"Shall we call this a boat out at sea,We four sailors rowing?Can you fancy it? Well, as for me,I feel the salt wind blowing.Up, up and down, lazy boat!On the top of a wave we float;Down we go with a rush.Far off I see the strandGlimmer; our boat we'll pushAshore on fairyland."—A. Keary.
"Shall we call this a boat out at sea,We four sailors rowing?Can you fancy it? Well, as for me,I feel the salt wind blowing.Up, up and down, lazy boat!On the top of a wave we float;Down we go with a rush.Far off I see the strandGlimmer; our boat we'll pushAshore on fairyland."
—A. Keary.
And now it is time to return to the two little travellers.
The big red barge-boat came swinging slowly through the lock as the children came close to the canal. They were too late to get aboard there, and they hung back in disappointment and indecision. After clearing the lock and exchanging a word or two with the woman at the toll, the bargeman had laid himself down upon a heap of empty sacks, to take a nap most probably, leaving his boy in charge of the tiller. Soon bargee was wrapped in slumber, and the boy buried in a penny dreadful. Darby and Joan did not desire to disturb either of them. They were anxious above all things to get on board the boat unnoticed; so, after a hurried consultation carried on in whispers, they agreed that their best plan would be to walk on to the next stopping-place—a tiny clump of cottages and a shop or two, called by courtesy a village—and make sure of embarking there. This hamlet was only about half a mile off. They could reach it easily before the barge; and keeping well in the shelter of the fringe of alders, osiers, and reeds that grew thickly in the marshy ground below the tow-path, lest the man or the lad should look about and spy them, the children trotted straight along, with their eager eyes steadfastly fixed upon the far-off hills in front.
Bargee was soon snoring lustily; the boy seemed to find his story all-absorbing; the old brown horse knew every step of the way, foot for foot, better than either of them, and required no guiding: consequently the little ones were in scarcely any danger of detection. Besides, even if the man or the boy on board the canal-boat had noticed the pair stealing along behind the bushes, neither would have thought of challenging their presence or casting upon them more than a passing glance. They would have simply accepted them for what they appeared to the casual observer—two cottage children who were either altogether motherless or sadly neglected—and then forgotten all about them. For, to be quite candid, they looked far from respectable—entirely unlike the trim, spotless little persons whom Perry had dressed with such care and precision only some hours before; bearing but small resemblance in their general cut to the dainty figures which had run the gauntlet of Aunt Catharine's eagle eyes as they sat opposite to her at breakfast early that morning.
Soon after the children's arrival at Firgrove, Miss Turner had gone carefully through their clothing,—adding a number of fresh garments to their stock, discarding others which had been purchased according to Perry's idea of fitness as being entirely unbecoming or unsuitable, laying aside for distribution among her poor a goodly quantity that had grown either so small or so shabby as to be altogether unfit for further wear—by Captain Dene's children and Miss Turner's young relatives, that is to say.
Upon this store Darby had drawn; for with an eye to thrift which would have done credit to Aunt Catharine herself, and expectation of the fresh and beautiful rig-out awaiting them in the land for which they were bound, he considered that it would be sheer and sinful extravagance to carry away with them any clothes, except what they could with an easy conscience cast aside—as Christian lefthisrags behind when by the Shining One he was dressed anew.
Picture them then, please!
Darby wore a velveteen suit which had once been black, but now, from stress of wear and weather, had turned a sickly green. From the scrimpy legs of the knickerbockers his knees shone bare and brown. Out of the sleeves, that reached only half-way below the elbows, his arms stuck freely, showing a broad band of untanned wrist between the button-less cuffs and the chubby, sunburnt hand. A pair of sadly-scuffed shoes, which originally had been nut-brown calf, were held upon his feet by one solitary button and a piece of string; while his headgear consisted of a sailor-hat, with battered brim, and blue ribbon band so stained and faded that only with difficulty one could make out the name upon its silken surface—H.M.S.Dreadnought—a most appropriate one for the ship in which this dauntless mariner sailed, for he had in truth a brave and fearless spirit!
As for Joan, she appeared to be even more after the tinker type than Darby. Her cotton frock had once upon a time been pink and pretty as a double daisy. Now it was washed-out, worn, and, sad to say, in several places torn. At different points the skirt had rebelliously escaped from the confinement of gathers round the waist; the back gaped open where in sundry spots the hooks and eyes had quarrelled and agreed to meet no more. On her shining golden curls she had set a cast-off garden-hat belonging to Aunt Catharine, of brown straw, in what was known as the mushroom shape. Surmounting Joan's tiny figure it looked exactly like a small umbrella, which hid her blue eyes, and shaded her pink-and-white complexion so completely that several times Darby stooped down, peeped under the floppy brim, crying merrily, much to his sister's amusement, "Anybody at home to-day? any one within here?" Her feet were dressed somewhat after the same fashion as her brother's; while round her shoulders, crossed in front and tied by Darby's fumbling fingers in a clumsy knot behind, was a faded tartan shoulder-shawl that had once been Perry's, but for many a month and day had been used as the nursery blanket of all the invalid dolls in Joan's large family.
They were a pair, without doubt. No one could have known them a little way off, not even their father or nurse—well, not nurse certainly, although their father might, if he had glanced at them a second time; for love's eyes are keen, and not mother-love itself is deeper, stronger, truer than a good father's for his trusting children.
Bargee slept soundly on his couch of empty corn-sacks; the lad was still lost in his story; the brown horse went slower and slower, pausing now and again to snatch a mouthful of grass from the bank beside his feet, until at length he stopped altogether, and, settling himself comfortably on three legs, he shut his eyes and prepared to follow his master's example.
The little ones were now some way in advance of the boat; but when they looked back and observed that boat and horse had come to a standstill, they agreed that they also might rest awhile, and joyfully threw themselves down upon the soft, cool meadow grass, taking good care to keep well out of sight of those other two afloat upon the canal.
"I's hungry—werry," said Joan, with a tired sort of sigh. "Isn't it never near dinner-time yet, Darby?"
"Yes, I think it must be by this time," replied Darby, looking knowingly in the direction of the sun, as he had seen Mr. Grey and Green the gardener do. "And if it isn't it ought, for I'm hungry too. Come, and we'll eat some of our biscuits and things."
"But there's no meat or potatoes or puddin'. It won't be real dinner wifout meat," grumbled Joan.
"Well, we can't have real dinner—pilgrims on a long journey never do—but we can make believe that we have. Won't that do instead, Joan?" asked Darby anxiously.
"Yes, it'll do quite well—to-day," answered Joan, jumping up and beginning in true housewifely fashion to set out their repast.
From each child's pocket came a crumpled pocket-handkerchief, not very large, and, if the truth must be told, not over clean. These Joan spread on the grass to serve as a tablecloth. Then Darby proceeded to distribute the rations for the midday meal—to each a tiny tart, a slice of seed-cake, one biscuit, and a mellow russet pear.
"Now, isn't that a lovely dinner?" he demanded proudly; "and there's nearly—not quite, but almost—as much more for tea," he added, peering into the depths of the old reticule which was slung, haversack fashion, across his shoulders.
"Yes, it's 'licious," agreed Joan, with her mouth full of cracknel biscuit. Now cracknels are rather dry eating, and when one's mouth is otherwise occupied it is not easy to speak distinctly. However, the biscuit went over with an effort, and Joan's mouth was free for further speech. "It's a puffic'ly 'licious dinner," she repeated. "Why, if we'd been at home instead of goin' to the Happy Land, nurse would only have given us chops, and maybe rice and jam."
"Yes; she's always giving us things like that, and they've hardly any taste. When I'm big I'll never eat rice or mutton, but nice, nippy, mustardy meat, like what father used to give us from his dinners. We never get nothing like that now," sighed the little boy, as if he were very badly used indeed.
"It's because Aunt Catharine doesn't think they're good for you," replied Joan wisely. "I heard her tellin' cook to be sure an' give the chil'ens plenty of pow'idge, bread an' milk, an' lots of busted rice. I wonder why she calls the rice busted."
"It's not 'busted'," corrected Darby, laughing gleefully; "it'sburstyou mean!"
"It doesn't matter which, I'm sure, for it's just nonsense to speak about rice bein' busted. It's us that's busted when we've eated great plates of it—nashty, messy stuff!" and Joan turned up her dainty little nose in disgust at what she was so tired of hearing called "plain, wholesome food."
Then she sighed heavily.
"What's the matter with you?" anxiously asked Darby. "Have you not had enough?"
"Yes, I've had enough—at least—it doesn't matter. I was only wishin' we had a drink of milk. I don't want to be gweedy; but oh, I does want a drink so badly! I's so awful thirsty. 'Twas the biscuits, I'm sure," added Joan apologetically.
"I'm afraid I forgot to bring any milk," said Darby regretfully. "There's lots of water in the canal, of course. I could carry you some in my hat; but then I don't think it's very clean."
"I'm sure it looks all right," replied the little girl, grasping eagerly at her brother's idea. "It's brown, but see how it sparkles!"
"Come on, then, and I'll lift you out some," assented Darby. "But you mustn't take much, mind; just what will wash down that biscuit, for itwasdry!"
They crept up the bank of the canal in shelter of a sheaf of tall reeds. Together they crouched upon the brink. Joan held Darby's hand fast while he leaned down and with his hat ladled her up a small measure of the doubtful-looking liquid, which she swallowed greedily and pronounced the nicest water she had ever tasted—better even than milk.
Darby shook the moisture from his hat and waved it in the air to dry—backwards, forwards, round and round, faster and faster. It was almost dry. A few more turns would complete the process, and he twirled it quicker still, when all at once it went flying from his fingers, skimming right into the middle of the canal, hopelessly out of reach!
He gazed after it with such a blank look that Joan laughed gleefully. Away it went, sailing slowly along, the blue ribbon trailing like a tail behind; on, on, farther and farther, until at length, behind a clump of osiers that hung over the bank and dipped into the water at a bend in the canal, the watchers lost sight of the gallant little craft—H.M.S.Dreadnought!
"It's gone!" said Darby ruefully. "Well, it's a good thing that it was only an old one," he continued, in a cheerier tone. "I'm just as comfy without a hat. Perhaps it'll be to one of those big schools where the boys wear nothing on their head but their hairs that father will send me by-and-by, so I'd best be getting used to going without. And in the Happy Land hymn, although it tells about the robes—at least, I expect it's them that's 'bright, bright as day'—there's not a word about what they wear on their heads, except a crown, and one couldn't wear anything else along with that."
"I wants another drink," whimpered Joan after a pause, preparing to lay hands on Aunt Catharine's mushroom hat. "Take my hat, Darby; it'll hold lots and lots of water. That ho'wid old cracknel's stickin' in my froat yet," and she gasped piteously, like a chicken with the pip.
"Certainly not," answered Darby decisively, putting down his foot, so to speak, in his most masterful manner. "You can't have any more of that bad water. Don't you know it's very dangerous to drink bad water? There's funny little beasts living in it called microscopes. They get into the blood and carry on dreadful. They give people fever, and typus, and palsy, and cholera-mortis, and—and—I don't know what all," and he took a long breath, having somewhat exhausted the supply along with his list of horrors. "I heard Dr. King telling Auntie Alice all about it one day."
Joan heard him out with open mouth and wondering eyes. How clever Darby was! He knew everything—almost! Her admiration was short-lived, however. Soon she returned to the charge, and with the skirt of her cotton frock at her eyes, she wailed anew,—
"I want a drink, I do, or my tea. Bo—o—o! I wants my tea!"
"Don't think any more about being thirsty, Joan, like a good girl," coaxed her brother, laying his arm lovingly round his little sister's shoulders. "That's the right way to do when you've got a pain or anything that won't get better—just pretend it's not there. Or we'll make believe that we've had our tea—although it's only done being dinner-time—and that nurse has just handed us our second cup, and, by mistake for her own, put four lumps of sugar in it. My, isn't it sweet!" And Darby smacked his lips, but Joan did not lift her head. "Maybe we'll get some nice fresh water when we get into the barge," he added, seeing that his first tactics had failed. "And when we reach the Happy Land there'll be oceans of it—streams and streams of pure, sparkling water, clear as crystal! Think of that, Joan!"
The prospect, though pleasing, was too remote to satisfy Joan's immediate craving, or fancy rather, for she was not nearly so thirsty as she indicated, and she kept on whimpering,—
"Bo—o—o! I want a drink—I wants my tea!"
Darby always felt helpless when Joan went on crying in that persistent way, and he looked about him in despair. Then he started up in haste, at the same time dragging at his sister's hand.
"Come on!" he cried. "See, the horse has started; theSmiling Jane's moving. They're a good way in front. We'll have to run a bit to catch up on them."
Thus opportunely diverted from brooding on her grievance, Joan quickly dried her eyes, trotted contentedly along by her brother's side, and soon they arrived quite close to the rude wharf, where the boat would stop long enough to deliver the goods intended for the village and take in some fresh cargo to be handed out at one of the hamlets further on.
As the boat came in a number of people were collected on the wharf waiting to receive their goods, because to this out-of-the-way place the canal-boat served instead of a carrier's cart; therefore all kinds of things—from bags of corn, tons of coal, sacks of potatoes, down to small packages—were sent and received by this route, and the arrival of bargee and his boat made quite a break in the uneventful lives of the inhabitants of that remote, far-scattered district. They chatted, laughed, shouted, and bandied jokes with each other and the bargeman, who had sprung from his craft the moment she was made fast to the wharf, and stamped about, up and down, as if he was glad to find himself with plenty of elbow-room once more.
In the hubbub and general bustle the children had little or no difficulty in stealing unobserved on board the barge. They had been on her once before with a friendly old bargeman but recently retired to give place to a younger, more active man, who was a stranger on the route, consequently did not know the little folks from Firgrove. Darby drew Joan behind him, and making straight below for the bunker, called by courtesy the cabin, they curled themselves up on an old rug in its farthest, darkest corner, where, worn out with excitement and fatigue, they soon fell fast asleep.
"He was a rat, and she was a rat,And down in one hole they did dwell;And both were as black as a witch's cat,And they loved one another well."He smelt the cheese, and she smelt the cheese,And they both pronounced it good;And both remarked it would greatly addTo the charms of their daily food."—Anon.
"He was a rat, and she was a rat,And down in one hole they did dwell;And both were as black as a witch's cat,And they loved one another well.
"He smelt the cheese, and she smelt the cheese,And they both pronounced it good;And both remarked it would greatly addTo the charms of their daily food."
—Anon.
The cargo for Ashville had been discharged, the stuff for Shendon stowed away. A fresh horse waited on the path; the gathering of people had scattered, carrying their goods and their gossip with them. The boy was feasting upon a hunch of bread and cheese, as a change from devouring his story. Bargee was in the act of stepping on board when a man laid a hand on his arm, and a rough voice arrested his steps. Two persons were standing beside him.
"Say, mate, will you give me an' my wife a lift as far as Engleton? We've been on tramp this last week, an' we're both dead beat."
Bargee looked curiously at the speaker, a great, ill-looking fellow, with coarse red hair and a crooked eye. From the man he glanced at his companion, a tall, broadly-built woman, with bold black eyes, olive skin, and flaming cheeks. They were the pair, in short, who had watched Darby and Joan from behind the clump of hazel bushes as they sat upon the tree-stump that day in Copsley Wood.
"Can't," said the young bargeman shortly. "It's against rules for this yer boat to carry passengers."
"Ay, ay, I know all that; but just for once you might oblige a chap. We could make it worth yer while," added the fellow insinuatingly.
"Do now," put in the woman in a wheedling voice, fixing her big, bold eyes on bargee's face. "My feet's blistered, an' my legs that stiff I couldn't walk another mile to save my life."
"Don't then," he answered shortly, preparing to push past her and get into the boat.
But she clung to his hand, determined not to be thrown off, smiling broadly into his dull face, almost dazzling him with the flash of her strong white teeth, which she displayed so freely.
"Well, to be sure, who would think now that a fine feller like you could be so hard-hearted! Sich a well-set-up lad," she continued, "an' with sich a fetchin' kind o' look, shouldn't be backward in helpin' other folks, especially a woman as is tired out like me."
"Can't you stop here overnight and rest, then? you'll be fit enough to foot it to Engleton in the morning. Where's your hurry?" asked bargee, beginning to relent under the smiling glances and flattering words of the temptress.
"Well, it's this way," explained the red-haired man, fixing bargee with his straight eye, while the crooked one gazed into space about half a foot above his head. "We belongs to the Satellite Circus Company; we're the proprietors, in fact, me an' my missis here—"
"You don't mean that old shandrydan of a caravan that passed along there two or three days ago?" and bargee jerked his thumb in the direction of the hilly tract sloping up from the canal course, through which a narrow road, little better than a sheep track, wound its circuitous way. "Do you callyona circus company?" he asked, laughing broadly into the proprietor's ugly face.
"Undoubtedly—the Satellite Circus Company, as I think I remarked before. We're a small party, small but select—very" and the red-haired man winked knowingly in the direction of his wife. "As I was tryin' to explain, the caravan with part of our troupe went on to Barchester the other day; but me an' my missis here—she wasn't feelin' well-like—we stayed behind in the country to recruit, as the newspapers says about all the big folks, an' get the benefit o' the fresh air."
"Then 'twas ye was loiterin' about Firdale an' Copsley Wood scarin' people out o' their wits? Poachin'—eh?" asked the young fellow, with a grin.
The proprietor of the Satellite Circus Company made no reply, and after a moment's hesitation his wife answered for him.
"Look ee here," she said insinuatingly, sidling at the same time nearer to bargee, and speaking with her mouth close to his ear. "Wouldn'tthemmake a tasty stew for yer supper to-night, my lad?" opening as she spoke a huge wallet which hung concealed beneath the folds of her faded scarlet shawl, and drawing from its depths a couple of plump young rabbits and a pair of wood-pigeons.
"By jingo! wouldn't they though!" he exclaimed, smacking his lips at the prospect of the toothsome meal the woman was willing to provide. What a pity he could not oblige her and her husband! They were only tramps, to be sure, but decent enough for all that. What harm could they do on board the old tub of a boat? And what a supper he should have after he reached Barchester!
Bargee looked about him. The boy was seated beside the tiller and paying no attention to his master; he was still busy with his bread and cheese. The toll-keeper yet lingered within the office, so for his benefit bargee raised his voice as he said roughly,—
"No, no, I tell ye. There's no use o' ye hangin' an' pesterin' here no longer. I durstn't disobey orders, an' that's the end o't." Then he added in a rapid whisper into the woman's quick ear as he boarded his craft,—
"Push on to the next lock, it's about a mile further, an' I'll take ye in then. But mind, if ye're asked any questions, mum's the word."
With a knowing wink and comprehensive smile the pair leisurely sauntered off the wharf; and when the canal-boat slowed in passing the next toll, with an agile spring the red-haired man leaped from the path to the deck, then helped his missis, as he called the bold-eyed, black-browed woman, in beside him.
Thus Joe Harris, or Thieving Joe, as he was known among his associates, and his wife Moll came to be passengers along with our two little travellers on board theSmiling Jane.
The bargeman himself now took the tiller. The boy had stolen back to his story, so the newcomers drew somewhat apart, where they sat talking to each other in subdued, earnest tones of the small voyagers then sleeping so serenely in the dirty bunker below—the pretty pair whom they had of set purpose shadowed along the canal, watched aboard the boat, and determinedly followed.
"We've trapped them sure enough this time, Moll, my beauty," said the man, indicating the cabin and the little creatures therein by a side nod of his great red head.
"Ay, surely," answered Moll, with a slow smile. "I expec' the pretty dears is sleepin' sweet as angels down in that dirty hole. But, Joe, now as we have got 'em, do you think it'll be safe to keep 'em? Won't their folks make a row, an' sen' the beaks after us?"
"Folks!" echoed Mr. Harris in mockery. "My, you are a green un, though you're sich a black beauty! Do you suppose if they had any folks belongin' to 'em worth speakin' o' that they'd be let go galavantin' round as we've seed them—here, there, an' everywhere? No, no; they'd be walkin' about hand in hand as prim as peonies, wi' a starched-up nurse girl at their heels."
"They're out on a lark, you bet; that's what it is," said Moll, nodding her head sagaciously. "Kids like they is allus up to somethin'. Maybe they've runned away. More'n likely."
"Humbug!" snapped Joe shortly. "Didn't you notice their clo'es? They're nothin' but washed-out rags an' far-worn clouts!" he declared, as if his opinion should settle the question beyond further doubt.
"Rags an' clouts if you like," agreed Moll cheerily, "but they wasn't allus that. They're the remains o' real nice good things. Mind, Joe, I knows, an' you don't; men never does about sich matters."
"Stuff an' nonsense," he growled. "Clo'es or rags, it don't matter a button, for they're only common brats, I tell you. There'll be a bit o' an outcry after them for a day or two; then it'll die down as quick as it rose. Poor folks haven't time to indulge their feelin's. Besides, once we've got clear off they'll never find us. We've covered our tracks purty cleverly, I'm thinkin', an' so has the kids," he added, with a smothered chuckle.
"Hum! Well, maybe you're right, my man," said Moll, after a moment's silence, during which she sat twirling the fringes of her old red shawl. "I'm willin' to stand by you in this business, as I've done in others afore now," she added meaningly, while her better half scowled at her, and muttered under his breath something that was hardly complimentary; "but if trouble comes o't, as it will, or my name's not Moll Harris, you can't say as I didn't warn you, like a wife should."
"Shut up!" commanded Joe gruffly; but as this was a frequent and favourite remark of his, Moll did not take the trouble to resent it.
Then he changed his tune, and continued in an eager undertone,—
"They'll make the fortune o' the company, Moll, old girl, will them kids! The little chap's just at the best age to train for the tight-rope an' the trapeze. An' the lass, with her yeller curls an' big eyes same's a wax doll's—my, just you picter the crowds she'll draw, trippin' round so pretty-like with Bruno at her foot! Can't you see the big bills an' posters starin' at you from every wall, flarin' out o' every winder:—
"'The Wonderful Child Acrobat! The Most Marvellous Aeronaut of the Age! Little Boy-Butterfly, and Bambo the Musical Dwarf!"'Sweet Sissy Sunnylocks, and Bruno the Performing Bear!"'Countless other attractions! Come one, come all,To the Satellite Company's Variety Hall!'
"'The Wonderful Child Acrobat! The Most Marvellous Aeronaut of the Age! Little Boy-Butterfly, and Bambo the Musical Dwarf!
"'Sweet Sissy Sunnylocks, and Bruno the Performing Bear!
"'Countless other attractions! Come one, come all,To the Satellite Company's Variety Hall!'
"'Countless other attractions! Come one, come all,To the Satellite Company's Variety Hall!'
"What do you think o' that, Moll, my lady? That'll empty folk's pockets, or Joe Harris is mistaken for once in his life. My, thisisa stroke o' luck!" and Mr. Harris rubbed his dirty hands together and laughed gleefully. "We've been on the lookout for a couple o' youngsters this many a day; now we've hit upon them at last. A bear an' a dwarf's all very well, but there's nothin' that touches the hearts an' reaches the coins o' an audience like a kid, especially if it has got great innercent eyes an' golden hair!"
"Oh, it's mighty fine foryou, no doubt," said Moll angrily. "You'll eat an' drink your fill, an' dress up in fine clo'es o' an off evenin' to go rollickin' about an' enjoy yourself. But what good'll it dome, I'd like to know?" she asked shrilly. "I share yer dirty work, I know, but precious little else; just grub, grub away all the year roun', with never a bit o' pleasure, nor a stitch o' handsome things to my back!"
"I'll give you a silk gownd, Moll, I declare I will, if this bold venture turns out for us what I expect—whatever colour you please; only say the word," said Mr. Harris grandly.
"I'd like claret—a nice bright claret with plenty o' lace, an' that shiny trimmin' wi' tinsel through it," admitted Moll, beginning to recover her good humour, and flashing a smiling glance into the squinty eye fixed somewhere about her forehead. "Ay, an' what else?" she demanded, determined to take full advantage of her husband's unusually bland mood.
"I'll buy you a gold ring too, my girl—one o' them real shiners," promised Joe, thinking that as he was in for the penny he might as well pledge himself to the pound. "Ah! that makes you sit up, I'm thinkin'," and the generous man gave his wife a playful poke in the ribs.
"Reely an' truly, Joe, fair an' square? A true di'mon', an' none o' your sham bits o' glass?" cried Moll in ecstasy.
"Fair an' square, my woman; a real di'mon' as big's a pea, Moll. There's my hand on't, if you just help me through wi' this little business. You can, you know, if you like."
"So help me bob!" said Moll quite solemnly, and the well-matched pair shook hands over their guilty compact. And thus Moll, who in her better moods might have befriended the children, pledged herself, for sake of vanity and greed, to work her hardest for their undoing.
Twilight was drawing in when the canal-boat stopped at Engleton, the last stage on the journey before reaching Barchester. It was a tiny village, nestling at the foot of a range of undulating hills that rose, plateau after plateau, until their summits seemed to meet the sky. The wharf was crowded as usual at that slack evening hour. And in the babel of voices, banging of boxes, shifting of stuff, and general confusion, our little travellers, rested and refreshed by their long sleep and the remainder of the provisions which they had consumed in the cabin, had no difficulty in stealing off the boat and away from the wharf without attracting any notice, except from two persons, a man and woman—Joe Harris and his wife Moll, who did not lose sight of them for a moment, but followed hard upon their heels.
"Look, Joan!" cried Darby, as they turned their faces towards the hills. "See, we're near the Happy Land now!" and the lad pointed to the golden radiance that glowed in the sky and bathed the peaks behind which the sun had only lately sunk from sight. "That's the light from the city. They've opened the gates because they know we're coming.
"Hurry, lovey! Here, take my arm. That's what father used to say when mother was tired; I 'member quite well. It's just a little bit further now. In one of my Sunday books there's a picture of Christian climbing a hill that led to the City Beautiful. The Hill Difficulty it was called. I expect this is it. Come on, Joan; we're almost there! Then we'll never be tired any more, but 'reign, reign for aye.'"
At that moment the children heard steps behind them, and looked round to see, only a few yards away, an ugly red-haired man, with a curious crooked eye and evil face, and a tall, sturdy woman with gleaming teeth, dusky locks, and crimson cheeks. He had seen them before, Darby remembered all at once, hanging about the back gate at Copsley Farm one day when he was peeping from the skylight in the stable loft. They must be the gipsies who had been haunting Copsley Wood; and the brave boy drew his sister closer to his side, as if with his own small body he would shield her from all harm.
"Good-evenin', my little dears," spoke the man's gruff voice right above Darby's head.
"Good-evening," answered the boy courteously, at the same time instinctively putting up his hand in order to raise his hat in the direction of Moll's flashing eyes. But there was no hat there, so he gave her a military salute instead.
"My, you are a rum un!" laughed the lady, looking admiringly upon the charming child.—"You're right, as usual, Joe Harris," she whispered, turning to her husband. "Them's the style for the Satellite Company! The silk gownd an' the shiner's mine; you can buy them soon's you please."
So saying, Moll snatched the screaming Joan clean out of her brother's encircling arms, raised her to her breast, and completely smothered the frightened child's sobs in the folds of her old scarlet shawl.
The after-glow had faded from out the west; the hilltops seemed bare and brown. The gates of the city were closed, thought Darby, and his lips quivered in disappointment as they had not done from fright. The moon now sailed slowly on her way through a placid sea of pearly sky. Her beams flooded the fields with a soft, pure radiance; they lingered over the sluggish waters of the canal until they shone with light and borrowed beauty. Everything was quiet; all around was peace.
Darby boldly stood his ground, and manfully faced his foes. Yet, with the wicked countenance of Joe Harris bending over him, with Joan's stifled cries beating in his ears, it was impossible to do anything more thanseembrave; and the plucky little lad's face blanched paler than the moonbeams, while his heart stood still with nameless fear.
"'Will you walk into my parlour?' said the spider to the fly;''Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy.The way into the parlour is up a winding stair,And I have many curious things to show when you are there.'"Mary Howitt.
"'Will you walk into my parlour?' said the spider to the fly;''Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy.The way into the parlour is up a winding stair,And I have many curious things to show when you are there.'"
Mary Howitt.
"An' where may you an' little missy be goin' at this time o' the evenin'?" asked Thieving Joe, in a voice which he intended should be pleasant and reassuring; for now that he had come close to the children—looked in Joan's face, and witnessed Darby's brave, proud bearing—he knew Moll was right: that these were no common brats, as he had called them, no rustics running wild from morn till night, butsomebody'slittle ones, gently born undoubtedly, carefully reared unmistakably.
At the first blush of this discovery Mr. Harris felt that perhaps he had been a trifle rash—that it might have been wiser to give more heed to his wife's advice; but since he had got his captives secure at last, he was not going to be such a fool as to set them free after waiting and watching so long for a similar opportunity. He would safeguard himself as cunningly as possible against the chances of being detected in his crime, and that was all Joe Harris possessed in the way of a conscience; that was what constituted the chief difference to him between right and wrong—the cowardly yet restraining fear of being found out. Then, if the worst did come to the worst, he would swear that he had not stolen the children, but had accidentally come upon them wandering about at nightfall alone, and out of charity took them temporarily under his protection. Their friends would be deeply grateful, and doubtless reward him handsomely, so that he should be none the poorer, no matter which way the little enterprise turned out.
He judged correctly that Darby would be more easily led than driven, and he did not want to frighten him, not just at first—that would be time enough afterwards, or if he turned rusty—so he spoke to the little lad as smoothly as he knew how. But genuine gentle speech cannot be assumed at will. It is not a mannerism merely put on, but an outcome of kindly acts and pure thoughts; and Darby was quick to detect the false quality in Joe's tones as he repeated his question,—
"Come now, won't you tell me, an' this nice lady here, where the pair o' ye was bound for so late in the day?"
For a moment the boy hesitated, looking straight at his questioner. How could he tell this dreadful man the truth? and it did not occur to him to trump up a story or put him off with a half-truth, as some children might have done.
"We're going on a journey, my sister and I," said the lad simply.
Then he closed his lips tightly, and his sweet little mouth was set in a new resolute curve. He would not speak of the Happy Land to this odd pair, who had thrust themselves so unexpectedly and so rudely where they were not wanted. They might laugh at him, and who enjoys being laughed at, or having their plans and dreams ridiculed and scattered in shreds before their very eyes?
"It's late for ye to be out by yerselves," continued Joe. "Aren't ye frightened for the dark?"
"Oh no," replied Darby readily; "thatnever frightens us. God is in the dark as well as in the light, and He always takes care of us."
"Ahem!" and Joe coughed awkwardly, not knowing what to say. He was not used to replying to such remarks.
By this time Joan had hushed her sobs to listen to the conversation. She wriggled uneasily under the confining shawl; and hearing that she was quiet, Moll allowed the little thing to sit up in her arms and look about her.
At this point Joe made a movement of impatience, which Moll understood. He was in haste to push on, for it would soon be dark, and he was hungry for his supper.
Moll frowned at him. She wanted to work things in her own way, and she understood that little people don't like to be hurried.
"Aren't you afeard to be out on this lonesome place so late, my pretty?" she asked in a sugar-sweet voice, turning a beaming face upon Joan.
"No—I's never f'ightened of dark, or dogs, or fings," she said, drawing somewhat back from the bold face so near her own; "but I's sometimes f'ightened for peoples. I's f'ightened for you, some, and I's awful f'ightened forhim," added Joan in a whisper, pointing her tiny finger in the direction of Mr. Harris, who was busily engaged in lighting his pipe.
Moll scowled, and gave the little girl a slight shake.
"You're frightened, are you?" and she laughed wickedly. "All the same, the pair o' ye'll have to come along o' us. We'll see ye safe to yer journey's end. Ye might meet tramps or gipsies, or—oh, I don't know what all! They'd pop ye into a bag an' carry ye away wi' them."
"Isn't you tramps an' gipsies—you an'him?" asked Joan innocently. "Will you put us in a bag an' carry us away wif you?"
"There! take that for yer impidence," and Moll dealt the child a smart slap on her delicate cheek, which made the little one wince with pain and terror. "Tramps an' gipsies indeed! I'll learn you another lesson, I'm thinkin', afore you're many days older."
"Well done, my lass!" cried her husband proudly, for Moll was rising to the occasion even better than he had expected. She had a soft spot somewhere in her heart, had Moll, although it was pretty well crusted over with wickedness and worldliness, and sometimes she seemed a little disgusted with Joe and his shady ways. She could do very well when she chose, however. She was, when she pleased, an out-and-out helpmeet, and now she was excelling herself. It was the prospect of the claret silk and the diamond ring, her better half believed.
"How dare you slap my sister?" cried Darby, darting forward with flashing eyes and crimson cheeks, and laying violent hands on Moll's gown. But Mr. Harris pulled him roughly off, clapping upon the boy's quivering lips a great, dirty, grimy hand.
"Darby! Darby! make her let me go!" Joan cried piteously; but Darby was powerless to come to the rescue. "Don't you know," she continued, addressing her captor, "we're goin' to the Happy Land? Didn't Darby tell you? Well, we are; an' if we doesn't hurry fast, we won't find our way to-night."
"Indeed! An' does yer pa an' yer ma know where ye are?" asked Moll curiously, seeing that Joan was freer with her tongue than her brother.
"We never had no pa an' ma. We once had a faver an' a muver," Joan admitted, "if them's what you mean. But muver's away livin' wif God, an' daddy's gone in the big, big ship over the sea, an' lefted Darby an' me all alone," she added, in a piteous little whine. "Daddy's a solger-man, an' wears a wed coat an' a shiny sword."
Mr. Harris heard this statement with feelings of relief. So he was right after all: the kids were practically orphans. Their friends, if they had any, must be mighty careless, argued Joe, and he could do with his captives as he pleased, and nobody bother much about them—unless the Tommy from Africa should turn up some fine day. But there were so many chances against that contingency that it was not worth thinking about.
"Ay, an' it's for the Happy Land ye're bound!" he cried in ridicule. "Well, it's a goodish bit from here, so we'd best be movin'. I'm about tired o' this foolin', anyway, an' I'm wantin' my supper. Come on!" and he gripped Darby's delicate little hand more tightly than before.
"Let me go!" demanded the boy indignantly. "We don't know you, and we don't want to go with you.—Sure we don't, Joan?"
"No, no!" wailed Joan. "I doesn't want to go nowhere 'cept back. An' I wants Miss Carolina an' my supper, an' my own dear comfy cwib," she added, feeling, for once in her life, that it would not be entirely disagreeable to be put to bed.
"You hear that," pleaded Darby. "Please put her down. She'll only tire you, because she's very solid for her size; I sometimes carry her myself.Please!We're not a bit afraid, and we haven't far to go now," he added, glancing up toward the brow of the hill, which was now flooded with moonlight. And as he saw how short was the distance to its summit—although, alas! the shortness was only seeming—his heart bounded with gladness and relief; for in spite of his courageous bearing, poor Darby was dreadfully afraid. All the stray stories and ridiculous remarks—many of them never meant for his ears—that he had ever heard concerning highwaymen, robbers, tramps, poachers, foreigners, and wicked people generally, came crowding to his memory thick and fast, and for the first time since they had fled from Firgrove he began to wish himself safely back there once more.
Moll made no answer. She glanced around to make sure that no straggler was near who could by any chance have heard Joan's cries. Then she swathed the child's head in her shawl again, and, with Joe striding in front and Darby dragging at his heel, the party set off at a rapid rate, which sorely tried Darby's short, tired legs, sturdy though they were. But notwithstanding the smartness of their pace, they did not seem to come much nearer to the top of the hill.
The winding road upon which the travellers had set their faces, after turning their backs on Engleton, had by this time dwindled into a narrow bridle-path. And as they proceeded, it too gradually disappeared until it was completely lost in the wide stretch of hilly land, half heather, half scrubby grass, that spread all around them as far as Darby could see.
All at once Joe stopped, and looked anxiously away in front, round the base of the hill.
"They were to halt hereabouts," he muttered to his wife, "but I don't see a sign o' them. Do you, Moll? you've allus had sharp sight."
Moll swept the landscape with a glance quick and keen as a hawk's. Then, without speaking, she pointed with her finger to a spot about half a mile off where the ground dipped slightly and formed a sort of hollow, sheltered on the far side by a clump of stunted firs.
Darby had followed the direction of Moll's large forefinger with his gaze. After a little he made out quite plainly, rising against the clear sky beyond the low-lying ground, a faint trail of blue-gray smoke; and lower down, considerably below the smoke, there shone a small spot of light which winked intermittently through the gathering gloom, as if behind it there blinked a very sleepy star.
"Ay, that's the caravan, sure enough," said Joe, in a tone of satisfaction. "My, Moll, you are a cute un, an' no mistake!—Come on, my young shaver; step out the best you know, for I'm wantin' some supper, I can tell you!"
"But we're not going that way," said Darby, trying to withdraw his hand from the vice-like grip in which it was held.—"Please put Joan down, ma'am," he begged, turning to Moll. "I'm much obliged to you for carrying her so far. Our way lies up the hill and yours down," continued the child, bending his grave, innocent eyes upon the woman's hardened countenance. "So you see we must part here," he added, with a brave attempt at a smile.
"Must we?" and Joe Harris laughed harshly. "Look here, my chick," said he, with an ugly leer, "you're comin' wi' us; that's settled, so you may stow yer cheek an' hurry up, or it'll be the worse for you!"
"You stop, Joe," whispered Moll angrily, nudging her husband with her elbow. "You'll frighten the little un, then she'll make a row, an' somebody'll hear her. Leave them to me.—Don't mind the gentleman, ducky," she continued, addressing Darby. "He's fond o' sayin' funny things; that's his way. Do you see the smoke an' the light yonder?" she asked, pointing in the direction of the caravan. "Well, that's our house—the purtiest little house that ever you seed; an' when we gets home there'll be some nice goody-goody supper for us. You come along, sensible and quiet, an' you an' little missy here'll both get share. Then after supper there's heaps an' heaps o' cur'osities for you to look at. Our house is jest chock-full up wi' funny things."
Darby was in a difficulty. Moll certainly spoke very fair. Hewashungry, notwithstanding the refreshments he had consumed in the cabin of theSmiling Jane, and the prospect of something savoury was undoubtedly tempting. Then he dearly loved looking at things—odds and ends, picked up here and there, such as he imagined Moll's house contained. Joan was in a deep sleep, with her golden head pillowed on Mrs. Harris's broad shoulder. There would be no use in waking her up; she would only begin to cry. Darby was weary himself, too—so weary that he would fain have flung his little body down on the heath where he stood and slept some of his weariness away.
But the Happy Land! Would it not be better to hurry on, late though it was? They would be sure to get in if they knocked loud enough and gave their names at the gate. Then they could rest as long as they pleased, with nothing to disturb or frighten them any more, and live always good and happy—"blest, blest for aye."
These thoughts flashed through Darby's busy brain very fast. Then he answered Moll in his direct, simple way.
"No, thank you," he said; "you are very kind, but we must be getting on our way. I will carry Joan," he added, with a tired little gasp, looking apprehensively up the long stretch of rough ground rising right in front, and the now gloomy hilltop, above which heavy black clouds hung, like the curtain of night about to descend and smother them in its sombre folds.
"You can go on yer journey when you've rested a bit," coaxed the cunning woman. "Or in the mornin'," she added; "that 'ud be best. You'd lose yer way in the dark, sartin sure. I'll give you an' missy one o' the nice beds that's in my house, where ye'll sleep soun' as tops. Then after ye've had yer breakfasts in the mornin' ye'll start; an' my, ye'll be there—wherever ye're goin'—in a jiffy! What do you think o' that?"
"Well, perhaps, since you are so very kind as to invite us to supper and to stay for the night, and my sister seems so very tired—perhaps your plan might be best," said Darby slowly. Then he added quickly, "But are you sure you'll let us go when we want to in the morning—first thing after breakfast?"
"Sure's anythin'," declared Moll unblushingly. "Mr. Harris himself here'll put ye on the road.—Won't you, Joe?" asked Moll, with a sly laugh.
"Sartin," answered Joe promptly. "I've never bin in the Happy Land myself, but I'm familiar wi' the way there. I'll start the kids for it right enough, you bet," and the ugly man winked at his wife knowingly.
On the strength of these false promises Darby agreed to accept the hospitality of Mr. and Mrs. Harris for the night. But he did not see the glances of triumph, greed, cunning, and cruelty which passed between the pair; and if he had, the single-hearted child would not have understood their significance.
It was a strange scene on which Darby Dene's eyes rested when the party halted at the hollow where the Satellite Circus Company had made their headquarters for the night. Within the shelter of the firs a fire of crackling sticks was burning brightly. Hanging over the flame, suspended by an iron chain from the centre of three crossed metal bars, swung a big black pot, from which there came such a savoury smell that, in spite of his disappointment over the break in their journey, Darby could not help thinking it a lucky thing that they were going to get a share. A lad of about twelve years old was feeding the fire from a pile of dry branches that lay by his side—a lad with short woolly curls, shining, gleaming white teeth, thick lips, and a skin as dark as if he had been blackleaded all over. He was a negro, Darby knew. He had seen a black man only once before, and he now stared at this boy as if he could not remove his gaze. The lad's clothes, too, were queer. He had on a dingy purple velvet jacket, covered with frayed gold lace, tawdry tinsel braid, tarnished gilt buttons, with long, wide red and white striped cotton trousers, from which his dusky ankles and bare flat feet flopped about like the fins of some great ungainly fish.
Squatted on the grass, on the further side of the fire from the black boy, was a small figure which Darby at first thought was that of a child. But when at the sound of Joe Harris's footsteps it rose, moved slowly close to the crossbars, stood on tiptoe, lifted the lid, peered into the steaming pot,then—with the firelight falling full upon it—he saw that this was not a child; it was a man.
But what sort of a man? Was he arealman, or only a make-believe, such as was sometimes seen at shows and fairs? Darby knew about dwarfs, certainly, although he had never seen one, and at last he concluded that this must be a dwarf—this small creature not much taller than Joan, yet with a huge, broad-shouldered body, square and solid as Moll's own, overgrown head, covered with a thick mop of heavy dark hair, pale, sad face, weary eyes, short, stunted legs, large feet, and the longest arms, the thinnest hands Darby had ever seen in all his life. This was Bambo—Bambo, Mr. Harris's musical dwarf! and the boy shrank instinctively behind the shelter of Moll's ample skirts, scarcely knowing whether he was more attracted or repelled by the ungainly body, which, as the little ones discovered somewhat later on, housed such a beautiful soul within.
But what is that beside the dwarf—that great, soft-looking object that is just for all the world like a big brown furry bundle, with a tiny, chattering, jabbering monkey, decked out in all the bravery of scarlet coat and jaunty forage cap, perched on top of it? Darby steals forward step by step to get a closer view. The bundle of fur unrolls itself, grunts and turns over as if quite ready for a frolic with its queer comrade, and the little lad leaps back in terror. For it is a bear, gaunt and grizzly, with funny snout and blinking eyes!
Darby did not notice that the monster was chained, and he moved back again behind Moll, whence he gazed fascinated upon the grotesque group, over which the leaping flames cast such weird and curious lights and shadows.
The gaudy yellow caravan was drawn up on one side, and with the screen of trees served as an effective background to the scene. The skinny piebald horses had been unloosed from its shafts, freed of their harness, and, with rude fetters on their legs, turned adrift to seek their supper among the coarse grass and springy heather spreading so bountifully around them upon every side.