_MRS. PENN_
"I have a boy of five years old,
His face is fair and fresh to see,
His limbs are cast in beauty's mould,
And dearly he loves me."
--WORDSWORTH.
Three days went by, and then Elsie bent her steps to Wardour Street
again. Andrew Beaton was in his old place behind the counter, but his
face did not look any brighter than usual.
"No answer yet, Miss Kilner," he said. "My mother is worried about the
matter. She thinks that we have neglected a duty. I am glad you have
come. She is too much alone."
Elsie found the old lady sitting dejectedly in her little parlour, but
she brightened at the sight of her visitor.
"We have heard nothing," she began. "And yet the notice has been in all
the papers. Mrs. Penn was always a newspaper reader; nothing escaped her
eyes. I am beginning to fear that she is dead."
"We mustn't imagine evils," Elsie replied.
"But if she is dead, one doesn't know what may have happened to the boy!
Mrs. Penn had friends and relatives, but would they be likely to look
after him? That's what I have said to Andrew a dozen times at least."
She took off her spectacles with fingers that trembled a little, and put
her work into an old-fashioned basket with a crimson lining. Elsie had
gentle ways with old people, knowing instinctively how to soothe them
with touch and voice. She poured out tea, and hovered round Mrs. Beaton
with little attentions which were like caresses.
Andrew, coming in with his quiet step, gave Miss Kilner a look and a
word of gratitude.
If you set out to do a good deed, you may do a hundred small kindnesses
on the way. Elsie's quest seemed very likely to prove fruitless, but in
the seeking she was scattering flowers as she went along. Andrew, who
sometimes found his life sadly commonplace, picked up a blossom or two,
and wore them thankfully. The street, the shop, and the parlour were all
touched and beautified by these little graces which a woman like Elsie
bestows spontaneously.
It was a pleasant tea-drinking in the London parlour, although the sun
could send in only a slanting beam or two.
They had, all three, talked themselves into a hopeful mood. In their
brightened fancy Jamie was already found, and they were beginning to
arrange his future destiny. Elsie proceeded to state her views on the
education of boys; but, as she had never had any boys to educate, those
views were rather vague. Mrs. Beaton expressed a wish that he could be
turned into a blue-coat boy; his curly golden head was so pretty that it
was almost a sin to cover it with a cap, and he would soon grow used to
being without one. Andrew hoped that he wouldn't be spoiled, and made
into a milksop, and suggested that he ought to be taught a useful trade
as soon as possible.
Elsie had other ideas; she wanted him to be sent to college.
Mrs. Beaton said it would be a shame to set him to work too early; he
was only a little more than five years old. Both women thought that
Andrew was too severe in his notions about boys.
Andrew thought that many a good lad was spoilt because he had lacked a
man's control.
Elsie thought that many a dear little fellow was half-brutalised because
he had lacked a woman's influence.
Mrs. Beaton then felt that it was her turn to make a remark, but no one
ever heard the words of wisdom which were about to issue from her lips.
Quite suddenly, with unusual noise, the parlour door was flung open, and
a woman rushed into the room.
Andrew started to his feet. Elsie, who had just taken up the teapot, set
it down again upon the table. Mrs. Beaton pushed back her cap-ribbons
with both hands, and uttered a little shriek.
"It's Mrs. Penn!" she cried. "Oh, Mrs. Penn, it is you, isn't it? And
you're gone clean out of your mind, aren't you? Oh, dear! oh, dear!"
"Yes," answered the intruder distractedly, "it is me. And I'm gone clean
out of my mind."
"We don't want you without your mind," said Andrew, grown suddenly
discourteous. "If you are mad you ought not to have come. Don't you see
that you have given my mother a terrible shock?"
"Don't be unkind, Mr. Beaton!" exclaimed Elsie, in a tone of reproof.
"Of course Mrs. Penn has come to bring us some news. Oh, Mrs. Penn," she
added, losing dignity and self-control all at once, "do speak one word
and tell us what has become of Jamie!"
For a moment it seemed as if Mrs. Penn had no power to comply with this
simple request. She stood gaping at them all; then, suddenly flinging up
her hands with a despairing gesture, she panted out, "Lost!"
Mrs. Beaton sank back in her chair with eyes closed. Andrew bent over
his mother, holding a smelling-bottle to her nostrils, and murmuring
reassuring words. Elsie was very pale.
The old lady recovered herself, sat up, and said, rather feebly, that
there was nothing the matter. Andrew, somewhat relieved, darted an angry
glance at Mrs. Penn.
"Pray sit down, Mrs. Penn," he said, "and let me beg you to be composed.
Perhaps a cup of tea may steady your nerves."
Elsie poured out the tea at once, and handed it kindly to the poor
shaken woman, whose distress was very genuine.
"The _Daily Telegraph_ told me to come here. That's why I came," she
whimpered at last. "But no one seems glad to see me," she added
tearfully.
Andrew felt a pang of self-reproach.
"We are very glad," he said promptly. "If I was rude I hope you will
pardon me. But mother can't stand a shock, and you came upon us rather
suddenly, you see."
"I'm so unhappy," poor Mrs. Penn replied. "I daresay I don't seem a bit
like myself. I lost him nine weeks ago."
Elsie gave a little exclamation of dismay. Had the guidance of the
vanished hand led only to a disappointment like this?
"I wish you had told us sooner," said Andrew, trying to suppress his
indignation.
"The weeks have gone by like a whirlwind, and my head's been in a mist
ever since I lost him," Mrs. Penn declared, wiping her eyes.
"Are you sure that your head wasn't in a mist before you lost him?"
asked Mrs. Beaton, with unwonted sternness.
Something in the tone of the questioner led Elsie to examine Mrs. Penn
with closer attention. She was a woman of sixty, who had evidently been
healthy and active in her earlier days, and ought to have been strong
and capable still. But there was a redness of the eyes, and a certain
pink puffiness of the whole countenance which had a suspicious look.
"My health hasn't been good lately," she said, in her whimpering voice.
"No one knows the burden that the boy has been to me, but I couldn't
find it in my heart to part with him."
"If you had written to us, as you promised to do, we would have relieved
you of the burden," Mrs. Beaton replied.
"I've been going to write hundreds of times, only I'm such a bad
letter-writer. And then I've intended to come and see you, but I've put
off coming because things always seemed to prevent me. We stayed at
Brighton three months; I don't like Brighton. I was glad to get nearer
to London."
"Where did you go when you left Brighton?" Andrew inquired.
"We came up to Lee. My niece Maria is married to a market-gardener
there, a Mr. Dennett; he's a most respectable man, and he took quite a
fancy to Jamie. But Maria has no children, and she doesn't care for
boys; they seem to worry her."
"And between you and Maria the poor little fellow was neglected," cried
Mrs. Beaton, in a tremor of anger.
"Don't say so; pray, don't say so; it hurts my feelings dreadfully,"
wailed Mrs. Penn. "I'm sure I paid regularly for him and myself, and he
always had enough to eat. But, as Maria has often said, it's a
troublesome thing to have a child on your hands."
"How did you lose him?" Mrs. Beaton asked. She steadied her voice as
well as she could, but there was an angry light in her kind old eyes.
"I didn't lose him. He lost himself. He must have wandered away
somewhere," said this exasperating woman, beginning to cry again. "We
went to the police, and did all we could to find him, but we never
caught a glimpse of him any more. After wearing myself out for nine
weeks, I saw your notice in the _Daily Telegraph_, and then I thought
you must have found him. I came here all in a hurry, with my heart full
of hope."
There was nothing more to be extracted from her. It was clear that she
had told all she could tell.
Elsie turned to Andrew with a look of distress more eloquent than words.
As he met the sorrowful gaze of her beautiful dark eyes, a light seemed
suddenly to flash from his, and he spoke out in a resolute tone.
"Don't be afraid that I shall let the grass grow under my feet, Miss
Kilner. I shall go to Scotland Yard at once," he said, rising and
buttoning his coat.
He merely lingered to ask Mrs. Penn a few rapid questions about the
boy's dress and general appearance, and then the door closed behind him,
and he was gone.
There was a moment of silence; then Elsie, rising from her chair, went
over to Mrs. Beaton and kissed her.
"I am going home now," she whispered. "We won't despair yet. I shall try
to be hopeful."
But her attempts at hopefulness were of little avail, and she hurried
out of Wardour Street, holding her head down, crying as she went. She
walked swiftly, never once slackening her speed till she had gained her
own door. And inside the house she seemed to lose all courage and
strength and faith, and fell sobbing into Miss Saxon's arms.
"Oh," she said, "it is all in vain! Jamie is lost, utterly lost, and
only his angel knows where to find him!"