Jim Adams could not make out what had changed his wife, but changed she was.
It might have been a dream that she had threatened vengeance on Pattie, for she now never mentioned her, and she treated Tom with a politeness and a thoughtfulness that made Jim believe she repented her interview with Pattie, and wished Tom to forget it. She might even have herself forgotten what she had said about paying Pattie out. She had undoubtedly had a few glasses the night Tom came in to see Harry, and that was enough to account for uncontrolled words, and forgetfulness of them.
Jane had also ceased to grumble at Harry's presence, and she cooked Jim appetising suppers as of old and she even spoke pleasantly to Harry. Jim fondly imagined that she was becoming as devoted to the bright, engaging little fellow as he was himself, and he could not know that in his absence hard words and frequent blows became the child's portion whenever his aunt happened to be annoyed with him or anybody else.
Jim little guessed the real reasons that lurked beneath Jane's changed and pleasant behaviour. The truth was that her thirst for vengeance and her desire for strong drink were growing together, and with them—for it was allied to both of them—cunning grew.
On that evening when Jim had summarily marched her into her bed-room, she had been enraged beyond words, and had the two men not taken their immediate departure, there is no saying what might have happened.
But while she waited for Jim's return she had time for reflection.
Aided by the inspiriting action of the supper beer, she had thought over the situation, and before the inspiriting effect had gone off, and the lowering, muddling effect had come on, she came to the conclusion that she would be making a great mistake if she allowed Tom or Jim to know her intentions against Pattie. What was the use of all her plans and determination, if they interfered and spoilt it all? They must think it was only an empty threat, and by and by they would forget it.
That settled the matter of the desire for vengeance, and she forthwith brooded over it in silence, till it became part of her very existence.
The thirst for strong drink touched her relations towards Harry. She was finding the extra money that Jim gave her for the child most useful. She scarcely missed his food, for he ate but little, and his share was usually what would otherwise have been wasted. Jane was not of a thrifty turn of mind, but the money was hard, solid cash, and gave her a free hand for spending on that in which her soul most delighted.
It was therefore necessary to make the child at least apparently comfortable, or Jim might take it into his head to board him out. Any woman among her neighbours would have taken the boy for less than Jane had demanded for his keep.
With these reasons to help the most powerful influences of her life, Jane kept an oiled tongue and an even temper, and like the calm before the storm, it made things pleasanter for those around her.
Little Harry quickly discovered that it was safer to play in the street when Aunt Jane was alone, but that there was no need for fear if Uncle Jim or Uncle Tom were at home. He was a cheerful little soul too, and began to enjoy such pleasures as came into his new life and to forget the old. Saturday, Sunday and Monday were his joy-days, for on Saturday Uncle Tom always came and took him out for some excursion or treat, or if it were wet, to his own home.
On Sunday Uncle Jim sent him to a Mission Sunday School, morning and afternoon, and sometimes, greatest treat of all, in the evening Uncle Jim would take him to the Mission Service. That Mission Service had a home-like feeling to little Harry, for it reminded him of the Sailor's Rest where he had so often gone with his mother at Whitecliff, before her cough got worse.
He loved the singing there, and at Sunday School. He had a voice like a little bird, sweet and true and clear, and sometimes when Aunt Jane was out on Sunday evening, Uncle Jim would let him sing to him, and even Aunt Jane would let him sing the baby to sleep of a night.
There was one hymn that he learned at Sunday School that he was never tired of singing. It had a chorus, and he always fancied that it was the baby's favourite, too—
I am so glad that Jesus loves me,Jesus loves me, Jesus loves me;I am so glad that Jesus loves me,Jesus loves even me.
On Mondays Harry went to the Mixham Nursery. Harry thought it a charming place. There were no big rough boys or girls—only little people like himself, and the tables were little and the seats were little, and there were toys, and somebody besides himself to make a grand play and pretend to be soldiers, or engine-drivers or horses.
There was a kind-faced woman there, who put pretty clean pinafores on all the children when they came in the morning, and there was always something nice for dinner.
There was a room for the babies upstairs, which Harry considered a most suitable arrangement, and he saw his baby cousin carried up there with great content. He wished Aunt Jane would go out washing every day till Saturday!
Dinner-time was twelve o'clock, and Harry, having learned to tell the time, and having taken a great fancy to the seat at the end of the long, low table, always took his place at least five minutes before twelve, to ensure its possession, and such is the force of example and the love of the best available seat, that on Mondays there was no need for the matron to say, "Come to dinner, children," for a row of little eager faces lined the table, and a row of little hands were folded reverently upon it, waiting for her to ask a blessing.
And after dinner came the only drawback which Harry found in the Nursery life.
He and all the other children had to take a good long nap.
On one side of the room was a sort of pen, with mattresses and blankets, and into this the children were tucked, the room was darkened, talking was forbidden and in a very few minutes they were all asleep, and silence and peace reigned.
"It keeps them good-tempered, and it rests the nurses," the smiling matron used to say.
Eight o'clock seemed to come much earlier on Monday night than on any other, and with the hour came Aunt Jane for the baby, and Harry's bliss was over till Saturday should dawn again, but after all it was not long from Monday night to Saturday morning, only Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday!
These pleasant summer days were bringing to Jim, too, a smooth and easy-going existence—just the existence that suited his easy-going temperament. And then, partly through the very smoothness of these days, partly on account of his great satisfaction in his own strength in keeping a resolve, there arose in Jim's life a little cloud, no bigger than a man's hand.
He had been a total abstainer such a long time now. He had so often resisted Jane's repeated invitations to share the supper beer, that she had ceased to offer it. The old liking for strong drink did not assail him now. He even mentioned with a superior little laugh to his mates, that there had been a time when he had liked his glass a trifle overmuch, but now he had given it up for good and all.
And the very next day they played a trick on him.
He was extremely fond of cold coffee, and generally brought a can of it with him for his dinner, and one very hot morning he set it down on a great stone in a shady corner of the workshop to keep it cool.
And when dinner-time came, being thirsty, the first thing he did was to take a long pull at his can. He had swallowed half its contents at one draught, before he realised what had happened.
The mystified, horrified expression on his face as he set the can down, was almost ludicrous; to his mates who were all in the secret, it was irresistibly funny.
There was a roar of delighted laughter, and Jim's eyes blazed with anger as he glared at the can he still grasped in his hand.
Yes! It was his own can, and they had taken away his coffee and filled it with beer! He had been basely tricked. He stood there realising it, while the roars of laughter were sobering down into words.
"Ha! Ha! old teetotaller! That's the best fun we ever had!"
"Jolly good coffee! isn't it, Jim? If you could only have seen your own face!"
"Never mind, old chap! You can be a teetotaller again to-morrow."
"I won't!" said Jim angrily, "I did try. Now I don't care what happens."
He gathered up his dinner basket and the can of beer, and stalked away, and a silence fell upon the little group of workmen as they watched him.
Jim Adams stuck to his threat. He ceased to be an abstainer, and life changed at once for himself and for all those with whom he came in contact.
He was morose with his mates, and withdrew from their company as much as possible. He shared the supper beer with Jane, but he constantly spoke sharply to her and especially resented the least inattention to Harry's wants, so that it seemed as if the two had changed places, and now it was Jim who found fault and Jane who, aided by that secret object in her mind, took it quietly and made the best of things.
To Harry, Jim was never cross, but the child felt a difference, and missed the companionship Jim had given him, for now Jim either called in at the public-house on his way home from work, or, returning early, went out immediately after supper, and he ceased to take an interest in the Mission Service or in Harry's singing.
Jim was bitterly disappointed with himself. He had been trying to be good like his little sister Nellie, to be good enough to meet her in Heaven, and now he had been tricked into doing what he had no intention of doing, and the old liking had come back with the old taste. He had emptied the rest of that can of beer with real relish, for in his anger he had carried it away to finish it with his dinner, and in that finishing of it, he had gone under to the old temptation.
He had fought and failed. If, in his anger at the base trickery of his mates, he had dashed the can of beer on the ground, he would not have despised himself, he could have forgiven himself; but he knew perfectly well that, even as the unexpected liquid poured down his throat, and he realised what it was, he had made up his mind to finish it, come what might.
He said to himself moodily that men and the devil had combined against him, and what was the use of fighting any more?
He only hoped that Tom would not guess. He knew Tom would be disappointed in him, and he avoided seeing him if he was able. Besides, he knew all Tom could say to him, but he did not mean to try to be a teetotaller again.
And Tom did guess. But he said nothing, for with his wise, kind eyes he saw that the time had not come, only, as he went to and from his work, many an earnest prayer went up from Tom's heart that Jim might try again, not this time in his own strength, but in the strength of that One who had died to redeem him from all iniquity; that he might one day say, "I will go forth in the strength of the Lord God."
So Tom came and went to Jim's home as regularly as ever on a Saturday, and took Harry out with him. Though he seldom found Jim in, and the very sight of Jane and the sound of her voice, brought back the shiver to his heart that had come to it when he knew she had seen and spoken to Pattie, yet he persevered in coming for the child. If things were not going too well with Jim, little Harry needed the more love and guardianship, for was not this a little life that must one day grow to good or to evil?
He was thankful that Jane never mentioned Pattie, but he little guessed that her thoughts were ever hovering round the idea of vengeance for his wrongs, like a moth about a candle.
One Monday evening, Jane returned from her work in Old Keston, full of wrath and dismay.
She had received a week's notice from her lady, and no reason, adequate in Jane's mind, had been given for the change. This made her furious, for though washing jobs were plentiful, one that suited her as well as this was rare, and she would also lose her vantage ground of keeping an eye on Pattie and finding a chance of paying her out.
Only one Monday remained to her, but rack her brains as she would, no way of working her will occurred to her. Yet if she once lost sight of Pattie, small chance of doing anything would remain.
The last Monday came, and all day Jane kept a sharp look-out on Pattie's premises; but Pattie had eyes as well as Jane Adams, and she took very good care that Mondays never took her down the garden within reach of Jane's tongue. Yet the very proximity of Tom's sister on Mondays brought him before Pattie's mind and made her remember that phrase which had seemed like music to her, "going thin and a-fretting for a worthless thing like you."
Yes! she was but a worthless thing—only Tom had not thought so. He had loved her. Sam Willard liked her, but if she had not gone out with him on Sunday evening after church, he would have asked somebody else to go, and laughed and talked nonsense and enjoyed himself just the same, scarcely heeding the difference of his companion. Sam was never free on Saturday evening as Tom used to be. She wondered what Tom did with his Saturdays now. She would like, unseen herself, to see Tom for just a moment. She wondered if he ever thought of her now. It was almost worth risking meeting Jane to know that!
Watch as she would, however, Jane saw nothing of Pattie till about four o'clock that Monday afternoon, and then she saw her bustle out into the garden, and begin vigorously brushing and dusting a child's wheel chair. It was but a few minutes' work and Pattie took the chair inside again, but a few moments later she reappeared at her bed-room window, and throwing the sash up she brought a hat and a brush to the sill and brushed the hat vigorously. Clearly Pattie and the child were going out for a walk! At any rate, if she could but meet them on her way to the station, Jane thought she could annoy Pattie pretty considerably.
She had meant to have a few words with her lady about her dismissal, but her lady had taken the opportunity to go out calling and left the maid to pay Mrs. Adams, and Jane scarcely regretted it, so anxious was she to be off before Pattie's walk should be over.
However, though she looked up and down every road she passed on her way to the station, she saw no sign of Pattie, and the station bell warning her of her train, she hurried on She did not want to lose it and wait an hour.
She found the booking office in an uproar. In the centre of the crowd of people gathered for this train, the greatest favourite in the day for Mixham Junction, a terrible dog-fight was going on between a big Irish terrier and a small black terrier, and the small dog was getting the worst of it.
In vain the lady who owned the small dog, begged and besought the onlookers to rescue her pet; nobody seemed to own the Irish terrier, and the majority of the passengers, being working men, carried neither sticks nor umbrellas, and nobody appeared to be inclined to interfere otherwise with so formidable-looking an antagonist. Into the midst of this hubbub came Jane, and the first thing her eyes fell upon was a frightened child, in a little wheel chair in a corner under the window, who was sobbing loudly with absolute terror.
Pattie's little charge!
Jane recognised the child and the chair in an instant, and looked round for Pattie. As she did so the Mixham Junction train thundered in, adding tenfold to the noise and confusion, the dog-fight lost its interest in a moment for the onlookers, and they streamed out on to the platform, mingling and struggling with the passengers who were alighting.
One glance showed Jane that Pattie was not in sight. Her opportunity of vengeance had come to her. She recognised it, triumphed in it, all in the flash of a moment, and bending over little terrified, crying Maud, she unfastened her strap with a touch, lifted her out, and saying aloud,
"Never mind, dear, it's all over now," she stepped swiftly across the platform and entered a third class carriage.
"Right!" shouted a porter, banging the door behind her. There was a moment's pause—a moment for reflection—a moment to go back, but Jane did not take it. She had paid Pattie out at last.
The carriage was full of people, and they looked at the sobbing child, some with curiosity, some with annoyance, but Jane was equal to the occasion.
She settled the child on her lap, wiped her wet eyes and set her hat straight, and then she faced a kind-looking lady who sat opposite.
"There's been two dogs fighting in there and it's frightened her," she said. "Never mind, my dear, it's all over now."
"I don't want to go in the train, I want to go home," cried Maud, struggling to get off this strange woman's knee, "I want to go home. I want my mother," she sobbed.
"Hush, hush, my dear!" said Jane authoritatively, giving her an admonitory little shake. Then she looked apologetically at the kind lady again.
"She don't like leaving her mother—but there's a new baby sister at her home," she said glibly, "so she's coming home with me for a bit. But she's been spoilt and she don't like the idea of a new baby at all, and she ain't used to her auntie yet, and then there was the dogs on top of it all! Hush, my dear, hush, you're disturbing the ladies and gentlemen."
She was relieved when the whole carriage load turned out at the next station: she and Maud were left alone, and she had time to collect her thoughts.
Her triumph was complete! She had paid Pattie out thoroughly and she was satisfied. The opportunity for her vengeance had come to her and she had seized it without fear and without regret. How clever it was of her to have thought of that fiction about her sister and the new baby! It would do for Jim too, admirably, and he would never find out. She doubted if he even knew where in the outskirts of Old Keston her sister lived. He might even not know her married name! He would accept the story as she gave it, especially now that he was beginning to drink again. Well! he could drink as much as he liked, so long as he brought her her money and Harry's money regularly!
In a day or two she would take the child back to Old Keston, ostensibly to see its mother and the new baby, but in reality she would take it in the dark to its own gate, and leave it to make its own presence known.
In the meantime Pattie would be dismissed without a character, with a multitude of blame upon her head, if indeed she escaped so easily. They might think Pattie had stolen the child, and clap her into prison till she was found!
That would be vengeance indeed!
"It is worse than death," sobbed Mrs. Brougham, and they all felt that it was so.
They were gathered at home at last, in the small hours of the night, for there was nothing more that they could do till morning came to wake the world again—that wide desolate world of houses and roads, of byways and slums; that world in which,somewhere, was their little Maud.
Pale, wide-eyed and silent, they all tried to eat the supper which Pattie, pale and wide-eyed too, set before them, for they thought of the day that would soon dawn, when they would need their strength to begin the search again, and though it seemed horrible to be seeking rest in their comfortable beds while their little sister's fate was unsolved, yet for that same reason, slowly and lingeringly they all said good-night and crept upstairs.
For in vain they had searched for little Maud all the evening long. Police, neighbours, friends, had all helped, but no trace, not even the faintest clue, had come to light. Porters, booking-clerks, railway officials, cabmen, had all been questioned to no purpose. Everybody talked about the dog-fight, nobody had even seen a child, though a porter averred that he had seen the empty chair long before the dogs came on the scene, and a workman that there had been no chair there at all when the up-train came in. He had stood on the very spot where the chair was supposed to be, watching through the window for a friend, with his bag of tools on the ground beside him. He had moved forward to speak to his friend, and returning a few moments later when the train had gone, to take up the tools, had then noticed the empty chair.
What had become of the child was a complete mystery! Every house of the Broughams' acquaintance was visited, in the forlorn hope that someone had taken Maud home with them, but the answer was always the same. Telegrams were sent to all the stations on the line, both up and down, but the hour between five and six held the busiest trains of the day, and in the rush of passengers, augmented by gangs of working men returning to their homes, there was small chance of a ticket collector having leisure to observe the children who passed through his gate.
No one at home said a word of blame to Gertrude. There was no need. They had heard the whole story and they only pitied her, and her grief was far greater than their own, they thought, for there was no self-blame, no shadow of deception, no regret of wilfulness in their sorrow. Even Conway felt unutterably tender towards this least dear of his sisters, when he came in from a fruitless errand, and found the proud, dark head resting on little Maud's high chair, while Gertrude's whole frame shook with sobs.
"Don't cry so!" he said gently, and he found it hard to keep his own voice steady. "Don't cry so, poor old girl. God knows where she is and He'll take care of her. I keep on saying that to myself, for I know He will."
"If only I had told them all about Cecil, it would not have been so bad," sobbed Gertrude.
And Conway could not answer. He only patted her shoulder kindly and went upstairs to find his mother.
The days dragged along their weary hours after that and no news came of Maud.
The Broughams felt as if an earthquake had come into their lives, leaving them all uprooted; as if nothing could let them settle down to the old routine of life till Maud came back, and without even putting it into words to each other, they all looked drearily forward into days and weeks and months and years, and pictured Maud as never coming back, but growing up somewhere, somehow, with somebody. Truly it was worse than death.
Gladly would they have pulled down their blinds and darkened the house and put on mourning.
When Jerry died, it had not been like this. They wept and sorrowed for him, but they laid him to rest in sure and certain hope of a joyful resurrection. He was safe. It was the uncertainty of Maud's fate, her surroundings, her associates, the awful uncertainty of everything concerning her, that made this trial so unbearable, that it seemed to every one of them that they could not bear it for another day.
Yet God knew. The only comfort they had, came to them in that thought.
Their friends were kindness itself; every sort of sympathy, except the sympathy of flowers, was offered them. Special prayer was made in church for those who were "any ways afflicted or distressed," for the story was in every one's mouth, and mothers with little children guarded them jealously, and thought of what they would feel if one of them was taken from them as Maud had been.
But outside of her own home no sympathy was shown to Gertrude.
The place rang with her name. Mrs. Parsons had gone about with her story of the handsome young man in the down train, the meeting with whom Gertrude had not even allowed her little sister to witness, and the stories grew and grew on that foundation, till every picnic or tennis party that Gertrude had attended that summer, was transformed into a separate flirtation or supplied an anecdote to Gertrude's disadvantage.
She had rejoiced at knowing everybody in Old Keston who was worth knowing, but now she wished sadly that she was utterly unknown. She felt that she was pointed at and whispered about, as "the girl that lost her little sister."
Pauline Stacey gathered up all the stories and recounted them to Gertrude with an apologetic air that meant nothing, but covered her real enjoyment in the telling of the gossip, and Gertrude had not the heart to stop her.
After all, what did it matter? Perhaps it was best to know the worst that was being said. No one could blame her more than she blamed herself; shehadlost little Maud through meeting Cecil Greyburne and she had done it secretly. Only she hoped that all these other false stories would not reach her home people's ears.
And not one friend of hers had offered her any sympathy. She felt it keenly. Even Pauline only troubled to see her when she had some fresh tale to relate. Cecil had written his sympathy to Denys and had ignored Gertrude, not even sending her a message, for Gertrude had seen the letter.
The rich American had not referred to it when he answered Pauline's letter in which she told him all about Maud, unless his remark that he should not be back in Old Keston after all, could be taken as a reference. Nor had he written a line of condolence to Gertrude, as she had half hoped he would.
And Reggie did not know anything about it. He had sent an immediate and cheerful response to her belated birthday letter, but not having written to him for so long in her sunny days of popularity, she was too proud to do so now, when she was in sorrow.
Yet she watched for a letter from him, hoping that Charlie would write to him and tell him of their trouble, and if he once heard of it, Gertrude knew that a letter would come by return of post.
But none came. Charlie did not write to Reggie. How could he do so without attaching blame to Gertrude?
These were days of darkness, but in them Pattie shone out like gold. She waited on them all with love and patience, she kept the meals regular and the rooms nicely dusted, and she attended to all the little duties that no one seemed to think of now-a-days.
It was she who received Maud's empty chair from the station-clerk, and hid it away that it might bring no fresh pang of sorrow to any heart. It was she who unostentatiously and without fuss, quietly laid by the child's toys and clothes, for she truly guessed that to Denys or Mrs. Brougham, to do so would be like saying a long farewell to their darling, and yet to see them lying here and there, was a constant reminder of her loss.
Though the two things seemed to have no connection with one another, after the day that Maud was lost, Pattie gave up going out with Sam Willard.
She said, when he remonstrated with her, that she had no heart now for palavering and he had better find someone who was free and happy. For herself, she could think of nothing but how to find little Maud again.
"Then you'll be an old maid," said Sam crossly, "whoever's taken the child has taken her a-purpose, and they won't run no risks in returning her. You'll be an old maid if you throw away all your chances like this."
"Very well!" answered Pattie firmly, "then I'llbean old maid and a good-tempered one too. I won't be like some cross-grained bachelors I know, so there!"
Jane did not feel the least shade of regret or fear when she took Maud home.
There was no one there, of course, for Jim was at work still and Harry and the baby were at the Nursery. Jane gave Maud some bread and jam and a mug of milk and sat down to think over the situation.
Harry had made his appearance in the house and street without occasioning the least remark or surprise. They made no apologies for him, no explanations beyond the one that he was Jim's nephew.
This was her niece. That was all the difference. With no mystery and no explanations she felt perfectly secure. She would act exactly as she had done when Harry came. There was only one thing necessary for protection. The colour of the child's hair should be brown and her white dress and sun hat should be pink!
"What's your name, child?" she said abruptly.
Maud looked up startled.
"I'm Maudie," she said piteously, her blue eyes filling with tears, "I don't like being here. I want to go home to my mother."
She struggled out of her chair, and prepared to depart, but Jane lifted her back rather roughly and spoke sharply.
"Look here," she said, "you've got to be a good girl and do what Aunt Jane tells you, and if you are a good girl and don't cry, you shall go home to-morrow; but if you cry, you shan't!"
She bustled over to a cupboard and began rummaging, bringing out presently a ball of pink Dolly dye and a little bottle of deep-red crystals, while poor little Maud choked back her tears as best she could. Her short experience of life had brought prompt fulfilment of promises, and she watched Jane quite interestedly, as she threw a few crystals into a basin, poured boiling water on them, and produced a lovely crimson liquid.
Jane then tied a towel round the child's neck.
"I'm going to make you some lovely curls," she announced, unconsciously using one of Denys's constant formulas, and in a moment Maud's golden head was sopped all over with the crimson liquid, and after it was dried on the towel, she emerged with fluffy brown curls and streaks of brown upon her face. That defect was soon remedied, and the brown stain travelled all over her face and neck till the clear white skin had disappeared, and she looked like all the other little sun-browned children who ran about in the street below.
Jane surveyed her handiwork with satisfaction; then she rapidly undressed her new charge, put her into one of Harry's nightdresses, tucked her up into Harry's bed, and turned her attention to the frock and hat, and when they were hanging on the line, pink and damp, she cleared up the room and wished Jim would make haste and come home. She wanted to get her explanations to him over before she fetched Harry and the baby.
But no Jim came, and at last she went downstairs and knocked at a neighbour's door.
"I say," she said, "I wish you'd fetch my baby and the brat from the Nursery for me. My husband's not in yet, and I've brought my sister's child home along of me for a few days, and he don't know a word about it. If he was to come in while I was out, he might be putting the child outside in the street."
"I'll go," said the woman carelessly. "My word, Jane Adams, but I thought you hated children!"
"So I do!" answered Jane fiercely, "but hewouldhave his sister's, now it's my turn formysister's!"
As she turned up the stairs her own words came back to her with a sudden qualm. Her sister's child! What about Tom?
He would know that this was not his sister's child—he might even know whose child it was, for he must probably have seen it with Pattie!
But even as the disquieting thought came, a reassuring one followed. Tom was gone away for a month on a special job for his master, and long before that time had elapsed, Pattie would be dismissed and the child could be returned.
Jim did not come home till very late, and when he did, he was more than half intoxicated, and he accepted Jane's story without demur, indeed he scarcely listened to what she said; and as the little girl was still asleep when he went to work in the morning, he really had no idea that there was any addition to his family circle.
Harry was enchanted with a playmate so pretty, so gentle, so near his own age. He wanted to take her to walk in the street to show her off, but Jane promptly boxed his ears and forbade any such thing, on pain of terrific wrath, so Harry contented himself with offering her every toy he possessed, and Maud accepted his attentions like a little queen, and was really quite happy, except when she thought of her mother or Denys. But always there was the same answer to her pleadings to go home.
"To-morrow—to-morrow—if you don't cry."
So the days passed on. Each day Jim drank more and more heavily as he ceased to resist the temptation, and it took stronger hold upon him, and each day Jane grew a little more restless and anxious as she waited for news of Pattie's downfall. She had counted on going over to Old Keston, ostensibly to see her sister and the new baby, but really to pick up any gossip she could about Pattie; but though night after night she made up her mind to go the next day, yet in the morning her heart failed her. The chance of recognition was possible, and to take Maud through the streets to the Nursery, in the glare of the morning sunshine, seemed to be courting discovery. Nor did she dare to leave the child at home alone, because of the neighbours. She would have left Harry alone with the utmost indifference, and locked him in, and he might have been frightened and screamed and cried all day, for all she would have cared, and the neighbours could have made any remarks they liked; but this was different.
She was certainly beginning to be nervous, and she took more beer than she had ever taken before, because she felt so much more cheerful for a little while, and when the inevitable depression it caused, returned, why then she took some more!
As her neighbour had remarked, she hated children, and she became so unutterably wearied of the care of these three all day and every day, that she began to wish she had never troubled about paying Pattie out, or chosen some way which had not entailed the plague of three children upon herself.
Still, she had triumphed; she had had her vengeance. The thought was very sweet, and the bother to herself would soon be over now. Indeed, it must be, or Tom would be coming back.
One Saturday had already passed, since Maud came, and on the second Saturday three things happened. News of Pattie came to her. Wrapped round a haddock which she had purchased for dinner, was a crumpled piece of newspaper. The name upon it, "Old Keston Gazette," caught her eye instantly. She turned it over and glanced down its columns, and her eyes rested on one, and a look and a smile of triumph flashed into her face.
But as she read, her look changed, a deep and angry flush mounted to her forehead and spread to her neck. In a sudden transport of rage, she crumpled up the paper into a ball, cast it upon the floor and trampled on it, and then stooping, she picked it up and thrust it into the fire.
She had failed—she had been deceived—tricked—foiled. All her efforts had been in vain! Pattie had escaped from her toils scot-free. Pattie had never gone to the station at all. She had stolen the child from one of its own sisters! She had risked so much for that! She could have shrieked in her impotent anger.
Turning, she met the wondering gaze of the two children, who had stopped in their play to watch her. She gave them both a smart box on the ears, and then, further enraged when they both began to cry, she seized them roughly and thrust them into the bedroom. She would gladly have smacked her own baby, only that he happened to be asleep.
The second happening was a postcard in the afternoon, from the maid who lived where she used to wash in Old Keston. Her mistress was away, she said; the new washerwoman had not put in an appearance and if Mrs. Adams was not engaged on Monday, would she come and oblige?
Mrs. Adams was not engaged. She thought things over and she decided to go. Not by her usual trains, however. Something must be devised about ridding herself of Maud. She was sick of seeing after the child and she found herself listening to every heavy footstep on the stairs. She would go over late on Monday morning, and returning by a later train, could observe the movements of the St. Olave's household when the dusk fell. She must do something or Tom would be back.
The third happening came late at night.
As might have been expected, Jim came home at last with very little money in his pocket.
He threw over to Jane her usual housekeeping money and growled out that he had not got any extra for Harry this week. She must make do without it. A child like that couldn't cost much, anyhow!
That put the finishing touch to Jane's day. She stormed and raved, she called her husband names, she threatened all sorts of things, but as Jim observed, hard words would not draw blood out of a stone, and he sat there stolidly smoking and listening to the torrent of words, till suddenly his patience gave way all at once, and he declared that if he heard another word, he would take the money back and do the housekeeping himself.
That would have suited Jane very ill, and it sobered her somewhat, and when Jim added that if they were all going short of food next week, she had better send that kid of her sister's home, she became quite silent. It occurred to her that it might be well not to push Jim too hard till the child was safely gone. After that she would have a free hand.
She maintained a sulky silence all Sunday, but Jim took no notice of her. He went out directly after breakfast, taking Harry with him, and they did not return till late at night.
On Monday morning she announced that she was going to work, and demanded the money for the Nursery for Harry, which Jim had always paid cheerfully, but now he only retorted that he had no more money, and went angrily out, apparently heedless of her reply that if he did not pay, Harry could stop at home. For a full minute Jim stood outside on the landing, his hand in his pocket, irresolute. He was quite unaware that the Nursery charge was fivepence for one child, eightpence for two, and tenpence for three, and that Jane had pocketed any benefit which arose from sending more than one. He had sixpence to last him through Monday, but if he left fivepence of that for the Nursery, he would have but one penny for beer!
Yesterday his heart had turned away from his temptation to the fair, innocent little chap that he meant to be a father to, and he had taken him out all day, and had never touched one drop of intoxicating beverage, contenting himself, and very happily too, with iced lemonade and soda water and coffee.
But this morning was different. The cruel trick of his mates rose up in his mind and held him back from trying again. Then he had no coffee ready for dinner, even if he meant to begin again, and it would not hurt the boy to be left at home alone. Still he hesitated, conscious that he was weighing two loves—the child's welfare; his own desire.
And his own desire conquered.
He went quietly downstairs and out to his work, and Jane dressed the baby and Maud, and took them down to her obliging neighbour.
"Take these two down to the Nursery for me," she said, "I've to go back to my old work to-day."
Poor little Harry! He stood forlornly in the middle of the empty room, listening to the sound of the key turning in the lock, listening to the sound of his aunt's retreating footsteps.
Then he thought of the happy Nursery where Maud and Baby had gone; he thought of his place at the head of the long dinner-table that somebody else would have this Monday, and he sat down in a heap on the floor and cried.
Presently he got up and looked about for something to do. His dinner stood on the table, and he thought he might as well eat it now, and when that was disposed of, he strolled into the bedroom, and there he spied the corner of the box that held his best frock, sticking out from under the bed.
Now was his chance! He would have his own again, his bright penny and his bestest pocket-handkerchief with lace upon it.
But the box stuck fast.
Nothing daunted, Harry wrestled with it. He pushed and pulled, under the bed and behind the bed, this way and that, till suddenly, as he pulled, the obstruction which held it gave way, the box came out with a run, and Harry toppled over backwards with a crash, and an awful sound of breaking china, and a rushing of cold water.
For a moment Harry lay there stunned, the broken toilet jug lying in shivers around him, the water soaking into him from head to foot; then, as he came to himself, his startled screams filled the room and he struggled up and sat looking round.
He was more frightened than hurt, but the sight of that broken jug terrified him more than the fall and the wetting. Wouldn't Aunt Jane whip him when she knew!
There was great tenacity in Harry's character. He gathered himself up at last, and opened the box and found his frock and its pocket and its precious contents. He looked at the frock a long time lovingly, then he replaced it, pushed back the box, set the bed straight and gave an involuntary shiver.
He was soaked from head to foot, and though it was summer weather, he felt very, very cold.
He sat down by the empty fireplace and shivered again, and by-and-by he fell fast asleep and dreamed strange dreams, but always he was very, very cold.
In the stillness of a quiet summer evening, when the darkness had fallen and the stars looked down from a far sky, and the soft moonbeams shone silvery on dark trees and velvet lawns, John Gray, Bank Manager, knelt at an open window, his arms resting on the sill, his face turned skywards.
In the silence, in the stillness of that summer night, the great battle of his life was being fought out beneath the stars.
Backwards and forwards raged the battle. Thoughts of what he must give up if he turned his back on this temptation and did not satisfy his desire for strong drink; the friends who would flaunt him; the friends who would pity him for his weakness in yielding to the influence of abstaining noodles; the friends who would smile and bid one another wait a bit, and John Gray would be taking his glass with them again; the awful haunting fear that they were right, that he would only make himself ridiculous and never hold out; all these things seemed ranged on one side against him, and on the other side what was there?
His wife Elaine. She had promised to help him, for them to start together, to turn out of their home and their entertaining all intoxicating beverages, to stand side by side in their social circle and be abstainers. Then there was Reggie. He was helping already. Not ostentatiously, not in a burdensome way. Only just a cycle ride here and there, or a walk, or a concert, or an hour on the church organ, when Reggie would blow and Mr. Gray, who was musical, would play as nobody in the town, not excepting the organist, could play. Or a game of chess in Mrs. Gray's drawing-room, while Elaine played or sang to them and served them with delicious coffee.
There were other friends too—friends who had been shy of him and Elaine lately, but who had once been pleasant, intellectual friends, and who would be friends again if things were different.
All these were on the other side.
But he knew, and his head dropped upon his folded arms with a groan—he knew that none of these things would keep him from satisfying his desire; that they could give him no strength to resist.
They might indeed claim his attention for a little while, but surely, as those smiling friends predicted, he would drift back to the old temptation.
There were real tears of shame and mortification in his eyes, as he lifted them to the sky once more. Oh! if he could only begin again; if he had only been brought up as an abstainer, as children were brought up now-a-days; if he had only taken his stand that side, as a young man, like companions of his own youth had done; if only he had been born strong and not with this weakness.
But all such regrets were unavailing. He knelt there in the moonlight what he was, what he had been made, what he had made himself, and there was something in him that told him that to-night was a deciding point in his life.
And to drift needed no strength, no anything. Only just to get up from his knees and to go upstairs to bed, and to wake again to the old life in the morning.
But the very fact that he was kneeling came to his mind to remind him, and the quiet sky above him spoke to him of strength and peace, and suddenly he bowed his head upon the sill.
"Oh, God, what shall I do?" he moaned. And softly, a voice out of the past—his sweet old grandmother's voice—came to him with words he had never heard or heeded, since she taught them to him in his childhood.
"While we were yet without strength, in due time Christ died for the ungodly."
Without strength—the ungodly. That was himself, and for him Christ died!
The dawn was creeping up the eastern sky when John Gray softly closed the window and went upstairs, and there was the dawn of hope in his heart too, for in his life the Sun of Righteousness had risen with healing in His wings.
It was the next day after this that Reggie Alston received a letter with the Old Keston post-mark, but after the first glance he laid it down indifferently. It was not from Gertrude.
After her birthday letter he had expected another pretty soon, because it had been like her old letters and she had apologised for its brevity, but none had come.
This was only from his aunt. She might, however, mention Gertrude! He opened it and glanced at the opening words. When was she to expect him for his holidays?
He sighed as he thought how long it was till the end of September, when he was to have his holiday. He had so hoped it would be arranged during the school vacation, but it had not been.
He turned the page of his aunt's epistle and then his face changed from listlessness to keen interest.
"I think," wrote his aunt, "that you cannot have heard that little Maud Brougham has been stolen. I thought Gertrude would of course write you all about it, but you did not mention it in your last letter to me, and perhaps, as Gertrude was to blame, she has not liked to write."
And then his aunt proceeded to tell Reggie all the story, and all the stories that had grown upon it. Perhaps in her delight in having so interesting a tale to tell, she forgot what such a story might mean to Reggie, for he had never made any secret of his whole-hearted devotion to Gertrude, but certainly she did not spare Gertrude, and to do Reggie's aunt justice, she fully believed most of the stories of flirtation and coquetry.
Gertrude had been very little to see her of late, and in the light of these tales, she naturally put her own interpretation on the neglect.
Reggie slept very little that night, and it was with a very pale face that he knocked at Mr. Gray's private door in the morning.
"Are you ill?" asked the Manager kindly.
Reggie shook his head with a faint smile.
"Mr. Gray," he said, "you know my holiday is a fortnight in the end of September. Could you possibly make an exception for me and let me have four days now, and give up September entirely?"
"My dear boy! it would not be at all good for you. What's the matter? Anybody at home ill?"
"No! I've only an aunt."
"Is it the one and only girl in all the world?"
Reggie nodded, and a deep flush swept over his face. "She's in trouble. Her little sister has been stolen," he said, feeling some explanation was due.
"Does she care for you?"
"No, I don't think so," said Reggie sadly, "but I should like to go. It's all I can do, and it doesn't matter about my part of it, any way."
"You shall go!" said the Manager quietly. "You shall go by to-night's mail. Perhaps things will be better than you fear. You'll be in London this time to-morrow morning."