The Children's Pilgrimage by L. T. Meade (best sales books of all time txt) 📗

side in a kind of dull pain and despair. Again and again he asked for her forgiveness. He could not guess that his passionate words were falling on quite unconscious ears.

In his long misery Joe had really forgotten little Maurice, but when he saw him enter the hut with Toby he felt a kind of relief. Ignorant truly of illness, an instinct told him that Cecile was very ill. Sick people saw doctors, and doctors had made them well. He could therefore now run off to the village, try to find a doctor, get him to come to Cecile, and then, when he saw that there was a chance of her wants being attended to rush off himself to do what he had made up his mind to accomplish some time earlier in the day. This was to find Anton, and getting back the little piece of paper, then give himself up to his old life of hardship and slavery.

"You set there, Maurice," he said, now addressing the bewildered little boy; "Cecile is ill; and you must not leave her. You set quite close to her, and when she asks for it, let her have a drink of water; and, Toby, you take care on them both."

"But, Joe, I'm starving hungry," said Maurice; "and why must I stay alone when Cecile is so queer, and not a bit glad to see me, though she is calling for me all the time? Why are you going away? I think 'tis very nasty of you, Joe."

"I must go, Maurice; I must find a doctor for Cecile; the reason Cecile goes on like that is because she is so dreadful ill. Ef I don't get a doctor, why she'll die like my little comrade died when his leg wor broke. You set nigh her, Maurice, and yere's a bit of bread."

Then Joe, going up to the sick child and kneeling down by her, took one of the burning hands in his.

"Missie, Missie, dear," he said, "I know as yer desperate ill, and you can't understand me. But still I'd like fur to say as I give hup my old mother, Missie. I wor starving fur my mother, and I thought as I'd see her soon, soon. But it worn't fur to be. I'm goin' back to my master and the old life, and you shall have the purse o' gold. I did bitter, bitter wrong; but I'll do right now. So good-by, my darling darlin' little Missie Cecile."

As the poor boy spoke he stooped down and kissed the burning hands, and looked longingly at the strangely flushed and altered face; then he went out into the forest. Any action was a relief to his oppressed and overstrained heart, and he knew he had not a moment to lose in trying to find a doctor for Cecile.

He went straight to the village and inquired if such a person dwelt there.

"Yes," an old peasant woman told him; "certainly they had a doctor, but he was out just now; he was with Mme. Chillon up at a farm a mile away. There was no use in going to the doctor's house, but if the boy would follow him there, to the said farm, he might catch him before he went farther away, for there were to be festivities that night, and their good doctor was always in requisition as the best dancer in the place."

So Joe followed the doctor to the farm a mile away, and was so fortunate as to find him just before he was about to ride off to the fete mentioned by the old peasant.

Joe, owing to his long residence in England, could only speak broken French, but his agitation, his great earnestness, what little French he could muster, were so far eloquent as to induce the young doctor, instead of postponing his visit to the hut in the forest until the morning, to decide to give up his dance and go with the boy instead.

Joe's intention was to direct the doctor to the hut, and then, without returning thither himself, set off at once on his search for Anton. This, however, the medical man would not permit. He was not acquainted with the forest; he would not go there at so late an hour on any consideration without a guide, so Joe had to change his mind and go with him.

They walked along rapidly, the doctor wondering if there was any chance of his still being in time for his promised dance, the boy too unhappy, too plunged in gloom, to be able to utter a word. It was nearly dark in the forest shade when at last they reached the little tumbledown hut.

But what was the matter? The place Joe had left so still, so utterly without any sound except that made by one weak and wandering voice, seemed suddenly alive. When the doctor and the boy entered, voices, more than one, were speaking eagerly. There was life, color, and movement in the deserted little place.

Bending over the sick child, and tenderly placing a cool handkerchief dipped in cold water on her brow, was a young woman of noble height and proportions. Her face was sunshiny and beautiful, and even in the gathering darkness Joe could see that her head was crowned with a great wealth of golden hair. This young woman, having laid the handkerchief on Cecile's forehead, raised her then tenderly in her arms. As she did so, she turned to address some words in rather broken French to a tall, dark-eyed old woman who stood at the foot of the bed of pine needles.

Both women turned when the boy and the man came in, and at sight of the doctor, whom they evidently knew well, they uttered many exclamations of pleasure.

The young doctor went over at once to his little patient, but Joe, suddenly putting his hand to his heart, stood still in the door of the hut.

Who was that old woman who held Maurice in her arms—that old woman with the upright figure, French from the crown of her head to the sole of her feet? Of what did she remind the boy as she stood holding the tired little child in her kind and motherly clasp?

Ah! he knew, he knew. Almost at the second glance his senses seemed cleared, his memory became vivid, almost too vivid to be borne. He saw those same arms, that same kind, dear, and motherly face, only the arms held another child, and the eyes looked into other eyes, and that child was her own child, and they were in the pretty cottage in the Pyrenees, and brother Jean was coming in from his day's work of tying up the vines.

Yes, Joe knew that he was looking at his mother; once again he had seen her. Though he must not stay with her, though he must give her up, though he must go back to the old dreadful life, still for this one blessed glimpse he would all the rest of his life acknowledge that God was good.

For a moment he stood still, almost swaying from side to side in the wonderful gladness that came over him, then with a low cry the poor boy rushed forward; he flung his arms round the old woman's neck; he strained her to his heart.

"Ah, my mother!" he sobbed, speaking in this sudden excitement in the dear Bearnais of his childhood, "I am Alphonse. Do you not know your little lost son Alphonse?"

CHAPTER XXVI. LAND OF BEULAH.

The whole scene had changed. She had closed her eyes in a deserted hut lying on a bed of pine needles. She had closed her eyes to the consciousness of Maurice gone, of everything lost and over in her life. It seemed but a moment, but the working of an ugly dream, and she opened them again. Where was she? The hut was gone, the pine-needle bed had vanished; instead she found herself in a pretty room, with dimity curtains hanging before latticed windows; she felt soft white sheets under her, and knew that she was lying in a little bed, in the prettiest child's cot, with dimity curtains fastened back from it also. The room in its freshness and whiteness and purity looked something like an English room, and from the open windows came in a soft, sweet scent of roses.

Had Cecile then gone back to England, and, if so, what English home had received her?

She was too tired, too peaceful, to think much just then. She closed her languid eyes, only knowing that she was comfortable and happy, and feeling that she did not care much about anything if only she might rest on forever in that delicious white bed.

Then, for she was still very weak, she found herself with her thoughts wandering. She was back in England, she was in London. Kind Mrs. Moseley had taken her in; kind Mrs. Moseley was taking great care of Maurice and of her. Then she fancied herself in a vast place of worship where everybody sang, and she heard the words of a very loud and joyful refrain:

"The angels stand on the hallelujah strand,
And sing their welcome home."

Had she then got home? Was this happy, restful place not even England? Was all the dull and weary wandering over, and had she got home—to the best home—the home where Jesus dwelt? She really thought it must be so, and this would account for the softness of this little bed, and the delicious purity of the beautiful room. Yes, she heard the singing very distinctly; "welcome home" came over and over again to her ears. She opened her eyes. Yes, surely this was heaven, and those were the angels singing. How soft and full and rich their voices sounded.

She tried to raise her head off her pillow, but this she found she could not manage. Where she lay, however, she could see all over the small room. She was alone, with just the faint, sweet breath of roses fanning her cheeks, and that delicious music in the distance. Yes, she certainly must be in the home of Jesus, and soon He would come to see her, and she would talk with Him face to face.

She remembered in a dim kind of way that she had gone to sleep in great trouble and perplexity. But there was no trouble lying on her heart now. She was in the home where no one had any trouble; and when she told Jesus all her story, he would make everything right. Just then a voice, singing the same sweet refrain, came along the passage. As it got near, the music ceased, the door softly opened, and a young woman with golden hair and the brightest of bright faces came softly in. Seeing Cecile with her eyes open, she went gladly up to the bed, and, bending over her, said in a full but gentle voice:

"Ah! dear English little one, how glad I am that you are better!"

"Yes, I'm quite well," answered Cecile, in her feeble tone. Then she added, looking up wistfully: "Please, how soon may I see Jesus?"

At these words the pleased expression vanished from the young woman's face. She looked at Cecile in pity and alarm, and saying softly to herself, "Ah! she isn't better, then," turned away with a sigh; but Cecile lifted a feeble hand to detain her.

"Please, I'm much better. I'm quite well," she said. "This is heaven, isn't it?"

"No," answered the young woman. She was less alarmed now, and she turned and gazed hard at the child. "No," she said, "we thought you were going to heaven. But I do believe you really are better. No, my dear little girl! this is very different from heaven. This is only a French farm; a farm in the Landes—pretty enough! but still very different from heaven. You have been very ill, and have been lying on that little bed for the last fortnight, and we did fear that you'd die. We brought you here, and, thanks to my good mother-in-law and our doctor, we have, I do trust, brought you through, and now you must sleep and not talk any more."

"But please, ma'am, if this is a French farm, how do you speak English?"

"I am English by birth, child; though 'tis a long time now since I have seen my native land. Not that I feel very English, for my good Jean's country is my country, and I only spoke English to you because you don't know French. Now, little girl, lie very still. I shall be back in a minute."

The young woman did come back in a minute, holding, of all people in the world, Maurice by the hand.

Maurice then, who Cecile thought was quite lost, was back again, and Cecile looked