Will ye no come back again?Will ye no come back again?Better loo’d ye canna be,Will ye no come back again?
Will ye no come back again?Will ye no come back again?Better loo’d ye canna be,Will ye no come back again?
Will ye no come back again?Will ye no come back again?Better loo’d ye canna be,Will ye no come back again?
* * * * *
The success of the “Forest Maiden Company” was secured, and their fame had gone abroad, so that the very first night, and indeed during all the week they appeared in Paisley they received splendid ovations.
Of course they were but a poor little bit of a show, compared with other great ones that had visited the “City of Thread,” but of their kind they were first-class. Anyhow, they pleased the people, and what more can any of us do?
On to Stirling by easy stages, staying fora night and sometimes three at most villages and towns, and so through Perth, and north and west by the great Highland road that leads to Dunkeld and Pitlochry, across the Grampian Range to Inverness itself.
But they were destined never to reach the capital of the Scottish Highlands, something occurring that completely disorganised the show, and put acting entirely out of Fitzroy’s head for weeks and weeks to come.
They had passed over the highest point of the range, through Dalwhinnie, surrounded by its mountains patched with summer snows, with lofty Ben Alder frowning darkly over the leaden lake, and had reached one of the sweetest little towns that nestle here in the Scottish Alps. They had given their first performance, which was so successful that they determined to stay for a week.
Their pitch was both romantic and beautiful, with wilder scenery around them than ever before their eyes had looked upon.
On the very second morning Johnnie and Peggy went off through woods and wilds under the guidance of a ghillie to a lonely little mountain loch or tarn to fish. Quite surrounded by rocks and birch-clad braes is Loch Bran, and unknown to the Saxontourist. The glad fish leaped up in the sunshine as if wanting to be landed, and though by no means adepts at the fisherman’s craft, it was not many hours before the little creels they carried were nearly full, so they left off to dine in a brown pine wood.
It was very solemn and still here, not a sound to be heard save the low murmur of a little silvery cascade that came tumbling down through gray boulders and brackens green to seek the rest and silence of the lake.
After dinner Peggy sat quietly reading, but Johnnie lay on his back gazing dreamily up at the dark pine branches through the shimmering green of which he caught sight of the blue of the sunlit sky.
He was very happy and contented, and so too was Peggy, for she presently threw down her book to talk, and both of them began to build many a beautiful castle in the air.
“My idea of happiness,” the boy concluded, “would be to build a house in such a fairy glade as this, and you could come if you liked, Peggy, but every day I would sally forth with my merry, merry men to fish in the lake, and awake the echoes of the forest with my hunting horn, but return at night to dine and to sleep under the greenwood tree.”
Peggy shook her wise wee head.
“Wouldn’t it be just a trifle uncomfortable when the snow fell, Johnnie?”
“Ah! but then we should have music and mirth in the great halls and drink horns of wassail by the roaring log-fires! I know I should be happy.”
By the time the sun was sinking low towards the horizon they were back again in camp.
But the next day and the day after that found them back again at that lonesome tarn which somehow seemed to have a great charm for both of them. And it was on this particular day that the adventure I am about to relate befell the romantic twain.
They had lingered longer by the loch side than usual, for not the breath of a breeze ruffled its surface, and the trout seemed to slumber below.
But they made small baskets at last, and taking their rods to pieces gave them to the ghillie to carry, and set forth now for the forest.
So intent were both on the discussion of the meal they had brought with them and the trout, roasted gipsy fashion over a fire of wood, that they noticed not the risingclouds and gathering gloom, until suddenly a flash of lightning seemed to extinguish the flames and rolling thunder reverberated through the woods, re-echoed back from hill and rock. Flash after flash, peal after peal, and then fell a darkness like a winter’s eve.
But when great drops of rain began to fall, they were glad to be told by the ghillie that there was the Kelpie’s can not far off, and so thither they followed the lad, and glad was Peggy when she found herself sheltered from the pitiless storm.
Fitzroy and Gourmand felt very anxious indeed when evening deepened into darkness about ten that night, and still the children did not come.
Seek them they must, and so they rolled themselves in Highland plaids, and accompanied by two sturdy ghillies as guides, set off to find the lake, accompanied by Ralph.
About half way to the glen they met little Stuart, the children’s ghillie. He was dragging himself along, and was covered with blood and mud.
He was dazed, too; but at last, sentence by sentence, they managed to get all the story out of him, and a sad and melancholy one it was.
“OCH! yes, to be surely, they were all nearly murdered evermore, the bit laddie Shonnie was killed dead whateffer, and tied to a tree so he shouldn’t run away at all, and the bit bonnie lassie was rowed (rolled) in a plaidie and carriet away. Ochne! Ochne!”
“And who did this terrible thing?”
Stuart wasn’t sure. First he thought they were men, and then he thought they were beasties, for their faces were all black and hairy, but now he believed they were “just water-kelpies and nothing else, forbye, whateffer.”
They found the tarn at last. There is practically no night in Scotland north, at this season, and the sky having cleared now, they found poor Johnnie soon enough, tied by ropes to a pine tree.
The boy was not dead, however, and soon pulled himself together sufficiently to tell the story more succinctly than the terror-strickenghillie had done. They had been attacked by two masked men. Peggy had fainted, while he himself, after being knocked down, was roped and made fast, and the villains fled west and away with the insensible form of his companion rolled in a shepherd tartan plaid.
“But I am sure, father,” added the brave and sturdy lad, “we can find them with Ralph yonder. Had we not forgotten to take him with us, it would have been all right.”
“Well, boy, you had better run back now and wait. Gourmand and I with the hound will follow up the trail, and Heaven help them when we lay hands on them.”
“Go back, daddie? Me go back and dear Peggie in danger? I’m going with you, father, and you may need me. No going back for Johnnie!”
“So be it, lad, but I fear you are not strong enough after what you have come through.”
“I can only fail, father, then I can rest.”
“See, cap’n, what is this?” said Gourmand, holding up something black.
“Why, I declare,” said Fitzroy, “it is a crape mask, wires and all complete. Oneof the scoundrels must have dropped it. This will come in handy, however.”
The showman was a man of quick thoughts, and actions that just as quickly followed. And now was the time for both. He had been much in for foreign lands, especially in America, and travel in that country sharpens one’s wits.
His right hand passed round towards his pistol-pocket as if by instinct. Yes, it was there, that little friend the revolver, which had saved his life ere now. He had money also, therefore was he prepared to go immediately on the war-path.
Encumbered with the child Peggy, the villains could not have got far away yet, albeit they had many hours’ start.
They would have to carry her when she got tired, or stay and hide with her somewhere. Unless—the thought made him start and turn cold, surely murder was not meant.
He had shown Ralph the crape mask and bade him go seek.
“Hie away, good dog,” he said, “wide away, boy. Your little mistress’s life depends on your picking up the trail.”
After a snuff or two at the mask, Ralph, with an impatient cry, half anger, half griefapparently, made a few circles round, muzzle and long ears down, and then with a more joyful yap, set off at a shambling trot straight away from the tarn and through the pine wood. It was rather dark here, but they soon emerged on to a sheep track which led them upwards in a winding direction until they struck the main road, and northwards went the dog.
His progress was rapid at first and it was all Fitzroy and the others could do to keep up.
And the showman’s thoughts kept time with his pace. They reverted now to the last time an attempt to kidnap poor Peggy had been made. He had certainly put that down to the desire on the part of some one to possess the girl as a speculation, for she was undoubtedly very clever, not only as an actress, but adanseuse.
But this second attempt threw a more lurid light on the affair. Peggy, alive or dead, was wanted for some other reason. She was in some one’s way and had to be removed at all risk and all expense. But by whom or why he did not trouble to think for the present.
Moreover, ten to one, the kidnappers—mere tools doubtless of some rich man in whose pay they were—were the same fellows who had made the first attempt, else why did they wear masks?
Should he send Gourmand off to seek police assistance? Better not, he thought. The police, although more methodical in their ways of dealing with things, would more likely hinder rather than help Fitzroy. They would want to deliberate and follow their deliberations up by red-tape cut-and-dry investigation, and so valuable time would be lost and the robbers get off.
Some such thoughts must have been running through Gourmand’s mind at the same time, for he found time to remark—
“Shall we seek for police assistance, cap’n?”
“Hang the police!” cried Fitzroy. “In a case like this they would only be in the way. ‘Sharp’ is the word, my friend, and they don’t know the meaning of it. If this good dog of ours gets me alongside the scoundrels who have stolen my poor Peggy we won’t need policemen, Gourmand, nor handcuffs either. It will be a dear day’s work for them!”
On and on the party went, hour after hour, and it was evident that the kidnappers were making all the speed possible, for wherever the road made a sweep the trail left it, taking a direct course across the heather until on the road once more.
Excitement kept the pursuers up, and they thought neither of sleep nor of hunger.
The trail now left the main road and was picked up again in the adjoining wood. But now for the first time honest Ralph seemed puzzled. He made wide circles, sometimes at a trot, sometimes slowly, as if considering and studying every inch of ground.
There was no doubt, therefore, that for some reason or other the men had separated for a time. Theraison d’etrewas soon apparent for the dog rushed suddenly on ahead, left the wood and climbed a small hill or knoll, then came as quickly back and took up the old trail.
It was evident enough one of the men had gone up that hill for the purpose of taking his bearings or looking ahead for something.
In less than another half hour, on rounding the corner of a hill, the trail now leading along a mere foot-path, they came in sight of a solitary hut or shieling, nodoubt the sheltering bield belonging to some shepherd, and not far below this was a river.
The hound made straight for the door of the little hut and paused.
Fitzroy himself advanced cautiously, making the others wait. It was already broad daylight, and soon the sun would rise.
No sound within, in answer to his knock. But the door was frail, so he boldly kicked it in, then entered, revolver in hand.
The birds had been here but the birds had flown. A fire still burned on the rude hearth, and food was on a small table near it, oatcakes, cheese, and milk. There were two plates, and two knives on the table also, but only two, so that it was evident poor Peggy had not partaken of the frugal banquet.
Was she dead? Had she been murdered? Fitzroy looked at Giant Gourmand.
“Only two plates,” he said slowly, pointedly.
“Yes, yes, I know your thoughts, cap’n. But bless your good soul, sir, the devils wouldn’t have dared.
“Come,” he added, “it was nice of themto leave the table so well covered, and so abundantly. Mountain goat’s milk, too. Sit in and let us do justice to it. We don’t know what is before us. Here, Ralph, dear boy.”
But the hound would not look at food. He had lapped at springs and pools while on the march. That was enough for him; he had work to do. But the giant, with Johnnie and his father, made a hurried but hearty meal, and Gourmand, after finishing the milk with some whisky in it, put all the solids in his capacious pockets.
“In case we cross Mount Hunger,” he said, nodding to the boy.
They were soon on the trail once more and coming to the edge of the water, the hound was once more puzzled.
He stretched his neck up, sniffed and howled a little, then he dashed away along the bank back again to the place where the men stood, then gave voice, impatiently, and plunging in swam right across.
Johnnie had been missed for a short time, he was now noticed rowing up stream towards them in a cobble which he had seen farther down the river on the other side,and to gain which he had boldly swam over. It had evidently been left there by the kidnappers. But the lad’s keen eyes had detected something else that now gave them all heart, namely the impression of Peggy’s boots on the soft ground by the river, so it was evident she was not dead.
The trail was once more found and now it was evident from all that had occurred, and the still burning fire in the shieling hut, the villains could not be far ahead, and that, indeed, they might expect to come up with them at any moment. Johnnie’s fishing line was formed into a leash or leader, and this was attached to Ralph’s collar to curb his extra speed and impetuosity. Neither the hound nor his owners had much experience of this sort of work, and instead of capturing his man or men, the sagacious animal might proceed to attack on sight.
To keep on the trail, however, was by no means easy work, owing to streams of water which the kidnappers had evidently waded, and which for a time destroyed the scent.
It led northwards almost directly, and there could be no doubt, now, that the object of their ambition was to gain the seashore,and either to conceal themselves in some town, or get picked up by a boat.
By noon, when the sun was at its height, rest became imperative, for the day had become very hot, and the pursuers quite exhausted. So tying the dog to a tree, they lay down under its welcome shade and were soon fast asleep.
When they awoke all of a sudden they found themselves very much refreshed. But Fitzroy suddenly sprang to his feet and whipped out his revolver, for there, not ten yards away under the shadow of another tree, stood two rough-looking men with guns across their arms.
They were keepers, however, and Fitzroy’s mind was much relieved, so was Gourmand’s flask which he had handed to the men. There was only a spoonful or two left for decency sake.
And “och! and och! and she was a good dram, and what could they do for the strangers at all?”
These men were wiser far than they looked, and when Fitzroy told them the story of Peggy’s abduction they offered their services at once, and explained their plans. They were just a dozen miles and abittock from the seashore on a bee-line, but to the left was a town and to the right another, with a small cluster of fishermen’s huts on a tiny cove close by the sea.
They, the keepers, would take different roads, one to the western town, the other to the left, so as to intercept the kidnappers if they took either direction, while Fitzroy and the others would keep up the man-hunt in whichever way the dog chose to lead them.
Luck favoured them for once, for the brave Ralph, after trotting his masters along at the double, for three miles over a high rough heatherland brought them directly to the door of a shepherd’s cottage. A woman answered their loud knocking and they told the story.
“O, the villains, and it isn’t an hour since they left this place. O dear, and O dear, and I knew the weeping lassie who would neither touch bite nor sup wasn’t theirs. And it was the good mind to keep her I had. But I made her lie down in my room, and they, the scoundrels, lay before the fire, for two hours, and if my husband Donald, and his dog Curlin had been at home, sure they would have throttled the pair of them.”
“And which road did they take, my good woman?”
“Is it which road, sir? O, sure then, straight for the little clachan by the sea.”
Fitzroy slipped a silver coin into her hand, they swallowed a draught of milk each, and once more took the road.
* * * * *
The sun was in the west but still high over the blue Moray Firth, and the purple sierras of Ross and Sutherland, when the tired band paused for consultation on the cliff not more than half a mile from the seashore.
Gourmand, still holding the hound, who seemed anxious to tear on, looked round at his companions.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said in his best stagey manner, “the curtain now rises on the last act of this beautiful drama ‘The Captive Princess; or the Giant, the Boy, and the Fairy Hound.’
“Behold before you the final scene. Down beneath on the green links a solitary hut close by a creek. In that hut hide the villains in possession of the innocent princess. Afar off, the blue sky and blue sea, and on its bright bosom a sprightlyyacht with spreading sails, heading for the shore. Presently the anchor will be dropped, a boat will be lowered and impelled by sturdy rowers, head on towards the creek, where the villains——”
“Here, my dear fellow, that is enough,” cried Fitzroy impatiently. “I don’t doubt that the kidnappers are in yonder hut, but let us be moving, and that right quickly too, else we’ll lose the game which now seems so easy to win.”
Nor was there any time to lose or to squander in talking, for already the yacht was nearing the shore, and even as he looked, Fitzroy noticed a flag run up to the peak and as quickly lowered again.
This signal brought a man right out of the cottage. He stood on the knoll for a moment, gave one quick suspicious glance around him, then waved a shawl and disappeared once more.
Fortunately there were some bushes—a rugged sort of seaside hedge—betwixt the cliff and the hut, and, like most fishermen’s cottages, this ran at right angles to the beach, there being no window in the landward gable.
It was along this hedge that Gourmandand Fitzroy approached to the attack. The giant had furnished himself with a club like a weaver’s beam, while the “cap’n” had a stout stick, a stout heart, and his revolver. But Johnnie was left concealed behind a tree at the cliff foot with strict orders not to let loose the hound unless summoned to do so by a shrill whistle.
The two pursuers now dashed quickly past the window, and knocking at the door loudly demanded admittance.
Even as they did so they heard out yonder in the bay, the rattle of the chain as the anchor was let go, and knew there was not a moment to spare, for a boat would speedily be lowered.
“Open the door, lads. Your little game is up!”
No answer.
The fellows inside knew their book.
“Dash in the door, Gourmand!”
The giant’s right shoulder fell on it like a muffled battering ram, and, at the second blow, it fell with a crash almost on top of those behind it.
“Up arms or I shoot,” cried Fitzroy.
This was a vain threat, and I suppose the kidnappers knew it. For to have firedwould have endangered the life of poor Peggy.
But Gourmand knocked both fellows down as they tried to escape, and the showman stood over them with his revolver.
The battle was not yet over however. Indeed it had not well begun. There was a shout from beach-wards, and the yachtsmen, six in all, were seen rushing on to the rescue.
And bad would it have gone with Fitzroy and even the giant himself had not at that very moment not only Johnnie with the hound, but the two keepers arrived to join the fray.
That fray would have done an Irishman at Ballyporeen credit, and to have seen how Gourmand laid around him, flailing right and left, would have rejoiced the heart of a Cuscerora Indian.
He fell at last, however, with a shot through his wrist, and there was a lull and a few moments’ parley. But fishermen were being attracted to the scene and dreading capture, the whole band made good their retreat to their boat. Soon they were on board and getting up anchor.
Peggy was saved.
THE worthy showman was now more convinced than ever that an enemy existed who would move heaven and earth to remove Peggy from his charge, and she was quite as much to him as if she had been his daughter. He determined, therefore, to keep a more watchful eye over her. She was a wilful, wandering little maiden, who took everybody to be good even as she herself was good. She had no suspicion of evil in any one, because it existed not in her own warm little heart.
But Fitzroy told her now that she must promise never to go away from the camp without her bloodhound. Wondering much, the girl made this promise, and the good fellow breathed more freely now.
But for weeks after that strange adventure, they spent a really good time in Scotland, and drew in the dollars too, for above all countries in the world, perhaps, Caledonia is the land of song and poetry. The love ofbeauty lies deep down at the bottom of each far-northern heart, side by side with sentiment and true patriotism, a flower that can only bloom in a mountain land.
Then one day they found themselves all back once more, safe and sound in England, the scenery of which, though less wild than that of its warlike neighbour, is very sweet and tender.
Summer would not be leaving here for some time to come.
They had given Wales a turn, and lay for a whole week on the beautiful bank of the Wye. The music of Wales is also Celtic, that is the old, old music, and though the country is now famous for its study of the classical, dearly do they love the more simple lilts of the land of Burns and Tannahill.
So Fitzroy did well to introduce Scottish scenes and customs, and Scottish melodies into the little plays he now presented to the rural public. At L—— they had one of the heartiest welcomes ever accorded to them anywhere, and it was with great reluctance that Fitzroy at last intimated to a bumper house, that next morning they must start on their wanderings once again.
“But we are coming back, my friends,” he concluded, “for never while life holds on to burn within our breasts shall we forget the kindly welcome we have received in Wales.”
* * * * *
So early did they start, on and away over the hills and through the beautiful woods, next day, that there was hardly a soul astir to see them off.
They did not give another entertainment for a whole fortnight. But nobody was really idle. Indeed, Fitzroy was the busiest of the busy. Wasn’t he building a new play to be put upon the boards late in autumn? Besides, he spent his leisure time in fashioning flutes. This was most congenial employment, and he could think out his drama even as he worked. The flutes when fashioned were really beautiful instruments, and there was in London a firm that knew their value and gave him good prices. But he received even larger sums for the flutes he sold privately.
When they lay for a few days at some village, they billed it, not for the play, but for “Peggy the Palmist.”
“Oh, yes, she had studied palmistry as an exact science. I myself have doubtsconcerning its exactness, but after reading a hand, Peggy made wonderfully good guesses as to the past and future life of her visitors. The bills ran something as follows:—
“THALASSAINE,The world-renowned Child Palmist, will deliver an outdoor lecture on Palmistry in the camp of the Wandering MinstrelsOn etc., etc.,Admission Free.Thalassaine may be consulted by appointment at her caravan, the ‘Little Rover,’ or will attend ladies at their own residences. Fee on application.”
“THALASSAINE,
The world-renowned Child Palmist, will deliver an outdoor lecture on Palmistry in the camp of the Wandering Minstrels
On etc., etc.,Admission Free.
Thalassaine may be consulted by appointment at her caravan, the ‘Little Rover,’ or will attend ladies at their own residences. Fee on application.”
Did the lectures pay? Indeed they did. Though they were free, a collection was made to defray all expenses, and after this Peggy would sing and play, the giant and dwarf went through a short performance, and Johnnie gave an exhibition with the Indian clubs.
Then the lecture led to such good business that the Wandering Minstrels often stayed for three weeks in a nice pitch, which under other circumstances they would have left next day.
* * * * *
Oh, for that beautiful summer that so quickly wore away! And, oh, for thecharming scenery of the south and the west of Merrie England, which they might perhaps never see again!
Shall I describe the scenery in detail which day after day they passed through as the weeks glided over their heads? If I had space, nothing on earth would please me more, my dear girl and boy readers. Some day perhaps—yes, some day! Heigho! But I must not seem to sadden you, children, even with a sigh.
The events and the incidents of the road were for ever changing. Every turn of the highway brought before them a new scene—woods draped in all the glory of sunshine, high green lights, and darkest foliage; the silence of forests, broken only by the songs of the wild-birds or the croodling of the ring-doves in the thickets of spruce; the solemn silence of moorlands—in spring-time dotted over with the white blossoming hawthorn or may, and the golden glory of furze that scented the air for miles around—in autumn, crimson and purple with heather and heath; great stretches of greenest grass-land, undulating, charming, with maybe a streamlet meandering through them, by the banks of which rustic divinities in the shapeof red or speckled cows waded knee-deep in buttercups and daisies; cattle and sheep happy together on lone hill-sides; hares on the heaths, who sat up and quietly washed their faces as they gazed at or after the caravans; wild-flowers everywhere, by the river’s brink, afloat in the river itself, standing erect in their glory of crimson or pink among the bulrushes; wild-flowers on the moors, on the mountains, in the fields, by the hedgeways, and covering great patches of level sward through which the brown road went winding and winding till it climbed mountain and hill perhaps, and disappeared over its brow, or went rapidly downwards till lost in the rolling shadows of woodlands; little lakes and lonely tarns near to which they often made the mid-day halt, and rippling streams, with here a pool and there a pool, from which glad fish leapt up into the sunshine.
Sunshine? Oh, yes, sunshine, but not always. There were days of wind and rain, drizzling mountain rain that soaked the roads, that saddened the very horses; wild storms of wind or sudden squalls that at times all but overturned the great caravan. Then there were the thunder-storms that so delightedPeggy, for the louder heaven’s artillery, the heavier the spate, and the more vivid the lightning, the better pleased were Peggy and little Willie.
On rainy days even with the wind ahead, little concerts would be held in the wee caravan, as the horse jogged slowly on. On days like these they tried to get earlier into camp, and after the tent was erected and the horses seen to, an excellent dinner made all hands forget the weariness of the long, long way they had traversed.
I pause here—give one more sigh for the summer that passed so soon away.
* * * * *
One autumn evening they encamped in a field not far from a sweet little village, or rather hamlet, of scattered, old-fashioned, and very Saxon houses. The children were as Saxon as the village, fair-headed, rosy-lipped, bare-headed innocents, with eyes of “himmel blue”; beautiful enough were they to dream of.
There was an inn here and there in the village, but the streets, as they might have been called by courtesy, were so winding and so interlaced, crossing here and crossing there, that to walk down any one of them
[Image unavailable\n\n.]“You cowards,” cried the captain.Page 130.
“You cowards,” cried the captain.Page 130.
“You cowards,” cried the captain.
Page 130.
streamlet and play to it and its water-lilies. The blood-hound was her constant companion, hardly ever leaving her side for a moment. Nor did she ever go out without Kammie. She never cared much whither she went or wandered, so long as there was rustic beauty around her, and I daresay she was guilty of trespassing as often as not.
The sun was declining in the west, and his beams were already shimmering horizontally through the tall and leafy elms of a beautiful park, one afternoon when she came to a tiny Gothic bridge and crossed it. It was evidently private ground, for there was an air of cultivation everywhere around, and two snow-white swans sailed up to her and looked sidelong at her with their wise, soft eyes. These swans seemed to be fifty years of age, if a day.
Peggy wandered on and over the grass, past great clumps of brown-stemmed pine-trees, clumps of ferns and rhododendrons, at present out of bloom, till she came in sight of a fine old English mansion-house: yellow were its walls against the green and well-kept lawn, and in the rays of the fast-declining sun.
Peggy stopped now and gazed in abewildered way at the house, then at all its surroundings. Where had she seen a house something like this before? Was it in a dream, or had the place only some resemblance to mansions she must often have seen during her wanderings. But no; it must have been a dream. She seated herself on a little rustic bench, and Ralph jumped up by her side. Her fingers touched the mandoline. Music always clears memory, because it calms the mind.
She was singing a song that was sad but sweet. She could not tell who had taught her that song, nor where she had heard it, only it welled up in her memory, and seemed to mingle with the dream that was around her.
Presently Ralph rose slowly and growled low, but not in an unfriendly way. Indeed, he was wagging his tail. Peggy looked quickly round, for a gentle hand was laid upon her shoulder.
“Dear child,” said a white-haired, kindly-faced, elderly lady who stood over her, “will you oblige me by playing that air again and singing the song? It is an old, old favourite of mine. I will sit beside your noble hound.”
Peggy had been used to encores all her life, or ever since she had joined the Wandering Minstrels, so she readily complied. When she looked about again, she noticed that tears had been falling over the lady’s face. But these were quickly dried.
“Thank you, dear. Thank you, Thalassaine. You see I know your name. What is on your shoulder, child? You are smoothing it with one finger.”
Then the truth flashed upon Peggy’s mind. This gentle-faced lady, with hair like the winter’s snow, was partially blind.
“Oh, dear lady,” she said, soothingly, and laying her tiny hand on hers, “are you—I mean, don’t you see quite well?”
“But,” she added, before she could receive an answer, “this is my pet chameleon. Johnnie baptised him Kammie. He never speaks nor makes a single sound, but he is quiet in all his ways, andsodroll that—well, I think Johnnie and I have grown fond of him.”
“Who is Johnnie?”
“Oh, Johnnie is—just Johnnie.”
“Naturally, but——”
“I live in a show, lady, and Johnnie’s theowner’s son. He is very strong and good, and nice, and he always calls me cousin. But I don’t know why. Father Fitzroy—we all call him Father—brought me to the show when I was very tiny, and that was after mother and father died, you know. He told me that. I think you would like Kammie. May I put him in your hand?”
The lady stretched out her white palm, and immediately she did so Peggy forgot all about Kammie, and he remained there on her shoulder looking all round him for his evening meal of unwary flies. Peggy took the hand, and as she did so a strange and unaccountable thrill ran through her.
“Ah, little maiden, you are a palmist, and what soft, little, fondling hands you have. Yes, you may read my palm if you please.”
It was a sweet, still evening, the winds whispering through the trees; and though summer was over, a blackbird still fluted on the hawthorn. Beauty everywhere around, in the sky, on the trees, and on yonder lakelet, that shone like a mirror, and reflected the dying glory of the shrubs that grew around it. But Peggy heard nothing, saw nothing except the white palm held out for inspection.
The child believed in palmistry as she believed in the Book, and yet often she found it difficult indeed to read a hand. But now, it was all so very different, and everything was as clear to her as a landscape in the noonday sun. Nay, more, it did not seem to be herself who was talking, or rather, I should say, it did not appear to be her own self that was accountable for the words she spoke. Something appeared to be talking to her—through her, and she was but repeating what she heard. It was a soul voice. The child spoke earnestly, as she examined line after line.
“You have had much sorrow and disappointment in life, lady—more, I mean, than many have. (A sigh from her patient attested to the truth of what she said.) You were born to wealth and riches—you married, but not the man you loved—he was reported false—he was true as needle to the pole—he might never talk to you again—you were the bride of another—for long years, though you never knew it, he dwelt near to you in a humble cottage, that he might see you as you passed his garden—an undying love—but your child, a prattling infant girl of four, made the hermit’s acquaintance—he had always aflower for her or sweets as she passed with her maid—and the child became fond of the recluse—became the light of his soul—he was never happy on the days she did not come—a wild wintry storm raged—the village was blocked for weeks—at last the sun shone—bud and burgeon on the trees—bird song in the copse—but the blinds were drawn down over the hermit’s windows—he was gone.”
“Was he dead?” said the lady.
“There is one line, dear lady, that I cannot read.”
“Go on, child.”
“Months after this, proof of death and a will.”
“Yes, yes.”
“That will left all his wealth to your little daughter—in case of her death it would revert to his brother, a man who lived by his wits, a betting man, a man of the world, yet poor. Then, lady, that child was lost—she had wandered away from her maid and had fallen into a disused pit, where the body was found a month afterwards, recognisable only by the clothes she wore.”
Peggy stopped. The soul voice had ceased to prompt her.
“I can tell no more,” she said. “All your future seems dark and misty.”
“Ay, child, and dark will it be when my sight goes—quite dark. I shall then have but the past to dwell on. Would it had been a happier one! But,” she added, “you have read my hand aright. I hope you will come here again often before you go, and that you will write to me. Down in that clump of trees is a marble tablet, and under it the remains of the child I loved so dearly. Good-bye, little one. Mind you come again to-morrow. Bring your beautiful dog and your little cold Kammie.”
And so Peggy said “Good-night.” The lady kissed her beautiful hair, and though she could not tell why, the tears came with a rush to Peggy’s eyes as she did so.
Johnnie himself came to meet her, as the shades of evening were now falling and the boy was anxious. Peggy sighed sadly as she was told that Father Fitzroy had ordered an early start for next day. Father Fitzroy must be obeyed.
And Peggy had no time then to call on the gentle, white-haired lady. But the meeting was one she would never, never forget.
SUMMER was done; autumn itself was far spent, and once more near the suburbs of a pretty and fashionable seaside town the Wandering Minstrels had pitched their camp.
The dear old life by the dear old sea had commenced again, and Peggy and Johnnie were very happy; so, too, was white-faced wee Willie, while as for the giant—well, nothing ever put him out.
Father Fitzroy was jolly enough also, because he was drawing good houses with his new play, and selling many flutes. What more could heart of wanderers wish? Ah! well, nobody ever is altogether content in this world, and there were times when Fitzroy thought his life had been almost thrown away, and that he might be better off than he now found himself—lessee of the “Lyceum,” for instance. But better days might even be in store for Fitzroy. So he lit another hugecigar, and took up a new flute to see if he could improve it.
* * * * *
There were woods all round this seaside town, more romantic even than the forests about Bootle-super-Mare, because there were hills and rocks in them, and a rushing river and a waterfall. Although there were but few leaves now on the trees, and winds tossed the branches to and fro, it was pleasant to walk on the silent turf beneath, or to climb the cliffs and gather the last wild-flowers of the year.
Peggy was more often alone than with Johnnie Fitzroy during these rambles. She never asked him to come, and he was a strange and wayward boy, who never made up his mind to do anything until the last moment.
The sea was usually more sullen in temper now, yet Peggy loved it in its every mood, and liked to lie on the shingle and watch its waves chasing each other shorewards, erecting their white manes and spending their wild-beast fury on the beach. They sang a song that was eternal, and it was that eternal song she liked to lie and listen to.
Was Peggy becoming a dreamer of dreams as she lay by the seashore, the blood-houndby her side ever watchful, the chameleon on her wrist or shoulder? I could not say for certain, but I know she sometimes wondered what her future life might be. There were people who lived in great mansions like that of the snowy-haired lady she had met that day in the park, and who, simply because they have money, must be happy, because they can go where they like, and do what they like—theirs surely must be life in a sort of fairyland—the fairyland of wealth and greatness! Was she herself longing for an existence like this, and if ever it came to her, would she not look back to the days that had been so happy, in woods and wilds, with Kammie, with Ralph, and—well, and with Johnnie?
She used to return in the autumn twilight, coming back to camp through the town itself, with its clean and beautiful streets, and with everywhere around her signs of a life in which she mingled not, and about which she knew little or nothing.
The evenings were colder now, for it was the month of September, and while stars were becoming visible in the blue-green of the east, and struggling with the dying glow of the twilight, lights sprang up in the housesand villas she passed by, and as people at this seaside resort seldom drew their blinds down, Peggy, though by no means inquisitive, could not help having a peep inside, and a glimpse of the happiness and cosiness of many a family circle. The crimson or blue hall-lights looked very pretty, she thought. How big and rich-like even the great hall-mats, and the clean, shining linoleum! Here was a pretty cottage, and its snug drawing-room, and white-haired gentleman quietly reading in an easy-chair, his wife knitting by the fire, a cat and dog on the hearth-rug. A peaceful scene! And Peggy sighed, she knew not why. She would have liked just such a father and mother as that to tuck her up in bed of a winter’s night, in a room with a real fire in a real pretty grate, and pictures on the walls—to tuck her nicely up, and then, perhaps, sing soft, sweet lullabies to her till she glided away into the land of dreams.
Here is a party in a parlour not quite so pleasant. Yet the room is beautiful, and the ladies and gentlemen who stand around the table playing ping-pong are well-dressed, and all look happy and gay. And here again she paused a minute, to gaze into a room in whichwere five or six fair-haired and pretty young children, each engaged in some parlour game, a big black cat right in the centre of the table, and a hobby-horse in one corner of the room—it was as good as a pantomime. Then came a great house with great windows, brilliantly lighted with flittering balls of electric lamps. It was a hotel dining-room, and those were the guests all sitting at the dozens of tables, looking like kings and queens. Waiters bringing silver trays glided hither and thither, and on the snow-white table-cloth lay silver and gold dishes, and sparkling glasses, and flowers of every hue. Peggy sighed again, but could not even yet say why she did so.
She turned and came slowly back. But she increased her speed when she came in sight of her own little cosy camp, the tent lit up and as white as linen, the lights streaming from the caravan windows. She sighed no longer.
One night, when everybody was out of the camp, save old Molly and herself, Peggy sat at the tent table. And Peggy felt very sad, for Kammie, her weird, old-world pet, had been ailing for weeks, and had got thinner and thinner, and colder and colder. He hadtaken no food, and when placed on the grass he hardly moved. Indeed, when laid on his side he scarcely cared to wriggle into a more comfortable position. He was on his little branch of wood, and had gone to sleep with one arm raised, which he did not seem to have the strength to take down again.
Peggy had been sitting in the tent for hours watching him. She did not even want to play. Presently she got up, and, followed by Ralph, walked down the winding pathway that led from the sea-road and shingle to the camp. She leaned over the gate, and as she did so noticed a figure advancing. She was a little timid, but Ralph gave voice at once to a welcoming bay, and sprang forward to place two friendly paws on Johnnie’s shoulder.
“Oh, Johnnie,” she said, when he got close to her; “poor Kammie.”
“Not dead?”
“No; maybe not dead, but I’m sure he is going home.”
Then the innocent child began to sob and cry in her handkerchief.
Johnnie and she covered the cage up that night. They could not bear to see their favourite so very white and with so little colour in his tail.
Next morning the change came. Kammie was dead in reality now. The wonderful circular, brown, wrinkled eyelids that had always been a bonnie brown were black. The sides only of the body were jet black, every other part pale, white almost as snow, only about the gills a sunset glow of red. The tail was speckled yellow and gray.
Yes, Kammie was beautiful in Death. Stiff and stark he lay in state all that day, and on the morning after, they placed him in a little coffin of cardboard, and he was laid to rest in a grave that Willie had made in a distant corner of the field. And they planted a flower to mark the spot.
“AND what a change it will be, too,” said Reginald Fitzroy to Johnnie and Willie, while Peggy McQueen sat listening in the tent to every word that was said.
He had already signed the agreement with the Macgilvray Company to bring out Peggy on the Australian stage. In her acting and singing she had made such progress this winter, that she was certain to cause a sensation in that new land of sunshine.
It was spring again once more; it is a sorrowful thing for anyone who loves nature, to sail away from his native land when the birds begin to build and sing, and wild-flowers spring wanton, to be loved and admired.
But ever since he had met Macgilvray’s agent, Fitzroy had been a different man.
“It will be for the good of us all, my dears,” he said, hopefully. “Peggy will become a queen of the stage.”
Poor Peggy’s eyes sparkled with delight, but she sighed immediately afterwards, forshe was very fond of her caravan. But then—well, she couldn’t be always a child.
Father Fitzroy had already written a three-act piece for Peggy, and he himself believed he would get rich. Willie would be a draw, and the splendid blood-hound would work beautifully into the play. Such a chance would never come again, he thought—