The Children's Pilgrimage by L. T. Meade (carter reed .TXT) 📖

that, for sometimes I hear Cecile say that she is afraid their money won't hold out, the journey is so very long. I am glad you owe 'em money, Anton; and as it is past noon, and they won't start to-day, we may as well go back to the hut at once. Oh! won't they be surprised ta see you, Anton?"

Anton remained silent for a moment, his head buried in his hands. He was evidently thinking hard, and once he was heard to mutter, "a lucky chance; a rare and lucky chance." Then he raised his head again and looked at Maurice.

"The others are in a hut, a hut in the forest, eh?"

"Oh, yes! quite a nice, snug little hut, and not so very far from here. We sleep on pine needles in the hut, and they are so soft and snug; and, Anton, I don't want to leave it. I like the forest, and I hate long, long walks; I'd rather stay in the hut."

"How far away did you say it wor, lad?"

"Oh! not so very far away. I ran out quite early this morning, and I came down hill; and at last when I lost breath I stopped and gathered all these violets. Oh, they are withered—my poor violets! And then I ran a little bit and got this thorn into my foot, and after that I could walk no more. The hut can't be a great way off. Will you carry me back to it, Anton?"

Anton laughed.

"'Will I carry him?' did he say?" he exclaimed in a tone of some derision. "Well, wot next? I ain't strong enough to carry sech a big chap as you, my lad. No, no; but I'll tell you wot I'll do: I'll take you over to a comrade o' mine as is waiting for me jest outside the forest, quite close by. He's a bit of a doctor, and he'll take the thorn out of your foot; and while he's doing it, I'll run down to the hut and bring that big Joe o' yourn back. He'll carry you fine—he ain't a weakly chap like me."

"Poor Anton!" said little Maurice, "I forgot that you were weak. Yes, that's a very kind plan." And he stretched out his arms for Anton to carry him just the little distance to his comrade at the other side of the forest.

CHAPTER XIX. THREE PLANS.

It took Anton but a few strides to get out of the forest, at the other side away from the hut. Here, on a neatly-made road, stood a caravan; and by the side of the caravan two men. These men could not speak a word of English, and even their French was so mixed with dialect that little Maurice, who by this time knew many words of real French, did not understand a word they said. This, however, all the better suited Anton's purpose. He had a short but impressive conversation with the man who seemed to have the greatest authority. Maurice was then given over into this man's care. Anton assured him that he would return as quickly as possible with Joe. And then the bad man plunged once more into the depths of the forest.

Yes; Anton was most truly a bad man, and bad now were the schemes at work in his evil heart. He saw once more a hope of getting that money which he longed for. He would use any means to obtain this end. After the children had escaped from him in Paris, he had wandered about for nearly a week in that capital looking for them. Then he had agreed to join a traveling caravan which was going down south. Anton could assist in the entertainments given in the different small towns and villages they passed through; but this mode of proceeding was necessarily slow, and seemed all the more so as week after week went by and he never got a clew to the lost children; he was beginning to give it up as a bad job—to conclude that Cecile and her party had never gone south after all. He had indeed all but completed arrangements to return to Paris with another traveling party, when suddenly, wandering through the forest in the early morning, he came upon little Maurice D'Albert fast asleep—his crushed violets under his pretty head. Transfixed with joy and astonishment, the bad man stood still. His game was sure—it had not escaped him.

He sat down by the child. He did not care to wake him. While Maurice slept he made his plans.

And now, having given over Maurice to the owner of the caravan, with strict directions not to let him escape, he was hurrying through the forest to meet Joe. He wanted to see Joe alone. It would by no means answer his purpose to come across Cecile or even indeed at present to let Cecile know anything about his near vicinity.

Little Maurice's directions had been simple enough, and soon Anton came in sight of the hut. He did not want to come any nearer. He sat down behind an oak tree, and waited. From where he sat, he could watch the entrance to the hut, but could not himself be seen.

Presently he saw Cecile and Joe come out. Toby also stood at their heels. Cecile and Joe appeared to be consulting anxiously. At last they seemed to have come to a conclusion; Cecile and Toby went one way, and Joe another.

Anton saw with delight that everything was turning out according to his best hopes; Cecile and Toby were going toward the village, while Joe wandered in his direction. He waited only long enough to see the little girl and the dog out of sight, then, rising from the ground, he approached Joe.

The poor boy was walking along with his eyes fixed on the ground. He seemed anxious and preoccupied. In truth he was thinking with considerable alarm of little Maurice. Anton came very close, they were almost face to face before Joe saw him.

When at last their eyes did meet Anton perceived with delight that the boy's face went very white, that his lips twitched, and that he suddenly leant against a tree to support himself. These signs of fear were most agreeable to the wicked man. He felt that in a very short time the purse would be his.

"Anton," said poor Joe, when he could force any words from his trembling lips.

"Aye, Anton," echoed the man with a taunting laugh, "you seems mighty pleased to see Anton, old chap. You looks rare and gratified, eh?"

"No, Anton, I'm dreadful, dreadful pained to see you," answered Joe. "I wor in great trouble a minute ago, but it ain't nothink to the trouble o' seeing you."

Anton laughed again.

"You ere an unceevil lad," he replied, "but strange as it may seem, I'm glad as you is sorry to see me, boy; it shows as you fears me; as you is guilty, as well you may think yerself, and you knows as Anton can bring yer to justice. You shall fear me more afore you has done, Master Joe. You 'scaped me afore, but there's no escape this time. We has a few words to say to each other, but the principal thing is as there's no escape this time, young master."

"I know," answered Joe, "I know as a man like you can have no mercy—never a bit."

"There's no good a-hangering of me wid those speeches, Joe; I ha' found you, and I means to get wot I can out o' you. And now jest tell me afore we goes any further wot you was a-doing, and why you looked so misribble afore I spoke to you that time."

"Oh!" said Joe, suddenly recalled to another anxiety by these words, "wot a fool I am to stay talking to you when there ain't a moment to spare. Little Maurice is lost. I'm terrible feared as little Maurice has quite strayed away and got lost, and here am I, a-standing talking to you when there ain't one moment to lose. Ef you won't leave me, you must come along wid me, fur I'm a-looking fur little Maurice."

Joe now prepared to start forward, though his brain was still so perturbed at this sudden vision of his enemy that he scarcely knew where he was going, or in what direction to direct his steps. In a couple of strides Anton overtook him.

"You ha' no call to fash about the little chap," he said; "and there ain't no use a-looking fur him, fur I have got him."

"You have got little Maurice?" said Joe. "You have stole little Maurice away from Cecile and me?"

"I found little Maurice asleep in the wood. I have him safe. You can have him back whenever you pleases."

"I must have little Maurice. Take me to him at once," said Joe in a desperate tone.

"Softly, softly, lad! You shall have the little chap back. No harm shall happen to him. You and the little gal can have him again. Only one thing: I must have that ere purse first."

"Oh! ain't you a wicked man?" said Joe, and now he flung himself full length on the grass, and burst into bitter lamentations. "Oh! ain't you the wickedest man in all the wide world, Anton? Cecile 'ull die ef she can't get little Maurice back again. Cecile 'ull die ef she loses that purse."

Joe repeated these words over many times; in truth the poor boy was almost in a transport of grief and despair. Anton, however, made no reply whatever to this great burst of terrible sorrow, and waited quietly until the paroxysm had spent itself, then he too sat down on the grass.

"Listen, Joe," he said. "'Tis no use a-blubbering afore me, or a-screaming hout afore me. Them things affects some folks, but they never takes no rises out o' me. I may be 'ard. Likely enough I am. Hanyhow hysterics don't go down with me. Joe Barnes—as that's the name wot you was known by in England—I'm determined to get that 'ere purse. Now listen. Wot I has to say is short; wot I has to say is plain; from wot I has now got to say—I'll never go back. I lay three plans afore you, Joe Barnes. You can choose wot one you like best. The first plan is this: as you and Cecile keeps the purse, and I takes Maurice away wid me; you never see Maurice, nor hears of him again; I sell him to yer old master whose address I has in my pocket. That's the first plan. The second plan is this: that Maurice comes back to his sister, and you comes wid me, Joe. I sells you once more to yer hold master, and he keeps yer tight, and you has no more chance of running away. This seems a sensible plan, and that 'ere little Cecile, as you sets sech store by, can keep her purse and her brother too. Ef you does this, Joe Barnes, there'll be no fear of Cecile dying—that's my second plan. But the third plan's the best of all. You can get that 'ere purse of gold. You get it, or tell me where to find it, and then you shall have Maurice back. Within one hour Maurice shall be with you, and you shall stay wid Cecile and Maurice, and I'll never, never trouble you no more. I calls the last the neatest plan of all, lad. Don't you?"

Joe said nothing; his head was buried in his hands. Anton, however, saw that he was listening.

"The last is the sensible plan," he said; and he laid his hand on the lad's shoulder.

Joe started as though an adder had stung him. He threw off the defiling hand, and moved some paces away.

"There ere the others," continued Anton. "There's the little chap a-being beat and starved in London, and his little heart being hall a-broken hup. Or you can go back to the hold life, Joe Barnes; you're elder, and can bear it better. Yer head is tough by now, I guess; a big blow on it won't hurt you much; and you'll never see yer old mother or yer brother—but never mind. Yer whole life will be spent in utter misery—still, never mind, that ere dirty purse is safe; never mind aught else."

"We han't got the purse," said Joe then, raising his haggard face. "'Tis the gospel truth as I'm telling you, Anton. Cecile took the purse to a lady in Paris to take care of fur her, and she is to keep it until someone gives her a bit of paper back which she writ herself. I can't give yer the purse, fur it ain't yere, Anton."

"The bit o' paper 'ull do; the bit o' paper wid the address of the lady."

Joe groaned.

"I can't do it," he