The Vicar's Daughter by George MacDonald (accelerated reader books .TXT) 📕

our feelings to the play of light and shade around us, that more than once when a cloud crossed us, I saw its shadow turn almost into sadness on the countenance of my companion,—to vanish the next moment when the one sun above and the thousand mimic suns below shone out in universal laughter. When a steamer came in sight, or announced its approach by the far-heard sound of its beating paddles, it brought with it a few moments of almost awful responsibility; but I found that the presence of danger and duty together, instead of making me feel flurried, composed my nerves, and enabled me to concentrate my whole attention on getting the head of the boat as nearly as possible at right angles with the waves from the paddles; for Percivale had told me that if one of any size struck us on the side, it would most probably capsize us. But the way to give pleasure to my readers can hardly be to let myself grow garrulous in the memory of an ancient pleasure of my own. I will say nothing more of the delights of that day. They were such a contrast to its close, that twelve months at least elapsed before I was able to look back upon them without a shudder; for I could not rid myself of the foolish feeling that our enjoyment had been somehow to blame for what was happening at home while we were thus revelling in blessed carelessness.

When we reached our little nest, rather late in the evening, I found to my annoyance that the front door was open. It had been a fault of which I thought I had cured the cook,—to leave it thus when she ran out to fetch any thing. Percivale went down to the study; and I walked into the drawing-room, about to ring the bell in anger. There, to my surprise and farther annoyance, I found Sarah, seated on the sofa with her head in her hands, and little Roger wide awake on the floor.

“What does this mean?” I cried. “The front door open! Master Roger still up! and you seated in the drawing-room!”

“O ma’am!” she almost shrieked, starting up the moment I spoke, and, by the time I had put my angry interrogation, just able to gasp out—“Have you found her, ma’am?”

“Found whom?” I returned in alarm, both at the question and at the face of the girl; for through the dusk I now saw that it was very pale, and that her eyes were red with crying.

“Miss Ethel,” she answered in a cry choked with a sob; and dropping again on the sofa, she hid her face once more between her hands.

I rushed to the study-door, and called Percivale; then returned to question the girl. I wonder now that I did nothing outrageous; but fear kept down folly, and made me unnaturally calm.

“Sarah,” I said, as quietly as I could, while I trembled all over, “tell me what has happened. Where is the child?”

“Indeed it’s not my fault, ma’am. I was busy with Master Roger, and Miss Ethel was down stairs with Jemima.”

“Where is she?” I repeated sternly.

“I don’t know no more than the man in the moon, ma’am.”

“Where’s Jemima?”

“Run out to look for her?”

“How long have you missed her?”

“An hour. Or perhaps two hours. I don’t know, my head’s in such a whirl. I can’t remember when I saw her last. O ma’am! What shall I do?”

Percivale had come up, and was standing beside me. When I looked round, he was as pale as death; and at the sight of his face, I nearly dropped on the floor. But he caught hold of me, and said, in a voice so dreadfully still that it frightened me more than any thing,—

“Come, my love; do not give way, for we must go to the police at once.” Then, turning to Sarah, “Have you searched the house and garden?” he asked.

“Yes, sir; every hole and corner. We’ve looked under every bed, and into every cupboard and chest,—the coal-cellar, the boxroom,—everywhere.”

“The bathroom?” I cried.

“Oh, yes, ma’am! the bathroom, and everywhere.”

“Have there been any tramps about the house since we left?” Percivale asked.

“Not that I know of; but the nursery window looks into the garden, you know, sir. Jemima didn’t mention it.”

“Come then, my dear,” said my husband.

He compelled me to swallow a glass of wine, and led me away, almost unconscious of my bodily movements, to the nearest cab-stand. I wondered afterwards, when I recalled the calm gaze with which he glanced along the line, and chose the horse whose appearance promised the best speed. In a few minutes we were telling the inspector at the police-station in Albany Street what had happened. He took a sheet of paper, and asking one question after another about her age, appearance, and dress, wrote down our answers. He then called a man, to whom he gave the paper, with some words of direction.

“The men are now going on their beats for the night,” he said, turning again to us. “They will all hear the description of the child, and some of them have orders to search.”

“Thank you,” said my husband. “Which station had we better go to next?”

“The news will be at the farthest before you can reach the nearest,” he answered. “We shall telegraph to the suburbs first.”

“Then what more is there we can do?” asked Percivale.

“Nothing,” said the inspector,—“except you find out whether any of the neighbors saw her, and when and where. It would be something to know in what direction she was going. Have you any ground for suspicion? Have you ever discharged a servant? Were any tramps seen about the place?”

“I know, who it is!” I cried. “It’s the woman that took Theodora! It’s Theodora’s mother! I know it is!”

Percivale explained what I meant.

“That’s what people get, you see, when they take on themselves other people’s business,” returned the inspector. “That child ought to have been sent to the workhouse.”

He laid his head on his hand for a moment.

“It seems likely enough,” he added. Then after another pause—“I have your address. The child shall be brought back to you the moment she’s found. We can’t mistake her after your description.”

“Where are you going now?” I said to my husband, as we left the station to re-enter the cab.

“I don’t know,” he answered, “except we go home and question all the shops in the neighborhood.”

“Let us go to Miss Clare first,” I said.

“By all means,” he answered.

We were soon at the entrance of Lime Court.

When we turned the corner in the middle of it, we heard the sound of a piano.

“She’s at home!” I cried, with a feeble throb of satisfaction. The fear that she might be out had for the last few moments been uppermost.

We entered the house, and ascended the stairs in haste. Not a creature did we meet, except a wicked-looking cat. The top of her head was black, her forehead and face white; and the black and white were shaped so as to look like hair parted over a white forehead, which gave her green eyes a frightfully human look as she crouched in the corner of a window-sill in the light of a gas-lamp outside. But before we reached the top of the first stair we heard the sounds of dancing, as well as of music. In a moment after, with our load of gnawing fear and helpless eagerness, we stood in the midst of a merry assembly of men, women, and children, who filled Miss Clare’s room to overflowing. It was Saturday night, and they were gathered according to custom for their weekly music.

They made a way for us; and Miss Clare left the piano, and came to meet us with a smile on her beautiful face. But, when she saw our faces, hers fell.

“What is the matter, Mrs. Percivale?” she asked in alarm.

I sunk on the chair from which she had risen.

“We’ve lost Ethel,” said my husband quietly.

“What do you mean? You don’t”—

“No, no: she’s gone; she’s stolen. We don’t know where she is,” he answered with faltering voice. “We’ve just been to the police.”

Miss Clare turned white; but, instead of making any remark, she called out to some of her friends whose good manners were making them leave the room,—

“Don’t go, please; we want you.” Then turning to me, she asked, “May I do as I think best?”

“Yes, certainly,” answered my husband.

“My friend, Mrs. Percivale,” she said, addressing the whole assembly, “has lost her little girl.”

A murmur of dismay and sympathy arose.

“What can we do to find her?” she went on.

They fell to talking among themselves. The next instant, two men came up to us, making their way from the neighborhood of the door. The one was a keen-faced, elderly man, with iron-gray whiskers and clean-shaved chin; the other was my first acquaintance in the neighborhood, the young bricklayer. The elder addressed my husband, while the other listened without speaking.

“Tell us what she’s like, sir, and how she was dressed—though that ain’t much use. She’ll be all different by this time.”

The words shot a keener pang to my heart than it had yet felt. My darling stripped of her nice clothes, and covered with dirty, perhaps infected garments. But it was no time to give way to feeling.

My husband repeated to the men the description he had given the police, loud enough for the whole room to hear; and the women in particular, Miss Clare told me afterwards, caught it up with remarkable accuracy. They would not have done so, she said, but that their feelings were touched.

“Tell them also, please, Mr. Percivale, about the child Mrs. Percivale’s father and mother found and brought up. That may have something to do with this.”

My husband told them all the story; adding that the mother of the child might have found out who we were, and taken ours as a pledge for the recovery of her own.

Here one of the women spoke.

“That dark woman you took in one night—two years ago, miss—she say something. I was astin’ of her in the mornin’ what her trouble was, for that trouble she had on her mind was plain to see, and she come over something, half-way like, about losin’ of a child; but whether it were dead, or strayed, or stolen, or what, I couldn’t tell; and no more, I believe, she wanted me to.”

Here another woman spoke.

“I’m ‘most sure I saw her—the same woman—two days ago, and no furrer off than Gower Street,” she said. “You’re too good by half, miss,” she went on, “to the likes of sich. They ain’t none of them respectable.”

“Perhaps you’ll see some good come out of it before long,” said Miss Clare in reply.

The words sounded like a rebuke, for all this time I had hardly sent a thought upwards for help. The image of my child had so filled my heart, that there was no room left for the thought of duty, or even of God.

Miss Clare went on, still addressing the company, and her words had a tone of authority.

“I will tell you what you must do,” she said. “You must, every one of you, run and tell everybody you know, and tell every one to tell everybody else. You mustn’t stop to talk it over with each other, or let those you tell it to stop to talk to you about it; for it is of the greatest consequence no time should be lost in making it as quickly and as widely known as possible. Go,