THE MISSING CHILD.
"WHAT is the matter, Sir Herbert? I fear you've had bad news."
"Good heavens! Sharpe, it's appalling."
The baronet stood with an open telegram in his trembling hand, with a
look of fear and dread in his eyes.
"The west wing of The Towers was partially destroyed by fire last
night, and Gerald is missing. And I left him in anger!" said Sir
Herbert in acute distress.
Mr. Sharpe was greatly shocked, but equal to the occasion. He rung the
bell imperatively, and gave orders for a cab to be brought round at
once. A few hours later, and the two gentlemen were on the scene, where
the conflagration had taken place.
"What has become of my nephew?" sternly demanded Sir Herbert of the
housekeeper.
"Heaven only knows, sir," said the woman, with the tears streaming down
her face. "We made every effort to save him. At the first outbreak of
fire, I went to his room, which, as you know, sir, was in the west
wing. Already it was filling with smoke, and I feared he must be
suffocated. But he was nowhere to be seen, search as we might—for we
all did our utmost, sir, indeed, we did, when we knew his little life
was in danger. It is feared that he was overcome by the smoke on the
landing, and—"
Good Mrs. Webster's sobs checked her further utterance, but Sir Herbert
had heard enough to fear the worst, and he groaned in his despair. For
though he knew it not, the child had grown into his heart and life.
The overheating of a flue was said to be the cause of the fire, which
but for its comparatively early discovery, would have wrought even
greater damage to the ancestral home of Sir Herbert Weston. The shock
proved to be more than he knew how to bear, and for some days the
baronet was too seriously indisposed to do more than lie passive in the
doctor's hands.
The terrible fate which he feared had overtaken the child, and remorse
for the hardness with which he had treated him, weighed upon Sir
Herbert so terribly that for a time the good doctor was afraid lest
his brain should be affected, and he advised a complete change for his
patient, as soon as he should be well enough to travel.
To account for Gerald's disappearance, we must return to the Sunday
which followed the day whereon he had so grievously displeased his
uncle. The lad's high spirit chafed against the punishment accorded to
him, and upon thinking the matter over, he made up his mind that when
opportunity occurred, he would leave The Towers secretly, and for ever.
Mrs. Webster, who sincerely pitied the child, despite his disobedience,
kissed him that night with more tenderness than usual, and the kindness
touched his heart. Leaning his head on her shoulder, he broke into a
passion of sobs.
"I can't be good here, without mother; I'm growing worser every day.
Oh! If only Uncle Herbert would send me back to her again."
"Come, Master Weston, my dear, this won't do; you must be a good boy,
for your mother's sake. You know it was really very naughty of you to
disobey the master; wasn't it now?"
"I suppose it was, only I don't seem to care," said the boy, in
reckless abandonment of grief.
"Yes, yes, my laddie, you 'do' care," answered the good woman gently.
"If Uncle Herbert was only as kind to me as you are, I would always be
a good boy, but—"
Mrs. Webster, fearful of another outburst of tears, softly interrupted
him,—
"It is time now for you to say your prayers, my dear, and then you must
go to sleep. When your uncle comes home on Monday, you will be able to
tell him how sorry you are, and he will forgive you right enough."
With a more cheerful tone than her convictions warranted, Mrs. Webster
left her young charge, settled as she thought for the night.
But Gerald had other plans, for an hour or two later, he slipped
quietly out of bed. And hastily dressing himself, he made his simple
preparations for departure.
Taking his little purse, which contained just one half-crown, he
managed with great caution to leave the house unobserved. It was
moonlight, therefore the night to the solitary child was robbed of its
terrors. He made his way across the meadows, tramping on and on till
he was both footsore and weary. The plans which he had formed in his
childish mind were these: To make his way to the station about three
miles distant, and take a ticket there for the sea-side town of A.
which was the nearest watering-place to the village where The Towers
was situated.
In his ignorance, he imagined that once by the sea-side, he would have
no difficulty in finding a steamer which would bear him across the
Channel. As regarded the payment of his passage, he fondly hoped that
by referring the captain to his mother's address, which he carried in
his pocket, all would be well.
"Mother will pay him all right," thought he.
Alas! Poor Gerald had much to learn in worldly wisdom.
How silent it all was in the peaceful September moonlight. The birds
long ago were hushed to sleep, and only the winds whispered in the
leafy branches. The stars gleamed faintly in the cloud-flecked sky,
overcome by the brilliance of the great round moon.
Gerald at length, becoming too tired to proceed on his journey, sat
down beneath an old tree, and leaned his head against the trunk.
The heavy eyelids would fain have closed in sleep, but with an effort,
he roused himself. It seemed to his overwrought imagination that the
twinkling stars looked down upon him with reproving gaze, and this,
added to the feeling of utter desolation, brought the bitter tears to
his eyes. How dreary his young life seemed to him now that his mother
was so far away; he almost cherished reproachful thoughts of her—no one
cared, no one was near to love and protect him.
"Remember that God loves you, and is watching over you!"
With a mysterious power, his mother's words again seemed to ring in his
ears.
"God was watching over him! Could it be possible that He, whose Throne
was in Heaven, amid the holy angels, was looking down upon him in love
and pity? Surely not in 'love,' for he had been so naughty." Thus
reasoned the desolate child.
Then feeling his utter need of 'some' one to care for him, his cry went
up beyond the shadows of earthly night, to Him who is the Friend of
little children.
"O God!" he pleaded. "I am afraid to go back. I know I've been wicked,
but please forgive me, and take care of me, for Jesus' sake. Amen."
It seemed to him that after his prayer, the stars looked at him more
kindly. And in a very few minutes, the tired child was fast asleep.
When he awoke, the sun had already mounted the heavens, and at first
Gerald wondered what had happened, and how he came to be out of doors,
with a green field for his resting-place.
Then it all flashed upon him, and vigorously rubbing his eyes, he arose
from his mossy couch, feeling slightly stiff but considerably refreshed
by his long sleep. Then he trudged on, making his way to the nearest
station. On his arrival there, he was conscious of feeling very hungry,
and spent part of his small store in buying himself a roll and a cup of
coffee at a stall close by the station, which was opened early for the
benefit of workmen.
After breakfast, he took his ticket for A., and a train being due for
that place, in a very short time the boy was on his way thither.
Gerald had never known the delights of a sea-side holiday, and the
glorious expanse of water sparkling in the sunshine was a revelation to
him. Once there, he very soon made his way down to the beach, where the
sight of the children at play with spade and pail amused him so much
that for a while he forgot his troubles. Towards mid-day he began to
feel hungry again, and remembering he had but one solitary half-penny
left in his purse, after paying his fare, he pondered in his mind the
best method of spending it.
He arrived at the conclusion that a bun would be his best purchase, so
seeking out a baker's shop, he bought himself the necessary article.
The afternoon was a dreary one for him; his penniless condition made
him feel for the first time how foolish as well as wrong he had been
in running away from the home his uncle had provided for him. He would
gladly have gone on to the pier, to watch for the steam-boats, but he
had not the wherewithal to do so, and neither had he the courage to
face any captain with his request.
Feeling both sad and forlorn, Gerald walked aimlessly to the farther
end of the beach, where, as we already know, he was soon befriended by
the Punch and Judy Showman and his wife.