CHAPTER XXIII.
A HINDRANCE.
"I THOUGHT—I hoped," sobbed poor Rose, "that—at last—my waiting time was over, and I—might be going to find my little Lester—if it were God's will."
"And the worst is," she added, when she was calmer and was sitting in Gertrude's bedroom, "the worst is, Gertrude, if there should be anything wrong, they will move away at once."
"Yes," said Gertrude, kneeling down by her and laying her head on her sister's shoulder, "but then—even supposing all that, if God has allowed us to get on this track, and it is the right one, He will certainly make a way out of what seems so dark and difficult now."
The words quieted Rose's aching heart.
"I was almost forgetting that in my disappointment! Dear Gertrude, you are a true comforter."
There was silence then, Rose reviewing all the strong consolation which she felt at the times when she remembered that her Father in heaven could work for her; while Gertrude realized, as never before, how precious were her dear ones at home, and felt it would certainly break her heart to see Rose go away and leave her behind.
A summons to dinner interrupted these thoughts.
"How truly kind Mrs. Shaddock is!" said Rose, as they went down. "She has asked me to stay the night here, or as long as I like. I never saw strangers so kind."
At dinner, the plans for the afternoon were freely discussed, for till Rose could communicate with her lawyer and ask his advice, she could do nothing, "but enjoy herself," as Randall told Daisy.
"I have to go to Highgate to make two or three calls," said Mrs. Shaddock, "and shall drive. If Mrs. Leigh will come with me—"
"And me, mother?" interrupted Randall.
"Very well—and you—the rest can walk and meet us there. Then you can show Mrs. Leigh the cemetery while I make my calls, and I will take her up at the lower gates at five o'clock. Miss Ashlyn, I know you like walking, do you not?"
This plan was hailed with applause by the children. For Mrs. Shaddock, if she took them a little jaunt in this way, was always very generous in her plans. And they knew that a pleasant tea at the best pastrycook's in Highgate would be in the programme, and that their mother would perhaps tell them to have a cab to bring them home.
So they set off in wild spirits, some time before their mother's carriage was ordered, and timed their arrival at the upper gates at Highgate Cemetery just as it came bowling along the road.
It stopped to put Mrs. Leigh down, and then Mrs. Shaddock beckoned Mollie to the window.
"Have a nice tea," she whispered, pressing some money into Mollie's hand, "and do not hurry. Mrs. Leigh says she would like to walk home with her sister. So either, of you girls, can come with me or walk home, which you like."
"Daisy can come then," said Mollie; "I would much rather stay with them."
The carriage drove on, and the party was left standing on the path.
"Which way are we to go?" asked Gertrude.
"I know!" exclaimed Randall. "Come along, Mrs. Leigh, I'll show you."
Mrs. Leigh, looking upon every little boy with the eyes of a bereaved mother, had longingly regarded little Randall as perhaps reminding her of her own six-year old child. But even if his bright colour and yellow hair might have done for little Lester's pink cheeks and golden curls, the defiant eyes and bold mien did not remind her of her tender darling, and no amount of imagination would turn Randall into a little Lester. She however took the child's hand, her fingers thrilling at the little fingers, and went forward with him in front, the rest following at leisure.
It was a glorious afternoon; the sunshine was perfect, and the fresh breeze and the autumn foliage were so entrancing that the children's spirits could hardly be kept within bounds in that quiet resting-place of the dead.
Several times, Gertrude had to warn them to be more moderate, till at last Randall said, "We always do just as we like here, Miss Ashlyn."
"Not if I am in charge," said Gertrude quietly.
"Let us go and look at what we call 'the catacombs,'" said Randall. "If you peep in, you can see the coffins all along!"
He went off with his sisters, and Gertrude and Rose were left alone.
"You have a handful with that little boy?" said Rose, looking after them.
"Yes," answered Gertrude, "he is my cross."
"Then, darling, he may yet be your 'crown'!" Rose answered tenderly.
Gertrude did not reply, but followed on the heels of her flock to see that they did not get into mischief.
By and by, they began to clamour for tea, and the party made their way out of the cemetery and wandered into the town, looking at shops as they went along, till Mollie exclaimed, "Miss Ashlyn, I 'must' buy that pattern; it is just what I have been wanting for ever so long."
Gertrude feared that it was getting late, and begged her to defer her purchase till after tea, but she would not hear of it. Then the shop was full, and they had to wait, so that when they finally reached the pastrycook's, the clock pointed to ten minutes to five.
"You will keep your mother waiting!" exclaimed Gertrude. "Daisy, dear, have something to eat, and let us hasten to meet her. I had no idea we should be so long in that shop."
The child took some cake and hurried back with Gertrude through the quiet cemetery, and arrived breathless, five minutes before the carriage came.
"What will they think has become of you?" asked Daisy, to whom the moments while they stood waiting seemed longer than they really were.
"I told them to have their tea and to go home without me if I did not come," said Gertrude.
And then the carriage came, and she left Daisy with her mother and retraced her steps back through the trees and flowers and graves.
CHAPTER XXIV.
AT THE GRAVE.
THE autumn afternoon was closing in, and but that Gertrude had noticed some men filling in a new-made grave as she went down, she would have feared that she might find the gates shut.
She walked as fast as she could, taking one of the narrower paths, and was almost within sight of the upper gates when her attention was arrested by a figure crouching over that very new-made grave which she had seen.
Her quick steps took her past before she had realized that there was some one who was in great need.
But what was it to her that a mourner should be weeping there? Were not all those graves dear to some hearts? And was this not one among many?
Still she could not go on and leave the drooping figure. Somehow there was an abandonment in the grief that made Gertrude feel she "could" not "pass by on the other side."
One moment she hesitated—then advanced softly across the grass, which had already in the dusk lost its greenness, and was now nothing but a carpet of deep shade beneath her feet.
She sat down on the ground beside the weeping woman and touched her hand.
"You are in great trouble," she said gently.
A moan was the only answer.
"Have you lost your husband?" asked Gertrude tenderly.
A decisive shake of the head.
"Then perhaps it is a child?" asked the soft voice again.
The woman turned away with a sudden sort of pang, but after a moment she said, as if in spite of herself—"My only one!"
"That must be terrible," said Gertrude, thinking of Rose, and trying to match this woman's grief with what she knew of her sister's.
The woman raised herself a little, but only to cover her head in her shawl more effectually, out of which her voice sounded far-off and thick.
"Could you tell me?" said Gertrude tenderly, thinking about her Lord and Master, and trying to picture "His" great love and sympathy, so that she might copy Him.
"Why do you care for a stranger?" flashed this woman from the depths of the shawl.
"Because I love the Lord Jesus," answered Gertrude, "and He wept at the grave."
"At the grave?" questioned the woman. "Whose grave?"
But before Gertrude could answer, she had flung herself round again, and ended in burying her face in her hands on the girl's lap, where she shook with a paroxysm of grief such as Gertrude had never imagined could be.
It was impossible to leave her, and yet what about those closing gates and the growing darkness?
Then Gertrude noticed to her intense relief that some men were spreading gravel near the entrance, and were rolling it backwards and forwards without apparently any signs of giving up.
So she turned her attention once more to the mourner, who was clasping her as if she were the only comfort left.
She whispered words of the love of Jesus, of His sympathy, of His ability to save to the uttermost, of His love for the little children. And as she went on, feeling her way as it were, she began to understand what a mighty Saviour she had for her own, and a great longing came over her for this poor soul who, evidently, was a stranger to His great love.
"I'm a wicked woman," groaned her listener at last. "You would not speak to me so if you guessed how wicked I have been."
"Jesus our Saviour came to save sinners," whispered Gertrude.
"That is what 'he' said," she exclaimed, her eyes raining down tears.
"Your little boy?"
"Yes; but—but he asked me to do two things, and I can't do either."
"He wanted you to come to Jesus?" asked Gertrude eagerly.
"Yes, but though I cannot do that, it was not the hardest thing. I promised him, and yet I am going to break my word!"
"Break your word to him?" asked Gertrude reproachfully. "You will not do that."
"I shall—simply because I never can do it! I thought I would when I promised, but I can't. No, I can't. Johnnie, it is of no use."
Again she wept hopelessly, while Gertrude trembled, she hardly knew why.
"Is it something you ought to tell?" asked Gertrude.
A movement of the woman's head seemed to acknowledge that it was.
"Then God will help you to tell it, if you ask Him."
"I have never asked Him anything. Yes, I have; I asked Him that Johnnie might not die, and He did not hear."
"Ask Him for this, and perhaps He will make the other plain to you by and by. The reason, I mean!"
"I know the reason!" said the woman bitterly. "It was because of my sin!"
"You do not know the reason. Perhaps the loving and merciful God could find no other way to show you your sin, and lead you to Himself to be forgiven."
There was a long silence, while the woman's thoughts chased each other through her torn heart.
Gertrude watched the men rolling the gravel; she heard their cheerful tones as they went backwards and forwards. Then she bent over the prostrate form once more.
"Dear friend," she whispered, "shall I pray that God will give you His mighty help to keep this promise?"
The woman pressed her hand, and Gertrude prayed a prayer, the earnestness of which had never perhaps passed her lips before.
CHAPTER XXV.
JOHNNIE'S JOKE.
"WOULD it help you to tell 'me'?" asked Gertrude, bending over the woman as she still knelt with her head buried in her lap.
She laid a tender hand on her head, and stroked her hair softly, wondering at herself that she could, and yet feeling an overwhelming pity in her heart. Was not she a sinner too, and did she not know that the seeds of all sorts of evil lurked in her own heart?
"A sinner saved!" she thought. And then she said aloud, "I have learned what it is to be forgiven myself, you know, and so I can sympathize."
"You have never done what I have," murmured the woman. "But—I do not know why, yet I trust you! I will, if I can, tell you about it. You will see then that I shall never be able to keep this promise."
"You will, if you believe that the dear God is able to help you. Oh, if only you would, from your heart, ask Him to forgive you—whatever it is—I am sure, after that you would be able to keep your promise."
The woman trembled, and after a minute or two's silence, she said in a low tone—
"I never meant to—not at first. But before I say a word more, you will promise me that you will never tell 'any one'?"
"No," said Gertrude; "I will keep your secret faithfully."
Then the woman went on almost beneath her breath—
"It was two years ago. I never meant to do it! I was as honest and straightforward a woman as you would find.
"We lived—no matter where. My husband was a steward on board one of the steamers going to and from China, and was not at home then. I settled down in a seaside place, and hired a house and furniture, and set up lodging-keeping.
"I had nobody but my Johnnie with me, and we were enough for each other.
"By and by there came a lady and a little boy—a dear little fellow."
She caught her breath for a moment with a sobbing sigh, and then went on in a low almost inaudible tone—
"His mother was obliged to go away to Scotland, and I took care of him while she was gone. One afternoon I was called into a neighbour's to help with some one who had got a bad scald, and the time ran away, and I was gone longer than I had ought to have been. I know that—I'd no business to have left him so long."
The woman wound her shawl round her face and wept bitterly.
Gertrude's heart was beating so fast that she felt choked, while she breathlessly listened to the tale which matched—yes, yes it did!—that dreadful one of her sister's.
Then a blank despair fell upon her. Why had she given that reckless promise not to tell any one? Ought she to hear the rest of the story and remain silent? And if she interrupted now, the secret might be gone for ever!
In this terrible crisis, Gertrude could but breathe in her heart a swift prayer for guidance and help to her unseen but ever-present Friend. Afterwards, she knew that it had been given, but now she could only trust.
Could this be indeed the clue to Rose's mystery? She knew not what to do, so she waited.
"When I came back," the woman went on at last, though her words were choked and broken, "Johnnie—my Johnnie—met me in the passage full of excitement.
"'I've had such a lark,' he said, in his cheerful little way.
"I went into the parlour (we had no lodgers just then) with my mind full of the scalded girl, and I said—
"'Where's the little one, Johnnie? I did not mean to be gone so long.'
"'Come up and see,' he said. And he led me up-stairs and opened one of the bedroom doors.
"I gave a great scream—I remember it all as if it had happened yesterday—for there before me was a great monster which Johnnie had dressed up for fun, with a big mask on and a candle behind it, shining out of the eyes. Of course it was only for a moment I was frightened, and I turned round to scold Johnnie about it, when I saw close to it the figure of the little boy I was taking care of, standing with his finger touching it.
"He was such a wonderfully timid child that my heart gave a great jump when I saw him first. But after all, I thought, he was less scared than I was.
"'Come along, dear,' I said, 'we will go down-stairs.'
"But the little fellow did not move. He went on touching the great monster that Johnnie had made, and took not the slightest notice of me.
"I went up to him and looked in his face.
"'Ain't you tired of this ugly thing?' I said. 'Johnnie hadn't ought to have done it. Come along, dear!'
"But though I took him up in my arms, he still looked with those startled big eyes, until I got him safe down into our parlour.
"When I got there, I expected him to 'come to,' and perhaps have a little cry. But oh, miss! How can I tell you my feelings when he just sat where I put him, or stood where I stood him, without taking any more notice than a doll.
"'Johnnie!' I said. 'What did you do?'
"Johnnie was terrified enough. 'I only told him to go up-stairs and see something pretty in your room,' he said.
"'And did he go?'
"'He was mighty afraid at first, and then he ran up all at once, very brave-like, and I thought there was no harm!' said Johnnie.
"And no more he did, miss; he loved the little fellow as much as I did. Only Johnnie was always one for those jokes; that's what it was."
CHAPTER XXVI.
FLIGHT.
GERTRUDE could hardly breathe, but she kept quiet, and the woman continued her narrative, still in the same dull, hopeless, heart-broken tone in which she had spoken all along.
"I did everything I could think of. I gave him a warm bath—I poured out prayers and tears—I did everything to bring him back, but to no avail.
"As to Johnnie, he hung over him too, and cried as I never wish to hear a child cry again; it wrings my heart now to think of it.
"All night we watched him, and kissed him, and coaxed him, but it was of no use! At last, Johnnie fell asleep, kneeling on the floor by us, but no sleep came to my eyes.
"Then I made my fatal mistake and committed a dreadful sin.
"When the morning sun crept in, and still those wide-open startled eyes gave no sign of intelligence, I made up my mind for flight.
"At first I only intended to gain time, perhaps to consult a doctor in London, or to try what change of air would do to restore him. But I did a dreadful thing—I robbed a mother of her child, and I prevented her doing what she might have done to repair the mischief.
"You will blame me—I know you must—I feel your knees trembling beneath me. But oh! No one who has not passed through it can conceive what I suffered then, and what I have suffered since!"
Gertrude's knees did tremble, but by a great effort she murmured some words of sympathy. While the woman raised her face to wipe from it the drops of perspiration which stood on her brow.
One thought crossed Gertrude's mind of what they would think if she did not arrive at the confectioner's, but she was reassured that they would conclude that she had been persuaded to drive home with Mrs. Shaddock, and till both parties arrived, each would think she was with the other. This woman's story would be enough excuse when once she got home!
"It was my terror of what would be done to Johnnie," the woman went on at length, "that made me fly. Ah! I had better have faced it all, ten thousand times! Better for myself, better for him. As to me, I have grown an old, broken-down woman; as to him—he lies here in the cold ground, and I shall never, never see him again!"
"He is gone to Jesus," whispered Gertrude in a broken voice; "if you seek Him too, you will meet your boy again."
She did not know how to articulate the words, and yet—still she thought of herself as a forgiven sinner, and must she not forgive too!
The woman seemed to listen.
"Oh, if I could!" she said, with a yearning cry.
"'Him that cometh to Me I will in no wise cast out,'" said Gertrude earnestly. And then she thought of the unfinished story, and how could she bear to speak of anything till that was told?
But had she not in that brief prayer asked her Heavenly Father to take it all in hand? And was she going to slight "His" work, which He had given her to do, in order to take what she thought the best road to finding little Lester?
"Those are the very words my Johnnie said!" exclaimed the woman, raising her face for the first time, and letting Gertrude gaze upon its haggard lines—at least upon so much of them as could be seen in the increasing darkness.
"'In no wise cast out!' Those are good words!"
She laid her head down again on the trembling knees, and did not speak for ever so long.
"Why are you so good to me?" she asked at last.
"Because I am so sorry for you," said Gertrude in a low tone.
"I'm not worthy to come to Him," the woman went on; "and yet—yet I think I must try. Johnnie said he'd been forgiven—and he said I should be. And oh, though you may not think it, from such a dreadful thing as I am, but if I could be forgiven by God, and know that the poor mother I robbed—"
She broke off and flung herself upon Johnnie's grave, and lay there with her face against the cold clay.
"Dear friend," said Gertrude kneeling down beside her, "go to Jesus now! Do not wait any longer. You will never be happy without Him; you will be at peace even in the midst of this dreadful sorrow, if only you have Him for your Saviour. Do not wait another moment."
And again repeating those words which have brought balm to thousands of hopeless hearts, Gertrude said, as Johnnie's nurse had done, "'Him that cometh to Me I will in no wise cast out.'"
Perhaps Johnnie's persuasion had prepared her, perhaps the week of anguish she had just passed had softened her heart; at any rate, the woman believed the loving promise and acted on it.
She "came" to Jesus, and found that she was not cast out! But, covered with the Atoning Blood, she was drawn into the circle of everlasting love!
"I've done it!" she whispered at length. "I've come, and He has not cast me out! Oh, I never saw such love!"
She rose from the ground, and taking Gertrude's hand, pointed towards the entrance, where the men were beginning to put away their tools.
"I shall never be able to thank you, miss," she said brokenly, "but if ever there was a grateful heart!—To think that I 'shall' see Johnnie again now! Oh, miss! I'm lost in joy and wonder. I cannot think that I am the same woman that I was an hour ago!"
Gertrude, amidst all the conflicting feelings of joy for this new-born soul, sorrow for her sister, and anxiety as to the future, could do nothing but weep.
CHAPTER XXVII.
A DARK RIDE.
THE woman, still holding her hand, led her to the gates.
"Dear miss," she said at last, "why do you cry? You, at any rate, ought to be very glad, for you have brought me, by your great kindness, what is worth the whole world to me! Why do you cry?"
Again Gertrude could do nothing but pray a silent momentary prayer, to be taught to say the right words.
"I am crying because I am glad for you; because I do not love our blessed Saviour half enough myself for all He has done for me. But I am crying, too, I think, because—because—I want you to tell me the rest about that poor little boy, and because I want you to give him back to his mother."
The woman let go her hand suddenly, and there was a long pause. Their steps carried them through the gates into the dark road outside.
"You have asked a very hard thing," said the woman, slowly.
Gertrude was silent; her heart sank at the altered tone.
"And yet—" the woman went on, "and yet—I see that it will have to come to that; I saw it as I lay with my face on my Johnnie's grave. The moment I had come to Christ to have my sins forgiven, I promised Him that for His great love to me I would show that little bit of love to Him, and do it for His sake. Yes, what I could not do for even Johnnie's sake, I will do for Jesus!"
She clasped Gertrude's hand again, and covered it with kisses; while the poor girl, wholly overcome, sobbed convulsively.
"I will tell you the rest as we go along," whispered the woman.
"Where do you live?" asked Gertrude, when she could speak. "Shall we have a cab? I will drive you home if you will let me."
"It is a long way," said the woman. "I live at Hampstead."
At Hampstead! Gertrude started, and then she said quietly—
"We will go together then, and you will tell me on the way? I know you will be kind now. I too have something to tell you!"
They were quite silent till they were seated in the vehicle and driving down the long road that led from Highgate to Hampstead Heath.
None too long, however, as Gertrude knew, for all she wanted to hear.
The woman began of herself.
"Dear miss," she said, "I have made up my mind; so now there is nothing to do but to carry it out. For His great love, I'm going to have just a little love, and try to do right—at last."
"Tell me about the little boy!" whispered Gertrude.
"Yes, yes, but I must find his mother! That is the next step, no matter what it costs. Do you think she will have me imprisoned?"
"I should hope not—I should think not!" exclaimed Gertrude.
"Well, well, no matter now. I must find her; life is but short, and soon I shall see Jesus and Johnnie! I cannot look at things as I did; it is all new and wonderful. What was very dreadful does not seem so dreadful, and this world seems far-away, and heaven very near."
She looked up into the starry sky, and seemed lost in thought. Gertrude's touch recalled her.
"Yes," she said, as if taking up the thread with an effort, "I must tell you the rest.
"As I said, we tried everything we could possibly think of to bring the poor little dear back to his senses. Oh, it was a cruel, cruel trick, miss; you cannot say it more strongly than I did; but Johnnie did not mean to do harm. Never was a boy more bitterly sorry than my little Johnnie. I don't think he often had a happy moment after, till he died. Oh, tricks are dreadful things! This one has ruined my life, and Johnnie's, and—other lives too."
Again she broke off with a gasp. Gertrude noticed that she could hardly speak of little Lester without it.
"At last, my husband came home and found us hiding, as you may say, in a street in Bermondsey. He was dreadfully cut up about it, and wanted me to give the child back to his mother at once. But fear kept me from doing what was right, and I would not hear of it.
"At last, we decided we could not live where we were. The little one's health grew very poor—" (Gertrude gave a shiver of pain, but she kept silent)—"and so at last we decided to send Johnnie to school, and to take a house near Hampstead, where my husband could employ himself. He used to be head-gardener at a gentleman's place before he went as steward, so that was what he turned his hand to. The little one and I lived at the top of the house, and there he is now."
"Is he ill?" asked Gertrude, in a smothered voice, her heart sinking at what the answer might be.
"Very poorly," answered the woman, in a low tone; "very poorly indeed."
"If you could find his mother, would you let her see him?" asked Gertrude.
"Yes," said the woman slowly.
"May I help you to find her?"
"Ah, miss, that will be a job. You see, it's two years ago, and I only know her name, and the name of the place where she did live once—Camptown."
"I am sure I can help you if you will trust me," said Gertrude, trembling, "but what about my promise not to tell?"
The woman was silent for a moment. Already the cab had crossed the broad Heath, and was rattling down the steep town of Hampstead. They would be home in five minutes.
Then the woman took Gertrude's hand in hers again, and pressing it till it ached, she said, brokenly, "You may tell 'her,' if you can find her."
CHAPTER XXVIII.
ALMOST.
ON they drove, till the cab, as directed by the woman, turned up one of the openings leading from the main road, and at length stopped at the gate of a house, just as Gertrude had anticipated, next door to her own home.
All along the way, she had been questioning with herself what she ought to do, but she could not form any definite plan.
They got out, Gertrude paying the man, and then they paused and looked each other in the face, under the gas-lamp, Gertrude raising her eyes with an appealing look in them.
The woman caught both her hands as if terrified, and drew her nearer the light.
"Your face—something in your face brings back to me another face, which all these months I have fled from and dreaded to see."
"But you do not any longer?" said Gertrude, with quivering voice.
"I hardly know, dear miss. I owe you so much, but let me go in and have time to think! You seem—and yet it is impossible—as if you were some one belonging to that poor mother I have wronged, or else to be herself grown different!"
She trembled all over, and Gertrude led her into her own garden and up to her own door.
"May I come in too?" she asked, as the woman fumbled in her pocket for a key.
"No, no!" she answered, turning round suddenly. "I must speak to my husband. Not but what he will be glad—this has pretty near worn him out. But I do not think I can let you in!"
"Dear friend," said Gertrude, in an imploring tone, "if I go away now, you will not disappoint me afterwards, and refuse to see us if I find the little one's mother? You will remember then all we said and did at Johnnie's grave?"
"Yes, yes, I will," said the woman. "Now go and leave me." Then, suddenly altering her mind, the woman pulled her into the dim, fire-lighted kitchen, and struck a match.
"No, you are not his mother!" she said slowly.
"But," added Gertrude, "I am her sister. I never guessed it when you began to tell me. I thought you were just a stranger out in the wide world—some one who needed Jesus! But now—oh, you will not refuse to let me bring my sister to her lost darling! You will let me go and fetch her, that she may once more clasp him in her arms, as you clasped Johnnie only a week ago!"
The woman sank into a chair, and Gertrude knelt in front of her, pouring out entreaties, feeling as if in the woman's silence, little Lester were slipping away and away, just as she had grasped him.
Then she thought of her Unfailing Refuge. Why was she so anxious and dismayed? Would not He, who had brought her thus far, bring her to the end?
She buried her face in her hands in silent, earnest petition to Him who is ever near.
"Dear miss," said the woman softly, "did I not say that I would give him up?"
Gertrude looked in her face, and then she rose up from her knees, and bent her head to kiss the careworn cheek.
"Then I will bring her," was all she said. "Shall you come to the door if I ring there?"
"Yes," said the woman, "I'll come."
*****
In another two minutes Gertrude was standing in the Shaddocks' bright hall, with all the family crowding round her.
"Where have you been?" exclaimed Mollie.
"We have been so anxious about you," said Mrs. Shaddock.
"We stayed at the confectioner's till we were ashamed to stay any longer," said Rose.
"I expect you've had a spree!" said Randall.
While behind stood tall Conway with his rather supercilious look, Hugh and Daisy filling up the rest of the circle.
But Rose, more accustomed to Gertrude's ordinary aspect, saw something different in her sister's face.
And just as Mrs. Shaddock was saying, "How tired you must be! I hope you have not walked all the way," Rose drew close to her, and said—
"I am afraid you have been frightened. Is anything the matter?"
"I have met some one who told me a very sad story," said Gertrude, meeting her sister's eyes, where in a moment came a startled look.
"Who told you a sad story, dear Gertrude?" she asked breathlessly.
A silence fell upon the whole group. That something had happened, every one saw.
"You are worn out!" said Rose. "Come in here and tell us. Mrs. Shaddock, may I give my sister some tea?"
The rest followed the sisters into the dining-room, while Mollie poured out some tea, and Rose put Gertrude into an arm-chair.
"I want to tell you all!" she exclaimed, looking up at the eager faces, "but I am bound over to tell only one person at present. Dearest Rose! Can you bear to hear that I believe I have found a clue which will lead us to little Lester. But, Rose, darling, he is not very well—not very strong—"
Rose's eyes were like burning coals as they tried to take in the meaning of her sister's words.
"He is not—not dead?" she exclaimed.
"No—no, but ill. I must not say more. Oh, how I wish I could! But the woman will let me by and by. I feel sure. Dear Mrs. Shaddock, forgive me, but if I had made any objection to her terms, I might have lost little Lester altogether!"
"Do not be distressed on our account," said Mrs. Shaddock, heartily; "surely we can wait, when such a joy has come to you both!"
"Ah! But it is not all joy," said Gertrude, remembering what had to be told to that sorrowful mother, of the cruel trick and its consequences.
And then, looking up to thank Mrs. Shaddock, she found that they were all leaving the room, and she and Rose were alone.
CHAPTER XXIX.
AT LAST.
"GERTRUDE! Where is he?"
Left with her sister by the kind thought of their hostess, Gertrude tried hard to recover her firmness. To have such a joyful piece of news in her possession as that little Lester was found, and then to have to tell that poor mother that her darling had almost better be dead; how could she say it?
"Dearest Rose, it is a very sad story, and I want to prepare you for a great blow—and yet I cannot do it as I would."
"Oh, do not keep me in suspense!" exclaimed Rose. "Tell me the worst at once; I can bear anything better than this. If Lester is indeed found, what do I want more?"
"Rose," said Gertrude earnestly, "you will have a great wrong to forgive—a greater wrong than you can picture—and yet—yet—you will forgive it when you realize the sorrow they have gone through."
But what was so plain to Gertrude was all an enigma to poor Rose. Her expectant look was so imploring that her sister knew not what to say.
"Tell me all," said Rose; "hide nothing."
"Little Lester is, I believe, found, dear Rose, but through—through a sad accident, his mind is affected."
"What?" exclaimed Rose, her eyes dilated with horror. "Where—where?"
"Very near us," said Gertrude tenderly. "If you think you can command yourself, and bear what has to be borne bravely, I will take you to him, Rose."
Her sister looked round mechanically for her bonnet, then left the room hurriedly to seek it.
Gertrude hastened to the drawing-room, where she found the whole family waiting, almost breathlessly, having heard the opening door, and Mrs. Leigh running up-stairs.
"I must hardly tell you a word," said Gertrude, "but I believe I have found her little boy. Do not ask me, for I may not answer! We will come back as soon as we can. Oh, how kind you all are!"
She heard her sister returning down-stairs, and with an apologetic look she joined her in the hall, and they left the house together.
"Where?" asked Rose, turning to her as they got to the gate. "Not—no, it is not next door, after all!"
"Rose," said Gertrude, taking her trembling hand, "I must not take you till you are calm. When we remember, that if we find him, it will be all our Father's doing, that ought to calm us."
Rose pressed her hand, and walked on with her slowly and steadily, entering the garden of the Strange House and walking up to the door without the agitation which had made Gertrude so anxious about the coming interview.
They rang the bell, and there was a long pause. Gertrude's heart almost failed her, lest the woman should repent her bargain. But then she thought of the earnest promise she had given; she thought again of her great Helper, and took courage.
"Will they let us in?" whispered Rose.
"I think so; she said she would."
"Who is she? Is it the landlady?"
"Yes, dearest! She has suffered terribly for what she did; you will pity her by and by."
"Ring again, Gertrude," said Rose. "How can I bear it?"
But even as she spoke the door opened, and the woman stood within, cold and silent.
"I have brought my sister," said Gertrude, putting her hand on her arm.
"Have you told her?" asked the woman abruptly.
"Some of it; I have not had time for all."
"Will she ever forgive me? Does she forgive me?"
"I am sure she will by and by. You remember she wants to see little Lester now; she has not seen him for two whole years."
The woman turned slowly, and holding the flickering candle in her hand, led the way up the uncarpeted stairs to the very top, where she went through an open door, the sisters following her with beating hearts.
"He is very poorly," said the woman, in a smothered voice, as she set the candle down and went to the little crib in the corner.
All was scrupulously clean. The coverlet as white as snow, the sheets fresh and spotless.
Rose took it all in, but as the woman drew aside the coverings, the little form brought to view was not what she had expected.
There were the bright golden curls lying on the pillow, but the little face which she had pictured day and night since she lost him was quite different and altered.
A tiny shrunken face now, with closed eyes.
"Lester!" said Rose, in the cooing tone one would use to a half-waking baby. "Lester, here is mother come back!"
The child stirred and opened his eyes dreamily.
"Will you come on my lap, Lester?" she said, bending over him and kissing his cheek lightly, thinking not of herself but of him. "Will you come, Lester?"
As she held out her arms, the child seemed to understand, and held out his. But before they reached her neck, they fell back weakly, and he remained with his eyes fixed on her face.
She raised him up tenderly, and lifted him to the fireside, her heart failing her as she perceived that he was nothing but skin and bone.
His little head lay on her breast. At last! At last! But not an answer could she get from his little pale lips, not a glance of intelligence from his quiet blue eyes.
Gertrude stood by, and the woman stood by, their tears dropping one after another unheeded down their cheeks, while Rose seemed to see nothing, hear nothing, besides her child. She rocked him backwards and forwards, she kissed him softly, she smoothed his silky hair, she held his emaciated hand in hers, and ever and anon she said, as if to herself, "Lord, I thank Thee—I thank Thee—that I have him again. My little Lester, my little Lester!"