perch, this time," said he. And Pretty Cocky crept towards him,
and rubbed his head against him and chuckled with joy.
dreams of liberty in the tree tops, with John Broom for a playfellow,
passed through his crested head, who shall say? But when he found that
his friend meant to take him prisoner, he became very angry and much
alarmed. And when John Broom grasped him by both legs and began to
descend, Cocky pecked him vigorously. But the boy held the back of his
head towards him, and went steadily down.
"Weel done!" roared
the farm bailiff. "Gently, lad! Gude [Page 39] save us! ha'e a
care o' yoursen. That's weel. Keep your pow at him. Dinna let the beast
get at your een."
But when John Broom was so near the ground as
to be safe, the farm-bailiff turned wrathfully upon his son, who had
been gazing open-mouthed at the sight which had so interested his
"Ye look weel standing gawping here, before the
leddies," said he, "wasting the precious hours, and bringing your
father's grey hairs wi' sorrow to the grave; and John Broom yonder
shaming ye, and you not so much as thinking to fetch the perch for him,
ye lazy loon. Away wi' ye and get it, before I lay a stick about your
And when his son had gone for the perch, and John
Broom was safely on the ground, laughing, bleeding, and triumphant, the
"Ye're a bauld chiel, John Broom, I'll say that for ye."
INTO THE MIST.
the favourable impression produced by "the gipsy lad's" daring soon
passed from the farm-bailiff's mind. It was partly effaced by the old
jealousy of the little ladies' favour. Miss Betty gave the boy no less
than four silver shillings, and he ungraciously refused to let the
farm-bailiff place them in a savings bank.
Matters got from bad
to worse. The farming man was not the only one who was jealous, and
John Broom himself was as idle and restless as ever. Though, if he had
listened respectfully to the Scotchman's counsels, or shown any
disposition to look up to and be guided by him, much might have been
overlooked. But he made fun of him and made a friend of the cowherd.
And this latter most manifest token of low breeding vexed the
respectable taste of the farm-bailiff.
John Broom had his own
grievances too, and he brooded over them. He thought the little ladies
had given him over to the farm-bailiff, because they had ceased to care
for him, and that the [Page 40] farm-bailiff was prejudiced
against him beyond any hope of propitiation. The village folk taunted
him, too, with being an outcast, and called him Gipsy John, and this
maddened him. Then he would creep into the cowhouse and lie in the
straw against the white cow's warm back, and for a few of Miss Betty's
coppers, to spend in beer or tobacco, the cowherd would hide him from
the farm-bailiff and tell him countryside tales. To Thomasina's stories
of ghosts and gossip, he would add strange tales of smugglers on the
near-lying coast, and as John Broom listened, his restless blood
rebelled more and more against the sour sneers and dry drudgery that he
got from the farm-bailiff.
Nor were sneers the sharpest
punishment his misdemeanours earned. The farm-bailiff's stick was thick
and his arm was strong, and he had a tendency to believe that if a
flogging was good for a boy, the more he had of it the better it would
be for him.
And John Broom, who never let a cry escape him at
the time, [Page 41] would steal away afterwards and sob out his
grief into the long soft coat of the sympathising sheep dog.
he never tried the effect of deserving better treatment as a remedy for
his woes. The parson's good advice and Miss Betty's entreaties were
alike in vain. He was ungrateful even to Thomasina. The little ladies
sighed and thought of the lawyer. And the parson preached patience.
"Cocky has been tamed," said Miss Kitty thoughtfully, "perhaps John Broom will get steadier by-and-by."
"It seems a pity we can't chain him to a perch, Miss Kitty," laughed the parson; "he would be safe then, at any rate."
Betty said afterwards that it did seem so remarkable that the parson
should have made this particular joke on this particular night–the
night when John Broom did not come home.
He had played truant all day. The farm-bailiff had wanted him, and he had kept out of the way.
wind was from the east, and a white mist rolled in from the sea,
bringing a strange invigorating smell, and making your lips clammy with
salt. It made John Broom's heart beat faster, and filled his head with
dreams of ships and smugglers, and rocking masts higher than the
willow-tree, and winds wilder than this wind, and dancing waves.
something loomed through the fog. It was the farm-bailiff's speckled
hat. John Broom hesitated–the thick stick became visible.
Then a cloud rolled between them, and the child turned, and ran, and ran, and ran, coastwards, into the sea mist.
THE SEA.–THE ONE-EYED SAILOR.–THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WORLD.
Broom was footsore when he reached the coast, but that keen,
life-giving smell had drawn him on and held him up. The fog had cleared
off, and he strained his black eyes through the darkness to see the sea.
had never seen it–that other world within this, on which [Page
42] one lived out of doors, and climbed about all day, and no one
When he did see it, he thought he had got to the end
of the world. If the edge of the cliff were not the end, he could not
make out where the sky began; and if that darkness were the sea, the
sea was full of stars.
But this was because the sea was quiet
and reflected the colour of the night sky, and the stars were the
lights of the herring-boats twinkling in the bay.
When he got
down by the water he saw the vessels lying alongside, and they were
dirtier than he had supposed. But he did not lose heart, and
remembering, from the cowherd's tales, that people who cannot pay for
their passage must either work it out or hide themselves on board ship,
he took the easier alternative, and got on to the first vessel which
had a plank to the quay, and hid himself under some tarpaulin on the
The vessel was a collier bound for London, and she sailed with the morning tide.
he was found out he was not ill-treated. Indeed, the rough skipper
offered to take him home again on his return voyage. He would have
liked to go, but pride withheld him, and home sickness had not yet
eaten into his very soul. Then an old sailor with one eye (but that a
sly one) met him, and told him [Page 43] tales more wonderful
than the cowherd's. And with him he shipped as cabin-boy, on a vessel
bound for the other side of the world.
* * * * * *
great many sins bring their own punishment in this life pretty clearly,
and sometimes pretty closely; but few more directly or more bitterly
than rebellion against the duties, and ingratitude for the blessings,
There was no playing truant on board ship; and as to
the master poor John Broom served now, his cruelty made the memory of
the farm-bailiff a memory of tenderness and gentleness and indulgence.
Till he was half-naked and half-starved, and had only short snatches of
sleep in hard corners, it had never struck him that when one has got
good food and clothes, and sound sleep in a kindly home, he has got
more than many people, and enough to be thankful for.
everything he was told now as fast as he could do it, in fear for his
life. The one-eyed sailor had told him that the captain always took
orphans and poor friendless lads to be his cabin-boys, and John Broom
thought what a nice kind man he must be, and how different from the
farm-bailiff, who thought nobody could be trustworthy unless he could
show parents and grand-parents, and cousins to the sixth degree. But
after they had sailed, when John Broom felt very ill, and asked the
one-eyed sailor where he was to sleep, the one-eyed sailor pleasantly
replied that if he hadn't brought a four-poster bed in his pocket he
must sleep where he could, for that all the other cabin-boys were
sleeping in Davy's Locker, and couldn't be disturbed. And it was not
till John Broom had learned ship's language that he found out that
Davy's Locker meant the deep, and that the other cabin-boys were dead.
"And as they'd nobody belonging to 'em, no hearts was broke," added the
sailor, winking with his one eye.
John Broom slept standing
sometimes for weariness, but he did not sleep in Davy's Locker. Young
as he was he had dauntless courage, a careless hopeful heart, and a
tough little body; and that strong, life-giving sea smell bore him up
instead of food, and he got to the other side of the world. [Page 44]
he did not stay there, why he did not run away into the wilderness to
find at least some easier death than to have his bones broke by the
cruel captain, he often wondered afterwards. He was so much quicker and
braver than the boys they commonly got, that the old sailor kept a
sharp watch over him with his one eye whilst they were ashore; but one
day he was too drunk to see out of it, and John Broom ran away.
was Christmas Day, and so hot that he could not run far, for he was at
the other side of the world, where things are upside down, and he sat
down by the roadside on the outskirts of the city; and as he sat, with
his thin, brown face resting on his hands, a familiar voice beside him
said, "Pretty Cocky!" and looking up he saw a man with several cages of
birds. The speaker was a cockatoo of the most exquisite shades of
cream-colour, salmon, and rose, and he had a rose-coloured crest. But
lovely as he was, John Broom's eyes were on another cage, where,
silent, solemn, and sulky, sat a big white one with sulphur-coloured
trimmings and fierce black eyes; and he was so like Miss Betty's pet,
that the poor child's heart bounded as if a hand had been held out to
him from home.
"If you let him get at you, you'll not do it a
second time, mate," said the man. "He's the nastiest tempered beast I
ever saw. I'd have rung his neck long ago if he hadn't such a fine
But John Broom said, as he had said before, "I like him, and he'll like me."
the cockatoo bit his finger to the bone, the man roared with laughter,
but John Broom did not draw his hand away. He kept it still at the
bird's beak, and with the other he gently scratched him under the crest
and wings. And when the white cockatoo began to stretch out his eight
long toes, as cats clutch with their claws from pleasure, and chuckled,
and sighed, and bit softly without hurting, and laid his head against
the bars till his snow and sulphur feathers touched John Broom's black
locks, the man was amazed.
"Look here, mate," said he, "you've
the trick with birds, and [Page 45] no mistake. I'll sell you
this one cheap, and you'll be able to sell him dear."
"I've not a penny in the world," said John Broom.
do look cleaned out, too," said the man scanning him from head to foot.
"I tell you what, you shall come with me a bit and tame the birds, and
I'll find you something to eat."
Ten minutes before,
John Broom would have jumped at this offer, but now he refused it. The
sight of the cockatoo had brought back the fever of home sickness in
all its fierceness. He couldn't stay out here. He would dare anything,
do anything, to see the hills about Lingborough once more before he
died; and even if he did not live to see them, he might live to sleep
in that part of Davy's Locker which should rock him on the shores of
home. [Page 46]
The man gave him a shilling for fastening a
ring and chain on to the Cocky's ankle, and with this he got the best
dinner he had eaten since he lost sight of the farm-bailiff's speckled
hat in the mist.
And then he went back to the one-eyed sailor, and shipped as cabin-boy again for the homeward voyage.
THE HIGHLANDER.–BARRACK LIFE.–THE GREAT CURSE.–JOHN BROOM'S MONEY-BOX.
John Broom did get home he did not go to sea again. He lived from hand
to mouth in the seaport town, and slept, as he was well accustomed to
sleep, in holes and corners.
Every day and every night, through
the long months of the voyage, he had dreamed of begging his way
barefoot to Miss Betty's door. But now he did not go. His life was
hard, but it was not cruel. He was very idle, and there was plenty to
see. He wandered about the country as of old. The ships and shipping
too had a fascination for him now that the past was past, and here he
could watch them from the shore; and, partly for shame and partly for
pride, he could not face the idea of going back. If he had been taunted
with being a vagrant boy before, what would be said now if he presented
himself, a true tramp, to the farm-bailiff. Besides, Miss Betty and
Miss Kitty could not forgive him. It was impossible!
wandering about one day when he came to some fine high walls with
buildings inside. There was an open gateway, at which stood a soldier
with a musket. But a woman and some children went in, and he did not
shoot them; so when his back was turned, and he was walking stiffly to
where he came from, John Broom ran in through the gateway.
first man he saw was the grandest-looking man he had ever seen. Indeed,
he looked more like a bird than a man–a big bird with a big black
crest. He was very tall. His feet were broad and white, like the
feathered feet of some plumy bird, his legs were bare and brown and
hairy. He was clothed in many colours. He had fur in front, which swung
as he walked, and [Page 47] silver and shining stones about him.
He held his head very high, and from it drooped great black plumes. His
face looked as if it had been cut–roughly but artistically–out of a
block of old wood, and his eyes were the colour of a summer sky. And
John Broom felt as he had felt when he first saw Miss Betty's cockatoo.
repose the Highlander's eye was a clear as a cairngorm and as cold, but
when it fell upon John Broom it took a twinkle not quite unlike the
twinkle in the one eye of the sailor; and then, to his amazement, this
grand creature beckoned to John Broom with a rather dirty hand.
"Yes, sir," said John Broom, staring up at the splendid giant, with eyes of wonder.
saying," said the Highlander, confidentially (and it had a pleasant
homely sound to hear him speak like the farm-bailiff)–"I'm saying, I'm
confined to barracks, ye ken; and I'll gie' ye a hawpenny if ye'll get
the bottle filled wi' whusky. Roun' yon corner ye'll see the 'Britain's
But at this moment he erected himself, his
turquoise eyes looked straight before them, and he put his hand to his
head and moved it slowly away again, as a young man with more swinging
grandeur of colours and fur and plumes, and with greater glitterings of
gems and silver, passed by, a sword clattering after him.
Meanwhile John Broom had been round the corner and was back again.
"What for are ye stannin' there, ye fule?" asked his new friend. "What for didna ye gang for the whusky?"
"It's here, sir."
certy, ye dinna let the grass grow under your feet," said the
Highlander; and he added, "If ye want to run errands, laddie, ye can
come back again."
It was the beginning of a fresh life for John
Broom. With many other idle or homeless boys he now haunted the
barracks, and ran errands for the soldiers. His fleetness of foot and
ready wit made him the favourite. Perhaps, too, his youth and his
bright face and eyes pleaded for him, for British soldiers are a
tender-hearted race. [Page 48]
He was knocked about, but never
cruelly, and he got plenty of coppers and broken victuals, and now and
then an old cap or pair of boots, a world too large for him. His
principal errands were to fetch liqour for the soldiers. In arms and
pockets he would sometimes carry a dozen bottles at once, and fly back
from the canteen or public-house without breaking one.
the summer was over he was familiar with every barrack-room and
guard-room in the place; he had foot to eat and coppers to spare, and
he shared his bits with the mongrel dogs who lived, as he did, on the
good-nature of the garrison.
It must be confessed that neatness
was not among John Broom's virtues. He looped his rags together with
bits of string, and wasted his pence or lost them. The soldiers
standing at the bar would often give him a drink out of their
pewter-pots. It choked him at first, and then he got used to it, and
liked it. Some relics of Miss Betty's teaching kept him honest. He
would not condescend to sip by the way out of the soldiers' jugs and
bottles as other errand boys did, but he came to feel rather proud of
laying his twopence on the counter, and emptying his own pot of beer
with a grimace to the bystanders through the glass at the bottom.
day he was winking through the froth of a pint of porter at the canteen
sergeant's daughter, who was in fits of laughing, when the pewter was
knocked out of his grasp, and the big Highlander's hand was laid on his
shoulder and bore him twenty or thirty yards from the place in one
"I'll trouble ye to give me your attention," said the
Highlander, when they came to a standstill, "and to speak the truth.
Did ye ever see me the worse of liquor?"
John Broom had several
remembrances of the clearest kind to that effect, so he put up his arms
to shield his head from the probable blow, and said, "Yes, M'Alister."
"How often?" asked the Scotchman.
"I never counted," said John Broom; "pretty often."
"How many good-conduct stripes do you ken me to have lost of your ain knowledge?"
"Three, M'Alister." [Page 49]
"Is there a finer man than me in the regiment?" asked the Highlander, drawing up his head.
"That there's not," said John Broom, warmly.
"Our sairgent, now," drawled the Scotchman, "wad ye say he was a better man than me?" [Page 50]
"Nothing like so good," said John Broom, sincerely.
what d'ye suppose, man," said the Highlander, firing with sudden
passion, till the light of his clear blue eyes seemed to pierce John
Broom's very soul–"what d'ye suppose has hindered me that I'm not
sairgent, when yon man is? What has keepit me from being an officer,
that had served my country in twa battles when oor quartermaster hadna
enlisted? Wha gets my money? What lost me my stripes? What loses me
decent folks' respect and, waur than that, my ain? What gars a hand
that can grip a broadsword tremble like a woman's? What fills the
canteen and the kirkyard? What robs a man of health and wealth and
peace? What ruins weans and women, and makes mair homes desolate than
war? Drink, man, drink! The deevil of drink!"
It was not till the glare in his eyes had paled that John Broom ventured to speak. Then he said–
"Why don't ye give it up, M'Alister?"
man rose to his full height, and laid his hand heavily on the boy's
shoulder, and his eyes seemed to fade with that pitiful, weary look,
which only such blue eyes show so well, "Because I canna," said he;
"because, for as big as I am, I canna. But for as little as you are,
laddie, ye can, and, Heaven help me, ye shall."
That evening he
called John Broom into the barrack-room where he slept. He was sitting
on the edge of his bed, and had a little wooden money-box in his hands.
"What money have ye, laddie?" he asked.
Broom pulled out three halfpence lately earned, and the Scotchman
dropped them slowly into the box. Then he turned the key, and put it
into his pocket, and gave the box to the boy.
"Ye'll put what ye
earn in there," said he, "I'll keep the key, and ye'll keep the box
yoursel; and when it's opened we'll open it together, and lay out your
savings in decent clothes for ye against the winter."
moment some men passing to the canteen shouted, "M'Alister!" The
Highlander did not answer, but he started to the door. Then he stood
irresolute, and then turned and reseated himself.
bring me a bit o' tobacco," he said, giving John [Page 51] Broom
a penny. And when the boy had gone he emptied his pocket of the few
pence left, and dropped them into the box, muttering, "If he manna, I
And when the tobacco came, he lit his pipe, and sat on the bench outside, and snarled at every one who spoke to him.
OUTPOST DUTY.–THE SERGEANT'S STORY.–GRAND ROUNDS.
was a bitterly cold winter. The soldiers drank a great deal and John
Broom was constantly trotting up and down, and the box grew very heavy.
were filled and refilled, in spite of greatly increased strictness in
the discipline of the garrison, for there were rumours of invasion, and
penalties were heavy, and sentry-posts were increased, and the
regiments were kept in readiness for action.
The Highlander had
not cured himself of drinking, though he had cured John Broom. But,
like others, he was more wary just now, and had hitherto escaped the
heavy punishments inflicted in a time of probable war; and John Broom
watched over him with the fidelity of a sheep dog, and more than once
had roused him with a can of cold water when he was all but caught by
his superiors in a state of stupor, which would not have been credited
to the frost alone.
The talk of invasion had become grave, when
one day a body of men were ordered for outpost duty, and M'Alister was
among them. The officer had got a room for them in a farmhouse, where
they sat round the fire, and went out by turns to act as sentries at
various posts for an hour or two at a time.
The novelty was delightful to John Broom. He hung about the farmhouse, and warmed himself at the soldiers' fire.
the course of the day M'Alister got him apart, and whispered, "I'm
going on duty the night at ten, laddie. It's fearsome cold, and I
hav'na had a drop to warm me the day. If ye could ha' brought me a wee
drappie to the corner of the three roads–it's twa miles from here, I'm
thinking–" [Page 52]
"It's not the miles, M'Alister," said John Broom, "but you're on outpost duty, and–"
you're misdoubting what may be done to ye for bringing liquor to a
sentry on duty? Aye, aye, lad, ye do weel to be cautious," said the
Highlander, and he turned away.
But it was not the fear of consequence to himself which had made John Broom hesitate, and he was stung by the implication.
night was dark and very cold, and the Highlander had been pacing up and
down his post for about half-an-hour, when his quick ear caught a faint
sound of footsteps.
"Wha goes there?" said he.
"It's I, M'Alister," whispered John Broom.
"Whisht, laddie," said the sentry; "are ye there after all? Did no one see ye?"
"Not a soul; I crept by the hedges. Here's your whisky, M'Alister; but oh be careful!" said the lad.
The Scotchman's eyes glittered greedily at the bottle.
fear," said he, "I'll just rub a wee drappie on the pawms of my hands
to keep away the frost-bite, for it's awsome cold, man. Now away wi'
ye, and take tent, laddie, keep off the other sentries."
John Broom went back as carefully as he had come, and slipped in to warm himself by the guard-room fire.
was a good one, and the soldiers sat close round it. The officer was
writing a letter in another room, and in a low, impressive voice, the
sergeant was telling a story which was listened to with breathless
attention. John Broom was fond of stories, and he listened also.
was of a friend of the sergeant's, who had been a boy with him in the
same village at home, and who had seen active service with him abroad,
and who had slept at his post on such a night as this, from the joint
efforts of cold and drink. It was war time, and he had been tried by
court-martial, and shot for the offence. The sergeant had been one of
the firing party to execute his friend, and they had taken leave of
each other as brothers, before the final parting face to face in this
last awful scene.
The man's voice was faltering, when the tale
was cut short by [Page 53] the jingling of the field officer's
accoutrements as he rode by to visit the outposts. In an instant the
officer and men turned out to receive him; and, after the usual
formalities, he rode on. The officer went back to his letter, and the
sergeant and his men to their fireside.
The opening of the doors
had let in a fresh volume of cold, and one of the men called to John
Broom to mend the fire. But he was gone.
* * * * * *
Broom was fleet of foot, and there are certain moments which lift men
beyond their natural powers, but he had set himself a hard task.
he listened to the sergeant's tale, an agonizing fear smote him for his
friend M'Alister. Was there any hope that the Highlander could keep
himself from the whiskey? Officers were making their rounds at very
short intervals just now, and if drink and cold overcame him at his
post! [Page 54]
Close upon these thoughts came the jingling of
the field officer's sword, and the turn out of the guard. "Who goes
there?"–"Rounds."–"What rounds?"–"Grand rounds." "Halt, grand rounds,
advance one, and give the countersign!" The familiar words struck
coldly on John Broom's heart, as if they had been orders to a firing
party, and the bandage was already across the Highlander's blue eyes.
Would the grand rounds be challenged at the three roads tonight? He
darted out into the snow.
He flew, as the crow flies, across the
fields, to where M'Alister was on duty. It was a much shorter distance
than by the road, which was winding; but whether this would balance the
difference between a horse's pace and his own was the question, and
there being no time to question, he ran on.
He kept his black
head down, and ran from his shoulders. The clatter, clatter, jingle,
jingle, on the hard road came to him through the still frost on a level
with his left ear. It was terrible, but he held on, dodging under the
hedges to be out of sight, and the sound lessened, and by-and-by, the
road having wound about, he could hear it faintly, but behind him.
And he reached the three roads, and M'Alister was asleep in the ditch.
when, with jingle and clatter, the field officer of the day reached the
spot, the giant Highlander stood like a watch-tower at his post, with a
little snow on the black plumes that drooped upon his shoulders.
Broom did not see the Highlander again for two or three days. It was
Christmas week, and, in spite of the war panic, there was festivity
enough in the barracks to keep the errand-boy very busy.
came New Year's Eve–"Hogmenay," as the Scotch call it–and it was the
Highland regiment's particular festival. Worn-out with whisky-fetching
and with helping to deck barrack- [Page 55] rooms and carrying
pots and trestles, John Broom was having a nap in the evening, in
company with a mongrel deer-hound, when a man shook him, and said, "I
heard some one asking for ye an hour or two back; M'Alister wants ye."
"Where is he?" said John Broom, jumping to his feet.
hospital; he's been there a day or two. He got cold on out-post duty,
and its flown to his lungs, they say. Ye see he's been a hard drinker,
has M'Alister, and I expect he's breaking up."
With which very just conclusion the speaker went on into the canteen, and John Broom ran to the hospital.
of his picturesque trappings, and with no plumes to shadow the hollows
in his temples, M'Alister looked gaunt and feeble enough, as he lay in
the little hospital bed, which barely held his long limbs. Such a wreck
of giant powers of body, and noble qualities of mind as the drink-shops
are preparing for the hospitals every day!
quickly-reached medical decision that he was in a rapid decline, and
that nothing could be done for him, M'Alister had been left a good deal
alone. His intellect (and it was no fool's intellect,) was quite clear,
and if the long hours by himself, in which he reckoned with his own
soul, had hastened the death-damps on his brow, they had also written
there an expression which was new to John Broom. It was not the old
sour look, it was a kind of noble gravity.
His light-blue eyes brightened as the boy came in, and he held out his hand, and John Broom took it with both his, saying,
"I never heard till this minute, M'Alister. Eh, I do hope you'll be better soon."
Lord being merciful to me," said the Highlander. "But this warld's
nearly past, laddie, and I was fain to see ye again. Dinna greet, man,
for I've important business wi' ye, and I should wish your attention.
Firstly, I'm aboot to hand ower to ye the key of your box. Tak it, and
put it in a pocket that's no got a hole in it, if you're worth one.
Secondly, there's a bit bag I made mysel', and it's got a trifle o'
money in it that I'm giving and bequeathing to ye, under certain
conditions, namely, that ye shall [Page 56] spend the contents of
the box according to my last wishes and instructions, with the ultimate
end of your ain benefit, ye'll understand."
A fit of coughing
here broke M'Alister's discourse; but, after drinking from a cup beside
him, he put aside John Broom's remonstrances with a dignified movement
of his hand, and continued,–
"When a body comes of decent folk,
he won't just care, maybe, to have their names brought up in a
barrack-room. Ye never heard me say ought of my father or my mither?"
a good hame," said the Highlander, with a decent pride in his tone. "It
was a strict hame–I've no cause now to deceive mysel', and I'm thinking
it was a wee bit ower strict–but it was a good hame. I left it, man–I
The glittering blue eyes turned sharply on the lad, and he went on:–
body doesna' care to turn his byeganes oot for every fool to peck at.
Did I ever speer about your past life, and whar ye came from?"
that's no to say that, if I knew manners, I didna obsairve. And there's
been things now and again, John Broom, that's gar'd me think that ye've
had what I had, and done as I had. Did ye rin awa', laddie?"
John Broom nodded his black head, but tears choked his voice.
said the Highlander, "ane word's as gude's a thousand. Gang back! Gang
hame! There's the bit siller here that's to tak ye, and the love yonder
that's waiting ye. Listen to a dying man, laddie, and gang hame!"
"I doubt if they'd have me," sobbed John Broom, "I gave 'em a deal of trouble, M'Alister."
d'ye think, lad, that that thought has na' cursed me, and keepit me
from them that loved me? Aye lad, and till this week I never overcame
"Weel may I want to save ye, bairn," added the Highlander
[Page 57] tenderly, "for it was the thocht of a' ye riskit for
the like of me at the three roads, that made me consider wi' mysel'
that I've aiblins been turning my back a' my wilfu' life on love that's
bigger than a man's deservings. It's near done now, and it'll never lie
in my poor power so much as rightly to thank ye. It's strange that a
man should set store by a good name that he doesn' deserve; but if ony
blessings of mine could bring ye good, they're yours, that saved an old
soldier's honour, and let him die respectit in his regiment."
"Oh, M'Alister, let me fetch one of the chaplains to write a letter to fetch your father," cried John Broom.
minister's been here this morning," said the Highlander, "and I've
tell't him mair than I've tell't you. And he's jest directed me to put
my sinful trust in the Father of us a'. I've sinned heaviest against
Him, laddie, but His love is stronger than the lave."
remained by his friend, whose painful fits of coughing, and of gasping
for breath, were varied by intervals of seeming stupor. When a candle
had been brought in and placed near the bed, the Highlander roused
himself and asked,–
"Is there a Bible on yon table? Could ye read a bit to me, laddie?"
There is little need to dwell on the bitterness of heart with which John Broom confessed,–
"I can't read big words, M'Alister."
"Did ye never go to school?" said the Scotchman.
"I didn't learn," said the poor boy; "I played."
"Aye, aye. Weel, ye'll learn, when ye gang hame," said the Highlander, in gentle tones.
never get home," said John Broom passionately. "I'll never forgive
myself. I'll never get over it, that I couldn't read to ye when ye
wanted me, M'Alister."
"Gently, gently," said the Scotchman.
"Dinna daunt yoursel' owermuch wi' the past, laddie. And for me–I'm not
that presoomtious to think I can square up a misspent life as a man
might compound wi's creditors. 'Gin HE forgi'es me, He'll forgi'e; but
it's not a prayer up or a chapter doun that'll stan' between me [Page
58] and the Almighty. So dinna fret yoursel', but let me think
while I may."
And so, far into the night, the Highlander lay silent, and John Broom watched by him.
It was just midnight when he partly raised himself, and cried,–
"Whisht, laddie! do ye hear the pipes?"
dying ears must have been quick, for John Broom heard nothing; but in a
few minutes he heard the bagpipes from the officers' mess, where they
were keeping Hogmenay. They were playing the old year out with "Auld
lang syne," and the Highlander beat the tune out with his hand, and his
eyes gleamed out of his rugged face in the dim light, as cairngorms
glitter in dark tartan.
There was a pause after the first verse,
and he grew restless, and turning doubtfully to where John Broom sat,
as if his sight were failing, he said, "Ye'll mind your promise, ye'll
gang hame?" And after awhile he repeated the last word,
as he spoke there settled over his face a smile so tender and so full
of happiness, that John Broom held his breath as he watched him. As the
light of sunrise creeps over the face of some rugged rock, it crept
from chin to brow, and the pale blue eyes shone tranquil, like water
that reflects heaven.
And when it had passed it left them still open, but gems that had lost their ray.
LUCK GOES.–AND COMES AGAIN.
spirit does not always falter in its faith because the flesh is weary
with hope deferred. When week after week, month after month, and year
after year, went by and John Broom was not found, the disappointment
seemed to "age" the little ladies, as Thomasina phrased it. But yet
they said to the parson, "We do not regret it."
"GOD forbid that you should regret it," said he.
even the lawyer (whose heart was kinder than his tongue) [Page
59] abstained from taunting them with his prophecies, and said,
"The force of the habits of early education is a power as well as that
of inherent tendencies. It is only for your sake that I regret a too
romantic benevolence." And Miss Betty and Miss Kitty tried to put the
matter quite away. But John Broom was very closely bound up with the
life of many years past. Thomasina mourned him as if he had been her
son, and Thomasina being an old and valuable servant, it is needless to
say that when she was miserable no one in the house was permitted to be
quite at ease.
As to Pretty Cocky, he lived, but Miss Kitty fancied that he grew less pretty and drooped upon his polished perch.
were times when the parson felt almost conscience-stricken because he
had encouraged the adoption of John Broom. Disappointments fall heavily
upon elderly people. They may submit better than the young, but they do
not so easily revive. The little old ladies looked greyer and more
nervous, and the little old house looked greyer and gloomier than of
Indeed there were other causes of anxiety. Times were
changing, prices were rising, and the farm did not thrive. The lawyer
said that the farm-bailiff neglected his duties, and that the cowherd
did nothing but drink; but Miss Betty trembled, and said they could not
part with old servants.
The farm-bailiff had his own trouble,
but he kept it to himself. No one knew how severely he had beaten John
Broom the day before he ran away, but he remembered it himself with
painful clearness. Harsh men are apt to have consciences, and his was
far from easy about the lad who had been entrusted to his care. He
could not help thinking of it when the day's work was over, and he had
to keep filling up his evening whiskey glass again and again to drown
The whiskey answered this purpose, but it
made him late in the morning; it complicated business on market days,
not to the benefit of the farm, and it put him at a disadvantage in
dealing with the drunken cowherd.
The cowherd was completely
upset by John Broom's mysterious disappearance, and he comforted
himself as the farm-bailiff did, but to a larger extent. And Thomasina
winked at many irregu- [Page 60] in consideration of the groans
of sympathy with which he responded to her tears as they sat round the
hearth where John Broom no longer lay.
At the time that he
vanished from Lingborough the gossips of the country side said, "This
comes of making pets of tramps' brats, when honest folk's sons may toil
and moil without notice." But when it was proved that the tramp-boy had
stolen nothing, when all search for him was vain, and when prosperity
faded from the place season by season and year by year, there were old
folk who whispered that the gaudily-clothed child Miss Betty had found
under the broom-bush had something more than common in him, and that
whoever and whatever had offended the eerie creature, he had taken the
luck of Lingborough with him when he went away.
It was early
summer. The broom was shining in the hedges with uncommon wealth of
golden blooms. "The lanes look for all the world as they did the year
that poor child was found," said Thomasina, wiping her eyes. Annie the
lass sobbed hysterically, and the cowherd found himself so low in
spirits that after gazing dismally at the cow-stalls, which had not
been cleaned for days past, he betook himself to the ale-house to
refresh his energies for this and other arrears of work.
returning to the farm, however, he found his hands still feeble, and he
took a drop or two more to steady them, after which it occurred to him
that certain new potatoes which he had had orders to dig were not yet
in the ground. The wood was not chopped for the next day's use, and he
wondered what had become of a fork he had had in the morning and had
laid down somewhere.
So he seated himself on some straw in the corner to think about it all, and whilst he was thinking he fell fast asleep.
his own account many remarkable things had befallen him in the course
of his life, including that meeting with a Black Something to which
allusion has been made, but nothing so strange as what happened to him
When he awoke in the morning and sat up on the
straw, and looked around him, the stable was freshly cleaned, the
litter in [Page 61] the stalls was shaken and turned, and near
the door was an old barrel of newly-dug potatoes, and the fork stood by
it. And when he ran to the wood-house there lay the wood neatly chopped
and piled to take away.
He kept his own counsel that day and
took credit for the work, but when on the morrow the farm-bailiff was
at a loss to know who had thinned the turnips that were left to do in
the upper field, and Annie the lass found the kitchen-cloths she had
left overnight to soak, rubbed through and rinsed, and laid to dry, the
cowherd told his tale to Thomasina, and begged for a bowl of porridge
and cream to set in the barn, as one might set a mouse-trap baited with
"For," said he, "the luck of Lingborough's come back, missis. It's Lob Lie-by-the-fire! "
"It's Lob Lie-by-the-fire!"
Thomasina whispered exultingly, and Annie the lass timidly. Thomasina
cautioned the cowherd to hold his tongue, and she said nothing to the
little ladies on the subject. She felt certain that they would tell the
parson, and he might not approve. The farm-bailiff knew of a farm on
the Scotch side of the Border where a brownie had been driven away by
the minister preaching his last Sunday's sermon over again at him, and
as Thomasina said, "There'd been little enough luck at Lingborough
lately, that they should wish to scare it away when it came."
And yet the news leaked out gently, and was soon known all through the neighbourhood–as a secret.
"The luck of Lingborough's come back. Lob's lying by the fire!"
could be heard at his work any night, and several people had seen him,
though this vexed Thomasina, who knew well that the Good People do not
like to be watched at their labours.
The cowherd had not been
able to resist peeping down through chinks in the floor of the loft
above the barn, where he slept, and [Page 62] one night he had
seem Lob fetching straw for the cowhouse. "A great rough, black
fellow," said he, and he certainly grew bigger and rougher and blacker
every time the cowherd told the tale.
The Lubber-fiend appeared
next to a boy who was loitering at a late hour somewhere near the
little ladies' kitchen-garden, and whom he pursued and pelted with mud
till the lad near lost his wits with terror. (It was the same boy who
was put in the lock-up in the autumn for stealing Farmer Mangel's
For this trick, however, the rough elf atoned
by leaving three pecks of newly-gathered fruit in the kitchen the
following morning. Never had there been such a preserving season at
Lingborough within the memory of Thomasina.
is, hobgoblins, from Puck to Will-o'-the-wisp, are apt to play
practical jokes and knock people about whom they meet after sunset. A
dozen tales of such were rife, and folks were more amused than amazed
by Lob Lie-by-the-fire's next prank.
There was an aged pauper who
lived on the charity of the little ladies, and whom it was Miss Betty's
practice to employ to do light weeding in the fields for heavy wages.
This venerable person was toddling to his home in the gloaming with a
barrow-load of Miss Betty's new potatoes, dexterously hidden by an
upper sprinkling of groundsel and hemlock, when the Lubber-fiend sprang
out from behind an elder-bush, ran at the old man with his black head,
and knocked him, heels uppermost, into the ditch. The wheelbarrow was
afterwards found in Miss Betty's farmyard, quite empty.
the cowherd (who had his own opinion of the aged pauper, and it was a
very poor one) went that evening to drink Lob Lie-by-the-fire's health
from a bottle he kept in the harness-room window, he was nearly choked
with the contents, which had turned into salt and water, as fairy
jewels turn to withered leaves.
But luck had come to Lingborough. There had not been such crops for twice seven years past.
The lay-away hen's eggs were brought regularly to the kitchen.
The ducklings were not eaten by rats.
No fowls were stolen.
The tub of pig-meal lasted three times as long as usual.
The cart-wheels and gate-hinges were oiled by unseen fingers.
The mushrooms in the croft gathered themselves and down on a dish in the larder.
It is by small savings that a farm thrives, and Miss Betty's farm throve.
Everybody worked with more alacrity. Annie the lass said the butter came in a way that made it a pleasure to churn.
neighbours knew even more than those on the spot. They said–That since
Lob came back to Lingborough the hens laid eggs as large as turkeys'
eggs, and the turkeys' eggs were–oh, you wouldn't believe the size!
the cows gave nothing but cream, and that Thomasina skimmed butter off
it as less lucky folk skim cream from milk. [Page 64]
That her cheeses were as rich as butter.
she sold all she made, for Lob took the fairy butter from the old trees
in the avenue, and made it up into pats for Miss Betty's table.
if you bought Lingborough turnips, you might feed your cows on them all
the winter and the milk would be as sweet as new-mown hay.
horses foddered on Lingborough's hay would have thrice the strength of
others, and that sheep who cropped Lingborough's pastures would grow
three times as fat.
That for as good a watch-dog as it was, the sheep dog never barked at Lob, a plain proof that he was more than human.
for all its good luck it was not safe to loiter near the place after
dark, if you wished to keep your senses. And if you took so much as a
fallen apple belonging to Miss Betty, you might look out for palsy or
St. Vitus's dance, or be carried off bodily to the underground folk.
that it was well all the cows gave double, for that Lob Lie-by-the-fire
drank two gallons of the best cream every day, with curds, porridge,
and other dainties to match. But what did that matter, when he had been
overheard to swear that luck should not leave Lingborough till Miss
Betty owned half the country side? [Page 65]
MISS BETTY IS SURPRISED.
Betty and Miss Kitty having accepted a polite invitation from Mrs.
General Dunmaw, went down to tea with that lady one fine evening in
this eventful summer.
Death had made a gap or two in the
familiar circle during the last fourteen years, but otherwise it was
quite the same, except that the lawyer was married and not quite so
sarcastic, and that Mrs. Brown Jasey had brought a young niece with her
dressed in the latest fashion, which looked quite as odd as new
fashions are wont to do, and with a coiffure "enough to frighten the
French away," as her aunt told her.
It was while this young lady
was getting more noise out of Mrs. Dunmaw's red silk and rosewood piano
than had been shaken out of it during the last thirty years, that the
lawyer brought his cup of coffee to Miss Betty's side, and said,
suavely, "I hear wonderful accounts of Lingborough, dear Miss Betty."
am thankful to say, sir, that the farm is doing well this year. I am
very thankful, for the past few years have been unfavourable, and we
had begun to face the fact that it might be necessary to sell the old
place. And, I will not deny, sir, that it would have gone far to break
my heart, to say nothing of my sister Kitty's."
"That the lawyer brought his cup of coffee to Miss Betty's side."–Page 65.
"Oh, we couldn't have let it come to that," said the lawyer, "I could have raised a loan–"
said Miss Betty with dignity, "if we have our own pride, I hope it's an
honest one. Lingborough will have passed out of our family when it's
kept up on borrowed money."
"I could live in lodgings," added Miss Betty, firmly, "little as I've been accustomed to it, but not in debt."
"Well, well, my dear madam, we needn't talk about it now. But I'm dying of curiosity as to the mainstay of all this good luck."
"The turnips–" began Miss Betty.
my soul, Miss Betty!" cried the lawyer, "I'm not talking of turnips.
I'm talking of Lob Lie-by-the-fire, as all the country side is for that
"The country people have plenty of tales of him," said
Miss Betty, with some pride in the family goblin. "He used to haunt the
old barns, they say, in my great-grandfather's time."
"And now you've got him back again," said the lawyer.
"Not that I know of," said Miss Betty.
which the lawyer poured into her astonished ear all the latest news on
the subject, and if it had lost nothing before reaching his house in
the town, it rather gained in marvels as he repeated it to Miss Betty.
No wonder that the little lady was anxious to get home to question Thomasina, and that somewhat before the usual hour she said,–
"Sister Kitty, if it's not too soon for the servant–"
the parson, threading his way to where Mrs. Dunmaw's china crape shawl
(dyed crimson) shone in the bow window, said, "The clergy should keep
respectable hours, madam; especially when they are as old as I am. Will
you allow me to thank you for a very pleasant evening, and to say good
THE PARSON AND THE LUBBER-FIEND.
"Do you think there'd be any harm in leaving it alone, sister Betty?" said Miss Kitty, tremulously. [Page 68]
had reached Lingborough, and the parson had come in with them, by Miss
Betty's request, and Thomasina had been duly examined.
"Eh, Miss Betty, why should ye chase away good luck with the minister?" cried she.
Kitty! Thomasina!" said Miss Betty. "I would not accept good luck from
a doubtful quarter to save Lingborough. But if It can face this
excellent clergyman, the Being who haunted my great grandfather's farm
is still welcome to the old barns, and you, Thomasina, need not grudge
It cream or curds."
"You're quite right, sister Betty," said Miss Kitty. "You always are; but oh dear, oh dear!"–
tells me," said Miss Betty, turning to the parson, "that on chilly
evenings It sometimes comes and lies by the kitchen fire after they
have gone to bed, and I can distinctly remember my grandmother
mentioning the same thing. Thomasina has of late left the kitchen door
on the latch for Its convenience, and as they had to sit up late for
us, she and Annie have taken their work into the still-room to leave
the kitchen free for Lob Lie-by-the-fire. They have not looked into the
kitchen this evening, as such beings do not like to be watched. But
they fancy that they heard It come in. I trust, sir, that neither in
myself nor my sister Kitty does timidity exceed a proper feminine
sensibility, where duty is concerned. If you will be good enough to
precede us, we will go to meet the old friend of my great-grandfather's
fortunes, and we leave it entirely to your valuable discretion to
pursue what course you think proper on the occasion."
the door?" said the parson, cheerfully, after knocking his head against
black beams and just saving his legs down shallow and unexpected steps
on his way to the kitchen–beams so unfelt and steps so familiar to the
women that it had never struck them that the long passage was not the
most straight-forward walk a man could take–"I think you said It
generally lies on the hearth?"
The happy thought struck Thomasina that the parson might be frightened out of his unlucky interference.
aye, sir," said she from behind. "We've heard him [Page 69]
rolling by the fire, and growling like thunder to himself. They say
he's an awful size, too, with the strength of four men, and a long
tail, and eyes like coals of fire."
But Thomasina spoke in vain,
for the parson opened the door, and as they pressed in, the moonlight
streaming through the latticed window showed Lob lying by the fire.
his tail! Ay–k!" screeched Annie the lass, and away she went, without
drawing breath, to the top garret, where she locked and bolted herself
in, and sat her bandbox flat, and screamed for help.
But it was
the plumy tail of the sheep dog, who was lying there with the
Lubber-fiend. And Lob was asleep, with his arms round the sheep dog's
neck, and the sheep dog's head lay on his breast, and his own head
touched the dog's.
And it was a smaller head than the parson had been led to expect, and it had thick black hair.
the parson bent over the hearth, Thomasina took Miss Kitty round the
waist, and Miss Betty clutched her black velvet bag till the steel
beads ran into her hands, and they were quite prepared for an
explosion, and sulphur, and blue lights, and thunder.
And then the parson's deep round voice broke the silence, saying,–
"Is that you lad? GOD bless you, John Broom. You're welcome home!"
things–such as gossip–gain in the telling, but there are others before
which words fail, though each heart knows its own power of sympathy.
And such was the joy of the little ladies and of Thomasina at John
The sheep dog had had his satisfaction out long
ago, and had kept it to himself, but how Pretty Cocky crowed, and
chuckled, and danced, and bowed his crest, and covered his face with
his amber wings, and kicked his seed-pot over, and spilled his
water-pot on to the Derbyshire marble chess-table, and screamed till
the [Page 70] room rang again, and went on screaming, with Miss
Kitty's pocket-handkerchief over his head to keep him quiet, my poor
pen can but imperfectly describe.
The desire to atone for the
past which had led John Broom to act the part of one of those
Good-Fellows who have, we must fear, finally deserted us, will be
easily understood. And to a nature of his type, the earning of some
self-respect, and of a new character before others, was perhaps a
necessary prelude to future well-doing.
He did do well. He
became "a good scholar," as farmers were then. He spent as much of his
passionate energies on the farm as the farm could absorb, and he
restrained the rest. It is not cockatoos only who have sometimes to
live and be happy in this unfinished life with one wing clipped.
fine weather, when the perch was put into the garden, Miss Betty was
sometimes startled by stumbling on John Broom in the dusk, sitting on
his heels, the unfastened chain in his hand, with his black head
lovingly laid against Cocky's white and yellow poll, talking in a low
voice, and apparently with the sympathy of his companion; and, as Miss
Betty justly feared, of that "other side of the world," which they both
knew, and which both at times had cravings to resist.
the sobering influences of middle age had touched him, and a wife and
children bound him with the quiet ties of home, he had (at long
intervals) his "restless times," when his good "missis" would bring out
a little store laid by in one of the children's socks, and would bid
him "Be off, and get a breath of the sea-air," but on condition that
the sock went with him as his purse. John Broom always looked ashamed
to go, but he came back the better, and his wife was quite easy in his
absence with that confidence in her knowledge of "the master," which is
so mysterious to the unmarried, and which Miss Betty looked upon as
"want of feeling" to the end. She always dreaded that he would not
return, and a little ruse she adopted of giving him money to make
bargains for foreign articles of vertu with the sailors, is responsible
for many of the choicest ornaments in the Lingborough parlour.
sock'll bring him home," said Mrs. Broom, and home he [Page 71]
came, and never could say what he had been doing. Nor was the account
given by Thomasina's cousin, who was a tide-waiter down yonder,
particularly satisfying to the women's curiosity. He said that John
Broom was always about; that he went aboard of all the craft in the
bay, and asked whence they came and whither they were bound. That,
being once taunted to it, he went up the rigging of a big vessel like a
cat, and came down it looking like a fool. That, as a rule, he
gossipped and shared his tobacco with sailors and fishermen, and
brought out the sock much oftener than was prudent for the benefit of
the ragged boys who haunt the quay.
He had two other weaknesses, which a faithful biographer must chronicle.
regiment on the march would draw him from the plough-tail itself, and
"With daddy to see the pretty soldiers," was held to excuse any of Mrs.
Broom's children from household duties.
The other shall be described in the graphic language of that acute observer the farm-bailiff.
there cam' an Irish beggar, wi' a stripy cloot roond him and a bellows
under 's arm, and ca'd himsel' a Hielander, the lad would gi'e him his
silly head off his shoulders."
As to the farm-bailiff, perhaps
no one felt more or said less than he did on John Broom's return. But
the tones of his voice had tender associations for the boy's ears as he
took off his speckled hat, and after contemplating the inside for some
moments, put it on again, and said,–
"Aweel, lad, sae ye've cam' hame?"
he listened with quivering face when John Broom told the story of
M'Alister, and when it was ended he rose and went out, and "took the
pledge" against drink, and–kept it.
Moved by similar enthusiasm,
the cowherd took the pledge also, and if he didn't keep it, he
certainly drank less, chiefly owing to the vigilant oversight of the
farm-bailiff, who now exercised his natural severity almost exclusively
in the denunciation of all liquors whatsoever, from the cowherd's
whisky to Thomasina's elder-flower wine.
The plain cousin left his money to the little old ladies, and Lingborough continued to flourish. [Page 72]
Partly perhaps because of this, it is doubtful if John Broom was ever looked upon by the rustics as quite "like other folk."
favourite version of his history is that he was Lob under the guise of
a child; that he was driven away by new clothes; that he returned from
unwillingness to see an old family go to ruin "which he had served for
hundreds of years;" that the parson preached his last Sunday's sermon
at him; and that, having stood that test, he took his place among
Whether a name invented off-hand, however
plain and sensible, does not stick to a man as his father's does, is a
question. But John Broom was not often called by his.
Scotch caution, the farm-bailiff seldom exceeded the safe title of
"Man!" and the parson was apt to address him as "My dear boy," when he
had certainly outgrown the designation.
Miss Betty called him John Broom, but the people called him by the name he had earned.
long after his black hair lay white and thick on his head, like snow on
the old barn roof, and when his dark eyes were dim in an honoured old
age, the village children would point him out to each other, crying,
"There goes Lob Lie-by-the-fire, the Luck of Lingborough!"