IDA'S CONFESSION
The move to Malvern was at last made, and the air seemed at once to
invigorate Lord Northmoor, though the journey tried his wife more than
she had expected, and she remained in a very drooping state, in spite of
her best efforts not to depress him. Nothing seemed to suit her so well
as to lie on a couch in the garden of their lodging, with Constance
beside her, talking, and sometimes smiling over all her little Mite's
pretty ways; though at other times she did her best to seem to take
interest in other matters, and to persuade her husband that his
endeavours to give her pleasure or interest were successful, because the
exertions he made for her sake were good for him.
He was by this time anxious--since he was by the end of three weeks quite
well, and fairly strong--to go down to Westhaven, and learn all he could
about the circumstances of the fate of his poor little son; and only
delayed till he thought his wife could spare him. Lady Adela urged him
at last to go. She thought that Mary lived in a state of effort for his
sake, and that there was a certain yearning and yet dread in the minds of
both for these further details, so that the visit had better be over.
Thus it was about six weeks after Herbert's departure that Mrs. Morton
received a note to tell her that her brother-in-law would arrive the next
evening. It was terrible news to Ida, and if there had been time she
would have arranged to be absent elsewhere; but as it was she had no
power to escape, and had to spend her time in assisting in all the
elaborate preparations which her mother thought due to the Baron--a very
different personage in her eyes from the actual Frank.
He did not come till late in the day, and then Mrs. Morton received him
with a very genuine gush of tears, and anxious inquiries. He was thin,
and looked much older; his hair was grayer, and had retreated from his
brow, and there was a bent, worn, dejected air about the whole man,
which, as Mrs. Morton said, made her ready to cry whenever she looked at
him; but he was quite composed in manner and tone, so as to repress her
agitation, and confirm Ida's inexperienced judgment in the idea that
Michael was none of his. He was surprised and concerned at Herbert's
absence, which was beginning to make his mother uneasy, and he promised
to write to some of the boy's friends to inquire about him. To put off
the evil day, Ida had suggested asking Mr. Deyncourt to meet him, but
that gentleman could not come, and dinner went off in stiff efforts at
conversation, for just now all the power thereof, that Lord Northmoor had
ever acquired, seemed to have forsaken him.
Afterwards, in the August twilight, he begged to hear all. Ida withdrew,
glad not to submit to the ordeal, while her mother observed, 'Poor, dear
Ida! She was so fond of her dear little cousin, she cannot bear to hear
him mentioned! She has never been well since!'
Then, with copious floods of tears, and all in perfect good faith, she
related the history of the loss, as she knew it, with--on his leading
questions--a full account of all the child's pretty ways during his stay,
and how he had never failed to say his prayer about making papa better,
and how he had made friends with Mr. Deyncourt, in spite of having
pronounced his church like a big tin box all up in frills; and how he had
admired the crabs, and run after the waves, and had been devoted to the
Willie, who had thought him troublesome--giving all the anecdotes, to
which Frank listened with set face and dry eyes, storing them for his
wife. He thanked Mrs. Morton for all her care and tenderness, and
expended assurances that no one thought her to blame.
'It is one of those dispensations,' he said, 'that no one can guard
against. We can only be thankful for the years of joy that no one can
take from us, and try to be worthy to meet him hereafter.'
Mrs. Morton had wept so much that she was very glad to seize the first
excuse for wishing good-night. She said that she had put all Michael's
little things in a box in his father's room, for him to take home to his
mother, and bade Frank--as once more she called him--good-night, kissing
him as she had never done before. The shock had brought out all that was
best and most womanly in her.
That box had an irresistible attraction for Frank. He could not but open
it, and on the top lay the white woolly, headless dog that had been
Mite's special darling, had been hugged by him in his slumbers every
night, and been the means of many a joyous game when father and mother
came up to wish the noisy creature good-night, and 'Tarlo' had been made
to bark at them.
Somehow the 'never more' overcame him completely. He had not before been
beyond the restraint of guarding his feelings for Mary's sake; and, tired
with the long day, and torn by the evening's narration, all his
self-command gave way, and he fell into a perfect anguish of deep-drawn,
almost hysterical sobbing.
[Picture: 'What?' and he threw the door wide open]
Those sobs were heard through the thin partition in Ida's room. They
were very terrible to her. They broke down the remnant of her excuse
that the child was an imposition. They woke all her woman's tenderness,
and the impulse to console carried her in a few moments to the door.
'Uncle! Uncle Frank!'
'I'm not ill,' answered a broken, heaving, impatient voice. 'I want
nothing.'
'Oh, let me in, dear uncle--I've something to tell you!'
'Not now,' came on the back of a sob. 'Go!'
'Oh, now, now!' and she even opened the door a little. 'He is not
drowned! At least, Rose Rollstone thinks--'
'What?' and he threw the door wide open.
'Rose Rollstone is sure she saw him with Louisa Hall in London that day,'
hurried out Ida, still bent on screening herself. 'She's gone to Canada.
It's there that Herbert is gone to find him and bring him home!'
'And why--why were we never told?'
'You were too ill, uncle, and Rose did not know about it till she came
home. Then she told Herbert, and he hoped to find him and write.'
'When was this?'
'When Herbert came home--the 29th or 30th of June,' said Ida, trembling.
'He _must_ find him, uncle; don't fear!'
It was a strange groaning sigh that answered; then, with a great effort--
'Thank you, Ida; I can't understand it yet--I can't talk! Good-night!'
Then, with an afterthought, when he had almost shut his door, he turned
the handle again to say, 'Who did you say saw--thought she saw--my boy?
Where?'
'Rose Rollstone, uncle; first at the North Station--then at Waterloo!
And Louisa Hall too!'
'I thank you; good-night!'
And for what a night of strange dreams, prayers, and uncertainties did
Frank shut himself in--only forcing himself by resolute will into
sleeping at last, because he knew that strength and coolness were needful
for to-morrow's investigation.