Mrs. Chester's recommendation to Seth Dumbrick to give the Duchess and Sally a day in the country was weighing heavily upon his mind. That it would do the Duchess good there could not be a shadow of doubt, and it was certain that she required a change of some sort; for although she was now better and moving about, her steps were languid, and there were no signs of a return to her old elasticity of spirits. Day after day Seth watched in vain for symptoms of vigour in the Duchess, and the more he watched, the more he was troubled.
"She's well," he said to the doctor, "but she doesn't get strong."
"She wants iron," said the doctor; and he gave her iron, but it did not improve her. Then the doctor said that the child wanted fresh air.
"Can I get it in bottles?" asked Seth, with melancholy humour.
The doctor smiled and walked away.
Seth Dumbrick was afraid to mention the matter to the Duchess, for he knew that she would leap for joy at the prospect, and that the hope deferred would make her worse both in body and spirits. The truth was, he was too poor for the luxury. The Duchess's illness had exhausted every penny of his savings. He confided in Sally, who entered at once upon the consideration of the difficulty, but her suggestions were not of a practical character.
"If we had some o' them cherubims o' gold," she mused, "or some o' them gold flowers out of the Temple----"
"They might lead us," added Seth, "to the real flowers we want to see growing."
Sally was ready with another suggestion, in the shape of a subscription among the Duchess's playmates.
"They're so fond on her that they'll do anythink for her. They'll all give. Betsy Newbiggin, and Jane Preedy----" but she was stopped by the look of suppressed merriment on Seth's face.
"Pins and spoonfuls of liquorice-water won't take us into the country, Sally. No, we must think of something else. Perhaps I shall have a bit of good luck"--adding, under his breath--"if I do, and there's money in it, it'll be the first bit of good luck that has ever fell to Seth Dumbrick's lot."
There seemed no way out of the difficulty, and the Duchess remained in the same languid state. But the bit of good luck that Seth had not the slightest expectation of meeting with did occur, and in a strange way.
The duties of the postman in Rosemary Lane were light, and there were persons in the neighbourhood who had never arrived at the dignity of receiving a letter. Certainly no child had ever received one. General astonishment was therefore created when it became known that the postman, stopping to deliver a communication at the Royal George, the celebrated gin-palace of the locality, had produced a letter, addressed to "The Duchess of Rosemary Lane," and, with an air which proclaimed that he looked upon the matter as a joke, had asked the proprietor of the gin-palace if he knew any person answering to that description. Regarding the matter in a more serious light when he was informed that there really was such a person in existence, the postman proceeded to Seth Dumbrick's stall, and delivered the letter in the presence of a dozen or so curiousmongers, who had became aware of the circumstance, and considered it sufficiently interesting to warrant an inquiry. The postman, with a stern sense of duty, did not part with the letter too easily. It was a Government affair, he said, and he might be called over the coals for it. Indeed, under any circumstances, he declared his intention of making a special memorandum with reference to it, for his own satisfaction and that of the head of his department. The idea of a duchess in Rosemary Lane was something almost too astounding for credibility.
"Nevertheless it is a fact," said Seth Dumbrick, looking at the letter with much inward astonishment; not knowing what the letter might contain, he deemed it prudent to conceal any exhibition of this feeling. "She lives with me."
"If you're her father, I suppose you call yourself a duke."
"I'm her guardian, and I call myself a cobbler."
The postman was aware that such a conversation was outside the scope of his duties, but he was fond of gossip and banter.
"I'd like to see this Duchess."
"Duchess!" called Seth, down the stairs.
Up came the Duchess, accompanied by Sally.
"What's your name?" asked the postman.
"The Duchess of Rosemary Lane," replied the Duchess.
"And upon my word," remarked the postman, "she looks like a little lady." He could not help admiring her; he had a little girl of his own at home.
"She is one," said Sally, promptly.
The postman having departed, Seth, with the letter on his leather apron, fell into a brown study. It had suddenly occurred to him that it might contain unwelcome intelligence; perhaps it came from some person who claimed the child. In that case, would it not be better for him to destroy it without reading it? Sally, aware from the expression on Seth's face--a book in which she was by this time deeply read--that he was revolving an important consideration with reference to the letter, was in a fever of excitement. So, in a less degree, were the neighbours surrounding the stall.
"Open it, Mr. Dumbrick," said Mrs. Preedy, who was always one in a Rosemary Lane crowd. There are in every neighbourhood two or three women ordained to fulfil this special mission. "Open it, and let's know what's inside."
Seth, recalled to himself by this polite request, looked up with shrewd twinkles, and replied:
"Sorry to disappoint you, Mrs. Preedy, but this is a private matter between the Duchess and the Queen, and to letyouinto the secret'd be more than my head's worth. Let's go downstairs, Duchess, and see what her Majesty has to say to you."
"He's the selfishest man," said Mrs. Preedy, "is that Mr. Dumbrick, as ever I clapped eyes on--keeping things to hisself in that way! It's a good job he ain't married; he'd torment the soul out of a poor woman."
Meanwhile, this selfishest of men was sitting in his cellar, with the Duchess on his knee.
"Duchess," he said, in a tone which denoted that he wished to engage her serious attention, "this is a most unexpected and mysterious occurrence. Since I've been in Rosemary Lane, I've received altogether three letters--about one every ten years--and here you are at your age beginning to bother the Post Office. You're commencing early, Duchess."
The Duchess nodded languidly. The letter, not being something nice to eat, was of no interest to her.
"The question is," continued Seth, who seemed to have lost for the time his decision of character, "what is in this letter, and who sent it? It's a good handwriting, and there can't be any mistake about its being for you."
"Open it, Daddy," said Sally.
"There's no hurry, Sally. Don't let us meet trouble halfway. Duchess, do you love Daddy Dumbrick?"
"Oh, yes," sighed the Duchess, closing her eyes, and leaning back in Seth's arms.
"You don't want to leave him?"
"No," murmured the Duchess.
"Because you see, Sally, the world'd seem a different place to me, not half so good as it was, if anything was to occur as'd take the Duchess away from us."
"No one shall," cried Sally, beginning to share Seth's fears, "no one can!"
"I don't know that," said Seth, with an apprehensive observance of the letter; "they sha'n't if I can help it. If I had plenty of money, which I haven't, you, me, and the Duchess'd steal away one night from Rosemary Lane, and'd go and live in the country, where nobody'd know us, and where we could see green fields and flowers, and breathe the fresh air from morning to night. For that's what our precious wants. Green fields and fresh air'd soon pull her round, and we'd live there happily all our lives."
"Like gipsies, Daddy."
"Yes, Sal, like gipsies."
"Thatwouldbe nice," said Sally; adding wistfully, "but it can't be, Daddy, can it?"
"No, it can't be, unless a shower of gold was to come down through the ceiling--and that's not likely. Let's see what's in the letter."
Had he suspected it to contain gunpowder he could not have broken the seal more timidly. It was a letter without an envelope, folded in the old-fashioned way, and when it was opened, a thin paper enclosure fluttered to the ground. In his anxiety Seth did not notice what had escaped, and he turned the letter this way and that, without meeting with any writing but the address. Singular as it was, he experienced a feeling of relief at this dispersal of his fears.
"Here's something dropped, Daddy," said Sally, in a tone made almost gay by the change of expression in Seth's countenance.
Seth took the enclosure from Sally's hands. It was a Bank of England note for ten pounds.
"Why, it's money!" he exclaimed.
"Money!" cried Sally.
"Yes, Sally, money." He glanced up at the ceiling with an air of comical wonder. "We're in Tom Tiddler's ground, Sally."
"No, no," cried Sally, clapping her hands in glee, "it didn't drop from there. It dropped out of the letter."
"That's more wonderful, then, than all the rest put together. Out of the letter! There's not a letter in the letter, Sal--not one, from A to Z." He laughed aloud, and Sally laughed in sympathy. "I don't care where this comes from, nor why it has come. What I know is, it's the brightest bit of good luck that ever happened to a man. This piece of paper's a looking-glass, my child. Look at it--what do you see in it?"
Literal Sally, looking at the bank-note, as Seth held it open before her, began at the beginning.
"There's a picture of a lady with a wand in her hand----"
"Britannia ruling the waves. Is that all you can see in it?"
"No; there's--what funny letters, Daddy! I never saw any like 'em before. There's B-a-n-k, Bank----"
Seth took up the word, and read the note from beginning to end, and then repeated his question, "Is that a l you can see in it?"
"That's all, Daddy."
"Sally, I'm cleverer than you. I take the note, and put it before me like this---- Stop a minute." The Duchess had fallen asleep in his arms, and he placed her gently on the bed. "Now we can get along. I look at the note like this, and I see--yes, I see a coach, with you and me and the Duchess sitting on the top of it."
"O Daddy!"
"Here we go, driving into the country. Such a ride, Sally! I see green fields and flowers and fresh air for our darling in it----"
It was with difficulty that Sally kept herself still to hear the rest.
"I see two weeks of green fields and fresh air for our darling in it. And I'm not quite sure that I don't see the sea. Do I see the waves creeping up, Sally?"
"I don't know--oh,doyou see 'em, Daddy, do you?"
"It's got a little bit cloudy about here"--tracing an imaginary line with his finger--"but it'll clear up soon. And, Sally, I see something still better in it. I see roses for our Duchess's cheeks in it, sparkles for her eyes, lightness for her foot. Kiss the note, Sally. I never thought I should come to worship Mammon, but I do worship him now, with all my heart."
"Daddy," said Sally, struck with a sudden fear, "is it a good un?"
The alarming suggestion caused Seth to run out of the place, as though he were running for his life, and this display of excitement on his part was so novel that the neighbours who were still waiting in the street for news concerning the letter came, first to the usual conclusion that the house was on fire, and next to the more appetising one that Seth Dumbrick had suddenly gone mad. He was a long time absent, for it was no easy matter to get a ten-pound note changed in Rosemary Lane. There were hundreds who had never seen such a thing, and to whom a sight of it would have been an eighth wonder of the world. At the end of an hour Seth returned in a calmer mood, with a fistful of gold, which he let fall, piece by piece, on the table, before Sally's wondering eyes. She, who never experienced a pleasure, new or old, without desiring that her idol should share it, caught up the Duchess, crying: "Look, Duchess, look!" The Duchess stretched forth her hand with eager delight, and the children sat close to the table, playing gleefully with the bright pieces, Seth standing at their back, looking at them and at the gold, with one hand resting on the Duchess's shoulder, and the other rasping his chin. His declaration that he did not care where the money came from was not ingenious. If he had wished, he could not have banished so singular an adventure from his mind, and the more he thought of it the more it puzzled him. He had no friend who was likely or able to commit an action so quixotic; neither had Sally. Turning his attention to the letter again, he held it up to the light and peered closely at it, in the endeavour to discover a clue. Then it came into his mind that there was a kind of colourless ink with which persons wishing to communicate secretly could write, and which heat alone would render visible, and he placed the paper to the fire without arriving at any satisfactory result. He could not detect even the scratch of a pen. It was the most unsolvable of riddles. "I am afraid I must give it up," he said to himself, but he could not give it up. With the subject still in his mind, he ascended to his stall to finish some work he had in hand before he started on the contemplated holiday. During his work, a hundred ingenious theories started up, all to be dismissed but one, which took strong possession of him. "Some rich person," he thought, "perhaps a lady who once had a pretty child, that she was ashamed to call her own, has seen the Duchess by chance, and has fallen in love with her beautiful face, because it reminds her of old days. Then she finds out the Duchess's name; then she discovers that the Duchess has been ill; and then she sends a present of money in this mysterious way." The sentiment attaching to this fanciful speculation rendered it peculiarly attractive to Seth. "We'll put it down to that," he mused; "stranger things have happened in the world." So he put it down to "that," and produced some pleasant mental pictures out of the fancy.
When the midday meal was over, he said, "Duchess, this money's for you. It's been sent because you've got a pretty face, and pretty hands, and bright eyes. And it's going to take us into the country, where the flowers are all a-growing and a-blowing, and where you'll get strong and lively again."
"Then itwillcome true," cried Sally, "what you saw in the ten-pound note!"
"It will come true, Sally, if we're alive to-morrow." An ecstatic silence followed, broken by Sally.
"Then you know who sent the money, Daddy!"
"It was sent by a lady--as handsome a lady as ever you clapped eyes on, Sally."
"And you've seen her?"
"Well--hum!--yes, I've seen her." And here Seth rubbed his forehead, denoting that he meant he had seen her in his mind's eye--a salve to his conscience.
"Where does she live?" asked Sally, whom it was difficult to stop, when she commenced to make inquiries on an interesting theme.
"She lives in--hum!--in Fairyland."
"Oh, where's that?"
"Don't ask any more questions. You'll see a bit of it to-morrow."
The following day a sensation was created in Rosemary Lane by the circumstance of Seth Dumbrick's stall being closed, and by a written notice pasted outside, to the effect that he might be expected to return in the course of two or three weeks.
"From the day as Seth Dumbrick give that party to the children," said Mrs. Preedy, holding forth in front of the cellar to a knot of eager listeners, "down in that cellar"--with finger ominously pointing--"from that day I begun to suspect him, and to feel sure as there was something wrong I says to him on that very day, Strange things is often done down in cellars,' says I; and then I told him that I wouldn't let my Jane go to his party unless I were invited, no, not if he filled my apron with diamings. 'Perhaps,' says I, with mind full of misbegivings, 'perhaps you've got ghosts and skiletons down in your cellar, Mr. Dumbrick;' and as true as I'm a living woman, he says to me upon that, 'My cellarisfull of ghosts, Mrs. Preedy,' says he; 'my cellarisfull of ghosts,' he says."
This narrative imparted a more intense interest to the position of affairs, and imagination ran riot on the contents of the cellar, which became gradually filled with the bones and limbs of murdered persons--Seth Dumbrick's victims, who had been artfully decoyed down the steps and made away with.
"And it shows the wickedness of mankind," said one woman, especially disposed to the horrible, "to think of the way he's kept it secret all this time."
Other imaginative phases relating to Sally and the Duchess, who were pictured as being either murdered or chained to the wall and left to starve, soon became popular; and ears were pressed to the shutters to catch the groans of the children.
"I can hear something!" cried Mrs. Preedy; which instantly caused the knot of women to declare that, for humanity's sake, the cellar should be broken into and the children rescued. Whether they would have proceeded to this extremity is not certain, and perhaps it was fortunate that the form of Dr. Lyon was at that moment seen approaching them.
"O doctor! O doctor!" cried Mrs. Preedy; and stood before him, pressing her sides, and gasping for breath in her agitation.
"What's the matter, Mrs. Preedy?" asked the doctor. "Spasms?"
"No, sir; oh! no, sir," she replied, still palpitating. "The children! the children!"
"What children?"
"Our beautiful Duchess, sir, and Sally, that we're all so fond on!"
"Well?"
"Down there, sir! Murdered! I heard a groan jest as you come up."
"Which proves," said the doctor, realising the position of affairs, "that they can't be murdered. Mrs. Preedy, do you read your Bible?"
"I hope so, sir, I'm sure," answered Mrs. Preedy in a tone of virtuous injury.
"I hope so too. Do you forget what it says? 'Do unto others as you would others should do unto you.' Seth Dumbrick has gone into the country with the children, for the sake of the Duchess, who needs fresh air to bring her back to health. And here's the key of his place, which he left with me early this morning. Let me give you a piece of advice, Mrs. Preedy."
"I shall be very grateful, sir, I'm sure," murmured Mrs. Preedy, trembling, not knowing what trouble she might have brought upon herself.
"Go home, then," said the doctor in a grave tone, "and for the future attend more to your own affairs and less to other people's. In plainer words, mind your own business."
"Well, I'm sure!" gasped Mrs. Preedy, as Dr. Lyon stalked away. But she obtained no sympathy from her neighbours, who were only too ready to lay the blame on some one, and who, with justice--for she was the most zealous scandalmonger in Rosemary Lane--laid it upon Mrs. Preedy's shoulders. So that for once the right scapegoat suffered. Mrs. Preedy went home in an oppressed state of mind, a sadder if not a wiser woman; and the neighbours generally, to show how guiltless they were, became enthusiastic in their praises of Seth Dumbrick; though it must be confessed they bore him in their hearts a little grudge for having disappointed them of a grand and awful sensation.
In the meantime, unconscious of the excitement he had created, Seth Dumbrick, with the Duchess and Sally by his side, was sitting on the top of an empty wagon returning to the country, with the driver of which he had bargained for the ride.
It was a fine day, and the delight of the children was unbounded. The fresh air, the clear atmosphere, the dreamy clouds, the beautiful fields, were revelations to them. Occasionally they passed an estate, stone-walled from vulgar eyes, over which, being seated at such an elevation, they could see into the carefully-tended gardens and orchards; and more frequently they passed the prettiest of gardens belonging to humbler folk, the colour and beauty of which were as lovely and charming as Nature could produce, to gladden heart and eye. The driver of the wagon was in no hurry; he had some sixty miles to go, and he worked for no hard taskmaster; he was an old man, and merciful to his cattle, having a love for them, as could easily be seen--all of which circumstances were as precious as gold to the holiday-seekers, for it gave them leisure to see and enjoy. The wagon was a new wagon, of which Seth made joyous capital, saying it had been built especially for them to ride in on this brightest of all bright days. Overhearing the remark, the driver said that that was a likely thing, too, for things happened pretty much as they were ordained to happen--leastways, that was his experience; and said it as though he had high authority for the doctrine. The bells on the harness supplied the music, varying most delightfully according to the pace; for, to please the children, the old driver occasionally smartened the horses into a trot, which they appeared to enjoy as much as they enjoyed the leisurely amble with which they traversed the greater part of the road. He was a kindly old fellow, with a face like a ribstone pippin, and with hands as hard and brown as knotted oak--hands which could be soft and gentle, also, and were, when he pinched the cheek of the Duchess. She, always susceptible to fondling and caressing, looked into the old man's face and smiled, so winsomely as to make him pensive.
"Yours?" he inquired of Seth Dumbrick.
"No," replied Seth, in a low tone, so that the children should not hear; "not exactly. I've adopted her. An orphan."
"Ah!" said the driver; "thenshe'syours;" glancing at Sally.
"No, I've no children of my own."
"Never been married?"
"No.You'rea family man, I can see."
"Thirteen of 'em;" adding, in response to the look of astonishment on Seth's face, "Not too many, not one too many."
"Are they all at home?" asked Seth.
"No; they're here and there;" with a wave of his hands cloudwards, sufficiently comprehensive to denote that his brood were scattered over the face of the earth. "We're a travelling family, you see. I've been a wagoner ever since I was a lad. My youngsters took after me, and travelled further--two to America, one to China, one to Australia; and another"--this with a wistful look into the clouds, yearningly eager to fix the spot--"God knows where. But," he added, with a brighter air, "they're all doing well, most of 'em. I've no occasion to work, but I couldn't live without a whip. I'd like to die with one in my hand. Then, I love the English roads. You're fond of 'em, too, I can see."
"They are very beautiful," said Seth, "to us especially, who see but little of 'em. I haven't been out of London for fifteen years. And this little girl"--with a kindly pressure of Sally's arm--"has never in her life seen the country till now."
Sally's eyes sparkled a rapturous confirmation. This holiday was, indeed, a revelation to her soul; she saw beauty of which she had hitherto had no knowledge or comprehension; and as she sat on the wagon, with one arm fondly caressing the Duchess, whose head was lying on her bosom, she wished that she and those she loved could go jogging along in this way for ever and ever.
It was nearly noon when the driver said:
"I'm about as peckish as a man--especially a wagoner--can afford to be. Come up, Daisy! Do your best, Cornflower!"
Thus urged, Daisy and Cornflower, regarding the smack of the whip in the air as the merriest of jokes, broke into their smartest trot, and did their best, smelling hay and water in the near distance. The bells jingled gaily, and Sally and the Duchess looked eagerly ahead. So smart was the pace that within a few moments they saw a house of accommodation for man and beast, at the door of which a number of men and women were gathered to welcome them. The driver was evidently well known, and a favourite, and when he pulled up, willing hands assisted him to take the harness from the horses.
"An hour's spell here," he said to Seth Dumbrick, as he lifted the children to the ground, tossing them in the air, after the manner of a man accustomed to children. "If you're going to eat, you'd best take the little girls to the back of the house, and enjoy it regular country fashion. To think," he added, pinching Sally's happy face, "of never seeing the country till now!"
With a jug of beer and some cold meat and bread, Seth and his girls made their way to the garden at the back of the inn, where, sitting in a natural bower, upon seats built round the trunk of an apple-tree, they enjoyed the most delicious meal of their lives.
"We're getting our roses again," said Seth Dumbrick, gazing with unalloyed pleasure on the beautiful face of the Duchess. "Now, what we've got to do is to wish that the minutes won't fly away."
But fly away they did, and in less than no time the old wagoner summoned them to the road.
"Unless," he said jocosely, "you want to be left behind."
"I'd like to be," sighed Sally.
In front of the inn, where the horses stood ready for their work, the landlady met them, with flowers and kisses and kind words for the children; and when they were lifted into the wagon, they found that a quantity of sweet hay had been thrown in by the thoughtful wagoner--kind marks of attention which met with grateful and full-hearted acknowledgments. On they went again, gazing wistfully at the inn and the pleasant people standing about it, until they were out of sight. On they went, in a state of dreamy happiness, through the new world of peace and beauty, into which surely trouble could never enter. Every turn of the road disclosed fresh wonders, and a mighty interest was attached to the smallest incidents;--every queerly-shaped tree, every garden, every cottage, every mansion, that came into view; cows drinking from a distant pool; a mother with her baby in her arms, standing at a window framed in ivy; old men and women hobbling about the grounds of a charitable institution; two truant school-boys racing and shouting with wild delight, with no thought of the terrors to come when their fault was discovered; a man asleep under a hedge, and a woman sitting patiently by his side; a lady beautifully dressed, who paused to look at the children; a group of gipsies; a groom riding towards London at full speed;--one and all formed enduring and interesting pictures, and added to the pleasures of the ride.
"Where do we stop?" asked Seth Dumbrick of the wagoner.
"At The World's End," replied the wagoner; "we'll make it at five o'clock, I reckon."
He was a shrewd calculator. As a church clock chimed five, he pointed with his whip to an old-fashioned inn, lying off from the roadside some hundred yards away, saying that was The World's End, and that they would put up there for the night, and start again early in the morning. As he spoke, they were nearing a pair of massive iron gates, through the open work of which could be seen a curved carriage-drive, lined with great elms. Straight and tall and stately, they presented the appearance of a giant regiment drawn up in lines to do honour to those who passed between.
"That's a grand place," observed Seth.
"It's the finest estate for many a mile round," said the wagoner.
"It has got a name."
"Oh, yes. Springfield it's called."
Seth Dumbrick listened. The estate was so built round with walls and trees that the carriage-drive was the only part open to the gaze of the passer-by. A faint sound of laughter--the laughter of the young--floated to his ears.
"It isn't so solemn as it looks," said Seth.
"There's a lot of company at Springfield," rejoined the wagoner. "They're spending a fine time, I reckon."
"The master must be a rich man. Is he a lord?"
"He'll be one some day they say. He's a great lawyer."
In another moment the horses stopped at The World's End, and showed by a merry jingle of their bells that they knew the day's work was done. It was still broad daylight, and Seth set so much store upon the children being as much as they could in the open air, that, after arranging for the night's accommodation at The World's End, he and Sally and the Duchess started for a walk through the country lanes. There was sufficient beauty within the immediate vicinity of The World's End to engage their attention and admiration, and Seth, fearful of over-fatiguing the Duchess, so directed his steps as to keep Springfield always in view--whereby he was sure that he was never very far from the inn in which they were to pass the night. It thus happened that they frequently skirted the immediate boundaries of the estate--here formed by a close-knit hedge through which a hare could not have made its way, here by a natural creek, with stalwart trees on the Springfield side, here by a stone wall, in lieu of a more natural defence against encroachment. It was a quiet and peaceful evening, and after a couple of hours of almost restful sauntering, so little of labour was there in their mode of going about, they came suddenly upon a narrow lane, bounded by a broken hedge. The prospect was so pretty, and the glimpse of green trees forming an archway some twenty yards distant was so inviting, that Seth, without a thought of trespass, lifted the Duchess and Sally over the hedge, and followed them. A gipsy woman, sitting within the shadow of the arch of trees, would probably have called for no special attention, had not the Duchess--upon whom the flashing eyes, the dark sunburnt face, stern and sombre in its aspect, the shining black hair but slightly covered with the usual red handkerchief, and the generally bold air which pervaded the woman, produced an effect little less than terrifying--clasped Seth's hand in fear, and strove to pull him back.
"Don't be frightened, Duchess," said Seth, soothing; "it's only a gipsy."
None but the closest observer, and one, too, on the watch for signs, could have detected the slightest variation of expression on the woman's face. To all appearance, she was entirely unconscious of the presence of the holiday party; but her quick ears had caught very distinctly every word uttered by Seth, and her quick sense, sharpened from her birth to certain ends conducive to the earning of sixpences in an unlawful way, had already placed a construction upon them which might lead to profit. Without raising her eyes, she noted the composition of the party, and waited for the course of events to bring her into action. Seth's soothing tone quieted the Duchess's fears, and his words excited Sally to a most wonderful degree. She had never seen a real gipsy; she had heard of them and of their occult powers of divination, and now one was before her, endowed with the mysterious and awful power of prophecy and of seeing into the future. The opportunity was too precious to be lost. She clasped her hands, and with a beseeching look at Seth, cried:
"O Daddy! ask her to tell the Duchess's fortune."
"Nonsense, Sally," said Seth. "She can no more tell fortunes than you or I can. Why, one of your trances is a hundred times better than anything she can tell us. Besides, what is to be is to be."
He spoke in a low tone, and the gipsy lost not a word of his speech.
Sally was not given to dispute with her guardian. She loved and respected him too well, believing that he knew better than anybody else in the world what was good for everybody; but she had to struggle with herself for strength to bear the disappointment. The next few steps brought them to the side of the gipsy, who rose and confronted them.
"Let me tell your fortune, pretty lady."
Sally's heart beat quickly as the gipsy took her hand and held it with light, firm grasp.
"We have no time for fortune-telling," said Seth, adding gently, "and no money."
"Sixpence won't harm you, kind gentleman," said the gipsy, sitting on a hillock, so that her face and Sally's were on a level. "You haven't come all the way from London to spoil the pleasure of these little ladies for sixpence."
"Oh, oh!" cried Sally, palpitating. "She knows we come from London!"
"The gipsy woman knows everything, and sees everything, pretty lady."
The circumstance of being called pretty lady in so winsome a voice was honey to Sally's soul.
Seeing no way but one out of the difficulty, Seth gave the woman a sixpenny-piece, which she, suspicious of the tricks of Londoners of a common grade, placed between her teeth to test. Sally meanwhile, having an arm disengaged, clasped the Duchess's waist, and drew her close to her side. The gipsy cast a rapid glance upon the two children, noting the tenderness expressed in the action, and then fell to examining Sally's hand.
"You see the usual things in it, of course," said Seth, with but small respect in his tone for the woman's art. "What usual things?" asked the gipsy.
"Sickness, sorrow, sweethearts, riches."
"I see no riches; here is trouble."
"Not in the present," said Seth, somewhat repentant of his rashness in angering the woman, as he saw Sally turn pale.
"No, not in the present. Trouble in the past, trouble in the future."
"Easy to predict. Trouble comes to all of us."
"Look here, master. Are you reading the signs or me?"
"You; and you read them in the usual way."
"Is it reading them in the usual way to tell you that you are not this little lady's father?"
"Our faces teach you that."
"Is it reading them in the usual way to tell you that this little lady's trouble in the future will come from love?"
"A dark or fair man?" asked Seth, still bantering, for the purpose of inspiring Sally with courage.
"From no man, dark or fair. From love of a woman."
"Of a woman!" exclaimed Seth, biting his lip.
"Ay, of a woman, when this little lady herself is a woman." A curtsey from the gipsy caused Seth to turn his head, and he saw that other persons had joined the party: a gentleman of middle age and a lady richly dressed.
"Come," said the gentleman, with a careless attempt to draw the lady from the group.
"No," protested the lady, "no, Mr. Temple; I must positively stop. I dote on fortune-telling; I've had mine told a hundred times."
"It's a bright fortune, my lady," said the gipsy, still retaining Sally's hand, "as bright as this summer's day."
"It is evening now," observed the gentleman addressed as Mr. Temple. "Better not stop. The grey shadows are coming."
"There are no grey shadows for my lady," quickly answered the gipsy.
"Rose-coloured shall all your days be," said the gentleman, with an amused glance at his companion, "if----" and paused.
"Yes--if----" prompted the lady.
"If," continued the gentleman, "you cross the poor gipsy's hand with silver. Isn't that so?" addressing the gipsy.
The woman smiled deferentially, and held out her hand to receive the silver which the lady took from her purse.
"And it's enough to provoke even a gentleman's curiosity," said the lady, "to hear that trouble is to come to this sweet girl through the love of a woman instead of that of a man."
"All troubles through love come from love of a woman," observed the gentleman oracularly.
"Doesyourexperience teach you that?" inquired the lady, peering laughingly into his eyes.
"What my experience teaches me," he replied, with a shadow gathering on his face, "I reserve."
"After a lawyer's fashion," said the lady, again taking up his words. "You are self-convicted, Mr. Temple."
"In what way?"
"If you saw your face in a glass, you would receive your answer."
"Psha!" he exclaimed, directing his attention to the gipsy. "You have told this little girl that a woman will bring her trouble. Beyond your skill to say what woman."
"A woman younger than herself; more beautiful than herself; that she loves, and loves dearly. Show yourself, my beauty."
With no unkindly hand, knowing that it would not be tolerated, she raised the Duchess's chin with her fingers, so that the lady and gentleman could see her face. At the same moment Seth Dumbrick plucked the Duchess from the gipsy, and pressed her to his side, with a steady eye upon the gentleman.
"What a lovely child!" cried the lady, stooping, and placing her hand on the Duchess's shoulder. "Look, Mr. Temple. Did you ever in your life see so beautiful a face?"
He paused before he replied, and then the words came slowly from his lips.
"Once I saw a face as beautiful."
"When? Where?" eagerly asked the lady.
"In a dream."
"A dream!" exclaimed the gipsy, tracing a line on Sally's hand. "There are dreams mixed up with this little lady's fortune."
"Oh, yes, yes!" cried Sally. "I have 'em! I have 'em!"
The gipsy turned to Seth.
"Do I read the signs in the usual way?"
"You have hit enough nails on the head," said Seth, "and you have earned your money. It is time for us to go."
"Not yet, oh, not yet," interposed the lady. "We want this lovely child's fortune told." She drew the Duchess from Seth; the child, fascinated by her pretty face and soft silk dress, went willingly enough, and Sally and Seth looked on with jealous, uneasy eyes. "You need not be frightened, my good man. I shall not harm your daughter."
"Bless your ladyship's heart," said the gipsy, "he's not her father."
"How does she know?" inquired the lady. "Is it true?"
For a moment a falsehood rested on Seth's lips, but he refused to utter it. "She's not my child," he said. "I have adopted her."
"Mr. Temple," said the lady excitedly, "does the law permit children to be bought and sold? I should like to buy this child."
Seth looked frowningly at the lady, but all her attention being bestowed on the Duchess, she did not observe this evidence of his displeasure. The frown, however, was met by another and a sterner from the gentleman, who thus stood forward as the lady's champion. Seth did not lower his eyes, and the assumption of superiority in the gentleman's demeanour brought an expression of contempt and defiance into his own. It was not likely, after the fixed gaze with which they regarded each other, that either would forget the other's face. Seth observed more than the face of the man who confronted him. Every detail of dress, bearing, and manner photographed itself upon his mind, and an instinctive dislike for the fine gentleman took possession of him.
"Did you hear what I said?" cried the lady, addressing the gentleman, and smoothing the silky hair of the Duchess. "I should like to buy this child? What has the law to say to the bargain?"
"I am afraid that the law would not support you," said the gentleman.
"I am sure that nature would not," said Seth sternly. "Why, my good man, you have confessed that you are not the child's father."
"Confessed, did I? Well, if you will have it so. But between me and this child there is a bond of love--a strong point. And even if the law did support you, I have nine other strong points in my favour--all expressed in one small word."
"Will it be troubling you too much," asked the gentleman, with irritating insolence, "to ask you to name that word?"
"Not at all. As a lawyer--as I understand from this lady's remarks you are--you will appreciate its worth. Possession."
The discordant chord between these men had been struck very effectually.
"You are acquainted with the law," observed the gentleman, implying what it was impossible to misunderstand--to wit, that Seth Dumbrick was acquainted with the law in a way not creditable to himself.
"I know nothing of it from experience."
"Yet you know something of the machinery."
"From observation and general reading."
"Indeed! You set up for a scholar!"
"I do not."
"Would possession hold good," inquired the lady, with careless condescension, "against a rightful owner?"
"It has," replied Seth, not unwilling to use the arrow placed in his hands, "in many instances--thanks to the law."
The lady looked at the gentleman for information.
"Such things have been," he said, "but not where flesh and blood are concerned."
"And here itisconcerned," she exclaimed, with vivacity.
"Nonsense. What whim of yours shall I have to fight against next?"
"Of course, when I say I would like to buy the child, I am aware I am talking nonsense; but perhaps it is not in your legal mind to make allowances. I am singularly curious to learn what I can of the pretty creature's history--if she has one."
"The commonest of us has a history worth reading--but not, I doubt, until the actor begins to play a conscious part in the drama of life."
"Now you are speaking in a way I like. Let me, then, have my way, and ask the gipsy to tell the child's fortune."
"Come," he said to the gipsy, "earn your money. We have already lingered too long."
Seth Dumbrick, who had been listening with impatience to this dialogue, stepped between the gipsy and the Duchess.
"We have had enough fooling," he said sternly. "Let the woman earn her money in some other way than this."
He would have retired with the children at once, had not the gentleman stepped quickly before him, barring his progress.
"You are disposed to be insolent," he said, with a slight quivering of the lips. "Do you not know how to pay respect to a lady?"
"I know what is due to myself," replied Seth quietly. "I simply wish not to be molested."
"You are a stranger about here?"
"I am here by chance; I have no knowledge of the place."
"Nor of me?"
"Nor of you--and," he added, his temper mastering his judgment, "I wish to have none. You are a gentleman, and I----"
"Am not."
"You have answered for me. I see no reason to repine at the difference in our positions."
Seth did not intend his meaning to be mistaken, and his tone added force to his words. The gentleman's manner was so overbearing, that the commoner man's independent spirit was roused.
"I am the master of this place. This is a private road; you have committed a trespass."
"Then the sooner I repair an error unintentionally committed, the better for myself. If I had known this road was private I should not have entered it."
"The notice-board is large, and the words plain. You have been good enough to inform me that you can read."
He pointed to a board at the beginning of the road which had escaped Seth's notice, on which was painted in bold letters, "Trespassers will be prosecuted." Seth bit his lip as he saw the trap into which he had fallen.
"The hedge which protects the road," continued the gentleman, "has been newly broken."
"Not by me," said Seth, somewhat uneasy for the children's sake.
"It is not to be expected that you would admit it. But for your insolence towards the lady and myself, I should be disposed to overlook the trespass; as it is I am in doubt. Where do you come from?"
"From London."
"A London tramp--a vagrant."
"No tramp or vagrant," said Seth indignantly; "an honest man bringing his children into the country in search of health."
"I understand they are not your children."
"They are mine by adoption."
"Are their parents living?"
"This child's mother--don't be frightened, Sally--lives in the country, and is unable to offer her a home. So I take care of her."
"A modern Quixote," said the gentleman, with a sneer. "And this child"--once more he looked at the Duchess, whose eyes were raised to his--"and this child----" The imploring gaze of the Duchess appeared to disconcert him, and the sentence remained unfinished.
A singular silence followed, during which they all looked at the gentleman, whose self-possession had suddenly deserted him. Aroused to the fact that general attention was fixed upon him, he broke the silence, with curious pauses between his words.
"I was asking whether these children are sisters?"
"They are not," replied Seth.
"In any way related?"
"Not to my knowledge."
"Are her parents living?"
For the second time during the interview a falsehood rested on Seth's lips, and for the second time he refused to utter it.
"I do not know," he replied.
"What is it you say?"
"I do not know whether her parents are living."
"A born lady," muttered the gipsy, seeing her chance; "a born lady--fit to be a Duchess--isone, or I can't read the stars."
Seth turned a startled look upon the gipsy, saying, "You are a clever witch, wherever you have got your information." Then to the gentleman, "Have you anything more to ask me?"
"Nothing," was the reply, with a contradiction almost in the same breath: "In what part of London did you say you live?" as though the question had been already asked and answered.
"In the east."
"And you rest to-night?"
"At The World's End, hard by here."
"Very well; I shall call upon you to-morrow early. You can go."
But early the next morning, before ordinary folks were stirring, Seth and the children were again on the road. The wagon started at six o'clock, and Seth experienced a feeling of relief when he caught the last glimpse of Springfield.
"No more ladies and gentlemen for us," he said almost gaily, with the air of a man who has escaped a great danger; "we have had enough of them."
"I like ladies and gentlemen," said the Duchess--a remark which drove Seth into a moody fit for at least an hour.