Chapter XVIII: 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.