CHAPTER VII.
DIANA'S PROMISE.
"Oh, who can say But that this dream may yet come true?" THOMAS MOORE.
For some days the gipsy caravan had been making its way along a verylonely 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 waygot news that the great fair to which they were bound was to beginsooner than they expected, and unless they hurried on they might not bethere in time to take up a good position among the many strays and waifsof their kind always to be found at such places. There were ever so manyways in which they expected to turn a number of honest or dishonest"pennies" at this same fair. It was one of their regular harvest times.Mick and his friends always managed to do something in the way ofhorse-dealing on such occasions, and Diana, who was the best-looking ofthe younger gipsy-women, was thoroughly up to all the tricks offortune-telling. Her cold haughty manners had often more success thanthe wheedling flatteries of the others. She _looked_ as if she werequite above trickery of any kind, and no doubt the things she told werenot altogether nonsense or falsehood. For she had learned to bewonderfully quick in reading the characters of those who applied to her,even in divining the thoughts and anxieties in their minds. And besidesthese resources the gipsies had a good show of baskets and brooms oftheir own manufacture to dispose of; added to which this year a hardbargain was to be driven with Signor Fribusco, the owner of thetravelling circus, for the "two lovely orphans," whose description hadalready been given to him by some of the gipsy's confidantes, to whomMick 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 ofconversation when he was supposed to be asleep. He grew more and moreafraid as the days passed on and no chance of escape offered, forvarious things began to make him fear they were not very far from thetown they were bound to. For one thing Mick's wife and Diana began topay more attention to the two children's appearance. Their fair hair wasbrushed and combed every day, and their delicate skin was carefullywashed with something that restored it almost to its natural colour; allof which had an ominous meaning for Tim.
"Diana is very kind now," said Pamela, one day when she and Duke hadbeen allowed for once to run about a little with the other children.There certainly seemed small risk in their doing so, for the gipsies hadencamped for the night on a desolate moor, where no human habitations ofany kind were in sight, no passers-by to be feared.
"Yes," said Duke, who had hold of Tim's other hand; "she makes us niceand clean and tidy."
"And she's making a gown for me," said Pamela. "It's made of my ownwhite gown, but she's sewing rows of red and blue and gold round it. Andshe says if Duke is good she's going to make him a red jacket. Isn't itkind of her? Do you know, Tim," she went on in a lower tone, "us hasbeen thinking that perhaps they're meaning to take us home soon, andthat they want us to look very nice. Do you think it's that, Tim? I'msure Grandpapa and Grandmamma would be so pleased they'd give them lotsof money if they took us back."
"I'm afeared it's not taking you home they're thinking of, missie," saidTim 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 away _now_--there'snobody looking after us."
"And where would we run to?" said Tim. "There's not a mortal house nor atree even to be seen. Run away, indeed! We'd be cotched--cotched aforewe'd run half a mile. And yet it's the very first time you've bin letrun about a little. I'm ready enough to run away, but no good runningaway to be cotched again--it 'ud be worser nor ever."
"Then is us never to run away? Is us never to see Grandpapa, andGrandmamma, and Dymock, and Biddy, and Nurse, and Toby--oh, dearToby!--and the garden, and the nursery, and our little beds, again?"said both children, speaking together and helping each other with thelist 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 withkind words and promises to do his best.
Poor fellow, he was only too ready to run away for his own sake as wellas theirs. The feelings which had been stirred and reawakened by thechildren's companionship had not slumbered again; on the contrary, theyseemed to gain strength every day. Every day he felt more and moreloathing for his present life; every night when he tumbled into theragged heap which was called his bed he said to himself more stronglythat he _must_ get away--he could not bear to think that his mother,looking down on him from the heaven in which she had taught him tobelieve, could see him the dirty careless gipsy boy he had become. Itwas wonderful how her words came back to him now--how every time hecould manage to get a little talk with his new friends their gentlevoices and pretty ways seemed to revive old memories that he had notknown were there. And the thought of rescuing them,--of succeeding intaking 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 onas a stable-boy or such like if the little master and missie'd speak aword for me, as I'm sure they would. And I'm right down sure I'd try todo my best--anything to get away from this life."
Of course he could have got away by himself at any time much more easilythan with the children. But till now, as he had told them, he had notcared to try it, for where had he to run to? And, besides, it was onlysince Duke and Pamela had been with the gipsies that the wish to returnto a better kind of life had grown so very strong.
He sighed heavily as he stood on the desolate moor with his two littlecompanions, for he felt what he would not say to them, how terriblydifficult their escape would be.
Suddenly Pamela tugged at his arm.
"What is that shining down there, Tim?" she said, pointing over themoor, 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--Idon't rightly know where to. Maybe to that place we're going to, wherethe fair's to be. I once went a bit of a way on a canal--that was aforeI was with Mick and his lot. There was a boy and his mother as was verygood to me. I wish I could see them again, I do."
"But what _is_ a canal, Tim," said Pamela. "Us has never seen one, andthat 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 alongalways quite straight. It doesn't go bending in and out like a realriver, sometimes bigger and sometimes littler like."
"And how did you go on it," asked Duke. "And the boy and his mother? Youcouldn't walk on it if it was water--nobody can except Jesus in the bigBible at home. _He_ walked on the top of the water."
"Did he really?" said Tim, opening his eyes. "I've heerd tell on him. Hewas very good to poor folk and such like, wasn't he? Mother telled meabout him, tho' I thought I'd forgotten all she'd told me. But Iremember 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 whenthe sea was rough."
"No, no," said Pamela; "_that_ was the time he felled asleep, and theywoked 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'llget Grandmamma's picture-Bible and look"--but suddenly his voice fell,his eager expression faded. In the interest of the little discussion hehad 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 usneeds him quite as much as those men he was so kind to. Tell us aboutthe canal, Tim."
"It's boats," replied Tim. "Long boats made just the right shape. Andthey'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 goa-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 toanother--wood often and coal. But that wasn't a coal boat--it was niceand clean that one. And there's hosses as walks along the side of thecanals, pullin' of the boats with ropes. It's a pleasant life enough, tomy thinking--that's to say when they're tidy, civil-like folk. Some ofthem's awful rough--as rough as Mick and the Missus and all o' _them_."
Duke and Pamela listened with the greatest interest. They quite forgotto cry any more about their home in listening to what Tim told them.
"Oh, Tim," said Pamela, "I'll tell you what _would_ be nice. If us andyou could get one of those boats, and a horse to pull it, and go sailingaway 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," she said. "But I daresaythere's one that goes to not far off from there. And Mick would nevercatch 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'tthink as Mick'd ever think of looking for us there. That'd be the bestof it."
But just then the rough voice of Mick himself was heard calling to themto come back; for they had wandered to some little distance from theother 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 shudderedat the sound of their jailor's voice in a way the boy could not bear tosee. Mick had never yet actually struck her or her brother so as to hurtthem; 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 atime when he's been tipsy--would go near to killing them tender sort o'fairy-like critturs," said the boy to himself, shuddering in his turn."He's been extra sober for a good bit, but onst he gets to the fairthere's no saying."
And over and over again, as he was falling asleep, he asked himself whatcould be done,--how it would be possible to make their escape? Somehowthe sight of the canal had roused a little hope in him, though he didnot 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 dayand have a look at the boats, if there's any passing. Maybe there'd besome coming from where the fair is. And if there was any folk like themas was so good to me that time, they'd be the right sort for to helpus."
And poor Tim had a most beautiful dream that night. He thought hehimself and Duke and Pamela were sailing down a lovely stream in a boatshining like silver, and with sails of white striped with red and blueand gold, like the frock Diana was trimming for Pamela. They went sofast it was more like flying than sailing, and all of a sudden they metanother boat in which were a lady and gentleman, whom he somehow knew atonce were the Grandpapa and Grandmamma of the children's talk, thoughthey were dressed so grandly in crimson robes, and with golden crowns ontheir heads like kings and queens, that he was frightened to speak tothem; for he had nothing on but his ragged clothes. And just as Duke andPamela were rushing towards them with joy, and he was turning awayashamed and miserable, wiping his tears with his jacket sleeve, a softvoice called to him not to be afraid but to come forward too. Andlooking up he saw a figure hovering over him, all white and shining likean angel. But when he looked at the face--though it was so beautiful--heknew he had seen it before. It was that of his poor mother; he knew atonce it was she, though in life he could only remember her wan and wornand 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 veryearly morning and all his companions were asleep. Tim got up and veryquietly crept out of the sort of one-sided tent, made by drawing asail-cloth downwards from the top of the van, where he and the otherboys slept. He walked a little way over the rough moor, for there was noroad, scarcely even a track, and looked down to where, in the clear thinmorning light, the canal lay glittering below. Then he gazed over thewaste in front. Which way would they be going? Would they skirt thecanal more closely or branch off and strike away from it? Tim could nottell. 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 themoor. They halted as usual at mid-day--but Tim could not get to speak tothe twins at all. And then the caravan started again and went rumblingon till much later than usual, for, as Tim overheard from the gipsies'conversation, they were eager now to get to Crookford, where the fairwas to be, as quickly as possible. When they at last stopped for thenight it was almost dark; but the boy crept close up to the entrance ofthe waggon where he knew the children to be, and hid himself at theside, 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 ofbeing in here all day."
"And my head's aching," added Pamela.
Diana hesitated. A small fine rain--or perhaps it was only mist--wasbeginning to fall; but in spite of that she would probably have let themout a little had not Mick just then come forward.
"They want out a bit," she said. "They're tired like with being mewed upin there all day and never a breath of air--no wonder," and she made asif she were going to lift Pamela down the steps.
"Are you crazed, girl?" said the gipsy, pushing her back. "To let themout now in the chill of the evening, and it raining too--to have themcatch their deaths of cold just as I've some chance of making up for allthe 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 ofgiving 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 itwas really raining, and she reflected that there might be truth in whatMick said so rudely.
"THEY WANT OUT A BIT," SHE SAID. "THEY'RE TIRED LIKE WITHBEING MEWED UP IN THERE ALL DAY AND NEVER A BREATH OF AIR--NOWONDER."--p. 132.]
"I think it is too cold and damp for you," she said turning to the doorwhere the two little white faces were looking out piteously. "Nevermind," she added in a lower tone, "I'll come back in a minute, and we'llopen 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 Dianaspeaking so gently.
"If _she'd_ help us," he thought to himself, "there'd be some chancethen."
But he remained quite still, crouching in the shelter of the van--almostindeed under it--he was so anxious to hear more of Mick's plans if hecould, for he noticed that the gipsy hung about while the girl wasspeaking to the children, as if he had something to say to her unheardby them.
They were so frightened of him that they drew back into the darkrecesses of the van, and when they were no longer to be seen, Mickpulled Diana's sleeve to attract her attention.
"Just you listen to me, girl, will ye?" he said. "I'll stand none ofyour 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'vegot to say?"
She spoke quietly but sternly, and he seemed frightened. He hadevidently been drinking more than of late, and Tim shuddered at thethought of what might happen if he were to get into one of his regulartipsy 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'llsee 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 tounderstand that they're well broke in, and there'll be no trouble inteaching them the tricks and singin' and dancin' and all that. And he'sto give me a good sum down and a share of the profits. And if he's notpleased and they're turned back on my hands--well, it'll be _your_doing--that I can tell you, and you shall pay for it. So there--you knowmy 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 whatthey've got to learn. You don't suppose childer like that 'ull pay fortheir keep if they're to be made princes and princesses of?"
"Then what did you steal them for? You do nothing but grumble about themnow you've got them--why didn't you, any way, take them home after a bitand get something for your pains?"
"I thought o' doing so at the first," said Mick sulkily, as if forced tospeak in spite of himself. "But they're sharper nor I thought for. Noknowing 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 straightfor 'em, I see'd no use in running my head into a noose by taking 'emback and getting took myself for my pains. I've had enough o' that sorto' thing, as you might know."
"Let _me_ take them home, then," said Diana suddenly. "I'll manage so asno blame shall fall on you--no one shall hear anything about you. Andfor myself I don't care. I'd almost as lief be in prison as notsometimes."
Mick stared at her.
"Are ye a-going out of yer mind?" he said, "or d'ye think I am? Afterall the trouble I've had with the brats, is it likely I'll send 'em homeand lose all? It's too late now to try for a reward; they're sharpenough to tell they could have been took home long ago. But if theSignor isn't square with me, I may make something that way too--I cantell on _him_ maybe. 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? Andif you see what's for your good you'll do your best to help me, andyou'll find I'll not forget you. One way or another I'm pretty sure tomake a tidy thing of them."
Diana turned away, and for a moment or two there was silence. Tim'sheart beat so fast he almost felt as if the gipsies would hear it. Hecould not see Diana's face, but he trembled with fear lest Mick's bribesshould win her over. And when her words came it seemed as if his fearswere to be fulfilled.
"You _are_ a sharp one, Mick, and no mistake," she said, with a strangehard 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 lurchedoff to his own quarters.
Diana stood where she was for a moment. Suddenly she raised her hands toher face, and Tim fancied he heard a smothered sob. Without stopping tothink what he was risking, the boy crept out of the shadow where he hadbeen hidden, and caught hold of her skirts just as she was turning tomount into the van where the children were.
"Diana," he said breathlessly, "I've heard all he said. You don't meanto take part with him, do you? You'll never help to sell those prettybabies like that? I'll do anything--anything you tell me--if you'll joinwith 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 bestfor 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 thoseinnocents sold to such a life. If it had been to keep them a whilelonger with us, I mightn't have done anything, not just yet, not till Isaw a chance. But whatever Mick and the others say, I won't see themtaken 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 givethe sign. Now get out of the way and take care. If Mick hadn't madehimself stupid lately he'd have seen you were thinking of something. Youmustn't say a word to the children; leave them to me," and againsqueezing the boy's arm meaningly, she climbed up into the waggon, wherethe two little prisoners, tired of waiting for her, had fallen fastasleep.
Tim, for his part, tumbled into his so-called bed that night, with awonderfully lightened heart, and his dreams were filled with the mostjoyous hopes.