That Stick ...

by Charlotte Mary Yonge

  Lord Northmoor was himself a Poor Law Guardian, and had no vague superstitions to alarm him as to the usage of children in workhouses; but he was surprised at the pleasant aspect of the nursery of the Liverpool Union, a former gentleman’s house and grounds, with free air and beautiful views.

  The Matron, on being summoned, said that she had from the first been sure, in spite of his clothes, that little Mike was a well-born, tenderly-nurtured child, with good manners and refined habits, and she had tried in vain to understand what he said of himself, though night and morning, he had said his prayers for papa and mamma, and at first added that ‘papa might be well,’ and he might go home; but where home was there was no discovering, except that there had been journeys by puff puff; and Louey, and Aunt Emma, and Nurse, and sea, and North something, and ‘nasty man,’ were in an inextricable confusion.

  She took them therewith into a large airy room, where the elder children, whole rows of little beings in red frocks, were busied under the direction of a lively young nurse, in building up coloured cubes, ‘gifts’ in Kindergarten parlance.

  There was a few moments of pause, as all the pairs of eyes were raised to meet the new-comers. With a little sense of disappointment, but more of anxiety, Frank glanced over them, and encountered p. 273a rounded, somewhat puzzled stare from two brown orbs in a rosy face. Then he ventured to say ‘Mite,’ and there followed a kind of laughing yell, a leap over the structure of cubes, and the warm, solid, rosy boy was in his arms, on his breast, the head on his shoulder in indescribable ecstasy of content on both sides, of thankfulness on that of the father.

  ‘No doubt there!’ said the Guardian and the Matron to one another, between smiles and tears.

  Mite asked no questions. Fate had been far beyond his comprehension for the last five months, and it was quite enough for him to feel himself in the familiar arms, and hear the voice he loved.

  ‘Would he go to mamma?’

  The boy raised his head, looked wonderingly over his father’s face, and said in a puzzled voice—

  ‘Louey said she would take me home in the puff puff.’

  ‘Come now with father, my boy. Only kiss this good lady first, who has been so kind to you.

  ‘Kiss Tommy too, and Fanny,’ said Michael, struggling down, and beginning a round of embraces that sufficiently proved that his nursery had been a happy one, while his father could see with joy that he was as healthy and fresh-looking as ever, perhaps a little less plump, but with the natural growth of the fourth year, and he was much the biggest of the party, with the healthfulness of country air and wholesome tendance, while most of the others were more or less stunted or undergrown.

  Lord Northmoor’s longing was to take his recovered son at once to gladden his mother’s eyes; p. 274but Michael’s little red frock would not exactly suit with the manner of his travels.

  So he accepted the Guardian’s invitation to come to his house and let Michael be fitted out there, an invitation all the more warmly given because it would have been a pity to let wife and daughters miss the interest of the sight of the lost child and his father. So, all formalities being complied with and in true official spirit, the account for the boy’s maintenance having been asked for, a hearty and cordial leave was taken of the Matron, and Michael Kenton Morton was discharged from Liverpool Union.

  The lady and her daughters were delighted to have him, and would have made much of him, but the poor little fellow proved that his confidence in womankind had been shaken, by clinging tight to his father, and showing his first inclination to cry when it was proposed to take him into another room to be dressed. Indeed, his father was as little willing to endure a moment’s separation as he could be, and looked on and assisted to see him made into a little gentleman again in outward costume.

  After luncheon there was still time to reach Malvern by a reasonable hour of the evening, and Frank felt as if every moment of sorrow were almost a cruelty to his wife. The Guardian’s wife owned that she ought not to press him to sleep at her house, and forwarded his departure with strong fellow-feeling for the mother’s hungry bosom.

  From the station Frank sent telegrams to Herbert, to Mrs. Morton, and to Rose Rollstone; p. 275besides one to Lady Adela, containing only the reference, Luke xv. 32.

  People looked somewhat curiously at the thin, worn-looking, elderly man, with the travelling bag in one hand, and the little boy holding tight by the other, each with a countenance of radiant gladness; and again, to see how, when seated, he allowed himself to be climbed over and clasped by the sturdy being, who seemed almost overwhelming to one so slight.

  When the September twilight darkened into night, Michael, who had been asleep, awoke with a scream and flung both arms round his father’s neck, exclaiming—

  ‘Oh, Louey, I’ll not cry! Don’t let him throw me out! Oh, the nasty man!’

  And even when convinced that no nasty man was present, and that it was papa, not Louey, whom he was grappling, he still nestled as close as possible, while he was only pacified in recurring frights by listening to a story. Never good at story-telling, the only one that, for the nonce, his father could put together was that of Joseph, and this elicited various personal comparisons.

  ‘Mine wasn’t a coat of many colours, it was my blue frock! Did they dip it in blood, papa?’

  ‘Not quite, my darling, but it was the same thing.’

  Then presently, ‘It wasn’t a camel, but a puff puff, and he was so cross!’

  By and by, ‘I didn’t tell anybody’s dreams, papa. They didn’t make me ride in a cha-rot, but nurse made me monitor, ‘cause I knew all my letters. I p. 276should like to have a brother Benjamin. Mayn’t Tommy be my brother? Wasn’t Joseph’s mamma very glad?’

  Michael’s Egypt had not been a very terrible house of bondage, and the darker moments of his abduction did not dwell on his memory; but years later, when first he tasted beer, he put down the glass with a shudder, as the smell and taste brought back a sense of distress, confusion, and horror in a gas-lit, crowded bar, full of loud-voiced, rough figures, and resounding with strange language and fierce threats to make him swallow the draught which, no doubt, had been drugged.

  p. 277CHAPTER XL

  JOY WELL-NIGH INCREDIBLE

  The midday letters were a riddle to the ladies at Malvern.

  ‘Out all day,’ said Mary, ‘that is well. He will get strong out boating.’

  ‘I hope Herbert has come home to take him out,’ said Constance.

  ‘Or he may be yachting. I wonder he does not say who is taking him out. I am glad that he can feel that sense of enjoyment.’

  Yet that rejoicing seemed to be almost an effort to the poor mother who craved for a longer letter, and perhaps almost felt as if her Frank were getting out of sympathy with her grief—and what could be the good news?

  ‘Herbert must have passed!’ said Constance.

  ‘I hope he has, but the expression is rather strong for that,’ said Lady Adela.

  ‘Perhaps Ida is engaged to that Mr. Deyncourt? Was that his name?’ said Lady Northmoor languidly.

  ‘Oh! that would be delicious,’ cried Constance, p. 278‘and Ida has grown much more thoughtful lately, so perhaps she would do for a clergyman’s wife.’

  ‘Is Ida better?’ asked her aunt, who had been much drawn towards the girl by hearing that her health had suffered from grief for Michael.

  ‘Mamma does not mention her in her last letter, but poor Ida is really much more delicate than one would think, though she looks so strong. This would be delightful!’

  ‘Yet, joy well-nigh incredible!’ said her aunt, meditatively. ‘Were not those the words? It would not be like your uncle to put them in that way unless it were something—even more wonderful, and besides, why should he not write it to me?’

  ‘Oh—h!’ cried Constance, with a leap, rather than a start. ‘It can be only one thing.’

  ‘Don’t, don’t, don’t!’ cried poor Mary; ‘you must not, Constance, it would kill me t
o have the thought put into my head only to be lost.’

  Constance looked wistfully at Lady Adela; but the idea she had suggested had created a restlessness, and her aunt presently left the room. Then Constance said—

  ‘Lady Adela, may I tell you something? You know that poor dear little Mite was never found?’

  ‘Oh! a boat must have picked him up,’ cried Amice; ‘and he is coming back.’

  ‘Gently, Amy; hush,’ said the mother, ‘Constance has more to tell.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Constance. ‘My friend, Rose Rollstone, who lives just by our house at Westhaven, and was going back to London the night that Mite was lost, wrote to me that she was sure she had seen his p. 279face just then. She thought, and I thought it was one of those strange things one hears of sights at the moment of death. So I never told of it, but now I cannot help fancying—’

  ‘Oh! I am sure,’ cried Amice.

  Lady Adela thought the only safe way would be to turn the two young creatures out to pour out their rapturous surmises to one another on the winding paths of the Malvern hills, and very glad was she to have done so, when by and by that other telegram was put into her hands.

  Then, when Mary, unable to sit still, though with trembling limbs, came back to the sitting-room, with a flush on her pale cheek, excited by the sound at the door, Lady Adela pointed to the yellow paper, which she had laid within the Gospel, open at the place.

  Mary sank into a chair.

  ‘It can’t be a false hope,’ she gasped.

  ‘He would never have sent this, if it were not a certainty,’ said Adela, kneeling down by her, and holding her hands, while repeating what Constance had said.

  A few words were spent on wonder and censure on the girl’s silence, more unjust than they knew, but hardly wasted, since they relieved the tension. Mary slid down on her knees beside her friend, and then came a silence of intense heart-swelling, choking, and unformed, but none the less true thanksgiving, and ending in a mutual embrace and an outcry of Mary’s—

  ‘Oh, Adela! how good you are, you with no such hope’—and that great blessed shower of tears that p. 280relieved her was ostensibly the burst of sympathy for the bereaved mother with no such restoration in view. Then came soothing words, and then the endeavour with dazed eyes and throbbing hearts to look out the trains from Liverpool, whence, to their amazement, they saw the telegram had started, undoubtedly from Lord Northmoor. There was not too large a choice, and finally Lady Adela made the hope seem real by proposing preparations for the child’s supper and bed—things of which Mary seemed no more to have dared to think than if she had been expecting a little spirit; but which gave her hope substance, and inspired her with fresh energy and a new strength, as she ran up and downstairs, directing her maid, who cried for joy at the news, and then going out to purchase those needments which had become such tokens of exquisite hope and joy. After this had once begun, she seemed really incapable of sitting still, for every moment she thought of something her boy would want or would like, or hurried to see if all was right.

  Constance begged again and again to run on the messages, but she would not allow it, and when the girl looked grieved, and said she was tiring herself to death, Lady Adela said—

  ‘My dear, sitting still would be worse for her. However it may turn out, fatigue will be best for her.’

  ‘Surely it can’t mean anything else!’ cried Constance.

  ‘I don’t see how it can. Your uncle weighs his words too much to raise false hopes.’

  So, dark as it was by the time the train was p. 281expected, Adela promoted the ordering a carriage, and went herself with the trembling Mary to the station, not without restoratives in her bag, in case of, she knew not what. Not a word was spoken, but hands were clasped and hearts were uplifted in an agony of supplication, as the two sat in the dark on the drive to the station. Of course they were too soon, but the driver manњuvred so as to give them a full view of the exit—and then came that minute of indescribable suspense when the sounds of arrival were heard, and figures began to issue from the platform.

  It was not long—thanks to freedom from luggage—before there came into full light a well-known form, with a little half-awake boy holding his hand.

  Then Adela quietly let herself out of the brougham, and in another moment her clasping hand and swimming eyes had marked her greeting. She pointed to the open door and the white face in it, and in one moment more a pair of arms had closed upon Michael, and with a dreamy murmur, ‘Mam-mam, mam-ma,’ the curly head was on her bosom, the precious weight on her lap, her husband by her side, the door had closed on them, they were driving away.

  ‘Oh! is it real? Is he well?’

  ‘Perfectly well! Only sleepy. Strong, grown, well cared for.’

  ‘My boy, my boy,’ and she felt him all over, gazed at the rosy face whenever a tantalising flash of lamplight permitted, then kissed and kissed, till the boy awoke more fully, with another ‘Mamma! Mamma,’ putting his hand to feel for her chain, as p. 282if to identify her. Then with a coo of content, ‘Mite has papa and mamma,’ and he seemed under the necessity of feeling them both.

  Only at their own door did those happy people even recollect Lady Adela, with shame and dismay, which did not last long, for she came on them, laughing with pleasure, and saying it was just what she had intended, while Mite was recognising his Amy and his Conny, and being nearly devoured by them.

  He still was rather confused by the strange house. ‘It’s not home,’ he said, staring round, and blinking at the lights; ‘and where’s my big horse?’

  ‘You shall soon go home to the big horse—and Nurse Eden, poor nurse shall come to you, my own.’

  To which Michael responded, holding out a plump leg and foot for admiration. ‘I can do mine own socks and bootses now, and wash mine own hands and face.’

  Nevertheless, he was quite sleepy enough to be very happy and content to be carried off to his mother’s bedroom, where he sat enthroned on her lap, Constance feeding him with bread and milk, while Amice held the bowl, and the maid, almost equally blissful, hovered round, and there again he sat with the two admiring girls one at each foot, disrobing him, as best they might.

  Nearly asleep at last, he knelt at his mother’s knee with the murmured prayer, but woke just enough to say, ‘Mite needn’t say “make papa better,” nor “bring Mite home.”‘

  p. 283‘No, indeed, my boy. Say Thank God for all His mercy.’

  He repeated it and added of himself, ‘Bless nursey, and let Tommy and Fan have papas and mammas again. Amen.’

  He was nodding again by that time, but he held his mother’s hand fast with ‘Don’t go, Mam!’ Nor did she. She had asked no questions. To be alone with her boy and Him, whom she thanked with her whole soul, was enough for her at present.

  p. 284CHAPTER XLI

  THE CANADIAN NORTHMOOR

  It was not till Lord Northmoor began to answer in detail the questions that were showered on him as he ate his late dinner, that he fully realised the history of his recovered son even to himself. ‘Liverpool Workhouse,’ and ‘all owing to Herbert,’ were his first replies, and he had eaten his soup before Adela and Constance had discovered the connection between the two; nay, they were still more bewildered when Constance asked, ‘Then Herbert found him there?’

  ‘Herbert? Oh no, good fellow. He is in Canada, he went after him there.’

  ‘To Canada?’

  ‘Yes; that woman, the nursery girl Hall, kidnapped the child, Herbert followed her there, and found he had been dropped at Liverpool.’

  Then on further inquiries, Frank became sensible that he must guard the secret of Ida’s part in the transaction. He hoped to conceal it from all, except his wife, for it was hardly injustice to the Jones pair in another hemisphere to let their p. 285revenge bear the whole blame. Indeed, he did not himself know that it was Ida’s passion or Rose’s mention of having seen Michael’s face that had roused Herbert’s suspicion.

  He had heard He
rbert’s account of his adventures in the letter to Rose with mere impatience to come to what related to his son, and it had made no impression on his mind; but when he took out his own much briefer letter, the address at Northmoor, and the sentences that followed, the brief explanation where to seek for Michael suggested much.

  ‘I doubt whether I could ever have got the rascal to speak out if it had not been for Captain Alder, with whose brother-in-law, Mr. Forman, I had the luck to meet on the way. They were some of the first settlers here, and have a splendid farm, export no end of wheat and ice, and have a share in the steam company. I am working out my board here for them till you are good enough to send me my quarter’s allowance, deducting the Ј25 that Miss Rollstone helped me to, as there was no one else to whom I could apply. I should like to stay here for good and all, and they would take me for a farming-pupil for less than you have been giving to my crammers, all in vain, I am afraid. The life would suit me much better; they let me live with the family, and they are thorough right sort of people, religious, and all that—and Alder seemed to take an interest in me from the time he made out who I was, and, indeed, the place is named after our Northmoor, where he says he spent his happiest days. If you can pacify my mother, and if you would consent, I am sure I could do much better p. 286here than at home, and soon be quite off your hands.’

  For the present, Lord Northmoor, who could only feel that he owed more than he could express to his nephew, sent the youth a bill such as to cover his expenses, with permission, so far as he himself was concerned, to remain with these new friends, at least until there was another letter and time to consider this proposal.

  At the same time, he wrote to Rose Rollstone, not only the particulars of Michael’s history, but a request for those details about Herbert’s friends to which he had scarcely listened when she read them. He sent likewise a paragraph to several newspapers, explaining that the Honourable M. K. Morton, whose ‘watery grave’ had been duly recorded, had in fact been only abducted by a former maid-servant, and bestowed in Liverpool Workhouse, where he had been discovered by the generous exertions of his cousin, Herbert Morton, Esquire. It was hoped that this would obviate all suspicion of Ida, who was reported as still so unwell that her mother was anxious to carry her abroad at once to try the effect of change of scene. Upon which Frank consulted Mr. Hailes, as to whether the prosperity that had begun to flow in upon Northmoor would justify him in at once taking the house at Westhaven off her hands, and making it a thank-offering as a parsonage for the district of St. James. This break-up seemed considerably to lessen her reluctance to the idea of Herbert’s remaining in Canada, as in effect, neither she nor Ida felt inclined as yet to encounter his indignation, or to let him hear what p. 287Westhaven said. There would be no strong opposition on her part, except the tears which he would not see; and she was too anxious to carry Ida away to think of much besides.