_The bramble, the bramble,
The bonny forest bramble,
Doth make a jest
Of silken vest,
That will through greenwood scramble._
T. L. PEACOCK.
It was not long before Robin’s pretty red coat had a good many holes
in it. The lace was torn away from his throat and his flying cape,
and that delightful little hat of his had disappeared altogether.
Mousie was the best off in the matter, for her skirts had been kilted
before starting. That is to say, the puce-coloured overskirt that
she generally wore rather long, had been turned up round her waist,
showing the cream-coloured petticoat.
It was an early fair and took place in the month of September, so
they had good weather for their exploit. While they were resting,
rather weary, yet trying still to think it was pleasant, they heard
strange voices among the trees. It sounded as if a man and a woman
were quarrelling, and something about the sound made the children
afraid. The man’s voice rose very roughly above that of the woman’s,
and she seemed to be in pain. “Not if you strike me dead; I won’t do
it, Bill, not if you strike me dead.”
“Then take that, and cease your misery, and leave your betters to do
the work they’ve planned.”
And there followed the sound of blows and a clamour, half a strangled
sob or cry, then a thud as if some one fell heavily. And silence for
a time. And then there was the sound of footsteps slowly withdrawing
through the dead leaves of the wood.
There was something dreadful to the children in this, something very
frightening. Was somebody really lying there, quite close to them and
quite still; somebody who had been talking and moving about just now,
and who now made no movement whatever? What had happened? Had that
dreadful man gone away? O, should Robin go and see? “No, no,” cried
Mousie, hiding her face close to him, “no, no; let us go home, let us
go home.”
But Robin was made of sterner stuff, and Mousie’s fear only served
to strengthen him. He found many brave things to say to her. Very
soon he was upright and stealing through the trees, peeping and
peering as he crept forward. Then he saw the figure of a woman lying
quite still upon the ground. She had long black hair, and brown
clothes on, and her face looked as if she were asleep. It was so
white and pretty that Robin didn’t feel afraid of her, so he went
quite near to look. And he touched the hand and thought how cold it
was, and Mousie soon came creeping up.
Then the best thought that could have come to Robin, made him say: “I
think she’s only asleep, because I saw her eyelids move. Run to the
brook Mousie, and dip your hands in and bring as much water as you
can.” And together they brought water, and patted the white face with
it, and Robin laid his wet hands on the pale lips. And after a time
the woman opened her eyes, very languidly and raised her head, and
looked about her. And when she saw the children her eyes asked the
questions her lips could hardly frame.
“You’re better now,” said Robin. And, Mousie, said, “I didn’t think
dead people could come alive.” But the woman said: “Where’s Jasper?”
“If you mean the man who was, who was ... talking to you,” said
Robin politely, “he went away into the wood ... afterwards.”
“That was Bill, that was,” murmured the girl, “I remember now.” A
sudden light came into her dark eyes, making her look scared and
hunted.
“O, ’twasn’t to serve men like Bill that I come into the world, with
his foul tongue, and his black heart, and his lies and cruelty and
wickedness. ’Twasn’t to serve men like Bill, I tell yer! O my Gawd,
why didn’t I die?”
“Because Robin told me to fetch water from the brook,” answered
Mousie, “and directly I put the water on your face you came alive
again.”
The girl rose slowly from the ground, and stood for a moment
uncertainly, then she put out her hand to the children.
“Where do you come from, you innercents?” she asked, “dropped out o’
the clouds, eh? or may be fairies?”
“We’re not fairies, thank you,” said Robin. “I’m Henry Spencer you
know, and this is Charlotte my sister, I’m eight and she’s nine, and
we are on our way to the fair.”
“Then you kin take this here bit o’ paper for me. Keep straight along
the road, and you’ll get a lift from a cart or a waggon, and do you
take this bit o’ paper to the door of the mill by the stone bridge
in the valley; and say it’s from Freedom Cowper.”
She swayed as she spoke, and Robin thought she was going to die
again, for her eyes half closed, and she leaned against a tree. But
soon she was speaking urgently, “O Gawd in Heaven, take the paper,
give it to the man ... at the mill ... run, for I hear my folk comen,
and they’ll never let you go, they’ll never let you go.”
There was a distant sound of footsteps, a far stir in the leaves.
Robin and Mousie fled from the girl away among the trees, to the
little wattle that surrounded the woodland, and scrambling over as
best they might, they lay down on the further side.
They heard voices talking, and the girl’s voice hardly audible, and
then footsteps going further and further away. At last there was
silence and, their courage returning, they arose and pursued their
way along the road.
But not now, alas, with a joyful anticipation. How willingly now
would Mousie have seen home’s familiar aspects, and Robin was far
hungrier than he had ever been. For it was now about six o’clock in
the afternoon, and they had made their escape about eleven, and they
had walked and scrambled for seven hours, and had a severe fright as
well.
But Robin held the bit of paper, and perhaps the idea of a lift in a
waggon, made him urge Mousie along the road.
It was not long before they heard the sound of wheels behind them,
and a hooded farm-cart appeared.
“Please give us a lift,” cried out Robin, and they were soon up
beside the driver.
“We want to be put down at the mill, please, by the stone bridge in
the valley.”
“Whoi that be farmer Dreege’s mill,” said the man; “but Farmer Dreege
he be at the fair surely; there’ll not be a soul about I’m thinking,
without Jasper Ford be left to mind the place.”
“Yes; that’s the man we want to see, Jasper Ford; we’ve got a message
for him.”
But the driver of the cart was a man who minded his own business, for
he said nothing more. He seemed content to drop the children with a
nod, at their destination, when they reached the mill by the bridge.
Robin knocked at the door stoutly. A young man opened it, and stood
looking quietly out upon them. He had the swart face of a gipsy, and
the dark hair and flashing teeth; but his eyes were set well under
a broad brow, and looked out kindly upon you. So that Robin had no
trace of fear and said: “This piece of paper’s for you, if you are
Jasper Ford?”
Jasper read and re-read his bit of paper, the first time half-aloud;
he was so earnest in his eager interest, so careful to decipher each
word:
“_Warn Doctor Thorpe’s household, rick-burning to-night, and robbery.
Freedom._”
“Rick-burning to-night, and robbery! That means when the folk are
all out to quench the fire, Bill and his lot will have the house to
themselves. O, Freedom, if you would but have listened to me, and had
nothing to do with the gang. But the Doctor, who Freedom owes her
life to----” and Jasper thrust the paper in his pocket. “I must go,
d’ye hear, youngsters? I must go now. Do ye sit and rest, and eat
your bread and sop here, and I’ll come back and get your names from
you when I return.”
“But tell us,” cried out Robin as Jasper turned to leave them, “tell
us, how long does the fair go on; is it all over?”
“The fair? Why, the fair’ll go on till ten o’clock at night,
youngsters: but you’d better be in bed by then.”
Mousie and Robin, well refreshed by food and drink, felt all their
former zest for adventure returning.
“O, we’ll go to the fair, Mousie; it’s only half a mile further, and
we’ll see all the shows after all.” And putting down the mugs and
plates they had eaten from, Mousie and her brother left the mill.