The Hawthorns - Amy Walton (e book reader .TXT) 📗

will go upstairs to the nursery directly, and _stay there_, father will ask if she may go and see the gee-gees."

Dickie got down and trotted away obediently, for she thought she had gained her point; but alas later on, when mother was appealed to, she was still quite firm on the subject--Dickie must _not_ go to the circus. The four other children were enough for Miss Grey to take care of, and Nurse could not be spared--Dickie must stay at home and be a good little girl.

Stay at home she must, as they were all against her; but to be a good little girl was quite another thing, and I am sorry to say it was very far from her intention. If she were not taken to the circus she would be as naughty a little girl as she possibly could. So when she had seen the others go off, all merry and excited, leaving her in the dull nursery, she threw herself flat on her face, drummed with her feet on the floor, and screamed. At every fresh effort which Nurse made to soothe her the screams became louder and the feet beat more fiercely, and at last the baby began to cry too for sympathy.

Dickie was certainly in one of her "tantrums," and Nurse knew by experience that solitude was the only cure, so after a while she took Cicely into the next room and shut the door. For some time Dickie went on crying, but presently, when she found that Nurse did not come back, the sobs quieted down a little, and the small feet were still; then she lifted her face up from the floor with big tears on her cheeks and listened. Hark! what was that funny noise? Boom boom! boom! and then a sort of trampling. It was the circus in the field close by, and presently other strange sounds reached her ear. She looked at the door leading into the bed-room--it was fast shut, and Nurse was walking up and down, singing to the baby in a low soothing tone. Dickie got up from the floor and stood upright with sudden resolve shining in her eyes: she would go to the circus in spite of them all!

Fortune favours the disobedient sometimes, as well as the brave, and she met no one to ask where she was going on her journey through the passages; when she came to the top of the stairs she saw that the hall was empty and silent too--only the dog Snuff lay coiled up on the mat like a rough brown ball. He had not been allowed to go to the circus either. She went slowly down, holding by the balusters and bringing both feet carefully on to each step; as she passed him Snuff opened one bright eye, and, watching her, saw that she went straight to the cupboard under the stairs, where the children's garden coats and hats were kept. There they hung, five little suits, each on its own peg, and with its own pair of goloshes on the ground beneath. Dickie's things were on the lowest peg, so that she might reach them easily and dress herself without troubling anyone. She struggled into the small grey coat, tied the bonnet firmly under her fat chin, and sat down on the lowest stair to put on the goloshes. Snuff got up, sniffed at her, and gave a short bark of pleasure, for he felt quite sure now that she was going into the garden; but Snuff was wrong this time, as he soon found when he trotted after her. Dickie had wider views, and though she went out of the garden door, which stood open, she turned into a path leading to the front of the house and marched straight down the drive. Through the white gate they went together, the little grey figure and the little brown one, and along the village street. It was more deserted than usual, for everyone was either in the circus or gaping at the outside of it, and Dickie and her companion passed on unquestioned. Soon they reached the field where the tent and some gaily-painted caravans stood; but here came an unexpected difficulty. Which was the circus? Dickie stood still and studied the question with large round eyes, and her finger in her mouth, Snuff looking up at her wistfully.

Nearest to them there was a large travelling caravan, with windows and curtains, and smoke coming out of a funnel in the roof; its sides were brightly decorated with pictures of horses, and of wonderfully beautiful ladies jumping through hoops, and there was also a picture of a funny gentleman with red patches on his face. This must be the circus, Dickie decided at last, and she proceeded to climb up the steps in front, closely followed by Snuff. The door was a tiny bit open, and she gave it a push and looked in. Things never turn out to be much like what we have expected, and it was so in Dickie's case, for what she saw was this:

A small room with a low bed in one corner, and a black stove, and pots and dishes hanging on the walls; a cradle with a baby in it, and by the cradle a pleasant-faced young woman sitting in a wicker chair sewing busily--so busily that it was quite a minute before she raised her eyes and saw the little grey-coated figure standing at the door with the dog at its side.

"Well, little dear," she said, "an' what do you want?"

Dickie murmured something, of which only the word circus was distinct.

"Is mammy at the circus?" asked the woman smiling; but Dickie shook her head decidedly.

"Why, bless your little 'art," said the woman, getting up from her chair, "I expect you've lost your folks. You come in and stay a-longer me till the circus is done, and then we'll find 'em. Jem 'ull be 'ome then. I'd go myself, but I can't leave the little un here."

Dickie began to pout in a distressed manner when the woman took her up in her arms; this was not the circus after all. But just as she was making up her mind to cry, her attention was caught by something lying on the baby's cradle, and she held out her hand for it and said "Pitty!" It was a tiny roughly-made scarlet leather boot, rather faded and worn, but still bright enough to please Dickie's fancy. She chuckled to herself as the woman gave it her, and muttered something about "Andoo's 'ittle gal;" and presently, tired with her great adventure and made drowsy by the warmth of the little room, she dropped off to sleep on the woman's knee, with the boot hugged tightly to her bosom.

"Pretty dear! What a way her folks will be in!" said the woman to herself, and she laid Dickie softly on the bed and covered her with a shawl.

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They were indeed "in a way" at the vicarage. When the circus party came back they found everyone in a state of most dreadful anxiety, and the whole house in confusion. Dickie was missing! Every crevice and corner was searched, and every place, likely and unlikely, that a child could be in. No Dickie. Could she possibly have gone into the village alone? It was getting dusk; there were strange people and tramps about--it was an alarming thought. Andrew must go at once and inquire at every cottage.

Andrew went, lantern in hand, and chin buried in his old grey comforter. "Had anyone seen Miss Dickie and the dorg that arternoon?"

No; no one had seen little missie. Always the same answer until he got to the circus field, where knots of people still lingered talking of the performance. Amongst these he pushed his way, making the same inquiry, sometimes, if they were strangers, pausing to give a description of Dickie and Snuff; and at last the answer came from a thin man with a very pale face, who was standing near the entrance to the tent:

"Right you are, gaffer. The little gal's all serene. My missus has got her in the caravan yonder."

Guided by many outstretched and dirty fingers, Andrew made his way up the steps and told his errand to the woman within. There was Dickie, sleeping as peacefully as though she were tucked up in her own little cot; Snuff, who was curled up at her feet, jumped up and greeted Andrew with barks of delight, but even this did not rouse her.

"There," said the woman, lifting the child gently, "you'd better take her just as she is, shawl an' all; it's bitter cold outside, an' you'll wake her else."

She laid Dickie in the long arms stretched out to receive her, and as she did so the shawl fell back a little.

"She's got summat in her hand," said Andrew, glancing at the little red boot.

"So she has, bless her," said the woman; "you'll mind an' bring that back with the shawl, please, mister. I set store by yonder little boot."

Andrew stared hard at the woman. "The vicar'll be werry grateful to you for takin' care of the little gal," he said. "What might be yer name, in case he should ax' me?"

"My name's Murphy," she answered, "Molly Murphy; my husband's Mr Murphy, the clown, him you see in the playbills."

Still Andrew stood with his eyes fixed on her face; then he looked from her to the little boot clutched so tightly in Dickie's fat fist.

"Might you 'appen to have the feller one to this?" he asked.

"Surely," answered the woman. "Once they was mine, an' now I'm keeping 'em against my little gal's old enough to wear 'em."

She held out the other red boot.

"Is there--is there," asked Andrew hesitating, "two big `M's' wrote just inside the linin'?"

"Right you are," answered the woman; "an' it stands fur--"

"It stands fur `Molly Martin,'" said Andrew, sitting suddenly down on the edge of the bed with Dickie in his arms. "Oh, be joyful in the Lord, all ye lands! I set every stitch in them little boots myself', an' you're the little gal I lost twenty years ago!"

It really did turn out to be Andrew's little girl, grown into a young woman and married to Mr Murphy the clown. The whole village was stirred and excited by the story, and Andrew himself, roused for the moment from his usual surly silence, told it over and over again to eager audiences as he had to Dickie, only now it had a better ending.

The children at the vicarage found it wonderfully interesting--more so than one of Pennie's very best, and the nice part about it was that it had been Dickie who discovered Andrew's little girl. Indeed, instead of being scolded for disobedience as she deserved, Dickie was made into a sort of heroine; when she was brought home sound asleep in Andrew's arms, everyone was only anxious to hug and kiss her, because they were so glad to get her back again, and the next day it was much the same thing. The children were breathless with admiration when the history of the red boot was told, and Dickie's daring adventure, and Mrs Hawthorn was scarcely able to get in a word of reproof.

"But you know," she