Tan
Florence Davies
Table of Contents
Chapter 1: The Good News
“I’ll tell Miss Bland the news. She’ll be surprised. And what will the girls say? They’ll be jealous.”
The speaker, a bright, intelligent girl of twelve, was on her way to school, accompanied by her sister, two years younger. A casual observer would have said there could be no relation whatever between the two, for they were so strikingly different.
Ethel, the older, was tall, with a bright color in her face and a strong healthy body, every movement of which suggested perfect health. Occasionally she gave her hair, which hung loosely over her shoulders, an impetuous toss. An observant person would have had no difficulty in guessing her to be quick, fearless, and maybe hasty-tempered. Ethel was all that. Yet she was sensitive and had a lovable disposition.
Jessie looked as though she were several years younger, though there were barely two years between their ages. Her slow, plodding movements suggested that she was not easily excited. Those who didn’t know her well often mistook her shy, shrinking way for a sullen disposition. But that wasn’t true. Underneath the unpromising exterior much sweetness and gentleness were hidden. Naturally delicate, ill-health had clung to her throughout her young life.
Often a feeling of bitterness arose in Jessie as she watched her sister being admired for brightness and intelligence, which were due to that buoyancy of health she didn’t have. She was young, but she understood why her sister was admired and she wasn’t. It hurt.
On this bright spring morning, as they walked along together to Miss Bland’s Academy, happy thoughts were filling each of the girl’s minds. Ethel, bubbling with excitement, skipped along the path and burst out, “I shall tell Miss Bland the news.”
“Oh, Ethel, I wish you would let me this time! You always tell everything.”
“Well, you can, Jessie, but you are so slow, and while you’re thinking what to say, it comes out. I don’t mean to be the chatterbox Papa says I am.”
Three girls, swinging their school bags, joined them, interrupting their conversation. One of them, two years older than Ethel, glancing sideways, sensed at once their excitement.
“What’s this wonderful piece of news you two are discussing? I know there’s some secret.”
“It’s no secret, but it’s good news,” responded Ethel. “We have a new brother; our Papa told us this morning. But we haven’t seen him yet.”
The girls quickly clustered round. This was news.
“Well, I never! What’s his name? No wonder you two look so happy,” spontaneously cried the girls. They all knew how delighted their companions would be, who had so often wished for a baby to hold and hug.
As they continued on their way, happily chatting over this wonderful event, poor little Jessie remained silent. She thought: It was Ethel who answered all the questions. Always Ethel first. Why is she always sought after, always the one who has the pleasure of imparting any piece of news to our school friends? And not only with them, but she is the favorite of the teacher too. She lets her do whatever she wants.
A shadow gathered on Jessie’s pale face. The shadow was not caused by the brightness of the morning, for it was one of those clear, exhilarating March days. In the deep blue sky a few loose clouds were driven swiftly along by the wind.
Out in the country on the long white roads, the dust would swirl up to envelop anyone it chanced to meet. “Worth a guinea a bushel,” the farmers would say of the dust. Those who had to trudge through it and were covered by it could be forgiven for their less enthusiastic remarks.
The dust didn’t bother the girls. They were not on a country road, but were walking within a few miles of the great city of London. The most the March winds could do was to gather up loose fragments of paper and dump them in some out-of-the-way corner, and shake the children’s hair over their faces, making rosy cheeks rosier still.
But the wind could not chase away the bitterness that darkened little Jessie’s heart that morning and produced the shadow on Jessie’s face. When they had started out, her heart was bursting with joy. Now gloom was crushing it.
Miss Bland received the news with almost as much enthusiasm as the girls, and it was Ethel who told her. Afterwards she walked home with two of the older students, calling on a distant relative of her mother’s, who lived a mile or more from the school, to announce the important event.
Jessie, meanwhile, had struggled through her studies with her mind partly divided between gladness in the thought of the new baby and sorrow that, come what might, she was always behind. Only yesterday the teacher herself had said so. It was her remarks that had triggered Ethel’s comments on the subject on their way to school. Ethel did not mean to be unkind, but how true are the often-quoted lines:
“Evil is wrought by want of thought
As well as want of heart.”
Jessie walked home alone. She crossed through Wandsworth Park. Into its open spaces the brisk March wind brought pleasant smells from the meadowland that lay miles beyond. The park was ablaze with yellow gorse just bursting into full bloom. The gardens of the homes scattered along the edges of the park were bright with crocuses and aconite, alternating with a few late snowdrops.
Before she reached home all traces of ill-humor had entirely disappeared, for Jessie was not a child to harbor any bitter feelings toward her sister, whom she passionately loved. Just as she reached the gate of the small front garden that separated their house from the roadway, her father came up.
“Hello, my little girl. Where’s Ethel? I see you are alone as usual.”
His tone was especially kind, for Mr. Clarke’s business had been profitable that afternoon. Besides, he was rejoicing in the birth of his son and heir, though his new treasure was only twenty-four hours old.
“Ethel has gone to see Miss Baker. You said she was take her the good news today,” responded Jessie.
“Oh, yes, and what did Miss Bland say? Of course you told her. Ah, honey, you tell all the news,” and her father pinched her cheek as he spoke.
Jessie looked down and did not speak. She knew her father was teasing her, and a flush, slight though it was, rose to her cheeks. Passing in, she went straight upstairs. Before she reached her room, Jessie stood hesitantly at the door of her mother’s bedroom. She listened intently. All was perfectly quiet, and her heart beat faster as she thought, Oh, if I might only go in.
Just then, the door opened softly. Mrs. Carter, a motherly-looking woman, came out, carrying a tray in her hands. She was surprised by the sight of the shy wistful face that shrunk away from her as though caught in the act of doing something wrong.
“Well, my dear child, how you startled me! Would you like to go in and have a peep at your brother?”
There was no need of an answer; her whole face lighted up.
“May I, nurse? Oh, may I?”
“Yes dear, if you don’t make a noise, but speak in a whisper. Your dear mamma has been asking whether you or your sister were home. She thought you would want to see the baby.”
Mrs. Carter walked away, and Jessie, going in softly, almost on tiptoe, met her mother’s smile. She pointed to a nearly invisible little bundle of white that lay covered up completely in a cradle by the fireplace.
Jessie kissed her mother and whispered, “I’m so glad. May I kiss the baby now?”
“Yes, dear; only cover his face up again. He is not very old yet, my darling.”
She stooped down by the pretty cradle of blue and white muslin. She set aside the soft, white, woolly blankets, to disclose a little round head almost as bare as the tiny pink face, with one miniature fist resting beside it.
“Oh, how lovely. Our very own baby,” Jessie softly exclaimed. “I wish he would open his eyes.”
As if the sound of her voice had penetrated those perfect little ears, two blue eyes looked up into her face as if to say, “Who are you?”
“You precious darling. How we will love and take care of you.” Jessie covered the poor little fellow with kisses, which resulted in a prolonged wail which quickly brought Mrs. Carter into the room.
“Now, now, my beauty, is this the way you speak to your sister?” she exclaimed and soothingly covered him up. It had the desired effect of causing his eyes to close, and left the baby peacefully sleeping as before.
Jessie would like to have stayed with her mother, but the nurse said it was time to go. She said good-night and prepared to leave the room as her father arrived at the door.
“I suppose I may come in and have a look at my boy since he’s awake,” said Mr. Clarke.
“No, Papa; he’s sound asleep,” said Jessie.
“What! Didn’t I hear him trying to talk just now? Well never mind, we won’t disturb the little man again,” said Mr. Clarke, as the nurse prepared to pick him up from his cradle.
“What do you think of your brother, Jessie?”
“Oh, he’s lovely, Papa. What will his name be?”
Mr. Clarke glanced across at his wife and, winking at her, he said, “We shall have to call him Jumbo, for look how big he is.”
Mrs. Clarke smiled, but Jessie interrupted, seriously saying, “Don’t let that be the name. It isn’t at all pretty.”
“Oh, then we’ll have to find something more aristocratic than that, won’t we, Dora?” And kissing his wife affectionately he left the room.
As Jessie started to follow him, her mother called her to her side. “My child, we must thank God for this beautiful gift, but do you know of something greater that He has given?” asked Mrs. Clarke.
Jessie answered softly, “The gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord.”
“Yes,” responded her mother, “so we will ask God that our dear little one will receive that best gift, eternal life.”
Jessie hung her head. She knew the “old, old story” well, yet she had not received it into her own heart. Before she lay down that night, she expressed a fervent wish that some day that gift might be her own. She did not seem to realize that God wanted her, that very night, to receive the gift of eternal life.
Ethel got home late. She was annoyed when she found that Jessie had seen the new baby, but that she must wait. She was told that her mother was asleep and that she would have plenty of time to look at her little brother in the morning. She didn’t want to wait; she wanted to see him right that minute.
Chapter 2: The New Baby
Mr. Clarke’s house was one of a long row of small modern homes recently built along the edge of Wandsworth Park. The pleasant little house had a small garden in front and a miniature lawn in back. The Clarkes had only lived there for two years. Before that the family had lived over their grocery store in a busy part of town. But, with business increasing, the rooms were needed for storage, so the family had moved to their new home near Wandsworth Park.
Breathing the fresher air near the park made for a more wholesome atmosphere than living over the shop. It was beneficial to all, especially to little Jessie who got sick so easily. Indeed, it was principally for her sake that they now lived so far from the shop.
It was nearly a half-hour walk to their father’s store from “Ferndale” — the name of their trim little home. Ethel and Jessie had begged their parents to call it by this name. They spent many happy hours planting ferns in a rock garden they were making. “We just want to make the name right,” Ethel declared.
The girls were, as a rule, early risers, and the morning after the big event, they were both up and dressed before the neighboring church clock struck seven. Ethel was determined to see the baby before going to school. So, watching until Mrs. Carter, the nurse, went downstairs for an early cup of tea, she slipped into her mother’s room unobserved. Her mother, disturbed most of the night by the baby’s cries, was now sleeping so soundly that she did not hear the door open as Ethel entered and approached the bed, gazing down at her tired, pale face.
Seeing her face, Ethel suddenly realized how inexpressibly dear her mother was to her and what a dreadful loss it would be if she were deprived of her love and care. The very thought almost made her heart stand still. Fearing to disturb her, she softly turned aside to view the new treasure.
The blinds were drawn down, but through an opening at the side, one long bright ray of the early morning sun streamed through. The golden light passed right across baby’s cradle, touching the little downy, almost bare, white head, which in some way had become uncovered. Ethel gazed spellbound.
One thought filled her mind — she would love and shield her little brother. As the eldest, it would naturally be her right to do so, and she purposed in her heart always to care for him. What took place later would show how well she was able to keep that promise.
Softly she kissed her little brother. Then, she resisted the impulse to disturb her mother and brother, by waking them to show them how she felt. Instead she quietly left the room and went downstairs.
Isn’t it strange that Jessie, the passive one, could be aroused to show so much excitement over the new little one, while Ethel, naturally so full of vivacity, could calmly contemplate the new treasure? Perhaps the solemn thought of what baby would be to her as he grew up caused the change in Ethel. It never occurred to her that anything might happen to him.
At the breakfast table the subject of a name for the baby came up again. Mr. Clarke, in his joking way, asked them if they knew what the boy’s name was.
“What boy, Papa?” asked Ethel.
“Why, there’s only one in this house, unless you take me for another,” laughed Mr. Clarke.
“Oh, we want to know what baby’s name is going to be,” both girls exclaimed at once.
“Didn’t I tell you yesterday, Jessie?” said her father.
“You said, ‘Jumbo.’ ”
Everybody laughed. Even Mrs. Carter couldn’t keep a serious face.
“No, but really, Papa, please tell us. We want to tell the girls at school. They are sure to ask,” begged Ethel.
“And you are sure to tell them. Why don’t you give Jessie a chance?” said Mr. Clarke.
Jessie colored, but her sister looked up brightly, and said, “She has as much opportunity as I have to talk to others, but she always is a brown mouse. Mother says so.”
“Well, since you are so terribly anxious to know, I will tell you.” Then he paused to watch their excitement grow. Finally, he said, “We are going to call him Stanley.”
“Stanley!” echoed the girls. “Why, we don’t know anyone of that name.”
“So much the better,” said their father; “it will be more uncommon.”
“But why Stanley?” asked Ethel.
“Because your mother and I like the name. It reminds us of a great missionary-explorer by that name. He was a good man and we hope your brother will grow up and do as he has done,” explained Mr. Clarke.
On the way to school that morning they were eagerly questioned as to the baby’s name. Ethel brought it out boldly, and with no small amount of pride.
“Stanley! Why there’s no one in your family of that name, is there?” asked one of the bigger girls.
“No! but father and mother like it, and it’s after the great African traveler.”
The two sisters thought of their brother’s name many times that day. Once Jessie caught herself writing it in her dictation book. She quickly erased it before Miss Bland could see it. She knew that would mean being kept in to learn a column of spelling, a punishment she had received before for disfiguring her notebook.
When Ethel and Jessie reached home that afternoon, a visitor, their father’s oldest sister, was sitting in the dining room. Miss Clarke, tall, gaunt and stern, was not a favorite at Ferndale. She rarely condescended to call, though only living on the other side of London.
When her brother first introduced his young wife to his sister, she had openly criticized her. Coldness had sprung up. Her sister-in-law kept aloof and avoided Mrs. Clarke for another reason — Mrs. Clarke was a Christian. In her early married life, she had sought to show her husband’s sister the only thing worth living for, no matter how pleasant one’s circumstances might be. She had been repulsed almost rudely for setting herself (so Miss Clarke said) above her relations. She would have nothing to do with such things. While Mrs. Clarke had snared John, she would not catch her with such teaching.
It was true that Dora Hamilton, before she became Mrs. Clarke, had spoken to John Clarke, the young man who worked for her father, about the things that are eternal. He had embraced the truth of the “old, old story,” and had turned to God, confessing the Lord Jesus as his Saviour. Sarah Clarke sneered at the change in her brother, but could not interfere.
Ethel, too, had offended her. One day while she was still very young she had lisped out, “Me no like auntie; old cross.” Her aunt had never forgiven the childish remark. While Jessie hadn’t antagonized her, there was no love lost between either child and their aunt. Mr. Clarke had sent word announcing the important event, and Miss Clarke had taken it upon herself, as her duty, to call and see the baby, and possibly name him.
“Why, Aunt, who would have thought of seeing you!” was Ethel’s exclamation on going into the dining room. “How do you do?” and, going up to her, ventured a kiss. But her aunt was not to be won that way.
“I called to see your brother. Go tell the nurse, I wish to go upstairs,” was the cold reply.
Mr. Clarke had not yet returned from business and Mary, the good-tempered maid, had shown the lady into the warm dining room, to wait for her master’s return. The wind was cold, but it seemed Miss Clarke had made the room colder by her very presence, so chilly was her greeting.
“I’ll go and see, Aunt Sarah,” responded Ethel to the statement that she wanted to go upstairs.
As soon as the door had closed, Miss Clarke turned to Jessie, saying, “I have been thinking that, as your mother will find you in the way when she comes downstairs, you may come and stay the Easter holidays with me. Of course, you must be very quiet. You are most of the time — not like your noisy sister — and you can help me with my needlework, for I don’t agree with children being out too much.”
All this was said in a cold, patronizing way, expecting her niece to receive with gratitude such an unexpected offer. She was totally unprepared for Jessie’s reply.
“I’d rather not come, thank you, Aunt. Mother and Ethel want me, and baby will too.”
“Oh, very well,” retorted Miss Clarke. “I am sure I don’t want you.”
Poor Jessie colored up. She saw how offended her aunt was. Thankfully the door opened, and Ethel, followed by Mrs. Carter, entered the room.
“I am sorry, ma’am, Mrs. Clarke is unable to see you today. She is not feeling well, so I can’t allow visitors yet.”
“I suppose I can see the baby. Or is he feeling bad, too?” snapped the ill-pleased lady.
“Yes, certainly. I will fetch him,” responded the nurse, surprised at the tone and manner of the visitor. During her absence, Miss Clarke rigidly kept her glance off the children, and they, feeling the awkwardness of the situation, were greatly relieved to see their father come in.
“Well, Sarah, what has brought you here?” he said, giving her a hearty hand shake.
“The train, of course,” said his sister, although she might have truthfully said the baby.
“Well, I’m glad to see you. Why, it’s months since you’ve called.”
The nurse’s entrance with the baby put a stop to the conversation that might have proved anything but agreeable.
Aunt Sarah examined the new arrival and declared with disapproval, “What a tiny little fellow, and fair too. Boys and men have no right to be blonds. Besides all the Clarkes are dark.”
“Well, Sarah,” responded her brother, “he’s none the worse for being fair.”
“I don’t know so much about that. I hope he will not grow up effeminate,” replied Miss Clarke who looked anything but that herself. “Have you thought of a name for him? Of course he’ll be called after our family. I should think John or William.”
Ethel and Jessie looked at each other, but their father smiled.
“We’ve decided on something more aristocratic than that. What do you say to Jumbo?”
“Don’t be foolish, John,” she chided. “I never heard anything so absurd.”
“No? Well, we are going to call him Stanley. What do you think of that name?”
Miss Clarke’s face, even more than her response, expressed what she thought of the name. “Perfectly ridiculous to call a child such an outlandish name. You might have consulted me.” As she spoke she looked across at Ethel and Jessie, who were trying hard not to smile.
Just then, Mary knocked at the door, with the question, “Shall I bring the tea in, sir?”
At that welcome sound, Mr. Clarke’s face relaxed. “We are quite ready for it, Mary.” As the tray of homemade cakes, hot toast and tea arrived, Miss Clarke became a little more sociable. But it was far from a happy meal, for she remained strongly opposed to the baby’s name. Finally she left, leaving anything but a pleasant memory behind.
“Just think,” said Jessie to Ethel, “she thought I should like to go and stay with her. Why I wouldn’t go away for anything now, when we’ve this darling baby to play with.” And Ethel quite agreed with her.
Chapter 3: Results of Thoughtlessness
After the cold March winds had disappeared, April came in exceptionally mild. The warm spring weather just suited the baby. In a few weeks he was able to be taken out, to Ethel’s and Jessie’s intense delight. They played nearby, while little Stanley lay for hours in his baby carriage out on the lawn. His nurse said that you could almost see him grow.
“It’s good for him,” the nurse would say, and the pure fresh air from the park was good for the little fellow. “If mothers only knew the value of open-air treatment for their children, there would be far less sickness and death among infants,” said the wise and tenderhearted nurse.
Little Stanley grew sturdy and strong. He soon learned to know Ethel and Jessie. By the time he was six months old he would put out his arms and crow with delight the moment they came in from school. But it was Ethel who monopolized him, and was always ready to play with him. No matter what she was doing, she would most willingly lay it aside to look after baby.
When the long bright days of summer were over, there were fewer outdoor amusements for the girls and their little brother. During the short winter evenings they had fun teaching the tiny boy to stand alone, and to lisp out baby words.
The very first word he said was “Tan.” And following quickly on that came “Tan onts Tel.” It was always the same. “Tel” was his name for Ethel. In childish sorrow or glee Stanley would put out his little arms, calling his sister. Soon no one called their darling “baby” or “Stanley” any longer. He called himself “Tan” and soon everyone else did too.
The kind nurse was gone. Mr. Clarke’s income would not stretch to keeping her as part of the household. Cheerful, obliging Mary, the maid, looked after the house and the meals while Mrs. Clarke devoted her time almost exclusively to her boy. But during the holidays and in the evenings, she was only too glad to relinquish her treasure to Ethel, who easily disposed of her homework after Tan had been put to bed.
No wonder Ethel loved him. She and Jessie took turns undressing him and putting on his pajamas for bed. What fun they had when he wiggled and twisted and laughed with them. When the spring days came round again, he would crawl out of the cozy crib after the girls had tucked him in, saying: “Tan tum up ’gain,” like a jack-in-the-box.
Both Mr. and Mrs. Clarke almost idolized their boy. He was a beautiful child. Indeed no stranger could pass by the little fellow without being struck with the bright, intelligent blue eyes that rosy cheeks set off to so much advantage, the whole encircled with tiny golden curls that covered his head like a cap, giving him a mischievous look, that seemed to say, I’m ready for fun.
Now he needed extra attention, having arrived at the inquisitive age of eighteen months. The autumn evenings were so chilly that playing on the little lawn was out of the question for little Tan. His playtime had to be moved indoors. Mrs. Clarke had reserved one room specially as a playroom, so that Tan could tumble about and shout to his heart’s content. Ethel and Jessie usually spent their evenings together there until half-past six when, tired out with play, Tan would be quite ready for bed. Twice a week the evenings were devoted to music lessons. Then, during the other’s lesson, each girl had their darling all to themselves.
Tan always missed Ethel when it was Jessie’s turn to amuse him alone. Mrs. Clarke well knew that careful, methodical, motherly little Jessie could be trusted to watch Tan by herself. In fact she preferred leaving little Stanley with her younger daughter than with Ethel, who rarely restrained him in his boisterous merriment.
A favorite amusement was running round the nursery table, and one never-to-be-forgotten evening Ethel took her turn alone. Mrs. Clarke had taken Jessie out with her, and her sister prepared to look after Tan. But that day she had acquired a new book titled Water Babies. Though Ethel was over thirteen, children’s books still fascinated her. So engrossed was she with Water Babies that she entirely forgot the little “land baby” who was toddling round and round the room like a train engine, saying, “Tan, puff puff.”
Ethel did not see that, eventually, he must fall, until there came a thud and a scream — then a little white face lay silent on the rug. She sprang up in terror, and, picking up the child, saw that, if not quite unconscious, he was completely stunned, his head having hit the fireplace guard, causing a nasty cut on one side. His fair hair was already stained with blood.
Ethel had the presence of mind to press her handkerchief tightly to the wound, and rush downstairs for Mary or her father. She earnestly hoped her father would be at home, but both were out.
What should she do? Poor Ethel pressed her hands together with her face as pale as the baby she had laid on the couch. Fortunately, a bright thought came to her mind — Ella who lived next door with her aunt could go for the doctor, if she were home. Happily, Ella stood at the garden gate, waiting for a girlfriend who occasionally went for a walk with her. Ethel rushed to her.
“Please, Ella, run as quickly as you can for the doctor. Baby’s cut his head, and no one else is home.”
Almost before she had finished, Ella was off. Ethel ran quickly back to her little brother. Finding he had rallied a little, she started with trembling fingers to undress him. Within ten minutes — minutes which seemed like hours to Ethel — the doctor entered.
“Oh, I’m so thankful you have come,” cried out Ethel, and bursting into tears, she could say no more.
“Never mind! Never mind! We will soon see what’s the matter, and put things right,” said the doctor, cheerfully. But as he bent over little Tan, his face became grave.
“If you will finish undressing him, I will attend to the wound,” said the doctor.
Ethel, as quickly as her trembling hands would allow, finished removing the clothes of the little sufferer.
When he was in his crib, the doctor went on to cleanse the cut, before stitching it up. The poor baby screamed so that Ethel rushed out of the room. The doctor immediately called her back.
“This will never do, you must be brave. I need your help. Please get me some clean water.”
Ethel obeyed, and as she did, she heard the hall door open. A moment later Mrs. Clarke rushed into the room with pale face and quivering lips.
“Oh, what is the matter?” she cried.
Poor Ethel attempted to speak, but again burst out sobbing.
“It is all right, Mrs. Clarke. A nasty accident, but with care he’ll be OK.”
Little Tan’s piercing shrieks had somewhat quieted. The doctor calmly took out his needle and stitched up the ugly wound, which was far less painful than his probing had been. As he carefully bandaged up the little head, Mrs. Clarke and Ethel looked on sorrowfully.
“Now, my little chap, you’re more comfortable,” said the doctor, cheerfully. Turning to Mrs. Clarke, he said, “You must keep him very quiet. There is always danger of a concussion in anything like this. I will come tomorrow to check on him.” Taking up his hat and with a polite, “Good day,” he followed Mrs. Clarke from the room.
Ethel wearily sat down by the crib and gazed on those closed eyes and the little white face, crowned with golden hair. She sadly thought of the change from an hour ago, when he had been so full of life and happiness.
“It’s all my fault. I did not watch him. I was not thinking of him; I was reading,” she, weeping bitterly, told her mother a few minutes later as she entered the room, very grave and sad. Mrs. Clarke understood from Ethel’s few remarks, brokenly uttered, how it had happened. She did not scold her daughter. She knew Ethel’s pain in seeing her darling brother suffer would be more than sufficient to teach her the danger of thoughtlessness, and trusted that this might be a lesson to her to be more careful in the future.
Much sorrow and weary years might have been saved had Ethel learned that first lesson, which later on had to be repeated, and far, far harder was the second lesson than the first. For the time being, Ethel promised her mother always to be careful, and in prayer that night she prayed as she had never done before, that if God would make little Tan well again, she would be so different. But, though she cried to the Lord for her little brother, she did not yet understand her own need of the sustaining power of Christ.
Weary days followed. Ethel and Jessie found schoolwork almost more than they could manage, so occupied were their thoughts about their little brother, whose life for a day or two hung, as it were, on a thread. Mrs. Clarke was worn out nursing him. For hours she would take the little fellow from his crib and rest the aching head in her motherly arms. Those days, he seemed, if anything, dearer to her than before.
Bitterly Ethel reproached herself over and over for her thoughtlessness. Jessie, in her love for her sister, suffered almost as much as she did herself. It seemed so strange to her to see Ethel go about each day so subdued.
All the school knew that something was the matter when Ethel was so quiet. They questioned Jessie, and for once she had to do the talking, but so sad was the topic that she would willingly have said nothing. There was much sympathy shown, and Miss Bland herself excused many a lesson, knowing the heartache of the two girls whose lives were bound up in their baby brother.
At last the day came when the doctor said all danger was over and little Tan might be dressed and go downstairs. The fair baby face was somewhat thinner, but the blue eyes had lost nothing of their bright, intelligent expression. Mr. and Mrs. Clarke were filled with intense thankfulness. It was a happy little family that gathered in the dining room the day Tan came downstairs again.
“Tan pay, if Tel now ount tumble down,” he lisped out, and Ethel whispered to him, “Yes, darling, you shall play with Tel, and she won’t let you hurt yourself again.”
Ethel really meant it, but she had not sought the Lord’s help.
In a week or two she was her old, talkative, impetuous self again. In spite of that, the memory of those days often came to her mind. She often thought, If Tan had died, it would have been my fault, and then I could never have been happy again.
Time, which heals so many grieved hearts, would have quickly proven to a girl of fourteen how mistaken she was. To the mother it would have been different. For Mrs. Clarke to have lost her one boy would have been irreparable, and she dared not think what she should feel if she were to lose him now. Her heart rejoiced in the fact that he was restored to their hearts, and with the exception of a scar, which the golden curls could not quite hide, Tan was himself, as bright, healthy and happy as ever.
Chapter 4: What the Gypsy Thought
“Buy a broom? A nice useful basket? Well, a good comb cheap, lady?”
These questions were asked over and over again by a dark-featured woman in nondescript clothing as she went from house to house. They evidently failed to cause sales, judging from her well-filled basket on one arm and a couple of hard brooms on the other, which she surveyed with a scowl.
“It ain’t any use nowadays trying to sell ’em,” she muttered. “Folks won’t buy as they used to.”
She joined a man, strolling slowly along by the side of their caravan — a horse-drawn wagon that was their house on wheels. An untidy, hard-featured girl with unkempt hair leaned out of the window in front of the wagon, which was hung all over with household items of every description.
Challenging the man, she said in a hoarse voice, “Ain’t no good, Jim; these ’ere ’ouses, the people don’t so much as look at yer.”
“Well, we’ll ’ave to sell ’em some’ow. Try the back doors of them ’ouses yonder. They be larger; maybe the sarvants ’ill buy somethin’,” growled the man addressed as Jim.
The woman turned in the direction suggested, but it was the same tale: “Not today.” With a few exceptions, there was no opportunity given her to describe the virtues of the goods she carried. It was a bad day’s work, with only half-a-dozen articles disposed of, and those of not much value.
The day was closing in, a damp autumn evening, as the caravan drew up to a vacant piece of ground a mile from Wandsworth Park.
A youth of thirteen or fourteen joined the party, composed of the man, known as Jim Smith, his wife, and the untidy and dirty looking girl who, with a most discontented look on her face, had been leaning over the doorway for the last mile or two. Her age would be difficult to guess. Some might guess as young as twelve and others as old as eighteen. The short stature and loose hair suggested the former, but the old expression gave one the opinion she would be nearer eighteen. It is doubtful whether, if questioned, she would have given the right age, as “Sal,” the name she was known by, preferred to pose as a child rather than a woman. It suited her purpose better, but her mother regretted the fact that her girl would “come eighteen” next spring. The boy was less ragged than the rest, but there was an evil look on his face that spoke ill for anyone who annoyed him.
This motley group gathered on the long grass, and set about preparing an evening meal. They were “vagrants” — people with no fixed place to live who wandered idly from place to place often without lawful or visible means of earning a living. Sometimes people called them “gypsies.”
The four always seemed to be arguing about something. Yet they were not more quarrelsome than others in the gypsy community. Besides the four who occupied the caravan, there were two dogs, as dilapidated as their owners. They now joined in the discussion by sundry barks and snarls.
The food they sat down to eat offered little to tempt man or dog. It consisted of some thick slices of bread, which the boy had begged from a house within a stone’s-throw or two of where they camped, a little dry cheese, and an apology for tea made by boiling some water and pouring it on some tea leaves that had been thrown away in the garbage. Poor indeed it was. At times they fared far more sumptuously, when the hungry dogs would bring in a rabbit or a fowl, quite contented with the bones they received as their share. That usually happened when in the country far away from London or during harvest time, when they all worked from early morning to late in the day. Such times were not so hard. Obviously the man did not relish the meager meal that they had to subsist on this evening, though it was not by any means a rare occurrence.
“I say, Meg,” the husband complained to his wife, “what be the reason times is so changed? Ain’t we got more to feed now than when Sal and Jack were little uns, and yet the takings is smaller than in them days.”
“I guess it’s ’cos there’s no young uns to catch the ladies’ eyes. Why, bless you, when ye’ve got a baby with you, they buys from yer, ’cos o’ the child. I can’t get ’em to look at me goods now,” said the woman disconsolately.
Her husband gave a growl as he tossed down the cup of colored water.
“We’ll ’ave to do better afore long; there’s plenty o’ young uns about,” muttered the man and, casting a sidelong glance at the girl, he whispered a few words to his wife. They exchanged a knowing glance. Very little more was said that night, for, whatever the woman thought about his words, she kept her thoughts to herself.
The next morning began bright and warm, one of those days so often met with in September.
“Guess there’d be better luck today,” the woman said to herself. “It ain’t my fault if there isn’t.”
The night before the man and woman agreed that Sal should go out, and it was only by a threat from her father that she sullenly yielded. The woman, the girl and the boy each started out in different directions with well-filled baskets, the lad having brooms. The man, as he usually did, spent the day smoking a dirty pipe beside the van.
“Mind ye get back early, for we ain’t agoing to stay here forever,” were his parting words. Mrs. Smith was used to similar farewells. Considering the lazy way he planned to spend the day, his careless words produced no feelings of regret, as would certainly have been the case in a more regulated household. She would have stood up for her husband at any time. “He ain’t no wuss than others, and a deal better than most of them,” she would argue, when her daughter sometimes denounced his attitude and actions in anything but favorable terms.
It certainly was give and take with the couple. When the man was morose, his wife would retaliate. There was not much good in either to make one choose one over the other.
From door to door the same words were repeated, “Buy a basket or a nice comb, or just a pretty ornament, lady?” Meg found better success this day. Possibly the bright sunshine had something to do with it. People were not quite so ready to close the door with a sharp retort when their hearts were warmed by the brightness of the morning, which was such a contrast to yesterday’s gloom. It was more like a July day than the end of September.
After trudging along, the basket feeling heavier in spite of the diminishing of its contents, Meg was very thankful to take a seat in a seldom-used part of the park. Looking around to be sure no one was watching, she took out her money to count her sales for the day. It was getting late in the afternoon; there was nothing more to be done that day. Sitting there, her thoughts turned back to the conversation of last night and the whispered remark of her husband.
Don’t see any harm can come out, she thought to herself, we shall be moving on in a couple of hours, maybe sooner.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a clear childish voice, “May I go, Tel? I won’t lose my way.” And the response of an older voice, “I don’t think so, dear; Mamma would not approve.”
“But you can see me all the way if you look, cause it’s not crooked,” said the pleading voice.
“Then you are not the crooked man who went a crooked mile and found a crooked sixpence against a crooked stile,” said the young lady, who was unmistakably his sister.
There was a burst of childish laughter, and Mrs. Smith, gazing in the direction of the sound, saw a young lady about seventeen leading by the hand a little five-year-old boy. Meg took it all in at a glance.
The child’s face was one that would attract attention even by those uninterested in the charms of childhood. Short golden curls surrounded a face of unusual sweetness, yet full of merriment, cheeks glowing with the ruddy hue of perfect health, and eyes blue as violets, shaded by long silken lashes. The boy was certainly as pretty a picture as one could wish to see, but it was not the face alone that caught the woman’s eye. She mentally took note of the dark-blue velvet coat, with the large pearl buttons, and the high tan boots the child wore, and turned over in her mind what they would cost.
A pretty penny, I’ll be bound. Them things ain’t got for nothing, she mused to herself.
Evidently the pair did not see her, for they were both looking intently for someone they expected to see. As they passed, she continued to gaze after them for some seconds. Then taking up the heavy basket, which seemed considerably lighter now, she began to walk across the park, in the opposite direction to that which the young lady and little boy had taken.
She turned around more than once to gaze after the picturesque pair as they strolled leisurely toward the more frequented part of the park. The child chatted away in his naive manner, so characteristic of an intelligent little boy of five years who has so many questions to ask and objects to point out.
While three years had passed since his fall, little Tan, though now bigger and taller, was still easy to recognize. But was the young lady Ethel? Only a close observer could have detected the impetuous school girl in the tall, handsome young lady now talking so happily to the boy beside her. In disposition it was the same Ethel, but the long-flowing dark hair, neatly coiled up, and a long dress had converted her into what the children call a “grown-up.”
She was her mother’s good helper at home now, for Mrs. Clarke, never very strong, had most gladly given up the innumerable duties of housekeeping to her elder daughter. The doctor had imperatively ordered her to rest more, and she felt it could be done now that Ethel was at home.
Jessie was still attending Miss Bland’s Academy. She was going to be a nursery governess. Slow, methodical, little Jessie had wonderfully developed. Her quiet perseverance had enabled her to overcome many an obstacle at school and at home. All could now see that she had the aptitude to be a teacher.
The highlight of Tan’s afternoon, whenever Ethel would take him to the park, was to go and meet Jessie on her way home from school. Occasionally, Ethel would allow him to run on before her. That afternoon, as usual, he begged to run ahead.
“Well, darling,” said his sister, in reply to his oft-repeated query as to whether he might not “just run a little way?” “I will sit here with my book, and you must not go beyond the bend of the road. I can keep you in view then.”
“Oh, I am glad,” said the little fellow, and giving his sister a kiss, ran down the road skirting the park. Ethel watched him for a moment. It was just the time that Jessie always came along, and she would be at the corner before he reached the bend. Opening a book she carried, she soon became so absorbed in its contents that everything else was forgotten until the church clock, chiming five, aroused her.
Why, it is a quarter of an hour since little Tan ran off. It does not seem possible, thought Ethel as she looked at her watch. He has evidently gone with Jessie. Taking the opposite direction, she leisurely walked home.
It never once occurred to Ethel that he might not have met his sister. She just concluded that it must have been so, and consequently did not give the matter another thought.
Having a few things to order at the grocer’s, it was half-past five by the time she reached home. Her mother had gone to bed with a headache and her father was detained at business, so Ethel had her tea alone with the book for company. At eight o’clock Jessie came home.
“You shouldn’t have kept Tan quite so late, dear,” were Ethel’s first words to Jessie, and the answer drove all the color from Ethel’s face.
“He has not been with me. I haven’t seen him.”
“Not — seen — him,” stammered Ethel. “He went to meet you while I was reading three hours ago by the park. How could you not have seen him?”
“No, I didn’t see him, Ethel. I was busy at school and just left a little while ago.”
“Oh, Jessie, what shall we do? We must find Papa at once. He will know what to do.”
“Don’t worry, dear,” said her sister. “I daresay he has gone by himself to Miss Thornton’s. She will bring him home any minute. Listen, there’s the doorbell now.”
Ethel rushed downstairs, only to find her father and not Tan at the door.
“Why, my dear child, what is the matter?” said Mr. Clarke, kindly.
Ethel burst into tears, and sobbed out, “Tan’s lost.”
Chapter 5: Lost and Stolen
After leaving his sister, Tan started off, his cheeks glowing with excitement. Having run about a hundred yards, he turned around and waved one little gloved hand to Ethel, but her head was bent down, totally engrossed in her book.
“Sister Ethel,” called the little fellow, “may I run on further?”
Taking the silence for consent, away he ran, but at the next corner an unforeseen temptation occurred. A little way down a side street stood a barrel organ, and to Tan’s intense delight, there, exhibiting all its innumerable tricks, was perched a monkey in scarlet coat and black cap. After glancing backward once more, the child, fully assured his sister was intent on her book, rushed down the street, only reaching the coveted spot just as the monkey and his master were moving on.
Forgetful of everything, Tan followed in the wake of a noisy group of boys determined to see more of the wonderful antics of “Master Pedro,” as one Italian lad called him. But the organ-grinder had no intention of stopping again, and after little Tan had trotted along two long-winding streets, he suddenly remembered Ethel’s warning only to go to the bend of the road skirting the park.
Instantly turning, he began to retrace his way back. But it was all so confusing. There certainly was no park in view. When his tired little feet had run the whole length of a street so exactly like the one he had just turned from, he saw nothing that he was sure pointed toward home. He couldn’t read the street signs and he didn’t know their names anyway.
“Where can Ethel be?” he said to himself. “It must be the top of the next road,” and away went the little feet, not quite so briskly; soon they began to lag. But Tan was a brave little fellow, and instead of bursting into tears and crying out for Ethel, he determined to find her.
It would have been far better had he just sat down and wept, or possibly howled, until some passerby, speedily finding out he was lost, would, without much difficulty, have restored the little wanderer to his parents. But Tan had no intention of giving up or crying either. He just kept going.
Up and down went the little feet until, coming suddenly to the end of a long road, he immediately emerged on a large open space. At the far end of the field a caravan was pitched, and from the bustle going on, it was evident the people were getting ready to leave. Little Tan ran towards a man who was urging two dilapidated horses into the shafts. The sight was so new and interesting that for the moment he forgot all about his troubles.
“Why, if that ain’t the pretty chap as was in the park,” exclaimed a harsh voice from inside the van, and, suiting the action to the word, a woman quickly dismounted, and coming up to little Tan, said in a wheedling tone, “Come into the little house, my pretty, and ’ave some sweets.”
The child did not require much coaxing. He was, moreover, hungry, and she held up a large bun, which, on the strength of a good day’s sale, she had bought on the way home. Tan’s eyes brightened, and he allowed himself to be lifted up into “the pretty house on wheels,” as he called it. The woman gave a knowing look at the man, who responded with, “All right, Meg, we’re just off.”
“Would yer like to go for a nice ride in the house on wheels my pet?” queried the woman, peering into Tan’s face.
“Will you let me ride home to Ethel, please? She will be sorry if I don’t hurry back.” The large blue eyes of the child trustingly scanned her face.
“Yes, my pretty,” returned Mrs. Smith. Tan implicitly believed her; he had unquestioning faith in everyone. He was never deceived at home, and until a child has found out what deception means, in perfect innocence he will take everything in perfect confidence. While the brief conversation was going on between the deceitful women and the innocent boy, the man and his son harnessed the horses.
“Are yer ready?” he called out in a gruff voice. “ ’Cos we’re off.”
The woman lifted little Tan into the cart, and the caravan, with its household goods inside and outside, started off at a very fair pace, considering the condition of the poor animals whose work it was to draw the house on wheels. While they were never groomed, yet they were not altogether as bad as their rough appearance seemed to suggest. While rarely, if ever, spoken kindly to, and with their food of the roughest, still these patient toiling horses were always fed, and when not traveling they could graze to their heart’s content.
As they moved along, little Tan gave a shout of delight. This was more fun than he had ever dreamed of. His rides on the train and bus were not to be compared with this way of traveling. The woman quickly silenced him, telling him to sit on the floor, and look at the pretty room, which Tan did with interest.
The dirty windows allowed in little light, but there was sufficient to see the place had a “packed-up” sort of look about it. In one corner a bundle, evidently a bed, was rolled up as tightly as it was possible to do so; in another was a chair that could be let down as a couch. There were a couple of stools, a narrow shelf, a miniature stove, and, what interested Tan more than anything, a half dozen brightly colored prints of horses and dogs, with huntsmen in scarlet coats, and jockeys on racing horses.
Only after gazing at these and some other objects that caught his eye did he become aware of another person in the shadows of the room — a young woman whose appearance was so different from his sisters. She had dark, ragged hair, unkempt clothes and scowling eyes, which almost frightened the little fellow. It was Sal, who had vacated her post at the small door in front, where her mother now kept watch.
After gazing at her, as he would at some strange animal, he ventured, in a rather timid voice, to inquire if she knew where Ethel lived, and how long it would be before he saw Papa and Mamma and Jessie, for he ’spected Jessie would be home by this time. The girl gave him no answer, but, at a sign from the woman at the door, started to take his boots off, “just to ease yer feet, my duck,” she whispered to him. Tan, being very tired, offered no resistance. Then the pretty velvet coat was removed, and a coarse, dark old shirt wrapped around him. The girl, at a whisper from her mother, then gave him a drink of something dark, and, to Tan’s thirsty little throat, sweet as honey.
“I’m very sleepy,” said the child. “May I have a little nap till we get home? But I must pray first.” Putting his little hands together he said, “Please, holy God, take care of me and Papa and Mamma, Ethel and Jessie; and thank you for this nice cart-house to ride in. Amen.”
Almost before the last word left his lips, the white lids closed over the blue eyes, and little Tan was asleep as soundly, if not as naturally, as in the cozy white bed in Ethel’s bedroom. Meanwhile, the caravan had left the park, the vacant piece of ground, and the scattered houses behind, and was jogging along a country road, the man seated on the shafts. Jack, a lad of fourteen, had entered the room, and, together with the girl, was disputing as usual who should have the chair-bed. The dissension ended by the father calling out, “Stop yer noise, Jack, and let Sal abide in her own corner.” As Jim Smith’s word was law, enforced by his fists, the argument ended.
October days were getting shorter and night came quickly with hardly a pause for dusk. On into the gathering darkness rumbled the caravan, leaving behind, not only Wandsworth Park and its surrounding dwellings, but some sad and anxious hearts. On into the night the horses and their load traveled, through the long-straggling street of Mitcham, where lately the sweet-scented lavender had refreshed the town, over the cobbled roads, and on again past one milestone and then another. Slowly, yet steadily, they traveled farther and farther away from the stricken parents of little Tan, who, all unconscious of the strange surroundings, peacefully slumbered on.
Occasionally, the man driving would growl out something unintelligible to the poor jaded horses while the dogs chained to the back of the van kept quietly out of the way. The girl, Sal, had gone to sleep, while Jack had composed himself on a heap of old clothes. The man and his wife alone kept watch. It was just as a church clock tolled out the hour of eleven, but faintly heard from the now distant town, that the caravan was brought to a standstill. Descending to the ground from his uncomfortable position, the man told his wife to loose the horses, while he relaxed after spending so many hours in a cramped position. They had drawn up by the side of a hedge on the roadside. The most thankful of all the travelers, the poor beasts found themselves free to rest.
“No fear now of being followed ’ere,” said the man to his wife, gazing on the fair face of the stolen child. “I bet the ladies’ll love him when we gets farther on the road. You must let him look out, and take him round with the basket, Meg.”
The woman indifferently agreed; she had her doubts as to whether they had done the best thing, or whether after all it might not turn out “a bad job,” as she told her husband.
But he put her off with, “It’s what yer wanted, so shut up.”
To which inelegant phrase she muttered, “All right; if the coppers find us out, you’ll get the worse.”
But the policemen, whom she had termed “coppers,” were far less able in those days to track down missing people than they are today. Then, after just traveling a few miles there was little fear of being traced as news and information had to travel by word of mouth from person to person. Today, it is very different when modern means of communication, such as radio, television and telephone, make it easy for one person to communicate instantly with others at any distance.
They decided to keep their stolen treasure hidden from view for several days, until a few more miles separated them from Wandsworth Park and those who might be looking for the boy. There might be a little difficulty keeping him content, but no doubt it could be managed. If soothing words were not enough, then threats would very quickly prevail.
Having settled the matter between them, they were ready for sleep. Soon all was silent at the caravan, except for the heavy breathing of the man inside and the quiet munching on the grass by the horses outside.
Unseen by man’s eyes, God’s ministering angels watched over little Tan far more carefully than any mother’s loving care could. God knew all the way those little feet must travel and had given His angels charge to bear him up in their hands, lest at any time he should stumble. The earnest prayers of the sorrowing father and mother, who even now were pleading before the throne of grace for the lost boy, could not and would not go unanswered.
Chapter 6: A Great Sorrow
As Ethel burst out with the news that Tan was missing, Mr. Clarke’s cheeks paled, and an expression of pain passed over his countenance.
“Lost! at this time in the evening,” for it had been dark for two hours. “Something must be done at once.”
After getting the disjointed story from the brokenhearted girl and telling her not to mention it yet to her mother, he went out to look for Tan. Surely the boy would be somewhere within the vicinity of the park, he said to himself, never dreaming that his darling was now several miles away from Wandsworth.
After notifying the local police that Tan was lost, the frantic father searched for hours in every area where his boy was likely to have visited, calling out for him wherever he went. Every street and road was scoured, not only by Mr. Clarke, but by Jessie and Ethel. Finally at eleven o’clock he gave up the fruitless search and dejectedly turned his footsteps homeward. The girls had reached home an hour before.
All this time poor Mrs. Clarke was in ignorance that her baby was lost, for Tan was the baby still, though he was now five years old.
“Mother must be told,” Ethel whispered to Jessie. “But who will break the sad news? I really cannot,” she added. “Poor Mamma! Will you tell her, Jessie?” And it was upon the younger sister that the painful burden fell.
Mrs. Clarke had retired before tea that day to her bedroom, having one of her bad attacks, and the girls had so far carefully concealed all tidings of little Tan’s absence from her in the hope that the child would be found. Jessie was still hesitating outside her mother’s door when Mr. Clarke returned. From the heavy, sad footsteps and ominous silence she knew the worst.
She entered the room, approached the bedside, and said softly, “Mamma, dear, are you asleep?”
“No dear, but I am feeling much better. It is rather late. Shouldn’t you girls go to bed?” And then Mrs. Clarke stopped. Something in Jessie’s face arrested her attention, for Mary had turned a gas light on when she had brought her mistress some coffee half an hour ago.
“My dear, what is the matter? Are you not feeling well?” asked the tenderhearted mother.
“No, Mamma, but we are rather upset. Tan is not home yet.” She couldn’t say “lost.”
“Not home! Then he has stayed at your cousin’s for the night.”
Poor Jessie. It was harder than she thought, but the truth must be told.
“Mother, dear, we cannot find him, but tomorrow father will make more inquiries,” said Jessie, in a subdued voice.
Mrs. Clarke did not scream or faint, but her face went very pale, and clasping her hands together she said only one word, “Lost,” but it was so intense in its bitterness that Jessie utterly broke down.
“Lost!” It had flashed on the mother’s heart at once. Her darling boy “lost,” and it was night. The cool, damp autumn night, and the tired child lying down somewhere crying for mother arose before her. With trembling haste she arose from her bed.
“It is no use getting up, Mamma, dear. We cannot do anything else tonight,” said Jessie, but Mrs. Clarke did not hear her.
She must find her boy. Throwing on some clothes took only a few minutes. Jessie slipped downstairs to her father and said, “Papa, dear, will you go upstairs,” but her mother was already on her way down, and with feverish haste she entered the dining room, where Mr. Clarke was waiting.
“John,” she said, “we must find Tan tonight.”
Her words were firm, though face and figure sadly drooped.
“Dora, dear, it is no use doing anything more until the morning. Perhaps our boy is in as safe keeping as ours, and in the morning will be restored to us,” said Mr. Clarke. “Did Jessie explain to you how it happened?”
“I have not told Mamma how it was,” said Jessie.
Ethel was sitting at the table, her head bowed on her hands. As Jessie spoke she looked up, and sadly said, “It was all my fault. If I had watched, and not been so thoughtless, it would not have happened.”
The words were uttered in a broken voice, her tears falling through her clasped hands which covered the sad, pale face. Mrs. Clarke listened, not with her usual patience, but restless and anxious, for talking at that moment was keeping her from going out into the night to hunt for her darling, and she was only held back by Mr. Clarke’s hands on her shoulders.
Mr. Clarke, who felt the sorrow quite as keenly, remembered where the only comfort could be found, and gently drawing his wife aside, whispered to her, “Do not let us be without faith. Remember the words of Jesus, ‘Have faith in God.’ Shall we commit our lost one into His keeping? Surely He can watch over him as safely, yes, far more so, than we can this night.” Then, kneeling down, they prayed for patience and grace to await the hours that must pass before dawn, when they might again search for their darling Tan.
No one went to bed that night. The long hours dragged wearily by. It seemed as though death had entered, and yet there was hope, strong in each heart, that he would be found, for they had confidence that God their Father would take care of and restore their lost child.
As soon as daylight came, Mr. Clarke went to the police station to inquire if anything had been reported about their little boy who was lost, but no one had seen or heard of little Tan. Weary in mind and body, Mr. Clarke retraced his steps home, expecting still to see the lost boy on every street he passed.
Mrs. Clarke and Ethel went from house to house around the park, inquiring whether a little boy wearing blue velvet had been seen.
But with the exception of one lady, who had noticed from her window the child running down the road and turning to wave to his sister, there was no clue as to where he had turned.
It never occurred to Mr. and Mrs. Clarke to make inquiries in the poorer streets, although it is doubtful whether in the twilight among so many other children he would have been noticed. The day closed more hopeless and full of grief than the previous one.
Jessie had gone to school and told everyone the dreadful news that little Tan, whom all the girls knew and loved, was lost. Miss Bland suggested that she return home several hours early, for it was simply impossible for the poor girl to give her mind to anything.
Ethel went around to everyone they knew to gather any information that might throw any light on her little brother’s whereabouts, but everything seemed completely hopeless. No matter where she searched, there certainly was not a trace of the missing child.
Poor Mrs. Clarke could only murmur, “Oh, Tan, my darling boy! Tan, I do want you!” Again and again would the name rise to her lips, as though she could call him to herself by the oft-repeated word. But Tan was far, far away by this time.
Still, amid the great sorrow that filled each heart was the hope that he would come back or they would hear something about his whereabouts. Even Mary shared this hope almost as much as Ethel and Jessie, for she had lived with the family for seven years, and little Tan was very dear to the honest, faithful servant. In no heart did this hope burn more intensely than in the mother’s. She could not believe that her boy was dead; hour by hour she looked for his return.
Slowly the second day passed, then the third. What more could they do? The police promised to do all they could and looked for any clue, but nothing came of their efforts. Friends called on the brokenhearted parents and sisters to offer sympathy and whisper hope. Neighbors anxiously inquired each day as to whether anything had been heard of the lost child. Business people stopped Mr. Clarke in the street to sympathize, but as day followed day, and a week passed, all hope seemed to pass away of seeing little Tan again. Yet the mother clung to the hope that he would come back.
It was on Monday that Ethel had taken him out, and that was the last anyone had seen that bright little face, crowned with the golden hair. Now it was Sunday. The week had seemed as long as a year to Tan’s shocked family. As time passed, hope dimmed. When there was nothing more to do, there seemed to be nothing more on which to put their hopes.
Mrs. Clarke had put all Tan’s clothes and toys away — “until he comes home,” she had said to herself with bitter tears streaming down her face, for she could not bear to see what belonged to her absent boy. Ethel was altered, too. The few days had told on her; she had stepped, as it were, from a lighthearted girl into a mature but sad woman.
Jessie was her mother’s comfort, for she knew where to find grace to bear this great trial. Mother and daughter spent hours together speaking of the child that had so mysteriously disappeared from their midst. Jessie had come to know God as her Father through trusting Jesus Christ as her own personal Saviour. She had learned the value and privilege of prayer.
But Ethel remained comfortless. When Sunday dawned, Jessie sought her sister, expecting to find her ready to go out with her as usual in the morning, but on entering her room she found poor Ethel with bowed head by the bedside, where she knelt in prayer. Jessie knelt beside her, and together, in silence, they sought the Great Healer, and the saved girl earnestly prayed that her sister might be brought to Christ in the day of her sorrow.
When Ethel finally looked up, her face had lost its despondency. A new light was shining from those tear-dimmed eyes.
“It’s all right now, Jessie dear,” she said. “Jesus is mine. I have come to Him as a sinner, and He has received me. His precious blood has taken my sins away.”
On that first Sunday without little Tan it was a source of comfort and thankfulness to the brokenhearted father and mother to know that Ethel had passed from death unto life by trusting in the Saviour. Truly she was a new Ethel now. The old nature was still there, but a new life was there too, with the indwelling Spirit of God to strengthen it. How she longed to tell her little brother that Jesus was her Saviour now. He had asked her once if she belonged to Jesus, but she could not answer. Now that question could be answered — but where was Tan?
“Our heavenly Father knows. Surely He will send him back,” repeated Mrs. Clarke over and over again. But each day ended as it had begun, in disappointment, and, before a month had passed away, the mother visibly drooped. “Hope deferred maketh the heart sick; but when the desire cometh, it is a tree of life.” But the “desire” had not come, and Mrs. Clarke’s heart was indeed sick. She still hoped and prayed for her darling’s return, but now hope almost failed her of his coming back, and, in the words of King David, she cried with anguish in her heart, “I shall go to him, but he shall not return to me.”
Chapter 7: On the Road
Tan awoke quite early from his first sleep far away from home, amid the strange surroundings of a traveling caravan. His first thought was that Ethel must be near, for Tan’s little bed at Ferndale occupied a place in his sister’s bedroom. Not fully aroused to consciousness as to where he was, in a gentle voice he called, “Is it time to get up, Ethel?” Failing to receive an answer, the child lay still for a few moments longer. Presently a ray of sunshine penetrated through a crack, lighting up the darkened room, and then the little fellow realized he was among strangers.
“I want Ethel to come,” said the same silvery voice. The words were spoken more plaintively than imperatively.
“Shut up there, can’t yer,” came a growling voice from a corner. But Meg, with a woman’s instinct, sensed Tan’s distress and tried to pacify the child.
“Yes, my pet, you shall see Ethel by and by. We ain’t ready to start yet,” and with that answer Tan had to be content. Sitting up on the bundle of clothes that had done duty for a bed, his next move was to slip quietly to the door which was only partially closed, and standing there on tiptoe he surveyed the scene before him.
It was a lovely autumn morning; the sun, not long risen, was touching with gold the road beside which the caravan was pitched. A few yards farther on was a clump of trees, already turning brown. Between the gold and the brown were the relics of summer days, leaves which had as yet escaped the autumn tinge. All was so entirely new to the little fellow that, with a child’s appreciation of anything that caused a change from the ordinary routine, the thoughts of home were for the moment discarded, and clapping his hands together he shouted with pleasure.
“ ’Alloa, little un, what’s up?” called Jack in not an unkind tone, giving himself a shake as a preparation for rising, like a big shaggy dog.
“I got up, and it looks so pretty outside,” responded the child.
All were now up and stirring around. A fire was quickly kindled outside, and breakfast prepared. The family sat down to eat. Tan stared with amazement. No one washed their face or brushed their hair, for washing was only indulged in on rare occasions. Some bread was spread with lard for Tan, and seated on the steps in childish delight at the novel proceedings, he managed to have a fairly good meal.
As yet no one had questioned him as to his name. Meg at last approached the subject cautiously. She sincerely hoped he would not remember his last name, and if he did, she must do her best to erase it from his memory as speedily as possible. Now was the best time to broach the subject.
“Whet’s yer name, my pretty?” she queried.
Tan turned his blue eyes full upon the dark, hardened face of the gypsy woman. “Ethel and Jessie and Papa and Mamma call me Tan, but my own proper name is Stanley Clarke, and I live at Ferndale. Wandsworth Park is quite close. Do you think you will know the way, ’cause Mamma will want her little boy ever so,” and the fair face looked sweetly pathetic in its eagerness to go home.
“Wouldn’t yer like to go to the seaside and play by the big water?” asked Meg.
“No, thank you. I want to go to Ethel,” and the large eyes filled with tears as the rosy mouth puckered up.
Meg did not want a scene just then. Any workman might pass by and be attracted by the child’s cries; besides they were not so very far from London, only a matter of twelve or thirteen miles. They had just passed a mile or so beyond the town of Epsom and intended returning there to try selling their wares. The man had said they must keep little Tan quiet in the van for the present. So they told him he should soon go home if he kept good, and didn’t cry. This, with the diversion of seeing the horses brought and harnessed, kept Tan from tears for a while.
Slowly the vehicle moved along the road, and little Tan, sitting on the floor inside with nothing to play with and no companion, found the time hang very heavy on his spirit. Poor little chap! Over and over again he asked the girl, who was the only one who kept him company, if they were nearly home, and she always gave the same answer, “Getting on that way.”
When they stopped, Meg and her son went out trying to sell some of their wares, but they returned to the caravan tired and dispirited. Early in the afternoon they hitched the horses to the van and started down the solitary country road again. Slowly the horses jogged on, and little Tan found some amusement in caressing a small black kitten, which Jack had picked up just as they were leaving the town. Throwing it into the van he called out, “Here’s something to play with.”
Tan was passionately fond of anything alive, and as the kitten was friendly and playful they got on very comfortably together. Tan evidently thought the frisky little animal that looked so sleek and made herself so cozy in his lap understood all he whispered in her ear.
“You know, kitty,” said he, “I’m going to see Ethel and the rest soon. It can’t be very long now, for we’ve come ever so far. Do you like riding in a house on wheels? I’m mostly tired of it now; it goes so slowly. Do you like it?”
And the kitten, arching her back, rubbed Tan’s face with her little soft furry head, which he thoroughly understood to mean that she liked him but not their way of travel.
In a few hours the caravan drew up on the outskirts of Dorking. It was almost dark; the days finished so early towards the end of October. Tan had fallen asleep, his golden head pillowed on the kitten’s back.
“Seems a shame to wake him,” said Jack as he looked in to see how the child was.
It was strange how little Tan had touched some kind feeling in the rough lad’s heart. Had he been his own brother, it is doubtful whether there would have been more interest, if as much shown. Meg judged it advisable to undress the child. He was so thoroughly tired out with the long, weary day that almost unconsciously he submitted.
“My! what fine things,” mused Meg, who was called Mrs. Smith by the fraternity of gypsies that knew the family.
“Well, mother,” said the girl who stood by, “s’pose yer’ll sell them fine things when we gets to Brighton?”
Meg nodded. She knew a woman there who would buy anything they picked up on the road, from a pair of baby’s shoes to a young chicken. They would reach Brighton by the end of the week, possibly a day earlier if they kept on the go, the man had told his wife. Once there, they would take the boy round door-to-door with them. No one would know the child if they stained his face a darker shade and clothed him in the gypsy garb, which consisted of ragged pants and shirt with a little shawl pinned around him.
Early the next morning they were off, in fact before the little fellow had finished dreaming of lying in his mother’s arms while Ethel combed and brushed the golden curls, which now hung so tangled round the baby face. The kitten had slipped off before the van started and sat watching his sleeping friend. When Tan awoke they were well on the road, having left Dorking three miles behind.
Through the villages Mrs. Smith walked with her basket, but no sooner were all traces of houses lost sight of than she climbed into the single room of the house on wheels. It was just as she had climbed aboard for the second time that morning that little Tan awoke. His first thought was, “Where is Mamma!” Then the cruel deceit seemed to dawn upon him, and, sitting up, he burst into tears, sobbing out, “Mamma! Why don’t you take me to Mamma!”
All the patience penned up in that little heart had at last given way. It had dawned on him as he awoke from his dream of home that those people were not taking him back to his family as they promised.
Meg tried to quiet him with the vain suggestion that he would soon see his mother.
“I want her now,” he sobbed. “Mamma, Mamma!”
“Come, stop that row!” growled the man who was on the shafts driving the horses. But Tan could not stop the pent-up sobs that shook his little frame. In a vain attempt to stop his cries Mrs. Smith promised sweets, buns or anything else he wanted to eat.
Fortunately for the gypsies, though unfortunately for the child, they were far from any house at that time, or his crying might have attracted attention. However, it was not unusual to hear a child crying, and there were many people who would never stop to inquire about a child’s troubles, though, thank God, there were some that would.
How often a little word and a smile will cause the trouble to pass and the weeping little one to go on its way rejoicing. But in poor Tan’s case it would have needed much more understanding and action, and there was no one to hear the bitter cries. No one? Yes, there was One, and He who had said, “Suffer the little children to come unto Me,” had not forgotten the child, whose parents were praying without ceasing for their darling.
Jack, in his rough way, tried to comfort him, but Mrs. Smith said, “Let him ’ave his cry out; it’ll be all the better for him.” And he did. Gradually the sobs subsided, and then Meg let him look out, a privilege up to this time denied him. It was time, too, for the rosy cheeks were decidedly paler than normal, because of the confinement. It was no part of Mrs. Smith’s plan that he should lose his bright looks. She counted on that to attract customers for her goods.
Tan soon recovered his spirits in the novelty of leaning over the doorway and watching the horses as they toiled slowly and steadily on. It was marvelously bright for the time of the year, just as though the summer had made one last effort to hang on before giving up.
As the caravan passed through a village, Tan was told to “come inside and sit low down” so he would not be seen. It was on one of these occasions that suddenly he remembered the kitten. Meg saw him peering in every corner and under every bundle.
“What are you looking after, Tom?”
Mrs. Smith and her husband had agreed to call him Tom. It was so much like Tan that they were sure the child would scarcely notice the difference, and, in fact, he did sometimes answer to his new name. “In time he’ll forget all the past,” she had told her husband, which was certainly true, for a child of five years is learning new things all the time and adapts quickly to change.
“What be yer looking for?” echoed the girl Sal, as her mother had not received any answer from little Tan, so intent was he on his search.
“Looking for the pretty kitty.”
“Well, you won’t find her, for she took herself off the last time we put up,” said Meg.
This was a new trial, but only a short-lived one, for to pacify him Meg promised to get another one next time they passed some houses.
“But won’t that be like stealing, ’cause she won’t belong to you?” said Tan.
For an answer he received a sharp, unexpected exclamation of “Shut up!” from the man, who had overheard the child’s question. Frightened by his words and manner, Tan kept quiet.
Chapter 8: Tan, Not Tom
They had been on the road four days and were within ten miles of Worthing, that quiet little seaside town in the more sheltered part of Sussex, when an incident occurred which almost revealed Tan’s identity. By so slight a thread was the truth frustrated that for the moment it seemed as though he was to be restored to those grief-stricken parents. But God had other things in store both for them and little Tan, and He whose ways are not as our ways, nor His thoughts as our thoughts, knew what would eventually be best for each.
The child cried many times for his mother, or more often for Ethel, as it was she who had had almost the complete charge of him during the months before he was stolen. But gradually the scenes of home-life and its happy memories were becoming a thing of the past to little Tan, so quickly do children forget. But one thing he clung to persistently, and that was his name.
His name had become so a part of himself that it was entirely useless for the gypsies to endeavor to change it into Tom. As often as they said the word, just as often was the little fellow ready to correct them by saying, “It isn’t Tom, it’s Tan.” Meg began to see how useless it was when the child was so determined, and besides, it might eventually lead to inquiries being made. At last she decided it would be far wiser to leave it alone. An incident which occurred when they were trying to change his name settled the matter.
The only thing that pacified little Tan when inclined to fret for Ethel was the delightful experience of sitting on a chair, or rather kneeling, at the front opening of the caravan, and leaning over the low doorway where he could watch everything that they passed. He was fascinated by watching the horses jogging along, an occupation of which he never tired. While so occupied, the caravan passed a pony carriage containing two elderly ladies who had stopped by the roadside. They had stepped down from the cart and were gathering blackberries, which were found in profusion on the hedges of those Sussex roads.
“Buy a basket, me lady?” said Meg, as they passed.
“Well, we do want something handy to hold these berries,” said one of the ladies, addressing her companion, who was evidently her sister. As they viewed the assortment Meg produced, their eyes were attracted by Tan’s fair little face peering over the doorway.
“What a dear little boy,” exclaimed one of the ladies. And advancing to the van which had drawn up and stood waiting for Meg’s customer to make her purchase, she said, “Would you like a cake, dear?”
“Yes, thank you,” said Tan, extending one chubby white hand through the opening.
“Tom,” called a voice from inside the van.
Tan turned round, and, in a clear, childish treble, emphatically exclaimed, “It isn’t Tom, it’s Tan,” still gazing at the kind face of the lady before him.
“Hello, Tan,” said the lady in a gentle voice, reminding the little fellow so strongly of his home that he burst out spontaneously before Mrs. Smith could by a silent gesture stop him.
“You speak like Mamma. Do you know Ethel?”
“Who is your mother, my dear?”
Meg interposed hastily, “ ’ Tis me sister’s little boy, and now she is dead. She used to be a nurse in a lady’s family and got to speak like her missus that nice and quiet way. Now he lives with me and my ole man, don’t you, my pretty?” and, without giving the child time to answer, called out to her husband to drive on and she’d follow with the baskets.
The purchases having been made, Meg hurried after the caravan, leaving the two ladies gazing after the party, which had so hastily left them. Then the elder of the two turned to her sister with the query, “Well, my dear, what do you think of the sweet child we have just seen? I should say he is very different to the people he lives with. Did you notice the expression in those large blue eyes, how innocently they looked at you?”
“Oh, yes,” returned her companion. “I can see the little face now in my mind with that crown of golden curls. Perhaps he doesn’t belong to them at all.”
“Well, what could we do? The woman says he is her sister’s child. We can only leave it.” And with those words the two ladies contentedly stepped into the pony carriage and drove off in the opposite direction.
What suffering and misery would have been saved, humanly speaking, had they responded to their suspicions and driven after the caravan and endeavored to find out more about the child so strangely situated, or at least reported their concern to the authorities.
Meanwhile, Meg decided something must be done immediately to prevent the child being commented upon in similar circumstances. Accordingly, some walnut juice was found, which, applied to little Tan’s face, so fair and white, quickly darkened his skin so that he looked much more like the other occupants of the caravan. And when the golden halo of curls had been cut short, few would have recognized him unless intimately acquainted. But the features and laughing, round, blue eyes remained the same. Meg’s art could not possibly alter those. His family would certainly have recognized their little Tan anywhere.
There was another thing Mrs. Smith would have been glad to have obliterated, but it was beyond her power, and that was a brown mark in the skin just below his right ear. Often Ethel and Jessie had laughingly told their little brother they couldn’t get him washed clean everywhere. One dirty mark was indelible. His mother, too, had said her boy was not “without blemish”; she could always tell him, however he might alter in features.
Little Tan could not understand why he now always had to wear clothes that were none too clean. “Where did you put the coat Mamma bought me a little while ago?” he had inquired of Sal one day. Her answer had completely satisfied the child.
“We ain’t agoing to let yer wear ’em till yer meets Ethel, ’cause they’d spoil.”
One thing gave intense delight to Tan — the sea. Shortly after meeting the ladies, whose speech had reminded him of home, the caravan drew within sight of the sea. It was not his first glimpse of the ocean, for he had spent many happy hours with Ethel, playing by the waves during summer holidays. He was at his favorite spot, looking over the low doorway, as Meg had deemed it quite safe now for the child to be “on view,” as she called it, when the caravan came within half a mile of Brighton’s extensive sea front.
“The sea! The sea!” he called in shrill, childish treble. “May I get out and run down the road?”
A gruff “Stop where yer are, and be quiet!” silenced little Tan at once. He stood in awe of Jim Smith, who only occasionally addressed the child, and then only in a surly, hoarse manner. Yet no one was absolutely unkind to the little fellow. In their rough way they dealt gently with him — at least Meg and Jack did. The girl took after her father’s more hardened nature.
Tan’s life was by no means hard nor always unhappy. Although only a week had passed since leaving Wandsworth, the thoughts of home and family were beginning to be replaced by new scenes and experiences. Jack had picked up a plaything, too, in the shape of another kitten, and many happy hours did little Tan pass playing with his treasure. Meg had allowed him to keep it, knowing it would divert the child’s attention from noticing too much about their deceitful business transactions. Tan was particularly intelligent for his age, and was too observant for Meg’s peace of mind.
A constant source of distaste to the gypsy family was the little fellow’s persistent habit of kneeling down night and morning in prayer, during the week he had lived in the caravan. Nothing would shake him from “speaking to God,” as he called it. Meg had tried both threats and promises to make him stop, but, in simple, childish trust, he held to that which had been instilled into his mind from the time he could only lisp a few words.
Not until Monday morning, a week after being stolen, was Tan allowed to leave the van, which had been pitched on an unused piece of ground in the more unfrequented part of that busy town, just now full of visitors. Jack had begged his mother to just let him take the little chap down to the sea and “give ’im some fun.” Meg had agreed on the condition that he kept Tan away from the “grand folks and suchlike.”
Very quaint did the young boy look in the old gypsy clothing, his rosy cheeks showing through the artificially tanned skin, such a contrast to his golden hair. Many a mother turned and looked after the “gypsy child” on her way to the beach. Tan chattered constantly in his excitement. When they came in sight of the emerald-colored sea, he stood transfixed with silent admiration. The place was far away from the crowded, fashionable part of the beach, and in the early morning looked calm and pretty.
“What are yer looking at and thinking about, young un?” asked Jack.
Tan turned, and in a sweet, subdued voice answered his rough inquirer, “I was thinking about where God puts people’s sins who trust Him.”
“What der yer mean?” said the boy, who was interested in spite of himself.
“Ethel told me a verse about the sea. I’ll tell it to you, for she made me say it over and over again until I could say it myself,” and, putting his little hands behind him, Tan solemnly repeated, “Thou wilt cast all their sins into the depths of the sea.”
“Do you think He will cast yours in?” he inquired, looking Jack full in the face. The blue eyes searched the dark countenance of the lad. Jack did not answer. Again came the pleading words, “Do you think He will cast your sins in there?”
“What do you mean about my sins! Suppose I ain’t got any,” said Jack. In his conscience and heart he knew better, but did not want to admit it to this little, innocent child.
“Ethel says everyone has sinned,” said Tan bravely.
“Well, I reckon you ain’t had any,” remarked Jack.
“Yes, I have,” returned Tan, “ ’cause no one’s good. Look! Look! There’s something over there on the water,” and, with a child’s natural temperament, which can so easily change from one subject to another, he had forgotten all about the great, all-important truth he was imparting to the rough gypsy lad.
“That’s a steamboat going along there, and a good rate she’s running at, too,” said Jack.
The half hour that Meg had stipulated to be the extent of time allowed for Tan’s recreation passed all too quickly, but the words so simply spoken by Tan remained. Jack knew there was a God that hated sin, and he was fully conscious that he, though still young, had sinned against that Holy Being. His sins were as a load upon him. If it were possible to have all his sins cast away into the depths of the sea, what a different person he would be! But how was it to be done? He didn’t know if it were possible, or, if it were, how it could be done.
The fervent, childish prayers that little Tan had sent up to God each day were already bearing fruit, unknown to the child or even to Jack himself. The words uttered in childish simplicity had revealed more to the rough gypsy boy about his condition before God than any eloquent sermon could ever have done.
Chpater 9: Tan's Friend
Meg and her husband agreed to spend a month in and around Brighton. Mrs. Smith took the little fellow with her as she went from house to house, and her sales increased greatly on account of the appealing little child at her side. When not out selling with Meg, Tan had many opportunities of looking at the ever-changing waves that always gave him pleasure.
Meg was determined about one thing: Tan must call her “mother.” Until he did that, she would never be safe from inquisitive folks who might be struck with the child’s refined features. At last a bright idea occurred to Meg. It was the second day of their time at Brighton. Little Tan, as usual before going to bed, was amusing himself with the kitten, which Meg had allowed him to keep. Sitting down beside him, she went straight to the point on her mind.
“You’re always to call me mother now, so don’t ye forget.”
Tan looked up in amazement.
“But you are not my mother.” And at the mention of his mother, his blue eyes filled with tears.
“Yes I am now,” returned Meg, “ ’cause your mother’s dead; so this is your home, and I’m going to be your mother. You ain’t got no other place now.”
The poor little chap burst out crying, and amidst his sobs said, “Mamma! Gone — to be — with Jesus — and left me — behind.”
His grief was so great, he implicitly believed the woman’s tale. She was hardened in falsehood, which had become a part of her being, for not a day passed, but deception was practiced by this gypsy family. Yet, she felt guilty at her callousness in deceiving this innocent, trusting child, who so recently had been enticed away from his home. But it must be done, she argued.
Meg was no longer concerned that suspicion would result from any conversations that little Tan might have with kindly, interested ladies, so she took him on all her rounds, even down to the beach with her load of wares, and many an admiring glance was bestowed upon the bright, intelligent, little gypsy lad.
At times he tried to play for a moment or two with some of the many children scattered about, while Mrs. Smith was engaged in soliciting sales. But, though the mothers might admire the large blue eyes and fair hair which contrasted strongly with the dark skin of the child, they invariably called their own little folks away either by word or gesture, and little Tan would find himself shunned when he sought to play with others. It was a problem which he could not understand, so he determined to ask Jack why it was.
Jack was his friend. He never tired of talking to the child and of dealing with his unending string of questions. A great many of them Jack was unable to answer, but others he could answer in detail. About the trees, the flowers, the roads they traveled and the different towns they passed through, Jack was well-informed and taught his little friend many things, for he had been on the road since he was a baby. It was Jack, too, who took Tan out in the early morning, when the days were mild, for a ramble alone on the beach before his own work began, and who often gave the little boy a ride on one of the horses, holding him on lovingly, as tenderly as Ethel would have done. Tan was saved from many a scolding by Jack’s intervention, and much of the happiness which found its way into Tan’s altered life was due to the kindness of the rough lad. Jack was changed, too, by Tan, for his heart responded to Tan’s affection for him.
Though there were frequent brawls between Jack and his father, Jack was seldom the aggressor. He tried hard to restrain the violent words, which before Tan’s coming had been only too common. His face, too, had lost much of the sullen, unhappy look which before had so characterized him. Though now a more pleasant person to be with, the sin within was just as black as ever, and Jack was more conscious of it than ever before.
One day Tan said to him, “You are good now, Jack, for you never talk cross to me, nor kick Bob or Sandy.” These were the two dogs belonging to the caravan, and Tan had made friends with them. In fact, Tan had made friends with every animal and every person he met, with one exception. Jim, Meg’s husband, was naturally sullen, and was often aggravated by Tan’s persistent refusal to lie or do anything dishonest. He often threatened the child, but, through both Jack’s support and the protection of Meg, who would not allow anyone to hurt the boy, his threats never came to anything more than words.
Though they moved to several different camping places during the month, the caravan remained in the Brighton area. Tan soon found an opportunity to find out from Jack why the mothers didn’t let their little children play with him.
“I guess it’s ’cos you’re a poor gypsy, and they ain’t fond of peoples as is ragged.”
Tan looked at his little shirt, faded and tattered.
“l wish mother would let me wear my other coat; perhaps they wouldn’t mind then.” He referred to the stylish blue velvet coat that Meg had long since exchanged.
“We ain’t got it now,” said Jack, who was invariably truthful.
Little Tan grew thoughtful, and in his own mind formed a plan which he decided would work.
It was their last day by the sea. Meg, with the child’s hand in hers, went from one group to another presenting her wares. Soon Tan saw the opportunity to slip away from Meg’s side when she released his hand while arguing with a couple of women as sharp-tongued as herself. He managed to gain the attention of several well-dressed little children who, with their nurse, were seated a few yards away.
“May I play with you?” he said in a soft, pleasant little voice, not in any way offensive to the ear, so that the maid, deeply interested in a book she was reading, did not look up. For a moment or two the children viewed one another. Then the eldest, a child of seven, observed, “We mustn’t play with you, because you are a dirty boy.”
“No, I am not; it’s only these old clothes. If I had my blue velvet coat, same as I wore when Mamma was alive, and I didn’t live in a house on wheels, then you wouldn’t mind me playing with you.” Tan was quite warm with this long speech, and now stood defiantly facing the group.
“But, if I were you, I wouldn’t live in a nasty old house on wheels. I’d run away ever so fast,” said a sturdy little chap about Tan’s age.
The nurse, hearing voices, glanced up, and seeing a gypsy child near her charges, she called the children to her side, at the same time telling Tan to go away. Hurt, Tan turned, walked to Meg’s side, and stood with his head down. The children and their nurse sat watching the woman and her little companion as long as they remained in sight.
That night poor Tan sat silent and sober. He seldom thought any more about his family and life at Ferndale, but speaking of his mamma to those children had brought back fresh memories of home. If he could only run away, but then where could he go? He hadn’t any home now. Meg had told him so, for his mother lived in heaven. Tan had heard that there was only one way to that beautiful country — he would have to die to get there. Like many an older mourner who longs for dear ones who have gone from this earth, yet shrinks from death, bright, happy, healthy little Tan told Jack that night that he would like to see his mamma. “But I don’t want to die,” he confidentially told him.
Later would come the day when rough treatment and hardships caused the child to wish he could lie down and not need to wake up again, but that day was still in the future, when sudden changes came to the occupants of the caravan. His present life, though so entirely different from that enjoyed with his family at Ferndale, troubled him very little as the days flew past and the Smith family journeyed on from town to town.
Little Tan saw much that gave him pleasure, and even when there was little to eat except bread and cheese, he was content. With a childish thankfulness he never thought of richer food, nor complained because his lot was rough. Weren’t there other, happier things to think about?
The hard days of winter came on, but in the van Meg always managed to have a fire. There was little traveling during the rough weather. The caravan had found a sheltered spot not far from Portsmouth’s most busy part, when the year ended. Gypsies though they were, they celebrated the new year with a banquet of broiled chicken and plum pudding. That day Tan did not forget.
Tan learned not to question where things came from. There were times when he had been ordered to go and gather a few greens growing near the road, too far from a cottage to attract attention, or to pull a handful or two of hay from a neighboring stack, but he always firmly refused to do it. It was Jack who always stepped in and shielded the child from the beating that an angry Mr. Smith intended to give him when he refused to steal.
Sal said as little as possible to either her brother or Tan, but Mr. Smith raved. He would have “none of that religious way with the young un; he’d teach him he warn’t better than other folks.” Often, when the child knelt down to morning or evening prayer, Jim would begin shouting at him. But it made no difference. Nothing would deter the little fellow from that which he knew to be right, and which had been instilled in his young and tender heart by a godly mother.
On account of Tan, the quarrels between Jack and his parents became more frequent. But Jack was fully rewarded for the abuse he received by little Tan’s arms being thrown around his neck with a gentle little whisper, “I love you, Jack. I love you ever so.”
Winter gave place to spring, and the caravan took to the roads again. Great was Tan’s delight when he was allowed to go out with Jack and gather the first early primroses, making them into bouquets. Going house-to-house with Meg he would offer the sweet yellow bunches of blossoms, saying as she had taught him, “Only a penny. Will you buy a bunch?” Tan was able to add many pennies to Mrs. Smith’s purse, for few could resist the sweet, winning manner and the large blue eyes that looked with such trust into their faces.
Meg had made him a tiny pair of “chowsers,” as Tan called them. Arrayed in these, with a washed-out cotton blouse, he looked very unlike the child who had been picked up by the gypsies six months before. It is doubtful if Ethel, or even his mother, would have known him now. He was taller, too, decidedly so. He could have passed for seven or even eight years old, had it not been for the clear, baby face that smiled so happily underneath an old straw sailor hat.
Mr. and Mrs. Smith had come back into Kent, intending to try their sales in London, and then make for the Midland counties, passing through Bedford. But a sad incident occurred which made poor little Tan’s lot far harder, and caused him to be subjected to much harsher treatment than before. It happened when the caravan had almost reached Lewisham, a populated suburb on the south side of London. Tan had been with the gypsy family nearly a year, when the incident, which meant so much trouble to the little fellow, happened.
Chapter 10: Where Could He Be?
When the gypsies stole little Tan from his family, he could read a little, even though he was only five years old. Ethel had instilled into the baby mind not only the alphabet, but was teaching him to “sound out” words, even those of two or three syllables. This neither Jack or his sister Sal could do; they had never even been inside a school building.
During the winter days, when there was necessarily less outdoor work, Jack had found out that his little companion knew what he did not. Tan could easily have forgotten what he had learned from Ethel had it not been for his kind, rough friend. Over an old newspaper, Tan helped Jack learn his letters; then together they sounded out, though with difficulty, the sounds of letters and syllables as well as Tan could remember them.
Sometimes, when the days grew longer, the two, so utterly unlike, would go into some churchyard and endeavor to learn more by the words on the gravestones. Jack was not above asking small boys, who might be loitering about, what this or that word spelled. By degrees, little Tan and his gypsy friend could make out most of the words of the different texts of Scripture on the stones.
Tan was specially delighted with one text when they spelled it together — “Suf-fer lit-tle children to come unto Me.” They could not make out the third word for some time. At last Tan shouted, “It’s ‘children’!” He had remembered the words of the text he had learned from Ethel long before he knew about letters, during those happy days at Ferndale that seemed so long ago and which he now found it hard to remember.
“That’s in the Bible,” Tan had told Jack. “It means, ‘Let the children come to Jesus.’ ”
“I should like to have one of them books,” the youth wistfully remarked.
“If you ask God to give you one, I know He will, because He likes people to read His book,” said Tan.
Tan now earnestly tried to find a way to get for his friend and possibly for himself the desired treasure, for such he truly considered the Holy Scriptures to be. While Jack might not have considered it a treasure, little Tan certainly did. No doubt, Tan in some way might have achieved his object, so determined was he that his kind friend should possess a Bible, had not his circumstances changed dramatically.
The caravan had arrived within six miles of the child’s old home, and pitched just on the borders of Lewisham. Jack and his father were unharnessing the horses. Meg and Sal were still offering their wares in the surrounding neighborhood. Little Tan was amusing himself by intently watching a small party of people who were slowly passing along the road skirting their camping place.
One of the young men, when taking his tobacco pouch from his pocket, accidentally dropped a piece of money. Not one of the group, who were talking and laughing loudly, noticed the coin fall, but little Tan’s sharp eyes detected the spot where it fell. At the same time another pair of eyes, not as sharp, yet far more cunning, saw the glittering coin lying in the dust, and, beckoning to Tan, whispered to him, “Go and pick it up and bring it to me. Sharp, now! But don’t let them gents see you.”
Tan darted into the road, picked up the coveted gold coin, for such it proved to be, and, running after the party, who had passed on some fifty yards, called out breathlessly, “You have dropped your money.”
“Well, you are an honest little chap,” said one of them, receiving the coin. “My word! I should have been in a fix if I’d lost this gold coin,” and, taking out a much less valuable copper coin, put it in the child’s little hand.
Flushed with delight, Tan thanked the young man, then rushed back to Jack and his father. Mr. Smith’s face looked like a thundercloud to little Tan, and caused the sunny smile to fade from his face.
“Didn’t I tell yer to bring it to me!” he shouted. “You little fool, to give it back to ’em. I’ll teach yer not to obey your father,” and, raising the stick he held in his hand, brought it down hard on little Tan’s shoulders.
The child screamed. Unfortunately for him, the young men were too far off to hear or see the brutal action. But though they could not interfere, there was one at hand who did. Just as the man in fury lifted the stick to strike again, Jack darted forward, knocking the weapon from his father’s hand.
“You’d interfere, would yer?” said the infuriated gypsy, and, picking up an old whip, struck Jack across the face. The poor lad with an effort restrained himself from returning the blow, but the man let out a volley of abuse, ending up, “You ain’t no good to me, you lazy young hound! Get out with yer! Yer sha’nt come in ’ere agin, so yer can shift for yerself.”
Jack just escaped by an inch or two a violent kick. Little Tan in the meantime had slipped into the van, and, creeping underneath a large bundle of clothes, cried bitterly, though softly. Jack answered his father in no gentle tones. Then, throwing the harness down, declared he would stand it no longer, and strolled a short distance off.
The autumn evening was closing, just as it had a year before when little Tan was taken from his home and became a part of the gypsy family. Meg and her daughter had come home, and, as they sat down to partake of their evening meal, beckoned to Jack. Sullenly he obeyed. Mrs. Smith readily detected there had been a quarrel. Little Tan, with tears running down his cheeks, had joined the women. The man came up, ignored those around the camp fire and entered the van. Meg concluded it would be best not to ask any questions. I’ll have it out with Jim later on! she told herself.
But the “later on” never came. When morning arrived Jack was gone. Once during the night little Tan had dreamed (or thought he did) that a rough face was bending over him, and Jack’s voice, subdued and quiet, was whispering, “Good-bye, little chap,” followed by an indistinct sentence, something about, “No good trying.” But none were more surprised than Tan to find out the next day that Jack was gone, and no one felt the loss or grieved more than the child whom he had befriended.
Even Meg felt it less keenly than little Tan. Accustomed to take things as they came, she told herself, He’ll turn up one o’ these days. It ain’t to be wondered at as he took himself off, considering as how his father is always a-going on at him. But I guess ’twill go harder with the little un now, since he ain’t got Jack to take his part, and I can’t always be interfering. He’ll ’ave to take his chance.
Poor Tan, his chance was a very slender one now, and this was proved that same day. The caravan started on the road shortly after the family had finished their meager breakfast. Tan was absent from his usual place at the doorway, and Sal found him sobbing out his woes in a dark corner of the van.
“It ain’t no good your fretting. Jack’s gone, and a good riddance,” said the girl.
Little Tan stood up bravely, taking his friend’s part.
“I know he has gone away, but he was the best here and I don’t like living in this house now,” and he broke down, crying bitterly.
To Tan this new sorrow was the greatest he could remember in his young life. The novelty of the traveling arrangements a year before and Jack’s friendship had enabled him to become reconciled to losing his parents and Ethel and his childhood home, but now there was nothing to interest the lonely, little boy. Nothing could take Jack’s place. All that day he wept.
Meg went out alone, and Sal prepared to take her brother’s place in selling, half expecting to find him lounging outside some tavern. Tan was left alone with Mr. Smith. Slowly the old horses plodded along the road, getting nearer and nearer scenes that, had he been a few years older, Tan would have recognized as in the neighborhood of the home he had left many months ago.
“I’ll give you a thrashing by and by if yer keeps up that crying,” Jim Smith had growled more than once that day. But for reasons best known to himself, he had refrained from carrying out his threat.
When evening came, they pushed on, only a stone’s-throw at one time from Wandsworth Park. Meg declared it inadvisable to let Tan occupy his favorite position by the door. Besides, he had no heart to do anything but sit disconsolately alone on the floor thinking of Jack. Again and again he cried, “Where could he be?” He even thought of going out to look for him, but there was no opportunity given to carry out such an idea. Besides, they had come several miles away from the spot where Jack must have left the caravan.
By the time darkness settled in for the night, they had approached Clapham. The caravan drew up by the roadside just outside the park. Meg took the opportunity to tell the child he must be a good boy now, and mind he did what Mr. Smith told him. She told him not to worry about Jack, for “he’d come back soon enough if he warn’t so well off as he’d be in the caravan.” Little Tan was quite cheered, and began to think Jack’s absence would only be for a few days. But as they journeyed on past the outskirts of London, making for the Midlands, and the days passed without Jack’s return, he lost all hope.
Mr. Smith was rougher on the child now and occasionally beat him. Because he refused to steal some potatoes one day, he whipped him, but these beatings always occurred when Meg was absent. He would have suffered more than he did from the man’s violence, had not Meg, on every possible occasion, taken him on her rounds, but even she grew more harsh and took his part less and less.
Often during the night Tan would wake up wondering, “Where could Jack be?” and, like the sad query which was so often asked by Tan’s family at Ferndale, it remained unanswered. Time alone, which by God’s great overruling mercy brings so many mysteries to light, would reveal that which was so earnestly prayed for, for little Tan never omitted, night or morning, to pray for Jack’s return.
Winter came, and still there was no one to cling to. Meg appeared to be almost tired of the child at times. They couldn’t go selling much at that time of the year, so he was just a bother to care for and brought in no income. Jim, her husband, habitually used harsh measures with him, and Sal, always morose and disagreeable, had grown, since her brother’s absence, almost unbearable.
Many a time during the long, weary winter Tan wished he could go and live with his mother in heaven, though it meant dying. Surely it would be better, he thought, than living, now that there was no one to care for or who cared about him. He had no one to talk to about Jesus, now that Jack was gone. Yet there was One who was caring for him and leading the weary child by the right way.
The rosy face was far less healthy and the blue eyes had lost much of their brightness, but what would have struck Ethel, could she have seen him and known him to be her brother, was that the golden hair had changed from the light blond shade to a decided brown. How much had happened to little Tan in that one year while his hair turned from gold to brown!
When the dreary winter days gave way to spring, a new thought took possession of Tan’s mind. Why should he not go away and find Jack? It never occurred to him that there were others, more near and dear, who, could he find them, would be what the gypsy lad had never been or could be to him.
Throughout the colder days the caravan had pitched in a sheltered spot on the outskirts of Bedford, but with the warmer and brighter month of March at hand, they were on the move again. While Tan was watching for his opportunity to go and find Jack, God was preparing a way to bring him to his parents and his home.
Chapter 11: A New Home
The hot days of August oppressed the spirits of the people. The evenings brought little relief. In the city it was stifling; even in the suburbs everyone felt worn out. The doors and windows were all thrown open to catch what breeze there might be off Wandsworth Park. It was particularly hot in the Ferndale house. Poor Mrs. Clarke found the heat almost unbearable. By her bed sat Ethel, for her mother was seldom able to be out of bed. The grief of losing her boy had left its mark deeply on her. Almost two years had passed since her darling boy had wandered away and never returned.
Jessie was a nursery governess, but, as she only worked in the mornings, she had ample leisure to assist her sister in any home duties that required her help. Mrs. Clarke had long since relinquished all such affairs. In fact, one by one, everything that might possibly have occupied her mind and given some relief to her great sorrow, had been discarded. Even visitors were excluded. She had complained that they made her head ache, and her husband, willing to comply with any wish on his wife’s part, raised no objection.
Mrs. Clarke was being consumed by occupation with her own sorrow and had ceased to think of others. Her load of grief would have become lighter if she had gone out into the narrow, squalid streets and courts that surrounded Wandsworth, to see and share the sorrows and joys of others. But Mrs. Clarke made no effort to do anything. Only a day or two before the doctor had called Ethel aside, and, as gently as possible, explained the urgent need for some action to put her mother’s mind and heart on other things. Unless such a change took place soon, he feared for her mother’s life.
Ethel got her father and sister together to tell them what the doctor had said. They understood the problem, but they didn’t know what to do about it. Many ideas were examined and discarded. None showed much promise of arousing their loved one from the lethargy into which she had fallen. There seemed to be no solution to the problem. Then Jessie thought of a plan which both her father and her sister immediately agreed to. They decided to try it in hopes of saving their mother from her self-destructive state of mind.
To Ethel fell the responsibility of telling her mother about their plan. During a long, hot August afternoon she turned many words this way and that in her mind, seeking the best way to reach her mother’s mind and heart with her own thoughts and feelings.
“Mamma,” she began softly, after having sat by her couch some few minutes, “it is nearly two years ago since darling Tan went away. Don’t you think you could give him up to God?”
A spasm of pain crossed the mother’s face. “I have done that, dear, long ago,” she answered.
“Then why keep mourning for him, dear Mamma; he is never out of your thoughts, I believe.”
“My child, you cannot know how utterly impossible it is for me to forget my darling even for a few minutes. No one understands a mother’s love, and everything here constantly reminds me of him.”
Ethel thought of what that loss meant to her, and how much she too had suffered, but said nothing. Her brother had been intensely dear to her, for she had done everything for him, and had been as a mother to him. But Ethel had taken her sorrow and her failure to the God of all comfort, and, though it cost her much to accept the loss of her beloved brother, she had, through grace, achieved it and become a conqueror. Her one aim was to forget self and live for others.
Using her mother’s words, “Everything here reminds me of him,” as the needed opening, Ethel asked, “If we were to go away, dear Mamma, don’t you think you would be better?”
“No, Ethel. It might be better for a little while, as it was when we went to Bournemouth this spring, but after we come back the sorrow is greater than ever.”
“Papa wished me to tell you some arrangements he has been making lately. Do you think you could bear it for me to tell you now?” inquired Ethel.
“Yes, dear, you can tell me,” replied Mrs. Clarke, who lay back with her eyes closed and a look of utter disinterest upon her features. Nothing mattered to her now, her whole being seemed to say.
“Papa has decided to leave his business here in the hands of his assistant, to make him the manager in Papa’s place and to take a house in the country. Papa would be able to run up to the store once or twice a week and be sure all was OK.”
Ethel presented the plan in a gentle yet decided tone, giving her mother the desired impression that it was all settled. As she finished speaking, Mr. Clarke entered.
“Well, little wife, what do you think of our arrangements?” said he, bending affectionately over the invalid’s couch.
“You did not ask my opinion, John dear,” returned his wife, “but if you think it best, I am content. Where is it you intend to live?”
Mrs. Clarke was interested in spite of herself. It had come so suddenly that it had the effect of arousing her, if only for the time being, as her husband and daughters had intended it should.
To her question, Mr. Clarke responded, “In a pretty village, a few miles from Bedford, we have found the sort of house you have always wished for, with a large old-fashioned garden. It’s for rent, so I decided it would be just the thing. Besides, there is another reason why we thought that Stoneton, as it is called, would suit us. Cousin Annie lives within a stone’s throw.”
“Cousin Annie!” exclaimed his wife.
“Yes, dear. I only found out quite accidentally that she returned from Canada with her two children two weeks ago. She intended to write and tell us, but there had been so much to attend to that, before she got the letter written, I heard through Sarah, who called only yesterday and knew about the move. When Ethel mentioned Stoneton, Sarah said she had heard Mrs. Brunton was living in that neighborhood. And now, my dears,” said Mr. Clarke to mother and daughter, “I must run off to attend a meeting I have promised to preside at today.”
“Good-bye, Papa. I will tell Mamma all the details of the move, presently,” whispered Ethel, as her father hurriedly escaped.
“Poor Annie,” said Mrs. Clarke, after a few moments’ silence, as Ethel took up her needlework beside her mother’s couch.
“Yes, Mamma. She has had her troubles. Left a widow in a far country, she will be glad to have us near her.”
Mrs. Clarke did not reply. She was no longer thinking about Sarah’s troubles, but was wondering: How can I bear to tell her of my darling boy’s absence. She will be sure to ask after little Tan. She has two boys now, the youngest will always make me think of my loss of dear Tan, for he is about Tan’s age. O Tan, how I miss you. I cannot bear to be without you.
During her holidays, Jessie had gone down to the new place to see that everything was being put in order. Faithful Mary was already living at the new home, getting it ready for the family. Mr. Clarke was staying at the shop while trying to get the business turned over to the new manager. Mrs. Clarke and Ethel had accepted an invitation to stay at an old friend’s house not far away, after the furniture was removed from Ferndale.
By the middle of September, all was ready for the family to move in. The short journey to their new home in the picturesque part of Bedfordshire was almost too much for Mrs. Clarke. But a few days’ rest in the quiet country home wrought wonders. Everything being so entirely changed had the desired effect of enabling Mrs. Clarke to dwell less on her great sorrow.
The new home stood in the middle of a large old-fashioned flower garden, where pinks, mignonette, sweet williams, and other fragrant blossoms filled the air with perfume during the summer. Behind it were a small orchard and a kitchen garden.
Mrs. Clarke spent much of her time by the open window. The country and quietness never made her feel lonely as it would probably have done to others with more restless spirits.
Jessie had remained in town while her employer looked for another governess to take care of the four little fair-haired girls who had been Jessie’s sole charge for half the day. It was with intense delight that she left London two weeks later and journeyed to the new home. The trees on every hand were turning gold and brown. She thought the country had never looked more beautiful. Ethel met her at the station, which lay two miles from Stoneton, in a neat little horse-drawn carriage which Mr. Clarke had procured for his wife’s benefit.
“How is Mamma?” had been Jessie’s first question, and the answer, “Decidedly better,” was reassuring.
“Cousin Annie has done what I have never been able to do,” said Ethel, “that is, to show Mamma how wrong it is to constantly grieve over any trial God allows to fall upon us. But we cannot forget our darling, though. It is only two years since the little golden head nestled so lovingly on my lap,” pursued Ethel, while the tears filled her eyes. “I do wonder where he is, Jessie. I have often thought, especially lately, that he may be nearer than we think.”
“Do you mean,” queried her sister, “that he is dead and that somehow we feel it in our hearts?”
“No, dear, I do not think he is dead. It has often occurred to me that possibly someone may have found him, and, not having any children of their own, adopted him. Look, Mamma is at the garden gate looking out for us.”
Jessie was filled with thankfulness at the change in her mother’s appearance since arriving at the new home. It was not so much the country air and new surroundings, though, that had helped, as it was the gentle influence of Mrs. Brunton. There was much to talk about, but the girls, in front of their mother, carefully avoided alluding to the topic they had discussed on the way home from the station.
In the evening, Mrs. Brunton called to see Jessie. She thought she had never seen a sweeter face, and fell in love with her at once. Neither Ethel nor Jessie had seen their cousin before, for, previous to her marriage, she had lived in Canada for ten years.
Two little boys came in with their mother to be introduced to Jessie. They were bright little fellows of seven and nine years old. Raymond, the elder, was dark with dark eyes, black hair, and a swarthy complexion, while Vincent was fair, like his mother, but not at all like little Tan. His face was freckled and sunburnt, with closely cropped, sandy hair, so there was no likelihood of Mrs. Clarke seeing her darling in his face, and yet, whenever her eyes rested on either of the lads, she yearned for her boy. They were full of news about all the things they had seen and done since starting to school in Bedford.
“Well, how do you like going to school by train?” said Ethel in the course of the evening, when they had exhausted their account of school life.
“We like it very much,” responded Raymond. “But Vincent said he would rather ride in an old caravan that passed us near the station. There was such a cross old gypsy driving,” continued Raymond, “and his little boy was looking out, but I don’t think he was happy, because there were streak marks all down his dirty face as if he had been crying.”
“But I wouldn’t cry,” interrupted Vincent, “if I had been having such a jolly ride — always on the move, and never having to go to school. Wouldn’t it be fun?”
“I think, boys,” said their mother gently, “you ought to thank God you were not born a gypsy child — to be brought up in ignorance and squalor.”
“Why, there goes the caravan,” said the elder boy, glancing out of the window.
Mrs. Clarke turned her eyes in the direction of the dusty, white road just discernible across the flower-stocked garden. “Poor people,” she said, “but they are used to such a life, and happy in a way in it, not knowing anything better.”
“May we run down and see it pass, mother?” questioned the boys. “We want to see if the little boy’s still looking out.”
“Yes, go ahead, if you like,” returned Mrs. Brunton.
In a few minutes they returned.
“We saw the little boy, and waved to him,” said Vincent.
“Yes, and I called out to him that, if he would tell us his name, I would give him a coin, but the man who was driving pushed him into the cart,” said Raymond.
“You shouldn’t have asked his name. You didn’t need to know it, and you no doubt gave offence to his father, considering his action to the child,” said Mrs. Brunton. Turning to Mrs. Clarke, she added, “My boys always interest themselves in poor children, and I don’t discourage them, but in this case it couldn’t do any good. Gypsies do not like to be interfered with.”
“No, it couldn’t do any good in this case,” said Ethel, who was listening to the conversation. If she had learned, as her young cousins very nearly did, that the gypsy child’s name was Tan, how different would have been her remark and actions.
Chapter 12: Searching for Jack
The summer days passed wearily enough to lonely little Tan. He missed Jack’s kind thoughtfulness in many ways, but especially in shielding him from the rough treatment, which was now only too common. Ever since that bright spring morning, when the resolve had taken hold of him to run away and seek to find his protector, he had watched for some favorable opportunity, but had always been frustrated when the way looked clear.
The little fellow — wise beyond his years — began to think that Jack by this time would probably be far away. Yet it was getting unbearable in the rough caravan, and the thought of another winter gave him fresh desire to escape. If he could not find Jack, perhaps someone would take pity, and give him a place in some happy home. There he could learn more about the One who said, “Suffer little children to come unto Me,” and then he would tell them about his friend. Surely they would help him to find out where Jack lived.
From Bedford the caravan journeyed through the summer months into some of the busy, prosperous Midland towns. But as September’s cooler days approached, Mr. Smith told his wife, “ ’ Twould be best to get up London way by the winter, as ’taint so cold as yer country towns.”
Little Tan, to his delight, found the caravan going down the same roads that six months earlier had filled him with anxious desire to run away and look for Jack. Bedford had been “a fine, lucky place,” Meg had observed, so they had decided to spend a few days there.
It had been on a bright September afternoon that Raymond and Vincent Brunton had seen the shabby gypsy child, leaning over the low doorway, and had asked him his name. Their simple, childish question had made Jim Smith angry and he had decided in his own mind that Tan must have beckoned to them secretly. When the child stoutly denied such a charge, the man called him a designing rascal, and said he didn’t believe a word. He declared that Tan only tried to make people think he was ill-treated, when he should have been grateful for his food and bed. He’d teach him to behave differently.
Poor little Tan got a hard whipping, Meg agreeing it “sarved him right.” That night the determination to escape, which so long had filled his mind, turned into action.
Watching closely while pretending to sleep, Tan waited for Meg and her husband to fall asleep. At first it seemed they would never go to sleep. But at last he could hear the heavy and even breathing that signaled they were no longer awake. Sal, having taken over Jack’s bed since he went away, was asleep beside Tan. Creeping around Sal, he very cautiously gathered his few pieces of clothing and hastily dressed. Nothing else remained to him, not even the kitten, who had once delighted his lonely heart. Groping his way carefully to the door, with many frightened glances toward the corner where Meg and her husband lay, he stepped out into the fresh, sharp night air.
The harvest moon lit up the long, white road that Tan knew led to Bedford. There he would find plenty of people. Perhaps someone would take pity on him, he told himself over and over again, and help him find Jack.
For a short time the little feet ran swiftly. Then the steps got shorter and shorter and slower and slower. The caravan was now out of sight. To Tan it seemed a long way behind, and he began to feel comparatively safe. There was no need to constantly steal furtive glances backward as he had done at first.
He strolled along more leisurely now, through the quiet country. Except for the occasional distant bark of some farmhouse dog on guard, no sound disturbed the night or the boy. No one saw the little nondescript figure that so steadily kept on and on in the bright moonlight. Tan was not frightened. He was far too accustomed to the stillness of the country night. The dark shadows, which the moon and surrounding trees cast upon the road, held no terror for a boy who had spent two years in company with a gypsy caravan.
The little wanderer passed a white house standing among many varied colors of dahlias and chrysanthemums, now looking like dark blots in the bright moonlight. Inside, asleep like the gypsies, was a family who yearned to find and clasp with their arms and hearts the adored son and brother they had lost two years before. At night they slept; in the day they never failed to ask God to restore to them their treasure. The searching boy passed on into the night.
The hours sped by. Those little feet that had started with such energy were getting very weary as the early dawn gleamed in the autumn sky. Bedford could be seen only half a mile away, but little Tan, faint from lack of food and unutterably tired, sank down by the roadside, and within a few moments was fast asleep. There he lay while angels kept watch over his stony pillow.
A few hours later Raymond and Vincent Brunton, going down the road on their way to school, came upon the child.
“Why, here’s the little gypsy boy fast asleep,” cried Vincent.
“So it is,” exclaimed the older boy, hurrying up. “How tired he looks, and where can the caravan be? Have they left him here all alone to die!” said Raymond, sympathetically, while tears filled his eyes. “Let’s wake him up, Vin, and ask where the caravan has gone to.”
“Gypsy boy, gypsy boy! Where’s your father gone?” said Vincent, bending over the sleeping child.
Tan opened his eyes, rubbed them, and sat up.
“I’m going to Bedford to find Jack perhaps,” said the child quietly. He was afraid to say much. They might tell someone from the caravan, for he recognized the boys again as having spoken to him previously when he was in the caravan.
“Are you hungry?” queried thoughtful Raymond.
“Very!” came the answer, and even had he not replied, the expression in his eloquent eyes would have convinced even the most unobservant that he was.
“Here’s something for you,” said the boy, and, thrusting his lunch into the little fellow’s hand, called out to his brother, “Come along, Vin, we shall be late if we stop any longer. Good-bye,” he shouted, looking back, “I hope you’ll find him all right.”
Tan opened the parcel, and his little eyes brightened at the sight of jam sandwiches.
“He was a kind boy,” he whispered to himself, “and I forgot to thank him; but I’ll thank God now for it.”
Kneeling down on the dusty roadside, the child sent up a simple message of thanks to the One who had sent His ministering angels to protect and guide the little wanderer, even as He led His people, the children of Abraham, long before by the “right way, that they might go to a city of habitation.”
After his simple breakfast, Tan walked on into the town. Several, as they passed, gazed at the shabby little lad, but there were plenty of young boys, some almost as shabby and poor as he, going to school and older ones going to work, so no one stopped to question the child about who he was or where he was going.
In vain he searched for someone, among the many crowding the streets, whom he could stop and ask if they would help him find Jack. They all appeared too busy, and he was afraid he might ask the wrong person. No one seemed to pay any attention to him or give him more than a passing glance as they hurried about their business. All around were people, but no one to help. He felt lost and confused.
At length his hunger overcame his fear. Going up to a tidy-looking woman, standing in her doorway on a side street, he summoned up courage to beg for a piece of bread. She looked at him suspiciously.
“Where’s your mother? Dead, I suppose you’ll say.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said little Tan.
“Yes! the same old tale,” said the woman, “but here is a penny for you, and don’t come begging again.”
Turning to a neighbor she observed, “Those gypsies always have some story ready.”
Tan quickly exchanged the coin at the nearest baker’s for a small loaf of bread. Finding himself close by the public gardens, where children and their nurses were congregated, he slipped in. He found a secluded spot and sat down. The bread quickly disappeared, but not his feelings of loneliness.
He almost wished himself back again in the caravan. Where to go or what to do he did not know. Hour after hour passed by, and Tan still sat in the park watching the children at play. They looked happy; he felt left out. He couldn’t remember if he had ever played with anyone his own age. He wanted to see his mother. His heart ached for her. But Meg had told him she was dead. If he could only die and go to Jesus, he would see Mamma there. Around and around the thoughts went in his head, but none of them told him what to do next.
Unlike August, the September days lost their warmth as evening approached. As the sun disappeared on the horizon, the air turned cool. Anxious to get home in the daylight, the park keeper came across to little Tan, still sitting disconsolately on the seat he had occupied since noon, and told him he must be off, for they were going to close the park gates.
How quickly it got dark, and how completely lost Tan felt now! Too tired to wander any more, and at a loss where to go or what to do, Tan just sat on a doorstep outside the park and the tears, which had been held back all day, followed one another rapidly down his cheeks.
As he was no longer thinking, but just feeling, Tan did not shrink away when a hand was laid upon his shoulder, and a gruff voice said, though not unkindly, “Now, then, you must move on!” The sound of a voice and the touch of a human hand aroused little Tan from solitude. Looking up through his tears, he saw a tall, stalwart policeman bending over him.
“Oh, please, I haven’t anywhere to go. Will you take me somewhere, because I haven’t any place to sleep in now. I ran away from the caravan yesterday.”
He said it without thinking, and the pleading eyes looked up into the face of the officer of the law, free from that fear which many have when stopped by a policeman.
“Come along w’ me, little un; I’ll take you to a safe place,” said the kindhearted man. The child rose with difficulty, being stiff and weary and weak too from lack of food.
The policeman held his hand all the way to the nearby police station. Once there, he was carefully questioned as to how and why he came to be sitting so sad and alone on the doorstep, apparently with no one to look after him and no home to go to. With childlike frankness Tan told the story as far as he knew: His home was a caravan, but the man whipped him, now that Jack was gone. His own mother “lived with Jesus.” To the query as to whether he always lived in the van, the little fellow replied, “No, not always,” but he was quite unable to give any answer as to where he had lived before.
At that moment, Ethel and Ferndale had entirely passed out of his thoughts. Though only two years had passed, his life before the caravan was a complete blank to his confused mind and suffering heart. He knew the gypsy caravan was not his first home, for Jack had often reminded him that Meg was not his own mother; his real mother was dead. He could remember coming to live with the gypsy family, but nothing before that. More about Mr. Smith he did not say, lest he be sent back for more beatings.
Tan slept soundly that night. The next morning a paragraph appeared in the daily paper, describing a little wanderer who had been found and who gave his name as “Tan.”
Chapter 13: Found
“Jessie, please come. I want you, dear, for a moment.” It was Ethel’s voice calling from the breakfast room downstairs. The words were normal, but the tone of voice was not. She sounded excited and upset about something. Passing by her mother’s room, Jessie poked her head in the door saying, “I will be back in a minute, Mamma. I am going downstairs to speak to Ethel.”
As Jessie hastened down the stairs, she wondered: We finished breakfast not long ago; the mail’s been opened and everyone’s plans for the day have been discussed; no one would visit this early in the day; Papa has already left for London on the early train. What can Ethel be so surprised and anxious about?
She found her sister standing by the table with a strained expression on her face, clutching a newspaper in her hand.
“See here, what I have just read. Oh, do you think it could be our lost darling?” exclaimed Ethel as she thrust the paper into Jessie’s hand.
“Ethel, what do you mean?” exclaimed her sister, but then her eye caught the words — “Lost Boy: Wants to be Found” — and she quickly read the story:
A young boy about eight years old was found sitting on a doorstep on Preston Street at 7:15 p.m. last night by police officer O’Brian. He was dressed in dark grey trousers, much worn, and a faded blue shirt. He has brown hair and large blue eyes.
The boy claims he ran away from a gypsy caravan and is looking for a friend named Jack. He knows he has not always been with the gypsies, but cannot remember anything about his life before joining them. He refuses to speak about who or where the gypsies are. He calls himself, “Tan.”
It was the last word that had riveted Ethel’s attention. Seeing that one short word had caused Ethel to tremble and her mind to race. Now, it sent a thrill of excitement through Jessie.
“Could it possibly be our lost Tan? What do you think, Ethel?”
Ethel couldn’t reply. From her heart went up the one petition to her heavenly Father — “Help us, O God, to find him.”
As her sister waited, she aroused herself with the light of newborn hope in her eyes and with trembling lips said, “I will go at once and make inquiries. There is a chance, for who else would have the name of Tan?” After pausing to think, she added, “You might tell Mamma I have gone on an errand that required immediate attention. Don’t tell Mamma about the article in the paper. It may be a false hope, and I’m not sure she could handle the letdown.”
Thoughts tumbled around in Ethel’s mind: It is two miles to the railway station. Shall we get the pony out and drive there? Will Mother suspect anything if we do? Is it wise to go off at once like this? If Papa were only at home, I could ask him.
While these and other questions forced themselves upon Ethel, they did not deter her from action. She had to do something and do it immediately before anyone took the boy away, and they lost the chance to see if he was their dear brother. Dressing quickly, while debating with herself, Ethel went first to the stable. The pony was not there. Tom, the gardener, had driven him into the paddock an hour ago, understanding that Mrs. Clarke would not require the carriage that day. Ethel remembered that now. Well, the only way would be to walk. There was a train just before twelve o’clock, and there would just be sufficient time to catch it if she walked quickly.
So busy was Ethel with her thoughts, she hardly noticed the lovely day. A fresh, invigorating breeze was blowing while flowers and trees clothed in green, gold and brown presented themselves for inspection on every side. Ethel did not notice and enjoy her surroundings, for as she walked along she reread again and again the article she had cut from the paper.
Our Tan’s hair was golden, and they say his is brown. They do say he is about eight years of age, she thought, and he has the right name; so, perhaps, he is our Tan in spite of the hair. Maybe they did not report it in the paper accurately. I hope they made a mistake. What if the policeman misunderstood the name and it is Tom instead of Tan. If so, then he is not our darling after all. But at least we will have tried and made sure.
Ethel hurried on, her mind alternating between hope and fear. She arrived at the station in time for the train, and the short journey to Bedford only took a few minutes, for it was only three miles by rail and less than that by road. Ethel’s heart beat faster as she left the train station and approached the police station. Soon she would know.
In the meantime, Jessie, after seeing Ethel off, had returned to her mother, finding her in the kitchen. The move to the country had helped her so that she now took interest in household activities. She again did some of the baking. Mary could have done it, but the house required more attention, being larger than Ferndale. Mother and daughters shared in the cooking, but the largest share fell on Ethel, while Jessie usually assisted Mary with the laundry and the cleaning.
“What did Ethel want you for, dear?” were Mrs. Clarke’s first words, as her daughter rejoined her. Jessie gave the simple message Ethel had told her to say, but it did not satisfy Mrs. Clarke.
“Why, what errand would necessitate going to Bedford this morning?” she asked as she scanned her daughter’s face. “Nothing was mentioned about going at breakfast time.”
Jessie was the very example of truthfulness. She shrank from deception in any shape or form. She remained silent, hoping an answer would not be necessary. Mrs. Clarke noticed her embarrassed look, but waited for an explanation. Seeing her mother was not satisfied, she finally replied, “Please, Mamma, I cannot tell you why Ethel has gone to Bedford. She will explain it by and by.”
“Silly girl,” returned Mrs. Clarke, kissing the blushing face. “I half guess what the errand is, so will ask nothing more. It is not usual to consult one about one’s own birthday gifts.”
Jessie smiled, thankful of heart for the turn the conversation had taken. Her mother’s birthday would be the day after tomorrow. She would let it rest on her mother’s guess that Ethel had journeyed to Bedford secretly in order to choose a birthday gift. What a present it would be should the boy really prove to be little Tan. This thought now filled her with hope and longing that it be so.
She could not seem to concentrate on anything as she waited. The minutes seemed like hours and the hours like days. Finally, towards the close of the unending afternoon, she could wait no longer. Jessie told her mother she wanted to go to the station to meet Ethel.
“Certainly, my darling, you may go. I shall not be lonely. Papa will be back quite early, and the ride will do you good.”
Ethel, meanwhile, had found her way to the police station, where the lost child had been given a temporary lodging, pending (no one claiming him) being sent to the workhouse. A stalwart policeman opened the door to Ethel’s impatient knock.
“Have we a little lad that nobody owns?” he inquired as Ethel made known her visit. “Yes we do, and a nicer little chap I’ve never come across. It beats me how he knows so much, having had no home for as long as he can remember but a gypsy caravan. Though, of course, he can’t be expected to remember very far back, seeing he is just a child.”
“Is he eight years old as the paper says?” asked Ethel.
“Well, somewheres about that, though maybe it’s only he’s tall for his age, for he hasn’t got that older-than-his-age look like most of the vagrant young uns have. But, you come in, miss, and take a seat while I go and fetch him so you can see for yourself if he’s yours.”
Ethel had already explained how her little brother had been lost for two years. As she took her seat in the office, her heart beat faster. A curious feeling crept over her, as though this was indeed going to be the moment she had been hoping and praying for during the past two years.
Presently she heard steps returning — the light footfalls of a little child and the heavy-measured tread of the constable. Through the door first came a healthy looking little figure with a freckled tan face, from which peered a pair of large blue eyes. He stood before her as before a stranger, wondering who she was and why she wanted to see him.
First, she only saw the freckled face. Then her eyes glanced quickly from head to toe at the strange little figure who stood before her. As the color fled her cheeks, her heart cried, Could this be her Tan?
“What is your name, dear?” queried Ethel.
“Tan,” said the sweet, gentle voice.
Ethel’s heart pounded and her mind raced. Surely the voice is exactly the same; but I must be careful and make quite sure before I tell him who I am.
“Do you remember where you used to live before the gypsy caravan became your home?” she gently inquired.
“I never think of any other place. Jack used to say I had a lady mamma, but she died and went to live with Jesus. I expect it must have been when I was quite little.”
He did not look very big yet, as he spoke, though the long trousers made the quaint figure look taller than he really was.
Dear little fellow! thought Ethel, her eyes filling with tears. What an old familiar sound these words had. They seemed like some old nursery tune she might have heard sung long ago.
“I had a darling little brother like you some time ago, but his hair was golden. You remind me so much of him, and his name also was Tan,” she said, very gently bending over the brown head that had been washed and brushed by the kind officer of the law. And then Ethel burst into tears of joy, as she clasped the astonished child in her arms and kissed him again and again.
“You are our own little Tan!” said Ethel, as soon as she could speak. “See, the mark is plainly visible on the head, where the cut was,” she said, turning to the policeman, who stood respectfully looking on a little way apart from the two.
“He had a fall, which left this scar on his head,” she said pointing to the faint mark on Tan’s head. “I see now another mark he had from infancy, which removes all doubt. The only thing different is the hair. It used to be golden, now it is brown. Except for the hair, his features are all the same. I am perfectly convinced he is our boy.”
“I am very glad to hear it, miss, and if you’ll allow me, I would just say that, with the neglect of the bath and exposure to wind and sun, the golden color of a young child’s hair, I think, would change,” said the kindhearted policeman.
“I did not think of that; but it must be so, for this is Tan,” returned Ethel, still hugging the little fellow in her arms.
“Will you come home with me, dear?” she said tenderly, as the blue eyes, with the old look she knew now so well, peered up into her face.
“I should like to, if I may,” responded Tan, although he looked a little confused and bewildered. He was not sure who she was, but she sounded kind and might help him find Jack.
“Well, let us thank your kind friend who found you for me,” said Ethel, thanking the officer and saying good-bye to him. Close by was a cab stand, and Ethel, quickly hailing the nearest cab, said, “Will you drive me to the clothing store, please?”
In a few minutes Tan and his sister stood in a shop that sold children’s clothes. To the store clerk, Ethel asked, “Will you fit this little boy with a sailor suit complete, also shoes and stockings?”
The young man gazed in astonishment at the odd pair — one was a tall young lady neatly dressed in a light-brown dress and the other was a little gypsy dressed in ragged garments.
“Certainly, madam,” he replied to her question, wondering all the time, whatever could have happened to cause his customer to buy such a good suit of clothes for such a little beggar boy. When Tan was dressed in a navy sailor suit, with pale blue collar and hat to match, the transformation produced such a handsome little gentleman that the clerk’s astonishment gradually subsided.
Ethel gazed upon her little brother with a look of intense delight, while her heart rose up to God in silent thanksgiving that, in His own good time and way, He had given back to them in life and health their long-lost Tan.