"LOST, STOLEN, OR STRAYED!"
"Rainy and rough sets the day--
There's a heart beating for somebody;
I must be up and away,
Somebody's anxious for somebody."
SWAIN.
Mr. Ingram had once compared the English climate to unregenerated
womanhood, and had declaimed on this subject in his own whimsical
fashion at Cleveland Terrace, much to the delight of his young friend
the humourist.
"It is womanhood pure and simple, and unadulterated by civilisation," he
continued, blandly, as he twisted his Mephistophelian moustache. "It is
the savage mother, and no mistake, with all her crude grand humours.
Sometimes she is benevolent, fairly brimming over with the milk of
loving kindness. She has her sportive moods, when she bubbles over with
smiles and mirth--a May day, for example--when she walks through the
land as meekly as a garlanded lamb."
"Hear, hear!" observed Noel, _sotto voce_; but Mollie, who was deeply
impressed, frowned him down.
Mr. Ingram paused, as though for well-deserved applause. He felt himself
becoming eloquent, so he took up his parable again.
"But the savage mother knows how to sulk and frown, and her tear-storms
and icy moods are terribly trying. There is no coquetry about her then;
it is the storm and stress of a great passion." And with this grand
peroration Mr. Ingram gave his moustache a final twist, and, as Noel
phrased it, brought down the house.
Waveney thought of Monsieur Blackie's parable--for of course it had been
duly retailed to her in Mollie's weekly budget--when the weather changed
disastrously before Christmas. The Frost King no longer touched the
earth with his white fingers; the wintry sunshine had faded from the
landscape; the skies were grey and threatening, and the raw cold made
one's flesh creep. "Hardly Christmas weather," Althea observed,
regretfully, as she looked out from the library window at the blackened
grass and sodden, uninviting paths. Only under the wide verandah of the
Porch House a crowd of birds were feeding. Waveney was, as usual,
watching them.
"I am afraid it will rain before evening," returned Doreen. "The
barometer is going down fast. I do so dislike a wet Christmas." And to
this Althea cordially agreed.
But no amount of impending rain could damp Waveney's pleasurable
expectations, for she had a delightful programme before her. That year
Christmas day fell on Saturday, and as Althea and Doreen always dined
with Mrs. Mainwaring, Althea proposed driving her to Cleveland Terrace.
"Aunt Sara would be delighted to see you, dear!" she said--"indeed, you
were included in the invitation. But I told her that you would far
rather be with your own people."
"Oh, thank you, thank you," returned the girl, gratefully. But her joy
was unbounded when Althea suggested that she should not return to the
Red House until Tuesday afternoon. "I shall need all my helpers then,"
she finished, smiling; and Waveney understood her. The Christmas
programme had been duly unfolded to her. There was to be a grand tea and
entertainment for Althea's girls at the Porch House, a festive evening
at the Home for Workers, a supper for the Dereham cabmen, and another
for the costermongers; and on Twelfth Night the servants at the Red
House always entertained their relations and friends in the Recreation
Hall. "In fact," as Doreen expressed it, "no one would have time to sit
down comfortably until the feast of Epiphany had passed." But, though
Doreen spoke in a resigned tone of a weary worker, it might be doubted
if any one enjoyed more thoroughly the bustle and preparation.
The day before Christmas was a busy one for all the inmates of the Red
House. Doreen was at the Home all day superintending the Christmas
decorations, and Althea spent most of her time at the Porch House, where
a band of voluntary helpers were making garlands of evergreens, and
framing Christmas mottoes in ivy under her skilful direction.
Waveney would willingly have helped in the work, but Althea had other
employment for her. Some of her pensioners lived on the other side of
the river, and Waveney, who often acted as her almoner, went off early
in the afternoon to order parcels of groceries and other good things,
and to carry them to two or three old women who lived in the almshouses.
The old women were garrulous, and detained her with accounts of their
various ailments, so it was quite dark before the little gate of the
almshouse garden closed behind her. For some time she had heard the
pattering of the rain against the window-panes, and knew that she would
have a long, wet walk home.
"Aye, but it is a wild night," observed Mrs. Bates, lugubriously, as she
stirred her bright little fire afresh, "and it makes one shiver to one's
very bones, that it do."
"But your warm shawl will be a comfort," returned Waveney, cheerfully.
"Well, I must go now. 'A happy Christmas to you,' Mrs. Bates, and I hope
your rheumatism will soon be better." And then Waveney unhasped the
upper half of Widow Bates's door, and peered out into the darkness.
It was not inviting, certainly. The cold, sleety rain was falling in
torrents. A wild night, assuredly, and one that meant mischief. But
Waveney wore a stout waterproof cloak that Althea had lent to her, and
thought she would be proof against any amount of rain or sleet. True,
her umbrella was just a little slit, but she would soon have it
re-covered.
A narrow, winding passage, resembling a cathedral close, led to High
Street. A few old-fashioned houses fronted the garden wall of the
Vicarage. Here it was so dark that Waveney was rather startled when she
heard a child's voice close to her elbow.
"Oh, please, I am quite lost, and will you take me home?"
There was something familiar in the voice, but in the darkness it was
impossible to see the child's face; but Waveney's ear was never deaf to
any childish appeal.
"Oh, you poor little thing," she said, kindly, "where do you live, and
what is your name?"
"I am dad's little Betty," returned the child. She spoke in a tired,
dreary little tone, "and I live across the water, past the church, with
Uncle Theo and Aunt Joa." Then, in spite of the wet, Waveney stooped
down and put her arm round her.
"Why, it is my little friend, Betty," she said, in a puzzled tone. "Why
are you out alone this dreadful night? Oh, you poor darling, your frock
and jacket are quite soaking. Come, come, we must go home as fast as
possible. Give me your hand, dear, and come closer to me, so that my
umbrella may shelter you."
"Is it my little lady?" asked Betty, in a perplexed voice. "She did
speak to me so kindly once on the seat by the river; but I have never,
never seen her again."
"But we shall see each other presently, when we get to the shops,"
returned Waveney, cheerily. "Betty, darling, tell me, why are you out by
yourself?"
"I wanted to meet dad," returned Betty, with a little sob. "Aunt Joa was
out, and I was so lonely all by myself, and Jemima was busy and told me
to run away, and I was aching dreadful because it was Christmas Eve and
dad did not come; and I thought"--and Bet sobbed afresh--"it would be
such fun to see him pass me, and then I should call out loud, 'Here's
Bet, dad, and I have come to meet you;' but there was no dad at all."
"Yes; and then you missed your way?"
"It was so dark," returned Bet, plaintively, "and there were trees, and
I fell down and hurt myself, and then I got frightened. Are you
frightened in the dark, too?"
"No; I am only frightened of doing wrong things, Betty dear. I am afraid
you have been very naughty, and that poor Aunt Joa will be anxious. Can
you walk faster, darling?" But Bet, tired and miserable, felt as though
her poor little legs were weighted with lead. But for the umbrella
Waveney would have carried her; it hurt her to hear the child sobbing to
herself quietly in the darkness. It was a cruel night for any child to
be out. Mr. Ingram's "savage mother" was in her fiercest mood, and
seemed lashing herself up to fresh fury.
There was scarcely a foot-passenger to be seen on the bridge, but a few
shivering men and women were in the town making their Christmas
purchases.
Bet cheered up a little when the bridge had been crossed. "We shall soon
be there now," she sighed. "Do you know my home, little lady?"
"Yes, dear; and I know your Aunt Joa, too, and your Uncle Theo."
"And dad?"
"No, darling, not dad. But I daresay I shall know him some day. See how
pretty all those lights look! Yes, this is the house," as Betty pulled
at her hand. And the next moment they were standing on the doorstep.
To Waveney's surprise, Mr. Chaytor opened the door. He regarded them
with amazement. Waveney's old umbrella had not fulfilled its mission,
and the velvet on her hat was soaking, and so was her hair. But she was
nothing to Betty. In the lamplight she looked the most abject little
child possible. She was splashed with mud from head to foot, and her
plait of fair hair was so wet that Mr. Chaytor hurriedly withdrew his
hand.
"Why, she is wet through!" he said, in a shocked voice. Then Waveney
hurriedly explained matters.
"I am afraid Betty has been rather naughty," she said, quickly. "She
went out by herself in the hope of meeting her father. And then she lost
herself, and got frightened. She was just by Aylmer's Almshouses when
she spoke to me."
"Aylmer's Almshouses, across the river!" he exclaimed, quite horrified.
"Why, I thought she was with my sister! What are we to do, Miss Ward?"
looking at her with all a man's helplessness. "Joanna may not be back
for an hour, and Jemima has gone to the General Post-Office. And the
child is dripping with wet from head to foot."
Waveney was quite equal to the emergency.
"I think, if you will allow me, I had better take her upstairs," she
returned, quietly, "and get off her wet things. And if you could get her
something hot to drink--milk, or tea--anything, so that it is hot." Then
Mr. Chaytor looked relieved.
"I could make her a cup of tea," he returned, "if you are sure that will
do. The kettle is boiling now."
"Thank you, very much," was all Waveney answered. "Now, Betty dear,
will you show me the way to your room?"
"I sleep in Aunt Joa's room," replied Betty, making brave efforts to
restrain her tears. Her poor little lips were blue with cold, and her
teeth were chattering. And her fingers were so numb that they could not
turn the handle of the door, and Waveney had to come to her help.
It was a large, pleasant room, furnished simply, and a bright fire gave
it an air of comfort. A child's cot stood beside the bed. There were
some fine old prints on the walls, and the silver and ebony brush on the
toilet-table, and the quilted silk eiderdown on her bed, spoke of better
days.
Waveney took off her dripping waterproof and hat, and then she set to
work, and in five minutes Betty's wet things lay in a heap on the floor,
and she was wrapped up in her aunt's warm flannel dressing-gown, and
ensconced in the big easy-chair. Then Waveney sat down on the rug and
rubbed the frozen little feet.
"Betty," she said, coaxingly, "I do wish you would be a good child and
go straight to bed." But Betty puckered up her face at this, and looked
so miserable that Waveney did not dare to say more.
"It's my dad's birthday, and Christmas Eve," she said, in a heart-broken
voice. "Dad would not enjoy his tea one bit unless I buttered his toast
and gave him his two lumps of sugar."
"Well, then, you must tell me where to find you some dry, clean
clothes," returned Waveney, with a disapproving shake of her head. But
just then there was a tap at the door, and when she said, "Come in," to
her surprise, Mr. Chaytor entered with two large cups of steaming tea in
his hands.
"Jemima is still playing truant," he said, apologetically, "so I was
obliged to bring the tea myself." And then he set down the cups on a
little table, piling up Joanna's small possessions in a most ruthless
fashion, to make room for them.
Perhaps the novelty of the situation bewildered him, or something in the
little fireside scene appealed to him; for he stood beside Betty's chair
for two or three minutes without speaking. Betty, in her scarlet
dressing-gown, was certainly a most picturesque-looking little object,
but Thorold's eyes rested longer on the girlish figure on the rug, at
the busy ministering hands, and the damp, curly hair, still glistening
with wet.
"Do please drink your tea, before it cools," he said, pleadingly. "When
Jemima comes back, I shall send her up to help you, and clear all the
wet things away." And then he went downstairs, and set on the kettle
again to boil; and all the while the memory of a bare little foot
resting on a girl's soft, pink palm, haunted him. "It is the eternal
motherhood," he said to himself, "that is in all true women. No wonder
Bet loves her. How could she help it?--how could she help it?" And then
the door-bell rang, and Jemima entered with profuse apologies at her
tardiness.
She was sent upstairs with a supply of hot water and towels, and as soon
as Betty had finished her tea, her face and hands were washed, her hair
dried and neatly tied with a ribbon. Then she was dressed in clean,
fresh garments.
"I have got my best frock on, and I feel quite nice, and like Christmas
Eve," exclaimed Betty, with a quaint little caper. "Oh, I am sure dad
must have come, and Aunt Joa, too. Do let us go downstairs."
"Let me wash my hands first, darling," pleaded Waveney. "And oh, dear,
how untidy I look!" and Betty stood by the toilet-table watching with
critical eyes while Waveney tried to bring the unruly locks into order.
"Aunt Joa has such long, long hair," she observed. "When she sits down
it almost touches the floor. But yours is nice baby hair, too--it is
like little rings that have come undone; but it is pretty, don't you
think so?"--feeling that Waveney must be the best judge of such a
personal matter. Jemima giggled as she picked up the little muddy boots.
"Law, Miss Bet," she said, reprovingly, "how you do talk! No little
ladies that I ever knew said such things. There's your pa, he is
downstairs and a-waiting for his tea." But Bet heard no more.
"Come, come," she said, pulling Waveney by the dress. "Dad is
downstairs, and the curls don't matter one bit." Then Waveney
reluctantly followed her; her hat and gloves were drying; she could not
possibly put them on for another half-hour, and she could hardly stay
ruminating in Miss Chaytor's bedroom.
Joanna had not yet returned; she was evidently weather-bound at some
friend's house, but a good-looking, weather-beaten man, in a rough grey
coat, stood with his back to the fire. Bet ran to him at once.
"Oh, dad, I did so want to be ready for you, but I got wet and the
little lady was helping me to dress up again."
"Yes, I know, Bet;" and then her father kissed her a little gravely, and
held out his hand to Waveney.
"I am very grateful to you, Miss Ward. My brother has been telling me of
your kindness to my little girl; she has been a very naughty child, I am
afraid." Then Bet looked up in his face, and her lip quivered.
"Was it really bad of me to go out and meet you, dad?--really and
truly?"
"Yes, darling, really and truly." And then Tristram took her on his
knee. "What would dad have done without his little Betty?--and she might
have been lost or run over."
"Oh, I would have found my way back," returned Bet, with a wise little
nod of her head. "But I won't never do it again." And then her little
arms went round his neck, and she rested her head against the rough grey
coat; for her childish heart was full to the brim. "Miss Ward," observed
Thorold, in rather a pleading voice, "as my sister is absent, may I ask
you to pour out the tea." Then Waveney, blushing a little at the
unexpected request, took her place quietly at the tea-tray.