CHAPTER VII

The Story of Mercy Ingledew

One result of the coolness and subsequent reconciliation between Linda and Sylvia was the establishment of a firm friendship between the latter and Mercy Ingledew. Sylvia, who had been more accustomed at home to grown-up people than children, was attracted to Mercy at once, and the elder girl saw so much that was unusual and lovable in the younger one's character that she took a strong interest in getting to know her better. Mercy was a tall, fair girl of sixteen, with a sweet, thoughtful face, and a particularly pleasant open expression. She was a great favourite, both with teachers and pupils, a plodding, conscientious worker, and always ready to give help or sympathy to anyone who stood in need of either. Miss Kaye had made a wise choice in appointing her monitress of the upper landing, as no one could have more fully appreciated the responsibilities of the post. She tried as much as lay in her power to 'mother' all the eight little girls of the third class, looking after them in their bedrooms, reviewing their clothing, helping to brush their hair, settling their disputes, advising them in any question of right and wrong, and keeping them up to the mark in matters of school discipline, and she managed to do it in such a jolly, hearty, affectionate, tactful manner that not one of them resented her interference. Mercy had very soon discovered that Sylvia had far more in her than most girls of her age, the expressive hazel-grey eyes, lost sometimes in a brown study, or shining with excitement over some new pleasure, told a tale of the eager mind behind them; and the child's many quaint remarks, decided opinions, the flashes of humour or flights of fancy in which she occasionally indulged, singled her out as possessing powers far beyond the average.

"She has just twice the brains of Connie Camden or Nina Forster," said Mercy to a fellow monitress; "I shouldn't be at all surprised if she were to be a great credit to the school some day. You should hear the clever games she invents for the babies, and the marvellous stories she makes up for them. She really has a wonderful imagination. She has got through nearly half the Waverley novels already, and I found her reading Tennyson one day. She's rather too fond of airing her ideas, and is a little conceited, but Hazel and Marian sit upon her so hard that she'll soon get over it. She's a most affectionate child, far more so than any of the others. She's the only one who ever seems really grateful for what one does for them. I think she's a dear little thing, and I'm glad she has come here."

If Mercy were disposed to make much of Sylvia, the latter was only too ready to return her kindness with that devotion which a younger girl often feels for one considerably older than herself. With Sylvia it was not a shifting fancy, such as Nina Forster formed nearly every week, and changed as rapidly, but a genuine love, founded on a firm basis of all-round admiration. She thought Mercy the prettiest, cleverest, and best girl she had ever known in her life, and when she discovered her to be the heroine of a most romantic history, her interest in her was increased a thousandfold. She had heard once or twice that Mercy was an orphan, and had no home of her own to go to during the holidays, but it was only by degrees she gathered the various facts of the case, though when they were fitted together they formed a narrative as thrilling as any to be found in the gaily bound volumes over which it had been her delight to pore. As Sylvia got the account mostly in disjointed scraps, first from one girl and then from another, and was obliged to connect them for herself, it will be as well to tell Mercy's story here as she learnt it more fully afterwards, since it had some bearing and influence on various incidents which happened later and led in the end to unforeseen events.

Fifteen years ago there was great uneasiness among the white residents of the city of Tsien-Lou, in a certain inland province of China. There had been rumours of serious riots and outrages against foreigners farther up the country; terrible tales were whispered of houses burnt and families murdered, and both the British Consul and the Commissioner of Trade had warned the little colony of Europeans to keep strictly within its own quarter, and not to trust to any fair promises made by their yellow-skinned, almond-eyed neighbours, who resented their presence in the land with such fierce intolerance. Business for a while was suspended; it was not considered safe for a white face to be seen in the streets, and even the Chinese servants who did their daily duties in the houses were regarded with suspicion. Only the Ingledew Medical Missionary Station, at the outskirts of the town near the old Kia-yu gate, went on with its work as usual, nursing the sick in the hospital, attending to the numerous outpatients who came every day for medicine and treatment, teaching the children in the school, and holding the daily Bible readings which all were still invited to attend. It was an anxious time for both doctors and nurses; they knew that they carried their lives in their hands, and that at some given signal the flame of fanaticism might burst out, and hordes of shrieking, murderous, pigtailed natives might sweep over the mission, leaving nothing but smoking ruins and desolation behind them.

It was with a troubled mind, therefore, that Sister Grace, the head of the nursing staff, went out one evening into the patch of enclosed garden which surrounded the hospital buildings, and, shading her eyes with her hand, looked far along the road that led to the hill country. There was a fierce, fiery sunset; it seemed as if the very sky were stained with blood, and the cross on the top of the little chapel stood out dark and startling against the lurid background. She passed slowly down the walk to shut the great gate, which, though open by day to every comer, was always safely barred at night, and she was in the act of sliding the bolt and securing the chain, when she paused suddenly and listened. She had heard a moan outside, a distinct, long-drawn, suffering sigh, that quivered a moment and then died away into silence. Someone on the other side of the gate was in distress or pain, and it was clearly her duty to enquire into the cause. With a beating heart she undid the fastening and peeped out. Crouched down on the step, as if she could drag herself no farther, was a Chinese woman bearing a baby fastened on to her back. She was desperately wounded, the blood still flowed from a gash on her head, and stains on the roadside marked the track along which she must have crawled in her agony to reach the friendly shelter of the wooden archway. Life was almost spent, but with an effort of desperation she managed to raise herself into a kneeling posture, and, clasping her hands together, cried out in Chinese: "Mercy! Mercy! The child!" and, with a last glance of supplicating appeal, fell across the threshold at the feet of the trembling nurse. Help was summoned at once, and she was carried into the hospital; but she was already past all human aid. She had accomplished her errand with the last spark of her dying strength, and had gone out into the light beyond the sunset.

Sister Grace took the baby from her and laid the little creature gently on the bed, unfolding some of the curious Chinese clothing in which it was closely wrapped. She had unloosed the wadded coat, and now pulled off the queer double-peaked crimson cap, disclosing as she did so, not the expected shaved head, with its fringe of coarse black hair, but a crop of short, tight, flaxen curls, like rings of floss silk, falling round a pair of flushed cheeks as pink as appleblossom.

She uttered a cry that drew both doctor and nurses to her side. "Look! Look!" she exclaimed, "the child is white!"

Where the poor baby had come from or to whom it belonged no one knew. It was warm and unhurt, though in such a deep sleep that it had evidently been drugged to prevent it from crying. Beyond a small woollen vest it was dressed in Chinese clothes, no doubt with the intention of passing it off as a native, and it wore a carved Chinese charm tied round its neck. It was a little girl of apparently about a year old, so round and pretty and dimpled that, when at last, after many hours, she opened her big blue eyes, she won all hearts in the hospital at once.

It was impossible to institute any enquiries regarding her during the troublous time which followed. The Mission, indeed, escaped attack, but it was many months before communication with the outside world was safely established, and by then every clue seemed to have been lost. The consul did his best, and made the case widely known among the European residents in China, but many families had perished in the uprising, and no one could tell by which of them the child might have been claimed.

The little waif stayed on therefore at the Ingledew hospital, where she grew apace, and was soon the pet and darling of everybody who knew her. It was decided to call her "Mercy", in memory of the last words of the woman who had saved her life, and "Ingledew" was added as a surname for lack of any other.

It was when she was about seven years old that the doctor and his wife, who were returning to England for a year's leave, determined to take her with them and to try to make some arrangements for her education. A philanthropic lady, who happened to join the ship at Ceylon, heard the strange story, and, taking a fancy to the child, offered to send her to school; so it was in this way that Mercy had come to Miss Kaye's, where she had remained ever since.

Last year, however, a great misfortune had occurred. Her kind guardian, who had always taken the warmest interest in her welfare, had died suddenly without making a will; her heirs did not feel themselves bound to continue Mercy's school fees; and again she was left utterly unprovided for. Here Miss Kaye had come to the rescue, and had promised to keep her at Heathercliffe House until she should be old enough to earn her own living as a teacher, and Mercy repaid the kindness bestowed upon her by working her very best and trying to fit herself for the career which she was to follow by and by. Nine years at Aberglyn had blurred her memories of her early life in China, but she still wrote to her friends at the Mission, and said she never forgot that one spot, though other scenes might have faded from her remembrance.

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. _Nobody'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 washing 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. Nobody 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 Saturday," 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 Saturday morning to Aberglyn and assist 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 class, 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 glass and china stall, replenishing 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 shilling."

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 brushing 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.

"She's here now in the market," replied Sylvia triumphantly.

"Where? Oh, where?"

"Just in the next row at the pot stall."

"Let us go at once," said the tall lady, hastily paying for her fruit, and hurrying away in as much agitation as Sylvia herself.

"I don't see her!" she continued in a disappointed tone, when they had turned the corner, looking anxiously among the crockery laid on the ground, and even peeping under the stall.

"She's there with Miss Kaye," said Sylvia.

"Where, my dear?"

"Of course you won't recognize her, because she's grown so, but she's that tall, fair girl with the long, light hair. Oh! May I tell her, or would you rather tell her yourself?"

The lady looked first at Sylvia and then at her short friend with a most puzzled expression.

"What is the child talking about?" she asked; "I don't understand."

"You said you'd lost her," faltered Sylvia.

"So I did."

"And there she is--your own daughter!"

"Daughter!" cried the lady, almost dropping her parcel in her surprise. "It was my dear little dog I was speaking of. I thought you said you had found her."

"What is the matter?" said Miss Kaye, coming up at this moment; "I believe I am addressing Mrs. Rushworth? Can I be of any assistance? Oh, no, we have found no dog! If we had I should have sent it at once to the police station. I am sorry there should have been a mistake. Come, Sylvia."

The disappointment was so horrible and tragic, and so different from anything she had expected, that Sylvia burst into a flood of tears. Was this the end of all her plans? Instead of accomplishing anything useful she had only made herself look extremely silly, and she wondered what Miss Kaye would have to say about it. At first the headmistress took no notice; she quietly finished her purchases, then, bidding Nessie Hirst go on with Trissie and Mercy, she gave Sylvia a parcel to carry and told her to walk by her side. She made no remark while they were still in the town, but once they were out on the country road she began to ask questions, and drew a full explanation from her sobbing pupil.

"Don't cry, my dear," she said kindly; "you have done your best. You are not the only one who has tried to find poor Mercy's relations, but the issue is in higher hands than ours. Do not speak to her of what has happened this morning; it is a subject which has caused her such great grief that I always shrink from allowing it to be mentioned. The truest way to prove your friendship is to help her to forget that she is alone in the world. Though we cannot supply the place of her own parents, we can at least show her how much we love her, and make her feel that she has many friends to compensate her for the loss of father and mother."