CHAPTER XI.
A SAD DILEMMA.
"Like children that have lost their way And know their names, but nothing more." _Phoebe._
It was the last night on the canal. Early the next morning they would beat Monkhaven. The children were fast asleep; so were Peter and his wifeand baby. Only Tim was awake. He had asked to stay on deck, as he wasquite warm with a rug which Mrs. Peter lent him, and the cabin was fullenough. It was a lovely night, and the boy lay looking at the starsoverhead thinking, with rather a heavy heart. The nearer they got to thechildren's home the more anxious he became, not on their account but onhis own. It would be so dreadful to be turned adrift again, and, inspite of all the little people's promises, he could not feel sure thatthe old gentleman and lady would care to have anything to say to him.
"I'm such a rough one and I've been with such a bad lot," thought thepoor boy to himself while the tears came to his eyes. But he looked upat the stars again, and somehow their calm cheerful shining seemed togive him courage. He had been on the point of deciding that as soon ashe was quite sure of the children's safety he would run away, withoutletting himself be seen at all, though where he should run to or whatwould become of him he had not the least idea! But the silvery lightoverhead reminded him somehow of his beautiful dream, for it illuminedthe boat and the water and the trees as if they were painted by fairyfingers.
"It's come right so far, leastways as far as a dream could be like toreal things," he reflected. "I don't see why it shouldn't come right allthrough. Just to think how proud I'd be if they'd make me stable-boy, orgardener's lad maybe, and I could feel I were earning something and hada place o' my own in the world. That's what mother would 'a wished forme. 'Never mind how humble you are if you're earning your breadhonest-like,' I've oft heard her say. Poor mother, she'd be glad to knowI was out o' that lot anyway," and Tim's imagination pointed back to thegipsy caravan. "All, saving Diana--what a lot they are, to be sure! I'msure and I hope she'll get out of it some day. 'Tis best to hope anyway,so I'll try not to be down-hearted," and again Tim glanced up at thelovely sky. "If I could but make a good guess now which of them therestars is heaven, or the way into it anyway, I'd seem to know better-likewhere poor mother is, and I'd look for it every night. I'm going to tryto be a better lad, mother dear. I can promise you that, and somehow Ican't help thinking things 'll come straighter for me."
And then Tim curled himself round like a dormouse, and shut up hisbright merry eyes, and in five minutes was fast asleep.
He had kept awake later than he knew probably, for the next morning'ssun was higher in the skies than he had intended it should be when aslight shake of his arm and a not unfriendly though rough voice awokehim. Up he jumped in a fright, for he had not yet got over the fear ofbeing pursued.
"What's the matter?" he cried, but Peter--for Peter it was--soonreassured him.
"Naught's the matter," he said, "don't be afeared, but we're close toMonkhaven. I've got to go on to the wharf, but that's out o' your way. Ithought we'd best talk over like what you'd best do. I've been up early;I want to get to the wharf before it's crowded. So after you've had somebreakfast, you and the little uns, what d'ye think of next?"
"To find the quickest road to Sandle'ham," said Tim; "that's the onlyplace they can tell the name of near their home. Diana," he went on,"Diana thought as how I'd better go straight to the police at Monkhavenand tell them the whole story, only not so as to set them after Mick ifI can help it. She said the police here is sure to know of thechildren's being stolen by now, and they'd put us in the way of gettingquick to their home."
"I think she's right," said Peter. "I'd go with you myself, but mymaster's a sharp one, and I'd get into trouble for leaving the boat andthe horse, even if he didn't mind my having took passengers for onst,"he added, with a smile.
"No, no," said Tim, "I'll manage all right. Not that I like going to thepolice, but if so be as it can't be helped. And look here, Peter," hewent on, drawing out of the inside of his jacket a little parcelcarefully pinned to the lining, "talking of passengers, this is all Ican give you at present. It was all Diana could get together, but I feelcertain sure, as I told you, the old gentleman and lady will dosomething handsome when they hear how good you've been," and out of thelittle packet he gradually, for the coins were enveloped in much paper,produced a half-crown, three shillings, and some coppers.
Peter eyed them without speaking. He was fond of money, and evenhalf-a-crown represented a good deal to him. But he shook his head.
"I'm not going to take nothing of that," he said; "you're not yet atyour journey's end. I won't say but what I'd take a something, andgladly, from the old gentleman if he sees fit to send it when he's heardall about it. A letter'll always get to me, sooner or later, at the'Bargeman's Rest,' Crookford. You can remember that--Peter Toft--that'smy name."
"I'll not forget, you may be sure," said Tim. "It's very good of you notto take any, for it's true, as you say, we may need it. And so you thinktoo it's best to go straight to the police at Monkhaven."
"I do so," said Peter, and thus it was settled.
There were some tears, as might have been expected, and not only on thechildren's part, when they came to say good-bye to Mrs. Peter and thebaby. But they soon dried in the excitement of getting on shore againand setting off under Tim's care on the last stage of their journey"home."
"Is it a very long walk, do you think, Tim?" they asked. "Us knows theway a _long_ way down the Sandle'ham road. Is that Sandle'ham?" as theysaw the roofs and chimneys of Monkhaven before them.
"I wish it were!" said Tim. "No, that's a place they call Monkhaven, butit's on the road to Sandle'ham. Did you never hear tell of Monkhaven,master and missy?--think now."
But after "thinking" for half a quarter of the second, the two fairheads gave it up.
"No; us had never heard of Monkhaven. What did it matter? Us would muchrather go straight home."
Then Tim had to enter upon an explanation. He did not know the nearestway to Sandle'ham, and they might wander about the country, losing theirway. They had very little money, and it most likely was too far to walk.He was afraid to ask unless sure it was of some one he could trust; forMick might have sent word to some one at Monkhaven about them. Thenafter Sandle'ham, which way were they to go? There was but one thing todo--ask the police. The police would take care of them and set them onthe way.
But oh, poor Tim! Little did he know the effect of that fatal word, andyet he had far more reason to dread the police than the twins couldhave. More than once he had only just escaped falling into its clutches,and all through his vagrant life he had of course come to regard itsofficers as his natural enemies. But he had put all that aside, and,strong in his good cause, was ready now to turn to them as thechildren's protectors. Duke and Pamela, on the contrary, who had no realreason for being afraid of the police, were in frantic terror; theirpoor little imaginations set to work and pictured "prison" as where theywere sure to be sent to. They would rather go back to the gipsies, theywould rather wander about the fields with Tim till they died--rather_anything_ than go near the police. And they cried and sobbed and hungupon Tim in their panic of terror, till the poor boy was fairly at hiswit's end, and had to give in so far as to promise to say no more aboutit at present. So they spent the early hours of the beautiful springmorning in a copse outside the little town, where they were quite happy,and ate the provisions Peter's wife had put up for them with a goodappetite, thinking no more of the future than the birds in the bushes;while poor Tim was grudging every moment of what he felt to be losttime, and wondering where they were to get their next meal or findshelter for the night!
It ended at last in a compromise. Tim received gracious permissionhimself to go to the police to ask the way, provided he left "us" in thewood--"us" promising to be very good, not to stray out of a certaindistance, to speak to no possible passers-by, and to hide among thebrushwood if any suspicious-looking people came near.
&nb
sp; And, far more anxious at heart than if he could have persuaded them tocome with him, but still with no real misgiving but that in half an hourhe would be back with full directions for the rest of their journey, Timset off at a run in quest of the police office of Monkhaven. He was soonin the main street of the town, which after all was more like a bigvillage--except at the end where lay the canal wharf, which was dirtyand crowded and bustling--and had no difficulty in finding the house hewas in search of. On the walls outside were pasted up posters ofdifferent sizes and importance--notices of new regulations, and"rewards" for various losses--but Tim, taking no notice of any of these,hastened to knock at the door, and eagerly, though not without somefear, stood waiting leave to enter.
Two or three policemen were standing or sitting about talking to eachother. Tim's first knock was not heard, but a second brought one to thedoor.
"Please, sir," said the boy without waiting to be asked what he wanted,"could you tell me the nearest way to Sandle'ham? I'm on my waythere--leastways to some place near-by there--there's two childer withme, sir, as has got strayed away from their home, and----"
"What's that he's saying?" said another man coming forward--he was thehead officer evidently--"Tell us that again,"--"Just make him comeinside, Simpkins, and just as well shut to the door," he added in a lowvoice. Tim came forward unsuspiciously. "Well, what's that you weresaying?" he went on to Tim.
"It's two childer, sir," repeated Tim--"two small childer as has gotstrayed away from their home--you may have heard of it?--and I'ma-taking them back, only I'm not rightly sure of the way, and Ithought--I thought, as it was the best to ax you, seeing as you've maybeheard----" but here Tim's voice, which had been faltering somewhat, sokeen and hard was the look directed upon him, came altogether to an end;and he grew so red and looked so uneasy that perhaps it was no wonder ifSuperintendent Boyds thought him a suspicious character.
"Ah indeed!--just so--you thought maybe we'd heard something of somechildren as had _strayed_--_strayed_; not been decoyed away--oh not atall--away from their home. And of course, young man, _you'd_ heardnothing. You, nor those that sent you, didn't know nothing of this here,I suppose?" and Boyds unfolded a yellow paper lying on the table andheld it up before Tim's face. "This here is new to you, no doubt?"
Tim shook his head. The yellow paper with big black letters told himnothing. Even the big figures, "L20 Reward," standing alone at the top,had no meaning for him. "I can't read, sir," he said, growing redderthan before.
"Oh indeed! and who was it then that told you to come here about thechildren to ask the way, so that you could take them home, you know, andget the reward all nice and handy? You thought maybe you'd get itstraight away, and that we'd send 'em home for you--was that what fatheror mother thought?"
Tim looked up, completely puzzled.
"I don't know anything about a reward," he said, "and I haven't nofather or mother. Di----" but here he stopped short. "Diana told me tocome to you," he was going to have said, when it suddenly struck himthat the gipsy girl had bid him beware of mentioning any names.
"Who?" said the superintendent sharply.
"I can't say," said Tim. "It was a friend o' mine--that's all I cansay--as told me to come here."
"A friend, eh? I'm thinking we'll have to know some more about some ofyour friends before we're done with you. And where is these samechildren, then? You can tell us that anyway!"
"No," said Tim, beginning to take fright, "I can't. They'd beafeared--dreadful--if they saw one o' your kind. I'll find my own way toSandle'ham if you can't tell it me," and he turned to go.
But the policeman called Simpkins, at a sign from his superior, caughthold of him.
"Not so fast, young man, not so fast," said Boyds. "You'll have to tellus where these there children are afore you're off."
"I can't--indeed I can't--they'd be so frightened," said Tim. "Let mego, and I'll try to get them to come back here with me--oh do let mego!"
But Simpkins only held him the faster.
"Shut him up in there for a bit," said Boyds, pointing to a small innerroom opening into the one where they were,--"shut him in there till hethinks better of it," and Simpkins was preparing to do so when Timturned to make a last appeal. "Don't lock me up whatever you do," hesaid, clasping his hands in entreaty; "they'll die of fright if they'releft alone. I'd rather you'd go with me nor leave them alone. Yes, I'llshow you where they are if you'll let me run on first so as they won'tbe so frightened."
Simpkins glanced at Boyds--he was a kinder man than the superintendentand really sharper, though much less conceited. He was half inclined tobelieve in Tim.
"What do you say to that?" he asked.
But Boyds shook his head.
"There's some trick in it. Let him run on first--I daresay! Thechildren's safe enough with those as sent him here to find out. No, no;lock him up, and I'll step round to Mr. Bartlemore's,"--Mr. Bartlemorewas the nearest magistrate,--"and see what he thinks about it all. It'llnot take me long, and it'll show this young man here we're in earnest.Lock him up."
Simpkins pushed Tim, though not roughly, into the little room, andturned the key on him. The boy no longer made any resistance or appeal.Mr. Boyds put on his hat and went out, and the police office returned toits former state of sleepy quiet so far as appearances went. But behindthe locked door a poor ragged boy was sobbing his eyes out, twisting andwrithing himself about in real agony of mind.
"Oh, my master and missy, why did I leave you? What will they be doing?Oh they was right and I was wrong! The perlice is a bad, wicked,unbelieving lot--oh my, oh my!--if onst I was but out o' here----" buthe stopped suddenly. The words he had said without thinking seemed tosay themselves over again to him as if some one else had addressed themto him.
"Out o' here," why shouldn't he get out of here? And Tim looked roundhim curiously. There was a small window and it was high up. There was nofurniture but the bench on which he was sitting. But Tim was the son ofa mason, and it was not for nothing that he had lived with gipsies forso long. He was a perfect cat at climbing, and as slippery as an eel inthe way he could squeeze himself through places which you would havethought scarcely wide enough for his arm. His sobs ceased, his facelighted up again; he drew out of his pocket his one dearest treasure,from which night or day he was never separated, his pocket-knife, and,propping the bench lengthways slanting against the wall like a ladder,he managed to fix it pretty securely by scooping out a little hollow inthe roughly-boarded floor, so as to catch the end of the bench andprevent its slipping down. And just as Superintendent Boyds was steppinginto Squire Bartlemore's study to wait for that gentleman's appearance,a pair of bright eyes in a round sunburnt face might have been seenspying the land from the small window high up in the wall of the lock-uproom of the police office. Spying it to good purpose, as will soon beseen, though in the meantime I think it will be well to return to Dukeand Pamela all alone in the copse.
Tim had not been gone five minutes before they began to wonder when hewould be back again. They sat quite still, however, for perhaps aquarter of an hour, for they were just a little frightened at findingthemselves really alone. If Tim had turned back again I don't think hewould have had much difficulty in persuading them to go with him, evento the dreadful police! But Tim never thought of turning back; he hadtoo thoroughly taken the little people at their word.
After a while they grew so tired of waiting quietly that they jumped upand began to run about. Once or twice they were scared by the sounds offootsteps or voices at a little distance, but nobody came actuallythrough the copse, and they soon grew more assured, and left offspeaking in whispers and peeping timidly over their shoulders. At last,"Sister," said Duke, "don't you think us might go just a teeny weeny bitout of the wood, to watch if us can't see Tim coming down the road? Iknow which side he went."
"Us promised to stay here, didn't us?" replied Pamela.
"Yes; but us _would_ be staying here," said Duke insinuatingly. "It'sjust to peep, you know, to see if Tim's comin
g. He'd be very glad, forp'raps he'll not be quite sure where to find us again, and if us goes alittle way along the road he'd see us quicker, and if us can't see himus can come back here again."
"Very well," said Pamela, and, hand in hand, the two made their way outof the shelter of the trees and trotted half timidly a little way alongthe road. It felt fresh and bright after the shady wood; some way beforethem they saw rows of houses, and already they had passed cottagesstanding separately in their gardens and a little to the right was achurch with a high steeple. Had they gone straight on they would soonhave found themselves in Monkhaven High Street, where, at this moment,Tim was shut up in the police office. But after wandering on a littleway they got frightened, for no Tim was to be seen, and they stood stilland looked at each other.
"P'raps this isn't the way he went after all," said Pamela. They hadalready passed a road to the left, which also led into the town, thoughless directly.
"He _might_ have gone that way," said Duke, pointing back to this otherroad; "let's go a little way along there and look."
Pamela made no objection. The side road turned out more attractive, fora little way from the corner stood a pretty white house in a reallylovely garden. It reminded them of their own home, and they stood at thegates peeping in, admiring the flower-beds and the nicely-kept lawn andsmooth gravel paths, for the moment forgetting all about where they wereand what had become of their only protector.
Suddenly, however, they were rudely brought back to the present and tothe fears of the morning, for from where they were they caught sight ofa burly blue-coated figure making his way to the front door from a sidegate by which he had entered the garden; for this pretty house was noother than Squire Bartlemore's, and the tall figure was that ofSuperintendent Boyds. He could not possibly have seen them--they werevery tiny, and the bushes as well as the railings hid them from the viewof any one not quite close to the gates. But they saw _him_--that wasenough, and more than enough.
"He's caught Tim and put him in prison," said Pamela, and in aterror-stricken whisper, "and now he's coming for _us_, bruvver;" andbruvver, quite as frightened as she, did not attempt to reassure her.Too terrified to see that the policeman was not coming their way at all,but was quietly striding on towards the house, they caught each otheragain by the hand and turned to fly. And fly they did--one couldscarcely have believed such tiny creatures could run so fast and so far.They did not look which way they went--only that it was in the otherdirection from whence they had come. They ran and ran--then stopped totake breath and glance timidly behind them, and without speaking ran onagain--till they had left quite half a mile between them and the prettygarden, and ventured at last to stand still and look about them. Theywere in a narrow lane--high hedges shut it in at each side--they couldsee very little way before or behind. But though they listenedanxiously, no sound but the twittering of the birds in the trees, andthe faint murmur of a little brook on the other side of hedge, was to beheard.
"He can't be running after us, I don't fink," said Pamela, drawing adeep breath.
"No," said Duke, but then he looked round disconsolately. "What can usdo?" he said. "Tim will never know to find us here."
"Tim is in prison," said Pamela, "It's no use us going back to meet him.I know he's in prison."
"Then what can us do?" repeated Duke.
"Us must go home and ask Grandpapa to get poor Tim out of prison," saidPamela.
"But, sister, how can us go home? _I_ don't know the way, do you?"
Pamela looked about her doubtfully.
"P'raps it isn't so very far," she said. "Us had better go on; and whenit's a long way from the policeman, us can ask somebody the road."
There seemed indeed nothing else to do. On they tramped for what seemedto them an endless way, and still they were in the narrow lane with thehigh hedges; so that, after walking for a very long time, they couldhave fancied they were in the same place where they started. And as theymet no one they could not ask the way, even had they dared to do so. Atlast--just as they were beginning to get very tired--the lane quitesuddenly came out on a short open bit of waste land, across which acart-track led to a wide well-kept road. And this, though they had noidea of it, was actually the coach-road to Sandlingham; for--though, itmust be allowed, more by luck than good management--they had hit upon ashort cut to the highway, which if Tim had known of it would have savedhim all his present troubles!
For a moment or two Duke and Pamela felt cheered by having at last gotout of the weary lane. They ran eagerly across the short distance thatseparated them from the road, with a vague idea that once on it theywould somehow or other see something--meet some one to guide them as towhat next to do. But it was not so--there it stretched before them,white and smooth and dusty at both sides, rising a little to the rightand sloping downwards to the left--away, away, away--to where? Not acart or carriage of any kind--not a foot-passenger even--was to be seen.And the sun was hot, and the four little legs were very tired; and wherewas the use of tiring them still more when they might only be wanderingfarther and farther from their home? For, though the choice was notgreat, being simply a question of up-hill or down-dale, it was as bad asif there had been half a dozen ways before them, as they had not theleast idea which of the two was the right one!
The two pair of blue eyes looked at each other piteously; then theeyelids drooped, and big tears slowly welled out from underneath them;the twins flung their arms about each other, and, sitting down on thelittle bit of dusty grass that bordered the highway, burst into loud anddespairing sobs.
CHAPTER XII.
GOOD-BYE TO "US."
"And as the evening twilight fades away, The sky is filled with stars, invisible by day." _Morituri Salutamus._
By slow degrees their sobs exhausted themselves. Pamela leant her headagainst Duke and shut her eyes.
"I am so tired, bruvver," she said. "If us could only get some quietplace out of the sun I would like to lie down and go to sleep. Wouldn'tyou, bruvver?"
"I don't know," said Duke.
"I wonder if the birds would cover us up wif leaves," said Pameladreamily, "like those little children long ago?"
"That would be if us was dead," said Duke. "Oh sister, you don't thinkus must be going to die!"
"I don't know," said Pamela in her turn.
Suddenly Duke raised himself a little, and Pamela, feeling him move, satup and opened her eyes.
"What is it?" she asked, but he did not need to answer, for just thenshe too heard the sound that had caught Duke's ears. It was the barkingof a dog--not a deep baying sound, but a short, eager, energetic bark,and seemingly very near them. The children looked at each other and thenrose to their feet.
"Couldn't you fink it was Toby?" said Pamela in a low voice, though whyshe spoke so low she could not have said.
Duke nodded, and then, moved by the same impulse, they went forward tothe middle of the road and looked about them, hand in hand. Again camethe sharp eager bark, and this time a voice was heard as if soothing thedog, though they could not quite catch the words. But some one was nearthem--thus much seemed certain, and the very idea had comfort in it.Still, for a minute or two they could not make out where were the dogand its owner; for they did not know that a short way down the road apath ending in a stile crossed the fields from the village of Nooks tothe high-road. And when, therefore, at but a few paces distant, theresuddenly appeared a small figure, looking dark against the white dust ofthe road, frisking and frolicking about in evident excitement, it reallyseemed to the little brother and sister as if it had sprung out of theearth by magic. They had not time, however, to speak--hardly towonder--to themselves before, all frisking and frolicking at an end, theshaggy ball was upon them, and, with a rush that for half a second madePamela inclined to scream, the little dog flew at them, barking,yelping, almost choking with delight, flinging himself first on one thenon the other, darting back a step or two as if to see them moredistinctly and make sure he was no
t mistaken, then rolling himself uponthem again all quivering and shaking with rapture. And the cry ofecstasy that broke from the twins would have gone to the heart of anyone that loved them.
"Oh Toby, Toby!--bruvver--sister--it is, it _is_ our own Toby. He hascome to take us home. Oh dear, _dear_ Toby!"
"OH TOBY, TOBY!--BRUVVER--SISTER--IT IS, IT IS OUR OWNTOBY, HE HAS COME TO TAKE US HOME. OH DEAR, DEAR TOBY!"--p. 220.]
It _did_ go to the heart of some one not far off. A quaintly-clad,somewhat aged, woman was slowly climbing the stile at the moment thatthe words rang clearly out into the summer air. "Oh Toby, _our_ Toby!"and no one who had not seen it could have believed how nimbly oldBarbara skipped or slid or tumbled down the steps on the road-side ofthe stile, and how, in far less time than it takes to tell it, she wasdown on her knees in the dust with a child in each arm, and Tobyflashing about the trio, so that he seemed to be everywhere at once.
"My precious darlings!--my dear little master and missy!--and has oldBarbara found you after all? or Toby rather. I thank the Lord who hasheard my prayers. To think I should have such a delight in my old daysas to be the one to take you back to my dearest lady! A sore heart was Icoming along with--to think that I had heard nothing of you for all Ihad felt so sure I would. And oh, my darlings, where _have_ you been,and how has it all come about?"
But a string of questions was the first answer she got.
"Have you come to look for us, dear Barbara? Did Grandpapa andGrandmamma send you, and Toby too? How did you know which way to come?And have you seen Tim? Did Tim tell you?"
"Tim, Tim, I know nought of who Tim is, my dearies," said Barbara,shaking her head. "If it's any one that's been good to you, so much thebetter. I've been at Nooks, the village hard by, for some days with myniece. I meant to have stayed but two or three nights, but I've beenmore nor a week, and a worry in my heart all the time not to get backhome to hear if there was no news of you, and how my poor lady was. Andto think if I _had_ gone home I wouldn't have met you--dear--dear--butthe ordering of things is wonderful!"
"And didn't you come to look for us, then? But why is Toby with you?"asked the children.
"He was worritting your dear Grandmamma. There was no peace with himafter you were lost. And though I didn't rightly come to Monkhaven tolook for you, I had a feeling--it was bore in on me that I'd maybe findsome trace of you, and I thought Toby would be the best help. And trulyI could believe he'd scented you were not far off--the worry he's beenall this morning! A-barking and a-sniffing and a-listening like! I wasin two minds as to which way I'd take this morning--round by Monkhavenor by the lane. But Toby he was all for the lane, and so I just took hisway, the Lord be thanked!"
"He _knowed_ us was here--he did, didn't he? Oh, darling Toby!" criedthe twins.
But then Barbara had to be told all. Not very clear was the children'saccount of their adventures at first; for the losing of Tim and thevision of the policeman and the canal boat were the topmost on theirminds, and came tumbling out long before anything about the gipsies,which of course was the principal thing to tell. Bit by bit, however,thanks to her patience, their old friend came to understand the whole.She heaved a deep sigh at last.
"To think that it was the gipsies after all."
But she made not many remarks, and said little about thebroken-bowl-part of the story. It would be for their dear Grandmamma toshow them where they had been wrong, she thought modestly, if indeedthey had not found it out for themselves already. I think they had.
"Us is always going to tell Grandmamma _everyfing_ now," said Pamela.
"And us is always going to listen to the talking of that little voice,"added Duke.
But the first excitement over, old Barbara began to notice that thechildren were looking very white and tired. How was she ever to get themto Brigslade--a five miles' walk at least--where again, for she hadchosen Brigslade market-day on purpose, she counted on Farmer Carson togive her a lift home? She was not strong enough to carry them--one at atime--more than a short distance. Besides she had her big basket.Glancing at it gave her another idea.
"I can at least give you something to eat," she said. "Niece Turwallpacked all manner of good things in here," and, after some rummaging,out she brought two slices of home-made cake and a bottle of currantwine, of which she gave them each a little in a cup without a handlewhich Mrs. Turwall had thoughtfully put in. The cake and the winerevived the children wonderfully. They said they were able to walk "along long way," and indeed there was nothing for it but to try, and sothe happy little party set off.
The thought of Tim, however, weighed on their minds, and when Barbarahad arrived at some sort of idea as to who he was, and what he had done,she too felt even more anxious about him. Even without prejudice it mustbe allowed that the police of those days were not what they are now, andBarbara knew that for a poor waif like Tim it would not be easy toobtain a fair hearing.
"And he won't be wanting to get that gipsy girl into trouble by tellingon the lot of them, which will make it harder for the poor lad," thoughtthe shrewd old woman, for the children had told her all about Diana."But there's nothing to be done that I can see except to get the Generalto write to the police at Monkhaven." For Mrs. Twiss knew that Duke andPam would be terribly against the idea of going back to the town and tothe police office. And she herself had no wish to do so--she was notwithout some distrust of the officers of the law herself, and it would,too, have grieved her sadly not to have been the one to restore the lostchildren to their friends. Besides, Farmer Carson would be waiting forher at the cross roads, for "if by any chance I don't come back before,you may be sure I'll be there on Friday, next market-day," she had saidto him at parting.
"You don't think they'll put Tim in prison, do you?" asked Duke, seeingthat the old woman's face grew grave when she had heard all.
"Oh no, surely, not so bad as that," she replied. "And even if we wentback I don't know that it would do much good."
"Go back to where the policemans are," exclaimed the twins, growing paleat the very idea. "Oh please--_please_ don't," and they both creptcloser to their old friend.
"But if it would make them let Tim come wif us?" added Pamela,shivering, nevertheless. "I'd _try_ not to be frightened. Poor Tim--hehas been so good to us, us can't go and leave him all alone."
"But, my deary," said Barbara, "I don't rightly see what we can do forhim. The police might think it right to keep us all there too--and I'mthat eager to get you home to ease your dear Grandmamma and the General.I think it's best to go on and get your Grandpapa to write about thepoor boy."
But now the idea of rescuing Tim was in the children's heads it was notso easy to get rid of it. They stood still looking at each other and atMrs. Twiss with tears in their eyes; they had come by this time perhapshalf a mile from where they had met their friends. The high-road washere shadier and less dusty, and it was anything but inviting to thinkof retracing the long stretch to Monkhaven, though from where theystood, a turn in the road hid it from them. All at once a whistle caughttheir ears--a whistle two or three times repeated in a particularway--Toby pricked up his ears, put himself in a very valiant attitude,and barked with a great show of importance, as much as to say, "Just youlook out now, whoever you are. _I_ am on guard now." But his bark didnot seem to strike awe into the whistler, whoever he was. Again his notesounded clear and cheery. And this time, with a cry of "It's Tim, it'sTim," off flew Duke and Pam down the road, followed by Barbara--Toby ofcourse keeping up a running accompaniment of flying circles round thewhole party till at last the sight of his beloved little master andmistress hugging and kissing a bright-eyed, clean-faced, but sadlyragged boy was altogether too much for his refined feelings, and hebegan barking with real fury, flinging himself upon Tim as if he reallymeant to bite him.
Duke caught him up.
"Silly Toby," he cried, "it's Tim. You must learn to know Tim;" and oldBarbara coming up by this time and speaking to the boy in a friendlytone, poor Toby's misgivings were satisfied, and he set
to work towagging his tail in a slightly subdued manner.
Then came explanations on both sides. Tim had to tell how he had slippedhimself out through the window, narrow as it was, and how, thanks to anold water-butt and some loose bricks in the wall, he had scrambled downlike a cat, and made off as fast as his legs would carry him to theplace where he had left the children.
"And when you wasn't there I was fairly beat--I was," he said. "I knowedthey hadn't had time to find you--perlice I mean--but I saw as you musthave got tired waiting so long. So off I set till I met a woman who toldme the way to the Sandle'ham road. I had a fancy you'd ask for it ratherthan come into the town if you thought they'd cotched me, and I wasabout right you see."
"Is this the Sandle'ham road? Oh yes, Barbara told us it was," said thechildren. "But us didn't know it was. Us just runned and runned when ussaw the policeman, us was so frightened."
"But us _was_ going back to try to get you out of prison if Barbarawould have let us," added Pamela.
Then all about Barbara and Toby had to be explained, and a great weightfell from Tim's heart when he quite understood that the old woman was areal home friend--that there would no longer be any puzzle or difficultyas to how to do or which way to go, now that they had fallen in withthis trusty protector.
"To be sure--well now this _are_ a piece of luck, and no mistake," herepeated, one big smile lighting up all his pleasant face. But suddenlyit clouded over.
"Then, ma'am, if you please, would it be better for me not to come nofurther? Would I be in the way, maybe?"
The children set up a cry before Barbara had time to reply.
"No, no, Tim; you _must_ come. Grandpapa and Grandmamma will always takecare of Tim, 'cos he's been so good to us--won't they, Barbara?"
Barbara looked rather anxious. Her own heart had warmed to the orphanboy, but she did not know how far she was justified in making promisesfor other people.
"I dursn't go back to Monkhaven," said Tim; "they'd be sure to cotch me,and they'd give it me for a-climbing out o' window and a-running away.Nor I dursn't go back to Mick. But you've only to say the word, ma'am,and I'm off. I'll hide about, and mayhap somehow I might get a chanceamong the boat-people. It's all I can think of; for I've nomoney--leastways this is master's and missy's, and you'd best take itfor them," he went on, as he pulled out the little packet from theinside of his jacket which he had already vainly offered to Peter. "Andabout Peter, p'raps you'd say a word to the old gentleman about sendinghim something. He were very good to us, he were; and he can always get aletter that's sent to----" but here the lump that had kept rising in thepoor boy's throat all the time he was speaking, and that he had gone onchoking down, got altogether too big; he suddenly broke off and burstout sobbing. It was too much--not only to have to leave the dear littlemaster and missy, but to have to say good-bye to all his beautiful plansand hopes--of learning to be a good and respectable boy--of leading asettled and decent life such as mother--"poor mother"--could look downupon with pleasure from her home up there somewhere near the sun, in theheaven about which her child knew so little, but in which he still mostfervently believed.
"I'm a great fool," he sobbed, "but I did--I did want to be a good lad,and to give up gipsying."
Barbara's heart by this time was completely melted, and Duke's and Pam'stears were flowing.
"Tim, dear Tim, you must come with us," they said. "Oh, Barbara, do tellhim he's to come. Why, even Toby sees how good Tim is; he's not barkinga bit, and he's sniffing at him to show he's a friend."
And Toby, hearing his own name, looked up in the old woman's face as ifhe too were pleading poor Tim's cause. She hesitated no longer.
"Come with us my poor boy," she said, "it'll go hard if we can't find aplace for you somewheres. And the General and the old lady is good andkind as can be. Don't ye be a-feared, but come with us. You must help meto get master and missy home, for it's a good bit we have to get over,you know."
So Tim dried his eyes, and his hopes revived. And this time the littlecavalcade set out in good earnest to make the best of their way toBrigslade, with no lookings back towards Monkhaven; for, indeed, theirgreatest wish was to leave it as quickly as possible far behind them.They were a good way off fortunately before clever Superintendent Boydsand his assistants found out that their bird was flown, and when theydid find it out they went after him in the wrong direction; and it wasnot till three days after the children had been safe at home that formalinformation, which doubtless _would_ have been very cheering to poorGrandpapa, came to him that the police at Monkhaven were believed to beon the track!
How can I describe to you that coming home? If I could take you backwith me some thirty years or so and let you hear it as I didthen--direct from the lips of a very old lady and gentleman, who stillspoke to each other as "brother" and "sister," whose white hair was ofthe soft silvery kind which one sees at a glance was _once_ flaxen--ohhow much more interesting it would be, and how much better it would betold! But that cannot be. My dear old friends long ago told the story oftheir childish adventure for the last time; though I am very surenothing would please them better than to know it had helped to amuse foran hour or two some of the Marmadukes and Pamelas of to-day. So I willdo my best.
It was a long stretch for the little legs to Brigslade; without Tim Idoubt if poor old Mrs. Twiss and Toby would have got them there. But theboy was not to be tired; his strength seemed "like the strength of ten"Tims, thanks to the happy hopes with which his heart was filled. Hecarried Pamela and even Duke turn about on his back, he told stories andsang songs to make them forget their aching legs and smarting feet. Andfortunately there still remained enough home-made cake and currant winefor every one to have a little refreshment, especially as Tim found abeautifully clear spring of water to mix with the wine when the childrencomplained of thirst.
They got to the cross-roads before Farmer Carson, for Barbara was one ofthose sensible people who always take time by the forelock; so theyrested there till the old gray mare came jogging up, and her master, onthe look-out for one old woman, but not for a party of four--five Ishould say, counting Toby--could not believe his eyes, and scarcely hisears, when Mrs. Twiss told him the whole story. How they all got intothe spring-cart I couldn't explain, but they did somehow, and the maredid not seem to mind it at all. And at last, late on that lovely earlysummer evening, Farmer Carson drew up in the lane at the back of thehouse; and, after helping the whole party out, drove off with a heartyGood-night, and hopes that they'd find the old gentleman and lady ingood health, and able to bear the happy surprise.
It must be broken gently to them; and how to do this had been onBarbara's mind all the time they had been in the cart, for up till thenshe had been able to think of nothing but how to get the children along.They, of course--except perhaps that they were too tired for any moreexcitement--would have been for running straight in with joyful cries.But they were so subdued by fatigue that their old friend found nodifficulty in persuading them to sit down quietly by the hedge, guardedby Tim, while she and Toby went in to prepare the way.
"For you know, my dearies, your poor Grandmamma has not been well andthe start might be bad for her," she explained.
"But you're sure Grandmamma isn't _dead_?" said poor Pamela, looking uppiteously in Barbara's face. "Duke was afraid she might be if us didn'tcome soon."
"But now you _have_ come she'll soon get well again, please God," saidBarbara, though her own heart beat tremulously as she made her way roundby the back entrance.
It was Toby after all who "broke" the happy tidings. In spite of allBarbara could do--of all her "Hush, Toby, then,"'s "Gently my littledoggie,"'s--he _would_ rush in to the parlour as soon as the door wasopened in such a rapture of joyful barking, tail wagging and rushing anddashing, that Grandmamma looked up from the knitting she was trying tofancy she was doing in her arm-chair by the fire, and Grandpapa put downhis five days' old newspaper which he was reading by the window, with acurious flutter of sudden hope all through them, notwithst
anding theirmany disappointments.
"It is you, Barbara, back again at last," began Grandmamma. "How whiteyou look, my poor Barbara--and--why, what's the matter with Toby? Is heso pleased to see us old people again?"
"He _is_ very pleased, ma'am--he's a very wise and a very good feelingdog is Toby, there's no doubt. And one that knows when to be sadand--and when to be rejoiced, as I might say," said Barbara, though hervoice trembled with the effort to speak calmly.
Something seemed to flash across the room to Grandmamma as Mrs. Twissspoke--down fell the knitting, the needles, and the wool, all in atangle, as the old lady started to her feet.
"Barbara--Barbara Twiss!" she cried. "What do you mean? Oh Barbara, youhave news of our darlings? Marmaduke, my dear husband, do you hear?" andshe raised her voice, "she has brought us news at last," and Grandmammatottered forward a few steps and then, growing suddenly dazed and giddy,would have fallen had not Grandpapa and Barbara started towards her fromdifferent sides and caught her. But she soon recovered herself, andeagerly signed to Barbara to "tell." How Barbara told she never knew. Itseemed to her that Grandmamma guessed the words before she spoke them,and looking back on it all afterwards she could recollect nothing but asort of joyous confusion--Grandpapa rushing out without his hat, butstopping to take his stick all the same--Grandmamma holding by the tableto steady herself when, in another moment, they were all backagain--then a cluster all together--of Grandpapa, Grandmamma, Duke,Pamela and Barbara, with Nurse and Biddy, and Dymock and Cook, andstable-boys and gardeners, and everybody, and Toby everywhere at once.Broken words and sobs and kisses and tears and blessings all together,and Pamela's little soft high voice sounding above all as she cried--
"Oh, dear Grandmamma, us _is_ so glad you are not dead. Duke was soafraid you might be."
And Tim--where was he?--standing outside in the porch, but smiling tohimself--not afraid of being forgotten, for he had a trustful nature.
"It's easy to see as the old gentleman and lady is terrible fond ofmaster and missy," he thought. "But they must be terrible clever folk inthese parts to have writing outside of the house even," for his glancehad fallen on the quaintly-carved letters on the lintel, "Niks sonderArbitt." "I wonder now what that there writing says," he reflected.
But he was not allowed to wonder long. A few moments more and there camethe summons his faithful little heart had been sure would come.
"Tim, Tim--where is Tim? Come and see our Grandpapa and our Grandmamma,Tim," and two pairs of little hot hands dragged him into the parlour.
It was not at all like his dream, but it was far grander than any roomhe had ever been in before, and never afterwards did the boy forget thestrange sweet perfume which seemed a part of it all--the scent of thedried rose-leaves in the jars, though he did not then know what it was.But it always came back to him when he thought of that firstevening--the beginning to him of a good and honest and useful life--whenthe tall old gentleman and the sweet little old lady laid their hands onhis curly head and blessed him for what he had done and promised to behis friends.
They kept their promise well and wisely. Grandpapa took real trouble tofind out what the boy was best fitted for, and when he found it was forgardening, Tim was thoroughly trained by old Noble till he was able toget a good place of his own. He lived with Barbara in her neat littlecottage, and in the evenings learned to read and write and cipher, sothat before very long he could make out the letters in the porch, thoughGrandpapa had to be asked to tell their meaning.
"Nothing without work," was what they meant. They had been carved thereby the old Dutchman who had built the farmhouse, afterwards turned intothe pretty quaint "Arbitt Lodge."
"A good and true saying," added Grandpapa, and so the three children towhom he was speaking found it. For all three in their different waysworked hard and well, and when in my childhood I knew them as oldpeople, I felt, even before I quite understood it, that "the Colonel,"as he then had become, and his sweet white-haired sister deserved thelove and respect they seemed everywhere to receive. And I could see thatit was no common tie which bound to them their faithful servant Timothy,whose roses were the pride of all the country-side, when, after manyyears of separation, he came to end his life in their service, afterDuke's "fighting days" were over and his widowed sister was, but forhim, alone in the world.
* * * * *
One question may be asked. Did they ever hear of Diana again? Yes,though not till Tim had grown into a strapping young fellow, and thetwins were tall and thin, and had long since left off talking of "us."
There came along the lanes one summer's day a covered van hung over atthe back with baskets, such as the children well remembered. Agood-humoured looking man was walking by the horse, a handsome woman wassitting by the door plaiting straw.
"Gipsies," cried the children, who were on their way to the village,and, big as they were, they were a little frightened when, with a cry,the woman jumped down and flew towards them.
"Master and missy, don't you know me? I'm Diana!" she exclaimed.
And Diana it was, though very much changed for the better. She hadmarried one of her own tribe, but a very good specimen, and the husbandand wife travelled about on their own account making their living"honestly," as she took care to tell. "For there's good and there's badof us, and it's been my luck to get a good one. Thank God for it," sheadded, "for I've never forgot master and missy's pretty telling me evenpoor Diana might think God cared for her."
She was taken to see Grandpapa and Grandmamma of course, and they wouldhave helped her and her husband to a settled life had they wished it.But no--gipsies they were, and gipsies they must remain. "It'd choke meto live inside four walls," said Diana, "and we must travel about so aswe can see our own folk from time to time. But whenever we pass this waywe'll come to see master and missy and Tim."
And so they did.
* * * * * *
Transcriber's Note:
All punctuation has been normalised with the exception of varied hyphenation.
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