GONE!
‘Where’s Micky?’ inquired Kitty the next morning when Jane came into the
dining-room with the teapot and the grim announcement that breakfast was
quite ready, and the young ladies had better come to table.
‘He’s a very naughty, dirty boy,’ said Jane, as though that was a
sufficient answer to Kitty’s question.
‘He hasn’t had much time to be naughty yet, poor Micky!’ said Kitty, in
an aggrieved voice.
The twins always expected the offences of yesterday to be buried in
oblivion.
Jane did not see fit to notice the remark, and, when the door had closed
behind her, Kitty returned to her wonder.
‘Do you suppose Micky’s been playing that his soap-dish is a ship in a
storm as he did the other day, and that Jane won’t let him come down to
breakfast?’
The guess was a fairly likely one, for the game to which Kitty alluded
involved such a free dispersal of bath-water all over the floor that
Jane was quite likely to consider it both naughty and dirty though, as
Micky had pointed out, you could not well play with cleaner things than
soap and water.
‘I don’t know, and don’t care,’ said Emmeline, shortly.
She had wakened up that morning in a very bad temper.
‘It’s rather horrid of you, then,’ said Kitty, reproachfully; ‘specially
as there are eggs, and Micky didn’t have much tea last night or any
supper, I don’t suppose. I think I’ll go up and see what’s happening to
him. I don’t care if Jane does catch me.’
Emmeline did not trouble to make any objection, and Kitty departed on her
quest. A moment later she returned with the news that it was all right;
Micky was not in his room.
‘I expect he’s just out climbing trees somewhere, and will be in to
breakfast directly,’ she surmised cheerfully, as she attacked her
eggshell with energy.
But the minutes passed on, and no Micky appeared. By the time they had
almost got through even the bread-and-jam stage of breakfast Emmeline was
becoming rather anxious. It was so unlike Micky to show such indifference
to his meals.
‘Isn’t he in yet?’ asked Jane, coming into the dining-room abruptly, and
looking more worried than stern this time.
‘No, I suppose he must be in the wood somewhere, too far off to hear the
bell,’ said Emmeline, more frightened by Jane’s manner than she had been
before.
‘It’s the strangest thing where he can be,’ said Jane. ‘He was sleeping
as peaceful as could be when I unlocked the door before starting to
church yesterday evening, but when I went to call him this morning the
bed was empty, and he was nowhere to be seen. He must have dressed and
gone out without washing or anything, for the jug was still standing in
the basin as I put it back last night. Not that there’s anything strange
in that, for it’s just like his ways, but it is odd he isn’t in yet.’
‘I’ll just go out and see if I can find him,’ said Emmeline, rising from
the table as she hastily swallowed a last mouthful of bread and jam.
‘I’ve been and looked all round the garden.’ said Jane; ‘and Alice went
some little way into the wood, but she couldn’t see him anywhere. I can’t
think what can have come to him.’
‘Oh, I expect he’ll turn up soon,’ said Emmeline, trying hard to feel
confident.
‘We’ll hope so, Miss Emmeline,’ said Jane, gloomily.
Kitty’s round honest face was looking rather scared.
‘Do you think anything can have happened to Micky?’ she asked anxiously,
as Jane went out of the room.
‘Oh no. I expect he’s in the wood somewhere with Diamond Jubilee, and has
just lost count of time,’ said Emmeline, with determined cheerfulness.
‘Very likely we shall find them both in the Feudal Castle.’
Accordingly they put on their hats and, going out into the wood, made
their way towards the Feudal Castle. As they walked they kept shouting
‘Micky!’ ‘Cooee!’ at the tops of their voices, but there was never the
faintest response.
‘Well, I don’t suppose they can hear us if they’re right inside the
Feudal Castle,’ said Emmeline, hoarse, but still reassuring.
But when they reached the Feudal Castle neither Micky nor Diamond Jubilee
was there; what was more, the uneaten biscuit, which was still lying
among the newspapers just as Emmeline had dropped it, seemed to show that
they never had been there since yesterday evening.
Even Emmeline’s courage gave way at that point.
‘Wherever _can_ he be?’ she exclaimed, almost tearfully. She might have
said ‘they,’ but it was odd how very little Diamond Jubilee seemed to
matter just then.
‘I do believe _that_ Diamond Jubilee’s at the bottom of it somehow,’
remarked Kitty, who was beginning to feel very miserable indeed.
Emmeline had all along had an uneasy suspicion that he might be, but she
did not like to hear her own secret fear put into words by Kitty.
‘I don’t suppose it’s a bit more poor Diamond Jubilee’s fault than
Micky’s,’ she snapped. ‘Most likely they’re both climbing trees somewhere
a little farther on in the wood, and if they are it will have been
Micky’s idea, not Diamond Jubilee’s. Come along.’
They left the Feudal Castle and continued their walk towards the
Chudstone edge of the wood.
‘We shall be late for Miss Miller,’ remarked Emmeline; ‘but, really, we
can’t trouble about lessons at such a crisis.’
That word ‘crisis’ afforded some little comfort to Emmeline for a moment;
Aunt Grace had used it yesterday, and it sounded delightfully grown-up.
They went right to the end of the wood, cooeeying all the way, but with
no more success than before, after which there was clearly nothing to be
done but to turn and go back home again. They did so, feeling too tired
and too much out of heart even to cooee this time, or to make any fresh
conjectures as to what could have become of Micky. That silent walk home
seemed to drag on a weary while, but it was over at last. No sooner
had they opened the garden-door than they caught sight of Miss Miller,
Jane, Cook, and Alice, all standing in a row on the gravel path near the
back-yard door, and all evidently keeping an anxious look-out for the
children’s return. Perhaps the fact that the entire work of the household
should be at a standstill while it waited for tidings brought home to
Emmeline more than anything else how very serious the state of affairs
was.
‘Well, haven’t you found him?’ called out Cook, as the two girls
approached.
‘Of course they haven’t! Do you think they’ve got him hidden in their
pockets?’ snapped Jane. Worry of mind was making her more short-tempered
even than usual.
‘No, we haven’t found him, and we’ve been right to the Chudstone end
of the wood to look for him,’ said Emmeline, in a voice of utter
discouragement, while big tears rolled down Kitty’s cheeks.
‘Don’t cry, Kitty dear,’ said Miss Miller, soothingly; ‘Micky can’t be
very far off’; but, in spite of her cheering words, the governess’s face
was very anxious. She herself had just returned from looking for Micky in
the village, where nothing had been heard or seen of him. ‘I wonder if
we ought to wire to Miss Bolton,’ she added, in a lower voice.
‘I don’t see that there’s any call for that,’ said Jane, grumpily. ‘She’d
only be worried to death between thinking she ought to come back here and
not liking to leave Miss King. Besides, as likely as not Master Micky’s
only hiding somewhere near about for fun, for a more mischieful boy I
never did see.’
‘Well, perhaps it would be best not to telegraph just yet, at all
events,’ said Miss Miller, rather stiffly—she thought Jane apt to presume
on her privileges as an old servant—‘but one step I’m sure we ought to
take is to give notice at Chudstone Police-Station that the child’s
missing. Then they’ll telephone on to the other police-stations in the
neighbourhood. I think that will be far more effective than going out
to look for him, for as we don’t know in the least which way to go, we
might be wandering about the whole day without getting any nearer finding
him. I’ll just bicycle over to Chudstone now. While I’m gone you can
be reading to Kitty the next story in the Greek history,’ she added to
Emmeline, with an idea of diverting their attention.
‘Oh, Miss Miller,’ broke in Kitty, with a fresh outbreak of tears,
‘people just _can’t_ do Greek history when their twins are lost! Do let
us go and look for him in the wood just once more!’
Miss Miller did not think the search likely to be any more successful
than before, but she had not the heart to refuse. ‘Well, you may go
then,’ she said, kindly, ‘but don’t go outside the wood, and come back
as soon as it’s eleven o’clock by Emmeline’s watch, even if you haven’t
found him.’
Five minutes later Miss Miller had set out on her bicycle for Chudstone,
and the two girls and Punch had begun another expedition through the
woods. It had been a brilliant idea of Kitty’s to include Punch in the
party. ‘In all the stories of children getting lost there’s always a
gallant Newfoundland who rescues them,’ she had remarked. To be sure
Punch was about as much like a gallant Newfoundland as the Feudal Castle
was like a castle, but that was a detail.
‘I expect Punch’ll scent Micky out long before the police could find
him,’ said Kitty, almost cheering up again as she and Emmeline climbed
the railings dividing the wood from the road. ‘What shall we do supposing
he tracks him out of the wood?’ she went on as Emmeline kept silence,
feeling too miserable to answer. ‘For we promised Miss Miller not to go
outside.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Emmeline impatiently. ‘There’ll be time enough
to think of that when he does track him out.’
There certainly was time enough. Punch’s behaviour in the wood was most
disappointing. It was in vain that they urged him to ‘go find Micky, like
a good dog.’ He only stood stock still, wagging his tail apologetically,
and staring up at them with a worried expression in his wistful brown
eyes. It was so impossible to make him realise that for the first time
in his life he was expected to take the lead in a walk, that at last,
in despair, they had to give up trying to do. After that Punch trotted
along happily a few feet behind them, except once when he raised their
hopes cruelly by sniffing the ground violently and then rushing away
among the bushes, only to come back a minute or two later with the rather
crestfallen look he always had after wild and unsuccessful pursuits. It
was only too plain that it had been a hunting expedition, not a rescue
one.
‘Oh, Punch, you aren’t nearly so much good as a story dog!’ complained
poor Kitty, ‘how can you think about hunting rabbits when Uncle Micky’s
lost?’
It was nearer twelve than eleven o’clock when the two girls came home
again, after a weary and futile search, but Miss Miller did not say a
word of reproach to them. She herself had not been waiting for them
long, for, though her ride to Chudstone and back had only taken about
half-an-hour, she had since been out again looking for Micky here, there
and everywhere. One or other of the servants too, had been constantly
going off to some place where it had suddenly struck them that the boy
might possibly be, but, so far, everybody’s searching had been equally in
vain. Micky might have disappeared from off the face of the earth for all
the trace of him that they could find.
‘Come up to the schoolroom and rest,’ said Miss Miller, kindly. ‘I won’t
bother you with any real lessons to-day, but I’ll read some “Marmion”
aloud to you.’
They were just reading ‘Marmion’ for their literature. As a rule they
were thrilled by it, but this morning neither Emmeline nor Kitty took
in much of what they read. Sitting still only made them realise their
trouble the more vividly, and Kitty was on the verge of breaking into
a howl when Jane came in to ask Miss Miller if she might speak to her
alone for a moment. She made the request with such an air of mystery that
Emmeline’s heart began to thump wildly.
‘Jane, tell me!’ she gasped. ‘Micky—has anything happened?’
‘I know no more of Master Micky than you do,’ said Jane. ‘I only wish I
did,’ she added, in a gentler voice than the children had ever yet heard
her use.
‘I think I ought to tell you, Miss Miller,’ began Jane, after Miss Miller
had followed her from the room, ‘Mrs. Tom Wright was round just now, and
told us something which upset me very much. It seems her husband saw
Master Micky playing in the wood yesterday afternoon with a little tramp
boy.’
‘Dear me! That doesn’t seem suitable,’ remarked Miss Miller, trying hard
to be as much shocked and surprised as Jane evidently expected.
‘Well,’ continued Jane solemnly, ‘I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if that
little tramp boy isn’t at the bottom of it all.’
‘Of Micky’s disappearing, do you mean?’ asked Miss Miller, really
surprised and alarmed this time. ‘Why, what makes you think that?’
‘Because yesterday afternoon wasn’t the only time this last day or two
that boy’s been seen haunting about the place,’ said Jane. ‘I saw him
myself on Monday night—at least, a boy who came round to the side-door
begging answered very much to the description of the one Tom Wright saw
in the wood. I thought at the time that I’d never seen such a filthy
little creature as he was, but I gave him a hunch of bread—I always
say that’s good enough for them if they’re really hungry—and when he
asked for something more I just banged the door in his face, and I took
care to bolt it directly afterwards top and bottom. It was a good two
hours before the usual time, but ever since my best umbrella was stolen
I’ve been downright scared of tramps. But that isn’t all. The very next
morning—yesterday morning that is—Mr. Brown saw that same boy or his twin
brother lurking about near the garden-door, for all the world as if he
was waiting for someone. He sent him to the rightabout pretty quick. The
only pity is he didn’t do it for good and all, for I do believe it’s that
boy that has led away poor Master Micky.’
‘But I don’t understand,’ said Miss Miller. ‘Whatever should he want
Micky for?’
‘What do gipsies usually want children for?’ rejoined Jane. ‘Maybe it’s
for the sake of a reward, or maybe they think they could train him to be
useful. Master Micky’d make a grand acrobat, to judge from the way he
turns coach-wheels.’
Gipsies and people who travelled with shows were closely connected in
Jane’s mind.
‘But are there any gipsies about?’ asked Miss Miller.
‘Not the real Romanies, but plenty of the sort of vagabonds that call
themselves gipsies,’ said Jane. ‘There’s a van of them in a field at
Baddicomb at this very moment’—Baddicomb was a village about five
miles off—‘and one and another of them have been wandering about the
country-side up to no end of mischief. Why, Mr. Warne got his orchard
robbed only yesterday by a boy that he says certainly doesn’t belong
hereabouts, and that’s most likely one of them—most likely the very same
that’s got hold of Master Micky.’
‘Well,’ said Miss Miller, ‘I think the best thing for me to do is to ride
into Chudstone again, and suggest to the police that possibly the gipsies
have got hold of the boy.’
Miss Miller said nothing about where she was going to either of her
pupils. ‘If only I had not to give two music-lessons this afternoon I
would have come back again to see how you are getting on,’ she said to
Emmeline as she wheeled her bicycle out at the front door, ‘for I can’t
bear not to be with you when you’re in such trouble. Anyhow, I shall ride
over again after tea just to see what’s happening. I expect Micky will
have turned up long before then,’ with which cheering prophecy, spoken
with more confidence than she could altogether feel, she mounted her
flashing machine and rode off.
Kitty had rushed away somewhere by herself as soon as she was free to do
what she liked, and Emmeline felt lonely and helpless as she stood in the
drive looking after her governess. There seemed nothing she could do.
Stay! She would go up to her own room and pray very, very hard that Micky
might be found. Perhaps that would succeed. At all events, it would be
better than this dreadful waiting and doing nothing. Emmeline wondered
that she had not thought of it before.
She ran upstairs, but was rather taken aback to find her bedroom occupied
by Alice, who was dusting the mantelpiece ornaments. To be sure, she
hurried out of the room as soon as the young lady appeared, but not
before Emmeline had seen that her eyes were red and swollen. Emmeline
knelt down by her bedside, but, try as she would, she could not fix her
thoughts. They kept wandering off to Alice.
That horrible money! The thought of it kept haunting Emmeline like some
tormenting demon. She had almost forgotten it for a time in the trouble
of the morning, but now it kept coming between her and her prayers.
How could she expect them to be answered so long as she was deceiving
everyone and letting Alice suffer under a false accusation?
‘Nonsense,’ she told herself. ‘There’s no deceiving in not telling that
meddlesome Jane what I did with my own extra money-box money! I did
tell her I was sure Alice hadn’t taken it, and I don’t think really she
meant to make any fuss about it till Aunt Grace comes home. It _must_ be
about Micky Alice is crying. Anyhow, Aunt Grace is the person who really
matters, not Jane, and, if she suspects Alice, I’ll tell her that I took
the money. It would be very unkind to bother them about it just now when
they’re in such trouble. It would worry them dreadfully, for they’d be
certain to ask questions, and it would all come out about Diamond Jubilee
and his having disappeared, too, and they’d be sure to think Micky had
run away with him, and then they’d write and frighten poor Aunt Grace.
No, for Aunt Grace’s sake, I really can’t risk their finding out about
Diamond Jubilee till Micky’s safe back.’
She was still trying to persuade herself that she was justified in
keeping silence about him, when the door was burst open, and in rushed
Kitty, very untidy, and with short white hairs sticking all over her
dress. In her hand was an extremely dirty, crumpled bit of paper, which
looked as if it might have been torn out of an exercise-book.
She closed the door with a care very unlike her usual slap-dash ways, and
came close up to Emmeline before she whispered mysteriously:
‘Look what I’ve found in Punch’s kennel! Mr. Brown had chained him up
again, and I felt so miserable that I just had to be with the darling. He
_is_ such a comfort in trouble.’
Emmeline was not listening. She was staring at some pencilled words
scribbled on the torn piece of paper.
‘Dear Kitty’ (she read), ‘I am leving this were you’ll be the person most
likely to find it. This is to tell you I am going back to grene ginger
land with dimund joublee. Hes jolly well had enuf of this he ses, and so
have I, speshally after yestidday, wich show how beestly everything will
be with Jane to put peeple to bed just for akserdents like the blankets.
Besids of corse as Im his adopted father I have to go to, or how could I
trane him. It will be a jolly lark. Dont tell enyone were Ive gone except
you may Emmeline, as shes in it too, and don’t greave for me too much
dear sister. Your loving bother, Micky.’
‘Does Micky mean he won’t ever come back again?’ asked Kitty, with
painful anxiety, as Emmeline screwed up the paper into a little ball, and
began pacing up and down the room.
Emmeline did not seem to hear, so Kitty repeated the question in a voice
which sounded as though she were on the point of bursting out crying out
again.
‘No, of course not, you silly child,’ said Emmeline, impatiently. ‘At
least, it doesn’t matter what he means—he won’t be allowed to, anyhow.
Kitty,’ she added penitently, ‘I didn’t mean to be cross, only I’m so
frightfully worried. It’s dreadful to think where Diamond Jubilee may be
taking Micky to!’
‘I wish we’d never met Diamond Jubilee!’ moaned Kitty.
‘So do I,’ agreed Emmeline from the bottom of her heart; ‘but the
question now is what to do about Micky.’
‘I suppose it would be betraying to tell any of the grown-up people when
he says I’m not to?’ said Kitty, doubtfully.
‘I don’t know,’ said Emmeline. Her four years of seniority made her view
things rather differently, but she had her own reasons for being even
more unwilling than Kitty to show Micky’s letter to any of the elders.
‘No, I think we’d much better not say anything yet,’ she added, after
a moment’s thought. ‘It’s not as if Aunt Grace were here, or even Miss
Miller. But it’s only the servants, and they can’t care so very much’—she
was doing them great injustice—‘and it would only make a horrible fuss
and worry them dreadfully. It will be much best for them not to know
where Micky has gone till he’s safe back again.’
‘But how are we going to get him safe back again?’ demanded Kitty, in a
woeful voice.
‘I’m going into Eastwich myself this afternoon to fetch him home,’ said
Emmeline, with studied coolness, though her heart was beating fast at the
thought of taking such an unheard-of step on her own responsibility.
‘Oh, Emmeline!’ gasped Kitty, admiring, frightened, and astonished all at
once. ‘But will they let you go?’ she added.
‘I shan’t ask them,’ said Emmeline. ‘It’s no business of theirs. They
won’t even know I’m gone till tea-time, and by then Micky and I’ll be
coming home together, I expect.’
‘Emmeline, you’re the cleverest, darlingest person in the world!’ cried
Kitty, beginning an ecstatic dance round the room—a dance which stopped
abruptly, however, as a sudden difficulty flashed into her mind. ‘How are
you going to get money for a ticket?’ she asked.
Emmeline flushed a little.
‘There’s that eighteenpence Aunt Grace gave you just before she went away
for the chickens’ food,’ she said a little awkwardly. ‘You know Cook
said what they had would last for another week, so do you mind lending
it me? We shall have our pocket-money in less than a week, you know, and
we can use it all for paying back what we’ve borrowed from the chickens,
for there won’t be Diamond Jubilee to think of now. I’m sure’s there’s
no harm in just borrowing it for something so frightfully important as
finding Micky.’
Kitty saw no harm at all in what Emmeline thought right.
‘I suppose there wouldn’t be money enough for me to go too?’ she
suggested wistfully.
‘No, there wouldn’t,’ said Emmeline; ‘you must remember there’ll be
Micky’s ticket back to get as well as mine. Besides, I expect I shall
have to go into places that wouldn’t be at all fit for you. I’m sure
Green Ginger Land must be a dreadful place.’
‘It sounds lovely!’ said Kitty, with a sigh; but she submitted to
Emmeline’s decision with her usual sweet temper.
After all, so long as Micky came back that evening—and Kitty had not
the slightest doubt that he would, since Emmeline said so—nothing else
mattered.
‘Emmeline,’ said Kitty, anxiously, when the two were left alone together
during dinner, ‘you won’t bring Diamond Jubilee back as well as Micky,
will you?’
‘Not now he has run away,’ said Emmeline sternly. ‘He’s been such
a wicked, ungrateful boy that I’m afraid we must leave him to his
fate. After all,’ she added reflectively, ‘_perhaps_ we’re rather too
inexperienced to adopt children,’ which was an admission such as Emmeline
had never yet made in the whole course of her life.
‘I am _so_ glad!’ said Kitty, with a deep-drawn sigh of relief.