 | CHAPTER X.
THE EMPTY NEST. Outpost |  |
10. CHAPTER X.
THE EMPTY NEST.
When Susan returned from carrying Bessie Rider home,
she was quite surprised to find the front-door ajar, as she
thought she had been sure of latching it in going out; but,
without stopping to make any inquiries of the other servants,
she ran up the back stairs, took off her shawl and
hood, and then went to the drawing-room for 'Toinette.
The room was empty; and Susan at once concluded that
Mrs. Legrange had taken the child to her own chamber
while she dressed for dinner, as 'Toinette often begged to
be present at this ceremony, and was often indulged.
“I'll just redd[1]
up the nursery a bit before I fetch her,”
said Susan, looking round the littered room; and so it was
half an hour before she knocked at Mrs. Legrange's chamber-door
with, “I came for Miss 'Toinette, ma'am.”
“Come in, Susan. Miss 'Toinette, did you say? She is
put her to bed at once. She must be very tired.”
Alas! the tender mother little guessed how tired!
Without reply, Susan closed the door, and ran down
stairs; an uneasy feeling creeping over her, although she
would not yet confess it even to herself.
The drawing-room was still empty; but James had lighted
the gas and stirred the fire, so that every corner was as
light as day. In every window-recess, under every couch
and sofa, behind every large chair, even in the closet of the
étagère, Susan searched for her little charge, hoping, praying,
to find her asleep, or roguishly hiding, as she had known her
to do before. But all in vain: no merry face, no sunny curls,
no laughing eyes, peeped out from recess or corner or hiding-place;
and Susan's ruddy face grew pale even to the lips.
She flew to the dining-room, and searched it as narrowly
as she had done the drawing-room.
No: she was not there!
The library, the bath-room, the chambers, the nursery
again, the servants' chambers, the kitchen, laundry, pantries,
the very cellar!
No, no, no! 'Toinette was in none of them. 'Toinette
was not in any nook of the whole wide house, that,
without her, seemed so empty and desolate.
Standing in one of the upper entries, mute and bewildered,
Susan heard a latch-key turn in the front-door lock,
and presently Mr. Legrange's pleasant voice speaking in
the hall. A sudden hope rushed into Susan's heart. The
child might possibly have gone to meet her father, and was
now returned with him. She rushed down stairs as fast as
her feet could carry her; but in the hall stood only Mr. Legrange,
talking to James, who had some message to deliver
to him.
As Susan flew down the stairs, the master turned and
looked at her in some surprise.
“Be careful, Susan: you nearly fell then. Is any thing
the matter?”
“Miss 'Toinette, sir: I can't find her, high nor low!”
gasped Susan.
“Can't find her! Good heavens! you don't mean to say
she's lost!” exclaimed the father, turning, and staring at
the nurse in dismay.
“Oh! I don't know, sir, I'm sure; but I can't find her,”
cried Susan, wildly bursting into tears.
“Where is her mother? where is Mrs. Legrange, James?”
“I don't know, sir, I'm sure,” said the footman blankly.
“She's in her own room, sir; and I'm afraid to go to tell
mine: I only went”—
“Hush!” exclaimed Mr. Legrange, who had heard his
wife close her chamber-door and begin to descend the stairs,
and did not wish her to be frightened.
“Wait here a moment, Susan,” added he, and, running
up stairs, entered the drawing-room just after his wife, who
stood before the fire, looking so pretty and so gay in her
blue silk-dress, with a ribbon of the same shade twisted
among her golden curls, that her husband shrunk back,
dreading to ask the question that must so shock and startle
her. But Mrs. Legrange had caught sight of him, and,
running to the door, opened it suddenly, crying,—
“Come in, you silly boy! Are you playing bo-beep?
I don't do such things since my daughter is six years old, I
would have you to understand.”
Mr. Legrange, forcing a laugh and a careless tone, came
forward as she spoke, and, stooping to kiss her, asked,—
“And where is your daughter, my love?”
“'Toinette? Oh! I suppose she is with Susan,” began
Mrs. Legrange carelessly; and then, as something in her
husband's voice or manner attracted her attention, she
drew back, and hurriedly looked into his face, crying,—
“O Paul! what is it? What has happened? Is 'Toinette
hurt? Where is she?”
“Be quiet, darling; don't be alarmed. Wait till we know
more. — Susan, come up here,” called Mr. Legrange; and
Susan, with her face buried in her apron, and sobbing as
if her heart would break, crept timidly up the stairs and
into the room.
At sight of her, Mrs. Legrange turned pale, and clung to
her husband for support.
“O Susan! what is it? Tell me quick!”
“She's gone, ma'am, and I don't know where!” sobbed
the nurse.
“Gone! What, 'Toinette gone! Lost, do you mean?”
cried the mother wildly, while her pale cheeks flushed
scarlet, and her soft eyes glittered with terror.
“Oh! I don't know, ma'am; but I can't find her.”
“Lost! What, 'Toinette lost!” repeated the mother in
the same wild tone, and trying to tear herself away from
her husband's detaining arms. But, soothing her as he
would a child, Mr. Legrange, by a few calm and well-directed
questions, drew from both mistress and maid all
that was to be known of 'Toinette's disappearance, and,
when the whole was told, said, —
“Well, Susan, you are not to blame. You merely
obeyed your mistress's directions, and need not feel that this
misfortune is at all your fault. No doubt 'Toinette has
gone out by herself, and is, for the moment, lost, but, I
trust, will soon be found. You may go at once to the
houses of the neighbors whose children she has been in the
habit of visiting. Be as quick as you can about it; and, if
you do not find her, come directly home, and I will warn
the police. Send James up to me as you go down.”
“Yes, sir,” said Susan, a little comforted; and, as she
closed the door, Mr. Legrange returned to his wife, and,
clasping her tenderly in his arms, kissed the burning cheeks
and glittering eyes that frightened him, until the dangerous
calm broke up in a gracious flood of tears and wild sobs of,
“My child! — O my little child!”
“Hush, darling, hush! You must be calm, or I cannot
leave you, — cannot go to look for her. I will not leave
you so, even to search for her.”
“Yes, yes, go! I will try — O Paul, Paul! do go and
look for her!”
“When I see you calmer, love; not till then;” and the
tender-hearted man could himself have wept to see the
heroic efforts of that delicate nature to control itself and
a tap at the door, entered James, followed by Susan, who
hurriedly announced that 'Toinette was not to be heard of
at any of the neighbors, and asked where she should go
next.
“Nowhere! Stay here and attend to Mrs. Legrange
until I return. I shall go at once to the police-station.
James, you know where Mr. Burroughs lives?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Go to him. Or stay: he is dining with a friend to-day.
Here is the direction. Go to this house at once; see Mr.
Burroughs; tell him that 'Toinette is lost, and beg him to
come up here directly. Keep your eyes open as you go:
you may possibly meet her yourself. Hurry, man; hurry
for your life!”
“Yes, sir,” replied the man heartily; and Mr. Legrange
returned to his wife, who was walking quickly up and down
the room, her hands clasped tight before her, her lips rigid,
and her eyes set.
“There, darling, I have sent for Tom to help us; and
no one could do it better than he will. I am going to the
police myself. Take courage, dearest, and hope, as I do,
that, before morning, we shall have our pet back, safe and
Try, try, for my sake, for 'Toinette's sake, to be calm and
hopeful.”
“Yes — I — will — try!” sobbed the poor mother; and
Mr. Legrange, not daring to trust himself to look at her
again, lest he also should break down, hastened from the
room.
But morning came, and night, and yet another morning;
and as the father, the mother, the cousin who was almost
brother to both, the assistants, and poor broken-hearted
Susan, looked into each other's wan, worn faces, they found
nothing there but discouragement, and almost hopeless
despair.
Mrs. Legrange who had not eaten or slept since 'Toinette's
disappearance, was already too ill to sit up, but
insisted upon remaining dressed, and waiting in the drawing-room
for the reports that some one of those engaged in
the search brought almost hourly to the house. Her husband,
looking like the ghost of his former self, wandered
incessantly from his own home to the police-office and back
again, each time through some new street, and peering so
curiously into the face of every child he met, that more
than one of them ran frightened home to tell their mothers
would eat them up.
And yet no clew, no faintest trace, of the little 'Toinette,
who lay tossing in her fever-dreams upon good Mrs. Ginniss's
humble bed, while the young doctor day by day shook
his head more sadly over her, and said to his own heart
that it was only by God's special mercy she could ever
arise from that cruel illness.
| CHAPTER X.
THE EMPTY NEST. Outpost | |