BROTHER AND SISTER.
"For this relief, much thanks."--_Hamlet._
My story is getting rather difficult to manage now. Indeed, I don't
quite see how to do. I _think_, if I had known how long it would be, and
what a lot of half-holidays I should have to stay in to write it, I
_think_ I would never have begun it. But I won't be laughed at for
"beginning, and not ending." And if I get it rather muddley, and can't
do it the way authors do who know how to plan stories, and write them so
that they seem all to come of themselves, like flowers growing, you good
people, whoever you are, that come to read it must forgive me and
believe I did my best.
But I can't go on regularly the "I" way now. That is what puzzles me. I
have to be, as it were, in three places at once. First of all--we three
are all locked up in the old house now--I must tell you what was
happening at Rosebuds.
Nurse didn't miss us for a good while; she was busy helping Mrs. Munt,
as there was always a good deal of fuss when grandpapa was expected. And
just as they were getting things pretty ready, and nurse _would_ have
begun seeing about our tea, up comes a man from the telegraph office at
Welford with the usual brown envelope and pink paper inside, addressed
to Mrs. Munt, to say that grandpapa was coming _that_ evening, would be
there about eight o'clock. Immediately, of course, all the bustle and
fuss began over again, only twice as bad; for Mrs. Munt had to get a
dinner ready all in a hurry, and to send one running this way and
another that way for all the things needed. Nurse went with her to the
kitchen, calling to Fanny to take up our tea, and see that we got it
properly; you can understand that, just thinking of us as at play in the
garden, it never occurred to nurse to ask if we were in, or to feel the
least anxious. Fanny, on her side, wasn't at all given to being anxious
about anything except her own bonnets and caps, so she merely set the
tea, and then, "supposing" we were up stairs, and would come down when
we heard the bell, off she went to her own room and her bonnets.
But the tea got cold in the teapot, the bread-and-butter was untouched,
the honey was at the disposal of all the flies who chose to sip it--we
three never came! And when nurse, after helping Mrs. Munt till the two
old bodies were satisfied that all would be right, trotted up to the
schoolroom to put _us_ in order next, there was no one to be seen! Just
at first, I fancy, she was more vexed than frightened.
"Dear, dear!" says I (this is nurse, you understand, telling it over to
me afterwards), "where can they be, the naughty children? But I wasn't
not to say afraid of anything wrong. I called Fanny, idle girl that she
is, and sent her out into the garden to look for you, never doubting but
that in two minutes she'd be back with you all."
But when Fanny, after considerably more than two minutes, reappeared
with the news that we were nowhere to be seen, then poor nurse was
dreadfully upset. She ran to Mrs. Munt, and the two trotted everywhere
about the grounds, giving the alarm to the gardener and his boy, who
joined them in the search.
It was getting near the time for grandpapa's arrival. The dog-cart had
started for the station before our absence had been discovered, and to
add to her own great anxiety, nurse had the fear of grandpapa's driving
in every moment and demanding what was the matter. It must really have
been a terrible evening for both nurse and Mrs. Munt; and as time passed
and grandpapa did not come, their fear of his displeasure gave way to
the wish that he were there to advise and direct them what to do.
They had exhausted all their energies when at last--about nine
o'clock--the dog-cart appeared with him. He had missed the train which
stopped at our little station, and had come on by the next--an express,
by which he was obliged to get out at Welford. So he had telegraphed to
the groom to drive on, and meet him there instead.
Mrs. Munt met him at the door; a moment before, she had been at the
gate, but when she heard the dog-cart approaching, she hurried back to
the house. Not even her fears of every kind could set aside her ideas of
what was proper and respectful.
"God grant Mr. Truro may be with master!" she said to herself, and
her heart sank still lower when she saw that grandpapa was alone.
"Good evening, Mrs. Munt," he said, as he got down; "you will have been
wondering what has become of me," and then he quickly explained what had
happened. But receiving no distinct reply, he looked at her, and saw
that she was crying.
"What's the matter?" he said. "Are the children ill?"
"Oh, sir!" she exclaimed, "oh, my dear master, I only wish I knew!" and
then she told him of our strange disappearance.
He listened, but for some time he could not believe it was quite as she
said.
"They are hiding somewhere to trick you, you may be sure," he said.
"But they'd never keep it up so long, sir," she replied. "Nine o'clock
at night--their bedtime, and had nothing to eat since their dinner at
one. Oh no, sir--I wish I could think it--but it's not in the nature of
children to keep it up so long. And not of those dear children: they'd
have come out wherever they were, on hearing poor nurse and me
a-praying and a-begging of them to come out."
Grandpapa did not speak, but Mrs. Munt saw that he began to take it
seriously. He would not go into the house till every corner of the
grounds had again been searched under his own eye. And not the grounds
only, but the house; and when at last there was nowhere else to look,
and grandpapa had shouted to us in every tone--scolding, appealing,
entreating--fancy him entreating--us to give some sign of life,
promising not to be angry, never again to be vexed with us whatever we
did, if we would but answer: when _everywhere_ had been searched, and
everything said and done that could be thought of, poor grandpapa,
looking quite old and shaky all of a sudden, sat down by the table in
the dining-room, where his dinner was so neatly set out, and buried his
face in his hands.
It was terrible, both nurse and the old housekeeper told us--terrible to
see the cold, strong man so overcome, and to hear what he murmured to
himself.
"All that I had left--all," he said. "My own children, for she was as my
daughter to me, and my poor boy--one gone, one to have deceived me. And
now, in my old age, these little creatures whom I was learning to love!
Is it my fault? Was I too harsh to them? Did I neglect them? Why is it
that all belonging to me seem doomed in some way?"
And then he raised his poor white face, and told what he was thinking.
"Munt," he said, abruptly, "I have refused to allow the idea in my
mind--but it must be the truth. I have tried not to entertain it, for
I knew if it were the case, there was nothing to be done. It is so
dreadfully deep----" and he gave a little shudder. "They must have
fallen into the pits at the corner of the Old House fields. I had a
presentiment of it from their first coming here. Tell the man to fetch
the ropes--there must be the right thing in the village, for cows have
fallen in before now; those pools must be dragged."
Mrs. Munt gave a little scream. Then she grew quiet again.
"No, sir," she said, "the dear children are too obedient for that. They
remembered what you said to them about not going to those pits, and they
repeated their promise to nurse only a day or two ago."
Grandpapa looked up with a gleam of hope. But it faded again, and he
only repeated the words--
"Those pools must be dragged. Send the men. I can do no more."
Then he half fell back upon his chair, and stayed thus--almost
unconscious, Mrs. Munt thinks--while she went away to obey his orders,
till----
But now I must take up another end of the story.
The family at the Rectory went early to bed as a rule, even when they
had visitors with them. This eventful evening they and their two
visitors were just standing about the drawing-room, preparing to say
good-night and to light their bed-room candles, when they were startled
by a loud violent ringing at the door.
"Dear me," said they all, "what can that be? So late, too; it is past
ten."
"Some one ill, and wanting me, possibly," said the rector, and he went
out to the hall, where the footman was already at the door, leaving the
four ladies--his mother-in-law, and Mrs. Lauriston, his wife, and the
two visitors--looking at each other rather startledly. Still, there
was no reason to expect anything wrong--all the young Lauristons were
upstairs safe in bed their mother remembered with satisfaction.
They heard voices at the door--then the rector came back, looking
shocked and troubled.
"I must go out," he said; "a sad, a terribly sad thing is supposed to
have happened."
"Where? Any of our people?" exclaimed his wife.
Mr. Lauriston hesitated--he glanced at the two stranger ladies--at the
elder one especially--the lady Tib and I had seen from the Rectory gate.
"You must hear it sooner or later," he said; "I'm very sorry to have
to tell it. It is at--at Rosebuds--the children there, poor Gerald's
children--are missing, and it is feared they have fallen into the
pits--near--near your house, Mrs. Mowbray. They have sent to me for the
things to drag with." (There was a pond almost big enough to be called a
little lake in the Rectory grounds: that was how they had ropes there.)
Mrs. Mowbray gave a scream.
"The children--_drowned_!" she cried in an agony. "Oh, Edith! oh,
William! if it is so, it is my fault. I should not have left these pits
to be filled up by Farmer Jackman when he buys the place. The moment I
knew the children were at Rosebuds, _I_ should have done it. Oh God!
it is too awful, and too cruel--just when I was beginning, faintly
beginning, to hope."
She seemed as if she were going to faint. But her daughter, _our_
Regina, our dear fairy, darted from the room, calling out as she did
so--
"Wait a moment, dear mamma. Don't be so miserable. It may be a mistake."
She rushed to the hall, where stood the Rectory servants in a group, and
Barstow, grandpapa's very spruce, stuck-up London groom, who had come
to ask for the ropes, with a very solemn face, but very proud, all the
same, to be the centre of information. Regina seized hold of him by the
coat collar, I believe; he told nurse afterwards that the young lady
shook him, shook him hard, "as if it was all _my_ fault," he said to
nurse.
"Leave off chattering and gossiping," she said, for our princess can be
very determined when she likes, "and attend to me. Are the children
_known_ to be in the pool? Were they seen near there? or heard? or how
is it?"
"Oh no, bless you, Miss," said Barstow, shaking himself free rather
resentfully. "It's only that they're not to be found nowhere else.
They've been out a-playing in the garden, as everybody thought, since
two or three o'clock, and they've never come home, and they're nowhere
to be found; and my master--Gerald Ansdell, Esq., M.P., if you please,
Miss,"--for Regina and all the Rectory folk were perfect strangers to
him "my master has got it in his head that the young ladies and Master
Gerald is--has--must be drowned, Miss, to speak plain."
Regina dashed back to the drawing-room.
"Mamma darling, it's all right. Mr. Lauriston, Mrs. Lauriston, all of
you, help me to explain. _I_ know where the children are--they're locked
in, in the Old House--that's all that's wrong--I'm sure of it. It was
a little plan of Charles Truro's and mine; we thought if I got to know
the dear little things it might lead to something--to a reconciliation.
They had found their way there by themselves, and told him about it. But
I must go at once to let them out, the poor darlings. And, mamma, mamma,
take courage--seize the moment. While I fetch them, you go to Uncle
Ansdell and tell him the good news. You may never have such a chance
again. Don't you think so, Mr. Lauriston--you who know the whole
story--oh, do say you think she should do it?" and Regina wrung her
hands in her eagerness.
It took a little cross-questioning to make them understand all; but
Regina got her way. Barstow, to keep him quiet, was allowed to go off
with the gardener to get the drags, and in less time than you would have
thought it possible they all set off--Mr. Lauriston, Regina, and her
mother. But at the gate of Rosebuds they separated. Regina hurried on
down the lane with the rector, her mother with trembling, shaking
steps, went in and made her way up to the porch.
The front door stood open; in the confusion and excitement nobody had
thought of closing it.
Grandpapa--poor grandpapa--was sitting as Mrs. Munt had left him when
she went off to give orders about dragging the pools. A little noise,
the door softly opening and closing again, made him look up. A tall
figure, all dressed in black, with a white, sweet, anxious face and blue
eyes, like Tib's and grandpapa's own, streaming with tears, stood beside
him. He stared at it half stupefied. I think he thought he was dreaming.
But it spoke.
"Brother, dear, dear brother, it is I. Do you know me--will you forgive
me at last? Oh, dear, dear brother, forgive me."
He gazed at her as if he did not see her.
"I do not know why you have come," he said. "Do you know what has
happened? My children--poor Gerald's children--are drowned, all of them.
I am quite alone in the world."
"No, no," she cried, "they are not drowned. They will be here in a few
minutes. It was that gave me courage to come--to bring you the good
news. Gerald, for _their_ sake, for the dear children's sake, won't you
at last forgive me and let me help you with them? Oh, I will love them
so if you will let me. Brother, say quick before they come--say you will
forgive me at last. I have so suffered, I have been punished so long.
Brother, say you forgive your poor Queenie."
She half knelt, half sank down beside him--all I am writing is from
what Regina has told me, and her mother herself told her--grandpapa
stretched out his arms, and she flung herself into them.
"Queenie, my little Queenie," he said, "_you_ have brought me the good
news--is it true, quite true?"
Auntie--that is, of course, what she is to us--auntie was almost
frightened. He was so gentle, so clinging, and unlike his usual cold
decided self. And a sort of terror went through her for a moment,
"Suppose it didn't turn out to be true that we were safe."
"I should never forgive myself, _never_," she thought, "if I have raised
his hopes only for them to be dashed again;" and even while she went on
repeating that it was true, he would see us directly, she trembled.
But there came a noise--a very slight, distant sound at first--of many
voices and steps approaching. Auntie's ears are quick, and that evening
they were quicker than usual, even. She heard it ever so far off, long
before grandpapa heard anything. And she listened, trembling. Were the
voices cheerful?--_was_ it all right?
I have so often heard all the story of that evening--of other people's
part of it, I mean--that I seem to be able to see it all for myself as
it must have looked to them. I can so picture auntie standing there,
scarcely daring to breathe in her anxiety to hear! And the first thing
that quite reassured her was Regina's voice speaking in a pitying,
petting, yet laughing way to Gerald.
"My poor old man! no one will be vexed with you for crying, for, as you
say, you _are_ only seven years old." _Of course_, in Gerald's troubles
he had begun his old cry!
And in another moment the dining-room door opened and a queer-looking
group appeared. There was Regina in a shawl thrown over her head, she
had not waited to put on her hat; there was Mr. Lauriston and two or
three gardeners and people we had gathered on the way--for, of course,
we had come round by the proper entrance to the Old House, and had
found them all at the pit--and in the middle of the crowd three very
dishevelled-looking little figures, with eyes swollen with crying, and
now blinking at the sudden light, who rushed forward to grandpapa,
calling out all together--
"Oh! dear grandpapa, please forgive us. We didn't mean to disobey you."
And before we knew where we were he had us all in his arms at once, and
he was hugging us as he had never hugged us before.
"My children," he said, "my dear little children."
But when he looked up and saw Regina, he really did start.
"Is it----?" he began, and then he looked round at auntie. "It is
yourself over again," he said, "it is you, Queenie--as I last saw you."
Fancy that; fancy the years and years that had gone by since they had
met! How very, very strange it must have seemed.
But auntie explained who Regina was, and then grandpapa kissed her too,
with a curious wistful look in his eyes. And then came hurrying in nurse
and Mrs. Munt, whom the good news of our return had just reached, and we
were bundled off to bed, where we each had some nice hot stuff to drink,
and Regina explained all the queer story to the two old servants, while
down stairs grandpapa and auntie were together alone. And all that
_they_ had to tell and ask of course we would never expect to hear, but
still, we had enough told to us to make all that had puzzled us plain,
and to clear away all remains of our family "mystery."
This I will tell you in the next chapter. And I will also explain to you
how Regina had come to know of our having found our way into the Old
House, the hopes that this had put into her head--hopes which had been
more than fulfilled, thanks to the accident with the key, which had so
strangely turned to good.