TOBY AND BARBARA.
"Missing or lost, last Sunday night."
THOMAS MOORE.
The chance for which Tim was hoping seemed slow of coming. He was always
on the look-out for it; and, indeed, had he not been so Duke would have
kept him up to his promise, for whenever he saw Tim alone for a moment
he was sure to whisper to him, "How soon do you think us can run away?"
And it was now the seventh day since the children had been carried off!
Pamela's foot was almost well. She could walk and even run without it
hurting her. Diana had bound it up carefully, after putting on some
ointment which certainly healed it very quickly. For, with all their
ignorance and brutality, the gipsies were really clever in some ways.
They had knowledge of herbs which had been handed down to them by their
ancestors, and their fingers were skilful and nimble. And for their own
sakes Mick and the Missus were anxious that their two pretty prisoners
should not fall ill. So that, though dirty and uncared-for as far as
appearance went, the little pair had not really suffered in health by
their misfortunes.
It was partly, perhaps, owing to their innocent hopefulness, which kept
up their spirits when, had they been wiser and older, they would have
lost heart and grown ill with fear and anxiety.
They were now far enough from Sandlingham for Mick to feel pretty sure
they would not be tracked. The actual distance they had travelled was
not great, but a few miles in those days were really more than a hundred
at the present time. For there were, of course, no railways; in many
parts of the country the cross-roads were so bad that it was necessary
and really quicker to make long rounds rather than leave "the king's
highway." And--still more important, perhaps, in such a case--there were
no telegraphs! No possibility for poor Grandpapa and Grandmamma--as
there would be nowadays, _could_ such a thing happen as the theft of
little children--to send word in the space of an hour or two to the
police all over the country. Indeed, compared with what it is in our
times, the police hardly existed.
And everything was in the gipsies' favour. No one had seen them in the
neighbourhood of Arbitt Lodge. They had not been on the Sandlingham
high-road before meeting the children, and had avoided it on purpose
after that. So, among the many explanations that were offered to the
poor old gentleman and lady of their grandchildren's disappearance,
though "stolen by gipsies" was suggested, it was not seriously taken up.
"There have been no gipsies about here for months past," said Grandpapa.
"Besides, the children were in our own grounds--gipsies could not have
got in without being seen--it is not as if they had been straying about
the lanes."
Everything that could be done had been done. All the ponds in the
neighbourhood had been dragged; the only dangerous place anywhere
near--a sort of overhanging cliff over some unused quarries--had been at
once visited; the quarries themselves searched in every corner--even
though they were very meek-and-mild, inoffensive quarries, where it
would have been difficult to hide even a little dog like Toby. And all,
as we of course know, had been in vain! There really seemed by the end
of this same seventh day _nothing_ left to do. And Grandpapa sat with
bowed gray head, his newspaper unopened on the table beside him, broken
down, brave old soldier though he was,--utterly broken down by this
terrible blow. While Grandmamma slowly drew her arm-chair a little
nearer than usual to the fire, for grief makes people--old people
especially--chilly. All her briskness and energy were gone; her sweet
old face was white and drawn, with no pretty pink flush in the cheeks
now; her bright eyes were dimmed and paled by the tears they had shed,
till now even the power of weeping seemed exhausted.
"I never thought--no, through all I never thought," she murmured to
herself, so low that even if Grandpapa had been much sharper of hearing
than he was her words could not have reached him,--"I never thought that
a day would come when I should thank the Lord that my Marmaduke--yes,
and poor little Lavinia too--had not lived to see their darlings the
pretty creatures they had become! Yet now I am thankful--thankful for
them to have been spared this anguish. Though, again, if they had been
alive and well and able to take care of Duke and Pam, perhaps it would
never have happened."
And once more--for the hundredth time, I daresay--poor Grandmamma began
torturing herself by wondering in what she had erred--how could she have
taken better care of the children?--was it her fault or Grandpapa's, or
Nurse's, or Biddy's, or anybody's? There had been _something_ the matter
with Duke and Pam that last morning; they had had something on their
little minds. She had thought so at the time, and now she was more than
ever sure of it. What could it have been?
"I thought it best not to force their confidence, babies though they
are," she reflected. "But perhaps if I had persuaded them very tenderly,
they would have told me. Was I too severe and strict with them, the
darlings? I meant to act for the best, but I am a foolish old woman--if
only the punishment of my mistakes could fall on me alone! Ah dear, ah
dear!--it would have been hard to lose them by death, but in that case I
should have felt that they were going to their father and mother; while
_now_--it is awful to picture where they may be, or what may have become
of them! Oh Toby, is it you, you poor little dog?" for just at this
moment Toby rubbed himself against her foot, looking up in her face with
a sad wistful expression in his bright eyes. "Oh Toby, Toby," said
Grandmamma, "I wonder if you could tell us anything to clear up this
dreadful mystery if you could talk."
But Toby only wagged his tail--he was very sad too, but he had far too
much self-respect _not_ to wag his tail when he was kindly spoken to,
however depressed he might be feeling--and looked up again, blinking his
eyes behind their shaggy veil.
"Oh Toby," said poor Grandmamma again, as if she really did not know
what else to say.
And Grandpapa, half ashamed of his own prostration, roused himself to
try to say a cheering word or two.
"We must hope still, my love," he said. "To-morrow may bring news from
the Central London Police Office, where the Sandlingham overseer has
written to. He bade us keep up hope for a few days yet, we must
remember."
"Only for a few days more," repeated Grandmamma. "And if those days
bring nothing, what _are_ we to think--what are we to do?"
"Upon my soul," said Grandpapa, "I do _not_ know;" and with a heavy sigh
he turned away again, glancing at the newspaper as if half inclined to
open it, but without the heart to do so.
"Of course," he said, "if by any possibility they had fallen into kind
hands, and it had occurred to any one to advertise about them, we should
have known it before this. The police are all on the alert by now. If
dishonest people have carried them off for the sake of a reward, they
will find means of claiming it before long. The head-man at Sandlingham
does not advise our offering a reward as yet. He says it might lead to
more delay if they are in dishonest hands. Their captors would wait to
see if more would not be offered--better let them make the first move,
he says."
"To think of putting a price on the darlings, as if they were little
strayed dogs!" exclaimed Grandmamma, lifting her hands.
Just at this moment the door opened, and Dymock came in. Grandmamma
raised her face quickly, with a look of expectation--the door never
opened in those sad days without her heart beating faster with the hope
of possible tidings--but it as quickly faded again. Dymock had just the
same melancholy expression; he still walked on tiptoe, and spoke in a
muffled voice, as if he were entering a sick-room. This was his way of
showing his sympathy, which really was most deep and sincere But somehow
it provoked Grandmamma, who was, it must be confessed, _rather_ a
quick-tempered old lady at all times, and at present her nerves were of
course unusually irritated.
"Well, what is it, Dymock?" she said testily. "I wish you would not go
about like a mute at a funeral. You make me think I don't know what."
"Beg pardon, ma'am, I'm sure," said Dymock humbly, but still in the same
subdued way. He would not have taken offence just now at any remark of
Grandmamma's; but he could not help speaking to her with a sort of
respectful indulgence, as much as to say, "I know she can't help it,
poor old lady," which Grandmamma found exceedingly aggravating. "Beg
pardon. But it's Mrs. Twiss. If she could see you for a moment, ma'am?"
"Old Barbara!" exclaimed Grandmamma. "Is it possible that she--she is so
shrewd and sensible--can she have heard anything do you think, Dymock?"
But Dymock shook his head solemnly.
"No, no, ma'am. It's not that. I'm very sorry if by my manner I raised
any false hopes."
"That you certainly did not, my good Dymock," said the old lady grimly.
"But--would you see Mrs. Twiss, ma'am? She's going from home I believe."
"Going from home--she who never leaves her own cottage! Yes, I will see
her," and in another moment the neat old woman was making her curtsey at
the door.
"Come in, come in, Barbara," said Grandmamma. "And so you are off
somewhere? How is that? Ah, if I were as strong and well as you, I think
I would be tempted to set off on my travels to look for my lost
darlings. It is the staying here waiting and doing nothing that is so
dreadful, my good friend."
And Grandmamma's voice quavered with the last words. It was not the
first time she had seen Barbara since the children's disappearance, for
they were old friends, and the cake woman had hurried up to Arbitt Lodge
at once on hearing of the sad trouble that had befallen its inmates, to
express her concern and see if maybe she could be of any use.
"Yes, indeed, ma'am. I can well understand it," she said. "How you bear
up as you do is just wonderful. I'm sure I can't get it out of my mind
for a moment. I keep seeing them as they passed by that last afternoon.
Nurse was a bit vexed with them--missy's frock was torn and----"
"Yes," interrupted Grandmamma--Grandpapa seeing her occupied had at last
made up his mind to open his newspaper--"Yes, I was thinking of that.
They told us about it, and they asked what it meant to be 'a great
charge;' they had heard Nurse say that to you. She is a good woman, I
feel sure, Barbara, but perhaps she is a little too strict. I have got
it so on my mind that they had some little trouble they did not like to
tell about, and that that, somehow, has had to do with it all."
"You don't mean, ma'am, that such tiny trots as that would have run away
on purpose?" said Barbara in surprise. "Oh no, they'd never have done
that."
"No, I do not mean that exactly," said Grandmamma. "I do not think I
know rightly what I mean. Dear, dear, I wish Dymock would keep Toby
away," she added. "You don't know how he startles me--every time he
comes close to me I fancy somehow it is the children," and Grandmamma
looked so uneasy and nervous that Barbara quietly took up the little dog
and put him out of the room. "And, Barbara, you had no reason for coming
to see me? Except, of course--I was forgetting--that you are going
away."
"Only for a few days, ma'am," Barbara replied. "I had a letter from my
niece--leastways from her husband--the niece who lives over near
Monkhaven--yesterday. She's been very ill, ma'am,--very ill indeed, and
though she's getting better it would be a great comfort to her to see
me, and maybe spirit her up a bit to get well quicker. So I'm just
setting off--I've locked up my cottage and left the key next door. But I
couldn't start without looking in again to see if maybe you had any
news."
"No, no--nothing," replied Grandmamma. "And I feel as if I couldn't bear
much more. I am breaking up, Barbara; a few days more will see the last
of me, my old friend, if they bring no tidings."
Barbara's eyes filled with tears, but she said nothing.--She had
exhausted all her attempts at comfort, all her "perhaps"'s, and
"maybe"'s as to what had become of the children; and though she was a
very cheerful and hopeful old woman, she was also very sympathising, and
it made her dreadfully sad to see Grandmamma so changed and cast down.
"It goes to my heart, ma'am, to see you so," she got out at last. "I
know there's nothing I can do, but all the same I wish I weren't going
away just now, though the few days will soon be past."
"Yes," said Grandmamma, "they will certainly; and yet even two days seem
an eternity just now. You see how foolish and weak I am growing,
Barbara. I want every day to be over, and yet I cannot bear to have the
days pass and to say to myself that the chances of any tidings are
lessening and lessening. Soon it will be two weeks--it is already eight
days. When it was only two days it did not seem so hopeless. But I must
not keep you, Barbara. How do you mean to get to Monkhaven?"
"Farmer Carson is to give me a lift as far as Brigslade, and then I can
walk the rest," said the sturdy old woman, "so good-day to you, ma'am,
and, oh deary me, but I do hope there may be better news to hear when I
come back on Friday," and with a cordial shake of the hand from
Grandmamma, Barbara turned to go. But just then there came at the door a
whining and scratching which made the old lady give a sigh of
impatience.
"It is the dog again," she said. "He is so restless there is no keeping
him quiet, and, though I am very fond of him, I really cannot bear the
sight of him just now. I do wish he were away."
Grandmamma spoke so weariedly and seemed so nervous that Barbara felt
more sorry for her than ever. Suddenly an idea struck her.
"Would you let me take him with me, ma'am?" she said. "He knows me so
well that I should have no trouble with him, and he'd be nice company on
the walk from Brigslade."
Grandmamma hesitated, but only for a moment.
"Yes, take him, Barbara," she said. "He will be much happier with you,
poor little dog. And till I have my darlings again,--and will that ever
be, Barbara?--I really cannot bear to see or hear him. Yes, take him
with you, poor little dog; and--and--keep him as long as you
like--unless--unless there _do_ come good news."
And thus it came to pass that Toby set out on his travels with Barbara
Twiss, while poor Grandmamma shrank down again into her arm-chair by the
fire, and Grandpapa tried to imagine he was reading his newspaper as
usual.
What did poor Toby think of it all? His ideas had been very confused
for some days, poor little dog. He could not make out what had become of
the children. He sniffed about everywhere, once or twice barking with
sudden delight when, coming upon some relic of his little master or
mistress, such as Duke's old garden hat or Pamela's tiny parasol, he
imagined for a moment or two that he had found them, only to creep off
again with his tail between his legs in renewed disappointment when he
discovered his mistake, all of which, it is easy to understand, had been
very trying to poor Grandmamma, and no doubt to Toby himself. He did not
understand what he was scolded for when he certainly meant no harm; he
could not make out why Dymock gave him little shoves out of the way and
Biddy bade him sharply be quiet when he, naturally enough, yelped at
this inconsiderate treatment. And worst of all, when, after the most
mature reflection, he took up his quarters on one of the two little
white beds in the night nursery, deciding that there, sooner or later,
his friends _must_ return, was it not _too_ bad that Nurse, hobbling
about again after her rheumatic attack, which she had made much worse by
fretting,--was it not _too_ bad that she should unceremoniously dislodge
him with never a "by your leave," or "with your leave"?
Toby shook himself and walked off in disgust.
"You very silly and stupid old woman," he said to her in his own mind,
"if you only had the sense to understand _my_ language, you would see
that the only rational thing to do is to wait for Duke and Pam in a
place where they are sure to come. And that is their beds. I have
thought it out, I assure you. But there is no use trying to put
reasonable ideas into human beings' heads. I might bark myself black in
the face before any one could take in what I mean."
It was just after this that he had wandered away downstairs in search of
a quiet corner; and on first entering the parlour Grandmamma spoke to
him so kindly that he began to think of bestowing his company upon her
for the rest of the day, especially as she was always installed near a
good fire. Toby dearly loved a fire; even on a hot summer's day the
kitchen fire had great attractions for him. But when Mrs. Twiss came in,
and he, as was his duty and business of course, went to the door to see
who it was, that officious Dymock shut him out again, and actually when
he whined and scratched in the politest manner to be let in Grandmamma
spoke crossly to him.
"Et tu, Brute!" thought Toby to himself. What was coming over the world?
On the whole he was not sorry to find himself trotting down the lane
beside Barbara, whom he had a sincere regard for. She spoke to him with
proper respect; she was not given to shoves like Dymock, or sharp
expressions like Nurse and Biddy, and when she called him to follow her,
Toby willingly followed.
"You're to come along with me, poor doggie," she said. "You're only a
worry to the good lady at present, and I'm pleased to have your company.
Besides, who knows, you're a sharp dog, Toby, and you and I will keep
our eyes and ears open, and you your nose as well, for that's a gift the
more, you have, you doggies, nor us."
And so saying Barbara and her companion made their way to the
cross-roads, a point well known in the country-side. For there a great
finger-post served the double purpose of informing the traveller in four
directions and of frightening many a country lad or lassie of a
moonlight night, when it stood gaunt and staring like a gigantic
skeleton, as everybody knows the meeting of cross-roads is at no time a
canny spot.
Here Farmer Carson had promised to take up Barbara, for his home lay a
mile or two out of the village, all of which she kindly explained to her
little companion as they went along. She had a great habit of talking to
herself, and she was so much alone that it was quite a treat to have
"some one" to talk to, as she also informed Toby. He looked up at her
with his bright eyes, from time to time wagging his tail, "for all the
world like a Christian," thought Barbara, but nevertheless I am afraid
he did not take in her information as fully as appeared. For when, after
they had sat waiting for him for some minutes, the worthy farmer drove
up with a cheery "Good morning, Mrs. Twiss," Toby had the impertinence
to bark furiously at him and his most respectable old mare, as if they
had not quite as good a right as he to the king's highway!
This, of course caught the farmer's attention.
"That's a knowing little chap you've got with you, neighbour Twiss," he
said; "he favours the one at the Lodge, does he not?"
This naturally led to Barbara's explaining that he was the one at the
Lodge in person, and then she and her friend beguiled the way by talking
over the sad and mysterious disappearance of the children.
It was very sad, and very strange, the farmer agreed. Then he scratched
his head with the hand that was not occupied with the reins.
"I've thought a deal about it," he said, "and I've come to think
it's--as likely as not--gipsies after all."
Barbara started.
"But there's been none about," she said, "not for ever so long. The
General"--the General was Grandpapa--"thought of that at the very first
and asked all about. But there'd been none heard of, and heard of they
always are pretty quick, and none so pleasantly, as you should know
well, Mr. Carson."
"I do so, I do so," he agreed, nodding his head. "But they're a cunning
lot. If they'd any reason for getting quick out of the way, they'd do
it. All I can tell you is this, and I only heard it last night: one o'
my men coming home what he calls a short-cut way saw traces of a fire
down by Black Marsh; and he's certain sure the marks weren't there the
day before the children disappeared. That was the last time he'd passed
that way."
"And that's more nor a week past," said Barbara. "If it should be
so,--if the gipsies have really got them,--they may be a long way off by
now."
"Just so," said the farmer; "that's the worst of it. And no telling what
road they've gone, neither. No; I'm sadly afraid if it's been gipsies
there's not much chance of seeing them again, unless they're tempted by
the rewards. Pretty little creatures like that they can always make a
good deal by, for those shows as goes about. And they're such
babies--only four or five years old, aren't they? They'll soon forget
where they come from and all."
"Nay," said Barbara, "they're small for their age, for they're six past.
But they're not dull; no, indeed, they're very quick children. They'd
not forget in a hurry."
Then she grew very silent. It made her terribly sad to think of the two
tender little creatures in such hands; suddenly Toby, who had been
quietly reposing at her feet, jumped up and gave a short sharp bark.
"What is it, Toby?" said Barbara, patting him.
Toby grunted a little, and then lay down again. The reason of his
barking was that he had just discovered why old Barbara had brought him
away on this journey. It was that _he_ was to find the children--he
quite understood all about it now, and wished to say so.