A Little Mother to the Others by L. T. Meade (best contemporary novels .TXT) 📕

and, if you will jump in at once we will be at the station in no time."

"I calls it lovely," said Diana, turning to secure[189] Orion's approval. "I like it miles better nor lessons with Miss Wamsay nor being beated by Aunt Jane. Only, course," she added, in a meditative voice, "I's twuly, twuly sossy for Uncle William and Iris and Apollo."

[190]

CHAPTER XVIII. THE HEART OF THE LITTLE MOTHER.

It may seem almost impossible to believe that two little children could be kidnaped in the England of to-day. Nevertheless, such was the case. Mother Rodesia had managed her theft with great skill. The gypsies had appeared unexpectedly in the Fairy Dell—no one knew they were there, therefore no one looked for them. Having kidnaped the children, Mother Rodesia took care immediately to bury their clothes, and then she sold them to Ben Holt, the great circus manager, who took them within a few hours right away to the southwest of England. The little children had not accompanied the troupe, but had gone with Aunt Sarah by train. There had been little fuss and no apparent attempt at hiding the pair, therefore no one thought of looking for them in the large southwestern town where Holt established his great circus.

It was the most popular time of the year for performing shows of all sorts, and Ben Holt expected to make a considerable sum of money out of the pretty and vivacious little pair.

Meanwhile, the police were on their track; advertisements about them were scattered all over the country—considerable rewards were offered, and there was more than one nearly broken heart in the pretty Rectory of Super-Ashton.

Even Aunt Jane felt by no means herself. She would not own to having done anything wrong, but[191] she became wonderfully gentle to Iris and Apollo. She was unremitting, too, in her efforts to recover the lost children, and began to look quite peaky about the face and lined round the mouth.

As to Uncle William, he preached nothing but old sermons, finding it beyond his powers to devote his attention to anything fresh or new. He hated the study window where little Diana had lain in his arms—he hated the memory of the whip which he had used over her. On one occasion he even went the length of saying to his wife:

"Jane, it was your doing—she was too spirited a child for the treatment you subjected her to. She ought never to have been whipped. But for you she would not have run away."

This was a very terrible moment for Aunt Jane, and she was too much cowed and stricken to reply a single word to her husband. He could not help, notwithstanding his great anxiety, having a momentary sense of pleasure when he found that he had got the upper hand of his clever wife; but Aunt Jane had it out with the servants and the parishioners afterwards, and so revenged herself after a fashion.

As to Iris, a very sad change came over her. She grew thin and very pale; she scarcely ate anything, and scarcely ever spoke. Even Apollo, even little Ann quite failed to comfort her. She did not complain, but she went about with a drooping look, somewhat like a little flower which wants water.

"Iris is not well," Miss Ramsay said one morning to Mrs. Dolman. "She does not eat her food, and when I went into her bedroom last night I found that she was wide awake, and had evidently been silently crying. I think she ought to see a doctor!"[192]

"Dear, dear!" replied Mrs. Dolman. "Do you know, Miss Ramsay, I am almost sorry I undertook the charge of the little Delaneys. They certainly have turned out, as their poor father expressed it, a handful. If Iris is really ill, I had better see her. Send her to me. You don't suppose she is—fretting?"

"Yes; of course she is fretting dreadfully," replied Miss Ramsay. "And no wonder, poor little girl! For my part, I consider it perfectly awful to contemplate the fate of those poor lost children."

"Oh, they will be found—they are likely to return here any day," replied Mrs. Dolman. "It is just like you, Miss Ramsay, to go to the fair with things, and to imagine the very worst. Why, for instance, should not some very kind people have found the children? Why must they, as a matter of course, have fallen into the hands of cruel and unprincipled folk? Some of the very sharpest detectives in Scotland Yard are on their track. For my part, I have not the slightest doubt that they will soon be brought back."

Miss Ramsay uttered a sigh.

"I will send Iris down to speak to you," she said.

This conversation occurred between three and four weeks after little Orion and Diana had disappeared. Mrs. Dolman was in her study. It was a very ugly room, sparsely furnished. There was a large, old-fashioned desk in the center of the room, and she was seated in an armchair in front of it, busily engaged making up her different tradesmen's books, when the door was softly opened and Iris came in.

Mrs. Dolman had not had any special conversation with Iris since the mysterious disappearance of the two younger children, and now, as she raised her eyes and looked at her attentively, she was startled at[193] the great change in her appearance. The child was reduced almost to a shadow. She was dressed in her heavy black, without a touch of relieving white. Her lovely hair hung over her shoulders, and was pushed back from her low brow, bringing into greater contrast the small, pinched, white face, and the great brown eyes, which looked now too big for the little countenance to which they belonged.

"Come here, Iris," said Mrs. Dolman. She had always liked Iris the best of the children. "Come and tell me what is the matter."

Iris came slowly forward.

"Miss Ramsay says that you do not eat and do not sleep. If that is the case, I must send for the doctor to see you," continued Aunt Jane.

"Yes, Aunt Jane," answered Iris.

She hung her head listlessly. Mrs. Dolman put her arm round the slender waist and drew the child close to her side. Iris submitted to this embrace without in any way returning it.

"And when you see the doctor he will, of course, order you a tonic, and perhaps tell us to take you to the seaside. If that is the case, we must do so, Iris—we must do our duty by you, whatever happens. It would never do for you to be ill, you understand."

"Yes, Aunt Jane," answered Iris; "that's what I think myself—it would never do."

"Then you will try to get well, dear? You will do exactly what the doctor says?"

"Yes, Aunt Jane."

Mrs. Dolman looked earnestly into her little niece's face.

"You know," she said, in a brisk voice, "I am, for my part, quite certain that we shall get tidings of the[194] lost children either to-day or to-morrow. We are not leaving a stone unturned to get them back."

Iris raised her delicate brows, and for a moment there came a flashing light of hope into her eyes; but then it died out. She lowered her lashes and did not speak.

"You are pale, and your hands are hot," said Mrs. Dolman.

"I feel hot," answered Iris, "and I am thirsty," she added.

"Oh, come! this will never do," said Aunt Jane. "I shall just take you away this minute to see the doctor."

She rose impatiently as she spoke. The apathy which was over Iris irritated her more than she could express. If the child had only burst into tears, or even defied her as little Diana used to do, she felt that she could comprehend matters a great deal better.

"If we are quick, we may see Dr. Kent before he goes on his rounds," she said. "Run upstairs at once, Iris, and fetch your hat."

Iris immediately left the room.

"The child looks as if something had stunned her," thought Mrs. Dolman to herself. "I never saw such a queer expression on any little girl's face. Now, I am quite certain if Philip or Conrad had been kidnaped, that Lucy and Mary would be a great deal too sensible to act in this silly way. The worst of it is, too, that there is nothing really to lay hold of, for the child does not even complain—she simply suffers. What am I to do? How am I to tell the children's father that two of them have disappeared, and the eldest, his favorite, too, is very ill?"[195]

Iris re-entered the room, with her sun-bonnet hanging on her arm.

"Put it on, my dear, put it on; and brisk up a little," said Mrs. Dolman. "There is no good in giving way to your feelings."

"I never give way to them, Aunt Jane. I try to be patient," answered Iris.

Mrs. Dolman tied on her own bonnet with her usual vigor. She then took one of the hot little hands in hers, and, a few moments later, the aunt and niece were standing outside Dr. Kent's door in the pretty little village street.

Dr. Kent was at home. He was a young man, and a clever doctor, and he gave Iris a good overhauling. He listened to her lungs and heart, put several questions to her, was kind in his manner, and did not express the least surprise when he heard that the little girl could neither eat nor sleep.

"I perfectly understand," he said. "And now, my dear, I hope soon to have you as right as a trivet; but, in the meantime, I should like to have a little talk with your aunt. Can you find your way into my dining room? You have only to turn to the left when you leave this room."

"Thank you," answered Iris. She went to the door, opened it, and shut it behind her.

"Now, what do you think about her?" said Aunt Jane. "Out with the truth, please, Dr. Kent. You know I never can stand any beating about the bush."

"There is nothing of the ordinary nature the matter with your little niece," began the doctor.

Mrs. Dolman raised her brows in surprise and indignation.[196]

"How can you say that?" she remarked. "The child looks seriously ill."

"Please allow me to finish my speech. There is nothing the matter with the child in the form of organic or any other disease; but just at present there is such a severe strain on her mind that, if it is not completely relieved, she is very likely to die."

"Doctor! What a terrible thing to say!"

"It is true. The child needs rousing—she is losing all interest in life. She has been subjected to a terrible shock."

"Of course she has," replied Mrs. Dolman; "but the extraordinary thing is that a child of ten years of age should feel it so much."

"It is not extraordinary in that sort of child," replied the doctor. "Can you not see for yourself that she has a very delicate and a very nervous organism. She has lately, too, lost her mother, has she not?"

"Yes; and I believe the child was very fond of her; but, indeed, I may as well say that I never saw anyone more sensible than little Iris about that. She scarcely seemed to grieve at all. Of course, I dare say she was very sorry, but she did not show it."

"All the worse for her," answered Dr. Kent. "If she had given way about her mother, and allowed her grief to get the upper hand, she would not be so ill as she is now. Then came the second blow—the extraordinary loss of the children."

"Then you really think her very ill?" said Mrs. Dolman. "I would do anything to save her, doctor. These four children were put into my care by their father."

"Where is the father now?" asked Dr. Kent.[197]

"He must have nearly reached the Himalayas by this time."

"Is it possible for you to communicate with him?"

"To say the truth, I have hesitated to do so. He suffered terribly at the death of his wife. It would be fearful for him to learn that two of the children are missing, and one very ill. I have waited, hoping for better news."

"You did wrong. He ought to know of this calamity. Each day that does not give you tidings of the missing children lessens the chance of your ever recovering them. I must say their disappearance is most mysterious."

"So it is," answered Aunt Jane suddenly. "And in my heart of hearts," she added, "I am greatly alarmed."

"Well, if I were you, I would send a cablegram to the address most likely to find