IN THE NEW HOME.
LET us pay a flying visit to Kelmersdale to see how it fared with
"grandma." Mrs. Rayburn has not hitherto appeared in a very amiable
light in these pages, yet she was not an altogether bad woman. She had
a heart, though it was so overlaid with selfishness that she herself
hardly knew that it existed, and she had a conscience, though she made
but little use of it.
And now, as she sat alone in her snug room, and ate her comfortable
meals, she failed to get the slightest comfort or enjoyment out of any
of these things. The faces of the two boys—Frank's gentle smile, Fred's
saucy laugh—rose up before her, no matter what she was doing or where
she was.
She felt sure now that Janet would write or come to claim her children,
though she had so often declared that Janet had deliberately deserted
them, and would be heard of no more. Most people believed that the boys
had fallen into the Kelmer, and now lay in one of those deep holes, or
pools, into which those drowned in that river generally disappeared.
But Mrs. Rayburn did not believe this, though she tried to do so.
Every horrid story of the oppression of children by chimney-sweeps,
travelling tinkers, professional acrobats, and others, came into her
head whenever she thought of the two boys; she pictured them to herself
as suffering and starved and beaten, overworked and ill-used in every
possible way. She had always been fond of stories of horrors, and now
she paid for her bad taste, for they supplied her imagination with
horrors enough to drive any one mad. Those about her said that Mrs.
Rayburn cared for those children far more than any one could have
expected, considering that their father was only her stepson, and by no
means a creditable one, by her own showing.
So passed the autumn, a few weeks being fine, and then the weather
broke, and there were cold, damp days and rainy, windy nights.
On the very night on which little Fred found his way to Betty's cottage
with his pitiful cry for help—the very night when Frank's sweet soul
passed away—there came a letter for Mrs. Rayburn. Maria brought it to
her.
"A letter, ma'am; and I'm sure I hope it's good news, for I can't bear
to see how you fret for the poor little children."
Mrs. Rayburn looked at the writing.
"It's from no one I know," she said, laying it down beside her. She sat
for some time plunged in very gloomy thoughts. The Earl and a party of
friends were come to the Castle for some shooting, and they were just
then at dinner. A door was opened, and she heard the sound of voices
and laughter. She felt unreasonably angry that any one should laugh in
the very same place where the boys had played so often so short a time
ago.
The boys, the poor little dead boys—for they were dead, and she
was tormenting herself foolishly imagining them in misery and
suffering—they were in heaven; and well was it for them, for it was
clear that neither Janet nor their father would ever be heard of in
England again.
Now she felt able to read that letter, and she took it up. A strange
hand, shaky and uneven. She opened it, glanced at the signature, and,
uttering a low cry, fell back in her chair.
An hour later, when the guests left the dining-hall, and were heard
passing along the corridors to the smoking-room, the noise roused Mrs.
Rayburn, who was still sitting with the letter grasped in her hand,
unread. Now, making a great effort to compose herself, she began to
read it.
"Old Man's Ferry Farm, Gattigo, British Columbia.
"MY DEAR MOTHER,
"I hope you have not been frightened about me, though I have been
so long without writing. I could not help it, for I have been very
ill, and am still very weak, as you may see from my writing. I was in
great distress at getting no letter from you, with news of my little
darlings, till I remembered that I may not have given you my brother's
address, for I was in such a hurry, and so distracted at parting with
the children. I am with Gilbert, and Fred is here too, and we have some
hope that we shall soon be settled, either here to help Gilbert and his
wife, or in Gattigo in an hotel which Gilbert means to start, and we
are to manage. Whichever we have to do, we can have the boys out now.
I enclose a bank-bill for their expenses, and if you could possibly be
spared to take my two boys to Liverpool, and put them on board the boat
named in Gilbert's part of this letter, it will be very kind of you.
Gilbert will send you every direction to save you trouble. We wish them
to come by this boat, because Gilbert knows the captain, whose wife
will be on board. Fred will meet them on landing, and bring them on
here. How I long for them no words can tell, though I am sure you have
made them as happy as possible, and we shall never forget your kindness
to them and to us.
"Fred sends you his love. He is now quite well, and only longing
to be at work in some way. While on his way to join my brother, he met
an old acquaintance who had set up in business in New Durham, and who
cheated him, poor fellow! out of all his money, and then ran away,
leaving him to be suspected of all sorts of dishonesty. And he managed
so that poor Fred could not prove his innocence, nor could my brother,
though he felt quite sure of it. However, our troubles are over now,
I hope, and a new life about to begin. I only want my boys to make me
as happy as ever.
"Will you come out with the boys and share our work in the hotel
if we go there? Perhaps you would prefer to wait until we know for
certain we shall be there, or here on the farm? Whichever it is, your
assistance would be very welcome. But perhaps you do not care to leave
Kelmersdale, where you are so comfortable, and we feel unwilling to
urge you until we are sure of our future prospects. But when we know
that we are going to do well, you may be sure we shall want you to
share our good fortune.
"Kiss my boys for 'muddie,' and remember that, though I cannot
write as I feel, I am for ever grateful to you for taking care of them.
When I feel their arms round my neck, I shall be too happy. Tell them
that 'muddie' just longs for them. I must leave room for Gilbert now.
"Your affectionate daughter,
"JANET RAYBURN."
When Maria came back a little later with Mrs. Rayburn's supper, she
found her lying back in her armchair insensible. The letter lay at her
feet.
* * * * *
Fred Rayburn was just about to leave the Farm in order to meet the
two boys and bring them safe to their mother, when a letter to Janet
from Lord Beaucourt stopped him. Very kindly and gently did the Earl
break the dreadful news. He told the story very fully, and said that,
although the children had not been found in the river, there was no
reasonable doubt that they had fallen in, probably in trying to take a
drink. He spoke of the character of the Kelmer, from which the bodies
of those who were drowned in it were very seldom recovered. And he told
of Mrs. Rayburn's serious illness, which it was still feared would end
fatally.
"Your letter and the bank-bills I now return to you were lying at her
feet. I am told that since her power of speech has returned to her, she
talks of having been harsh to the children; and I cannot say whether
this is really true, or only her fancy. Certainly she has never been
the same since they were lost."
He concluded with many expressions of sympathy, and a promise that Mrs.
Rayburn should be well cared for.
Poor Janet! That letter very nearly killed her. At her earnest request,
Fred went to England, to ascertain, as far as he could, the truth about
Mrs. Rayburn's treatment of the boys; and perhaps there was a wild hope
that he might discover that the children had not perished. He did his
best, but discovered nothing new about the children.
Mrs. Rayburn had left the Castle, and was in a hospital in London, as
her state of mind required careful watching; but she was better, and
would, they thought, recover. Fred felt convinced that she had not been
kind to the children, and did not feel very sorry when told that he
could not see her.
He returned to Canada after a while, bringing no hope, and but little
added information.
Poor Janet! Her sorrow was very sore, and it was not lessened by a
curious feeling of doubt that took possession of her. She could not
believe that her children were dead. If for a moment she felt sure,
next moment a doubt sprang up again. She told no one of this feeling,
for she could give no reason for it, and whether it added to her grief,
or was a gleam of comfort, she did not very well know. It added much
to her suffering, for it made her restless and full of longing to go
home and search England for her bonny boys. But, after a while, another
little Lily came to comfort the poor torn heart, and Janet's grief lost
some of its bitterness.
But it had utterly changed her. Her bright colour was gone; her face
was still and grave. Her little daughter had the tenderest care, but
the merry playfellow with whom Frank and Fred had had many a game of
romps, little Lily never knew.
After a while the first manager of "Gray's Hotel" left his situation,
and Fred Rayburn was his successor. All feeling against him was quite
forgotten. Indeed, with sturdy Gilbert Gray to keep him steady, Fred
was a different man. He prospered exceedingly; all things went well
with him. And yet, he would have given all his wealth to see his
gentle, sad-faced, silent wife look like the pretty, happy Janet who
had played with her boys in the old sitting-room over the Gateway.
"Janet," he said one day, when something had made them talk of the lost
children, "I wonder how you can bear the sight of me. It was really my
fault. But for my folly and selfishness, you would never have had to
leave them."
"Dear heart, I loved you before God gave me them, and your grief for
them made me love you more. And, maybe, nothing but such a sorrow would
have made us one, as we are now."
"You mean, would have made me think? You are right there. I never
really saw that I had sinned till I felt that—that dreadful blow. There
was mercy in the chastisement for me, but for you, my poor Janet—"
"Hush! You and I are one," was her quiet answer. "I can never forget my
pretty Frank and Fred, but I am content, dear. You and I are one."
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