"Oh, who can sayBut that this dream may yet come true?"Thomas Moore.
Thomas Moore.
For some days the gipsy caravan had been making its way along a very lonely road; they had come across no towns at all and no large villages. They got over more ground now, for there was less temptation to linger. The truth was that Mick and the other heads of the party had in some way got news that the great fair to which they were bound was to begin sooner than they expected, and unless they hurried on they might not be there in time to take up a good position among the many strays and waifs of their kind always to be found at such places. There were ever so many ways in which they expected to turn a number of honest or dishonest "pennies" at this same fair. It wasone of their regular harvest times. Mick and his friends always managed to do something in the way of horse-dealing on such occasions, and Diana, who was the best-looking of the younger gipsy-women, was thoroughly up to all the tricks of fortune-telling. Her cold haughty manners had often more success than the wheedling flatteries of the others. Shelookedas if she were quite above trickery of any kind, and no doubt the things she told were not altogether nonsense or falsehood. For she had learned to be wonderfully quick in reading the characters of those who applied to her, even in divining the thoughts and anxieties in their minds. And besides these resources the gipsies had a good show of baskets and brooms of their own manufacture to dispose of; added to which this year a hard bargain was to be driven with Signor Fribusco, the owner of the travelling circus, for the "two lovely orphans," whose description had already been given to him by some of the gipsy's confidantes, to whom Mick had sent word, knowing them to be in the Signor's neighbourhood.
Some of this Tim had found out by dint of listening to bits of conversation when he was supposed to be asleep. He grew more and more afraidas the days passed on and no chance of escape offered, for various things began to make him fear they were not very far from the town they were bound to. For one thing Mick's wife and Diana began to pay more attention to the two children's appearance. Their fair hair was brushed and combed every day, and their delicate skin was carefully washed with something that restored it almost to its natural colour; all of which had an ominous meaning for Tim.
"Diana is very kind now," said Pamela, one day when she and Duke had been allowed for once to run about a little with the other children. There certainly seemed small risk in their doing so, for the gipsies had encamped for the night on a desolate moor, where no human habitations of any kind were in sight, no passers-by to be feared.
"Yes," said Duke, who had hold of Tim's other hand; "she makes us nice and clean and tidy."
"And she's making a gown for me," said Pamela. "It's made of my own white gown, but she's sewing rows of red and blue and gold round it. And she says if Duke is good she's going to make him a red jacket. Isn't it kind of her? Do you know, Tim," she went on in a lower tone, "us has been thinkingthat perhaps they're meaning to take us home soon, and that they want us to look very nice. Do you think it's that, Tim? I'm sure Grandpapa and Grandmamma would be so pleased they'd give them lots of money if they took us back."
"I'm afeared it's not taking you home they're thinking of, missie," said Tim grimly.
"Then why don't you help us to run away, Tim?" said Duke impatiently. "I've asked you and asked you. I'm sure us might run awaynow—there's nobody looking after us."
"And where would we run to?" said Tim. "There's not a mortal house nor a tree even to be seen. Run away, indeed! We'd be cotched—cotched afore we'd run half a mile. And yet it's the very first time you've bin let run about a little. I'm ready enough to run away, but no good running away to be cotched again—it 'ud be worser nor ever."
"Then is us never to run away? Is us never to see Grandpapa, and Grandmamma, and Dymock, and Biddy, and Nurse, and Toby—oh, dear Toby!—and the garden, and the nursery, and our little beds, again?" said both children, speaking together and helping each other with the list of their lost blessings, and in the end bursting into tears.
Tim looked at them ruefully.
"Don't 'ee now, don't 'ee, master and missy," he said anxiously. "They'll see you've been crying, and they'll not let you out any more."
Duke and Pamela tried to choke down their sobs.
"Will you try to help us to run away, then, if us is very good—Tim, dear Tim, oh do," they said piteously. And Tim tried to soothe them with kind words and promises to do his best.
Poor fellow, he was only too ready to run away for his own sake as well as theirs. The feelings which had been stirred and reawakened by the children's companionship had not slumbered again; on the contrary, they seemed to gain strength every day. Every day he felt more and more loathing for his present life; every night when he tumbled into the ragged heap which was called his bed he said to himself more strongly that hemustget away—he could not bear to think that his mother, looking down on him from the heaven in which she had taught him to believe, could see him the dirty careless gipsy boy he had become. It was wonderful how her words came back to him now—how every time he could manage to get a little talk with his new friends their gentle voices and pretty waysseemed to revive old memories that he had not known were there. And the thought of rescuing them,—of succeeding in taking them safe back to their own home,—opened a new door for him.
"Maybe," said Tim to himself, "the old gentleman and lady'd take me on as a stable-boy or such like if the little master and missie'd speak a word for me, as I'm sure they would. And I'm right down sure I'd try to do my best—anything to get away from this life."
Of course he could have got away by himself at any time much more easily than with the children. But till now, as he had told them, he had not cared to try it, for where had he to run to? And, besides, it was only since Duke and Pamela had been with the gipsies that the wish to return to a better kind of life had grown so very strong.
He sighed heavily as he stood on the desolate moor with his two little companions, for he felt what he would not say to them, how terribly difficult their escape would be.
Suddenly Pamela tugged at his arm.
"What is that shining down there, Tim?" she said, pointing over the moor, which sloped downwards at one side. "Is it a river?"
Tim looked where she directed, and his face brightened a little.
"'Tis the canal, missie," he said. "It comes past Monkhaven, and goes—I don't rightly know where to. Maybe to that place we're going to, where the fair's to be. I once went a bit of a way on a canal—that was afore I was with Mick and his lot. There was a boy and his mother as was very good to me. I wish I could see them again, I do."
"But whatisa canal, Tim," said Pamela. "Us has never seen one, and that down there looks like a silver thread—it shines like water."
"So it is water, missie—a canal's a sort of a river, only it goes along always quite straight. It doesn't go bending in and out like a real river, sometimes bigger and sometimes littler like."
"And how did you go on it," asked Duke. "And the boy and his mother? You couldn't walk on it if it was water—nobody can except Jesus in the big Bible at home.Hewalked on the top of the water."
"Did he really?" said Tim, opening his eyes. "I've heerd tell on him. He was very good to poor folk and such like, wasn't he? Mother telled me about him, tho' I thought I'd forgotten all she'd toldme. But I remember the name now as you says it. And what did he walk on the top o' the water for, master?"
Duke looked a little puzzled.
"I don't quite remember, but I think it was to help some poor men when the sea was rough."
"No, no," said Pamela; "thatwas the time he felled asleep, and they woked him up to make the storm go away."
"I'm sure there was a storm the time he was walking on the water, too," said Duke; "there's the picture of it. When us goes in, sister, us'll get Grandmamma's picture-Bible and look"—but suddenly his voice fell, his eager expression faded. In the interest of the little discussion he had forgotten where they were, how far away from Grandmamma and her picture-Bible, how uncertain if ever they should see her or it again! Pamela understood.
"I wish Jesus would come and help us now," she said softly. "I'm sure us needs him quite as much as those men he was so kind to. Tell us about the canal, Tim."
"It's boats," replied Tim. "Long boats made just the right shape. And they've got rooms in them—quite tidy-like. The one that boy lived inalong o' his mother was as nice as—as nice as nice. And then they go a-sailin' along—right from one end of the canal to the other."
"What for—just because they like it?"
"Oh no. They've all sorts of things they take about from one place to another—wood often and coal. But that wasn't a coal boat—it was nice and clean that one. And there's hosses as walks along the side of the canals, pullin' of the boats with ropes. It's a pleasant life enough, to my thinking—that's to say when they're tidy, civil-like folk. Some of them's awful rough—as rough as Mick and the Missus and all o'them."
Duke and Pamela listened with the greatest interest. They quite forgot to cry any more about their home in listening to what Tim told them.
"Oh, Tim," said Pamela, "I'll tell you whatwouldbe nice. If us and you could get one of those boats, and a horse to pull it, and go sailing away till we got home to Grandpapa and Grandmamma. That would be nice, wouldn't it, Tim?"
"Yes, missie," said Tim. "But is there canals near your place?"
Pamela's face fell.
"I don't know. I never thought of that," shesaid. "But I daresay there's one that goes to not far off from there. And Mick would never catch us then, would he, Tim? We'd go so fast, wouldn't we?"
"They don't go that fast—not canal boats," replied Tim. "Still I don't think as Mick'd ever think of looking for us there. That'd be the best of it."
But just then the rough voice of Mick himself was heard calling to them to come back; for they had wandered to some little distance from the other children, who were quarrelling and shouting near the vans.
"Come back you brats, will ye?" he roared. And the poor little things, like frightened sheep, followed by Tim, hurried back. Pamela shuddered at the sound of their jailor's voice in a way the boy could not bear to see. Mick had never yet actually struck her or her brother so as to hurt them; but Tim well knew that any day it might come to that.
"And a blow from his heavy hand—such a blow as he's given me many a time when he's been tipsy—would go near to killing them tender sort o' fairy-like critturs," said the boy to himself, shuddering inhis turn. "He's been extra sober for a good bit, but onst he gets to the fair there's no saying."
And over and over again, as he was falling asleep, he asked himself what could be done,—how it would be possible to make their escape? Somehow the sight of the canal had roused a little hope in him, though he did not yet see how it could be turned to purpose.
"If we keeps it in sight, I'll see if I can't get near hand it some day and have a look at the boats, if there's any passing. Maybe there'd be some coming from where the fair is. And if there was any folk like them as was so good to me that time, they'd be the right sort for to help us."
And poor Tim had a most beautiful dream that night. He thought he himself and Duke and Pamela were sailing down a lovely stream in a boat shining like silver, and with sails of white striped with red and blue and gold, like the frock Diana was trimming for Pamela. They went so fast it was more like flying than sailing, and all of a sudden they met another boat in which were a lady and gentleman, whom he somehow knew at once were the Grandpapa and Grandmamma of the children's talk, though they were dressed so grandlyin crimson robes, and with golden crowns on their heads like kings and queens, that he was frightened to speak to them; for he had nothing on but his ragged clothes. And just as Duke and Pamela were rushing towards them with joy, and he was turning away ashamed and miserable, wiping his tears with his jacket sleeve, a soft voice called to him not to be afraid but to come forward too. And looking up he saw a figure hovering over him, all white and shining like an angel. But when he looked at the face—though it was so beautiful—he knew he had seen it before. It was that of his poor mother; he knew at once it was she, though in life he could only remember her wan and worn and often weeping.
"Take courage, my boy—a new life is beginning for you. Have no fear."
And then, just as it seemed to him that little Pamela turned round, holding out her hand to lead him forward, he woke!
But his dream left a hopeful feeling in his heart. It was still very early morning and all his companions were asleep. Tim got up and very quietly crept out of the sort of one-sided tent, made by drawing a sail-cloth downwards from the top ofthe van, where he and the other boys slept. He walked a little way over the rough moor, for there was no road, scarcely even a track, and looked down to where, in the clear thin morning light, the canal lay glittering below. Then he gazed over the waste in front. Which way would they be going? Would they skirt the canal more closely or branch off and strike away from it? Tim could not tell. But he resolved to keep his eyes and ears open and to find out.
All that day the gipsy vans jolted along the rough cart-track across the moor. They halted as usual at mid-day—but Tim could not get to speak to the twins at all. And then the caravan started again and went rumbling on till much later than usual, for, as Tim overheard from the gipsies' conversation, they were eager now to get to Crookford, where the fair was to be, as quickly as possible. When they at last stopped for the night it was almost dark; but the boy crept close up to the entrance of the waggon where he knew the children to be, and hid himself at the side, and, as he expected, the two little figures came timidly forward.
"Diana," they said softly, and he heard the girl answer not unkindly, but coldly, as was her way.
"Well, what now?"
"Mayn't us come out a little bit, even if it is dark? Us is so tired of being in here all day."
"And my head's aching," added Pamela.
Diana hesitated. A small fine rain—or perhaps it was only mist—was beginning to fall; but in spite of that she would probably have let them out a little had not Mick just then come forward.
"They want out a bit," she said. "They're tired like with being mewed up in there all day and never a breath of air—no wonder," and she made as if she were going to lift Pamela down the steps.
"Are you crazed, girl?" said the gipsy, pushing her back. "To let them out now in the chill of the evening, and it raining too—to have them catch their deaths of cold just as I've some chance of making up for all the trouble they've cost me. Fool that I was to be bothered with them. But you're not a-going to spoil all now—that I can tell ye."
Diana looked at him without speaking. She was not at all in the habit of giving in to him, but she knew that a quarrel terrified the children. She felt too, as she lifted her dark face to the clouded sky, that it was really raining, and she reflected that there might be truth in what Mick said so rudely.
"THEY WANT OUT A BIT," SHE SAID.
"THEY WANT OUT A BIT," SHE SAID. "THEY'RE TIRED LIKE WITH BEING MEWEDUP IN THERE ALL DAY AND NEVER A BREATH OF AIR—NO WONDER."—p.132.
"I think it is too cold and damp for you," shesaid turning to the door where the two little white faces were looking out piteously. "Never mind," she added in a lower tone, "I'll come back in a minute, and we'll open the window to let some air in, and then I'll sing you to sleep."
Tim could scarcely believe his ears to hear the rough harsh Diana speaking so gently.
"Ifshe'dhelp us," he thought to himself, "there'd be some chance then."
But he remained quite still, crouching in the shelter of the van—almost indeed under it—he was so anxious to hear more of Mick's plans if he could, for he noticed that the gipsy hung about while the girl was speaking to the children, as if he had something to say to her unheard by them.
They were so frightened of him that they drew back into the dark recesses of the van, and when they were no longer to be seen, Mick pulled Diana's sleeve to attract her attention.
"Just you listen to me, girl, will ye?" he said. "I'll stand none of your nonsense—thinking to queen it over us all. Now just listen to me."
Diana shook his hand off her arm.
"I'll listen if you'll speak civil, Mick," she said. "What is it you've got to say?"
She spoke quietly but sternly, and he seemed frightened. He had evidently been drinking more than of late, and Tim shuddered at the thought of what might happen if he were to get into one of his regular tipsy fits while the children were still there.
"It's along o' them childer," said Mick, though less roughly now. "You're a-spoiling of them, and I won't have it. To-morrow evening'll see us at Crookford, and the day after they're to be took to the Signor. Their looks'll please him—I'm not afeard for that; but I've gave him to understand that they're well broke in, and there'll be no trouble in teaching them the tricks and singin' and dancin' and all that. And he's to give me a good sum down and a share of the profits. And if he's not pleased and they're turned back on my hands—well, it'll beyourdoing—that I can tell you, and you shall pay for it. So there—you know my mind."
He had worked himself up into rage and excitement again while he spoke, but Diana did not seem to care.
"What do you know of the man? will he be good to them?" she said coolly.
Mick gave a sneering laugh.
"He won't starve them nor beat them so as to spoil their pretty looks," he said. "They'll have to do what they're told, and learn quick what they've got to learn. You don't suppose childer like that 'ull pay for their keep if they're to be made princes and princesses of?"
"Then what did you steal them for? You do nothing but grumble about them now you've got them—why didn't you, any way, take them home after a bit and get something for your pains?"
"I thought o' doing so at the first," said Mick sulkily, as if forced to speak in spite of himself. "But they're sharper nor I thought for. No knowing what they'd ha' told. And when Johnny Vyse came by and told o' the fair, and the Signor sure to be ready to take 'em and pay straight for 'em, I see'd no use in running my head into a noose by taking 'em back and getting took myself for my pains. I've had enough o' that sort o' thing, as you might know."
"Letmetake them home, then," said Diana suddenly. "I'll manage so as no blame shall fall on you—no one shall hear anything about you. And for myself I don't care. I'd almost as lief be in prison as not sometimes."
Mick stared at her.
"Are ye a-going out of yer mind?" he said, "or d'ye think I am? After all the trouble I've had with the brats, is it likely I'll send 'em home and lose all? It's too late now to try for a reward; they're sharp enough to tell they could have been took home long ago. But if the Signor isn't square with me, I may make something that way too—I can tell onhimmaybe. But I'll take care to get my reward and be out o' the way first. I'm not such a fool as you took me for after all, eh? And if you see what's for your good you'll do your best to help me, and you'll find I'll not forget you. One way or another I'm pretty sure to make a tidy thing of them."
Diana turned away, and for a moment or two there was silence. Tim's heart beat so fast he almost felt as if the gipsies would hear it. He could not see Diana's face, but he trembled with fear lest Mick's bribes should win her over. And when her words came it seemed as if his fears were to be fulfilled.
"Youarea sharp one, Mick, and no mistake," she said, with a strange hard laugh. The gipsy was too muddled in his head to notice anythingpeculiar in her tone, and he took her answer for a consent.
"That's right. I thought ye'd hear reason," he said. And then he lurched off to his own quarters.
Diana stood where she was for a moment. Suddenly she raised her hands to her face, and Tim fancied he heard a smothered sob. Without stopping to think what he was risking, the boy crept out of the shadow where he had been hidden, and caught hold of her skirts just as she was turning to mount into the van where the children were.
"Diana," he said breathlessly, "I've heard all he said. You don't mean to take part with him, do you? You'll never help to sell those pretty babies like that? I'll do anything—anything you tell me—if you'll join with me to get them sent home."
In her turn Diana caught hold of him and held him fast.
"Tim," she said, "you want to get off yourself, and you'd do your best for them. I've seen it. But alone you'd never manage it. I'll help you, Tim. I won't have it on my conscience that I stood by and saw those innocents sold to such a life. If it had been to keep them a while longer with us, Imightn't have done anything, not just yet, not till I saw a chance. But whatever Mick and the others say, I won't see them taken away unless it is to go back to their own people."
"That's right, Diana," said Tim.
"And I'll help you. Keep your wits about you and be ready when I give the sign. Now get out of the way and take care. If Mick hadn't made himself stupid lately he'd have seen you were thinking of something. You mustn't say a word to the children; leave them to me," and again squeezing the boy's arm meaningly, she climbed up into the waggon, where the two little prisoners, tired of waiting for her, had fallen fast asleep.
Tim, for his part, tumbled into his so-called bed that night, with a wonderfully lightened heart, and his dreams were filled with the most joyous hopes.
"I am a friend to them and you."Winter's Tale.
Winter's Tale.
It was a good thing Tim had some new ground of hope, for otherwise the next day or two would have sadly distressed him. He never once could get near the children. And, what he found very strange, Diana herself seemed to be doing her utmost to keep him from them. Two or three times, especially when Mick or the Missus happened to be near, she roughly pushed him back when he was making his way to the door of the van, where Duke and his sister were. And at first the boy was not only surprised, but rather offended.
"What for will you not let me play with them a bit?" he said to her, half inclined to appeal to Mick, who did not interfere.
"They've no need ofyou—keep out of my way," Diana answered roughly, at which Mick and the others laughed as if it was a very good joke, for hitherto Diana had been always accused of "favouring" the boy.
Tim looked up resentfully. He had it on his tongue—for after all he was only a child—to say something which might have done harm never to be undone, for he could not understand Diana. But something in her face, as she looked at him steadily, stopped the words of reproach as they rose to his lips.
"You'll make an end of them, you will, if you keep them choked up in there all day," he said sullenly. "Why can't you let 'em out for a bit of a run with me, like you've done before?"
"I'll let them out when it suits me, and not before. It's none of your business," she replied, while adding in a lower tone that no one else could overhear: "I'd never have thought you such a fool, Tim;" and Tim, feeling rather small,—for he began to understand her a little,—walked off.
All this was at what they called dinner-time, when the vans generally halted for an hour or so and hitherto—even when they were travelling tooquickly for the children to have walked beside for a change, as they had sometimes done when going slowly—Mick or Diana had always let them out at this hour for a breath of fresh air. But to-day, though it was beautifully fine and the sun was shining most temptingly, poor Duke and Pamela had to be content with the sight of it through the tiny little window in the side of the van, which Diana opened, and with such air as could get in by the same means. It was hot and stuffy inside, and their little heads ached with being jolted along, and with having had no exercise such as they were accustomed to. Still they did not look altogether miserable or unhappy, as they tried to eat the dinner the gipsy girl had brought them on a tin plate, from the quickly-lighted fire by the hedge, where the old hag who did the cooking for the party had been stewing away at a mess in a great pot. She ladled out the contents all round for the others, but Diana helped herself. She picked out the nicest bits she could see for the two little prisoners, and stood by them for a minute or two to see if they really were going to eat.
"I'll come back in a bit to see if it's all gone," she said, when she had seen them at work, "andremember what I said this morning. That'll help to make you eat hearty."
"Her's very kind," said Duke; but as he spoke he laid down the coarse two-pronged fork Diana had given him to eat with, and seemed glad of an excuse to rest in his labours for a while. "But I can't eat this, can you, sister?"
Pamela looked up—she had got a small bone in her fingers, at which she was trying to nibble.
"I'm pretending to be Toby eating a bone," she said gravely. "Sometimes it makes it seem nicer."
"Idon't think so," said Duke. "It only makes it worser to think of Toby," and his voice grew very doleful, as if he were going to cry.
"Now don't, bruvver," said Pamela. "Let's think of what Diana said."
"What was it?" said Duke. "Say it again."
"'Twas that, p'raps, if us was very good and did just ezactly what her tells us, us'd go somewhere soon, where us'd beveryhappy," said Pamela. "Where do you fink it can be, Duke? Us mustn't tellnobody, not even Tim; but I don't mind, for Diana said she thought Tim'd go too. Do you fink she meant" (and here poor little Pam, who had learnt unnatural caution already, glanced round her—as if any one could have been hidden in the small space of the van!—and lowered her voice)—"that she meant us was to gohomeagain to dear Grandmamma and Grandpapa?"
Duke shook his head.
"No," he said, "they'll never send us home now. Mick'd be put in prison if he took us home. I know that. I heard what they was saying about it one day when they didn't know I was there. And it's too far away—it's a dreadful way away. We can never go home. I daresay Grandpapa and Grandmamma and everybody's dead by now," concluded Duke, who talked with a sort of reckless composure sometimes, altogether too much for Pamela, who burst into tears.
"Oh bruvver!" she cried between her sobs, "don't talk like that. IfinkGod's too good to have let dear Grandpapa and Grandmamma die. And us has said our prayers such many many times about going home. I'm sure Grandpapa would never put Mick in prison if us asked him not, and p'raps if Mick was sure of that he'd take us home. Oh don't you fink us might go and ask him," and she started up.
"Us can't promise it; Grandpapa'dhaveto doit. It'd be hisdooty," said Duke sternly—his ideas on all subjects were very grim at present—"he'd have to stop Mick going and stealing away other children like he did us. And Diana said us mustn't speak tonobodyabout what she told us."
"I don't care about it if it isn't that us is going home," said Pamela, crying quietly. "I don't care about gold frocks like fairies and all that if dear Grandmamma and Grandpapa can't see us."
Duke looked at her gloomily.
"P'raps Diana meant us'd soon be going to heaven," he said at last. "I heard them saying us'd 'not stand it long,' and I know that means going to die."
"I don't care," sobbed Pamela again, "if Grandpapa and Grandmamma are dead, heaven'd be the best place for us to go to;" and regardless of all Diana had said to her about trying to eat and to keep up her spirits, the little girl let the tin plate, with the greasy meat and gravy, slip off her knees on to the floor, and, leaning her head on the hard wooden bench, she went off in a fit of piteous and hopeless sobbing. In a moment Duke's arms were around her, and he was kissing and hugging and doing his best to console her.
"Dear little sister," he cried, "don't be soveryunhappy. It was very naughty of me to say dear Grandpapa and Grandmamma and everybody would be dead."
"And Toby," interrupted Pamela. "Did you mean Toby too?"
Duke considered.
"No, I don't think I meant Toby. He must be a good deal younger than Grandpapa and Grandmamma, and I don't think he'd bequiteso unhappy about us as they'd be."
"IfI'dbeen Toby I'd have come to look for us," said Pamela, crying now less violently. "Us could have wrote a letter and tied it to his collar, and then Grandpapa could have come to look for us. Toby can run so fast," and she was going on to describe what she would have done in Toby's place when the little door of the van opened and Diana reappeared. Her face clouded as she looked at the children.
"Crying again! Oh missie," she said reproachfully, "that's not good of you. You'll cry yourself ill, and then——" Diana in turn looked round and lowered her voice, "have you forgotten the secret I told you? You'll never get away where you'dlike to be if you make yourself ill. And scarce a bite of dinner have you touched," she went on, looking at the bits of meat reposing beside the overturned plate.
Pamela lifted up her tear-swollen face and drew herself out of Duke's arms, to fling herself into Diana's.
"If us is going to die, it's no good eating," she said.
"Who said you was a-going to die?" exclaimed the gipsy girl.
"Duke and I was talking, and us thought p'raps heaven was the nice place you said us'd go to if us was good," replied Pamela.
Diana gave a little laugh, half sad and half bitter.
"It isn't here you'll learn much about going tothatplace," she said. "But that wasn't what I meant. Listen, master and missy; but, mind you, never you say one word,—now hush and listen," and in a very low voice she went on: "To-night we'll get to a big town where there's a fair. Mick's got it all settled to give you to a—a gentleman there, who'd dress you up fine and teach you to sing and to dance."
"Would he be kind to us?" asked both children eagerly. Diana shook her head.
"Maybe, and maybe not. That's just why I cannot stand by and see you given to him," said Diana, half as if speaking to herself. "It was a bad day's work when he took them," she went on. Then suddenly rousing herself: "Listen children, again," she said. "If that man as I'm speaking of comes to see you to-night, as he most likely will, you must, for my sake and your own, speak very pretty, and try to laugh and look happy and answer all he says. It's only for once. For to-morrow—I can't say for sure to-morrow—but I think it will be, and I can't say the time—I'm going to do my best to get you sent back to where you should never have been taken from." She stopped a moment as if to judge of the effect of her words. For an instant the children did not speak; they just stared at her with their blue eyes opened to their widest extent, their little white faces looking whiter than before, till gradually a rush of rosy colour spread over them, the blue eyes filled with tears, and both Duke and Pamela flung themselves into the gipsy girl's arms.
"Home, do you mean, Diana?" they said. "Home to our own dear Grandpapa and Grandmamma?"
"And Toby," added Duke.
"And Toby," echoed Pam.
Diana clasped them tight; her eyes, that for many a day had not shed a tear, were running over.
"Yes, home, my blessed darlings," she said.
"But you'll come with us" was the next idea. "You've been so good to us. Grandpapa'd never putyouin prison, Diana."
They sat up now and looked at her anxiously.
"Perhaps not," she said, shaking her head nevertheless. "But I dursn't go with you. I must stay here to stop them going the right way after you for one thing. And then—you didn't know it, but, bad as he is, Mick's my brother. I dursn't get him into trouble."
"Mick's your bruvver!" repeated Pam; "the same as bruvver is to me. And he speaks so naughty to you, Diana. I don't fink hecanbe your bruvver. I fink you've made a mistake. Oh do come wif us, dear Diana. You and Tim."
"Yes for Tim, it'd be the best thing he could do, and the best chance for you to get safe home. But for me," and again Diana shook her head. "Let alone Mick, I'm only a poor wild gipsy girl," she said. "I couldn't take to your pretty quietways; no, it'd kill me. It's in the gipsy blood—we must for ever be on the go. It wasn't so bad long ago when father and mother was alive. Father was honest—he was a gentleman gipsy, he was. But Mick's another sort. If I could get away from him I would—but not so as to get him into trouble. I'll try some day to get among a better lot. There's bad and good among us, though you mightn't believe it. But here am I wasting time talking of myself, and I want to tell you all I'm thinking of. First, do you know the name of the village or town nearest where you live?"
"Sandle'ham," said the children.
"But is that near your home?" pursued Diana. The twins shook their heads. They didn't know.
"Us was there once," said Duke. "But it was a long time ago. It seemed a very far way."
"And is there no village nearer?"
"Yes, of course," said Pamela. "There's where Barbara Twiss and the butcher Live, and where the church is."
"And what's it called?"
"What's it called?" repeated the children. "Why, it's just called the village. It isn't called anything else."
"That's what I was afraid of," said Diana. "And it was all new country thereabouts to me. Well, there's nothing for it but to make for Sandle'ham, and once there Tim must go to the police."
At this dreadful word the children set up a shriek, but Diana quickly stopped them.
"Hush, hush!" she said, "you'll have them all coming to see what's the matter. The police won't hurtyou, you silly children. They'd be your best friends if only they could find you. I'd rather have had nothing to say to them, for fear they should get too much out of Tim, but I see no other way to get you safe home. But now we mustn't talk any more, only remember all I've said if that man comes. And to-morrow, when I give you the word, you must be ready," she went on impressively; "you won't be afraid with Tim. I'll do the best I can, but we'll have to trust a deal to Tim; and you must do just what he tells you, and never mind if it seems strange and hard. It's the only chance for them," she added to herself, with a strange longing in her beautiful dark eyes, as she again left them, "but if I could but have taken them safe back myself I'd have felt easier in my mind."
She put in her head again to warn the childrennot to try to speak to Tim, and if they must speak to each other to do so in a whisper.
But at first their hearts seemed too full to speak. They just sat with their arms round each other, too bewildered and almost stunned with the good news to take it in.
"Bruvver," said Pamela at last, "don't you fink it's because us has said our prayers such many many times?"
"P'raps," replied Duke.
"And youdon'tfink now what—you know what you said about Grandpapa and Grandmamma," said Pamela, her voice faltering.
Duke hesitated. He was not quite generous enough to own that his gloomy prophecies had been a good deal the result of his being tired and cross and contradictory. In his heart he had no misgiving such as he had expressed to Pamela—he had no idea that what he had said might really have been true.
"Youdon'tfink so, bruvver?" persisted Pam.
"I daresay if us goes back very soon it'll make them better even if they are very ill. I think us had better put that in our prayers too—for us to get back to them so quick that there won't be timefor them to get very ill. I wouldn't mind them being just alittleill, would you, sister? It'd be so nice to see them getting better."
"I'dratherthey wasn't ill at all," said Pamela, "but I daresay God'll understand. Oh Iwishit was to-morrow! don't you, bruvver?"
"Hush," said Duke. "Diana said us mustn't talk loud—and see, sister, they're going to put the horse in and go on again. Oh how tired I am of going along shaking like this all day! And don't you remember, sister, when us was little us used to think it would besonice to live in a cart like a house, like this?"
"Us never thought hownuglyit would be inside," said Pamela, glancing round the little square space in which they were with great dissatisfaction. And no wonder—the waggon was stuffed with bundles and packages of all shapes and sizes; on the sides hung dirty coats and cloaks belonging to some of the tribe, and the only pleasant object to be seen was a heap of nice clean-looking baskets and brooms, which had been brought in here, as the basket-cart was already filled to overflowing. For the gipsies expected to do a good trade in these things at the Crookford fair.
"I wish Diana would give us one of these nice baskets to take home—a present to Grandmamma," continued Pamela, as her glance fell upon them.
"You're very silly, sister," said Duke. "Don't you understand that us is going torun away, like Tim has always been wanting. And Diana's going to help us to run away. Mick mustn't know and nobody, not till us is too far for them to catch us. I think it's a great pity Diana told you; you're too little to understand."
"I'm as big as you, bruvver, and my birfday's the same. You're very unkind to say I'm littler than you, and Idounderstand."
She spoke indignantly, but the last words ended in tears. Poor little people!—life in a gipsy caravan was not the sort of thing to improve their tempers. But the dispute was soon followed by a reconciliation, and then they decided it was better not to talk any more about what Diana had told them, but to "make plans" inside their heads about how nice it would be to go home again; how they would knock at the door so softly, and creep into the parlour where Grandmamma would be sitting by the fire with Toby at her feet, and Grandpapa at the table with the newspaper; andhowthey would hug themboth! At which point you will see the plan making was no longer confined to the "inside of their heads."
"And Duke," added Pamela half timidly. "Us must tell all about the broken bowl. And us must always tell everything like that to Grandmamma."
"Yes," said Duke.
"I fink my voice that Grandmamma told us aboutdidtell me to tell," pursued the little girl thoughtfully. "Didn't yours, bruvver?"
"I sometimes think it did," said Duke with unusual humility. "I think it must have been that I wouldn't listen. You would have listened, sister. It was much more my fault than yours. I shall tellthat."
"No, no, it was bof our faults," said Pamela. "But I fink Grandpapa and Grandmamma will be so very pleased to have us that they won't care whose fault it was."
And then the two little creatures leant their heads each on the other's, and tried to keep themselves steady against the rough jolting, till by degrees—and it was the best thing they could have done—they both fell asleep, and were sleeping as peacefully as in their own white cots at home when,later in the afternoon, Diana got into the waggon again, and, rolling up an old shawl, carefully laid it as a pillow under the two fair heads. It was getting dusk by now, and the gipsies all disappeared into the vans, for they began to drive too quickly for it to be possible for them to keep up by walking alongside.
The gipsy girl sat there gazing at the two little faces she had learnt to love. She gazed at them with a deep tenderness in her dark eyes. She knew it was almost the last time she should see them, but it was not of that she was thinking.
"If I could but have taken them back myself and seen them safe!" she kept thinking. "But I daren't. With Tim no one will notice them much, but with me it'd be different. And it'd get Mick and the others into trouble, even if I didn't care for myself. It's safer for them too for me to stay behind. But how to get them safe out of Crookford! I must speak to Tim. And I don't care what Mick says or does after this. I'll never,neveragain have a hand in this kind of business; he may steal horses and poultry and what he likes, but I'll have no more to do with stealing children. If ill had come, or did come, to these innocent creatures I'd never know another easy moment."