Hoodie. Molesworth Mrs.
"You must a been hungry after such a long walk. Round by Springley way was it?"
"What did you say?" said Hoodie, opening her eyes. David's tone and accent were puzzling to her.
"He says, was it round by Springley way you came, Missy – the way the church is?"
"Oh no, not the church way. I comed srough the wood and past Farmer Bright's. Home is not the church way," said Hoodie unsuspiciously.
David and his wife nodded at each other. "Squire Caryll's," whispered Lizzie.
"I'll be passing that way in the cart," said David. "Would you like a ride, Miss?"
Hoodie shook her head.
"No," she said decidedly, "I want to stay and nurse baby. May I take her now?" she added, preparing to descend from her chair.
David could not help bursting out laughing again.
"What wages is her to get, Liz?" he inquired.
Hoodie turned upon him indignantly.
"Ugly man," she exclaimed; "you'se not to laugh at me. I don't love you. I love baby —please give me baby," she said beseechingly to the young woman. "I'm all zeady," for by this time she was again settled in the little chair and had smoothed a place for baby.
Lizzie good-humouredly laid baby again in her arms.
"Hold her tight, please, Missy," she said, turning towards the door with her husband at a sign from him, and Hoodie sat in perfect content for some minutes till baby's mother returned.
"Has zat ugly man gone?" inquired Hoodie coolly. "I'll stay with you and baby, but I don't like zat man."
"But he's a nice man, Missy," said Mrs. David. "I don't know about his being very pretty, but he's very kind to baby and me, and that's better than being pretty, isn't it, Missy?"
"I don't know," said Hoodie.
After a time, in spite of her devotion, baby's unaccustomed weight made her little arms ache.
"When does baby go to bed?" she asked.
Baby's mother seized the opportunity.
"Now, I think," she said. "I'll put her in her cradle for a bit, and then you and I can talk a little. – Don't you think, Missy?" she went on, when baby was safely deposited and Hoodie was free to stretch her tired little arms, "don't you think your poor mamma will be wondering where you are all this time?"
"She's out d'iving in the calliage with Maudie. She won't know where I'm goned," replied Hoodie.
"But your nurse, Missy —she'll have missed you?" said Mrs. David.
"We haven't no nurse. We've only Martin," replied Hoodie, "and Martin loves Hec and Duke and Maudie best. She 'zinks Hoodie's naughty. She always says Hoodie's naughty."
"Little baby's mother" did not know very well what to reply to this, so she contented herself with a general reflection.
"All little girls are naughty sometimes," she said.
"Yes," said Hoodie, "but not always. I'd like to stay here with you and baby, little baby's mother, 'cos baby loves me, if you wouldn't have zat ugly man here."
"But it's his house, Missy. We couldn't turn him out of his own house, could we? And I'm afeared there'd be many things you'd want we couldn't give you? At home you've a nice little room now, all carpeted and curtained, haven't you? And a pretty little bed all for yourself? We've nothing like that – we've only one room besides the kitchen."
Hoodie did not at once reply. She appeared to be thinking things over.
"I'd like to stay," she remarked after a while, "but I'd rather be let alone with you and baby. I don't like zat man. But if you haven't a room for me perhaps I'd better go and look for a grandmother's cottage again, and I'll come and see you sometimes, and baby, little baby's mother."
"Yes, that you must, Missy, and bring little brothers too. You won't think of going off to look for your grandmother again just yet. Perhaps it's quite a long way off by the railway she lives. Couldn't you ask your mamma to write her a letter and tell her how much you'd like to see her?"
"But I want to go to her cottage," persisted Hoodie. "I know it is a cottage, Martin said so. I shouldn't want her if she wasn't in a cottage. And I saw it in the Hoodie-girl picture too."
This was getting beyond poor Mrs. David; and finding herself not understood, added to Hoodie's irritation. She was half way, more than half way, fully three-quarters of the way into one of her hopeless crying fits, when fortunately there came an interruption.
Hasty steps were heard coming up the garden path, followed by a hasty knock at the door. And almost before Lizzie could get to open it, two people hurried into the room. They were Martin and Cross the coachman. Hoodie looked up calmly.
"Has you come to fetch me?" she inquired. "I didn't want to go home, but little baby's mother hasn't got enough little beds, but I'm going to come back here again. I will, whatever you say."
Well as Martin knew the child, this was a degree too much for her. To have spent between two and three hours in really terrible anxiety about the little girl; to have had to bear some amount of reproach for not having sooner discovered Hoodie's escape; to have rushed off to fetch her on receiving the joyful news from the young labourer as he drove past Mr. Caryll's house, her heart full of the tenderest pity for her stray nursling who she never doubted had somehow lost her way, – all this had been trying enough for poor Martin. But to be met in this heartless way by the child – before strangers, too – to be coolly defied beforehand, as it were – it was too much. It was a toss-up between tears and temper. Unfortunately Martin chose the latter.
"Miss Hoodie," she exclaimed, "you're a naughty, ungrateful little girl, a really naughty-hearted little girl – to have upset us all at home so; your poor mamma nearly ill with fright, and then to meet me like that. Speaking about not wanting to come home, and you will and you won't. I never heard anything like it. And to think of all the trouble you must have given to this – this young woman," she added, turning civilly enough, but with some little hesitation in her manner, to Mrs. Lizzie, as if not quite sure whether she did not deserve some share of the blame.
Poor Lizzie had stood a little apart, looking rather frightened. In her eyes Martin was a dignified and important person. But now she came forward eagerly.
"Trouble," she repeated, "oh dear no, ma'am. Little Miss hasn't given me one bit of trouble, and nothing but a pleasure 'twould have been, but for thinking you'd all be put out so about her at home. But you'll let her come again some day when she's passing, to see me and baby. She's been so taken up with the baby, has Missy."
Martin hesitated. She wanted to be civil and kind – Mrs. Caryll had expressly desired her to thank the cottager's wife for taking care of the little truant, and Martin was by nature sensible and gentle, and not the least inclined to give herself airs as if she thought herself better than other people. But Hoodie's behaviour had quite upset her. She did not feel at all ready to reply graciously to Lizzie's meek invitation. So she stood still and hesitated. And seeing her hesitation, naughty Hoodie darted forward and threw her arms round Lizzie's neck, hugging and kissing her.
"I sall come to see you, I will, I sall," she cried. "Never mind what that naughty, ugly 'sing says. I will come, dear little baby's mother."
Martin was almost speechless with indignation. Poor Lizzie saw that she was angry, yet she had not the heart to put away the child clinging to her so affectionately, and David's words "perhaps her nurse is cross to her at home," came back to her mind. Things might really have become very uncomfortable indeed, but for Cross, the coachman, who unexpectedly came to the rescue. He had been standing by, rather, to tell the truth – now that the anxiety which he as well as the rest of the household had felt, was relieved – enjoying the scene.
"Miss Hoodie's a rare one, to be sure," he said to himself, chuckling quietly. But when he saw that Martin was really taking things seriously, and that the young woman too looked distressed and anxious, he came forward quietly, and before Hoodie knew what he was doing he had lifted her up with a spring on to