CHAPTER VI.
"BABA LOVES YOU VERY MUCH."
"Will the lady who on Monday morning brought Baba home out of the fog,kindly call at 100, Eaton Square, any time between eleven and oneo'clock?"
The words seemed to start from the printed page before Christina'seyes, and she read them over and over again with growing wonder. Itwas Friday morning, two days after her two disastrous visits--one tothe shut-up house in Bayswater, the other to the insolentjewellers--and with difficulty she had managed to crawl round to theFree Library, feeling that she dared leave no stone unturned in a freshsearch for work. The day before she had perforce spent in bed, for herday of fatigue, emotion, and exposure to the weather, had been followedby a night of fever and aching limbs; and on the Thursday morning shecould scarcely lift her head from the pillow. But on Friday, realisingaffrightedly that each day brought her nearer to absolute destitution,she made a herculean effort, got up and dressed, and, feeling more deadthan alive, dragged herself to the library, to study the monotonousadvertisement columns of the newspapers. And having wearily glanceddown the familiarly-worded lines, in which nursery governesses andcompanions were asked for, at wages that would not satisfy the averagekitchen-maid, she turned to the front page of the _Morning Post_, andfound herself confronted with the advertisement that now held herastonished eyes:
"Will the lady who on Monday morning brought Baba home out of the fog,kindly call at 100, Eaton Square, any time between eleven and oneo'clock."
Unless there were two Babas in the world, and two ladies who had takenthem home out of the fog, she herself was clearly the person indicatedby the advertisement; and as the square in which the bewitching babyhad been taken from her by an excited footman, was certainly EatonSquare, she had little doubt but that the advertiser wished to thank,and perhaps to reward, her. A hot flush came into her white cheeks asthe word "reward" entered her mind; all her instincts revolted againstthe notion of being rewarded for doing what had been a most obviousduty. But with the instinct of revolt came also a little rush of hope.To the tired girl the advertisement seemed like a friendly handoutstretched towards her; and though pride whispered to her to pay noheed to it, and to ignore it altogether, the sense that kindlinesstowards a total stranger had prompted the advertisement, fought hardwith pride. After all, if she went to 100, Eaton Square, she needaccept nothing at the hands of the inmates: that they should wish tothank her for the safe return of their little one was only natural, andit would be churlish of her to refuse to be thanked.
In her excitement, she omitted to take down any addresses of employers;for the first time since she had begun to haunt the Free Library, shewent out of its doors without a list of names to which letters must bewritten, setting forth her own qualifications for tending children, oramusing the elderly. She had actually forgotten to draw from herpocket the sheet of notepaper she never failed to bring with her on hermorning quest, so full was her mind of the coming visit to EatonSquare. Her weary limbs still refused to hurry, and she walked slowlyback to her lodgings, "to make herself tidy," as she put it, beforeventuring into what was to her an actually new world. Her heart wasbeating very fast as she rang the bell of the great Eaton Squaremansion, and, thanks partly to nervousness, partly to fatigue, her legswere trembling so much, that she was obliged to clutch at the wall forsupport, to prevent herself from falling. A footman flung open thedoor--a tall, rather supercilious footman, whose face was not thegood-natured, foolish face of the James who had lifted the red-cloakedbaby from her arms. This man looked the visitor up and down with acomprehensive stare, which held in it both enquiry and contempt, andhad the effect of banishing Christina's small remnant of courage.
"Could I--see--the lady of the house?" she asked.
"What might you want with her?" the servant demanded with a sniff.
"There was an advertisement in to-day's _Morning Post_," the girlanswered, her voice shaking with nervous weariness; "it said, 'callbetween eleven and one'--and I came to----"
"Come after the place, have you?"--the footman's tone changed to one ofhuge condescension. "Oh! well, step in, and I'll see if her ladyshipcan see you."
"The place!--her ladyship!" Christina looked at the man with bewilderedeyes, and said faintly--"I don't know anything about a place. I havenot come for that. Only the advertisement said, 'call between elevenand one o'clock.'"
"Step inside," came the short order, whilst Henry, the first footman,inwardly remarked that he wished her ladyship wouldn't go putting inadvertisements, and not mentioning them to the establishment. "Take aseat there, and I'll ascertain whether her ladyship is disengaged."
Had Christina been in her normal health, the man's grandiloquent mannerand language would have amused her. With her nerves at high tension,her limbs trembling, and her whole frame exhausted and weary, she feltonly a great inclination either to flee out of the front door, or tosit down and cry. The hall, softly-carpeted and warm, fragrant withthe flowers massed in great pots at the foot of the staircase, andquiet with the stillness of a well-ordered house, oppressed her. Thesolemn voice of a grandfather clock in the corner, had only the effectof making the prevailing silence more noticeable, and Christinaexperienced a wild longing to scream, or to burst into uncontrollablelaughter, just to break the stillness which weighed upon her like anightmare.
"Will you come this way, please?"
She started violently as the footman's voice sounded close to her. Hisfootstep on the thick pile of the stair carpet had been quiteinaudible, and she was surprised to see him once more beside her. Athis bidding she rose mechanically, and followed him up the widestaircase, whose soft carpet was a bewildering novelty to the girlaccustomed to the simplest surroundings, across a landing, fragrant,like the hall, with growing roses and exotic plants, into a smallboudoir, in which she found herself alone. In all her twenty years oflife she had never before been in a room like this room, and, standingin the centre of it, just where her guide had left her, she lookedround her timidly, and drew a long breath of admiration and amazement.
The murkiness of the November day that darkened the world outside, didnot appear to enter into this lovely apartment, which gave Christina asense of summer and sunshine.
"It is just like a pink rose," she said to herself, her eyes wanderingfrom the walls, delicately tinted a soft rose colour, to the sofa andchairs upholstered in a deeper shade of the same colour, and thecarpet, whose darker tint of rose harmonised with the paler hues.Every table seemed to the girl to overflow with books and magazines;bowls of flowers, vases of flowers, pots of flowers, stood on everyavailable shelf, and in every possible corner. The windows were drapedwith rose-coloured silk curtains, that made even the grey sky beyondthem look less grey, and the pictures on the walls drew a gasp ofdelight from Christina's lips. They were mainly landscapes, and inalmost every case they represented wide spaces, open tracts of country,that gave one a sense of life and freshness. Here was an expanse ofsea, blue and smiling as the sky that stooped to meet it; there, longgreen rollers swept up a sandy beach, whilst clouds lit up by a rift ofsunshine, lay on the horizon. On this side was a moorland, purple withheather, bathed in the glory of the setting sun; on that side, a plain,far-reaching as the sea itself, soft and green and misty, bounded bymountains, whose snow-crowned summits stood out in serried statelinessagainst the faint blue sky. In a looking-glass hanging on the wall,Christina caught sight of her own reflection, and a shamedconsciousness of her white face and shabby clothes, gave her a sense ofthe incongruousness between her own appearance, and the lovelinessaround her. But this uneasy sense of discrepancy had barely enteredher mind, when the door opened, and there entered a tiny personage,whose daintiness made Christina all at once feel huge, awkward, andungainly.
"It was sweet of you to come," the little lady exclaimed, holding outto the girl a white hand flashing with diamonds, "you are the kind ladywho brought my Baba home? Henry was very incoherent; he always is, ina grand, long-winded way of his own. But I gathered f
rom hismeandering remarks, that you had come in answer to my advertisement."
"Yes," Christina answered; "I saw it--the advertisement--in the_Morning Post_ to-day. I thought it was so kind of you to advertise,that I came. But, of course, when I brought the darling baby home, Ionly did what everybody else would have done," she added, ratherbreathlessly.
"A lady--and very proud," the thought ran through her listener's brain;but aloud the little lady only said:
"I can't put into words how grateful I am to you, all the same. Yousee, my little girlie is my ewe lamb--my only child--and she is veryprecious. If anything had happened to her, I--oh! but we mustn't talkabout dreadful things that might happen, when I hope they never will.Baba was a naughty monkey to run out alone. But she is rather a sweetmonkey, isn't she?"
"She is one of the dearest babies I ever saw," Christina answeredsimply, sitting down in the chair her hostess pushed forward for her,and feeling some of her awkwardness slipping from her, in presence ofthis kindly, dainty little lady. With girlish enthusiasm her eyesdrank in the loveliness of the other's fair face, its delicatecolouring, its crown of bright hair; the perfection of the tiny form,the gracefulness of the dead black gown, that fell in exactly the rightfolds, and was hung as no dress of poor little Christina's had everbeen persuaded to hang.
"Baba--we call her Baba, because her own name, Veronica, is so big forsuch a baby--has managed to get rather out of hand since her nurseleft. We do try not to spoil her, but we don't always succeed verywell. I think you must be very fond of children--aren't you? You madea great impression on Baba."
"I love little children," Christina answered, with the simplicity andsincerity which characterised her; "since I have had to earn my ownliving, I have been a nursery governess."
"It is very absurd, but I don't even know your name, and I daresay youare equally ignorant of mine?" the little lady in the armchairexclaimed, with a gay laugh. "Rupert did not put any name in theadvertisement; he said it was wiser not--but I am Lady CicelyRedesdale, and Baba, as I say, is my only child, and--very precious."Lady Cicely's blue eyes looked thoughtfully at Christina, her lastwords were spoken absently.
"I did not even know into which house the small girl was carried onMonday," Christina replied, laughing also; "the footman ran along thepavement when he saw us, and until I read your advertisement to-day, Ihad no idea which number in the square was the one he had come from.My name is Moore--Christina Moore--and I live in Maremont Street."
"In Maremont Street? But--isn't that rather a--wretched neighbourhoodfor you? Do your people live there?"
"I have no people," the girl answered, an unconscious wistfulness inher eyes that appealed to Lady Cicely's kind heart. "I lost my fatherand mother three years ago, and since then I have been living with somefriends, and taking care of their children. But now they have gone toCanada and I am alone in the world." It was said without any _arrierepensee_; no thought of exploiting her loneliness crossed Christina'smind. The sympathetic glance of the blue eyes watching her, led her onto frankness of speech, and to speak to an educated lady again was adelight, to which for the past few months she had been an entirestranger.
"And you--are obliged to work for yourself?" Lady Cicely put thequestion with hesitating kindliness.
"Oh, yes"--a faint smile crossed Christina's face--"and just now it israther hard to get. Nobody seems to want the sort of work that I cando. You see, I have had very little education--not enough to teach bigchildren--and I have no certificates or diplomas, or anything. I don'tthink my father ever dreamt that I should have to earn my own living,or he would have had me trained to do it."
"But you have taken care of little children?" again Lady Cicely's eyessearched the girl's face earnestly--"and you are very fond of them?"
"I love them," Christina said, for the third time, "and I am nevertired of being with them, and taking care of them. But there are suchlots of other girls like me, with very few qualifications, and so,though I answer ever so many advertisements, I can't get a place."
"Do you mind waiting here just a moment?" Lady Cicely asked abruptly."I--I should like you to see Baba before you go; perhaps we mightfind--we might think----" and with this vague sentence, the small ladywent out of the room, leaving Christina puzzled and wondering.
Lady Cicely meanwhile hurried downstairs to the library, where a mansat looking over a mass of legal papers.
"Rupert," she exclaimed impetuously, "it is the girl who brought Bababack, and my brain is teeming with plans for helping her."
"Is she a young person?"
"No, no--a lady. Very shabby, very tired-looking, very poor, I shouldguess; but unmistakably a lady. And--I'm so sorry for her, Rupert; sheis just a slip of a girl, who looks as if she wanted mothering."
"Now, Cicely, do you wish to embark on the mother's role? As one ofyour trustees, let me warn you I shan't allow any quixotism."
"Leave those tiresome old papers for five minutes, and come and seethis girl. I don't want to be quixotic, and I am ready to abide byyour judgment, but come and look at Miss Moore."
"The tiresome old papers are fairly important deeds connected with yourestate, and the future inheritance of your daughter, Miss Veronica JoanRedesdale," her cousin answered with a laugh; "but I suppose yourladyship's whims must take precedence of your property. Where is MissMoore?"
"In my boudoir, and very shy. I am sure she was afraid at first that Imeant to offer her money, there was a sort of proud shrinking in hereyes--and she has very pretty eyes, too. Of course, my idea _had_ beento offer her money, because I imagined she would be of the shop-girltype, but I should as soon think of offering you money, as ofsuggesting giving it to Miss Moore."
"Come along, then; let us get the inspection over. But, if you can'tgive her money, what do you propose to do with her?"
"I--thought"--Lady Cicely paused, glanced into her cousin's grave face,and glanced away again--"I fancied, perhaps, I might help her to getwork. She is horribly poor, and she looks half-fed, and so tired.I--well--I--really and truly, Rupert, I wondered whether she could comehere as nurse to Baba."
A low whistle was Rupert's response, then he said slowly--
"You didn't suggest this to her, did you? You are so kind, soimpulsive, but, remember this girl is a perfect stranger. She maybe--anything. As you yourself told me two days ago, you must haveunimpeachable references with anyone who takes charge of Baba."
"Of course I said nothing to her. Now, Rupert, I know I am impulsive,but I am not entirely devoid of all common sense. Come and give meyour opinion, and I promise--yes, I absolutely _promise_--to be guidedby you."
Rupert's grey eyes smiled down with brotherly affection into his littlecousin's face, and he followed her obediently from the room, andupstairs, wondering vaguely why it was, that, much as he cared for andadmired Cicely, she had never inspired him with any deeper affection.Like an elder brother to her from her earliest childhood, the brotherlyrelation had continued between them after Cicely's marriage, and it hadbeen by her dead husband's most earnest wish, and specifiedinstructions, that Mernside was one of her trustees and Baba'sguardians, and Mr. Redesdale had bidden his wife consult Rupert abouteverything connected with the estate and its baby heiress.
On the landing at the head of the stairs a small figure with flyinggolden curls, and filmy white frock, flung herself upon her mother,shrieking delightedly.
"Baba's runned away from Jane. Now Baba come with mummy."
"Oh, Baba, you are not a good baby," Cicely exclaimed, with an attemptat severity, which only produced a chuckle from the small girl; "it istime mummy found a very stern nurse. Nevertheless her appearance isopportune," she said, _sotto voce_, to Rupert. "I told Miss Moore Iwould fetch Baba, and I don't want her to feel she is being inspected.Run on into mummy's boudoir, sweetheart," she added aloud to the child,"there's somebody there for Baba to see."
It was a pretty sight which greeted the two elders when, a momentlater, they entered the rose-c
oloured room; and Rupert paused for aninstant in the doorway, to look and smile. Baba, after one shortglance at the stranger, who had risen from her chair, made a rushacross the room towards her, clasped her round the knees, and criedfervently--
"Dat's Baba's lady, what found her in the ugly fog. Kiss Baba," and,at the moment of their entrance, Rupert and Cicely saw the girl stoopand lift the baby in her arms, with a tenderness that marked a truechild lover, and an absence of self-consciousness induced by herignorance that two pairs of eyes were fixed upon her.
"Baba loves you very much," the child babbled on, her soft fingerstouching Christina's white face, "and thank you for bringing Baba home.Pretty lady," she added suddenly, "Baba like when the pinky colour goesall up and down your cheeks." For, at that moment, the girl had becomeaware of the presence, not only of Lady Cicely, but of a tall strangerwith grave grey eyes, and a rosy flush swept over the whiteness of herface.
"Baba has not forgotten you," the former said, with her gay littlelaugh. "Rupert, this is Miss Moore, who so kindly brought naughty Babahome out of the fog. My cousin is Baba's guardian, Miss Moore, and heis as grateful to you as I am."
Christina, in her embarrassment, did not observe Lady Cicely's omissionof the tall stranger's surname; Cicely herself was unconscious that shehad not said it, and Rupert was only intent on setting the girl at herease.
"Baba seems to be bestowing her own thanks in her own violent way," hesaid, as the child's dimpled arms were flung again round Christina'sneck, and her soft face pressed against the girl's flushed one; "but weall owe you a debt of gratitude for having found, and brought her back.London streets are not the safest place for little babies of that age,with pearl necklaces round their necks."
"That was what I thought," Christina exclaimed impulsively; "atleast--I mean," she stammered, "I couldn't help being glad that I wasthe first person to find her, and that it was not one of the dreadfulpeople who do prowl about in fogs, who saw her first."
"We are most thankful for that, too," Rupert answered; and then, beinga man of the world, he skilfully led the conversation to more generalsubjects, until Christina was soon talking quietly and naturally, withno more tremors or self-consciousness.
When, a few minutes later, she rose to go, Lady Cicely held her handsin a clasp that was very comforting to the weary girl, and said gently--
"I am not going to worry you with more thank-yous; but I want you tocome and see me again in a day or two. I think, perhaps, I may be ableto hear of some work that would suit you."
As Christina wended her way homewards, she felt, tired though she was,as if her feet trod on air. Hope was once more fully alive within her.Lady Cicely's lovely face and charming manner had bewitched the girl,and she was sure--quite, quite sure--that if the sweet little blue-eyedlady said she would do something for her, that something wouldinfallibly be done. And--the tall cousin, with the grave grey eyes,and the mouth that seemed to Christina to be set in lines of pain?Those grey eyes and that firmly-set mouth, haunted her during the wholecourse of her walk, and through her mind there flashed unbidden thethought--
"I--wish I could comfort him. I am sure he is unhappy."
Her way led her past the newspaper shop kept by Mr. Coles, and thelittle man himself was standing at his door surveying the world.
"There is a letter in here for you, miss," he said good-naturedly; "itcame yesterday morning, and the wife and I made sure you'd be in forit."
Christina started. The events of the day had obliterated from her mindall recollection of the matrimonial advertisement, and the letters thatwere to be addressed to Mr. Coles's shop. The memory of Wednesday'sdisappointment came back to her, and as Mr. Coles put into her hand aletter addressed "C.M." in the same bold, strong hand that hadaddressed the other letter, her momentary inclination was to return itto its writer unopened.
"Perhaps there is some explanation," was her next and saner reflection;and, walking along the street, she opened, and read the letter, feelinga certain compunction as she did so. The address was still that of thenewspaper office, and the letter ran--
"DEAR MADAM,--
"I deeply regret that you found the house, at which I had asked you tocall, shut up. I reached it a few minutes after you had left, and tomy own great surprise found--as you had done--no one there but acaretaker. My friend must have been called away suddenly, for onTuesday, when I saw her, she most kindly arranged that her house shouldbe at my disposal. Please forgive what must have seemed to you moststrange. Would it suit you to arrange any meeting-place that wouldaccord with your wishes? With renewed apologies.
"Yours faithfully, "R. MERNSIDE."
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