“This is little Maly, ma’am,” he said, offering her the child.
“Set her down, and let me see her,” she answered.
Clare obeyed. Mary put her finger in her mouth, and began to cry. She did not like the look of the black aunt, and was not used to a harsh voice.
“Tut! tut!” said the black aunt. “Crying already! That will never do! Show me her things.”
Sarah felt stunned. This was worse than death! “If only the mistress had taken them with her!” she said to herself.
Mary’s things—they were not many—were soon packed. Within an hour she was borne off, shrieking, struggling, and calling “Clay.” The black aunt, however,—as the black aunt Clare always thought of her—cared nothing for her resistance; and Clare, who at her first cry was rushing to the rescue, ready once more to do battle for her, was seized and held back by Farmer Goodenough. Sarah had sent for him, and he had come—just in time to frustrate Clare’s valour.
The carriage was not yet out of sight, when Farmer Goodenough began to repent that he had come: his presence was an acknowledgment of responsibility! Something must be done with the foundling! There was nobody to claim him, and nobody wanted him! He had always liked the boy, but he did not want him! His wife was not fond of the boy, nor of any boy, and did not want him! He had said to her that Clare could not be left to starve, and she had answered, “Why not?”! What was to be done with him? Nobody knew—any more than Clare himself. But which of us knows what is going to be done with him?
Clare was nobody’s business. English farmers no more than French are proverbial for generosity; and Farmer Goodenough, no bad type of his class, had a wife in whose thoughts not the pence but the farthings dominated. She was one who at once recoiled and repelled—one of those whose skin shrinks from the skin of their kind, and who are specially apt to take unaccountable dislikes—a pitiable human animal of the leprous sort. She “never took to the foundling,” she said. To have neither father nor mother, she counted disreputable. But I believe the main source of her dislike to Clare was a feeling of undefined reproof in the very atmosphere of the boy’s presence, his nature was so different from hers. What urged him toward his fellow-creatures, made her draw back from him. In truth she hated the boy. The very look of him made her sick, she said. It was only a certain respect for the parson, and a certain fear of her husband, who, seldom angry, was yet capable of fury, that had prevented her from driving the child, “with his dish-clout face,” off the premises, whenever she saw him from door or window. It was no wonder the farmer should be at his wits’ end to know what, as churchwarden, guardian of the poor, and friend of the late vicar—as friendly also to the boy himself—he was bound to do.
“Where are you going?” he asked Sarah.
“Where the Lord wills,” answered the old woman. Her ark had gone to pieces, and she hardly cared what became of her.