GOOD-BYE TO "US."
"And as the evening twilight fades away,
The sky is filled with stars, invisible by day."
_Morituri Salutamus._
By slow degrees their sobs exhausted themselves. Pamela leant her head
against Duke and shut her eyes.
"I am so tired, bruvver," she said. "If us could only get some quiet
place out of the sun I would like to lie down and go to sleep. Wouldn't
you, bruvver?"
"I don't know," said Duke.
"I wonder if the birds would cover us up wif leaves," said Pamela
dreamily, "like those little children long ago?"
"That would be if us was dead," said Duke. "Oh sister, you don't think
us must be going to die!"
"I don't know," said Pamela in her turn.
Suddenly Duke raised himself a little, and Pamela, feeling him move, sat
up and opened her eyes.
"What is it?" she asked, but he did not need to answer, for just then
she too heard the sound that had caught Duke's ears. It was the barking
of a dog--not a deep baying sound, but a short, eager, energetic bark,
and seemingly very near them. The children looked at each other and then
rose to their feet.
"Couldn't you fink it was Toby?" said Pamela in a low voice, though why
she spoke so low she could not have said.
Duke nodded, and then, moved by the same impulse, they went forward to
the middle of the road and looked about them, hand in hand. Again came
the sharp eager bark, and this time a voice was heard as if soothing the
dog, though they could not quite catch the words. But some one was near
them--thus much seemed certain, and the very idea had comfort in it.
Still, for a minute or two they could not make out where were the dog
and its owner; for they did not know that a short way down the road a
path ending in a stile crossed the fields from the village of Nooks to
the high-road. And when, therefore, at but a few paces distant, there
suddenly appeared a small figure, looking dark against the white dust of
the road, frisking and frolicking about in evident excitement, it really
seemed to the little brother and sister as if it had sprung out of the
earth by magic. They had not time, however, to speak--hardly to
wonder--to themselves before, all frisking and frolicking at an end, the
shaggy ball was upon them, and, with a rush that for half a second made
Pamela inclined to scream, the little dog flew at them, barking,
yelping, almost choking with delight, flinging himself first on one then
on the other, darting back a step or two as if to see them more
distinctly and make sure he was not mistaken, then rolling himself upon
them again all quivering and shaking with rapture. And the cry of
ecstasy that broke from the twins would have gone to the heart of any
one that loved them.
"Oh Toby, Toby!--bruvver--sister--it is, it _is_ our own Toby. He has
come to take us home. Oh dear, _dear_ Toby!"
[Illustration: "OH TOBY, TOBY!--BRUVVER--SISTER--IT IS, IT IS OUR OWN
TOBY, HE HAS COME TO TAKE US HOME. OH DEAR, DEAR TOBY!"--p. 220.]
It _did_ go to the heart of some one not far off. A quaintly-clad,
somewhat aged, woman was slowly climbing the stile at the moment that
the words rang clearly out into the summer air. "Oh Toby, _our_ Toby!"
and no one who had not seen it could have believed how nimbly old
Barbara skipped or slid or tumbled down the steps on the road-side of
the stile, and how, in far less time than it takes to tell it, she was
down on her knees in the dust with a child in each arm, and Toby
flashing about the trio, so that he seemed to be everywhere at once.
"My precious darlings!--my dear little master and missy!--and has old
Barbara found you after all? or Toby rather. I thank the Lord who has
heard my prayers. To think I should have such a delight in my old days
as to be the one to take you back to my dearest lady! A sore heart was I
coming along with--to think that I had heard nothing of you for all I
had felt so sure I would. And oh, my darlings, where _have_ you been,
and how has it all come about?"
But a string of questions was the first answer she got.
"Have you come to look for us, dear Barbara? Did Grandpapa and
Grandmamma send you, and Toby too? How did you know which way to come?
And have you seen Tim? Did Tim tell you?"
"Tim, Tim, I know nought of who Tim is, my dearies," said Barbara,
shaking her head. "If it's any one that's been good to you, so much the
better. I've been at Nooks, the village hard by, for some days with my
niece. I meant to have stayed but two or three nights, but I've been
more nor a week, and a worry in my heart all the time not to get back
home to hear if there was no news of you, and how my poor lady was. And
to think if I _had_ gone home I wouldn't have met you--dear--dear--but
the ordering of things is wonderful!"
"And didn't you come to look for us, then? But why is Toby with you?"
asked the children.
"He was worritting your dear Grandmamma. There was no peace with him
after you were lost. And though I didn't rightly come to Monkhaven to
look for you, I had a feeling--it was bore in on me that I'd maybe find
some trace of you, and I thought Toby would be the best help. And truly
I could believe he'd scented you were not far off--the worry he's been
all this morning! A-barking and a-sniffing and a-listening like! I was
in two minds as to which way I'd take this morning--round by Monkhaven
or by the lane. But Toby he was all for the lane, and so I just took his
way, the Lord be thanked!"
"He _knowed_ us was here--he did, didn't he? Oh, darling Toby!" cried
the twins.
But then Barbara had to be told all. Not very clear was the children's
account of their adventures at first; for the losing of Tim and the
vision of the policeman and the canal boat were the topmost on their
minds, and came tumbling out long before anything about the gipsies,
which of course was the principal thing to tell. Bit by bit, however,
thanks to her patience, their old friend came to understand the whole.
She heaved a deep sigh at last.
"To think that it was the gipsies after all."
But she made not many remarks, and said little about the
broken-bowl-part of the story. It would be for their dear Grandmamma to
show them where they had been wrong, she thought modestly, if indeed
they had not found it out for themselves already. I think they had.
"Us is always going to tell Grandmamma _everyfing_ now," said Pamela.
"And us is always going to listen to the talking of that little voice,"
added Duke.
But the first excitement over, old Barbara began to notice that the
children were looking very white and tired. How was she ever to get them
to Brigslade--a five miles' walk at least--where again, for she had
chosen Brigslade market-day on purpose, she counted on Farmer Carson to
give her a lift home? She was not strong enough to carry them--one at a
time--more than a short distance. Besides she had her big basket.
Glancing at it gave her another idea.
"I can at least give you something to eat," she said. "Niece Turwall
packed all manner of good things in here," and, after some rummaging,
out she brought two slices of home-made cake and a bottle of currant
wine, of which she gave them each a little in a cup without a handle
which Mrs. Turwall had thoughtfully put in. The cake and the wine
revived the children wonderfully. They said they were able to walk "a
long long way," and indeed there was nothing for it but to try, and so
the happy little party set off.
The thought of Tim, however, weighed on their minds, and when Barbara
had arrived at some sort of idea as to who he was, and what he had done,
she too felt even more anxious about him. Even without prejudice it must
be allowed that the police of those days were not what they are now, and
Barbara knew that for a poor waif like Tim it would not be easy to
obtain a fair hearing.
"And he won't be wanting to get that gipsy girl into trouble by telling
on the lot of them, which will make it harder for the poor lad," thought
the shrewd old woman, for the children had told her all about Diana.
"But there's nothing to be done that I can see except to get the General
to write to the police at Monkhaven." For Mrs. Twiss knew that Duke and
Pam would be terribly against the idea of going back to the town and to
the police office. And she herself had no wish to do so--she was not
without some distrust of the officers of the law herself, and it would,
too, have grieved her sadly not to have been the one to restore the lost
children to their friends. Besides, Farmer Carson would be waiting for
her at the cross roads, for "if by any chance I don't come back before,
you may be sure I'll be there on Friday, next market-day," she had said
to him at parting.
"You don't think they'll put Tim in prison, do you?" asked Duke, seeing
that the old woman's face grew grave when she had heard all.
"Oh no, surely, not so bad as that," she replied. "And even if we went
back I don't know that it would do much good."
"Go back to where the policemans are," exclaimed the twins, growing pale
at the very idea. "Oh please--_please_ don't," and they both crept
closer to their old friend.
"But if it would make them let Tim come wif us?" added Pamela,
shivering, nevertheless. "I'd _try_ not to be frightened. Poor Tim--he
has been so good to us, us can't go and leave him all alone."
"But, my deary," said Barbara, "I don't rightly see what we can do for
him. The police might think it right to keep us all there too--and I'm
that eager to get you home to ease your dear Grandmamma and the General.
I think it's best to go on and get your Grandpapa to write about the
poor boy."
But now the idea of rescuing Tim was in the children's heads it was not
so easy to get rid of it. They stood still looking at each other and at
Mrs. Twiss with tears in their eyes; they had come by this time perhaps
half a mile from where they had met their friends. The high-road was
here shadier and less dusty, and it was anything but inviting to think
of retracing the long stretch to Monkhaven, though from where they
stood, a turn in the road hid it from them. All at once a whistle caught
their ears--a whistle two or three times repeated in a particular
way--Toby pricked up his ears, put himself in a very valiant attitude,
and barked with a great show of importance, as much as to say, "Just you
look out now, whoever you are. _I_ am on guard now." But his bark did
not seem to strike awe into the whistler, whoever he was. Again his note
sounded clear and cheery. And this time, with a cry of "It's Tim, it's
Tim," off flew Duke and Pam down the road, followed by Barbara--Toby of
course keeping up a running accompaniment of flying circles round the
whole party till at last the sight of his beloved little master and
mistress hugging and kissing a bright-eyed, clean-faced, but sadly
ragged boy was altogether too much for his refined feelings, and he
began barking with real fury, flinging himself upon Tim as if he really
meant to bite him.
Duke caught him up.
"Silly Toby," he cried, "it's Tim. You must learn to know Tim;" and old
Barbara coming up by this time and speaking to the boy in a friendly
tone, poor Toby's misgivings were satisfied, and he set to work to
wagging his tail in a slightly subdued manner.
Then came explanations on both sides. Tim had to tell how he had slipped
himself out through the window, narrow as it was, and how, thanks to an
old water-butt and some loose bricks in the wall, he had scrambled down
like a cat, and made off as fast as his legs would carry him to the
place where he had left the children.
"And when you wasn't there I was fairly beat--I was," he said. "I knowed
they hadn't had time to find you--perlice I mean--but I saw as you must
have got tired waiting so long. So off I set till I met a woman who told
me the way to the Sandle'ham road. I had a fancy you'd ask for it rather
than come into the town if you thought they'd cotched me, and I was
about right you see."
"Is this the Sandle'ham road? Oh yes, Barbara told us it was," said the
children. "But us didn't know it was. Us just runned and runned when us
saw the policeman, us was so frightened."
"But us _was_ going back to try to get you out of prison if Barbara
would have let us," added Pamela.
Then all about Barbara and Toby had to be explained, and a great weight
fell from Tim's heart when he quite understood that the old woman was a
real home friend--that there would no longer be any puzzle or difficulty
as to how to do or which way to go, now that they had fallen in with
this trusty protector.
"To be sure--well now this _are_ a piece of luck, and no mistake," he
repeated, one big smile lighting up all his pleasant face. But suddenly
it clouded over.
"Then, ma'am, if you please, would it be better for me not to come no
further? Would I be in the way, maybe?"
The children set up a cry before Barbara had time to reply.
"No, no, Tim; you _must_ come. Grandpapa and Grandmamma will always take
care of Tim, 'cos he's been so good to us--won't they, Barbara?"
Barbara looked rather anxious. Her own heart had warmed to the orphan
boy, but she did not know how far she was justified in making promises
for other people.
"I dursn't go back to Monkhaven," said Tim; "they'd be sure to cotch me,
and they'd give it me for a-climbing out o' window and a-running away.
Nor I dursn't go back to Mick. But you've only to say the word, ma'am,
and I'm off. I'll hide about, and mayhap somehow I might get a chance
among the boat-people. It's all I can think of; for I've no
money--leastways this is master's and missy's, and you'd best take it
for them," he went on, as he pulled out the little packet from the
inside of his jacket which he had already vainly offered to Peter. "And
about Peter, p'raps you'd say a word to the old gentleman about sending
him something. He were very good to us, he were; and he can always get a
letter that's sent to----" but here the lump that had kept rising in the
poor boy's throat all the time he was speaking, and that he had gone on
choking down, got altogether too big; he suddenly broke off and burst
out sobbing. It was too much--not only to have to leave the dear little
master and missy, but to have to say good-bye to all his beautiful plans
and hopes--of learning to be a good and respectable boy--of leading a
settled and decent life such as mother--"poor mother"--could look down
upon with pleasure from her home up there somewhere near the sun, in the
heaven about which her child knew so little, but in which he still most
fervently believed.
"I'm a great fool," he sobbed, "but I did--I did want to be a good lad,
and to give up gipsying."
Barbara's heart by this time was completely melted, and Duke's and Pam's
tears were flowing.
"Tim, dear Tim, you must come with us," they said. "Oh, Barbara, do tell
him he's to come. Why, even Toby sees how good Tim is; he's not barking
a bit, and he's sniffing at him to show he's a friend."
And Toby, hearing his own name, looked up in the old woman's face as if
he too were pleading poor Tim's cause. She hesitated no longer.
"Come with us my poor boy," she said, "it'll go hard if we can't find a
place for you somewheres. And the General and the old lady is good and
kind as can be. Don't ye be a-feared, but come with us. You must help me
to get master and missy home, for it's a good bit we have to get over,
you know."
So Tim dried his eyes, and his hopes revived. And this time the little
cavalcade set out in good earnest to make the best of their way to
Brigslade, with no lookings back towards Monkhaven; for, indeed, their
greatest wish was to leave it as quickly as possible far behind them.
They were a good way off fortunately before clever Superintendent Boyds
and his assistants found out that their bird was flown, and when they
did find it out they went after him in the wrong direction; and it was
not till three days after the children had been safe at home that formal
information, which doubtless _would_ have been very cheering to poor
Grandpapa, came to him that the police at Monkhaven were believed to be
on the track!
How can I describe to you that coming home? If I could take you back
with me some thirty years or so and let you hear it as I did
then--direct from the lips of a very old lady and gentleman, who still
spoke to each other as "brother" and "sister," whose white hair was of
the soft silvery kind which one sees at a glance was _once_ flaxen--oh
how much more interesting it would be, and how much better it would be
told! But that cannot be. My dear old friends long ago told the story of
their childish adventure for the last time; though I am very sure
nothing would please them better than to know it had helped to amuse for
an hour or two some of the Marmadukes and Pamelas of to-day. So I will
do my best.
It was a long stretch for the little legs to Brigslade; without Tim I
doubt if poor old Mrs. Twiss and Toby would have got them there. But the
boy was not to be tired; his strength seemed "like the strength of ten"
Tims, thanks to the happy hopes with which his heart was filled. He
carried Pamela and even Duke turn about on his back, he told stories and
sang songs to make them forget their aching legs and smarting feet. And
fortunately there still remained enough home-made cake and currant wine
for every one to have a little refreshment, especially as Tim found a
beautifully clear spring of water to mix with the wine when the children
complained of thirst.
They got to the cross-roads before Farmer Carson, for Barbara was one of
those sensible people who always take time by the forelock; so they
rested there till the old gray mare came jogging up, and her master, on
the look-out for one old woman, but not for a party of four--five I
should say, counting Toby--could not believe his eyes, and scarcely his
ears, when Mrs. Twiss told him the whole story. How they all got into
the spring-cart I couldn't explain, but they did somehow, and the mare
did not seem to mind it at all. And at last, late on that lovely early
summer evening, Farmer Carson drew up in the lane at the back of the
house; and, after helping the whole party out, drove off with a hearty
Good-night, and hopes that they'd find the old gentleman and lady in
good health, and able to bear the happy surprise.
It must be broken gently to them; and how to do this had been on
Barbara's mind all the time they had been in the cart, for up till then
she had been able to think of nothing but how to get the children along.
They, of course--except perhaps that they were too tired for any more
excitement--would have been for running straight in with joyful cries.
But they were so subdued by fatigue that their old friend found no
difficulty in persuading them to sit down quietly by the hedge, guarded
by Tim, while she and Toby went in to prepare the way.
"For you know, my dearies, your poor Grandmamma has not been well and
the start might be bad for her," she explained.
"But you're sure Grandmamma isn't _dead_?" said poor Pamela, looking up
piteously in Barbara's face. "Duke was afraid she might be if us didn't
come soon."
"But now you _have_ come she'll soon get well again, please God," said
Barbara, though her own heart beat tremulously as she made her way round
by the back entrance.
It was Toby after all who "broke" the happy tidings. In spite of all
Barbara could do--of all her "Hush, Toby, then,"'s "Gently my little
doggie,"'s--he _would_ rush in to the parlour as soon as the door was
opened in such a rapture of joyful barking, tail wagging and rushing and
dashing, that Grandmamma looked up from the knitting she was trying to
fancy she was doing in her arm-chair by the fire, and Grandpapa put down
his five days' old newspaper which he was reading by the window, with a
curious flutter of sudden hope all through them, notwithstanding their
many disappointments.
"It is you, Barbara, back again at last," began Grandmamma. "How white
you look, my poor Barbara--and--why, what's the matter with Toby? Is he
so pleased to see us old people again?"
"He _is_ very pleased, ma'am--he's a very wise and a very good feeling
dog is Toby, there's no doubt. And one that knows when to be sad
and--and when to be rejoiced, as I might say," said Barbara, though her
voice trembled with the effort to speak calmly.
Something seemed to flash across the room to Grandmamma as Mrs. Twiss
spoke--down fell the knitting, the needles, and the wool, all in a
tangle, as the old lady started to her feet.
"Barbara--Barbara Twiss!" she cried. "What do you mean? Oh Barbara, you
have news of our darlings? Marmaduke, my dear husband, do you hear?" and
she raised her voice, "she has brought us news at last," and Grandmamma
tottered forward a few steps and then, growing suddenly dazed and giddy,
would have fallen had not Grandpapa and Barbara started towards her from
different sides and caught her. But she soon recovered herself, and
eagerly signed to Barbara to "tell." How Barbara told she never knew. It
seemed to her that Grandmamma guessed the words before she spoke them,
and looking back on it all afterwards she could recollect nothing but a
sort of joyous confusion--Grandpapa rushing out without his hat, but
stopping to take his stick all the same--Grandmamma holding by the table
to steady herself when, in another moment, they were all back
again--then a cluster all together--of Grandpapa, Grandmamma, Duke,
Pamela and Barbara, with Nurse and Biddy, and Dymock and Cook, and
stable-boys and gardeners, and everybody, and Toby everywhere at once.
Broken words and sobs and kisses and tears and blessings all together,
and Pamela's little soft high voice sounding above all as she cried--
"Oh, dear Grandmamma, us _is_ so glad you are not dead. Duke was so
afraid you might be."
And Tim--where was he?--standing outside in the porch, but smiling to
himself--not afraid of being forgotten, for he had a trustful nature.
"It's easy to see as the old gentleman and lady is terrible fond of
master and missy," he thought. "But they must be terrible clever folk in
these parts to have writing outside of the house even," for his glance
had fallen on the quaintly-carved letters on the lintel, "Niks sonder
Arbitt." "I wonder now what that there writing says," he reflected.
But he was not allowed to wonder long. A few moments more and there came
the summons his faithful little heart had been sure would come.
"Tim, Tim--where is Tim? Come and see our Grandpapa and our Grandmamma,
Tim," and two pairs of little hot hands dragged him into the parlour.
It was not at all like his dream, but it was far grander than any room
he had ever been in before, and never afterwards did the boy forget the
strange sweet perfume which seemed a part of it all--the scent of the
dried rose-leaves in the jars, though he did not then know what it was.
But it always came back to him when he thought of that first
evening--the beginning to him of a good and honest and useful life--when
the tall old gentleman and the sweet little old lady laid their hands on
his curly head and blessed him for what he had done and promised to be
his friends.
They kept their promise well and wisely. Grandpapa took real trouble to
find out what the boy was best fitted for, and when he found it was for
gardening, Tim was thoroughly trained by old Noble till he was able to
get a good place of his own. He lived with Barbara in her neat little
cottage, and in the evenings learned to read and write and cipher, so
that before very long he could make out the letters in the porch, though
Grandpapa had to be asked to tell their meaning.
"Nothing without work," was what they meant. They had been carved there
by the old Dutchman who had built the farmhouse, afterwards turned into
the pretty quaint "Arbitt Lodge."
"A good and true saying," added Grandpapa, and so the three children to
whom he was speaking found it. For all three in their different ways
worked hard and well, and when in my childhood I knew them as old
people, I felt, even before I quite understood it, that "the Colonel,"
as he then had become, and his sweet white-haired sister deserved the
love and respect they seemed everywhere to receive. And I could see that
it was no common tie which bound to them their faithful servant Timothy,
whose roses were the pride of all the country-side, when, after many
years of separation, he came to end his life in their service, after
Duke's "fighting days" were over and his widowed sister was, but for
him, alone in the world.
* * * * *
One question may be asked. Did they ever hear of Diana again? Yes,
though not till Tim had grown into a strapping young fellow, and the
twins were tall and thin, and had long since left off talking of "us."
There came along the lanes one summer's day a covered van hung over at
the back with baskets, such as the children well remembered. A
good-humoured looking man was walking by the horse, a handsome woman was
sitting by the door plaiting straw.
"Gipsies," cried the children, who were on their way to the village,
and, big as they were, they were a little frightened when, with a cry,
the woman jumped down and flew towards them.
"Master and missy, don't you know me? I'm Diana!" she exclaimed.
And Diana it was, though very much changed for the better. She had
married one of her own tribe, but a very good specimen, and the husband
and wife travelled about on their own account making their living
"honestly," as she took care to tell. "For there's good and there's bad
of us, and it's been my luck to get a good one. Thank God for it," she
added, "for I've never forgot master and missy's pretty telling me even
poor Diana might think God cared for her."
She was taken to see Grandpapa and Grandmamma of course, and they would
have helped her and her husband to a settled life had they wished it.
But no--gipsies they were, and gipsies they must remain. "It'd choke me
to live inside four walls," said Diana, "and we must travel about so as
we can see our own folk from time to time. But whenever we pass this way
we'll come to see master and missy and Tim."
And so they did.
* * * * * *
Transcriber's Note:
All punctuation has been normalised with the exception of
varied hyphenation.