Mary Louisa S. Molesworth - Us

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Duke saw with satisfaction that his nankin suit--which Diana had
persuaded him not to wear the day before, having lent him a pair of
trowsers of Tim's, which she had washed on purpose, and in which,
doubled up nearly to his waist, he looked very funny--was quite clean;
and Pamela, to her still greater surprise, found herself attired in a
tidy little skirt and jacket of dark blue stuff, with a little hood of
the same for her head.

"Why, what's this?" she said. "It's a new gown!"

"I made it," said Diana quietly. "I wanted you to look as tidy as I
could. You'll tell them, missy dear--won't you?--that poor Diana did her
best."

"Indeed us will," cried both together. But they did not know that the
gipsy girl had cut up her one decent dress to clothe little Pamela.

"And shall us see Grandpapa and Grandmamma to-day?" they went on,
hugging Diana in their joy as they spoke.

"Not to-day, nor to-morrow, but before long, I hope," she replied. And
then, as they were eager to go, "Won't you say your prayers, master and
missy, that you may come safe to your home; and," she added in a low
voice, "ask God to show poor Diana how to be good?"

"Us will always pray for you, dear Diana," they said, after they had
risen from their knees again, "and some day, you know, you _must_ come
and see us."

She did not answer, but, quickly lifting them down the steps of the
waggon, locked the door and put the key in her pocket. Then, still
without speaking,--the children seeming to understand they must be as
quiet as possible,--she lifted Pamela in her arms, and Duke running
beside, they had soon made their way out of the midst of the vans and
carts and booths, all of whose owners were still asleep.

For even now it was barely dawn, and the air felt chilly, as is
generally the case early of a May morning.

Diana walked so fast, though she had a big basket as well as a little
girl in her arms, that Duke, though he would not have owned it, could
scarcely keep up with her. But at last, just as he was beginning to feel
he must cry mercy, she slackened her pace and began to look about her.

"He should be somewhere near," she said, more as if speaking to herself
than to the children, and just then, with a sort of whoop, out tumbled
Tim from the other side of a low hedge, where there was a dry ditch in
which he had been comfortably lying.

"Hush!" said Diana, glancing round her.

"There's no need," said Tim; "there's not a soul within hearing. I
needn't have come on before for that matter. No one saw us start."

"And which way do you go now?" asked the gipsy, setting Pamela down as
she spoke, to the child's great satisfaction, though she had not liked
to say to Diana that she was really too big to be carried.

"Straight on for about half a mile," answered the boy; "then there's a
road to the right takes us straight to the canal. It's not light enough
yet for you to see, but there's a little house close to the towing path
over there, where the boats often stop the night when it's crowded in
the town. That's where they're to be."

"All right," said Diana. "I'll go with you to the turn, and then I must
get back as fast as I can."

"Let me carry the basket," said Tim. He had a bundle under his arm, but
it was very light, for his possessions were few.

"What's in the basket?" asked Duke.

"All I could get," said Diana. "Some bread and eggs, and some oranges I
bought last night. I thought you'd be glad of them maybe. And Tim, you
have the money safe?"

Tim nodded his head.

In a few minutes they reached the road he had spoken of. In silence poor
Diana kissed the three children and turned away, for she could not
speak. But Duke and Pamela burst into tears.

"Oh if you would but come with us," they said over and over again. But
Diana shook her head.

"You shouldn't cry, master and missy dear, to go to your own home. It
was a wicked shame to take you from it, but I hope God will forgive me
the little I had to do with it, for I've truly done my best to get you
safe back. And you'll ask the kind gentleman and lady to be good to poor
Tim, and put him in an honest way of life."

"Oh yes," sobbed the children. And then Diana kissed them again and
resolutely turned away. But Tim ran after her.

"You don't think Mick'll beat you?" he said anxiously.

"He shan't have the chance," she answered scornfully. "No, no, Tim, I'll
take care of myself. Be a good boy; getting away from us is the best
thing could come to you. And some day maybe I'll have news of you, and
you of me perhaps."

Tim hastened back to the children, but his merry face was sad and his
heart heavy.

A short time brought them to the edge of the canal, and there sure
enough a boat was moored. There was no one moving about the little house
Tim had pointed out, but on board the canal boat two figures were to be
seen--or rather three, for they were those of a young man and a younger
woman with a baby in her arms; and in answer to a whistle from Tim the
man came forward and called out cheerfully, "Good morning; is it all
right?"

"All right," called back Tim, and then he turned to the children.

"We're going in this boat, master and missy. See, won't it be fine fun,
sailing away along the canal?"

Pamela seemed a little frightened.

"You're sure he won't take us to that naughty man?" she said, holding
Tim's hand tight.

"Bless you, no; it's to get away from him we're going in the boat.
Peter--that's the name of the man there--Peter's promised to take us as
far as he goes towards Sandle'ham. It's such a piece of luck as never
was to have come across him; he's the cousin of the boy I told you of
who let me stay in his boat when I was a little 'un."

"Oh," cried the children,--"oh yes, us remembers that story. It was a
boy and his mother. And was it a boat just like this, Tim?"

"Not near so clean and tidy. This one's been all new painted, don't you
see? It's as clean as clean. But we must be quick. Peter and I'll jump
you in. He's all ready to start. There's the horse a-waiting."

Duke was quite content, but Pamela still hung back a little.

"Us has never been in a boat," she said.

"Come on," called out Peter, and the young woman with the baby came
forward with a smile.

"You must look sharp," said Peter, in what was meant to be an
encouraging tone. "The morning's getting on, you know," he added to Tim,
"and if those folk down yonder took it in their heads to come this way
it'd be awk'ard."

"I know," said Tim, and lifting Duke in his arms he handed him over to
Peter, thinking Pamela would be sure to follow. So she was, for she
would have gone after "bruvver" down the crater of Vesuvius itself I do
believe, but she looked white and trembled, and whispered piteously,

"I am so frightened, Tim."

"But it's better than if Mick had cotched us, and you'd had to go to
that Signor man, missy," said Tim encouragingly.

This appealed to Pamela's common sense, and in a few minutes she seemed
quite happy. For Peter's wife introduced her to the baby, and as it was
really rather a nice baby--much cleaner than one could have expected to
find one of its species on a canal boat--the little girl soon found it a
most interesting object of study. She had seldom seen little babies, and
her pride was great when its mother proposed to her to hold it on her
own knee, and even allowed her to pull off its socks to count for
herself its ten little round rosy buttons of toes. The toes proved too
much for Duke, who had hitherto stood rather apart, considering himself,
as a boy, beyond the attractions of dolls and babies. But when Tim
even--great grown-up, twelve years old Tim--knelt down to admire the
tiny feet at Pamela's call, Duke condescended to count the toes one by
one for himself, and to say what a pity it was Toby was not here--baby
could ride so nicely on Toby's back, couldn't she? This idea, expressed
with the greatest gravity, set Peter and his wife off laughing, and all
five, or six if baby is to be included, were soon the best friends in
the world.

"How nice it is here," said Pamela; "I'm not frightened now, Tim; only I
wish Diana could have come. It's so much nicer than in the waggon. You
don't think Mick will find out where us is, do you, Tim?" and a little
shudder passed through her.

"Oh no, no; no fear," said Tim, but her words reminded him and Peter
that they were by no means "out of the wood." Peter was far from anxious
for a fight with the gipsies, whose lawless ways he knew well; and
besides this, being a kind-hearted though rough fellow, he had already
begun to feel an interest in the stolen children for their own sake;
though no doubt his consent to take them as passengers had been won by
the promises of reward Tim had not hesitated to hold out.

He and the boy looked at each other.

"We must be starting," said the bargeman, and he turned to jump ashore
and attach the towing ropes to the patient horse. "You must keep them in
the cabin for a while," he said to his wife. "They mustn't risk being
seen till we're a long way out of Crookford."

Duke and Pamela looked up, but without clearly understanding what their
new host said. And Tim, who saw that Peter's queer accent puzzled them,
was not sorry. He did not want them to be frightened; he was frightened
enough himself to do for all three, he reflected, and they were so good
and biddable he could keep them quiet without rousing their fears. For,
though he could not have explained his own feelings, it somehow went to
the boy's heart to see the two little creatures already looking happier
and more peaceful than he had ever seen them! Why should they not be
quite happy? They were going to Grandpapa and Grandmamma and Toby; they
had no longer cruel Mick to fear; they had Tim to take care of
them--only the thought of poor Diana left behind made them a little sad!

"It is so nice here," repeated Pamela, when Tim's words had completely
reassured her. "But I'm rather hungry. Us hadn't any breakfast, you
know, Tim. Mightn't us, have some of the bread in the basket."

"I've got some bread and some fresh milk," said Mrs. Peter. "I got the
milk just before you came; the girl at the 'Rest'"--the 'Rest' was the
little house where the canal boats stopped--"fetched it early."

"Oh, us would like some milk," said the children eagerly.

"Come into the cabin then, and you'll show me what you have in your
basket," said the young woman; and thus the children were easily
persuaded to put themselves in hiding.

The cabin was but one room, though with what in a house would have been
called a sort of "lean-to," large enough to hold a bed. All was, of
course, very tidy, but so much neater and, above all, cleaner than the
gipsies' van that Duke and Pamela thought it delightful. The boat had
been newly repaired and painted, and besides this, Peter's wife--though
she could neither read nor write and had spent all her life on a canal
boat--was quite a wonder in her love of tidiness and cleanliness.

"I'd like to live here always," said Pamela, whose spirits rose still
higher when she had had some nice fresh milk and bread.

"Not without Grandpapa and Grandmamma," said Duke reproachfully.

"Oh no, of course not," said Pamela. "But there wouldn't be quite enough
room for them in here, would there, Mrs. Peter?"

"I am afraid not," she replied. "You see there's only one bed. But we've
made a nice place for you, master and missy, in here," and she drew back
a clean cotton curtain in one corner, behind which, on a sort of settle,
Peter and she had placed one of their mattresses so as to make a nice
shake-down. "You'll sleep very well in here, don't you think?"

"Oh yes," exclaimed the children, "us will be very comfortable. What
nice clean sheets!" continued Pamela; "it makes me fink of our white
beds at home," and her voice grew rather doleful, as if she were going
to cry.

"But you've no need to cry about your home _now_, missy dear," said Tim.
"You're on the way there."

"Yes, how silly I am!" said Pamela. "I fink I forgot. It's such a long
time ago since us slept in a nice clean bed with sheets. I wish it was
time to go to bed now."

"I think it would be a very good plan if you and master was to take a
little sleep. You must be tired getting up so early," suggested Mrs.
Peter, devoutly hoping they would agree to let themselves be quietly
stowed away behind the checked cotton curtain. For poor Mrs. Peter was
dreadfully afraid of the gipsies, and her motive in agreeing to befriend
Tim and the children was really far more the wish to save them from the
hands they had fallen among than any hope of reward.

"I'd rather bury baby, bless her, any day, than think of her among
such," she had said on hearing the story.

Duke and Pamela looked longingly at the "nice white sheets." They were
both, to tell the truth, very sleepy, but dignity had to be considered.

"It's only babies that go to bed in the day, Nurse says," objected Duke.
"She said so one day that us got into our beds, and she said us had
dirtied them with our shoes. Us had been playing in the garden."

"But you've no need to keep your shoes on," said Mrs. Peter. "And many a
big person's very glad to take a sleep in the day, when they're tired
and have been up very early maybe."

So at last the twins allowed themselves to be persuaded, and Mrs.
Peter's heart, and Tim's too, for that matter, were considerably lighter
when the curtain was drawn forward and no trace of the little passengers
was to be seen. Tim, following the young woman's advice, curled himself
up in a corner where he was easily hidden.

"And now," said Mrs. Peter, "I'll just go up on the deck as usual, so
that if any boats pass us who know us by sight, they'll never think
we've any runaways on board; though for my part I can't see as that
Mick'd dare to make much stir, seeing as he might be had up for stealing
them."

"It's not him I'm so much afeared of as that Signor," said Tim. "He's
such a terrible sharp one, Diana says."

"But the perlice must be after the children by now," persisted Mrs.
Peter. "And every one far and wide knows of Crookford Fair and the
gipsies that comes to it."

"P'raps they've never thought of gipsies," said Tim; and in this, as we
know, he was about right.

The day passed peacefully. They met several boats making for Crookford,
who hailed them as usual, and they were overtaken by one or two others
making their way more quickly, because towed by two horses. But whether
or not there had been any inquiry among the canal people at Crookford
after the children, Peter and his party were left unmolested, and the
sight of his wife and baby as usual on the deck would have prevented any
one suspecting anything out of the common.

It was late afternoon when the three--for Tim had slept as soundly as
the others--awoke. At first, in their nest behind the curtain, Duke and
Pamela could not imagine where they were--then the touch and sight of
the clean sheets recalled their memory.

"Oh, bruvver, aren't you glad?" said Pamela. "I wonder what o'clock it
is, and if we've come a long way. Oh, I'm so hungry! I wonder where Tim
is!"

Up jumped the boy like a faithful hound at the sound of his own name.

"Here I am, missy," he said, rubbing his eyes. "I've been asleep too--it
makes one sleepy, I think, the smooth way the boat slips along."

"Not like the jogging and jolting in the van," said Duke. "I'm hungry
too, Tim," he added.

"Just stop where you are a bit while I go out on the deck and see," said
the boy.

He made his way cautiously, peeping out before he let himself be seen.
The coast was clear, however. Mrs. Peter was knitting tranquilly, baby
asleep on her knee--Peter himself enjoying an afternoon pipe.

For it was already afternoon.

"You've had a good nap, all on you," said the young woman, smiling. "I
thought you'd 'a wakened up for your dinner. But I looked in two or
three times and the little dears was sleeping like angels in a
picture--so Peter and I we thought it would be a pity to disturb you.
Had you so far to come this morning?

"Not far at all," said Tim. "I cannot think what made me so sleepy, nor
master and missy neither. Perhaps it's the being so quiet-like here
after all the flurry of getting off and thinking they'd be after us.
It's not often I sleep past my dinner time."

"I've kep' it for you," said Mrs. Peter. "There's some baked 'taters hot
in the pan, and maybe the little master and missy'd like one of their
eggs."

"I'm sure they would," said Tim; "a hegg and a baked 'tater's a dinner
for a king. And there's the oranges for a finish up."

And he skipped back merrily to announce the good news.

The dinner was thoroughly approved of by Duke and Pamela, and after they
had eaten it they were pleased at being allowed to stay on the deck of
the boat, and to run about and amuse themselves as they chose, for they
had now left Crookford so far behind them that Peter and his wife did
not think it likely any one would be coming in pursuit.

"They'd 'a been after us by now if they'd been coming," said Peter. "A
horse'd have overtook us long afore this, and not going so very fast
nayther."

The children had not enjoyed so much liberty for many weary days, and
their merry laughter was heard all over the boat, as they played
hide-and-seek with Tim, or paddled their hands in the clear water,
leaning over the sides of the boat. For they were now quite out in the
country, and the canal bore no traces of the dirt of the town. It was a
very pretty bit of country too through which they were passing; and
though the little brother and sister were too young to have admired or
even noticed a beautiful landscape of large extent, they were delighted
with the meadows dotted over with daisies and buttercups, and the woods
in whose recesses primroses and violets were to be seen, through which
they glided.

[Illustration: "I DO FINK WHEN US IS QUITE BIG AND CAN DO AS US LIKES,
US MUST HAVE A BOAT LIKE THIS, AND ALWAYS GO SAILING ALONG."--p. 195.]

"I do fink when us is quite big and can do as us likes, us must have a
boat like this, and always go sailing along," said Pamela, when,
half-tired with her play, she sat down beside the baby and its mother.

"But it isn't always summer, or beautiful bright weather like this,
missy," said the young woman. "It's not such a pleasant life in winter
or even in wet weather. Last week even it was sadly cold. I hardly durst
let baby put her nose out of the cabin."

"Then us'd only sail in the boat in fine weather," said Pamela
philosophically, to which of course there was nothing to be said.

The next two days passed much in the same way. The sunshine fortunately
continued, and the children saw no reason to change their opinion of the
charms of canal life, especially as now and then Peter landed them on
the banks for a good run in the fields. And through all was the
delightful feeling that they were "going home."

CHAPTER XI.

A SAD DILEMMA.

"Like children that have lost their way
And know their names, but nothing more."
_Phoebe._

It was the last night on the canal. Early the next morning they would be
at Monkhaven. The children were fast asleep; so were Peter and his wife
and baby. Only Tim was awake. He had asked to stay on deck, as he was
quite warm with a rug which Mrs. Peter lent him, and the cabin was full
enough. It was a lovely night, and the boy lay looking at the stars
overhead thinking, with rather a heavy heart. The nearer they got to the
children's home the more anxious he became, not on their account but on
his own. It would be so dreadful to be turned adrift again, and, in
spite of all the little people's promises, he could not feel sure that
the old gentleman and lady would care to have anything to say to him.

"I'm such a rough one and I've been with such a bad lot," thought the
poor boy to himself while the tears came to his eyes. But he looked up
at the stars again, and somehow their calm cheerful shining seemed to
give him courage. He had been on the point of deciding that as soon as
he was quite sure of the children's safety he would run away, without
letting himself be seen at all, though where he should run to or what
would become of him he had not the least idea! But the silvery light
overhead reminded him somehow of his beautiful dream, for it illumined
the boat and the water and the trees as if they were painted by fairy
fingers.

"It's come right so far, leastways as far as a dream could be like to
real things," he reflected. "I don't see why it shouldn't come right all
through. Just to think how proud I'd be if they'd make me stable-boy, or
gardener's lad maybe, and I could feel I were earning something and had
a place o' my own in the world. That's what mother would 'a wished for
me. 'Never mind how humble you are if you're earning your bread
honest-like,' I've oft heard her say. Poor mother, she'd be glad to know
I was out o' that lot anyway," and Tim's imagination pointed back to the
gipsy caravan. "All, saving Diana--what a lot they are, to be sure! I'm
sure and I hope she'll get out of it some day. 'Tis best to hope anyway,
so I'll try not to be down-hearted," and again Tim glanced up at the
lovely sky. "If I could but make a good guess now which of them there
stars is heaven, or the way into it anyway, I'd seem to know better-like
where poor mother is, and I'd look for it every night. I'm going to try
to be a better lad, mother dear. I can promise you that, and somehow I
can't help thinking things 'll come straighter for me."

And then Tim curled himself round like a dormouse, and shut up his
bright merry eyes, and in five minutes was fast asleep.

He had kept awake later than he knew probably, for the next morning's
sun was higher in the skies than he had intended it should be when a
slight shake of his arm and a not unfriendly though rough voice awoke
him. Up he jumped in a fright, for he had not yet got over the fear of
being pursued.

"What's the matter?" he cried, but Peter--for Peter it was--soon
reassured him.

"Naught's the matter," he said, "don't be afeared, but we're close to
Monkhaven. I've got to go on to the wharf, but that's out o' your way. I
thought we'd best talk over like what you'd best do. I've been up early;
I want to get to the wharf before it's crowded. So after you've had some
breakfast, you and the little uns, what d'ye think of next?"

"To find the quickest road to Sandle'ham," said Tim; "that's the only
place they can tell the name of near their home. Diana," he went on,
"Diana thought as how I'd better go straight to the police at Monkhaven
and tell them the whole story, only not so as to set them after Mick if
I can help it. She said the police here is sure to know of the
children's being stolen by now, and they'd put us in the way of getting
quick to their home."

"I think she's right," said Peter. "I'd go with you myself, but my
master's a sharp one, and I'd get into trouble for leaving the boat and
the horse, even if he didn't mind my having took passengers for onst,"
he added, with a smile.

"No, no," said Tim, "I'll manage all right. Not that I like going to the
police, but if so be as it can't be helped. And look here, Peter," he
went on, drawing out of the inside of his jacket a little parcel
carefully pinned to the lining, "talking of passengers, this is all I
can give you at present. It was all Diana could get together, but I feel
certain sure, as I told you, the old gentleman and lady will do
something handsome when they hear how good you've been," and out of the
little packet he gradually, for the coins were enveloped in much paper,
produced a half-crown, three shillings, and some coppers.

Peter eyed them without speaking. He was fond of money, and even
half-a-crown represented a good deal to him. But he shook his head.

"I'm not going to take nothing of that," he said; "you're not yet at
your journey's end. I won't say but what I'd take a something, and
gladly, from the old gentleman if he sees fit to send it when he's heard
all about it. A letter'll always get to me, sooner or later, at the
'Bargeman's Rest,' Crookford. You can remember that--Peter Toft--that's
my name."

"I'll not forget, you may be sure," said Tim. "It's very good of you not
to take any, for it's true, as you say, we may need it. And so you think
too it's best to go straight to the police at Monkhaven."

"I do so," said Peter, and thus it was settled.

There were some tears, as might have been expected, and not only on the
children's part, when they came to say good-bye to Mrs. Peter and the
baby. But they soon dried in the excitement of getting on shore again
and setting off under Tim's care on the last stage of their journey
"home."

"Is it a very long walk, do you think, Tim?" they asked. "Us knows the
way a _long_ way down the Sandle'ham road. Is that Sandle'ham?" as they
saw the roofs and chimneys of Monkhaven before them.

"I wish it were!" said Tim. "No, that's a place they call Monkhaven, but
it's on the road to Sandle'ham. Did you never hear tell of Monkhaven,
master and missy?--think now."

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