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.