NEW HOPES.
"I am a friend to them and you."
_Winter's Tale._
It was a good thing Tim had some new ground of hope, for otherwise the
next day or two would have sadly distressed him. He never once could get
near the children. And, what he found very strange, Diana herself seemed
to be doing her utmost to keep him from them. Two or three times,
especially when Mick or the Missus happened to be near, she roughly
pushed him back when he was making his way to the door of the van, where
Duke and his sister were. And at first the boy was not only surprised,
but rather offended.
"What for will you not let me play with them a bit?" he said to her,
half inclined to appeal to Mick, who did not interfere.
"They've no need of _you_--keep out of my way," Diana answered roughly,
at which Mick and the others laughed as if it was a very good joke, for
hitherto Diana had been always accused of "favouring" the boy.
Tim looked up resentfully. He had it on his tongue--for after all he was
only a child--to say something which might have done harm never to be
undone, for he could not understand Diana. But something in her face, as
she looked at him steadily, stopped the words of reproach as they rose
to his lips.
"You'll make an end of them, you will, if you keep them choked up in
there all day," he said sullenly. "Why can't you let 'em out for a bit
of a run with me, like you've done before?"
"I'll let them out when it suits me, and not before. It's none of your
business," she replied, while adding in a lower tone that no one else
could overhear: "I'd never have thought you such a fool, Tim;" and Tim,
feeling rather small,--for he began to understand her a little,--walked
off.
All this was at what they called dinner-time, when the vans generally
halted for an hour or so and hitherto--even when they were travelling
too quickly for the children to have walked beside for a change, as they
had sometimes done when going slowly--Mick or Diana had always let them
out at this hour for a breath of fresh air. But to-day, though it was
beautifully fine and the sun was shining most temptingly, poor Duke and
Pamela had to be content with the sight of it through the tiny little
window in the side of the van, which Diana opened, and with such air as
could get in by the same means. It was hot and stuffy inside, and their
little heads ached with being jolted along, and with having had no
exercise such as they were accustomed to. Still they did not look
altogether miserable or unhappy, as they tried to eat the dinner the
gipsy girl had brought them on a tin plate, from the quickly-lighted
fire by the hedge, where the old hag who did the cooking for the party
had been stewing away at a mess in a great pot. She ladled out the
contents all round for the others, but Diana helped herself. She picked
out the nicest bits she could see for the two little prisoners, and
stood by them for a minute or two to see if they really were going to
eat.
"I'll come back in a bit to see if it's all gone," she said, when she
had seen them at work, "and remember what I said this morning. That'll
help to make you eat hearty."
"Her's very kind," said Duke; but as he spoke he laid down the coarse
two-pronged fork Diana had given him to eat with, and seemed glad of an
excuse to rest in his labours for a while. "But I can't eat this, can
you, sister?"
Pamela looked up--she had got a small bone in her fingers, at which she
was trying to nibble.
"I'm pretending to be Toby eating a bone," she said gravely. "Sometimes
it makes it seem nicer."
"_I_ don't think so," said Duke. "It only makes it worser to think of
Toby," and his voice grew very doleful, as if he were going to cry.
"Now don't, bruvver," said Pamela. "Let's think of what Diana said."
"What was it?" said Duke. "Say it again."
"'Twas that, p'raps, if us was very good and did just ezactly what her
tells us, us'd go somewhere soon, where us'd be _very_ happy," said
Pamela. "Where do you fink it can be, Duke? Us mustn't tell _nobody_,
not even Tim; but I don't mind, for Diana said she thought Tim'd go too.
Do you fink she meant" (and here poor little Pam, who had learnt
unnatural caution already, glanced round her--as if any one could have
been hidden in the small space of the van!--and lowered her
voice)--"that she meant us was to go _home_ again to dear Grandmamma and
Grandpapa?"
Duke shook his head.
"No," he said, "they'll never send us home now. Mick'd be put in prison
if he took us home. I know that. I heard what they was saying about it
one day when they didn't know I was there. And it's too far away--it's a
dreadful way away. We can never go home. I daresay Grandpapa and
Grandmamma and everybody's dead by now," concluded Duke, who talked with
a sort of reckless composure sometimes, altogether too much for Pamela,
who burst into tears.
"Oh bruvver!" she cried between her sobs, "don't talk like that. I
_fink_ God's too good to have let dear Grandpapa and Grandmamma die. And
us has said our prayers such many many times about going home. I'm sure
Grandpapa would never put Mick in prison if us asked him not, and p'raps
if Mick was sure of that he'd take us home. Oh don't you fink us might
go and ask him," and she started up.
"Us can't promise it; Grandpapa'd _have_ to do it. It'd be his _dooty_,"
said Duke sternly--his ideas on all subjects were very grim at
present--"he'd have to stop Mick going and stealing away other children
like he did us. And Diana said us mustn't speak to _nobody_ about what
she told us."
"I don't care about it if it isn't that us is going home," said Pamela,
crying quietly. "I don't care about gold frocks like fairies and all
that if dear Grandmamma and Grandpapa can't see us."
Duke looked at her gloomily.
"P'raps Diana meant us'd soon be going to heaven," he said at last. "I
heard them saying us'd 'not stand it long,' and I know that means going
to die."
"I don't care," sobbed Pamela again, "if Grandpapa and Grandmamma are
dead, heaven'd be the best place for us to go to;" and regardless of all
Diana had said to her about trying to eat and to keep up her spirits,
the little girl let the tin plate, with the greasy meat and gravy, slip
off her knees on to the floor, and, leaning her head on the hard wooden
bench, she went off in a fit of piteous and hopeless sobbing. In a
moment Duke's arms were around her, and he was kissing and hugging and
doing his best to console her.
"Dear little sister," he cried, "don't be so _very_ unhappy. It was very
naughty of me to say dear Grandpapa and Grandmamma and everybody would
be dead."
"And Toby," interrupted Pamela. "Did you mean Toby too?"
Duke considered.
"No, I don't think I meant Toby. He must be a good deal younger than
Grandpapa and Grandmamma, and I don't think he'd be _quite_ so unhappy
about us as they'd be."
"If _I'd_ been Toby I'd have come to look for us," said Pamela, crying
now less violently. "Us could have wrote a letter and tied it to his
collar, and then Grandpapa could have come to look for us. Toby can run
so fast," and she was going on to describe what she would have done in
Toby's place when the little door of the van opened and Diana
reappeared. Her face clouded as she looked at the children.
"Crying again! Oh missie," she said reproachfully, "that's not good of
you. You'll cry yourself ill, and then----" Diana in turn looked round
and lowered her voice, "have you forgotten the secret I told you? You'll
never get away where you'd like to be if you make yourself ill. And
scarce a bite of dinner have you touched," she went on, looking at the
bits of meat reposing beside the overturned plate.
Pamela lifted up her tear-swollen face and drew herself out of Duke's
arms, to fling herself into Diana's.
"If us is going to die, it's no good eating," she said.
"Who said you was a-going to die?" exclaimed the gipsy girl.
"Duke and I was talking, and us thought p'raps heaven was the nice place
you said us'd go to if us was good," replied Pamela.
Diana gave a little laugh, half sad and half bitter.
"It isn't here you'll learn much about going to _that_ place," she said.
"But that wasn't what I meant. Listen, master and missy; but, mind you,
never you say one word,--now hush and listen," and in a very low voice
she went on: "To-night we'll get to a big town where there's a fair.
Mick's got it all settled to give you to a--a gentleman there, who'd
dress you up fine and teach you to sing and to dance."
"Would he be kind to us?" asked both children eagerly. Diana shook her
head.
"Maybe, and maybe not. That's just why I cannot stand by and see you
given to him," said Diana, half as if speaking to herself. "It was a bad
day's work when he took them," she went on. Then suddenly rousing
herself: "Listen children, again," she said. "If that man as I'm
speaking of comes to see you to-night, as he most likely will, you must,
for my sake and your own, speak very pretty, and try to laugh and look
happy and answer all he says. It's only for once. For to-morrow--I can't
say for sure to-morrow--but I think it will be, and I can't say the
time--I'm going to do my best to get you sent back to where you should
never have been taken from." She stopped a moment as if to judge of the
effect of her words. For an instant the children did not speak; they
just stared at her with their blue eyes opened to their widest extent,
their little white faces looking whiter than before, till gradually a
rush of rosy colour spread over them, the blue eyes filled with tears,
and both Duke and Pamela flung themselves into the gipsy girl's arms.
"_Home_, do you mean, Diana?" they said. "Home to our own dear Grandpapa
and Grandmamma?"
"And Toby," added Duke.
"And Toby," echoed Pam.
Diana clasped them tight; her eyes, that for many a day had not shed a
tear, were running over.
"Yes, home, my blessed darlings," she said.
"But you'll come with us" was the next idea. "You've been so good to us.
Grandpapa'd never put _you_ in prison, Diana."
They sat up now and looked at her anxiously.
"Perhaps not," she said, shaking her head nevertheless. "But I dursn't
go with you. I must stay here to stop them going the right way after you
for one thing. And then--you didn't know it, but, bad as he is, Mick's
my brother. I dursn't get him into trouble."
"Mick's your bruvver!" repeated Pam; "the same as bruvver is to me. And
he speaks so naughty to you, Diana. I don't fink he _can_ be your
bruvver. I fink you've made a mistake. Oh do come wif us, dear Diana.
You and Tim."
"Yes for Tim, it'd be the best thing he could do, and the best chance
for you to get safe home. But for me," and again Diana shook her head.
"Let alone Mick, I'm only a poor wild gipsy girl," she said. "I couldn't
take to your pretty quiet ways; no, it'd kill me. It's in the gipsy
blood--we must for ever be on the go. It wasn't so bad long ago when
father and mother was alive. Father was honest--he was a gentleman
gipsy, he was. But Mick's another sort. If I could get away from him I
would--but not so as to get him into trouble. I'll try some day to get
among a better lot. There's bad and good among us, though you mightn't
believe it. But here am I wasting time talking of myself, and I want to
tell you all I'm thinking of. First, do you know the name of the village
or town nearest where you live?"
"Sandle'ham," said the children.
"But is that near your home?" pursued Diana. The twins shook their
heads. They didn't know.
"Us was there once," said Duke. "But it was a long time ago. It seemed a
very far way."
"And is there no village nearer?"
"Yes, of course," said Pamela. "There's where Barbara Twiss and the
butcher Live, and where the church is."
"And what's it called?"
"What's it called?" repeated the children. "Why, it's just called the
village. It isn't called anything else."
"That's what I was afraid of," said Diana. "And it was all new country
thereabouts to me. Well, there's nothing for it but to make for
Sandle'ham, and once there Tim must go to the police."
At this dreadful word the children set up a shriek, but Diana quickly
stopped them.
"Hush, hush!" she said, "you'll have them all coming to see what's the
matter. The police won't hurt _you_, you silly children. They'd be your
best friends if only they could find you. I'd rather have had nothing to
say to them, for fear they should get too much out of Tim, but I see no
other way to get you safe home. But now we mustn't talk any more, only
remember all I've said if that man comes. And to-morrow, when I give you
the word, you must be ready," she went on impressively; "you won't be
afraid with Tim. I'll do the best I can, but we'll have to trust a deal
to Tim; and you must do just what he tells you, and never mind if it
seems strange and hard. It's the only chance for them," she added to
herself, with a strange longing in her beautiful dark eyes, as she again
left them, "but if I could but have taken them safe back myself I'd have
felt easier in my mind."
She put in her head again to warn the children not to try to speak to
Tim, and if they must speak to each other to do so in a whisper.
But at first their hearts seemed too full to speak. They just sat with
their arms round each other, too bewildered and almost stunned with the
good news to take it in.
"Bruvver," said Pamela at last, "don't you fink it's because us has said
our prayers such many many times?"
"P'raps," replied Duke.
"And you _don't_ fink now what--you know what you said about Grandpapa
and Grandmamma," said Pamela, her voice faltering.
Duke hesitated. He was not quite generous enough to own that his gloomy
prophecies had been a good deal the result of his being tired and cross
and contradictory. In his heart he had no misgiving such as he had
expressed to Pamela--he had no idea that what he had said might really
have been true.
"You _don't_ fink so, bruvver?" persisted Pam.
"I daresay if us goes back very soon it'll make them better even if they
are very ill. I think us had better put that in our prayers too--for us
to get back to them so quick that there won't be time for them to get
very ill. I wouldn't mind them being just a _little_ ill, would you,
sister? It'd be so nice to see them getting better."
"I'd _rather_ they wasn't ill at all," said Pamela, "but I daresay
God'll understand. Oh I _wish_ it was to-morrow! don't you, bruvver?"
"Hush," said Duke. "Diana said us mustn't talk loud--and see, sister,
they're going to put the horse in and go on again. Oh how tired I am of
going along shaking like this all day! And don't you remember, sister,
when us was little us used to think it would be _so_ nice to live in a
cart like a house, like this?"
"Us never thought how _nugly_ it would be inside," said Pamela, glancing
round the little square space in which they were with great
dissatisfaction. And no wonder--the waggon was stuffed with bundles and
packages of all shapes and sizes; on the sides hung dirty coats and
cloaks belonging to some of the tribe, and the only pleasant object to
be seen was a heap of nice clean-looking baskets and brooms, which had
been brought in here, as the basket-cart was already filled to
overflowing. For the gipsies expected to do a good trade in these things
at the Crookford fair.
"I wish Diana would give us one of these nice baskets to take home--a
present to Grandmamma," continued Pamela, as her glance fell upon them.
"You're very silly, sister," said Duke. "Don't you understand that us is
going to _run away_, like Tim has always been wanting. And Diana's going
to help us to run away. Mick mustn't know and nobody, not till us is too
far for them to catch us. I think it's a great pity Diana told you;
you're too little to understand."
"I'm as big as you, bruvver, and my birfday's the same. You're very
unkind to say I'm littler than you, and I _do_ understand."
She spoke indignantly, but the last words ended in tears. Poor little
people!--life in a gipsy caravan was not the sort of thing to improve
their tempers. But the dispute was soon followed by a reconciliation,
and then they decided it was better not to talk any more about what
Diana had told them, but to "make plans" inside their heads about how
nice it would be to go home again; how they would knock at the door so
softly, and creep into the parlour where Grandmamma would be sitting by
the fire with Toby at her feet, and Grandpapa at the table with the
newspaper; and _how_ they would hug them both! At which point you will
see the plan making was no longer confined to the "inside of their
heads."
"And Duke," added Pamela half timidly. "Us must tell all about the
broken bowl. And us must always tell everything like that to
Grandmamma."
"Yes," said Duke.
"I fink my voice that Grandmamma told us about _did_ tell me to tell,"
pursued the little girl thoughtfully. "Didn't yours, bruvver?"
"I sometimes think it did," said Duke with unusual humility. "I think it
must have been that I wouldn't listen. You would have listened, sister.
It was much more my fault than yours. I shall tell _that_."
"No, no, it was bof our faults," said Pamela. "But I fink Grandpapa and
Grandmamma will be so very pleased to have us that they won't care whose
fault it was."
And then the two little creatures leant their heads each on the other's,
and tried to keep themselves steady against the rough jolting, till by
degrees--and it was the best thing they could have done--they both fell
asleep, and were sleeping as peacefully as in their own white cots at
home when, later in the afternoon, Diana got into the waggon again, and,
rolling up an old shawl, carefully laid it as a pillow under the two
fair heads. It was getting dusk by now, and the gipsies all disappeared
into the vans, for they began to drive too quickly for it to be possible
for them to keep up by walking alongside.
The gipsy girl sat there gazing at the two little faces she had learnt
to love. She gazed at them with a deep tenderness in her dark eyes. She
knew it was almost the last time she should see them, but it was not of
that she was thinking.
"If I could but have taken them back myself and seen them safe!" she
kept thinking. "But I daren't. With Tim no one will notice them much,
but with me it'd be different. And it'd get Mick and the others into
trouble, even if I didn't care for myself. It's safer for them too for
me to stay behind. But how to get them safe out of Crookford! I must
speak to Tim. And I don't care what Mick says or does after this. I'll
never, _never_ again have a hand in this kind of business; he may steal
horses and poultry and what he likes, but I'll have no more to do with
stealing children. If ill had come, or did come, to these innocent
creatures I'd never know another easy moment."