It was nearly noon when the driver said:
"I'm about as peckish as a man--especially a wagoner--can afford to be. Come up, Daisy! Do your best, Cornflower!"
Thus urged, Daisy and Cornflower, regarding the smack of the whip in the air as the merriest of jokes, broke into their smartest trot, and did their best, smelling hay and water in the near distance. The bells jingled gaily, and Sally and the Duchess looked eagerly ahead. So smart was the pace that within a few moments they saw a house of accommodation for man and beast, at the door of which a number of men and women were gathered to welcome them. The driver was evidently well known, and a favourite, and when he pulled up, willing hands assisted him to take the harness from the horses.
"An hour's spell here," he said to Seth Dumbrick, as he lifted the children to the ground, tossing them in the air, after the manner of a man accustomed to children. "If you're going to eat, you'd best take the little girls to the back of the house, and enjoy it regular country fashion. To think," he added, pinching Sally's happy face, "of never seeing the country till now!"
With a jug of beer and some cold meat and bread, Seth and his girls made their way to the garden at the back of the inn, where, sitting in a natural bower, upon seats built round the trunk of an apple-tree, they enjoyed the most delicious meal of their lives.
"We're getting our roses again," said Seth Dumbrick, gazing with unalloyed pleasure on the beautiful face of the Duchess. "Now, what we've got to do is to wish that the minutes won't fly away."
But fly away they did, and in less than no time the old wagoner summoned them to the road.
"Unless," he said jocosely, "you want to be left behind."
"I'd like to be," sighed Sally.
In front of the inn, where the horses stood ready for their work, the landlady met them, with flowers and kisses and kind words for the children; and when they were lifted into the wagon, they found that a quantity of sweet hay had been thrown in by the thoughtful wagoner--kind marks of attention which met with grateful and full-hearted acknowledgments. On they went again, gazing wistfully at the inn and the pleasant people standing about it, until they were out of sight. On they went, in a state of dreamy happiness, through the new world of peace and beauty, into which surely trouble could never enter. Every turn of the road disclosed fresh wonders, and a mighty interest was attached to the smallest incidents;--every queerly-shaped tree, every garden, every cottage, every mansion, that came into view; cows drinking from a distant pool; a mother with her baby in her arms, standing at a window framed in ivy; old men and women hobbling about the grounds of a charitable institution; two truant school-boys racing and shouting with wild delight, with no thought of the terrors to come when their fault was discovered; a man asleep under a hedge, and a woman sitting patiently by his side; a lady beautifully dressed, who paused to look at the children; a group of gipsies; a groom riding towards London at full speed;--one and all formed enduring and interesting pictures, and added to the pleasures of the ride.
"Where do we stop?" asked Seth Dumbrick of the wagoner.
"At The World's End," replied the wagoner; "we'll make it at five o'clock, I reckon."
He was a shrewd calculator. As a church clock chimed five, he pointed with his whip to an old-fashioned inn, lying off from the roadside some hundred yards away, saying that was The World's End, and that they would put up there for the night, and start again early in the morning. As he spoke, they were nearing a pair of massive iron gates, through the open work of which could be seen a curved carriage-drive, lined with great elms. Straight and tall and stately, they presented the appearance of a giant regiment drawn up in lines to do honour to those who passed between.
"That's a grand place," observed Seth.
"It's the finest estate for many a mile round," said the wagoner.
"It has got a name."
"Oh, yes. Springfield it's called."
Seth Dumbrick listened. The estate was so built round with walls and trees that the carriage-drive was the only part open to the gaze of the passer-by. A faint sound of laughter--the laughter of the young--floated to his ears.
"It isn't so solemn as it looks," said Seth.
"There's a lot of company at Springfield," rejoined the wagoner. "They're spending a fine time, I reckon."
"The master must be a rich man. Is he a lord?"
"He'll be one some day they say. He's a great lawyer."
In another moment the horses stopped at The World's End, and showed by a merry jingle of their bells that they knew the day's work was done. It was still broad daylight, and Seth set so much store upon the children being as much as they could in the open air, that, after arranging for the night's accommodation at The World's End, he and Sally and the Duchess started for a walk through the country lanes. There was sufficient beauty within the immediate vicinity of The World's End to engage their attention and admiration, and Seth, fearful of over-fatiguing the Duchess, so directed his steps as to keep Springfield always in view--whereby he was sure that he was never very far from the inn in which they were to pass the night. It thus happened that they frequently skirted the immediate boundaries of the estate--here formed by a close-knit hedge through which a hare could not have made its way, here by a natural creek, with stalwart trees on the Springfield side, here by a stone wall, in lieu of a more natural defence against encroachment. It was a quiet and peaceful evening, and after a couple of hours of almost restful sauntering, so little of labour was there in their mode of going about, they came suddenly upon a narrow lane, bounded by a broken hedge. The prospect was so pretty, and the glimpse of green trees forming an archway some twenty yards distant was so inviting, that Seth, without a thought of trespass, lifted the Duchess and Sally over the hedge, and followed them. A gipsy woman, sitting within the shadow of the arch of trees, would probably have called for no special attention, had not the Duchess--upon whom the flashing eyes, the dark sunburnt face, stern and sombre in its aspect, the shining black hair but slightly covered with the usual red handkerchief, and the generally bold air which pervaded the woman, produced an effect little less than terrifying--clasped Seth's hand in fear, and strove to pull him back.
"Don't be frightened, Duchess," said Seth, soothing; "it's only a gipsy."
None but the closest observer, and one, too, on the watch for signs, could have detected the slightest variation of expression on the woman's face. To all appearance, she was entirely unconscious of the presence of the holiday party; but her quick ears had caught very distinctly every word uttered by Seth, and her quick sense, sharpened from her birth to certain ends conducive to the earning of sixpences in an unlawful way, had already placed a construction upon them which might lead to profit. Without raising her eyes, she noted the composition of the party, and waited for the course of events to bring her into action. Seth's soothing tone quieted the Duchess's fears, and his words excited Sally to a most wonderful degree. She had never seen a real gipsy; she had heard of them and of their occult powers of divination, and now one was before her, endowed with the mysterious and awful power of prophecy and of seeing into the future. The opportunity was too precious to be lost. She clasped her hands, and with a beseeching look at Seth, cried:
"O Daddy! ask her to tell the Duchess's fortune."
"Nonsense, Sally," said Seth. "She can no more tell fortunes than you or I can. Why, one of your trances is a hundred times better than anything she can tell us. Besides, what is to be is to be."
He spoke in a low tone, and the gipsy lost not a word of his speech.
Sally was not given to dispute with her guardian. She loved and respected him too well, believing that he knew better than anybody else in the world what was good for everybody; but she had to struggle with herself for strength to bear the disappointment. The next few steps brought them to the side of the gipsy, who rose and confronted them.
"Let me tell your fortune, pretty lady."
Sally's heart beat quickly as the gipsy took her hand and held it with light, firm grasp.
"We have no time for fortune-telling," said Seth, adding gently, "and no money."
"Sixpence won't harm you, kind gentleman," said the gipsy, sitting on a hillock, so that her face and Sally's were on a level. "You haven't come all the way from London to spoil the pleasure of these little ladies for sixpence."
"Oh, oh!" cried Sally, palpitating. "She knows we come from London!"
"The gipsy woman knows everything, and sees everything, pretty lady."
The circumstance of being called pretty lady in so winsome a voice was honey to Sally's soul.
Seeing no way but one out of the difficulty, Seth gave the woman a sixpenny-piece, which she, suspicious of the tricks of Londoners of a common grade, placed between her teeth to test. Sally meanwhile, having an arm disengaged, clasped the Duchess's waist, and drew her close to her side. The gipsy cast a rapid glance upon the two children, noting the tenderness expressed in the action, and then fell to examining Sally's hand.
"You see the usual things in it, of course," said Seth, with but small respect in his tone for the woman's art. "What usual things?" asked the gipsy.
"Sickness, sorrow, sweethearts, riches."
"I see no riches; here is trouble."
"Not in the present," said Seth, somewhat repentant of his rashness in angering the woman, as he saw Sally turn pale.
"No, not in the present. Trouble in the past, trouble in the future."
"Easy to predict. Trouble comes to all of us."
"Look here, master. Are you reading the signs or me?"
"You; and you read them in the usual way."
"Is it reading them in the usual way to tell you that you are not this little lady's father?"
"Our faces teach you that."
"Is it reading them in the usual way to tell you that this little lady's trouble in the future will come from love?"
"A dark or fair man?" asked Seth, still bantering, for the purpose of inspiring Sally with courage.
"From no man, dark or fair. From love of a woman."
"Of a woman!" exclaimed Seth, biting his lip.
"Ay, of a woman, when this little lady herself is a woman." A curtsey from the gipsy caused Seth to turn his head, and he saw that other persons had joined the party: a gentleman of middle age and a lady richly dressed.
"Come," said the gentleman, with a careless attempt to draw the lady from the group.
"No," protested the lady, "no, Mr. Temple; I must positively stop. I dote on fortune-telling; I've had mine told a hundred times."
"It's a bright fortune, my lady," said the gipsy, still retaining Sally's hand, "as bright as this summer's day."
"It is evening now," observed the gentleman addressed as Mr. Temple. "Better not stop. The grey shadows are coming."
"There are no grey shadows for my lady," quickly answered the gipsy.
"Rose-coloured shall all your days be," said the gentleman, with an amused glance at his companion, "if----" and paused.
"Yes--if----" prompted the lady.
"If," continued the gentleman, "you cross the poor gipsy's hand with silver. Isn't that so?" addressing the gipsy.
The woman smiled deferentially, and held out her hand to receive the silver which the lady took from her purse.
"And it's enough to provoke even a gentleman's curiosity," said the lady, "to hear that trouble is to come to this sweet girl through the love of a woman instead of that of a man."
"All troubles through love come from love of a woman," observed the gentleman oracularly.
"Does your experience teach you that?" inquired the lady, peering laughingly into his eyes.
"What my experience teaches me," he replied, with a shadow gathering on his face, "I reserve."
"After a lawyer's fashion," said the lady, again taking up his words. "You are self-convicted, Mr. Temple."
"In what way?"
"If you saw your face in a glass, you would receive your answer."
"Psha!" he exclaimed, directing his attention to the gipsy. "You have told this little girl that a woman will bring her trouble. Beyond your skill to say what woman."
"A woman younger than herself; more beautiful than herself; that she loves, and loves dearly. Show yourself, my beauty."
With no unkindly hand, knowing that it would not be tolerated, she raised the Duchess's chin with her fingers, so that the lady and gentleman could see her face. At the same moment Seth Dumbrick plucked the Duchess from the gipsy, and pressed her to his side, with a steady eye upon the gentleman.
"What a lovely child!" cried the lady, stooping, and placing her hand on the Duchess's shoulder. "Look, Mr. Temple. Did you ever in your life see so beautiful a face?"
He paused before he replied, and then the words came slowly from his lips.
"Once I saw a face as beautiful."
"When? Where?" eagerly asked the lady.
"In a dream."
"A dream!" exclaimed the gipsy, tracing a line on Sally's hand. "There are dreams mixed up with this little lady's fortune."
"Oh, yes, yes!" cried Sally. "I have 'em! I have 'em!"
The gipsy turned to Seth.
"Do I read the signs in the usual way?"
"You have hit enough nails on the head," said Seth, "and you have earned your money. It is time for us to go."
"Not yet, oh, not yet," interposed the lady. "We want this lovely child's fortune told." She drew the Duchess from Seth; the child, fascinated by her pretty face and soft silk dress, went willingly enough, and Sally and Seth looked on with jealous, uneasy eyes. "You need not be frightened, my good man. I shall not harm your daughter."
"Bless your ladyship's heart," said the gipsy, "he's not her father."
"How does she know?" inquired the lady. "Is it true?"
For a moment a falsehood rested on Seth's lips, but he refused to utter it. "She's not my child," he said. "I have adopted her."
"Mr. Temple," said the lady excitedly, "does the law permit children to be bought and sold? I should like to buy this child."
Seth looked frowningly at the lady, but all her attention being bestowed on the Duchess, she did not observe this evidence of his displeasure. The frown, however, was met by another and a sterner from the gentleman, who thus stood forward as the lady's champion. Seth did not lower his eyes, and the assumption of superiority in the gentleman's demeanour brought an expression of contempt and defiance into his own. It was not likely, after the fixed gaze with which they regarded each other, that either would forget the other's face. Seth observed more than the face of the man who confronted him. Every detail of dress, bearing, and manner photographed itself upon his mind, and an instinctive dislike for the fine gentleman took possession of him.
"Did you hear what I said?" cried the lady, addressing the gentleman, and smoothing the silky hair of the Duchess. "I should like to buy this child? What has the law to say to the bargain?"
"I am afraid that the law would not support you," said the gentleman.
"I am sure that nature would not," said Seth sternly. "Why, my good man, you have confessed that you are not the child's father."
"Confessed, did I? Well, if you will have it so. But between me and this child there is a bond of love--a strong point. And even if the law did support you, I have nine other strong points in my favour--all expressed in one small word."
"Will it be troubling you too much," asked the gentleman, with irritating insolence, "to ask you to name that word?"
"Not at all. As a lawyer--as I understand from this lady's remarks you are--you will appreciate its worth. Possession."
The discordant chord between these men had been struck very effectually.
"You are acquainted with the law," observed the gentleman, implying what it was impossible to misunderstand--to wit, that Seth Dumbrick was acquainted with the law in a way not creditable to himself.
"I know nothing of it from experience."
"Yet you know something of the machinery."
"From observation and general reading."
"Indeed! You set up for a scholar!"
"I do not."
"Would possession hold good," inquired the lady, with careless condescension, "against a rightful owner?"
"It has," replied Seth, not unwilling to use the arrow placed in his hands, "in many instances--thanks to the law."
The lady looked at the gentleman for information.
"Such things have been," he said, "but not where flesh and blood are concerned."
"And here it is concerned," she exclaimed, with vivacity.
"Nonsense. What whim of yours shall I have to fight against next?"
"Of course, when I say I would like to buy the child, I am aware I am talking nonsense; but perhaps it is not in your legal mind to make allowances. I am singularly curious to learn what I can of the pretty creature's history--if she has one."
"The commonest of us has a history worth reading--but not, I doubt, until the actor begins to play a conscious part in the drama of life."
"Now you are speaking in a way I like. Let me, then, have my way, and ask the gipsy to tell the child's fortune."
"Come," he said to the gipsy, "earn your money. We have already lingered too long."
Seth Dumbrick, who had been listening with impatience to this dialogue, stepped between the gipsy and the Duchess.
"We have had enough fooling," he said sternly. "Let the woman earn her money in some other way than this."
He would have retired with the children at once, had not the gentleman stepped quickly before him, barring his progress.
"You are disposed to be insolent," he said, with a slight quivering of the lips. "Do you not know how to pay respect to a lady?"
"I know what is due to myself," replied Seth quietly. "I simply wish not to be molested."
"You are a stranger about here?"
"I am here by chance; I have no knowledge of the place."
"Nor of me?"
"Nor of you--and," he added, his temper mastering his judgment, "I wish to have none. You are a gentleman, and I----"
"Am not."
"You have answered for me. I see no reason to repine at the difference in our positions."
Seth did not intend his meaning to be mistaken, and his tone added force to his words. The gentleman's manner was so overbearing, that the commoner man's independent spirit was roused.
"I am the master of this place. This is a private road; you have committed a trespass."
"Then the sooner I repair an error unintentionally committed, the better for myself. If I had known this road was private I should not have entered it."
"The notice-board is large, and the words plain. You have been good enough to inform me that you can read."
He pointed to a board at the beginning of the road which had escaped Seth's notice, on which was painted in bold letters, "Trespassers will be prosecuted." Seth bit his lip as he saw the trap into which he had fallen.
"The hedge which protects the road," continued the gentleman, "has been newly broken."
"Not by me," said Seth, somewhat uneasy for the children's sake.
"It is not to be expected that you would admit it. But for your insolence towards the lady and myself, I should be disposed to overlook the trespass; as it is I am in doubt. Where do you come from?"
"From London."
"A London tramp--a vagrant."
"No tramp or vagrant," said Seth indignantly; "an honest man bringing his children into the country in search of health."
"I understand they are not your children."
"They are mine by adoption."
"Are their parents living?"
"This child's mother--don't be frightened, Sally--lives in the country, and is unable to offer her a home. So I take care of her."
"A modern Quixote," said the gentleman, with a sneer. "And this child"--once more he looked at the Duchess, whose eyes were raised to his--"and this child----" The imploring gaze of the Duchess appeared to disconcert him, and the sentence remained unfinished.
A singular silence followed, during which they all looked at the gentleman, whose self-possession had suddenly deserted him. Aroused to the fact that general attention was fixed upon him, he broke the silence, with curious pauses between his words.
"I was asking whether these children are sisters?"
"They are not," replied Seth.
"In any way related?"
"Not to my knowledge."
"Are her parents living?"
For the second time during the interview a falsehood rested on Seth's lips, and for the second time he refused to utter it.
"I do not know," he replied.
"What is it you say?"
"I do not know whether her parents are living."
"A born lady," muttered the gipsy, seeing her chance; "a born lady--fit to be a Duchess--is one, or I can't read the stars."
Seth turned a startled look upon the gipsy, saying, "You are a clever witch, wherever you have got your information." Then to the gentleman, "Have you anything more to ask me?"
"Nothing," was the reply, with a contradiction almost in the same breath: "In what part of London did you say you live?" as though the question had been already asked and answered.
"In the east."
"And you rest to-night?"
"At The World's End, hard by here."
"Very well; I shall call upon you to-morrow early. You can go."
But early the next morning, before ordinary folks were stirring, Seth and the children were again on the road. The wagon started at six o'clock, and Seth experienced a feeling of relief when he caught the last glimpse of Springfield.
"No more ladies and gentlemen for us," he said almost gaily, with the air of a man who has escaped a great danger; "we have had enough of them."
"I like ladies and gentlemen," said the Duchess--a remark which drove Seth into a moody fit for at least an hour.