So he had to turn homewards once more, with the dreary tale of failure written on his face. Lizzie's mistress, however, could give some confirmation of the fact about her being out late on Wednesday, and that she had given her notice to leave in consequence of her carelessness the next night, hoping that this might have the effect of making her more careful in future, which if it did, she had told her, she would look over the past and let her stay.
This confirmation of the fact that Lizzie had gone to the fair instead of going home, made Jack persistently cling to the idea that Lizzie's disappearance was somehow connected with the fair-folks. He had learned from the police that most of the vans that had stood here bore the name of Stanley, but beyond this he could learn nothing. They laughed at him when he suggested that they had run away with his sister. Girls of fifteen, able to talk and walk, could not be carried off against their will; and, besides:
"What could these gypsy folks do with a girl like her?" the policeman asked.
Jack shook his head. The question puzzled him, but still he held on to his notion. He knew the disappearance of his sister was somehow connected with these fair-folks, and he tried to find out where they were going next, that he might go after them.
But nobody could tell him this; for nobody had troubled themselves about these nomadic people, who came and went without exciting much notice or much remark. The steam roundabout and all the shows were in full swing on Saturday night, and they had entirely disappeared by seven o'clock on Sunday morning, leaving nothing but dirt and refuse behind.
"Yes, and it was early on Sunday morning that Lizzie went away," said Jack to the man who gave him this information. "Her mistress called her at half-past seven, but she was gone; and the back door and back gate were unfastened, so that she went early too."
The police, however, had formed quite another theory to account for the girl's disappearance. They did not condescend to tell anybody what this was; but it came out in a day or two, that her mistress had lost a silver fruit knife, which she was certain she had used a day or two before the girl went away, and left it in the sideboard drawer.
Of course, as this article had been missed, other articles might have been taken also; and when her poor mother heard of this, and that her only girl was branded as a thief, her grief and distress was increased tenfold. As for her father, it well-nigh killed him. The mental depression caused by want of employment had already begun to affect his health, and now he seemed to give up all hope and desire for life. So long as there was any chance of finding Lizzie in the town, he tramped on unweariedly; but when this failed, and the discovery was made that the silver fruit knife was missing, and must have been taken by Lizzie, the poor man uttered a groan of anguish and fell back in his chair like one demented. He made no further effort to find Lizzie. She was lost, he said—lost beyond recovery.
Her husband's failing health now imposed a double burden upon poor Mrs. Betts; for he was soon unable to move from his chair beside the fire, and had to be waited on like a confirmed invalid. Jack, however, was young and strong, and he was very angry at the charge of theft being brought against his sister. He loved her still in spite of appearances being so much against her. She was foolish, he admitted—all girls were; but Lizzie had never stolen that knife, he was sure, and he would go in search of her though he had to tramp all over England before he found her.
Lizzie's dearest friend, Emma, applauded his resolution. She too was quite sure Lizzie would never steal the knife. And if she never came back, her character ought to be cleared, and her brother ought to do all he could, as nobody else was able to do much.