Paul the Courageous

"The convict prison," he cried eagerly. "I'd forgotten that that was down there. Oh, I do hope we go quite close to it. I'd like awfully to see the convicts. Did you ever see any of them? Were you near them?"

"See them! I should just think so. I saw a convict's funeral once, too; the coffin was carried by the convicts all in their prison clothes, with whacking great broad arrows over them."

"What were they like? Did they look like murderers? Did you see any of those that are in Madame Tussard's?" asked Paul, full of curiosity.

"Some of them were pretty bad-looking, but the rest were just like ordinary people. You'd never think from their faces, that they were murderers, and burglars, and forgers, and all that sort of thing. I felt awfully sorry for them, but my mater hurried me away, and wouldn't let me have a good look at them. I know one thing, I would have helped them to escape if they had tried to."

"I do hope we shall be in that part," said Paul, excitedly. "I'd give anything to see the prisoners and the prison. I say, did any escape while you were there?"

"No, 'twas hard luck. One got away in the winter after we left, and wasn't caught for a day or two; it was foggy, and that helped him, of course. Then there is otter-hunting in some of the rivers," went on Dennis, tiring of the subject of the convicts. "Oh, it's an awfully fine place! There are wild cattle on the moor too, and they are no end of excitement; they go for you like anything if you rile them. You are in luck's way, old chap. I wish I was going too, instead of to some silly place in Norway where there's nothing to do when you get there but walk. I hate being shut up in a stuffy steamer too. I'm ill all the time—so are most of the people—and I don't see where the fun comes in. But my people are set on it, so I suppose I've got to go. I don't want to, a bit."

"Don't you!" said Paul sarcastically, all his old disappointment returning. "I wish we could change places then. I think Dartmoor is awfully tame compared with Norway."

And then a hot discussion followed, each boy sticking up, of course, for his own favourite place.

But when, three weeks later, Paul travelled homewards, his disappointment was quite forgotten, and he was in the best of spirits, for it is beyond the power of any ordinary boy to feel morose and sulky the day his school breaks up and he goes home for his summer holiday; and when the family joined him at Slewbury station,—all except his father, who was to follow later,—and they journeyed on together, he was the life of the whole merry party.

"Mother," he exclaimed with sudden recollection, after the home news had been listened to and school news told, "what is the name of the place we are going to? Shall we be near the convict prison?"

"Oh, I hope not," cried Stella, her pretty blue eyes becoming round with dismay, "I should hate to be near convicts, I should be afraid of them. Supposing any of them run away, and come to Moor Farm, whatever shall we do?"

"We are not any very great distance from the prison, I am afraid," Mrs. Anketell answered, "though it is further than either of us could walk. But you know, dear, the poor creatures are well guarded and we shall be well guarded; and I want you to feel nothing but pity for them, my Stella. You must be a brave little woman. Many of the poor creatures there are quiet and harmless, and would not hurt a little child."

"I am jolly glad we are so near," said Paul delightedly; and he talked so much about it that Stella soon began to share his excitement, and lose much of her nervousness, while Michael sat very still and quiet, listening to all that was being said. But presently they grew tired of that subject, and turned their attention to the country through which they were hurrying, and the quaint little stations at which they stopped, where the one porter shouted such odd names in so funny a voice that they could not help laughing; then on they went again through rich yellow cornfields, past streams where men were fishing, and then they saw the high hills in the distance, standing so solitary on the great browny-grey moor.

It was hard to picture a big, gloomy prison anywhere near such a lovely land, or hundreds of sinful, unhappy men shut in behind high grey walls, seeing nothing of the beauty about them.

"Mother, mother, there's Row Tor, and there's Brown Willy, and there—"

"And here is our station," said Mrs. Anketell, smiling, getting up to collect baskets and parcels, "and there is Farmer Minards himself with his car and a cart for the luggage." Then out they got, the only passengers for that little station, while the people in the train stared at them, enviously the children thought, and the people on the platform looked with curiosity and interest at them, and their big pile of luggage. Then Stella and Michael and Mrs. Anketell were shown in to the funny little car, which was called the 'pill-box,' but Paul asked if he might ride up in the front of the cart on which the luggage was piled, and was allowed to, and a few minutes later they started off in procession down the road on their way to Moor Farm.

The boy who drove the cart was shy at first, and sat very stolid and stiff beside Paul apparently absorbed in guiding his horse, but Paul was not troubled with shyness, or anything else but curiosity, and after he had looked at the horse and cart, and everything about him, his tongue refused to be silent any longer, and a stream of questions was poured into the shy boy's ears. As they were nearly all questions he could answer he did not mind, and replied very patiently, and soon grew more at ease, especially as some of Paul's questions made him laugh too, and feel how much more he knew than 'the young master,' which is always a comfortable feeling.

"And that is Cawsand Beacon, isn't it?" said Paul at last, pointing to a big, big hill, in the near distance. He spoke in an off-hand casual sort of way, and was rather proud of his knowledge until the boy laughed.

"No, sir, that there is Crockern Tor. Cawsan' Baycon be right 'way 'tother side of Dartymoor, right 'long up in the narth, Oke'ampton way."

"Is Crockern Tor as high as Cawsand Beacon?" asked Paul, more humbly.

"I reckon not, not by a brave bit," said the boy, "but it's a purty place to go to."

They were driving now along a rough road across the moor itself; the 'pill-box' had outstripped them and was out of sight. "Let's drive on the grass," said Paul suddenly, "t'would be ever so much jollier than jolting along like this. Why don't you drive across there to the farm," pointing to a stretch of smooth, green turf, "instead of going all around by this road?"

The boy laughed again. "I reckon 'twouldn't be no quicker by time us had hauled the 'orse and cart out. That there green is'n' no turf 't'all, 'tis a bog."

Paul's attention was riveted in a moment. "That isn't one of the bogs that suck people right down, and kill them, is it?" he asked excitedly.

"That's one on 'em," answered the boy; "that isn't so bad as some. Anybody small and light might get across by keeping right 'way out to the very edge if they was quick, but a horse and cart wouldn't stand no chance. Don't you never go trying of it, sur, you'd be swallowed up in no time. Gee, wug, Lion," he called to the lazy horse. "Would 'ee like to drive a bit, sur?"

But Paul's thoughts were far away. "Anybody light and small might get across," he was repeating to himself, and he made up his mind that somebody light and small would try. After all, Dartmoor wasn't such a bad place, he admitted already. He would have something, anyhow, to tell the boys when he got back. Something worth telling too. He thought there would be few with a better story than his to tell.

CHAPTER IV

THE REWARD OF OVER CONFIDENCE

For a day or two their new surroundings kept the children fully occupied in and about the farmyard, and the barns and orchards. Everything was new to them and delightful, from the pump in the yard, and the chickens, to the horses and wagons, the lofts with their smell of hay, the sweet-smelling wood-ricks, the cool dairy, the 'pound' where the cider was made. Then there were sheep-shearing, rat-hunting and countless other joys. But before very long the desire to wander further in search of adventure grew strong in Paul's breast. The children were left wonderfully free in those days, for, owing to their straitened means, Mrs. Anketell had determined to do without a nurse, and she was necessarily obliged to leave them much to themselves, and trust them not to get into any serious mischief.

But in the holidays no boy is quite as wise as he should be. Certainly Paul was not, when he determined to go and find out for himself if that morass was really as dangerous as Muggridge had said. Muggridge was the boy who had driven the cart, and Paul had begun to have a galling feeling that Muggridge had bean treating him as though he were a baby, which of course was a thing not to be tolerated for a moment. He must show him that he was a public-school boy, and had already seen more of the world than Muggridge was ever likely to.

It was Saturday morning, and every one in the house, excepting the children, seemed to be unusually busy and occupied. Stella and Michael sauntered out into the yard, and hung on the gate, swinging. Paul strolled out presently and joined them, but the amusement was not to his liking, so he went outside and stood in the road, and looked at the country.

"Let's go for a walk on the moor," he said presently; "there is nothing to do here, and it's looking jolly out there."

Stella and Michael, only too glad to be invited by their elder brother to join him, followed at once with a shout of joy. Paul looked back several times to make sure no one was watching them, but there were no windows at that end of the house, and everyone was busy. When they had gone a little distance they got off the road on to the soft turf at the side, and began running about here, there, and everywhere. "You had better see where you are going," said Paul; "they say there are morasses here that suck one in until one is gone right down, head and all."

Stella looked about her with wondering eyes, and seized Michael's hands. "What do they look like, Paul? Are they pools?"

"I don't know," said Paul, "I should think so."

"There aren't any here, then," she said eagerly, and with a sigh of relief, letting Mike go again. "I don't see any, do you, Paul?"

"Muggridge said there were, and that is why they go round by that silly old road; but I don't believe him, and I'm going to find out for myself. Perhaps he thinks I will swallow everything he chooses to tell me, and is trying to see how much he can take me in."

"Did he tell you not to go there?" asked Stella, nervously.

"No, he did not tell me any such thing. Why should he? I should like to see him dare to order me about. He just said that I had better not; but that was nothing. I'm sure he was only trying to gull me. He said anybody light could get across if they kept to the edge, and nobody could be much lighter than I am."

"But, Paul, you won't go?" pleaded Stella, anxiously. "Don't go, Paul! Please don't! you might be killed."

"Killed!" with terrific scorn. "You girls are such babies you are afraid of your lives to do anything for fear you will be killed, or hurt."

"I am not," said Stella proudly. "You would be frightened though if you got into one of those marshes, and were sucked down."

Paul grew more and more nettled, and defiant. "Anyhow, I am going right away at once to look for one, and that'll show if I am afraid or not. You babies can stay where you are." And he walked boldly forward.

Stella bore the taunt bravely, though her feelings were cruelly hurt, too deeply hurt to allow her to follow her brother and appear to be thrusting her society on him. So she remained where he had left her, tightly grasping Mike's hand as though to make sure that he at any rate came to no harm. For nearly half-an-hour Paul wandered about without finding himself on the dangerous spot, and the more he searched the more convinced he became that Muggridge had been laughing at him.

"Won't Farmer Minards be pleased when Paul tells him," said Michael after a long and anxious silence, and Paul had wandered about in all directions in safety. But before he had finished his sentence they saw Paul stagger as though he had stepped on something which had given way beneath his feet, try to recover himself, and stagger again. Stella jumped up instinctively and ran to him; even then she did not dream of the real danger he was in, until, as she flew towards him, his cry of "Help, help!" reached her. "Keep back'" he shrieked, as she came close. "It's the bog! My feet are stuck, I can't free them, Stella; what can I do? Help, help, help!"

Stella's heart stood still with fright. Paul was in the mud; it would suck him down till it closed over his head, unless some one saved him, and there was no time to be lost. What could she do, without a single creature there to help her? "Mike," she called, "run home as fast as ever you can, and tell them to come at once. Paul is in the bog, and it is sucking him down." The tears were trickling fast down her face, and at sight of them Michael began to cry too.

"Help, help!" called Paul again, then suddenly burst into tears. The mud was half-way up his legs now, and his attempts to free himself seemed only to hasten his fate. Inspiration came to Stella; in another moment she had torn off her big over-all apron. It was strong and wide. If Paul could reach it she might be able to pull him out by it. She threw it towards him, but, in her anxiety, threw it to one side; she tried again, but the breeze carried it away. The third time it reached him, and he caught it by the tips of his fingers, but the effort to reach it dragged him forward, and swaying, staggering, in his endeavours to steady himself he dragged poor Stella beyond her powers of resistance, and in another moment she was in the morass too, and, losing her balance, fell forward on her hands and knees. Their condition now was truly appalling. Paul grew frantic with alarm. "Pick yourself up, Stella, or crawl to the edge; you are quite close."

"I can't," she said in an awe-stricken whisper. She was too frightened to cry now; the fearfulness of the fate which seemed to await them partially numbed her senses. "I can't, Paul," she said in laboured tones; "the more I try the worse it is. I think we had better keep as still as we can. Poor mummie," she added presently, and at the thought of her mother's grief her tears did flow, but she kept quite still, though she saw that her hands had disappeared entirely, and her arms were fast being sucked down.

CHAPTER V

THE RESCUE

Paul and Stella never forgot, to the end of their lives, that awful time of waiting, when they were face to face with death, their hearts filled with agony at the sight of each other in the clutches of that fearful morass, and at the thought of their parents' grief.

All around them stretched the great brown moor, weird and lonely looking, except for where, less than a mile away, Paul could see the chimneys of Moor Farm smoking, and the sunlight shining on the windows. Stella had fallen with her back to the house, and all she could see was the moor, and the hills in the distance. She could not see even if any one was coming to their assistance. "Mike must have lost himself," she thought, "they are so long—"

But at that moment Paul broke in on her thought. "They are coming," he shouted. "Help! help! help!" and he waved his handkerchief excitedly. Stella bowed her head and prayed, she hardly knew then in what words, but to ask God's help, and to thank Him; she knew He would understand.

Three or four persons came running towards them with ropes and planks, while behind came another and larger group with their mother amongst them. Stella could only hear their voices, and do as they bade her.

"How be 'ee going to get the little maid, now?" said a voice she recognised as Farmer Minards'; "'er's the awkwardest of the two to get 'old on, by a long way. Hold up yer 'ead, missie dear, don't let yer face touch the mud."

Stella raised her head as high as she could, but she was so exhausted that it fell forward again, and she lost consciousness altogether.

"I can save the boy," said a voice, "if you'll give me a rope." In a moment more a deftly thrown lasso quivered in the air, and falling over Paul encircled his waist; then, by the aid of planks thrown across the margin, long, strong arms soon dragged him into safety, and he lay trembling, but safe, on solid ground, with his mother's arms around him, and nothing but words of sympathy, and love, and kindness greeting him instead of the sound scolding he so richly deserved. But she saw he was in no state to be scolded then.

A few moments later another shout went up. Stella was safe. Paul raised himself, and called to her as they carried her towards him, but no answer to his joyful cry came from the limp and senseless little form lying in Farmer Minards' arms. Her face was as white as the clouds above, her eyes were closed. Paul gave a great cry of fear. "Stella, Stella," he called in agony. "Stella, speak! She tried to save me, and—and it is all my fault, and I've killed her." And he burst into an agony of tears, for he really thought his sister was dead.

Mrs. Anketell, who had run to her little daughter, quickly came back to him. "She is not dead," she said soothingly, great tears of thankfulness in her own eyes. "Thank God, Paul. You cannot thank Him enough for having spared you both. She has fainted, that is all, dear. Act like a man now, and be ready to comfort her when she recovers. This is bound to be a terrible shock to her."

Mrs. Anketell was herself faint and trembling from the shock and the anxiety; her hands shook visibly as she laid them on Paul's hot brow, and her head swam so she feared she would have fainted too, but for the sake of others she made a great effort to control herself, and succeeded.

They laid the little maid on the grass, and loosened her clothes. The sight of her little hands hanging so helplessly, with the brown mud dripping off them, and her little white feet, for her shoes and stockings had come off in the mud, and her dead-white face, brought tears to many an eye there, and Paul himself turned over on the grass and wept bitterly, without shame, before them all.

"Better let him have his cry out," said the gentleman who had thrown the lasso, and who proved to be a doctor; "it will relieve him and do him good. Now, you men, some of you carry him carefully home, he is not fit to walk; and I will carry her, if you will allow me," he said, stooping over Stella. "I think they had better be got to bed as quickly as possible. And you, can you walk, do you think?" he added, kindly, to Mrs. Anketell. She nodded in reply; she was too much agitated to speak. "Take my arm, please, if it would be any support to you." His quick eye noted the strain she was enduring, and he quietly did all he could to cheer and distract her thoughts from the contemplation of the awful tragedy which might have befallen two of her children.

So the sad little procession wended its way across the sunny moor again, and Paul, all the way, was saying over and over again to himself he would never, never again try to do what he had been told not to. He would be good, obedient, and humble, he would take care of Stella, and his mother, and Mike. And that night when his mother came to see him the last thing before going to bed herself, he told her the whole story from beginning to end. "Stella is awfully plucky, for a girl," he added at the conclusion of his tale. "She was afraid for me to try to cross, but she didn't seem frightened when she was being sucked down by the mud, she never screamed at all."

"Stella has far more courage than you think," said his mother gravely, "and I hope you will never again jibe at the cowardice of girls; it only shows that you do not know what real courage is. Good muscles do not always mean true courage. You must learn that it is often far more brave to stand by and not do a thing, knowing all the time you will be called a coward for it, than it is to be daring and defiant, as you were to-day. Obedience in all things, pleasant or unpleasant, is true courage, and that is what you lacked to-day, and so brought misery and pain to many, none of whom you consider as wise or brave as yourself."

Paul certainly felt the greatest shame as he realised how foolish he must seem in the eyes of everybody, and he certainly suffered the keenest remorse when he saw how ill Stella was; it was Stella who suffered most from his wrong-doing. For many days she was very, very ill, and it was some time before she was quite her old merry self again.

CHAPTER VI

A SLOW LEARNER

A few days later Mr. Anketell arrived for a fortnight's holiday, and all the sad story had to be told to him. He was terribly grieved and upset— grieved to see his bright, happy Stella so wan and quiet, and troubled sorely to think Paul had so far forgotten himself and his duty to the younger ones as to place their lives in danger.

"You cannot expect Michael to look up to you," said his father sternly. "And you are setting him a very bad example. I shall have to send for one of the maids to come and look after you all, for we cannot have such things happening! I will not have your mother so worried and frightened, and the children's lives jeopardised by your disobedience and foolhardiness."

And the maid would have been sent for had not Paul given his word to be more careful and better behaved in future.

Another person with whom Mr. Anketell was very irate was Farmer Minards; he blamed him greatly for leaving so dangerous a spot unguarded in any way, and he spoke so plainly about it that that very same day a man went out with a cartload of white hurdles to place around the margin of the morass. To every one else they were a comfort and a safeguard, but to Paul they were a shame and a constant reminder of his foolishness.

"Us'd have the moor speckled all over with white hurdles if we had you living here for long, sur." They were driving slowly along the road, Paul sitting beside Muggridge in the cart, when Muggridge pointed with his whip at the hurdles and laughed. A hot blush rushed over Paul's face, and a sudden furious anger against his companion surged up in his heart. How dare he laugh at him, a gentleman, and a visitor?

"You told me anybody light could get across," he said sulkily, and he looked away across the moor that Muggridge might not see the tears of anger and mortification which would well up in his eyes.

"So he could."

"Well you couldn't find anyone much lighter than I am, and I went in," and he shuddered at the recollection.

"Of course you did, and so would any one who hadn't the sense not to go right slap in the middle as you did. I meant right 'long out the edge, where Jim has put the hurdles."

Paul laughed contemptuously. "Why, any stupid could do that!" he said loftily. "Farmer Minards himself could walk there!"

"That just shows how much you know," said Muggridge, with an air of great knowingness. "It wouldn't bear me, and I ain't what you would call heavy."

"You are afraid, that's all," said Paul rudely.

For a moment Muggridge looked angry too. "I ain't feared," he said after a pause, "but I've got too much sense. I can't afford to spoil a pair of boots, and I doubt if any one would take the trouble to haul me out; but if they did—why, maister'd give me the sack before the mud had stopped running off me."

Paul laughed derisively. "It's easy enough to make excuses," he said, beginning to scramble down from the cart. "You are afraid, that's what it is, but I'll just show you I am not," and, paying no heed to Muggridge's call, he ran lightly round outside the hurdles. To his surprise the ground was almost hard. The man had placed the hurdles further out than Muggridge had thought, but Paul did not let him know that. The very spirit of bravado and mischief seemed to fill him as he mocked at his companion, and then, with a sudden mad impulse, he climbed over and attempted to run around inside. But here matters were different; the ground was soft and slimy, his feet stuck and began to sink; he tried to run lightly, but 'twas no good, and he clung to the hurdles in real fear. Muggridge, too, was alarmed. He realised suddenly that he was responsible for the young master's safety, that he had taunted him into his foolhardy action, and that the episode would not make a pleasant story for either of them to tell.