IN THE CARAVAN.
WHEN Mr. Barton started afresh in search of his little son it was
with a very heavy heart, for he imagined that there was small
likelihood of his gaining any information about Theodore that night;
but he was far too troubled and restless to remain inactive, and
therefore returned to the spot from which the boy had disappeared.
It was eleven o'clock when he left the farm, so that it was long past
midnight before he reached the white-washed cottage, and climbing the
hedge which divided the kitchen-garden from the road, sought the
place where the fox-gin still remained, as he and Mr. Fry had left it
more than two hours before. Once again he examined the iron trap, and
carefully searched the surrounding ground. He was moving away,
meaning to ascertain if the owner of the cottage had returned, when
the sound of footsteps in the road made him pause and listen.
A second later the footsteps stopped directly outside the hedge where
Mr. Barton stood.
"This is where I found him," said a strange voice. "'Tis cruel work
I call it, setting fox-gins."
"What! you found him in Peter Blake's garden!" cried another voice,
which fell familiarly on the listener's ears. "You don't say so!
Well, I always knew the old man was a cross-grained chap, and I've
heard him grumble about the foxes often enough; but I never thought
he did a little trapping on his own account."
"Then you didn't make the gin for him?" asked the strange voice.
"Not I. He'd know better than to ask me to do a job of that sort,
Moses."
Mr. Barton waited to hear no more, but hastily clambered over the
hedge, and sprang into the road close to the speakers, one of whom
was the Naraton blacksmith, and the other, as it afterwards
transpired, his brother, Moses Stanley.
"Mr. Barton!" cried Seth. "Is it you, sir?"
"Yes, it is I. I judge from your conversation that you have seen
my little son."
"He's safe enough, sir," was the reassuring answer. "My brother found
him with his hand caught in a fox-gin, and took him to his caravan,
where he is at this moment, not ten minutes' walk from this spot."
"Thank God!" Mr. Barton exclaimed fervently. "His stepbrother left
him, and went for assistance. Fortunately, Fry and I met him before
he had gone very far; but on reaching here, we found Theodore had
disappeared. You can imagine what my feelings have been!"
"Ah, that I can!" the blacksmith said, with a world of sympathy
in his voice. "But where is Jack?"
"We took him back to the farm, hoping to find news of Theodore on our
return."
"I've been miles and miles myself looking for the young gentleman,
and was going home in despair when I chanced upon the Fairies' Glen
and my brother's caravan. Chanced! No! there was no chance about it,
I reckon! 'Twas the hand of Providence which guided my steps! In the
Fairies' Glen I found Miriam—she's Moses' wife, sir—and the young
ones. Then as I was talking with them, hearing where they'd been
since I saw them last, home comes Moses carrying Master Theodore
in his arms. 'Hulloa, Moses,' said I, 'what have you got there?'
''Tis a youngster as my dog found in a fox-gin,' said Moses, 'and
he's a bit faint. Miriam must see to him.' I declare you could have
knocked me down with a feather!"
"Yes, yes!" cried Mr. Barton eagerly, failing to see the absurdity
of the blacksmith's last remark, as he would have done on any
ordinary occasion.
"Miriam, she put him in her own bed," the blacksmith proceeded, "and
after she had bathed and bound up his hand he soon came around.
We gave him some warm milk, and after that he soon closed his eyes,
and seemed more comfortable."
"Will you take me to him?" Mr. Barton asked turning to Moses, who had
not yet spoken. "I can never be sufficiently thankful to you for
having befriended my poor little boy, but having children of your own
you will understand my feelings, I am sure. Your caravan is near by?
Pray take me there at once!"
"Aye, that I will," was the response. "Seth, are you coming?"
"No," the blacksmith answered; "I can't do any good. You'd best
let Master Theodore bide where he is for the night, sir," he added,
addressing Mr. Barton.
"But I am afraid that may be inconvenient for your brother—"
"No," Moses answered promptly. "Miriam said he ought to be kept
quiet; and we've a tent as well as the caravan. Let the little
gentleman remain, if you please, sir."
"Thank you," Mr. Barton responded gratefully, "I shall be very glad
if you will keep him. Seth, if you are going home, would it be too
much to ask you, after all the trouble you've taken, to call at the
farm, and let them know there of my little boy's safety?"
"No, sir. I shall be only too pleased to be the bearer of such
good news!" was the cordial reply. "'All's well that ends well.'
Good night, sir! Good night, Moses!"
The blacksmith started homewards at a swinging pace, whistling as he
went, whilst Mr. Barton and his companion took the opposite
direction.
Mr. Barton saw that Moses was very like his brother in height and
build, but appeared a less talkative person, though he was evidently
deeply interested in Theodore's adventures, and remarked that he was
a fine little lad, and would like to deal himself with the man who
had set the fox-gin.
When they came to the cross-roads, the gipsy took the one leading
to the left—a narrow, rugged lane it was in reality, from which they
presently turned into a rough, granite-strewn field, at the lower end
of which was the Fairies' Glen, a natural hollow between high banks,
covered with mossy sward, dotted with primroses and dog-violets.
Mr. Barton had never been there before, and he uttered an exclamation
of surprise and admiration at the sight of the picturesque scene
which met his eyes in the faint moonlight. The caravan had been
placed at the entrance to the glen, slightly on one side, and close
by, a tent had been erected. A peat fire smouldered at a little
distance, over which a crock was suspended; whilst a grey horse was
tethered at the back of the caravan.
Moses pointed to the tent, explained that his children were sleeping
there to-night so as not to disturb the young gentleman, and said
that the handsome greyhound stretched at the entrance was the dog
that had been the real discoverer of Theodore; having found him, and
called his master's attention to him by his sharp barks. Mr. Barton
stooped down and patted the animals sleek head gratefully, whilst his
companion tapped at the door of the caravan.
"Who's there?" asked as soft voice in a whisper. "Is it you, Moses?"
"Yes, Miriam. I've brought the little gentleman's father."
The door opened, and a dark, handsome young woman appeared at the top
of the steps of the caravan. She was clad in a bright blue skirt,
a scarlet bodice, and wore a gaudy amber-coloured neckerchief tied
loosely around her throat.
"I'm glad the gentleman's come," she said simply, "for the poor
little lad has become very restless, and I've had great difficulty
in quieting him. Please to come in, sir!"
Mr. Barton obeyed with alacrity, for he was keenly anxious to see
Theodore, to judge for himself how he was. He had never been inside
a gipsy's caravan before, so he was surprised to find everything
very neat and comfortable, and scrupulously clean; but when he saw
Theodore on his hostess' bed he forgot all else, and hastened to his
side.
"Oh, Theodore, thank God I have found you at last!" he exclaimed
in tones of glad relief as he bent over his little son.
Theodore was looking flushed, and his eyes shone with unnatural
brightness as he moved his head uneasily from side to side on the
pillow. He met his father's glance with one full of dismay and
terror.
"Oh, father!" he gasped. "Don't, don't be angry with me!"
"I am not angry, Theodore," Mr. Barton said, pressing a kiss on the
boy's hot brow, and taking his uninjured hand. "Try not to excite
yourself. Don't think of what you've gone through more than you can
possibly help, for it's all over now."
"But Jack!" Theodore cried wildly. "Oh, father, he is lost on the
moor."
"No, dear Theodore, he is not," was the reassuring answer. "He is
at Blackburn Farm, and in bed and asleep by this time, I do not
doubt. You need not trouble about Jack."
An expression of intense relief crossed Theodore's face. "I don't
understand," he said feebly. "I thought—I feel so queer—I suppose
it must have been a dream, but I thought Jack had fallen into a bog."
"No, no; you managed to get caught in a fox-gin though, and hurt your
poor hand. See, it is bandaged. But Jack is perfectly safe and
sound."
"Really and truly?" Theodore asked, wistfully.
"Really and truly," his father answered, earnestly. "I don't believe
I ought to let you talk. Are you comfortable? I think you'll have
to spend the night here—if you will be so good as to let him remain,"
Mr. Barton added, turning to Miriam, who was standing by.
"The little gentleman is welcome," she replied with that simple
courtesy which is so often an attribute of the gipsy race.
"She has been very kind," Theodore told his father. "I think she is
a very grand person although she is a gipsy. She says her
great-great-grandfather was a king."
"I have been trying to amuse him, and keep his thoughts away from his
troubles," Miriam explained, overhearing Theodore's remark, whispered
though it was, a blush showing through her clear, dusky skin. "I fear
his hand gives him pain," she added, sympathetically.
"Yes, it does," Theodore acknowledged.
"It will soon heal," Miriam said, noting the anxiety on the father's
face; "I have some knowledge of wounds, and have cured worse hurts
than this by bathing with a simple preparation made from herbs.
I have dressed his hand carefully, and now that you have come and his
mind is more easy, I think he will sleep. You would like to stay with
him the night?"
"I should," Mr. Barton replied, hesitatingly, "but I fear I shall be
in the way, I—"
"No, no," she interrupted, hospitably, "we have a tent outside and my
husband and I will sleep with the children to-night. Please don't
think we mind. Here is milk if the little gentleman is thirsty, and
do not fail to call me for anything you want."
She smiled at Theodore, and withdrew. A minute later they heard her
voice talking to her husband outside, and then followed silence.
The inner division of the caravan where Theodore lay in bed was
lighted by a small lantern, which was suspended from the roof. By its
faint, yellow light Mr. Barton watched Theodore's uneasy movements
and flushed countenance with growing anxiety. He did not know that
his presence had a disturbing influence on his son, nor did he guess
the grief and remorse that was in Theodore's heart, until the silence
was broken by a sob, and Theodore's head suddenly disappeared beneath
the bedclothes.
Mr. Barton was stricken with astonishment. He hardly knew how to act
or what to say, being in ignorance of the cause of Theodore's grief.
But presently Theodore's head reappeared, and the little boy said
with an heroic effort to speak without crying,—
"It was all my fault. I know Jack won't say so, but it was. He didn't
want to go to the Hermit's Cave, but I made him; and if he had died
in a bog it would have been my fault, and his mother would have hated
me, and so would you, father! I—I never should have been happy any
more."
"What are you talking about, Theodore?" Mr. Barton questioned. "Come,
my boy, tell me all about it. You know it is not possible that I
could ever hate you, and as for my wife—why, she never hated anyone
in her life, I'm certain. Why should you think it? You are not fair
to her. I have often thought you must have been prejudiced against
her, but I don't wish you to tell me by whom," he said hastily. "When
I married her I hoped she would be a mother to you as I hoped to be a
father to her little son, but you would not allow her to love you—
from the first you were against her. She wanted to make up to you,
as far as lay in her power, for the loss you sustained when your own
dear mother died, but—"
"They said you would think more of Jack than of me," Theodore broke
in, "but I did not care. I was never jealous of Jack. I—I don't mind
if you do like him best. He's better than me."
"Oh, Theodore!" Mr. Barton exclaimed, greatly shocked, "you distress
me beyond measure. Jack is a gentle, winning little fellow, but you
are my own son—the dearest object I possess. Come, confide in me
the cause of your grief. What is it that is weighing upon your mind?"
Thus encouraged, Theodore gave an excited account of the way in which
he had overcome Jack's scruples, and induced him to visit the
Hermit's Cave. He did not spare himself, but took the entire blame
upon his own shoulders, at the same time begging his father to
forgive him, and imploring him to assure his stepmother that Jack was
not in fault.
"It was all my doing," he said in conclusion, looking wistfully
up into Mr. Barton's grave face. "I know I'm a great worry and
trouble—Jane says so often, but I never before tried to make Jack
do anything wrong."
"And I trust you never will again," his father returned, seriously.
"God, in His infinite mercy, saved you both from a horrible death
to-night, for if you had fallen into the bog—but there, I will not
contemplate that. Thank God, I have you still!"
All through the night Mr. Barton sat by the bedside, and, now that
Theodore had made his confession, his father's presence disturbed him
no longer, but rather gave him a sense of security, for presently
he fell asleep. His was an uneasy slumber, however, with disturbed
dreams, for he cried out constantly that Jack was lost, and started
up in bed on several occasions, shaking with fright, to be reassured
by his father's voice that all was well.
It was with a sense of relief that Mr. Barton at length saw through
the tiny window of the caravan that the dawn of another day was
breaking, and knew that his vigil was nearly at an end.