Chapter VIII: Reunion

"I HAVE despatched the telegram, Sir Herbert, and we shall very soon have the lady in England, I fancy."

"You're a good friend Sharpe—you'll see me through this, won't you?"

"Yes, yes, Sir Herbert, only it seems to me your troubles are over now."

"No, they're not. I have to face the boy's mother, and I don't know what she'll say to me."

"Come, come, Sir Herbert, keep up your spirit," said the lawyer, cheerfully. "What is she like—this mother whom Gerald thinks so much about?"

"I only remember her as a fragile looking girl of about two or three and twenty—I haven't seen her now for some years. All our business concerning the boy was done in writing. She was pretty, too, I fancy."

"Well, this doesn't sound very alarming. I wish you would come and lunch with me to-day, and bring Gerald with you. Doris is staying with me again, and is just crazy to see her Punch and Judy hero, for such she considers the boy now."

"Perhaps the child won't appreciate lunching with 'the heathen,'" said the baronet with a smile.

Mr. Sharpe reddened a little. "I am afraid you must have thought her very impertinent, but believe me, she never meant it," said the lawyer anxiously.

"Impertinent! Oh dear no, she only spoke the truth. I 'was' a heathen, but since the boy's coming, somehow I've felt different. Yet he doesn't look much like a missionary, does he?"

A recollection of Gerald, as he dangled the hapless little fish on his line upon that memorable Saturday flashed across Mr. Sharpe's mind.

"No, certainly the child bore no resemblance to a missionary, and yet—" the lawyer's face softened as he recalled a passage from Holy Writ—"'A little child shall lead them.'"

There was a pause, which was broken by the baronet.

"Yes, Sharpe, I 'will' accept your invitation, and bring the boy with me."

The above conversation took place in Mr. Sharpe's London office, Gerald in the meanwhile amusing himself very contentedly talking to the chief clerk about the fish he meant to catch when he was grown up, whilst his elders were discussing matters of more serious moment in the little sanctum beyond.

* * * * *

Miss Sharpe was in quite a flutter of excitement, for the baronet was an honoured, though somewhat unusual guest at her brother's table. And in the pretty Sydenham villa residence, grand preparations were speedily made for the illustrious visitor and his little nephew, Mr. Sharpe with great worldly wisdom and forethought, having despatched a telegram to his sister, to inform her of the expected arrivals.

Doris, looking the very pink of propriety, sat next Sir Herbert, for whom she had conceived quite a respectful affection. Gerald, brimming over with joy—for was not his mother coming home very soon—was in a state of mind which bordered on transport.

Presently a loud ring was heard at the door bell, and a maid shortly afterwards tapped at the dining-room door and informed Mr. Sharpe that a lady desired to see him immediately.

"What name, Henderson?" inquired he.

"Mrs. Weston, please sir."

There was a sudden rush—the sound of a falling chair, and the maid was pushed unceremoniously aside.

Then followed a cry of "Mother, mother."

And Mr. Sharpe knew that for a little while at least, his presence was not required in the drawing-room.

Joy seldom kills, and the sight of the boy whom she believed never to behold again with earthly eyes, was in itself such a rapture to Mrs. Weston that she could do nothing but clasp him in her arms, asking not the why or wherefore, whilst tears and smiles followed each other in April-like succession. The bitter resentment she had been cherishing against Sir Herbert for withholding the fateful news all faded away at the sight of the little lad in his sailor suit.

The baronet presently entered the room, his calm self-possession well-nigh deserting him.

Instead of the reproaches she had prepared herself to utter, she grasped his hand, saying brokenly, "God bless you."

Ah, mothers are not always quite reasonable, and such sweet inconsistency was very welcome to Sir Herbert Weston's broken and contrite spirit.

* * * * *

Months and years have passed away since Mrs. Weston's return to England. It is the season of Christmas, the time of peace and goodwill.

Gerald and his mother now live together in a charming little residence called "The Lindens," situated in close proximity to The Towers, a fact which is largely owing to Sir Herbert's generosity. It is well-known to those around how deeply attached the baronet is to his young nephew and heir. And in the lad's eyes, there are few to compare with his uncle, whom, next to his mother, he regards with deepest affection.

On the morrow, being Christmas day, there are to be great festivities at The Towers, and amongst the invited guests, to Gerald's delight, are Mr. Wilfrid Sharpe and little Doris Maxwell.

"Mother," said Gerald, as they sat together in the firelight listening to the Yule-tide bells ringing out their message of peace and goodwill, "I sometimes wonder how little boys get on without any mother to keep them right."

Mrs. Weston rightly conjectured that his mind was reverting to the days of the past, when he felt his need of her so sorely.

"You must not forget, my boy, that there is a Love which far exceeds that of a mother," she answered gently.

"Oh, yes! That reminds me of what you said to me a long while ago—at the time we bade 'good bye.'"

"I remember, Gerald—a time when you gave me a 'three-fold promise.'"

THE END.

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LORIMER AND GILLIES, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.