REUNION.
"I HAVE despatched the telegram, Sir Herbert, and we shall very soon
have the lady in England, I fancy."
"You're a good friend Sharpe—you'll see me through this, won't you?"
"Yes, yes, Sir Herbert, only it seems to me your troubles are over now."
"No, they're not. I have to face the boy's mother, and I don't know
what she'll say to me."
"Come, come, Sir Herbert, keep up your spirit," said the lawyer,
cheerfully. "What is she like—this mother whom Gerald thinks so much
about?"
"I only remember her as a fragile looking girl of about two or three
and twenty—I haven't seen her now for some years. All our business
concerning the boy was done in writing. She was pretty, too, I fancy."
"Well, this doesn't sound very alarming. I wish you would come and
lunch with me to-day, and bring Gerald with you. Doris is staying with
me again, and is just crazy to see her Punch and Judy hero, for such
she considers the boy now."
"Perhaps the child won't appreciate lunching with 'the heathen,'" said
the baronet with a smile.
Mr. Sharpe reddened a little. "I am afraid you must have thought her
very impertinent, but believe me, she never meant it," said the lawyer
anxiously.
"Impertinent! Oh dear no, she only spoke the truth. I 'was' a heathen,
but since the boy's coming, somehow I've felt different. Yet he doesn't
look much like a missionary, does he?"
A recollection of Gerald, as he dangled the hapless little fish on his
line upon that memorable Saturday flashed across Mr. Sharpe's mind.
"No, certainly the child bore no resemblance to a missionary, and yet—"
the lawyer's face softened as he recalled a passage from Holy Writ—"'A
little child shall lead them.'"
There was a pause, which was broken by the baronet.
"Yes, Sharpe, I 'will' accept your invitation, and bring the boy with
me."
The above conversation took place in Mr. Sharpe's London office, Gerald
in the meanwhile amusing himself very contentedly talking to the chief
clerk about the fish he meant to catch when he was grown up, whilst his
elders were discussing matters of more serious moment in the little
sanctum beyond.
* * * * *
Miss Sharpe was in quite a flutter of excitement, for the baronet was
an honoured, though somewhat unusual guest at her brother's table.
And in the pretty Sydenham villa residence, grand preparations were
speedily made for the illustrious visitor and his little nephew, Mr.
Sharpe with great worldly wisdom and forethought, having despatched a
telegram to his sister, to inform her of the expected arrivals.
Doris, looking the very pink of propriety, sat next Sir Herbert, for
whom she had conceived quite a respectful affection. Gerald, brimming
over with joy—for was not his mother coming home very soon—was in a
state of mind which bordered on transport.
Presently a loud ring was heard at the door bell, and a maid shortly
afterwards tapped at the dining-room door and informed Mr. Sharpe that
a lady desired to see him immediately.
"What name, Henderson?" inquired he.
"Mrs. Weston, please sir."
There was a sudden rush—the sound of a falling chair, and the maid was
pushed unceremoniously aside.
Then followed a cry of "Mother, mother."
And Mr. Sharpe knew that for a little while at least, his presence was
not required in the drawing-room.
Joy seldom kills, and the sight of the boy whom she believed never to
behold again with earthly eyes, was in itself such a rapture to Mrs.
Weston that she could do nothing but clasp him in her arms, asking not
the why or wherefore, whilst tears and smiles followed each other in
April-like succession. The bitter resentment she had been cherishing
against Sir Herbert for withholding the fateful news all faded away at
the sight of the little lad in his sailor suit.
The baronet presently entered the room, his calm self-possession
well-nigh deserting him.
Instead of the reproaches she had prepared herself to utter, she
grasped his hand, saying brokenly, "God bless you."
Ah, mothers are not always quite reasonable, and such sweet
inconsistency was very welcome to Sir Herbert Weston's broken and
contrite spirit.
* * * * *
Months and years have passed away since Mrs. Weston's return to
England. It is the season of Christmas, the time of peace and goodwill.
Gerald and his mother now live together in a charming little residence
called "The Lindens," situated in close proximity to The Towers, a fact
which is largely owing to Sir Herbert's generosity. It is well-known to
those around how deeply attached the baronet is to his young nephew and
heir. And in the lad's eyes, there are few to compare with his uncle,
whom, next to his mother, he regards with deepest affection.
On the morrow, being Christmas day, there are to be great festivities
at The Towers, and amongst the invited guests, to Gerald's delight, are
Mr. Wilfrid Sharpe and little Doris Maxwell.
"Mother," said Gerald, as they sat together in the firelight listening
to the Yule-tide bells ringing out their message of peace and goodwill,
"I sometimes wonder how little boys get on without any mother to keep
them right."
Mrs. Weston rightly conjectured that his mind was reverting to the days
of the past, when he felt his need of her so sorely.
"You must not forget, my boy, that there is a Love which far exceeds
that of a mother," she answered gently.
"Oh, yes! That reminds me of what you said to me a long while ago—at
the time we bade 'good bye.'"
"I remember, Gerald—a time when you gave me a 'three-fold promise.'"
THE END.
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LORIMER AND GILLIES, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.