"I SUPPOSE IT WAS AN HOUR."
"Poor dear James is the worthiest soul, but he has no more brains than
a pin--the small kind of pin that you get in change for a farthing!"
"James always seemed to me a good footman."
"Rupert! He is an admirable footman. I haven't a word to say against
him in that capacity. He does his duties with the beautiful regularity
of an automatic machine. But move James from his own dear little
beaten track, and he is lost, hopelessly, irrevocably lost!"
"What beaten track has he left? and why is he rousing your ladyship's
wrath?"
Lady Cicely Redesdale, lying back in the cosiest chair of her cosy
boudoir, swung her pretty foot to and fro, and glanced up at her tall
cousin with one of her gay little laughs. Rupert Mernside, the son of
her mother's sister, had always been to her more of elder brother than
cousin, and from their earliest youth there had existed between them a
frank _camaraderie_ which had never degenerated into flirtation, or
drifted into any sentimental relationship. Cicely was in the habit of
saying that Rupert was the person of all others from whom she would not
only ask, but take, advice; because his judgment was so sound and he
possessed a really well-balanced mind. This opinion of him had been
endorsed by her late husband, who had only qualified it with one
limitation.
"Rupert's got as sound and balanced a mind as any man could wish for,
but once let the right woman get hold of him, and she will twist him
round her little finger."
Those words of her husband recurred to Cicely now, as she lifted her
eyes from their contemplation of her own dainty shoes and looked up
into Rupert's rugged face.
"I should rather like to see a woman twist you round her little
finger," she said irrelevantly.
"A woman--me? What on earth have a woman and I got to do with James's
delinquencies?"
"There is method in my madness, but the lane that led from James to
your little finger, and the not impossible she, is so long that I can't
take you back along its windings. It all comes of the power of
association. I shall have Baba taught everything by association. I am
planning a scheme of education that----"
"Where does James come in to the plan for Baba's education?" Rupert
contrived to ask, his grey eyes shining, a whimsical smile playing
round his mouth.
"Oh! my dear boy, I had completely forgotten James, though talking of
Baba would soon have reminded me of him--poor silly thing! Baba ran
away two days ago in that appalling fog--and----"
"_Baba ran away?_"
"Well, the door was open; I suppose the outside world looked rather
fascinating and mysterious, and she has no nurse just now, you know; so
there was no one with her; and, of course, Jane, the nursery maid, was
fetching something from the kitchen--and--well, the long and the short
of it was that Baba ran out into the street, and was promptly swallowed
up by the fog."
"My dear Cicely!"
"Providentially, as I now consider it, I was out. I had an early
appointment with Mathilde."
"Your dressmaker?"
"My dressmaker. Wasn't it kind of luck, or whatever it is, to let it
all happen when I wasn't there. Rupert, if I had been at home, and
they told me Baba was lost, I should have gone straight off my head."
"That would have been an eminently useful and practical thing to do,"
was the dry retort.
"You have never been a mother; you don't know what a mother feels like
about her only child," Cicely said with an attempt at dignity that sat
quaintly upon her small person and drew an amused laugh from her
cousin. "I believe it would kill me if anything really happened to
Baba," she went on, more gravely; "you think I'm just a silly,
frivolous thing, but--Baba is all the world to me."
"I know, dear; I know quite well," Rupert answered kindly; "and nobody
could think you silly. But go on and tell me what happened two days
ago. We haven't got to James's shortcomings _yet_."
"Baba ran out into the square, and nobody missed her at first. Then,
when that goose of a Jane came back from her wanderings in the kitchen,
she found the nurseries empty, and Baba nowhere to be found. There was
a tremendous hue and cry; the servants seem to have been on the verge
of distraction, and ran off in all directions like frightened hens,
leaving James on guard at the door. And, after a few minutes, when the
fog lifted, James caught sight of Baba in a strange girl's arms,
evidently quite at home with her, and very happy. You know Baba's
ducky way of making friends with everybody. James flew out, seized
Baba, seems to have thanked her rescuer, and bustled back to the house
with the child, without ever dreaming of asking the stranger her name."
"What sort of a person was she?"
"Oh! I don't know. When I asked James he could only say: 'Well, my
lady, she seemed a nice respectable young person'; but heaven knows
what James means by a young person. He further volunteered that she
was rather shabbily dressed; and I can't bear to think that she went
away with no thanks from me, and with no reward."
Rupert smiled down into his cousin's pretty, eager face.
"Perhaps the thought of reward never entered her head? There are still
some disinterested people left in the world. And Baba is a very
fetching little being to rescue from the dangers of a fog."
"She looked so fetching that morning, too. I came in just after she
was brought back, and there she was, the little monkey, in her red
cloak which she had found in the hall, where, needless to say, it ought
not to have been; with no hat, and all her curls in a delicious tangle,
her face so soft and pink, and her eyes shining. She looked a
delectable baby, but, Rupert, she had on the most valuable lace frock,
and pearls round her neck. Only think what might have happened if some
horrible person had found her. My pretty baby," and Cicely's face grew
suddenly white and grave, whilst she shivered at the picture conjured
up by her own mind.
"I asked James why he hadn't told the 'young person' to give him her
name and address, and he could only say feebly that 'it never crossed
his mind.' Poor James, I don't believe he's got a mind."
"You could advertise for the young lady. If you really want to find
her, an advertisement in some leading paper should unearth her for you.
Perhaps, too, if she was shabbily dressed, a reward might be a god-send
to her."
"Oh, Rupert! perhaps she's fearfully poor. Do, do advertise for me. I
can't bear to think that a girl may be in difficulties when I have more
money than I know what to do with. Will you advertise for me?"
"Yes; of course."
"I don't know what I should do without you," she continued, looking at
him gravely, but with no hint of coquettishness in her glance. "I do
miss John so dreadfully; I do want a man to help me and advise me."
"You can have me whenever you want me," her cousin answered with equal
gravity, knowing that her words, which in another woman's mouth might
have implied a desire to change their friendly relations for something
more lover-like, on Cicely's lips held merely their surface meaning--no
more.
"I always hope that some day you will marry again," Rupert went on with
brotherly frankness; "you have been alone three years now. Your great
property is a big handful for a woman to manage, and John would wish
for your happiness above everything else in the world."
"John never thought of anything but my happiness," was the gentle
answer. "I don't think any girl ever had a better, dearer husband.
People thought, perhaps you thought so, too, that I just married him
for his money. It wasn't true. At first--quite at first--when father
showed me what a huge difference it would make to them all if I married
a millionaire, I _did_ think more of John's fortune than of himself.
But, it was only quite at first. After that, I knew I would rather
live in a cottage with him than in a palace with anybody else.
I--don't think--I shall marry again--unless I find I am too weak and
silly to manage Baba's fortune by myself."
Rupert looked silently down at her bent, bright head, a new reverence
stirring within him for the little cousin. Hitherto, he had regarded
her with the kindly affection of an elder brother for a small sister
whom he considers scarcely more than a child; but this grave Cicely was
showing him depths of whose existence he had never been even dimly
aware.
"But that's enough of being solemn," Cicely exclaimed, shattering his
new conception of her with characteristic suddenness; "talking of
marriage, the thing I hanker for most in the whole world is to see you
married, Rupert. You don't look a bit like a soured old bachelor, and
yet--here you are, more than thirty-five, and not one single woman's
name has ever been mentioned in connection with yours."
"For which mercy let us be humbly and devoutly thankful," her cousin
answered, laughing, though how sincere was his thankfulness only his
own heart knew, and into that heart there flashed as he spoke the
vision of a white face and dark eyes, deep with unfathomable mystery;
"if I don't want to marry, why hustle me into the holy estate? I
believe the Prayer Book strongly urges us not to undertake it lightly
or unadvisedly."
"Now, you are flippant. As if you would be marrying lightly or
unadvisedly, if you wait until you are within five years of forty,
before choosing a wife. When I think of the hundreds of really
charming girls I've introduced you to, with----"
"With a view to matrimony," Rupert ended the sentence, punctuating his
words with a laugh. "Let me recommend you to study the matrimonial
columns of some of the papers. You will possibly find an eligible
husband there for some of your charming girls."
"_Rupert!_ don't be so incorrigibly low and horrid. As if any girl
with a rag of decency or self-respect would answer one of those
advertisements. Why, men who advertise for wives can only be seedy
adventurers, the sort of person one reads of in books and never meets
in real life."
"Seedy sort of adventurers," Rupert repeated slowly, turning, as if by
chance, to survey his own reflection in the mirror over the
mantelpiece; "there are adventurers and adventurers. Perhaps some of
those who advertise do it--for a joke."
"Just like a man if they do," his cousin answered vehemently; "and then
some poor girl takes the wretched creature seriously, and thinks he
means his stupid joke. I should despise a girl who answered such an
advertisement, but I should much more despise the man who inserted it."
"Don't scorn them too much. Everybody has different ideals, and it
takes all sorts to make a world. Your sort don't advertise for
husbands and wives, but our section of society is not so faultless that
we can afford to throw stones even at people who marry through a
matrimonial bureau."
"It's so low. The sort of thing a shop girl might do."
"Not lower than displaying your daughters in the best market, as the
Society mother does," Rupert answered sternly; "not lower than running
a man to earth, as shoals of women do, and do it without an ounce of
shame."
"But, answering an advertisement like that is almost asking a man to
marry you."
"Perhaps, and when poor old Donkin lost his wife a year ago, a lot of
women wrote and proposed to him. Yes, _actually wrote and offered to
marry him_! He told me so himself, and those were women of your class,
well born and well educated. Well, we have the consolation of knowing
that he refused the lot."
"Horrid beasts! no wonder you men lose your respect for women, if you
think we are all capable of doing that sort of thing."
"We don't think so," Rupert's contemptuous tones grew gentle again; "we
know the difference between the womanly woman and the others. Thank
God, there are plenty of the right sort left," and Rupert stooped
suddenly and took his cousin's two small hands into his.
"You aren't going?" she exclaimed. "I wanted you to see Baba, and
there are thousands of things I meant to say to you."
"So sorry, but the thousands of things must be postponed. I have an
appointment at five, and I must keep it."
"You will advertise for the 'young person'?"
"Yes; I won't forget the 'young person'--and--by the way, Cicely," a
slight trace of embarrassment showed on his face, "didn't you tell me
you wanted to find a sort of nursery governess for Baba?"
"Certainly, I do; but, my dear boy, what do you know about nursery
governesses?"
"I don't know anything about them," was the reply, but Cicely's quick
eyes still noted embarrassment in both voice and manner, "but I heard
the other day of a girl who--who might be wanting a post."
"A girl who might be wanting a post," Cicely exclaimed mockingly; "the
person I engage for Baba, would have to be somebody much less vague
than that, and she must have unimpeachable references."
"Unimpeachable references," Mernside reflected as he left his cousin's
house; and, side by side with Cicely's words, other words tossed to and
fro in his brain, words written in a clear, girlish hand that had an
odd character of its own.
"I cannot find work, and I need a home very much."
"Probably she is quite impossible," his reflections ran on. "Cicely
had a good deal of right on her side when she talked about shop girls
and matrimonial advertisements. I daresay I shall find C.M. belongs to
that class of girl, and if so, what am I going to do about her? Ah!
well; Margaret will help."
It was this thought that buoyed him up during his walk across the park
from the Redesdale's mansion in Eaton Square, to the small white house
in Bayswater; but as he pushed open the familiar gate and walked up the
garden path, a shock of surprise awaited him. The blinds of the room
to the right of the front door were pulled down, and his repeated
ringing of the bell brought no response from within. The bell clanged
in the kitchen regions, its echoes dying away forlornly, but no
footstep sounded in the hall, no hand lifted the latch of the door, and
as he stepped back and looked up at the house, Rupert saw that no smoke
was coming from the chimneys. A sick fear smote at his heart. What
had happened? What could have happened? The day before, he had been
here, sitting with Margaret in that very room over whose windows the
blinds were now so closely drawn. She had seemed tired, it was true,
but not more tired than he had often seen her, and he had no reason to
suppose that she was more ill than usual. She was always fragile; he
was accustomed to find her one week on the sofa, another week
sufficiently strong to be moving about the room, and even going out of
doors. But that her house should be barred and bolted against him was
inexplicable. He felt as though the ground had been cut away from
under his feet, as if the very foundations of his life had been shaken.
Why! to-day was the day she had herself fixed for his interview in her
house with the girl of the advertisement. Margaret had arranged the
hour; it was by her suggestion that he had written to C.M., proposing a
meeting at 100, Barford Road, and now he found the house locked up and
apparently empty, with no word of explanation or apology. Could
Margaret have been suddenly taken ill? If so, why had she not let him
know? Yet, if she was ill, she would be in the house, and Elizabeth
with her. Somebody would have answered his ringing, which had grown
more and more imperative as each ring remained unanswered. Could she
have gone away? Gone away without letting him have the slightest hint
of her intended going? Was that more conceivable than his theory of
sudden illness? Again, sick dismay knocked at the door of his heart,
and with it came a wave of hot anger against Margaret. Surely his
years of faithful devotion, of willing service, had entitled him to
more consideration than this at her hands. He had made few demands
upon her, but this sudden and unexplained disappearance was a strain
which even the merest friendship should not be called upon to bear.
Once again he pealed the bell, and even knocked vigorously at the
knocker, but neither sound produced the slightest effect, and he was
perforce turning away, when the gate clicked and he saw a breathless
personage of the charwoman class hurrying up the path.
"I'm sure I beg your parding, sir," she panted; "just like my luck to
a' popped out for a minute twice in the afternoon, and each time
somebody called."
"Are you in charge of this house?" Rupert asked, his own agitation
making him speak more sternly than the occasion quite warranted.
"Yes, sir; and I'm truly sorry, sir," the woman whimpered, wiping her
much-heated face with a grimy apron; "come here yesterday, I did, all
of a sudden, Mrs. Stanforth and Miss Herring, her maid, going away
unexpected, and me havin' a extra lot of washin' and all. But I says
to Jem, my son, 'Jem,' I says----"
"Yes, yes," Rupert interrupted impatiently, "but where is Mrs.
Stanforth? Did she leave any message? Any note? Did she tell you to
say anything to people who called?"
"Lor', no, sir. Went off in a hurry and didn't leave no messages nor
nothin'. And I'm sure I'm sorry I wasn't 'ere when you come, but I'd
popped out for a minute, and let out the kitchen fire, too, and I just
'ad to see to my bit o' washin', and there, I run back a half an 'our
ago, and there was a young lady in a rare takin' then, and so----"
"A young lady," Rupert again broke into her stream of words.
"Pore young thing, she did seem upset over it, too. Said she was
expected, and she was to be 'ere at five, and all. There! I was sorry
for 'er. Seemed to strike 'er all of an 'eap when she see the shut up
'ouse. She says quite 'urt like: 'Well, I s'pose it was an 'oax.'
Them was 'er very words."
"I suppose you explained to her that the lady had gone away
unexpectedly?" Rupert exclaimed with growing irritation; "you didn't
let the young lady think she had been brought here for a _joke_?"
"Well, o' course, sir, I didn't know nothin' about it," was the
offended retort; "if you ask me, I should say there was somethin' queer
in tellin' somebody to come to an 'ouse at five o'clock, and then for
the 'ouse to be shut up. Which I should say it was a pore joke meself.
She says: 'Ain't Mr. Mernside 'ere?' and I says, 'I don't know nothin'
about nobody o' that name,' and she looks as took aback as if I'd 'it
'er, and so----"
Rupert uttered a smothered oath, then mastered himself, and asked more
quietly:
"And how long has the young lady been gone?"
"Best part of a quarter of a hour. Quiet young lady she was, too;
dressed very plain; you might say shabby; and went orf lookin' fit to
cry with disappointment. And I just popped out agin to git me bit o'
relish for tea, and _you_ come; lor', it do seem strange."
The good lady was left to address her rambling remarks to the shrubs in
the garden, for Rupert, unable to bear more of her discursiveness,
turned and fled, shutting the garden gate with a sharp clang behind
him, and feeling that his world had all at once gone wrong, very wrong
indeed.