Chapter XXV

'WE'VE GOT A LITTLE STOWAWAY HERE, GUARD.'

It was midnight drear, and Lotty was all alone in the dark of the caravan saloon. She dared not light a lamp or candle, so she was feeling very frightened and very much excited. There was much clanking of big chains and shouting of porters, and she knew the truck in which the 'Gipsy Queen' lay was being attached to the train that was to bear her far away from the camp which had been her home so long. Wallace reluctantly had been left at poor Crona's cottage till Chops returned.

The good station-porter George had sat up in the saloon with Lotty till he dared not sit a moment longer, then, telling her to lock her door and say her prayers, he said, 'Good-bye, darling, and God himsel' be wi' ye!' and so took his departure.

But presently the _puff-puff-puff_ of the starting train resolved itself into a steady roar, and she knew she was off and away. But she was tired and sleepy as well as very heavy-hearted and sad, so she flashed her light a little and found a big plaid to cover her; and, arranging the pillows, she lay down on the sofa to think. With that plaid--a good Gordon tartan it was--around her she did not feel half so lonely. It was just as if its owner were sitting somewhere near to her in the saloon. She said, 'Good-night, Chops,' and Good-night, Wallace,' and 'Good-night, Mr Blake.' This, of course, was merely make-believe. In three minutes more she was as sound asleep as ever she had been in her life before, and it was quite daylight before she awakened. She looked her little watch--a present from Crona herself--and found it was nine o'clock, and past. She got up now, and, going away back into the pantry, permitted water to flow into the basin and had a delightfully cool wash. Then she felt hungry, and had a nice breakfast--a cold boiled egg, nice scones and butter, and a glass of milk.

After breakfast she put her hand into her bag to get the chocolates, and big, luscious ones they were. She found Chops's little parcel. It was rolled in a great many pieces of newspaper and tied ever so many times with pieces of wool; but at last it revealed two gold sovereigns, three half-crowns, and ever so many threepenny bits.

'Dear good Chops!' she could not help saying aloud, and her eyes were dim as she thought of him. She put it safely away, and sat down to think and wonder how soon she could pay it all back again. But then, of course, it wasn't spent yet, and Lotty resolved to save it all she could.

A small jewelled clock stood in a case right over the table, and this Lotty now wound up and put right. Sometimes, when the train stopped a few minutes at a station in comparative quiet, this clock could be heard ticking; but whether ticking or not it was really a great comfort to her. She was so glad there was plenty of light. What would she have done had the skylight itself, like the windows, been closed up?

Twenty-four hours; but it would be a long, long day to her with nothing to do! Only, she had been in caravans nearly all her life, and knew from experience that if one lies down the time seems to pass ever so much more quickly. So she found a nice book, and hauling the plaid up over her, for it was none too warm here without a fire, she lay down to read and think and dream day-dreams. But she dropped the book presently and thought she would count these chocolates just to make them last. Oh, what a nice big, deep box! And they were such good ones too, and coyly crisp to the teeth. She found there were twoscore and ten all told. Well, she would have five to begin with. But when these five were done for--five chocolates won't last for ever--she was afraid she must have three more.

Then she resolutely put away the box and as resolutely began to read. She was glad it wasn't a silly love-story, and felt sure that Mr Blake was far above books of that sort. This was a volume of startling adventures far, far away in the wild interior of Borneo. And there were terrible savages in it, who had big holes bored through their ears and their upper lips to carry ugly knives in; and there was much fighting with white men; and there was a poor boy who was carried off to be fattened and eaten by a real cannibal king, but a pretty black princess who took pity on him just as he was nearly fat enough and doomed to be killed, and cooked with curry and rice the very next day. So this princess cut the thongs that bound the poor boy, and took him into the forest, and bade him keep on and on towards the eastern sun, and after many weeks he would come to the big blue sea and be sure to find a boat. But there was a great chase after him, and he was nearly captured many times, and had most astounding adventures, all of which occupied fully two hundred pages; and then, lo! it was one o'clock and time for dinner.

Just one chocolate--no, two, and that would make the other five!

Lotty had a beautiful pie for dinner, which Crona had made for her, and she left the half of it for supper. She had a bottle of nicely made coffee too, though it was cold, besides some fruit. She felt ever so much better now, and took out of her bag some knitting and set vigorously to work.

But she didn't get on very quickly, she had to pause to think so often--sometimes about the camp, and Chops, and Crona, and Wallace, and sometimes about Antony. Also, she spent much time in wondering what sort of a home Chops's mother would give her, and if ever she would see the skipper's wife of the wrecked _Cumberland_ any more.

She put away the knitting at last and had coffee for her tea, with bread and butter and some fruit. Then she sat down to write a letter to Mr Blake, and to confess how wicked it was of her, and how naughty above all things to travel in his beautiful caravan. After she had come to the words, 'This is all at present,' she thought how foolish it looked, so she tore it up and wrote another, and laid it down till she should address the envelope. Then she read it over and found she had spelt saloon with two l's--thus, 'salloon.' 'But has it one "l" or really two?' she said to herself as she began to chew the end of her fountain pen. 'Let me see--balloon has two "l's;" what has saloon or salloon ever done that it shouldn't have two. Oh, bother, I'll tear it up and write one more.'

She wasn't pleased even with that, but she put it in the envelope and dropped it into her bag to be posted. No, she wouldn't though; she took it out again and pinned it to a book, where he would be sure to see it. 'Second thoughts,' she told herself, 'are always best.'

She really hadn't meant to have any more chocolates; but somehow her hand went gradually towards them, and--she had six before she halted!

Lotty took her violin out of its case now. Luckily she had brought that with her, for it was light and easy to carry, so she fingered the strings, not daring to use the bow, and played thus to herself for two whole hours. This was by no means a fast train, and it made many very long stops. But something had happened during the previous night that Lotty was not aware of, being sound asleep. Part of the train had been detached and shunted into a siding somewhere up near Huntly, and it had not started again till nearly nine, when the girl awoke. She managed to hear the name of every station they passed through, and about one hour south of Glasgow, lo! the train stopped altogether, and Lotty could hear a stationmaster saying to porters, 'That truck with the gipsy wagon on it must be detached and lie here, to go down with the ten-fifteen passenger to-morrow forenoon.'

This was bad news for poor Lotty, but it could not be helped. She was angry on Mr Blake's account too, for he had paid special rates, and this was how he was being treated.

It was now nearly eight o'clock, and everything was still and quiet inside, for the 'Gipsy Queen' had been shunted into a siding. What was Lotty to do? Well, she had her supper, and then some more chocolates. But the night fell, and it was ever so lonesome, dark, and silent.

It might have been about half-past twelve when she awoke with a start and sprang to her feet. She was trembling now like the leaves of the aspen, for she could hear voices muttering outside the back door, and some one tried the handle. Most girls would have screamed. Lotty did not; she drew nearer to the door, and listened.

'This is the caravan, Lintie, a nobleman's, they say. Let's try those keys. I'll break the lock afore I'm beaten. Plenty o' swag in here, Lintie, and nobody'll know the crib has ever been cracked.'

Key after key was tried in vain, and poor Lotty was nearly fainting.

'Here, Lintie, the jemmy; hand it up. I'm going in whatever happens.'

There was glass in the back door; and, hardly knowing what she did, Lotty flashed her electric light through that, full in the hideous, grimy face of the would-be burglar. She stamped her feet at the same time, and rattled the door-handle. The next moment, with something like an oath and a smothered shout, the burglars made off.

But Lotty slept no more till daylight, and when she awoke the train was far on its way to the Border. It was moving very quickly too; she knew that from the motion. But, oh! how she hoped and prayed the train would go right on now to London, for she determined she would leave it anywhere rather than be shunted into the dark of a siding again. But, much to her joy, the train went rattling on and on, so after breakfast and some more of Chops's chocolates she forgot all her troubles, even opened the front door and went out to sit in the coachman's seat and gaze on the beautiful landscape gliding swiftly past her like some splendid panorama.

The sun was shining brightly to-day, the sky everywhere clear and blue, with only a few white clouds on the western horizon. It was the sunshine of earliest summer, a sunshine of promise, a sunshine, too, that seemed to find an echo in this little gipsy's heart. Even the train's rapid motion accorded with the girl's feelings, making her feel that she was leaving something of sorrow and darkness behind her and bringing her every hour nearer and nearer to a happier future.

Yet Lotty could not help thinking, while she sat here in the bright forenoon sunshine, how sad it was that so much of real joy should have been in her camp-life mingled with the embittering gall of misery. For, as far as her relations with Biffins Lee had existed, her life had been one long woe. She bore him no ill-will, however; he had been a hard taskmaster, and she merely a little white slave, useful to him in his business, a mere property, that was all. What her life as a show-girl would have been without Crona, Chops, and Mary she could not have told you. 'Oh,' she would have said, 'it would have been no life, for I would simply have died.'

She tried even now to think back to some little kindness of deed or even speech of Lee's that was not born of self-interest. She could not find even one; as regards her education, he had been most particular, and had paid her teachers well, but this was merely in order that as a property she might have more value.

And then, all at once, a cold hand seemed to clutch at her heart, and some evil thing appeared to whisper to her the words: 'Biffins Lee will find you wherever you go, and take you back by force to his show.' Poor girl! She did not know then that he had no legal right to do anything of the sort. But the thought, once implanted in her mind, took firm root, and grew and increased till it made her miserable. But for the time being only. Who could be miserable any length of time on so glad and bright a day as this? With the fresh air on her face, she began to feel drowsy.

'But,' she said to herself, 'I might drop off to sleep, and fall right down out of the caravan and be killed.' So once more she sought the interior, comforted herself with a few more chocolates, carefully counted how many were left, then got in under the plaidie to read. But to read was to feel drowsy, and in a few minutes' time this little gipsy lass was safe in the kind arms of Morpheus.

* * * * *

Chops, going back homewards through the moor and the woods, felt so lonesome that the evening actually seemed cold, for grief has this chilling effect at times. He was very glad, indeed, when at long and last the light from Crona's romantic wee cot blinked out through the gloom of the gathering night-shadows. It might have been this light that accounted for what immediately followed, for Chops had a sudden inspiration. Although he was a poet--or thought himself so, and few even of the best of us get much farther--it was seldom indeed that Nature vouchsafed him a sudden inspiration. And when this one came he stopped short at once, and a beaming, fatty sort of a smile illumined his face to such an extent that for a moment it might have been mistaken for a will-o'-the-wisp.

'I'll do it,' he said. 'Yes, I'll do it to-morrow mornin' right away. Wonder I didn't think of telling Miss Lotty. But w'ich it'll be a pleasant serprise for her.'

He hurried on now, and was soon inside the cottage; and Crona, knowing Chops's weakness, set about laying the supper.

'Just 'ad a henspyration, Crona!'

'And what is it, dear boy?'

'The henspyration,' said Chops impressively, 'is a tillygrum.'

'A telegram, Chops? There, you'll find that a nice bit of supper!'

'A tillygrum, Crona, to-morrow mornin' fust thing. Runs with it my single self to make sure. And that tillygrum will be to Mrs Oak, derelict of Capting Oak of the wretched ship _Cumberland_, Capstan Cottage, Shepherd's Bush, London. An' it will say--the tillygrum will say--"Meet Lotty at King's Cross in the caravan, on Friday first as ever was.--Yours to order, CHOPS."'

'Very good idea of yours, Chops; but you couldn't put all that in a telegram. Besides, Captain Oak isn't dead, so Mrs Oak isn't a relict, let alone a derelict. I'll write the telegram, Chops, this very night.'

* * * * *

The lights of London were beginning to spring up here and there in windows as the train drew into the gloom of King's Cross, and Lotty seized her little bag and fiddle-case, got out, locked her door, and leapt off the truck and almost into the arms of kindly Mrs Oak and the stationmaster himself. After the first greetings, the guard came hurrying up.

'We've got a little stowaway here, guard,' said the man with the gold band, laughing. 'Travelled all the way from Scotland in her own caravan!'

'Well, well, well! And a pretty little stowaway she is. 'Pon my soul, if I'd known she was with me, stationmaster, I would have been sorely tempted to neglect my duty, and travelled with her in the same carriage.'

'Thanks, dear,' he said when Lotty gave up her ticket.

'I suppose,' said the little gipsy, 'I was infringing orders.'

'I don't know really if we have a bylaw that would cover this case; but, depend upon it, that if your friend Mrs Oak hadn't come I should have made you a prisoner, and taken you home to my wife, if only for the sake of seeing a little more of so interesting and pretty a stowaway.'

For verily, verily, reader, even a stationmaster is 'gallantly personified' where beauty is concerned.

Lotty did think it so kind and thoughtful of Chops to send that telegram, and it certainly was a most pleasant surprise to her. She much needed rest, too, and so she gladly went home that night with Mrs Oak to Capstan Cottage, and was glad to meet her husband James once more. He was on shore for just a fortnight, then bound for the West Indies in a better ship than ever he had commanded before. But, tired though she was, Lotty did not go to bed until she had written both to Crona and to Chops himself. And next day Mrs Oak went with Lotty all the way to Highgate Heath.