The Girls of St. Olave's Part 24

"Jane," he said sharply, "I believe that child has got a cold. Don't you let him go out of the room to-day, and you stop in and mind him.

D'you hear me?" he repeated, as Jane made no reply. "You're to stop in and mind the child. No going out to work or to gossip."

"I've arranged to go to Old Keston," said Jane shortly. "He's all right, and he can go to the Nursery."

"He's not to leave the room; and work or no work, you're going to stop and see to him. Look here, Jane!" Jim went on sternly, "I'm master here, though you seemed to forget it when you brought your sister's child, without asking me if it was welcome. You've had a good bit of your own way, but this time it's going to be _my_ way."

Jane had grown a little pale.

"Oh, all right," she said crossly. "What a fuss!"

She had settled everything in her own mind for taking Maud back that very evening, but after all, one day was as good as another, and if Jim should once begin on the subject of Maud, who could tell what he might ferret out? He might even insist on himself taking Maud back to her supposed mother and baby sister, and then what would happen? And it would be of no use to keep back her sister's address from him, for there was always Tom.

She made Harry get up, and he played listlessly with Maud, or fell asleep on the floor in the midst of the toys; and by evening time even Jane's careless eyes could see that the child was really ill.

Jim saw it too, and he went straight out again and left word at the nearest doctor's house, for the doctor to come at once. But the doctor was a busy man, and it was very late when at last he came and stood looking down on Harry's flushed little face. He asked a good many questions, and then made his examination.

Jim watched him keenly, and somehow his heart sank down and down and down.

"Is he very bad?" he asked at last, huskily.

The doctor turned away from the little bed and looked at the fine, tall young fellow before him.

"I understand he isn't your child?"

Jim shook his head. "He's my dead sister's child, and his father's dead too. He belongs to me now, and I'd do anything for him. He's not very bad, is he, doctor?"

"He's going to join them," said the doctor abruptly. "There's not the slightest hope--at least, I think not--but I'll do my best. He's got cold in every bit of him."

Jim groaned. Oh! to have that last fateful Monday back again--to live over again these last weeks of self-indulgence. And now it was too late--too late!

But the doctor was pouring out medicines and directions, and this was no time for vain regrets.

"You'll sit up with him," he said, and he looked directly at Jim; "and," he glanced at Jane this time, "I'll send the nurse. She'll set you going and look in the first thing in the morning."

But there was no need. When, having seen the gravity of the case, the nurse knocked gently at Jim's door, before six o'clock in the morning, the little life had fled, and Jim was kneeling broken-hearted by the little bed, Harry's sweet face still pillowed on his shoulder. A soft smile lingered on the little lips and he seemed asleep, but Jim and the nurse knew better.

He was dead.

As Tom had said, Jesus had got the beautiful home ready, and He had sent for Harry.

It was on this same morning that, by the first post, Denys received a letter from Mixham.

She tore it open eagerly, for any letter nowadays might bring news of Maud, but she laid it down again listlessly.

"Oh dear!" she said, "that is from old Mrs. Richardson. Her daughter has got married and gone away, and she is so lonely, and she sits alone and cries all day, and she says that I have always cheered her up in all her sorrows and she wants me to go over to-day; and it is so bad for her eyes to cry because of her dressmaking, and when she has seen me she won't cry any more; but--oh dear! oh dear!" and Denys herself burst out crying, for her nerves had been very much shaken, "I can't go and comfort anybody. It would be no use my going for that!"

Yet after breakfast she sought out Mrs. Brougham.

"Mother," she said, "I think I'll go to Mrs. Richardson this afternoon. I'm afraid I'm getting selfish in my sorrow, and I'll go, too, and see little Harry Lyon, as I'm over there. I did go once, you know, but everybody was out. The neighbour said his aunt went out was.h.i.+ng on Mondays, and Harry was sent to the Nursery. I think perhaps I ought to go."

"Do you?" said her mother with a sigh. "Well, I won't keep you, dear, but oh, do take Pattie with you, just for companions.h.i.+p. I shouldn't feel so anxious while you were gone."

"Oh, but the work," said Denys.

Gertrude looked up from the table where she was correcting exercises.

"I'll see to the work," she said. "I shall be at home all day. It's a pity for mother to feel anxious, and Pattie deserves a change. She's been awfully good to us."

Denys acquiesced, though she felt that Pattie's company was very unnecessary, and so, immediately after an early lunch, Pattie and Denys found themselves stepping out of the train at Mixham Junction.

"I think we'll go to see Harry first," said Denys. "Mrs. Richardson will want to give us tea and we must not be late."

Pattie followed obediently. Little Harry was but a name to her, for he came to brighten Tom's life after she had gone out of it, and she had never heard of Harry's connection with Jane Adams. She knew the road into which Denys turned, however, well enough, and when Denys stopped at the very house where Jane Adams lived, she only thought it was a queer coincidence, and wondered vaguely what she should do if she met Jane on the stairs.

Denys knocked at the first door in the entry, and asked if the Adams's were likely to be in, and which their room was.

She thought the woman looked at her curiously, as she gave her the number on the third floor.

"They're in," she said, with another of those curious looks; "they're in, 'cept the little girl and the baby. I took 'em to the Nursery to be out of the way."

Denys pa.s.sed on and knocked softly at the door indicated, and Pattie followed trembling, for this was no coincidence--this was reality.

Jim himself opened the door, and when he saw Denys he drew back with a gasp.

"Is Harry at home?" she asked. "You said I might come and see him."

Jim tried to answer, but no words would come. He drew back for Denys to enter, however, and Pattie followed her timidly, and Jim closed the door softly behind them.

Once more he tried to speak--to explain--but Denys did not notice him.

In the centre of the room, where the afternoon light fell full upon it, stood a child's crib, and on the white pillow lay the beautiful, familiar little face that had so won its way into her heart.

"Harry," she said softly, crossing the room quickly and longing to hear again the tones that were so like Jerry's, "Harry!"

Was he asleep? She bent over the crib, and then turned bewildered to Jim.

There was no need for words.

She stood a moment spellbound, looking down on the little peaceful face, with its lingering smile, and then she went round the crib and knelt down by the lowered side and softly kissed Harry's forehead and soft golden hair.

She had not seen Jerry's dead face nor kissed him for good-bye, and she knelt beside Harry and wept for them both.

She had completely forgotten Pattie, but after a while, as she wiped away her tears and listened to Jim's story of the child's illness, she became conscious that there was another man in the room, and that Pattie and he were conversing in low tones by the window. She glanced round for Harry's aunt, but there was no one else there; only sundry sounds of stirring about in an adjoining room suggested that she was not far off, but was not inclined to see company. So with one more long look, one more kiss on the fair, still face, Denys and Pattie at last took their leave, and set out for Mrs. Richardson's.

As they left the street, Pattie looked up in Denys's face with crimsoning cheeks.

"Miss Denys," she said shyly, "that was my Tom that was talking to me.