Chapter XII: The Lost Letter

"COME, Judith," said Ruth, when she went back to the others, "we will go upstairs and put away some of your things, shall we?"

"Just as you like—"

"Then we will. There is a dear little chest of drawers in your room, just what will suit you! I had them when I was your age."

"I do not much mind," said Judith. "I wish I knew where Norman is to sleep—"

The ayah looked up eagerly, and was going to explain her view of the case, but Ruth stopped her at once. "My father will hear all about it, and will then decide. He is a doctor, and is sure to be kind."

With this Mala had to be satisfied, though she submitted with very bad grace, fussing over her little charge ostentatiously, and asking him if he were not tired, and did not want to go to bed?

To all of which he seemed to reply very little, but sat patiently on the sofa, holding something evidently very precious in his arms, and peeping in at the side of the parcel very often.

Ruth had never been used to opposition or contradiction since her babyhood, and it made her blood boil to have the ayah defy her in manner, if not in words.

"How shall I bear it," she thought. And then, with a sense of relief, she remembered Mary Arundel's words, "Nothing is impossible to God," and then all at once the acuteness of the burden seemed lifted. "I'll try to be loving to her," she said to herself, and turned to Judith, who was standing near her, with her dark eyes fixed upon her face.

"Judith, dear!" she exclaimed, in a gentle beseeching tone.

Just at this moment, they heard Heston's step springing up the stairs. He entered the open door and seated himself, as if quite at home, upon one of Judith's trunks. Then after a glance at the other two, he bent forward to undo the fastenings of a Gladstone bag in front of him.

Ruth had wound herself up to a great effort; a sudden hope had sprung up in her heart that she might win this proud little cousin, instead of almost hating her.

"Judith, dear," she said, almost in a whisper, "can you not try to love me? Indeed, I mean to be kind, and do all I can to make you happy—"

Ruth's eyes were full. She sat down on the edge of a chair, and took the child's delicate little hands in hers, and looked up in her face.

"You can treat me as you like!" exclaimed Judith. "I can bear it. It is Norman, poor little afflicted Norman, who cannot stand up for himself, that I care about—"

"But, dear, Norman shall have every care—"

"What!" exclaimed his sister passionately. "And the very first thing you do is to put him in a room by himself, away from everybody, when he may be frightened, and cannot call if he were! I think it is cruel—" and she wrenched away her hand.

"Cannot call?" echoed Ruth, turning her eyes appealingly to Heston, who suddenly exclaimed, "Dry up this fuss, Judith. Cousin Ruth, I'm awfully sorry, but my uncle never had the letter; so of course you don't know."

"Know what?" asked Ruth, with sinking heart at she knew not what.

And then Judith's little fingers were laid on hers with trembling eagerness, and the dark eyes were raised beseechingly, as she said with a sob—

"He cannot speak—he is dumb!"

Ruth had enough tenderness and womanliness to gather the trembling child into her arms, as she exclaimed, "Oh, I never knew! How is it we did not know? I cannot believe it—"

"The letters did not reach uncle," said Heston, coming to their side, "but don't take on, Cousin Ruth. Perhaps something may be done for him. That's partly why my father was so glad for us to come to England."

"But when?" asked Ruth, looking up and wiping her eyes.

"While I was at school in Germany. It was a sudden fright. My father always hoped he would outgrow it, so very little was said about it at the time. But it is four years now."

Judith was still standing within Ruth's arm; Mala was bustling about from room to room, carrying clothes and belongings to their different places.

How much she took in of the facts of the case could not be guessed from her impassive face.

Suddenly Judith moved. She had not spoken one word hitherto since her outburst. She had only scanned Ruth's face to see there, perhaps, the truth or falsehood of this astonishing situation. Apparently having satisfied herself, she stepped in front of her cousin, and said humbly, "Cousin Ruth, I beg your pardon for what I said—I was mistaken—" And with that, she fled into the other room, and was found kissing her little brother and making much of him.

"He want to open his mice, missy Ruth. But he tired now—where I put him to bed?"

"It's all settled," said Heston; "at least, you are to go down, please, Cousin Ruth, and see uncle. I forgot to tell you before. Come along, Norman, I'll undo the mice, and we'll see if they are all right. You will soon be in bed now, and can have them by you, as usual, uncle says."

As Ruth went down the stairs, she felt as if a great piece of life had passed since that afternoon. But she had the warm feeling at her heart that once again she had been "helped," and this gave her fresh courage for the future.