A SEARCH.
DINNER in the hotel was served always at six o’clock. Though now
somewhat late in the season, tourists to the number of fifty still
mustered around the table of horseshoe shape. Considerable sensation
was caused by the late appearance of that “interesting man, Mr.
Rutherford,” with a dark-browed infant in his arms.
Joan was by this time exceedingly wide awake; and efforts had been
made to detach her from George in time for dinner, Dulcibel proposing
to remain upstairs in charge of the little creature, having a tray
sent up for herself. But Joan saw matters differently. She refused
to be won over under any pretence or inducement whatever. George had
dressed for dinner while Joan was still asleep. The moment her black
eyes opened, however, she was by his side. In vain Dulcibel petted
and lectured, pleaded and scolded, offered kisses and offered cake.
Kisses were spurned, and cake was rejected, and blandishments fell
unheeded. Joan would not so much as look at Dulcibel. She seemed quite
content while clutching George’s hand, or holding to his coat; but any
serious attempt to separate the two raised shouts of such indignant
remonstrance that Dulcibel’s hands went to her ears.
“There’s no time to fight the matter out now. She must come downstairs
with us,” said George, more than half gratified.
So some fifty pairs of eyes were treated to the sight of Mr.
Rutherford, marching in the rear of his slim, little wife, bearing a
small “new arrival” in his strong arms; her black eyes surveying the
company with a certain jealous defiance, and her black hair pressed
confidingly against his tawny beard.
“Halloo, Mr. Rutherford! Fished up a mermaid in your day’s wanderings?”
asked a friendly clergyman, Mr. Meredith, George’s opposite companion
at table.
“Something like it,” responded George. “Another chair here, please! We
shall have to break through the rules as to newcomers. This lady is too
young to manage for herself.”
The waiter grinned and obeyed; but Joan declined the chair. She slid
to the ground, and stood there solemnly, clutching George’s coat; her
velvety eyes just above the level of the table. If anybody smiled
at Joan, the response was an immediate frown; otherwise she seemed
indifferent to her surroundings. Curiosity was evidently rife; and
George briefly sketched, for the benefit of his near neighbors, the
manner in which Joan had been found.
“I wasn’t far wrong. It’s a river-maid, not a mermaid!” said Mr.
Meredith.
“It’s a very odd little mortal, anyhow,” the stout widow, Mrs. Tracy,
remarked. She sat on the other side of the table, a few seats lower
down. “What do you think of doing with her?”
“Put her to sleep on the sofa in our room,” said George.
“I am afraid your night’s rest will be broken. And then?”
“Find out to whom she belongs.”
“And if you cannot?”
“It is well never to start in an enterprise expecting failure,” said
George.
“But still—”
“And this is not London.”
“Probably the friends are at least as anxious to discover the child as
you can be to discover them,” said Mr. Meredith.
“Unless,” Mrs. Tracy observed—“unless somebody meant to leave it there.”
“Oh, impossible!” cried Dulcibel, from a constitutional instinct of
contradiction. She had herself made the same suggestion, and Leo’s
laughing face showed recollection of hearing her do so. “Such a little
darling!”
Mrs. Tracy surveyed the small subject of discussion.
“Something just a degree vixenish about her, isn’t there?” she asked.
“I’m not quite sure that I should care to deal with that nature
by-and-by.”
“Oh, but so lovable!” said Dulcibel. “Look at her now with my husband!”
And indeed the upward glance of those black eyes into the face of the
big fair man to whom the little creature had attached herself could
hardly have been surpassed in tenderness.
“Yes, that is quite charming,” assented Mrs. Tracy; “but—” and she
shook her head—“but—”
Conversation drifted in other directions, and Joan was more or
less forgotten. She stood so very still that forgetfulness was not
difficult. George fed her now and then with scraps, as he might have
fed a pet dog; and she consented to be so treated. A basin of bread
and milk had been already disposed of upstairs, therefore more was not
needed. If Leo, on Joan’s other side, offered anything, he met with the
usual severe refusal.
Dinner over, and the move into the drawing-room made, Joan calmly
climbed upon George’s knee, evidently satisfied that he had nothing
better in life to do than to nurse her small self. Dulcibel
remonstrated, but George would not turn the child away. He read the
paper, with the dark head lying placidly on his shoulder; and when it
was decided that Joan must go to bed George carried her upstairs.
“Just for once,” he said, half laughing; “we shall find her people
to-morrow, poor wee mite!” There was a sound of regret in his voice.
Somehow he did not wish to give her up.
A bed had been made on the sofa, and a nightdress of tiny dimensions
lent by somebody. Joan was growing very sleepy once more, and made no
objections to the removal of her frock, submitting so far to Dulcibel’s
handling, while George sat down at a table to write a letter.
There, however, Joan made a stand. She stood, pouting, in her little
red petticoats, with bare arms and shoulders. Evidently something
was customary next, which she could not or would not explain, every
suggestion being received with an indignant “No!” Finally Joan took
the matter into her own hands, knelt down, shut her eyes, and said
solemnly, with distinct utterance—
“‘Desuo, Dentle Shepherd, hear me,
Bress Thy nittle lamb to-night!’”
Recollection seemed to fail there, and no more words were forthcoming.
“Yes, darling—go on,” coaxed Dulcibel.
“Through the darkness be Thou near me—”
No; Joan refused to be prompted. She opened her eyes, frowned at
Dulcibel, and scrambled to her feet.
“Is that all, Joan?” asked George.
“Dess,” Joan answered. She seemed to have an odd affection for the
fourth letter of the alphabet.
“Did mother teach you that?” asked George.
No answer.
“Joan, did mother say good-bye when she went away from you to-day?”
George inquired suddenly.
“Dess,” Joan replied again; and a look of unmistakable sadness came
into the black eyes. “Dood-bye!”
Husband and wife looked at each other.
“That’s odd,” said Dulcibel.
“Didn’t mother mean to come back again to Joan?” asked George, bending
down towards the child.
Again there was no reply.
“Joan, is mother gone?”
“Don!” Joan echoed.
“Mother—gone—where?” inquired George.
Joan only echoed “Don!” once more, and looked very sleepy.
“You won’t find out anything in that way Georgie dear,” said his wife.
“I don’t believe Joan knows much more than we do ourselves.”
“Well, the sooner she is in bed the better,” said George.
* * * * * * *
Morning come, and Joan appeared at breakfast, fresh and rosy, still
as George’s devoted attendant. He could not move an inch without her.
Peals of laughter were evoked when she endeavored to place herself upon
the same chair with her new friend. George laughed as heartily as any
one, and Joan showed a sublime disdain of people’s opinions.
Breakfast over, a battle took place. Rather fortunately for George’s
purposes, it had turned out a wet day. Inquiries about Joan were an
immediate necessity, and there could be no doubt that they would be
three times as rapid and efficient without Dulcibel to delay his steps.
Rain came down in a continuous pelt, and she decided to remain indoors
with Joan, while George and Leo sallied forth on their hunt.
But the parting of George from Joan was not quite an easy matter.
Dulcibel coaxed and George reasoned without avail. Joan held on to
his coat-tails like a vice. When at length he gently wrenched himself
free from the little hands and vanished, shutting the door, Joan gave
one fearful and prolonged yell of rage. Having thus let off steam, and
relieved herself, she subsided into a corner of the drawing-room, with
solemn disdain of everybody present, scorning all blandishments.
Lunch-time arrived, but not George or Leo. Dulcibel had scarcely passed
so wearisome a day since her marriage. Hitherto her life had been
as one continued honeymoon. She could almost have shed tears at her
husband’s non-appearance, only she was ashamed.
Joan was by this time sufficiently hungry to consent to eat, and Dulcie
found half an hour’s amusement in ministering to her wants. But, hunger
once satisfied, Joan retreated again to the corner, presently dropping
asleep there.
The afternoon hours crept by slowly, rain still falling in a ceaseless
drench, George and Leo still absent.
Walking out, even for five minutes, was not to be thought of, Dulcibel
being a person who caught cold easily. But being also a little person
of restless tendencies, accustomed to a good deal of small change
and excitement in everyday life, and not at all given to reading or
needlework, she found it by no means easy to get through such a day.
A year earlier she would have risked a wet ramble unhesitatingly,
and probably would have laid herself up for a month, without much of
after regret. Illness itself supplies a certain measure of satisfying
excitement to some natures. But Dulcibel the wife, might not venture
to do what Dulcibel the spinster could have done. The fear of her
husband’s disapprobation was stronger than wilfulness.
So she staid indoors, and dipped listlessly into several books, and
talked about nothing in particular with divers persons, and made
several vain attempts upon Joan, and tried a few stitches of knitting
now and then. And at length she took to standing at the window, gazing
out forlornly upon the wet and dripping scene.
Presently she found Mr. Meredith at her side. He was a man in early
middle life, pleasant-faced, and kind-mannered. Dulcibel involuntarily
turned to him for sympathy.
“I can’t think why my husband does not come back,” she said.
“He will soon appear now, no doubt. Mr. Rutherford is not one to care
much about weather, I should suppose.”
“If not, I suppose I may care for him,” said Dulcibel rather tartly.
“Just so. Quite right that you should,” said Mr. Meredith with intent
to soothe. “No doubt, the inquiries about yonder little maid have taken
longer than he expected.” Mr. Meredith glanced at Joan, coiled up still
in her corner.
“I never saw such an unsociable child in my life,” said Dulcibel. “One
can do nothing with her.”
“It requires patience. But the shyness will break down in time,” said
Mr. Meredith, cheerfully. “That is to say, it would do so, if any delay
occurred in finding her belongings.”
“Shyness! It is all pride and temper,” said Dulcibel.
Mr. Meredith thought of certain utterances at dinner the evening before.
“Perhaps not altogether,” he said. “There may have been some fault in
the training.”
“I have seen plenty of spoilt children, and they are not like this,”
retorted Dulcibel. “I believe she is disagreeable by nature. Think of
keeping to that corner, and refusing to speak civilly to anybody all
day. It is quite unnatural. I hope we shall hear that her friends are
found. There is no return for kindness shown to such a child.”
“Bad bargain, in short,” mused Mr. Meredith. “We don’t object to being
repaid in full for our good deeds, do we?”
Dulcibel colored. “Now, how horrid you must have thought me, before you
could say that!”
“No, indeed,” Mr. Meredith answered. “I fancy you, like many people,
are better than your words.”
“But isn’t it natural to wish for a little love and gratitude in
return, when one gives out to people?”
“Quite natural, and not wrong; only sometimes one has to put aside
the wish, and rise to a higher level—to ‘do good, hoping for nothing
again,’” Mr. Meredith said, looking towards the small person in
question. He added softly—“‘Freely ye have received, freely give.’”
Dulcibel sighed.
“Well; we have not given much yet,” she said. “The child’s friends
ought to have passed an anxious night. But I begin to think they have
left her on purpose. Children are forsaken sometimes.”
“The position in which she was found hardly gives one that impression,”
said Mr. Meredith.
Another hour passed, and at length, not long before dinner, two
dripping figures appeared within the front door. Dulcibel ran eagerly
out of the drawing-room, regardless of certain smiles caused there by
her impulsive movement. But Joan’s rush of welcome was even quicker
than Dulcibel’s. George put them both off with his hands.
“No; don’t touch me; I am soaked,” he said in his hearty voice. “We
have had a day of it, I assure you. Couldn’t possibly come back
to lunch, or we would have done so, Dulcie; but I knew you would
understand. Well, Joan, have you been good?”
“Have you found out anything, Georgie?” asked Dulcibel with eagerness.
“Yes; I will tell you presently,” said George, in rather a grave
tone. “Nothing certain yet, but very probable. No, Joan, you must
stand off. I can’t be handled till I am dry.” In a lower voice George
added—“Somehow it does not look as if the non-return of the mother
could have been accidental.”
“I told you so!” Dulcibel averred.
George imagined that she had “told him” exactly the opposite, but he
wisely entered on no discussion.