We have seen that during the time of the worst of the troubles that had befallen the boys, Tad's heart had softened, his character had improved. But the great change by which all things are made new, had not yet come into the boy's soul. Self-will still ruled there, and it would need a yet sharper lesson ere the altar of this idol could be thrown down, and its sceptre broken.
Since the day when Phil's remonstrance and appeal had called forth those cruel words from Tad, the younger boy had not ventured to mention the subject. But he had gone about with a heavy heart and a sad face, for he loved Tad dearly, and the estrangement between them hurt him sorely.
He was anxious, too, for he could see plainly enough by the sullen, brooding look in Tad's face, that he had by no means relinquished his idea, but was only considering how best to work it out. Phil did not know what to do. He could not bear the thought of acting the tale-bearer, of going to Marie and warning her against his friend. Still less could he entertain the idea of saying anything to Jacques and Sophie. So that, between disloyalty to Tad on the one hand, and disloyalty to their kind friends on the other, Phil was indeed in straits—and very sore straits for a child of his years. He could only hope that the time of Marie's departure would come soon, and that meanwhile Tad would have no chance to carry off Baby Victor, as his gipsy mother called him.
One morning about a week later, Marie received a letter from her husband, who announced his intention of coming over to fetch her. He said he should be sailing in a little vessel belonging to a friend, and he hoped to be at St. Malo shortly. He intended, he said, to spend a day or two with his father and mother-in-law, and then take his wife and the child back to England in the same boat that had brought him.
"I must go to meet my husband to-night, mother," said Marie, two days later; "the boat is sure to be in."
"I will go with thee," replied Sophie, "and thou, Jacques?"
"I go too, of course," said the old man.
"Wilt thou take the child, Marie?" inquired Sophie.
"No, mother, I hardly think it would be well to do so. Poor Victor has seemed very feverish and languid these last days, and the night air would be bad for him. I will put him to bed before I go, and he will then sleep, I hope, and so will not miss me."
"Pelagie will attend to him should he cry," said Sophie, "but I daresay he will sleep soundly till thy return."