THE MOTHER.
WHILST the children away in the Rocky Bay were in the midst of their
perilous enterprise, the Squire was sitting alone in his library,
quietly engrossed in his books and papers.
Visitors so very rarely disturbed him, visitors were almost unknown at
the Manor House, and therefore it was with a good deal of surprise that
he heard that Mr. and Mrs. Arbuthnot were in the drawing-room, anxious
to speak to him at once.
The Squire was much perplexed for a moment even to know who these people
could be, but Pritchard, who observed his master’s surprise, added,
respectfully,—
“Sir Walter’s brother, sir,—Mr. Frederick, as he is often called,—and
the lady from Australia whom he has lately married.”
The Squire remembered all about it then, for of course he had heard from
Bertie and from others of Uncle Fred’s marriage and of his purchase of
the adjoining property. He had been pleased to hear of the change, for
he had always liked the baronet’s brother; but he had not even heard of
his arrival at Arlingham, and he could not imagine what could have
brought him and his wife so quickly to the Manor House.
However, there they were, and he must go and see them, so he crossed
over to the drawing-room without delay. Uncle Fred and his wife were
standing with their backs to the door, looking intently at a crayon head
of Bertie, that the Squire had lately had taken by a clever young artist
in the neighborhood. They both turned round quickly when their host
entered, and he saw that the lady’s eyes were full of tears, and that
they were soft dark eyes very like Bertie’s own.
He greeted his guests courteously, and even in the first moments of
introduction he was struck by the sweetness of the lady’s face. He
almost fancied there was something familiar in the cast of the features,
but, however that might be, there was no doubt at all as to the charm of
her voice and manner,—a charm which seemed to arise in part from the
shadow of some settled sadness bravely borne, that had faded away in the
sunshine of a present happiness.
“Squire,” said Uncle Fred (he may as well be called Uncle Fred to the
end of the chapter, to avoid confusion), “we have brought you a piece of
news that will astonish you greatly. I have had my suspicions for long,
and my wife has been indulging hopes that the sight of that picture
there has completely verified. The little waif you took in and
befriended so well is the only child of my wife. We have lost no time in
coming to tell you the news; more especially as she could not rest one
moment without seeing the boy, and thanking you in person for your great
goodness to him.”
The Squire sat perfectly still, not attempting a reply. He looked like a
man who has received a blow, and requires time to recover from its
effects. The lady’s tears were falling fast, and Uncle Fred had to
continue his tale, as nobody else seemed able to speak.
“You will ask what made me guess the secret. The first clue was the
child’s likeness to his mother, whom I had known as a child and as a
young girl. It attracted me to Bertie from the first, but I only looked
upon it as an accidental circumstance, and paid no serious heed to the
matter. When, however, some months ago, my wife and I met once again in
a far-off land, when I learned that she had lost her only child, a boy
of nine years of age, in a storm that wrecked the little sailing-vessel
she had elected to cross in from Antwerp to Hull, at the very time that
Bertie had been drifted ashore here,—when I heard this story, my
suspicions were powerfully awakened, and all that I heard tended to
increase my conviction. I learned that the child had divided his time
between London and Normandy, that he had a grandfather, in whose library
he continually sat, learning lessons and turning over books. What I
heard of his disposition and habits coincided entirely with Bertie’s
ways; and the story of the wreck seemed to make assurance doubly sure. I
heard how the water came suddenly pouring into the cabin where the child
lay, how she had only time to wrap a rough pilot coat over his little
nightdress and tie a life-belt about him, whilst she bade him be brave
and try to say always, ‘Thy will be done.’ The child had told me almost
as much himself in one of his moments of partial remembrance, and I knew
how he had been drifted ashore just in these garments her child wore.
The sea had overwhelmed them all, almost as soon as they reached the
deck. My wife and two seamen were picked up by a steamer bound for
Holland, and when she did return to England, no tidings reached her of
the child, and from that day till a month or two ago she entertained no
doubts of his death. My story gave her hope, and the sight of that
picture has put away the last doubt. That is her little Ronald, the
child who has been dead and is alive again, has been lost and is found.”
Uncle Fred’s own voice quivered a little as he concluded his tale, and
his wife commanded hers with difficulty.
“Where is my boy?” she asked.
“He is out with your little nephew and niece, Mrs. Arbuthnot,” answered
the Squire; “but he will be home again in the course of an hour or two.
You will wait and see him of course. You will let my housekeeper bring
you some tea.”
The Squire spoke with some constraint of manner. It was easy to see that
he was a good deal moved.
The mother seemed to divine his feelings by the very depth of her own.
He had risen whilst the tale had been told, and was now standing with
his back towards them, looking out upon the sunny garden, with eyes that
saw nothing of its brightness. He started when a soft touch was laid
upon his arm. He was confronted by a sweet face, tremulous with tears.
“I have not thanked you yet for all your goodness to my boy.”
“No need, I assure you, my dear madam; he has done a hundredfold more
for me than I have done for him.”
The tone was hoarse, and the words a little abrupt; but the mother
looked beneath the surface.
“Does that mean that you would miss the child if I were to take him away
from you?”
The Squire started at the question, and looked keenly into the face
before him. He forgot that the situation so very new to him had been
faced in all its bearings for many long weeks by the two who had pierced
together the history of the lost child, and who knew well the sad story
of the Squire’s lonely lot.
“Miss him!” he ejaculated, almost harshly, as a strong man often does
when under the influence of some sudden emotion. “If you had known what
it was to lose five children and a wife within ten short days, to live
fifteen long years alone and desolate, and then to adopt and make your
own a child that seemed given to you by a special providence, one whom
you had the right to make your own and love as your own. If your old age
had been cheered by the presence of such a child, and then he too was
taken from you”—
The Squire stopped short abruptly, and then in a gentler tone he added,—
“Forgive me, my dear madam; I have no right to say all this. I have been
taken by surprise, and I live so much alone, that I fear I forget myself
at times. You must bear with an old man whom you have taken unawares. I
cannot rejoice at your news for my own sake, but I will endeavor to do
so for yours and the child’s. I will not be more selfish than nature and
habit made me.”
Mrs. Arbuthnot endeavored to speak, but her voice failed her, and she
looked towards her husband.
“Squire,” said the young man, stepping forward, “my wife wishes me to
explain to you that her gratitude would be but ill-displayed were she,
in return for all your great goodness to her child, to bring a cloud
upon your later life. But for you, no one can say what might by this
time have befallen the little waif; but for you, it would hardly have
been possible that mother and son could ever have met again this side of
the grave. Your goodness in adopting him and in giving him a home has
been, under God’s guiding, the means of bringing them together—the main
link in the chain of circumstances that has led to this goal. You have
been a father to him in his hour of extremest need. My wife will never
be willing to requite such goodness by robbing you of what sunshine the
child’s love can bring.”
The Squire looked steadily at the speaker, as if in doubt whither all
this tended, and he glanced from one to the other, his face expressing
more emotion than was its wont.
“I do not quite grasp your meaning,” he said.
“Our meaning is this,” said Uncle Fred, taking his wife’s hand and
drawing it within his arm. “We both have known enough of loneliness and
sorrow to be very unwilling to inflict it upon another. God in His great
goodness has at length given us to one another, and changed all that was
dark in our lives into light and joy. We have each other, and our cup of
happiness is very full. One more great mercy has been vouchsafed
us—restoring to my wife the child she believed she had lost—giving it to
her to see him living in peace and happiness in a home that was opened
to him in his hour of sore need. Squire,” concluded the young man,
earnestly and with great feeling, “the whole matter stands thus: if the
child has grown dear to you, if he is a comfort to you in your declining
years, if you love one another, as we are told, like father and son, and
you would feel personal loss and grief at his departure, he shall remain
with you still. We are very near neighbors now. The child can see his
mother daily, hourly, and yet be your boy, and live beneath your roof.
There shall be no mine or thine with regard to him; if my wife is his
mother, you at least have a claim to be called his father. We have one
another, and our lives are bright; you are alone, and the boy has
cheered you by his presence. So long as you need him, or wish for his
companionship, we will not take him away. Our home is always open to him
if ever you wish to be rid of your self-imposed charge; but so long as
you care to have him with you, we will never claim him or take him away.
The only difference the child shall find will be that he has two homes
instead of one.”
The Squire listened to this speech in unbroken silence, and not a muscle
of his still face moved the while; but yet it softened in a wonderful
way as the young man’s meaning became more and more clear, and the
expression in the deep-set eyes now fixed upon her face touched Mrs.
Arbuthnot to the quick.
“Is this the expression of your thoughts, madam?” he asked, very gently.
“Yes; my husband has only explained to you what has many times passed
between us on the subject. You know Dr. Lighton is his correspondent,
and from him we have heard much of your great goodness to my little boy,
and of the tie that seems to exist between you. My gratitude would be
but ill-expressed were I to try and break that tie. The child had never
known a father’s love until he found it in your home, for his father
died when he was but an infant. Let him continue to feel that love about
him, as well as that of the mother he has so strangely forgotten, and
whom even now he may not be able to recall. Let us leave matters for the
present as they now stand, and in the future be guided by the course of
events and by the development of the boy’s character. If he disappoints
you, his mother’s home will always be open to him. If he continues to
occupy the place of a son to you, I will not take him away. He can be my
boy as well as yours, and there shall be no jealousy between us.”
The words were spoken quietly, yet with much feeling, and the Squire
accepted the sacrifice in the spirit in which it was made.
“Let the boy’s good be our chief concern, my dear madam,” he answered.
“My gratitude to you is very great, and shall be shown in care for the
child over whose future you still allow me to exercise some control.
Believe me, your goodness shall not be abused. You will not find me
exacting. If you will spare me as much of his society as you can, and
let me love him as my own, I shall be satisfied and grateful, even
though you may wish to change your mind by and by and receive him under
your own roof.”
The mother understood by instinct the nature of the man with whom she
had to deal. She smiled very sweetly as she answered,—
“I see very plainly that there will be no jealousy between us. For the
present let all be as it is. If the child knows me for his mother, he
shall still remain with you, unless—” She paused, and added, quickly,
“And if not, and I have to tell him all, he is not likely to feel any
wish to leave you for me. It will be very strange to be as a stranger to
my little Ronald. I wonder—”
But the sentence was not concluded. There was a sudden stir in the hall
without, and Dr. Lighton came in hurriedly.
“What is it?” he asked, quickly. “Where is the child?”
“What child?”
“Bertie. Has he not come yet? They tell me there has been an accident on
the cliffs.”
Two faces blanched visibly at these words. The Squire took a quick step
forward, and asked hastily,—
“What do you mean?”
“I hardly know myself yet. Little Miss Arbuthnot came galloping up to my
door ten minutes ago, to say that Bertie had had a fall on the cliffs
and was being brought home in the pony cart. I came on at once—luckily I
had not started on my round—I suppose I am here before them.”
“Yes,” said the Squire, absently, and went out into the hall.
Uncle Fred looked at the doctor and said,—
“I want to introduce you to my wife, Lighton. We have put the matter
beyond all doubt. She is the boy’s mother.”
It was no time for conventional greetings; anxiety and fear filled all
hearts. All the party followed the Squire into the hall, where Queenie
Arbuthnot was now standing, her face very white, her whole frame
trembling with nervous excitement.
They questioned her closely. She was incoherent at first, but Mrs.
Arbuthnot’s kind and motherly sweetness did much to restore her
self-command, and they were able at length to elicit the following
facts.
Phil had got himself into danger, and Bertie had gone down to him with
the rope, as described in the last chapter. This errand had been
successfully accomplished, and Phil, by aid of the rope round his waist,
had been able to climb up in safety to the top of the cliff.
Bertie meantime had remained quietly upon the ledge, not at all giddy or
afraid, waiting for the rope to be let down to him.
David had not attempted to throw the end of the rope to him, as he was
afraid of his getting giddy with attempts to catch at it, but had let it
down its whole length and then swung it slowly backwards and forwards
until it came within the boy’s grasp. When the right moment came, Bertie
had seized it, and that successfully; but then happened a catastrophe
they had not reckoned upon. The weight of the swinging rope had jerked
the child from his precarious foothold, and although his fall had not
been unbroken, owing to his grasp upon the rope, yet he had slipped down
very fast, and when the rope stopped he had fallen with some violence
upon the sand and stones beneath. Those above could not judge how far he
had fallen, but could see that he lay still and motionless as if stunned
or hurt; and, whilst David and Phil hurried down to his assistance,
Queenie ran off to the farmhouse to give the alarm, and then, with more
forethought than might have been expected from her years, she had had
her pony saddled and had ridden off to Dr. Lighton’s, so that he might
be there as soon as Bertie arrived.
It was impossible to gather from the little girl’s story what the amount
of the injury was likely to be, but they were not kept long in suspense,
for Phil came galloping up in a few minutes’ time, and, flinging himself
off the pony, he rushed up to the Squire and cried,—
“He’s coming directly. Farmer Bayliss says he doesn’t think there’s much
harm done, unless he’s broken his arm. He’s not dead, though he hasn’t
opened his eyes yet, and he doesn’t seem much hurt.”
The next moment the pony cart turned in at the gate. David was driving,
and a burly, jovial-looking farmer was sitting beside him, holding
Bertie very tenderly in his arms.
“All right, I hope, Squire!” he called out, as soon as he saw the
anxious group at the door. “He opened his eyes just now and spoke; but
he seems dazed-like still, and not quite himself. I’m half afeared
there’s a bone broke somewhere; but, considering the distance he fell,
we must thank God things are no worse.”
He gave over his burden into the Squire’s arms, and Bertie was carried
up-stairs and laid upon his own bed. Dr. Lighton and Mrs. Arbuthnot
followed, and a look of keen interest was on the young doctor’s face as
he noted that the child’s mother was beside him.
Bertie was not entirely unconscious, but in a dazed state that made it
an effort to open his eyes or to rouse himself to a sense of his
surroundings.
“Let him see you when he opens his eyes,” said Dr. Lighton to Mrs.
Arbuthnot, and he signed to the Squire to keep in the background.
Bertie heaved a sigh, like a child just awaking from sleep. The long
eyelashes began to tremble upon the white cheek.
Dr. Lighton himself drew back then to where he could not be seen.
“Speak to him,” he said to the mother, in low tones.
Mrs. Arbuthnot bent over her child.
“Ronald?” she said; “my little Ronald!”
The child’s eyes flashed open in an instant and fastened upon her face.
A curious struggle seemed to go on within him. His great dilated eyes
were full of an intense bewilderment and wonder. A sort of light seemed
breaking in upon him, scattering shadows and dazzling him with its
sudden vivid brightness. It was some seconds before he seemed able to
speak, and then the word that passed his lips came almost like a cry,
hoarse and choked, yet full of bewildered joy.
“Mother! Mother!”
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