Denys had undertaken, at the earnest request of the woman at the Landslip Cottage, to take care of Harry as far as to Mixham Junction, where his uncle would meet him.
She was on her way to the Landslip cottage to make sure that the arrangements for meeting Harry at the station the following day were all complete, a duty which had obliged her to give up a two hours' drive with Mrs. Henchman, Audrey and Gertrude, who had all gone with a friend of Mrs. Henchman's.
Denys had, however, scarcely entered the Landslip road when she encountered little Harry and his kind friend, and being thus saved more than an hour's walk, she arrived back at Mrs. Henchman's house much sooner than she had expected.
Mary opened the door for her, and Denys was struck by her woebegone, weary face. For a moment Denys hesitated, thinking of that accusation of interference, thinking of Mary's constant ungraciousness to her, but she pushed the remembrance aside and said kindly, "Is anything the matter, Mary? You look so sad."
Tears sprang into Mary's eyes at the unexpected interest.
"It's my head, Miss," she said, "one of my bad headaches, and its so unfortunate to-day, because my brother is just coming home for this one evening, and Mrs. Henchman was going to let me go special, and by after tea I sha'n't be able to hold my head up, and I've not seen him for two years, and he's my favourite."
"Perhaps you can see him to-morrow," suggested Denys.
"No, Miss; he's a gentleman's servant, he is, and he's always travelling about. It was just this one chance, and now I've missed it."
"I've some headache pills—they are wonderful for nervous headaches. You would not like to try them, would you?" asked Denys. "Mother has these dreadful nervous headaches and nothing else has ever been any good to her."
"I'd try them, Miss, and be thankful."
Denys ran upstairs and came back to the kitchen, "Could you not just lie down for half-an-hour's sleep?" she said, "you might wake up with it all gone."
Mary shook her head dolefully.
"It's the milkman, Miss, and I wouldn't hear the door bell in my room."
Denys laughed.
"I have attended on the milkman before now, and I can open the front door if necessary," said she cheerfully. "Now run away upstairs, and I'll call you in plenty of time to get the tea ready. I don't suppose I had better undertake that!"
"You are real good, Miss," said Mary gratefully, "if I do see my brother to-night, I shall tell him it was all your doing."
Denys smiled to herself happily as she went back to the dining-room, and sat down to write to Charlie and to listen for the door bell. She had hated to go away with the remembrance of Mary's unpleasant looks, and the little bit of sympathy she had offered had turned Mary into a friend.
When Denys and Gertrude arrived at the station the next day, little Harry was already there, smiling and radiant. He greeted Denys as a very old friend, and did not appear to be the least homesick. The journey was of the most intense interest to him, till at last the rush and roar of the train made him drowsy, and he climbed contentedly into Denys's arms and fell asleep.
Denys sat watching him for a long time, wondering what his new life was to be, and she was somewhat surprised to find Gertrude's eyes also fixed upon the little face.
"I hope the people that child is going to will be good to him," she said. "What do you know about them?"
"Nothing!" said Denys. "His mother said her brother had promised to take him, but she had never seen the wife. Perhaps we shall see her at Mixham, but anyhow, we can't do anything except look him up now and then."
"Humph!" said Gertrude, "I should pity anybody who was in charge of the woman who washes at the house at the bottom of our garden.Shecomes from Mixham; Pattie used to be engaged to her brother. She looks a perfect vixen."
"Used to be engaged?" repeated Denys, startled. "You don't mean to say it is broken off? Poor Pattie!"
"Not poor Pattie at all," answered Gertrude sharply. "Hewas as poor as anything, and his isn't the sort of trade where they ever get much money. Why, here's Mixham! Where's that child's hat? Wake up, Tommy, or Harry, or whatever your name is!"
Jim Adams, as he had promised, had come down to meet Harry, and if he had been asked what sort of a child he was going to look for, he would have pointed to one of a dozen little urchins, playing up and down his own street, and said that boys were all alike.
So, as he was looking for a nondescript boy in knickers and jacket and cap and heavy boots, it was little wonder that he looked in vain among the crowd of travellers who poured out of the big train on the Junction platform, and he was proportionately surprised when a young lady with red-brown hair and a sweet face touched him on the arm.
"Do you happen to be Mr. Jim Adams?" she asked in her soft, pretty voice.
Jim gasped as he looked down at her, and saw the child she was holding by the hand. A child in petticoats, almost a baby it seemed to him, with a littleblack kilted frock and sailor coat, and a big white hat with a black ribbon, and underneath it, golden curls and the sweetest little face he had ever seen since last he saw his sister Nellie's face!
He knew it in a moment, and his heart went out to the child with an intensity of love that astonished even himself, and an awful sort of choke came into his throat as he stooped and lifted Nellie's child in his arms.
"Hullo! little chap! I'm Uncle Jim," he said.
Harry looked at him approvingly.
"I'm going to live along with you!" he said. "Mother's gone away," he added mournfully.
The clasp of Jim's arms tightened on the little fellow.
"I'm going to look after you now," he whispered. Then he remembered Denys's presence and he turned to her.
"Thank you for bringing him up, Miss. They say as you was very kind to my poor sister, and I thank you for that too. I'll do my best by the little chap."
"There was one thing," said Denys, hesitatingly. It did not seem so easy to say as she had thought. The handsome, tall young workman before her took away her breath somewhat, and she wished she had written what Nellie Lyon had particularly asked her to impress upon Jim.
"Yes, Miss," said Jim wonderingly.
"She wanted him to be brought up an abstainer," explained Denys, "as she and you were brought up."
Jim's eyes dropped.
"Yes," he said after a moment, "Yes, he shall, and so shall my own baby! I'll give 'em all the chance I can to start right. I've been trying to do without anything myself for this two months," he added, with a shy little laugh.
"I'm glad of that—we were all brought up so," said Denys, heartily, "now Mr. Adams, I may come and see Harry if I am in Mixham any time, mayn't I? He's such a dear, lovable little chap."
"That you may, Miss! any time," cried Jim earnestly, "and I thank you once again, and I'll do my best—every way."
He strode off with Harry still in his arms, well pleased with his new possession, and turned his steps towards home. But as he drew nearer to his own door, his speed slackened. What sort of a welcome would Jane give him—and the child?
He had the sense to put him down and let him walk into his new home, and so, hand in hand, the big uncle and the little nephew presented themselves before Jane.
She looked at the pair for a moment in silence, and then burst into a loud, ironical laugh.
"I always knew you were a cheat, Jim Adams! You talked enough about your sister'sboyand you've brought a baby in petticoats."
"I'm not a baby—I'm going in four," said Harry gravely, "that's a baby in there," pointing to the cradle. He crossed the room and looked curiously down at the baby, and the baby, pleased with the kind little face, laughed and threw out its arms.
"Can't I have him out to play with? He likes me," cried Harry, "look, Uncle Jim, he's pulling my finger."
Jim lifted out his baby and sat down, and Harry stood beside him, lost in admiration.
"Well, thisisa nice set-out," said Jane crossly, as she looked at the happy little trio, "the first thing you do, Jim Adams, is to get that boy some breeches.I'mnot going to wash a lot of petticoats." She stooped and lifted Harry's frock—the little black frock that Nellie had prepared weeks ago, ready for this very time, knowing that there would be no one to buy mourning for her child.
Jane examined the petticoats, and her face relaxed a little.
"Humph!" she said, "they're not such bad petticoats! They'll do for baby finely. You can sell the frock, if you like, Jim Adams,that'sno good to me, and it will help towards the breeches."
"Indeed I won't," answered Jim fiercely, "if I part with the frock, I'llgiveit away. Who made your pretty frock, Harry, boy?"
Harry looked down at himself proudly.
"My mother made that," he said, "that's my bestest frock. She made it ages ago, but she wouldn't never let me wear it."
Jim's eyes filled and he turned hastily to the window that Jane might not perceive it.
"Don't you part with that frock, Jane," he said.
Jane snorted.
"Tea's ready!" she said ungraciously.
The meal was about half through when she started a new subject.
"Where's the brat's bed?" said she.
"His bed?" repeated Jim, helplessly.
"His bed," she reiterated, "I suppose you thought he'd share the baby's cradle!"
Jim kept what he had thought to himself.
"You must go and get one somewhere," decreed his wife.
Jim rose obediently and went downstairs. In about half an hour he returned with his arms full of irons, blankets and bedding.
"Here, Harry, boy," he said, "uncle's got a jolly little bed for you!"
"Where did you get that?" demanded Jane.
Little Harry Lyon found the circumstances of his fresh life so entirely different from his old existence, that he seemed a greater stranger to himself than the most strange of those who peopled his new world.
To begin with, he was, to use his aunt's own term, "breeched" the next day, and his petticoats became the big baby's property, while his precious best frock was poked unceremoniously into a box under his aunt's bed.
He looked after it with longing eyes. He had waited so long to wear it and it seemed too bad to have it taken away when he had only worn it so few times, and it was made with a pocket, the first he had ever had. As he saw the box slammed down, he remembered with a pang that in the pocket was his little bestest white handkerchief with lace on it and in the corner of the handkerchief, tied in an easy knot, was a penny that Denys had given him.
He had never dared to ask her again for even a ha'penny, but one day she had given him a bright penny that shone like gold and he had treasured it with utmost joy, more because he had not asked for it, than for its value as a penny.
The edge of the box which held his treasures stuck out from under the bed, and he watched it for a long time, resolving in his little mind that one day he would manage somehow to get his own again.
The confinement of his new life irked him as much as his breeches, for he had been used to wandering about the Landslip and the Whitecliff beach at his own pleasure, and now there were but two rooms to wander in, or at best a short and narrow street, beyond whose limits he was forbidden to go, and it was filled with rough and noisy children who pushed him and pinched him and who roared vociferously whenever they saw him, after they discovered that his name was Lyon.
He had always made friends with all the sailors and visitors at Whitecliff, but here the men and women hurried about their business and never even glanced at the golden-headed little chap, and there were no boats to be pulled up and pushed out, and no tide, and no sands, and no—noanything.
Harry stood at the top of the dull street looking forlornly about him, when he came to that conclusion, and when he realised it, he burst into a sudden fit of heart-broken crying.
There were no loving arms now in which to sob out his woes, and he turned his little back upon the world and covering his face with his hands, leaned his head against a big brick wall and wept, and wept, and wept for his mother.
"Oh, mummy—mummy—mummy—"
"Why, Harry!" said his Uncle Jim's voice, "whatever's the matter with you? You shouldn't be crying—you're a big boy now. Have the boys been hitting you?"
Harry did not turn or heed him.
"Oh, mummy—mummy—mummy," he wailed.
"Harry!" said Jim again, "here's a penny for you—let's go and buy some sweeties."
But Harry was past that.
"Oh, mummy—mummy—my mummy—I want my mummy."
There was no mistaking the heart-broken cry this time, and Jim looked helplessly at Tom Green who stood beside him.
"It's the old story," said Tom gently, "'They have taken away my Lord and I know not where they have laid him.'" Then he stooped down to the level of the little weeping child and drew him into his arms and turned the tear-stained little face to rest on his shoulder.
"Harry!" he said gently, "dear mummy has gone to live in a beautiful Home with Jesus and she's so happy and she doesn't cough any more or feel tired any more. Oh, she's so happy. And she is with Jesus. She used to tell you about Him, didn't she?"
The comfort of the kind arms and the kind voice, and above all, the words of hope that carried the childish thoughts straight to happiness and seemed to find his mother for him again, comforted the little heart at once, and Harry's sobs came only with a long drawn breath as he listened.
Tom did not wait for an answer, he went on in the same low, soothing tone.
"Jesus has got such a lovely Home ready for dear mummy and He is getting one ready for little Harry too, and one day Jesus will call Harry and he will see Jesus and dear mummy and the beautiful Home and be so happy."
"Yes," murmured Harry nestling closer. He was so tired of crying and being lonely, and these arms held him so nicely. He gave a deep, deep sigh which somehow spoke of restfulness and of the sorrow being past, and Tom raised himself and looked in the tear-stained face a moment, then kissed it and wiped it with his handkerchief.
"That's better!" he said cheerfully, "would you like a ride on Uncle Tom's shoulder? Uncle Tom is coming home to tea with Harry, and Uncle Tom's awful hungry—he's going to eat a whole big loaf for tea."
Harry laughed gleefully as he found himself swung in an instant on to Uncle Tom's shoulder and was carried along high above all the other little rough children's heads, and was even on a level with Uncle Jim! By stretching out his hand he could pat the top of Uncle Jim's head; and he laughed again as he gave Uncle Jim a good hard pat.
"You are a clever one, Tom," said Jim admiringly, "how did you pick it up?"
Tom might have said, "Out of my own sorrow," but he only smiled, and told Harry to mind his head as he stopped at Jim's doorway and carried him upstairs to Aunt Jane and the baby.
Harry became Tom's devoted slave thenceforth, and Jim watched the two playing and whispering together almost jealously, and yet he liked Tom too well to really grudge him the child's love, and Tom looked so happy,—happier than Jim had seen him since Pattie gave him up.
Jim took notice too of the way Tom amused the child, how he became a child for the time being, and all the materials he had were trifles from his pockets; a piece of paper and a pencil, a few odd buttons and keys, a bit of string and an empty match box!
Jim knew thathisingenuity could never amuse Harry with such things, but he determined to buy some toys that very evening, and to try his hand at winning the child's heart the next evening. Jane took very little notice of any of them and after putting the baby to bed, announced that she had shopping to do, and as Tom saw her slip an empty jug into her shopping basket, he knew what her final destination would be and that she would not return for some considerable time.
"Aren't you going to put the little 'un to bed before you go out, Jane?" he said, "we've had a good spell of play and he's half asleep now."
But Jane deigned no answer, unless the slam of the door as she disappeared on to the stairs, was one.
Jim shrugged his broad shoulders.
"Harry and me, we do the bedding-down between us," he said rather sheepishly, "run and get your nightie, boy."
Then as Harry trotted off, he added in a lower tone, "She won't do nothing for him, so I have to. It's no use arguing over everything and so——"
Tom nodded. "So you have to be father and mother both," he said. "He's more of a little 'un than I expected, but he's a dear little 'un. I've right down enjoyed myself this evening."
The two men between them undressed Harry and superintended his prayers, and tucked him into his bed, and then they sat by the open window and chatted in low tones till the sound of their voices had lulled Harry to sleep, and then at last Tom rose and said he must be going. He went over to the cot and stood looking down on the little sleeping face, with its regular features, its long lashes lying on the bright cheeks, and its crown of tumbled golden hair.
"He's like the pictures of the angels," he said regretfully, "if Pattie and I had had our little home, we'd have loved to let him stay with us a bit, but I'll come in on Saturday and take him on the river, if you'll let me. It seems so long since I had anybody to go out with."
"Poor old Tom," said Jim affectionately, "it's cut you very hard, but I always believe it will come all right, you know!"
"Pooh!" said an unexpected voice behind them, "you would always believe anything silly, Jim Adams! Come right, indeed! Very likely! You just wait till I have seen Miss Pattie Paul again."
"Have you seen her?" asked Tom in a curiously quiet tone. He had gone very pale, but his face was in shadow and Jane did not perceive it or anything peculiar in his voice.
"Ha!" she cried vaingloriously, "I have! I let her know what I thought of her—mean little cat."
"Jane!" said her husband warningly.
"Oh, you needn't stand up for her," she said airily. "I'm not going to stand by and see my brother treated so. But what's a talking-to with a brazen hussy like that? Wait a bit, I haven't thought how to do it yet, but I'm going to pay her out. Trust me!"
And then Jim did what he had never done in his life before,—he took his wife by the shoulders and forcibly marched her into the bedroom and shut the door upon her.
"Come, Tom!" he said touching him gently on the shoulder, "we've had enough of this."
They passed down the stairs together, but on the landing below Tom stopped, and covering his face with his hands, leaned against the wall.
"Oh Pattie, Pattie," he moaned, "that's my last chance gone. And my own sister too."
Jim said nothing. He was not good at words, but he waited till Tom had recovered himself, and then he went right to his home with him and made a cup of tea for him and sat and chatted till past midnight.
"Don't be downhearted, old fellow," he said when he parted from him.
But as he went home again he muttered to himself and frowned.
"I wonder what Jane means to do? I wonder what shecoulddo?"
Gertrude had never had such a summer of gaieties.
She had not long returned from Whitecliff when a young American, cousin to Pauline Stacey, with a long purse and unlimited ideas of enjoying himself, made his appearance in Old Keston.
He had "done" England, and wished to stay with his Aunt Stacey "for a few days" before going on to Switzerland, and with his cousin Pauline's very ready help, he inaugurated a series of boating excursions, moonlight strolls, tennis matches and picnics, which lengthened his visit into weeks instead of days, and in which Gertrude, to her great delight, found herself involved from the very first. Pauline Stacey had long ago found Gertrude a far more congenial spirit than her first friend, Denys, had ever been, so that though Denys was occasionally invited to the American's festivities, it generally fell out that Gertrude and Willie or Gertrude and Conway, but always Gertrude, helped to make up the large parties, without which the American could not be satisfied and which stirred up and drew together the social side of Old Keston in an unprecedented manner.
The weather was glorious, and Gertrude spent every halfpenny she could scrape together on white frocks, and though she professed to hate needlework, she suddenly became extremely industrious and worked early and late, turning out dainty blouses which far outshone Denys's creations and astounded her family. On Saturday mornings she gave up all her usual avocations, denied herself to the general public, and devoted her energies to the wash-tub and the ironing board, the result of which operations she proudly displayed in a pile of muslins which would have done credit to an experienced laundry-maid.
"People think I can't do things," she said complacently to her mother, "Denys is not the only one who can get up frocks and make blouses."
"Very likely not," muttered Conway, who overheard the remark, "you only do them when it is for yourself. Denys does them every day for everybody else."
Gertrude carefully laid by her freshly got up stock of elegancies, and stretched her tired back on the bed which they had occupied, hoping to get half an hour's sleep before she dressed for a picnic.
"Money would have sent all those horrid frills to the laundry and saved me a backache," she said to herself, "frills are bad enough to make, but they are infinitely worse to iron. Of course I want money to do things with! I don't want to be poor all my life."
Then she smiled as she closed her eyes and composed herself to sleep.
"I believe I reallyamhaving my chance," she reflected. "I know pretty nearly everybody who is worth knowing here now."
And then, as so often happened when Gertrude contemplated her matrimonial prospects, a vision of Reggie Alston rose up before her, and disturbed her serenity.
"Reggiewasa nice boy—it is a pity he is poor," she thought regretfully, and then she suddenly sprang into a sitting posture, all thought of sleep completely banished from her mind.
Reggie's birthday! It had come and gone weeks ago and she had missed it—she had completely forgotten it! What must Reggie have thought?
She glanced at the clock; there was just time to scribble a note before she dressed for the picnic, and of course, though she had no wish to encourage Reggie's friendship, yet a birthday was a special occasion, and had she remembered it she would certainly have written!
Why, it was on Easter Monday! No wonder she had forgotten it! Mrs. Henchman had sent all her young party and several other friends off for a lovely expedition to an old castle, and Audrey had been hostess and had felt herself tied to the luncheon basket and the elder guests, while Cecil Greyburne and Gertrude had wandered about together all day and she had never once thought of Reggie.
But she ought to have written on the Friday or Saturday. She remembered how they had all come in late from a long walk, and Cecil had discovered that the country post had gone out, and he had not sent off a particular letter and an Easter card. He had fumed and worried to such an extent that she had thought it really unnecessary, and wondered whoever could be of such importance to him. Then Charlie had recollected that there was a later country post in Dennetford and Cecil had sat down at Charlie's desk and written furiously, and enclosed a lovely Easter card—Gertrude had seen enough of it to know that—and then, without waiting for even a cup of tea, he had ridden off to Dennetford as if his very life depended on catching that post!
If she had only thought of Reggie's birthday, Cecil would have posted the letter with his, as he posted one for Charlie.
She went hot all over as she suddenly realised that Charlie's letter must have been a birthday letter for Reggie. She distinctly remembered Charlie's words,
"It will reach Scotland on Monday morning."
Charlie might have reminded her!
Hastily now she gathered her writing materials and wrote Reggie his long delayed birthday letter, and in her haste and regret she forgot all about her casual on-the-top-of-things style, and though the letter was very short it was just such a letter as she had written him before these new ideas came into her head. "I am rushing off to a picnic with the Stacey people, so cannot write more," she ended up. "We are going to the Roman Hill. Do you remember how we went there last year and what a jolly time we had?"
Simple words—and yet Reggie treasured them like gold-dust.
Gertrude posted her letter on her way to the Stacey's house and she felt vaguely relieved when it slipped from her fingers into the chasm of the red pillar box. She felt that now she could enjoy herself in peace.
She was the most popular, the most sought-after girl at the picnic that afternoon; she was never short of a cavalier to wait on her lightest behest; she was her prettiest, her most charming self. The American whispered to her that a picnic without her would be a desolation and he had half a mind to stop another week at his aunt's—but Gertrude was not enjoying herself. From behind the gorse bushes, from between the moss-grown boulders, from beneath the dark foliage of the Scotch firs, there peeped at her a ghost.
She saw it everywhere. It was the ghost of Reggie Alston.
The next day was Sunday; always a quiet home day in the St. Olave's household, and in the little interval between tea-time and evening service the whole family were gathered in the cool shaded drawing-room, reading, or listening to Gertrude's description of the yesterday's picnic. Suddenly she broke in upon her own narrative with a question—
"Mother, how did you and father happen to meet and like one another?"
Mrs. Brougham smiled as she glanced over at Mr. Brougham.
"My dear!" she said, "that's a very old story!"
"Mother won't tell it!" said Willie in his slow, drawly way, "so I will; I know all about it. Father made up his mind that there was nobody like mother in all the world, but prospects were bad in England and he did not see how he could buy the furniture, so he did not say a word to anybody except to his own mother, and he went to China and saved up, and in four years he came back because the firm shut up shop, and the first thing he heard when he got back, was that mother was going into a big hospital to train as a nurse, and he said to himself, 'One of those doctors will take a fancy to her, as sure as sure,' so he put on his best clothes and rushed off—and—and—"
"Proposed," ended up Gertrude. "Of course I know all that as well as you do. What I want to know is before all that."
"Now it is my turn," said Mr. Brougham looking up from his book, "before that, mother used to give music lessons to my little step-sister and brother—and two more rampageous little mortals I never came across—and they were always in hot water with their masters and mistresses. But whatever they did, she was so patient and gentle—though she made them mind her too—but she never spoke sharply or raised her voice. I used to stand on the stairs outside the drawing-room door, to be sure that they were not very naughty to her, and I made up my mind then. When true love comes to bless us, it is generally through some little everyday thing, some strength or tenderness of character, some simple good quality, some sympathetic tone, or some unselfish act."
"Oh, what fun it would have been if mother had come out and caught you," cried Tony exultantly.
"I wonder what Charlie chose Denys for," murmured Gertrude.
"Really!" said Denys, flushing and rising, "this conversation is getting altogether too personal. Come, Maudie, it is your bedtime."
She carried the child off, and Conway said a little pointedly—
"I wonder what anybody could choose Gertrude for."
Gertrude coloured angrily and his mother said gently, "Conway, dear!"
"Well!" said Willie's drawly voice again, "I should like to know what a girl looks for in a fellow. What should you expect, for instance, Gertrude?"
One word rose involuntarily to Gertrude's lips, but she choked it back.
"My dear Willie!" she said with her easy laugh.
And that same word had risen to Conway's lips, but with a tremendous effort he too choked it back. Gertrude always aggravated him, and it was a daily fight with him to be civil to her.
He rose abruptly and went into the garden, and in a few minutes the others drifted after him, and Mr. and Mrs. Brougham were left alone.
"It is nice to see them all together like this," said Mrs. Brougham fondly, as she watched the moving figures in the garden.
There was a smile in Mr. Brougham's eyes as he quoted—
"And the ancient arrow makerTurned again unto his labour,Sat down by his sunny doorway,Murmuring to himself, and saying,That it is our daughters leave us."
"We shan't have to part with little Maud—yet," answered Mrs. Brougham with a low laugh.
There did not rise before her mental vision a picture of a vengeful woman cowering over a handful of red embers, her mind set on one object and one object only—some mode of vengeance.
But even if she could have seen such a picture, how could she have formed a chain of association which should link that woman with the maid in her own kitchen, or with the golden-haired child upstairs, the patter of whose little feet sounded over her head?
How the patter of those childish footsteps came back to her heart's memory on Monday night!
"No," repeated Mr. Brougham thoughtfully, "not yet!"
Monday morning brought a letter for Gertrude in a distinctly masculine, but quite unfamiliar handwriting.
Its very unfamiliarity made her let it lie unopened beside her plate while she began her breakfast. If anyone showed curiosity about her correspondent she could truthfully say she did not know who the letter was from, and she liked to amuse herself with wondering about it. Even the postmark was obliterated. She decided then that the rich American, who really was leaving for Switzerland at last, had written to say farewell and to tell her when he was likely to return for the final wind-up picnic he had promised to Old Keston.
She did not guess that the mysterious writing was well known to Denys as that of one of Charlie Henchman's friends, and that she had said to herself as she carried it in from the post-box, "What is Cecil Greyburne writing to Gertrude for?"
At last curiosity overcame Gertrude. All the family were busy with their breakfast and their own concerns. Conway and her father were each buried in a daily paper, Willie and Tony had lesson books propped in front of them, little Maud was engrossed in bread and milk, and Mrs. Brougham and Denys at either end of the table were pouring out tea, and cutting bread, and dispensing porridge and bacon, and generally devoting themselves to the wants of the family. Nobody was heeding Gertrude, and she opened her letter and glanced first at the signature.
Cecil Greyburne!
She was distinctly conscious of a feeling of disappointment, but in a moment she pushed that aside. It was pleasant to find Cecil had not forgotten her, though the note was but a short one, nothing to compare in length with the one that had accompanied the Easter card which he had ridden fast and far to post.
"My dear Gertrude," the note ran, "You know I am always trotting about the country for my work, and on Monday afternoon I find I pass through Old Keston station, waiting three minutes by the official time-table (probably that will mean five). I meant to call in and give you all a surprise visit, but find there is no suitable train to carry me on later. If some of you are near the station at 5.15 and can waste a few minutes on a chat, it would cheer a hot and tiring journey and make it seem worth while. I shall be in the front of the train; at least half of me will be, the other half will be outside the window watching for you.
"Yours truly,"Cecil Greyburne."
"Yours truly,"Cecil Greyburne."
Monday afternoon at 5.15! Gertrude's memory rapidly ran through her list of Monday classes and pupils. One of the pupils was ill and, a most unusual thing, she would be free at four o'clock! She need not go to the station in her school dress, but have time to come home and put on something pretty. It was very jolly of Cecil to have thought of writing. Of course she would go if she possibly could.
She frowned as she wondered whether she must mention Cecil's request to her mother and Denys. He had said "some of you," but he had written specially to her. She remembered that Denys always went to help with a Blanket Club on Monday afternoons and was seldom home before six o'clock, and she did not see exactly what interest it would be to Denys to see Cecil.
At any rate she would leave that decision till she came home at dinner-time.
At dinner-time she had a bright idea. She would take little Maud. The care of Maud on Monday afternoons devolved on Mrs. Brougham, and Gertrude knew that a proposal to take the child out would be very welcome, and it would fulfil Cecil's "some of you." Cecil would like to see the family pet.
So Denys went on unsuspectingly to the Blanket Club, and at four o'clock Gertrude turned up at home, announced that for a wonder she had an hour off, that she was going up to the station and that she would take Maud with her, if Mrs. Brougham liked.
Then she arrayed herself in her freshest muslin and most becoming hat, curled up Maud's ringlets and dressed her in a clean and dainty frock, put her in her little wheel chair, and catching up a library book to change at the station, as a sort of excuse, started forth to see Cecil.
Her mother came to the gate with them both and stood watching them down the road, thinking to herself what a pretty pair they made, and at the corner they turned and waved to her, and Gertrude's heart suddenly misgave her. She wished now that she had made no secret of Cecil's letter, she had even half a mind to run back and ask her mother to come with them and see Cecil, or at any rate, to send a message of kind regards to him, but as she hesitated, thinking how astonished her mother would be that she had not mentioned it before, Mrs. Brougham, with a final smile and wave of the hand, turned back to the house, and the chiming of the church clock sounding out warned Gertrude that it was far later than she had guessed it could be.
Five o'clock! Howcouldshe have been so long getting ready?
It was fifteen minutes' steady walk to the station, and the church clock was often slow, but then the train was sure to be late!
Comforting herself with this reflection Gertrude hurried along, hating to look hot and flurried, and yet more and more determined not to be too late, even if she had to run for it.
And run for it she did, for the signal was down when it came into view a hundred yards away from the station, and as she entered the booking office she saw the engine of Cecil's train rounding the last bend of the line, and there were the steps and the subway between her and the down platform.
If she waited to unfasten Maud's strap, to lift her out, and carry her down the steps and up the steps, she would miss Cecil. The thought came to her unbidden as the train thundered in, and hastily pushing the wheel chair into a corner by the booking office window, she bade the child look through and see all the lovely big trains, till Gertrude came back in a minute. Then she flew down the steps and through the subway and was rushing up the other side when an unexpected voice arrested her steps.
"Good afternoon, Gertrude. I was just wishing to see you. What are you in such a flurry for? There is another three minutes before the train goes!"
"I've to meet someone," explained Gertrude hurriedly, "I'll come and see you, Mrs. Parsons. I can't stay now."
She ran on, and Mrs. Parsons followed her leisurely. She liked to know everybody's business and she lived opposite the Stacey's and had observed that Gertrude had attended every festivity provided by the American cousin, while her own daughter had been invited only once. She had also heard that the American was leaving for Switzerland to-day, and she immediately jumped to the conclusion that Gertrude had come to see him off. So she strolled along the platform and made her observations.
No, it was not the American, but it was a young fellow; a tall and pleasant-looking fellow too. He stood on the platform, one hand on the open door of the carriage, talking eagerly to Gertrude, and Mrs. Parsons stationed herself at a moderate distance, partly screened by a pile of luggage, and waited. She wished the engine would cease blowing off steam, she could perhaps have caught snatches of that interesting conversation, for she had wonderful hearing, besides an imagination.
"I was awfully disappointed I could not call and see you all," Cecil was saying, "I seem to know you all through Charlie and Denys. I hoped Denys would have come with you, but I suppose she was too busy. I saw Charlie yesterday and I had heaps of messages for her."
Gertrude coloured, "I'm sorry!" she said, a little nettled that he should be unsatisfied with her company, "you didn't mention Denys specially and she is always at the Blanket Club on Mondays, so I didn't even tell her I was coming, but I did bring Maudie, only we got late somehow and there wasn't time to bring her round, so I left her on the other side in the booking office."
"Here's twopence to get her out again," laughed Cecil, "Well! better luck next time. I suppose you got late by making yourself so fetching!"
"Perhaps!" answered Gertrude with a tiny bit of starch in her tone, but the next moment she laughed, and asked him when he would be making the return journey.
So the minutes slipped by till their chat was overpowered by the rush and roar of a train coming in on the up side and there was a sudden waving of flags and shouting by porters of "Take your seats," along Cecil's train.
"Hullo! we're off!" he exclaimed as he jumped on to the footboard, "we were waiting for that train to cross I suppose, but they gave us a jolly long three minutes; its been quite six, I should say. I knew they would. It's awfully good of you to come down and see me. Give my love to everybody. Good-bye!"
"Good-bye!" she echoed, "mind you write when you come through again, and see if I don't bring Denys and Maud and mother and anybody else I can lay hold of, to meet you!"
"All right!" he said, "that's a promise!"
The train moved and she stood back smiling and waving, watching him till the train passed round the bend. Then she turned, and encountered Mrs. Parsons.
"I thought I would wait for you, my dear. It is a pity to trouble you to call when you must have somanyengagements. It is only a matter of a couple of words."
"Then I must get you to come round to the booking office," said Gertrude, trying to hide her annoyance, "for I have little Maud waiting for me, and she will think I am never coming back."
They passed down the steps and up the other side to the booking office, and Gertrude, entering first, went quickly to the corner where she had left her little sister.
"Well, Maudie!" she said cheerfully, "did you think I——"
She stopped short, aghast. There was the wheel chair, just as she had left it, but it was empty. Little Maud was not there.
"Maud!" she said, looking round into every corner as if the child might be hiding. "Maud! wherever are you?"
There was no answer. The office was empty except for the wheel chair.
Gertrude glanced up and down the platform, then out at the door that stood open to the road. Then she knocked at the office door.
"Have you seen anything of my little sister?" she asked, "I left her in that chair five minutes or so ago, and I can't think what has became of her."
The clerk shook his head.
"I didn't see her," he said, "I was giving out tickets for the up train. There was a terrific scrimmage between two dogs—no end of a row. Perhaps your brother or your father came in by the up train and took the child home. It was enough to frighten anybody to hear the lady that the little dog belonged to! She was right down screaming for somebody to rescue her dog."
"It might be that," assented Gertrude. All her bright colour had departed, she looked pale and anxious, and such an upset of her nicely laid plans was extremely annoying. Besides, she might be very much blamed for leaving Maud alone.
"Well! I'm not going to wheel home that empty chair," said she, "you might keep it for me till to-morrow."
Then she turned to Mrs. Parsons. It was an aggravation of annoyance to have her as a witness of thesecontretemps.
"Really, Mrs. Parsons!" she said sharply, "I cannot attend to any business to-night. I must get home and see about Maud. It's very thoughtless of Conway to take her off without my knowing."
Mrs. Parsons had quite intended to accompany Gertrude to St. Olave's and see the end of the story, and she was highly offended at Gertrude's tone.
So she turned homewards alone and she told the story in her own way.
Gertrude's footsteps grew quicker and quicker as she neared St. Olave's. It seemed to her that a string was being tied round her neck so tightly that she could scarcely get her breath.
If Conway had taken Maud home, why had he left the wheel chair?
On the doorstep she paused to pull herself together. It was ridiculous to be so nervous.
She went straight to the dining-room. Her mother and Denys were sitting peacefully at tea.
"Are father or Conway home?" she asked abruptly.
"No, they expect to be late," answered Mrs. Brougham serenely.
"Have you been up to the station, Denys?"
"No," said Denys, glancing up wonderingly.
"Nor Pattie?"
"No! whatever is the matter, Gertrude?"
"Somebody has taken Maud!"