THE HEART OF THE LITTLE MOTHER.
It may seem almost impossible to believe that two little children
could be kidnaped in the England of to-day. Nevertheless, such was the
case. Mother Rodesia had managed her theft with great skill. The
gypsies had appeared unexpectedly in the Fairy Dell--no one knew they
were there, therefore no one looked for them. Having kidnaped the
children, Mother Rodesia took care immediately to bury their clothes,
and then she sold them to Ben Holt, the great circus manager, who took
them within a few hours right away to the southwest of England. The
little children had not accompanied the _troupe_, but had gone with
Aunt Sarah by train. There had been little fuss and no apparent
attempt at hiding the pair, therefore no one thought of looking for
them in the large southwestern town where Holt established his great
circus.
It was the most popular time of the year for performing shows of all
sorts, and Ben Holt expected to make a considerable sum of money out
of the pretty and vivacious little pair.
Meanwhile, the police were on their track; advertisements about them
were scattered all over the country--considerable rewards were
offered, and there was more than one nearly broken heart in the pretty
Rectory of Super-Ashton.
Even Aunt Jane felt by no means herself. She would not own to having
done anything wrong, but she became wonderfully gentle to Iris and
Apollo. She was unremitting, too, in her efforts to recover the lost
children, and began to look quite peaky about the face and lined round
the mouth.
As to Uncle William, he preached nothing but old sermons, finding it
beyond his powers to devote his attention to anything fresh or new. He
hated the study window where little Diana had lain in his arms--he
hated the memory of the whip which he had used over her. On one
occasion he even went the length of saying to his wife:
"Jane, it was your doing--she was too spirited a child for the
treatment you subjected her to. She ought never to have been whipped.
But for you she would not have run away."
This was a very terrible moment for Aunt Jane, and she was too much
cowed and stricken to reply a single word to her husband. He could not
help, notwithstanding his great anxiety, having a momentary sense of
pleasure when he found that he had got the upper hand of his clever
wife; but Aunt Jane had it out with the servants and the parishioners
afterwards, and so revenged herself after a fashion.
As to Iris, a very sad change came over her. She grew thin and very
pale; she scarcely ate anything, and scarcely ever spoke. Even Apollo,
even little Ann quite failed to comfort her. She did not complain, but
she went about with a drooping look, somewhat like a little flower
which wants water.
"Iris is not well," Miss Ramsay said one morning to Mrs. Dolman. "She
does not eat her food, and when I went into her bedroom last night I
found that she was wide awake, and had evidently been silently crying.
I think she ought to see a doctor!"
"Dear, dear!" replied Mrs. Dolman. "Do you know, Miss Ramsay, I am
almost sorry I undertook the charge of the little Delaneys. They
certainly have turned out, as their poor father expressed it, a
handful. If Iris is really ill, I had better see her. Send her to me.
You don't suppose she is--fretting?"
"Yes; of course she is fretting dreadfully," replied Miss Ramsay. "And
no wonder, poor little girl! For my part, I consider it perfectly
awful to contemplate the fate of those poor lost children."
"Oh, they will be found--they are likely to return here any day,"
replied Mrs. Dolman. "It is just like you, Miss Ramsay, to go to the
fair with things, and to imagine the very worst. Why, for instance,
should not some very kind people have found the children? Why must
they, as a matter of course, have fallen into the hands of cruel and
unprincipled folk? Some of the very sharpest detectives in Scotland
Yard are on their track. For my part, I have not the slightest doubt
that they will soon be brought back."
Miss Ramsay uttered a sigh.
"I will send Iris down to speak to you," she said.
This conversation occurred between three and four weeks after little
Orion and Diana had disappeared. Mrs. Dolman was in her study. It was
a very ugly room, sparsely furnished. There was a large, old-fashioned
desk in the center of the room, and she was seated in an armchair in
front of it, busily engaged making up her different tradesmen's books,
when the door was softly opened and Iris came in.
Mrs. Dolman had not had any special conversation with Iris since the
mysterious disappearance of the two younger children, and now, as she
raised her eyes and looked at her attentively, she was startled at
the great change in her appearance. The child was reduced almost to a
shadow. She was dressed in her heavy black, without a touch of
relieving white. Her lovely hair hung over her shoulders, and was
pushed back from her low brow, bringing into greater contrast the
small, pinched, white face, and the great brown eyes, which looked now
too big for the little countenance to which they belonged.
"Come here, Iris," said Mrs. Dolman. She had always liked Iris the
best of the children. "Come and tell me what is the matter."
Iris came slowly forward.
"Miss Ramsay says that you do not eat and do not sleep. If that is the
case, I must send for the doctor to see you," continued Aunt Jane.
"Yes, Aunt Jane," answered Iris.
She hung her head listlessly. Mrs. Dolman put her arm round the
slender waist and drew the child close to her side. Iris submitted to
this embrace without in any way returning it.
"And when you see the doctor he will, of course, order you a tonic,
and perhaps tell us to take you to the seaside. If that is the case,
we must do so, Iris--we must do our duty by you, whatever happens. It
would never do for you to be ill, you understand."
"Yes, Aunt Jane," answered Iris; "that's what I think myself--it would
never do."
"Then you will try to get well, dear? You will do exactly what the
doctor says?"
"Yes, Aunt Jane."
Mrs. Dolman looked earnestly into her little niece's face.
"You know," she said, in a brisk voice, "I am, for my part, quite
certain that we shall get tidings of the lost children either to-day
or to-morrow. We are not leaving a stone unturned to get them back."
Iris raised her delicate brows, and for a moment there came a flashing
light of hope into her eyes; but then it died out. She lowered her
lashes and did not speak.
"You are pale, and your hands are hot," said Mrs. Dolman.
"I feel hot," answered Iris, "and I am thirsty," she added.
"Oh, come! this will never do," said Aunt Jane. "I shall just take you
away this minute to see the doctor."
She rose impatiently as she spoke. The apathy which was over Iris
irritated her more than she could express. If the child had only burst
into tears, or even defied her as little Diana used to do, she felt
that she could comprehend matters a great deal better.
"If we are quick, we may see Dr. Kent before he goes on his rounds,"
she said. "Run upstairs at once, Iris, and fetch your hat."
Iris immediately left the room.
"The child looks as if something had stunned her," thought Mrs. Dolman
to herself. "I never saw such a queer expression on any little girl's
face. Now, I am quite certain if Philip or Conrad had been kidnaped,
that Lucy and Mary would be a great deal too sensible to act in this
silly way. The worst of it is, too, that there is nothing really to
lay hold of, for the child does not even complain--she simply suffers.
What am I to do? How am I to tell the children's father that two of
them have disappeared, and the eldest, his favorite, too, is very
ill?"
Iris re-entered the room, with her sun-bonnet hanging on her arm.
"Put it on, my dear, put it on; and brisk up a little," said Mrs.
Dolman. "There is no good in giving way to your feelings."
"I never give way to them, Aunt Jane. I try to be patient," answered
Iris.
Mrs. Dolman tied on her own bonnet with her usual vigor. She then took
one of the hot little hands in hers, and, a few moments later, the
aunt and niece were standing outside Dr. Kent's door in the pretty
little village street.
Dr. Kent was at home. He was a young man, and a clever doctor, and he
gave Iris a good overhauling. He listened to her lungs and heart, put
several questions to her, was kind in his manner, and did not express
the least surprise when he heard that the little girl could neither
eat nor sleep.
"I perfectly understand," he said. "And now, my dear, I hope soon to
have you as right as a trivet; but, in the meantime, I should like to
have a little talk with your aunt. Can you find your way into my
dining room? You have only to turn to the left when you leave this
room."
"Thank you," answered Iris. She went to the door, opened it, and shut
it behind her.
"Now, what do you think about her?" said Aunt Jane. "Out with the
truth, please, Dr. Kent. You know I never can stand any beating about
the bush."
"There is nothing of the ordinary nature the matter with your little
niece," began the doctor.
Mrs. Dolman raised her brows in surprise and indignation.
"How can you say that?" she remarked. "The child looks seriously ill."
"Please allow me to finish my speech. There is nothing the matter with
the child in the form of organic or any other disease; but just at
present there is such a severe strain on her mind that, if it is not
completely relieved, she is very likely to die."
"Doctor! What a terrible thing to say!"
"It is true. The child needs rousing--she is losing all interest in
life. She has been subjected to a terrible shock."
"Of course she has," replied Mrs. Dolman; "but the extraordinary thing
is that a child of ten years of age should feel it so much."
"It is not extraordinary in that sort of child," replied the doctor.
"Can you not see for yourself that she has a very delicate and a very
nervous organism. She has lately, too, lost her mother, has she not?"
"Yes; and I believe the child was very fond of her; but, indeed, I may
as well say that I never saw anyone more sensible than little Iris
about that. She scarcely seemed to grieve at all. Of course, I dare
say she was very sorry, but she did not show it."
"All the worse for her," answered Dr. Kent. "If she had given way
about her mother, and allowed her grief to get the upper hand, she
would not be so ill as she is now. Then came the second blow--the
extraordinary loss of the children."
"Then you really think her very ill?" said Mrs. Dolman. "I would do
anything to save her, doctor. These four children were put into my
care by their father."
"Where is the father now?" asked Dr. Kent.
"He must have nearly reached the Himalayas by this time."
"Is it possible for you to communicate with him?"
"To say the truth, I have hesitated to do so. He suffered terribly at
the death of his wife. It would be fearful for him to learn that two
of the children are missing, and one very ill. I have waited, hoping
for better news."
"You did wrong. He ought to know of this calamity. Each day that does
not give you tidings of the missing children lessens the chance of
your ever recovering them. I must say their disappearance is most
mysterious."
"So it is," answered Aunt Jane suddenly. "And in my heart of hearts,"
she added, "I am greatly alarmed."
"Well, if I were you, I would send a cablegram to the address most
likely to find Mr. Delaney."
"If you think it right."
"I do. It is the only thing to do. He ought to come home immediately.
That little girl ought to have her father with her."
"Then your opinion is that Iris is very ill?"
"She is on her way to be very ill. At the same time, if her mind is
relieved, she will be well in a week. Under existing circumstances,
however, there seems but small chance of that. You ought to
communicate with the father, and if I were you I would let the child
do something herself--even if that something is useless--to try to
recover her lost brother and sister."
"What do you mean? It really is impossible for the child to go over
the country looking for Orion and Diana. Oh, what trouble I brought
upon myself when I undertook the care of my brother's family!"
"I am very sorry for you, Mrs. Dolman, but I must give you my true
opinion. Please act on my suggestion; I am sure you will not regret
it. Communicate with the father in the quickest way possible, urge him
to return to London without fail, and give little Iris something to do
which will occupy and satisfy her mind. In the meantime I will order
her a tonic, but medicines are not what she needs. She requires mind
rest, and nothing else will make her well."
Mrs. Dolman left Dr. Kent's house, feeling very uncomfortable. She
took Iris home, was wonderfully gentle to her during the walk, and
sent her up to the schoolroom with a message to Miss Ramsay to say
that she was not to do any more lessons that morning. Having got rid
of Iris, she went immediately to have an interview with her husband in
his study.
"Well, William," she said, "I own myself beaten."
"My dear Jane--beaten? In what way?"
"Here's a pretty mess," continued Mrs. Dolman; "Orion and Diana cannot
be found, and Dr. Kent says that Iris is going to be very ill."
"Iris going to be ill?" repeated Mr. Dolman. "Has she caught anything
taking. If so, Jane, it would be our duty to separate the children
immediately."
"Oh, nonsense, William! Where would she take a catching complaint in a
wholesome, well-sanitated rectory like this? Have you never heard of
nerve troubles?"
Mr. Dolman opened his sleepy eyes and stared full at his wife.
"My dear," he said, "I often thought that _you_ had never heard of
them. So you really believe in them at last?"
"I am forced to when that pretty child is dying from the effects of
them."
Mrs. Dolman then repeated to her husband all that Dr. Kent had said.
"I cannot stand the responsibility any longer," she said. "I will send
a cablegram to David this very day. What will he think of me? Of
course he will never forgive me. In the meantime, William, have you
anything to propose about little Iris?"
"Yes," answered Mr. Dolman. "There may not be much in my suggestion;
but the fact is, I feel dreadfully restless, sitting here day after
day, doing nothing."
"William, what do you mean?" answered his wife. "Sitting here day
after day, doing nothing! Have you not your parish to attend to?"
"Oh, I don't mean that--you attend to the parish, my love."
"Thank you, William, for acknowledging that fact at last."
"I frankly acknowledge it. Then, too, we have no sick poor in the
parish, and everything is really in a prosperous condition; but the
fact is, I hate sitting down to my comfortable meals, and lying down
at night on my comfortable bed, not knowing in what part of the world
dear, spirited little Diana may be. I don't think half so much about
the boy as little Diana."
"You are like all the rest of your sex, William; you are taken by a
child because it happens to be a girl and has a pair of black eyes.
For my part, I never could bear little Diana."
"Please don't say that now."
"Oh, it is not that I am not sorry for her; of course, I am dreadfully
sorry, and I acknowledge--I do acknowledge--that I have been more or
less to blame. But now, please, come to the point--you always were
such a man for going round and round a subject."
"Well, then," said Mr. Dolman, "this is it. The doctor wishes Iris to
be roused. Let me take both her and Apollo, and let us begin to look
for the lost children."
"And do you suppose," answered Mrs. Dolman, with a laugh, "that you
will be more likely to find the children than the clever detectives
who are on their track?"
"We can go to London and take a detective with us. Iris will at once
feel happier if she is doing something. The fact is this: I am certain
the inaction is killing her."
"It is an extraordinary plan," said Mrs. Dolman; "but after all, if it
is the only way to keep Iris alive, I suppose we must consider it.
But, William, I am the suitable one to take Iris and Apollo about.
Indeed, why should Apollo go at all? He at least is in perfect
health."
"The person to consider is Iris," said Mr. Dolman. "She will confide
in Apollo when she will not confide in anyone else; and I think,
Jane," he added, looking very strong and determined, "that she would
rather go with me than with you." Mrs. Dolman flushed. "You know,
Jane," continued her husband, "you have been a little hard on these
children."
"Perhaps so," answered Mrs. Dolman, "and when I have tried to do my
duty, too. But, of course, Evangeline's children were likely to be
unmanageable; they had such extraordinary training when they were
babies. However, as matters stand, I have not a word to say."
"Then, my dear, we will consider the thing arranged. We can easily get
John Burroughs to lend us one of his curates for Sunday, and you will
do all the rest. Now, shall I see Iris and submit the plan to her?"
"An extraordinary plan it is," answered Mrs. Dolman; "but perhaps you
are right, William. At any rate, I have proved myself so completely in
the wrong that I am willing on this occasion to be guided by you."
She rose from her seat, left the room, and went up to the schoolroom.
"Iris," she said to the little girl, "I want you and Apollo to come
downstairs immediately."
Iris sprang to her feet; she grew white to her lips.
"Have you heard anything?" she asked.
"No, my dear, nothing--nothing whatever; only your uncle wishes to
speak to you. Now, come at once, for he is not the sort of man to be
kept waiting."
Mrs. Dolman left the room and the children followed her. When they
reached the study, Iris went straight up to her uncle.
"What do you want with me, Uncle William?" she asked.
"The fact is this," he answered, scarcely looking at her, and speaking
with great eagerness and emphasis for him; "you and I, Iris, have got
to do something, and there is not a moment to delay."
A great flood of color filled Iris' cheeks, a new light darted into
her eyes.
"Oh, yes, Uncle William," she said, panting as she spoke, "we have
been doing nothing too long. It has nearly killed me, Uncle William,"
she added.
"Then, my dear, we will just be our own detectives--you and I and
Apollo. We will start this very afternoon; we will look for the
children ourselves. Why, what is the matter, my dear; what is the
matter? What are you doing?"
For little Iris had fallen on her knees, had caught her uncle's hand
in both of hers, and was pressing it frantically to her lips.
"Oh, Uncle William," she said, "how can I thank you? I promised mother
the day she died that I would be a little mother to the others, and I
have failed, I have failed dreadfully, and it is killing me, Uncle
William. But oh, if I can find them again, and if you will really help
me, and if we do start to-day--oh, if this is true, then I am happy
again."
"You observe, my dear Jane," said Mr. Dolman, "that my proposal seems
to be correct. Now, run off, Iris, and get Simpson to pack some
clothes for you and Apollo. We will leave Super-Ashton by the three
o'clock train."