TAD HARDENS HIS HEART
"PHIL, Phil, they're just comin'. I'm first, 'cause I ran on before; but they're—"
"Who, Tad?" inquired Phil, who was sitting under the shelter of Mother Sophie's cart, very busy finishing a huge hat.
"Why, who should it be but Marie and the baby?"
"You don't say!" cried Phil, jumping up.
"You know I went with Father Jacques to St. Malo, this morning," explained Tad. "Well, the chap at the little place on the quay said the passengers by the boat 'Princess,' had arrived, and was now in the Custom House.
"And says Father Jacques to me, 'My daughter Marie was to come in the "Princess." Wait here a moment while I go up to the Custom House.'
"So I waited, and sure enough, the Customs door opened, and out comes the woman, and on her arm the little un, growed into quite a big boy, and lookin' as though he could run alone as well as me or you."
"Did she see you, Tad?" asked Phil.
"No, I turned sort of sideways so as not to look her in the face.
"But Father Jacques, he calls out to me, 'Here, Edouard, run back to the camp and tell the mother we come.'
"So off I goes like a shot, and here I am."
"You've told Mother Sophie?"
"Oh yes, and she and Pelagie set to work to make coffee for Marie. It would be tea if we was in England. My eye! Shouldn't I like a good cup of tea again!"
"Well now," said Phil, sitting down again to his work, "what do you think of doin' about that child?"
"I give it up; ask me another," replied Tad, half vexed, half laughing. "Blest if I know what to do! I want to get back to England, and yet I can't go home without the child, and—"
"But you won't steal him, will you, Tad?" questioned Phil very earnestly.
"I don't know about that," replied Tad, "can't promise. 'Taint likely Marie 'll give up the little chap of her own free will, just when she's got used to him and all. No, Phil, nor I don't see no great harm neither, in takin' him away. He ain't no property of hers. She stole him, and it would only be givin' her tit for tat."
"My mother used to say two wrongs don't make a right, Tad, and after all it wasn't Marie who stole him first of all. It was you."
"But I never meant to keep him, you see; I was a-goin' to take him home when I'd given his mother one for herself."
"Tad, listen to me," said Phil; "you've been so nice and good and dear this long while now, and always done things I asked you, even when they was hard. Now do promise me, dear old chap, that you won't do nothin' but what's quite straightforward and honest." And Phil looked up in the elder boy's face with that wistful entreaty in his eyes which Tad had always found it hard to resist.
But he was in a perverse mood to-day. One of his unreasonable, restless fits was upon him too, and the thought of some wild, lawless adventure was sweet to him. Some lessons Tad had learned from the teachings of adversity and from Phil's influence and example, but in many ways he was the old self-willed Tad still. No—assuredly he would not allow himself to be persuaded into making this promise, for if he did, he must keep it, and then—why then some good chance might slip by, and he might never get back to England at all.
"No, Phil," he said. "I won't promise; how can I tell what may turn up? And I ain't goin' to tie myself in a hard knot for you nor no one. So there!"
Phil said no more, but turned away sighing.
The recognition which Tad had tried to avoid was bound to come some time, and come it did the very next morning. Marie was strolling about the camp field with the child toddling beside her, when she met Tad face to face. He cast down his eyes and would have passed on, but she stopped him.
"Where have I seen you before, my boy?" she asked in French. But suddenly her face changed, she snatched the baby up, and held him close. "Ah," she added, "I remember now; yet it seems almost impossible."
Still Tad said nothing, and there was a dead silence between them for what seemed like a very long while.
"You are English?" said the woman at length.
"Yes, missis," replied Tad.
"Have you met me before?"
"Yes, missis, when—when you stole that there child as you've got in your arms. He's my little brother, he is."
"I don't believe it," said Marie, speaking now in English. "If he'd been your brother, you wouldn't have trusted him to a stranger like me, or you'd have come back sooner to fetch him."
"Well, anyhow he's my half-brother," said Tad, "and how was I to know you was goin' to run off with him? You looked honest enough, and I thought you was so."
"Does anyone here know about your bein' the boy that I—I—?"
"No—only my chum, Phil Bates. He knows all about me."
"Not my father and mother?"
"No, no one else."
"Good? Then hold your tongue about it still, and I'll make it worth your while," said Marie. "I love the child and he loves me, and I mean to bring him up as my own. Has he got a mother livin'?"
"He had, seven months ago," replied Tad, "and I s'pose she ain't dead yet. That sort in general makes out to live," added the lad with a sniff of disgust.
"And you—how came you here?"
"That story's too long to tell," replied Tad, not over civilly, for he was chafed at the woman's manner, and the attitude she had assumed as regarded the child.
"And when are you goin' away?" asked Marie.
"Don't know, missis," said Tad, "and what's more I must get to my work now." And he turned away and joined Mother Sophie, helping her to scour some pots and pans down by the brookside.
The foregoing conversation Tad repeated to Phil that night, adding, "Now you see, Phil, what I said was true. A woman like that won't part with the little 'un willin' and free, and I'll never get him at all unless I take him and French leave at one and the same time. After this talk as have passed betwixt me and Marie, what say you now?"
"Just what I said afore, Tad. It's no use doin' wrong to bring about what we want to happen. Cheatin' and story-tellin' and stealin' and deceivin' is wicked, and sooner or later people gets paid out that does them things, no matter what the reason is."
"There you go again!" grunted Tad.
"Tad, dear, don't turn away lookin' so vexed. I want to help you; I will help you, if you'll let me. Let me have a talk with Marie and tell her your story, and how you've been hunted about just because of the child. I can't help thinkin' she'll be sorry for you, and let you have the little 'un, or what would be better, let you go with her on the steamer when she starts for Southampton to go back to her husband. Shall I tell—?"
"It's no use, Phil!" cried Tad. "If you'd seen her face to-day when she spoke of the baby, you'd never believe she could change."
"Well," persisted Phil, "s'posin' she won't listen to us, still maybe Father Jacques and Mother Sophie would. We did a foolish thing, Tad, not to say all we knowed, when we heard the old folks tellin' what Marie had written in her letter. If we'd spoke of it there and then, and they'd heard your story, they'd have been on our side now—maybe."
"Well, well," said Tad impatiently, "that's bygones—that is! What's the use of thinkin' about it?"
"If Marie don't give up the baby here, she could be made to in England," said Phil. "Why don't you write to your dad, as soon as we know when she's goin' back? Tell him she's got the child, and he'll take care of the rest."
"How stoopid you are, Phil! That ain't all I'm after," said Tad crossly. "The baby ain't everything; I want to go back to England myself. If Dad got the baby home, he wouldn't care a straw what became of me; and that old cat of a stepmother of mine would be glad enough if nothin' was never heard of me no more. So you see I might stay here all my life. I must take the child myself or be here for good and all."
"Well, if Marie will let you have him, that's all right," said Phil; "but Tad, dear, don't do nothin' you'll be sorry for after. Remember how you told me of such a many things you'd had to make a choice of, and you said you'd chose what you thought you'd like best, or what seemed easiest, and only see what have come of it! And it was only when we made up our minds not to do wrong, that God sort of opened up the way afore us, and got us clean away out of old Foxy's clutches. Tad, dear, them as tries to do the right thing God always helps, but no one can't expect help from Him if he does wrong."
"Shut up with your preachin', Phil!" cried Tad impatiently. "If you was a parson and me the congregation, stuck fast in the pews, I'd be bound to listen; but you ain't, and I ain't, so hold your noise. The baby's my half-brother, not yours; he wasn't stole from you—was he? So it's none of your business. I'll do as I choose—I will—so there!"
Tad had never before spoken harshly to his companion, and even as he uttered the words, his heart and conscience smote him.
He saw Phil's head droop suddenly, and the thin cheek flush and pale again. He even thought he heard a half-suppressed sob, when the little fellow turned away without another word.
But like Pharaoh of old, he hardened his heart, muttering, "What if he be hurt a bit! Sarve him right for meddlin' with what don't consarn him."
Then he went off to his work of hobbling the horses for the night, at the other end of the field, and nothing more passed between him and Phil, nor did they see each other again till morning.
AGAINST THE PRICKS
SOME days passed, and meanwhile Tad's idea of running off with the child secretly was so much in his mind, unresisted, unchecked, that at last it became a distinct purpose for which he began once more to plot and plan. The foolishness and the utter recklessness of such a proceeding were lost sight of in his great desire to accomplish what he had at heart, namely his return to England and the restoration of the baby to its mother, by way of securing safety and a welcome for himself. The difficulties and dangers he did not take into account because he would not. Obstinately bent upon carrying out his idea, he made everything else yield; he was even prepared to part from Phil, rather than give up his purpose.
We have seen that during the time of the worst of the troubles that had befallen the boys, Tad's heart had softened, his character had improved. But the great change by which all things are made new, had not yet come into the boy's soul. Self-will still ruled there, and it would need a yet sharper lesson ere the altar of this idol could be thrown down, and its sceptre broken.
Since the day when Phil's remonstrance and appeal had called forth those cruel words from Tad, the younger boy had not ventured to mention the subject. But he had gone about with a heavy heart and a sad face, for he loved Tad dearly, and the estrangement between them hurt him sorely.
He was anxious, too, for he could see plainly enough by the sullen, brooding look in Tad's face, that he had by no means relinquished his idea, but was only considering how best to work it out. Phil did not know what to do. He could not bear the thought of acting the tale-bearer, of going to Marie and warning her against his friend. Still less could he entertain the idea of saying anything to Jacques and Sophie. So that, between disloyalty to Tad on the one hand, and disloyalty to their kind friends on the other, Phil was indeed in straits—and very sore straits for a child of his years. He could only hope that the time of Marie's departure would come soon, and that meanwhile Tad would have no chance to carry off Baby Victor, as his gipsy mother called him.
One morning about a week later, Marie received a letter from her husband, who announced his intention of coming over to fetch her. He said he should be sailing in a little vessel belonging to a friend, and he hoped to be at St. Malo shortly. He intended, he said, to spend a day or two with his father and mother-in-law, and then take his wife and the child back to England in the same boat that had brought him.
"I must go to meet my husband to-night, mother," said Marie, two days later; "the boat is sure to be in."
"I will go with thee," replied Sophie, "and thou, Jacques?"
"I go too, of course," said the old man.
"Wilt thou take the child, Marie?" inquired Sophie.
"No, mother, I hardly think it would be well to do so. Poor Victor has seemed very feverish and languid these last days, and the night air would be bad for him. I will put him to bed before I go, and he will then sleep, I hope, and so will not miss me."
"Pelagie will attend to him should he cry," said Sophie, "but I daresay he will sleep soundly till thy return."
Phil did not overhear this conversation, but Tad happened to be at work close by, and heard every word.
"This is goin' to be my chance!" he said to himself. "For once in a way I'm in luck, but I'll not tell Phil or he'd spoil all the fun."
During the time that had gone by since first he meditated flight with the baby, Tad had contrived to scrape together a little money. Now and again, when in the town with Jacques, he had earned a sou or two, holding horses or carrying boxes and parcels from the wharf, or running errands, and the coppers he received Jacques allowed him to keep for himself. So that he had about a franc and twenty-five centimes, as nearly as possible one shilling of our money.
At dinner that day he asked for more bread, and hid a big hunch away in his pocket. This was all the preparation that he could make for his journey, and blindly, obstinately, set upon his own way he must indeed have been, to think of undertaking it so poorly equipped. But there is no limit to the foolhardiness of self-will, when once it has, like a runaway horse, got the bit between its teeth; and so was it now with poor Tad's besetting sin.
As evening approached, circumstances favoured the lad's design, for Phil was called by one of the men to accompany him to a neighbouring hamlet with baskets to sell, and Pelagie occupied herself with preparing supper contained in the usual big pot, into which she was shredding herbs of many kinds. For now the wild green plants were coming up with tender shoots, and none knew better than the gipsy woman which of them lent an appetising flavour to the soup.
"Here, Edouard," said she to Tad, who was loafing about and watching his chance. "Step into Marie's waggon, will you, and look at the child. If he seems restless or uneasy, take him up and rock him gently in your arms till he is quiet. You can stay with him, for I do not need your help here. Go then at once; I shall be more at ease if I know you are with him."
Tad, with an eagerness which he tried to hide, turned to obey. He entered the waggon where his little half-brother was fast asleep, and stood looking at him a moment by the light of a tiny lamp fixed into a brass socket on one of the walls of the cart.
The little fellow's cheeks were scarlet, and through the parted lips the breath came in a quick, irregular way which was not natural.
"Ought I to take him when he ain't quite well?" thought Tad; but once more his great desire conquered all conscientious scruples. "It's now or never," he muttered.
And having made up his mind, he looked all round for some warm wrap in which to enfold the little fellow. Presently he saw a large, dark cloak of Marie's hanging from a nail. This he reached down, lifted the baby very cautiously, and throwing the cloak over him, even covering the face, he stepped out of the cart, peering round suspiciously for fear someone might be watching.
It was already dusk, and another of the waggons stood between him and Pelagie, screening him from view. The rest of the troupe were scattered in various directions. No one was near but Pelagie, and she was preoccupied with her cooking.
A few long, stealthy strides and Tad had reached the road. Here he paused a moment, looking this way and that, screened by some bushes; but no one was in sight.
"Now for Granville and England!" he said to himself, and gathering the living bundle closer in his arms, he set off at a quick walk in an opposite direction from that which led to St. Malo. He had before him a long tramp, he knew, for Granville was nearly sixteen miles away.
What he was to do when he got there was not very easy to determine, but what he hoped for was to find Jeremiah Jackson and his "Stormy Petrel," and get a free passage over to Southampton. He had no idea, however, how often the skipper made his voyages, and therefore he knew he might have to wait a long time. But he had not considered how the baby and he were to live while thus waiting. Self-will is generally short-sighted, and does not take into account possible consequences, when following its own headlong course.
The baby's weight, Tad soon found, was far greater now than it had been on that memorable Sunday nearly seven months ago. And the pace at which the runaway started to-night from the gipsy camp slowed down perforce after a while. By this time the night had closed in, and Tad was thankful for the darkness which hid this last evil deed of his. For now that the first excitement was over, he was beginning to feel that the deed was indeed evil. And as he trudged along, carrying the thrice-kidnapped child, he gradually realised to some extent what he was doing, and what a heavy price he was paying for his own way.
Again before him, in the mirror of memory, rose the earnest, patient face of little Phil whom he had so disloyally deserted. Again he saw the look of pain which his own cruel words had called into those wistful eyes, those sensitive lips. Yes, he had lost Phil, dearly though they had loved each other, bitterly though they had suffered together. Then too, how had he requited dear old Mother Sophie and Father Jacques for all their kindness? Yes—they too were now among the losses which he had that night sustained. These true friends lost; and all for what?
Poor Tad was obliged to confess to himself that he had precious little to show in exchange. True he had gratified his self-will, but so far the gratification was of a decidedly qualified character. He was growing very tired, and so hungry that he was obliged to stop and take out his piece of bread to munch as he went along. Then, too, the child had begun to wail piteously in a hoarse voice that frightened him, and Granville was still nine miles off.
But for the demon Pride which kept whispering in his ear, the lad would have turned back even now to the camp; but he told himself that he could not bear to return to his friends confessing himself in the wrong. No, he felt he must go on now, having, by this last act of his, cut himself adrift from all who had befriended him.
All night Tad walked on, but in the morning he got a lift in a light cart that was going in to an early market at Granville. Worn and jaded and utterly disheartened, he and his now slumbering charge were driven into the town.
"The brat is a-goin' to be ill, I do believe," said Tad, peering down into the little flushed face lying against his shoulder. "Just like my luck!"
"Had you not better take him to a doctor?" said the driver of the cart. "There is one living in this street, and he is very kind to the poor; he is sure not to charge you anything."
"Thank you; then I will," replied Tad.
And the man set him down at the doctor's door. Early as was the hour, quite a number of people were waiting to see the doctor, so it was some time before Tad's turn came. But it came at last, and the baby was unwrapped and examined.
"Monsieur the doctor," said Tad, "will you please tell me if the child will be all right directly, for I want to take him to England very soon."
The doctor looked up incredulously.
"To England?" he repeated. "No indeed, my boy, he must go no further than Granville Hospital. I tell you the little one is very ill; he has got inflammation of the lungs, and you may be very thankful if he pulls through at all!"
JEREMIAH TO THE RESCUE
"THEN all that I've done is wuss than lost," said Tad to himself as he walked slowly away from the hospital where he had left his little brother. "I've run away on the sly and walked all night; I've carried off a sick child as can't be no good to me; I've broke with Phil and with the gipsies; and all for what? To stay here and starve in the streets while maybe the child dies in the hospital, and if he do die, why then good-bye to any home-goin' at all. Just my luck I can't seem to compass nothing at all, I can't."
That night he slept under an old boat which was turned on its side awaiting repairs on the shore, above high-water mark. A more unhappy lad it would have been hard to find under God's great canopy of sky than Tad when he awoke next morning, cold, hungry, with a remorseful conscience and an anxious heart. After buying a small loaf of bread which was to last him all day, he walked down to the quay, which he had good cause to remember, for it was here he had first met Renard. But the thought of old Foxy was not uppermost in his mind as he sauntered round, looking idly about him at the varied shipping, and at the busy crowd loading and unloading the vessels. His wretched experiences with his late master seemed to him now something very remote, almost forgotten in the nearness of his more recent troubles.
So much absorbed was Tad in his own miserable reflections, and the utter collapse of every plan he had made, that he started like one awakened out of sleep, when a long, claw-like hand grasped his arm, and a well-known, hateful voice said almost in his ear, "Ah, bon jour, mine dear cheeile! So I you have found at de last!" And a grin of evil triumph made even uglier and more repulsive than ever Renard's wicked face. Tad started as though from some noxious reptile. All the memories of his sufferings and those of Phil at the hands of this man rushed upon him with overwhelming force, and he gazed into Renard's green eyes, fascinated and speechless.
"Ah, ma foi!" chuckled Foxy. "Only to tink! Dis dear boy is so please to see his old master, dat he find not word to speak."
"It's a lie! I ain't pleased!" cried Tad, finding voice at last. "You know very well I'm nothin' of the kind. I hate you, that I do! Let me go!" And he tried to wrench his arm from old Foxy's clutch.
"Oh fie! Fie! Wat naughty tempers have dis dear cheeile!" sighed Renard as he tightened his hold. "Come wid me, mine friend; you shall once again be educate in de college of Monsieur Renard. Widout doubt your jours de fête—wat you call holiday—find demselves too long. Now you weel work."
And old Foxy began to drag his unwilling prisoner along, trying to get him away from the quay and into the town.
Tad did what he could to free himself from the man's hold, but all to no purpose. As well might a fly try to win clear when a spider has hold of him.
The people they met took no heed of him. It was nothing uncommon to see a struggle or even a fight going on here, and nobody interfered; so Tad was almost in despair, when suddenly he caught sight of something that gave him energy and courage.
There, standing on the deck of a trim little vessel drawn close up to the quay, was a burly form surmounted by a bluff; honest, weather-beaten face and a shaggy mass of red hair and beard.
"Oh, Captain Jackson!" shrieked the lad. "Save me! Save me! Foxy's got me again!" And he stretched out his one free arm in passionate entreaty.
The worthy Jeremiah leaped on shore and met Renard face to face. "What's up?" said he. "What's the matter?"
"De matter, Monsieur Jeremie," replied Renard in honeyed tones, "is dat dis poor boy did run away from his kind master, and now he come back, and all weel be well again."
"Never, never!" cried Tad. "Don't believe him, please, captain! He's the awfullest liar that ever was. Please, sir, look at me; don't you call to mind a boy you picked up in a open boat at sea, and how good you was to me? You wanted me to go back with you to England, and I'd near made up my mind to it, when old Foxy here come down with Phil Bates, and coaxed me into goin' along of him. And after that, me and my chum was starved and beaten and ill-treated, and at last, roust of all, we—"
"Weel you be quaite, Edouard?" hissed Renard, giving the boy's arm a violent jerk. "If you hold not your peace," he added in a whisper, "I weel keel you."
"I remember you very well, Teddie Poole," said Jeremiah. "So you don't want to return to the man's service, eh?"
"No, sir, no indeed!" cried Tad. "Save me from him! Do save me, captain!"
The bluff, good-humoured face looked very grave and stern as Jeremiah Jackson turned once more to Renard.
"Unhand that lad, Renard!" he said.
"Ma foi! And why, Monsieur Jeremie?" inquired Foxy. "You have not de right to say, 'Do dis and dat.'"
"It's no use bullyin' and blusterin', you parley-vooin' scoundrel!" said Jackson stoutly. "Unhand that lad, or I'll tell the world here what I know. If once all Granville heard that you—"
"Enough! Hush, oh hush, Monsieur Jeremie, mine good, dear friend!" whispered Renard, looking round furtively to see if Jackson's rather too plain speaking had been overheard. "It is one leetle joke; say notting more. I am only delight to do you oblige, and if you desire dat I let go dis cheeile, behold I cede heem widout unpleasant. Good morning, Edouard; bon jour to you too, Monsieur Jeremie."
And loosening his hold on Tad, the Frenchman bowed low, cap in hand, and shuffled off towards the town.
FAITHFUL PHIL
"COME you down into my cabin and tell me what's happened since you bolted from the 'Stormy Petrel' with that sneakin' rascal." And the honest sailor shook his huge fist at the retreating form of old Renard.
Then Tad followed the skipper into the tiny cabin, and there over a good breakfast told his story; told it exactly as things had happened—the whole truth without reserve. It was a relief now to disburden his heavy heart of what was oppressing him so sorely, and to ask for the advice and help of which he stood so urgently in need.
"You want to know what I think you'd best do?" asked Jeremiah as Tad finished his narrative.
"Yes, sir, and whatever you says now, I promise to do it," replied poor Tad. "All along I've been tryin' to choose and to get what I liked best, and I've done nothin' but kick agen pricks, just as you said to me. You see, I haven't forgot, sir."
"Well, Teddie Poole, things bein' as they are, and you in a pretty bad fix, my counsel to you is to send word by letter to the woman you call Marie that the kid is in hospital here, and also to write to your chum Phil as how you're sorry and all that, for what you done. And then—"
"Please, is this boat the 'Stormy Petrel,' and is Captain Jeremiah Jackson here?" called a sweet boyish voice down the companion way.
"Why, if that ain't Phil hisself!" cried Tad. "I'd know his voice in a thousand!" And jumping from his seat, he scrambled up on deck, and rushed straight into Phil's arms.
"Oh Phil, dear Phil, is it really you? And can you ever forgive me—me that have been so bad?" whispered Tad brokenly.
"Hush, dear old man; I know the temptation was a big one to you, and what you done's all forgiven—be sure of that."
"But how did you find me?" inquired Tad.
"Oh, I knowed what you'd always thought of doin'," answered Phil, "and so we come straight here to Granville in one of the house-waggons, and I ran down to the quay to see if I could find the 'Stormy Petrel,' feelin' sure you'd make for her if she was in port. But Tad," continued Phil, "where's baby Victor? Is he down in the cabin? Marie's here, half mad at losin' him."
Tad's face fell.
"He's very ill, Phil; he's had to be took to the hospital; his chest is awful bad, I'm afeared."
At this Phil turned away from his friend, and stepped off the boat on to the quay to tell Marie this sad news, for she was standing there waiting to hear about the child. The tears welled up in her dark eyes as Phil spoke, but she said nothing, only glancing reproachfully towards Tad ere she turned and went into the town, bending her steps towards the hospital where the little one was lying.
While Tad stood sadly watching her out of sight, he presently saw coming slowly along by the water side good old Mother Sophie. Leaping on shore, he ran to meet her.
"Dear Mother Sophie," he cried, "I have been the most wicked, thankless boy that ever lived, to leave you as I did, after all your goodness. But I am sorry, and oh, I—"
"If you are sorry for having made us so anxious, child, I pardon you. But tell me, Edouard, where is baby Victor?"
"He is in the hospital, and his life is in danger I fear, dear mother."
"My poor Marie!" sighed the old woman. "She loves Victor so well, and her heart would break were he to die. It will be hard enough anyway to part from him, even if he gets well."
Tad turned in amazement to Phil, who had followed him as he went to meet Mother Sophie.
"Part from him—if he gets well?" said he. "What does that mean, Phil?"
"Only that I have told Marie, and Father Jacques, and Mother Sophie the whole story," replied Phil, "so now they all know the truth about you and baby. Marie didn't want to give up the child, if once she managed to get him back from you, but her parents wouldn't hear of her keepin' him, after what I'd told them, so if he gets better, you and he and Marie 'll go back to England together if you like."
Tad was silent for a minute.
"Then maybe if I'd told the whole truth to the good people at the beginning, as you begged me to, Phil," he said at last, "I might have got my way without runnin' off with the child at all, and p'raps he wouldn't have been so ill neither."
Phil made no answer to this. What indeed could he say?
But Tad went on, "I say, Phil, what a fool I've been for my pains! Captain Jackson was right about kickin' agen the pricks, for here I've took lots of trouble to go crooked, just to find myself wuss off than if I'd gone straight, to say nothin' of makin' no end of bother for others."
"But now, Edouard," put in Mother Sophie, who understood no English, and had no idea what Tad was talking about, "now, Edouard, what do you intend to do? Will you return with your friend the captain this voyage, or—"
"No, no, dear Mother Sophie," answered Tad, "I will not go until baby is better and can go too. You know I couldn't go home without him."
"Here you, Teddie Poole!" called Jeremiah from the deck of his schooner. "I want to speak to you!"
And Tad ran back quickly.
"Will you go home with us in a few days' time, boy?" inquired the captain. "Or would you rather wait till I come again? I expect to be back here in about three weeks, if all be well, and I'll take you and your friends over then if you like. No, don't thank me, my lad!" he added, as Tad gratefully accepted his second offer. "No need for more words about it. It's only my dooty as a man and a Christian, and it's a pleasure into the bargain. And, praise the Lord, the boat's my own, and I've no one's leave to ask."
THE CONCLUSION OF THE WHOLE MATTER
THE days passed, and Marie returned from her daily visits to the hospital, bringing no better reports.
"But for that long night of exposure to the cold, damp air, baby Victor would never have been so ill," she had said reproachfully to Tad; "and now, through you and your headstrong folly, this precious little life will most likely be lost. You do not deserve to have a brother."
Tad did not resent Marie's hard words. He knew he merited them richly, and he did not attempt to excuse or defend himself. Truly repentant and humble as he had become, he could not undo the grievous consequences of his sin. So he meekly listened to the woman's reproaches, which he felt came from a very sore heart, and were none the less sharp and bitter for that.
At last there came a time when the doctors said that the little one's life hung, as it were, on a thread, and there was hardly a chance that he could recover. And when poor Marie brought back this news, Tad felt that now his cup of misery and of punishment was full indeed.
If the child died, he would feel, all his life long, like a murderer, and go through the world as with the brand of Cain upon his brow.
Towards evening of that day, Phil found him sitting in an out-of-the-way corner, quite overwhelmed with trouble.
"I can't bear it, Phil!" he sobbed. "For baby to be took and me left is too dreadful; me, too, that nobody cares for and nobody wants!"
For all answer Phil nestled close to his friend, and passed a loving arm round his neck. He felt that such trouble as this could not be comforted by mere words, but he also felt that for every burdened heart comfort might be found where he—Phil—had often found it before during his sad young life.
The place where the lads were sitting was quiet and solitary enough, and the darkness was fast stealing on, softly shadowing earth and sky.
By his friend's side Phil knelt, still with an arm round Tad's neck, and then the boy's tender sympathy and loving pity found a voice in fervent prayer to Him Who on earth healed the sick with a word or a touch, and raised the dead, and forgave the sins of those who had gone astray.
For the little life now trembling in the balance, Phil wrestled with cries and tears. For forgiveness for the past, for help in time to come, for strength to do the right whatever might happen—the childish voice, broken by sobs, rose in passionate supplication, thrilling Tad's heart through and through with the consciousness of some unseen Presence, and bringing back to his memory words long forgotten, "'Surely the Lord is in this place; and I knew it not.'"
With hands close clasped, and streaming eyes lifted towards the sky, the awe-struck lad gazed and gazed, half fearing to see, half expecting some visible sign to appear in the dark heavens above him, in answer to that urgent cry for help.
Once more the sweet, plaintive voice broke, sending forth sobbingly the words, so touching in their simplicity,—
"Dear Lord, Thou knows all we want to say and can't. Do it for us; Thou can, and Thou art willin', that we know, cos Thou said so. Send us a answer of peace, for Thy own sake, Amen."
Then there was silence; both boys felt that the place whereon they knelt was holy ground, and neither could bear to break the solemn hush. Hand in hand, and nearer in heart than they had ever been before, the lads went back to the cart.
The matron of the children's ward in the hospital at Granville, seeing Marie's great anxiety, had allowed her to have access to the child whenever she liked. And when the boys returned to the house-waggon, they found that she had not yet got back from her evening visit.
In almost unbearable suspense they sat there on the short turf, waiting for the news which they so dreaded and yet longed for. Not a word had been spoken between them as yet. Tad was seated leaning eagerly forward to catch the first glimpse of Marie on her way home. Phil lay at full length, as though exhausted, his pale face upturned, his eyes closed. Suddenly he sat up, his eyes radiant in the moonlight, a smile upon his lips.
"He heard us, Tad! He heard us!" whispered the boy. "It's all right! Hark! There she comes!"
Tad listened, and heard a light, quick step speeding along, joyful relief in every footfall. II was Marie returning. Both lads sprang to their feet, and ran to meet her.
"All is well, thank God!" cried the woman as she saw them. "The doctors say he will live."
And she passed on to the van to awaken her mother with the joyful tidings, while the boys, left together, crept away, and from glad hearts sent up to heaven the voice of praise and thanksgiving.
With the young, recovery is often a very rapid thing, and that of Marie's adopted child was no exception to this rule.
By the time the "Stormy Petrel" returned to Granville, the little one was well enough to be out for hours in the warm, bright sun, and to bear the voyage home.
Jacques and Sophie would have been glad to keep Phil with them always, for he had greatly endeared himself to them by his unselfishness and gentle ways. But Tad and he could not bear to be parted, and Jeremiah Jackson had held out a hope to the boys that he might give them both a berth on board of his vessel, if they found, on their return to England, that they could find nothing better to do.
So one lovely afternoon, in full spring, Marie and the baby, Tad, and Phil, took leave of the kind gipsies, and going on board the trim little schooner, glided out into the crimson sunset, with a fair wind and all sail set.
Marie's husband had gone back to England two weeks before, being unable to wait till the baby was well enough to travel. A letter had been written to James Poole, and sent to the address of Tad's former home, whence it had been forwarded to the new house, near Southampton, to which the Pooles had recently moved. To this letter Tad's father had sent a kind reply, promising to meet the voyagers on arrival.
Marie had at first intended herself to take the baby to his home, accompanying Tad thither. But on learning that James Poole was to meet his children, and remembering, too, that in stealing the baby on that never-to-be-forgotten Sunday evening, all those months ago, she had exposed herself to a serious risk, and indeed to the certainty of punishment by English law, she thought she had better not show herself at all to the child's father, but find her way to her husband's people as quickly as possible.
Of the parting between Marie and her adopted child we need not say much, but sad as it was, she went through it with courage and determination.
James Poole, as was expected, met the voyagers at Southampton, and Tad was surprised to see how much softened and how gentle his father's face and manner had become. When Tad introduced Phil, James Poole greeted the boy very kindly, and cordially invited him home.
The Pooles had a nice roomy cottage just out of town, and on the way there, Tad's father told him that Mrs. Poole had been a great invalid for four months and more, and quite unable to do any work about the house, so that life had been very hard for all. He said that Nell and Bert were well, and good children on the whole, but running rather wild for want of looking after, and that Mr. Scales the grocer, Tad's former employer, had quite recently written to inquire after his late shop-boy, saying that since Tad left, he had been unable to find a lad to suit him.
On reaching home, it was a sad sight to see Mrs. Poole lying on a couch quite helpless, dependent upon an old woman who came every morning to do the work of the house. But on seeing her baby boy and receiving him into her arms again, the poor mother was so full of joy and content and thankfulness, that the look of suffering passed from her face, and Tad thought he should not be surprised if she got well after all.
In the general rejoicing, no one thought of scolding or blaming the runaway lad, and all listened eagerly while he told his adventures.
Phil too was made much of, and when, in relating his story, Tad told also not sparing nor excusing himself—how Phil had been his good angel, his loving, faithful friend, ever since they had first met, there was not a dry eye in all that little company. And James Poole wrung the little slender hand in his strong palm, Nell and Bert hugged him round the neck, and Mrs. Poole patted his head and called him a dear good lad, till he felt quite shy, for he had never been used to much kindness or attention.
Presently, when the little ones had gone to bed, Mrs. Poole asked Tad to come and sit down by her, and when he did so, she said:
"Tad, dear, God has taught me a many lessons since you left home all them months ago. First there was losin' my baby, and afterwards this illness that came of a fall. But Tad, it wasn't until I began to miss my little one, that I called to mind how you and Nell and Bert had never ceased to miss your mother, and how I never so much as tried to fill her place. And it wasn't till I was laid aside, and needed to have people tender and patient with me, that I remembered I'd never been tender and patient with the poor chil'en I was stepmother to. But now, dear boy, you've come home again, and me and your father we'll both try and make it real home to you, so as it shan't never no more come into your head and heart to run away. Kiss me, Tad, and call me mother, for that's what—God helpin' me—I mean to be to you always."
And now we can say good-bye to Tad the kidnapper, feeling quite sure that never again will he deserve this name.
How he went back to his duties at the grocer's shop, living in Mr. Scales' house all the week, and returning home for Sunday; how he gradually rose in his employer's confidence to a position of trust and of usefulness; how Phil, after a short sojourn with the Pooles, began to pine for something to do, and accepted Jeremiah Jackson's offer of a berth as cabin boy aboard the "Stormy Petrel"; how Marie, by special invitation, came every now and then to see baby Victor, (as she still called him); and how God sent her at last a little baby boy of her very own to comfort her heart; all this we need only just mention, for our story has been told to show that the getting of our own way does not always mean happiness or prosperity.
And since poor Tad Poole had learned this lesson, perhaps we who have followed him step by step in his adventurous career have learned it too.
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