CHAPTER V.
TIM.
"Whose imp art thou with dimpled cheek, And curly pate and merry eye?" J. BAILLIE.
They were so excited, so eager to be off at once, that for a minute ortwo Tim could scarcely get them to listen to him. They had forgotten allabout the snakes, or else their confidence in the boy as a protector wasso great that they were sure he would defend them against every danger.
"Oh Tim, dear Tim, do let us go quick," they kept repeating.
"But master and missy," he explained at last when they would let himspeak, "we can't. Don't you see Mick knows exactly where he left yer,and he'd be after us in a minute. There's nowhere near here where wecould hide but what he'd find us. You'd only get me a beating, that 'udbe all about it. No, listen to me. P'raps Mick means to take yer homestraight away, but if he doesn't we must wait a bit till I can find outwhat he's after. He's a deep one is Mick."
"Couldn't you run home quick to tell Grandpapa and Grandmamma where usis?" said Duke. "Grandpapa, and the coachman, and Dymock, and thegardener--they'd all come to fetch us."
"I dursn't," said Tim. "Not yet; Mick's a deep one. If he thought I'drun off to tell he'd----"
"What would he do?" they asked breathlessly.
"He'd hide away somehow. 'Twouldn't be so easy to find him. He'll beback in a moment too--I couldn't get off before he'd be after me. No; wemust wait a bit till I see what he's after."
"Why haven't you runned away before?" asked Pamela. "If he's not yourfather, and if you don't like him."
"Nowhere to run to," said Tim simply. "It's not so bad for me. I'm usedto it. It's not like you, master and missy. Diana and me, when you wasup at the top o' the wall, we'd ha' done anything to stop you comingdown."
"But, Tim," said Pamela, almost in a whisper "you don't mean that Mick'sgoing to steal us away for always."
"No, no," said the boy, "he only wants to get some money for you. Butwe'll see in a bit. Just you stay there quiet till he comes, and don'tyou say you've seen me. I'll soon see you again; but he mustn't find mehere."
They began to cry again when he left them, but he had not gone too soon;for in less than five minutes--by which time Tim had hidden himself somelittle way off--they heard the voice of the gipsy urging on the donkeyover the rough ground. He seemed in a very bad temper, and Duke andPamela shivered with fear.
"Oh I wish us had runned away," whispered Pamela, though, when she triedto lift herself up and found she could not put the wounded foot to theground even so as to hobble, she felt that to escape would have beenimpossible. The gipsy scowled at them, but said nothing as he liftedfirst the boy and then the girl on to the donkey.
"There, now," he said, with a slight return to his falsely-smooth tones,"you'll be pleased at last, I should hope. To think of all the troublewe've had, the missus and me, a-unpacking of all the pots and crocks foryou to ride on the donkey."
"And are you going to take us straight home, then?" said Pamela, whosespirits had begun to revive.
"What, without the bowl?" exclaimed Mick, in pretended surprise, "whenthere's such a lot all set out on the grass in a row for you to see."
He spoke so naturally that both the children were deceived for themoment. Perhaps after all he was not so bad--even Tim had said _perhaps_he was going to take them home! They looked up at him doubtfully.
"If you don't mind, please," said Duke, "us'd rather go home. It doesn'tmatter about the bowl, for sister's foot's so sore and it's gettinglate. I'll give you all the money--oh please, where have you put mymoney-box?"
Greatly to his surprise, the gipsy pulled it out of some slouching innerpocket of his jacket and gave it to him.
"Here it is, master; but it'd a' been lost but for me--a-laying on theground there."
Duke opened it.
"I'll give you----" he began again, but he suddenly stopped short. "Thelittle gold guinea's not here," he cried, "only the shilling and thesixpence and the pennies."
"Must have rolled out on the ground if ever it was there," said Micksullenly. "_I_ never see'd it."
"It _was_ there," cried Duke angrily. "Do you think I'd tell a story? Imust go back and look for it. Let me down, I say, let me down."
Then Mick turned on him with a very evil expression on his face.
"Stop that, d'ye hear? Stop that," and he lifted his fist threateningly."D'ye think I'm going to waste any more time on such brats and theirnonsense? Catch me a-taking you home for you to go and say I've stolenyour money, and get me put in prison by your grandpapas and grandmammasas likely as not," he went on in a half-threatening, half-whining tone.
Duke was going to answer, but Pamela pulled his sleeve.
"Be quiet, bruvver," she said in a whisper. "Tim said us must wait abit."
Almost as she said the words a voice was heard whistling at a littledistance--they were now out of the wood on a rough bridle path. Micklooked round sharply and descried a figure coming near them.
"What have you been about, you good-for-nothing?" he shouted. "Whydidn't you stay with the others? You might have lent me a hand with thedonkey and the brats."
Tim stood still in the middle of the path, and stared at them withoutspeaking. Then he turned round and walked beside Mick, who was leadingthe donkey.
"What are ye a-doing with the little master and missy?" he asked coolly.
"Mind yer business," muttered the gipsy gruffly. Then he added in alouder tone, "Master and missy has lost their way, don't ye see? They'reever so far from home. It was lucky I met them."
"Are ye a-going to take them home?" continued Tim.
"For sure, when I can find the time. But that won't be just yet a bit.There's the missus a-waiting for us."
And, turning a corner, they came suddenly in sight of the othergipsies--the two women and the big sulky-looking boy--gathered round atree, the donkey's panniers and the various bundles the party had beencarrying lying on the ground beside them. If the panniers had beenunpacked and their contents spread out, as Mick had told the children,they had certainly been quickly packed up again. But there was no timefor wondering about how this could be; the woman whom the pedlar called"the missus" came up to her husband as soon as she saw them, and said afew words hastily, and with a look of great annoyance, in the queerlanguage she had spoken before, to which he replied with some angryexpression which it was probably well the children did not understand.
"Better have done with it, I should say," said the other woman, who wasmuch younger and nicer-looking, but still with a rather sullen anddiscontented face.
"That's just like her," said Mick. "What we'd come to if we listened toher talk it beats me to say."
"You've not come to much good by not listening to it," retorted Dianafiercely. But Tim, who had gone towards her, said something in a lowvoice which seemed to calm her.
"It's true--we'll only waste our time if we take to quarrelling," shesaid. "What's to be done, then?"
"We must put the panniers back, and the girl must sit between themsomehow," said the man. "She can't walk--the boy must run beside."
So saying, he lifted both children off the donkey, not so gently butthat Pamela gave a cry as her sore foot touched the ground. But no oneexcept Duke paid any attention to her, not even Tim, which she thoughtvery unkind of him. She said so in a low voice to Duke, but he whisperedto her to be quiet.
"If only my foot was not sore, now us could have runned away," she couldnot help whispering again. For all the gipsies seemed so busy in loadingthemselves and the donkey that for a few minutes the children could havefancied they had forgotten all about them. It was not so, however. Assoon as the panniers were fastened on again Mick turned to Pamela, and,without giving her time to resist, placed her again on the donkey. Itwas very uncomfortable for her; her poor little legs were stretched outhalf across the panniers, and she felt that the moment the donkey movedshe would surely fall off. So, as might have been expected, she began tocry. The gipsy was turning to her with some rough word
s, when Dianainterfered.
"Let me settle her," she said. "What a fool you are, Mick!" Then shedrew out of her own bundle a rough but not very dirty checked woolshawl, with which she covered the little girl, who was shivering withcold, and at the same time made a sort of cushion for her with one endof it, so that she could sit more securely.
"Thank you," said Pamela, amidst her sobs; "but oh I hope it's not veryfar to home."
Mick stood looking on, and at this he gave a sneering laugh.
"It's just as well to have covered her up," he said. "Isn't thereanother shawl as'd do for the boy? Not that it matters; we'll meet noone the road we're going. The sooner we're off the better."
He took hold of the bridle and set off as fast as he could get thedonkey to go. Diana kept her place beside it, so that, even if Pamelahad fallen off, it would only have been into the young woman's arms.Duke followed with Tim and the other woman, but he had really to "run,"as Mick had said, for his short legs could not otherwise have kept upwith the others. He was soon too out of breath to speak--besides, hedared not have said anything to Tim in the hearing of "the missus," ofwhom he was almost more afraid than even of Mick. And the only sign offriendliness Tim, on his side, dared show him was by taking his handwhenever he thought the woman would not notice. But, tired as he wasalready, Duke could not long have kept up; he felt as if he _must_ havecried out, when suddenly they came to a turning in the road and thegipsy stopped.
"We'll get back into the wood this way," he said, without turning hishead, and with some difficulty he managed to get the donkey across a dryditch, and down a steep bank, when, sure enough, they found themselvesagain among trees. It was already dusk, and a very little way on in thewood it became almost dark. The gipsy went on some distancefarther--obliged, however, to go very slowly; then at last he stopped.
"This'll do for to-night," he said. "I'm about sick of all thisnonsense, I can tell ye. We might ha' been at Brigslade to-night if ithadn't been for these brats."
"Then do as I say," said Diana. "I'll manage it for you. Big Tony cancarry one, and I the other."
But Mick only turned away with an oath.
"HERE'S SOME SUPPER FOR YOU. WAKE UP, AND TRY AND EAT ABIT. IT'LL DO YOU GOOD."--p. 89.]
Big Tony was the name of the gipsy boy. He never spoke, and never seemedto take any interest in anything, for he was half-witted, as it iscalled; though Duke and Pamela only thought him very sulky and silentcompared with the friendly little Tim. By this time they were toocompletely tired to think about anything--they even felt too stupid towonder if they were on the way home or not--and when Diana lifted Pamelaoff the donkey and set her down, still wrapped in the shawl, to leanwith her back against a tree, Duke crept up to her, drawing a corner ofthe shawl round him, for he too was very cold by now, poor littleboy--and sat there by his sister, both of them in a sort of half stupor,too tired even to know that they were very hungry!
They did fall asleep--though they did not know it till they were rousedby some one gently pulling them.
"Here's some supper for you. Wake up, and try and eat a bit. It'll doyou good," the gipsy Diana was saying to them; and when they managed toopen their sleepy eyes, they saw that she had a wooden bowl in one hand,in which some hot coffee was steaming, and a hunch of bread in theother. It was not very good coffee, and neither Duke nor Pamela wasaccustomed to coffee of any kind at home, but it was hot and sweet, andthey were so hungry that even the coarse butterless bread tasted good.As they grew more awake they began to wonder how the coffee had beenmade, but the mystery was soon explained, for at a short distance a fireof leaves and branches was burning brightly with a kettle sputteringmerrily in the middle. And round the fire Mick and his wife and big Tonywere sitting or lying, each with food in their hands; while a littlenearer them Tim was pulling another shawl out of a bundle.
"Give it me here," said Diana, and then she wrapped it round Duke,drawing the other more closely about Pamela.
"Now you can go to sleep again," she said, seeing that the coffee andbread had disappeared. "It'll not be a cold night, and we'll have to beoff early in the morning;" and then she turned away and sat down to eather own supper at a little distance.
"Tim," whispered Duke; but the boy caught the faint sound and edgedhimself nearer.
"Tim," said Duke again, "is he not going to take us home to-night?"
"I'se a-feared not," replied Tim in the same tone.
A low deep sigh escaped poor Duke. Pamela, so worn out by the pain aswell as fatigue she had suffered that she could no longer keep up, wasalready fast asleep again.
"When it's quite, quite dark," continued Duke, "and when Mick and themall are asleep, don't you think us might run away, Tim?"
Tim shook his head.
"Missy can't walk; and she's dead tired out, let alone her poor foot,"he said. "You must wait a bit till she can walk anyway. Try to go tosleep, and to-morrow we'll see."
Duke began to cry quietly.
"I'm too midderable to sleep," he said. "And it's all my fault. Justlook at sister, Tim. She's not even undressed, and she'll die--sleepingall night without any bed out in the cold. Oh, and it's all my fault!"
"Hush, hush, master!" said Tim, terrified lest the others shouldoverhear them.
"What does he want to do with us? Why won't he take us home?" askedDuke.
Tim hesitated a moment.
"I thought at first it was just to get money for bringing of ye back,"he said. "I've known him do that."
"But us would tell," said Duke indignantly. "Us would tell that hewouldn't let us go home."
"Ah, he'd manage so as 'twouldn't matter what you said," replied Tim."He'd get some pal of his to find you like, and then he'd get the moneyback from him."
"What's a pal?" asked Duke bewildered.
"Another like hisself; a friend o' his'n," said Tim. "But that's notwhat he's after. I found out what it is. There's a show at some bigplace we're going to; and they want pretty little ones like you andlittle missy, to dress them up and teach them to dance, and to play allsort o' tricks--a-riding on ponies and suchlike, I daresay. I'se seenthem. And Mick'll get a good deal that way. I'd bet anything, and so'dDiana, that's what he's after."
"But us'd _tell_," repeated Duke, "us'd tell that he'd stoled us away,and they'd have to let us go home."
Again Tim shook his head.
"Those as 'ud pay Mick for ye wouldn't give much heed to aught you'dsay," he answered. "And it'll maybe be a long way off from here--overthe sea maybe."
"Then," said Duke, "then us _must_ run away, Tim. And if you won't helpus, us'll run away alone, as soon as ever sister's foot's better. Us_must_, Tim."
He had raised his voice in his excitement, so that Tim glanced anxiouslyin the direction of the fire. But Mick and his wife seemed to havefallen asleep themselves, or perhaps the wind rustling overhead amongthe branches prevented the child's little voice reaching them; they gaveno signs of hearing. All the same it was best to be cautious.
"Master," said Tim solemnly, "I'm ready to help you. I said so to Diana,I did, as soon as ever I see'd what Mick was after, a-tempting you andmissy with his nonsense about the bowl you wanted; there's no bowls likewhat you wanted among the crocks."
"Why didn't you call out to us and tell us not to come?" said Duke.
"I dursn't--and Mick'd have told you it was all my lies. And I neverthought he was a-going to bring you right away neither. I thought he'dget money out of you like he does whenever he's a chance. But, master,if you're ever to get safe away you must do as I tell you, you must."
This was all the comfort poor Duke could get. In the meantime there wasnothing to do but try to go to sleep and forget his troubles. There wasnot very much time to do so in, for long before it was really dawn thegipsies were up and astir, and by noon the little brother and sisterwere farther from "home" than they had ever been since the day whentheir poor young mother arrived at Arbitt Lodge with her twostarved-looking fledglings, now nearly six years ago. For some milesfrom where they
had spent the night Mick and his party joined atravelling caravan of their friends, all bound for the great fair ofwhich Tim had spoken to Duke. And now it would have been difficult foreven Grandpapa or Grandmamma to recognise their dear children. Their ownclothes were taken from them, their white skin, like that of theprincesses in the old fairy tales, was washed with something which, ifnot walnut juice, had the same effect, and they were dressed in coarserough garments belonging to some of the gipsy children of the caravan.Still, on the whole, they were not unkindly treated--they had enough toeat of common food, and Diana, who took them a good deal under hercharge, was kind to them in her rough sulky way. But it was a dreadfulchange for the poor little things, and they would already have tried, atall risks, to run away, had it not been for Tim's begging them to bepatient and trust to him.
All day long--it was now the third day since they had been stolen--thetwo or three covered vans or waggons which contained the gipsies andtheir possessions jogged slowly along the roads and lanes. Now and thenthey halted for a few hours if they came to any village or small townwhere it seemed likely that they could do a little business, either inselling their crockery or cheap cutlery, baskets, and suchlike, orperhaps in fortune-telling, and no doubt wherever they stopped thefarm-yards and poultry-yards in the neighbourhood were none the betterfor it. At such times Duke and Pamela were always hidden away deep inthe recesses of one of the waggons, so there was nothing they dreadedmore than when they saw signs of making a halt. It was wretched to behuddled for hours together in a dark corner among all sorts of dirtypackages, while the other children were allowed to run about the villagestreet picking up any odd pence they could by playing tricks or sellinglittle trifles out of the general repository. And the brother and sisterwere not at all consoled by being told that before long they should bedressed up in beautiful gold and silver clothes--"like a real prince andprincess," said Mick, once when he was in a good humour--and taught todance like fairies. For Tim's words had explained to them the meaning ofthese fine promises, and, though they said nothing, the little pair werefar less babyish and foolish in some ways than the gipsies, who judgedthem by their delicate appearance and small stature, had any idea of.But still they were very young, and there is no telling how soon theywould have begun to get accustomed to their strange life,--how soon eventhe remembrance of Grandpapa and Grandmamma and their pretty peacefulhome, of Toby and Miss Mitten, of the garden and their little whitebeds, of Nurse and Biddy and Dymock, and all that had hitherto made uptheir world,--would have begun to grow dim and hazy, and at last seemonly a dream, of which Mick, and the Missus and Diana, and the others,and the green lanes, with the waggons ever creeping along, and thecoarse food and coarser talking and laughing and scolding, were thereality, had it not been for some fortunate events which opened out tothem the hope of escape before they had learnt to forget they were inprison.
Tim was a great favourite in the gipsy camp. He was not one of them, buthe did not seem to remember any other life; in any case he never spokeof it, and he was so much better tempered and obliging than the cruel,quarrelsome gipsy boys, that it was always to him that ran the two orthree tiny black-eyed children when their mothers had cuffed them out ofthe way; it was always he who had a kind word or a pat on the head forthe two half-starved curs that slunk along beside or under the carts.There was no mystery about his life--he was not a stolen child, and hecould faintly remember the little cottage where he had lived with hismother before she died, leaving him perfectly friendless and penniless,so that he was glad to pick up an odd sixpence, or even less, whereverhe could, till one day he fell in with Mick, who offered him his foodand the chance of more by degrees, as he wanted a sharp lad to help himin his various trades--of pedlar, tinker, basket-maker, wicker-chairmender, etc., not to speak of poultry-stealing, orchard-robbing, andeven child-thieving when he got a chance that seemed likely to beprofitable.
Poor little Tim--he had learnt very scanty good in his short life! Hismother, bowed down with care and sorrow--for her husband, a thatcher bytrade, had been killed by an accident, leaving her with the boy of threeyears old and two delicate babies, who both died--had barely managed tokeep herself and him alive by working in the fields, and she used tocome home at night so tired out that she could scarcely speak to thechild, much less teach him as she would have liked to do. Still onSundays she always, till her last illness, managed to take him tochurch, and in her simple way tried to explain to him something of whathe then heard. But he was only eight years old when she died, and,though he had not forgotten _her_, the memory of her words had grownconfused and misty. For, in the four years since then, he had had nocompanions but tramps and gipsies--till the day when Duke and Pamelawere decoyed away by Mick, he had never exchanged more than a passingword or two with any one of a better class. And somehow the sight oftheir sweet innocent faces, the sound of their gentle little voices hadat once gained his heart. Never had he thought so much of his mother, ofhis tiny brother and sister, who, he fancied, would have been about thesize of the little strangers, as since he had been with them. And whenhe saw them looking shocked and frightened at the rough words and tonesof the gipsies,--when Pamela burst out sobbing to see how dirty her faceand hands were, and Duke grew scarlet with fury at the boys for throwingstones at the poor dogs,--most of all, perhaps, when the two littlecreatures knelt together in a corner of the van to say their prayersnight and morning--prayers which now always ended in a sobbing entreaty"to be taken home again to dear Grandpapa and Grandmamma,"--a strangefeeling rose in Tim's throat and seemed as if it would choke him. And helay awake night after night trying to recall what his mother had taughthim, wishing he knew what it meant to be "good," wondering if theGrandpapa and Grandmamma of whom the children so constantly spoke wouldperhaps take pity on him and put him in the way of a better sort oflife, if he could succeed in helping the little master and missy toescape from the gipsies and get safe back to their own home.
For every day, now that he had seen more of the children, he understoodbetter how dreadful it would be for them if wicked Mick's intentionswere to succeed. But hitherto no opportunity of running away hadoffered--the children were far too closely watched. And Tim dared nottake any one, not even Diana, into his confidence!
Us, An Old Fashioned Story Page 5
