The Girls of St. Olave's Part 21

For in vain they had searched for little Maud all the evening long.

Police, neighbours, friends, had all helped, but no trace, not even the faintest clue, had come to light. Porters, booking-clerks, railway officials, cabmen, had all been questioned to no purpose. Everybody talked about the dog-fight, n.o.body had even seen a child, though a porter averred that he had seen the empty chair long before the dogs came on the scene, and a workman that there had been no chair there at all when the up-train came in. He had stood on the very spot where the chair was supposed to be, watching through the window for a friend, with his bag of tools on the ground beside him. He had moved forward to speak to his friend, and returning a few moments later when the train had gone, to take up the tools, had then noticed the empty chair.

What had become of the child was a complete mystery! Every house of the Broughams' acquaintance was visited, in the forlorn hope that someone had taken Maud home with them, but the answer was always the same. Telegrams were sent to all the stations on the line, both up and down, but the hour between five and six held the busiest trains of the day, and in the rush of pa.s.sengers, augmented by gangs of working men returning to their homes, there was small chance of a ticket collector having leisure to observe the children who pa.s.sed through his gate.

No one at home said a word of blame to Gertrude. There was no need.

They had heard the whole story and they only pitied her, and her grief was far greater than their own, they thought, for there was no self-blame, no shadow of deception, no regret of wilfulness in their sorrow. Even Conway felt unutterably tender towards this least dear of his sisters, when he came in from a fruitless errand, and found the proud, dark head resting on little Maud's high chair, while Gertrude's whole frame shook with sobs.

"Don't cry so!" he said gently, and he found it hard to keep his own voice steady. "Don't cry so, poor old girl. G.o.d knows where she is and He'll take care of her. I keep on saying that to myself, for I know He will."

"If only I had told them all about Cecil, it would not have been so bad," sobbed Gertrude.

And Conway could not answer. He only patted her shoulder kindly and went upstairs to find his mother.

The days dragged along their weary hours after that and no news came of Maud.

The Broughams felt as if an earthquake had come into their lives, leaving them all uprooted; as if nothing could let them settle down to the old routine of life till Maud came back, and without even putting it into words to each other, they all looked drearily forward into days and weeks and months and years, and pictured Maud as never coming back, but growing up somewhere, somehow, with somebody. Truly it was worse than death.

Gladly would they have pulled down their blinds and darkened the house and put on mourning.

When Jerry died, it had not been like this. They wept and sorrowed for him, but they laid him to rest in sure and certain hope of a joyful resurrection. He was safe. It was the uncertainty of Maud's fate, her surroundings, her a.s.sociates, the awful uncertainty of everything concerning her, that made this trial so unbearable, that it seemed to every one of them that they could not bear it for another day.

Yet G.o.d knew. The only comfort they had, came to them in that thought.

Their friends were kindness itself; every sort of sympathy, except the sympathy of flowers, was offered them. Special prayer was made in church for those who were "any ways afflicted or distressed," for the story was in every one's mouth, and mothers with little children guarded them jealously, and thought of what they would feel if one of them was taken from them as Maud had been.

But outside of her own home no sympathy was shown to Gertrude.

The place rang with her name. Mrs. Parsons had gone about with her story of the handsome young man in the down train, the meeting with whom Gertrude had not even allowed her little sister to witness, and the stories grew and grew on that foundation, till every picnic or tennis party that Gertrude had attended that summer, was transformed into a separate flirtation or supplied an anecdote to Gertrude's disadvantage.

She had rejoiced at knowing everybody in Old Keston who was worth knowing, but now she wished sadly that she was utterly unknown. She felt that she was pointed at and whispered about, as "the girl that lost her little sister."

Pauline Stacey gathered up all the stories and recounted them to Gertrude with an apologetic air that meant nothing, but covered her real enjoyment in the telling of the gossip, and Gertrude had not the heart to stop her.

After all, what did it matter? Perhaps it was best to know the worst that was being said. No one could blame her more than she blamed herself; she _had_ lost little Maud through meeting Cecil Greyburne and she had done it secretly. Only she hoped that all these other false stories would not reach her home people's ears.

And not one friend of hers had offered her any sympathy. She felt it keenly. Even Pauline only troubled to see her when she had some fresh tale to relate. Cecil had written his sympathy to Denys and had ignored Gertrude, not even sending her a message, for Gertrude had seen the letter.

The rich American had not referred to it when he answered Pauline's letter in which she told him all about Maud, unless his remark that he should not be back in Old Keston after all, could be taken as a reference. Nor had he written a line of condolence to Gertrude, as she had half hoped he would.

And Reggie did not know anything about it. He had sent an immediate and cheerful response to her belated birthday letter, but not having written to him for so long in her sunny days of popularity, she was too proud to do so now, when she was in sorrow.

Yet she watched for a letter from him, hoping that Charlie would write to him and tell him of their trouble, and if he once heard of it, Gertrude knew that a letter would come by return of post.

But none came. Charlie did not write to Reggie. How could he do so without attaching blame to Gertrude?

These were days of darkness, but in them Pattie shone out like gold.

She waited on them all with love and patience, she kept the meals regular and the rooms nicely dusted, and she attended to all the little duties that no one seemed to think of now-a-days.

It was she who received Maud's empty chair from the station-clerk, and hid it away that it might bring no fresh pang of sorrow to any heart.

It was she who unostentatiously and without fuss, quietly laid by the child's toys and clothes, for she truly guessed that to Denys or Mrs. Brougham, to do so would be like saying a long farewell to their darling, and yet to see them lying here and there, was a constant reminder of her loss.

Though the two things seemed to have no connection with one another, after the day that Maud was lost, Pattie gave up going out with Sam Willard.

She said, when he remonstrated with her, that she had no heart now for palavering and he had better find someone who was free and happy. For herself, she could think of nothing but how to find little Maud again.

"Then you'll be an old maid," said Sam crossly, "whoever's taken the child has taken her a-purpose, and they won't run no risks in returning her. You'll be an old maid if you throw away all your chances like this."

"Very well!" answered Pattie firmly, "then I'll _be_ an old maid and a good-tempered one too. I won't be like some cross-grained bachelors I know, so there!"

CHAPTER XXI.

THE HIDING-PLACE.

Jane did not feel the least shade of regret or fear when she took Maud home.

There was no one there, of course, for Jim was at work still and Harry and the baby were at the Nursery. Jane gave Maud some bread and jam and a mug of milk and sat down to think over the situation.

Harry had made his appearance in the house and street without occasioning the least remark or surprise. They made no apologies for him, no explanations beyond the one that he was Jim's nephew.

This was her niece. That was all the difference. With no mystery and no explanations she felt perfectly secure. She would act exactly as she had done when Harry came. There was only one thing necessary for protection. The colour of the child's hair should be brown and her white dress and sun hat should be pink!

"What's your name, child?" she said abruptly.

Maud looked up startled.

"I'm Maudie," she said piteously, her blue eyes filling with tears, "I don't like being here. I want to go home to my mother."

She struggled out of her chair, and prepared to depart, but Jane lifted her back rather roughly and spoke sharply.

"Look here," she said, "you've got to be a good girl and do what Aunt Jane tells you, and if you are a good girl and don't cry, you shall go home to-morrow; but if you cry, you shan't!"

She bustled over to a cupboard and began rummaging, bringing out presently a ball of pink Dolly dye and a little bottle of deep-red crystals, while poor little Maud choked back her tears as best she could. Her short experience of life had brought prompt fulfilment of promises, and she watched Jane quite interestedly, as she threw a few crystals into a basin, poured boiling water on them, and produced a lovely crimson liquid.

Jane then tied a towel round the child's neck.

"I'm going to make you some lovely curls," she announced, unconsciously using one of Denys's constant formulas, and in a moment Maud's golden head was sopped all over with the crimson liquid, and after it was dried on the towel, she emerged with fluffy brown curls and streaks of brown upon her face. That defect was soon remedied, and the brown stain travelled all over her face and neck till the clear white skin had disappeared, and she looked like all the other little sun-browned children who ran about in the street below.

Jane surveyed her handiwork with satisfaction; then she rapidly undressed her new charge, put her into one of Harry's nightdresses, tucked her up into Harry's bed, and turned her attention to the frock and hat, and when they were hanging on the line, pink and damp, she cleared up the room and wished Jim would make haste and come home. She wanted to get her explanations to him over before she fetched Harry and the baby.

But no Jim came, and at last she went downstairs and knocked at a neighbour's door.

"I say," she said, "I wish you'd fetch my baby and the brat from the Nursery for me. My husband's not in yet, and I've brought my sister's child home along of me for a few days, and he don't know a word about it. If he was to come in while I was out, he might be putting the child outside in the street."

"I'll go," said the woman carelessly. "My word, Jane Adams, but I thought you hated children!"