Mary Louisa S. Molesworth - Us

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11

And still on strode the piercing-eyed gipsy, as sure of his prey now
apparently as a fowler who watches unmoved the fruitless struggles of
some poor little birds in the net from which they have no chance of
escaping.

It would be impossible to say how far they had gone--perhaps not so very
far after all, though their panting breath and trembling little legs
showed that the gipsy's purpose of tiring them out was pretty well
accomplished--when at last a sharp cry from Pamela forced the pedlar to
look round. She had caught her foot on a stone or a root, and fallen,
and in falling one of the jagged bits of the broken crockery had cut her
leg pretty deeply; the blood was already streaming from it, her little
white sock was deeply stained, and she lay on the ground almost fainting
with terror and pain.

"Stop that screaming, will ye?" said the man, and then, with a half
return to his former tone, "There's nothing to cry about, missy. It's
just a scratch--I'll tie it up with a bit of rag," and he began fumbling
about in his dirty pockets as he spoke. "There's the donkey and the
others waiting for us just five minutes farther;" and for once the gipsy
spoke the truth. The way he had brought the children was in reality a
great round, chosen on purpose to bewilder them, so that the rest of his
party had been able to reach the meeting-place he had appointed very
much more quickly by the road.

But Pamela, once thoroughly upset and frightened, was not to be so
easily calmed down.

"No, no," she screamed, "I won't let him touch me. Go away, go away, you
ugly man," she cried, pushing him back with her tiny hands when he tried
to come near. "I _won't_ let you touch me or carry me," for that now
seemed to be the gipsy's intention, "leave me here with Duke; we don't
want you any more."

The man's dark face grew darker with the scowl that came over it. For
half a moment he seemed on the point of seizing Pamela in his arms in
spite of her cries and resistance. But there was Duke too to be
considered; Pamela alone it would be easy to cover up, so that her cries
should not be heard; but he could not carry both, and if the boy ran
after them screaming, or if he tried to run home, to ask for help--for
"home" was really not far off--there was no knowing what trouble the
anything but blessed "brats" might bring upon worthy Mick and his horde!
So that respectable gentleman decided on different tactics.

"You're a very naughty little girl," he said--speaking, however, not
roughly, but more as if Pamela's behaviour really shocked and hurt him.
"After all the trouble I've give myself for you--a-goin' out of my road,
and a-unpackin' all the pots and crocks down there, for to please you.
Not even to let me tie up your foot or carry you to the missus for her
to do it! Well, if you lie there till you bleed to death, it's no fault
o' mine."

But Duke's presence of mind had returned by this time.

"I'll tie up her foot with my hankercher," he said, producing the little
twelve-inch square of linen, which for a wonder he found in his pocket,
on the whole much cleaner than could have been expected. And though he
grew white and sick with the sight of the streaming blood, he managed
without any opposition from his sister to strap it up after a fashion,
the gipsy looking on in silence.

"You can go now, thank you," said Duke, his voice trembling in spite of
himself. "Us don't mind about the bowl--it's too far to go. Us will tell
Grandmamma all about it--Oh how I do wish us had told her at first," he
broke off suddenly. "Please go," he went on again to the pedlar;
"sister's frightened. I'll stay here with her till her foot's better,
and then us'll go home."

"And how will ye do that, I'd like to know, my young master?" said the
pedlar, and there was a mocking tone in his voice that made the boy look
up at him with fresh alarm. "Ye're furder from 'home' than ye think for.
No, no; here ye'll have to stay till I fetch the donkey to carry you
both. And to think of all that trouble and time lost for nothing."

"They'll give you something at home for bringing us back; they will
indeed," said Duke. "Grandpapa and Grandmamma will be so pleased to see
us safe again, I _know_ they'll give you something," he repeated, while
a sob rose in his throat at the thought that already perhaps dear
Grandpapa and Grandmamma--never had they seemed _so_ dear!--were
wondering and troubled about their absence. And somehow he quite forgot
that he himself could reward the gipsy, for in attending to Pamela's
wounded foot he had laid down the money-box, and no longer remembered
that he had it with him.

The gipsy grunted, and muttered something about "making sure" that Duke
scarcely heard. Then he turned to go.

"I'm off for the donkey then. But mind you the stiller you stays in this
here wood the better," he added impressively. "That's why I didn't like
missy crying out so loud. It's a queer place--a _very_ queer place. I'se
warrant your Nurse never brought you this way when you were out
a-walking."

"No, never," said Duke, startled, and even Pamela left off sobbing to
stare up at him with her tearful blue eyes, as if fascinated by these
mysterious hints.

"Ah, I thought not," he said, nodding his head. "Well, stay where you
are, and make no sound whatsumnever, and no harm'll come to ye. But if
you stir or speak even above a whisper," and he lowered his own voice,
"there's no saying. There's beasts you never heard tell of in this
wood--worsest of all, snakes, that think nothing of twisting round a
child and off with it for their supper afore one could cry out. But if
you stop quite still they'll not find you out before I'm back with the
donkey. It's about their time o' day for sleeping just now, I'm
thinking," and with this crumb of consolation the cruel-hearted gipsy
turned on his heel.

Words would fail me to describe the terror of the two poor little
children: a cry of appeal to the pedlar to stay beside them, not to
leave them to the dreadful creatures he spoke of, rose to their lips,
but stopped there. For were they not almost as terrified of him as of
the snakes? Pamela forgot all about her wounded foot, though it was
growing stiff with pain, and the blood, which Duke's unskilful binding
had not succeeded in checking, was still flowing in a way that would
have alarmed more experienced eyes. It was cold too--and terror made
them colder--for the evening was drawing on, and it was only April. Yet
they dared not move--Pamela indeed could not have stood up--and so there
they stayed, Duke crouched beside his sister, who lay almost at full
length on the short tufty grass, among the roots and stumps, for just
here a good deal of wood had been cut down. There was no fear of their
moving--the shivers and sobs that they could not control added to their
fears--they would have left off breathing even, if they could have
managed it, rather than risk betraying their presence to the snakes!

But after some minutes--not more than five probably, though it seemed
more like five hours--had passed the silence and strain grew unbearable
to Duke. He peeped at Pamela; her eyes were closed, she looked so
dreadfully white!--his heart gave such a thump that he looked round for
a moment in terror, it seemed to him such a loud noise,--what could make
her look so? Could the fear and the pain have killed her?

"Pamela," he whispered, in what he meant to be a very low whisper
indeed; "Oh, sister, are you dead?"

Her eyelids fluttered a little, and she half opened them.

"No, bruvver; at least I don't fink so," she said, and her whisper was
very faint without her trying to make it so, for she was really quite
exhausted. "I wasn't sure a minute ago, but I fink now I'm only dying.
But don't speak, for the snakes might hear."

"They're asleep, he said," returned Duke, with a sob of anguish at
Pamela's words.

"But some might be awake. If it wasn't for that, oh, bruvver, you might
run away, and perhaps you'd get safe home. Couldn't you _try_, bruvver?"
and Pamela half raised herself on her arm.

"And leave _you_, sister!" cried Duke indignantly, forgetting to
whisper; "how could you think I'd ever do such a thing? If I could
_carry_ you--oh what a pity it is I'm not much bigger than you!" "You
couldn't carry _me_," said Pamela feebly, and her head sank back again;
"and the snakes would hear us and catch us. But oh, bruvver, I'm afraid
I'll be quite dead before the man comes back again, and yet I don't want
him to come."

Almost in despair Duke sat up and looked round for any possibility of
help. It was nearer than he thought; and yet when a voice, apparently a
very little way off, called out, as if in answer to his unspoken
appeal--

"I'm a-coming. Don't ye be afeared," he started with new terror.

"A snake!--Oh, sister, can it be a snake?" he cried wildly, for there
was nothing to be seen.

"Snakes don't talk, as ever I heard on," said the voice again, and this
time it was accompanied by a merry laugh, which brought great comfort to
poor Duke. And in another moment the mystery was explained.

From behind some stubble a few yards off rose the figure of the young
boy whom the children had seen walking behind the gipsies--whistling
while he cut at a branch he held in his hand--from their point of
observation in Spy Tower. His face was tanned and freckled by the sun,
but his fair hair and bright blue eyes showed that he was not by birth
one of the dark-skinned tribe; and something in the bright smile,
showing a row of teeth as white and even as Duke's own, and in the
cheerful voice, at once gained the little boy's confidence.

[Illustration: FROM BEHIND SOME STUBBLE A FEW YARDS OFF ROSE THE FIGURE
OF THE YOUNG BOY WHOM THE CHILDREN HAD SEEN WALKING BEHIND THE
GIPSIES--WHISTLING WHILE HE CUT AT A BRANCH HE HELD IN HIS HAND.--p.
74.]

"I've been looking for ye," he said, speaking in a rather lower tone. "I
knew he was a-going to bring ye round this way, so I hid in the bushes
till I see'd him go by. And I crep' along on my hands and knees for fear
he should look back. But he's out o' the way for a few minutes. It's
only a bit of a step to where the others is, but he said something about
the donkey, didn't he? It'll take him a bit to unload it. An' what's he
been a-doing to ye?" he went on, glancing round till his eyes for the
first time caught sight clearly of the little figure stretched on the
ground. "He's never gone and dared to hit the little lady?" and the
good-humoured face grew dark and almost fierce as he stooped down close
to Pamela. She looked pitiable enough; her face had grown whiter and
whiter, her eyes were still closed, and the blood from her foot had
crept about her as she lay till it had soiled the frills of her little
white skirts.

"No," said Duke; "no, it's her foot. The bits of the bowl cut it when
she felled down. I tied it up with my hankercher, but it hasn't left off
bleeding."

The boy did not speak, he was too busy examining the poor foot, which he
handled so tenderly that Pamela did not shrink from his touch. At last
he looked up.

"I say, master," he said, "we must have some water for this 'ere foot.
Just you sit down where I am and hold it so; it won't bleed so bad that
way, and I'll get some water. There's some hard by," and he looked
round. "If I had but something to fetch some in."

"There's my money-box," said Duke, with a sudden flash of recollection,
"it would hold a little," and in his turn he looked round. But no
money-box was to be seen. "Oh where can it be?" he cried. "I know I had
it when sister felled."

"Was there summat in it?" asked the boy.

"Oh yes," replied Duke; "one of the little gold guineas, and one of my
shillings, and one of sister's sixpennies, and all the pennies."

"Ah," said the boy, "then I'm afeared you've said good-bye to the lot o'
them. Catch Mick let fish like that out of his net. But," he added--for
Duke seemed to be stunned by the loss--"sit ye down, and I'll fetch what
water I can in my cap, or we'll have missy's foot very bad, and that 'ud
be worser than losin' the money."

He was back in a moment with water enough to soak the diminutive
handkerchief, with which he gently bathed away some of the blood, so
that he could see the wound. It was a bad cut, but it was not now
bleeding so much. The little surgeon pressed the sides gently together,
which made Pamela give a little scream of pain.

"Don't cry, missy dear," he said. "It'll not hurt so much when I've tied
it up. Ye've not another hankerwich? I'd like to lay this one over the
cut--it's nice and wet--and tie it on with summat else."

"I fink there's one in my pocket," said Pamela, and when Duke had
extracted it, and with its help the poor foot was tied up much more
scientifically than before, she sat up and looked about her, less white
and miserable by a good deal, thanks to their new friend.

"What a nice boy you are," she said condescendingly. "What's your name?
Is that---- ugly man" she was going to have said, but she hesitated,
afraid of hurting the boy's feelings--"is the man your father?" and she
dropped her voice.

"Bless yer, no," he replied with real fervency, "and that's one thing
I'm thankful for. Mick my father; _no_, thank you, missy. My name's Tim,
leastways so I'm called. Diana she says it's short for Timothy, but
Tim's long enough."

"And who's Diana?" asked the children, beginning to forget their own
troubles in curiosity.

"Her as he roared out at so--yonder--when you was up at the top o' the
wall. She's a deal better than him and the missus is Diana. But listen,
master and missy. He'll be back in a minute, and----"

"Oh let us run away before he comes! oh do help us to run away!" they
exclaimed, all their terrors returning. "Us doesn't want the bowl now.
Oh Tim, can't us all run away, quick, before he comes?"

And the two little creatures seized hold of their new friend's ragged
jacket as if they felt that in him was their only chance of safety.

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 or
two Tim could scarcely get them to listen to him. They had forgotten all
about the snakes, or else their confidence in the boy as a protector was
so 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 him
speak, "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 we
could hide but what he'd find us. You'd only get me a beating, that 'ud
be all about it. No, listen to me. P'raps Mick means to take yer home
straight away, but if he doesn't we must wait a bit till I can find out
what he's after. He's a deep one is Mick."

"Couldn't you run home quick to tell Grandpapa and Grandmamma where us
is?" said Duke. "Grandpapa, and the coachman, and Dymock, and the
gardener--they'd all come to fetch us."

"I dursn't," said Tim. "Not yet; Mick's a deep one. If he thought I'd
run 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 be
back in a moment too--I couldn't get off before he'd be after me. No; we
must wait a bit till I see what he's after."

"Why haven't you runned away before?" asked Pamela. "If he's not your
father, and if you don't like him."

"Nowhere to run to," said Tim simply. "It's not so bad for me. I'm used
to it. It's not like you, master and missy. Diana and me, when you was
up at the top o' the wall, we'd ha' done anything to stop you coming
down."

"But, Tim," said Pamela, almost in a whisper "you don't mean that Mick's
going to steal us away for always."

"No, no," said the boy, "he only wants to get some money for you. But
we'll see in a bit. Just you stay there quiet till he comes, and don't
you say you've seen me. I'll soon see you again; but he mustn't find me
here."

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 some
little way off--they heard the voice of the gipsy urging on the donkey
over the rough ground. He seemed in a very bad temper, and Duke and
Pamela shivered with fear.

"Oh I wish us had runned away," whispered Pamela, though, when she tried
to lift herself up and found she could not put the wounded foot to the
ground even so as to hobble, she felt that to escape would have been
impossible. The gipsy scowled at them, but said nothing as he lifted
first 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 trouble
we've had, the missus and me, a-unpacking of all the pots and crocks for
you to ride on the donkey."

"And are you going to take us straight home, then?" said Pamela, whose
spirits had begun to revive.

"What, without the bowl?" exclaimed Mick, in pretended surprise, "when
there'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 the
moment. 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't
matter about the bowl, for sister's foot's so sore and it's getting
late. I'll give you all the money--oh please, where have you put my
money-box?"

Greatly to his surprise, the gipsy pulled it out of some slouching inner
pocket of his jacket and gave it to him.

"Here it is, master; but it'd a' been lost but for me--a-laying on the
ground there."

Duke opened it.

"I'll give you----" he began again, but he suddenly stopped short. "The
little gold guinea's not here," he cried, "only the shilling and the
sixpence and the pennies."

"Must have rolled out on the ground if ever it was there," said Mick
sullenly. "_I_ never see'd it."

"It _was_ there," cried Duke angrily. "Do you think I'd tell a story? I
must 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 their
nonsense? Catch me a-taking you home for you to go and say I've stolen
your money, and get me put in prison by your grandpapas and grandmammas
as 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 a
bit."

Almost as she said the words a voice was heard whistling at a little
distance--they were now out of the wood on a rough bridle path. Mick
looked round sharply and descried a figure coming near them.

"What have you been about, you good-for-nothing?" he shouted. "Why
didn't you stay with the others? You might have lent me a hand with the
donkey and the brats."

Tim stood still in the middle of the path, and stared at them without
speaking. Then he turned round and walked beside Mick, who was leading
the 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 a
louder tone, "Master and missy has lost their way, don't ye see? They're
ever 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 other
gipsies--the two women and the big sulky-looking boy--gathered round a
tree, the donkey's panniers and the various bundles the party had been
carrying lying on the ground beside them. If the panniers had been
unpacked and their contents spread out, as Mick had told the children,
they had certainly been quickly packed up again. But there was no time
for 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 a
few words hastily, and with a look of great annoyance, in the queer
language she had spoken before, to which he replied with some angry
expression which it was probably well the children did not understand.

"Better have done with it, I should say," said the other woman, who was
much younger and nicer-looking, but still with a rather sullen and
discontented face.

"That's just like her," said Mick. "What we'd come to if we listened to
her talk it beats me to say."

"You've not come to much good by not listening to it," retorted Diana
fiercely. But Tim, who had gone towards her, said something in a low
voice which seemed to calm her.

"It's true--we'll only waste our time if we take to quarrelling," she
said. "What's to be done, then?"

"We must put the panniers back, and the girl must sit between them
somehow," said the man. "She can't walk--the boy must run beside."

So saying, he lifted both children off the donkey, not so gently but
that Pamela gave a cry as her sore foot touched the ground. But no one
except Duke paid any attention to her, not even Tim, which she thought
very unkind of him. She said so in a low voice to Duke, but he whispered
to her to be quiet.

"If only my foot was not sore, now us could have runned away," she could
not help whispering again. For all the gipsies seemed so busy in loading
themselves and the donkey that for a few minutes the children could have
fancied they had forgotten all about them. It was not so, however. As
soon as the panniers were fastened on again Mick turned to Pamela, and,
without giving her time to resist, placed her again on the donkey. It
was very uncomfortable for her; her poor little legs were stretched out
half across the panniers, and she felt that the moment the donkey moved
she would surely fall off. So, as might have been expected, she began to
cry. The gipsy was turning to her with some rough words, when Diana
interfered.

"Let me settle her," she said. "What a fool you are, Mick!" Then she
drew out of her own bundle a rough but not very dirty checked wool
shawl, with which she covered the little girl, who was shivering with
cold, and at the same time made a sort of cushion for her with one end
of it, so that she could sit more securely.

"Thank you," said Pamela, amidst her sobs; "but oh I hope it's not very
far 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 there
another shawl as'd do for the boy? Not that it matters; we'll meet no
one 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 the
donkey to go. Diana kept her place beside it, so that, even if Pamela
had 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 up
with the others. He was soon too out of breath to speak--besides, he
dared not have said anything to Tim in the hearing of "the missus," of
whom he was almost more afraid than even of Mick. And the only sign of
friendliness Tim, on his side, dared show him was by taking his hand
whenever he thought the woman would not notice. But, tired as he was
already, Duke could not long have kept up; he felt as if he _must_ have
cried out, when suddenly they came to a turning in the road and the
gipsy stopped.

"We'll get back into the wood this way," he said, without turning his
head, and with some difficulty he managed to get the donkey across a dry
ditch, and down a steep bank, when, sure enough, they found themselves
again among trees. It was already dusk, and a very little way on in the
wood it became almost dark. The gipsy went on some distance
farther--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 this
nonsense, I can tell ye. We might ha' been at Brigslade to-night if it
hadn't been for these brats."

"Then do as I say," said Diana. "I'll manage it for you. Big Tony can
carry one, and I the other."

But Mick only turned away with an oath.

[Illustration: "HERE'S SOME SUPPER FOR YOU. WAKE UP, AND TRY AND EAT A
BIT. IT'LL DO YOU GOOD."--p. 89.]

Big Tony was the name of the gipsy boy. He never spoke, and never seemed
to take any interest in anything, for he was half-witted, as it is
called; though Duke and Pamela only thought him very sulky and silent
compared with the friendly little Tim. By this time they were too
completely tired to think about anything--they even felt too stupid to
wonder if they were on the way home or not--and when Diana lifted Pamela
off the donkey and set her down, still wrapped in the shawl, to lean
with her back against a tree, Duke crept up to her, drawing a corner of
the shawl round him, for he too was very cold by now, poor little
boy--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!

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11