Chapter 3
Tom was a brave little chimney-sweep. When he found himself on the top of a high cliff, instead of sitting down and crying, he said, “Ah, this will just suit me!” He was very tired. Down he went, by stock and stone, sedge and ledge, bush and rush, as if he had been born a jolly little black ape, with four hands instead of two.
All the while, he never saw the Irish woman coming down behind him.
But he was getting terribly tired now. The burning sun on the fells had sucked him up. But the damp heat of the woody crag sucked him up still more. The perspiration ran out of the ends of his fingers and toes, and washed him cleaner than he had been for a whole year. But, of course, he dirtied everything terribly as he went. There has been a great black smudge all down the crag ever since.
At last, he got to the bottom. But behold, it was not the bottom-as people usually find when they are coming down a mountain. For at the foot of the crag there were heaps and heaps of fallen limestone, with holes between them full of sweet heath-fern. Before Tom got through them, he was out in the bright sunshine again. Then he felt, once for all and suddenly, as people generally do, that he was b-e-a-t, beat.
He could not get on. The sun was burning, and yet he felt chill all over. He was quite empty, and yet he felt quite sick. There was but two hundred yards of smooth pasture between him and the cottage, and yet he could not walk down it. He could hear the stream murmuring only one field beyond it, and yet it seemed to him as if it were a hundred miles off.
He lay down on the grass till the beetles ran over him, and the flies settled on his nose. None knew when he would have got up again, if the gnats and the midges had not taken compassion on him. But the gnats blew their trumpets so loud in his ear, and the midges nibbled so at his hands and face wherever they could find a place free from soot, that at last he woke up, and stumbled away, down over a low wall, and into a narrow road, and up to the cottage door.
A neat pretty cottage it was, with clipped yew hedges all round the garden.
He came slowly up to the open door, which was all hung round with clematis and roses. He then peeped in, half afraid.
There sat by the empty fireplace the nicest old woman that ever was seen, in her red petticoat, and short dimity bedgown, and clean white cap, with a black silk handkerchief over it, tied under her chin. At her feet sat the grandfather of all the cats. And opposite her sat, on two benches, twelve or fourteen neat, rosy, chubby little children, learning their letters. Gabble enough they made about it.
All the children stared at Tom’s dirty black figure. The girls began to cry, and the boys began to laugh, and all pointed at him rudely enough. But Tom was too tired to care for that.
“What are you, and what do you want?” cried the old dame. “A chimney-sweep! Away with you! I’ll have no sweeps here.”
“Water,” said poor little Torn, quite faint.
“Water? There’s plenty in the beck,” she said, quite sharply.
“But I can’t get there; I’m most clemmed with hunger and drought.” Saying these words Tom sank down upon the doorstep, and laid his head against the post.
The old dame looked at him through her spectacles one minute, and two, and three. Then she said, “He’s sick; and a bairn’s a bairn sweep or none.”
“Water,” said Tom.
“God forgive me!” and she put by her spectacles, and rose, and came to Tom. “Water’s bad for you; I’ll give you milk.” And she toddled off into the next room, and brought a cup of milk and a bit of bread.
Tom drank the milk off at one draught, and then looked up, revived.
“Where did you come from?” said the dame.
“Over the Fell, there,” said Tom, and pointed up into the sky.
“Over Harthover? and down Lewthwaite Crag? Are you sure you are not lying?”
“Why should I?” said Tom, and leant his head against the post.
“And how did you get up there?”
“I came over from the Place.” Tom was so tired and desperate he had no heart or time to think of a story, so he told all the truth in a few words.
“Bless you little heart! I know you have not been stealing, then?”
“No.”
“Bless you little heart! and I’ll warrant not. Why, God’s guided the bairn, because he was innocent! Away from the Place, and over Harthover Fell, and down Lewthwaite Crag! Whoever heard the like, if God hadn’t led him? Why do you not eat your bread?”
“I can’t.”
“It’s good enough, for I made it myself.”
“I can’t,” said Tom, and he laid his head on his knees, and then asked, “Is it Sunday?”
“No, then; why should it be?”
“Because I hear the church bells ringing so.”
“Bless you pretty heart! The bairn’s sick. Come with me, and I’ll hap you up somewhere. If you were a bit cleaner I’d put you in my own bed, for the Lord’s sake. But come along here.”
But when Tom tried to get up, he was so tired and giddy that she had to help him and lead him.
She put him in an outhouse upon soft sweet hay and an old rug, and bade him sleep off his walk. She would come to him when school was over, in an hour’s time.
So she went in again, expecting Tom to fall fast asleep at once.
But Tom did not fall asleep.
Instead of it, he turned and tossed and kicked about in the strangest way, and felt so hot all over that he longed to get into the river and cool himself. Then he fell half asleep, and dreamt that he heard the little white lady crying to him, “Oh, you’re so dirty; go and be washed.” Then he heard the Irish woman saying, “Those that wish to be clean, clean they will be.” And then he heard the church bells ring so loud, close to him too, that he was sure it must be Sunday, in spite of what the old dame had said. He would go to church, and see what a church was like inside, for he had never been in one, poor little fellow, in all his life. But the people would never let him come in, all over soot and dirt like that. He must go to the river and wash first. He said out loud again and again, though being half asleep he did not know it, “I must be clean, I must be clean.”
All of a sudden he found himself, not in the outhouse on the hay, but in the middle of a meadow, over the road, with the stream just before him, saying, continually, “I must be clean, I must be clean.” He had got there on his own legs, between sleep and awake, as children will often get out of bed, and go about the room, when they are not quite well. But he was not a bit surprised. He went on to the bank of the brook, and lay down on the grass. He looked into the clear, clear limestone water, with every pebble at the bottom bright and clean, while the little silver trout dashed about in fright at the sight of his black face. He dipped his hand in and found it so cool, cool, cool. He said, “I will be a fish; I will swim in the water; I must be clean, I must be clean.”
So he pulled off all his clothes in such haste that he tore some of them, which was easy enough with such ragged old things. And he put his poor hot sore feet into the water, and then his legs. The farther he went in, the more the church bells rang in his head.
“Ah,” said Tom, “I must be quick and wash myself. The bells are ringing quite loud now. They will stop soon, and then the door will be shut, and I shall never be able to get in at all.”
All the while he never saw the Irish woman, not behind him this time, but before.
For just before he came to the river side, she had stepped down into the cool clear water. Her shawl and her petticoat floated off her, and the green water- weeds floated round her sides. The white waterlilies floated round her head, and the fairies of the stream came up from the bottom and bore her away and down upon their arms. She was none other than the Queen of them all.
“Where have you been?” they asked her.
“I have been smoothing sick folks’ pillows, and whispering sweet dreams into their ears. Opening cottage casements to let out the stifling air I have been coaxing little children away from gutters, and foul pools where fever breeds. I have been turning women from the ginshop door, and staying men’s hands as they were going to strike their wives I have been doing all I can to help those who will not help themselves. Little enough that is, and weary work for me. But I have brought you a new little brother, and watched him safe all the way here.”
Then all the fairies laughed for joy at the thought that they had a little brother coming.
“But mind, maidens, he must not see you, or know that you are here. He is but a savage now, and like the beasts which perish; and from the beasts which perish he must learn. So you must not play with him, or speak to him, or let him see you: but only keep him from being harmed.”
Then the fairies were sad, because they could not play with their new brother. But they always did what they were told.
Their Queen floated away down the river. Whither she went, thither she came. But all this Tom, of course, never saw or heard, for he was so hot and thirsty. He longed so to be clean for once, that he tumbled himself as quick as he could into the clear cool stream.
He had not been in it two minutes before he fell fast asleep, into the quietest, sunniest, cosiest sleep that ever he had in his life. He dreamt about the green meadows by which he had walked that morning, and the tall elm-trees, and the sleeping cows. After that, he dreamt of nothing at all.
The reason of his falling into such a delightful sleep is very simple. Yet, hardly anyone has found it out. It was merely that the fairies took him.
Some people think that there are no fairies, but we will make believe that there are fairies in the world. There must be fairies, for this is a fairy tale. How can one have a fairy tale if there are no fairies?
The kind old dame came back at twelve, when school was over, to look at Tom. But there was no Tom. She looked about for his footprints, but the ground was so hard that there was not one to be seen anywhere.
So the old dame went in again quite sulky, thinking that little Tom had tricked her with a false story, shammed ill, and then run away again.
But she altered her mind the next day. When Sir John and the rest of them had run themselves out of breath, and lost Tom, they went back again, looking very foolish.
They looked more foolish still when Sir John heard more of the story from the nurse More foolish still again, when they heard the whole story from Miss Ellie, the little lady in white. All she had seen was a poor little black chimney-sweep, crying and sobbing, and going to get up the chimney again. Of course, she was very much frightened. But that was all. The boy had taken nothing in the room. By the mark of his little sooty feet, they could see that he had never been off the hearthrug till the nurse caught hold of him. It was all a mistake.
So Sir John told Grimes to go home, and promised him five shillings if he would bring the boy quietly up to him, without beating him, that he might be sure of the truth. He took it for granted, and Grimes too, that Tom had made his way home.
But no Tom came back to Mr. Grimes that evening. He went to the police-office, to tell them to look out for the boy. But no Tom was heard of. As for his having gone over those great fells to Vendale, they no more dreamed of that than of his having gone to the moon.
So Mr. Grimes came up to Harthover next day with a very sour face. But when he got there, Sir John was over the hills and far away. Mr. Grimes had to sit in the outer servants’ hall all day, and wait until Sir John came back.
Good Sir John had slept very badly that night. He said to his lady, “My dear, the boy must have got over into the grouse-moors, and lost himself.”
So, at five the next morning up he got, and into his bath, and into his shooting jacket and gaiters, and into the stable-yard. He bade them bring his shooting pony, and the keeper to come on his pony. He ordered the huntsman to bring the first whip, and the second whip, and the under-keeper with the bloodhound in a leash. It was a great dog as tall as a calf, of the colour of a gravel walk, with mahogany ears and nose, and a throat like a church bell. They took him up to the place where Tom had gone into the wood. There, the hound lifted up his mighty voice, and told them all he knew.
Then he took them to the place where Tom had climbed the wall. They shoved it down, and all got through.
Then the wise dog took them over the moor, and over the fells, step by step, very slowly, for the scent was a day old, and very light from the heat and drought. But that was why cunning old Sir John started at five in the morning.
At last, he came to the top of Lewthwaite Crag. There, he bayed, and looked up in their faces, as much as to say, “I tell you he has gone down here!”
They could hardly believe that Tom would have gone so far. When they looked at that awful cliff, they could never believe that he would have dared to face it. But if the dog said so, it must be true.
“Heaven forgive us!” said Sir John, “If we find him at all, we shall find him lying at the bottom.” And he slapped his great hand upon his great thigh, and said, “Who will go down over Lewthwaite Crag, and see if that boy is alive? Oh that I were twenty years younger, and I would go down myself!” And so he would have done, as well as any sweep in the county. Then he said, “Twenty pounds to the man who brings me that boy alive!” As was his way, what he said he meant.
Now among the lot was a little groom-boy, a very little groom indeed He was the same who had ridden up the court, and told Tom to come to the Hall. He said, “Twenty pounds or none, I will go down over Lewthwaite Crag, if it’s only for the poor boy’s sake. He was as civil a spoken little chap as ever climbed a flue.”
So down over Lewthwaite Crag he went. A very smart groom he was at the top, and a very shabby one at the bottom. He tore his gaiters, and he tore his breeches, and he tore his jacket, and he burst his braces, and he burst his boots, and he lost his hat. What was worst of all, he lost his shirt pin, which he prized very much, for it was gold. But he never saw anything of Tom.
All the while, Sir John and the rest were riding round, full three miles to the right, and back again, to get into Vendale, and to the foot of the Crag.
When they came to the old dame’s school, all the children came out to see. The old dame came out too. When she saw Sir John, she curtsied very low, for she was a tenant of his.
“Well, dame, and how are you?” said Sir John.
“Blessings on you as broad as your back, Harthover,” says she. She didn’t call him Sir John, but only Harthover, for that is the fashion in the North Country.”Welcome into Vendale: but you’re no hunting the fox this time of the year?”
“I am hunting, and strange game too,” said he.
“Blessings on your heart, and what makes you look so sad?”
“I’m looking for a lost child, a chimney-sweep, that has run away.”
“Oh, Harthover, Harthover,” says she, “you’ll not harm the poor little lad if I give you tidings of him?”
“Not I, not I, dame. I’m afraid we hunted him out of the house all on a miserable mistake. The hound has brought him to the top of Lewthwaite Crag.”
The old dame broke out crying, without letting him finish his story.
“So he told me the truth after all, poor little dear!” Then she told Sir John all.
“Bring the dog here, and lay him on,” said Sir John, without another word, and he set his teeth very hard.
The dog opened at once, and went away at the back of the cottage, over the road, and over the meadow, and through a bit of alder copse. There, upon an alder stump, they saw Tom’s clothes lying. Then they knew as much about it all as there was any need to know.
Tom, when he woke, for of course he woke—children always wake after they have slept exactly as long as is good for them—found himself swimming about in the stream, being about four inches long, and having round his neck a set of gills just like those of a sucking eft, which he mistook for a lace frill. He pulled at them and found he hurt himself. He made up his mind that they were part of himself, and best left alone.
The keeper, and the groom, and Sir John made a great mistake. They were very unhappy (Sir John at least) without any reason, when they found a black thing in the water. They said it was Tom’s body, for he had been drowned. They were utterly mistaken. Tom was quite alive; and cleaner, and merrier than he ever had been. The fairies had washed him, you see, in the swift river, so thoroughly, that not only his dirt, but his whole husk and shell had been washed quite off him. The pretty little real Tom was washed out of the inside of it, and swam away, as a caddis does when its case of stones and silk is bored through, and away it goes on its back, paddling to the shore. It splits its skin, and flies away as a caperer, on four fawn-coloured wings, with long legs and horns. They are foolish fellows, the caperers, and fly into the candle at night, if you leave the door open. We will hope Tom will be wiser. Now he has got safe out of his sooty old shell.
But good Sir John did not understand all this, and he took it into his head that Tom was drowned. When they looked into the empty pockets of his shell, and found no jewels there, nor money—nothing but three marbles, and a brass button with a string to it—then Sir John did something as like crying as ever he did in his life. He blamed himself more bitterly than he needed to have done. So he cried, and the groom-boy cried, and the huntsman cried, and the dame cried, and the little girl cried, and the dairymaid cried, and the old nurse cried (for it was somewhat her fault), and my lady cried. But the keeper did not cry, though he had been so good-natured to Tom the morning before. He was so dried up with running after poachers, that you could no more get tears out of him than milk out of leather. Grimes did not cry, for Sir John gave him ten pounds, and he drank it all in a week. The little girl would not play with her dolls for a whole week, and never forgot poor little Tom. Soon, my lady put a pretty little tombstone over Tom’s shell in the little churchyard in Vendale, where the old dalesmen all slept side by side between the limestone crags. The dame decked it with garlands every Sunday, till she grew so old that she could not stir abroad. Then the little children decked it for her. She sang an old, old song, as she sat spinning what she called her wedding-dress. The children could not understand it, but they liked it none the less for that, for it was very sweet, and very sad. That was enough for them.
