THE SECOND QUEST
The dew lay thick and white on the grass; hips and haws made bright
splashes of colour in the early morning sunlight; the robins sang, the
larks soared, the woodpeckers tapped--but Danny noticed none of them.
With his hands behind him and his head bent, he walked across the
field, deep in thought.
Last night, with the pale moon and the red glow of the fire, and the
tramp’s sad story, all seemed like a strange dream. And what he had
said, himself, seemed like a dream too, for he had promised the tramp
that he would undertake to find his lost daughter.
Somehow he felt so sure that he was meant to do so. He had asked the
tramp to stay in the deserted cottage for the night, and promised to
have a pow-wow the next day as to how they should commence the search.
But in the morning light things did not seem so possible and easy.
After all, it was seven years ago that the girl had vanished. She
had been stolen, too, by malicious people; and the scene of the plot
against the artist was many miles away.
The police and the court had been fooled by the gang of forgers, and
had refused to make any inquiries about the artist’s little girl. It
would be a hopeless quest for a Scout to start asking questions about
an ex-convict’s past. What on earth could Danny say to the tramp?
He had reached Prior’s Wood, and still no idea had occurred to him. All
he could think of was that they should get their poor friend to stay
there awhile, and recover his strength and his spirits. It might be
possible, then, to get him work or perhaps he would feel able to begin
painting again, and get a job in that line.
When Danny reached the cottage the tramp was sitting outside it in
the sun. His hair was all wet from his wash in the stream. He looked,
somehow, quite happy, and he seemed so absorbed in his own day-dreams
that he did not notice Danny as he came up, until he said “Good
morning!”
“Hullo, Danny!” he replied. “I’ve slept better on your bracken bed than
I’ve done for many years. And I’ve dreamed--oh, such lovely dreams! All
about my little Mariette. I feel quite happy again. It’s made me long
to paint again, and I’ve been finding no end of pictures in this wood,
ever since sunrise!”
Danny laughed, but he felt more like crying inside. There was so little
chance of finding the girl, and yet the tramp was beginning to count on
it as if it was already done.
But somehow Danny felt that he was meant to find the girl, and his
spirits rose. For nearly an hour he and the artist-tramp discussed
pictures. Then Danny made a fire, and boiled a billy of tea, and
produced a loaf and some butter out of his haversack.
“About twelve o’clock,” he said, “you’ll have six wild Wolf Cubs
descending upon you. They yelled with joy when I told them their
‘mysterious tramp’ was still here! Now I must get back and take them to
church.”
So he said good-bye to the tramp and went back to the house, whistling.
* * * * *
Out of the little grey church at the cross-roads came the Cubs, very
demurely. But no sooner were they outside the churchyard gate than they
gave vent to a wild yell, and, tumbling over the stile, tore off down
the path to the gamekeeper’s cottage.
When Danny arrived with the big basket of lunch, he found them very
happy. The tramp had apparently turned into a most dangerous grizzly
bear, and the Cubs into intrepid hunters.
All the afternoon their mysterious friend told them stories. When at
last it was time for them to go Danny saw them home, and then came back
to the cottage. He stoked up the fire and sat down by it.
“Sir,” he said, “when you told me your story last night, you said you
were tramping the roads because you have two quests. One was to find
your little girl. You did not tell me the other.”
The tramp’s face clouded. His kind grey eyes suddenly became as hard as
steel. He did not answer for some time. Then he spoke slowly.
“My second quest is this,” he said; “to find the fellow who wronged me,
and _reap my revenge_!”
Danny was taken aback. This was so different from the kind, jolly
artist of this morning. Suddenly he realized a little the bitterness
of soul produced by those seven years’ unjust confinement, and by the
cruel loss of his child.
He saw the whole story in a new light and understood it better. More
than ever did he long to help this man, and yet those words, spoken so
deliberately, filled him with horror. Revenge is a grievous sin. How
could this man pray every day to find his daughter, and expect God to
hear his prayers, while, in his heart of hearts, there was revenge?
“Well,” said the tramp, staring at Danny, “what’s the matter?”
“Oh, _sir_,” cried Danny, “then we shall never find Mariette!”
“What do you mean?” said the tramp.
“I mean,” said Danny, “that the only possible chance of finding her is
for God to answer your prayers. And He won’t do that till you forgive
your enemies.”
The tramp scowled darkly.
“You’re only a boy,” he said; “you don’t understand. There are some
things a man can’t forgive.”
There was nothing more to be said. Danny’s heart was heavy as he went
to bed that night.
* * * * *
The next morning Danny was very busy. He had been given the job of
clipping the three ponies, and he was not able to go down to the wood.
He was just about to set out, at one o’clock, when Miss Prince called
him into her sitting-room.
“I want to speak to you, Danny,” she said. “I was down in the village
just now, taking the boys to their carpentry class, and as I came back,
alone, I met a man at the cross-roads. He came up to me and said,
‘Would you, please, give a message to Danny for me? Tell him that the
Squire came through the wood, and, finding me in the old gamekeeper’s
cottage, was furiously angry. He spoke--well, very roughly, and said
that if I did not clear out at once he would hand me over to the
police. So I’m clearing out.’ He looked awfully sad,” added Miss
Prince, “and just as I was turning away he said, ‘Say good-bye to the
kiddies for me. They performed a _good turn_, right enough, when they
let me be friends with them.’
“He looked too sad for anything, and so thin and ragged. I gave him a
shilling. At first he went very red, and then he took it, and said,
‘Thank you very much. I shall keep it as a souvenir of those who were
kind to me.’ He looked at me as if he wanted to say something else, but
he turned away without saying it, and walked down the road. It was the
man the Cubs gave tea to on their birthday. What did he mean about the
cottage?”
So Danny told Miss Prince how he had made the tramp a bed there. And
then, in strict confidence, he told her the whole of the tramp’s sad
story, because he felt so unhappy about it himself and felt he must
talk of it to someone. The tears came into Miss Prince’s eyes.
“Cheer up, Danny,” she said. “I somehow feel we shall see him again,
and that he will forgive his enemies, and that you will find the little
girl.”