The Third Class at Miss Kaye's Part 10

Though Sylvia only heard this account of Mercy's childhood at secondhand, told mostly in whispers by Linda when they were in bed, it appealed immensely to the poetical side of her nature, and invested her schoolfellow with a halo of romance that added greatly to her other charms.

"Suppose she really has a father or a mother," said Sylvia, who loved to let her imagination run riot; "or if they are both dead, perhaps a grandfather, or a grandmother, or an uncle who is searching for her everywhere. She might be the heiress to a big property, and own castles and halls and all kinds of things. Hasn't anybody tried to find out?"

"Oh yes, lots of people!" replied Linda. "But it's no use. There isn't anything to trace her by. Mercy can't bear to hear it spoken of unless she mentions it first, and she scarcely ever does. Miss Kaye said it was much wiser for her not to think about it, because it was such a forlorn hope, and it was better to be content with the friends she has and make the most of them. I think she feels it though, sometimes, when we're all going back for the holidays and talking about our homes."

"I'm sure she must. Oh, Linda, wouldn't it be lovely if we could find out her relations? Do let us set to work at once."

"How can we?" said Linda, who had a practical mind.

"I don't know quite how at first, but I have a kind of feeling it may be done if we only try. I'm going to leave no stone unturned. It's as interesting as _Hetty Gray_, or _Marjorie's Quest_. Just think that almost every lady whom Mercy meets may be her mother!"

"They couldn't all be," objected Linda.

"Of course not, but she might be talking to some of her own relations, and never know it!"

"I don't see how we can help that. People aren't labelled in families like pots of different kinds of jam, so how could we find out?"

"Oh, don't be stupid! I only mean that we must keep our eyes and our ears open and listen for every opportunity. I'm going to begin to-morrow, and if you like to help you can, and if you don't you needn't."

Greatly fired by her resolution, Sylvia was anxious to solve the secret of her friend's parentage without further delay. Unfortunately she did not know exactly how to start. It was impossible to question Mercy herself, and none of the other girls knew more than Linda had told her. She decided, therefore, that the only chance was to notice if anyone looked as if they were seeking somebody, when perhaps she might be the happy means of bringing about the fortunate meeting, and have the proud satisfaction of saying: "Here is your long-lost daughter!"

"It would be the happiest moment of my life," thought Sylvia, "nicer even than writing a book, though I mean to do that some day. Indeed I think, when it's all turned out properly, I might make it into a story, if Mercy wouldn't mind. I could call it _A Waif from China_, or perhaps _The Little Foundling_, only she's quite big now. _n.o.body's Darling_, would sound beautiful, but she's everybody's darling, so that wouldn't do. I believe _The Flower of Heathercliffe House_, would be best, and at any rate I could put 'a true tale' after it. I'd have it bound in red or green, with gilt edges, and a picture of Mercy on the back."

The first step to such a flight of literary ambition was evidently to discover the missing friends; until that was settled the whole point of the volume would be lacking and it was useless to attempt even a beginning. She came home one day after the usual morning walk in a state of great excitement, overflowing with news to tell Linda, who, having a bad cold, had been obliged to stay in the house.

"What do you think?" she cried, as they stood was.h.i.+ng their hands together in the bathroom, "I really believe I have found a clue at last!"

"A clue to what?" asked Linda, who had forgotten all about the matter by that time.

"Why, to Mercy Ingledew! Miss Coleman took us to Aberglyn this morning and along the promenade, and we sat down for a rest on one of the benches. Connie Camden and I were quite at the end, next to two ladies, and I could hear everything they were talking about. One of them, the tall, fair one, was most dreadfully sad, and said it had left a blank, and the other, the short, fat one, seemed so sorry for her and was trying to comfort her. 'When did you lose her?' she asked.

I couldn't hear the answer, because Connie was whispering to me, but the short lady said: 'Dear me! as long ago as that? I am afraid you can have very little hope of ever finding her now.' Then Connie interrupted again, but I caught something about curly hair and such winning ways. 'You believe she has been traced to this neighbourhood?'

the fat lady said; 'you are quite sure you would be able to know her from any other?' 'I couldn't mistake,' the tall lady said; 'her eyes alone would tell me even if she had utterly forgotten me!' It was just growing most interesting when Miss Coleman got up and we had to go, but I'm certain we're on the right track and it's Mercy they're looking for. Don't you think it must be?"

"I don't know," said Linda doubtfully; "it might be somebody else."

"Oh! How could it be? It all exactly fits in with Mercy's story, and the tall, fair lady was in deep mourning too."

"She wouldn't still be in mourning," said Linda; "it's fifteen years since Mercy was lost."

"She might be; perhaps she made up her mind never to wear anything else until she found her. Shall I tell Mercy?"

"No, I'm sure you had better not. Miss Kaye said we were none of us ever to mention it to her."

"Then I must find out a little more, and it will come as a surprise to her in the end. Don't breathe a word to any of the other girls; I want it to be a dead secret. n.o.body knows a hint about it except you and me."

Sylvia felt almost bursting with the importance of her quest; her great anxiety now was to meet the lady again and make a few further discoveries. She wished she knew her name, or where she lived, and much regretted that she had not taken the opportunity of saying something about Mercy at the time.

"It would be so dreadful if I didn't get a chance to see her any more," she thought. "Perhaps she's only a visitor at Aberglyn, and she may go home without anything happening after all."

Every day, when they went for their walk, she looked out both for the tall, fair lady and the short, fat one, but she never saw either, though she managed to persuade Miss Coleman to take them twice again to the promenade, an unheard-of indulgence in one week.

"I don't know what we're to do!" she lamented to Linda. "I must see her somehow. I feel as if Mercy's future depends upon it. She looks nice too. I wonder how Mercy will like her for a mother. Just think of having to get to know your own mother when you're sixteen! Wouldn't it seem queer? Perhaps she may be in church on Sunday."

"I don't see how you could speak to her even if she were," said Linda.

"We go out by the side door, and you wouldn't be likely to meet her in the churchyard."

"I wish Miss Kaye would take me shopping on Sat.u.r.day," said Sylvia.

"It's Sadie Thompson's turn. I wonder if I could coax her to change with me."

It was Miss Kaye's custom to allow four of the girls to go with her each Sat.u.r.day morning to Aberglyn and a.s.sist with her marketing. They were trusted to make some of the purchases, to teach them the value of money, and were expected to put down a neat account afterwards of what they had spent. It was a privilege to which they greatly looked forward, and it had not yet fallen to Sylvia's share. By dint, however, of a good deal of persuasion, added to the gift of her cedarwood pencil box, she induced Sadie Thompson to let her have the next turn; and, as Miss Kaye made no objection to the exchange, she found herself included among the favoured few.

Nothing could have been more fortunate. The party consisted of Mercy Ingledew, Trissie Knowles, from the second cla.s.s, herself, and Nessie Hirst, and they started off in brisk spirits.

In every shop and street Sylvia's eyes were busy seeking for the two ladies; but though in the distance she thought she caught a glimpse of the short one, she found out on a nearer view that she was mistaken.

They went at last into the markethall, where Miss Kaye was soon busy at a gla.s.s and china stall, replenis.h.i.+ng some of the school crockery which had been broken.

"You little ones," she said, "may go and buy me a pennyworth of parsley and three lemons. Be sure you choose lemons with nice smooth rinds, and bring back the right change for a s.h.i.+lling."

Sylvia and Nessie ran off together to the fruiterer's, proud of their errand, and were just engaged in calculating the cost of three lemons at three-halfpence each, when Sylvia gave a gasp of astonishment and delight. Round the corner, and actually coming to their stall, appeared the tall, fair lady and the short, fat one. They stopped to enquire the price of pears, and stood so near that the long _crepe_ mantle of the former was actually brus.h.i.+ng against Sylvia's hat. She trembled all over with excitement. Dare she do it? Could she really pluck up her courage and speak to this unknown stranger? She tried half a dozen times, but the words stuck in her throat. Yet she felt she must make the effort, for perhaps Mercy's happiness might hang upon this one solitary chance.

"If you please," she began in a very small trembling voice, and touching the lady's sleeve with her hand. But the lady was too busy buying pears to notice, and only fumbled in her pocket for her purse.

"If you please," tried Sylvia again, speaking rather louder this time.

"I think this little girl wishes to ask you something," said the short, fat lady, addressing her friend.

The tall, fair one turned suddenly round towards Sylvia.

"What is it, my dear?" she said, somewhat stiffly; "can I tell you anything?"

Sylvia flushed scarlet. The critical moment had arrived.

"Oh, please," she said, "I thought you hadn't found her yet, and I believe I know where she is!"

"Not my Tottie?" exclaimed the lady.

"I don't know her real name, but we call her Mercy," said Sylvia. "I heard you say on the promenade that you'd lost her."

"So I have. I have done everything in my power to recover her. I even put it into the hands of the police. Where did you find her?"

"She's been at school for ever so long," said Sylvia, "at Heathercliffe House," she added, in explanation.

"I never dreamt of asking there," said the lady. "I should have thought Miss Kaye wouldn't have kept her. But no doubt she has been a great favourite amongst the girls."

"She is. We all love her," declared Sylvia, delighted with the success of her boldness.

"But where is she? Have you got her safe at Heathercliffe House?"

enquired the lady.