FOUND
----"he was not there:
We searched the house, the grounds--in vain;
We searched the green in our despair,
And then we searched the house again."
It _was_ a good thing grandfather was out, for--and this was what mother
was thinking of--poor grandfather, though he looked such a fine, tall,
gray-haired old gentleman, was not really very strong or well. It was a
great deal for him that they had all come abroad this winter, and the
doctors had told mother and auntie that anything to startle or distress
him might make him very ill indeed. Poor grandfather! I can't tell you
what a kind, good man he was. He had stayed a great many years in India,
though he would have liked dreadfully to come home, because it was "his
duty" he said, and this had made him seem older than he really was, for
a hot country is very wearing out to people who are not born to it.
And, though he was so fond of his grandchildren, I think if he _had_ a
pet among them, it was little Herr Baby. The mere idea of his tiny
Raymond--Baby was named Raymond after grandfather--being lost, even for
an hour or two, would have troubled him dreadfully, and thinking of
this, auntie, too, repeated after mother,
"Yes, indeed, what a good thing grandfather isn't in. We _mustn't_ let
him know, May, till Baby's found."
They didn't stay to say anything more. Off they all set into the garden,
for, though Fritz said he had looked all over, they couldn't feel sure
that they might not find Baby in some corner, hiding, perhaps, for fun,
even. But when they had all been round and round the garden in every
direction--mother, and auntie, and Celia, and Denny, and Fritz, and
Mademoiselle Lucie, and Lisa, and Linley, and Peters, and Francois, and,
even at the end I believe, Monsieur Jean-Georges himself, and the rest
of the French servants--when they had all looked, and peeped, and
shouted, and whistled, and begged, and prayed Baby to come out if he was
hiding, and there was no answer, then they gave it up. It was impossible
that the little man could be in the garden.
Where could he be?
Fortunately there was nowhere in the garden where he could have hurt
himself--no pit or pond into which he could have fallen. And it was
surely impossible that any one could have come into the garden and
stolen him away, as Celia, with a pale face, whispered to auntie. Where
could he be, and what should they do?
Time was passing--the friends who were coming to dinner would be at the
villa before long; grandfather was _sure_ to appear in a few minutes.
What could they do?
"We must not tell grandfather, that is certain," said auntie. "May,
dear, it is very hard on you, I know, but I'll tell you how it must be.
You must stay here quietly and be ready for the friends who are coming,
and I will go off at once and do all, everything I can think of.
Mademoiselle Lucie, you know the town, and you can tell me all about the
police, and where to go to _in case_ we don't find our darling at once,
though I quite think we shall. I can't take you, Peters," for Peters was
eagerly coming forward, "Sir Raymond would miss you, nor you, Lisa, for
you must take care of the other children," at which Lisa all but broke
out crying; "It was too good of Mademoiselle Helene to trust her; she
didn't deserve it." "And Francois would be no good. You and I,
Mademoiselle Lucie, will go at once. And you must tell grandfather that
I was obliged to go out, for an hour or two, unexpectedly."
"I am afraid he will think it very strange," said mother, "but I will do
my best."
Mother spoke quietly, but her face was very white.
"Do go, Nelly," she said, "as quick as you can."
And Celia and Denny, who had been thinking of bursting into tears, took
example by her and auntie, and tried to look cheerful.
"Auntie," said Celia, running after her to the gate, "I'll be very good
and try to comfort mother. And we'll not let grandfather think there's
anything wrong. But oh, auntie dear, I _hope_ you'll soon bring dear
Baby safe home."
"So do I, darling," said auntie, stooping to kiss her, even though she
was so hurried, and, for the first time, there was a little quiver in
her voice, and Celia ran back to the others, thinking even more than
before how good and brave auntie was.
They hastened down the road, auntie and little Mademoiselle Lucie, I
mean. But when they had gone some little way, auntie stopped short.
"He may have gone by the other road, and we may miss him that way;" for,
without thinking, auntie had hurried out by the little gate opening on
to the lower road.
"I think not," said Mademoiselle Lucie, "at least the concierge would
have been sure to see him, and we did ask her, and she had not seen him
at all."
"To be sure," said auntie, "I forgot about the concierge."
"Besides," Mademoiselle Lucie continued, "to get to the town he must
pass the way we are going, a little farther on where the two roads run
together."
"To be sure," said auntie, again.
"It is to the town we are going?" asked Mademoiselle Lucie.
"Yes," said auntie, "I have an idea, but I did not like to say it to my
sister for fear it should lead to nothing. There is a shop in the town
where there is a picture that Baby took a great fancy to the other day.
At least it was I that noticed it first, and he was so pleased with it.
There was something else in the shop that he was looking at--I don't
remember what--when we noticed the picture."
"Do you know where the shop is? Can we easily find it?"
"I think so; yes, I am sure I can find it," said auntie. "It is a shop
of curiosities, a shop at a corner, the street is narrow."
"I know it," said Mademoiselle Lucie, "though it is not very well known.
There are grander shops of curiosities which are more visited, but I
know that shop, as I often pass it."
She told auntie the name of the owner of the shop, and of the street,
and then auntie fixed, as they were now near the town, that she would go
on alone to the shop, while Mademoiselle Lucie went to her brother, who,
she hoped, would be at home at this hour, and get him to go with her to
the police office, so that no time should be lost.
Auntie hurried on by herself, but though she went so fast that the
easy-going peasants driving their sleepy bullocks, whom she met, looked
after her in surprise, she did not, for one moment, leave off looking
about her on every side, to see if by any chance she could discover the
well-known little figure it would have given her such joy to see. But
no. Once or twice a child in the distance made her heart beat a little
quicker, but, as soon as she got near enough to see it clearly, her
hopes sank again. There were very few houses on the country road leading
from the villa till one was quite in the town. So auntie thought it not
worth while to ask, for, in a street of houses and shops standing close
together, and people constantly passing, it was much less likely that
any one would have noticed a little tot like Herr Baby making his way.
"No," said auntie to herself, "it is no use stopping to ask. The best
thing I can do is to find the shop at once, and if they can tell me
nothing there, to follow Mademoiselle Lucie to the police office."
And, with a deep sigh, for, somehow, every step she took farther without
seeing anything of the little truant, made auntie's heart feel
heavier--she hurried on again.
She soon found the wide street--the street with the dressmakers' and
milliners' shops, which Fritz had not cared to look at--then she turned
one corner and went on a little farther, then another, and--yes, there
was the little old shop, looking just the same as the day they had all
stood there so happily. Auntie had been walking very quickly, almost
running, but when she saw the shop just before her she stood still--she
felt _so_ anxious--what should she do if she could hear nothing of Baby?
When she got to the door she stopped and looked in; there seemed to be
no one in the shop. Auntie glanced up to the side of the door where the
little portrait had hung. It was gone! Could that have anything to do
with Baby? auntie asked herself in a sort of puzzled way. Could Baby
have thought of buying it? how much money had he? But it was stupid and
foolish to stand there puzzling and wondering, instead of boldly going
in to ask. Auntie took her courage in her two hands, as the saying is,
and went in.
No one there; where could the owner of the shop be? The last time he had
come forward at once when they were only looking in--a little-dried up
old man, just the sort of person one would expect to find in such a
shop, sitting in a dark corner like an old spider, watching to see what
flies were passing his way. Auntie went right in without seeing any one,
but she heard voices not far off, and, in her anxiety, she went forward
to a door slightly open, leading into rooms behind the shop. She
knocked--but for a moment no one took any notice. They were talking so
eagerly inside that she had to knock again, and in the moment or two
that had passed without them hearing her, she heard one or two words
that made her eager to hear more.
"No, no," some one was saying, "much better go at once to the office. We
may get into trouble."
"He seems so sensible," said another voice. "_I_ say, better go with him
and carry the things, and we shall soon see if he knows his way,
and----"
Auntie _could_ not wait any more. She pushed open the door and went in.
There was, however, no Herr Baby to be seen, as she had almost expected
there would be. There was the old man that she remembered having seen
before, looking like a very startled spider this time, as he raised his
two shrivelled old arms in surprise at her appearance, and beside him
was a very pleasant, bright-faced, young woman, with a baby in her arms,
talking, or at least looking as if she had just been talking very
eagerly.
"Is he here?" said auntie, quite breathless, "my little boy, my little
nephew, I mean. Is Baby here?"
The young woman looked at the old man with a sort of little nod of
triumph.
"You see," she said quickly, "I said there was no need to frighten the
poor darling by taking him to the police office." "Yes, Madame," she
went on, turning to auntie, "the dear bebe is here--that is to say, he
cannot but be the one you are looking for. I sent him out into the
little garden with his cat and my little girl, while my grandfather and
I talked about what to do. I would have sent him home, I mean we would
have tried to find his home, if my husband had been here, but he is
away."
"And I am too feeble, Madame, as you see, to walk far," said the old
man, who seemed now anxious to be very amiable.
"But you talked of taking him to the police office," said the young
woman, in a low voice, "the idea! to frighten a bebe like that."
"Hush, hush," said the old man, "all was to be done for the best. You
shall see him, your dear child, Madame," he went on, bustling about.
"But tell me first--a moment----" said auntie, "What did he come for?
Did he buy the picture?"
"The picture," repeated the old man, "no, surely. It was the glass jugs,
the little gentleman wanted, and he had his money all right--I took but
the just price, Madame--I would not deceive any one."
"They are very dear to _my_ mind," said the young woman, "but there--I
know nothing about old things. This is not our shop, Madame--I look in
in passing, to see the grandfather sometimes, that is all."
[Illustration: Auntie stood still a moment to listen.--P. 155.]
"And Baby came to buy some _jugs_, you say," repeated auntie. There
was a confused remembrance in her mind of something Baby had said about
jugs, something he had asked her to look at the day they had stood at
the shop window, but which she had since forgotten. Her only idea in
coming to the little old shop had been the picture. "You said he came to
buy some jugs?" she said again.
"Yes, Madame," said the old man "two glass jugs--Venetian glass."
"Ah!" said auntie, and then she remembered it all--about the glass jugs
that Baby had broken at home, and what he had said to her about those in
the shop window being like them. "And the picture?" she said, "is it no
longer there? But first, let me have my little boy. He is in the garden,
you say?"
She looked round, for there was no sign of a garden. The window of the
little room in which they were, looked out only on to a blank wall.
"This way, Madame," said the young woman, opening a door at the side. It
led into a little dark passage, and, at the end of it, there was another
door, standing open, and through this door came the sound of children's
voices.
Auntie stood still a moment to listen--the first words made her smile.
"Him wants to go home now," said the well-known voice. "Little girl, why
_won't_ you listen? Him wants to go home, and so does Minet. Doesn't you
hear?"
The little girl must have been very much puzzled, for auntie heard her
trying her best, in her baby talk, to make this queer little stranger
understand that they were to stay out in the garden till her mother
called them in.
"Him wants to go _home_, and so does Minet," repeated poor Baby, and his
voice began to quiver and shake, as if he were going to cry. Auntie
could stand it no longer. She hurried out into the little garden.
"You shall go home now, Baby dear," she said. "Auntie has come to fetch
you."
Baby looked up eagerly at the sound of a well-known voice. He ran to her
and held up his little face for a kiss. He looked very pleased, but not
at all surprised. It was one of Herr Baby's funny ways, that he almost
never seemed surprised.
"Him is so glad you's come," he said. "You'll help him to carry home the
shiny jugs, for Minet's _raver_ tired, and him might have to carry her
and the money-box. But you won't tell mother about the jugs, will you?
You'll let him run in wif them him's self, won't you, auntie? _Won't_
mother be pleased?"
"But you must tell me all about it, dear," said auntie; "did you come
off all alone to get the glasses? Why didn't you ask some one to come
with you?"
Baby looked a little troubled.
"Him didn't come _alone_," he said. "Him told Minet, and Minet comed
too, only her's werry tired. And it were for the party, auntie," he
added, looking up wistfully, "Lisa said mother had no pitty jugs for
her's party. And oh, auntie, p'ease do be kick, 'fear we shall be too
late."
Auntie took his hand and led him back into the shop, where the old man
was wrapping up the jugs with a great show of soft paper, that auntie
should see how careful he was.
"Has my little boy paid you?" she asked.
"Oh yes," said Herr Baby, understanding, though she did not speak
English. "See in him's money-box;" he held out the money-box with some
difficulty for, having Minet under the other arm, it was not easy for
him to get his hands free; "him had two yellow pennies, one big and one
little, him gived the big one for the shiny jugs."
"Was that the price of the jugs?" auntie asked the man.
"No, Madame, I have the change to give the little gentleman. See here,"
and he held out two large silver coins, the size of crowns, which auntie
took.
"I don't think the jugs are dear," she said, with a smile, turning to
the young woman, who looked pleased. "And some day," she went on, "we
will come to see you, and bring you some little thing for your little
girl, as you have been so kind to my little boy. Come now, Baby dear, we
must get home as quick as we can."
"But the little girl, the pitty little girl," said Herr Baby, "him must
say good-bye to _her_."
"There she is beside you," said auntie, thinking, of course, that he
meant the young woman's little girl, "say good-bye to her."
"No, no," said Baby, "him doesn't mean her. Him means the pitcher little
girl, _her_," he went on, pointing to the young woman, "her gottened her
down for him to see, 'cos him were trying to reach up to kiss her."
That was why the picture was no longer in the window then? Where was it?
Auntie turned round as she felt Baby pulling her.
"Her's there," he said, pointing to a chair on which the picture had
been set down hurriedly with the face the other way. Auntie turned it
round. Dear little face! It smiled at her again with the pretty half
wistful, half wise expression, which had so taken her fancy. Now it
seemed to her to be saying--
"I am so glad you have found him. I knew where he was. I am so glad to
have helped you to find him;" and when Baby lifted his little face to
kiss, with his rosy living lips, the picture of the child, who had once
been living and loving like him, I can hardly tell you the strange
feeling that went through auntie's heart.
"She must have been a dear good little girl, whoever she was," she
thought to herself. "It would be nice to leave a sweet feeling behind
one in the world long after one is dead, such as that little face gives.
I should like to have that picture. I must see about it."
But to-day there was no time to be wasted.
Auntie took Baby by the hand, persuading him to let her carry the
precious jugs, as Minet and the money-box were already more than enough
for him. And, even with her help, it was not so easy to manage at all,
and auntie was very glad to meet Mademoiselle Lucie a little way down
the street, and get her to carry part.
Mademoiselle Lucie was delighted, as you can fancy, to see Herr Baby
again. She had been coming back in great trouble to look for auntie; for
very unluckily, as she thought, she had found that her brother was out,
and she had not therefore gone to the police office.
"A very good thing, after all," said auntie; "it would only have been
giving trouble for nothing, as we have found him."
But she said to Mademoiselle Lucie, in a low voice, to say nothing about
the police before Herr Baby, as it might frighten him.
"Would it not, perhaps, be a good thing to frighten him a little?" said
Mademoiselle Lucie; "he would not run off again."
Auntie shook her head.
"Not in that way," she said. "We will make him understand how he has
frightened _us_. That will be the best way."
"How did he mean to get home alone, I wonder," said Mademoiselle Lucie;
"how could he have carried all he had, and Minet too?"
"I don't know, I'm sure," said auntie. "How did you mean to carry
everything home, Baby dear?"
Baby looked puzzled.
"Him doesn't know," he said. "P'r'aps him thought Minet would carry
some," he added, with a smile.
Auntie smiled too. Mademoiselle Lucie looked up for auntie to explain to
her, for she did not understand Baby's talk any better than he did hers.
Suddenly another idea struck auntie.
"How did you manage to tell the old man in the shop what you wanted to
buy?" she said.
Baby considered.
"Him sawed the pitty little girl," he said; "her was looking at the
shiny glasses--_always_--her was keeping them for him. Him asked her to.
Then him touched them; him climbed up on a chair in the shop and touched
them, and then him showed all him's pennies to the old man; but the lady
wif the baby knowed the best what him wanted. Her were very nice, but
the pitty little girl were the goodest, weren't her?"
Auntie listened quietly, for Baby spoke quite gravely.
"It would be nice to have that pretty picture, wouldn't it, Baby?"
"Yes," said Baby; but he didn't look _quite_ pleased. "Auntie," he said,
"him doesn't like you to call her a _pitcher_. Him thinks her's a _zeal_
little girl, a zeal fairy little girl. Her tookened care of the shiny
glasses so nice for him, didn't her?"
And auntie smiled again.