The Story of Mercy Ingledew
One result of the coolness and subsequent reconciliation between Linda
and Sylvia was the establishment of a firm friendship between the
latter and Mercy Ingledew. Sylvia, who had been more accustomed at
home to grown-up people than children, was attracted to Mercy at once,
and the elder girl saw so much that was unusual and lovable in the
younger one's character that she took a strong interest in getting to
know her better. Mercy was a tall, fair girl of sixteen, with a sweet,
thoughtful face, and a particularly pleasant open expression. She was
a great favourite, both with teachers and pupils, a plodding,
conscientious worker, and always ready to give help or sympathy to
anyone who stood in need of either. Miss Kaye had made a wise choice
in appointing her monitress of the upper landing, as no one could have
more fully appreciated the responsibilities of the post. She tried as
much as lay in her power to 'mother' all the eight little girls of the
third class, looking after them in their bedrooms, reviewing their
clothing, helping to brush their hair, settling their disputes,
advising them in any question of right and wrong, and keeping them up
to the mark in matters of school discipline, and she managed to do it
in such a jolly, hearty, affectionate, tactful manner that not one of
them resented her interference. Mercy had very soon discovered that
Sylvia had far more in her than most girls of her age, the expressive
hazel-grey eyes, lost sometimes in a brown study, or shining with
excitement over some new pleasure, told a tale of the eager mind
behind them; and the child's many quaint remarks, decided opinions,
the flashes of humour or flights of fancy in which she occasionally
indulged, singled her out as possessing powers far beyond the average.
"She has just twice the brains of Connie Camden or Nina Forster," said
Mercy to a fellow monitress; "I shouldn't be at all surprised if she
were to be a great credit to the school some day. You should hear the
clever games she invents for the babies, and the marvellous stories
she makes up for them. She really has a wonderful imagination. She has
got through nearly half the Waverley novels already, and I found her
reading Tennyson one day. She's rather too fond of airing her ideas,
and is a little conceited, but Hazel and Marian sit upon her so hard
that she'll soon get over it. She's a most affectionate child, far
more so than any of the others. She's the only one who ever seems
really grateful for what one does for them. I think she's a dear
little thing, and I'm glad she has come here."
If Mercy were disposed to make much of Sylvia, the latter was only too
ready to return her kindness with that devotion which a younger girl
often feels for one considerably older than herself. With Sylvia it
was not a shifting fancy, such as Nina Forster formed nearly every
week, and changed as rapidly, but a genuine love, founded on a firm
basis of all-round admiration. She thought Mercy the prettiest,
cleverest, and best girl she had ever known in her life, and when she
discovered her to be the heroine of a most romantic history, her
interest in her was increased a thousandfold. She had heard once or
twice that Mercy was an orphan, and had no home of her own to go to
during the holidays, but it was only by degrees she gathered the
various facts of the case, though when they were fitted together they
formed a narrative as thrilling as any to be found in the gaily bound
volumes over which it had been her delight to pore. As Sylvia got the
account mostly in disjointed scraps, first from one girl and then from
another, and was obliged to connect them for herself, it will be as
well to tell Mercy's story here as she learnt it more fully
afterwards, since it had some bearing and influence on various
incidents which happened later and led in the end to unforeseen
events.
Fifteen years ago there was great uneasiness among the white residents
of the city of Tsien-Lou, in a certain inland province of China. There
had been rumours of serious riots and outrages against foreigners
farther up the country; terrible tales were whispered of houses burnt
and families murdered, and both the British Consul and the
Commissioner of Trade had warned the little colony of Europeans to
keep strictly within its own quarter, and not to trust to any fair
promises made by their yellow-skinned, almond-eyed neighbours, who
resented their presence in the land with such fierce intolerance.
Business for a while was suspended; it was not considered safe for a
white face to be seen in the streets, and even the Chinese servants
who did their daily duties in the houses were regarded with suspicion.
Only the Ingledew Medical Missionary Station, at the outskirts of the
town near the old Kia-yu gate, went on with its work as usual, nursing
the sick in the hospital, attending to the numerous outpatients who
came every day for medicine and treatment, teaching the children in
the school, and holding the daily Bible readings which all were still
invited to attend. It was an anxious time for both doctors and nurses;
they knew that they carried their lives in their hands, and that at
some given signal the flame of fanaticism might burst out, and hordes
of shrieking, murderous, pigtailed natives might sweep over the
mission, leaving nothing but smoking ruins and desolation behind them.
It was with a troubled mind, therefore, that Sister Grace, the head of
the nursing staff, went out one evening into the patch of enclosed
garden which surrounded the hospital buildings, and, shading her eyes
with her hand, looked far along the road that led to the hill country.
There was a fierce, fiery sunset; it seemed as if the very sky were
stained with blood, and the cross on the top of the little chapel
stood out dark and startling against the lurid background. She passed
slowly down the walk to shut the great gate, which, though open by day
to every comer, was always safely barred at night, and she was in the
act of sliding the bolt and securing the chain, when she paused
suddenly and listened. She had heard a moan outside, a distinct,
long-drawn, suffering sigh, that quivered a moment and then died away
into silence. Someone on the other side of the gate was in distress or
pain, and it was clearly her duty to enquire into the cause. With a
beating heart she undid the fastening and peeped out. Crouched down on
the step, as if she could drag herself no farther, was a Chinese woman
bearing a baby fastened on to her back. She was desperately wounded,
the blood still flowed from a gash on her head, and stains on the
roadside marked the track along which she must have crawled in her
agony to reach the friendly shelter of the wooden archway. Life was
almost spent, but with an effort of desperation she managed to raise
herself into a kneeling posture, and, clasping her hands together,
cried out in Chinese: "Mercy! Mercy! The child!" and, with a last
glance of supplicating appeal, fell across the threshold at the feet
of the trembling nurse. Help was summoned at once, and she was carried
into the hospital; but she was already past all human aid. She had
accomplished her errand with the last spark of her dying strength, and
had gone out into the light beyond the sunset.
Sister Grace took the baby from her and laid the little creature
gently on the bed, unfolding some of the curious Chinese clothing in
which it was closely wrapped. She had unloosed the wadded coat, and
now pulled off the queer double-peaked crimson cap, disclosing as she
did so, not the expected shaved head, with its fringe of coarse black
hair, but a crop of short, tight, flaxen curls, like rings of floss
silk, falling round a pair of flushed cheeks as pink as appleblossom.
She uttered a cry that drew both doctor and nurses to her side. "Look!
Look!" she exclaimed, "the child is white!"
Where the poor baby had come from or to whom it belonged no one knew.
It was warm and unhurt, though in such a deep sleep that it had
evidently been drugged to prevent it from crying. Beyond a small
woollen vest it was dressed in Chinese clothes, no doubt with the
intention of passing it off as a native, and it wore a carved Chinese
charm tied round its neck. It was a little girl of apparently about a
year old, so round and pretty and dimpled that, when at last, after
many hours, she opened her big blue eyes, she won all hearts in the
hospital at once.
It was impossible to institute any enquiries regarding her during the
troublous time which followed. The Mission, indeed, escaped attack,
but it was many months before communication with the outside world was
safely established, and by then every clue seemed to have been lost.
The consul did his best, and made the case widely known among the
European residents in China, but many families had perished in the
uprising, and no one could tell by which of them the child might have
been claimed.
The little waif stayed on therefore at the Ingledew hospital, where
she grew apace, and was soon the pet and darling of everybody who knew
her. It was decided to call her "Mercy", in memory of the last words
of the woman who had saved her life, and "Ingledew" was added as a
surname for lack of any other.
It was when she was about seven years old that the doctor and his
wife, who were returning to England for a year's leave, determined to
take her with them and to try to make some arrangements for her
education. A philanthropic lady, who happened to join the ship at
Ceylon, heard the strange story, and, taking a fancy to the child,
offered to send her to school; so it was in this way that Mercy had
come to Miss Kaye's, where she had remained ever since.
Last year, however, a great misfortune had occurred. Her kind
guardian, who had always taken the warmest interest in her welfare,
had died suddenly without making a will; her heirs did not feel
themselves bound to continue Mercy's school fees; and again she was
left utterly unprovided for. Here Miss Kaye had come to the rescue,
and had promised to keep her at Heathercliffe House until she should
be old enough to earn her own living as a teacher, and Mercy repaid
the kindness bestowed upon her by working her very best and trying to
fit herself for the career which she was to follow by and by. Nine
years at Aberglyn had blurred her memories of her early life in China,
but she still wrote to her friends at the Mission, and said she never
forgot that one spot, though other scenes might have faded from her
remembrance.
Though Sylvia only heard this account of Mercy's childhood at
secondhand, told mostly in whispers by Linda when they were in bed, it
appealed immensely to the poetical side of her nature, and invested
her schoolfellow with a halo of romance that added greatly to her
other charms.
"Suppose she really has a father or a mother," said Sylvia, who loved
to let her imagination run riot; "or if they are both dead, perhaps a
grandfather, or a grandmother, or an uncle who is searching for her
everywhere. She might be the heiress to a big property, and own
castles and halls and all kinds of things. Hasn't anybody tried to
find out?"
"Oh yes, lots of people!" replied Linda. "But it's no use. There isn't
anything to trace her by. Mercy can't bear to hear it spoken of unless
she mentions it first, and she scarcely ever does. Miss Kaye said it
was much wiser for her not to think about it, because it was such a
forlorn hope, and it was better to be content with the friends she has
and make the most of them. I think she feels it though, sometimes,
when we're all going back for the holidays and talking about our
homes."
"I'm sure she must. Oh, Linda, wouldn't it be lovely if we could find
out her relations? Do let us set to work at once."
"How can we?" said Linda, who had a practical mind.
"I don't know quite how at first, but I have a kind of feeling it may
be done if we only try. I'm going to leave no stone unturned. It's as
interesting as _Hetty Gray_, or _Marjorie's Quest_. Just think that
almost every lady whom Mercy meets may be her mother!"
"They couldn't all be," objected Linda.
"Of course not, but she might be talking to some of her own relations,
and never know it!"
"I don't see how we can help that. People aren't labelled in families
like pots of different kinds of jam, so how could we find out?"
"Oh, don't be stupid! I only mean that we must keep our eyes and our
ears open and listen for every opportunity. I'm going to begin
to-morrow, and if you like to help you can, and if you don't you
needn't."
Greatly fired by her resolution, Sylvia was anxious to solve the
secret of her friend's parentage without further delay. Unfortunately
she did not know exactly how to start. It was impossible to question
Mercy herself, and none of the other girls knew more than Linda had
told her. She decided, therefore, that the only chance was to notice
if anyone looked as if they were seeking somebody, when perhaps she
might be the happy means of bringing about the fortunate meeting, and
have the proud satisfaction of saying: "Here is your long-lost
daughter!"
"It would be the happiest moment of my life," thought Sylvia, "nicer
even than writing a book, though I mean to do that some day. Indeed I
think, when it's all turned out properly, I might make it into a
story, if Mercy wouldn't mind. I could call it _A Waif from China_, or
perhaps _The Little Foundling_, only she's quite big now. _Nobody's
Darling_, would sound beautiful, but she's everybody's darling, so
that wouldn't do. I believe _The Flower of Heathercliffe House_, would
be best, and at any rate I could put 'a true tale' after it. I'd have
it bound in red or green, with gilt edges, and a picture of Mercy on
the back."
The first step to such a flight of literary ambition was evidently to
discover the missing friends; until that was settled the whole point
of the volume would be lacking and it was useless to attempt even a
beginning. She came home one day after the usual morning walk in a
state of great excitement, overflowing with news to tell Linda, who,
having a bad cold, had been obliged to stay in the house.
"What do you think?" she cried, as they stood washing their hands
together in the bathroom, "I really believe I have found a clue at
last!"
"A clue to what?" asked Linda, who had forgotten all about the matter
by that time.
"Why, to Mercy Ingledew! Miss Coleman took us to Aberglyn this morning
and along the promenade, and we sat down for a rest on one of the
benches. Connie Camden and I were quite at the end, next to two
ladies, and I could hear everything they were talking about. One of
them, the tall, fair one, was most dreadfully sad, and said it had
left a blank, and the other, the short, fat one, seemed so sorry for
her and was trying to comfort her. 'When did you lose her?' she asked.
I couldn't hear the answer, because Connie was whispering to me, but
the short lady said: 'Dear me! as long ago as that? I am afraid you
can have very little hope of ever finding her now.' Then Connie
interrupted again, but I caught something about curly hair and such
winning ways. 'You believe she has been traced to this neighbourhood?'
the fat lady said; 'you are quite sure you would be able to know her
from any other?' 'I couldn't mistake,' the tall lady said; 'her eyes
alone would tell me even if she had utterly forgotten me!' It was just
growing most interesting when Miss Coleman got up and we had to go,
but I'm certain we're on the right track and it's Mercy they're
looking for. Don't you think it must be?"
"I don't know," said Linda doubtfully; "it might be somebody else."
"Oh! How could it be? It all exactly fits in with Mercy's story, and
the tall, fair lady was in deep mourning too."
"She wouldn't still be in mourning," said Linda; "it's fifteen years
since Mercy was lost."
"She might be; perhaps she made up her mind never to wear anything
else until she found her. Shall I tell Mercy?"
"No, I'm sure you had better not. Miss Kaye said we were none of us
ever to mention it to her."
"Then I must find out a little more, and it will come as a surprise to
her in the end. Don't breathe a word to any of the other girls; I want
it to be a dead secret. Nobody knows a hint about it except you and
me."
Sylvia felt almost bursting with the importance of her quest; her
great anxiety now was to meet the lady again and make a few further
discoveries. She wished she knew her name, or where she lived, and
much regretted that she had not taken the opportunity of saying
something about Mercy at the time.
"It would be so dreadful if I didn't get a chance to see her any
more," she thought. "Perhaps she's only a visitor at Aberglyn, and she
may go home without anything happening after all."
Every day, when they went for their walk, she looked out both for the
tall, fair lady and the short, fat one, but she never saw either,
though she managed to persuade Miss Coleman to take them twice again
to the promenade, an unheard-of indulgence in one week.
"I don't know what we're to do!" she lamented to Linda. "I must see
her somehow. I feel as if Mercy's future depends upon it. She looks
nice too. I wonder how Mercy will like her for a mother. Just think of
having to get to know your own mother when you're sixteen! Wouldn't it
seem queer? Perhaps she may be in church on Sunday."
"I don't see how you could speak to her even if she were," said Linda.
"We go out by the side door, and you wouldn't be likely to meet her in
the churchyard."
"I wish Miss Kaye would take me shopping on Saturday," said Sylvia.
"It's Sadie Thompson's turn. I wonder if I could coax her to change
with me."
It was Miss Kaye's custom to allow four of the girls to go with her
each Saturday morning to Aberglyn and assist with her marketing. They
were trusted to make some of the purchases, to teach them the value of
money, and were expected to put down a neat account afterwards of what
they had spent. It was a privilege to which they greatly looked
forward, and it had not yet fallen to Sylvia's share. By dint,
however, of a good deal of persuasion, added to the gift of her
cedarwood pencil box, she induced Sadie Thompson to let her have the
next turn; and, as Miss Kaye made no objection to the exchange, she
found herself included among the favoured few.
Nothing could have been more fortunate. The party consisted of Mercy
Ingledew, Trissie Knowles, from the second class, herself, and Nessie
Hirst, and they started off in brisk spirits.
In every shop and street Sylvia's eyes were busy seeking for the two
ladies; but though in the distance she thought she caught a glimpse of
the short one, she found out on a nearer view that she was mistaken.
They went at last into the markethall, where Miss Kaye was soon busy
at a glass and china stall, replenishing some of the school crockery
which had been broken.
"You little ones," she said, "may go and buy me a pennyworth of
parsley and three lemons. Be sure you choose lemons with nice smooth
rinds, and bring back the right change for a shilling."
Sylvia and Nessie ran off together to the fruiterer's, proud of their
errand, and were just engaged in calculating the cost of three lemons
at three-halfpence each, when Sylvia gave a gasp of astonishment and
delight. Round the corner, and actually coming to their stall,
appeared the tall, fair lady and the short, fat one. They stopped to
enquire the price of pears, and stood so near that the long _crepe_
mantle of the former was actually brushing against Sylvia's hat. She
trembled all over with excitement. Dare she do it? Could she really
pluck up her courage and speak to this unknown stranger? She tried
half a dozen times, but the words stuck in her throat. Yet she felt
she must make the effort, for perhaps Mercy's happiness might hang
upon this one solitary chance.
"If you please," she began in a very small trembling voice, and
touching the lady's sleeve with her hand. But the lady was too busy
buying pears to notice, and only fumbled in her pocket for her purse.
"If you please," tried Sylvia again, speaking rather louder this time.
"I think this little girl wishes to ask you something," said the
short, fat lady, addressing her friend.
The tall, fair one turned suddenly round towards Sylvia.
"What is it, my dear?" she said, somewhat stiffly; "can I tell you
anything?"
Sylvia flushed scarlet. The critical moment had arrived.
"Oh, please," she said, "I thought you hadn't found her yet, and I
believe I know where she is!"
"Not my Tottie?" exclaimed the lady.
"I don't know her real name, but we call her Mercy," said Sylvia. "I
heard you say on the promenade that you'd lost her."
"So I have. I have done everything in my power to recover her. I even
put it into the hands of the police. Where did you find her?"
"She's been at school for ever so long," said Sylvia, "at
Heathercliffe House," she added, in explanation.
"I never dreamt of asking there," said the lady. "I should have
thought Miss Kaye wouldn't have kept her. But no doubt she has been a
great favourite amongst the girls."
"She is. We all love her," declared Sylvia, delighted with the success
of her boldness.
"But where is she? Have you got her safe at Heathercliffe House?"
enquired the lady.
"She's here now in the market," replied Sylvia triumphantly.
"Where? Oh, where?"
"Just in the next row at the pot stall."
"Let us go at once," said the tall lady, hastily paying for her fruit,
and hurrying away in as much agitation as Sylvia herself.
"I don't see her!" she continued in a disappointed tone, when they had
turned the corner, looking anxiously among the crockery laid on the
ground, and even peeping under the stall.
"She's there with Miss Kaye," said Sylvia.
"Where, my dear?"
"Of course you won't recognize her, because she's grown so, but she's
that tall, fair girl with the long, light hair. Oh! May I tell her, or
would you rather tell her yourself?"
The lady looked first at Sylvia and then at her short friend with a
most puzzled expression.
"What is the child talking about?" she asked; "I don't understand."
"You said you'd lost her," faltered Sylvia.
"So I did."
"And there she is--your own daughter!"
"Daughter!" cried the lady, almost dropping her parcel in her
surprise. "It was my dear little dog I was speaking of. I thought you
said you had found her."
"What is the matter?" said Miss Kaye, coming up at this moment; "I
believe I am addressing Mrs. Rushworth? Can I be of any assistance?
Oh, no, we have found no dog! If we had I should have sent it at once
to the police station. I am sorry there should have been a mistake.
Come, Sylvia."
The disappointment was so horrible and tragic, and so different from
anything she had expected, that Sylvia burst into a flood of tears.
Was this the end of all her plans? Instead of accomplishing anything
useful she had only made herself look extremely silly, and she
wondered what Miss Kaye would have to say about it. At first the
headmistress took no notice; she quietly finished her purchases, then,
bidding Nessie Hirst go on with Trissie and Mercy, she gave Sylvia a
parcel to carry and told her to walk by her side. She made no remark
while they were still in the town, but once they were out on the
country road she began to ask questions, and drew a full explanation
from her sobbing pupil.
"Don't cry, my dear," she said kindly; "you have done your best. You
are not the only one who has tried to find poor Mercy's relations, but
the issue is in higher hands than ours. Do not speak to her of what
has happened this morning; it is a subject which has caused her such
great grief that I always shrink from allowing it to be mentioned. The
truest way to prove your friendship is to help her to forget that she
is alone in the world. Though we cannot supply the place of her own
parents, we can at least show her how much we love her, and make her
feel that she has many friends to compensate her for the loss of
father and mother."