That Stick ...

He did not come till late in the day, and then Mrs. Morton received him with a very genuine gush of tears, and anxious inquiries.  He was thin, and looked much older; his hair was grayer, and had retreated from his brow, and there was a bent, worn, dejected air about the whole man, which, as Mrs. Morton said, made her ready to cry whenever she looked at him; but he was quite composed in manner and tone, so as to repress her agitation, and confirm Ida’s inexperienced judgment in the idea that Michael was none of his.  He was surprised and concerned at Herbert’s absence, which was beginning to make his mother uneasy, and he promised to write to some of the boy’s friends to inquire about him.  To put off the evil day, Ida had suggested asking Mr. Deyncourt to meet him, but that gentleman could not come, and dinner went off in stiff efforts at conversation, for just now all the power thereof, that Lord Northmoor had ever acquired, seemed to have forsaken him.

p. 249Afterwards, in the August twilight, he begged to hear all.  Ida withdrew, glad not to submit to the ordeal, while her mother observed, ‘Poor, dear Ida!  She was so fond of her dear little cousin, she cannot bear to hear him mentioned!  She has never been well since!’

Then, with copious floods of tears, and all in perfect good faith, she related the history of the loss, as she knew it, with—on his leading questions—a full account of all the child’s pretty ways during his stay, and how he had never failed to say his prayer about making papa better, and how he had made friends with Mr. Deyncourt, in spite of having pronounced his church like a big tin box all up in frills; and how he had admired the crabs, and run after the waves, and had been devoted to the Willie, who had thought him troublesome—giving all the anecdotes, to which Frank listened with set face and dry eyes, storing them for his wife.  He thanked Mrs. Morton for all her care and tenderness, and expended assurances that no one thought her to blame.

‘It is one of those dispensations,’ he said, ‘that no one can guard against.  We can only be thankful for the years of joy that no one can take from us, and try to be worthy to meet him hereafter.’

Mrs. Morton had wept so much that she was very glad to seize the first excuse for wishing good-night.  She said that she had put all Michael’s little things in a box in his father’s room, for him to take home to his mother, and bade Frank—as once more she called him—good-night, kissing him as she had never done before.  The shock had brought out all that was best and most womanly in her.

p. 250That box had an irresistible attraction for Frank.  He could not but open it, and on the top lay the white woolly, headless dog that had been Mite’s special darling, had been hugged by him in his slumbers every night, and been the means of many a joyous game when father and mother came up to wish the noisy creature good-night, and ‘Tarlo’ had been made to bark at them.

Somehow the ‘never more’ overcame him completely.  He had not before been beyond the restraint of guarding his feelings for Mary’s sake; and, tired with the long day, and torn by the evening’s narration, all his self-command gave way, and he fell into a perfect anguish of deep-drawn, almost hysterical sobbing.

Those sobs were heard through the thin partition in Ida’s room.  They were very terrible to her.  They broke down the remnant of her excuse that the child was an imposition.  They woke all her woman’s tenderness, and the impulse to console carried her in a few moments to the door.

‘Uncle!  Uncle Frank!’

‘I’m not ill,’ answered a broken, heaving, impatient voice.  ‘I want nothing.’

‘Oh, let me in, dear uncle—I’ve something to tell you!’

‘Not now,’ came on the back of a sob.  ‘Go!’

‘Oh, now, now!’ and she even opened the door a little.  ‘He is not drowned!  At least, Rose Rollstone thinks—’

‘What?’ and he threw the door wide open.

‘Rose Rollstone is sure she saw him with Louisa Hall in London that day,’ hurried out Ida, still bent p. 251on screening herself.  ‘She’s gone to Canada.  It’s there that Herbert is gone to find him and bring him home!’

‘And why—why were we never told?’

‘You were too ill, uncle, and Rose did not know about it till she came home.  Then she told Herbert, and he hoped to find him and write.’

‘When was this?’

‘When Herbert came home—the 29th or 30th of June,’ said Ida, trembling.  ‘He must find him, uncle; don’t fear!’

It was a strange groaning sigh that answered; then, with a great effort—

‘Thank you, Ida; I can’t understand it yet—I can’t talk!  Good-night!’  Then, with an afterthought, when he had almost shut his door, he turned the handle again to say, ‘Who did you say saw—thought she saw—my boy?  Where?’

‘Rose Rollstone, uncle; first at the North Station—then at Waterloo!  And Louisa Hall too!’

‘I thank you; good-night!’