bn daavaed dlewrsel Ye
me a brvecth ae ce
Je. Ja†174
THE
RUNAWAYS AND THE GIPSIES.
Front.
The Gipsy Encampment.
THE RUNAWAYS
THE GIPSIES.
a Gale.
A NHW HDITION.
LONDON: ©
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS,
THE BROADWAY, LUDGATE;
NEW YORK: 416, BROOME STREET,
THE
RUNAWAYS & THE GIPSIES,
CHAPTER I.
CLIMBING TREES.
Gracz and Bertram Astley were twins, and, at the
time my story begins, they were rather more than
nine years old. They had several brothers and sisters
younger than themselves, but none older; and in con-
sequence of this they had been turned out of the
nursery at an early age, as the younger ones mul-
tiplied, and had been left pretty much to amuse
themselves, and to run wild about their father’s park
and grounds as they chose. They had thus acquired
habits of independence beyond their years, which is
often the case with the elder children of a large
family.
Lord. and Lady Astley had no very particular
theories as to the bringing up of their children—his
lordship contenting himself with requiring that they
should always be well dressed and civilly behaved,
and occasionally remarking that “Bertram ought to
be at Eton by this time ;†and her ladyship secretly
resolving to keep him at home as long as she possibly
could, and meantime doing her best to instil into the
B
2 CLIMBING TREES.
a
hearts of all her children the fear of God and a love
of truth.
Bertram was a bold, fearless, handsome boy, always
ready for any fun, provided Grace could share it
with him; and hitherto there had been few difficulties
in this proviso, for Grace was chiefly remarkable for
her intense devotion to her twin brother—a devotion
which appeared to swallow up all other feelings, all
girlish fears, and childish tempers. Bertram was
everything to her; and, under his able guidance and
tuition, she could keep up with him in all his sports.
Climbing trees and gates, scrambling through hedges,
shooting with a little wooden cross-bow, exactly like
Bertram’s,—sliding in winter, cricketing in summer,—
riding, walking, and, it might almost be said, dressing
like her darling brother,— Grace Astley was but
another Bertram. In one thing alone she surpassed
him and differed from him. Grace was not only very
quick at her books, but she delighted in them. She
would have enjoyed the lesson-time, when she and
_ Bertram had their mother’s undivided attention ; for,
with the exception of Bertram’s Latin, to which the
clergyman of the parish devoted an hour daily, Lady
Astley had hitherto managed to teach them herself;
but the two hours after breakfast which she was able
to devote to them were generally so irksome to poor
Bertram, that Grace found she could not look for-
ward to them with any pleasure. Not that Bertram
was a stupid boy: on the contrary he was quick and
clever at everything except arithmetic, and could get
through his work in a very short time if he chose to
CLIMBING TREES. 3.
apply; out it was a choice that he did not often
make, for somehow or another he generally fixed
upon the lesson-hours as the best time for thinking,
and he would sit with his books before him, gazing
at them, and apparently busy with them, when his
thoughts were wandering far away.
Sometimes Grace would forget herself for a short
time in the absorbing interest of a compound long
division sum, or even of a French exercise ; but when,
with burning cheeks and a bright face, she rose from
her little corner, to bring her slate or her book to her
mother, her eye would fall on her poor Bertram as he
lounged against the great school-room table, trying
in vain to conquer the difficulties of the simple
division, and helping himself thereto by drawing tiny
ships filled with gigantic men,—or, what he excelled
in much more, horses and dogs of all kinds and
descriptions, round the unlucky sum; and then
Grace’s joy was over, and she wished she could give
Bertram half her pleasure in her lessons, or that she
did not care for them so much herself. It almost
seemed to be unjust to him that she should like what
gave him so much trouble. Her great consolation
under this little trial arose from the fact of her being
able to sympathize with him in his intense hatred of
French verbs—for in this one branch of literature
Grace took no pleasure whatever; and when they
began to read history, she was quite happy, for his
delight and interest were only to be equalled by her
own, and were understood by no one but herself; for
their gentle mother was surprised, in her own quiet
B2
4 CLIMBING TREES.
way, at the interest Pinnock’s Goldsmith’s “Rome,â€
and even “Mrs. Markham,†excited in her children.
She supposed children in these days were very dif-
ferent from what they were in her time, for she was
quite certain that she and her sisters and brothers
were equally indifferent to history and arithmetic ;
but, on the whole, she was rather proud of this new
and striking feature of childhood, and she felt placidly
convinced that there were no children like hers in the
world.
* The two hours over, Grace and Bertram were free
to go where they chose, within the park. Dresséd in
their stout brown-holland gaberdines, happily they
worked in their little gardens, or dug out caves in the
sandy rocks behind the house. Lord Astley was
much away from home, and so much engaged when
he did come, that his children ‘saw little of him. He
was a clever man of the world, and many people
asserted that he had never been anything else—that
he had had no childhood, but was born a ready-made
statesman. He had been an only child, and, having
lost his parents in his babyhood, had been brought up
by a stern old aunt, who disapproved, on principle, of
all childish amusements. ‘Lord Astley, therefore, had
grown up in utter ignorance of all such youthful
vanities as delighted his own children; ‘and, as
for the said children, he looked upon them as a
necessary part of his establishment—much as he
regarded his servants, and his horses, and the hand-
some service of plate which had descended from father
to son in the Astley family for many generations.
CLIMBING TREES. 5
Lady Astley had lived much in the world before
her marriage; but she did not now regret the world,
although nothing could be much more retired than -
her life as it passed at Combe Astley. Among her
children and her flowers she was happy, and she
desired no more; she even occasionally wasted a
sigh as the thought passed through her mind, that
the time must come when her duty to her children
would oblige her once more to quit her much-loved
solitude. During their father’s short visits to his
home, her chief care about Grace and Bertram hitherto
had been to make them fit to be seen, and to keep
them out of mischief. They had learnt, therefore,
not to look forward to these visits with anything like
pleasure, and were only too glad when their father’s
departure left them at liberty to return to their dear
brown-holland dresses and wild habits.
Soon after these children had passed their ninth
dirthday, their happiness received a severe shock from
a few words which they accidentally overheard between
their father and mother. It was a bright warm
spring day, and Lord Astley having arrived unex-
pectedly from town, Bertram and Grace were running
wild, as usual, after their morning lessons, instead of
being caught up, like young horses, to be combed and
dressed, as they always were when his lordship was
expected.
On this particular morning there happened to be a
wedding in the village, and the two children had
climbed, by means of the huge old shrubbery trees, to
the top of the very broad wall which commanded
6 CLIMBING TREES.
a good view of the church and village street, and
here they were sitting side by side, perfectly indif-
ferent to their great height from the ground, when
their father and mother strolled slowly by in the
avenue behind them.
Grace was just drawing her brother’s attention to -
the bridal party, now issuing from the church, when
Bertram, hearing his father’s loud and important
tones, exclaimed,—
“Hush, Gracey! There’s mamma coming—and my
father too, I do believe. Keep quiet, and they will
not see us here; the trees are nice and thick between
us.â€
Gracey did hush directly ; and Lord Astley was
heard to say, in a voice of great decision, as if he .
was for ever setting at rest a disputed question,—
“ My dear, the thing is settled; the children must
have a governess. It will break the boy in for school ;
and as for Grace——â€
The children were obliged to remain in ignorance
as to the effect their father intended “a governess to
produce on Grace, for the end of his sentence was
lost in the trees, and never reached their anxious ©
little ears.
They looked at each other in dismay. A governess
was an evil which they had never contemplated, and
all their interest in the village wedding was gone for
ever.
“ @race!?? said Bertram, in a low tone, expressive
of immense surprise and indignation at this unexpected
insult, as he regarded it. “ Grace! did you hear P—a
CLIMBING TREES. 7
governess—a real governess,—and for me—a big boy
like me !—why school would be better 1†and he re-
mained transfixed.
Grace felt as if she had never fully realized the
horror of such an affliction before, now that she saw
- the ternble light in which Bertram regarded it; and
when he went on to describe, in the most touch-
ing manner, how, on the arrival of the dreadful
governess, they would never be allowed to stir
beyond the house-door without her, never again
visit the horses in the stables, nor the pigs in the
pigsty, nor even to go to see the cows milked,—
while climbing trees, ferreting and digging in their
little gardens, would be regarded as equal to robbery
-and murder, and punished accordingly by this house-
hold tyrant,—Poor Grace could bear it no longer, but
fairly burst into tears. As she seldom cried, Bertram
was rather startled at this unexpected result of his
words, and he began to console her with all the .
energy in his power.
“ Never mind, Gracey, don’t cry, and we'll manage
her. I'll knock her down if she dares to follow us
about. I ain’t a boy for nothing. Look at this
armâ€â€”and he bared a sturdy little brown arm—* look,
isn’t this strong enough to beat any governess ; Ti
take care of you, never fear;†and he raised his
voice in his excitement, till Grace in terror begged
him to stop.
“For,†said she, “ they are coming back ; and, O
Bertram ! there is some one with them—perhaps it’s
the governess !â€â€
8 CLIMBING TREES.
“Nonsense,†returned the boy; “ governesses don’t
grow among the bluebells near the lodge, and that’s
where they’ve been. I wish they did grow there, the
wretches!’? added he, shaking his fist, “and Id
soon put a stop to them and their cruelty. Not that
I care for myself though, Gracey, because I’m not a
child now, you know; but what I think is, if they
take it into their heads to send me to school, you'll
be bullied into a scarecrow, and I sha’n’t be able
to help you; but, hush! here they come. Who is
that with them ?â€
“Mr. De Verrie ;†whispered Grace, “don’t you
see, now?â€
“Hush!†repeated Bertram; and the two children
sat like little mice on their high perch, while Lord
and Lady Astley came slowly on, accompanied by
their friend and neighbour Mr. De Verrie, whom
they had met at the lodge-gate. Bertram and Grace
hoped they should hear more about the governess
now, as they fancied it must be a subject of great
importance, and that everybody must be interested
in it; and they were much disappointed at hearing,
‘netoadl only a few remarks about trees. The little
party stopped just in front of a great tree which
stood close to the children, so close that they were
leaning against one of the branches which grew over
the wall. Lord Astley was pointing out the beauties of
this tree to his visitor, and they all looked up at it,
and began to walk round to examine it. Bertram and
Grace trembled on high, as Mr. De Verrie, advancing
nearer than the others and peering up among the
CLIMBING TREES. 9
branches, caught sight of a little piece of brown-
holland,—being neither more nor less than one of
their gaberdines.
“Why, Lord Astley,†he exclaimed, “ you grow
funny little brown flowers up in your trees.â€
“Eh ? what ?â€. said his lordship, who had dropped
his cane, and was stooping to pick it up; “ you must
ask Lady Astley about the flowers,—she knows more
about them than I do.â€
“T dare say she does, at least about these peculiar
flowers,†said Mr. De Verrie, smiling, and turning
towards her, while she looked a at him, and
said, in a hurried voice,—
“ 7 know nothing of flowers in trees; but come
to my garden, and you shall see some worth look-
ing at.â€
Mr. De Verrie did riot remark her looks nor attend
to her words, but he called again to Lord Astley to
look up at the flowers, for he fancied that he would
be amused at the situation of the children.
The poor man soon discovered his mistake. Lord
Astley looked up, and saw, not only the brown-holland,
but a little brown hand put gently out to gather it up
out of sight.
“ Holloa!’? said he, in his loudest, most terrible
voice, “who is there? Come down this instant,
young vagabonds! This is always the way,†he
added, turning to Mr. De Verrie; “the ingratitude
of these poor children is scandalous. In spite of all
Lady Astley’s schools, and charities, and rewards,
there they are destroying my trees, as if there was
10 CLIMBING TREES.
no school in the parish. Come down, you young
rascals!†he roared again.
Mr. De Verrie was very sorry for the children,
still more sorry for having been the cause of getting
them into the trouble he foresaw for them. He saw
that they must be discovered—the sooner.the better
—and he said,—
“T don’t think they are exactly rascals, Lord
Astley, but more like your own children than any-
thing else. Let me see;†and, without another word,
or waiting to be forbidden, he sprang on to one of the
lowest branches, and, seizing a higher one, he swung
himself up to where he could get a good view of the
children, who still remained trembling on the wall.
“ Ah, Grace!†said he, as soon as he saw her little
face peeping out, “ how do you do? How did you
get up there, and how do you intend to get down?
—three questions for you in a breath, so don’t an-
‘swer one, but let me help you.â€
“No,†said Grace, shrinking back.
“Come down!†roared their father from below.
“ Be careful, my dear, dear children, and make
haste down,†said their mother’s gentle, tremulous
voice; for she looked upon the tree as a burning
house, and thought that every minute they remained
in it increased their danger; while the children,
regarding their father at this moment as some-
thing more to be dreaded than any burning house,
were in no hurry to move. At another roar from
Lord Astley, however, they began most cleverly to
let themselves down from their height; but her
CLIMBING TREES. 11
mother’s repeated exclamations of terror made
poor little Grace so exceedingly nervous, that,
although quite as good a climber as Bertram,
and although she had been up and down that very
tree hundreds of times before, she contrived, on this
particular occasion, to lose her hold and slip,—not
very far, however, for two huge friendly branches
received her; and in another moment Mr. De Verrie
was at her side, and with very little difficulty extri-
cated her, and placed her in perfect safety by her
mother’s side.
Bertram now stood by her. Lord Astley’s anger
had been so much increased, and he felt it to be so
entirely justified, by the sight of Grace’s danger, that
he could hardly thank Mr. De Verrie with becoming
civility ; but Mr. De Verrie was quite thanked
enough by Lady Astley, whose tears, being in
the habit of appearing at the shortest possible
notice, were now, of course, flowing in the strongest
consciousness of having every right to do so. Lord
Astley scolded the children severely, and ordered
them to their rooms for the rest of the day, and
neither Lady Astley nor Mr. De Verrie said a word
in their behalf, as they knew that it would be of
no avail—for, although Lord Astley’s naturally very
violent temper was usually well under control, yet,
when once it was roused, he would bear no opposition,
especially if the cause of his anger concerned in any
way his household, in which he_ included, as before
mentioned, his servants, his children, his horses, and
his plate.
12 CLIMBING TREES.
The children walked off, hand in hand, Grace ery-
ing quietly, but Bertram with his cheeks burning,
and his head upright, taking very long steps, and
longing to be tall and big, and almost to go back and
answer his father.
‘When Lord Astley found that he was not opposed,
his anger rapidly cooled down, and he consoled him-
self by talking most impressively to his wife and his
guest on the subject of the impropriety of young
ladies running wild about the country with their
brothers; of his own extreme horror at the unfor-
tunate brown-holland dresses ; and he ended by point-
ing out how much better it would be for Grace to be
dressed like a lady, and to spend her time in learning
the harp or piano, declaring that he would that very
day write to town for a governess, —which article
of household furniture, apparently, his lordship ex-
pected to be able to order dow? from town from
some repository or warehouse with as much ease
as he would have obtained a pianoforte. Lady
Astley mildly remarked, that “ Grace was t00
young for the harp, and that she had done all
her lessons before she went out, and really played
very well on the piano for a child of her age; and as
to dress, she was always well dressed when anybody
was expected.â€
“And am I nobody?†inquired Lord Astley,
in a tone of imposing dignity, and not the least
as if he really wanted to know her opinion on the
subject.
“Indeed, my dear,†replied his gentle wife, “indeed,
CLIMBING TREES. 13
I always have them well dressed when you or any
other company are expected,—only, you know, you
never said you were coming to-day.â€
“ And I am to be regarded as company in my own
house, Lady Astley?†said he, in a tone which was
intended to convey a depth of solemn sarcasm, but
which really sounded so exactly like a simple ques-
tion, that her ladyship answered quietly,—
“ Yes, my dear, if it is your wish. They only wear
their old brown-hollands when they are alone with me
here; and you knowâ€â€”with a gentle sigh—“ you
know that is more than three-parts of the year.â€
Perhaps Lord Astley was tired of hearing of the
brown-holland; at all events, he turned rather hastily
to Mr. De Verrie as his wife spoke, and asked if he
knew of a good governess,—though it was not very
likely that a young man of one or two and twenty
should know much about governesses—and no doubt
Lord Astley would have thought of this if he had not
been in a hurry to escape from brown-holland.
Now, strangely enough, it appeared that Mr. De
Verrie did know of. a governess, although he was a
young man of one or two and twenty; and he hastened
to tell Lord Astley that his youngest sister was just
seventeen, and that his mother was very anxious to
find a good situation and a happy home for Mrs. Abel,
the lady who had filled the double situation of gover-
ness and friend to Laura De Verrie for the last
seven years and a half. If either Lord or Lady
Astley would like to talk to his mother about this
lady, he would be delighted to drive her over any
14 CLIMBING TREES.
morning, or he would bring Mrs. Abel herself if they
preferred.
Lord Astley was as pleased with this proposal as
was consistent with his dignity, and as he generally
was with any proposal that came from Mr. De Verrie,
for he entertained a very high opinion of that young
man’s sense and abilities. Lady Astley, therefore,
was obliged by her lord to write a very civil note to
’ Mrs. De Verrie, for Reginald to take back, stating
how very anxious she (Lady Astley) was to procure
a governess for her children, and making many in-
quiries as to the likelihood of the situation suiting
Mrs. Abel, and of Mrs. Abel’s willingness to under-
take the same. ‘Reginald rode off with the note
directly after luncheon; and Lady Astley, having
watched his rapidly retreating figure till it was quite
out of sight, went with her knitting and a heavy heart
to hear from her husband a repetition of all his old
lectures upon young-lady proprieties and dress, em-
bellished, on this occasion, with many additions and
several pretty severe reprimands for her carelessness in
having already allowed Grace to become such a tomboy;
very little of which did her ladyship attend to, as her .
thoughts were completely taken up with wondering
how the children had interpreted the order which
sent them to their room,—whether they had retired
to the solitude of their bed-rooms, or were quietly
amusing themselves in the cheerful play-room,
so soon and so sadly to be changed into the
“school-room.� At-length, to her great delight,
the superior claims of stewards, carpenters, and
CLIMBING TREES. 15
bailiffs, left her at liberty to creep out of the
room.
“ My love!� were the words that stopped her as
she reached the door, “ you are not going to pity and
spoil, those children; I will not have them down to-
day. Grace must learn to be ashamed of herself.â€
“Very well,†said Lady Astley, leaving the room. ~
As she went along the passage to the play-room,
it occurred to her to wonder what harm Bertram had
done. It might be foolish for Grace to climb trees,
but even Lord Astley had been heard to say that
boys ought to be hardy; and one of his chief reasons
for wishing to send the child early to school was,
that he might grow up like other boys. “And what
can be more like other boys than climbing trees?â€
thought Lady Astley, as she put her hand on the door
of the play-room and pushed it open.
16
CHAPTER Ii.
THE GOVERNESS.
Bertram and Grace were sitting in the great
window recess, looking very mournful and downcast,
for so seldom did their father interfere with their
pursuits, that a real scolding, as they called it, from
him was quite an event, and a most disagreeable one,
in their little lives. Even Bertram, his first anger
and mortification over, was quite subdued; and they
had been sitting for the last ten minutes just as their
mother found them, in perfect silence, not daring to
leave the room, longing for some one to break the
monotony of their imprisonment, and yet dreading to
receive a message from their father requiring their
presence in the study—a room which they never
entered without feelings of restraint at the very best
of times.
Both the children came running up to Lady Astley
as she entered the room. “ Mamma, mamma!†said
Grace, “ Oh, mamma! is he very angry ?—mayn’t we
go out ?—Oh, mamma!†and they each seized a hand
and clung to her.
“He is angry, Gracey,†said their mother; “he
thinks that little girls should not romp about and
climb trees; and indeed, my dear child, it makes me
TUE GOVERNESS. 17
quite tremble to think of the height you were from
the ground, and you must promise me never to get
up there again.â€
“But, mamma, I was there to take care of her,â€
said Bertram, stoutly. “There wasn’t the smallest
atom of danger ;—she never slipped before, only you
flurried her by being frightened ;—she climbs as well
as I do.â€
“My dear boy, climbing is not a desirable accom-
plishment for a young lady, and I cannot allow your
sister to do it any more. Gracey, my darling, you
must promise me that you will never climb trees
again.â€
Lady Astley put her arm round the little girl’s
waist, and drew her towards her in her own peculiarly
gentle, engaging manner.
Promise never to climb trees again! Poor Grace!
it was indeed a trial; for she knew perfectly well the
value of a promise, and it never entered her head to
give her word and then afterwards to break it,—and
yet how to disobey her mother! Grace stood motion-
less, passively receiving her mother’s caresses, but
making no reply; while Bertram exclaimed, in a
thorough passion,—
“Grace! you must not promise—you shall not
promise!â€
“Bertram !â€â€™ said Lady Astley.
It was but one word, but the sad tone in which it
was uttered cut him to the heart far more than his
father’s many and angry words; and he turned away
to the window, and stood with his back to his mother
Cc
18 THE GOVERNESS.
and sister, gazing out into the bright lovely park,
where the deer were grazing, in happy ignorance of
the woes of their young master and mistress.
“ Grace,’ continued Lady Astley, imploringly, “ I
must have your promise—I know I can trust you.
My child, think of my misery if you were to fall from
one of those dreadful trees, and perhaps be very much
injured, or even killed. Grace, I shall not have a
moment’s peace when you are out of my sight.
Indeed—indeed
Lady Astley was working herself up into a state of
agony.
“Mamma, I promise!†burst from poor Grace ; and
she slid from her mother’s arms, and, sinking on the
floor, burst into a passion of tears.
Lady Astley was grieved to distress her little girl,
but she was satisfied—she was more than satisfied—
she was proud of her daughter’s promise, and of her
obedience—and she felt highly delighted at having so
favourable a circumstance to report to her husband.
She had no idea of what that promise cost Grace ; and
after telling the children that they must on no account
leave that room without their father’s permission, and
advising them to keep as quiet as possible, she left
them, to return to the study, and watch for a favour-
able opportunity of obtaining a remission of their
sentence by giving an account of Grace’s promise.
The children, on being left to themselves, remained
for some minutes, the one on the floor, the other at
the window, without speaking. Grace was the first
to move. She crept to Bertram and looked up in bis
THE GOVERNESS. 19
face, half afraid to see how angry he was at the death-
blow which. she felt that she had given to many of
their peculiar little plans and ways. He was still gazing
out of the window, struggling to keep back the tears
which for worlds he would not have been seen to shed.
“ Bertram, I could not help it,†said the little girl.
The boy turned to look at the little tearful face,
and throwing his arm round his sister’s neck, he
' kissed her, and answered, as if suddenly convinced of
the truth of her words,—
“No, Gracey, you are right; but oh, Gracey !â€â€”
and his tone changed,—“ think, only think, never,
never, never to climb again; not the little beech, or
the wall-tree, or even the great cedar, never—till you
are quite grown up as much as mamma, and may do
as you like. Oh, Gracey!†and as he named each
favourite tree, he looked down into her face to see how
she could bear it. The tears were still flowing, but
the little face was firm.
“T know it, Bertram,†she said; “I thought of it
all when mamma was talking. It is giving up a great
deal, but then it is for our own darling mamma, and
I would do anything in the world for her. Don’t
you remember when we were wondering if we should
have had courage to leap down the gulf, like Marcus
Curtius in. Roman History, we said we would do it
for mamma any day, and that would have been worse
than giving up climbing?â€
“JT don’t know that,’ replied Bertram, doubtingly.
“There would have been glory in that, at all events,
and there is none in this.â€
c 2
20 THE GOVERNESS.
Grace reminded him that the glory would have
been of no good to them if they were dead ; and they
continued talking on the subject of glory and sacrifices
till Bertram became so enchanted with the idea that
he exclaimed,—
“Jl tell you what, Gracey, I'll give it up
too;—I’ll go to mamma and promise to give up
climbing.â€
“No, Bertram,†said Grace, “ that will never do.
They won’t like that; boys must climb. There are
plenty of other great things for you to do.â€
“J don’t know what,†said Bertram, sadly; “ and
besides, if they like me to climb, why was my father
so angry with me?â€
“ Oh, because it is spoiling the trees, that he does
not like; besides, I don’t think he was so angry with
you, and perhaps if he had found you alone up there
he would not have said much.â€
At this point of the discussion Lady Astley re-
turned to tell the children that their father had
forgiven them on hearing of Grace’s promise, and
that they had better go and make themselves fit to
be seen. ,
To tell the truth, Lord Astley had very speedily for-
gotten all about the children in his multiplicity of
business; and when their fault and punishment was
recalled to his recollection by his wife, just as he had
concluded a most satisfactory examination of his
banker’s book, he had remarked hastily, but with
good humour,—* Oh, to be sure, let them out; but
mind you, no more brown holland suits; let them be
THE GOVERNESS. 21
dressed like gentlemen’s children, and behave as.
such.â€
Lady Astley had tried to touch his heart by re-
lating the promise Grace had made to climb no more,
of which she thought so much herself; but he per-
sisted is regarding it, most provokingly, as a thing of
course that a child should promise to be good imme-
diately after punishment, and would by no means be
worked up to a pitch of admiration, or even to bestow
another thought on the matter.
Mrs. De Verrie was a sensible, strong-minded
woman, and her friendship might have been of great
advantage to Lady Astley; but Lady Astley was
slightly afraid of her, and disliked her rather blunt,
plain-spoken manner, and as Mrs: De Verrie was not
a person to push her friendship when she saw it was
not required, the two ladies met but seldom, although
the son of the one was a great favourite at Combe
Astley, and the children of the other were objects of
much interest at Rangley Park, which was the name
of the domain of the house of De Verrie.
Reginald De Verrie had taken a great fancy to
Bertram Astley, and had often lamented to his mother
and sister the strange wild way in which, it was
evident, these children would be allowed to grow up.
“Tt does not signify,†he would say, “now that
they are so young, and it is well that they should be
hardy; but Lady Astley has no idea of anything
better for them as they get older. The boy sees no
one but his sister and the servants, and some of these
days, when he is suddenly taken from home and put
22 THE GOVERNESS.
to school, it will go hard with him. They are as wild
as young colts, and as shy too. They run away and
hide even when they see Laura and me riding up
to the house, though we are friends enough if we do
meet.â€
Mrs. De Verrie had sometimes asked the children
to come to Rangley, but Lady Astley did not like them
to go out alone, and “ felt herself unequal to the exer-
tion of accompanying them.â€
Reginald and his mother rejoiced in the prospect
of introducing Mrs. Abel at Combe Astley, for they
hoped that not only would she prove a real friend to
the children, but that she might be the means of
bringing them out of their solitude and making
them associate with other children in the neigh-
bourhood more than the pride of their father and
the indolence of their mother had hitherto allowed
them to do.
Lady Astley and Mrs. De Verrie interchanged a
few notes on the subject, and it was finally settled
that Mrs. Abel should go over to Combe Astley as
soon as possible, to arrange preliminaries.
Unfortunately, Mrs. Abel was attacked by a severe
cold, and was unable to go to Lady Astley’s for some
days, and before she was well enough to venture out,
Lord Astley had returned to town; not, however,
without extracting a promise from his wife that she
would engage Mrs. Abel,—of whose fitness he enter-
tained no doubts,—to undertake her new charge as
goon as possible.
Now, to confess the truth, Lady Astley had quite
THE GOVERNESS. 23
as great a horror of a governess as her children had;
for she, like her husband, was an only child, and had
been entirely educated by her mother. She did not
look forward with any pleasure to having a stranger
domesticated in her home, and either constantly |
interfering between ‘herself and her children, or en-
tirely drawing away and monopolizing their affections.
A spy upon her actions, and terribly in the way, she
was convinced a governess would prove to be; nor
did she incline to like her the better when she recol-
lected that Mrs. Abel would come direct from Mrs.
De Verrie, and had resided for so many years in that
lady’s family as to have established a right of friend-
ship, of which Lady Astley did not doubt she would
avail herself as much as possible, as a consolation for
the vexations and annoyances which she could not
but find in a house where her presence was so little
desired by any one member of the family; and by
this means her ladyship feared to be drawn herself
into that intimacy with Mrs. De Verrie which it had
been her almost unacknowledged object to avoid for
so many years.
Both Lady Astley and her children, thenolins, were
at this time ina most uncomfortable state of sus-
pense, with this difference in their sufferings: that
whereas. the mother knew from what quarter the blow
might be expected, and that therefore her mind was
comparatively at rest for the day on the subject after
the arrival of the morning post, the children were
living in perpetual dread, from morning till night, of
the sudden arrival of their tyrant,—fearing every
24 THE GOVERNESS.
carriage, every gig, and even every cart, whether it
came from the direction of Rangley or any other
place,—and scarcely daring to venture forth to their
more distant haunts for fear that the new governess
should pounce upon them and at once marshal them
into a state of terrible cleanliness and propriety.
At last, one bright morning, the expected letter
arrived, announcing that Mrs. Abel was sufficiently
recovered to wait on Lady Astley, and that Reginald
De Verrie would drive her over that afternoon in his
dog-cart ; for his mother, having perceived that she
herself was no favourite at Combe Astley, had decided
that Mrs. Abel would be more likely to please if
introduced in the first instance by another and more
favoured individual.
On receiving this note, Lady Astley felt somewhat
relieved, for she had been dreading the formal intro-
duction—the long-winded praises of Mrs. Abel which
she expected from Mrs. De Verrie, and she was sure
that Reginald would do the thing much better, and
set everybody at ease at once. It now occurred to
her that the children ought to be told of what was
hanging over them. Little thinking how much they
already guessed, she went immediately to the play-
room, where they were waiting for their usual
lessons, and she told them, in a manner which she
endeavoured to render as quiet and composed as
usual—in which endeavour, however, she did not en-
tirely succeed—that the little ones required so much of
her attention, that she and their father thought it best
to engage a lady to come to live in the house to assist
THE GOVERNESS. 25
with their lessons; “but,†she continued with a sigh,
as she wondered within her own mind how far the
strong-minded and imperious governess she expected
Mrs. Abel to prove would allow her to fulfil her own
words,—“ but I do not mean entirely to give up
teaching you; I shall still come into the school-room
every morning, at least at first, and till you get used
to the new ways and greater strictness to which you
must now accustom yourselves.†And her eyes filled
with tears as visions rose to her mind’s eye of her
little Grace in backboard and stocks for the improve-
ment of her figure; and Bertram in perpetual dis-
grace and punishment for the sad long division sums,
which she really began to believe he could not master;
and then fearing she had said too much and given
them but a sad idea of their governess, she added,—*
in a voice which she strove to raise to cheerfulness,
but which only trembled the more in consequence,
and thereby made her own dread of the new life more
evident, and increased the terror which was stealing
over the children’s hearts,—“ But I am sure you will
like the lady who is coming; she is a very superior
person, and will be very kind, and you will learn quite
to love her.â€
To love a governess !—Bertram would have scorned
the very idea at any other time; but there was some-
thing so strange in his mother’s manner on this day,
that he felt quite awestruck, and as Grace always
followed in his lead, neither of the children spoke a
word, but they hid their faces in Lady Astley’s dress,
while Grace gave free vent to her tears, and Bertram
26 THE GOVERNESS.
swallowed his with a choking feeling in his throat and
a strong desire, in spite of his awe, to knock down
every governess that had ever been invented, and
especially this very superior one who made his mother
ery. For although Bertram had seen her tears flow
over and over again at an interesting book, or a tale
of distress, or at the slight maladies and misfortunes
of “the little ones,†as, in the full consciousness of
their nine years, he and Grace were in the habit of
designating their younger brothers and sisters,—yet
he did not, in his whole lifetime, remember ever to
have seen such tears called forth for any matter con-
cerning himself and Grace; so entirely apart, and in
a little world of their own, had these two young ones
passed their short lives. They loved their mother,
and she loved them ; but for comfort in all their little
sorrows, for amusement, for sympathy, they had been
all in all to each other. And now, when they saw
her so strangely moved on a subject which concerned
them alone, they felt that it must indeed be some-
thing very terrible which was hanging over them.
Lady Astley gave them each a long, lingering kiss,
highly suggestive of the idea that the new governess
would never let her kiss them again, and telling them
that they might have a whole holiday, and advising
them tv make the most of it, as it would probably be
the last they would have for no one knew how long,
she left the room, having, in perfect innocence, done
all in her power to set the children against the
governess, and to render that lady’s task as difficult
as it well could be.
THE GOVERNESS. 27
Poor Mrs. Abel! Had you known what was pass-
ing at’ Combe Astley that morning, as you sat quietly
in the pleasant drawing-room at Rangley Park, talk-
ing so cheerfully to Mrs. De Verrie of your new
pupils,—of your kind hopes and plans for their
good and amusement,—of the interest which you
already felt in them and their gentle, amiable mother,
and of the love which you were longing to bestow
upon them ; had you but seen all that was passing in
their hearts about you, would you not have been
ready to give them up for ever, and with them the
pleasant prospect of remaining so near the pupil
whom you must leave, and whom you love as a
daughter and a friend—so near to her mother whom
you esteem and look up to, and whom also you have
learnt to love for her worth, in spite of her bluat
manner ?
Lady Astley need not have feared that because
Mrs. De Verrie was blunt in her manner and strong
in her mind, her daughter’s governess must of neces-
sity possess the same characteristics. No two women
could be more different than Mrs. De Verrie and
Mrs. Abel: the latter was an amiable, though ec-
centric, person, whom, when well known, it was im-
possible not to love, wherein she bore a much stronger
resemblance to the lady whose house she was about
to enter than to the lady whose house she was about
to leave. For although Mrs. De Verrie’s very good
sense and real kindness of heart had gained her many
true friends, yet it is right to remark that there
still remained a considerable number among her acs
28 THE GOVERNESS.
quaintance who found no difficulty whatever in not
loving her at all :—for many are those who are influ-
enced in their likes and dislikes far more by manner
than by sterling worth.
Meantime, as Mrs. Abel had no idea of the feelings
with which her new pupils and their mother were
awaiting her arrival, she went upstairs with a light
heart to put on her bonnet and shaw] for her drive,—
for she was one of those happy individuals who
possess the enviable faculty of looking always on the
sunny side,—and although she grieved much at the
prospect of parting with the De Verries, she could
not forget that she should be but seven miles from
them ; and besides, this was but a preliminary visit—
the parting hour was not yet come.
And so Reginald and Mrs. Abel set off in the dog-
cart, while Laura watched them drive away, and
turned into the house, with tears in her eyes, as she
thought how soon, how very soon, the day would
come when her friend would drive away from that
house for ever—only to return as an occasional
visitor.
Laura was not hopeful and cheerful, like her go-
verness; she “enjoyed bad health,†as people say,
though it would be difficult to imagine what enjoy-
ment is to be found in that luxury. Weak nerves,
too, were her sad portion; and the spirits of her
mother and brother being often too much for her, she
knew that she must sadly miss the more gentle and
congenial spirit of Mrs. Abel, with whom alone did
she venture to throw off the reserve which was
THE GOVERNESS. 23
natural to her. In every-day life she had been
accustomed to seek for comfort and companionship
in the cheerfulness of her governess ;—but, had these
two characters been tried in the battle of life,
Laura’s would have proved the stronger of the two ;
for she possessed what Mrs. Abel lacked—decision of
character. But the one did not know her want, nor
the other her power. With all her low spirits and her
bad health, Laura would have made a better governess
for the little Astlevs than poor, happy, good Mrs.
Abel, in spite of all her good-will and spirits. Mrs.
Abel’s eccentricities of dress and manner were
highly calculated to excite the ridicule of two lively,
clever children like Grace and Bertram, who would
hardly be able to detect the real sterling worth con-
cealed beneath much that was truly absurd.
But all things that be, are ordained for the best,—
“even’’—as a lady was once heard to remark—“ even
that rabbits should have long ears, though we know
not why;†and therefore, no doubt, it was for some
good end that Laura’s decision and sense should be
shut up in the drawing-room at Rangley Park, or
should drive listlessly among the deep shady lanes of
the country; while Mrs. Abel’s indecision and weak
judgment should be employed in the laborious task of
curbing the youthful tempers of, and instilling all
possible virtues and accomplishments into, Grace and
Bertram Astley.
Laura De Verrie is sitting in her large pleasant
window, watching the hay-makers pile up the huge
cocks of hay in the field beyond her own peculiar
30 THE GOVERNESS.
garden, among the flower-beds of which her beautiful
large St. Bernard dog is lazily reposing, watching
for his young mistress to appear; and the sweet
scent of the hay is wafted to her by the gentle
breeze, which ever and anon lifts and turns with a
fluttering noise the leaves of the book which rests
beside her; and Laura wonders whether she means to
go out or to stay where she is, in dreamy listlessness,
and then wonders again at the activity of her mother,
who now appears below, decked in a huge sun-bonnet,
and armed with a basket and a pair of scissors, passing
through the smaller garden to reach her own, where
she intends to spend the next hour in cutting roses;
while Mrs. Abel and Reginald discourse cheerfully as
the dog-cart bowls rapidly along the high road, and
the splendid thoroughbred, which is Reginald’s pecu-
liar pride and favourite, arches his beautiful head
and pricks up his small ears as his master whistles
to him and he steps firmly along the smooth hard
road. In the mean time, Bertram and Grace
Astley are preparing for their first introduction to
their new governess, by hiding in the bushes near
the gate at which they expect her to enter. Bertram
had great ideas at first of jumping out and stabbing
her; but they dwindled down to the less heroic and
somewhat more feasible plan of frightening the horse,
in hopes that they might run away, and that “sheâ€
might be thrown out, and perhaps sprain or break
something, which happy accident would at least post-
pone her reign.
Lady Astley had told them her name, and that she
THE GOVERNESS. 31
was coming from Rangley, and they fancied that of
course she would come in the Rangley barouche.
When, therefore, they saw the dog-cart approaching,
it never entered their heads that “she†might pos-
sibly be in it, until Bertram exclaimed,—“ Why, it’s
Lofty !â€
“Then it must be Mr. De Verrie,†said Grace;
“for he told mamma he would not trust any one to
drive Lofty but himself,—and, if it is Mr. De Verrie,
perhaps she’s with him.†;
“Nonsense, Gracey—governesses never come in
dog-carts ;—who ever heard of such a thing?†ex-
claimed Bertram, who evidently laid claim to great
knowledge as to the natural history of governesses,
although he. had scarcely ever spoken to one in his
life, while his reading on the all-important subject
had been neither deep nor extensive.
“Tt zs her, though, depend upon it,†returned
Grace, as the dog-cart approached.
“Then,†said Bertram, solemnly, — being con-
vinced in spite of himself, —“then, Gracey, I
can’t jump out— Lofty mustn’t be frightened,—
but you are my witness that I solemnly declare
that I will make her a most dreadful face as she '
passes—a face that must frighten her into fits if
she gets a good view of it; and you must make
one too.â€
“ Oh, no, Bertram—not me.â€
“ Grace, I command you!â€â€™ said the boy, raising his
finger with an imperative gesture,—“ I command you,
on your allegiance! Remember, boys are made to
32 THE GOVERNESS.
command, and girls to obey. I heard my father say
so to mamma the other day.â€
Grace was always easily quelled by Bertram, espe-
cially when he used fine words which neither of them
understood, a little practice in which he delighted.
Therefore, she prepared to obey as the dog-cart
approached the gate.
33
CHAPTER III.
THE GOVERNESS ON THE HAYSTACK.
THE groom jumped down to open. the gate, and the
cart whisked past the children, who instantly pushed
their little faces out of the bushes, and made two of
the most hideous faces upon record at the retreating
form of their new governess; but it unfortunately
happened that Reginald had caught sight of Gracey’s
bonnet in the bushes, and guessing that they would
rather not be spoken to, he contented himself with
laughingly telling Mrs. Abel, with a nod towards
them en passant, that “there were her pupils watch-
ing for her;†in consequence of which, that lady
turned her head just in time to get the view of.
Bertram’s face, which he had foretold must send her
into fits. It had not, however, the desired effect.
Mrs. Abel laughed heartily, and remarked that
“they must be very funny children, and so different
from dear Laura ;—and therefore all the better for
me, you know, though nothing could be more perfect
than she is, dear girl; but then, you know, it is always
an advantage to one to have fresh characters to
study.â€
Reginald made no reply, the perfection of his sister
D
34 THE GOVERNESS ON THE HAYSTACK.
being one of the points at which he was at variance
with Mrs. Abel; for, whereas she would persist in
seeing no faults in Laura, he could not but lament
her extreme indolence’ and reserve, while he felt that
she was capable of better things, and would have
given worlds to induce her to make a friend and com-
panion of himself, instead of being satisfied with
the weak, friendly cheerfulness of her amiable
governess.
Arrived at the house, they were ushered into the
great drawing-room, where Lady Astley awaited their
arrival. She was really glad to see Reginald, and as
it was not in her nature to be ungracious to any one,
Mrs. Abel could not but be charmed with the recep-
tion she met with.
“T have brought you one, Lady Astley,†said Mr.
De Verrie, “ who, I am sure, will prove as great an
acquisition to your family as she will be a loss to
ours.â€
Lady Astley secretly wished the loss was to be hers
and the acquisition theirs, and yet she felt at once that
she had nothing to fear from the overbearing conduct
of the possessor of that bright, washed-out looking
face, with the funny, twinkling little eyes, and the
thick, soft, old-fashioned flaxen curls, reposing in two
huge masses on the forehead.
Reginald went on: “I can hardly believe that you
have never seen Mrs. Abel before, so well and so long
as I have had the pleasure of knowing you both; but
my sister’s long residence abroad must be the reason ;
and as I suppose you will have a great deal to say to
THE GOVERNESS ON THE HAYSTACK. 85
Mrs. Abel, I will take a turn out and leave her with
you.â€
Lady Astley begged him to stay, as all particulars
had been arranged by letter, and she felt a slight
tremor at the idea of being so soon deprived of the
support which the presence of a third person afforded
her.
“T think I have no secrets to discuss with Mrs.
Abel as yet,†said she, nervously, but with her
sweetest smile; “and indeed I had rather you should
stay, unless you wish to go to see after your beau-
tiful horse, for I know that you do not think a groom
fit to touch him ;—but ours are quite used to our
horses and to yours too, so often as you come. I am
always glad to see you,— and the children love
to see you ride Lofty,—you are so clever with
horses ; and indeed,’ and she turned to Mrs. Abel,
“T do think it ought to form a part of every boy’s
education, and girl’s as well. I hope you agree with
me Pâ€
Her ladyship waited for a reply, which Mrs. Abel
gave in the form of the usual small laugh with which
she was in the habit of beginning her sentences, and
a “Certainly,†while she wondered to herself, with
slight trepidation, whether Lady Astley could pos-
sibly really:mean that all boys and girls should be
taught to be clever with horses, and if so whether she,
Mrs. Abel, should be required to teach this accom-
plishment.
Lady Astley was quite satisfied with this her first
little attempt at gaining for her children some promise
v2
36 THE GOVERNESS ON THE HAYSTACK.
of their accustomed liberty, and on the strength of it
she said: “I should like you to see your little pupils,
Mrs. Abel; I am sure you will soon learn to love
them; and, as they are very shy, T am anxious that
the first meeting should be over. I don’t think you
will have any very great difficulty with them, if once
they can be got to look at you, for they are very
clever children. They take after their father, and
always know what they wish to do, which is a very
good thing,—at least 1 always think decision is most
desirable. They are far too clever for me, and I shall
be quite glad to turn them over to you, though I shall
wish to keep some of their lessons to myself at
first. As for poor dear Bertram, I do not think
he will ever conquer long division, although Grace
thinks it pleasant; and I often think he has a
great turn for mechanics, for when he was but two
years old we could never get him away from the well
in the yard. We can always tell a child’s natural taste
—do you not think so? I will ring for the children.’
Mrs. Abel being rather at aloss for an answer
to this complicated speech, contented herself with
another laugh.
“ J saw the children as we drove up,†said Reginald;
“so if you have no objection I will go and fetch them
myself. It would be hard upon them to have to say,
‘how do you do?’ to two people at once ;†and he
left the room.
There was a silence for a moment, broken by Mrs.
Abel, whose conscience had smitten her at the men-
tion of Bertram’s supposed taste for mechanics, know-
THE GOVERNESS. ON THE HAYSTACK. 37
ing, as she well did, that her own tastes lay in a
totally opposite direction.
Having sent forth her usual little laugh, as if to
pave the way, she said: “Your ladyship mentioned
mechanics. I feel it my duty to remark that I am
quite ignorant on the subject. It was never required
by Mrs. De Verrie; but though I think it right to
mention this, I have no doubt I can easily get up
enough of the science to be able to instruct your dear
little boy for years to come. Mrs. De Verrie, I know,
will be happy to render me any assistance in the
matter.â€
Mrs. Abel seldom used fine words or formal expres-
sions excepting on what she considered. as matters of
conscience; indeed, she was not often grave on any
other subject, and it was unlucky that she was so on
this occasion, for Lady Astley had been so entirely
satisfied with the manner in which her long rambling
speeches had been received, that she had really begun
to like the “ governess,†when this unhappy sentence,
and above all the double mention of her favourite
aversion, Mrs. De Verrie, gave her a cold chill of dis-
appointment.
“This is how it will be—I shall hear of. nothing
but the perfections of Mrs. De Verrie ‘from: morn-
ing till night,’ thought she, and she answered
with her usual gentleness, but a slight flush
on her cheeks: “Oh, it will not be necessary to
trouble Mrs. De Verrie at all—his lordship knows
everything, and settles everything of that sort;
and——â€
38 THE GOVERNESS ON THE HAYSTACK.
“No trouble whatever, I assure you; Mrs. De
Verrie will be too happy,†interrupted Mrs. Abel.
“T do not think Bertram has the slightest turn
that way now,†replied Lady Astley ; “ it was quite
a childish taste, and is quite gone,—ever since he
tumbled into the well from looking in too far.â€
Mrs. Abel was satisfied, and she made a movement
which she thought was a bow, but which was not;
and at this moment Reginald made his appearance
with the children. He had had little trouble in find-
ing them, but rather more in persuading them to
come in with him.
“JT am quite sure you will like Mrs. Abel,†said he ;
“she is not the least like the stiff, prim governess you
expect. She is not like a governess at all, but is very
funny, and says such odd, amusing things, that you
will be obliged to laugh ; and she laughs too, a great
deal more than I do, or you either.â€
“Will she go out with us?†anxiously inquired
Bertram.
« That will be as your mamma likes,†replied Regi-
nald; “but I think you will soon ask her to go of
your own accord. Why, I found my sister crying the
other day, because Mrs. Abel is going to leave her.
She quite envies you having her.â€
“T’m' sure she is very welcome to keep her!†was
the ungracious rejoinder. “She’s as deaf as a post,
and a great deal uglier.â€
“Who? Laura, or Mrs. Abel?†asked Reginald,
laughing.
“Oh, not Laura. I mean Mrs. Abel.â€
THE GOVERNESS ON THE HAYSTACK, 39
Reginald asked what made him think Mrs. Abel
deaf.
“TI heard you speak loud to her as you passed,â€
said he, as they reached the house.
Mrs. Abel met them with a cheerful “ How do you
do, dears? I have been longing to make your ac-
quaintance. I have seen you before, you know,—yes,
I saw the funny faces you made at me out of the
bushes,—very funny. Yes, I am sure we shall be
friends—yes.â€
The children coloured up to the eyes, while Lady
Astley looked rather shocked, and said,—
“ Indeed, I hope they were not so rude; I trust
you are mistaken.â€
“Oh! I dare say I a aN so, no doubt—oh,
yes,†rejoined Mrs. Abel.
“No, you are not,†said Bertani! in a hoarse, shy
voice; “TI did make a face at you, because I said I
would, and I made Gracey do it too.â€
“Funny children,†laughed Mrs. Abel; “ full of
fun, but shy as yet! Yes,—oh, I feel sure we sh: all
get on together. I am sure our tastes are just the
same. I can see they are used to be a great deal out
of doors; and so am I, you know, Mr. De Verrie,
with dear Laura,—yes, always out.â€
Bertram. longed to ask if Laura had a garden to
dig in; but he did not dare to speak again, though
he raised his eyes from the carpet, and took a good
look at Mrs. Abel, while she rattled on to Lady
Astley. Nobody was very sorry when Reginald said
it was time to go, for Mrs. Abel never was sorry in
40 THE GOVERNESS ON THE HAYSTACK.
her life; and Lady Astley had said all she had got to
say, and did not want to be at the trouble of making
more speeches.
Mrs. Abel was, as Reginald expected, in raptures
during the whole drive, about “that sweet Lady
Astley and those handsome children.†And on the
whole, Lady Astley was rather pleased than not with
this first interview with Mrs. Abel; while Bertram
confided to Grace that, “ after all, she was not so bad
2s he expected, but certainly a good deal uglier than
the old clerk,†who had hitherto been to their young
minds the ne plus udtra of all that is ugly. He
added, moreover: “ She laughs too much, and I think
we can manage her; but mind, Gracey, we must not
tell her any of our hiding-places, because we may
want some place of retreat if she is very savage, and
we can’t tell yet. I believe they generally begin by
being all right.â€
In a few days Mrs. Abel arrived to take up her
abode at Coombe Astley; and very dreary to the
children was their first school-room tea, presided over
by a real governess, instead of their own favourite
Emma, the second nurse, who now retired, vice Abel,
promoted. ‘They were rather cheered, however, by
hearing Mrs. Abel declare that nothing should induce
her to change the name of the room, unless their
mamma insisted upon it.
“Tt has been called the play room till now,â€
she said, “and why should we call it a school-
room? I hope we shall play in it as much ag
ever. I suppose the school work has been always
THE GOVERNESS ON THE HAYSTACK. 41
done here; and yet it has not been called a school-
room yet.â€
Bertram afterwards pronounced that she had spoken
like a sensible woman, and he shouldn’t wonder if
she were one after all. In afew days the children
learnt to like her; and Lady Astley discovered that
such a cheerful, happy spirit as Mrs. Abel’s was so
far from being a check to her comfort, that she sought
her society as much as possible after the daily lessons,
which she very speedily gave up to her entirely. Her
manner of teaching was very good, and in many
things the children unconsciously preferred it to their
mother’s. They felt that she took a more lively
interest in their beloved history ; and as for the long
division sum, it was in a fair way of being conquered.
‘When Mrs. Abel found how very welcome a visitor
she was at Lady Astley’s work-table, and that, how-
ever well she got on with the children during the
school hours and at meals, they still preferred perfect
liberty in their out of doors amusement, she very
willingly went with the tide, spending her spare time
almost entirely with Lady Astley, while the children
ran wild as before. This happy state of things lasted
for about three weeks, with no drawback but an occa.
sional, momentary uncomfortableness on Lady Astley’s
part at the very frequent mention of Mrs. De Verrie ;
but at the end of the three weeks, a letter arrived
from his lordship, announcing his speedy advent at
Coombe Astley. In consequence of which, as usual,
the children had to be caught up and dressed.
His lordship arrived, and was introduced to Mrs,
42 THE GOVERNESS ON THE HAYSTACK.
Abel, with whose old-fashioned appearance he was
somewhat startled. He did not, however, bestow a
second thought on the matter, but concluded that the
person who had educated so peculiarly ladylike a girl
as he had considered Miss De Verrie to be, the only
time he had ever seen her, must be perfectly compe-
tent to bring up his own little girl.
The day after his arrival, on entering the drawing-
room at half-past twelve o’clock, he was surprised to
find Mrs. Abel sitting there, reading aloud to his
wife. He raised his eyebrows, but said nothing,
and merely passed through the ‘foom, supposing the
children to be in the school-room. In another hour,
having occasion to return, he was still more surprised
at finding Mrs. Abel employed as before, while at the
same time he caught sight, through the open window,
of two little figures rushing across the lawn, one
trundling a wheelbarrow, and the other dragging
a spade. Lady Astley looked up as he shut the door,
and said, in her usual calm voice,—
“T thought you were gone to Gatesford for the day,
my love? You said you should go at twelve.â€
“did; but the man whom I wished to see came
to me,†said his lordship shortly; and he turned to
Mrs. Abel, and continued, “ May I ask where your
pupils are at this moment ?â€
“Oh, certainly ;†and Mrs. Abel gave her usual
little laugh. “I don’t in the least know where they
are, or what they meant to do this morning; but I
have no doubt I can find them directly. Shall I go?â€
And without waiting for a reply, the good woman
THE GOVERNESS ON THE HAYSTACK. 43
began to trot out of the room with a gait peculiar to
herself. Lord Astley stopped her.
“ Oh, no trouble, I assure you,’’ she began.
“ A trouble which I could wish you spared,â€
returned his lordship with an awful dignity, that
struck even Mrs. Abel dumb for the moment.
“Lady Astley, I fear, has been sadly wanting in her
duty, both to you and to her children, for I cannot
suppose that a lady so highly recommended by my
friend Mrs. De Verrie, would betray the trust re-
posed in her. I must beg you to be seated while I
explain myself. Lady Astley was perfectly compe-
tent to the education of her children, as you must be
well aware, but her health, and—and—numerous
avocations,’â€Â»â€”he glanced at the huge piece of work
on which her ladyship was engaged, and cleared his
throat,—* prevented her from—from—keeping them
with her during the whole day. Under these circum-
stances, therefore, we thought it best to engage a
person who—who—who—in short, could be con-
stantly with them, and train them, especially my
daughter in those habits of elegance and good-
breeding which are so essential to them, and in
which I have great reason to fear they are too de-
ficient. I had hoped and expected that Lady Astley
would have explained this herself, as I was unfortu-
nately absent from home at the time of your arrival ;
but I see that she has left it for me to do. I trust
we now understand one another.â€â€ And his lordship
rose to leave the room, while Mrs. Abel, who had
44 THE GOVERNESS ON THE HAYSTACK.
ample time to recover herself during this long speech,
hastened to say,—
“Oh, I assure your lordship I shall be delighted
to be always with the dear children. I never left
Laura De Verrie—sweet girl! and Mrs. De Verrie
used often to say, ‘Mrs. Abel, I mistook you for
Laura’s shadow!’ and she has written to me twice
to say how she misses her shadow—dear girl !—yes!â€
Lord Astley bowed, and left the room, and soon
after the house—having given a blow to the peace of
his household,—a blow which was destined to revert
upon his own head in a manner of which he little
dreamed.
From this day forward commenced a system of
petty battles between the young Astleys and their
governess, for while she was cheerfully striving to
fulfil their father’s commands, and never to lose
sight of them, they, unable to comprehend this
sudden change in her tactics, or to bear the constant
surveillance over their movements, were again begin-
ning to indulge in all their ancient and almost for-
gotten hatred for governesses, and to listen to all the
foolish nonsense which servants are in general but
too ready to talk to children on the subject.
Mrs. Abel was not judicious. She changed too
suddenly, from leaving them quite to themselves to
the opposite extreme; and, in spite of her great good
nature, they were highly indignant, and rejoiced in
what they considered as Bertram’s wisdom in “ not
being taken in by her at first.â€
THE GOVERNESS ON THE HAYSTACK. 45
“Didn’t I tell you, Gracey,†said he, “that they
all begin fairly, but they are sure to turn out villains
at last. Now, you see how wise it was not to tell her
our hiding-places. To-morrow, when she goes to put
on her bonnet to walk with us, we will slip out and
hide.â€
Grace was quite willing; and, with her usual
thought for Bertram’s comfort, she slipped into her
pocket one of his favourite story-books, well knowing
that he would think it no fun to sit in a hole for an
hour or two in idleness. Bertram had been equally
thoughtful for her comfort, and perhaps for his own,
in another line ; for he had secured a large basket of
fruit, and concealed it not far from the stack which
he intended should serve as their hiding-place that
day. Accordingly, as soon as Mrs. Abel retired to
put on her bonnet, the children flew down to the hall,
and seizing their little hats, ran as fast as they could
across the lawn, and through the shrubbery, to the
rickyard beyond. Bertram set a ladder against a half-
consumed haystack, and Gracey ran up it, followed
speedily by her brother and his basket. Here, in a
most delicious recess, they made themselves a very
comfortable nest, and prepared to enjoy the bool
and fruit to their hearts’ content.
They had not been there more than half an hour,
however, before they heard a well-known and rather
eracked, but eminently cheerful voice, inquiring of
somebody if “ Master Bertram and Miss Astley had
passed that way.’ “Somebody†answered that he
“ didn’t know not nuffin about ’em.â€
46 THE GOVERNESS ON THE TAYSTACK.
The children peeped out, and saw poor Mrs. Abel
toiling along over the rough ground which sur-
rounded the rickyard, holding her dress very high,
and every now and then putting her hand up to
shade her eyes while she looked anxiously around in
search of them.
« Come back, Grace—she’ll see us,†said Bertram ;
and they retreated into their nest, and went on eating
their fruit.
Presently a little rustling was heard below the
stack, and somebody muttered, “ They can’t be up
here—but I may as well see—yes ;—they do get into
such odd places—yes ;â€â€™â€”and then a heavy step was
put on the ladder, and began slowly to ascend.
“he'll never climb the ladder!†whispered
Bertram.
“Tmpossible—a governess on a ladder !â€â€ responded
his faithful copy; but, at the same time, the hard
breathing, as of one using unwonted exertions, was
heard to approach, and presently a huge straw bonnet
with yellow bows appeared slowly arising bove the.
top of the stack, and in another minute a pair of small
laughing eyes met theirs; and with her well-known
laugh, their governess exclaimed, “Ah, you little
rogues, I have caught you! How pleasant! Why,
you never told me where you were going to! Don’t
move, loves—don’t move!†as they began to creep
out of their den; “1 should like to join you—yes—
I’ve got my book too, and we'll make a merry little
party—if I could but get over the ladder to you.â€
“There isn’t room, I’m afraid,†said Gracey, with a
THE GOVERNESS ON THE HAYSTACK. 47
sinking heart, as the conviction forced itself upon her
of the utter impossibility of escaping from such an
enterprizing governess—one who was not even to be
stopped by a ladder.
“Yes, there is room,†said Bertram. “Hush,
Gracey !—Lots of room, Mrs. Abel. Come on; I’ll
pull you up;†and he whispered to his sister,
“Better to have her up here than to take a sober
walk with her down there.â€
Besides, Bertram’s heart was always touched by
anything like courage, even in a woman; and so it
was with a good will that he lent his small strength
to assist Mrs. Abel over the top of the ladder and
into their little nest. The three then busied them-
selves in arranging a place for the new arrival, and
finally settled down very happily to their fruit and
books, till they were roused by the sound of horses’
feet on the soft turf in the distance.
Bertram stood up to reconnoitre, and perceived a
lady and gentleman on horseback cantering up the
park, while their pleasant ringing voices were borne
to him by the breeze, which lightly lifted his own
dark curls and the eccentric flaxen ones of his odd
governess. A large dog ran before the riders; and as
soon as Bertram perceived him, he waved his cap, and
exclaimed, “It is Norna—here, Norna! here, here,
he-re!â€â€ Norna being the name of Laura De Verrie’s
dog.
Mrs. Abel immediately essayed to spring upon her
feet, to see what members of the Rangley family she.
might expect to greet; but, in the rapidity of her
48 THE GOVERNESS ON THE HAYSTACK.
movement, she managed to entangle her feet in her
dress in such a manner that she was forced to sink
upon her knees, where she still remained, engaged in
frantic and fruitless efforts to extricate her feet from
her torn dress, and to regain her command of them,
when Reginald and Laura De Verrie drew in their
reins as they neared the stack. Laura’s astonishment
and Reginald’s amusement at the position of their
ci-devant governess was extreme. Mrs. Abel on her
knees, plunging violently on the top of a haystack—
an eminence which, to the best of their belief, she
must have attained by means of a ladder—was &
spectacle which they never could have imagined, even
in the hours of their most juvenile romancing.
“Qh, my love—Laura! how delighted—how en-
chanted I am to see you! Wait a minute—I am
coming down,†said Mrs. Abel in an ecstasy of delight
and perfect unconsciousness of the oddity of her
situation. As she spoke, she succeeded in regaining
her feet; and, advancing to the side of the stack, she
seized the top of the ladder, and prepared to descend,
—first, by peeping down it, and then by putting one
foot on the second step, very far in advance of the
rest of her body,—talking rapidly the whole time.
Jo nice of you to come—L quite long to kiss you—
how am I to get down ?—so very nice—oh, backwards,
perhaps,†—and here she turned suddenly round, and
waved one leg out behind her in search of the ladder,
by which means she managed to kick it completely
down, and, losing her own balance, she fell forward
on her face on the stack, and only saved herself from
THE GOVERNESS ON THE HAYSTACK. ' 49
slipping quite off by catching hold of a thong which
confined one of the trusses of hay.
“Stay,†exclaimed Reginald, as he jumped from his
horse, and flung the rein to his sister, “ T’ll take you
down—though how or why you got up there surpasses
the power of man to comprehend ;†and with that he
replaced the ladder against the stack, assisted Mrs.
Abel to put her feet firmly on the steps, and soon
placed her in safety on the ground. The children
followed; and the little party set out for the house,
Laura reining in her horse to keep back to Mrs.
Abel’s odd trot, and Reginald leading his in advance,
with Bertram and Grace by his side.
50
CHAPTER IV.
THE ROBBERS’ DEN.
Reread Dz Verziz had been curious to see how
the children were getting on with their governess, but
he had thought it best to keep aloof for some time.
On this day, however, he had persuaded his sister to
ride over with him to call on Lady Astley, and see
what was going on, and he was not a little surprised
at this first coup d’eil. He managed, in the course
of the visit, to get a few quiet words with Mrs. Abel,
and he immediately inquired whether it was her usual
custom at Combe Astley to pass the mornings on a hay-
stack with her pupils. She laughed good-humouredly,
and gave him an account of her interview with Lord
Astley, which had obliged her to make so thorough a
change in her first most successful management of
the children, and so entirely overthrown the happy
arrangement which enabled her to devote half her
time to them and half to their mother, to the mutual
satisfaction of all parties. Reginald advised her to try
to win the little rebels by some of the long stories in
which his sister used to delight, and for which Mrs.
Abel was famous. She was enchanted at the idea,
and, sanguine as usual, had not the smallest doubt of
its success; and Reginald and Laura rode off, having
THE ROBBERS’ DEN. 5 51
actually obtained a promise from Lady Astley that
“one of these days†Mrs. Abel and tke two children
should spend a long morning at Rangley Park.
The next day Mrs. Abel, with hearty good will,
essayed the “story cure; but homeopathy, or the
water-cure, might have been tried with equal success.
Her happy fairy tales, in which everything went right,
and everybody had what everybody wished, exactly at
the moment everybody wished for it, and the most
marvellous feats were performed as if by magie, had
no charms for children whose chief pleasure in. that
line was derived from sterner and far more noble
accounts of Spartan fortitude and Roman heroism,
and who delighted yet more in racing wild over hill
and dale without any stories or books whatever.
They made several more attempts at escape, and
various and strange were the hiding-places they
selected; but in vain: Mrs. Abel was sure to find
them out. This went on for some days; but at
length Bertram hit upon a plan which, though
slightly indefinite, was so full of delightful mystery
and uncertainty that he felt sure it could not fail of
success.
“ Gracey,†said he, “we have been foolish to waste
our time in trying to hide so near home ;—besides,
now she knows pretty well where to look for us. We
must go a long way off, and I have settled where. The
Robbers’ Den in Combe Wood will be the very place;
and we will not go there only just to get away from
her in play-time, we will regularly go and live there.
Don’t interrupt me,â€â€”as Grace began eagerly with a
E2
52 THE ROBBERS’ DEN.
“ But.’ “Listen, and I will explain my plans. Ihave
thought about it for an immense time—ever since her
nasty long story about the magic cave.â€
“That was yesterday,†put in Grace.
“Was it ?—well, never mind when;—but I didn’t
" tell you before, because girls never can keep secrets,
and I don’t know what mightn’t happen if she heard
this. Now, what I mean to do is this. We must,
by degrees, get everything that we can possibly want
down to the den, and when it is quite ready we shall
go and live there. Even if she knows where we are,
I know. she’ll never dare to come, because she
must cross the park, and she is a horrid coward at
cows.â€
“But she might tell,†suggested Grace.
“ We'll find a way to stop her mouth,†said Bertram,
mysteriously ; “ besides, she never could find out. So
now my commands to you are, to collect together
all the things we can possibly want for a very long
time.â€
“ What sort of things?†said Grace.
“ Oh, I don’t know—everything—anything you can
get; we can’t have too much ; but that’s your part.
You know women must know best about keeping
house and all that.â€
Grace felt quite grown up at this sentence, and
said, “Perhaps I had better make a list for you to
look over.â€
“Ah, yes, that might be better,’ said Bertram,
with a consequential little nod: “ meantime, I shall
vrovide a basket of fruit, and the heavy things—
THE ROBBERS’ DEN. 53
railroad wrappers, I mean, and pillows, that would be
too heavy for a woman to carry.â€
“ But,†said Grace, “ when shall we: be able to get
them down—it is such a way ?â€
“Leave that to me,†said Bertram, with another
mysterious look.
“ What shall we do to amuse ourselves in the den,
—shan’t we get tired of it ?’? was Grace’s next idea.
“No,†replied Bertram, deliberately ; “nog I think
not. Don’t forget Pinnock’s ‘Rome,’ and ‘The
Gipsies,’ and ‘Highwaymen and Robbers,’ and that
will do for us.â€
Grace ran off to make the list, which she slipped
into her brother’s hand next day as they went into
dinner. It was much as follows :—
Meat—a great deal, Books and fruit. (B)
A paper of salt. Our cross-bows.
Ditto of sugar. A knife. String.
Loosifer matches and box. Ralerode rappers.
Needles, and pins, and thread. Pilows.
Bertram graciously approved the list, adding of his
own accord the item “arrows,†and remarking that
they need not be particular about “meat,†for they
could easily shoot rabbits with their bows ; and besides,
they might creep out at night and get a chicken from
their own poultry-yard if they liked. ‘“ Remember
to take knives and forks and spoons though,†added
he, as he left the room where this important confer-
ence had been held. ,
This new plan occupied the children for some days,
and Mrs. Abel was perfectly satisfied that she had at
54 THE ROBBERS’ DEN.
last. found the way to their hearts, through the
delight they took, as she imagined, in her stories ;
for Bertram had pronounced it necessary to throw
Mrs. Abel off her guard by being perfectly tractable
till all their preparations for flight were complete.
‘This conduct had another and most unhoped-for
effect, extremely favourable to the children’s plans.
Mrs. Abel, finding them so quiet and so rapidly losing
their wild ways and untidy habits, began gradually to
leave them more alone, and even occasionally gave
them a whole afternoon to themselves, while she
devoted herself to Lady Astley, who was becoming
quite fond of her.
Thege times were seized upon with avidity by the
children to convey by slow degrees all their little
goods and chattels, and many other things besides, to
the “ Robbers’ Den,†with which name they dignified
a large cave which they imagined was known only to
themselves. It was situated at. the farthest end of a
very ancient wood, which bounded the park on the
side nearest Rangley. It had probably been the
resort of smugglers in days gone by, as Combe Astley
was but two miles distant from the sea, on the
southern coast; and the surrounding country had
been much pestered by the free-traders in the younger
days of these children’s father ; and even now, although
they were seldom heard of elsewhere, the peaceful
inhabitants of Combe Astley, Rangley Park, and the
surrounding neighbourhood, were occasionally enter-
tained rather than alarmed by the intelligence that a
small schooner, supposed to be a smuggler, had been
THE ROBBERS’ DEN. 55
seen off Pester, the small fishing village nearest Lord
Astley’s park; and the coastguard was at times
known to keep a sharp look-out in that quarter. The
ground was very rocky about the cave, which was
itself partly natural and partly artificial. The ruins
of an old cottage stood some paces behind it, consist-
ing merely of three shattered walls, and a space
showing where a fireplace had been; while immedi-
ately below the ruin, from which the ground descended
abruptly on each side, was a dark pond, the waters of
which were almost black from the rich loamy earth
of the place, and cold—to the children’s fancy—
with a supernatural coldness. This pond was com-
pletely shut in by trees, excepting on the side of the
ruin. Sombre and heavy were the trees,—massive,
and bending under the weight of their huge boughs;
bending forward over the dark waters, as if they were
trying to catch a glimpse of their own huge forms
below. Lower and lower they bend, and lower still,
the farther from the ruin, till one mighty monarch is
laid low in the waters; and lighter brushwood and
creeping moss have grown over his prostrate form in
rich luxuriance, and have stolen among his dead,
leafless branches, into the cold waters beneath.
The park-wall was very low here, almost touching
the ruin, and running by the side of the pond,
although completely hid by the trees and brushwood.
The lane leading to Rangley on the left, and Pester
on the right, was on the other side of the wall; but
it was a deep, rough lane, very little used excepting
by visitors between Rangley Park and Combe Astley,
56 THE ROBBERS’ DEN.
and the poor inhabitants of Pester, who brought fish
to either place.
Most children would have been afraid to ap-
proach so gloomy a spot as the one just described ;
but Bertram’s habits of independence and daring,
and, above all, his familiarity, with the place from his
very babyhood, made him fearless regarding it, and
Grace considered him protection enough under any
circumstances and in any place.
In this cave, therefore, the children had already
collected and concealed a great part of what they
considered necessary, even to the knives and forks
and spoons, when Reginald De Verrie rode over again,
to persuade Lady Astley to fix a day for the visit to
Rangley. Her ladyship was with very little trouble
induced to consent that the expedition should take
place on the following day; and, accordingly, at half-
past eleven the next morning, the children, attired in
their most worldly garments, plunged into the
barouche after Mrs. Abel, and set out for Rangley
Park, scarcely pleased with the unwonted indulgence,
as they grudged the interruption to their important
preparations, were afraid of Mrs. De Verrie, did not
care for Laura, and hated their fine clothes. The
holiday, however, was something, and the prospect of
seeing Lofty, Norna, Laura’s tame rabbits, and Regi-
nald was still more.
They had to skirt Combe Wood for some way, and
as they neared the spot where a glimpse of the ruin
was visible, Bertram thought it prudent to direct
Mrs. Abel’s attention to some object in an opposite
THE ROBBERS’ DEN. 57
direction, and to talk very fast, as if Le feared that
the railroad wrappers and books would be discoursing
in a loud voice, or the spoons, knives, and forks play-
ing at hide-and-seek outside the wood.
Mrs. Abel, thinking no evil, was quite ready to look
in any direction that anybody pleased, and Bertram
was able to bestow a triumphant smile upon Grace,
as, having quitted the park and turned up the lane
in the Rangley direction, they again passed the ruin,
but this time yet nearer, though separated by the
park-wall, and he again repeated his little mariceuvre
with equal success. Grace did not observe his glance,
however; for, less wary, she was gazing with all her
might and eyes into the wood. Bertram felt quite
vexed at her want of caution, and touched her foot
with his, under the seat, to recall her to her senses.
The effect was instantaneous; but she took the first
opportunity of whispering, when Mrs. Abel was look-
ing the other way, “ Secretus portentus,â€â€ which were
the words the children had agreed upon to be uttered
as a sign-whenever they had anything important to
say to one another about their beloved secret. Ber-
tram told Grace that it was Latin for “important
secret,†and she entirely believed it, and thought that
she was very lucky in possessing a brother who could
teach her Latin if he chose. Bertram nodded in
answer to her whisper, but troubled his head little
about the matter, for Grace’s pride in the words often
induced her to cry wolf when there was none.
The day passed happily with Mrs. Abel and Ber-
tram. Grace would have enjoyed it too, but for her
58 THE ROBBERS’ DEN.
anxiety to speak to her brother alone, for she really
had seen something that gave her some alarm as to
the safety of their hiding-place, and still more of its
now somewhat valuable contents. At Rangley it was
impossible to get Bertram alone for one minute, and
it was not till after their return home, when Mrs.
Abel was gone to take off her bonnet, and the chil-
dren were waiting for tea, that she was able to tell
him what she had seen.
It will be remembered that the park-wall was low
on the side of the Rangley lane, and there was a
gap in the thick foliage exactly opposite the ruin.
Through this gap Grace had distinctly seen two
figures, both of men,—the one standing on the top
of the hillock beneath which was their “ Robbers’
Den,†and the other creeping among the brushwood
in the direction of the pond. Grace finished this
account, in a state of great excitement, by saying,—
“This shows that some people in the world do
know the place as well as ourselves,—beggars or
robbers, perhaps; and O, Bertram, the silver spoons !
What can we do? Ihave been thinking of them all
day. We must get them back to-night somehow, if
they are not already gone, and never, never take
them out again.â€
Bertram “ pooh-poohedâ€â€™ it at first, and tried to
quiet her with his usual “ Nonsense, Gracey!†add-
ing,—
“They might be there all day and never find out
the cave, and they might be in the cave for a week
and not find any of the things. Don’t you know we
THE ROBBERS’ DEN. 59
hid them quite deep in the dark part, where few
people would dare to go.â€
But he could not help being rather alarmed him-
self; and at last he promised that he would go out
directly after tea, and run down to bring back the
spoons,—if they were still to be found, which poor
Gracey almost despaired of. He did so accordingly,
and, in avery short space of time re-appeared, singing
as he entered the drawing-room, where his mother
and Mrs. Abel and Grace were sitting,—
““T’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming, °
Where the honeysuckle’s sweet ;
And I’m coming, and I’m coming,
With xo dust upon my feet.â€
The words “no dust’? being pronounced with em-
phasis, for this was another of those secret signs in ,
which these children delighted; the words being
changed to “lots of dust,†if any little plan in which
they were engaged had failed; while by “no dustâ€
Grace ‘understood that all was right, and the spoons
safe in the house again.
Lord Astley came home the next day, positively for
one night only, and Mrs. Abel flew at him in the full
assurance of his sharing her own exuberant joy at the
success of her entire obedience to his orders} and was
slightly shocked by the quiet unconcern with which
he received her report. She could not help, however,
giving him an account of the manner in which she
and her pupils passed every half-hour in the day, and
was rewarded for her pains by a few cold words ex-
pressive of his opinion that it was highly unnecessary
60 TILE ROBBERS’ DEN.
to devote so much time to exercise and relaxation,
and that, at all events, “a few hours in the afternoon
might be reserved for study; two hours only in the
morning were not, in his opinion, enough for the
education of children, who were row, he believed, in
their tenth year.†,
Accordingly, the next day, poor Mrs. Abel cheer-
fully, but reluctantly, informed Bertram and Grace
that they must come to the play-room at four o’clock,
for “just a few more lessons,†as she expressed it.
Bertram was indignant. Such an infringement
upon the rights of freeborn British children was not
to be borne. Measures must be taken immediately,
and a whispered “Secretus portentus’’ summoned
Grace to a conference.
“Grace,†he began, “I cannot stand this,—my
mind is made up. We must run away to-night.â€
The short, stern sentences, and. the “ Grace,†had
their due effect upon her,—for Bertram never called
her anything but “ Gracey,†excepting on occasions
of great importance, or wnen he was angry with her.
She made no opposition to his proposal therefore, and
he went on,—
“T have been thinking seriously about the men
you saw near the ‘Robbers’ Den;’ and though they
might have been only village boys, I do not think
it would be safe for us to stay there long. I might
bribe them not to tell, certainly (for I have five shil- .
lings in my purse); but it would be safer to go still
farther off, and—do not be frightened—I mean to go
to sea. We will creep out of the house to-night, and
THE ROBBERS’ DEN. 61
walk to Pester, where I will get on board a ship, and
work my way out as cabin-boy, as many great men
have done before me.â€
Grace’s first thought was a pang of desolation
at the idea of Bertram’s leaving her; but, unselfish
in her nature, she discussed his plans for some
minutes before she even asked how she was to get
back from Pester alone. Bertram’s ideas on this
point were highly indefinite.
“Perhaps, after all, Gracey, you had better stay
behind,†was his suggestion at length; but she
scorned the idea of deserting him, and, at all events,
would see him safe on his road, before she returned
to have her tongue cut out, or endure any other of
the tortures which Bertram assured her it was highly
probable Mrs. Abel or his father would think fit to
inflict upon her to extort from her the secret of his
retreat.
At eight o’clock, as usual, the children went to bed.
Grace slept in a small room, opening into the
one occupied by Mrs. Abel, and Bertram in just
such another close by. Mrs. Abel’s room and the
play-room fronted the park, while the children’s
rooms formed the angle of the house, and their
windows opened on to a balcony, directly in front
of the dark bushes which formed the boundary of
the park and the beginning of the shrubbery. A
flight of steps led from the balcony into a narrow
walk below.
Bertram desired Grace to be ready for him at half-
past ten, at which time the whole household would be
62 THE ROBBERS’ DEN.
in repose, as Lady Astley kept very early hours in
the absence of her husband.
Grace lay awake as long as she could; in fact, till
long after the time fixed, but at last, although she
even tried holding her eyes open with her hands, she
could not help falling asleep; and when she was
roused, it was not by Bertram’s tap at the window, or
knock at the wall which separated their rooms, but
by the usual “It’s half-past seven, Miss Astley,â€
from Emma.
Next morning Grace was rather afraid Bertram
would be angry with her, but he was too thoroughly
ashamed of having been himself overpowered by sleep
when in the agonies of listening for the striking of
each quarter of an hour, to dare even to meet her eye
at the breakfast-table, much less to be angry with
her; and when Grace found an opportunity of beg-
ging his pardon in most humble terms, he was gra-
ciously pleased to pass over the offence. For this
day, therefore, they were obliged to submit to the
four-o’clock lessons, and before they went to bed
Bertram told Grace that he had been thinking that it
would be better for her to come to his room at the hour
fixed, instead of the first plan of his going to her;
“for,†said he, “you are so much nearer Mrs. Abel,
and, of course, the less noise made in your room the
better; so as soon as you hear that all is quiet, come
and whistle three times, with a turn in the last, close
to my window; I shall come to it directly, and say
‘Pax?’ You must answer ‘Proprius Gracius,’
which is Latin for ‘ Your faithful Grace,’ and then I
THE ROBBERS’ DEN. 63
shall know it is you, and shall come directly.†“ Very
well,†said Grace, delighted at the grandeur and
mystery of the plan, “‘ Proprius Gracius ;’ I shall re-
member,’ and she repeated the words to herself till
everything seemed to say them. The servants walked
to the sound, the younger children cried them, and
the lively country dances, which Mrs. Abei played to
amuse them after tea, said “Proprius Gracius’’ so
plainly that Grace was almost afraid Mrs. Abel
herself must hear them, and, by some mysterious
connection, through them discover the whole plot!
Grace possessed a peculiar talent often to be seen
in grown persons, but seldom in children—a talent
which can be acquired with very little trouble by
those who have any determination or strength of will,
—namely, the power of waking herself at any time
that she chose. Accordingly, although she got into
bed, and even dozed for some half-hours, she woke
up thoroughly just as the large garden-clock struck
ten; at the same time she heard the drawing-room
bell ring, the door shut, and her mother’s gentle step
and rustling dress on the stairs, accompanied by Mrs.
Abel’s heavy trot, and the peculiar noise made by the
knocking of the extinguishers against the hand can-
dlesticks at each step taken by their bearers; she
heard the subdued voices at the top of the stairs ;
Mrs. Abel’s occasional breaking all bounds in an
hysterical word, with her odd laugh, and Lady Ast-
ley’s gentle “Hush!†Then came the good-nights,
and Mrs. Abel’s tiptoe entrance into her own room,
and her attempt at gently closing the door, which,
64 THE ROBBERS DEN.
however, slipped from her hand and shut with a bang,
causing the good lady to exclaim, in a very audible
whisper, “ Hush, my dear door, bless the thing !’’
Grace waited for some time longer, hearing her
good governess patter and trot about her room, and
she was about to get up and commence her own
operations, when the door between the rooms opened
just enough to admit a worthy, most benevolent, but
anything but beautiful, night-capped face, decorated
with two curl-papers, of a size and form hitherto un-
known to Grace. The face remained looking at her
for one minute and then withdrew, with a muttered
“Bless her, little lamb!’ and a minute afterwards
Grace heard the owner thereof flounder into her bed,
which ecreaked and groaned as if it would rather not
have received her. Then all was still. Grace’s heart
warmed towards the kind old lady, and she felt almost
sorry to grieve her, as she was about to do, but Ber-
tram must be obeyed: so as soon as the hard breath-
ing in the next room assured her that all was safe, she
slipped quietly out of bed and began dressing as
noiselessly and as rapidly as possible, but with trem-
bling hands and a beating heart. As she thrust her
arms into her little warm bear-skin coat she heard the
butler’s creaking shoes as he ran upstairs to turn out
the lamp, and then ran down again. The steps died
away in the distance, and then she knew that all was
safe. That was the last legitimate noise to be heard
in the house that night. She tied on her little hat,
and was just approaching the window, when a thought
struck her.. Pursuit might be avoided for some hours
THE ROBBERS’ DEN. 65
if they could but put figures in their beds to repre-
sent themselves. The idea was followed by immediate
action. Quick as thought she opened a large cupboard
which took up one side of the room, and drew out, one
after the other, two gigantic dolls. One of these she
placed in her own bed, covering it with the bed-
clothes, so as to lcok as like herself as possible, and
with the other in her arms she again went to the
window. Noiselessly she raised the loose old sash, and,
stepping out, as noiselessly closed it. She trembled
from head to foot at finding herself alone in the dark
outer world; but she stole on tiptoe to Bertram’s
window, and gave the signal agreed on—the three
whistles, with a turn in the last; and she waited
breathlessly for the response, with the words “ Pro-
prius Gracius†trembling on her tongue. No answer
—all was still. She repeated the signal; still no sound
from within; while a slight breeze passing through
the mass of dark foliage behind her, and gently moving
the leaves with a mysterious whispering sound, excited
her already highly-wrought nerves to such a pitch of
agony, that, unable to bear the solitude a moment
longer, she hastily put her hand to the window,
and, lifting it quietly, entered the room and looked
anxiously round.
CHAPTER V.
THE GIPSIES.
SeRTRaM was sleeping peacefully in his little bed,
with one sturdy little arm flung round his head, and
the other hand clenching the bed-clothes with an
energy highly characteristic of the child. The moon
was shining through the trees upon his face, and their
flickering shadows waved gently over it, giving, as
Grace thought, a strange, unearthly, but beautiful
expression to his countenance. His round and healthy
cheek reposed calmly on the smooth white pillow,
while his luxuriant dark brown hair looked as glossy
and unruffied as when he lay down to rest. Grace
called him gently,—
“Bertram !â€
He made no reply—no movement.
“ Bertram !� said she, louder, and at the same time
touching him.
An impatient noise escaped his lips, while he turned
heavily in his sleep; but his bed did not creak as Mrs.
Abel’s had done—perhaps it liked having him.
Grace now pulled him harder and called him louder,
and after one or two more slight, impatient sounds, he
roused himself, and sat up in bed, opening lazily his
THE GIPSIES. 67
‘large round eyes, and gazing at her as if he thought
she was part of his dream.
“* Proprius Gracius,’ Bertram!†said Grace, ner-
vously; “ ‘Proprius Gracius!’ and I am come, and it
is time to go.â€
“ Eh—what?†returned the sleepy boy, “ Time—
‘eh? Why do you bore me so—can’t you let one
sleep P†:
“Hush!—not so loud! Don’t you remember,
Bertram, ‘ Proprius Gracius’ — afternoon lessons ?
Come on—it is so cold to wait,’’—for the poor little
girl’s very teeth were chattering with nervous cold
and fear.
Bertram then rubbed his eyes, and looked at her
vagain, as if perplexed; but the recollection of his
wrongs and his plans at length reaching his torpid
“brain, he suddenly sprang up, exclaiming,—
“All right—I’ll be with you directly—I forgot—I
believe I was asleep.â€
Grace believed so too, and waited patiently till he
was dressed and ready to set forth.
Bertram quite approved ofthe plan of putting the
dolls in their beds, and helped Grace to arrange the
ne she had brought for his. He gave one look of
‘regret round his little room as he prepared to step
out of the window, saying with a sigh, “Ah, it will be
many a long year before I sleep here again, I dare say.
Grace, shall I take my cross-bow? I smuggled it up
last night in case I should want it. It might be useful
if we met any robbers.†:
Grace could not speak for a moment, for hot tears
FQ
68 THE GIPSIES.
had risen to her eyes at Bertram’s words, and she
knew that he hated “women’s tearsâ€â€™ as he said, and
he had even often told her that he had avery high |
opinion of her because she so seldom gave way to
them. Could she forfeit that high opinion at such
-an hour! She was soon able, however, to answer,
“JT wouldu’t take it—it will only be in the way I
think.â€
“Think so??? said he. “ Well, perhaps you are
right; at all events, my arm is enough to defend
you, I hope. Poor old Killdeer, though! I’m sorry
to leave him. ‘Take care of him, Gracey.â€
The bow was an old favourite, associated with many
days of happiness in their young minds. They had
named it after the rifle of the famous Leather-stock-
ing.
Grace did not trust herself to answer, as she fol-
lowed her brother through the window, which he
carefully closed ; and making her a sign to be quiet,
he crept down the steps and into the bushes. Grace
kept close at his heels, like a faithful dog. After a
little pushing they came into one of the shrubbery
walks. It was pitch-dark, for the trees met above
their heads and concealed the light of the moon; but
they knew the way well, and went on rapidly. Pre-
sently they came to a little low wicket-gate which
opened on to the side of the hil? on which their
father’s house stood. They passed through it, and
paused for a moment to take breath, and to gaze
around them. The moon was high in the heavens,
and the vast plain before them was bathed in dew,
THE GIPSIES. 69
which shone like a sheet of silver in her clear soft
light; while the dark shadows of the trees, cast in
motionless solemnity beneath them, looked, to the
children’s excited imaginations, like so many huge
giants, caught and chained in strange shapes and
attitudes by the magic power of the lady moon.
The happy, peaceful home in which they had been
born, and which had sheltered them all the years
of their little lives, frowned upon them from the hill
as if it would reproach them for leaving it. Its huge,
mysterious-looking shadow ‘stretched out towards
them, as if to draw them back; while the great stair-
case window at the side—the only one which caught
the moonlight—looked smilingly and benevolently
down, as if it would ask them why they should flee
from its large, comfortable recesses, and the luxuriant
exotics which were blooming therein. There were
neither deer nor cattle in the plain; they had
all retired to rest in the woods or in the fern.
No human life was abroad, but what was contained
within those two strange little figures standing on the
hill-side, and looking singularly out of place there at
such an hour, and far more creatures of sunshine than
worshippers of the night.
“ Come on,†said Bertram, in a low voice, “ we must
not waste time,â€â€”and he strode off, while Grace
trotted by his side.
Now, could we have looked into the hearts of these
two childrer at this time, we should have seen in that
of Bertram Astley, although the originator and prime
mover of this scheme, a very great doubt as to its
vie) THE GIPSIES.
success, while Grace’s would have shown us nothing
but the most entire faith in Bertram, his plans, and
his words. Grace had no doubt but that the next
sun would rise upon Bertram in a ship, bound for
some unknown country ; and upon herself in her soli-
tary play room, no longer gladdened by his presence ;
for she did not suppose he would allow her to accom-
pany him very far on his way to Pester, and she
only hoped she might be let to go at least to the
park-gates.
Meantime, Bertram thought all the planning and
the escape at night very good fun; but, although he
did not confess it even to himself, sundry misgivings
had been stealing into his mind, dating from the mo-
ment when he had sat up in his bed and seen Grace
waiting for him. He did not like being roused from
his nice sleep, and he had rather uncomfortable feel-
ings about Combe Wood, through which they must
pass; and as the time approached, he began, too, to
wonder what he should say to the captain of the ship,
which he still believed he must find at Pester. How-
ever, he plodded on, rather ashamed of his fears, as
Grace appeared by no means to share them.
“ Gracey,†said he, as they neared the wood, which
certainly looked most terribly dark and ghost-like,
“we won’t go through the long drive by the lodge.
We must avoid the lodge, or they’ll hear ys ; so we'll
go by the Robbers’ Den, and over the wall at the
ruin.â€
Accordingly, they turned off the great carriage-
drive into a very narrow path at one side. Pre-
THE GIPSIES. 1
sently Grace asked Bertram if he was sure he was
right.
“Tt seems to me as if we must have gone beyond
the den. I am sure the brambles are not so thick
that way—I can hardly drag through after you, and
they make such a noise on my frock, I’m afraid some-
body will hear us.â€
«There’s nobody near enough,†answered Bertram,
half wishing there had been, and carefully avoiding
her questions, for he, too, began to find the brambles
unusually thick and the way long.
They went on for some minutes in silence, carefully
groping their way. At length Grace said, in a voice
which heralded the approach of tears, “ Bertram, I
know we're wrong; and my legs do ache so, I cannot
go on.†*
“ Wait a bit Grace!†was the cheerful reply.
“ Cheer up heart a little longer ; I see some light, and
we'll soon be out of the wood.â€
he Then we have been going wrong all this time!â€
said Grace, in the same tone.
“Wrong!†returned Bertram. “Oh, no! Only,
you see, I thought it better to go round just a leetle
bit, to avoid the lodge. It’s all right now. I know
where we are; there’s the ruin!’—and he stepped a
little on one side to let her get a glimpse of it as the
soft moonbeams fell upon it and lighted up every
crevice and cranny in the old place.
“Why, we’re coming to it from the Rangley
side !� exclaimed Grace, in a whisper. “ We must
have gone all the way round by the great oak y
72 THE GIPSIES.
Bertram’s courage had been fast oozing out at his
fingers’ ends during his struggles in the brambles.
His legs ached, too, and he was getting hotter and
hotter as the form of each huge tree in succession ap-
peared before him ; and now, when he saw once again
the clear calm moonlight and emerged from the thick
brambles, he seemed to breathe more freely ; but at
the same time a strong sense of the comforts of rest
and home, and an increasing unwillingness to plunge
into the wide, wide world possessed him. He paused,
considering how he should break to his credulous and
faithful follower his sudden change of plan, and that
he actually thought of getting home to bed as quickly
and quietly as possible.
“ Gracey, I am afraid you are very tired. “We must
rest a little,’ he began.
“Oh, no, no!†said Grace, earnestly. “ Let us
push on zow, and rest later, nearer Pester!â€
“Near Pester !—oh—ah! Well, but how will you
get back alone ?â€
“T don’t know,†said Grace, trembling, though
more with the fear that he meant to send her back
that. moment than anything else. “I don’t care,
Bertram. Never mind me, I shall manage. The
chief thing now is to get you into the ship. You can
send for me, you know, some day !â€â€
“But I must mind you, Gracey. It is my place
to protect you. It is too dark for you to go back
alone. Robbers, or anything, might come... I shall
take you back immediately !â€â€
He doubled his little stick under his arm with
THY GIPSIES. 73
an air of determination. Grace was miserable at
the idea of his sacrificing his own interests for her,
and was imploring him to go on, when he suddenly
started and put his hand on hers, saying, in a
whisper, “Hush, Gracey! didn’t you see something !
There, back among the bushes !â€â€
“ No !—where ?—what ?†said the frightened child,
clinging to him.
“J declare!†said he, in a trembling whisper,
«“ something light moved in those black trees!â€
“Bertram! Bertram! I cannot go back through
there—indeed, indeed I cannot!â€
Bertram’s dignity gave way completely at this new
alarm, and his answer was a very meek, “ No more
can I, Gracey; what shall we do!â€
“Tet us get out of the wood and go home Y ree
turned Grace; and she shook with fright.
“ But it’s all wood all round, except the wall,†said
the boy; “and my legs ache so. Let’s creep into
the cave and stay till morning.â€
“ Oh, no, not the cave! not the cave!†said Grace
in an agony. We'll get into the ruin—it’s light
there, and we can hide in the fireplace.â€
Bertram agreed, and they went on as fast as their
trembling limbs would allow, and were soon snugly
curled up in what had once been the fireplace. Here
they nestled together very cold and very tired—
frightened at every leaf that moved near them—not
daring to look round, and thinking that daytime
would never, never come again. Before they had
been there ten minutes they were both fast asleep.
74 THE GIPSIES.
At the same moment that Grace and Bertram
Astley emerged from. their father’s shrubbery and
stood alone on the hill-side, a gipsy cart might have
been: seen wending its way along the high road
between Rangley Park and Henley,—a large seaport
town situated about three miles from Pester. Some
' of the gipsies were in the cart, while others walked
by the side, and some few lagged behind. One young
girl, with long black hair and eyes of an almost
unnatural brilliancy, walked by the side of the horse,
which was a better-looking animal than those usually
seen among the gipsies.
As the cart came up to and almost passed the
turning off to Combe Astley and Pester, a shrill voice
from the cart exclaimed sharply—“ The deuce is in
you, Nora, girl! Whatever are ye dreaming on? Take
the turn, girl, and mind what yer arter—do !â€
Nora did not speak a word, but she turned the
horse’s head, and the heavy lumbering cart creaked
wearily down into the deep ruts of the unfrequented
lane, with a jolt that elicited many an oath from those
within the rickety yellow walls of the vehicle.
Nora walked slowly on for she was sadly tired, and
had been on foot many hours that day; but still she
kept her post by Drudo’s head, for she loved the
horse, and well she knew that from none but herself
would he receive kindness.
“We'll be having a fine sail to-night, Nat,†said
she, looking up into the heavens, now spangled by.
myriads of stars.
“Yes,†replied a gruff voice, whose owner had
THE GIPSIES. 73
moved forward to her side, “if the wind ba’ant a
rising ag’in ; it’s sagged jolly sin’ the mornine.â€
“TI hope Black Sam won’t keep us waiting,†said
the girl; “I hate that place.â€
“ Ai!’ returned her companion; “ there’s no doubt
but what it’s terrible ellinge and drearsome; but
Black Sam’s up to snuff.â€
They walked on in silence for some time. Pre-
sently Nora shivered, and drawing her rag of a cloak
round her slight form, remarked,—“ I’ve a bad feeling
about tis lane. I wish I hadn’t forgot the money,
and we wouldn’t ha’ come this way.â€
“Youre full o’ bad feelings, to-night,†returned
the man, shortly.
“T wonder why it’s called the Headless Lane?â€
said Nora, musingly, and without noticing his re-
mark.
“Cause o’ the wife o’ one o’ them ’ere lords up at
the Combe. They say she walks up and down the
lane o’ summer nights with her head in her hands,
ya-groaning,â€â€™ replied the man.
“T hope we shan’t meet her—d’ye think we shall?â€
said a tall sprightly gipsy, who had joined them at
the beginning of Nat’s speech.
«“ Belike,†said he in answer; “there ain’t no odds,
nor no sinification, as I sees.â€
The tall gipsy drew nearer, and seemed to dislike
the idea, but Nora dragged dreamily on in silence.
They now approached the wall of Lord Astley’s
park, and, after skirting it for some little way, the
broad square shadow of the ruin appeared before
76 THE GIPSIES.
them, thrown straight across the lane. The moon
sailed on in the heavens, and now she was behind the
ruin, and Bertram and Grace lay in darkness, still
fast esloep.
Fait!†sadd the shrill voice from the gipsy cart.
“ Wo-o, Dru!†said Nora’s gentle tones; and a
shrivelled and ragged old gipsy, of most forbidding
aspect, began to clamber out of the cart, muttering
and mumbling as she knocked against the shafts.
“Nora, girl, you'll go with me and get the money,â€
said she, sharply ; “ Nat’ll stay wi’ the horse.â€
Nora obeyed, and together they approached the
wall. Nora sprung lightly to the top, and pulled the *
old woman over with less trouble than might have
been imagined, though not without eliciting groans
and curses in abundance. The two women then crept
to the back of the ruin, passing close to the uncon-
scious children, but without perceiving them. The
brushwood was very thick here; but the old woman,
lifting a huge mass of it aside, disclosed a trap-door
in the rock. Nora opened it with ease, and old Gran
began to grope her way down. Nora dropped lightly
after her. They stood in a passage scooped out of
the hill. It was very narrow, and not long, and they
soon entered a cave exactly behind, and, in fact, join-
ing on to the “ Robbers’ Den.†At present there
was no communication between the two, although
originally the inner cave had been but a continuation
of the outer one. The gipsies were in utter darkness ;
but Gran proceeded to strike a light and secure the
money—cleverly concealed in the ground—which was
THE GIPsiEs. 77
so covered with dead leaves that had drifted through |
@ crevice in the top of the cave, that no eye but the
most practised could have guessed at the treasures it
contained. This was one of the great hoarding-places
of the gipsies, and many and various were the stores
herein concealed.
Grace and Bertram would, indeed, have started
with fright could they have seen what was passing so
near them. The old woman on her knees on the
ground,,—her shrivelled claw-like hands busily em-
ployed among the bright coins, but covered with the
wet clammy earth in which she had been muddling
to reach them,—her nails standing out long and
black, and giving a finish scarcely human to the
withered form. Her coarse grey hair escaped in
bunches from the dirty blue handkerchief, which
served as her head-dress, and every line in her hard
puckered face was seamed with dirt, rendered distinct
by.the faint light of the lantern which her companion
‘ held towards her.
That lantern cast its light upon but one other
being. Nora, stood beside her, with one hand resting
on her side, her whole form slightly drooping in an
attitude of extreme languor, like a parched flower
pining for the summer rain. Her long black hair
fell around her like a veil, and the red handkerchief
which had confined it had been thrown back from her
head. Her eyes were large and deep, and so heavy, that
it seemed to be an effort to her to lift them to your face,
and when you met their gaze there was no escaping from
its mournful earnestness. They were shaded now by
78 THE GIPSIES.
the large heavy eyelids, with their long black fringes
resting on the pale thin cheek. But for the black
hair and eyes you would not have taken Norah for a
gipsy, so white were her hands and so white her face.
And now the task was done, and the gipsies left the
cave; Nora first, still holding the lantern. It was
harder work for the old woman to get out of the trap-
door than it had been for her to drop down, and her
words on the occasion were not at all like angel’s
visits in any way. All having been put as before,
they again crept round the ruin, Nora still being first
with the lantern. She rounded the corner ; the light
fell upon the little sleepers. Nora glanced round the
ruins and started. She had seen them. Her next
impulse was to pass on as if she had not seen them,
that her mother’s attention might not be drawn to
them likewise. It was toolate. Her start had been
observed, and its cause was perceived
“ Ah!†said the old gipsy, “ah! what will this be?â€
and she hobbled up to the children and bent down
over them, peering with her half-blind eyes into their
faces.
Grace turned and half opened her eyes, and sharp
and shrill was the shriek she gave at that haggard old
face so close to hers. She might have thought she
was in her own little bed and dreaming, but still
she screamed. Quick as thought the gipsy’s
hard bony hand was on her mouth, tight, tight,
keeping back the screams, and poor little Grace
was caught up in her arms and held firmly beneath
her cloak,
THE GIPSIES. 79
Bertram awoke at Grace’s scream; but his dream
was more pleasant than hers,—Nora’s thin arm was
round him, and her mournful eyes were looking in his
face. He did not scream but only looked again,
thinking he was dreaming still— wondering, and
hoping his pleasant vision would not pass.
Two of the gipsies had jumped over the wall before
Grace’s scream was well finished, and now they
snatched Bertram from Nora, and before he had time
to recover from his astonishment his mouth was
stopped, and he was in the cart, jolting along the lane,
as fast as poor Dru could gallop. Gran sat beside
him, with Grace in her arms, and her hard hand was
still on the poor child’s mouth. Grace still struggled
and tried to scream, and the old woman shook her
roughly, and told her “if she didn’t leave off and lie
dike a lamb she’d soon find a way to quiet her for
ever.’ Grace was quiet enough then, and Nora
-begged to be allowed to take her—for Nora was in the
cart too. But the old gipsy would not give her up, so
Mora sat down by Bertram, and bent over him, trying
to save him from the rough jolting, which shook
everything and everybody in the cart. Presently, by
Gran’s directions, she poured a few drops from a
dirty glass bottle into a still more dirty blue mug.
The poor children were, by threats, induced to swal-
low this, and they obeyed in deadly fear. They went
on at a rapid pace for about a mile, and then Nat,
who had now taken the reins, and was sitting in front
of the cart, suddenly pulled up, saying, “*Tain’t no
good pegging along this ere way; if we are afore
t
80 THE GIPSIES.
Black Sam we’ll only be having to wait, and the
others won’t be up this hour.†Old Gran answered
only by an oath, to which Nat paid no attention but
went on, angrily, “ How ever did them ’ere children
get in there this time o’ night, and what was you a
thinking on, a-snapping on ’em up, you old fool! I’d
like to know what good they’ll do us, ’cept "tis a
bringing you to the gallows, where you'd ought to a
bin by rights these forty years.â€
“When you is chief, or chief’s widdy, speak so, and
not afore, my chick,†returned the old woman, witha |
horrible grin, whereby she displayed a long row of
gum, toothless but for two long front incisors,
which, when her mouth again closed, resumed their
usual place over the lower lip, and considerably below
the upper, from which they protruded.
The man made no reply, for the elder gipsy pos-
sessed considerable authority over the gang ; and the
cart jolted wearily on for the remaining two miles;
and, in spite of their fright, Bertram and Grace were
both fast asleep by the time they reached Pester, or
rather the small creek in which the gipsies expected
' to meet their friends the smugglers, which creek was
somewhat to the right of the village, from which it
was concealed by a rise in the beachy ground. There
was but little real beach here, and the lane, which for
some time had little deserved the name, being no more
than an open cart-track, crossed by many others on
the half marsh, half beach common, reached nearly to
the sea. As the gipsies approached, they perceived
another party and another cart coming up from the
THE GIPSIES. $1
left, and signs of recognition passed between the two
caravans.
waiting for them in the cove, and another now ap-
peared rowing rapidly from a ship, which lay with
flapping sails at a short distance from the shore. A
few words of explanation passed between the two
gipsy parties, while the old gipsy, Gran, seemed to
be giving a somewhat sulky account of the cap-
ture of the children to a tall, commanding-looking
man of the other party. He was evidently much
annoyed and perplexed at first, but finally appeared
to yield to her persuasions, and accordingly gave some
directions to several of the gipsies ; in consequence of
which, Nora and the still sleeping children, with old
Gran, were put into the first boat, with almost all the
goods and chattels from the cart, and rowed off to the
ship. The contents of the blue mug, though not given
in kindness, were of the greatest service to the poor
little wanderers, for they slept on in the boat; and
still they slept, when they were lifted up the side of
the ship, and received by savage-looking men, with
rough beards and rougher ways.
The boats plied backwards and forwards several
times between the ship and the shore, until all the
gipsies, and, last of all, their horses, were on board.
The carts had been taken to the village as soon as
they were emptied, and left there, as usual, under care
of some friends—for all the inhabitants of that dirty
little fishing-town were on the very best terms with
the gipsies and smugglers who frequented the place.
When all was ready, the ship sailed slowly away
G
82 THE GIPSIES.
from the coast, leaving far behind the dirty little
village, Headless Lane, and Combe Astley, the
good-natured governess, the lesson-books, and the
kind mother, whom Grace and Bertram had only
left, as it turned out, to join a set of wild, lawless
wanderers.
83
‘ CHAPTER VI.
THE GIPSY VOYAGE AND CAMP.
Ayp now the drug which Gran had given the
children began to lose its power, and the rolling of
the vessel—for the wind was rising—helped to rouse
them from their death-like sleep. Grace was the first
to wake, and she opened her eyes and gazed around
her, wondering where she could be, and how she got
into such a strange place. Her head ached dreadfully,
and was so heavy that she could hardly lift it from the
bundle of rags on which she had been thrown. She
had little time to wonder, for soon everything seemed -
to be going round and round, and she became dread-
fully sick. Between the paroxysms the poor child
cried very much, and longed—ah, how she longed !—
for her own dear mamma’s cool soft hand to hold her
poor little throbbing head! She was dreadfully fright-
ened, too, at being alone; but she was too weak and
too sick to move or to call out, and she ached and
trembled all over from the unusual exposure t< the
night air to which she had been subjected. She and
Bertram had been put away in the cabin, and there
was only one dim tallow candle, stuck all on one side
in a hole in the rickety wooden table in the middle.
Grace did not see that Bertram was just behind her
a 2
84 THE GIPSY VOYAGE AND CAMP.
till he too awoke, and began to look round and move
ubout.
“ Oh! Gracey, Gracey!’ said he, “ where are we?
Why does everything move so Dee
Grace could only groan, and Bertram, a far better
sailor, crept to her side, and put his little hot hand
to her head. He didn’t mind the rolling of the
vesgel, or the noises and smells with which they were
surrounded, but his head throbbed, and he could n>.
remember what had happened to them, for he had
hardly shaken off the effects of the drug. The poor
children were left alone for some hours, till they
became faint from exhaustion.
The gipsies were bound for the north of England ;
and, instead of travelling by land, as they usually did,
they had engaged one of the gang, the Black Sam, of
whom Nora and Nat spoke, and who was a smuggler
as well as a gipsy, and owned one or two small vessels,
to take them by sea, as they greatly dreaded the
cholera, which was at that time raging in the southern
and midland counties.
A small party of the gipsies had been sent round
by Headless Lane to secure some money, which Nora
had: forgotten when sent there some time before,
but they were all to meet—as, in fact, they did—at
Pester Creek, to be conveyed on board Black Sam’s
ship. They were a rough, bad lot; but it had never
been part of their trade, nor would it have answered
to them, to steal children. Hubert, their head, or
chief, as they called him, was both puzzled and vexed
at the strange chance which had almost obliged them
THE GIPSY VOYAGE AND CAMP. 85
to take off the young Astleys. He had wished at first
to send them straight home, but old Gran had dis-
suaded him from this, by holding out hopes that a
reward would be offered for them, and also by repre-
sentations of the danger of letting them go without
discovering hsw much of the secret of the cave and
passage they knew,—for she persisted in declaring
that they were awake when she found them, and that
they must have heard her talking with Nora about
the treasure and the trap-door.
The discussion, or rather, quarrel, was resumed as
soon as the sailing of the ship left the gipsies at
liberty, and so excited did they become on the subject,
that the sun was high in the heavens before any one
thought of going to see after the little ones.
Nora, overcome with fatigue and sea-sickness, was
lying on deck, on a sort of couch made for her by
the kindness of one of the gang,—for poor Nora was
loved by them all. By the time she was able to creep
up again, many hours had gone by, and still the chief
and old Gran were at issue about the children, and
still the poor little half-fainting victims were alone
below. Nora approached Gran, and asked what had
become of “ them?â€
“ Down below,†was the short reply; and Nora
crept down the stairs, or rather ladder, to the cabin.
The light was still flickering, and looked strange and
- dreary in the broad sunshine. Grace had sunk quite
back upon her rags, with her white parched lips open
as she gasped for breath. Bertram was curled up at
her side, supporting his aching head with both his
86 THE GIPSY VOYAGE AND CAMP.
hands. Nora was touched at the sight of their help-
less misery, and with all her little strength she raised
poor Grace’s head.
Bertram turned at the sound, and said, in a hoarse
voice, “ Watér—O, please, give us water!â€
She fetched some, which he drank with avidity;
and she then made Grace as comfortable as she could,
wetting her lips with brandy, and, after a little, suc-
ceeding in pouring some down her throat. The poor
child revived greatly after this, and soon was able to
sit up, leaning her head against Nora’s shoulder,
though she was too much exhausted to speak. Ber-
tram sat up too, and looked better.
“ What’s your name?’ he began. “ Where are
we, and why are we here?â€
“T am Nora,†said the girl, in a low, musical voice,
as she slowly lifted her eyes from his sister’s face to
his own.
“Nora? What Nora?†he repeated; and then
changing his tone—“ Oh, if you could give me some-
thing to eat!â€
Nat came in at that moment, and Nora begged him
to fetch her some food. He was “aman of Kent,â€
and had joined the gipsies a year or two before. A
rough, bad specimen was he; but every one did as
Nora wished. He obeyed, therefore, and soon re-
turned with a portion of a most savoury mess, to
which no one had more right than Bertram and Grace
Astley, seeing that it was chiefly composed of rabbits
from their own father’s woods. Grace could not eat;
but Nora and Bertram did justice to the repast; and
THE GIPSY VOYAGE AND CAMP. 87
then the poor boy began to recall the past. They
ate in silence; but, when he had finished, he turned
to Nora, and said,—
“Where are we now? and where are we going
to? Are we going to mamma? Oh! why did you
take us!’’ and the sobs began éo burst forth.
Nora’s eyes filled with tears.
“ We are going to the north,†she said; “ we shall
live there a long time, ‘but I will beg them to let you
stay with me. I may not go out as they do, J am
weak ; and if they will let you stay, I will make you ,
happy.â€
“ But who are they ?†persisted Bertram; and Grace
opened her eyes and listened too.
“We are gipsies,†said Nora, slowly, and as if each
word was dragged from her.
Both the children began to ery.
“Hush! oh pray, pray, hush!†said Nora, implor-
ingly, as the door burst open, and old Gran hobbled in.
“What are ye kicking up this confounded noise
for ! she exclaimed, as she hit Bertram a blow that
sent him against the sharp corner of the table, the
blood streaming from his face.
Grace screamed, and Nora sprung up to catch him
as he fell. The old witch gave Grace a ringing box#
on the ear, and called to Nora to “leave palavering
the brat and tend to her.â€
Hubert appeared at the door before Nora could
obey, and just as old Gran was about to bestow a
blow upon her, he arrested her arm from behind, ex-
88 THE GIPSÂ¥Y VOYAGE AND CAMP.
claiming, “Strike Nora! No one shall dare to strike
Nora, not even her mother !â€
Nora looked her thanks as she supported the pro-
strate boy, and Gran hobbled off, cursing as she went.
“ Nora!†said the chief, “I give these children to
your charge, till we leave the ship.â€
Another grateful look from Nora, and he left the
cabin. Nora did her best to comfort her young charge,
but with poor success; that day was a sad and a long
one for the trio. At night Nora told them that they
must go to sleep, if they could, where they were, for
there were no better beds to be had.
“ But I haven’t said my prayers,†said Grace; and
she tried to raise herself on her knees ; but then came
the recollection of the last time she had knelt in
prayer, at her own little low chair, in her own little
room at home; and the visions of that home and of
her own gentle mamma rose before her, and the
poor child cried bitterly. After a time, how-
ever, she roused herself sufficiently to go through
her usual prayer, although the old familiar words,
“ Bless papa and mamma, and all my dear brothers
and sisters,†called forth her tears afresh. Bertram
was nearly as bad, and Nora watched them both with
heartfelt pity, not, however, unmingled with envy, for
she, too, longed to pray; but she knew-not how, and
she resolved that, at a fitter time, she would find out
from the children all about that great God to whom
she saw them raise their tearful faces and baby voices
in such simple confidence. For Grace and Bertram
THE GIPSY VOYAGE AND CAMP. 89
prayed this night as they had never really prayed
before. The words came from their hearts, and when
they had done, they received their reward. They were
calmer far, and they lay down to rest with a compo-
sure which astonished Nora.
The gipsies soon came pouring down into the
cabin, for several of them slept there, although,
as the nights were fine, most of them pre-
ferred the deck, both for meals and sleep. Few of
them took any notice of the children, who, roused by
the noise, were terribly frightened at the strange, wild
forms and faces with which they were surrounded, and
clung to Nora. They slept, however; but awaking
very early the next morning, before any of the gipsies
were stirring, their eyes met as they were staring
round the room in fresh alarm and wonder at finding
themselves in so strange a place.
“ Bertram,†said Grace, in a whisper, “is it.a
bad dream, and shall we awake and find ourselves at
home ?†.
“No, Gracey darling,’ said the boy; “it is true.
These are bad gipsies, and they have stolen us, and I
don’t know what will become of us. This is a ship
we arein. I heard them talk last night.â€
“So did I, Bertram,—and oh, such bad words!
Bertram, that tall, black woman said ‘devil’ so
often, I hid my face not to hear. O mamma!
mamma!â€
“ Don’t ery, Gracey darling!†said Bertram, cry-
ing himself; “ we’ll run away !â€
Next day Nora whispered to them, as the other
90 THE GIPSY VOYAGE AND CAMP.
gipsies were leaving the cabin, that they had better
pretend to be ill still.
“For then,†said she, “I can keep you here; if
you are well, Gran ’li get ye. Gran’s my mother.â€
Bertram shrank from her at this news; but her
mournful looks and sweet low voice soon overcame
his horror. It was no great stretch for them to pre-
tend to be ill, for Grace was dreadfully weak, and
Bertram suffering a good deal from his contact with
the table the day before.
A long, long day was this again. Nora’s head was
giving her such violent pain that she could hardly
stir, and the other gipsies were tired of waiting upon
her, or, more likely, forgot her altogether. The poor
children were again nearly famished; but Bertram
was kneeling by Nora’s side, stroking her head gently,
and Grace was clasping one of the gipsy’s thin hands
in both hers, when a great noise and stir on deck
caused them all three to start. Voices were now
heard approaching the cabin.
“Mamma!†said Grace, joyfully, as she raised her
head and prepared to spring up.
“Nora! Nora!†said a voice outside.
Poor Nora’s face flushed, and her beautiful eyes
were lifted from the ground as the door was pushed
open, and a tall young gipsy came eagerly forward. His
happy countenance fell as he caught sight of her face.
“My poor Nora!—darling Nora! you are worse!
Curse them, there is none to take care of you when
Tam away ; and they make me leave you; but: by ——
I will not again!â€
THE GIPSY VOYAGE AND CAMP. 91
Hush! Charlie,†said Nora, faintly ; but she gladly
rested her weary head on his firm, broad shoulder,
and then her eyes closed again, and for some minutes
no ove spoke. At last Bertram said,—
“She has had no food to-day,—no one has brought
us anything.â€
Charlie, who had been gazing gloomily on Nora’s .
face, turned sharply at these words, and laying her
head gently down, he left the cabin, but soon returned
with a cup of tea. He held it to her lips, and the
beautiful eyes were slowly opened and turned up to
his.
“ Tea!’ said Nora, in a tone of surprise.
“JT brought it for you, Nora. I was waiting at
D- for Black Sam’s Nancy, and I came offina
boat as soon as I saw her,†said he softly.
The tea revived her, and Charlie was at liberty to
attend to the children.
The rest of the voyage was performed with more
comfort to them, as Charlie, who belonged to the
tribe, remained, and devoted himself to them and
Nora, and was able to procure for them many
things which the poor young Astleys were now
obliged to consider as luxuries, although hitherto
they had looked upon them as the merest necessaries
of life.
“We land in fviother hour, Nora darling,†said
Charlie at length; and the two children started
up. Any change, they fancied, must be for the
better; for, in spite of Charlie’s and Nora’s kind-
ness, they had done little but cry for home and
$2 THE GIPSY VOYAGE AND CAMI.
mamma, and beg Nora to take them back. And Nora
would cry too, and soothe them, and ask them ques-
tions about home.
“ Gran says,†continued Charlie, “ that there must
be a change here;†and he signed significantly
towards the children.
“ A change!—what change? Oh, don’t kill us—
please don’t kill us—we will do anything in the
world!’? screamed the children.
“No one’s a goin’ to hurt ye as long as ye don’t
hurt Nora,†replied Charlie, pulling them away as
they clung to her. “Gran’s a coming,†he added;
and Gran hobbled into the cabin, followed by another
gipsy carrying some rags and wigs of different sorts.
She proceeded to seize Grace.
The terror which the poor little girl had entertained
for the old woman ever since that dreadful whisper in
the cart kept her pale and mute, while her once
beautiful but now tangled and matted curls were cut
quite close to her head. The gipsy then divested her
of all her nice clothes, and clad her completely in
rags,—first rubbing her face, and neck, and chest,
and hands, and arms, all over with walnut-juice,—
finally fixing, with consummate art, a flaxen wig upon
her head.
Charlie had carried off Bertram, and now appeared
leading a little brown-skinned, red-headed boy, clothed
likewise in rags and tatters, whom Grace could by no
means recognize as her own darling brother. -
Regardless of the children’s tears, Gran and the
other gipsy laughed heartily at the metamorphoses,
THE GIPSY VOYAGE AND CAMP. 93
and Caarlie joined in the merriment, until he saw
Nora’s tearful face lifted imploringly towards him.
The landing soon commenced with great activity.
The children were left with Nora to the last by
Charlie’s management, and were then conveyed
’ straight to the cart. It was late in the evening when
they arrived at the vast common which was to termi-
nate their travels for some time. A drizzling rain
was falling, and the three friends remained in the
cart while the gipsy-women made tl:eir preparations
for supper—Nora in a half-dozing state, Bertram
with his already pale and dirty little face pressed
against one of the tiny windows at the side, gazing
wearily out into the increasing darkness, and poor
Grace crying quietly but bitterly. The child had
done little else since she left her home, for she pined
dreadfully for the kindness and comforts to which she
had been accustomed, and her little tender face was
quite blistered with her tears.
There were many other gipsy encampments on this
common,—for it was a wild spot, and was, in fact, a
kind of. head-quarters of the tribe-——and for some
days the party to which Bertram and Grace belonged
were busy coming and going, settling themselves
and hunting up their friends.
Meantime, poor Nora did not seem to recover from
the fatigue of her sea-vgyage, but spent almost all
her time on her couch of rags, When the sun was
not too powerful, she would creep out and rest under
one of the grassy banks between which the tents
were pitched, and the carts—for several had met ther.
94 THE GIPSY VOYAGE AND CAMP.
at landing—were drawn up. Bertram and Grace fol-
lowed her like her shadow, all three instinctively
avoiding the rest of the tribe, excepting Charlie, who
joined them whenever he could, which, however, was
not often, for Hubert always seemed to know, by
magic, the instant he came to them, and was sure to
send for him on some pretext or another. The chil-
dren, and Nora, and old Gran, her mother, had atent
to themselves; but the old woman was out all day,
and the greater part of the night, too, sometimes.
She generally came back very tipsy, and always ina
bad temper, so Nora and the little ones pretended to
be asleep when they heard her. She was the widow
of the last chief—a weak man, whom she had com-
pletely ruled, and through him the tribe, who still,
from long habit, paid some deference to her ; but
her temper was fast destroying her influence over
them.
One evening, she suddenly entered the tent at an
unusually early hour, and in a worse humour than
ever. Nora and the children had but just returned
from the bank, and were standing near the entrance
watching Charlie, who had been with them, and
was now going to join a noisy supper-party assembled
at some distance round a low smouldering fire.
Gran exclaimed, angrily, giving Bertram a push as
she came up, “Idling, as usual, you young varlet.
Nora, girl, you spile ’em for any good. Tl take ’em
out wi’ me to-morrow, and find’em work. Them as
eats must work, and them as doesn’t work ma’n’t
eat!â€
THE GIPSY VOYAGE AND CAMP. - 95
This speech was interspersed with many an oath,
and Bertram’s pale face flushed, while Grace clung
trembling to Nora, whispering, “ Don’t let me go!
Oh, keep me! save me !â€
“They ain’t fit for work, mother!†said Nora,
feebly ; “they ain’t been brought up to it like
us.â€
“Like ws, you fool!†said theold beldame. “ Like
me, you mean: d—I a stroke o’ work you’ve been
good for; bad eeu in your father’s time, and
wussur a great deal sin’ Hubert keeps you up to yeer
nonsense.â€
Nora made no reply, and the old woman mumbled
on in the same strain till sleep overpowered her.
Grace was suddenly awoke at early dawn next day to
the consciousness that the scarcely human face and
two hideous fangs of the old gipsy were within an
inch of her pillow; and before she could recover her
breath enough to scream, the thin skinny finger was
held up, and a voice, that excited every nerve in her
brain to agony, whispered, “ Don’t scream; Nora
sleeps !’’
The right chord had been touched. Grace glanced
towards the poor girl as she moved uneasily on her
wretched bed, with one cheek flushed like fire, and the
other deadly pale, while the mournful expression of
her face was sad to behold; and frightened as she
‘was, Grace could not find it in her heart to disturb
Nora, nor even to call Bertram, for fear of waking her. -
Trembling, she arose at the gipsy’s whispered com-
mands, and put on her few miserable rags.
96 THE GIPSY VOYAGE AND CAMP.
“Step lightly, and follow me,†was the next order ;
and Grace obeyed.
Her heart sank as she crept from under the tent
after the old tyrant, and she even hesitated and
looked back, and was on the point of screaming, when
a hard hand gripped her throat, and the old gipsy, in
another moment, lifted her some paces from the spot,
and then, putting her down with a shake, bade her
“be quiet, or that scream should be her last.â€
“Tet me pray! oh, let me pray!†said the poor
child, in a whisper, firmly believing that her last hour
was come.
The only answer Gran vouchsafed was seizing her
again and running off with her till they were some
paces beyond the most scattered tents of the encamp-
ment. She then set her down again, and roughly
snatching off the flaxen wig, she proceeded to rub all
over the child’s head and short-cropped hair some stuff
outof a dirty bottle, which she took from her pocket.
In afew minutes Grace’s hair was as decidedly golden
as it had been before a decided and very dark
brown.
“ Now,†said the old hag, “ you are my grandchild,
remember ; and if you say one word—remember, one
word—TI’ll wuss than wallop ye, and Nora, too.
D’ye ken—ye’re dumb—dumb!†she repeated, with
horrible emphasis.
Poor Grace trotted many weary miles that day after
old Gran. They went through towns and villages,
and Gran begged of some people and told others their
fortunes; and admirably did she change her tone to
THE GIPSY VOYAGE AND CAMP. 97
suit the different individuals whom they met ; for she
was a clever woman, though a bad one. She had
travelled much, and could assume at pleasure any
dialect that pleased her, Irish, or Scotch, or provin-
cial. Some people passed them by without paying
any attention to Gran’s whine, or her saucy “ Will
I tell yer fortune, my pretty lady! Ah, it’s a good
one, I see, by the bright een !’â€
Some were moved by her apparent misery, or by
the little girl’s piteous looks, and gave them pence ;
and one well-dressed little boy, who was driving his
hoop in a street, stopped and gave her a large piece
of bread that he was munching. Grace looked after
him as he ran happily off, and longed to make him
know how different she was to what she appeared to
be. She felt dreadfully ashamed of her rags the first
time they met a carriage full of ladies, and yet she
would have given anything to have been in that
carriage, safe from the old woman who watched her
so narrrowly.
As they passed through a field, between two vil-
lages, a respectable old lady, walking just in front of
them, dropped something. Gran hurried on to pick
it up. It was a purse! Bright coins glittered and
peeped through the net-work.
“Shall I run on and give it her?†asked Grace,
listlessly, though hardly able to walk, at the same
time offering to take it.
A slap on the cheek, and a “ D—l1 take ye!’ was
the only reply; and Grace perceived, to her horror,
that Gran meant to keep the booty; and not only
re
98 THE GIPSY VOYAGE AND CAMP.
that, but the old woman had the audacity to hobble
after the owner, and beg “a few halfpence—for she
hadn’t a farthing in the world, and neither she nor
the child, dear lamb! had tasted a bit that blessed
day.â€
The old lady stumped on, asserting that she “never
gave to tramps,†and little suspecting that in the
present case the “tramp†would have been far more
able to give to her.
After this, Gran found many opportunities of pil-
fering in a small way, and Grace’s misery increased.
That night she slept under a hedge, with no com-
panion but the old gipsy. The poor child cried
herself to sleep. Her feet were blistered and her
head ached with so much walking, but the next day
she had to be off again betimes. And thus she
passed many days—although at last her little delicate
feet became so sore, that Gran was forced to carry
her, which greatly increased the old woman’s ill-
humour.
Nora and Bertram, on waking the morning that
“Gran had for the second time stolen Grace, at
first supposed that she had crept out alone—but her
prolonged absence alarmed them -greatly ; nor was
their alarm diminished at hearing from Charlie that
some others of the tribe had seen Gran and the child,
’ at break of day, making for the Stantley road; and
that the old woman had been extremely violent the
night before, at a gathering of the elders, when a
quarrel had arisen regarding the stolen children—
some of the tribe being anxious that the reward
THE GIPSY VOYAGE AND CAMP, 99
offered for them should be claimed; while others, of
whom Gran was one, were of opinion that there would
be more danger than profit in giving them up ;—that
hot words had ensued, during which she had been
reproached with wanting to rule all, when she con-
tributed nothing to the common hoard. At this her
passion had become ungovernable, and she had flung
away from the fire—muttering, with fearful oaths,
that she would find a way of making money by the
children ; adding something to the effect that they
belonged to her, and her only, which words had not
been thought worthy of attention at the time, but
were now recalled, with many gloomy forebodings,
when it was discovered that she had actually made off
with Grace. There was nothing to be done. To
follow her would only make matters worse—for by
the rules of the tribe she, having taken the child in
the first instance, was alone answerable for its safety ;
besides which, Hubert was loath to enrage one who
possessed secrets of the last consequence to many of
. their number..
Poor Bertram heard all that Charlie was telling
Nora, and he saw that they both thought very
seriously of Grace’s danger, and the idea possessed
his mind that the wicked old woman had taken his
poor little sister to sell as a slave, nor could all their
representations and assurances persuade him to the
contrary. How or where he imagined this desirable
object was to be accomplished is not known,—whether
Grace was to be led through towns and villages, while
Gran hallooed loudly, “ Girl to sell—who’ll buy a
H 2
100 THE GIPSY VOYAGE AND CAMP.
girl ?â€â€ or whether she was to be hung up in a shop
window, with other articles of commerce, marked in
large letters, “ For sale, price £5,†he had not
paused to determine,—but that for sale she was, to
all intents and purposes, he felt certain, and he
mourned accordingly.
101
CHAPTER VII.
THE OLD MAN.
Aut this time, although Nora and her little com.
panions had had many long talks about the happy
home which, but a few weeks back, the latter had
‘ been so willing to leave, and to return to which they
would now have been too glad, still Nora had never
yet summoned courage to question them upon that
subject, which, more than others (excepting perhaps
one) interested her now—I mean religion. Nora
knew that there was a God above, and that good
people prayed to him; and she had heard that if she
was good in this world, he would reward her in the
world to come; and that if she were wicked here, she
would be punished there. She had heard too of our
Saviour, and she knew that he had come down among
us; and this was all the poor girl’s religion. Her
delicate health, sweet temper, and sensitive nature,
had preserved her from much harm; but that very
sensitiveness was also the source of much misery to
her, for it had, from, long indulgence, grown into a
morbid dread of doing the least thing which she
imagined might be displeasing to the Almighty, and
draw down his wrath upon her; for Nora had never
learnt to look upon God as a father, nor did she
102 THE OLD. MAN.
know that “perfect love casteth out fear.†These
wretched feelings increased as her failing health
strengthened her tendency to low spirits; and her
natural reserve of character would have prevented
her from uttering a word on the subject even had
there been a single person in all her world with whom
such confidence had been possible. But though all
the tribe loved poor Nora in their own rough way,
there was no one to whom she could have related her
doubts and fears with the slightest hope of their
being understood, even had she been so inclined.
Charlie had loved her from their childhood, but even
he could not understand her, although he was more
to her than all the world besides. Charlie’s love—
the thought of Charlie, was the one bright calm spot
in her dark and troubled mind, and even this at times
was not unclouded; for although she never tried to
look on into the dim future, yet she could not wholly
banish a vague and almost unacknowledged, but sadly
increasing, foreboding which crept into her heart at
times—a foreboding that whispered to her that she
must die—die alone and in her earliest youth—long,
long before Charlie could take her from her wretched
mother’s tent, and from the wandering life so unsuited
to her, and which he too, for her sake, was beginning
to long to leave. Poor Nora! Her heart was indeed
asad and lonely one, in spite of all Charlie’s efforts
-to cheer her. He, poor fellow, wilfully closed his
eyes to what was but too plain to all the others,—
that Nora might be among them yet a véry little
while; and if a doubt—a pang—did cross his heart as
THE OLD MAN. 103
he gazed into her mournful, speaking eyes, or at her
almost transparent cheek, he resolutely drove it
back, determined to read nothing that was therein
written save the refined beauty so rare among that
wild race.
The young Astleys had been sources of the greatest
comfort to Nora, although she bitterly reproached
herself with having been the cause of their misfor-
tunes. She had listened with avidity to their talk of
home and happy days gone by. She was their only
friend in their wretched banishment. Not to love
her would have been impossible, had they known
her even in their days of happiness; but now
they were rapidly learning to forget that she was
but a gipsy girl, and to talk to her with more
openness than they had ever shown to any one
else in the world. They would run on for hours
with a host of reminiscences, while Nora would
lie perfectly still, encouraging their confidence with
her sad, beautiful eyes, and now and then asking
some question which drew forth long descriptions
of “Mamma’s beautiful, gentle ways,†or Mrs.
Abel’s funny ones, and of all the little brothers and
sisters, and every room and corner of the “dear,
darling house at home,†as Gracey called it,—till
Nora ‘felt as if she knew it all quite as well as the
children did; and she thought that it must be a very
fairyland, acd the people who lived there must be
happier than she had gancied it possible for any one to
be in this world. Lady Astley especially she longed
to see. She could not tell her doubts to the children,
104 THE OLD MAN.
from a strange feeling that they were too far above
her,—that if they heard all that was in her heart,
they must despise her; and yet, with an inconsis-
tency not unusual in her state of health, she fancied
that to this sweet, gentle mother, of whom they talked,
she could open her mind without any fear,—and to
this fancy she clung with a strange tenacity, pining for
its realization as for something which would for ever
set her mind at ease, and even perhaps make her
strong as others; for she felt, truly, that could she
be at peace, it would go far to improve her health.
But now Grace was gone, and Bertram was too rest-
less and miserable about her to talk of anything else.
It was a very bad day with Nora, and though the sun
was shining brightly and the birds singing merrily,
the poor girl could not leave the tent, nor even her
wretched bed, till very late in the afternoon; when,
with the help of Bertram’s shoulder, she crept out to
the mossy bank, intending to remain there till the cold
evening air warned her to return. Bertram stayed
with her for some time, but at last begged to be
allowed to go round the encampment and to climb
the opposite mound, with a restless hope that by so
doing he might by chance see something of Grace
and the old woman.
“The gipsies are all out, and J shan’t meet any-
body Nora,†said he, “and I’ll promise to come
back ;†for he had. heard Gran’s threats, “that Nora
should suffer for it if the children escaped,†too often
not to be well aware how great must be her dread in
losing sight of them.
THE OLD MAN. 105
She could not wish to deny him this slight gratifica-
tion, and he was soon out of sight.
Before he had been gone many minutes, old Drudo,
who had been grazing at some distance, but gradually
getting nearer and nearer, now came quite close to her,
hoping to receive, as usual, something from her
hands.
Grace and Bertram had become great friends with
the old horse, and he was in the habit of coming to
them to be fed and patted whenever they were sitting
with Nora out of doors; and now the poor horse
pushed its worthy old nose into Nora’s lap, and bent
its ears forward, asking for its accustomed portion.
Nora was half lying, half sitting on the ground, and,
though not generally nervous about horses, she felt
too weak and ill on this day to bear the great head
so close to her,-and she wished Bertram would come
back. She tried to raise herself to look round for
him, at the same time pushing old Drudo away with
all her little strength. The movement brought ona
violent fit of coughing, with a feeling of intense
oppression on her chest. It was followed by a sen-
sation of relief; but, at the same moment, the green
mossy bank, upon which she leaned forward, was
dyed with the blood which flowed from her mouth.
Few can tell the pang of hopeless, bitter agony that
shot through the poor gixl at that moment. Then,
for the first time, did she realize the awful truth that
she must die, and ga an instant the words seemed as
if seared into her heart—“I must die—die!†There
they were, burning with an intensity that imparted an
,
103 THE OLD MAN.
untold anguish to every breath she drew. A terror
seized her, too, that her last hour was at hand—that
she must‘die alone; and even at that dreadful hour
the thought of Charlie was with her. She could not
speak, but her lips formed the words, “ Save me—oh,
save me, Charlie!†Most of the other gipsies were
gone to a fair, and those that were left were too far
off to hear her, even had she been able to call. The
common having a bad name, few people frequented it ;
but, happily for our poor Nora on this sad day, one
solitary individual was jogging along on his old grey
pony, and just at this moment was preparing to
cross the ravine in which the dying girl was lying.
It was an old man, and one who had travelled much
and seen and felt much, both of sickness and sorrow,
and yet his heart had not become callous to suffering.
He had paused for a moment before descending the
bank from which he just caught sight of the gipsy
tents, for he had been warned to avoid them in these
their own retreats, as they were reported to be
suspicious and revengeful in the extreme towards any
one whom they imagined to be a spy upon them ; and
he hesitated between running the risk of provoking
their anger, and the disagreeable alternative of going
a long way round. A moment’s scrutiny convinced
him, however, that the encampment was all but de-
serted. A few dirty children alone were playing by
a heap of stones at the further end of the ravine, and
two or three miserable-looking horses jumped spas-
modically near them, their wretched legs confined by
shackles, but there were no fierce-looking men or
THE OLD MAN. 107
wild dirty women, and the old man leisurely got off
his horse, and began to descend the steep bank on
which he:stood. At this moment his eye fell on a
horse, of a somewhat better description than the
others, standing in a far more free and unshackled
attitude, with its head drooping over the figure of a
girl—a figure bending almost to the ground. The
strange couple were but a few paces from the old
man, and he lost no time in approaching them. The
horse started as he came up, throwing back his head
and snorting, as if to forbid a stranger to touch the
body of his young mistress, and but a body the old
man at first feared it was, so motionless was the girl.
Another moment, and a faint groan*re-assured him.
He gently raised her from the ground, her face was
deadly pale, and her eyes half-closed; but. she was
not fainting—one thought now engrossed her mind,
with a force that excluded all outer objects. . Could
she—might she—but live to see Charlie once more,
but once, and she would be “ content to die.â€
The old man looked round for some fitting
place for her; to leave her where she was, was
impossible. Her mother’s tent was the nearest,
and there was a longer space between it and any
other. Gently he lifted her in his arms and
carried her towards it, while poor Drudo followed,
with drooping head, apparently well aware of the
hopeless state of his only friend; and the old man’s
own patient pony stood in dogged unconcern at
the trouble its old master was having. The old man
laid her on the bed from which she had but lately
108 THE OLD MAN.
risen, and then returned to his own well-filled saddle-
bags to seek for some simple remedy that might be of
service to her. Ashe returned to her side, she slowly
opened her eyes, and gazed at him; but it was a
stony, stolid gaze at first, and when it brightened
into her own peculiar, imploring expression, there was
mingled with it no surprise at the unusual figure
bending over her, and one word only escaped from her
lips.
“Charlie!†she whispered ; but the single word, or
rather the tone in which that word was uttered, spoke
volumes of love and fear, fear that “ Charlie†would
not be in time.
“Youg must not talk, my poor child,†said the old
man, kindly ; “ I will fetch Charlie when I have done
all I can for you!’’—and he proceeded to apply the
means which his not slight knowledge of medicine
dictated.
“ Now,†said he, “I would willingly stay with you,
if I could, but it must not be. Iwill try to find some
one in the tents who can take care of you, and who
will understand my directions; and now, my poor
child, may God bless you, and spare you, and in his
own good time take you to himself!’
“JT must die?’ interrupted Nora, in a startling
whisper. The words were uttered in the form of a
question, but of one the answer to which none could
doubt.
“ We must all die!’ said the old man, with so-
lemnity.
“ But now ?—soon ?â€â€™ persisted Nora, in the same
THE OLD MAN. 109
tone ; for the words “and spare you†had given her
one ray of hope, and she fixed her eyes upon him as if
she would pierce through and throngh any attempt at
deceit.
“My poor, poor child,†said the old man, “ and is
it sohard to die? Oh, if itbut pleased the Almighty
to take me in your stead, and to spare you, if only for
the few short months that might be my lot on earth,
that you may have time to prepare for death! ‘It is
a weary, dreary world, without the love of God; but
no wonder that you have not found it so yet.â€
He paused a moment, and then resumed: “ If God
wills it, you may yet live. It may be but a few
short years, or even months ; in all human probability,
it can be but months; but, O my child, do not neg-
lect this warning,—prepare, prepare to meet thy
God!"
Nora’s tears were flowing freely at this solemn ap-
peal, and her thin hands were clasped together, but
she could not speak.
At this moment a noise outside the tent attracted
the old man’s attention, and he went out just in time
to rescue the saddle-bags from the claws of the gipsy
children, who, having caught sight of the sober figure
of the old pony, had lost no time in attacking him.
The old man tried to make them understand the
cause of his lingering in their domain; but the
little rebels pretended not to understand. his
words, and only answered by shouts and shrieks,
and, in some cases, by running away. Leading
his pony, he then sought the further tents, in
110 TIE OLD MAN.
hopes of finding some one to whose care he
might confide his patient. One very old and hope-
lessly deaf woman was, however, the only living being
he could discover. After a few fruitless efforts at
making her comprehend his errand, he gave it up in.
despair ; and returning to Nora’s tent, he tore two
leaves out of his memorandum-book and wrote in a
legible hand a few simple directions for her treatment,
adding at the end these words, “If these directions
are followed, I see no reason why, with the blessing
of God, this poor girl should not live some weeks, or
it may be months.â€
He then read it to Nora, telling her that he did so
in case it should happen that none of her tribe could
read ; but as this was most unlikely, he should leave it
pinned to the tent. Having done this, he once more
blessed her and left the tent, without observing two
merry little black eyes that were watching him from
behind the entrance the whole time. It was getting
dark as he mounted his pony, and jogged slowly out of
the valley. No sooner was he fairly out of sight than
the little black eyes peeped further out of their hiding-
place, and the small owner thereof followed cautiously
and quietly. Nora was lying quite still, with her
eyes closed. The child crept in on her hands and
knees ; then slowly raised herself upon her feet and
looked round. Her eyes were first directed to the
spot where she had seen the strange man pin the
paper. Its bright, smooth surface and shining edges’
excited her cupidity, and she hastened to snatch it
down. ‘Turning round, she first perceived Nora's
THE OLD MAN. ill
deathlike form, rendered the more terrible by the
fast fading light. She flew from the tent as if
she had seen a ghost—and was soon in the midst
of her young companions, declaring to the won-
dering little ones, how the old man who had
driven them from his pony had first written down
some words, and then read them out over poor
Nora; that the words said she should not live
many weeks, and, accordingly, that she was already
lying dead in her tent, while the old man had
escaped.
With one accord all the children set off for Nora’s
tent, outside of which they spent the next ten
minutes,—the boldest among them cautiously ap-
proaching to peep in, in hopes of seeing a real dead
body that they had known in life. But the increasing
darkness jealously guarded the features, and the dim,
still outline of a form was all that the bravest
could descry.
Just at this moment Bertram, who had wandered
on and on, fancying he saw his sister in every distant
form of sheep or cow on the common, and had for
some time lost his way, now returned to the bank
where he had left Nora. He was rather surprised not
to find her there ; but he supposed Charlie had come
back and taken her in. He went on towards Gran’s
tent, and wondered to see the ragged little party which
surrounded it. Why should they peep in and crowd
round that tent usually so neglected? Why should
_ they seem to fear to enter it? Some of the children
now caught sight of him, and in a moment he was
112 THE OLD MAN.
surrounded. Some seized his ragged little coat—
some his hands and arms—some mischievous ones
took the opportunity of the confusion to give him slv
kicks and pinches, and one sturdy little rebel sprung
up and clung to his neck, nearly strangling the poor
child,—for all were delighted to get Nora’s boy, as
they had learnt to call him, into their power at last,
and all screamed and shouted around him. Poor
Bertram did not at all understand or like this strange
greeting. The words “Don’t go in—don’t go in!â€
were the first he could distinguish in the confusion.
“Why ?â€â€™â€”he struggled out the word between the dirty
fingers which one of his tormentors placed over his
mouth, evidently in the belief that although their own
noise was of no consequence, one word from “ Nora’s
boy’? would wake the dead girl,—a most undesirable
abject, of course. “She’s dead—she’s dead!†screamed
many small voices,—“ you must not disturb her.â€
Bertram sprung forward, dragging with him several
future thieves, robbers and housebreakers. ‘“ Let
him go, he’ll be tarned,†shouted one of the biggest ;
and, in another instant, Bertram was where none
dared follow—at Nora’s side. Could it be true?
Was his last, his only friend, gone from him for ever ?
Must he henceforth make one of the unruly tribe
outside ? All childish fear of death was lost in this
appalling dread. “ Nora, Nora,†said the poor boy,
in a voice of agony; “ Nora! you are not dead—you
shall not die!†and he took one of her attenuated
hands in both his little chubby ones. Nora slowly
turned her head towards him and smiled. His voice
THE OLD MAN. 113
was the first thing that roused her from the dreamy
state in which she had remained ever since the old
man left her. Bertram burst intotears. He did not
see—he did not notice the sad change that had come
over her during his short absence. It was enough
now that she was not dead, as they had so cruelly
told him, and his poor little troubled spirit was
soothed and relieved by his tears. The dark hours of
night came on, and slowly passed away, and the young
heir to wealth and rank still lay curled up on the
ground by the side of the dying gipsy girl. He
neither moved nor spoke—perhaps he slept—and yet,
if she but moved her hand, his little head was raised
from his hands and his eyes fixed upon her, and not
one whispered request for “water†was unheard.
He did not ask what had brought her to this state:
he was satisfied that at least she was with him still,
and there he sat, scarcely daring to breathe, for
fear of disturbing Nora, watching the soft moonlight
gradually descending the opposite bank, and creeping
and stealing in succession over each dark tent in
the valley.
The girl had relapsed into a dreamy, half-dozing
state, and thus she remained till morning brought
several of the other gipsies to see after her. Great
kindness was shown both to her and to Bertram, but
several attempts were made to draw him from her side,
and to persuade him to join the wild games of the
other children. He clung in such fear to Nora’s hand,
however,—and, above all, she seemed so unwilling
to part from him, that they were at last allowed to
I
114 THE OLD MAN.
have their own way, which was to be left as much as
possible to themselves.
In the course of that day almost all the gipsies re-
turned to the valley, and many and various were the
news, and strange the tales and adventures, that were
told round the fires that night; but Nora and Ber-
tram heard none of it; their little tent was as a
convent in the midst of a populous city, and they -
knew nothing of what was going on.
CHAPTER VIII.
NORA AND CHABLIE
Tat day and the next passed, and still no news
_of Grace, and still was Bertram carefully and tenderly
nursing poor Nora. And she was better, though but
very, very little. There was great weakness, and
great disinclination for speaking; but she was, as it
were, more alive than she had been. In proportion
as she rallied, she grew restless, and poor Bertram’s
task became more difficult to him, and more than
ever he longed for Grace, or, at least, Charlie; but
Charlie had been sent out on a long expedition, and
the poor boy felt that he had no hope of ever seeing
his darling sister again.
Nora now liked him to sit by her and talk. The
sound of his pleasant child-voice seemed to soothe
her during the long, weary hours of the day ; but she
could make him little answer, and he was often some-
what puzzled to know how to amuse her. She liked
best to hear about Combe Astley and his mamma;
but these were just the subjects most painful to
the poor little fugitive. He could not now speak
of them without crying, so forcibly did they bring
“ Gracey’? to his mind, and so bitterly did he miss
12
*
116 NORA AND CHAKLIE.
this last little bit of home. At last, one day, when
Nora was particularly restless, it occurred to him
that she might like to hear him repeat something
pretty and soothing. ©
“J wish I knew as much poetry as Gracey does,â€
said he. “She could say lots and lots of pieces to
you. She knows—‘ Around the Fire one Wintry
Night,’ out of the little green book; and ‘My Name
is Norval,’ and Mrs. Somebody’s ‘Lament over her
Dead Bird;’ and oh, a lot more, besides Gray’s
‘Elegy,’—at least most of it, because I know mamma
was giving her a penny for every verse that she
learnt; but I can’t say anything except a bit of—
‘Friends! Romans! countrymen!’ and that isn’t
poetry — besides, you wouldn’t care for that. I
know ‘some verses out of the Bible though, if you
would like that ; would you?â€
“ Yes—O yes!†was the whispered reply; and
the gipsy girl turned her large sad eyes full upon
him, and waited eagerly.
Bertram repeated the fifty-third chapter of Isaiah,
which he had learnt during the last Passion Week;
and Nora, attracted by the beauty and poetry of the
language, though unable to understand the meaning,
rewarded him with a whispered,—
“ More—say more.â€
Bertram pondered, and then said,—
“JT don’t think I know any more whole chapters ;
but I can say verses.’ And be began accordingly :—
“Whom the Lord loveth He chasteneth, and scourgeth
every son whom he receiveth.†He stopped fora
NORA AND CHARLIE. 11?
moment, and then added, as if he had just thought of
something: “ Nora, do you know, I think God must
love you very much. You see he has let you be ill,
and it says he chasteneth people that he loves.â€
Nora shook her head, but whispered, “ Go on.’
He thought she meant with the verses, and he
proceeded: “ ‘Come unto me all ye that labour and
are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my
yoke upon you, and learn of me, for I am meek and
lowly in heart, and ye shall find rest unto your souls;
for my yoke is easy and my burden light.’â€
A low sob interrupted the child.
“Nora, I have tired you,†said he; “ I am so
sorry.â€
“No,†sobbed poor Nora; “say it again.â€
He repeated the verse; and there was a silence in
that lowly tent, in which words like these had never
before been heard.
Nora’s faint sobs subsided. Bertram’s head had
‘fallen on her hand, and his thoughts had wandered
far away. He was thinking of the last time he had
repeated that verse, when he stood by his sister’s
side, before his own beautiful mamma, who was sitting
with Mrs. Abel on the great bench on the lawn in
front of his happy home. He had gabbled it over
then, longing to have done, that he might be free
to run where he liked. Sorrow had touched his
young heart, and far differently did he utter those
blessed words now, as, far, far from his friends and
his home, he crouched in poverty and loneliness by
the dying gipsy’s bed.
118 NORA AND CHARLIE.
“ Say it again,†repeated Nora; and he obeyed.
She interrupted him at the first words.
“You can go to Him; you are good. I can’t,â€
was her whisper.
Nora was forced to pause for breath between
every few words.
“O Nora!†replied Bertram, “don’t you know
you mustn’t say that, because there was a man in the
Bible called our Saviour good,—even our Saviour
himself,—and He stopped him, and said, ‘There is
none good but one, and that is God.’â€
“But you pray,†replied Nora, in the same short
whisper—“ you pray ; I can’t.â€
“Not now, because you are so ill,†replied the
boy ; “ but when you are better, you will say your
prayers again.â€
“T never prayed,†was the reply.
“Ah, Nora! you are ill now, and cannot,
perhaps; but all grown-up people pray, though
children forget sometimes. I often forgot before
I was
“Stolen� he was going to say—but, with in-
stinctive delicacy, he changed his sentence——
“Before I came away. I didn’t think so much
about goodness till I came here, and was unhappy—
at least, I mean, till Gracey said it wouldn’t do to
run away from here, but that we must pray to God
to let us get back to mamma, and so we do. She
said because of that verse, ‘ Whatsoever ye shall ask
in my name, that will I do.’ â€
“Teach me!†whispered the gipsy.
NORA AND CHARLIE. 119
“Teach you what, Nora ?†was the simple reply.
“To pray,’’ said Nora.
“OQ Nora! any one can pray—at least any one
whom God teaches, mamma says ; and she told me to
begin by asking Him to teach me how, and then to
say, at the end, ‘ For Jesus Christ’s sake’ â€â€â€”and the
child bowed his head with reverence.
“ Pray for me,†said Nora.
“We do every night, Nora—Gracey and I both.
We settled it that night we got into the tent, and
you kept us from Gran. We say, ‘Pray God to
bless Nora for being kind to us, and make her
we. 2 29
“ Pray now—here,†persisted Nora.
Bertram paused; for, although his heart had been
opened by his own sorrows, and by pity for the sick
girl, he shrank from taking the great, and, as it
appeared to him, the “grown-up†office of praying
for and with another person. But Nora’s imploring
eyes were fixed upon him, and he could not refuse.
He knelt up by her side, therefore, and clasped his
little hands together, as he had been taught to do
at home, and said, in his peculiarly musical and
childish voice,—
“© Lord God! I beseech Thee to teach me to
pray for poor Nora. If it please Thee, make her well
and strong like me, and able to pray to Thee again.
Give her strength and patience to bear to be ill as
long as it is Thy will. Teach her to love Thee and to
obey Thee. Hear my prayer, for Jesus Christ’s sake.
Amen.â€
120 NORA AND CHARLIE.
Could Lady Astley have seen her boy at this
moment, would she have found it in her heart
still to grieve for his loss—for his sufferings and
privations P
As Bertram concluded his little prayer, Nora’s
head was turned from him, and burning tears were
raining down her face, and dropping through her
thin fingers ; but she was happier now. For the first
time, in what had seemed to the poor girl a long, long
life—although it numbered but seventeen years—for
the first time, the message of peace had visited her
weary, aching heart, and she was comforted. There
was much to be done yet—much to be heard—much
to be explained and understood; and to help her—to
do the work of a minister of God—there was but one
little child, but this was enough; for “with God all
things are possible.â€
Uneonsciously, our little Bertram was, by God’s .
blessing, fulfilling a mission to which many of the
noblest and best among us have aspired—for which
they have prayed in vain. His few simple words and
childlike remarks and explanations, were suited both
to the capacity of his hearer and to the grandeur
and importance of a subject often rendered intricate
and—alas! that it should be so—wearisome, by long,
wordy, so-called explanations.
The days passed more quickly now, and Bertram
had little trouble in amusing Nora.
One evening they had been talking for some time,
and Nora was quite tired. She had been sitting up
too for some hours that day; but, in spite of her
NORA AND CHARLIE. 121
fatigue, she felt better than she had done since the
beginning of her illness, and very, very happy. She
knew that she must die; but she did not feel afraid,
except, perhaps, now and then for a minute, at the
idea of the actual dying. She had lost the far worse
fear of the hereafter, and the reckless, despairing
thoughts that had haunted her for.so long. Her very
ignorance was of service to her. There were no
rooted prejudices and opinions to be overcome. Her
mind was open to receive the simple teaching of a
child—and as a little child did she hear His holy
Word.
Her only earthly care was now for Charlie,—to see
him -once more and to tell him—to make him feel
what she felt about the love of God and our Saviour ;
and she fancied, poor child, that her great love for
Charlie must have power to turn him to repentance
and faith. To persuade him to this—to induce him
to leave the wild gipsy life,and to take Bertram home
to his parents—was the task which Nora had resolved
should be hers to accomplish before she might close her
eyes on this sad toiling world. On this evening she
lay pondering over it all, when a sound fell on her
ear which raised a flush on her pale face—a sound
which was so distant, that none but herself would
have heard it. ‘Bertram had just left her to borrow
something from one of the other tents, and she was
alone. The sound was repeated. It was nearer this
time, and still nearer it came, and the bitter tears
sprung for one moment to Nora’s eyes as she remem-
bered that she could no longer answer Charlie’s well-
122 NORA AND CHARLIE.
known call, or go forth to meet him, as she used to
do; and then, for the first time, she remembered the
shock her altered ‘appearance must give him, and she
would have given worlds to recall Bertram, to send
him to meet Charlie, and prepare him to see her.
But she could do nothing but lie still and wait, hav-
ing at least the comfort of knowing that he would
not pass her by; that hers would be the first tent
he entered. But Nora did not recognize this as a
comfort, but as a matter of course; for she had never
for one moment had reason to doubt his entire love
for her, and she would sooner have expected to find
herself queen of England than to find Charlie care
for any one but herself.
The faithful and careful little Bertram met Charlie
some paces from the tent, just as the latter was be- .
ginning to feel rather alarmed at receiving no answer
to his repeated signals, for he well’ knew that Nora
‘would not be risking the night air at this time. She
must be in the tent. Why, then, did she not
answer P
“Charlie,†said the gentle voice of Bertram Astley,
“T’m glad to see you back; so will Nora be—very
glad; she’s not been so well since you went, and has
been in bed a long time, but she has been up to-day
and is better. Come on.â€
The last words were, to say the least, unnecessary,
as the gipsy was some paces in advance of Bertram
at the moment, having stridden rapidly forward at the
first mention of Nota’s illness,
He entered the tent, but the darkness prevented
him from seeing anything,
NORA AND CHARLIE. 123
“Nora,†said he—“ Nora, where are you ?â€
He listened breathlessly.
“ Here, lying down,†said a whisper from one corner.
“ Charlie—my own Charlie!â€
He groped his way towards her, more frightened
than he chose to confess at the change, or rather loss
of voice.
“My darling Nora; what have they done to you?
Was it Gran?â€
He always had an indefinite idea that any mis-
chief, especially any evil to Nora, must by some
mysterious means have been caused by that old
woman, of whom he had the greatest horror, and
of whom he had often been heard to remark that he
could not imagine how she ever managed to have
such a daughter as Nora. Bertram had run back
to the great fire to light the candle, which, as a
great privilege, was allowed to Nora; the sun
and moonlight, or when these were not to be had,
the blaze of fires, serving for the gipsies in most
cases.
When the boy returned to the tent he found Nora
looking so happy, and with such a lovely little colour
in the cheek which was turned towards him, that he
felt quite sure she must get well soon now.
Nora had longed for the light, that she might once
more see the face she loved so well, the only one in
all this vast wilderness of faces that she ever cared
to look upon.
Charlie had dreaded it. He pretended it dazzled
his eyes—that “it was so jolly to sit in the dark ;’
124 NORA AND CHARLIE.
but, in truth, he feared to see what that light
might show him, though still he dared not own his
fears even to himself, but pushed them back, and tried
to escape from them. Yet, when the light came, he
turned eagerly to Nora. Their eyes met. It was a
long, lingering gaze. It seemed that neither of them
could turn away, and yet each was reading what they
would wish never to know. Charlie read that she
must die, and she saw that he must be miserable.
Poor girl! Her misery would have been increased
fourfold had she been old enough to know that the
more wretched he was at this moment the greater the
probability of his finding consolation after she was
gone. Her love for him had been her life; the love
of him the one thing—the one object of her life; and
it was but too likely that his love for her had been
but one of many objects of passing interest—passing,
though strong, and to be succeeded perhaps by many
another as strong and as fleeting. But Nora knew
none of this, and would not have believed it had she
been told, nor would Charlie.
Charlie’s eye fell beneath the feverish brilliancy
of hers.
“My darling Nora, you have been ill indeed ; but.
I know you must soon be well,†said he. “TI ain’t to
go again, and I’ve brought you a great many nice
things—tea and candles, and, above all, some stuff
that always cures people that are like you. I went
to a doctor, and told him all about you, and he gave
me one bottle, and is going to send more to Cross-
stone at ten to-morrow, and I’ll go and fetch it. Ive
NORA AND CUARLIE, 125
paid him, Nora, so you needn’t dread to take it.
It ll make you fat and strong, he says, and like other
people—not that I want you to be like the others
though,†added the poor boy fondly. “You are
much better, to my mind. You never were like
them, Nora darling. How came you so very, very
different ? ’’
Nora’s heart beat very fast, and her courage almost
failed her. She saw that he must be told. She had
hoped that the sight of her would have done some-
thing towards preparing him to hear the sad truth;
but when he went on to say, “ Nora darling, you'll
never be strong till you leave this wild tent life, and
live in a quiet cottage of your own,†she felt that
she must delay it no longer.
“Charlie !’’ she began, in a faint whisper, and then
stopped from utter inability to proceed, so fast and so
painfully was her heart throbbing.
But he bent his head forward and listened.
She went on confusedly and quickly, “ Charlie, dar-
ling. It may never come—most likely never! Eam
ill, Charlie; but I am not—I am not afraid to die!’
The last words seemed as if spoken in spite of her-
self. There was a silence. His head was hid. This
was not what Nora had expected. Bursts of grief and
much agitation she had looked for, but not this. She
was frightened.
“Speak to me, Charlie, speak!’ she whispered.
He neither moved nor spoke, but his head bowed
lower and lower, and his whole frame was bent in
agony.
125 NORA AND CHARLIE.
“T have so much to say and so little time,†were
the next words that broke the silence, and she touched
his hard, rough hand with her feeble dying one.
The touch or the words roused him. There was a
deep sob which shook him from head to foot. The spell
was broken and his tears flowed. Nora knew that this
was bad for her. She felt each sob in every fibre of
her frame; but it was better to bear than the awful
sustained pause had been. Perhaps, however, she
had hardly realized how painful it would be to see her
own noble, manly Charlie melted to tears like an.
infant; and there is indeed something very terrible in
the violent grief of a young man. Old men may weep,
because they know that they have been men, and that
nobody can deny the fact; middle-aged men may
weep, because they know that they are men, and that
everybody can see it; but a young man will not wil-
lingly be seen to weep until long after his claim to
manhood is established, as the boyish fear of weakness
and “ girlism,’†and the dread of ridicule, cling to the
species most pertinaciously.
“ Nora! it 7s not true. You shall not, must not,
cannot——’’? He could not even say the word “ die.â€
Poor Nora! Was it to be done all over again?
But at least the idea had entered his mind. She
looked around for Bertram to speak for her, but,
with a tact rare even among his elders, the child had
retired to his little couch in another corner of the
tent, and was fast asleep.
“Charlie, listen! I was very ill and alone. A
kind old man came; he saved me, and said good
NORA AND CHARLIE. ‘127
words—beautiful words! I asked, and he said I
must—die. He’’—and she glanced at Bertram—
“he prayed, and taught me; and, Charlie, I am
ready. But, oh! be safe, be happy too !—believe in
Jesus !â€â€™ :
She could say no more; but Charlie was alarmed
at her gasping for breath, and the exhausted expres-
sion that came over her face.
“Nora! you shall not speak another word. I will
hear anything to-morrow, when you are better, so
that you rest now. I shall go.â€
“One minute—wait!’ gasped the poor girl.
“ He—the old man—left a paper to tell; it is pinned
on the tent !â€â€™
He rose to look, feeling as if nothing he read or
saw could make any difference to his wretchedness ;
but anything to please Nora. He searched in vain
of course, and soon left the tent, to wander in misery
during the whole night over the common ; longing,
wishing to die, and firmly believing that he would do:
so immediately if he could. Nora was thoroughly
worn out, and much disappointed at this unsatisfac-
sory interview. She slept little that night, and when
she did doze, her dreams were so fearful and her
waking so painful, that she could not help wishing
she might never sleep again. As morning dawned,
Charlie wandered towards the encampment, pining,
and yet dreading, to see Nora again, and half tempted
to hope that the last night’s interview had been but a
horrible dream, of which the long night’s wandering
was butacontinuation. His hope, such as it was, was
123 NORA AND CHARLIE,
soon crushed. Bertram was on the look out for him,
and ran up the valley to meet him.
“ Good morning, Charlie,†began the boy; “ Nora
told me to watch for you, and I’ve been twice to your
tent. She wants me to tell you everything, to pre-
pare you, she said, because she can’t talk much, and
then, if you know most, she can finish, you know, and
you'll understand. She has had a bad night, but I
think she is dozing now.â€
“What does she want me to know?†said Charlie
gloomily, standing stock-still.
“T can’t tell, if you look so, Charlie,†said the boy,
“because it is very beautiful,—it is about her being so
happy to die and go to Jesus Christ, who died for her
—only she has two things on her mind,†and Ber-
tram forgot all about Charlie’s looks and went on,
warming with his subject: “one is about you; she
does so want you to love God and our Saviour like
her, and to pray with her. She said it would make
her quite happy. I do believe, Charlie,†continucd
the child, lifting his little woe-worn face up to the
gipsy’s,—‘I do believe that you are the only person
in the world she cares for.â€
Charlie’s lip quivered, and he turned away, seating
himself on a fallen tree close at hand, and hiding
his face in his hands, while Bertram’s musical tones
ran on—
“You know,†said he mysteriously, drawing closer
to Charlie, and looking round, as if he feared Gran
might hear,—“ you know, though Gran is her mother,
she can’t be very fond of her, because she is so very
NORA AND CHARLIE. 129
bad. Charlie! do you know, I didn’t know anybody
could be so bad, and say such things, before I came
here, and yet Nora has heard it always.â€
Charlie groaned, and interrupted the boy, to ask
what was the other thing on Nora’s mind.
“T do not know,†said he; “she said she must tell
you that herself. Perhaps it is to see the old man
again. I must tell you all that;†and he related all
the particulars which Nora had been unable to give
the night before, and ended by dwelling at length on
Nora’s great anxiety that Charlie should “learn to be
good.â€
Charlie listened without speaking, and when Ber-
tram had quite done, he only asked, “ When may I
see her ?â€
« As soon as she wakes. She said she would like you
to feed her this morning,†said Bertram, disregarding
the apparent inattention to his own long story, as few
older people could have done.
“To feed her!’? These words opened a new
and terrible view of her extreme debility to poor
Charlie, and he impatiently sprung up, and walked
towards the tent. Bertram ran in before him, to
see if Nora was awake; and, as Charlie waited
outside, he listlessly stooped to pick up a piece of
paper which was partly concealed by the canvass.
There was writing on the paper, but half erased ;
and, without knowing what he was about, he
read the only distinguishable words:—* . . . this
poor girl should not live many weeks, or it may
be months.†Had the anguish of the past: night’
4
180 NORA AND CHARLIE.
been.as nothing? Was it all to come over again.
The paper dropped trom his hand, and he turned
away with a fresh burst of agony.
Té was the old man’s paper, and Charlie knew it
too well. 2
181
CHAPTER IX.
AGNES VERNON.
Nor far from the common on which our gipsies
had pitched their tents was situated a small watering-
place,—small at present, but rapidly increasing both in
size and fashion. It consisted of a nucleus of houses,
dignified with the name of “The Town†by its
inhabitants, and of a few villas stretching out on each
side, all professing to be more or less “ elegant’? or
“desirable†till they were let, and then ceasing to
make any professions at all. The very last and most
detached of these “ elegant family residences†was a
long, low house, consisting of but two stories, the
lowest of which was. jealously guarded by a fierce-
looking green veranda, while the windows in the one
above were so close together, that the heavy, project-
ing, tent-like blinds which protected them gave to the
house the appearance of a chest-of-drawers, with the
top drawer left half pulled out. There was a little bit
of green in front of the house, which thought it-
self a garden, but was decidedly mistaken. Shrubs
bounded it on each side, and a little green fence and
gate stood in front of it, to proclaim to the world that
the bit of green was not public property, but was
sacred to the inhabitants of the long, low house,
132 AGNES VERNON,
whosoever they might chance to be at the time. At
present, a Mrs. Vernon and her daughter Agnes were
the enviable possessors of both house, garden, fence,
and gate; and, as Agnes is at this moment sitting at
the open window of her room finishing a letter, we
will take the liberty of peeping over her shoulder.
The window is a French one, and opens into the
veranda. Agnes is just come in from her ride, and
has not taken off her habit. Her hat and gloves and
whip are on the table by her side. She writes,—
“T have this moment come in from riding, and
found your letter waiting for me on the drawing-room
table. I left this unfinished in the morning in case
there should be anything dreadful, important, or
destructive to impart. But there is nothing.
Mamma will ‘be delighted to see you,’ and all that;
and, as for me, I don’t dare to say whether I am glad
or not, after’ your terrible sentence about ‘ romantic
young ladies,’ for fear you should set me down as one.
By the bye, I’m afraid I must be getting very romantic, -
now I come to think of it, which J assure you I never
did before, and my reason is, that to-day, as I was
riding along, I met the most horrible, supernatural
—no, I mean unearthly-looking old gipsy woman
that ever was invented. Her (I must say it, so
rub it out or look the other way) diabolical ex-
pression haunts me, but, happily, yet more so does
the strangely mournful, pitiful look of the child
she was carrying on her back. It was a girl, old
enough to have been walking, but her tender
AGNES VERNON. 183
little feet were bleeding, and she looked quite faint
and exhausted. She fixed her eyes upon me as I
passed, with a look that I shall never forget to my
dying day.
“There!—don’t you think my symptoms are very
bad? That ‘strangely mournful look, and the
‘tender little feet,’ have a most dangerous appearance
about them. But the last sentence I consider fatal.
I mean the one béginning ‘She fixed,’ and ending
with ‘my dying day.’ The fact is, that romance is
the fashionable epidemic of this rural retreat, and I
must have caught it of some of the young ladies whom
I see daily strewed on the beach, attired in red petti-
coats and cocked hats. Under these appalling cir-
cumstances, perhaps you had better bring all your
sober common sense here as soon as possible, and if
you will add to it, as you pass through London, some
French chocolate, you will greatly oblige me. It
may be some consolation to you to hear that one
great reason why I really do long to see you is, that
I don’t think I remember you quite as well as I did;
I don’t think of you quite so much as I did at first ;
and worse still, I can’t ewactly recall the peculiar wave
—I should say air—of your nose. I discovered this
sad truth yesterday, when, having drawn a caricature
of you engaged in dancing a hornpipe with your
sister’s old governess, and having shown it to mamma,
she exclaimed vehemently against your nose, and
declared I had not done justice to it. Oh dear! when
people begin to talk of the rights of women, and to call
for justice for a nose, I really must go and dress; 80
1384 AGNES VERNON.
you see, as I can think and talk of you with such un-
becoming levity, I can’t be romanticated past cure.
“ Adieu, your most affectionate
“ Aanes VERNON.â€
And Agnes sealed up her letter, and directed
it to
“ Reginald De Verrie, Esgq.,
“ Rangley Park,
“ Henley.â€
And then she began to dress for a ¢éte-a-téte dinner
with her mother, talking to herself the while in a
half-loud voice.
“Tt’s all very well laughing it off,†were her first
words ; “ but the truth is, I cannot get that child’s eyes
out of my head. I believe I have thought of nothing
but tortured children ever since he told me about
those poor little Astleys. I cannot help now having a
feeling that this child might be one of them, though
I did not dare to suggest it even to him, for he said
it was impossible that they should have been stolen;
but yet one never knows.â€
She was silent for a few minutes, and sat down to
wait for her maid, slowly unweaving the thick smooth
plaits of her dark hair the while. Presently she
added,—
“Yes; he certainly is as decided and unimaginative
as Tam the contrary of both; and when I am with
him, I often think of that detestable Mrs. Elton’s
AGNES VERNON. 135
speech to Jane Fairfax in Miss Austen’s ‘Emma,’—
‘What a perfect character you and I should make if
we could be shaken together.’ But I suppose it is
dreadfully presumptuous to think I could improve
upon him in any way. It is not at all en régle. O
dear! I am afraid I make a very bad lovess. I cannot
look upon him as a model lover, so I shall not wait
any longer for Macnade, but dress myself.â€
Agnes Vernon had been engaged to Reginald De
Verrie for about half a year, and they were only
waiting the return of her youngest brother from the
Cape to be married. They believed that they were
very fond of one another. Reginald, indeed, was
quite sure of his own affection for her; but in
the distance, in Agnes’ mind, there lurked sundry
faint and unconfessed doubts, which must have gained
in strength and importance, if she would have paused.
in the happy whirl of her life—paused to think and
to inquire. But Agnes never thought. She was a
very butterfly, and her happiness was a very surface
happiness. There was no store set aside for a rainy
day. What she believed to be thinking was no more
than musing—jumping from subject to subject by an
unconnected train of thought, without ever arriving at
any conclusion.
Exactly at the moment when Agnes Vernon was
signing her name at the conclusion of the letter
to Mr. De Verrie, old Gran, with many a bright and
ill-gotten coin in her dirty old pocket, and the any-
thing but bright, but equally ill-gotten, Grace on her
back, was once more approaching the encampment
136 AGNES VERNON.
in which her poor daughter still continued to die, and
Charlie and Bertram to mourn with perseverance that
would have been most praiseworthy had it not been
involuntary.
Charlie’s grief fitted him better now than when last
we saw him, though bad was that better, and very
hard to bear. He had had many long talks with
Nora, sometimes alone, sometimes with Bertram, and
he thoroughly understood her wishes, and was resolved
that, at least as far as regarded Bertram, they should
be fulfilled to the very letter. He would take the
boy home, and deliver him up to his parents with his
own hands, be the risk what it might ; and he told her
that he only waited till Hubert and the greater part
of the gang were out together before he started with
the child, but in truth he could not bear to tear him-
self from her.
Nora had had a long talk with Hubert one day,
when, at her request, Charlie had‘taken Bertram for
awalk on the common. Hubert had long loved
Nora himself, and he felt that he had a right in her
which none other could have, for it had been a custom
among this tribe, from time immemorial, for the chief
to marry one of the daughters of his predecessor.
Hubert had been elected at the death of Nora’s
father, and she was an only child. She sent for him,
therefore, to tell him—what he had feared for some time
past—that she must die; and she entreated him, in a
few forcible words, to take measures to find out what
her mother had done with Grace ; to protect her and
Bertram as long as they were with the tribe; and,
AGNES VERNON. 137
finally, at least to connive in Charlie’s plan for re-
turning them to their parents.
Hubert was deeply touched by the earnestness of
her words. He promised all that she required, and
he did yet more; for instead of almost invariably send-
ing for Charlie if any one was required, he now left
him entirely with her.
The “stuff� which the doctor had given to Charlie
for her was neither more nor less than cod-liver oil ;
and certainly its effects were most wonderful at first.
It seemed to stand in the stead of all eating and
drinking to the poor girl, and finally it brought back
her appetite. She was now able to creep out in the
sunshine with the help of Charlie’s strong arm; and
he was tremblingly daring to think that he might
hope; but he never got any further than that,
though Bertram joyously and openly declared his
conviction that she would soon be quite strong,
and able to go with him and-‘Charlie “back to
mamma,â€â€”for Nora had told him that he was to
be taken home.
Poor Nora herself had no doubts. There was a
feeling within her that told her she must die; and
although the new medicine was of more benefit
to her than it would have been to a person who
had been accustomed to good living, yet she was
right.
As Gran and Grace approached the tent of the
former, the child lifted up her little feeble head and
strained her- eyes towards it, full of hopes, and long-
ings and fears, about her darling brother; but no one
188 «AGNES VERNON.
was stirring. Gran hobbled on, grumbling as usual,
and when she reached the tent, she flung Grace down,
as if she had been but a bundle, swearing at her for
giving so much trouble, and for daring to have arms
‘and legs enough to be about as heavy as a moderate
sized terrier.
Nora and Charlie and Bertram were together, as
usual; the latter was repeating aloud all the verses
he could remember out of the Bible, now and then
adding some little simple remark of his own, while
the others listened in silence.
At Gran’s sudden entrance Charlie and Bertram
started up, and in a moment the boy was at his sis-
ter’s side, half out of his mind with mingled joy at
seeing her again, and grief at the miserable appear-
ance she presented. Her little round fat face had
grown quite thin and pale; it was very dirty too, and
one or two red marks showed but too plainly the
traces of old Gran’s nails, while her now flaxen hair
was tangled and untidy.
Unconsciously Bertram had forgotten the changes
that had been effected in them both before they had
left the ship. He had been thinking of Grace as the
pretty little dark-haired home sister, and he could
scarcely recognize her in this disguise.
Gran received the news of her daughter’s illness
with a fresh burst ‘of bad language, chiefly directed
against the unfortunate girl herself, for having pre-
sumed to be ill without her amiable mother’s permis-
sion, and for being so different from all the other
gipsies.
AGNES VERNON. 139
Nora and her two companions felt that all peace
and quiet had fled from that tent the moment old
Gran put her foot in it, and they busied themselves,
as far as they dared, in comforting and pitying poor
little Grace, who was too thoroughly worn out and
ill to do anything but lie quite. still and cry quietly,
still keeping her eyes fixed on Bertram, as if she
could hardly yet believe that she really saw him
again.
Although Gran was, as a matter of course, ill-
tempered and violent on the night of her return
to her so-called home, and to her dying daughter,
yet, on the whole, she was in reality highly pleased
with the success of her expedition. The sickly ap-
pearance and mournful looks of poor little Grace had
gained for her tormentor many an extra penny; and
so elated was the old woman by her good fortune,
that at a grand council held by the gipsies a few days
after her return, she openly pronounced that there
was “luck about those children,†and strongly recom-
mended, and graciously permitted, that Bertram
should be made use of in the affair which they were
now discussing, declaring that she would be satisfied
to go equal shares with them in the spoil, and would
not ask more, even if—through the loan of her boy—
they got more than was calculated upon. This offer
was. listened to with avidity. The plot was neither
more nor less than to rob Agnes Vernon of the
beautiful present that Reginald De Verrie had
brought her from town, and of the contents of that
present. It was:not the French chocolate,—although
240 AGNES VERNON.
he had brought her a large supply of that,—but it
was a most costly and handsome dressing-case ; and
in the soft velvet of the deep drawer at the bottom
sparkled many a gem, both “rich and rare,â€â€”almost
all wedding presents from the numerous circle of
friends and relations, whose high-sounding names will
doubtless be dragged ere long into the notice of her
marriage in the newspapers. The gipsies, in league
with another numerous circle of friends and relations,
namely, the smugglers, entertained not the remotest
intention of allowing Agnes, either Vernon or De
Verrie, to indulge in the worldly vanity of wearing
these vain baubles any more. One of the gang had,
in the garb of indigent poverty, watched her as she
displayed them to a friend one day; and another had
ascertained that she was in the habit of sleeping with
her window open. Nothing, therefore, could be easier
than to slip into her room and quietly march off with
the dressing-case and its valuable contents.» The
smugglers’ boat would be close at hand ready to
receive the booty, and two or three of the gipsies,
and convey them to a distant land, where the jewels
might be disposed of without exciting suspicion.
This was a plan which could scarcely fail of success ;
but there existed one great difficulty. Agnes slept
with an open window, it is true, but not wide enough
open to admit a man’s body, and the difficulty was in
finding a child small enough, strong enough, sharp
enough, and sufficiently tractable for the job; and
until Gran proposed Bertram, it had seemed that the
whole thing would, in all probability, fall to the
AGNES VERNON. 141
ground for want of this model child-thief; for this
kind of robbery was not usual to the gipsies ;
consequently, the children of the tribe were by
no means well educated in the line of villany now
required.
This great prize, however, promised to be so easily
obtained, that Hubert could not but feel it hard that
it should be slipping from his grasp only for the want
of one small-sized, first-class villain, when he had
so many of all other sorts and sizes at his com-
mand. He doubted greatly, however, at first, as to
Bertram’s tractability,—of his strength, size, and
quickness, he was sure; but could he be made to do
his part ?
Gran grinned a hideous grin, and shook her skinny
finger at him, while she declared that “ she would
answer for the brat; she would manage him.†As
no one doubted her capabilities of managing this
or any other brat, it was immediately decided that
Bertram should be at once the victim and the chief
actor in the next scene in which these amiable and
praiseworthy people intended to act.
The next night was fixed upon as the latest
term that Agnes could be permitted to enjoy her
jewels. The only difficulty was, how to get the boy
from his constant companions,—Grace, Nora, and
Charlie ; and this Gran willingly undertook to ac-
complish.
Hubert felt sadly guilty of violating his promise to
Nora; but the oath which he had taken, on being
elected chief, left him, in fact, no will of his own in
142 AGNES VERNON.
the matter, and all he could do to ease his eon-
science was, to take care to be out of the way all
day, that there might be no possibility of an appeal
from Nora, which could only make him more un-
happy, and could be of no use whatever to the poor
child.
Gran’s diplomacy in this case was of a bold and
straightforward nature, that really did her credit. In-
stead of stealing off Bertram as she had stolen his sister,
and as she might very well have done, she told Nora
outright that the boy was to go out with her that
night, and she said it before Charlie, Grace, and
Bertram himself. She had her reward, and a rich
reward it was. She had the delight of seeing tears
in abundance from Nora and Grace, horror on the
faces of both the children, of being entreated and
implored by all, and, finally, of seeing Nora quite
overcome with her agitation, and obliged to go to bed
with a violent headache; while she could not but feel
that Charlie was only restrained by consideration for
Nora from abusing her mother. Hubert had acted
wisely in keeping aloof, for a whisper from Nora sent
Charlie to summon the chief, who, of course, was not
to be found.
At the appointed time, therefore, poor Bertram was
led forth, looking “ like a little martin,’ as one of his
tiny sisters was heard to say in after years, when tell-
ing the story of “Bertram and Grace and the
gipsies†to a new nursery-maid. The poor boy
kissed Nora, who felt as if she was about to lose her
mainstay; for Charlie’s state of mind was so un-
AGNES VERNON 143
settled, that she could not now look up to him
for comfort.
Gran sneered at this parting, and said, “He'll be
back in two or three hours, you fool!†at which words
the children brightened up; but Nora shook her head,
and she felt a foreboding that in this world she should
never again set eyes on the child whom she had learnt
to love as she never thought to love any one but
Charlie. Bertram’s dignity had been left behind at
Combe Astley, every particle of it, and he evinced
no disdain at the “ woman’s tears†which rained down
Gracey’s cheek. He even sobbed himself, but was at
last obliged to turn from the tent and follow the ©
wretched old woman to where two of the gang where
waiting for her with a cart, into which she scrambled.
The men got up by her, Bertram was lifted in
behind, and off they jolted. The poor child had a
most uncomfortable time of it; every step taken by
the horse threw him roughly against one side of the
cart, only to be thrown back again to the otherimme-
diately, and he soon became all over bruises. They
drove on for a long time without stopping. It was a
dark night, but the men knew the way well, and as
for the horse, he could have taken it blindfold. Occa-
sionally, but at long intervals, they passed some gipsy
settlement. The fire—or perhaps there might be two
—east a red and flickering light over the dark, wild
faces and figures around them, and as sticks, or other
fuel, were thrown on the flames, glanced up brightly,
lighting up the low brown tents and rickety old carts,
and a portion of the common beyond. Bertram was
144 AGNES VERNON.
too miserable to admire fine effects of light and shade,
his companions were equally indifferent, and on
they drove till the camps and the common were left
behind, and they came out into a narrow lane. Here
they got out of the cart, which they backed behind a
great tree. One of the men was left with the horse
and cart, while the other, with Gran and Bertram, set
out once more on foot. They soon left the lane, and
turned across some fields by a footpath which took
them by a gentle descent to the back of the house
which contained Agnes Vernon, her mother, her
jewels, and several servants—not to mention Reginald
De Verrie himself, being one more than the gipsies
had calculated upon; for although they never for a
moment contemplated the possibility of any of the
peaceful inhabitants of this desirable family residence
being awakened by the entrance of one small villain
into Miss Vernon’s room, yet they did very well
know that the said entrance would be attended with
great risk as long as there was a young gentleman
about the place ; forasmuch as nobody could ever fore-
see at what hour of day or night such an individual
might not choose to be smoking, either indoors or out
—specimens having been known to retire to bed at
seven o’clock in the morning, rising to breakfast at
three o’clock in the afternoon of one and the same day.
That Reginald De Verrie had returned to town or to
Rangley Park, the gipsies were pretty sure, and it
was with the utmost confidence of success that they
approached the small gate which led from the fields
into a very narrow slip of grass behind the house.
AGNES VERNON. 145
This slip contained a well, covered by some thin
planks; and a miniature walk led from it through the
bushes to the front of the house, coming out close
under the window of the room in which Agnes slept.
At this gate Gran stopped with Bertram, while their
companion unclosed it, and went through to recon-
noitre, and to see that the window was opened.
146
CHAPTER X.
THE RESCUE.
TuE moment had now arrived which Gran had
fixed upon to inform Bertram of the part he had to
perform.
“Ye’re to goo alang arter Bill,†said she, “ an’ he’ll
show ye the winder—thin ye mus’ crep in, and ye’ll
see a grat box wi’ a leather cover an’ letters on it; it’s
mine, and ye’ll bring it me and take no heed o†the
gal sleeping in the room.â€
Bertram felt that the box was not hers, and in a
moment his horrible position presented itself to his
mind. Hither to commit a great sin, or, as he doubted
not, to die a violent death by the hands of an old
gipsy woman, and never, never again to hear the sweet
voices of his home—never, never more to see the
beautiful face of his darling mother, or his own twin
sister. The poor little boy’s teeth chattered and his
knees trembled with fright. He put up his little hands
to intreat the hard-hearted old gipsy to have pity on
him; but his tongue clung to the roof of his mouth,
and the words that seemed bursting from his heart
would go no farther than his throat.
The gipsy stooped and whispered in his ear, and
that whisper he never forgot to his dying day.
THE RESCUE. 147
“If you scream, you die;†and the hissing sound
of the last word rung in his ear and sank deep into
his heart, as Bill reappeared.
“ All right,†was his whispered assurance : “ winder
open—gal asleep—box on a table near her. Boy all
right 2â€
Gran nodded an affirmative, and pushed the poor
child towards him.
Bertram heard his own heart throbbing against his
side as he tottered, rather than walked, after the man
through the dark shrubs. They rounded the corner
of the house. Bill pointed to the half-open window,
and a hard gripe from behind on the boy’s little
delicate arm warned bim that the old gipsy was not
far off, and nearly elicited the shriek which it was
intended to prevent. Bertram would have given
worlds at that moment if the earth would have opened
and swallowed him up. The earth was by no means
so obliging, however; and, nearly sick with fear, he
prepared to creep into the room on his hands and
knees—one of the gipsies lifting aside the slight
muslin blind which hung before the window. Another
moment and his head and shoulders were in the -
room—the window creaked—Agnes Vernon turned
in her sleep, and a deep sigh and‘ half a word
escaped her. A rough detaining hand was laid
upon Bertram’s leg, and he paused—his head droop-
ing from the faintness of extreme fear. In after-
life he often and often recalled the agony of that
moment. No sound broke the deathlike silence save
the gentle rippling of the waves on the beach, and
L2
148 THE RESCUE.
the hard breathing of the old gipsy grandmother
behind him.
There was a lamp in the room, and its faint, sickly
light fell straight across a small table, upon which
stood the unconscious cause of so much sin and
misery—the dressing-case. Yet fainter and more
sickly was the light as it faded away upon the calm
face of Agnes Vernon, as she slept peacefully, little
dreaming of the strange things that were passing so
close to her. How sad it is to feel bow careless and
uzconcerned we are but too often obliged to be, cf
the anguish and misery that is going on so near to
us,—so near, that it is not unfrequently woven in
with the story of our own lives; and yet we do
not heed it—we do not know it. It is too near
us, and we look beyond it, and give our pity and
our help to distant objects. And when we hear
of sorrow bravely borne, we wonder and admire,
little dreaming of the richness of strength, the
wealth of endurance, that in silence and in sorrow
has been living among us—bearing and enduring,
it may be, for our own sakes. Yes, there are
ghosts among us—black, shadowy objects, un-
seen by the many, but casting a solemn, ever-
chifling, ever-weighing gloom over those to whom
they are visible.
Poor Bertram! But he cannot long to get out of
his uncomfortable position more than I long to help
him out. A ;
A whispered “Go on!’ soon sent him, creeping
and trembling, into the room. Slowly and noiselessly
THE RESCUE. 149
he raised himself to his feet, and looked round. The
gipsies anxiously watched him. On tiptoe he passed
the light—he approached the box.
“ All right—he’ll do it!� whispered Gran, with an
oath.
Not so fast, amiable and most fascinating specimen
of age and hilarity. In another moment, as if touched
by an electric machine, or impelled by an uncon-
trollable terror, Bertram sprang forward, dropped on
his knees by the side of the yet sleeping girl, and,
burying his head in the bed-clothes,—clinging to
them with the strength of despair,—he exclaimed in
a piercing scream,—
“Save me—oh, save me!
Agnes awoke; and not being at all romantic, her
first idea—and it was instantly acted upon—was to
scream loudly. Almost before she was awake, how-
ever, the window was thrown open with a jerk—a
man bounded into the room, and, seizing up the
child as if he had been a small-sized dog, rushed
out again, dealing the poor boy a violent blow on
the head as he did so.
Agnes heard him leap over the palings, and run
away down the road. Her own screams were stopped
from utter fright. She could not raise her voice above
a whisper; but she could, and she did, ring the bell
till it broke.
Scarcely had she commenced this praiseworthy
employment, however, when a shout from the road
broke upon her ear—another, and yet another!
And that voice !—she knew that voice if she knew
150 THE RESCUE.
any voice upon earth. It was Reginald’s, and the
sound of it brought back her own.
She sprang to the door of her room, and screamed,
“ Help—help! They are killing him—he is dead!
Help—help
And now another and more terrible sound fell on
her ear, and put a stop to her own lively exclamations,
while she paused in horror. A crash—it seemed to
Agnes of falling chimneys—a crash, a plash, and a
shriek—and such a shriek—so unearthly and fearful,
that, as it died away, and at the same moment the
servants came rushing up and down, poor Agnes,
in very terror, sprung with one bound into bed, and
buried herself deep, deep under the bed-clothes, trying
in vain to stifle the sounds yet ringing in her ears.
But where was Reginald? Why was he out at
such an hour ?
Reginald De Verrie had, as the gipsies were well
aware, made his adieux to Agnes and her mother that
very morning, and set out for town; but, as they did
not know, he had, whether purposely or not, missed
the train, and had accordingly returned to spend
another four-and-twenty hours at the long, low two-
storied house. When Agnes and her mother retired
_ to bed, Reginald, with a cigar-case and a railroad
“wrapper, repaired to the beach to enjoy the con-
tents of the former, and to ponder upon the vicissi-
tudes of human life in general, and of his own in
particular.
So interested had he become im the one or the
other of these occupations, that he had disregarded
THE RESCUE. 151
alike the decreasing time and the increasing darkness.
Rousing himself at length, however, he began slowly
to tramp up the beach, and was about half-way from
the road, when shriek number one—being Bertram’s—
broke the solemn silence of the night. Almost at the
same moment the window of the room in which Agnes
slept was flung open, and he saw a man spring in,
and as rapidly out again, bearing something in his
arms.
Let anybody who wishes to form an idea of
Reginald’s situation and difficulties put himself into
as violent a passion as possible, and then begin to
run, or rather to try to run, up a steep stony beach.
The great round loose stones and the myriads of tiny
ones, will combine together in one vast league to sink
beneath his feet—to roll back, to pull him back, to
play him false in every and the most aggravating
way. At length he gained the road in spite of their
villany ; and then rage lent him the wings which she
is supposed to keep for such occasions. Even passions
have their etiquette and customs, like men and
women. Thus Rage and Fear lend out wings when
required ;—Love beams, generally in the eye, but
occasionally, though rarely, in every feature ;—Envy
and Jealousy each have a weakness for gnawing at
the heart ;—Pity lends out sorrowing tears,—and so
on. Therefore, when Reginald De Verrie wanted to
catch the robbers, whom he imagined to be running
away with his beloved Agnes—with whom, of course,
everybody in the world must want to run away—
Rage very obligingly and properly lent him a couple of
152 THE RESCUE.
wings, with which he so speedily gained ground on the
loaded villain, that that villain, with an oath, dropped
the load on the ground, and redoubled his speed.
Then Rage went away with the wings, and Reginald
pounced upon the load, and, alas! raised from the
ground—not his own Agnes—but a little ragged,
red-headed, gipsy boy—dirty, insensible, and covered
with blood from a great and recent cut in his head!
Although Reginald De Verrie could not but be dis-
appointed at finding that his lady-love had not been
thrown down on a hard high road, in the middle of
the night, by a housebreaker, and therefore that he
could not enjoy the extreme pleasure and felicity of
saving her; yet he was not hard-hearted enough to
vent his disappointment upon the poor beggar-child
who had undergone the experience in her stead. He
raised the boy from the ground, therefore, and turned
back to the house. He was met by some of the
servants, armed in various manners, pokers and tongs
forming a large feature in the accoutrements, which in
one case consisted of a small fender in one hand and
a glass water-bottle in the other.
Thus escorted, and still bearing his ragged trophy,
he returned in a sort of triumphant procession to
that house which he had quitted but a few hours
before in a solitude which was ignominious by com-
parison.
Agnes had meantime emerged from her retreat,
and attired herself in a dressing-gown which con-
trasted pleasantly with the one in which her lady
mother had seen fit to envelop her tall, stooping
HE RESCUE. 153
form. They stood side by side in the doorway,
while a bevy of maids formed a somewhat striking
background.
“Tt is the child that screamed and woke me!’’ ex-
claimed Agnes, as Reginald approached, and a clearer
idea of the confusing, startling events of the last few
minutes began to dawn upon her at the sight of that
little red head. “Oh, he is dead—he is hurt! In
here—bring him here!’ she continued, opening the
door of her own room, where the faint light still burnt
boldly on, inno wise daunted by the stronger beams
of the many candles that now flitted about in cold and
trembling hands.
Macnade, Mrs. Vernon’s maid, had taken Bertram
from the panting Reginald, and she followed Agnes
into the room and laid him, still insensible, upon the
bed to which he had clung so imploringly but a few
minutes before, in life and in strength. Now he rested
on it, motionless, to all appearance dead. Reginald de-
spatched some one immediately for a doctor, and then
set off himself to rouse the proper officials to take
measures for the apprehension of the villains who had,
he doubted not, attempted to break into the house,
for a few words from Agnes had given him a pretty
true idea of the state of the case. Till the doctor
arrived nothing could be done for the poor boy, except
shutting down and securely fastening that fatal win-
dow, to prevent the re-appearance of the enemy ; of
which catastrophe Mrs. Vernon and several of the
maids seemed to be in momentary expectation. This
dangerous service having been heroically executed
154 THE RESCUE.
without loss of life or limb—the blind having been
drawn down and the shutters closed, “for fear they
should see the lights and shoot us, the wretches !’’ as
Mrs. Vernon remarked—that lady, sleepy, nervous,
and slipshod, crept up to bed again. Most of the
maids followed her example, and Agnes, Macnade, and
one housemaid were left to keep watch over the boy,
whom one of them feared, and the other two hoped,
was dead. Not that either Macnade or the housemaid
were unfeeling or hard-hearted ; very much the con-
trary ;—neither of them could bear the sight of a dead
mouse, and Jane had been known to shed tears at the
death of a favourite old cat which had inhabited the
Vernon kitchen for many years, and it is highly pro-
bable that they will pay the same compliment to Ber-
tram if I kill him ; but the love of excitement, of the
marvellous, the terrible, of anything, in fact, to break
the monotony of life, was so strong both in Macnade
and in Jane, that although they firmly believed that
they hoped the child would live, they could not help
gazing on that little mute form with an intensity of
interest arising from the unconfessed feeling, that if
he were to draw one breath, everything must go on
sadly as usual; but that every moment that he delayed
that breath rendered the stirring possibility of a
funeral and a sight more likely. Just as the doctor’s
ring was heard at the door, Bertram did draw a
breath—another, and yet another—and as the good
but withal sleepy man entered the room. the child
began slowly to open his eyes.
“ He will live!’ exclaimed Agnes,
THE RESCUE. 155
And it soon became evident that he had every inten-
tion of doing so. He had received a severe blow on
the head from the hard cruel hand of the man Bill,
and was covered with bruises from having been thrown
violently on the road. Of these latter, however, the
doctor thought nothing. The head was the only thing
for which he feared. The prolonged insensibility and
the seeming deepness of the cut, at first made him
fear a concussion of the brain; although he allowed
that the former might have been merely a fainting-
fit ; of the latter he could not judge in its present state.
Some of the hair surrounding the cut must be imme-
diately removed. He called for a pair of scissors, and
began to carry his words into effect, while Macnade
held the light towards him, and Agnes stood by,
watching attentively. Snip, snip went the scissors.
“ Hallo!’ exclaimed the doctor, “hallo! what’s
this ?â€
“ My goodness gracious me!†ejaculated Macnade,
as the red wig came half off in the left hand of the
good doctor, while his right grasped the scissors. “ A
disguise, by all that’s sacred,’ said the astonished
man, while Jane screamed in the distance.
- But it was a poor weak scream, the last of a long
and powerful line, and it was treated with the con-
tempt and ignominy which usually fall to the lot of
poor descendants.
Doctor Halling now carefully disengaged the rest
of the wig from under the boy’s head, and disclosed
to view his own dark hair—short now, but ‘still con-
156 THE RESCUE.
siderably grown since the sad day on which it had
been so closely cropped.
“A disguise,’â€â€™ repeated the doctor; “a stolen child,
no doubt! poor boy, poor boy!â€
“Stolen!†exclaimed Agnes, in an eager whisper ;
“then it is Bertram Astley ;†and with her usual im-
petuosity she rushed out of the room, bounded up
stairs three steps at a time, and burst into her
mother’s room to communicate the startling idea ; for
Agnes had been much interested in Reginald’s sad
story of the disappearance of the young Astleys, and
Mrs. Vernon had fancied herself much interested also
at the time, although she had only heard the begin-
ning of the story, having lost the end, and forgotten
to inquire whether the children were ever found
again, in the delights of ordering dinner, to which
duty she had been summoned at the moment Regi-
nald had chosen to tell his tale.
As soon as she fully comprehended the drift of the
somewhat incoherent expressions with which Agnes
almost overwhelmed her, and as soon as she could
recall to mind who Grace and Bertram Astley were,
and that she had felt and suffered so deeply for them
and for their dear parents, she insisted upon getting
up to look at the child, with a sort of vague idea that
she must find his name written on his face, although
every one else had failed to discover it.
Agnes was raving to rush off somewhere, anywhere,
to tell somebody, anybody, the great news, and to
work off the excitement that incited her to perform a
THE RESCUE. 157
series of inimitable gymnastics round her mother’s
dressing-table, by way of helping out her explana-
tion.
Mrs. Vernon, however, would keep her to help her
on once more with the antiquated dressing-gown, and
to answer her innumerable questions.
Just as they reached the bottom of the stairs, the
house-door opened to admit Reginald, and two police-
men come to inspect the premises.
Agnes sprung towards him, dancing in a manner
somewhat unexpected and novel to the eyes of those
tall officials. “It is Bertram Astley; we have found
them—it is them, and Grace was the girl ; oh, come!â€
she exclaimed.
“Bertram Astley — Grace — Agnes !—who is —
what ?†said Reginald, rapidly and confusedly.
“Come and look,†repeated Agnes, springing to
the door of her own room, where Bertram was; but
at this moment Jane came out with her finger on her
lip, and a request from the doctor that Miss Vernon
would be kind enough to keep the house quieter, if
possible. He was still busy about the child’s head,
but would come to her in the dining-room as soon as
it was dressed ; meantime he wished to be left alone
with his patient and the maids.
Reginald could hardly be restrained from at least
looking in, but was finally conquered, and dragged off
to the dining-room, to hear the tale of the wig from
Agnes, and an elaborate account of her own feelings
from Mrs. Vernon.
At last Doctor Halling made his appearance and
158 TIE RESCUE.
his report. He repeated his conviction that the
wound in the head was the only thing of the least
consequence, adding that he could hardly tell yet
the extent of the injury, but was of opinion that the
wig had softened the severity of the blow. He
opened his eyes when he heard of the suspicions to
which the discovery of the wig had given rise, and
delivered it as his decided opinion that they were
right; upon which Agnes commenced another gym-
nastic, and Mrs. Vernon cast up her eyes and took a
look at the dirty chandelier hanging from the ceiling.
But the doctor would not hear of any attempt at
recognition for the present. Perfect quiet was essen-
tial, he said. The child had evidently been much
reduced, and any shock in his weak state might be
of serious consequence. The most he would allow
was that, if the boy fell asleep, Reginald might go in
to look at, and, if possible, identify him; but even
then he must keep out of sight.
The doctor now took his leave, promising to return
the next day; and Reginald joined the policemen, to
consult them as to what steps could be taken for the
recovery of Grace, if the sick boy should prove to
be Bertram.
Jane entered ina short time to say that the boy
was asleep, and Reginald, who returned at the same
moment, went to look at him. THis heart beat fast as
he gently opened the door.
Macnade sat by the bed in which reposed the slight
form of our poor Bertram. His face was wan and
thin, and as pale as the brown dye of the walnut-juice
THE RESCUE. 159
would allow; but in spite of that—in spite of the
bandages on his head and the short cropped hair—
Reginald had no doubt it was Bertram Astley
whom he saw stretched before him, ragged, wounded,
helpless, dying perhaps. How different from the
sleeping Bertram, whom Grace had looked upon in
his own little room at home some months before; and
how different from the Bertram whom Reginald had
fast seen in health and strength, jumping gaily into
his father’s carriage, with his merry little sister
and his governess. Where was that sister now?
Reginald was almost tempted to disobey the doctor,
and to wake Bertram at once to ask for Grace; but
instead of committing this act of insanity, he returned
to the dining-room to assure Agnes of the truth of
her suspicions, and to receive as many blessings and
thanks from Mrs. Vernon as if Agnes had been the
lost child, and he had just found her and restored her
to a disconsolate mother
After so much hard blessing, Mrs. Vernon began
to experience fatigue. She would not be persuaded
that Reginald was not tired to death also, and she
insisted upon his retiring to bed at once. Therefore
the good lady once more crept upstairs, followed and
_ lighted by her son-in-law elect, while Agnes stole
softly into her own room, to spend the few remaining
hours of the night in an arm-chair, first taking a
good look at the little sleeping hero, as she considered
him to be.
No sooner was Mrs. Vernon safe in her own apart-
ment, than Reginald stole noiselessly down the stairs
160 THE RESCUE.
again, and in a few minutes was on his way to the
town to obtain more assistance to scour the common,
no doubt now existing in his mind that the children
had been stolen, and that Grace would be found
among the gipsies.
Breakfast was late the next morning at the long,
low house, for everybody was tired, and it was nearly
eleven o’clcck before Mrs. Vernon and Agnes met in
the dining-room. Reginald was not there, and a
messenger was despatched to his room to inquire if
he would have his breakfast sent up to him. It then
appeared that he not only was not in the house, but
that his bed had not been occupied that night. Poor
Mrs. Vernon had hardly time to imagine every pos-
sible misfortune for him, before she was destined to
receive another shock.
Macnade opened the door, pale and trembling, with
a “Could I speak to you, ma’am ?†which called forth
a volley of questions from both ladies.
“Ts he hurt, Macnade ? What is it? More
robbers? Anything stolen?†&e.
Macnade came in, and faltered out the words,—
“ Please, ma’am, yes; they’ve found one in the
well.â€
“ One!—one what?†exclaimed both ladies at
once.
And it appeared that on “the boy ’—an article
pertaining to every household—going to draw water
at the well, he found the planks disturbed, dashed
aside in fact, and the body of an old woman sunk
deep into the water, At first he had been unabie to
THE RESCUE. 161
imagine what prevented the buckets from rising as
usual; but, obtaining help, the terrible object had
soon been brought to light. The face was indeed
dreadful to behold, so distorted were the features, so
inhuman the expression.
Whatever may be the fate of Grace Astley, she
need no longer fear the harsh treatment nor dread
the fearful language of old Gran the gipsy. The old
woman had missed her path in the flurry of her flight,
and, instead of turning to the left for the little gate,
she had turned to the right—over—and, alas! into
the well!
And now Agnes recalled to mind the unearthly
shriek which put the finishing stroke to her alarm,
and had sent her flying into bed the night before,—
that never-to-be-forgotten night!
The moment that it had been suggested to Regi-
nald that the beggar boy whom he had picked up
might be no other than Bertram Astley, his chief
object had been to obtain a sufficient force to search
the common—so well known as a resort of gipsies ;
and he had hurried off the policemen for that purpose
before they had time for a strict examination of the
premises, or they must have discovered the body of
old Gran, and Mrs. Vernon might have been spared
this last shock, from which she did not recover
for some days, and which implanted in her mind
so deep a horror of all wells, that she never again
hired a house which boasted in its back-yard so
dangerous and useless a disfigurement. During
the remainder of the stay by the sea-side she stead-
M
162 THE RESCUE.
fastly refused to pass through the little walk leading
to the unlucky well, and to the little white gate,
as she entertained a most reasonable fear that
more dead gipsies might be strewn about among the
bushes.
Reginald returned ere long, worn out and dispirited.
The common was vast, the gipsies’ encampments
many and scattered, and his search had been in vain,
and not withont danger: no trace of Grace could be
found, ,
163
CHAPTER XI.
ANOTHER MOVE.
Anp Bill and Grace and Nora !—what of them ?
As soon as Bill became aware that he was no longer
pursued, he slackened his pace, but only to take
breath, and he was not long in gaining the spot where
his comrade with the horse and cart awaited him. A
few hurried words explained the failure of the plot
and the capture of the boy, and then followed a con-
sultation respecting Gran. Was it worth while to
wait for her, or could she shift for herself? It was a
choice of evils. If they waited, it would give time
for pursuit ; but by leaving the place of meeting they
might be the cause of her capture, and of ill effects
to the whole tribe. The smugglers too must be
warned, and not left to linger in expectation of the
booty. It was decided that Bill should return imme-
diately to the tents, with horse and cart, to inform
Hubert of the catastrophe, and that the other man
should first repair to the top of the cliffs to the right,
to make the signal of danger to the smugglers, and
then endeavour to see after Gran; if possible to bring
er back to the encampment, or at least to discover
whether she had likewise succeeded in effecting her
escape, or had fallen into the hands of the enemy.
M2
164 ANOTHER MOVE.
Bill drove off, venting his rage and disappointment -
on the poor, innocent old horse, and before long was
reporting himself and relating his tale to Hubert and
a few expectant elders. Great was the consternation
when it was known that one had been taken, who had
so much power, and but too likely so good a will, to
injure them, as Bertram Astley. Instant flight was
unanimously decided upon, and even a total separa-
tion and dispersion of the tribe for a short period,
till the affair and the search should be blown over,
which, as Hubert remarked, might be hoped for in a
very short time, but for the girl, seeing that no real
harm had been done and no goods taken; but then
there was the girl, and as long as she remained in the
tribe they must expect pursuit and persecution. By
this able mancuvre Hubert hoped to induce the
elders to propose that Grace should return to her
parents; but he hoped in vain. Grace was the pro-
perty of Gran, and Gran only could dispose of her.
Hubert, unsupported, could not alter the laws and
regulations of the tribe, and with a sigh and a thought
for Nora, he relinquished the attempt.
The news of danger and removal spread like wild-
fire through the tents. Every human being was up
and stirring, and Charlie felt a pang at his heart as
he thought that, well or ill, Nora must be moved now.
He ran to prepare her and Grace for the sudden
change, and to tell them what had happened. They
were both greatly excited. Nora was at first full of
hope and thankfulness that Bertram was in safe hands,
and that her prayers for him were in a fair way of being
ANOTHER MOVE. 165
answered; but soon the poor girl was completely
taken up with what was to her, in her sad state, the
terrible idea of the journey. She who had hardly left
her tent for so long a time, now to undertake a sea-
voyage and a jolting, rambling journey of hundreds of
miles! Of her mother and her danger Nora naturally
thought but little, being so perfectly accustomed to
the long absences and hair-breadth escapes in which
the old lady had indulged during a long and eventful
life.
Grace meantime hardly knew whether to be glad
or sorry—Bertram had escaped, that was joy; but
then he might have been hurt, even killed, and her
sobs came quickly at the thought. Ifhe were safe,
he would tell people where to find her, and they would
come and take her to her own mamma; but then this
moving! How could Bertram or anybody else tell
where she might be taken to next; and now, where-
ever it was, she must be alone, without him, and
alone she must bear not only the sad changes in her
way of life, but the uncertainty as to his fate. On
the whole, sorrow predominated, and Grace cried
bitterly as she helped Charlie in his thoughtful pre-
parations for their comfort during the journey.
A messenger had been despatched in all speed to
alter the signal of warning to the smugglers into one
summoning them to be ready to take off the tribe, for
Hubert had resolved that those among them with
whom the children were best acquainted, must leave
that coast together, and shape their future course
according to circumstances. If they were discovered
166 ANOTHER MOVE.
and pursued, as he could hardly hope they would not
be, it might be necessary to remain on board fora
long time, and possibly even to sail to some far-off
land—to leave old England, it might be, for years.
If, however, the embarkation could be effected with-
out exciting remark or suspicion, his plan was that
they should be landed by degrees and at different
places, to meet again at a given time and place,
possibly even in a few weeks if all went on well.
The remainder of the tribe dispersed immediately
in different directions ; many, of whom Bertram was
supposed to have seen so little that he could not
recognize them even if he were to meet them or to be
confronted with them, were left behind among the
other gipsies on the common, to keep a sharp look-out
for what was going on, and to inform Gran of their
plans, should she make her appearance, as no one
doubted but that she would, sooner or later.
All prospered under the able management of
Hubert. The removal and embarkation were effected
with marvellous rapidity and perfect secrecy, in the
usual retired, almost desert spot, and with little trouble
to anyone but poor Nora and her two attendants, who
both felt for her, and Grace a good deal for her poor
little self too. They looked back on the valley as
they left it in the last of the lumbering old carts, and
though they had all suffered much during the short
time they had spent between those huge grassy banks,
they could not leave it without a strange feeling of
regret; Nora especially, for she felt that she was
taking her last look upon a place that had been, from
&
ANOTHER MOVE. 167
time to time, her home for many long and dreary
months, and one, moreover, in which she had first
known the only real and true happiness. It is
strange that one should feel regret at leaving even
a spot in which one has suffered-and sorrowed; but
so it is.
Bertram’s whole system had received a severe
shock from the privations and trials he had endured
since he left his happy home, and especially from the
finale of his gipsy life ; the last scene in which he had
been so cruelly treated. It was some days, therefore,
before Reginald was allowed to make himself known,
and then—who can describe that meeting? Bertram
was duly prepared by good Doctor Halling, who had
become much interested in “the case,†as he persisted
in calling the little boy. And when Reginald entered
the room, Bertram perfectly beamed all over from head
to foot with joy, and clung round Mr. De Verrie’s
neck, kissing him as heartily as if he had never been
dignified, or talked of “ woman’s tears and foolery â€
in his life. But this is looking on too fast, for there
were many long days in which the poor child re-
mained perfectly still and helpless, not positively un-
conscious, but without seeming to notice anything or
anybody about him, taking everything that was given
to him, however disagreeable, with a sort of hasty,
frightened obedience, that was more painful to witness
than violence would have been; for it was so unna-
tural, and suggested the idea of his having been wor-
ried and persecuted into a perpetual state of fear.
The first symptom of improvement was in the large
168 ANOTHER MOVE.
dark eyes, which began to wander inquiringly round
the room, settling finally upon Agnes, who was sitting
writing by his side. When she moved, the large
eyes followed her unceasingly wherever she went.
As soon as she saw them fixed upon her, she came
up to the bed. “You are better now, are you not,
Bertram ?†said she kindly, smiling at him.
“Yes,†said he, still gazing at her, as if it was a
comfort to have something pretty for those tired eyes
to rest upon. “ Who are you?â€
“Tam Agnes—Agnes Vernon—and I am going to
take care of you till you are well,†saidshe. “Won’t
that be nice P—and you shall not go back to the bad
people any more, and we will get Grace very soon.’ 4
Agnes thought this a most clever and composing
speech, but she found that, on the contrary, she could
hardly have done worse than to mention Grace, or any |
subject likely to excite him. He looked for a moment
as if he did not understand what she was saying ; but
the familiar name of Grace found its way at length to
his weak brain, and he looked anxiously round, and
asked repeatedly, “Is she here? Bring her ; where
is she P Nora!’ gradually working himself into such
a state of excitement that Agnes became quite
alarmed. After this, all allusions to the past were
strictly forbidden by the doctor until “the case’
became much stronger, and it was not until a day or
two after the first interview with Reginald De Verrie
that the poor little “case†could bear any questioning
on the subject.
The gipsies thus obtained a great advantage. Not
ANOTHER MOVE. 169
the slightest clue could be obtained that might lead
to.the discovery of the whereabouts of poor Grace.
When by degrees the whole story came out, the
valley, in fact the whole common, was again ex-
amined with yet more care—but, of course, the former
was utterly deserted ; in fact, no one could be quite
sure of the identity of the place from Bertram’s not
very lucid description. The other gipsies on the com-
mon were questioned and examined, and the body of
the old woman, it was hoped, might be the means of
bringing to light some of the gang, but all was in vain.
Nobody claimed the body, and it was quietly interred
in the little churchyard behind the town, through
which the old woman had passed in health and
strength but a very short time before.
Reginald had despatched a telegraphic message to
Lord Astley as soon as possible, to inform him of the
event, and he was much surprised when two days
passed without bringing any signs of his lordship.
He now wrote both to Coombe Astley and to London,
in spite of the dissuasions of Mrs. Vernon, who
urged that as long as Bertram remained in so critical
a state, it would be far better to leave his parents in
utter ignorance respecting him. Judging by what her
own feelings would be in a similar case, she said that
she felt quite certain Lady Astley would much rather
not hear anything “ till it was decided one way or the
other.†Agnes, though rather shocked at hearing
that her mother would rather not be sent for if she
were ill at a distance, for fear of finding her alive, but
would prefer waiting till she was dead, strongly advo-
170 ANOTHER MOVE.
cated the opposite opinion, and Reginald, either trust-
ing to his own good sense and knowledge of Lord and
Lady Astley, or feeling it a duty to yield to the
wishes of the girl to whom he was engaged, from a
vague idea of how often he should expect the same
compliment from the girl he married, decided upon
writing to Lord Astley.
His letter was just what might have been expected
from one English gentleman to another, short, and to
the point—too short, and too much to the point,
Agnes thought; and she could not but feel injured
and hurt that such an opportunity of cleverly break-
ing by letter a startling event, which might cause an
irremediable shock to the person destined to hear
it, should have been wasted upon a gentleman, in-
stead of falling to the lot or penof alady. Lady
Astley had felt the loss of her children more than a
casual observer would have supposed possible in one
so passive. True, she was passive, she was cold, but not
to her children ; for them she lived; her love of them
had become her very life; and when two of them were
rudely and suddenly torn from her, without prepara-
tion and without hope, she drooped and pined. In
the few months of her children’s absence, Lady
Astley lived more years than the six-and-thirty which
she counted up to that time. Her dark hair was
deeply tinged with grey, and the comfortable languor,
hitherto expressed by her tout ensemble, had given
place to a settled, woe-worn look of hopeless, helpless
misery, which seemed to be weghne i her down rapidly
to the grave.
ANOTHER MOVE. 171
As to Lord Astley, nothing could at first exceed his
indignation at the disappearance of his children. It
was everybody’s fault. Mrs. Abel and his wife first
of all were to blame, and then, in due order, every-
body that ventured to approach his infuriated lord-
ship. The whole corps of servants,—housemaids,
grooms, gamekeepers, nursery-maids, cooks, and foot-
men; the De Verries, for recommending the gover-
ness, who had not watched by the children night and
day ; the clergyman of the parish, for not inculcating
better maxims in his sermons—maxims that might
teach the world to keep children within bounds;
everybody—every one was to blame, excepting and
saving only himself. He had done his duty; he
had left his children to the care of an incompetent
mother and an all but superannuated governess. He
had taught them to fear him by his harsh, stern
manners; he had let them see that their mother feared
him. This was bringing them up betimes to bear the
privations and harshness of the world. "What more
could be expected from a model father?
This fine frenzy could not last long, however, and
when it subsided, Lord Astley arrived at that real
love for his children which no one imagined him to
possess less than he did himself. And when one by
one every means which he took for discovering
what had become of them proved vain, he became
most properly and truly miserable. Self-reproach
also attacked him, and Combe Astley became
more than ever distasteful to him, as recalling to
his mind to forcibly those two hitherto neglected
172 ANOTHER MOVE.
but not much loved little ones, whom he might never
hope to see again. With his own grief, his pity and
affection for his wife increased; and, as she more
than shared his horror of their home, and evidently
pined to leave it, with a strange, sickly fancy that
elswhere she might hear of the lost ones—there,
never,—he resolved to shut up or let the place.
Reginald’s letter, with a telegraphic message for-
warded from Coombe Astley, found Lord and Lady
Astley in London, still engaged in fruitless inquiries
and researches, talking of going abroad, but still
lingering on from week to week, to follow up some
“last hope†or “ positive clue.†The general idea at
first had seemed to be that the children had wandered
out of sight, why or wherefore no tongue could tell,
and had fallen into the lake, or some of the ponds in
the park. But every place containing as much as a
foot of water, was dragged and drained to no pur-
pose. The contents of the Robbers’ Den were, of
course, discovered in the search, and threw just so
much light on the subject as to suggest to some
who remembered their own youthful days, the
idea that the little ones had meditated a running
away for some time past. The discovery of the
dolls in the little beds was proof that their
departure had been voluntary, but further than
this nothing could be imagined. Gipsies were
suggested; but the unanswered advertisements and
unclaimed rewards lessened week by week, day
by day, the likelihood of this view of the subject ;
for what object could gipsies have in stealing
ANOTHER MOVE. 173
children, but to gain a reward for having found
them astray, and bringing them back. Besides,
gipsies do not travel so quickly but that they must
have been found in the miles and miles of country
scoured and minutely examined the very next and for
many succeeding days. The only evidence in favour
of this solution of the problem was, that there had
been a gang of gipsies at the outskirts of Lord
Astley’s property, about ten miles off, and that they
could not be traced after that eventful night.
The gamekeepers considered it as certain that
“Master Bertram and Miss Astley’? had been stolen
by gipsies, because there had been a deal o’ poaching
lately,†especially out in the direction where the
gipsies had been seen.
Besides all this, the wife of one of the keepers, who
lived in the lodge nearest to Headless Lane and
Coombe Wood, declared that she was awoke in the
middle of that very night by a scream; that she had
listened, expecting it to be repeated; but, hearing no
more, she had supposed that it must have been fancy,
and had gone to sleep again, though it was so vivid
to her mind that she could not help feeling that it
was real.
It is said that there is honour among thieves, and
it is certain that, whatever the worthies of Pester
might suspect with regard to their allies, the gipsies
and smugglers, and the young runaways, no hints
reached the despairing parents from that quarter—not
aword which might have led to a suspicion of the
truth, in spite of all the rewards offered.
174 ANOTHER MOVE.
Lady Astley was seldom able to leave her room
before the middle of the day, and her husband
was at his solitary breakfast, when Reginald’s
letter was, with several others, put into his hands.
It chanced to be the first he opened, and it is
but proper to remark that his feelings may be
better imagined than described; and, therefore,
although I had much rather describe them, I will
not. I must mention, however, that ever since his
grief had become more subdued, his lordship had
found a slight, a very slight, consolation in consider-
ing himself “an altered man.†He felt “altered.â€
He knew he was “ altered,â€â€”“ broken-hearted and
altered.â€
That was the proper thing to say of him now, just
as people used to call him “dignified, and a man of great
weight and influence,†before his loss. And he knew
that people did say it as he walked gravely and sadly
along the streets, where he used to walk gravely and
grandly. The words “altered and broken-heartedâ€
seemed to him to be graven in large letters above the
doorway of his heart. And in his heart was nothing
but one great sorrow, swallowing up all else excepting
a little consciousness of self which lurked in a corner.
When Reginald’s letter told him, therefore, that Ber-
tram was actually found, his first thought was one of
thankfulness, but his second was a sudden recollection
that he need no longer be an altered man; and sucha
mass of contradictions is man, that Lord Astley really
experienced a tinge of regret at being thus speedily
called upon to resign his new character. It was but
ANOTHER MOVE. 175
a tinge, however, and his next thought was for his
wife. How, in her weak state, would she bear this
news, as sudden as unhoped for P
Mrs. Abel was still with them, for Lady Astley
could not bear to part with one who seemed to her
weak mind the last lingering link connected with her
lost darlings; so, together with the brown holland
dresses, a few worn books and broken toys, which
once delighted the hearts of Bertram and Grace, Mrs.
Abel was preserved; and Lord Astley no wthought
of her as the fittest person to undertake the task
from which he shrunk in his manly cowardice.
Mrs. Abel was sent for, and Mrs. Abel came, un-
changed since we saw her last, with the same
lumps of flaxen hair on each side of her odd cap;
attired in the same wondrous garment of peculiar
fashion, and of a pattern that raises in one’s mind a
longing to know the bold genius that originated it.
There was the same odd trot, too, and the same, but
perhaps a little less of the insane little laugh. She
had been sitting with Lady Astley, as usual, attempt-
ing to console her, and when she came into the dining-
room and found his lordship waiting fur her, she
fancied that she had been sent for to give her report
of the poor invalid, and accordingly began immedi-
ately,—“ Oh! Lord Astley, I’m sure she’s better—
more cheerful—talks more—yes—sent for me half an
hour earlier than usual, by the clock on the stairs—
and I have been talking to her ever since—yes—and
read a letter—yes—one I had this morning from a
dear friend—poor dear soul—she’s lost eight near
176 ANOTHER MOVE.
relations since January—yes—since January—and I
thought Lady Astley would like to hear it, because,
poor dear soul, she is so cheerful and doesn’t mind a
bit—eight new, I mean near, relations, and she only
writes a little deady here and there.â€
Lord Astley had made several efforts at breaking
in with his great news; but finding all his smaller
attempts in vain, and roused by the eight dead rela-
tions into a state of frenzy, highly unbecoming in an
altered man, he now burst forth with a stentorian
“ Madam!’ which completely quelled Mrs. Abel for
one minute, during which time he uttered the magic
words, “ Bertram is found.â€
There was no mistaking these words. They fell
straight upon her brain and were received at once.
Mrs. Abel gave a wild stare, an hysterical yell, and
burst into tears; she sobbed and she laughed, and
putting a gigantic hankerchief up to her face, she
plunged off into the very middle of the room in a
series of ecstatic but indescribable prances. She be-
lieved she was going to a sofa, to cry among its
cushions, and Lord Astley believed so too, only there
was no sofa in the room, and she had pranced past all
the chairs and still was running on, in an inflated
exaggeration of her usual trot.
“Oh! I knew it, I knew it,†exclaimed she between
her sobs and little yells of joy. “I always knew it—
they are not lost—oh, dear—oh, dear—oh !â€
Lord Astley saw that he might as soon expect a
witty remark from a black cow as help from Mrs.
Abel, and his first object now was to prevent her from
ANOTHER MOVE. 177
bursting into his wife’s room and killing her upon
the spot with the news. Having succeeded in shut-
ting the poor kind-hearted old lady up in her own
room, there to take the remainder of the violent exer-
cise to which she appeared inclined, he went himself
to Lady Astley, and, as gradually as was consistent
with words, he told her that one of her darlings was
safe.
Lady Astley started, and Lady Astley cried very
much, as might have been expected; but she also did
what Lord Astley had not expected of her. Knowing
her indolent, inert disposition, he had not imagined
that she would insist upon setting off immediately to
Bertram. Insist—yes, actually to rouse herself to such
a pitch of determination that he felt that he could not
advise evena short delay, for that rest which appears
to form so essential a part of the lives of most ladies
of the present day, who rest before dinner and after
dinner, before driving and after driving; in fact,
before and after every event, whether great or small.
Lord Astley yielded for once in his life to the
wishes of his wife. It was the last dying action of
his altered manhood.
At this time Bertram had not even been allowed to
see Reginald, and as soon as Dr. Halling heard that
“the case†possessed a father and mother who were
on the road to see it, he begged that they would delay
their journey at least for a few days; there was, how-
ever, no time to communicate his desires; Lady
Astley, still retaining the command, insisted on
pushing rapidly on, even to the door of the long, low
N
178 ANOTHER MOVE.
house. If she could but see her child, sleeping or
waking, even if he were not to be allowed to see her,
she felt she should be happier: she could not rest
until she had seen him.
Lodgings were therefore taken as near as possible
to the Vernon’s, and day after day, for hours and
hours, poor Lady Astley would linger about that
house; sitting either on the beach or in the tiny
would-be garden, to watch and wait till she was told
that Bertram slept; and then stealing on tip-toe up
to the window, to gaze at the little, thin, but almost
idolized features.
She was most reluctant to allow Mr. De Verrie to
be the first to make himself known to the child, but
here her husband interfered in his old way, and she
found that all the authority which she was ever to
hope to exercise over him had been spent entirely in
the effort of bringing him as far as the long, low
house.
But the day did really come at last, though Lady
Astley began to fear that it never would, when she
might go into the very room where her child was
living, and see those little arms, no longer sturdy,
stretched out towards herself; and, in another minute,
her own beautiful boy, her darling one, was safe in his
mother’s arms.
‘Who can hope to tell in words the happiness of
that meeting P very fibre of the boy’s weak frame
was vibrating with an intensity of happiness. He could
not look enough. He could not leave her hand for
one moment. It was “mamma†again: his own dar-
ANOTHER MOVE. 179
ling mamma, with a voice that nobody else ever had,
to his mind. Every movement, every look was
“mamma,â€â€”a coming back to his old home ways.
He could not realize it; he could not believe it. It
must be a dream, and somebody would take her away ;
and from that minute Bertram could not bear her out
of his sight without uneasiness.
It was long, indeed, since his weary eyes had looked
on anything so comforting as his mother’s face; and
for Lady Astley, she not only felt that her treasure
was her own again, but that it was such a treasure as
nobody else in the world ever had or could have.
After the first joy, however, the thought of poor
little Grace was a sad drawback. Every means failed
to discover her or the gipsies, and the repeated and
prolonged disappointments were very bad both for
Lady Astley and Bertram, the sufferings of the
former being greatly heightened by the accounts of
gipsy life which she received from the latter.
In the mean time the cause of all this anxiety, poor
Grace, the innocent victim to a brother’s dislike of
four-o’clock lessons and governesses, was suffering
most acutely from the consequences of a sea-voyage,
made under every possible disadvantage. The crowded
cabin, the noise, dirt, and confusion, were quite too
much for the delicate child. Nora, too, felt the change, «
the journey, and all the disagreeables as much as her
little charge; and Charlie, thoroughly alarmed for her,
had as much on his hands as he could well manage,
with nursing them both, which he did as tenderly as
any number of mothers or grandmothers could have
n2
180 ANOTHER MOVE.
done. The smugglers were coasting slowly along,
gradually getting rid of the gipsies, and here and
there stopping for hours at a time “on business,â€
mysterious to Nora and Grace, and even to Charlie,
though he had perhaps a better idea of the significa-
tion of the word in this instance than had the other
two. After many days of this life, Nora became so
palpably worse that Charlie could bear it no longer,
and he begged and entreated that he and Nora
might be put on shore the very next time they
touched anywhere, although the original plan had
been for them to remain in the ship to the very last.
“J& was as much as her life was worth,†the poor
boy declared, “to keep her another hour on board
ship ;†and though Hubert felt but too surely that her
hours were already numbered, he had not the heart
to refuse the request, especially when he found that
the poor dying girl herself was pining for “ green
fields and trees†as she said; and when, further,
Nora entreated that Grace might be let go with her,
Hubert assented, without a word as to her future
fate. Nota syllable about what Charlie was to do
with her when he had no longer Nora to care for.
Perhaps Hubert may have felt, as he wrung the hand
of the young gipsy, his subject, who had robbed him
of the love that was his right,—perhaps he may have
felt at that moment that this too was a last farewell;
that never again should he see that strong handsome
boy, or the pretty ladylike child, any more than he
might dare to hope ever again to rest his eyes upon
the drooping girl, whose transparent hand he could
ANOTHER MOVE. 181
not have kissed with greater reverence had she been
the first lady of the land.
Poor Hubert! It was a love that would have
softened him and drawn him from the wild bad ways
of his people. -But it was taken from him. The one
bright light that had hitherto been the charm of his
rough life—the star that had travelled on before him
—his guardian angel, the thought of whom had
kept him from much that was wrong, and filled
his heart with good soothing thoughts—this was gone
from him for ever—a long and endless for ever. On,
on will he go in the great, the dreary ocean of life,
in which we are all wandering; but for him henceforth
all will be darkness. And for her? She too must
travel here a little, little while. Her light will
brighten and increase ; through one cloud it must pass
—but one: and that one will not dim the glory, as she
comes out purified and glorified among the angels
ot God.
182
CHAPTER XII.
HOME AGAIN.
Cuarzix’s only idea, his one thought was but. for
Nora. He had money, and his first wish was to take
a lodging for her in the quietest part of the little
seaport at which they had been landed. But Nora
too had one wish, one hope, and it was to see
Grace restored to her own home, once more in
her mother’s arms; and she implored with such
wild eagerness that Charlie would take her straight
to Combe Astley, that he could not refuse her,
although his heart was torn with the conviction that
her strength must sink under the fatigue of a long
and slow journey. But Nora had evidently set her
heart on this one thing with an energy so new in her,
that Charlie was more than startled. Her repugnance
to the place they were in amounted to a positive
horror. She entreated him that she might not die
there, although the discussion took place on the beach
where she was resting after the fatigue of landing,
and she had therefore seen nothing of the town.
It was to no purpose that Charlie represented this to
her. She could only repeat her entreaties that he
would take her from the sight of the terrible sea, on
which she had suffered so much. She knew she could
HOME AGAIN. 183 °
not walk, she could not stand the jolting of a cart,
even supposing any one could be found to trust them
with the hire of one, which was most unlikely; but
there was the railroad, and she pointed to the hissing,
panting engine, the smoke of which was visible from
where they sat. Surely that would take them to
Combe Astley. She could not die till she had seen
“the lady,†as she called the child’s mother. She
must give her back her child.
It was more painful to Charlie to see Nora unhappy
and ina state of excitement than anything else, and
he carried, more than helped, her to the station, which,
fortunately, was not far distant, although he could
not overcome his astonishment at her strange deter-
mination, for he well knew that Nora had never
travelled by rail in her life, and that her alarm at the
idea had been considerable in days gone by. Her
horror of the little seaport was not assumed ; but all
fears, all and every other feeling, were lost and for-
gotten in her one great desire to get Grace to her
mother. Every moment that they were apart was a
burden to Nora. It was a small station, and but few
trains stopped at it. Our little party had to wait
some hours, but the kindness of a porter afforded
them the accommodation of the tiny waiting-room,
which chanced to be empty. At last a train did stop.
It was very full, and as several people had come up
to go on by it, Charlie had some difficulty in finding a
seat for Nora, and in guarding her from the crowd
and crush. His anger was rising at each fresh push
from the busy throng, and he was beginning to fear
184 HOME AGAIN.
that the train would go off without them, when he
was suddenly addressed by an eccentric and benevo-
lent old gentleman, who was at that moment passing:
a sort of worthy of whom so many are inserted
between the leaves of books, that it appears but few
are left for real life. This specimen was attracted
by the strange little group on the platform,—the
reckless, angry anxiety of the dark gipsy boy,
and the death-like face of the drooping girl at his
side.
It was evening; and as one of the porters ran past
with a lantern, its light was cast for one moment upon
our wanderers, and Nora lifted her eyes to the old
man’s face, as, looking at her, but speaking rather to
her companion, he hastily asked if they were going on
by this train, and if so, advising them to be quick, he
offered his assistance, which was gladly accepted ; and
in another moment Charlie was guiding Nora’s
feeble steps towards a first-class carriage; and, with
the help of the kind old man, the exhausted girl was
lifted in. Grace, hitherto unnoticed, was put in after
her, and Charlie, with the old gentleman, followed.
The bell rung—close to the carriage, of course—nearly
deafening the invalid, and making Charlie long to kill
the ringer. There was a shriek, and they were off;
slowly at first, but coon rushing away at full speed,
and the old man bent forward to draw up the window
to keep the cool evening air from the white, white
face, shaded now by a yet whiter hand. Charlie sat
by her side, holding her other hand in both his, and
watching her with an anxiety which was painful to
HOME AGAIN. 185
witness, for death was written in every line of her
form and face. The little girl cowered in the farthest
corner, and the old man looked at each in turn, and
looked again and again. He felt that they -had a
history, and he longed to know it; but poor and
wretched as they were, there was something sacred
in their deep sorrow, which kept him from asking
more. They did not seem to belong to this busy,
rapid world; and not only did they not demand
sympathy, but he felt that it would but disturb and
increase the silent, unobtrusive grief.
It was a long journey even by rail, and to Nora
and one of her companions it seemed endless. After
the first half-hour she could scarcely be easy a moment
in any position, and although she bore it bravely, yet
her repeated moaning, “ Move me, move me!â€â€™ was
agony to poor Charlie, and drew tears from the kind
old man. Grace slept a great deal; and at last, long,
long after morning had dawned, poor Nora sunk
into an uneasy slumber, which lasted till the
train stopped at the station at which they were to
alight. Here she awoke, but she seemed hardly
sensible, and quite unable to move or exert herself
in the least.
“What will you do, my poor boy ?†asked the old
man compassionately, after they had carried Nora to
the waiting-room, and placed her in one of the hard,
shiny horsehair chairs.
Charlie was standing hopelessly by her, and he
turned and looked up in the face of the speaker, as
if he could not take in his words.
186 HOME AGAIN.
“Can I help you? ‘Where do you wish to take
her ?†continued his new friend.
Charlie could only shake his head; and there was
a silence, during which time nothing was heard but
the hard, catching breath of the dying girl,—for it
was a small station, and the noises consequent on the
arrival of a train had soon subsided. Nora herself
broke that silence. She raised her eyes, as if sud-
denly awake to what was passing. The dark eyes
had lost their unnatural brightness,—a dimness was
stealing over them; they wandered painfully from
Charlie to the old man, and then rested on Grace, and
Charlie bent to catch the faint whisper, “Take her,’
were the only words he could hear; but he understood.
“ Nora, I cannot leave you; don’t make me go!â€
She shook her head, and asked,—
“ How far?â€
“To Combe Astley P—half a mile,†was his reply.
Another whisper—“ Go—come again.â€
Charlie hesitated. He could not—he would not
leave her so.
“What is it?†asked the old man, who lingered
still,—for the whisper had been lost to all but Charlie.
The gipsy explained,—
“She won’t be easy till I take this child home; it’s
halfa mile. How can I leave her?â€
Grace had been too much awed to speak; but now
her little voice was heard,—
“She could go alone—she knew all the way; and
mamma would come back and bring something to take
Nora home.â€
HOME AGAIN. 187
No one listened to this proposal, and the old man
at the same moment offered to take the child to her
home, never doubting but that it would be to some
cottage in Astley Park, for he had heard Charlie
mention the place as being but half a mile distant.
Charlie was too thankful, and Grace, seeing that it
was all arranged, turned to Nora to give her one last,
almost fearful kiss, for the little girl was awed at the
sudden change which had come over her who had
been for so long her chief companion. Nora feebly
returned the kiss, and then her head sunk again on
her breast, and she relapsed into her former half-
conscious state; but as the sobbing child and her
companion left the room, Nora roused up once more
to look after them, and her eye fell on Charlie, who
was crouched at her feet, his head buried in his
hands.
“ Go!†she whispered; “her mother—go!â€
He started. It was a loud, thrilling whisper.
* Nora—don’t send me from you—not now!†he
implored—and the head fell forward again, and her
eyes closed.
Charlie crept yet nearer to her chair, and took the
hand that hung down with such an expression of
feebleness and death in every line. He bent his head
on that hand, and he fixed his eyes on the face before
him as if his earnest gaze could keep back the fast
fleeting breath. It came with greater and increasing
difficulty now every moment—and the moments flew,
and yet it seemed that the end would never come.
There was a change at last. The parched lips parted.
188 HOME AGAIN.
There was one long breath, and the eyes half-opened.
Was she trying to speak? He sprung up and bent
his head to her lips.
“ Charlie!â€
He just caught the lingering, halting word. The
breath stopped. There was one more long, long sigh.
Nora was dead.
And the porters and railway-clerks sauntered up
and down, laughing and joking carelessly outside that
window with the stiff blind; and a country boy passed
whistling merrily by the other window, which looked
out on the beautiful country and the smooth grass
fields; and the train that had just stopped at the
station rushed on with its cargo of human life—of
hopes and fears, happiness and misery. What did
they care that one who, but afew minutes before
had been a fellow-traveller, was now lying dead, and
that another had been struck by a far worse death—
the death of all happiness in this life-—the blow that
strikes all that has made our life, and yet that leaves
as living and breathing still.
Nora had sent happiness to many that morning.
She was gone to far greater happiness herself. But
Charlie stood alone in his great sorrow. There was
no joy for him.
The evening before had seen avery different arrival
at that station. Lord and Lady Astley and Bertram,
who was now, if not strong, at least well enough to
be moved, had left the long, low house, the Vernons
and Reginald, a day or two before, and by easy
stages had reached Combe Astley on the very evening
HOME AGAIN. 189
that had witnessed the landing of our poor gipsies
and Grace.
The news of the safe return of the son and heir of
the house of Astley, had spread far and wide, and at
an early hour the next morning the house was sur-
rounded by the poorer tenantry of the estate and by
numbers of people who had experienced Lady Astley’s
kindness. The higher class of tenants, too, assembled
together, and appeared on horseback in a long array,
to congratulate “ his lordship and the family.â€
His lordship had not been quite unprepared for
this ebullition of feeling, and huge barrels of ale were
broached, and long tables spread out under the old
trees, which in the good old times had witnessed
many a rejoicing of landlord and tenant—the good
old feudal times, which are so comfortable to
talk of, and which it is so convenient to wish back
again ; but which, if they were to come by any mistake
or accident, would disgust and shock us so dread-
fully.
There was “ open houseâ€â€™ at Combe Astley this day,
and Lord Astley, with his wife and Bertram at his
side, was just coming out of the house to thank his
friends for coming to sympathize with him and to
drink his ale. The appearance of the family was
greeted with loud cheers.
“Long live my lord—my lady!†but, above all,
“Long life to the young lord!†as they persisted in
calling Bertram, were the words that burst with
one accord from that great multitude as Bertram
thought it.
190 HOME AGAIN.
Lady Astley bowed in answer to the many hats and
handkerchiefs that waved around, and tears ran down
her cheeks, while her husband stood uncovered, and
little Bertram, still pale from the effects of his illness,
took off his straw hat in imitation of his father,
and struggled not to imitate his mother too, by
erying.
‘When the shouting had somewhat subsided, the
oldest tenant on the estate advanced in front of the
crowd, and addressed the little party standing on the
steps.
He was a very old man, nearly ninety, but hale
and hearty yet, though feeble. His hair was as white
as snow, and very long, and it floated over his blue
coat as the wind played with it, raising it gently and
letting it fall daintily as he spoke.
“He was a plain-spoken man,†he said, “ and there
_ was many a better, and a richer, and a more knowing
in books and such-like, on the estate, but they’d asked
him to speak, and he wouldn’t say no to ’em, because
there wasn’t one as had known his lordship and the
family as long, or loved ’em better than he did—he
could say that. He’d had been born on the estate,
and he’d died on it—at least his father had, and he
hoped he should, and he must say this one thing,
that there never was anything like the family, nor ever
would be—he believed that. He’d lived in the reign
of four lords—ay! that he had—and they’d always
been good landlords and kind friends to him and his,
and he’d pray for ’em or drink their health any day ;â€
and the good old patriarch wandered on in this. strain
HOME AGAIN. 191
for some time, thoroughly melting the hearts of Lady
Astley and Mrs. Abel at least.
After some time he arrived at his chief subject,
which was, as Mrs. Abel afterwards expressed it to
Mrs. De Verrie, “to thank Lord and Lady Astley and
everybody for Bertram’s being safe again, and to say
how glad they all were, and what a nice boy he was,
and that he must be as good as his father and the
other lords. ‘Lor’ bless me, I hope he won’t be so
solemn as dear Lord Astley, or I shall never be able
to teach him his lessons! And then he went on
to say what a pity it was Grace wasn’t found too,
and where could she be, and then Lady Astley cried
more than ever.â€
* When the old man’s speech was over, and he ended
it by proposing the health of “ Lord and Lady Astley,
and may they live long, and when they die may they
go down to the grave with golden honours like the
rising sun!â€
Then Lord Astley returned thanks in a short speech
of real feeling, and the tears stood in his eyes, as, with
a softened heart, he felt that he must yet be an altered
and a better man, but, thanks be to God, not a
broken-hearted one.
With his still weeping wife, who mourned the more
for Grace in the midst of the general rejoicing, and
with Bertram, he then walked round the different
tables, and by his kindness and his softened manner,
he won more hearts in that hour than in all the pre-
ceding ones of his “reign†at the home of his
fathers.
192 HOME AGAIN.
Suddenly a worthy old farmer, rising in a sort of
paroxysm of affection for the family, proposed the
health of “ Bertram†alone. It was drunk with enthu-
siasm—three times three; and Bertram coloured with
pleasure and excitement, as he stood by his father’s
side, with his hat in his hand, bowing round to every
one with a mixture of shyness and boldness that
enchanted Mrs. Abel beyond measure.
“Why, my boy,’ said his father; “you ought to
thank them yourself. I can’t stand up for a man like
you as I should for mamma.â€
“May I, mamma?†said the boy, half-longing,
half-frightened, looking up to his mother.
“ May you?P—of course you may, my brave boy,â€
said Lord Astley, delighted and surprised at spch a
question. “Up with you. There you are! Steady—
now then!’’ and in less than a moment Bertram was
mounted on the table.
Oh, how his heart beat, and how the colour
mounted to his very temples, with a rushing
sound in his ears, and a momentary dizziness,
when he found that every one waited for him—
a little boy—to speak! For one moment his tongue
clung to the roof of his mouth, and he could not
oh, he could not, say the words that were so ready
just now!
But the moment his little figure was seen on that
table one unanimous shout burst from the people;
one deep hearty long “ hurrah†coming from their
very hearts, and rending, as such a shout ought to
rend, the very air. It gave him his courage again;
HOME AGAIN, 153
and, as it died away, his clear, childish voice rose in
the deep silence that followed. Every word was
heard, so still, so breathless, were all around.
“My friends,†he said, “I wanted to thank you
myself, and mamma said I might. I can’t speak like
papa or Mr. Alton†(the old man with the white hair),
“but I can say how much I thank you all for being so
glad to see me, and for—and for drinking my health.
There is only one thing I want now to be quite
hap——â€
He stops suddenly. His eolour rushes to his
face again. Is he frightened? No. His voice
changes. “Oh, take me down! somebody take me
down, please! Gracey !—there she is—oh!â€
Before the words were well uttered, and before his
father had time to turn, a strong faithful arm had
lifted him from the table, and he was rushing, tearing
at headlong speed through the crowd, which parted
on each side as he advanced towards one of the large
old trees which reared its huge form at some little
distance. It was one that he and Gracey had gazed
at on the miserable night in which they had left their
home. And who stood beneath it now P
“ Gracey, my darling!â€
“ Bertram !â€
The crowd waved and opened again as Lord Astley
rapidly pushed through, and he stood to see his chil-
dren locked in each other’s arms, sobbing for very
joy. There was another and such a shout! And
Lord Astley was crying too; he could not help it.
As for Mrs. Abel, she seized an unfortunate school-
Oo
194 HOME AGAIN.
boy, who had the ill luck to be standing near her at
the moment, and began kissing and embracing him
with such energy that he never got over it, but
remained an idiot for life.
But nobody cared for that, and nobody cared that
Charlie had lost his Nora—the only, the one thing he
cared for in all this vast, dreary world—for Grace and
Bertram are together again at home. One is dressed
in rags and one in purple and fine linen; and great
is the contrast as they cling together under that
ancient tree. And the wind rises and clasps together
the huge arms of the old tree above them, and all
is joy.
Bertram could hardly give her up to her father, and
Lord Astley raised her in his arms and took her to
her mother; and as he put her in her mother’s arms,
he uncovered his head once more, and he thanked
God aloud for this blessing also.
The multitude is easily led and swayed, and many
were the heads uplifted to God on that autumn morn-
ing in fervent thankfulness—though some scarcely
knew for what they thanked. It was the feeling—
the spontaneous sympathy that filled all hearts to
overflowing.
Lady Astley ought to have fainted, and although
it is of no consequence to any one else, it is
extremely inconvenient to me that she did not. I
shall have no other opportunity of describing a
fainting fit.
Mrs. Abel, having discovered that her idiot was not
Bertram, let him go, and pranced round the real
HOME AGAIN. 195
Bertram, ready to seize him or his sister at every
opportunity.
After the first joy was over, Grace began to tell
her little story, or rather only the part which con-
cerned poor Nora.
“She is very, very ill at the station,—Charlie is
there; but we must go—I promised to bring
mamma.â€
Certainly the running away had not been in vain,
for at least the smallest word from either Grace or
Bertram was now law to the inhabitants of Combe
Astley—Lord and Lady Astley included.
The carriage was ordered, and after Lord Astley
had once more thanked his people for their kind
sympathy, and begged them to enjoy themselves and
make the most of this happy day, the family retired
to the house. Grace was quickly dressed in her own
attire, and the Astley carriage was shortly conveying
them all to the station.
The old man had disappeared. Grace had looked
for him as soon as she could think of anything besides
“Mamma and Bertram,†but he was gone. He had
not found out whose child he had undertaken to con-
vey to her parents until they had reached the park-
gates. He was feeling too much for the sorrow he
had just left to wish to talk, and Grace was crying
too much to speak; but when she got nearer home,
and every old, familiar object rose one after another
before her, childlike, her grief was over and her tears
dried ; and when she expressed her astonishment at
the crowd which was round the house, and “ wondered
196 HOME AGAIN.
whether papa was at home, or only mamma,†he began
to rouse himself to ask questions. They pushed
through the crowd, nobody recognizing Grace in her
rags; and they had just reached the tree as Bertram
mounted the table.
Grace’s cry of “ Bertram, Bertram! mamma!†was
lost in the shout that followed, and a “ Hush!’ from her
companion kept her silent till Bertram’s eye, in wan-
dering over the crowd of faces, fell upon that one so
well-known, and lately so longed for, so missed. The
old man only waited to see the meeting between the
brother and sister before he set out on his return to
the station, which he, being on foot, reached only just
as Lady Astley’s carriage drove up. He had desired
the porters not to disturb the sick girl or the boy in
the waiting-room till his return, and he had supported
this order by a gratuity and the promise of more.
He now inquired anxiously of this man, “ How are
those poor people ?â€
“ Quiet enough,†was the reply. “TI looked in just
now, and they’re all right.â€
The old man’s hand was on the door, and he pushed
it open just as Lord and Lady Astley and the children
got out of the carriage. Charlie had sunk back to his
old position at Nora’s feet. He was literally
crouched up all of a heap. Her hand was tightly
clasped between both of his, his head thrown
slightly back, and his eyes, staring wide open, were
fixed upon her face. Was he learning by heart every
feature, every line, of that face which would so soon
be taken from his sight forever? He neither moved
HOME AGAIN. 197
nor spoke as the old man, followed by the Astleys,
advanced into that strange chamber of death. Manya
traveller, many a passenger, had that comfortless
room received and sent forth again, but never
before had a long, long journey, been thus brought
toa close within its walls. It had afforded rest to
many—discomfort to many ; but such rest as this of
Nora’s, such wretchedness as that of the gipsy boy,—
never.
One glance told the elder of the party that all was
over. The gipsy was far beyond the thanks which
Lady Astley longed to pour forth to her.
But Bertram and Grace, Bertram especially, eager
to see the friend of his wanderings, pushed forward
from behind the others, and were rushing towards the
motionless couple. A something—a feeling of awe—
stopped them half-way: they felt that it was death,
but they did not know if.
There was an awful silence. No one moved or
spoke. —
The old man could bear it no longer. The chil-
dren’s looks of bewilderment, the sudden change from
their late joy, was too painful to him. It was too like
real life to be natural in children. He stepped lightly
forward, and whispered to Bertram, “ My child, she is
dead.â€
Then Bertram sprung forward: “Charlie, poor
Charlie!’ he exclaimed.
How strange the clear ringing voice sounded to the
ears of those within that silent room—the voice lifted
so lately in such different tones.
198 HOME AGAIN.
He burst into tears and flung himself by the side
of Charlie, while Grace clung tremblingly to her
newly found mother, as if she feared death would
snatch her too from all she loved.
Charlie just turned his head for one moment and
then resumed his earnest gaze at the senseless face.
’ Lord Astley came up and gently led away his boy.
He put the children into the carriage with his wife
and returned himself to the poor gipsies.
Charlie paid no attention to anything that was said
to him, but he fiercely resisted every attempt that was
made to touch Nora. ;
After every means had failed to rouse him, the old
man suggested that the children should be brought
back.
Lord Astley was unwilling to subject them again
to such scenes of sorrow, but he yielded to the
entreaties of the stranger, and fetched the children.
They advanced timidly now and clung to their
father.
- “Speak to him,†said the old man.
“What shall I say? whispered the trembling
Grace.
“Tell him that she would wish him to go with you
could she speak. Say he must not leave her here,
but must take her with him—with you.â€
“ Charlie!†said the low voices of both children at
once, and two small hands were laid on his rough
ones, which still held the hand of death—* Charlie!â€
Grace went on, “Nora wouldn’t like to stay
here. People will come soon, Charlie. She would
L*
HOME AGAIN. 199
like you to come with us, and she will come too ;â€
and Grace looked up at her father, half fearing that
she had said something wrong. But he made hera
sign to go on, for Charlie moved and listened as she
spoke.
“Tt would be so horrid when people come, Charlie,â€
said the little “+l. i
She had toucaed the right chord. The boy sprung
up, and now his chief anxiety was to move “ herâ€
before the station was again full. It was done.
In death the poor gipsy reposed on such a soft
downy bed as she had never seen in life. She was
taken to Combe Asiley.
Her death sadly marred the joy of the children at
their return home; they had so longed for her to
see and know the much-talked of mamma, and all the
home ways and places. Their chief pleasure for long
was in talking of her to one another or to their
mother.
Charlie remained in the same stunned, tearless
state for days. It was not till he stood by Nora’s
grave, and heard the earth rattle on her coffin, that
he gave way. Then he flung himself on the ground
with a groan that went to the hearts of the few poor
villagers who stood round the grave. But tears came,
and he was better. He never left the Astleys again.
It did not seem to enter his head that the world
could have any place for him but by Nora’s grave ;
and he would spend hours and hours there in perfect
idleness. The children alone could draw him away,
and he became after a time their constant companion.
200 HOME AGAIN,
Mrs. Abel was quite content that it should be so, for
she declared herself to be quite in love with “the
poor, dear, darling, broken-hearted gipsy ;� which
announcement was the cause of a grand consultation
between two of the younger children as to whether,
if Mrs. Abel did marry Charlie, they would both go
away, and “be gipsies;â€â€™ or whether Charlie would
remain at Combe Astley, and be “ another governess
for Bertram and Gracey.†The said Bertram and
Grace thought no more of running away, but sub-
mitted very quietly to afternoon lessons and the
restraints of a school-room life, which seemed light to
them after all they had gone through during their
gipsy days.
It is believed that Bertram entered the army when
he grew up, and that he took Charhe with him as his
servant. I have heard, too, that he found the gipsy
experience of a camp-life very useful during the
terrible winter of 1854-5 amid the horrors of a Crimean
campaign.
THE END.
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THE FIRST OF JUNE. By ditto.
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THE STANDARD POETRY BOOK FOR SCHOOLS.
Try AND TRUST. By the Author of ‘“ Arthur Morland,â€
TEN MoRAL TALES. By Guzzot.
THE ORPHANS OF WATERLOO.
THE Boy’s READER. With Illustrations.
THE GIRL’S READER.
London and New York. 9
2 2s. JUVENILES (continued ),
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CHARMS AND COUNTER CHARMS,
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ADVENTURES OF JOSEPH HAWSEPIPE.
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a 6 STORY OF AN APPLE,
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RAINBOWS IN SPRINGTIDE.
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FLORENCE THE ORPHAN. z
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FABULOUS HIsToRIES. By Mrs. Trimmer.
ScHooL Days AT HARROW.
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and and Series, rs. each. 2
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VISIT TO MY BIRTHPLACE. By Miss Bunbury.
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MAGDALENE AND RAPHAEL.
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London and New Vork. 11
S. Is. JUVENILES (continued).
a. a,
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ROSE IN THE DESERT. By ditto.
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Tue Story oF A Cat. By dérs. Perring.
‘Easy POETRY FOR CHILDREN. With Coloured Piates,
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RILLS FROM THE FOUNTAIN. A Lesson for the Young.
Topp's LECTURES TO CHILDREN. (First Series.)
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LitTLe PorMS FoR LITTLE READERS,
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NEIGHBOURLY LOVE.
Kitty's VICTorRY.
ELISE AND HER RABBITS,
Happy CHARLI&,
ANNIE PRICE.
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BooK OF ONE STLLABLE. With Coloured Plates,
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KEEPER’S TRAVELS IN SEARCH OF HIS MAS CDR,
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CHILD’s ILLUSTRATED POETRY BOOK.
THE NEW Book OF ONE SYLLABLE,
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THE Lost CHAMOIS-HUNTER,
George Routledge & Sons’ Juvenile Books.
Boutledge’s Helo Series of Shilling Top Books,
With Large Illustrations byH. S. Marks, J. D. WATSON,
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I O ALPHABET OF TRADES,
CINDERELLA.*
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Names.
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BET.
THREE LITTLE KITTENS.
THE History oF FIVE
Littie Pics.*
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THE CATs’ TEA PARTY.*
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THe History OF MOSES.
THE HisTORY OF JOSEPH.
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NurRSERY RHYMES, end
Series.
NuRSERY GAMES.
THE House THAT JACK
Burtt.
Tue Lire or Our Lorp.
THE THREE BEARS.
RED RrIDING-Hoop.
New TALE OF A Tus.*
NURSERY TALES.
PRETTY
Demy 4to, stiff wrapper; or mounted on
Op MOTHER HUBBARD.
PICTURES FROM ENGLISH
History, 1st Period.
Ditto, 2nd Period.
Ditto, 3rd Period.
Ditto, 4th Period.
Puss In BooTs.
Tom THUMB.
BABES IN THE WOOD.
ACK ANDTHE BEAN-STALE
HE LAUGHABLE A BC.
| WILD ANIMALS, 1st Series.*
Ditto, end Series.*
Ditto, 3rd Series.*
Ditto, 4th Series.*
TAME ANIMALS, 1st Series.*
Ditto, end Series.*
Ditto, 3rd Series.*
Ditto, 4th Series.*
My MoruHER.
THE Docs’ DINNER PARTY.
LirTLE DoG TRUSTY.
THE WHITE CAT.
THE UGLy DUCKLING. -
LirTLE SNOW-WHITE.
DASH AND THE DUCKLINGS.
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Aunt Wabor’s Top Books.
Large Coloured Sixpenny Books for Children, with greatly
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o 6 History OF OuR PETs.
History OF BLUE BEARD.
SINDBAD THE SAILOR.
A, APPLE PIE,
Tom THumB’s ALPHABET.
BARON MUNCHAUSEN.
PICTURE ALPHABET.
ARTHUR'S ALPHABET.
DoroTHy FRUMP AND HER
S1x Docs.
SINGING BIRDS.
Parrots & TALKING BIRDS
DoGs.
NURSERY RHYMES.
BIRDs.
RAILROAD ALPHABET.
5a.
Londzon and New York. 13
AUNT Mavor’s Toy Books (continued ),
© 6 ALPHABET FOR Goop Boys; GRAMMAR IN RHYME,
23
o6
AND GIRLS. BABy's BIRTHDAY.*
THE SEA-SIDE ALPHABET. | PrcruRES FROM THE
FARM-YARD ALPHABET. STREETS.*
GREEDY JEM AND HIS} LosT ON THE SEA-SHORE.*
Littte Broruers.* ANIMALS AND Birps,*
Our Puss aND HER KiT-| A CuiLp's FANcy Dress
Hop o'my THUMB. [rens.*| Batt.
JACK THE GIANT KILLER.| A CHILD’s EVENING Party.
LITTLE RED RipING-HOoD. | ANNIE AND JACK IN Lon-
BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. DON. [Suor.
Harpy Days oF CuHILp-| ONE, Two, BUCKLE My
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WiLp ANIMALS. NAUGHTY Boys AND GIRLS.
BrIFisH ANIMALS. LITTLE MINXES,
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How Jessie was Lost. Tue Farry Sup,
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Houiledge’s Neto Threepenny Coy Books.
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Royal 32mo, with Illustrations, gilt edges.
HIstTory oF My PEts,
HUBERT LEE.
ELLEN LESLIE,
Jess1E GRAHAM.
FLORENCE ARNOTT,
BLIND ALICE,
}
14
George Ruutledge & Sons’ Juvtnile Books,
8. d.
ROUTLEDGE’s 6d. JUVENILES (continued),
© 6 GRACE AND CLARA,
RECOLLECTIONS OF My
CHILDHOOD.
EGERTON ROSCOE.
FLORA MORTIMER.
CHARLES HAMILTON.
STORY OF ADROPOF WATER
LEARNING BETTER THAN
Housss anp Lanp.
MAup’s FIRST VISIT TO HER
Aunt. In Words of One Syl-
lable.
Easy POEMS.
THE Boy Captive. By Peter
Parley.
STORIES OF CHILD LIFE.
DAIRYMAN'S DAUGHTER.
ARTHUR'S TALES FOR THE
Younc.
HAWTHORNE’SGENTLE Boy.
PLEASANT AND PROFITABLE
THE FALSE KEY.
THE BRACELETS.
WASTE Not, WANT Not.
TARLETON, and ForGtvEand
ForGer,
Lazy LAWRENCE AND THE
WHITE PiGgon.
THE BARRING OUT.
THE ORPHANS AND OLDPoz.
THE Mimic.
THE PURPLE JAR, and other
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PARLEY’S POETRY & PROSE.
ARTHUR'S STORIES FOR
LitTLe GIRLs.
THE YOUNG COTTAGER.
PARLEY’S THOS. TITMOUSE.
ARTHUR’SCHRISTMASSTORY
THE Lost LAMB.
ARTHUR'S STORIES FOR Lr~
TLE Boys.
ARTHUR'S ORGAN Boy,
MARGARET JONES,
THe Two SCHOOL GIRLS.
THE WIDOW AND HER
DAUGHTER.
THE ROSE IN THE DESERT.
THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT
and Tue BAaskKeET Woman.
SIMPLE SUSAN.
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS,
TALE OF THE UNIVERSE.
ROBERT DAWSON,
KATE CAMPBELL,
BASKET OF FLOWERS.
BABES IN THE BASKET.
THE JEWISH TWINS.
CHILDREN ON THE PLAINS.
LitTLE HENRY AND HIS
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THE LITTLE BLACK HEN.
MARTHA AND RACHEL,
CARPENTER’S DAUGHTER,
THE PRINCE IN DISGUISE.
GERTRUDE AND HER BIBLE.
THE CONTRAST. Miss Edge-
worth,
THE GRATEFULNEGRO. Da,
JANE HUDSON.
A KIss FoR A Buow.
YOUNG NEGRO SERVANT,
LINA AND HER COUSINS,
ARTHUR'S LAST PENNY.
BRIGHT-EYED BESSIE.
THE GATES AJAR,
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Easy POEMS FOR CHILDREN.
JESSIE GRAHAM.
History oF My PErTs.
FLORENCE ARNOTT,
ROBERT DAWSON.
RECOLLECTIONS OF My
CHILDHOOD.
BROOKEAND BROOKE FARM
London and New VYor'e, 15
e€ ROUTLEDGE’s 4d. JUVENILES (continued ),
© 4 LIFE IN THE WILDs. A Drop oF WATER.
HILL AND THE VALLEY. THE FALSE Key. j
THE WIDOW AND HER THE BRACELETS. |
DavGuter. THE PURPLE JAR. |
THE Two SCHOOL GIRLS. | SIMPLE SUSAN. |
THE JANE Hupson. . KATE CAMPBELL,
A Kiss For A BLow. LitTLE HENRY AND HIS |
| HuBertT LEE. BEARER. i
|
|
FLORA MORTIMER. THE GATES AJAR.
Routledge’s Fibe-Shilling Ports.
Edited by Rev. R. A. WiLLMOTT. Jllustrated by FOSTER,
GILBERT, CORBOULD, FRANKLIN, azd HARVEY. Ele-
gantly printed on good paper, post 8vo, gilt edges, bevelled
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5 © SPENSER’S FAERIE QUEENE. Illustrated by Corbould.
CHAUCER’S CANTERBURY TALES.. Illustrated by ditto.
KIRKE WHITE. By Southey. _ Illustrated by Birket Foster,
SOUTHEY’s JOAN OF ARC, AND MINOR Poems, _ Illus-
trated by Gilbert. ci
PopPE's POETICAL WorKS. Edited by Carey.
MILTon’s POETICAL WoRKS. Illustrated by Harvey.
THOMSON, BEATTIE, AND WEST. Illust. by Birket Foster.
HERBERT. With Life and Notes by Rev. R. A. Willmott.
CowPeEr. Illust. by Birket Foster. Edited by W2dimott.
LONGFELLOW’S COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS. Illustrated.
——______——- PROSE WoRKS. |
Burns’ PoETICAL Works. [Illustrated by John Gilbert. |
FAIRFAX’s Tasso’s JERUSALEM DELIVERED. Illustrated
by Corbould.
PEeRcy’s RELIQUES OF ANCIENT POETRY. Illust. by ditto.
Scott’s POETICAL WorKS. Illustrated by ditto.
Mackay’s BALLADS AND Lyrics, Illust. by John Gilbert.
WORDSWORTH. Illustrated by Birket Foster.
CRABBE. Illustrated by ditto.
MacKay’s Soncs. Complete Edition. IRllust. by Gilbert.
ELIZA CooK’s POEMS. With Illustrations and Portrait.
Moore’s Poems. Illustrated by Corbould, &c.
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BENNETT'S POETICAL WoRKS. Portrait and Illustrations,
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Lorp LytTTon’s POETICAL WORKS. 75. 6d.
——___—____——. DRAMaric WorRKS. 6s.
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CO
26 George Routledge & Sons’ Poets.
Boutledge’s Three-and-Sixpenng Ports, Ke.
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3 6 LoNGFELLOw’s COMPLETE POETICAL WoRKS. _Illust.
Cowper. Illust. by Birket Foster. Edited by W2limote,
MILToN’s POETICAL WorRKS. Illustrated by Harvey.
WoRDSWORTH’S POETICAL WoRKS. _Illust. by B. Foster.
SouTHEY’s JOAN OF ARC, AND MINOR PoEMs, _Illust.
by Gilbert. |
GOLDSM]'TH, JOHNSON, SHENSTONE, AND SMOLLETT. Do.
KIRKE WHITE. By Southey. Illustrated by Birket Foster.
Burns. Illustrated by Gilbert.
Tuomas Moore's Poems. Illustrated by Corbould.
Byron's Poems. Illustrated by Gilbert, Wolf, &c.
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HERBERT'S WORKS. With Illustrations.
THOMAS CAMPBELL’S POETICAL WORKS. Illust. by Gilbert.
SHAKESPEARE’S COMPLETE WORKS.
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2 6 LONGFELLOW’s COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS.
ScoTT’s PoEMS. Burns’ PoEMs,
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CoWPER’S POEMS. MILTON’s POEMS.
WQRDSWORTH’S POEMS. Pope's POEMS.
Or bound in a new style, 8 vols., cloth, £2.
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180, with Portrait.
g © LONGFELLOW’S COMPLETE POETICAL WorKS. Paper,
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Burns’ COMPLETE POETICAL WoRKS. Paper, 15. ; cloth,
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London: THE BROADWAY, LUDGATE HILL,
New York; 416, BROOME STREET.
Pn
— RBA IS9G5
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