CHAPTER II

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LITTLE MISS PRIMROSE.

"A night so dark, I could have scarce conjectured there was earth Anywhere, sky or sea or world at all." --ROBERT BROWNING.

During the afternoon, Master Pryce the postman, passing the boatman's cottage on his weekly round, dropped in, as was his wont, for a chat, and over an animated discussion upon the affairs of their king and country Jack forgot his ill-humour, as well as the old gipsy and her evil prognostications, and waxed warm on the subject of Puritanism and the Prayer Book, which book Master Jones had denounced in chapel on the previous Sunday, as "meet fuel for the flame;" a "wicked and blasphemous opinion," said loyal Jack, "which merited nothing less than the stocks or the pillory."

But though in his outward bearing Jack professed the profoundest contempt for the old woman's malice, her words returned so forcibly to his mind, after darkness had set in and he was left alone, that he went out in the driving rain and wind, and walked slowly three or four times over his bridge, stamping well with his feet as he went, and leaning heavily upon its slender railings, to assure himself that all was in good repair. And as he felt it swaying beneath him in the gale, he murmured to himself: "'Tis ever the best workmanship that will bend and not break!" And now, but for a feeling of nameless mystery in the air and vague nervousness in his own system, Jack felt tolerably comfortable again. "Nerves," said he to himself, as he looked out from his casement to the dark woods beyond the river, "nerves are curious things indeed--wonderful things at times! Once set them jarring, and in sooth they are as hard to tune up again as my old cracked fiddle. Come, Jack, my man, it was never thy wont to possess nerves, and it is no old vagrant gipsy as shall show you the meaning of them. Indeed you must pull yourself together, and be a man, whatever!--That's no wind though!" he exclaimed, suddenly throwing down the letter Pryce the postman had brought him; "no, nor a shriek from the castle neither. 'Twas a child's cry, as sure as I'm a loyal churchman!--and no upholder of schism, like John Jones," he added with whispered energy. And hurrying out, he groped his way to the river brink, and listened. The cry was repeated, and apparently came from the other side of the river--a little wailing cry, as of a child in pain. Jack's blood ran cold, as he set foot on the bridge, and slowly felt his way across in the thick darkness, and he could not help thinking of the gipsy's ill-omened words as, passing over the swollen stream, he felt the light bridge swaying in the wind. He passed on quickly, but was suddenly brought to a standstill by the sight of a woman's figure gliding across from the opposite bank to meet him, a figure so darkly clad, that its black robes were only just discernible in the deep gloom of the night. It drew near, and he dimly saw the white face of a woman raised to his, and felt, before he had time to utter a word, a soft bundle placed in his arms--a bundle of shawls and wrappings, within which he felt the form of a little child. "Take it across for me," the woman said imploringly; "we have struggled long enough in the storm! Take my baby across the river, and the blessing of Heaven shall be with you!" "All right, good mistress," said Jack cheerily, trying in vain to distinguish the woman's features in the black darkness; "'tis a wild night, surely, for you to be out with the little one. I have the babe safe in my arms; prithee follow me, and I will verily soon have you both in as good a shelter as Jack the boatman can offer." And cradling his little burden softly in his arms, Jack turned, and strode back across the quivering bridge towards home, now and then addressing a word of encouragement to the woman behind him. The noise of the wind and water drowned the sound of her footsteps, and it was not till the bridge was crossed, and he had set foot on the grassy bank, that, to his amazement, he perceived she was not following him. He gazed back across the bridge, through the darkness, but no figure was visible, and clasping the child closer to him, to shelter it from the driving rain, he quickly retraced his steps to the opposite bank, looking carefully, as he went, into the raging water below him, on either side, with a dread lest he should discern some portion of the woman's dress tossing to and fro on the surface, to tell him that she had flung herself into the torrent, while he had walked on with the child. "No, I should have heard that," he said to himself; "the wind kept me from hearing her footsteps, but I should surely have heard that. No, she must verily have run back into the woods, as soon as I stepped onwards with the babe, and where will I find her, whatever?" There was no building on the other side of the river into which she could have fled for a hiding-place, and the narrow white road, which led away from the river to the woods, revealed nothing to Jack's searching eye. The darkness was so great that he could see very little but its dim white outline, and it would have been very easy for a fleet foot to speed along to the woods, or find a hiding-place under the thick hedge-rows. "I should surely have turned and kept an eye upon her," he said; "but I made no doubt that she was following. What will I do, indeed? It is but little gain to search for any one in this darkness, let alone a woman dressed up as black as the night itself, and the child will be perishing of cold. Whisht, then, my pretty, I will even shout aloud once for her; an she will not answer me, I'll take thee home. Hallo, mistress!" and Jack's stentorian voice rang out manfully above the torrent's roar. But no response came to his listening ear; nothing but the shrieking of the wind in the distant woods, and the creaking of the branches of the old oaks in the lane. So slowly and reluctantly he turned back, and once more crossed the bridge to his own home, where, gently removing the shawls which enwrapped the sleeping child, he found, safe and warm beneath her many coverings, a little golden-haired girl, apparently between two and three years old, who, as he gazed in speechless bewilderment upon her, slowly opened her large dark-grey eyes, fringed with wonderful lashes, and returned his gaze steadfastly. "This is no vagrant's child," said Jack, aloud, with a long, low whistle. "Bless thy little heart, my pretty, thou art as fair as a summer flower!" And he heaved a deep sigh, as he took up the golden curls and twined them lovingly between his fingers. The child's face was delicately fair, only the faintest rose colour tinging the white cheeks, upon which the long eyelashes, many shades darker than the bright hair, swept in striking contrast. The little creature struggled up, as Jack looked down at her, and as she shook herself free from the wrappings which fettered her little limbs, he saw that her white dress was of the finest texture, and trimmed with the most exquisite embroidery. "Poor little maiden," he said, "it is clear thou art never fit to be daughter of Jack the boatman, though it would verily seem that the Lord hath sent thee to take the place of the little one I was wont to hold on my knee more than twenty long years ago. What is your name, my pretty?" "Little Miss Primrose," answered the child promptly, in lisping baby tones, sweet as music to Jack's ear. "Who are you?" "Dad," answered Jack with equal promptitude, thinking that to inspire the baby with the immediate confidence of a daughter was the surest way to make her feel at home in her strange surroundings, and perhaps obviate the inevitable roar for "Mother," which he feared must be impending. But Little Miss Primrose, after repeating to herself, "Dad, dad," in a questioning whisper for a few moments, while her big grey eyes scanned Jack's face with close scrutiny, apparently made up her mind that he spoke the truth and might be trusted, for suddenly scrambling to her feet, she stood on his knee, put her tiny white arms round his neck, and kissed him. Jack gave a half sob, for the soft touch of the baby arms and lips brought back a flood of tender memories, now alas, mingled with deep sadness. He began his paternal duties at once by making her some bread-and-milk, and having fed her with it, put her to bed as comfortably as circumstances would allow. "'Tis a rough crib for you to-night, my pretty," he said apologetically; "but I'll knock up a new little cot for you on the morrow, and you shall live like a princess. My mind misgives me, that woman--mother or no mother--will scarce be fetching you away yet a while. I would I had thought to look round for her more speedily, but who would have so mistrusted a woman! Ah, what is this?" For as he folded up the little embroidered frock, he discovered a piece of paper sewn to the waistband, and hastily cutting it off, and bringing it to the light, he read: "One who knows Jack the boatman to be an honest and true man commits to him the care of her child, in perfect trust that he will be to her a faithful and loving guardian, until such time as she is claimed by an unhappy mother. Let him not seek to know of her birth or parentage, but treat her as a daughter, for which love and kindness shown to her he shall receive a full reward. Two charges only are laid upon him concerning her--firstly, that she shall never be permitted to taste strong drink, nor to witness, in so far as it may be prevented, its dire effect upon others; and secondly, that she shall not be suffered to venture within a stone's throw of the Castle on the Hill, lest its dread curse fall upon her. This mercy is prayed for at the hands of Jack the boatman by one who claims to be a kinswoman."

After reading this strange appeal to his faithfulness and honesty, Jack leaned back in his chair, and sank deep in thought.

"Kinswoman!" he said to himself in astonishment. "In good sooth, I knew not there were a soul akin to me left in the world! Sure enough, when I was but a child, there was here and there one that was of kin to my father, but I have thought them all dead and gone this many a year. And if not, 'tis never in these parts they have dwelt, so what should any one of them know of Jack the boatman, whatever? Well, I have ever tried to be an honest man, and I would be true to this little helpless maid, an nought had been spoken of money. Yet I cannot but say it will be a useful creature of God for the keeping of the pretty little love in the way, to which, I trow, she has been used. What if I shall maybe never get it? What if it be but a sorry cheat, to get rid of a poor little stolen babe? I misdoubt me that I must needs be the laughing-stock of my neighbours for a season, an I confess to pinning my faith to this bit of paper! I will e'en say nought to any one of them, save, only that the charge of this small kinswoman hath been suddenly laid upon me. So, my pretty, I will lock the letter away in the old chest here, and none shall set an eye thereon, and, God help me, I will be a true father to thee." And Jack bent his head for a moment over the little golden one on the pillow, before he sought the rest which such an eventful day had well earned.

When he awoke next morning, he felt as if the events of the previous night were only a strangely vivid dream, and not till he rose and saw the fair curly head lying on the pillow of the little corner-bed he had improvised so hastily, could he realise that Little Miss Primrose was no creation of his own brain, but a living fact and an actual existence.

The little stranger submitted to be dressed and fed, and as Jack was wondering somewhat doubtfully what to do next for his baby-guest's entertainment, there came a knock at his door, and he opened it to admit Master Evans the miller, who had come as early as possible to satisfy himself that his friend's dwelling had not been swept away in the night. The miller's astonishment at seeing a tiny golden-haired girl seated on a high chair at the boatman's table, drumming on the table with a spoon in a free and easy manner, as if she felt perfectly at home, was too great to find expression in words. Jack came to his relief. "You knew not that I was about to have a visitor, friend Evans?" he said cheerfully. "Well, indeed, it was a rough day for them to send the wee maid hither, but she is safe and well, the little darling, and no way worse for the storm whatever. She is akin to me, and being left on my hands sudden-wise, is going to be my little daughter or grandchild, or whatsoever I choose to make of her." "Akin to you?" said the miller. "Why then, Jack man, I thought you reckoned to have neither kith nor kin left to thee!" "Well, indeed I thought it," answered Jack candidly; "but in truth there is no saying what a man may have got till it is put before him, and it would seem that some one I thought dead and gone has tarried a while longer here below than I thought. This little thing was sent to me yestere'en, with a charge upon me to take care of her as though she were my own, and though I know naught of those who sent her, kin is kin, and I doubt not the babe will bring a blessing. It is likewise comforting to a man to find he is after all not alone in the world, and though I marvel somewhat at this new treasure vouchsafed me, I am withal right glad to possess it." "It is passing strange," said the miller. "Also, if you indeed knew naught of your relations, how came they, think you, to know you to be one meet to be entrusted with the child?"

"My bridge is known in all the country-side," said Jack proudly, "and it may be that since I built it my name has come before them as that of an honest man, while there is no saying that they have at any time done aught to cause me in like manner to hear of them! It may be, that if they have not kept themselves so uprightly in the world as they should, they have kept an eye on my family, to get a lift onwards, if they should perchance come to need it, from such as can boast of as honest a name as any in the country. Such as go downwards in this world are verily soon lost to sight, while such as go up--why, the Scripture itself saith, 'A city that is set on an hill cannot be hid.'" And with this sententious adaptation of Holy Writ to his case, Jack turned the conversation, and plunged into an animated discussion of the storm and the damage it had done in the neighbourhood. "The child will cost you no trifle," remarked the miller, as he rose to depart. "She is a dainty little lady, whatever, and has in her countenance naught that betokens a lowly up-bringing, to my thinking." "That is true," said Jack; "but there have been good looks in my family before now, Master Evans, Maybe my own poor child would never have met with so untimely a death but for her fair face, which had always been wont to lead her into giddy ways." "Ah, she was fair indeed!" said the miller warmly, for all the village had loved the boatman's beautiful daughter, and had mourned her melancholy fate. "In sooth, neighbour Jack, I doubt not you are right glad to have this pretty little maid to take her place--and now I will bid you good-day--but it was the expense of the child I had in my mind."

"They have promised money for her keep," said Jack, unwilling to take the credit of greater generosity than was demanded of him, "but if it should fail, well, I have enough for us both. But time will show. I misdoubt me that my unknown relative hath made an unfortunate marriage with one in a state of life to which she hath not been called, for truly the apparel of the child is not that of one in our condition of life." "You speak truth, neighbour," said the miller, fingering the delicate white frock in which the baby was dressed. "Ah well, I must get me to my millstones. And should a woman's wit at times seem needful to you, friend, in caring for the child, my good wife will be pleased to give you the benefit of her own, of which, to speak truth, she hath not an unfair share." And so at length the worthy miller closed the door, and left Jack and the baby to pursue their newly-made acquaintance in solitude. But not very long were the two left alone, for many were the visitors Jack received during the day, some calling ostensibly to congratulate him that the storm was over, and himself and his bridge still standing, others boldly averring at once that curiosity was the sole object of their visit. Little Miss Primrose sat on Jack's knee, and received graciously the marks of approbation bestowed upon her, though resenting all undue familiarities, and refusing to leave her refuge to honour the most polite and insinuating guest. To the oft-repeated request that she would tell her name, she gave in English the one invariable answer, "I am Little Miss Primrose," and beyond that, little information could be extracted from her. Either her baby ears could not understand, or her baby lips frame replies to the questions put to her, and she seemed quite content to spend the greater part of the day on the boatman's knee, or sitting on the floor at his feet, taking but little notice of the frequent visitors, except by the scrutinising glances she gave them out of her wonderful dark eyes.

When a week had passed, and the villagers had satisfied themselves that Jack had really very little to tell them about his tiny "relative," they began to regard her adoption by him as an established fact no longer requiring comment. Little Miss Primrose was not likely to fade and droop for want of care and love, for Jack regarded himself as both father and mother to her; and where experience in the latter capacity might reasonably be found wanting, the good women of the village were only too glad to supply him with their own. He constructed with his own hands a wonderful cradle-bed for the baby, and one day when a travelling-cart came round, laid out an extravagant sum upon a variety of toys and articles of comfort for his darling. When too busy himself to give her air and exercise, he hired a trustworthy little maid from the village, of sufficiently staid deportment to be trusted with the baby, and wheel her out, when the spring-days came, in her carriage, in which she sat, like a golden-haired queen, waving gracious hands at the birds and butterflies as she passed. So with but an occasional outburst of grief and frantic cries for her mother, which much distressed Jack's kind heart during the first few days after her arrival, Little Miss Primrose settled herself down as an inmate of the boatman's cottage, and became quite at home.

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