The strange house or, A moment's mistake
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!"
CHAPTER XXX.
WRAPPED IN A CLOAK.
THE first time Rose appeared conscious of the presence of any one else
in the room, was after what seemed to the woman and Gertrude a very
long time.
She had been bending over her child examining his thin little limbs,
seemingly trying to reconcile facts which were so contrary to her
remembrance; apparently the joy of having him in her arms again had
swept away all else.
At last she raised her eyes to the woman, and spoke to her for the
first time, still with a far-away look that had no realization of what
all the present circumstances implied. She had got her child, as yet
that was everything.
"How long has he been ill like this?" she asked.
"Nearly two years," the woman replied, in a low tone.
"And I never knew," said Rose dreamily. "Gertrude, he ought to have a
doctor."
"Yes," said Gertrude, quickly wiping away her tears, and coming nearer.
"Let us send for one," said Rose.
But then her eyes caught the woman's shrinking look, and for a moment
there was a breathless pause.
"I see," said Rose slowly, rising with a dignified gesture. "My sister
said I should have much to forgive. I did not understand her; I do not
think I do now. But all I know is that I have my child again. I will
take him away now. You have restored me my child, for that I thank you
with all my heart. For whatever else, I pray God that I may forgive you
when I understand it. To-night I can understand nothing."
She moved from her chair, holding little Lester easily in her arms,
then looking round for some covering, she took from her sister's hand
the cloak she had thrown off on her entrance into the room, and wrapped
it tenderly round her child.
"But, dear Rose—" began Gertrude.
"Do not hinder me," she said pathetically. "I have got Lester, nothing
else matters!"
She went swiftly to the door and began descending the stairs, the woman
hastening to the landing to light her steps.
"Good-bye!" said Gertrude, pressing the woman's hand, as she quickly
prepared to follow her sister. "I will come to see you to-morrow. Oh,
thank you, thank you for letting me bring her! If you could only guess
what we feel!"
"I'll love you for ever!" said the woman, weeping. "If I could do
anything for you!"
"Would you do it if I asked you?" said Gertrude eagerly.
"Indeed, indeed I would!"
"Then let me tell just my nearest friends about this. If you would do
that, it would be the kindest thing you could do now."
"To let it be in the papers to-morrow morning," said the woman. "I
can't do that."
"No—no, indeed; only ourselves. Oh, do let me!"
For a moment there was a pause, then the woman let go her hand
suddenly, and set the candle down on a box.
They could hear Rose's steps had reached the hall, and Gertrude must go.
"I owe you everything—everything; you may do what you like! I know you
will do nothing but what is right."
She turned into the desolate room, and Gertrude sped down-stairs.
There stood Rose, leaning against the banisters for support.
"How can we get out?" she asked hurriedly. "She will not stop us, will
she?"
"I do not think so—oh no. But see, I believe we can open this from the
inside."
While she fumbled at the lock with trembling fingers, they heard steps
coming down the stairs, and saw the flickering light of a candle
drawing nearer and nearer.
"Oh, thank you!" exclaimed Gertrude, when the woman turned the last
corner. "We do not know how to open this."
The woman undid the fastenings in silence, but ere she opened the door,
she turned to Rose with an appealing glance.
"It's too soon to ask you, even if you ever can. But, ma'am, if ever
you are able to say the word 'forgive,' it would be the most blessed
word that my sad heart could hear. I don't ask you for it to-day, but
if ever you can—"
Rose looked up in the woman's eyes, then she looked on the little form
in her arms which she was clasping to her bosom so tenderly.
"I did love him and do all I could for him," whispered the woman; "all
but giving him back to you,—and now you've got him."
"Yes, I have got him," said Rose, still looking into those sorrowful
eyes; "and I—" She waited as if thinking how far her words might be
true, then added impulsively, "If it will comfort you, if it will show
my thankfulness to my Lord who has heard my prayer, I will say it now—I
do, yes, I do forgive you!"
Then she turned and went through the hall door and stood out under the
starlight with her burden in her arms. The door closed behind them,
shutting in a sound of weeping, and then the sisters paused, looking at
each other.
"Hasten to Mrs. Shaddock's," exclaimed Rose, as if waking up to her
natural self. "Ask her if I may bring Lester in, but I know I may. I
must, till we can decide. I am sure they will not refuse."
They hurried on, and in another minute were standing once more in the
lighted hall, with that muffled bundle in the agitated mother's aching
arms.
CHAPTER XXXI.
ANOTHER PROMISE.
AT the slight bustle of their arrival, Mrs. Shaddock came to the
dining-room door, and when she saw them, she exclaimed joyfully—
"You have never got him?"
But Rose's face was an answer, while Gertrude said, in a low, broken
voice, which they would hardly have known to be hers, "We have got the
shadow of what he was."
Mrs. Shaddock said not another word, but led Rose into the bright warm
dining-room, placing her in an arm-chair, the rest following in silence.
Mr. Shaddock had returned from town, and when Gertrude saw him, she
went up to him at once.
"Mr. Shaddock, it is a terrible story, but if I tell it to you, no
indignation—nothing—can justify any one in making the thing known
without our permission. We have only got our darling back on those
terms."
She looked in his face appealingly. What if some stranger, who was
bound by no promise, should take the matter up?
"You may trust me, but what has happened?" asked Mr. Shaddock.
While the rest gathered round Mrs. Leigh, too anxious to see her little
boy to care, just then, to ask any questions.
Gertrude gave him a few particulars, and then both followed the others
to where Rose sat caressing her little boy, and trying to coax him to
reply to her endearments.
"'Why' does he not speak to me?" she asked at last piteously, meeting
Gertrude's eyes.
"He has been frightened," said her sister gently; "perhaps if we have
first-rate advice—"
"Frightened?" asked Rose. "Who—who could be so cruel—not Mrs. Swift?"
"No, dear Rose; it was a playful trick of her poor little boy."
"Poor?" echoed Rose sternly. "No wonder she asked me to forgive her!"
"And you did, darling," said Gertrude, kneeling down by her and
smoothing Lester's golden curls. "You will not take it back now! It was
not Mrs. Swift's fault—not that—"
"But Johnnie—that was his name, I remember now—where is Johnnie, who
frightened my little Lester?" She laid her hand on Gertrude's shoulder,
as if to impress her words.
And Gertrude, just fresh from Johnnie's grave and the woman's grief and
repentance, could find no voice to answer. She only looked in little
Lester's face and tried to think of suitable words.
"Where is he?" reiterated Rose.
"He is dead."
"Dead!"
"I have been at his grave to-night," said Gertrude. "If poor little
broken-hearted Johnnie had not been dead, nothing on earth would have
drawn your secret from the woman's lips. Little dead Johnnie has given
you back your child!"
Rose's eyes fell, and as her glance once more rested on her child, the
hard look which had for a moment clouded her sweet face passed away.