Part 8 (2/2)

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 always on the look-out for it; and, indeed, had he not been so Duke would have kept him up to his promise, for whenever he saw Tim alone for a moment he 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 it hurting her. Diana had bound it up carefully, after putting on some ointment which certainly healed it very quickly. For, with all their ignorance and brutality, the gipsies were really clever in some ways.

They had knowledge of herbs which had been handed down to them by their ancestors, and their fingers were skilful and nimble. And for their own sakes Mick and the Missus were anxious that their two pretty prisoners should not fall ill. So that, though dirty and uncared-for as far as appearance went, the little pair had not really suffered in health by their misfortunes.

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

They were now far enough from Sandlingham for Mick to feel pretty sure they would not be tracked. The actual distance they had travelled was not great, but a few miles in those days were really more than a hundred at the present time. For there were, of course, no railways; in many parts of the country the cross-roads were so bad that it was necessary and really quicker to make long rounds rather than leave ”the king's highway.” And--still more important, perhaps, in such a case--there were no telegraphs! No possibility for poor Grandpapa and Grandmamma--as there would be nowadays, _could_ such a thing happen as the theft of little children--to send word in the s.p.a.ce of an hour or two to the police all over the country. Indeed, compared with what it is in our times, the police hardly existed.

And everything was in the gipsies' favour. No one had seen them in the neighbourhood of Arbitt Lodge. They had not been on the Sandlingham high-road before meeting the children, and had avoided it on purpose after that. So, among the many explanations that were offered to the poor 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 have got in without being seen--it is not as if they had been straying about the lanes.”

Everything that could be done had been done. All the ponds in the neighbourhood had been dragged; the only dangerous place anywhere near--a sort of overhanging cliff over some unused quarries--had been at once visited; the quarries themselves searched in every corner--even though they were very meek-and-mild, inoffensive quarries, where it would 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 end of this same seventh day _nothing_ left to do. And Grandpapa sat with bowed gray head, his newspaper unopened on the table beside him, broken down, brave old soldier though he was,--utterly broken down by this terrible blow. While Grandmamma slowly drew her arm-chair a little nearer than usual to the fire, for grief makes people--old people especially--chilly. All her briskness and energy were gone; her sweet old face was white and drawn, with no pretty pink flush in the cheeks now; 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 to herself, so low that even if Grandpapa had been much sharper of hearing than he was her words could not have reached him,--”I never thought that a 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 the pretty creatures they had become! Yet now I am thankful--thankful for them to have been spared this anguish. Though, again, if they had been alive and well and able to take care of Duke and Pam, perhaps it would never have happened.”

And once more--for the hundredth time, I daresay--poor Grandmamma began torturing herself by wondering in what she had erred--how could she have taken better care of the children?--was it her fault or Grandpapa's, or Nurse's, or Biddy's, or anybody's? There had been _something_ the matter with Duke and Pam that last morning; they had had something on their little minds. She had thought so at the time, and now she was more than ever sure of it. What could it have been?

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

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

”Oh Toby,” said poor Grandmamma again, as if she really did not know what else to say.

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

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

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

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

”Of course,” he said, ”if by any possibility they had fallen into kind hands, and it had occurred to any one to advertise about them, we should have known it before this. The police are all on the alert by now. If dishonest people have carried them off for the sake of a reward, they will find means of claiming it before long. The head-man at Sandlingham does not advise our offering a reward as yet. He says it might lead to more delay if they are in dishonest hands. Their captors would wait to see 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 little strayed dogs!” exclaimed Grandmamma, lifting her hands.

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