The Vicar's Daughter, George MacDonald [important books to read .txt] 📗

CHAPTER X.

WAGTAIL COMES TO HONOR.

As they rode out of the gate, one of the men, a trustworthy man, who cared for his horses like his children, and knew all their individualities as few men know those of their children, rode up along side of my father, and told him that there was an encampment of gypsies on the moor about five miles away, just over Gorman Slope, remarking, that if the woman had taken the child, and belonged to them, she would certainly carry her thither. My father thought, in the absence of other indication, they ought to follow the suggestion, and told Burton to guide them to the place as rapidly as possible. After half an hour’s sharp riding, they came in view of the camp,—or rather of a rising ground behind which it lay in the hollow. The other servant was an old man, who had been whipper-in to a baronet in the next county, and knew as much of the ways of wild animals as Burton did of those of his horses; it was his turn now to address my father, who had halted for a moment to think what ought to be done next.

“She can’t well have got here before us, sir, with that child to carry. But it’s wonderful what the likes of her can do. I think I had better have a peep over the brow first. She may be there already, or she may not; but, if we find out, we shall know better what to do.”

“I’ll go with you,” said my father.

“No, sir; excuse me; that won’t do. You can’t creep like a sarpent. I can. They’ll never know I’m a stalking of them. No more you couldn’t show fight if need was, you know, sir.”

“How did you find that out, Sim?” asked my father, a little amused, notwithstanding the weight at his heart.

“Why, sir, they do say a clergyman mustn’t show fight.”

“Who told you that, Sim?” he persisted.

“Well, I can’t say, sir. Only it wouldn’t be respectable; would it, sir?”

“There’s nothing respectable but what’s right, Sim; and what’s right always is respectable, though it mayn’t look so one bit.”

“Suppose you was to get a black eye, sir?”

“Did you ever hear of the martyrs, Sim?”

“Yes, sir. I’ve heerd you talk on ‘em in the pulpit, sir.”

“Well, they didn’t get black eyes only,—they got black all over, you know,—burnt black; and what for, do you think, now?”

“Don’t know, sir, except it was for doing right.”

“That’s just it. Was it any disgrace to them?”

“No, sure, sir.”

“Well, if I were to get a black eye for the sake of the child, would that be any disgrace to me, Sim?”

“None that I knows on, sir. Only it’d look bad.”

“Yes, no doubt. People might think I had got into a row at the Griffin. And yet I shouldn’t be ashamed of it. I should count my black eye the more respectable of the two. I should also regard the evil judgment much as another black eye, and wait till they both came round again. Lead on, Sim.”

They left their horses with Burton, and went toward the camp. But when they reached the slope behind which it lay, much to Sim’s discomfiture, my father, instead of lying down at the foot of it, as he expected, and creeping up the side of it, after the doom of the serpent, walked right up over the brow, and straight into the camp, followed by Wagtail. There was nothing going on,—neither tinkering nor cooking; all seemed asleep; but presently out of two or three of the tents, the dingy squalor of which no moonshine could silver over, came three or four men, half undressed, who demanded of my father, in no gentle tones, what he wanted there.

“I’ll tell you all about it,” he answered. “I’m the parson of this parish, and therefore you’re my own people, you see.”

“We don’t go to your church, parson,” said one of them.

“I don’t care; you’re my own people, for all that, and I want your help.”

“Well, what’s the matter? Who’s cow’s dead?” said the same man.

“This evening,” returned my father, “one of my children is missing; and a woman who might be one of your clan,—mind, I say might be; I don’t know, and I mean no offence,—but such a woman was seen about the place. All I want is the child, and if I don’t find her, I shall have to raise the county. I should be very sorry to disturb you; but I am afraid, in that case, whether the woman be one of you or not, the place will be too hot for you. I’m no enemy to honest gypsies; but you know there is a set of tramps that call themselves gypsies, who are nothing of the sort,—only thieves. Tell me what I had better do to find my child. You know all about such things.”

The men turned to each other, and began talking in undertones, and in a language of which what my father heard he could not understand. At length the spokesman of the party addressed him again.

“We’ll give you our word, sir, if that will satisfy you,” he said, more respectfully than he had spoken before, “to send the child home directly if any one should bring her to our camp. That’s all we can say.”

My father saw that his best chance lay in accepting the offer.

“Thank you,” he said. “Perhaps I may have an opportunity of serving you some day.”

They in their turn thanked him politely enough, and my father and Sim left the camp.

Upon this side the moor was skirted by a plantation which had been gradually creeping up the hill from the more sheltered hollow. It was here bordered by a deep trench, the bottom of which was full of young firs. Through the plantation there was a succession of green rides, by which the outskirts of my father’s property could be reached. But, the moon being now up, my father resolved to cross the trench, and halt for a time, watching the moor from the shelter of the firs, on the chance of the woman’s making her appearance; for, if she belonged to the camp, she would most probably approach it from the plantation, and might be overtaken before she could cross the moor to reach it.

They had lain ensconced in the firs for about half an hour, when suddenly, without any warning, Wagtail rushed into the underwood and vanished. They listened with all their ears, and in a few moments heard his joyous bark, followed instantly, however, by a howl of pain; and, before they had got many yards in pursuit, he came cowering to my father’s feet, who, patting his side, found it bleeding. He bound his handkerchief round him, and, fastening the lash of Sim’s whip to his collar that he might not go too fast for them, told him to find Theodora. Instantly he pulled away through the brushwood, giving a little yelp now and then as the stiff remnant of some broken twig or stem hurt his wounded side.

Before we reached the spot for which he was making, however, my father heard a rustling, nearer to the outskirts of the wood, and the same moment Wagtail turned, and tugged fiercely in that direction. The figure of a woman rose up against the sky, and began to run for the open space beyond. Wagtail and my father pursued at speed; my father crying out, that, if she did not stop, he would loose the dog on her. She paid no heed, but ran on.

“Mount and head her, Sim. Mount, Burton. Ride over every thing,” cried my father, as he slipped Wagtail, who shot through the underwood like a bird, just as she reached the trench, and in an instant had her by the gown. My father saw something gleam in the moonlight, and again a howl broke from Wagtail, who was evidently once more wounded. But he held on. And now the horsemen, having crossed the trench, were approaching her in front, and my father was hard upon her behind. She gave a peculiar cry, half a shriek, and half a howl, clasped the child to her bosom, and stood rooted like a tree, evidently in the hope that her friends, hearing her signal, would come to her rescue. But it was too late. My father rushed upon her the instant she cried out. The dog was holding her by the poor ragged skirt, and the horses were reined snorting on the bank above her. She heaved up the child over her head, but whether in appeal to Heaven, or about to dash her to the earth in the rage of frustration, she was not allowed time to show; for my father caught both her uplifted arms with his, so that she could not lower them, and Burton, having flung himself from his horse and come behind her, easily took Theodora from them, for from their position they were almost powerless. Then my father called off Wagtail; and the poor creature sunk down in the bottom of the trench amongst the young firs without a sound, and there lay. My father went up to her; but she only stared at him with big blank black eyes, and yet such a lost look on her young, handsome, yet gaunt face, as almost convinced him she was the mother of the child. But, whatever might be her rights, she could not be allowed to recover possession, without those who had saved and tended the child having a word in the matter of her fate.

As he was thinking what he could say to her, Sim’s voice reached his ear.

“They’re coming over the brow, sir,—five or six from the camp. We’d better be off.”

“The child is safe,” he said, as he turned to leave her.

“From me,” she rejoined, in a pitiful tone; and this ambiguous utterance was all that fell from her.

My father mounted hurriedly, took the child from Burton, and rode away, followed by the two men and Wagtail. Through the green rides they galloped in the moonlight, and were soon beyond all danger of pursuit. When they slackened pace, my father instructed Sim to find out all he could about the gypsies,—if possible to learn their names and to what tribe or community they belonged. Sim promised to do what was in his power, but said he did not expect much success.

The children had listened to the story wide awake. Wagtail was lying at my father’s feet, licking his wounds, which were not very serious, and had stopped bleeding.

“It is all your doing, Wagtail,” said Harry, patting the dog.

“I think he deserves to be called Mr. Wagtail,” said Charley.

And from that day he was no more called bare Wagtail, but Mr. Wagtail, much to the amusement of visitors, who, hearing the name gravely uttered, as it soon came to be, saw the owner of it approach on all fours, with a tireless pendulum in his rear.

CHAPTER XI.

A STUPID CHAPTER.

Before proceeding with my own story, I must mention that my father took every means in his power to find out something about the woman and the gang of gypsies to which she appeared to belong. I believe he had no definite end in view further than the desire to be able at some future time to enter into such relations with her, for her own and her daughter’s sake,—if, indeed, Theodora were her daughter,—as might be possible. But, the very next day, he found that they had already vanished from the place; and all the inquiries he set on foot, by means of