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CHAPTER XXXV
THE QUEST
Herbert had made no promises, but as he paced up and down the shingle after his sister had gone in, he had time to feel that, though he was determined to act at once, the scandal of her deed must be as much as possible avoided. Indeed, he believed that she might have rendered herself amenable to prosecution for kidnapping the child, and he felt on reflection that his mother must be spared the terror and disgrace. His difficulties were much increased by the state of quarantine at Northmoor, for though the journey to Malvern had been decided upon, neither patient was yet in a state to attempt it, and as one of the servants had unexpectedly sickened with the disease, all approach to the place was forbidden; nor did he know with any certainty how far his uncle’s recovery had advanced, since Bertha, his chief informant, had gone abroad with Mrs. Bury, and Constance was still at Oxford.
He went home, and straight up to his room, feeling it intolerable to meet his sister; and there, the first sleepless night he had ever known, convinced him that to the convalescents it would be cruelty to send his intelligence, when it amounted to no more than that their poor little boy had been made over to an unscrupulous woman and a violent, good-for-nothing man.
‘No,’ said Herbert, as he tossed over; ‘it would be worse than believing him quietly dead, now they have settled down to that. I must get him back before they know anything about it. But how? I must hunt up those wretches’ people here, and find where they are gone; if they know—as like as not they won’t. But I’ll throw everything up till I find the boy!’ He knelt up in his bed, laid his hand on his Bible—his uncle’s gift—and solemnly swore it.
And Herbert was another youth from that hour.
When he had brought his ideas into some little order, the foremost was that he must see Rose Rollstone, discover how much she knew or guessed, and bind her to silence. ‘No fear of her, jolly little thing!’ said he to himself; but, playfellows as they had been, private interviews were not easy to secure under present circumstances.
However, the tinkling of the bell of the iron church suggested an idea. ‘She is just the little saint of a thing to be always off to church at unearthly hours. I’ll catch her there—if only that black coat isn’t always after her!’
So Herbert hurried off to the iron building, satisfied himself with a peep that Rose’s sailor hat was there, and then—to make sure of her—crept into a seat by the door, and found his plans none the worse for praying for all needing help in mind, body, or estate. Rose came out alone, and he was by her side at once. ‘I say, Rose, you did not speak about that last night?’
‘Oh no, indeed!’
‘You’re a brick! I got it all out of that sister of mine. I’m only ashamed that she is my sister!’
‘And where is the dear little boy?’
‘That’s the point,’ and Herbert briefly explained his difficulties, and Rose agreed that he must try to learn where the emigrants had gone, from their relations. And when he expressed his full intention of following them, even if he had to work his passage, before telling the parents, she applauded the nobleness of the resolution, and all the romance in her awoke at the notion of his bringing home the boy and setting him before his parents. She was ready to promise secrecy for the sake of preventing the prosecution that might, as Herbert saw, be a terrible thing for the whole family; and besides, it must be confessed, the two young things did rather enjoy the sharing of a secret. Herbert promised to meet her the next morning, and report his discoveries and plans, as in fact she was the only person with whom he could take counsel.
He did meet her accordingly, going first to the church. He had to tell her that he had been able to make nothing of Mrs. Hall. He was not sure whether she knew where her daughter had gone; at any rate, she would not own to any knowledge, being probably afraid. Besides, when acting as charwoman, Master Herbert had been such a torment to her that she was not likely to oblige him.
He had succeeded better with the Jones family, and perhaps had learnt prudence, for he had not begun by asking for the Rattler, but for the respectable brother who had invited him out, and had thus learnt that the destination of the emigrant was Toronto, where the elder brother was employed on the British Empress, Ontario steamer. Mrs. Jones, the mother, and her eldest son were decent people, and there was no reason to think they were aware of the encumbrances that their scapegrace had taken with him.
So Herbert had resolved, without delay, to make his way to Toronto; where he hoped to find the child, and maybe, bring him back in a month’s time.
‘Only,’ said Rose timidly, ‘did you really mean what you said about working your way out?’
‘Well, Rose, that’s the hitch. I had to pay up some bills after I got my allowance, and unluckily I changed my bicycle, and the rascals put a lot more on the new one, and I haven’t got above seven pounds left, and I must keep some for the rail from New York and for getting home, for I can’t take the kid home in the steerage. The bicycle’s worth something, and so is my watch, if I put them in pawn; so I think I can do it that way, and I’m quite seaman enough to get employment, only I don’t want to lose time about it.’
‘I was thinking,’ said Rose shyly; ‘they made me put into the Post Office Savings Bank after I began to get a salary. I have five-and-twenty pounds there that I could get out in a couple of days, and I should be so glad to help to bring that dear little boy home.’
‘Oh, Rose, you are a girl! You see, you are quite safe not to lose it, for my uncle would be only too glad to pay it back, even if I came to grief any way, and it would make it all slick smooth. I would go to Liverpool straight off, and cross in the first steamer, and the thing’s done. And can you get at it at once with nobody knowing?’
‘Yes, I think so,’ said Rose. ‘My father asked to see my book when first I came home, and he is not likely to do so again, till I can explain all about it, and I am sure it cannot be wrong.’
‘Wrong—no! Right as a trivet! Rose, Rose, if ever that poor child sees his father and mother again, it is every bit your doing! No one can tell what I think of it, or what my uncle and aunt will say to you! You’ve been the angel in this, if Ida has been the other thing!’
But Rose found difficulties in the way of her angelic part, for her father addressed her in his most solemn and sententious manner: ‘Rose, I have always looked on you as sensible and discreet, but I have to say that I disapprove of your late promenades with a young man connected with the aristocracy.’
Rose coloured up a good deal, but cried out, ‘It’s not that, papa, not that!’
‘I do not suppose either you or he is capable at present of forming any definite purpose,’ said Mr. Rollstone, not to be baulked of his discourse; ‘but you must bear in mind that any appearance of encouragement to a young man in his position can only have a most damaging effect on your prospects, and even reputation, however flattering he may appear.’
‘I know it, papa, I know it! There has been nothing of the kind, I assure you,’ said Rose, who during the last discourse had had time to reflect; ‘and he is going away to-morrow or next day, so you need not be afraid, though I must see him or send to him once more before he goes.’
‘Well, if you are helping him to get some present for his sisters, I do not see so much objection for this once; only it must not occur again.’
Rose was much tempted to let this suggestion stand, but truth forbade her, and she said, ‘No, papa, I cannot say it is that; but you will know all about it before long, and you will not disapprove, if you will only trust your little Rose,’ and she looked up for a kiss.
‘Well, I never found you not to be trusted, though you are a coaxing puss,’ said her father, and so the matter ended with him, but she had another encounter with her mother.
‘Mind, Rose, if that churching—which Sunday was enough for any good girl in my time—is only to lead to walking with young gents which has no call to you, I won’t have it done.’
Mrs. Rollstone was not cultivated up to her husband’s mark, neither had she ever inspired so much confidence, and Rose made simple answer, ‘It is all right, mamma; I have spoken to papa about it.’
‘Oh, if your pa knows, I suppose he is satisfied; but men aren’t the same as a mother, and if that there young Mr. Morton comes dangling and gallanting after you, he is after no good.’
‘He is doing no such thing,’ said Rose in a resolutely calm voice that might have shown that she was with difficulty controlling her temper; ‘and, besides, he is going away.’
Wherewith Mrs. Rollstone had to be satisfied.
Rose took a bold measure when she had taken her five five-pound notes from the savings bank. She saw her father preparing to waddle out for his daily turn on the beach, and she put the envelope containing them, addressed to H. Morton, Esq., into his hand, begging him to give it to Mr. Morton himself.
Which he did, when he met Herbert trying to soothe his impatience with a cigar.
‘Here, sir,’ he said, ‘my daughter wishes me to give you this. I don’t ask what it is, mind; but I tell you plainly, I don’t like secrets between young people.’
Herbert tried to laugh naturally, then said, ‘Your daughter is no end of a trump, Mr. Rollstone.’
‘Only recollect this, sir—I know my station and I know yours, and I will have no nonsense with her.’
‘All right!’ said Herbert shortly, with a laugh, his head too full of other matters to think what all this implied.
He wished to avoid exciting any disturbance, so he told his mother that he should be off again the next day.
‘It is very hard,’ grumbled Mrs. Morton, ‘that you can never be contented to stay with your poor mother! I did hope that with the regatta, and the yachts, and Mr. Brady, you would find amusement enough to give us a little of your company; but nothing is good enough for you now. Which of your fine friends are you going to?’
Herbert was not superior to an evasion, and said, ‘I’m going up to town first, and shall see Dacre, and I’ll write by and by.’
She resigned herself to the erratic movements of the son, who, being again, in her eyes, heir to the peerage, was to her like a comet in a higher sphere.
CHAPTER XXXVI
IDA’S CONFESSION
The move to Malvern was at last made, and the air seemed at once to invigorate Lord Northmoor, though the journey tried his wife more than she had expected, and she remained in a very drooping state, in spite of her best efforts not to depress him. Nothing seemed to suit her so well as to lie on a couch in the garden of their lodging, with Constance beside her, talking, and sometimes smiling over all her little Mite’s pretty ways; though at other times she did her best to seem to take interest in other matters, and to persuade her husband that his endeavours to give her pleasure or interest were successful, because the exertions he made for her sake were good for him.
He was by this time anxious—since he was by the end of three weeks quite well, and fairly strong—to go down to Westhaven, and learn all he could about the circumstances of the fate of his poor little son; and only delayed till he thought his wife could spare him. Lady Adela urged him at last to go. She thought that Mary lived in a state of effort for his sake, and that there was a certain yearning and yet dread in the minds of both for these further details, so that the visit had better be over.
Thus it was about six weeks after Herbert’s departure that Mrs. Morton received a note to tell her that her brother-in-law would arrive the next evening. It was terrible news to Ida, and if there had been time she would have arranged to be absent elsewhere; but as it was she had no power to escape, and had to spend her time in assisting in all the elaborate preparations which her mother thought due to the Baron—a very different personage in her eyes from the actual Frank.
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.
Afterwards, 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.
That 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 on 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!’
And for what a night of strange dreams, prayers, and uncertainties did Frank shut himself in—only forcing himself by resolute will into sleeping at last, because he knew that strength and coolness were needful for to-morrow’s investigation.
CHAPTER XXXVII
HOPE
That last sleep lasted long, till the sound of the little tinkling bell came through the open window, and then the first waking thought that Mite was alive was at first taken for a mere blissful dream. It was only the sight of the woolly dog that recalled with certainty the conversation with Ida.
To pursue that strange hint was of course the one impulse. The bell had ceased before Frank had been able to finish dressing, but the house was so far from having wakened to full life, that remembering the lateness of the breakfast hour, he decided on hastening out to lay his anxious, throbbing feelings before his God, if only to join in the prayer that our desires may be granted as may be most expedient for us.
Nor was he without a hope that the girl whom Constance described as so devout and religious might be found there.
And she was; he knew her by sight well enough to accost her when she came out with ‘Miss Rollstone, I believe?’
She bowed, her heart thumping almost as much as the father’s, in the importance of what she had to tell, and the doubt how much she had a right to speak without betrayal.
‘I am told,’ Lord Northmoor said, with a tremble in his voice, ‘that you think you saw my poor little boy.’
‘I am almost sure I did,’ said Rose.
‘And when, may I ask?’
‘On the evening of the Wednesday in Whitsun week,’ said Rose.
‘Just when he was lost—and where?’
‘At the North Station. I had got into the train at the main station. I saw him put into the train at the North one, and taken out at Waterloo.’
‘And why—why, may I ask, have we been left—have we never heard this before?’
His voice shook, as he thought of all the misery to himself and his wife that might have been spared, as well as the danger of the child. Rose hesitated, doubting how much she ought to say, and Mr. Deyncourt came out.
‘May I introduce myself?’ said Frank, hoping for an auxiliary,—‘Lord Northmoor. I have just heard that Miss Rollstone thinks she saw my little boy in the London train the day he disappeared; and I am trying to understand whether there is really any hope that she is right, and that we can recover him.’
Mr. Deyncourt was infinitely surprised, and spoke a few words of wonder that this had not been made known. Rose found it easier to speak to him.
‘I saw Louisa Hall with him; I did not know she was not still his maid. I thought she had been sent to take him somewhere. And when I heard from home that he—he was—drowned, I only thought the likeness had deceived me. It was not till Mr. Morton came home, and we talked it over, that I understood that Louisa Hall was dismissed long ago, and was eloping to Canada.
‘And then,’ for she had spoken falteringly, and with an effort, as their sounds of inquiry elicited each sentence—‘and then, Mr. Morton said he would follow her to Canada. He did not want Lady Northmoor to be tortured with uncertainty.’
‘Very strange,’ said the gentlemen one to the other, Lord Northmoor adding—
‘Thank you, Miss Rollstone; I will not detain you, unless you can tell me more.’
Rose was glad to be released, though pained and vexed not to dare to express her reasons for full certainty.
‘Is this only a girl’s fancy?’ sighed the father.
‘I think she is a sensible girl.’
‘And my nephew Herbert is a hard-headed fellow, not likely to fly off on a vague notion. Is this Hall girl’s mother still living here?’
‘Certainly. It has been a bad business, her going off with that Jones; but I ascertained that she was married to him.’
‘Jones—Sam Jones, or Rattler?’
‘Even so.’
‘Ah! She was dismissed on his account. And I detected him in imposing on Miss Morton. Yet—where does this Mrs. Hall live?’
‘Along this alley. Shall I come with you?’
‘Thank you.’
‘It may induce her to speak out, if there is anything to hear. I dare not hope! It is too incredible, and I don’t understand those children’s silence.’
He spoke it almost to himself, and the clergyman thought it kinder not to interrupt his thoughts during the few steps down the evil-smelling alley that led to the house, where Mrs. Hall was washing up her cup after breakfast. It was Mr. Deyncourt who spoke, seeing that the swelling hope and doubt were almost too much for his companion.
‘Good morning, Mrs. Hall; we have come to you early, but Lord Northmoor is very anxious to know whether you can throw any light on what has become of his little boy.’
Mrs. Hall was in a very different state of mind from when she had denied all knowledge to Herbert, a mere boy, whom she did not like, and when she was anxious to shelter her daughter, whose silence had by this time begun to offend her. The sight of the clergyman and the other gentleman alarmed her, and she began by maundering out—
‘I am sure, sir, I don’t know nothing. My daughter have never writ one line to me.’
‘He was with her!’ gasped out Lord Northmoor.
‘I am sure, sir, it was none of my doing, no, nor my daughter wouldn’t neither, only the young lady over persuaded her. ’Tis she as was the guilty party, as I’ll always say.’
‘She—who?’
‘Miss Morton—Miss Hida, sir; and my gal wouldn’t never have done it, sir, but for the stories she told, fictious stories they was, I’m sure, that the child wasn’t none of my lady’s, only a brat picked up in foreign parts to put her brother out of his chance.’
‘What are you saying?’ exclaimed Lord Northmoor. ‘My niece never could have said any such thing.’
‘Indeed, but she did, sir, my Lord, and that’s what worked on my daughter, though I always told her not to believe any such nonsense; but then you see, she couldn’t get her passage paid to go out with Rattler, and Miss Hida give her the money if so be she would take off the child to Canada with her.’
‘And where?’ hoarsely asked the father.
‘That I can’t tell, my Lord; Louey have never written, and I knows no more than nothing at all. She’ve not been a dutiful gal to me, as have done everything for her.’
There was no more to be made out of Mrs. Hall, and they went their way.
‘There is no doubt that the little fellow is alive,’ said Mr. Deyncourt.
‘Who can guess what those wretches have done to him?’ said Lord Northmoor under his breath. ‘Not that I am unthankful for the blessed hope,’ he added, uncovering his head, ‘but I am astounded more than I can say, by this—’
‘It must be invention of the woman,’ said Mr. Deyncourt.
‘I hope so,’ was the answer.
‘Could Miss Rollstone have suspected it? She was very unlike what I have seen of her before.’
They separated for breakfast, agreeing to meet afterwards to hunt up the Jones family.
Ida had suffered a good deal all the night and morning as she wondered what her confession might entail on her. Sometimes she told herself that since it would come out in Herbert’s letters on the discovery of the child, it was well to have the honour of the first disclosure, and her brother was certain to keep her part in the matter a secret; but, on the other hand, she did not know how much Louisa might have told her mother, nor whether Mrs. Hall might persist in secrecy—nay, or even Rose. Indeed, she was quite uncertain how much Rose had understood. She could not have kept back guesses, and she did not believe in honour on Rose’s part. So she was nervous on finding that her uncle was gone out.
When he came in to breakfast, he merely made a morning greeting. Afterwards he scarcely spoke, except to answer an occasional remark from her mother. To herself, he neither looked nor spoke, but when Mrs. Morton declared that he looked the better for his morning walk, there was a half smile and light in his eye, and the weight seemed gone from his brow. Mrs. Morton asked what he was going to do.
‘I am going out with Mr. Deyncourt,’ he answered.
And Ida breathed more freely when he was gone.
But she little knew that Mr. Deyncourt had gone to Rose Rollstone in her father’s presence, and told her of Mrs. Hall’s revelations, asking her if this had been the cause of her silence. She had to own how the truth had flashed at once on her and Mr. Morton.
‘It would be so very dreadful for them if it were known,’ she said. ‘He thought if he brought back the boy, his sister’s part need not be known.’
‘Then that was the secret!’ exclaimed Mrs. Rollstone. ‘Well, I’ll not blame you, child, but you might have told us.’
Secrets were safe with the ex-butler, but not quite so much so with his wife, though all three tried to impress on her the need of silence, before Mr. Deyncourt hastened out to rejoin Lord Northmoor. The inquiry took a much longer time than they had expected, for the family wanted did not live in Mr. Deyncourt’s district, and they were misdirected more than once to people who disdained the notion of being connected with the Rattler, if they had ever heard of such a person. At last they did find a sister-in-law, who pronounced George Jones to be a good fellow, so far as she knew. He sent home to his mother regularly, and lately had had out his brother Sam, and a good job too, to have him out of the way, only what must he do but go and marry that there trollopy girl, as was no good.
Yes, George had written to say they had come safe to Toronto, but she did not hear as he said anything about a child. The letter was to his mother, who had taken it into the country when she went to stay with her daughter. This deponent didn’t know the address, and her husband was out with a yacht.
Nothing could be done but to pursue the mother to a village about five miles off, where she was traced out with some difficulty, and persuaded to refer to her son George’s letter, where he mentioned the safe arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Sam, but without a word about their bringing a child with them. This omission seemed to dash all former hopes, so as to show Frank how strong they had been, and besides, there had been more than time for Herbert to have written after reaching Toronto.
However, the one step of knowing George Jones’s address had been gained, and with no more than this, they had to return, intending to see whether Ida had any notion as to what was to be done.
It was evening when Lord Northmoor came in. Mrs. Morton was alone, and as she looked up, was answered by his air of disappointment as he shook his head.
‘Oh, it is so dreadful,’ she exclaimed, ‘it is all over the place! We met Mr. Brady and his sisters, and they cut Ida dead. She is quite broken-hearted, indeed, she is.’
‘Then she has told you all?’
‘She could not help it. Mrs. Rollstone came to ask me if it was true—as a friend, she said, I should say it was more like an enemy, and Mrs. Hall came too, wanting to see Ida, but I saw her instead. The wicked woman to have given in! And they have gone and told every one, and the police will be after my poor child.’
‘No, they would not interfere unless I prosecuted, and that I certainly should not do unless it proved the only means of tracing my child. I came home intending to ask Ida if she gave any directions about him. It seems certain that he was not brought to Toronto.’
‘Indeed! She made sure that he would be there!’ exclaimed Mrs. Morton, much dismayed. ‘Let me go and see. She is so much upset altogether that she declares that she cannot see you this evening.’
Mrs. Morton went, and presently brought word that Ida was horrified at hearing that little Michael was not with the Joneses. She had trusted Louisa to treat him kindly, and only dispose of him to some of those Canadian farmers, who seemed to have an unlimited appetite for adopted children, and the last hope was that this might have been the case, though opportunities could have been few on the way to Toronto.
Ida had cried over the tidings. It must have been worse than she had ever intended that the child should be treated; and the shock was great both to her and to her mother.
Mrs. Morton really seemed quite broken down, both by sorrow and fear for the boy, and by the shame, the dread of the story getting into the papers, and the sense that she could never go on living at Westhaven; and her brother-in-law quite overwhelmed her by saying that he should do all in his power to prevent publicity, and that he entirely exonerated her from all blame in the matter.
‘Ah, Frank dear,’ she said, ‘you are so good, it makes me feel what a sinful woman I am! I don’t mean that I ever gave in for a moment to that nonsense of poor Ida’s which was her only bit of excuse. No one that had ever been a mother could, you know; but I won’t say that I did not grumble at my boy losing his chances.’
‘I don’t wonder!’
‘And—and I never would listen to you and Mary about poor Ida. I let her idle and dress, and read all those novels, and it is out of them she got that monstrous notion. You little know what I have gone through with that girl, Frank, so different from the other two. Oh! if I could only begin over again!’
