BABES IN A WOOD.
"Out of this wood do not desire to go;
Thou shalt remain here, whether thou wilt or no."
_Midsummer Night's Dream._
There was no one to be seen when they got to the back gate. The children
stood and looked about--Pamela with the bits of broken crockery in her
apron held up in front, Duke tightly clasping the precious money-box.
They looked this way and that way, up the lane and down the lane, but
could see nothing or nobody save Farmer Riggs' very old horse turned out
at the side of the hedge, and two or three ducks who had perversely
chosen to wander out to grub about in a small pool of stagnant water
instead of gratefully enjoying their own nice clean pond, as
Grandmamma's ducks might have been expected to do. At another time Duke
and Pamela would certainly have chased the stray ducks home again, with
many pertinent remarks on their naughty disobedience, but just now they
had no thought or attention to give to anything but their own concerns.
A sudden feeling came over Pamela, and she turned to Duke.
"Bruvver," she said, "those people hasn't come. I fink they're not good
people, and they won't come near the house. I daresay they're somewhere
down the lane, not far off--but don't you _fink_ perhaps us had better
not look for them any more, but just go home, and when Grandmamma comes
in tell her _everyfing_. Even if she is raver angry, wouldn't it be
better, bruvver? I'm almost sure my little voice inside is telling me
so," and Pamela stood for a moment with a look of intent listening on
her face. "Yes, I'm sure that's what it's trying to say. Can you hear
yours, bruvver?"
Duke looked undecided.
"I can't listen just now, sister," he replied. "I'm full of thinking how
nice it would be to buy a bowl just the same, and take it in and give it
to poor Biddy, and then she wouldn't be scolded. I don't think I'd mind
telling Grandmamma once us had got the bowl. She'd be so pleased to have
one the same."
"_I_ fink she'd be most pleased for us to tell her everyfing,"
maintained Pamela stoutly.
And Duke, always impressed by her opinion, wavered, and no doubt he
would have wavered back into the right way, had not, just at that
moment, a low whistle been heard some way to the left down the lane;
and, looking in the direction from whence it came, the little boy and
girl caught sight of a head quickly poked out and as quickly drawn back
again into the shade of the hedge. But not too quickly for them to have
recognised the sharp black eyes and rough black hair of the gipsy
pedlar.
Without replying to Pamela Duke darted off, and, though much against her
will, the little girl felt she could not but follow him. Before they had
quite reached the spot the head was poked out again.
"I've had to wait here for you, master and missy," said the man. "There
were some farmers men down that way, round the corner," and he jerked
his thumb--for he had by this time come out of his hole--in an imaginary
direction, "as said this were a private road, and they'd set dogs on us
if we came on. I'm a peaceable fellow, and not fond o' fightin', so I'd
just have gone on my way out of their road but for promisin' you to come
round this way."
"It's very strange," said Duke; "I don't know what it means about a
private road, but I know everybody always passes this way--that's why us
likes Spy Tower so much, there's so many people passing."
"It's all along of our being poor folk," said the man; "there's no fair
play for poor folk. But I'm one as keeps his word, so here I am. And the
donkey and the missus are down the road there waiting--there's a little
wood where we thought nobody would disturb us for a bit, if you and
missy will come so far--the missus said she'd unpack the pots. But you
must be quick--I dursn't hang about here, and if you can't come there's
no more to be said," and he turned as if to go.
"Just wait one instant, please," said Pamela hastily, extracting one of
the fragments from her apron; "just look at this. It's no use our going
to see the bowls if you've none the same--do you fink you have any like
this?"
The man pretended to start.
"Well, that is cur'ous," he said. "If my eyes is not deceivin' me,
that's the very pattern we've a whole set on--the bowls shouldn't ought
to be sold separate, but to oblige you we'll see what the missus will
do," and again he turned to go.
The children looked at each other. They had never before in their lives
been outside the gates alone; of this back road and where it led to they
knew very little, as it was always on the other road--that leading to
Sandlingham--that Nurse liked to walk. They did not remember the little
wood the man spoke of, but they did not like to contradict him; then, if
it was only such a little way, they could run back in a minute when they
had got the bowl, and all would be right. So they took each other's
hands and followed the man, who was already striding some steps in front
down the lane, glancing behind him over his shoulder from time to time
to see if the little couple had made up their minds.
A few minutes' quick walking on his part, necessitating something
between a trot and a run on theirs, brought them out of the lane into
the high road. Here the man stopped short for a moment and looked about
him--the children supposed in search of his companions and the donkey.
But there was no one and nothing to be seen.
"I don't think us can come any farther," said Duke rather timidly. The
man turned round with a scowl on his face, but in a moment he had
smoothed it away and spoke in the same oily tones.
"It's just a step farther," he said, "and I can take you a shorter way
through the fields than the missus could go with the donkey. This way,
master and missy," and he quickly crossed the road, still glancing up
and down, and, climbing over a stile, stood beckoning for the children
to follow.
They had never noticed this stile before; they had not the slightest
idea where it led to, but somehow they felt more afraid now to turn back
than to go on; and, indeed, it would not have been any use, for, had he
cared to do so, the man could have overtaken them in a moment. The stile
was hard for their short legs to climb, but they had a great dislike to
the idea of his touching them, and would not ask for help. And once he
had got them on the other side of it he seemed to feel he had them in
his power, and did not take much notice of them, but strode on through
the rough brushwood--for they were by this time in a sort of little
coppice--as if he cared for nothing but to get over the ground as fast
as possible. And still the two followed him--through the coppice, across
one or two ploughed fields, down a bit of lane where they had never been
before, plunging at last into a wood where the trees grew thick and
dark--a forest of gloom it seemed to Duke and Pamela--and all this time
they never met a creature, or passed any little cottage such as they
were accustomed to see on the cheerful Sandlingham road. The pedlar knew
the country, and had chosen the least frequented way. Had they by any
chance met a carriage or cart, even when crossing the high road, he
would not have dared to risk being seen with the children, but in that
case he would no doubt have hurried off, leaving them to find their way
home as best they might. But no such good fortune having befallen them,
on they trotted--hand-in-hand for the most part, though by this time
several stumbles had scratched and bruised them, and their flying hair,
flushed faces and tumbled clothes made them look very different from the
little "master and missy" Biddy had sent out into the peaceful garden to
play that sweet April afternoon.
_Why_ they went on, they could not themselves have told. Often in after
years, and when they had grown older and wiser, they asked themselves
the question. It was not exactly fear, for as yet the man had not
actually spoken roughly to them, nor was it altogether a feeling of
shame at giving in--it was a mixture of both perhaps, and some strange
sort of fascination that even very wise people might not find it easy to
explain. For every time their steps lagged, and they felt as if they
could go no farther, a glance over his shoulder of the man in front
seemed to force them on again. And as the wood grew closer and darker
this feeling increased. They felt as if they were miles and miles from
home, in some strange and distant country they had never before seen or
heard of; they seemed to be going on and on, as in a dream. And though
poor little Pamela still, through all her stumbles and tumbles, held
tightly up before her the corners of her apron, containing the bits of
the unlucky bowl, and Duke, on his side, still firmly clutched his
precious money-box, I do not believe either of them had by this time any
very clear remembrance of why they were laden with these queer burdens,
or what was the object of the strange and painful expedition.
And still on strode the piercing-eyed gipsy, as sure of his prey now
apparently as a fowler who watches unmoved the fruitless struggles of
some poor little birds in the net from which they have no chance of
escaping.
It would be impossible to say how far they had gone--perhaps not so very
far after all, though their panting breath and trembling little legs
showed that the gipsy's purpose of tiring them out was pretty well
accomplished--when at last a sharp cry from Pamela forced the pedlar to
look round. She had caught her foot on a stone or a root, and fallen,
and in falling one of the jagged bits of the broken crockery had cut her
leg pretty deeply; the blood was already streaming from it, her little
white sock was deeply stained, and she lay on the ground almost fainting
with terror and pain.
"Stop that screaming, will ye?" said the man, and then, with a half
return to his former tone, "There's nothing to cry about, missy. It's
just a scratch--I'll tie it up with a bit of rag," and he began fumbling
about in his dirty pockets as he spoke. "There's the donkey and the
others waiting for us just five minutes farther;" and for once the gipsy
spoke the truth. The way he had brought the children was in reality a
great round, chosen on purpose to bewilder them, so that the rest of his
party had been able to reach the meeting-place he had appointed very
much more quickly by the road.
But Pamela, once thoroughly upset and frightened, was not to be so
easily calmed down.
"No, no," she screamed, "I won't let him touch me. Go away, go away, you
ugly man," she cried, pushing him back with her tiny hands when he tried
to come near. "I _won't_ let you touch me or carry me," for that now
seemed to be the gipsy's intention, "leave me here with Duke; we don't
want you any more."
The man's dark face grew darker with the scowl that came over it. For
half a moment he seemed on the point of seizing Pamela in his arms in
spite of her cries and resistance. But there was Duke too to be
considered; Pamela alone it would be easy to cover up, so that her cries
should not be heard; but he could not carry both, and if the boy ran
after them screaming, or if he tried to run home, to ask for help--for
"home" was really not far off--there was no knowing what trouble the
anything but blessed "brats" might bring upon worthy Mick and his horde!
So that respectable gentleman decided on different tactics.
"You're a very naughty little girl," he said--speaking, however, not
roughly, but more as if Pamela's behaviour really shocked and hurt him.
"After all the trouble I've give myself for you--a-goin' out of my road,
and a-unpackin' all the pots and crocks down there, for to please you.
Not even to let me tie up your foot or carry you to the missus for her
to do it! Well, if you lie there till you bleed to death, it's no fault
o' mine."
But Duke's presence of mind had returned by this time.
"I'll tie up her foot with my hankercher," he said, producing the little
twelve-inch square of linen, which for a wonder he found in his pocket,
on the whole much cleaner than could have been expected. And though he
grew white and sick with the sight of the streaming blood, he managed
without any opposition from his sister to strap it up after a fashion,
the gipsy looking on in silence.
"You can go now, thank you," said Duke, his voice trembling in spite of
himself. "Us don't mind about the bowl--it's too far to go. Us will tell
Grandmamma all about it--Oh how I do wish us had told her at first," he
broke off suddenly. "Please go," he went on again to the pedlar;
"sister's frightened. I'll stay here with her till her foot's better,
and then us'll go home."
"And how will ye do that, I'd like to know, my young master?" said the
pedlar, and there was a mocking tone in his voice that made the boy look
up at him with fresh alarm. "Ye're furder from 'home' than ye think for.
No, no; here ye'll have to stay till I fetch the donkey to carry you
both. And to think of all that trouble and time lost for nothing."
"They'll give you something at home for bringing us back; they will
indeed," said Duke. "Grandpapa and Grandmamma will be so pleased to see
us safe again, I _know_ they'll give you something," he repeated, while
a sob rose in his throat at the thought that already perhaps dear
Grandpapa and Grandmamma--never had they seemed _so_ dear!--were
wondering and troubled about their absence. And somehow he quite forgot
that he himself could reward the gipsy, for in attending to Pamela's
wounded foot he had laid down the money-box, and no longer remembered
that he had it with him.
The gipsy grunted, and muttered something about "making sure" that Duke
scarcely heard. Then he turned to go.
"I'm off for the donkey then. But mind you the stiller you stays in this
here wood the better," he added impressively. "That's why I didn't like
missy crying out so loud. It's a queer place--a _very_ queer place. I'se
warrant your Nurse never brought you this way when you were out
a-walking."
"No, never," said Duke, startled, and even Pamela left off sobbing to
stare up at him with her tearful blue eyes, as if fascinated by these
mysterious hints.
"Ah, I thought not," he said, nodding his head. "Well, stay where you
are, and make no sound whatsumnever, and no harm'll come to ye. But if
you stir or speak even above a whisper," and he lowered his own voice,
"there's no saying. There's beasts you never heard tell of in this
wood--worsest of all, snakes, that think nothing of twisting round a
child and off with it for their supper afore one could cry out. But if
you stop quite still they'll not find you out before I'm back with the
donkey. It's about their time o' day for sleeping just now, I'm
thinking," and with this crumb of consolation the cruel-hearted gipsy
turned on his heel.
Words would fail me to describe the terror of the two poor little
children: a cry of appeal to the pedlar to stay beside them, not to
leave them to the dreadful creatures he spoke of, rose to their lips,
but stopped there. For were they not almost as terrified of him as of
the snakes? Pamela forgot all about her wounded foot, though it was
growing stiff with pain, and the blood, which Duke's unskilful binding
had not succeeded in checking, was still flowing in a way that would
have alarmed more experienced eyes. It was cold too--and terror made
them colder--for the evening was drawing on, and it was only April. Yet
they dared not move--Pamela indeed could not have stood up--and so there
they stayed, Duke crouched beside his sister, who lay almost at full
length on the short tufty grass, among the roots and stumps, for just
here a good deal of wood had been cut down. There was no fear of their
moving--the shivers and sobs that they could not control added to their
fears--they would have left off breathing even, if they could have
managed it, rather than risk betraying their presence to the snakes!
But after some minutes--not more than five probably, though it seemed
more like five hours--had passed the silence and strain grew unbearable
to Duke. He peeped at Pamela; her eyes were closed, she looked so
dreadfully white!--his heart gave such a thump that he looked round for
a moment in terror, it seemed to him such a loud noise,--what could make
her look so? Could the fear and the pain have killed her?
"Pamela," he whispered, in what he meant to be a very low whisper
indeed; "Oh, sister, are you dead?"
Her eyelids fluttered a little, and she half opened them.
"No, bruvver; at least I don't fink so," she said, and her whisper was
very faint without her trying to make it so, for she was really quite
exhausted. "I wasn't sure a minute ago, but I fink now I'm only dying.
But don't speak, for the snakes might hear."
"They're asleep, he said," returned Duke, with a sob of anguish at
Pamela's words.
"But some might be awake. If it wasn't for that, oh, bruvver, you might
run away, and perhaps you'd get safe home. Couldn't you _try_, bruvver?"
and Pamela half raised herself on her arm.
"And leave _you_, sister!" cried Duke indignantly, forgetting to
whisper; "how could you think I'd ever do such a thing? If I could
_carry_ you--oh what a pity it is I'm not much bigger than you!" "You
couldn't carry _me_," said Pamela feebly, and her head sank back again;
"and the snakes would hear us and catch us. But oh, bruvver, I'm afraid
I'll be quite dead before the man comes back again, and yet I don't want
him to come."
Almost in despair Duke sat up and looked round for any possibility of
help. It was nearer than he thought; and yet when a voice, apparently a
very little way off, called out, as if in answer to his unspoken
appeal--
"I'm a-coming. Don't ye be afeared," he started with new terror.
"A snake!--Oh, sister, can it be a snake?" he cried wildly, for there
was nothing to be seen.
"Snakes don't talk, as ever I heard on," said the voice again, and this
time it was accompanied by a merry laugh, which brought great comfort to
poor Duke. And in another moment the mystery was explained.
From behind some stubble a few yards off rose the figure of the young
boy whom the children had seen walking behind the gipsies--whistling
while he cut at a branch he held in his hand--from their point of
observation in Spy Tower. His face was tanned and freckled by the sun,
but his fair hair and bright blue eyes showed that he was not by birth
one of the dark-skinned tribe; and something in the bright smile,
showing a row of teeth as white and even as Duke's own, and in the
cheerful voice, at once gained the little boy's confidence.
[Illustration: FROM BEHIND SOME STUBBLE A FEW YARDS OFF ROSE THE FIGURE
OF THE YOUNG BOY WHOM THE CHILDREN HAD SEEN WALKING BEHIND THE
GIPSIES--WHISTLING WHILE HE CUT AT A BRANCH HE HELD IN HIS HAND.--p.
74.]
"I've been looking for ye," he said, speaking in a rather lower tone. "I
knew he was a-going to bring ye round this way, so I hid in the bushes
till I see'd him go by. And I crep' along on my hands and knees for fear
he should look back. But he's out o' the way for a few minutes. It's
only a bit of a step to where the others is, but he said something about
the donkey, didn't he? It'll take him a bit to unload it. An' what's he
been a-doing to ye?" he went on, glancing round till his eyes for the
first time caught sight clearly of the little figure stretched on the
ground. "He's never gone and dared to hit the little lady?" and the
good-humoured face grew dark and almost fierce as he stooped down close
to Pamela. She looked pitiable enough; her face had grown whiter and
whiter, her eyes were still closed, and the blood from her foot had
crept about her as she lay till it had soiled the frills of her little
white skirts.
"No," said Duke; "no, it's her foot. The bits of the bowl cut it when
she felled down. I tied it up with my hankercher, but it hasn't left off
bleeding."
The boy did not speak, he was too busy examining the poor foot, which he
handled so tenderly that Pamela did not shrink from his touch. At last
he looked up.
"I say, master," he said, "we must have some water for this 'ere foot.
Just you sit down where I am and hold it so; it won't bleed so bad that
way, and I'll get some water. There's some hard by," and he looked
round. "If I had but something to fetch some in."
"There's my money-box," said Duke, with a sudden flash of recollection,
"it would hold a little," and in his turn he looked round. But no
money-box was to be seen. "Oh where can it be?" he cried. "I know I had
it when sister felled."
"Was there summat in it?" asked the boy.
"Oh yes," replied Duke; "one of the little gold guineas, and one of my
shillings, and one of sister's sixpennies, and all the pennies."
"Ah," said the boy, "then I'm afeared you've said good-bye to the lot o'
them. Catch Mick let fish like that out of his net. But," he added--for
Duke seemed to be stunned by the loss--"sit ye down, and I'll fetch what
water I can in my cap, or we'll have missy's foot very bad, and that 'ud
be worser than losin' the money."
He was back in a moment with water enough to soak the diminutive
handkerchief, with which he gently bathed away some of the blood, so
that he could see the wound. It was a bad cut, but it was not now
bleeding so much. The little surgeon pressed the sides gently together,
which made Pamela give a little scream of pain.
"Don't cry, missy dear," he said. "It'll not hurt so much when I've tied
it up. Ye've not another hankerwich? I'd like to lay this one over the
cut--it's nice and wet--and tie it on with summat else."
"I fink there's one in my pocket," said Pamela, and when Duke had
extracted it, and with its help the poor foot was tied up much more
scientifically than before, she sat up and looked about her, less white
and miserable by a good deal, thanks to their new friend.
"What a nice boy you are," she said condescendingly. "What's your name?
Is that---- ugly man" she was going to have said, but she hesitated,
afraid of hurting the boy's feelings--"is the man your father?" and she
dropped her voice.
"Bless yer, no," he replied with real fervency, "and that's one thing
I'm thankful for. Mick my father; _no_, thank you, missy. My name's Tim,
leastways so I'm called. Diana she says it's short for Timothy, but
Tim's long enough."
"And who's Diana?" asked the children, beginning to forget their own
troubles in curiosity.
"Her as he roared out at so--yonder--when you was up at the top o' the
wall. She's a deal better than him and the missus is Diana. But listen,
master and missy. He'll be back in a minute, and----"
"Oh let us run away before he comes! oh do help us to run away!" they
exclaimed, all their terrors returning. "Us doesn't want the bowl now.
Oh Tim, can't us all run away, quick, before he comes?"
And the two little creatures seized hold of their new friend's ragged
jacket as if they felt that in him was their only chance of safety.