Jim could not forget Harry all day. The hours seemed to drag, and again and again he caught himself wondering if the time seemed as long to the little prisoner, shut within his four walls, with no one to speak to. He determined to go home immediately after his work and take the child for a tram-ride. Even his dinner beer tasted bitter to him to-day, and when he left his work and turned his steps homewards he still had fourpence of his precious sixpence left, wherewith to pay the tram fare.
He was annoyed to find that Jane had not returned, and that there was no supper ready; but he ate what he could find and made a cup of tea.
"I'm going to take you on a tram, Harry," he said, laying his hand affectionately on the boy's shoulder. "Why, child!" he added in astonishment, "your coat's wet! What have you been doing?"
Harry's face clouded. He had forgotten the broken jug for a few minutes in the joy of his uncle's return.
"I broke aunt's jug," he said faintly, "and I all got wetted."
Jim got up and went to inspect the extent of the damage, and he whistled when he saw it.
"Aunt will whip me," said Harry mournfully.
"She'd better not!" said Jim fiercely; "it'smyjug. I'll get another on Saturday. Come, let's get ready and be gone before she comes in."
He rubbed his hand over Harry again consideringly. His knickers had dried upon him, but his coat was still very damp.
"You ought to put something else on," said Jim. "What have you got?"
"There's my frock," cried Harry eagerly, "my little frock, what mother made. It's in that box."
Jim pulled out the box and helped Harry strip off the wet coat. The child gave a little shiver, but Jim scarcely noticed it then. He was in a hurry to be off, and in a minute Harry was arrayed in the frock over the knickers, and the two went downstairs hand in hand, just as they had come at Easter-time.
It was a pleasant evening, but the wind was fresh, and all there was of it met them on the top of the tram; but no thought of danger crossed Jim's mind. Harry was very happy and quite ready to chatter after his long day of enforced silence, and though by and by he became very quiet, Jim thought he was tired and took him on his knee, where he fell asleep.
But all night long he tossed and moaned, and when the morning came, instead of being awake with the birds, he lay heavily asleep, with flushed cheeks and quick drawn breath.
Jim stood looking down on him with a frown. Then he made himself some coffee for dinner and went over for another look at the child.
"Jane," he said sharply, "I believe that child has got a cold. Don't you let him go out of the room to-day, and you stop in and mind him. D'you hear me?" he repeated, as Jane made no reply. "You're to stop in and mind the child. No going out to work or to gossip."
"I've arranged to go to Old Keston," said Jane shortly. "He's all right, and he can go to the Nursery."
"He's not to leave the room; and work or no work, you're going to stop and see to him. Look here, Jane!" Jim went on sternly, "I'm master here, though you seemed to forget it when you brought your sister's child, without asking me if it was welcome. You've had a good bit of your own way, but this time it's going to bemyway."
Jane had grown a little pale.
"Oh, all right," she said crossly. "What a fuss!"
She had settled everything in her own mind for taking Maud back that very evening, but after all, one day was as good as another, and if Jim should once begin on the subject of Maud, who could tell what he might ferret out? He might even insist on himself taking Maud back to her supposed mother and baby sister, and then what would happen? And it would be of no use to keep back her sister's address from him, for there was always Tom.
She made Harry get up, and he played listlessly with Maud, or fell asleep on the floor in the midst of the toys; and by evening time even Jane's careless eyes could see that the child was really ill.
Jim saw it too, and he went straight out again and left word at the nearest doctor's house, for the doctor to come at once. But the doctor was a busy man, and it was very late when at last he came and stood looking down on Harry's flushed little face. He asked a good many questions, and then made his examination.
Jim watched him keenly, and somehow his heart sank down and down and down.
"Is he very bad?" he asked at last, huskily.
The doctor turned away from the little bed and looked at the fine, tall young fellow before him.
"I understand he isn't your child?"
Jim shook his head. "He's my dead sister's child, and his father's dead too. He belongs to me now, and I'd do anything for him. He's not very bad, is he, doctor?"
"He's going to join them," said the doctor abruptly. "There's not the slightest hope—at least, I think not—but I'll do my best. He's got cold in every bit of him."
Jim groaned. Oh! to have that last fateful Monday back again—to live over again these last weeks of self-indulgence. And now it was too late—too late!
But the doctor was pouring out medicines and directions, and this was no time for vain regrets.
"You'll sit up with him," he said, and he looked directly at Jim; "and," he glanced at Jane this time, "I'll send the nurse. She'll set you going and look in the first thing in the morning."
But there was no need. When, having seen the gravity of the case, the nurse knocked gently at Jim's door, before six o'clock in the morning, the little life had fled, and Jim was kneeling broken-hearted by the little bed, Harry's sweet face still pillowed on his shoulder. A soft smile lingered on the little lips and he seemed asleep, but Jim and the nurse knew better.
He was dead.
As Tom had said, Jesus had got the beautiful home ready, and He had sent for Harry.
It was on this same morning that, by the first post, Denys received a letter from Mixham.
She tore it open eagerly, for any letter nowadays might bring news of Maud, but she laid it down again listlessly.
"Oh dear!" she said, "that is from old Mrs. Richardson. Her daughter has got married and gone away, and she is so lonely, and she sits alone and cries all day, and she says that I have always cheered her up in all her sorrows and she wants me to go over to-day; and it is so bad for her eyes to cry because of her dressmaking, and when she has seen me she won't cry any more; but—oh dear! oh dear!" and Denys herself burst out crying, for her nerves had been very much shaken, "I can't go and comfort anybody. It would be no use my going for that!"
Yet after breakfast she sought out Mrs. Brougham.
"Mother," she said, "I think I'll go to Mrs. Richardson this afternoon. I'm afraid I'm getting selfish in my sorrow, and I'll go, too, and see little Harry Lyon, as I'm over there. I did go once, you know, but everybody was out. The neighbour said his aunt went out washing on Mondays, and Harry was sent to the Nursery. I think perhaps I ought to go."
"Do you?" said her mother with a sigh. "Well, I won't keep you, dear, but oh, do take Pattie with you, just for companionship. I shouldn't feel so anxious while you were gone."
"Oh, but the work," said Denys.
Gertrude looked up from the table where she was correcting exercises.
"I'll see to the work," she said. "I shall be at home all day. It's a pity for mother to feel anxious, and Pattie deserves a change. She's been awfully good to us."
Denys acquiesced, though she felt that Pattie's company was very unnecessary, and so, immediately after an early lunch, Pattie and Denys found themselves stepping out of the train at Mixham Junction.
"I think we'll go to see Harry first," said Denys. "Mrs. Richardson will want to give us tea and we must not be late."
Pattie followed obediently. Little Harry was but a name to her, for he came to brighten Tom's life after she had gone out of it, and she had never heard of Harry's connection with Jane Adams. She knew the road into which Denys turned, however, well enough, and when Denys stopped at the very house where Jane Adams lived, she only thought it was a queer coincidence, and wondered vaguely what she should do if she met Jane on the stairs.
Denys knocked at the first door in the entry, and asked if the Adams's were likely to be in, and which their room was.
She thought the woman looked at her curiously, as she gave her the number on the third floor.
"They're in," she said, with another of those curious looks; "they're in, 'cept the little girl and the baby. I took 'em to the Nursery to be out of the way."
Denys passed on and knocked softly at the door indicated, and Pattie followed trembling, for this was no coincidence—this was reality.
Jim himself opened the door, and when he saw Denys he drew back with a gasp.
"Is Harry at home?" she asked. "You said I might come and see him."
Jim tried to answer, but no words would come. He drew back for Denys to enter, however, and Pattie followed her timidly, and Jim closed the door softly behind them.
Once more he tried to speak—to explain—but Denys did not notice him. In the centre of the room, where the afternoon light fell full upon it, stood a child's crib, and on the white pillow lay the beautiful, familiar little face that had so won its way into her heart.
"Harry," she said softly, crossing the room quickly and longing to hear again the tones that were so like Jerry's, "Harry!"
Was he asleep? She bent over the crib, and then turned bewildered to Jim.
There was no need for words.
She stood a moment spellbound, looking down on the little peaceful face, with its lingering smile, and then she went round the crib and knelt down by the lowered side and softly kissed Harry's forehead and soft golden hair.
She had not seen Jerry's dead face nor kissed him for good-bye, and she knelt beside Harry and wept for them both.
She had completely forgotten Pattie, but after a while, as she wiped away her tears and listened to Jim's story of the child's illness, she became conscious that there was another man in the room, and that Pattie and he were conversing in low tones by the window. She glanced round for Harry's aunt, but there was no one else there; only sundry sounds of stirring about in an adjoining room suggested that she was not far off, but was not inclined to see company. So with one more long look, one more kiss on the fair, still face, Denys and Pattie at last took their leave, and set out for Mrs. Richardson's.
As they left the street, Pattie looked up in Denys's face with crimsoning cheeks.
"Miss Denys," she said shyly, "that was my Tom that was talking to me. He was there taking a photo of the little dead boy, for he loved him, Miss, and—and—him and me, we've made it up, Miss Denys! We've always loved each other all along."
The visit to Mrs. Richardson was over, and Denys and Pattie were once more on their homeward way, hurrying along the crowded streets and threading their way in and out of the bustling crowds, with no thought in their minds but of an accomplished task and a great anxiety not to lose their train.
They took little heed of the passers-by, but their eyes were both attracted at the same moment by a very tall, fine-looking young fellow who was coming towards them with a big, bouncing baby swung high upon his shoulder; even at a good distance they made a conspicuous couple as they came down the street.
"There's Jim Adams," said Denys and Pattie in the same breath.
Jim was walking very slowly, occasionally glancing down at the ground, but the people about him were too many to reveal at what he looked. Whether he caught sight of Denys and Pattie, and could not face speaking to them, or whether he never even saw them, Denys could not tell, but as they neared him, he stopped suddenly and looked into a shop window, showing the baby something that made it shout and crow with delight; but in one instant Denys forgot everything else in the world, but the strangeness of another sight that met her eyes.
She stood stock still in the centre of the pavement, gazing at a figure that was coming towards her.
The figure of a little, little girl, walking alone among the crowd, yet not of it. A little girl with brown, fluffy curls, turning to gold at the roots, crowned by a big white sailor hat with a black ribbon round it—a little girl dressed in a short black frock with a kilt and a sailor jacket; a little girl so like—ah! how many children had she seen lately so like little Maud! Then the child's blue eyes met hers, and, with a scream, Denys had sprung forward, and Maud—little lost Maud—was in her arms.
When Denys began once more to realise anything beyond the pressure of her arms round their lost treasure, she became conscious that a little crowd had gathered, and that Pattie was hurriedly explaining what had happened, and there was pity and sympathy in the listening faces around, so that Denys thought wonderingly how kind the world was.
"A cab!" she said, and she lifted her head as if she were but just awakened from a long and horrible dream. Oh! how glad she was to have Pattie with her!
With Maud still clasped in her arms, she and Pattie got into the cab, and as it rumbled off to the station, the little crowd that had gathered, thinned away and scattered, and Jim Adams and his baby went with it.
Jim had been to the Nursery to fetch the two children. It was upon little Maud, running beside him, that he had constantly glanced down. When he stopped to look into the shop window she had not observed it, but had trotted on among the crowd, and he, turning to see what had become of her, had seen the meeting between her and Denys. Thinking simply that the child knew Denys and loved her, as Harry did, he had drawn near to claim her, and had heard Pattie's hurried explanation, and hearing it, he had drawn further and further to the edge of the crowd.
But Maud had been too far from him, for any of the passing crowd to suspect that she belonged to him. He saw that in a moment, and he waited calmly in the background till Denys and Pattie and the child had driven away.
He understood it all, if no one else did.
So that was Jane's vengeance! That was what Jane could do!
The sooner he and Jane and the baby were out of Mixham the better! What was there to stay for? He hated the whole place. Perhaps he might begin again somewhere else.
He would try, and he would—yes, he would—ask God to help him this time. Tom said that was the only way to keep straight, to ask for God's strength.
And Tom and Pattie had made it up that very day, in Jane's own kitchen!
As Reggie opened the gate of St. Olave's and glanced up at the familiar ivy-encircled windows, he felt as if a dream that he had often seen before, had come again to him, and that he should only wake to find himself back in the dull little sitting-room in Scotland, trying to find an uneasy rest on the horsehair sofa.
Mrs. Brougham was sitting in the bow-window; she always sat there nowadays, and there was reality enough in her pale, weary face. Almost the first smile that had lightened it since Maud had disappeared, came to it when she saw Reggie.
"Oh, Reggie!" she exclaimed.
Reggie came to the open window and leaned on the sill.
"Well, mother," he said, lifting up his face to kiss her. He had always called her mother and kissed her, since the days when he had worn knickers and been Gertrude's chum. "Well, mother, aren't you surprised to see me?"
"Very," she said, "is it your holidays?"
Reggie nodded. "I only heard yesterday about Maud," he said gently. "There's nothing fresh—no news, I suppose?"
"Nothing," said Mrs. Brougham, hopelessly.
She felt somehow comforted by Reggie's coming. He was so like one of themselves, so old a friend that there was nothing to explain, no need for excusing words, no fear that his sympathy would make the sorrow wake again.
Reggie felt it too. He stood there quite silent for a minute, still holding her hand; then he said,
"If you knew where Gertrude would be this afternoon, I could go and meet her. She'll be so surprised to see me."
"Yes," answered Mrs. Brougham mechanically. She knew far, far more of those stories about Gertrude, than Gertrude ever guessed. Even in those early summer days of the picnics and tennis parties that had filled all Gertrude's mind, Conway and Willie had confided to their mother that they wished Gertrude would not be quite sopleasant. She sighed a little as she looked into Reggie's bright, open face. Girls did not always know true gold when they saw it. Then she remembered that Reggie had asked her a question.
"Oh, yes," she said hastily, "I was forgetting. Come in, Reggie; she is at home this afternoon. Denys had to go to Mixham, and I persuaded her to take Pattie with her—I am so nervous now," she added pathetically, "and Gertrude has been busy in the kitchen all the afternoon, but she's done now, and I believe she went to the drawing-room to study."
"I'll go round the garden way and disturb her," said Reggie, with a laugh.
He thought as he went round the garden that "Gertrude busy in the kitchen all the afternoon," had an odd sound.
Gertrude had not begun to study. She sat in a deep armchair, her books unopened on her lap, looking out upon the sunny garden, and brooding drearily over the past, wondering sadly whether, if Maud were never, never found, she could ever feel happy again! And if happiness did come to her, and Maud had not come back, how terrible that would be, for it would mean that she had forgotten Maud, forgotten her wrong-doing; that she had become again the self-loving, self-centred being that had lost Maud!
As Reggie's figure crossed the grass she sprang up, and her books fell with a clatter to the ground.
"Oh, Reggie!" she said, just as her mother had done.
"Yes," said Reggie, "I've come! I only heard yesterday."
A flood of colour swept over Gertrude's face, but the room was shaded, and she hoped Reggie would not see. What must he think of the story he had only heard yesterday! She had wished that he might know about it. Now she felt as if he were the only one in the world, from whom she would gladly have hidden it.
"Sit down," she said; "all the others are out, except mother."
"I've seen her," he said quietly.
There was a pause. There seemed nothing to say, absolutely nothing! Nothing that could be said, at least.
At last Reggie broke the silence.
"What have you done to trace her?" he asked. Perhaps it was the easiest question he could have asked. Gertrude could answer that, and she told him all that had been done. "I wish there was something I could do," he said, when she paused.
"Is it your holidays?" she asked indifferently. "I'm afraid there's nothing much going on in Old Keston just now. You'll find it very dull."
"That won't matter to me. I have to go back on Monday."
"Oh! Have you had a nice time the first part? I thought you were going to have a fortnight in September."
As Gertrude could think of nothing to say, Reggie's holiday seemed a very safe subject.
He laughed a little.
"This is the first part; I came up by last night's mail, I haven't even been home yet. I came off directly I heard about Maud and all your trouble. I was so awfully sorry, and letters are not the least bit of use for saying what you feel."
"It's very good of you," said Gertrude gratefully. "Shall you come home again in September?"
"Oh! there won't be any September," said Reggie cheerfully.
There was another pause and then Gertrude said in a very low voice,
"Reggie, have you heardallthe stories that they tell?"
"I expect so," answered Reggie soberly; "but, Gertrude, I would have given up all my holiday, except one hour, if I could just say one word to comfort you."
She looked up at him suddenly, startled.
"Reggie," she said, "do you mean that you gave up all your holiday just to get four days to come up and comfort me? Me! after all you have heard!"
"I don't eventhinkabout those stories," said Reggie, half scornfully, half indignantly.
"Don't you?" said Gertrude wistfully. "Oh, Reggie, it is a comfort just to see you sitting there; it is indeed! Except at home here—and they've been so good to me—you are the first that has said one kind word to me about it all. I knew you would when you heard. Only I don't feel as if I ought to be looking for comfort or happiness for myself till she is found; you'll understand that, won't you?"
"Yes, I understand. But that's your side of it, Gertrude. There's another side, and that's my side. I want you to listen to what I've come all the way from Scotland to say. I've said it to myself for years. Last night, when the train was rushing down through England, I was saying it to myself over and over again. Now I'm going to say it to you.
"Gertrude, I love you, I shall always love you, I want you to belong to me for always. I only think of the happiness of my life as bound up in you. I think of your love as the best and happiest thing God can give me.
"That's my side of this matter, and I want you to think of it often, and then, when little Maud is found, and we can talk about our own happiness, then you must tell me what you think about your side of it."
"Gertrude! Gertrude!"
The voice rang through the house as no voice had rung through it since Maud went away, and there was that in the sound of it, which made Gertrude and Reggie spring to their feet and rush to the door.
In the hall was a confused group, and in the centre of the group was a little figure in a short black kilted frock with a sailor jacket, and a big white hat with a black ribbon that half hid the fluffy brown hair, that was turning golden at the roots.
For a moment Gertrude stood staring, as Denys had done, then the familiar blue eyes met hers, and the silvery little voice said gleefully,
"Hullo, Gertrude! I've come back."
"Maud! Maud! Oh, my darling, my darling!"
Reggie returned to the North on Monday, and when he went, a beautiful little half hoop of diamonds sparkled upon Gertrude's left hand. It was Reggie's greatest treasure, for it had been his mother's engagement ring; but the wearing of that ring was the only enlightenment which Old Keston received about Gertrude's and Reggie's affairs.
As Mrs. Brougham observed, people could see what they liked, but they did not deserve to hear anything.
"And so," said Mrs. Gray, as Reggie finished telling his tale in her drawing-room, "and so nobody knows who took the child or how she came to be found again."
"Nobody," repeated Reggie with emphasis. But he was mistaken. There was one man who knew. A man who had gone forth at last "in the strength of the Lord God," and who had conquered. A man, who was holding out loving, strengthening hands to his wife, and to many another tempted one; but he never told anybody what he knew, not even Tom, for Jane was Tom's sister!
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"The beautiful life of little Winnie is one which all children will do well to take as an example."—Banner.
THE KING'S ESQUIRES.Illustrated by Gordon Browne. Cr. 8vo, 5/-.
RED ROSE AND WHITE.Illustrated. Demy 8vo, cloth extra, gilt edges, 5/-. Another edition at 2/6.
LOYAL TO NAPOLEON.Illustrated. Large Cr. 8vo, 2/6.
THE PERILS OF PEKIN.Illustrated. Large Cr. 8vo, 5/-.
"A well-told narrative of a perilous time."—Western Morning News.
CAVALIERS AND ROGUES.Illustrated. Demy 8vo, cloth extra, gilt edges, 5/-. Plain edged edition at 2/6.
"A well-told story."—Captain.
THE JUNGLE TRAPPERS.A Tale of Adventure. Cr. 8vo, cloth gilt, 3/6.
"The story is well told, and holds the attention from beginning to end."—Leeds Mercury.
WITH MUSKETEER AND REDSKIN.Illustrated by F. Lynch. Cr. 8vo, cloth gilt, 3/6.
"A stirring story of adventure with Indians, wild beasts, and the hero's malignant foes."—English Churchman.
UNCLE JOE'S LEGACY.Illustrated. Cr. 8vo, cloth gilt, 2/6.