OLD MEMORIES AND A NEW IDEA
"SHE lost her little one when it was six months old," answered the old
woman, "and she was grieving and pining, and well-nigh heart-broken,
when one day le bon Dieu sent her, in a strange, unlooked-for way,
another child!"
"How so, Sophie? Tell us, good mother!"
The old woman went on:
"It was like this, my friends. The gipsy troupe into which my daughter
Marie married, were encamped one day on a common, and thither came a
lad with an infant in his arms. Towards evening, he sauntered up to the
camp and met Marie, and asked her if she would take care of the baby
for a while, he having business elsewhere. Marie gladly took the child,
having no thought then but to give it back when its young guardian
returned.
"But night came on, and the old gipsy chief gave the word to move on,
and the boy had not returned. And then arose the great longing in
Marie's heart to keep the baby boy—did I say it was a boy?—to comfort
her for the loss of her own infant. She yielded to the temptation, and
the troupe left the neighbourhood that night, the stranger child with
them, and Marie's sore heart has healed now she has a little one in her
arms again. Albeit she writes me that she cannot but think sometimes of
the child's mother, who may be sorrowing even yet over the loss of her
baby."
During the story Tad clutched Phil's arm.
"Only think of that," he whispered. "Ain't it just wonderful?"
"Hush," said Phil, "let's hear it out."
"Said thy daughter nought of coming over to France to see thee?" asked
the big Bernadine.
"Pardon; yes she did say that she and her husband were trying to scrape
together money enough to bring her over, for it is three full years
since she left with the English family, and she is a dutiful daughter,
God be thanked, and would fain see her old parents again."
"And will it be soon, thinkest thou, good mother?"
"I cannot tell for sure, but it may be soon. The troupe are near
Southampton now, and thence, I have heard, sail many English vessels
for la France. But who knows if Marie will get the money for her
voyage?"
"Knowest thou, mother Sophie," said a man who had not hitherto spoken a
word, "that if Marie be caught by the police of the country, she could
be severely punished for stealing that child?"
"Ah, sayest thou so, Pierre?"
"Yes, it is a dangerous thing to do, and I wonder much that she has
escaped till now."
"She wrote me that, for safety's sake, she burned all the little boy's
clothes, and dressed him in her own baby's things. And also, for the
first month, she coloured his skin and hair with walnut juice and
water, to make him dark like her own child. After that the troupe moved
so far away, that she thought all danger was past."
"Without doubt she was right," said Pierre; "indeed it has proved so,
since—but stay—who is that approaching us across the open, from the
road?"
"It is a man—a stranger," said Bernadine.
"An old man he looks, by the light of the moon," said Sophie.
"Perhaps he is cold and hungry," suggested old Jacques, Sophie's
husband. "If so, he is welcome to a share of our fire and our supper."
But just then Tad glanced in the direction of the newcomer, and gave a
smothered gasp.
"Oh look, Phil, look!" he said.
And Phil looked and rose instantly to his feet, followed by Tad. The
younger boy turned to Sophie.
"Good mother, we thank and bless you for your goodness to us, poor
stranger boys," he said, "and we ask of you one more favour. This man
who now is coming towards us is a wicked, cruel master, from whom,
after sore treatment, we have only just escaped. If he catches us, he
will surely kill us. So we must go away at once, and we entreat you,
betray us not. Say not that two boys were here but now. He cannot have
seen us yet; so far we are safe; so, for the love of heaven, tell him
naught."
"Fear not, my poor children, he shall know nothing from me, nor indeed
from any of us; eh, my friends?"
"That is so, good mother."
"Then good-night, my boys, and may God guard you!"
The next moment the two lads, parting from the circle round the dancing
firelight, had vanished into the darkness.
As the poor lads fled once more from the approach of the old enemy,
they were at first almost in despair. And no wonder; for they had
believed themselves out of reach of pursuit at last. And now to see
that wicked old Foxy apparently tracking them like a sleuthhound, was a
dreadful thing.
But as their fear gradually subsided, they began to feel that Renard's
appearance among the French gipsies was no indication what over of his
knowing where they (Tad and Phil) were; and that, had he seen them
sitting with their hospitable entertainers round the fire, he would
probably have been to the full as much surprised as they had been to
see him.
But it gave the lads a renewed sense of danger to have caught sight,
even for a moment, of the man who had shown himself so treacherous a
companion, so cruel a master, and it was not strange that Tad presently
said despondingly:
"It's no go, Phil, we'll never be safe till we're out of France."
"Out of France? That's easier said than done," rejoined Phil. "And how
are we to get out of this country?"
"I don't know, I'm sure! That's the worst of it. We seem headed off
all round. But I did hear that this road leads to St. Malo, and that
English vessels is always comin' in and out of there. There may p'r'aps
be some chance for us, Phil, if we get to St. Malo."
"That's just what old Foxy's reckonin' upon our thinkin'," replied
Phil, "and that's why he's come along this road after us, I should say.
And he'll have a much better chance to nab us down at St. Malo than
he's had here in the country, where there's always places to hide in.
It's risky, and just think how long we might have to stay in the town
before we'd a chance of crossin' over to England—if ever the chance
came at all."
"Ay, I didn't think of that," answered Tad. "I wish we was back in
Granville, I do; I'd like to turn in our tracks this minute and go
right back there. Renard would never think of our doin' that, and would
go on to St. Malo lookin' for us. At Granville, p'raps we might see
Captain Jeremiah Jackson again with his schooner; he that picked me up
when I was floatin' about in a open boat."
"But dare you think of goin' back to England at all?" asked Phil.
"After what you've told me, I shouldn't think you'd want to go home.
Think of your stepmother, Tad, and the police that was after you for
takin' away your little brother!"
In his longing to get away from the dangers and troubles that beset
him in France, Tad had forgotten those that drove him from his native
place, and were still awaiting him there. Now he was silent for some
time, turning things over in his mind. What Phil said was true, only
too true. Hard as things had been for him in France, they would be
worse still in England, unless indeed he could do something to deserve
and ensure a welcome at home, and also prove to the police that he had
not been guilty of any crime with regard to his little brother.
"You're right enough, Phil," he said at last. "There's one thing, and
only one, that would make it possible for me to go home."
"And what's that?" asked Phil.
"Just this, kidnappin' that child again, and carryin' of him home to
his mother."
Phil shook his head.
"That's a hard nut to crack," said he. "And I don't see much chance
myself of your goin' to England now or ever, if it hangs on gettin'
hold of the baby again. Oh Tad, what a pity you didn't begin your
runnin' away from home quite by yourself; it's havin' had that baby for
the one day, as has made all the mischief."
Again Tad was silent. Phil's words were quite true; he knew now how
very dearly he had paid for that bit of revenge upon his stepmother.
Once more he was thinking things over, and going back to the very
beginning—to the wrong start he had made on that Sunday which now
seemed so very long ago. The events of the last few days had worked a
change in the boy. He was beginning dimly to see how, from first to
last, he had been his own enemy, and how he had himself to thank for
the worst of his misfortunes.
Phil's influence and example too had shown him, more clearly than he
had ever perceived it before, the difference between right and wrong,
while it strengthened the affection which he felt for this child, the
reverence that he could not withhold, when he thought of the courageous
soul in so frail a form.
By contrasting what he was beginning to know of himself with the
estimate he had made of Phil's character, he could not help feeling
what a cowardly, selfish, contemptible sort of a fellow he had been
throughout.
"It is hard for thee to kick against the pricks," Jeremiah Jackson had
said, and Tad had proved to his cost how true these words were. Just
as some kinds of blindness can only be cured by the surgeon's knife,
so there are some forms of blindness of the soul, for which the Great
Physician has to use sharp remedies, ere it can see itself as it is,
and turn repenting to Him Who alone giveth sight to the spiritually
blind.
"I'm a bad lot, I am, Phil!" said the boy at length, after a long
silence, during which he was taking stock of what he was worth, and
finding how little it amounted to. "Yes, I'm a bad lot, Phil, more's
the pity!"
"You've been awfully good and kind to me, Tad," replied Phil, turning
towards him affectionately, and putting a confiding hand through his
arm. "Yes, you've been like a brother to me, ever since that day at
Granville when you give me and the monkey your baked dumplin'. What's
that you're sayin', Tad dear? Do I love you? Rather! Of course I love
you true and faithful, dear old man."
Tad gulped down a sob.
"I don't deserve it, Phil, and that's the truth," he said humbly; "but
if you'll keep on doin' of it, I'll try to deserve it. There! That's a
bargain!"
"Let's try and help each other to be good!" said Phil simply. "Mother
used to tell me as how, if we chose, we might always have the Lord on
our side. And if we did have Him, we was more than a match for any
enemy. Do you remember that story in the Bible, Tad, about 'Lisha,
when his enemies came and got all round the place where he was? There
was chariots and horsemen and a great host—all sent to take that one
poor feller. No wonder his servant was frightened and said, 'Alas, my
master, how shall we do?' For thinks he to hisself, 'Here we are—the
two of us—all by our lone; no one to care for us, nor no one to help
us, and the enemy down there a-spreadin' hisself like a green baize.'
Do you call to mind the story, Tad?"
"No; go on, Phil."
"Well," said Phil, "then what does 'Lisha do but pray to God to open
the servant's eyes, and the answer to that there prayer must have come
mighty quick, for all of a sudden, the man saw plain enough what he'd
never thought of afore—that the mountain was full of chariots and
horsemen of fire, round about 'Lisha; and that there was more friends
than enemies; many more for than agen them. But as mother said," added
Phil, "God's host were there afore the servant's eyes were opened, only
he didn't know it. And that's how it is with us sometimes. We think
we're all alone, because we don't see the chariots and horsemen of fire
round about us, and we don't understand how much we may be helped, if
we will, nor how ready the Lord is to hear and answer if we pray."
"I shouldn't wonder if you was right, Phil," said Tad; "howsumdever
there ain't no 'Lisha nowadays, nor no chariots and horsemen of fire
to come between old Foxy or Paul and us poor lads—worse luck! And when
we can't see nothin', it's hard to believe that help's near. But now,
Phil, I've got a idea, so just you listen and tell me what you think of
it. Other things bein' equal, we'd like to leave France and get back to
England, eh?"
"Yes," replied Phil, "I s'pose so."
"Right so far, then. But you see I can't go back unless I can take the
kid home with me."
"Ay, that's clear enough," assented Phil.
"Well then, here's what I'm a-goin' to propose. Let's go back to them
tramps, or gipsies, or whatever they are, and ask if they'll let us
live with them for the present. They're kind people, and if we help
them all we can, it'll go hard but we'll earn our board and lodgin'."
"Well?" said Phil, feeling that the most important of what Tad had set
out to say, was unsaid as yet.
"Well," repeated Tad, "my idea was this, that we should stay on with
them, movin' when and where they did, and livin' their life until—"
"Ah, I see what you mean!" cried Phil. "Until Sophie's daughter, Marie,
came with the baby, and then—"
"Yes, that's it! Steal the baby again, and cut away," said Tad, "and
trust to chance for gettin' across the Channel."
But Phil shook his head.
"No," said he firmly, "no more stealin' of babies, nor of nothin' else!
It would be a wicked and ongrateful thing to do to them, as had been
good to us, and beside I don't hold with bein' so secret and sly."
"But we want to get hold of the child," argued Tad, "and we can't get
him onless we take him like that."
"I don't know; maybe we can," replied Phil; "anyway I'd try fair means
first. And besides, Marie might remember your face, and know you again,
and then she'd be extra careful not to give you a chance to steal the
baby."
"I'd not thought of that," said Tad. "Well, Phil, say that we go back
to old Sophie and Jacques and their people, and live with them, if
they'll have us, and anyway, if Marie and the baby come or not, we'll
have time to look about us and think what we'll do next."
"Yes, that's a good plan," replied Phil; "we can't do better as I knows
of. But while we're talkin' of goin' back to the caravan, here we are
walkin' on, and gettin' further away every minute."
"That's true; come, let's turn now and go back; but as we may chance to
meet old Foxy, we'd better crawl along in the shadow of the hedge, one
behind the other, and not talk at all."
This was slow progress, but the only safe course, as they proved very
soon. For they heard steps approaching along the road, when they had
gone a part of their return journey, and in the darkness they heard old
Renard's heavy, shuffling step, and the low muttering in which—like
Saul of Tarsus, before his conversion—he seemed to be breathing out
threatening and slaughter, thus pleasantly beguiling the loneliness
of the way. That he had other and yet more dangerous consolation too,
was proved beyond all doubt; for almost opposite to the boys, as they
crouched trembling under the hedge, Renard paused, and they heard a
cork taken from a bottle, and then deep swallows of drink; probably the
stimulant in which his soul chiefly delighted; the new and fiery cognac
which is reckoned among the worst and most harmful of intoxicants.
Having drunk deeply, Foxy passed on.
But it was not until his footfall had ceased to sound upon the hard
road, that the lads dared to creep from their hiding-place, and resume
their journey back to the camp.