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!"