TIM.
"Whose imp art thou with dimpled cheek,
And curly pate and merry eye?"
J. BAILLIE.
They were so excited, so eager to be off at once, that for a minute or
two Tim could scarcely get them to listen to him. They had forgotten all
about the snakes, or else their confidence in the boy as a protector was
so great that they were sure he would defend them against every danger.
"Oh Tim, dear Tim, do let us go quick," they kept repeating.
"But master and missy," he explained at last when they would let him
speak, "we can't. Don't you see Mick knows exactly where he left yer,
and he'd be after us in a minute. There's nowhere near here where we
could hide but what he'd find us. You'd only get me a beating, that 'ud
be all about it. No, listen to me. P'raps Mick means to take yer home
straight away, but if he doesn't we must wait a bit till I can find out
what he's after. He's a deep one is Mick."
"Couldn't you run home quick to tell Grandpapa and Grandmamma where us
is?" said Duke. "Grandpapa, and the coachman, and Dymock, and the
gardener--they'd all come to fetch us."
"I dursn't," said Tim. "Not yet; Mick's a deep one. If he thought I'd
run off to tell he'd----"
"What would he do?" they asked breathlessly.
"He'd hide away somehow. 'Twouldn't be so easy to find him. He'll be
back in a moment too--I couldn't get off before he'd be after me. No; we
must wait a bit till I see what he's after."
"Why haven't you runned away before?" asked Pamela. "If he's not your
father, and if you don't like him."
"Nowhere to run to," said Tim simply. "It's not so bad for me. I'm used
to it. It's not like you, master and missy. Diana and me, when you was
up at the top o' the wall, we'd ha' done anything to stop you coming
down."
"But, Tim," said Pamela, almost in a whisper "you don't mean that Mick's
going to steal us away for always."
"No, no," said the boy, "he only wants to get some money for you. But
we'll see in a bit. Just you stay there quiet till he comes, and don't
you say you've seen me. I'll soon see you again; but he mustn't find me
here."
They began to cry again when he left them, but he had not gone too soon;
for in less than five minutes--by which time Tim had hidden himself some
little way off--they heard the voice of the gipsy urging on the donkey
over the rough ground. He seemed in a very bad temper, and Duke and
Pamela shivered with fear.
"Oh I wish us had runned away," whispered Pamela, though, when she tried
to lift herself up and found she could not put the wounded foot to the
ground even so as to hobble, she felt that to escape would have been
impossible. The gipsy scowled at them, but said nothing as he lifted
first the boy and then the girl on to the donkey.
"There, now," he said, with a slight return to his falsely-smooth tones,
"you'll be pleased at last, I should hope. To think of all the trouble
we've had, the missus and me, a-unpacking of all the pots and crocks for
you to ride on the donkey."
"And are you going to take us straight home, then?" said Pamela, whose
spirits had begun to revive.
"What, without the bowl?" exclaimed Mick, in pretended surprise, "when
there's such a lot all set out on the grass in a row for you to see."
He spoke so naturally that both the children were deceived for the
moment. Perhaps after all he was not so bad--even Tim had said _perhaps_
he was going to take them home! They looked up at him doubtfully.
"If you don't mind, please," said Duke, "us'd rather go home. It doesn't
matter about the bowl, for sister's foot's so sore and it's getting
late. I'll give you all the money--oh please, where have you put my
money-box?"
Greatly to his surprise, the gipsy pulled it out of some slouching inner
pocket of his jacket and gave it to him.
"Here it is, master; but it'd a' been lost but for me--a-laying on the
ground there."
Duke opened it.
"I'll give you----" he began again, but he suddenly stopped short. "The
little gold guinea's not here," he cried, "only the shilling and the
sixpence and the pennies."
"Must have rolled out on the ground if ever it was there," said Mick
sullenly. "_I_ never see'd it."
"It _was_ there," cried Duke angrily. "Do you think I'd tell a story? I
must go back and look for it. Let me down, I say, let me down."
Then Mick turned on him with a very evil expression on his face.
"Stop that, d'ye hear? Stop that," and he lifted his fist threateningly.
"D'ye think I'm going to waste any more time on such brats and their
nonsense? Catch me a-taking you home for you to go and say I've stolen
your money, and get me put in prison by your grandpapas and grandmammas
as likely as not," he went on in a half-threatening, half-whining tone.
Duke was going to answer, but Pamela pulled his sleeve.
"Be quiet, bruvver," she said in a whisper. "Tim said us must wait a
bit."
Almost as she said the words a voice was heard whistling at a little
distance--they were now out of the wood on a rough bridle path. Mick
looked round sharply and descried a figure coming near them.
"What have you been about, you good-for-nothing?" he shouted. "Why
didn't you stay with the others? You might have lent me a hand with the
donkey and the brats."
Tim stood still in the middle of the path, and stared at them without
speaking. Then he turned round and walked beside Mick, who was leading
the donkey.
"What are ye a-doing with the little master and missy?" he asked coolly.
"Mind yer business," muttered the gipsy gruffly. Then he added in a
louder tone, "Master and missy has lost their way, don't ye see? They're
ever so far from home. It was lucky I met them."
"Are ye a-going to take them home?" continued Tim.
"For sure, when I can find the time. But that won't be just yet a bit.
There's the missus a-waiting for us."
And, turning a corner, they came suddenly in sight of the other
gipsies--the two women and the big sulky-looking boy--gathered round a
tree, the donkey's panniers and the various bundles the party had been
carrying lying on the ground beside them. If the panniers had been
unpacked and their contents spread out, as Mick had told the children,
they had certainly been quickly packed up again. But there was no time
for wondering about how this could be; the woman whom the pedlar called
"the missus" came up to her husband as soon as she saw them, and said a
few words hastily, and with a look of great annoyance, in the queer
language she had spoken before, to which he replied with some angry
expression which it was probably well the children did not understand.
"Better have done with it, I should say," said the other woman, who was
much younger and nicer-looking, but still with a rather sullen and
discontented face.
"That's just like her," said Mick. "What we'd come to if we listened to
her talk it beats me to say."
"You've not come to much good by not listening to it," retorted Diana
fiercely. But Tim, who had gone towards her, said something in a low
voice which seemed to calm her.
"It's true--we'll only waste our time if we take to quarrelling," she
said. "What's to be done, then?"
"We must put the panniers back, and the girl must sit between them
somehow," said the man. "She can't walk--the boy must run beside."
So saying, he lifted both children off the donkey, not so gently but
that Pamela gave a cry as her sore foot touched the ground. But no one
except Duke paid any attention to her, not even Tim, which she thought
very unkind of him. She said so in a low voice to Duke, but he whispered
to her to be quiet.
"If only my foot was not sore, now us could have runned away," she could
not help whispering again. For all the gipsies seemed so busy in loading
themselves and the donkey that for a few minutes the children could have
fancied they had forgotten all about them. It was not so, however. As
soon as the panniers were fastened on again Mick turned to Pamela, and,
without giving her time to resist, placed her again on the donkey. It
was very uncomfortable for her; her poor little legs were stretched out
half across the panniers, and she felt that the moment the donkey moved
she would surely fall off. So, as might have been expected, she began to
cry. The gipsy was turning to her with some rough words, when Diana
interfered.
"Let me settle her," she said. "What a fool you are, Mick!" Then she
drew out of her own bundle a rough but not very dirty checked wool
shawl, with which she covered the little girl, who was shivering with
cold, and at the same time made a sort of cushion for her with one end
of it, so that she could sit more securely.
"Thank you," said Pamela, amidst her sobs; "but oh I hope it's not very
far to home."
Mick stood looking on, and at this he gave a sneering laugh.
"It's just as well to have covered her up," he said. "Isn't there
another shawl as'd do for the boy? Not that it matters; we'll meet no
one the road we're going. The sooner we're off the better."
He took hold of the bridle and set off as fast as he could get the
donkey to go. Diana kept her place beside it, so that, even if Pamela
had fallen off, it would only have been into the young woman's arms.
Duke followed with Tim and the other woman, but he had really to "run,"
as Mick had said, for his short legs could not otherwise have kept up
with the others. He was soon too out of breath to speak--besides, he
dared not have said anything to Tim in the hearing of "the missus," of
whom he was almost more afraid than even of Mick. And the only sign of
friendliness Tim, on his side, dared show him was by taking his hand
whenever he thought the woman would not notice. But, tired as he was
already, Duke could not long have kept up; he felt as if he _must_ have
cried out, when suddenly they came to a turning in the road and the
gipsy stopped.
"We'll get back into the wood this way," he said, without turning his
head, and with some difficulty he managed to get the donkey across a dry
ditch, and down a steep bank, when, sure enough, they found themselves
again among trees. It was already dusk, and a very little way on in the
wood it became almost dark. The gipsy went on some distance
farther--obliged, however, to go very slowly; then at last he stopped.
"This'll do for to-night," he said. "I'm about sick of all this
nonsense, I can tell ye. We might ha' been at Brigslade to-night if it
hadn't been for these brats."
"Then do as I say," said Diana. "I'll manage it for you. Big Tony can
carry one, and I the other."
But Mick only turned away with an oath.
[Illustration: "HERE'S SOME SUPPER FOR YOU. WAKE UP, AND TRY AND EAT A
BIT. IT'LL DO YOU GOOD."--p. 89.]
Big Tony was the name of the gipsy boy. He never spoke, and never seemed
to take any interest in anything, for he was half-witted, as it is
called; though Duke and Pamela only thought him very sulky and silent
compared with the friendly little Tim. By this time they were too
completely tired to think about anything--they even felt too stupid to
wonder if they were on the way home or not--and when Diana lifted Pamela
off the donkey and set her down, still wrapped in the shawl, to lean
with her back against a tree, Duke crept up to her, drawing a corner of
the shawl round him, for he too was very cold by now, poor little
boy--and sat there by his sister, both of them in a sort of half stupor,
too tired even to know that they were very hungry!
They did fall asleep--though they did not know it till they were roused
by some one gently pulling them.
"Here's some supper for you. Wake up, and try and eat a bit. It'll do
you good," the gipsy Diana was saying to them; and when they managed to
open their sleepy eyes, they saw that she had a wooden bowl in one hand,
in which some hot coffee was steaming, and a hunch of bread in the
other. It was not very good coffee, and neither Duke nor Pamela was
accustomed to coffee of any kind at home, but it was hot and sweet, and
they were so hungry that even the coarse butterless bread tasted good.
As they grew more awake they began to wonder how the coffee had been
made, but the mystery was soon explained, for at a short distance a fire
of leaves and branches was burning brightly with a kettle sputtering
merrily in the middle. And round the fire Mick and his wife and big Tony
were sitting or lying, each with food in their hands; while a little
nearer them Tim was pulling another shawl out of a bundle.
"Give it me here," said Diana, and then she wrapped it round Duke,
drawing the other more closely about Pamela.
"Now you can go to sleep again," she said, seeing that the coffee and
bread had disappeared. "It'll not be a cold night, and we'll have to be
off early in the morning;" and then she turned away and sat down to eat
her own supper at a little distance.
"Tim," whispered Duke; but the boy caught the faint sound and edged
himself nearer.
"Tim," said Duke again, "is he not going to take us home to-night?"
"I'se a-feared not," replied Tim in the same tone.
A low deep sigh escaped poor Duke. Pamela, so worn out by the pain as
well as fatigue she had suffered that she could no longer keep up, was
already fast asleep again.
"When it's quite, quite dark," continued Duke, "and when Mick and them
all are asleep, don't you think us might run away, Tim?"
Tim shook his head.
"Missy can't walk; and she's dead tired out, let alone her poor foot,"
he said. "You must wait a bit till she can walk anyway. Try to go to
sleep, and to-morrow we'll see."
Duke began to cry quietly.
"I'm too midderable to sleep," he said. "And it's all my fault. Just
look at sister, Tim. She's not even undressed, and she'll die--sleeping
all night without any bed out in the cold. Oh, and it's all my fault!"
"Hush, hush, master!" said Tim, terrified lest the others should
overhear them.
"What does he want to do with us? Why won't he take us home?" asked
Duke.
Tim hesitated a moment.
"I thought at first it was just to get money for bringing of ye back,"
he said. "I've known him do that."
"But us would tell," said Duke indignantly. "Us would tell that he
wouldn't let us go home."
"Ah, he'd manage so as 'twouldn't matter what you said," replied Tim.
"He'd get some pal of his to find you like, and then he'd get the money
back from him."
"What's a pal?" asked Duke bewildered.
"Another like hisself; a friend o' his'n," said Tim. "But that's not
what he's after. I found out what it is. There's a show at some big
place we're going to; and they want pretty little ones like you and
little missy, to dress them up and teach them to dance, and to play all
sort o' tricks--a-riding on ponies and suchlike, I daresay. I'se seen
them. And Mick'll get a good deal that way. I'd bet anything, and so'd
Diana, that's what he's after."
"But us'd _tell_," repeated Duke, "us'd tell that he'd stoled us away,
and they'd have to let us go home."
Again Tim shook his head.
"Those as 'ud pay Mick for ye wouldn't give much heed to aught you'd
say," he answered. "And it'll maybe be a long way off from here--over
the sea maybe."
"Then," said Duke, "then us _must_ run away, Tim. And if you won't help
us, us'll run away alone, as soon as ever sister's foot's better. Us
_must_, Tim."
He had raised his voice in his excitement, so that Tim glanced anxiously
in the direction of the fire. But Mick and his wife seemed to have
fallen asleep themselves, or perhaps the wind rustling overhead among
the branches prevented the child's little voice reaching them; they gave
no signs of hearing. All the same it was best to be cautious.
"Master," said Tim solemnly, "I'm ready to help you. I said so to Diana,
I did, as soon as ever I see'd what Mick was after, a-tempting you and
missy with his nonsense about the bowl you wanted; there's no bowls like
what you wanted among the crocks."
"Why didn't you call out to us and tell us not to come?" said Duke.
"I dursn't--and Mick'd have told you it was all my lies. And I never
thought he was a-going to bring you right away neither. I thought he'd
get money out of you like he does whenever he's a chance. But, master,
if you're ever to get safe away you must do as I tell you, you must."
This was all the comfort poor Duke could get. In the meantime there was
nothing to do but try to go to sleep and forget his troubles. There was
not very much time to do so in, for long before it was really dawn the
gipsies were up and astir, and by noon the little brother and sister
were farther from "home" than they had ever been since the day when
their poor young mother arrived at Arbitt Lodge with her two
starved-looking fledglings, now nearly six years ago. For some miles
from where they had spent the night Mick and his party joined a
travelling caravan of their friends, all bound for the great fair of
which Tim had spoken to Duke. And now it would have been difficult for
even Grandpapa or Grandmamma to recognise their dear children. Their own
clothes were taken from them, their white skin, like that of the
princesses in the old fairy tales, was washed with something which, if
not walnut juice, had the same effect, and they were dressed in coarse
rough garments belonging to some of the gipsy children of the caravan.
Still, on the whole, they were not unkindly treated--they had enough to
eat of common food, and Diana, who took them a good deal under her
charge, was kind to them in her rough sulky way. But it was a dreadful
change for the poor little things, and they would already have tried, at
all risks, to run away, had it not been for Tim's begging them to be
patient and trust to him.
All day long--it was now the third day since they had been stolen--the
two or three covered vans or waggons which contained the gipsies and
their possessions jogged slowly along the roads and lanes. Now and then
they halted for a few hours if they came to any village or small town
where it seemed likely that they could do a little business, either in
selling their crockery or cheap cutlery, baskets, and suchlike, or
perhaps in fortune-telling, and no doubt wherever they stopped the
farm-yards and poultry-yards in the neighbourhood were none the better
for it. At such times Duke and Pamela were always hidden away deep in
the recesses of one of the waggons, so there was nothing they dreaded
more than when they saw signs of making a halt. It was wretched to be
huddled for hours together in a dark corner among all sorts of dirty
packages, while the other children were allowed to run about the village
street picking up any odd pence they could by playing tricks or selling
little trifles out of the general repository. And the brother and sister
were not at all consoled by being told that before long they should be
dressed up in beautiful gold and silver clothes--"like a real prince and
princess," said Mick, once when he was in a good humour--and taught to
dance like fairies. For Tim's words had explained to them the meaning of
these fine promises, and, though they said nothing, the little pair were
far less babyish and foolish in some ways than the gipsies, who judged
them by their delicate appearance and small stature, had any idea of.
But still they were very young, and there is no telling how soon they
would have begun to get accustomed to their strange life,--how soon even
the remembrance of Grandpapa and Grandmamma and their pretty peaceful
home, of Toby and Miss Mitten, of the garden and their little white
beds, of Nurse and Biddy and Dymock, and all that had hitherto made up
their world,--would have begun to grow dim and hazy, and at last seem
only a dream, of which Mick, and the Missus and Diana, and the others,
and the green lanes, with the waggons ever creeping along, and the
coarse food and coarser talking and laughing and scolding, were the
reality, had it not been for some fortunate events which opened out to
them the hope of escape before they had learnt to forget they were in
prison.
Tim was a great favourite in the gipsy camp. He was not one of them, but
he did not seem to remember any other life; in any case he never spoke
of it, and he was so much better tempered and obliging than the cruel,
quarrelsome gipsy boys, that it was always to him that ran the two or
three tiny black-eyed children when their mothers had cuffed them out of
the way; it was always he who had a kind word or a pat on the head for
the two half-starved curs that slunk along beside or under the carts.
There was no mystery about his life--he was not a stolen child, and he
could faintly remember the little cottage where he had lived with his
mother before she died, leaving him perfectly friendless and penniless,
so that he was glad to pick up an odd sixpence, or even less, wherever
he could, till one day he fell in with Mick, who offered him his food
and the chance of more by degrees, as he wanted a sharp lad to help him
in his various trades--of pedlar, tinker, basket-maker, wicker-chair
mender, etc., not to speak of poultry-stealing, orchard-robbing, and
even child-thieving when he got a chance that seemed likely to be
profitable.
Poor little Tim--he had learnt very scanty good in his short life! His
mother, bowed down with care and sorrow--for her husband, a thatcher by
trade, had been killed by an accident, leaving her with the boy of three
years old and two delicate babies, who both died--had barely managed to
keep herself and him alive by working in the fields, and she used to
come home at night so tired out that she could scarcely speak to the
child, much less teach him as she would have liked to do. Still on
Sundays she always, till her last illness, managed to take him to
church, and in her simple way tried to explain to him something of what
he then heard. But he was only eight years old when she died, and,
though he had not forgotten _her_, the memory of her words had grown
confused and misty. For, in the four years since then, he had had no
companions but tramps and gipsies--till the day when Duke and Pamela
were decoyed away by Mick, he had never exchanged more than a passing
word or two with any one of a better class. And somehow the sight of
their sweet innocent faces, the sound of their gentle little voices had
at once gained his heart. Never had he thought so much of his mother, of
his tiny brother and sister, who, he fancied, would have been about the
size of the little strangers, as since he had been with them. And when
he saw them looking shocked and frightened at the rough words and tones
of the gipsies,--when Pamela burst out sobbing to see how dirty her face
and hands were, and Duke grew scarlet with fury at the boys for throwing
stones at the poor dogs,--most of all, perhaps, when the two little
creatures knelt together in a corner of the van to say their prayers
night and morning--prayers which now always ended in a sobbing entreaty
"to be taken home again to dear Grandpapa and Grandmamma,"--a strange
feeling rose in Tim's throat and seemed as if it would choke him. And he
lay awake night after night trying to recall what his mother had taught
him, wishing he knew what it meant to be "good," wondering if the
Grandpapa and Grandmamma of whom the children so constantly spoke would
perhaps take pity on him and put him in the way of a better sort of
life, if he could succeed in helping the little master and missy to
escape from the gipsies and get safe back to their own home.
For every day, now that he had seen more of the children, he understood
better how dreadful it would be for them if wicked Mick's intentions
were to succeed. But hitherto no opportunity of running away had
offered--the children were far too closely watched. And Tim dared not
take any one, not even Diana, into his confidence!