Us, An Old Fashioned Story

by Mrs. Molesworth

  CHAPTER VI.

  TOBY AND BARBARA.

  "Missing or lost, last Sunday night." THOMAS MOORE.

  The chance for which Tim was hoping seemed slow of coming. He was alwayson the look-out for it; and, indeed, had he not been so Duke would havekept him up to his promise, for whenever he saw Tim alone for a momenthe 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 ithurting her. Diana had bound it up carefully, after putting on someointment which certainly healed it very quickly. For, with all theirignorance and brutality, the gipsies were really clever in some ways.They had knowledge of herbs which had been handed down to them by theirancestors, and their fingers were skilful and nimble. And for their ownsakes Mick and the Missus were anxious that their two pretty prisonersshould not fall ill. So that, though dirty and uncared-for as far asappearance went, the little pair had not really suffered in health bytheir misfortunes.

  It was partly, perhaps, owing to their innocent hopefulness, which keptup their spirits when, had they been wiser and older, they would havelost heart and grown ill with fear and anxiety.

  They were now far enough from Sandlingham for Mick to feel pretty surethey would not be tracked. The actual distance they had travelled wasnot great, but a few miles in those days were really more than a hundredat the present time. For there were, of course, no railways; in manyparts of the country the cross-roads were so bad that it was necessaryand really quicker to make long rounds rather than leave "the king'shighway." And--still more important, perhaps, in such a case--there wereno telegraphs! No possibility for poor Grandpapa and Grandmamma--asthere would be nowadays, _could_ such a thing happen as the theft oflittle children--to send word in the space of an hour or two to thepolice all over the country. Indeed, compared with what it is in ourtimes, the police hardly existed.

  And everything was in the gipsies' favour. No one had seen them in theneighbourhood of Arbitt Lodge. They had not been on the Sandlinghamhigh-road before meeting the children, and had avoided it on purposeafter that. So, among the many explanations that were offered to thepoor 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 havegot in without being seen--it is not as if they had been straying aboutthe lanes."

  Everything that could be done had been done. All the ponds in theneighbourhood had been dragged; the only dangerous place anywherenear--a sort of overhanging cliff over some unused quarries--had been atonce visited; the quarries themselves searched in every corner--eventhough they were very meek-and-mild, inoffensive quarries, where itwould 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 endof this same seventh day _nothing_ left to do. And Grandpapa sat withbowed gray head, his newspaper unopened on the table beside him, brokendown, brave old soldier though he was,--utterly broken down by thisterrible blow. While Grandmamma slowly drew her arm-chair a littlenearer than usual to the fire, for grief makes people--old peopleespecially--chilly. All her briskness and energy were gone; her sweetold face was white and drawn, with no pretty pink flush in the cheeksnow; 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 toherself, so low that even if Grandpapa had been much sharper of hearingthan he was her words could not have reached him,--"I never thought thata 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 thepretty creatures they had become! Yet now I am thankful--thankful forthem to have been spared this anguish. Though, again, if they had beenalive and well and able to take care of Duke and Pam, perhaps it wouldnever have happened."

  And once more--for the hundredth time, I daresay--poor Grandmamma begantorturing herself by wondering in what she had erred--how could she havetaken better care of the children?--was it her fault or Grandpapa's, orNurse's, or Biddy's, or anybody's? There had been _something_ the matterwith Duke and Pam that last morning; they had had something on theirlittle minds. She had thought so at the time, and now she was more thanever sure of it. What could it have been?

  "I thought it best not to force their confidence, babies though theyare," she reflected. "But perhaps if I had persuaded them very tenderly,they would have told me. Was I too severe and strict with them, thedarlings? I meant to act for the best, but I am a foolish old woman--ifonly the punishment of my mistakes could fall on me alone! Ah dear, ahdear!--it would have been hard to lose them by death, but in that case Ishould 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 becomeof them! Oh Toby, is it you, you poor little dog?" for just at thismoment Toby rubbed himself against her foot, looking up in her face witha sad wistful expression in his bright eyes. "Oh Toby, Toby," saidGrandmamma, "I wonder if you could tell us anything to clear up thisdreadful mystery if you could talk."

  But Toby only wagged his tail--he was very sad too, but he had far toomuch self-respect _not_ to wag his tail when he was kindly spoken to,however depressed he might be feeling--and looked up again, blinking hiseyes behind their shaggy veil.

  "Oh Toby," said poor Grandmamma again, as if she really did not knowwhat else to say.

  And Grandpapa, half ashamed of his own prostration, roused himself totry to say a cheering word or two.

  "We must hope still, my love," he said. "To-morrow may bring news fromthe Central London Police Office, where the Sandlingham overseer haswritten to. He bade us keep up hope for a few days yet, we mustremember."

  "Only for a few days more," repeated Grandmamma. "And if those daysbring nothing, what _are_ we to think--what are we to do?"

  "Upon my soul," said Grandpapa, "I do _not_ know;" and with a heavy sighhe turned away again, glancing at the newspaper as if half inclined toopen it, but without the heart to do so.

  "Of course," he said, "if by any possibility they had fallen into kindhands, and it had occurred to any one to advertise about them, we shouldhave known it before this. The police are all on the alert by now. Ifdishonest people have carried them off for the sake of a reward, theywill find means of claiming it before long. The head-man at Sandlinghamdoes not advise our offering a reward as yet. He says it might lead tomore delay if they are in dishonest hands. Their captors would wait tosee 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 littlestrayed dogs!" exclaimed Grandmamma, lifting her hands.

  Just at this moment the door opened, and Dymock came in. Grandmammaraised her face quickly, with a look of expectation--the door neveropened in those sad days without her heart beating faster with the hopeof possible tidings--but it as quickly faded again. Dymock had just thesame melancholy expression; he still walked on tiptoe, and spoke in amuffled voice, as if he were entering a sick-room. This was his way ofshowing his sympathy, which really was most deep and sincere But somehowit provoked Grandmamma, who was, it must be confessed, _rather_ aquick-tempered old lady at all times, and at present her nerves were ofcourse unusually irritated.

  "Well, what is it, Dymock?" she said testily. "I wish you would not goabout 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 samesubdued way. He would not have taken offence just now at any remark ofGrandmamma's; but he could not help speaking to her with a sort ofrespectful indulgence, as much as to say, "I know she can't help it,poor old lady," which Grandmamma found exceedingly aggravating. "Begpardon. But it's Mrs. Twiss. If she coul
d see you for a moment, ma'am?"

  "Old Barbara!" exclaimed Grandmamma. "Is it possible that she--she is soshrewd 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 raisedany 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 seeher," and in another moment the neat old woman was making her curtsey atthe door.

  "Come in, come in, Barbara," said Grandmamma. "And so you are offsomewhere? How is that? Ah, if I were as strong and well as you, I thinkI would be tempted to set off on my travels to look for my lostdarlings. It is the staying here waiting and doing nothing that is sodreadful, my good friend."

  And Grandmamma's voice quavered with the last words. It was not thefirst time she had seen Barbara since the children's disappearance, forthey were old friends, and the cake woman had hurried up to Arbitt Lodgeat once on hearing of the sad trouble that had befallen its inmates, toexpress 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 bearup as you do is just wonderful. I'm sure I can't get it out of my mindfor 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 lastmade 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 greatcharge;' they had heard Nurse say that to you. She is a good woman, Ifeel sure, Barbara, but perhaps she is a little too strict. I have gotit so on my mind that they had some little trouble they did not like totell 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 awayon purpose?" said Barbara in surprise. "Oh no, they'd never have donethat."

  "No, I do not mean that exactly," said Grandmamma. "I do not think Iknow rightly what I mean. Dear, dear, I wish Dymock would keep Tobyaway," she added. "You don't know how he startles me--every time hecomes close to me I fancy somehow it is the children," and Grandmammalooked so uneasy and nervous that Barbara quietly took up the little dogand put him out of the room. "And, Barbara, you had no reason for comingto see me? Except, of course--I was forgetting--that you are goingaway."

  "Only for a few days, ma'am," Barbara replied. "I had a letter from myniece--leastways from her husband--the niece who lives over nearMonkhaven--yesterday. She's been very ill, ma'am,--very ill indeed, andthough she's getting better it would be a great comfort to her to seeme, and maybe spirit her up a bit to get well quicker. So I'm justsetting off--I've locked up my cottage and left the key next door. But Icouldn't start without looking in again to see if maybe you had anynews."

  "No, no--nothing," replied Grandmamma. "And I feel as if I couldn't bearmuch more. I am breaking up, Barbara; a few days more will see the lastof me, my old friend, if they bring no tidings."

  Barbara's eyes filled with tears, but she said nothing.--She hadexhausted all her attempts at comfort, all her "perhaps"'s, and"maybe"'s as to what had become of the children; and though she was avery cheerful and hopeful old woman, she was also very sympathising, andit 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. "Iknow there's nothing I can do, but all the same I wish I weren't goingaway just now, though the few days will soon be past."

  "Yes," said Grandmamma, "they will certainly; and yet even two days seeman 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 thedays pass and to say to myself that the chances of any tidings arelessening and lessening. Soon it will be two weeks--it is already eightdays. When it was only two days it did not seem so hopeless. But I mustnot 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 canwalk 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 Icome back on Friday," and with a cordial shake of the hand fromGrandmamma, Barbara turned to go. But just then there came at the door awhining and scratching which made the old lady give a sigh ofimpatience.

  "It is the dog again," she said. "He is so restless there is no keepinghim quiet, and, though I am very fond of him, I really cannot bear thesight of him just now. I do wish he were away."

  Grandmamma spoke so weariedly and seemed so nervous that Barbara feltmore 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 sowell that I should have no trouble with him, and he'd be nice company onthe 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 everbe, Barbara?--I really cannot bear to see or hear him. Yes, take himwith you, poor little dog; and--and--keep him as long as youlike--unless--unless there _do_ come good news."

  And thus it came to pass that Toby set out on his travels with BarbaraTwiss, while poor Grandmamma shrank down again into her arm-chair by thefire, and Grandpapa tried to imagine he was reading his newspaper asusual.

  What did poor Toby think of it all? His ideas had been very confusedfor some days, poor little dog. He could not make out what had become ofthe children. He sniffed about everywhere, once or twice barking withsudden delight when, coming upon some relic of his little master ormistress, such as Duke's old garden hat or Pamela's tiny parasol, heimagined for a moment or two that he had found them, only to creep offagain with his tail between his legs in renewed disappointment when hediscovered his mistake, all of which, it is easy to understand, had beenvery trying to poor Grandmamma, and no doubt to Toby himself. He did notunderstand what he was scolded for when he certainly meant no harm; hecould not make out why Dymock gave him little shoves out of the way andBiddy bade him sharply be quiet when he, naturally enough, yelped atthis inconsiderate treatment. And worst of all, when, after the mostmature reflection, he took up his quarters on one of the two littlewhite beds in the night nursery, deciding that there, sooner or later,his friends _must_ return, was it not _too_ bad that Nurse, hobblingabout again after her rheumatic attack, which she had made much worse byfretting,--was it not _too_ bad that she should unceremoniously dislodgehim 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 seethat the only rational thing to do is to wait for Duke and Pam in aplace where they are sure to come. And that is their beds. I havethought it out, I assure you. But there is no use trying to putreasonable ideas into human beings' heads. I might bark myself black inthe face before any one could take in what I mean."

  It was just after this that he had wandered away downstairs in search ofa quiet corner; and on first entering the parlour Grandmamma spoke tohim so kindly that he began to think of bestowing his company upon herfor the rest of the day, especially as she was always installed near agood fire. Toby dearly loved a fire; even on a hot summer's day thekitchen 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 seewho it was, that officious Dymock shut him out again, and actually whenhe whined and scratched in the politest manner to be let in Grandmammaspoke 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 lanebeside Barbara, whom
he had a sincere regard for. She spoke to him withproper respect; she was not given to shoves like Dymock, or sharpexpressions 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 aworry 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 keepour eyes and ears open, and you your nose as well, for that's a gift themore, you have, you doggies, nor us."

  And so saying Barbara and her companion made their way to thecross-roads, a point well known in the country-side. For there a greatfinger-post served the double purpose of informing the traveller in fourdirections and of frightening many a country lad or lassie of amoonlight night, when it stood gaunt and staring like a giganticskeleton, as everybody knows the meeting of cross-roads is at no time acanny spot.

  Here Farmer Carson had promised to take up Barbara, for his home lay amile or two out of the village, all of which she kindly explained to herlittle companion as they went along. She had a great habit of talking toherself, 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 herwith his bright eyes, from time to time wagging his tail, "for all theworld like a Christian," thought Barbara, but nevertheless I am afraidhe did not take in her information as fully as appeared. For when, afterthey had sat waiting for him for some minutes, the worthy farmer droveup with a cheery "Good morning, Mrs. Twiss," Toby had the impertinenceto bark furiously at him and his most respectable old mare, as if theyhad 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," hesaid; "he favours the one at the Lodge, does he not?"

  This naturally led to Barbara's explaining that he was the one at theLodge in person, and then she and her friend beguiled the way by talkingover the sad and mysterious disappearance of the children.

  It was very sad, and very strange, the farmer agreed. Then he scratchedhis 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 thinkit's--as likely as not--gipsies after all."

  Barbara started.

  "But there's been none about," she said, "not for ever so long. TheGeneral"--the General was Grandpapa--"thought of that at the very firstand asked all about. But there'd been none heard of, and heard of theyalways are pretty quick, and none so pleasantly, as you should knowwell, Mr. Carson."

  "I do so, I do so," he agreed, nodding his head. "But they're a cunninglot. If they'd any reason for getting quick out of the way, they'd doit. 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 firedown by Black Marsh; and he's certain sure the marks weren't there theday before the children disappeared. That was the last time he'd passedthat way."

  "And that's more nor a week past," said Barbara. "If it should beso,--if the gipsies have really got them,--they may be a long way off bynow."

  "Just so," said the farmer; "that's the worst of it. And no telling whatroad they've gone, neither. No; I'm sadly afraid if it's been gipsiesthere's not much chance of seeing them again, unless they're tempted bythe rewards. Pretty little creatures like that they can always make agood deal by, for those shows as goes about. And they're suchbabies--only four or five years old, aren't they? They'll soon forgetwhere 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'dnot forget in a hurry."

  Then she grew very silent. It made her terribly sad to think of the twotender little creatures in such hands; suddenly Toby, who had beenquietly 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 hisbarking was that he had just discovered why old Barbara had brought himaway on this journey. It was that _he_ was to find the children--hequite understood all about it now, and wished to say so.