BAMBO AND BRUNO.
"'Will you walk into my parlour?' said the spider to the fly;
''Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy.
The way into the parlour is up a winding stair,
And I have many curious things to show when you are there.'"
Mary Howitt.
"An' where may you an' little missy be goin' at this time o' the evenin'?" asked Thieving Joe, in a voice which he intended should be pleasant and reassuring; for now that he had come close to the children—looked in Joan's face, and witnessed Darby's brave, proud bearing—he knew Moll was right: that these were no common brats, as he had called them, no rustics running wild from morn till night, but somebody's little ones, gently born undoubtedly, carefully reared unmistakably.
At the first blush of this discovery Mr. Harris felt that perhaps he had been a trifle rash—that it might have been wiser to give more heed to his wife's advice; but since he had got his captives secure at last, he was not going to be such a fool as to set them free after waiting and watching so long for a similar opportunity. He would safeguard himself as cunningly as possible against the chances of being detected in his crime, and that was all Joe Harris possessed in the way of a conscience; that was what constituted the chief difference to him between right and wrong—the cowardly yet restraining fear of being found out. Then, if the worst did come to the worst, he would swear that he had not stolen the children, but had accidentally come upon them wandering about at nightfall alone, and out of charity took them temporarily under his protection. Their friends would be deeply grateful, and doubtless reward him handsomely, so that he should be none the poorer, no matter which way the little enterprise turned out.
He judged correctly that Darby would be more easily led than driven, and he did not want to frighten him, not just at first—that would be time enough afterwards, or if he turned rusty—so he spoke to the little lad as smoothly as he knew how. But genuine gentle speech cannot be assumed at will. It is not a mannerism merely put on, but an outcome of kindly acts and pure thoughts; and Darby was quick to detect the false quality in Joe's tones as he repeated his question,—
"Come now, won't you tell me, an' this nice lady here, where the pair o' ye was bound for so late in the day?"
For a moment the boy hesitated, looking straight at his questioner. How could he tell this dreadful man the truth? and it did not occur to him to trump up a story or put him off with a half-truth, as some children might have done.
"We're going on a journey, my sister and I," said the lad simply.
Then he closed his lips tightly, and his sweet little mouth was set in a new resolute curve. He would not speak of the Happy Land to this odd pair, who had thrust themselves so unexpectedly and so rudely where they were not wanted. They might laugh at him, and who enjoys being laughed at, or having their plans and dreams ridiculed and scattered in shreds before their very eyes?
"It's late for ye to be out by yerselves," continued Joe. "Aren't ye frightened for the dark?"
"Oh no," replied Darby readily; "that never frightens us. God is in the dark as well as in the light, and He always takes care of us."
"Ahem!" and Joe coughed awkwardly, not knowing what to say. He was not used to replying to such remarks.
By this time Joan had hushed her sobs to listen to the conversation. She wriggled uneasily under the confining shawl; and hearing that she was quiet, Moll allowed the little thing to sit up in her arms and look about her.
At this point Joe made a movement of impatience, which Moll understood. He was in haste to push on, for it would soon be dark, and he was hungry for his supper.
Moll frowned at him. She wanted to work things in her own way, and she understood that little people don't like to be hurried.
"Aren't you afeard to be out on this lonesome place so late, my pretty?" she asked in a sugar-sweet voice, turning a beaming face upon Joan.
"No—I's never f'ightened of dark, or dogs, or fings," she said, drawing somewhat back from the bold face so near her own; "but I's sometimes f'ightened for peoples. I's f'ightened for you, some, and I's awful f'ightened for him," added Joan in a whisper, pointing her tiny finger in the direction of Mr. Harris, who was busily engaged in lighting his pipe.
Moll scowled, and gave the little girl a slight shake.
"You're frightened, are you?" and she laughed wickedly. "All the same, the pair o' ye'll have to come along o' us. We'll see ye safe to yer journey's end. Ye might meet tramps or gipsies, or—oh, I don't know what all! They'd pop ye into a bag an' carry ye away wi' them."
"Isn't you tramps an' gipsies—you an' him?" asked Joan innocently. "Will you put us in a bag an' carry us away wif you?"
"There! take that for yer impidence," and Moll dealt the child a smart slap on her delicate cheek, which made the little one wince with pain and terror. "Tramps an' gipsies indeed! I'll learn you another lesson, I'm thinkin', afore you're many days older."
"Well done, my lass!" cried her husband proudly, for Moll was rising to the occasion even better than he had expected. She had a soft spot somewhere in her heart, had Moll, although it was pretty well crusted over with wickedness and worldliness, and sometimes she seemed a little disgusted with Joe and his shady ways. She could do very well when she chose, however. She was, when she pleased, an out-and-out helpmeet, and now she was excelling herself. It was the prospect of the claret silk and the diamond ring, her better half believed.
"How dare you slap my sister?" cried Darby, darting forward with flashing eyes and crimson cheeks, and laying violent hands on Moll's gown. But Mr. Harris pulled him roughly off, clapping upon the boy's quivering lips a great, dirty, grimy hand.
"Darby! Darby! make her let me go!" Joan cried piteously; but Darby was powerless to come to the rescue. "Don't you know," she continued, addressing her captor, "we're goin' to the Happy Land? Didn't Darby tell you? Well, we are; an' if we doesn't hurry fast, we won't find our way to-night."
"Indeed! An' does yer pa an' yer ma know where ye are?" asked Moll curiously, seeing that Joan was freer with her tongue than her brother.
"We never had no pa an' ma. We once had a faver an' a muver," Joan admitted, "if them's what you mean. But muver's away livin' wif God, an' daddy's gone in the big, big ship over the sea, an' lefted Darby an' me all alone," she added, in a piteous little whine. "Daddy's a solger-man, an' wears a wed coat an' a shiny sword."
Mr. Harris heard this statement with feelings of relief. So he was right after all: the kids were practically orphans. Their friends, if they had any, must be mighty careless, argued Joe, and he could do with his captives as he pleased, and nobody bother much about them—unless the Tommy from Africa should turn up some fine day. But there were so many chances against that contingency that it was not worth thinking about.
"Ay, an' it's for the Happy Land ye're bound!" he cried in ridicule. "Well, it's a goodish bit from here, so we'd best be movin'. I'm about tired o' this foolin', anyway, an' I'm wantin' my supper. Come on!" and he gripped Darby's delicate little hand more tightly than before.
"Let me go!" demanded the boy indignantly. "We don't know you, and we don't want to go with you.—Sure we don't, Joan?"
"No, no!" wailed Joan. "I doesn't want to go nowhere 'cept back. An' I wants Miss Carolina an' my supper, an' my own dear comfy cwib," she added, feeling, for once in her life, that it would not be entirely disagreeable to be put to bed.
"You hear that," pleaded Darby. "Please put her down. She'll only tire you, because she's very solid for her size; I sometimes carry her myself. Please! We're not a bit afraid, and we haven't far to go now," he added, glancing up toward the brow of the hill, which was now flooded with moonlight. And as he saw how short was the distance to its summit—although, alas! the shortness was only seeming—his heart bounded with gladness and relief; for in spite of his courageous bearing, poor Darby was dreadfully afraid. All the stray stories and ridiculous remarks—many of them never meant for his ears—that he had ever heard concerning highwaymen, robbers, tramps, poachers, foreigners, and wicked people generally, came crowding to his memory thick and fast, and for the first time since they had fled from Firgrove he began to wish himself safely back there once more.
Moll made no answer. She glanced around to make sure that no straggler was near who could by any chance have heard Joan's cries. Then she swathed the child's head in her shawl again, and, with Joe striding in front and Darby dragging at his heel, the party set off at a rapid rate, which sorely tried Darby's short, tired legs, sturdy though they were. But notwithstanding the smartness of their pace, they did not seem to come much nearer to the top of the hill.
The winding road upon which the travellers had set their faces, after turning their backs on Engleton, had by this time dwindled into a narrow bridle-path. And as they proceeded, it too gradually disappeared until it was completely lost in the wide stretch of hilly land, half heather, half scrubby grass, that spread all around them as far as Darby could see.
All at once Joe stopped, and looked anxiously away in front, round the base of the hill.
"They were to halt hereabouts," he muttered to his wife, "but I don't see a sign o' them. Do you, Moll? you've allus had sharp sight."
Moll swept the landscape with a glance quick and keen as a hawk's. Then, without speaking, she pointed with her finger to a spot about half a mile off where the ground dipped slightly and formed a sort of hollow, sheltered on the far side by a clump of stunted firs.
Darby had followed the direction of Moll's large forefinger with his gaze. After a little he made out quite plainly, rising against the clear sky beyond the low-lying ground, a faint trail of blue-gray smoke; and lower down, considerably below the smoke, there shone a small spot of light which winked intermittently through the gathering gloom, as if behind it there blinked a very sleepy star.
"Ay, that's the caravan, sure enough," said Joe, in a tone of satisfaction. "My, Moll, you are a cute un, an' no mistake!—Come on, my young shaver; step out the best you know, for I'm wantin' some supper, I can tell you!"
"But we're not going that way," said Darby, trying to withdraw his hand from the vice-like grip in which it was held.—"Please put Joan down, ma'am," he begged, turning to Moll. "I'm much obliged to you for carrying her so far. Our way lies up the hill and yours down," continued the child, bending his grave, innocent eyes upon the woman's hardened countenance. "So you see we must part here," he added, with a brave attempt at a smile.
"Must we?" and Joe Harris laughed harshly. "Look here, my chick," said he, with an ugly leer, "you're comin' wi' us; that's settled, so you may stow yer cheek an' hurry up, or it'll be the worse for you!"
"You stop, Joe," whispered Moll angrily, nudging her husband with her elbow. "You'll frighten the little un, then she'll make a row, an' somebody'll hear her. Leave them to me.—Don't mind the gentleman, ducky," she continued, addressing Darby. "He's fond o' sayin' funny things; that's his way. Do you see the smoke an' the light yonder?" she asked, pointing in the direction of the caravan. "Well, that's our house—the purtiest little house that ever you seed; an' when we gets home there'll be some nice goody-goody supper for us. You come along, sensible and quiet, an' you an' little missy here'll both get share. Then after supper there's heaps an' heaps o' cur'osities for you to look at. Our house is jest chock-full up wi' funny things."
Darby was in a difficulty. Moll certainly spoke very fair. He was hungry, notwithstanding the refreshments he had consumed in the cabin of the Smiling Jane, and the prospect of something savoury was undoubtedly tempting. Then he dearly loved looking at things—odds and ends, picked up here and there, such as he imagined Moll's house contained. Joan was in a deep sleep, with her golden head pillowed on Mrs. Harris's broad shoulder. There would be no use in waking her up; she would only begin to cry. Darby was weary himself, too—so weary that he would fain have flung his little body down on the heath where he stood and slept some of his weariness away.
But the Happy Land! Would it not be better to hurry on, late though it was? They would be sure to get in if they knocked loud enough and gave their names at the gate. Then they could rest as long as they pleased, with nothing to disturb or frighten them any more, and live always good and happy—"blest, blest for aye."
These thoughts flashed through Darby's busy brain very fast. Then he answered Moll in his direct, simple way.
"No, thank you," he said; "you are very kind, but we must be getting on our way. I will carry Joan," he added, with a tired little gasp, looking apprehensively up the long stretch of rough ground rising right in front, and the now gloomy hilltop, above which heavy black clouds hung, like the curtain of night about to descend and smother them in its sombre folds.
"You can go on yer journey when you've rested a bit," coaxed the cunning woman. "Or in the mornin'," she added; "that 'ud be best. You'd lose yer way in the dark, sartin sure. I'll give you an' missy one o' the nice beds that's in my house, where ye'll sleep soun' as tops. Then after ye've had yer breakfasts in the mornin' ye'll start; an' my, ye'll be there—wherever ye're goin'—in a jiffy! What do you think o' that?"
"Well, perhaps, since you are so very kind as to invite us to supper and to stay for the night, and my sister seems so very tired—perhaps your plan might be best," said Darby slowly. Then he added quickly, "But are you sure you'll let us go when we want to in the morning—first thing after breakfast?"
"Sure's anythin'," declared Moll unblushingly. "Mr. Harris himself here'll put ye on the road.—Won't you, Joe?" asked Moll, with a sly laugh.
"Sartin," answered Joe promptly. "I've never bin in the Happy Land myself, but I'm familiar wi' the way there. I'll start the kids for it right enough, you bet," and the ugly man winked at his wife knowingly.
On the strength of these false promises Darby agreed to accept the hospitality of Mr. and Mrs. Harris for the night. But he did not see the glances of triumph, greed, cunning, and cruelty which passed between the pair; and if he had, the single-hearted child would not have understood their significance.
It was a strange scene on which Darby Dene's eyes rested when the party halted at the hollow where the Satellite Circus Company had made their headquarters for the night. Within the shelter of the firs a fire of crackling sticks was burning brightly. Hanging over the flame, suspended by an iron chain from the centre of three crossed metal bars, swung a big black pot, from which there came such a savoury smell that, in spite of his disappointment over the break in their journey, Darby could not help thinking it a lucky thing that they were going to get a share. A lad of about twelve years old was feeding the fire from a pile of dry branches that lay by his side—a lad with short woolly curls, shining, gleaming white teeth, thick lips, and a skin as dark as if he had been blackleaded all over. He was a negro, Darby knew. He had seen a black man only once before, and he now stared at this boy as if he could not remove his gaze. The lad's clothes, too, were queer. He had on a dingy purple velvet jacket, covered with frayed gold lace, tawdry tinsel braid, tarnished gilt buttons, with long, wide red and white striped cotton trousers, from which his dusky ankles and bare flat feet flopped about like the fins of some great ungainly fish.
Squatted on the grass, on the further side of the fire from the black boy, was a small figure which Darby at first thought was that of a child. But when at the sound of Joe Harris's footsteps it rose, moved slowly close to the crossbars, stood on tiptoe, lifted the lid, peered into the steaming pot, then—with the firelight falling full upon it—he saw that this was not a child; it was a man.
But what sort of a man? Was he a real man, or only a make-believe, such as was sometimes seen at shows and fairs? Darby knew about dwarfs, certainly, although he had never seen one, and at last he concluded that this must be a dwarf—this small creature not much taller than Joan, yet with a huge, broad-shouldered body, square and solid as Moll's own, overgrown head, covered with a thick mop of heavy dark hair, pale, sad face, weary eyes, short, stunted legs, large feet, and the longest arms, the thinnest hands Darby had ever seen in all his life. This was Bambo—Bambo, Mr. Harris's musical dwarf! and the boy shrank instinctively behind the shelter of Moll's ample skirts, scarcely knowing whether he was more attracted or repelled by the ungainly body, which, as the little ones discovered somewhat later on, housed such a beautiful soul within.
But what is that beside the dwarf—that great, soft-looking object that is just for all the world like a big brown furry bundle, with a tiny, chattering, jabbering monkey, decked out in all the bravery of scarlet coat and jaunty forage cap, perched on top of it? Darby steals forward step by step to get a closer view. The bundle of fur unrolls itself, grunts and turns over as if quite ready for a frolic with its queer comrade, and the little lad leaps back in terror. For it is a bear, gaunt and grizzly, with funny snout and blinking eyes!
Darby did not notice that the monster was chained, and he moved back again behind Moll, whence he gazed fascinated upon the grotesque group, over which the leaping flames cast such weird and curious lights and shadows.
The gaudy yellow caravan was drawn up on one side, and with the screen of trees served as an effective background to the scene. The skinny piebald horses had been unloosed from its shafts, freed of their harness, and, with rude fetters on their legs, turned adrift to seek their supper among the coarse grass and springy heather spreading so bountifully around them upon every side.