The strange house or, A moment's mistake
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."