Chapter VIII: The Babes in the Wood

EVERY ONE knows the lines in "The Babes in the Wood"—

"These pretty Babes, hand-in-hand,
Went wandering up and down;"

* * * * *

"And when they saw the darksome night,
They sat them down and cried."

Yes, it came to that with Janet's little darlings. That they had taken a southerly direction, following the railway away from, instead of towards, Liverpool, or any other place they knew, really did not matter in the least. Their enterprise was an impossible one in any case. They tried hard to keep the railway in sight, but the roads did not lie near it, and in finding easy places to creep through or over fences they wandered from it, and finally failed to find it again. This was a great relief to Fred, but Frank felt more lost than ever.

They bought bread as long as they had pence to pay for it, then they begged in good earnest, getting sometimes a little food, sometimes a penny, sometimes a hard word. They slept under a tree, or where they could; that is, Fred slept, and Frank lay as quiet as he could, and kept Fred warm, dozing at intervals and awaking in the grey dawn shivering and hardly able to get up from the ground.

Then the weather changed: it blew and rained, and the nights were cold.

Except to give them a little charity, no one took any notice of them. They looked much like any other little beggars, and if people thought about them at all, they probably concluded that they belonged to some party, and that their comrades were waiting just out of sight. It was a thinly inhabited country district; they begged only at solitary houses, and there were no policemen about, as would have been the case in any town.

There is a village in Gloucestershire which I shall call Edgestone, a large village with numerous inhabitants, mostly poor, industrious people. It had a clergyman, of course, and a doctor—and, I believe, a lawyer. Most of the men were labourers employed on the large farms which surrounded the village; their wives and children lived in more or less comfort, according to the thrift or unthrift of their parents, in the rows of cottages which formed the street. The church—a beautiful old building—stood in the middle of the village. Beyond it there was a large green, on which the children played and geese wandered about at pleasure; at the side furthest from the church was the schoolhouse, and a few houses of the better sort, with gardens; then the street again, but this part of it was very short.

In these houses on the green, the doctor and the few gentry of the place lived. The road to the village from the east lay through farms and orchards, with here and there a cottage. As one came nearer Edgestone, the cottages were more numerous, until at last you found yourself in the street.

In one of the outlying cottages—a small white one, containing but two rooms, but standing in a little garden always full of bright flowers, as indeed were the two clean windows, and even the tiny back yard—in this cottage lived a little old woman, whose name was Betty Giles. She had been a servant in her youth; then she married, and brought up a numerous family. Her husband was a good, steady man, and her married life had been happy. Then her husband died, and she was left alone, for her boys were married, and her girls either married or in service. Her married children would gladly have given her a home, for she was one who was sure of a welcome, owing to her kindly, pleasant ways and her industry.

But Betty would not go to any one of them, nor to all of them in turn, which was another plan proposed to her. She gave up her big cottage, and took this tiny one, and there she contrived to support herself by various small industries. She kept a small shop, selling bread of her own making, always light and sweet, tea and sugar and biscuits, and several other things. But her principal income was derived from her scrap of garden. She grew patches of early annuals, which somehow always turned out very fine, so that the ladies on the green would buy them eagerly instead of trying to grow them for themselves. When these were cleared away, she sowed autumn flowers. In boxes, cunningly hung from the wall at the back of her cottage, and all round the very small yard, she grew cuttings of geraniums, chrysanthemums, fuchsias, etc., the parent plants making a gorgeous show in the front garden. Betty's husband had been a gardener, and she understood and loved flowers. Whether she loved them because she understood them, or understood because she loved, I really cannot say.

Between her manifold employments and her many visits to and from her sons and daughters, Betty lived a busy and a happy life. She was a little woman, with a face like a pink-and-red apple—a rather withered apple, I confess. Her face, her dress, her cap and apron, her house and her furniture were always beautifully and spotlessly clean.

One evening in September—it was only September, but the weather had broken, and it was very cold—Betty sat in her snug kitchen reading her Bible; a very slow and solemn process was Betty's reading. Her lonely life had given her a habit of talking to herself, for she had an active tongue and no one else to talk to.

"That," said Betty, "is a tex' as sticks in the memory, so I'll stop here. Ah me! It must be fine to be a scholar like some of my young folk—no spelling out of words for them! 'Tis a blessing, for the like of me, that the Bible is read out loud in church, for one does seem to take it in better when one doesn't have to spell."

"Well, now, I think there's a touch of frost, though 'tis far too early for it, if I may say so without offence, seeing that my opinion wasn't asked. I think I'll cover the geranium slips; fine they look, and 'twould be a pity to run risks. Such a lot, too; I shall have to buy some pots. That's just a cross I have to bear—the way some folk forget to return my pots. Now, there's Miss Lavinia has a heap of them in a corner—pots properly belonging to me, and I'm afraid to ask for them, she's so quick to take huff."

"Eh—what's that? Some one at the door! I must have left the gate open. 'Tis well if half a score of dogs don't—Oh, a child! Well, little chap, what do you want? And who are you? For I don't know you, and I know every boy in the village."

The child stood before her, she standing in the doorway with a lighted candle in her hand. A pretty boy, but ragged and dirty. He had on a sailor suit of dark blue, once very natty, and over his little jacket, he wore a second, equally ragged, and far too large for him. His shoes were broken and nearly soleless, his feet blistered and bleeding, his hair was matted and twisted, but, when he raised appealing dark eyes to Betty's face, the look went to her soft old heart.

"Come to Fwank; he's sick; he can't walk any more. I'm fwightened."

"'Come to Fwank'! Who's that, and where is he?"

"On the woad under the hedge. 'Tis cold, ma'am." Here his eyes lighted on a flat cake of bread lying on the little deal table that served as a counter, and he burst out crying. "I'm so hungwy. 'Dive' me some 'bwead'!"

Betty cut a good piece and gave it to him. Before he took a morsel, the little hand was stretched out.

"Some for Fwank, though he says he's not hungwy. But we've had none—oh, for ever so long."

"Show me where he is," said old Betty; and they set out together, the boy devouring the bread. It was some way off: there was a high hedge growing on a low bank. On the side path, with his head on the sloping bank, lying on his back, with his arms stretched out and his white face upturned towards the clear starry sky, lay Frank. Betty knelt beside him, and touched him; she spoke to him, and at last raised him into a sitting posture, leaning against her arm. But the child neither spoke nor moved, not so much as to open his eyes.

"And no jacket at all! No wonder he's cold. I doubt he's colder than is natural, though 'tis a cold night too."

She got up as she spoke, and lifted him in her old arms.

"Light as a feather, too. Skin and bone—not much of it either. Come, little chap, trot on beside me. I must get this child warm—if I can."

Fred confidingly ran beside her, her walk keeping him running, and though she saw that the child was weary and could scarcely do it, she did not slacken her pace. Into the warm cottage, she carried the boy, laying him on the floor before the fire, and putting a pillow under his head. She put her hand on his heart—poor little loving, brave heart. She thought it fluttered, but not more than that. She got some milk and warmed it, giving a cupful to Fred. Then she tried patiently to make Frank swallow a spoonful, but tried in vain. Fred, having finished his share, sat down beside his brother.

"Fwank, isn't this nice and cosy? Put your arms wound me as you always do."

Betty thought there was an effort to move, but even of that she was not sure.

"Fwank never did so before. Always his arms wound me, and my head on him—so."

And the little dark head was laid on the faithful breast which had been its pillow so often, and the bright eyes closed. Fred was asleep.

Mrs. Giles, muttering to herself, "The pitifullest sight I ever saw," covered them with her warm shawl, and poked up the fire—recklessly for one of her frugal habits. Then she went out into the night again, going as fast as her feet could carry her up the long straggling street, and across the green. She was bound for the doctor's house, but outside the gate of the little avenue she met the doctor himself, setting out to take a last look at some patient.

"Dr. Wentworth, be that you? Oh, sir, I'm glad I've met you! Come to my house; there's a boy there that I think is dying."

"Whose boy, Betty? Your grandson?"

"No; no one I know. There's two of them. I found them, or one of them found me. I'll tell you by-and-by; just now I want my breath for walking. Oh, doctor, 'tis the saddest sight!"

Little more passed as they hurried to the cottage. Betty pulled off the shawl, and the doctor muttered, "Too late—for one of them."

Having asked Betty a question or two as to what she had already done, he lifted Fred from his brother's side, and put him upon Betty's bed; he was warm now, and sleeping soundly. Then he heated Betty's shawl and his own coat, and wrapped the other boy up in them, and chafed the little sore and battered feet.

"Betty, go to the Cygnet, and get me a little brandy. Say nothing of the children; I don't want all the village here."

Betty hurried away, and was soon back again with the brandy. The doctor wetted the white lips with it, and rubbed the temples. Then he again felt for the beating of the heart, and while he was doing so the boy opened his eyes, and, looking at the two faces bent over him, said faintly—

"Fred! Where is Fred?"

"Safe and warm in my bed, child," answered Betty.

"Ah!"—with a sigh of relief. "Safe and warm!"

"Drink this, my boy," said Dr. Wentworth. "You shall tell us all about it by-and-by."

"Where's Fred?" Frank again asked, in a hurried tone.

Dr. Wentworth went and lifted the sleeping child gently, laying him beside the other.

"See, here he is, safe and sound."

"He always sleeps here. Ah! I cannot move. Fred, I did save you. I have taken care of you. I'm tired; but you're safe."

Fred sat up, half awake, and kissed him.

"Fred, tell muddie I took care of you." Then to the doctor, "Tell muddie I took care of Fred."

Fred, frightened and sleepy, began to cry. When had he ever cried before and Frank failed to comfort him? Betty took him up in her arms, and the poor little thing was so worn out that he fell asleep again with the tears on his cheeks.

"I can't take care of him any more," Frank said, after a vain effort to swallow what Dr. Wentworth offered him. "But God will; muddie says so."

He stretched himself suddenly, gave a weak cry, and was gone.

"Oh, doctor, don't tell me he's dead, the pretty little darling! Wait till I put this one back in bed."

This she did, and came softly back.

"Is he dead?"

"Ay, dead. Starved, I think. Look, the little one has on two jackets; he has none. The comforter's tied round the young one, and it is plain that whatever food they have had, the young one has had the lion's share, too young to know that his brother was giving him his life. Well, Betty, you did all you could. I'll go now and get help to carry the poor little fellow to the Cygnet; there will have to be an inquest, and I suppose we shall find out who they are, and how they were lost, for lost they were, I suspect. These are no tramps to the manner born. This little fellow must go to the poorhouse until his people turn up. I declare, Betty, I'd give many a fat fee to have saved this boy."

"Indeed, then, doctor, if I was their mother, I'd wish them together again in heaven sooner than have this baby in the poorhouse."

The doctor carried out his arrangements, and little Frank's frail and worn body was laid on a bed in the clean little inn, while Fred lay warm and soft in Betty's arms. So the little wanderers both slept sound, one of them to wake no more to this world's "fitful fever."

Next day there was an inquest, and Fred was to have been questioned as to the name borne by himself and his brother, and how they came to be wandering about in this forlorn way. But Fred was in no condition to be examined.

When he awoke, he began calling for "Fwank," and searching for him, with tears and lamentations, looking everywhere for him, and calling incessantly. Betty, at last, in despair, told him that Frank was dead. She hardly expected the child to understand. But Frank's innocent talk about his unforgotten little sister had made Fred familiar with the idea of death to some extent, and, after a long stare of horror, the poor little fellow began to scream, and nothing that Betty could say or do seemed to make any difference. The doctor, busy about the inquest, was near at hand, and after some vain attempts to quiet the child, he had to give him a sleeping draught, which soon had the desired effect.

But when Fred woke again, he was very ill; he was quite delirious, and talked fast and indistinctly about "muddie" and "Fwank" and "gwandma." It was many a long day before he could be questioned, and when they tried to do so, he seemed to have forgotten everything and every one.

Several attempts were made, more with a view to finding out who the child was than with any reference to Frank's death. For by that time, Frank's little grave was green; the doctor, feeling sure that some day the children would be inquired about, had had him buried at his own expense beside his own little son, his only child, who had died but a short time previously. But no information could be got from poor Fred, whose little white face, with the wistful dark eyes, looked full of intelligence, but whose memory, for the present at least, seemed a blank. At last the doctor forbade any further questioning of the child.

"I am sure," he said, "that as he regains his strength, his mind will recover from the shock, but you may seriously injure him, if you do not leave him in peace now."

Every effort was made, of course, to trace the children's wanderings, and they were tracked back some stages in their journey. But then all trace was lost. The distance the poor little things had come in the luggage van was so great that the inquiries made were never heard of by any one who knew them; nothing but their initials was marked on their clothing, and, save the photograph of his father, Frank had had nothing in his pocket. Even the photograph told nothing, for it had been originally a cabinet-size portrait, and poor Janet had cut out the head to fit it into a little leather case, so that the name and address of the photographer were wanting.

"Really," said Dr. Wentworth one day, when he had looked in to see Fred, "really, Betty, if we send this child to the union, he'll probably grow up an idiot."

"Send him to the union?" interrupted Betty. "Is it the child I've nursed through that terrible fever, and that has slept in my old arms every night since I got him? What do you take me for, doctor?"

"For a good old body with a hasty tongue, Betty. Just let me finish my remarks, please. If he goes to the union, he'll end in being an idiot. Therefore, it would be doubly cruel to send him there. Now, if you can continue to keep him for a while, I'll help you. I feel sure the child will be looked for, and whoever finds him will find only one where two were lost. But we need not add to their grief."

"I don't need any help, doctor, so far. Only for clothes. I'll keep the child. I've got to love him."

"Clothes? Yes; I'll speak to my wife. We'll clothe him, and pay for his schooling, if he ever needs any. Meanwhile, do you get him to help you in any little way he is able for, and keep him out in the fresh air. Never talk to him of the night he came to you, and I really believe he'll be all right in a while. I'm afraid he will hardly remember anything that will help to identify him, because he's such a little creature. Poor little waif! He was in luck when he chose your door to creep up to."

So little Fred's fate was arranged for him, for a time at least. Betty taught him to weed in the garden, and to water her many precious pots and boxes of slips and seedlings. She took him with her, when she carried home flowers or plants to her customers, and though he seldom spoke, and never unless asked a question, she soon found that he knew his way as well as she did, and that he never made a mistake about a message. So as time went on, he was provided with a little handcart, and became her trusty little messenger. Other people employed him too, so that he earned many a penny, and these he brought home faithfully to Betty.

He had been a very small child for his age, but now he began to grow, and became a tall, slight boy, with, as Betty used to say, "as pretty a face as any lady." Yet many a long day passed, before any one could find out whether he remembered anything that had happened to him before he became "Betty Giles's Fred," as the neighbours called him now.