Claudia and her aunt were sitting quietly that same evening in the small
drawing-room which Lady Mildred always used in the winter, and Claudia
was thinking over her strange meeting with "the little Waldron boy," as
she called him to herself (for she did not even know his Christian
name), and hoping he had got safe home, when her aunt looked up
suddenly.
"How should you like to spend Christmas in London, Claudia? Would it
seem very dreary to you?" she said.
"Oh no, Aunt Mildred, not if you wished it," Claudia replied.
"I suppose the truth is, all places would seem much the same to you so
long as they were not Britton-Garnett," Lady Mildred observed, with a
touch of acrimony in her tone. But Claudia understood her better now.
She only smiled.
"I should not like to be there this Christmas, Aunt Mildred, if you were
to be here alone. It would be awfully nice to be all together, of
course, but it would be nicest if you were with us too."
Lady Mildred sighed.
"I am afraid merry Christmasses are quite over for me. It is very dull
here; it seems a sort of mockery for a poor old woman like me to be the
centre of things, giving tenants' dinners and school-feasts, and all the
rest of it. I have not the heart for any up-stairs festivities," and
she sighed again. "After all, I dare say it would be less dreary in
London. What has put it into my head is a letter from the lawyers
saying that they may be wanting to see me on business."
"Would you be going soon?" asked Claudia.
"I don't know. It would not matter if you lost a week or two at
school--you have been working hard lately."
"No," said Claudia, "it would not matter." And the thought passed
through her mind that if her aunt carried out this plan, it would remove
all difficulties in the way of her not trying for the prize.
"No one would ever know that I meant to give it up at any rate," she
thought with a slight, a very slight touch of bitterness.
But at that moment the front door-bell rang violently. Both the ladies
started.
"What can that be?" said Lady Mildred. "Not a telegram surely. Mr
Miller would never think of sending a telegram on a Saturday evening,
whatever the business may be that he wants to see me about."
"Shall I run and see what it is," said Claudia. For though there was a
sound of voices and footsteps dimly in the distance, no servant appeared
to explain matters.
"Yes, go," Lady Mildred was saying, when the door opened and Ball,
followed by a footman, appeared.
"If you please, my lady," the butler began, "it's Rush from the lodge.
He begs pardon for ringing so loud at the front, but he thought it would
be quicker. They've found a child, if you please, my lady, a boy, dead
in the snow down the road. A farm-lad passing--the snow's not so heavy
now--found him and ran for Rush. But Mrs Rush is that frightened she's
lost her head, and their baby's ill. So Rush thought he'd best come on
here."
A smothered cry broke from Claudia.
"Charlotte's poor little brother," she said.
But no one noticed her words. Lady Mildred had already started to her
feet.
"Dead, do you say, Ball?" she exclaimed. "How do you know he is dead?
He may be only unconscious."
"That's just it," said Ball.
"Then don't stand there like a couple of fools. You're as bad as that
silly Mrs Rush. Bring the poor child in at once--to the servants' hall
or the kitchen, or wherever there's a good fire; I will come myself as
soon as the front door is shut, I feel the cold even here," and the old
lady began to cough. "Claudia--" turning round, but Claudia was off
already.
She met the little group in the front hall. There were Rush and another
man carrying something between them, and several other persons seemed
standing about or emerging from different doorways, for even the best of
servants dearly love a sensation. Claudia for one instant turned her
eyes away--she dreaded to recognise the thin little face, whose blue
eyes had sought hers so appealingly but an hour or two ago. Then she
chid herself for her weakness.
"Carry him at once into the kitchen," she said. "Her ladyship wishes
it."
Her voice sounded authoritative, and was immediately obeyed. Some
blankets appeared from somewhere in a mysterious manner, and in another
minute the small figure was deposited upon them before the friendly glow
of the fire, and Claudia knelt down to examine the child more closely.
Her eyes filled with tears as she saw that it was indeed "the little
Waldron boy." But even at that moment she had presence of mind enough
to respect his secret.
"I don't know what is best to do," she said appealingly. "He is not a
country boy--do you see, he is a gentleman?" she added, as Ball's wife,
the housekeeper, hurried forward. "But surely, oh, surely he is not
dead!"
He looked sufficiently like death to make every one hesitate to answer.
He had seemed pale and delicate that afternoon, but in comparison with
the ghastly colourlessness now, Claudia could have described him as
_then_ florid and rosy! His eyes were closed, his arm dropped loosely
when Claudia lifted it, his breath, if indeed it were there, was
inaudible.
"Let me get to him, missy, please," said the housekeeper, "and all of
you gaping there, just get you gone. Here's my lady herself--she'll
send you to the right-about. Ball, heat some water, and mix a drop or
two of brandy. Then we'll undress him and get him to bed. The chintz
room's always aired. Martha, light the fire at once and put some
hot-water bottles in the bed. Dead! no, no. Let my lady see him."
The room was soon cleared of all but two or three. Then they undressed
the boy, whose frozen, snow-covered clothes were now dripping wet, and
rolled him in the blankets. And in a few minutes, thanks to the warmth,
and the chafing and friction which Mrs Ball kept up, the first faint
signs of returning life began to appear, and they got him to swallow a
spoonful of brandy and water.
"Feel in his pockets, Claudia," said Lady Mildred, "and see if there is
any letter or paper to show who he is. His people must be in cruel
anxiety."
Claudia did so, feeling herself a sort of hypocrite for not at once
telling all she knew. To her great relief she came upon a
pocket-handkerchief marked "Waldron," and a neat little memorandum-book,
for poor Jerry was the most methodical of boys, with "Gervais Waldron,
19, Norfolk Terrace, Wortherham" on the first page.
"Aunt Mildred," she said quietly, "it is one of the Waldrons--the
lawyer's children, you know. His sister is at school with me."
Lady Mildred started, and made some little exclamation under her breath
which Claudia did not catch.
"He is coming round nicely, my lady," said Mrs Ball. "The doctor will
think he need not have been fetched," for a groom had already been sent
to a village much nearer than Wortherham, where a doctor was to be
found.
"It is better to let him see the boy," said Lady Mildred. "He looks
such a delicate child," she added, speaking in a low voice, for Jerry
was now opening his eyes, and showing signs of coming to life in every
sense of the word.
"Shall we send to let his people know that he is safe?" said Claudia.
"I suppose so," said Lady Mildred. "Tell Ball to send the groom on to
Wortherham as soon as he comes back from Crowby. And--"
"Would it do for me to write a note? I could write it to the sister I
know?" asked Claudia.
Lady Mildred hesitated.
"Yes," she replied; "I dare say you might."
"And, my lady," said Mrs Ball, "I'll have the young gentleman carried
up-stairs and put to bed. It will be just as well for him to find
himself there when he quite wakes up, as it were."
Lady Mildred stooped again and looked at the boy closely. His eyes were
closed. She saw nothing that struck her in the little thin pale face,
for it was the blue eyes that were its one beauty--the _very_ blue eyes
characteristic of the Osberts.
"Very well. Come to the drawing-room, Claudia, and write the note. I
should think the groom will be back directly. I will see the child
again after the doctor has been."
"Aunt Mildred _is_ really kind," thought Claudia. But she had to
exercise considerable self-control during the writing of the note.
_She_ would have made it friendly and hearty in tone, but this did not
suit Lady Mildred's ideas at all, and it was a rather stiff and formal
production when finished, ending with a half-permission, half-invitation
to the boy's parents to come and see him the next morning.
"My aunt feels sure the doctor will wish your brother to stay in bed all
to-morrow," wrote Claudia, "and he will be taken every care of. But
should Mr and Mrs Waldron feel uneasy, she begs them not to hesitate
to come to see him for themselves."
The doctor came, and confirmed the good account of the patient which
Mrs Ball had already sent down-stairs.
"He will take no harm I fancy," he said. "But he is evidently a
delicate child, and he has had a narrow escape. He would have been dead
long before morning."
"Does he seem frightened?" asked Lady Mildred.
"No," the doctor replied. "I don't think his nerves have suffered. He
is still sleepy and confused, and of course he feels sore and aching.
But he can remember nothing very distinctly, I fancy."
"I will go up and see him," said Lady Mildred. "It must be past
dinner-time, Claudia. This affair has made the servants forget
everything."
The doctor took his leave, promising to look in again the next morning.
Lady Mildred went up to the chintz room and Claudia ran after her.
"Mayn't I come in and see him too, aunt," she said; "I'd like to see him
looking better. He did look so dreadful when they first brought him
in," and she gave a little shudder.
Jerry was looking very far from dreadful by this time; he was
half-sitting up in bed, with more colour than usual on his face, his
eyes very bright and blue. Lady Mildred's face changed as she looked at
him.
"I hope you are feeling better, my dear," she said quietly. "The doctor
is sure you will be quite well to-morrow."
"Yes, thank you," said Jerry. "I'm nearly quite well now, I think,
except that I'm aching rather. If you please," and he hesitated, "you
don't think I could go home to-night? I don't know what o'clock it is--
it isn't the middle of the night, is it? Oh," as Claudia just then came
forward, "I--"
"This is my niece," said Lady Mildred. "She was anxious to know how you
were."
Gervais looked up at Claudia, and a glance of understanding passed like
lightning between them.
"I'm all right, thank you," he said to her.
"How was it?" said Claudia. "Did you lose your way in the snow?"
"I suppose so," said Jerry. "I was going along the road past the `Jolly
Thrashers' the last thing I remember. I thought I should have met our
dog-cart, but I didn't, and I walked on as fast as I could, but it
snowed dreadfully heavily, and I got _so_ tired I had to rest a little.
I'm lame, you know," he added, flushing a little. "I knew one should
never go to sleep in the snow, and I only meant to rest a minute. But I
suppose I went to sleep--I remember a very nice feeling coming over me,
and then I don't remember anything else."
"Ah," said Lady Mildred. "You have had a narrow escape, my dear."
"I'm very sorry to have given you so much trouble," Jerry went on
penitently. "But if I could go home--they'll all be so frightened."
"Your going home to-night is out of the question, my dear," said Lady
Mildred; "but we have already sent a groom to tell your family that you
are quite safe."
"Thank you very much. I'm very sorry to have given you so much
trouble," Jerry repeated.
"Well, then, take care to give no one any more, by getting well as
quickly as ever you can," said Lady Mildred kindly. "Try to go to
sleep, so that you may wake quite well in the morning. Good night, my
dear."
"Good night, Lady Mildred," said the boy.
But Claudia, who had already learnt to know his face and its
expressions, detected an uneasy look, and when her aunt had left the
room she lingered a moment behind.
"Gervais," she said,--"I know your name, you see--are you uncomfortable?
Is there anything the matter--anything to do with what we were speaking
of this afternoon?"
Jerry looked up wistfully.
"No," he said. "I'm sure you'll never tell any one--will you?"
"Oh, no; I will keep my promise exactly; and whenever I can do so
without betraying you in the least, I will let Charlotte know that I am
not going to try for the prize."
"Thank you, oh, thank you so very much," said Jerry fervently. "I know
you will do it nicely."
"It may be quite easy," Claudia went on. "I am not sure but that we
shall be going away very soon, and that I _couldn't_ try for it even if
I wanted," and she smiled a half-sad little smile.
"But I shall always know how good you were," said Jerry, as if that
should console her for all other misapprehension.
Claudia smiled again.
"Thank you," she said; "and good night."
But Jerry still fidgeted about.
"I am afraid I can't go to sleep," he said; "I am so aching all over,
and it seems so strange. Isn't this the chintz room?"
"Yes," said Claudia, a little surprised. "How did you know it?"
"Oh, I--I heard the name," he said. "Is it far away from everybody
else's rooms?"
"No; mine is very near. There is a swing door across the passage, and
mine is the first door through it. But some one--Mrs Ball or some
one--will sit up with you if you would the least like it."
"No, no," said Jerry. "I told them not to. I wouldn't like it at all.
Miss Meredon," he went on, beginning to laugh, "don't I look like Red
Riding Hood's grandmother, rather, with all these fussy things round my
neck?"
Claudia burst out laughing too. She saw what made the child look so
comical. He was enveloped in one of her own nightgowns with voluminous
frills.
"Is it one of yours?" said Jerry gravely, tugging at the frills and
solemnly regarding them. "I don't like wearing girls' things, but I
don't mind so much if it is yours."
At this moment Mrs Ball returned.
"Miss Meredon, my dear," she said, "the young gentleman must really go
to sleep. My lady wouldn't be pleased if she knew you were still here
talking to him."
"We couldn't help laughing at the nightgown, Mrs Ball," said Claudia.
"It's one of mine, isn't it?"
"Yes, we made so bold. It was the nearest his size you see, missy
dear."
"Well, good night again, Gervais," said Claudia as she left the room.
"I do hope you will sleep well." Jerry smiled back a good night. He
seemed in better spirits now.
"Isn't he a nice little fellow?" she could not help saying to Mrs Ball.
"And quite the little gentleman," said the housekeeper. "But he seems
delicate, poor child. Just to think of it--what a mercy that Stobbs's
boy was coming up that way, and that he had a lantern. For all that the
snow had stopped, he'd have been dead before morning. I don't like to
think of it--at our very door, so to say, Miss Claudia, and us with no
thought of it. But there--my lady's just going down to dinner."
Lady Mildred was very silent that evening. Her mind seemed full of many
things, and Claudia, after one or two attempts at conversation, thought
it best to give it up. Not very long after dinner the groom returned
from Wortherham with a note addressed to Miss Meredon. He had found, so
he informed his friends in the servants' hall, the family at Norfolk
Terrace in a fine taking about the boy.
"They were sending out in all directions," he said. "The poor lady
looked like dead, and the young ladies were crying fit to break their
hearts. I never see such a sight. The other young gentlemen had been
out skating on Gretham pond, and they thought as this one had got home
hours before, as he should have done. I'm almost sure as it was he as
stopped our young lady when we was a-driving home this afternoon."
"Stopped our young lady!" exclaimed Ball in surprise.
"Oh, it was just some message about the school. The Waldron young
ladies goes where Miss Meredon does," said the groom. And as no more
was said about the matter, Jerry's and Claudia's secret remained their
own.
The note was from Charlotte. It scarcely bore traces of the agitation
described by the groom.
"Dear Miss Meredon," it began,--
"My father and mother wish me to thank Lady Mildred most sincerely for
her kindness to my brother Gervais. They also thank you for writing
to tell us of his safety. We were becoming very uneasy about him. My
father will go out early to-morrow, and hopes to be able to bring him
home in a close carriage. He and my mother regret exceedingly the
trouble all this must have caused you.
"I remain,--
"Yours sincerely,--
"Charlotte Waldron."
Claudia handed it to her aunt.
"Humph!" said Lady Mildred, "a very school-girl production, dictated by
her papa and mamma, I suppose."
"Not stiffer than mine was," thought Claudia to herself.
"That little fellow up-stairs has something original about him. I have
rather taken a fancy to him," said Lady Mildred.
"Yes," Claudia responded warmly; "I think he's a dear little fellow."
"But he can't be the eldest son; there must be one nearly grown-up, I
fancy," said Lady Mildred, with a little sigh.
Claudia looked up. What was Lady Mildred thinking of? What _could_ it
matter to her, or to any one, or to themselves even, whether Gervais was
eldest or youngest of the Waldrons? A country lawyer's family heirs to
nothing.
"Aunt Mildred must be half asleep," thought Claudia. "She might as well
talk as if it mattered which of _us_ was the eldest."