CHAPTER XVI

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.