The Cruise of the Land-Yacht "Wanderer" Part 37

I could not see my way to kiss so black a face, but I promised to go and see her at her "faddel's" cottage. I did so in an hour, but only to find the mystery that hung around my little gnome deepened.

My little gnome was a gnome no more, but a fairy, washed and clean and neatly dressed, and with a wealth of sunny hair floating over her shoulders. The miner himself was clean, too, and the cottage was the pink of tidiness and order. There were even flowers in vases, and a canary in a gilded cage hanging in the window.

Though I stayed and talked for quite a long time, I did not succeed in solving the mystery.

"She ain't ours, sir, little Looie ain't," said the st.u.r.dy miner. "Come to us in a queer way, but lo! sir, how we does love her, to be sure!"

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

FROM INVERNESS TO LONDON--SOUTHWARD AWAY--THE "WANDERER'S" LITTLE MISTRESS--A QUIET SABBATH--A DREARY EVENING AT ALDBOURNE.

"While he hath a child to love him No man can be poor indeed; While he trusts a Friend above him None can sorrow, fear, or need."

Tupper.

I would willingly draw a veil over the incidents that occurred, and the accidents that happened, to the Wanderer from the time she left Inverness by train, till the day I find myself once more out on the breezy common of Streatham, with the horses' heads bearing southward away!

But I am telling a plain unvarnished tale, not merely for the amus.e.m.e.nt of those who may do me the honour to read it, but for the guidance of those who may at some future date take it into their heads to enjoy a gipsy outing.

When I arrived in Glasgow the summer had so far gone, that it became a question with me whether I should finish my northern tour there and journey back to the south of England by a different route, or push on and cross the Grampians at all hazards, take the whole expedition, men, horses, and caravan, back by train to London, and tour thence down through the southern counties. The New Forest had always a charm for me, as all forests have, and I longed to take the Wanderer through it.

So I chose the latter plan, and for sake of the experience I gained-- dark as it was--I do not now regret it.

I ought to say that the officials of all ranks belonging to the railway (North-Eastern route) were exceedingly kind and considerate, and did all for my comfort and the safety of the Wanderer that could be done. I shall never forget the pains Mr Marsters, of Glasgow, took about the matter, nor that of Mr McLean and others in Inverness.

The wheels were taken off the Wanderer as well as the wheel carriages, and she was then s.h.i.+pped on to a trolly and duly secured. The _one_ great mistake made was not having springs under her.

Men and horses went on before, and the caravan followed by goods. In due time I myself arrived in town, and by the aid of a coachmaker and a gang of hands the great caravan was unloaded, and carefully bolted once more on her fore and aft carriages. Her beautiful polished mahogany sides and gilding were black with grime and smoke, but a wash all over put them to rights.

I then unlocked the back door to see how matters stood there. Something lay behind the door, but by dint of steady pus.h.i.+ng it opened at last.

Then the scene presented to my view beggars description. A more complete wreck of the interior of a saloon it is impossible to conceive.

The doors of every cupboard and locker had been forced open with the awful shaking, and their contents lay on the deck mixed up in one chaotic heap--china, delft, and broken gla.s.s, my papers, ma.n.u.scripts, and letters, my choicest photographs and best bound books, b.u.t.ter, bread, the cruets, eggs, and portions of my wardrobe, while the whole was freely besprinkled with paraffin, and derisively, as it were, bestrewn with blooming heather and hothouse flowers! Among the litter lay my little ammunition magazine and scattered matches--safety matches I need not say, else the probability is there would have been a bonfire on the line, and no more Wanderer to-day.

It seemed to me to be the work of fiends. It was enough to make an angel weep. The very rods on which ran the crimson silken hangings of the skylight windows were wrenched out and added to the pile.

It struck me at first, and the same thought occurred to the goods manager, that burglars had been at work and sacked the Wanderer.

But no, for nothing was missing.

Moral to all whom it concerns: Never put your caravan on a railway track.

It took me days of hard work to restore the _status quo ante_.

And all the while it was raining, and the streets covered with mud. The noise, and din, and dirt around me, were maddening. How I hated London then! Its streets, its shops, its rattling cabs, its umbrellaed crowds, the very language of its people. And how I wished myself back again on the wolds of Yorks.h.i.+re, among the Northumbrian hills or the Grampian range--anywhere--anywhere out of the world of London, and feel the fresh, pure breezes of heaven blowing in my face, see birds, and trees, and flowers, and listen to the delightful sounds of rural life, instead of to c.o.c.kney-murdered English.

Caravans like the Wanderer have no business to be in cities. They ought to give cities a wide, wide berth, and it will be my aim to do so in future.

The journey through London was accomplished in safety, though we found ourselves more than once in a block. When we had crossed over Chelsea Bridge, however, my spirits, which till now had been far below freezing point, began to rise, and once upon the common, with dwarf furze blooming here and there, and crimson morsels of ling (_Erica communis_), a balmy soft wind blowing, and the sun s.h.i.+ning in a sky of blue, I forgot my troubles, and found myself singing once more, a free and independent gipsy.

But now to hark back a little. Who should meet me in London, all unexpectedly as it were, but "mamma"? I mean my children's mother, and with her came my little daughter Inez! Long flaxen hair hath she, and big grey wondering eyes, but she is wise in her day and generation.

And Inez had determined in her own mind that she would accompany me on my tour through England--south, and be the little mistress of the land-yacht Wanderer.

So mamma left us at Park Lane, and went away home to her other wee "toddlers." She took with her Polly, the c.o.c.katoo. It was a fair exchange: I had Inez and she had Polly; besides, one parrot is quite enough in a caravan, though for the matter of that Inie can do the talking of two.

A few silent tears were dropped after the parting--tears which she tried to hide from me.

But London sights and wonders are to a child pre-eminently calculated to banish grief and care, especially when supplemented by an unlimited allowance of ripe plums and chocolate creams.

Inez dried her eyes and smiled, and never cried again.

But if her cares were ended mine were only commencing, and would not terminate for weeks to come. Henceforward a child's silvery treble was to ring through my "hallan," [Scottice, cottage or place of abode] and little footsteps would patter on my stairs.

I was to bear the onus of a great responsibility. I was to be both "ma"

and "pa" to her, nurse and lady's maid all in one. Might not, I asked myself, any one or more of a thousand accidents befall her? Might she not, for instance, catch her death of cold, get lost in a crowd, get run over in some street, fall ill of pear and plum fever, or off the steps of the caravan?

I must keep my eye on her by night and by day. I made special arrangements for her comfort at night. The valet's after-cabin was requisitioned for extra s.p.a.ce, and he relegated to sleep on sh.o.r.e, so that we and Bob had all the Wanderer to ourselves.

I am writing these lines at Brighton, after having been a week on the road, and I must record that Inie and I get on well together. She is delighted with her gipsy tour, and with all the wonders she daily sees, and the ever-varying panorama that flits dreamlike before her, as we trot along on our journey. She nestles among rags on the broad _coupe_, or sits on my knee beside the driver, talking, laughing, or singing all day long. We never want apples and pears in the caravan--though they are _given_ to us, not bought--and it is Inie's pleasure sometimes to stop the Wanderer when she sees a crowd of schoolchildren, pitch these apples out, and laugh and crow to witness the grand scramble.

But some sights and scenes that present themselves to us on the road are so beautiful, or so funny, or so queer withal, that merely to laugh or crow would not sufficiently relieve the child's feelings. On such occasions, and they are neither few nor far between, she must needs clap her tiny hands and kick with delight, and "hoo-oo-ray-ay!" till I fear people must take her for a little mad thing, or a Romany Rye run wild.

Such are the joys of gipsy life from a child's point of view.

She eats well, too, on the road; and that makes me happy, for I must not let her get thin, you know. Probably she _does_ get a good deal of her own way.

"You mustn't spoil her," ma said before she left. I'll try not to forget that next time Inie wants another pineapple, or more than four ices at a sitting.

My great difficulty, however, is with her hair of a morning. She can do a good deal for herself in the way of dressing, but her hair--that the wind toys so with and drives distracted--sometimes is brushed out and left to float, but is more often plaited, and that is my work.

Well, when a boy, I was a wondrous artist in rushes. Always at home in woodland, on moor, or on marsh--I could have made you anything out of them, a hat or a rattle, a basket or creel, or even a fool's cap, had you chosen to wear one. And my adroitness in rush-work now stands me in good stead in plaiting my wee witch's hair.

Hurricane Bob is extremely fond of his little mistress. I'm sure he feels that he, too, has--when on guard--an extra responsibility, and if he hears a footstep near the caravan at night, he shakes the Wanderer fore and aft with his fierce barking, and would shake the owner of the footstep too if he only had the chance.

Our first bivouac after leaving London was in a kindly farmer's stackyard, near Croydon. His name is M--, and the unostentatious hospitality of himself, his wife, and daughter I am never likely to forget.

I will give but one example of it.

"You can stay here as long as you please," he said, in reply to a query of mine. "I'll be glad to have you. For the bit of hay and straw your horses have you may pay if you please, and as little as you please, but for stable room--no."

He would not insult _my_ pride by preventing me from remunerating him for the fodder, nor must I touch _his_ pride by offering to pay for stable room.

It was nearly seven o'clock, but a lovely evening, when I reached the gate of this farmer's fine old house. Almost the first words he said to me as he came out to meet me on the lawn were these: "Ha! and so the Wanderer has come at last! I'm as pleased as anything to see you."

He had been reading my adventures in the _Leisure Hour_.