"Oh no, bless you, Miss," said Barstow, shaking himself free rather resentfully. "It's only that they're not to be found nowhere else. They've been out a-playing in the garden, as everybody thought, since two or three o'clock, and they've never come home, and they're nowhere to be found; and my master—Gerald Ansdell, Esq., M.P., if you please, Miss,"—for Regina and all the Rectory folk were perfect strangers to him "my master has got it in his head that the young ladies and Master Gerald is—has—must be drowned, Miss, to speak plain."
Regina dashed back to the drawing-room.
"Mamma darling, it's all right. Mr. Lauriston, Mrs. Lauriston, all of you, help me to explain. I know where the children are—they're locked in, in the Old House—that's all that's wrong—I'm sure of it. It was a little plan of Charles Truro's and mine; we thought if I got to know the dear little things it might lead to something—to a reconciliation. They had found their way there by themselves, and told him about it. But I must go at once to let them out, the poor darlings. And, mamma, mamma, take courage—seize the moment. While I fetch them, you go to Uncle Ansdell and tell him the good news. You may never have such a chance again. Don't you think so, Mr. Lauriston—you who know the whole story—oh, do say you think she should do it?" and Regina wrung her hands in her eagerness.
It took a little cross-questioning to make them understand all; but Regina got her way. Barstow, to keep him quiet, was allowed to go off with the gardener to get the drags, and in less time than you would have thought it possible they all set off—Mr. Lauriston, Regina, and her mother. But at the gate of Rosebuds they separated. Regina hurried on down the lane with the rector, her mother with trembling, shaking steps, went in and made her way up to the porch.
The front door stood open; in the confusion and excitement nobody had thought of closing it.
Grandpapa—poor grandpapa—was sitting as Mrs. Munt had left him when she went off to give orders about dragging the pools. A little noise, the door softly opening and closing again, made him look up. A tall figure, all dressed in black, with a white, sweet, anxious face and blue eyes, like Tib's and grandpapa's own, streaming with tears, stood beside him. He stared at it half stupefied. I think he thought he was dreaming. But it spoke.
"Brother, dear, dear brother, it is I. Do you know me—will you forgive me at last? Oh, dear, dear brother, forgive me."
He gazed at her as if he did not see her.
"I do not know why you have come," he said. "Do you know what has happened? My children—poor Gerald's children—are drowned, all of them. I am quite alone in the world."
"No, no," she cried, "they are not drowned. They will be here in a few minutes. It was that gave me courage to come—to bring you the good news. Gerald, for their sake, for the dear children's sake, won't you at last forgive me and let me help you with them? Oh, I will love them so if you will let me. Brother, say quick before they come—say you will forgive me at last. I have so suffered, I have been punished so long. Brother, say you forgive your poor Queenie."