[CHAPTER X]
WEAK YET SO STRONG
THE lads dared not exchange even so much as a whisper during their drive, for old Foxy was close beside them in the back of the cart. But both Phil and Tad felt that they had cause for dread now if never before. Anything so unusual as a midnight drive, in the company, too, of strangers, had never happened before, and the poor boys, as they thought over everything, realised that a crisis of some sort was at hand.
Of the two, Tad was the more miserable. With him, hitherto, temptation had invariably meant yielding, had brought fresh sin and new troubles. And now he feared lest once more he should fall and sink yet deeper in the mire.
Since Phil and he had been constant companions, Tad's conscience had once more awakened. He felt that Phil was a far better boy than he was himself, for in all the trials, the troubles, the miseries that had befallen this poor orphan child, he had not lost his honesty, his truthfulness, nor his simple faith in God.
Tad was conscious of this, and aware, too, for the first time for years, of a longing now and again to be a better lad, more like pure-hearted, gentle little Phil; for there was growing up in his heart for this friend and fellow-sufferer of his, a great love such as he had not hitherto thought he could feel for anyone.
The truest of all books tells us that even a child is known by his doings, whether they be pure and whether they be right; and Tad, so strong in his self-will, and so weak in temptation, had taken knowledge of his little friend, and had come to know that in this frail boy there was a certain moral strength wanting in himself.
And now an occasional glance at Phil's small, pale face as the white moonlight fell upon it set Tad wondering why this child was so different from himself, and whether the events of this night would bring to them both serious consequences, or leave them as they found them.
He was still deep in thought when the cart stopped. For some time it had been driven across what looked like a common, a wide open space, with no buildings of any sort upon it; but now the halt was made at a little gate, almost hidden by the bushy growth of underwood and young trees forming a copse, which began where the common ended, and which, though bare and leafless now, cast a deep shadow over the road.
In silence the driver and his companion got down from the front seat, and Renard and the boys from the back. Tad noticed that the man Paul took from under the seat a small canvas bag, in which some things rattled, and also a little parcel which he slipped into his coat pocket. The boys looked at each other, a vague horror and fear dawning in their faces—a foreboding of danger.