TOBY AND BARBARA.
| "Missing or lost, last Sunday night." |
| Thomas Moore. |
The chance for which Tim was hoping seemed slow of coming. He was always on the look-out for it; and, indeed, had he not been so Duke would have kept him up to his promise, for whenever he saw Tim alone for a moment he was sure to whisper to him, "How soon do you think us can run away?" And it was now the seventh day since the children had been carried off!
Pamela's foot was almost well. She could walk and even run without it hurting her. Diana had bound it up carefully, after putting on some ointment which certainly healed it very quickly. For, with all their ignorance and brutality, the gipsies were really clever in some ways. They had knowledge of herbs which had been handed down to them by their ancestors, and their fingers were skilful and nimble. And for their own sakes Mick and the Missus were anxious that their two pretty prisoners should not fall ill. So that, though dirty and uncared-for as far as appearance went, the little pair had not really suffered in health by their misfortunes.
It was partly, perhaps, owing to their innocent hopefulness, which kept up their spirits when, had they been wiser and older, they would have lost heart and grown ill with fear and anxiety.
They were now far enough from Sandlingham for Mick to feel pretty sure they would not be tracked. The actual distance they had travelled was not great, but a few miles in those days were really more than a hundred at the present time. For there were, of course, no railways; in many parts of the country the cross-roads were so bad that it was necessary and really quicker to make long rounds rather than leave "the king's highway." And—still more important, perhaps, in such a case—there were no telegraphs! No possibility for poor Grandpapa and Grandmamma—as there would be nowadays, could such a thing happen as the theft of little children—to send word in the space of an hour or two to the police all over the country. Indeed, compared with what it is in our times, the police hardly existed.
And everything was in the gipsies' favour. No one had seen them in the neighbourhood of Arbitt Lodge. They had not been on the Sandlingham high-road before meeting the children, and had avoided it on purpose after that. So, among the many explanations that were offered to the poor old gentleman and lady of their grandchildren's disappearance, though "stolen by gipsies" was suggested, it was not seriously taken up.
"There have been no gipsies about here for months past," said Grandpapa. "Besides, the children were in our own grounds—gipsies could not have got in without being seen—it is not as if they had been straying about the lanes."
Everything that could be done had been done. All the ponds in the neighbourhood had been dragged; the only dangerous place anywhere near—a sort of overhanging cliff over some unused quarries—had been at once visited; the quarries themselves searched in every corner—even though they were very meek-and-mild, inoffensive quarries, where it would have been difficult to hide even a little dog like Toby. And all, as we of course know, had been in vain! There really seemed by the end of this same seventh day nothing left to do. And Grandpapa sat with bowed gray head, his newspaper unopened on the table beside him, broken down, brave old soldier though he was,—utterly broken down by this terrible blow. While Grandmamma slowly drew her arm-chair a little nearer than usual to the fire, for grief makes people—old people especially—chilly. All her briskness and energy were gone; her sweet old face was white and drawn, with no pretty pink flush in the cheeks now; her bright eyes were dimmed and paled by the tears they had shed, till now even the power of weeping seemed exhausted.
"I never thought—no, through all I never thought," she murmured to herself, so low that even if Grandpapa had been much sharper of hearing than he was her words could not have reached him,—"I never thought that a day would come when I should thank the Lord that my Marmaduke—yes, and poor little Lavinia too—had not lived to see their darlings the pretty creatures they had become! Yet now I am thankful—thankful for them to have been spared this anguish. Though, again, if they had been alive and well and able to take care of Duke and Pam, perhaps it would never have happened."
And once more—for the hundredth time, I daresay—poor Grandmamma began torturing herself by wondering in what she had erred—how could she have taken better care of the children?—was it her fault or Grandpapa's, or Nurse's, or Biddy's, or anybody's? There had been something the matter with Duke and Pam that last morning; they had had something on their little minds. She had thought so at the time, and now she was more than ever sure of it. What could it have been?
"I thought it best not to force their confidence, babies though they are," she reflected. "But perhaps if I had persuaded them very tenderly, they would have told me. Was I too severe and strict with them, the darlings? I meant to act for the best, but I am a foolish old woman—if only the punishment of my mistakes could fall on me alone! Ah dear, ah dear!—it would have been hard to lose them by death, but in that case I should have felt that they were going to their father and mother; while now—it is awful to picture where they may be, or what may have become of them! Oh Toby, is it you, you poor little dog?" for just at this moment Toby rubbed himself against her foot, looking up in her face with a sad wistful expression in his bright eyes. "Oh Toby, Toby," said Grandmamma, "I wonder if you could tell us anything to clear up this dreadful mystery if you could talk."
But Toby only wagged his tail—he was very sad too, but he had far too much self-respect not to wag his tail when he was kindly spoken to, however depressed he might be feeling—and looked up again, blinking his eyes behind their shaggy veil.
"Oh Toby," said poor Grandmamma again, as if she really did not know what else to say.
And Grandpapa, half ashamed of his own prostration, roused himself to try to say a cheering word or two.
"We must hope still, my love," he said. "To-morrow may bring news from the Central London Police Office, where the Sandlingham overseer has written to. He bade us keep up hope for a few days yet, we must remember."
"Only for a few days more," repeated Grandmamma. "And if those days bring nothing, what are we to think—what are we to do?"
"Upon my soul," said Grandpapa, "I do not know;" and with a heavy sigh he turned away again, glancing at the newspaper as if half inclined to open it, but without the heart to do so.
"Of course," he said, "if by any possibility they had fallen into kind hands, and it had occurred to any one to advertise about them, we should have known it before this. The police are all on the alert by now. If dishonest people have carried them off for the sake of a reward, they will find means of claiming it before long. The head-man at Sandlingham does not advise our offering a reward as yet. He says it might lead to more delay if they are in dishonest hands. Their captors would wait to see if more would not be offered—better let them make the first move, he says."
"To think of putting a price on the darlings, as if they were little strayed dogs!" exclaimed Grandmamma, lifting her hands.
Just at this moment the door opened, and Dymock came in. Grandmamma raised her face quickly, with a look of expectation—the door never opened in those sad days without her heart beating faster with the hope of possible tidings—but it as quickly faded again. Dymock had just the same melancholy expression; he still walked on tiptoe, and spoke in a muffled voice, as if he were entering a sick-room. This was his way of showing his sympathy, which really was most deep and sincere But somehow it provoked Grandmamma, who was, it must be confessed, rather a quick-tempered old lady at all times, and at present her nerves were of course unusually irritated.
"Well, what is it, Dymock?" she said testily. "I wish you would not go about like a mute at a funeral. You make me think I don't know what."
"Beg pardon, ma'am, I'm sure," said Dymock humbly, but still in the same subdued way. He would not have taken offence just now at any remark of Grandmamma's; but he could not help speaking to her with a sort of respectful indulgence, as much as to say, "I know she can't help it, poor old lady," which Grandmamma found exceedingly aggravating. "Beg pardon. But it's Mrs. Twiss. If she could see you for a moment, ma'am?"
"Old Barbara!" exclaimed Grandmamma. "Is it possible that she—she is so shrewd and sensible—can she have heard anything do you think, Dymock?"
But Dymock shook his head solemnly.
"No, no, ma'am. It's not that. I'm very sorry if by my manner I raised any false hopes."
"That you certainly did not, my good Dymock," said the old lady grimly.
"But—would you see Mrs. Twiss, ma'am? She's going from home I believe."
"Going from home—she who never leaves her own cottage! Yes, I will see her," and in another moment the neat old woman was making her curtsey at the door.
"Come in, come in, Barbara," said Grandmamma. "And so you are off somewhere? How is that? Ah, if I were as strong and well as you, I think I would be tempted to set off on my travels to look for my lost darlings. It is the staying here waiting and doing nothing that is so dreadful, my good friend."
And Grandmamma's voice quavered with the last words. It was not the first time she had seen Barbara since the children's disappearance, for they were old friends, and the cake woman had hurried up to Arbitt Lodge at once on hearing of the sad trouble that had befallen its inmates, to express her concern and see if maybe she could be of any use.
"Yes, indeed, ma'am. I can well understand it," she said. "How you bear up as you do is just wonderful. I'm sure I can't get it out of my mind for a moment. I keep seeing them as they passed by that last afternoon. Nurse was a bit vexed with them—missy's frock was torn and——"
"Yes," interrupted Grandmamma—Grandpapa seeing her occupied had at last made up his mind to open his newspaper—"Yes, I was thinking of that. They told us about it, and they asked what it meant to be 'a great charge;' they had heard Nurse say that to you. She is a good woman, I feel sure, Barbara, but perhaps she is a little too strict. I have got it so on my mind that they had some little trouble they did not like to tell about, and that that, somehow, has had to do with it all."
"You don't mean, ma'am, that such tiny trots as that would have run away on purpose?" said Barbara in surprise. "Oh no, they'd never have done that."
"No, I do not mean that exactly," said Grandmamma. "I do not think I know rightly what I mean. Dear, dear, I wish Dymock would keep Toby away," she added. "You don't know how he startles me—every time he comes close to me I fancy somehow it is the children," and Grandmamma looked so uneasy and nervous that Barbara quietly took up the little dog and put him out of the room. "And, Barbara, you had no reason for coming to see me? Except, of course—I was forgetting—that you are going away."
"Only for a few days, ma'am," Barbara replied. "I had a letter from my niece—leastways from her husband—the niece who lives over near Monkhaven—yesterday. She's been very ill, ma'am,—very ill indeed, and though she's getting better it would be a great comfort to her to see me, and maybe spirit her up a bit to get well quicker. So I'm just setting off—I've locked up my cottage and left the key next door. But I couldn't start without looking in again to see if maybe you had any news."
"No, no—nothing," replied Grandmamma. "And I feel as if I couldn't bear much more. I am breaking up, Barbara; a few days more will see the last of me, my old friend, if they bring no tidings."
Barbara's eyes filled with tears, but she said nothing.—She had exhausted all her attempts at comfort, all her "perhaps"'s, and "maybe"'s as to what had become of the children; and though she was a very cheerful and hopeful old woman, she was also very sympathising, and it made her dreadfully sad to see Grandmamma so changed and cast down.
"It goes to my heart, ma'am, to see you so," she got out at last. "I know there's nothing I can do, but all the same I wish I weren't going away just now, though the few days will soon be past."
"Yes," said Grandmamma, "they will certainly; and yet even two days seem an eternity just now. You see how foolish and weak I am growing, Barbara. I want every day to be over, and yet I cannot bear to have the days pass and to say to myself that the chances of any tidings are lessening and lessening. Soon it will be two weeks—it is already eight days. When it was only two days it did not seem so hopeless. But I must not keep you, Barbara. How do you mean to get to Monkhaven?"
"Farmer Carson is to give me a lift as far as Brigslade, and then I can walk the rest," said the sturdy old woman, "so good-day to you, ma'am, and, oh deary me, but I do hope there may be better news to hear when I come back on Friday," and with a cordial shake of the hand from Grandmamma, Barbara turned to go. But just then there came at the door a whining and scratching which made the old lady give a sigh of impatience.
"It is the dog again," she said. "He is so restless there is no keeping him quiet, and, though I am very fond of him, I really cannot bear the sight of him just now. I do wish he were away."
Grandmamma spoke so weariedly and seemed so nervous that Barbara felt more sorry for her than ever. Suddenly an idea struck her.
"Would you let me take him with me, ma'am?" she said. "He knows me so well that I should have no trouble with him, and he'd be nice company on the walk from Brigslade."
Grandmamma hesitated, but only for a moment.
"Yes, take him, Barbara," she said. "He will be much happier with you, poor little dog. And till I have my darlings again,—and will that ever be, Barbara?—I really cannot bear to see or hear him. Yes, take him with you, poor little dog; and—and—keep him as long as you like—unless—unless there do come good news."
And thus it came to pass that Toby set out on his travels with Barbara Twiss, while poor Grandmamma shrank down again into her arm-chair by the fire, and Grandpapa tried to imagine he was reading his newspaper as usual.
What did poor Toby think of it all? His ideas had been very confused for some days, poor little dog. He could not make out what had become of the children. He sniffed about everywhere, once or twice barking with sudden delight when, coming upon some relic of his little master or mistress, such as Duke's old garden hat or Pamela's tiny parasol, he imagined for a moment or two that he had found them, only to creep off again with his tail between his legs in renewed disappointment when he discovered his mistake, all of which, it is easy to understand, had been very trying to poor Grandmamma, and no doubt to Toby himself. He did not understand what he was scolded for when he certainly meant no harm; he could not make out why Dymock gave him little shoves out of the way and Biddy bade him sharply be quiet when he, naturally enough, yelped at this inconsiderate treatment. And worst of all, when, after the most mature reflection, he took up his quarters on one of the two little white beds in the night nursery, deciding that there, sooner or later, his friends must return, was it not too bad that Nurse, hobbling about again after her rheumatic attack, which she had made much worse by fretting,—was it not too bad that she should unceremoniously dislodge him with never a "by your leave," or "with your leave"?
Toby shook himself and walked off in disgust.
"You very silly and stupid old woman," he said to her in his own mind, "if you only had the sense to understand my language, you would see that the only rational thing to do is to wait for Duke and Pam in a place where they are sure to come. And that is their beds. I have thought it out, I assure you. But there is no use trying to put reasonable ideas into human beings' heads. I might bark myself black in the face before any one could take in what I mean."
It was just after this that he had wandered away downstairs in search of a quiet corner; and on first entering the parlour Grandmamma spoke to him so kindly that he began to think of bestowing his company upon her for the rest of the day, especially as she was always installed near a good fire. Toby dearly loved a fire; even on a hot summer's day the kitchen fire had great attractions for him. But when Mrs. Twiss came in, and he, as was his duty and business of course, went to the door to see who it was, that officious Dymock shut him out again, and actually when he whined and scratched in the politest manner to be let in Grandmamma spoke crossly to him.
"Et tu, Brute!" thought Toby to himself. What was coming over the world?
On the whole he was not sorry to find himself trotting down the lane beside Barbara, whom he had a sincere regard for. She spoke to him with proper respect; she was not given to shoves like Dymock, or sharp expressions like Nurse and Biddy, and when she called him to follow her, Toby willingly followed.
"You're to come along with me, poor doggie," she said. "You're only a worry to the good lady at present, and I'm pleased to have your company. Besides, who knows, you're a sharp dog, Toby, and you and I will keep our eyes and ears open, and you your nose as well, for that's a gift the more, you have, you doggies, nor us."
And so saying Barbara and her companion made their way to the cross-roads, a point well known in the country-side. For there a great finger-post served the double purpose of informing the traveller in four directions and of frightening many a country lad or lassie of a moonlight night, when it stood gaunt and staring like a gigantic skeleton, as everybody knows the meeting of cross-roads is at no time a canny spot.
Here Farmer Carson had promised to take up Barbara, for his home lay a mile or two out of the village, all of which she kindly explained to her little companion as they went along. She had a great habit of talking to herself, and she was so much alone that it was quite a treat to have "some one" to talk to, as she also informed Toby. He looked up at her with his bright eyes, from time to time wagging his tail, "for all the world like a Christian," thought Barbara, but nevertheless I am afraid he did not take in her information as fully as appeared. For when, after they had sat waiting for him for some minutes, the worthy farmer drove up with a cheery "Good morning, Mrs. Twiss," Toby had the impertinence to bark furiously at him and his most respectable old mare, as if they had not quite as good a right as he to the king's highway!
This, of course caught the farmer's attention.
"That's a knowing little chap you've got with you, neighbour Twiss," he said; "he favours the one at the Lodge, does he not?"
This naturally led to Barbara's explaining that he was the one at the Lodge in person, and then she and her friend beguiled the way by talking over the sad and mysterious disappearance of the children.
It was very sad, and very strange, the farmer agreed. Then he scratched his head with the hand that was not occupied with the reins.
"I've thought a deal about it," he said, "and I've come to think it's—as likely as not—gipsies after all."
Barbara started.
"But there's been none about," she said, "not for ever so long. The General"—the General was Grandpapa—"thought of that at the very first and asked all about. But there'd been none heard of, and heard of they always are pretty quick, and none so pleasantly, as you should know well, Mr. Carson."
"I do so, I do so," he agreed, nodding his head. "But they're a cunning lot. If they'd any reason for getting quick out of the way, they'd do it. All I can tell you is this, and I only heard it last night: one o' my men coming home what he calls a short-cut way saw traces of a fire down by Black Marsh; and he's certain sure the marks weren't there the day before the children disappeared. That was the last time he'd passed that way."
"And that's more nor a week past," said Barbara. "If it should be so,—if the gipsies have really got them,—they may be a long way off by now."
"Just so," said the farmer; "that's the worst of it. And no telling what road they've gone, neither. No; I'm sadly afraid if it's been gipsies there's not much chance of seeing them again, unless they're tempted by the rewards. Pretty little creatures like that they can always make a good deal by, for those shows as goes about. And they're such babies—only four or five years old, aren't they? They'll soon forget where they come from and all."
"Nay," said Barbara, "they're small for their age, for they're six past. But they're not dull; no, indeed, they're very quick children. They'd not forget in a hurry."
Then she grew very silent. It made her terribly sad to think of the two tender little creatures in such hands; suddenly Toby, who had been quietly reposing at her feet, jumped up and gave a short sharp bark.
"What is it, Toby?" said Barbara, patting him.
Toby grunted a little, and then lay down again. The reason of his barking was that he had just discovered why old Barbara had brought him away on this journey. It was that he was to find the children—he quite understood all about it now, and wished to say so.