CHAPTER X.
FRANK'S MESSAGE TO "MUDDIE."
LITTLE Fred, all alone in the world, and thrown upon the mercy of perfect strangers, was surely very fortunate in having crept up Betty's garden walk, rather than to any other cottage in Edgestone. For I suspect that he would have found his way to the poorhouse, and, in the state he was in at the time, this would have had most disastrous effects.
Having been the youngest, and not quick at speaking, he spoke very indistinctly long after he was voluble enough. His inability to pronounce the letter "r" made his speech sound babyish. But in two years, he had grown so much, and had so completely lost the baby face and the baby ways of the little brother Frank had taken such care of, that Frank would hardly have known him again. He looked as old for his six years now as he had looked young for four. A silent, sad-looking boy, with a half-puzzled expression in his fine dark eyes, which sometimes made people wonder if he were "quite like other children." His step-grandmother would never have recognized her merry, mischievous, laughing torment in this quiet, tall boy, who seemed to care for nothing but being of use to Betty.
As I have said before, he proved a careful messenger, and earned many a penny, and every penny was brought to Betty with some little pride. One day she said to him—
"You earn so many pence, Fred, that I'm going to keep half to buy your clothes. Think of that, now!"
Fred looked up at her earnestly.
"Don't you want them, Mrs. Betty?" Which was his chosen name for her.
"I don't want them all," she said, wondering what was coming, for he so seldom spoke except to answer a question.
"Then, if you don't want them, may I keep half for Fwank?"
It was the first time he had named his brother since his own illness.
"Why, child," Betty said tenderly, "Frank wants neither pence nor aught you could buy with them. He has all he wants. He's quite safe and happy."
"Yes, Fwank is dead," the boy said after a pause.
Betty was quite pleased to find that he remembered this.
"Yes, dear, he is. Dear little fellow, he is dead surely, so, you see, he is in heaven now, and those who go there want nothing."
She talked to him for some time, and he seemed to listen, yet when she ceased, he said again—
"Keep half the pence for Fwank. There's his message, you know."
This rather puzzled Betty, and Fred would say no more. So she told him that she would lay by the pence carefully, and added—
"By-and-by, when you've saved enough, you shall buy a wooden cross to put at the head of his grave."
"With the message," Fred put in.
"I don't know about a message, but that's all you can do for him, dear, and it well becomes you to do it, for I think he gave his life for yours."
How much or how little of this Fred understood, she could not tell. He often sat thinking, thinking, with a sad and puzzled look, but he did not speak of Frank again. Only when he brought his earnings, carefully divided into two equal portions, he would say—
"Half for Fwank, Mrs. Betty."
After a while he found out, from something the doctor said, that Frank lay in the old churchyard just beside the grave of little Charlie Wentworth. There was a pretty headstone to the little Wentworth's grave, and his poor mother kept it beautiful, with flowers growing round it. Frank's grave was just a plain green mound. But thenceforth, when Betty missed her charge, she was pretty sure to find him sitting beside it. Being a wise old body, she did not interfere, only, after a time, suggested to him to plant flowers on it like those on the other. From that time Frank's resting-place was kept in the most beautiful order. Betty could always spare a few plants for this purpose, and Fred cut the grass with shears, and trimmed and tended it, until it was a wonder for colour and smoothness.
After a time, the boy began to speak more frequently, and the doctor put him to school, where he soon surprised the schoolmaster by his quickness and ability. But he did not care to join the boys on the green, unless they were playing cricket or football. In these, he soon excelled, but for a mere game of romps he did not care at all.
Thus time went on until Fred Giles, as the neighbours called him, was a fine handsome lad of thirteen, and the schoolmaster informed Dr. Wentworth that it was a great pity he could have no further education.
"You see, doctor, the boys here generally leave school at about thirteen or fourteen, which I suppose is about Fred's age now. And I am too tired in the evening, with this big school on my hands, to give him private lessons, which I would if I could. He's very clever; there's nothing he could not learn. I suppose old Betty is making a gardener of him; the best she can do, but 'tis a pity."
The doctor went home to his delicate wife, who, poor thing, could no longer take care of her boy's grave, for she was a prisoner on her sofa, and never likely to be better.
"Lucy, you know the boy whom Betty Giles took to care for, and whom we have partly clothed?"
"Little Fred? Oh yes, I know him. A very fine boy, though indeed, I have not seen him for a long time. I hope he is not ill?"
"Not he. But Dale, the schoolmaster, you know, was just speaking to me about him. It seems he is very clever. You know that he has long kept his little brother's grave in order, but I never told you that since you have been laid by, he has done the same for our little grave. I used to go and look, meaning to have it settled, and I wondered how your work lasted so long, my poor girl, when one evening I found him hard at work. Well, now, it seems to me a pity that a boy like this, evidently belonging to respectable people, should be condemned to leave school at thirteen and to earn his bread as a labourer. And if his people ever turn up, it would be a terrible blow to them, don't you think so?"
"Yes, but really after all these years—nine years now—I hardly expect his people to trace him. But if he is a fine, clever lad, one would give him a chance for his own sake. What did you think of? You are well off, and we have no—no one to come after us, Alick. We might well do this."
Dr. Wentworth's worn face brightened.
"I was half afraid you might dislike the idea of having a boy about the house, dear."
"About the house," she said, with a start, "did you say? I did not understand at first. But no, Alick, I do not object at all. It would be an interest for you."
"My idea is to train him to help me in the dispensary; Mark Fletcher will soon be leaving me. Then I can give him lessons myself, and, if he really is clever, get Mr. Hewson to teach him, and so as time passes, we shall see what he really is fit for, and how we like him. My dear, I know you consent only for my sake, but I hope it may prove an interest for you too, and brighten your life a bit. It seems to me that he is a boy one would get fond of easily."
Mrs. Wentworth said nothing. She thought that plans for the future mattered more to the doctor than to her.
Intent on his idea, Dr. Wentworth went to see Betty Giles the next day. He found the old woman sitting in the sun at her front door, knitting a stocking, and looking complacently at her crop of young annuals.
"Well, Betty, how goes the world with you?" he said.
"It goes," Betty said cheerily; "that's just it, doctor. It goes, and it goes, and soon 'twill be gone, or I shall, which comes to the same thing as far as I'm concerned."
"It is well for those who can, say that cheerfully, Betty."
"Well, now, I do feel cheerful, and I just hope I'm not like Ignorance in the 'Pilgrim.' Fred read me that book, and surely, next to the Bible, it comes home to one. But I don't really think I'm like he, though I'm ignorant enough. Not ignorant of my dear Saviour, though. I feel Him keeping me, somehow."
"Ah, old friend, many a learned man might envy you. I came to talk to you about Fred. Where is he?"
"Playing cricket on the green. Schoolmaster tells him he's getting too old for school, and that he won't learn much by staying on. I sometimes wish we could find his people. He's growing up—poor Fred!"
"That is just what I came to talk about, Betty. Dale spoke to me about him. He thinks him very clever."
"About book cleverness, sir, I know naught, but he reads as well as any clergyman; I'm told he's quite as good at writing and cyphering. But as to hand cleverness, that I can speak to. There's nothing ever was done with hands that he couldn't learn to do."
"Well, I want an assistant in the dispensary. Fred is rather young, but Fletcher will not leave me at once, and I will teach the boy carefully. If he turns out well, I will take care of his future. You'll be glad, I dare say, to have a big fellow like him off your hands; you must find it hard to do for him now."
"I don't, then," said Betty, shortly. "I'll find it harder to do without him. But I won't stand in his way. I suppose you want to take him altogether—to live in your house, maybe?"
"I did think of that. You see, my wife could teach him so much, and so could I. But, to get the full benefit of this, he must be always at hand."
"Ay, ay, I understand. Well, I've had him a long time, and he's been as a son to me, and a good son, too. I won't stand in his way."
"I see him coming now, Betty."
And in a moment more, Fred stood before them, having taken off his straw hat to pay due respect to the doctor.
"Fred, my dear boy, here's good news for you," began Betty, briskly. "Many a time have I taken a little fret, wondering what would become of you when I die, and that can't be very far off, for I'm getting very old and failed. Now, here's Dr. Wentworth offering you a good place with him, where you'll get learning, and have work to do more suitable to you than gardening. And I'm thankful to know it, Fred."
Fred looked from one to the other.
"I don't quite understand," he said, "but I'm much obliged to Dr. Wentworth; he's always been very kind to me."
The doctor, who by this time had found a seat on the doorstep, began to explain. Fred listened attentively. Then he looked at Betty, who forthwith assumed what she intended for a pleased and encouraging smile. Fred laughed, and for a healthy boy, he laughed but seldom.
FRED LISTENED ATTENTIVELY.
"Ah, Mrs. Betty, that won't do!" he said. "'Tis nine years, or more, since I crept up to the door, half frozen and half starved, and asked you to come to—to Frank. I remember all, Betty dear, though I never could talk of it. Ever since then, you've kept me and cared for me, and nursed me and borne with me, and—loved me. And now, doctor, she's not as strong as she used to be, she couldn't live alone now, she couldn't keep up the garden or the plants and slips without help, and she couldn't carry the things home. I earn a little money, too, and what I earn is needed now. I'm very grateful for your kind offer, but I can't leave her, and if I did, every one would cry shame on me, and I should deserve it."
"Fred, I won't stand in your way. I shall do very well. I'll get my grandchild, John's little Kate, to come and stay with me; I know they'll let me have her. And suppose your own people find you by-and-by, won't they be glad to find you something better than a working gardener? No, no, boy; you must go."
Fred stood, looking far away over the fields. He seemed to be trying to put some thought into words, for his lips moved from time to time. At last, without looking at them, but still gazing away over the fields, he said—
"I can remember her face. It was like Frank's, fair and loving. I think we were well off once, but I don't remember. I seem just going to remember sometimes, but it all dies off. Mrs. Betty, you know Kate is only ten, and a little baby of a thing; even if she came, she could not do all that I do, and the garden would run waste, and there would be no earnings coming in. And if my mother—if it is my mother that I remember—I'm very sure that she would be more sorry to find me an ungrateful brute than to find me a gardener, or anything else. No, Dr. Wentworth, I cannot leave Mrs. Betty. As she cared for me, so must I care for her now, and she has been a mother to me all these years. But I'm not ungrateful to you, sir, and there is nothing I should like better than to learn from you if it could be; but it cannot."
"I would not say another word, my boy, if I did not see a way out of the difficulty. I like you the better for being grateful and faithful to Betty, and I was not aware how dependent she has become upon you. But I'll tell you how it can be managed. Instead of coming to live with me, and studying hard, you must go on living here, and only give me so many hours a day, say from ten a.m. to six in the evening. This will give you time for your gardening under Betty, and your wages will be better than your chance earnings now. What do you say to this?"
"May I just run home for a few moments at about one, sir, to see that she gets her dinner?"
"It is not far; yes, we will manage that. You shall have your dinner at our luncheon-time, which will save Betty a good deal of cooking."
"Mrs. Betty, does this suit you?"
"That it do!" said Betty. "I won't deny that my heart sank to think of being without you, Fred, and seeing my poor garden, that's all my living, going to waste. I was thinking it meant the poorhouse."
"Yet you wanted me to believe you were delighted. Oh, Mrs. Betty, I'm ashamed of you! I never can thank you enough, Dr. Wentworth, but I'll serve you faithfully," said the boy, earnestly; and, kneeling down beside a patch of annuals, he began tenderly to pick out minute weeds from among the tiny plants.
"Thin 'em, Fred, thin 'em. You're always too shy of thinning. Leave each plant standing by itself. Yes, that's more like. Doctor, come closer. I wouldn't allow this, but that I don't think it will be for very long. I feel very weak sometimes, and they're all doing well, and now that Fred's provided for, I'm quite ready to go. What is it now, Fred?"
"I want to ask the doctor a question. Can you tell me, sir, what it will cost to get a well-made wooden cross, with words cut on it and painted for Frank? I've saved up a few shillings for it."
"I am going to town to-morrow, and I will order it for you; if it costs more than you have saved, you must let me pay the rest, as my thanks to you for all your care of our little grave. What shall I have carved on it?"
"Just this, sir. First, 'Frank' by itself, and then 'Tell muddie I took care of Fred.' That's to go across the arms of it. And below the date, 'September 14, 18—.'"
"Why, Fred, I'd no idea you understood or remembered those words," cried Betty. "You know, doctor, that's what the little fellow said."
"Yes," said Fred, "I never forgot them. Frank died to save me; I can see that now. We called her muddie. Some day, perhaps, among the people who come to see our church and the churchyard, there may be some one who knows her, who will know what the words mean. Some day, I shall put a marble cross with the whole story on it, but this will do now."
Fred went back to his weeding, and Dr. Wentworth said to Betty—
"I never heard the boy speak so much before."
"Nor I, sir."
"And he can say Frank and Fred now, I perceive."
"Oh yes, sir; only if he is in a hurry, he slips back into the old way. Well, Dr. Wentworth, I'm easy in my mind about the boy now."
"You may be, Betty. As far as I can, I will make him my care. He is a fine fellow."
So, when the midsummer holidays began, Fred left school and began his new work. The doctor began to teach him enough Latin to read the prescriptions, or at least that was what he first intended, but the boy was so eager to learn that the lessons did not stop there, nor was Latin the only thing studied. Study was a delight to the silent, somewhat lonely boy, and he made such progress that the good doctor was proud of his pupil.
And the cross was placed at the head of Frank's grave, but the doctor persuaded Fred to allow him to give Frank's message in a slightly different form. Thus—"His last words were a message to his mother, to tell her that he had taken care of Fred."
For a little more than a year, this arrangement continued to work very well. Fred became very useful to the doctor, and Betty had no reason to feel neglected. Then the dear old woman began to fail more and more rapidly, and Fred spent the greater part of his time with her, but it was with the doctor's full consent.
One evening—it was now September, and Dr. Wentworth had told Fred that old Betty could not last much longer—the boy was sitting beside the bed on which she lay; not suffering, only, as she said herself, "dying, and very slow about it." They had both been silent for some time, and when she said suddenly, "Is there any one here but us two, Fred?" poor Fred started, for his thoughts were far away.
"No, Betty. Mrs. Summers—" Betty's eldest daughter—"has gone home to see after the children, and John and his wife are coming presently to stay all night with you."
"Very good children they've always been to me, and I must tell their father that, for he laid it on them to be good to me. But I'm glad of a quiet half-hour with you, dear. Sometimes I think you're nearer my heart than my own children. You're so young, I suppose that's it. It's just the day, Fred, and very near the hour, when you came knocking, with your little soft hand, at the door yonder. I think I'd like to die to-night. I'd like to be able to say, 'Lord, I'm only a poor ignorant and hardworking woman, and it was very little I ever could do, beyond earning my bread; but there was one thing—the boy that was sent to me this very night many years ago, I took him for Thy sake, and I wasn't bad to him.' I think I'd like to say that."
"It is less than the truth, dear Mrs. Betty. You saved me from misery, and made me as happy as one so parted from his own people, and with Frank dead, could ever be. And you'll meet Frank."
"I'll tell him that you were worth saving," said the old woman, fondly. "Now, my dear, just one word. I've no doubt you'll do well and prosper. The doctor's fond of you, and he's a good man. But when you're a gentleman, with learning, and money and all your heart can desire, don't you forget what I say to you now: If you let those things fill your heart so that you forget God, and never read the Bible, nor go to church, nor pray, it would have been better for you if you had died there on my hearthstone along with your little brother. Don't turn God's favour into a misfortune, Fred. Mind, Frank's waiting for you in heaven. Do you know why I say all this? Because I do fancy that, although the doctor and his wife are kind and good, and will be true friends to you, yet you won't learn from them such lessons as I'd have you put first of all. Don't forget God, Fred dear, nor begin to have high thoughts of yourself, and forget that you're just a sinner, and want the Saviour, and will never get to heaven any other way. Will you remember, dear?"
"I will, Betty. God helping me, I will. Oh, dear Betty, how good you've been to me!"
"And you to me. Ah, here's John and my good Deb. Go you, Fred, and get a little rest. You're tired out, I know."
Before the day dawned, the simple, true-hearted old woman had breathed her last. And none of her children or grandchildren mourned for her more truly, nor half so long, as did the boy she had so lovingly befriended.
CHAPTER XI.
MRS. RAYBURN'S LETTER.
FROM the time of Betty Giles' death, Fred lived altogether with the Wentworths, and they eventually became so fond of him that he was like a son to them both. He studied under Dr. Wentworth, at first only with a view to becoming his assistant in the dispensary, but after a time with the intention of becoming a doctor himself. Mr. Hewson, the curate, who had been a very distinguished man in college, gave him lessons in various branches of learning; in fact, Dr. Wentworth gave him every advantage that he would have given to his own son had he lived.
Of course, as he grew up, the preparations for his profession took him away frequently from what was now his home, and no one missed him more than did Mrs. Wentworth, who had at one time quite shrunk from the idea of having him to live with her.
With his studies and all concerning his profession we have nothing to do, except with one event which took place in London.
Fred was now engaged in what is called "walking the hospitals" in London, and was a very ardent and industrious student. One day, he heard that there was to be a wonderful operation performed at a certain hospital by one of the first surgeons of the day, and he was fortunate enough to get leave to be present, though it was not one of the hospitals he generally attended. When the affair was over, one of the junior doctors, who knew him, took him through the wards.
In one of these, there was a woman who had come up from the country to take a place as cook in an hotel, but had fallen ill, and been sent to this hospital. Her name was Rayburn, and she came from Hemsborough.
The arrangements of this hospital were supposed to be almost perfect, and the system of ventilation was quite new. Young Dr. Vernon was explaining it to Fred, and consequently their progress through the ward was slow. And if they had looked at the old woman in the corner of the room, they would have seen that for some reason she was frightened—or, at least, greatly excited—at the appearance of Fred Giles.
Fred, however, saw nothing of this; neither did Dr. Vernon; but when the latter was going his rounds in the evening, No. 24 in the first ward was found in a rather excited state.
"She's been quite odd all the afternoon, Dr. Vernon," said the nurse, "and she was going on nicely before."
"I'm not worse," the woman said, "but I want to know, doctor, who was the tall young man that went through the ward with you this morning?"
"A dark-haired fellow? His name is Giles, and he's the son—adopted son, I believe—of a Dr. Giles—no, his name is not Giles—but a doctor somewhere in the country. Why do you ask?"
"Oh, I have no reason, sir; only I'm a curious woman—always was. Thank you, sir."
"Did you think you knew him?"
"Oh no; but he's like some one I knew once. I'm sleepy now—I'm much better."
"Well, good night. Nurse, I don't think she's so well. Watch her carefully."
"Is the young man going to be a doctor, Dr. Vernon?" inquired the patient, suddenly.
"Yes, and a very promising student he is."
"Has he—has he—a brother?" she asked in a low voice.
"I don't know. What interests you so much in this particular student, may I ask?"
She laughed in an odd, constrained manner, and replied—
"Indeed, sir, you may ask much easier than I can answer. I have no reason at all."
"Except that he is like some one you knew?"
"Just so, sir."
Mr. Vernon went away, this being the last bed he had to visit. Next day, the patient was very much worse, and it was some days before she again began to mend. When she was really recovering, Dr. Vernon spoke to her about Fred Giles, but she declared that she remembered nothing about him, and that she must have been dreaming. And in a day or two more, she left the hospital.
Her history since the loss of the children can be told in a few words. She was a long time under medical care, her mind not having recovered completely from the effects of the attack she had at Kelmersdale. When at last she was herself again, she went to Hemsborough, and found an asylum with her sister-in-law. She heard from Lord Beaucourt of her stepson's visit to England, and she guessed that he had discovered that she had not been kind to the children. So she never wrote to him, though in her misery—for she was a very miserable woman—she would have given much to beg for his and Janet's forgiveness. She had lived principally with her sister-in-law, who was not unkind; but sometimes she quarrelled with her nieces, and then she would leave them and take a place somewhere. But her health and her nerves were shattered, and she always broke down before long, and returned to Hemsborough. She did so now, when she left the hospital.
When she was again comfortably settled in her sister-in-law's house, she wrote the following letter to Janet:
"MY DEAR JANET,
"If this ever comes to your hand, try to think less bad of me
than I deserve of you. I have suffered for my unkindness, Heaven knows.
I have been a wretched woman. I hope you and Fred have not been as
wretched as I am, but I dare not think of what you must have felt.
"I would not venture to write now but for one thing. I have always
felt that there was a chance that the children were not drowned in the
Kelmer. And I think I saw one of them, a tall, handsome young man,
studying to be a doctor. I could not think any one could be so like
your husband but little Fred, who was always so like him. But he calls
himself Frederick Giles, and when I was well and left the hospital, I
found out where he was lodging, and made what inquiry I could. He comes
from a place near Cirencester, called Edgestone, and he had gone home.
I could do no more, having no money but what would take me home to my
sister's house in Hemsborough. I am weak and ill, more in mind than in
body, and so the best thing I can do is to tell you this, and if you
tell me what to do, I will do it. But I know that you and Fred will
come home to see for yourselves, if you can afford it.
"I am not long for this world. I suppose there is no use in asking
you two to forgive me; I cannot forgive myself. I am a wretched woman,
and have no hope. But if you find the boys, perhaps you might forgive
me. Fred Giles is the adopted son of a doctor in Edgestone. That is all
I know.
"LYDIA RAYBURN."
In the years that had passed since the loss of the boys, Fred Rayburn had quite lived down the prejudice against him which had prevented Gilbert Gray from making him the first manager of the Royal Victoria Hotel in Gattigo. But when the first manager gave up the situation, Fred was able to take it; and the hotel had been most successful under him and Janet, and had made both Gilbert Gray and Fred Rayburn rich and prosperous men. The Rayburns now lived in a pretty house two or three miles from Old Man's Ferry Farm, where Janet and her daughter had no more arduous work to do than to keep house and see after their garden. Fred drove into Gattigo every day, and the hotel still flourished without a rival.
The important letter was addressed to Old Man's Ferry Farm, and when it arrived there, Gilbert and his wife, always glad to visit the Rayburns, ordered their well-appointed phaeton, with its two pretty ponies, and inquired if any of the young people would like to fill the back seat.
Several of the young people wanted to go, for cousin Lily was a general favourite; and while the boys were arguing about their claims to the seat, the two elder girls slipped quietly away to the stable and came round to the door in possession of the places. Gil and Emile and the rest were naturally very indignant, but the girls only smiled serenely, and were soon bowling smoothly along the well-made road, very different from the rough track by which Janet reached the farm on her first arrival.
"The Gables," as the Rayburns called their home, certainly deserved its name. It had been added to by many hands, and in many styles, and how many gables there were I should be afraid to conjecture. Janet and her daughter had made a pretty garden close to the house; to be sure, it was only a corner of a field well fenced with high palisades and wire netting, but it was full of flowers in summer, and afforded as much pleasure to its owners as any walled garden in the dear "old country." Lily and her mother were at work among their flowers when the Grays drove up. Out ran Lily, followed by Janet, who, however, remembered to shut the gate.
"You've come to stay all day, haven't you?" cried Lily, joyously.
She was a fair, bright-haired lassie, very like her mother and poor little Frank.
"You must stay," she went on, "for father's in Gattigo, and won't be home until dinner-time."
"Well, we can stay, Miss Apple-cheeks," said her uncle. "Janet, we've brought you a letter. Who on earth can be so behind the times as to write to you still at the Ferry Farm?"
"I don't know, but I'm glad of anything that brings you here. You and Aimée don't take a holiday half often enough. Lily, call Karl to take the ponies."
Karl having been found, the others all went into the house and had some luncheon, after which Janet asked for her letter.
"I declare I had forgotten it!" said Gilbert. "Here it is."
"The Hemsborough postmark!" Janet said. "I don't know the hand. Who can it be from? Oh, Gilbert, it is from Mrs. Rayburn!"
"Fred's mother—stepmother, I mean?"
They all crowded round Janet. Janet gave the letter to her brother.
"Somehow I can't see it," she said. "Read it aloud, Gilbert."
Which Gilbert did; and then they all looked at each other, not knowing what to think.
Before any one spoke, a man appeared at the window, which opened like a door, and, with a cry of "Gilbert and Aimée here! How lucky that I got off so early!" He pushed the window wide and came in.
It was our old friend Fred Rayburn, and a very fine-looking man he had become. And if ever a man had cause to give thanks for a good wife, Fred Rayburn was that man. For, by the blessing of God, Janet's love for him, and Janet's faith in him in spite of his follies, had made a man of him.
"Fred, Fred!" cried Janet. "Our boys—she has seen Fred—Mrs. Rayburn—here is her letter; read it, and tell me may I believe it?"
Fred took the letter and read it. He looked at Janet and began to speak, but turned back to the letter and read it again.
"Janet, when I was in England, Mrs. Rayburn was not quite in her right mind. It may be so still."
"Do you think the letter shows that she is out of her mind?" Janet said. "No, Fred, I don't think so. She says she is weak in mind and body, and I suppose she was unable to make a thorough inquiry, but we must make it."
"Certainly—of that, there can be no doubt. But do not build too much upon it, Janet, my darling; I fear it was but too plain that our boys were lost in the Kelmer."
"I have never been able to believe it; and, you see, Mrs. Rayburn has felt the same. But what do you think of doing, Fred?"
"I shall go to England as soon as I can be ready, and go direct to this place, Edgestone, near Cirencester. The truth must be easily ascertained on the spot. My fear is that her conscience, poor soul, being so burthened, she was startled by an accidental likeness—and the name being Frederick, and the young man an adopted son."
"Yes," Gilbert Gray said, "and if the boys were alive all this time, why did they never let you know? Frank was seven years old; he surely could have told his name, and where you had lived, and then you would have heard. Take my advice, Rayburn, and write to this young Giles."
"No, no—we must go," Janet said. "Fred, I am not often unreasonable, but I cannot rest till we are on our way home. Give me this satisfaction, let us go, and find out the truth together. We will take Lily too. Fred, you will take us?"
"I will indeed, Janet. I wish you could feel how unlikely it is that there is anything in what this wretched woman says, but I can quite understand your longing to see for yourself. I have a few arrangements to make, of course. Gilbert, you and Emile will see after the hotel, I am sure."
"I will do anything you like; but do remember how ill Janet was on the voyage out. Even if you must go, rather than write—"
"No, no!" said Aimée. "They must go. It is but a poor little straw of a hope, yet I feel that Janet must go. Only, dear, why take Lily? Leave her with me."
"Ah, no! I cannot bear to part with her, Aimée. I never parted with my boys but that once. Lily must come too."
Janet was ill enough on the voyage, but by no means as ill as she had been when coming out. Fortunately, Lily proved a good sailor, and was able to take care of her after the first day or so.
They had a good passage, and, on reaching England, at once went on to Cirencester, where Janet was so worn out that Fred would not hear of going on to Edgestone that evening.
Next day, she still seemed so weak that Fred proposed to go alone to Edgestone, as she seemed unfit for any exertion. But for once Janet was obstinate; she would go.
Edgestone was about fifteen miles from Cirencester, and no railways went near it. Fred Rayburn hired a wagonette, and at about twelve o'clock they set out.
CHAPTER XII.
FRANK'S MESSAGE REACHES "MUDDIE."
AS the Rayburns drove out of town, a gentleman in a small trap passed them, and just where the road to Edgestone joins the main road, they overtook him. Something had gone wrong with his harness. Fred Rayburn called out—
"Can we help you in any way, sir?"
And the other replied, "Thank you, but I've got it all right now."
Jumping into the trap, he drove on, soon passing the heavier vehicle again. As he did so, he took off his hat to the occupants.
Little thought the Rayburns that this pleasant-looking man could have told them about their boys very easily. As little thought Dr. Wentworth, as he wondered what was bringing a trio of strangers to quiet Edgestone, that they came to clear up the story that had baffled him so long, and to rob him of his adopted son. Had he seen Fred Rayburn nearer, or had an opportunity of conversing with him, the likeness both to young Fred and to his cherished photograph would have struck him; but a magnificent dark beard had altered the elder Fred a good deal, and the likeness escaped the doctor's notice. He was soon out of sight.
The travellers reached Edgestone presently, and stopped at the little inn, as the Cygnet called itself, though it really was only a decent kind of public-house. Here they alighted, and told the driver to put up his horses for a time.
"Can we have a private sitting-room?" Mr. Rayburn asked, looking doubtfully round the parlour they had been requested to enter; it possessed a strong smell of tobacco and a sanded floor.
"This is our only parlour, sir, and the Edgestone Club meets here most evenings."
"Janet, you must stay here while I inquire where the doctor lives. It will be better, dear; you look very tired, and this will spare you a little. I will come back to you as soon as I find him."
Now that the truth must soon be known, poor Janet's hopes and courage had deserted her. Till now she could not know soon enough. Now she would gladly have put off certainty a little longer. It was all she could do not to entreat her husband to wait a little, but she held her peace and subsided into a very unpromising wooden armchair. Fred turned to the mistress of the Cygnet, and said—
"Will you bring Mrs. Rayburn some tea as soon as possible?" He followed her out of the room, shutting the door. "Stay, if you please. Can you tell me where the doctor lives? You have not more than one, I suppose, in so small a place?"
"I may say there's only one, though his son is well-nigh a doctor too, and they do say he set Jerry Davidson's leg as handsome as possible, the doctor being away at the time. He lives on the green, sir, the second house from the church. I'll show you the green. Step this way, sir; you can see it from our door, and the second house is Dr. Wentworth's."
"Wentworth! I thought his name was Giles?"
"Oh, that's his son—his adopted son, sir."
"Thank you. Well, come what may, we shall know soon—my poor Janet!"
Janet and Lily had some tea. The Cygnet knew a great deal more about beer and punch than about tea, and consequently, it was not very refreshing. Lily began to feel anxious about her mother, she looked so pale.
"Mother dear," the girl said, "let us go out and get a little fresh air. We need not go out of sight of the door, you know."
"It is very close indeed; I am half smothered," poor Janet said; and, more to please Lily than because she hoped for relief, she tied her bonnet and stood up. The busy landlady heard the door open, and came into the passage.
"We are going to walk about a little," said Lily.
"Maybe you'd like to see the church, ladies? Sexton lives next door, and will lend you the key of yonder little gate, just t'other side of the road; it opens into the churchyard—the seminary, I believe, gentlefolk call it—and it's a matter of general remark that our church and the churchyard are very pretty; I've known people come from a distance to see them. I'll just get you the key."
She rushed into the nearest cottage, and came out carrying a key. "Here 'tis, ma'am; and if you go up the steps you'll see, just before you, near the top, two little graves, kept beautiful with flowers, and when you come back, I'll tell you the story of them two graves, which is worth hearing, I assure you, besides being true. Here's the key of the gate—the wicked gate, sexton calls it, but it's a good gate enough, and handy when one don't want to go round to the big one."
To stop the torrent of words, Janet took the key, and she and Lily crossed the road.
"How she does chatter!" Lily said. "But we may as well go in, mother. It will be quieter than out here, don't you think?"
"Yes, so it will. We can watch for your father well enough there."
Once inside the wicket, Janet would have been content to sit on the steps which led up to the church, but she found that she could not see over the wall; so they began to climb upwards. And the place was so pretty, and, moreover, so unlike anything that Lily had ever seen, that they went on and on, till they reached the top of the bank, and saw before them the beautiful old church, with a wide, low porch; and between them and it a number of graves. All were nicely kept, but two were quite beautiful, covered completely with blue and white flowers, while the grass surrounding them was like velvet. Round the white marble cross at the head of one grave, a white clematis was trained so skilfully that the inscription was not obscured. The other grave had a cross, but it was of wood, and round it clung a rose-tree, with small crimson roses in great profusion. But here, too, the growth was not allowed to interfere with the inscription.
"Oh, mother, is not that lovely? What constant care some one must take of these two graves—such little graves, too! These must be the two the landlady spoke of; we must hear the story. I wonder why one has a marble cross and the other only a wooden one?"
While Lily spoke, they were drawing nearer to the little graves, and now the girl began to read aloud—
"'Charles William Wentworth, only child of Dr. Alexander Wentworth
and Lucy, his wife. Died April 3, 18—, aged seven years.'"
Suddenly her mother caught her by the arm, and said in a low, strange voice—
"Lily! The other—look at it, read it!"
Lily was frightened, and she was more frightened when she saw her mother's face. She looked at the wooden cross, and exclaimed—
"Oh, mother, what can it mean?"
"Read it to me; I may have read it wrong. Be quick, Lily, read it."
And Lily read—
"'Frank. Died September 14, 18—, aged about seven years.
He laid down his life to save his brother's. His last words
were a message to his mother, to tell her he had taken care of Fred.'"
"Oh, mother, mother, what does it mean?"
"That I have found one of my little boys," Janet said, and she trembled so that Lily put her arms round her and tried to hold her up.
A step rang on the gravel, a young man came round the corner of the church and stopped short on seeing strangers near the graves he came to visit. Lily, though usually very shy, was so beside herself with fright, that she called aloud to him—
"Please, please come here; mother is ill, and I am afraid she will fall!"
The stranger was at her side in a moment.
"Has she fainted? I'll carry her up to the seat in the porch, and run for water."
But Janet had not fainted, and now she steadied herself, laid her hand on his arm, and said—
"Tell me what this means, if you are Fred?" pointing to the wooden cross.
He looked at her earnestly. "Who are you?" he said. "Is my childish dream come true at last? Oh, I can tell you what those words mean! My brother lies there. We had wandered—I don't know where from. He was the elder, and—he laid down his life to save mine."
"Then you are my little Fred, and I have found both my boys," said Janet. "Child, don't you know me?"
"Is it true? Are you really my mother? But you are ill; don't try to speak. Let me help you up to the porch; you can hardly stand."
He put his arm round her and guided her faltering steps to the porch, followed by the distracted Lily, who felt as if walking in her sleep. In the porch, there was a broad stone seat, on which Fred placed his mother; he knelt beside her, and said—
"Is it true that you are really my mother?—the 'muddie' for whom Frank and I fretted so—to find when we ran away? From whom we escaped, I cannot remember. I only recall an angry, cruel face. For pity's sake, tell me who you are."
"I am surely your mother, my son. You always called me 'muddie.' Come here, Lily; this is your brother Fred. Why, where has the child gone?"
For Lily, having caught sight of her father and Dr. Wentworth at the door of the Cygnet, had run down the steps to the gate, and across the road to her father's side.
"Father," she cried, "we have found him! Mother and I, up there. Come, I will show you the way."
"Lily, tell me—does my poor Janet know that Frank is dead?"
"I think she does. It was a little grave, all over flowers—and then he came round the church. I did not quite understand, but mother did."
"It must have been the inscription that I told you of: she understood, no doubt. Tell her the exact words were, 'Tell muddie that I took care of Fred.' Mr. Rayburn, in finding Fred you've found a good and noble son; but little Frank was a hero and a martyr, to my mind."
"He was his mother's son," was the answer.
Then they went up the steep steps, and found mother and son standing by the flower-clad cross.
"Dr. Wentworth, I have found my mother!" cried Fred, hardly seeing that the doctor was not alone in his agitation.
"Fred, I have found both our boys," said Janet, leaving her son and taking her husband's arm; "and God has taken care of both of them."