“Squire,” said Uncle Fred (he may as well be called Uncle Fred to the end of the chapter, to avoid confusion), “we have brought you a piece of news that will astonish you greatly. I have had my suspicions for long, and my wife has been indulging hopes that the sight of that picture there has completely verified. The little waif you took in and befriended so well is the only child of my wife. We have lost no time in coming to tell you the news; more especially as she could not rest one moment without seeing the boy, and thanking you in person for your great goodness to him.”
The Squire sat perfectly still, not attempting a reply. He looked like a man who has received a blow, and requires time to recover from its effects. The lady’s tears were falling fast, and Uncle Fred had to continue his tale, as nobody else seemed able to speak.
“You will ask what made me guess the secret. The first clue was the child’s likeness to his mother, whom I had known as a child and as a young girl. It attracted me to Bertie from the first, but I only looked upon it as an accidental circumstance, and paid no serious heed to the matter. When, however, some months ago, my wife and I met once again in a far-off land, when I learned that she had lost her only child, a boy of nine years of age, in a storm that wrecked the little sailing-vessel she had elected to cross in from Antwerp to Hull, at the very time that Bertie had been drifted ashore here,—when I heard this story, my suspicions were powerfully awakened, and all that I heard tended to increase my conviction. I learned that the child had divided his time between London and Normandy, that he had a grandfather, in whose library he continually sat, learning lessons and turning over books. What I heard of his disposition and habits coincided entirely with Bertie’s ways; and the story of the wreck seemed to make assurance doubly sure. I heard how the water came suddenly pouring into the cabin where the child lay, how she had only time to wrap a rough pilot coat over his little nightdress and tie a life-belt about him, whilst she bade him be brave and try to say always, ‘Thy will be done.’ The child had told me almost as much himself in one of his moments of partial remembrance, and I knew how he had been drifted ashore just in these garments her child wore. The sea had overwhelmed them all, almost as soon as they reached the deck. My wife and two seamen were picked up by a steamer bound for Holland, and when she did return to England, no tidings reached her of the child, and from that day till a month or two ago she entertained no doubts of his death. My story gave her hope, and the sight of that picture has put away the last doubt. That is her little Ronald, the child who has been dead and is alive again, has been lost and is found.”
Uncle Fred’s own voice quivered a little as he concluded his tale, and his wife commanded hers with difficulty.
“Where is my boy?” she asked.
“He is out with your little nephew and niece, Mrs. Arbuthnot,” answered the Squire; “but he will be home again in the course of an hour or two. You will wait and see him of course. You will let my housekeeper bring you some tea.”
The Squire spoke with some constraint of manner. It was easy to see that he was a good deal moved.
The mother seemed to divine his feelings by the very depth of her own. He had risen whilst the tale had been told, and was now standing with his back towards them, looking out upon the sunny garden, with eyes that saw nothing of its brightness. He started when a soft touch was laid upon his arm. He was confronted by a sweet face, tremulous with tears.
“I have not thanked you yet for all your goodness to my boy.”
“No need, I assure you, my dear madam; he has done a hundredfold more for me than I have done for him.”