"EAST OR WEST, HAME IS BEST"
"But home is home wherever it is,
When we're all together and nothing amiss."
_Irish Ballad._
By this time, of course, it was quite dark. It had been quite light when
auntie and Mademoiselle Lucie set off, but at Santino the darkness comes
on very quickly. Poor Baby, he _would_ have been in trouble if auntie
had not come to look, for him--- that is to say if the old man and the
young woman had allowed him to set off on his journey home alone. I
don't think he would ever have got there, for in the dark he could not
have found his way, and he certainly could never have got the shiny jugs
and Minet and the money-box all home in safety!
The ladies and gentlemen who were coming to dine at the Villa had all
arrived. Mother was sitting in the drawing-room talking to them, and
trying her best to look as if there was nothing the matter, to prevent
grandfather finding out that there was. Poor mother, it was not very
easy for her, was it? Grandfather was a good deal put out, as it was, at
auntie's being so late. He, too, tried not to look cross, poor old
gentleman, but any one who knew him at all well could not help seeing as
he moved about the room, sometimes giving a poke to the wood fire which
was burning quite brightly as it was, sometimes sharply pulling open one
of the window-shutters and looking out, as if he could see anything with
the light inside and the dark out of doors!--any one could see that he
_was_ very much put out. He sat down now and then for a minute or two
and spoke very politely--for grandfather was a _very_ polite old
gentleman--to one or other of the stranger ladies, but even to them he
could not help showing what was in his mind.
"It is very strange, really most exceedingly strange, of my eldest
daughter," he said, "not to be in before this. I really feel quite
ashamed of it, my dear Madam."
"But you are not uneasy, I hope," said the lady, kindly. "There cannot
be anything the matter with Miss Leonard?" ("Miss Leonard" was what
Fritz called auntie's "stuck-up name," and "Lady Aylmer" was mother's.)
"You don't feel uneasy about her?"
(This lady did not know there _was_ anything the matter, for she was
quite at the other end of the room from mother. Mother had whispered to
the lady beside her, who was an old and dear friend, how frightened she
was about Herr Baby, and the old lady, who was very kind and nice, was
talking and smiling as much as she could to help poor mother.)
"Uneasy," said grandfather, rather sharply, and not _quite_ so politely
as he generally spoke, "oh no, of course I'm not _uneasy_. My daughter
Helen can take care of herself. I am only very much surprised at her
doing such an extraordinary thing as forgetting the hour like this."
But in his heart I fancy what the lady said did make grandfather begin
to think there might be something to be uneasy about, and this made him
still crosser. She was not such a sensible lady as old Mrs. Bryan in the
arm-chair opposite, who chattered the more the more she saw
grandfather's worried look grow worse, and the pain grew plainer on poor
mother's white face.
"May," he called out at last, "I think it is nonsense waiting dinner
any longer. Tell one of the children to ring and order it up at once.
Why, they're not here! Why are none of the children down, May?
Everything seems at sixes and sevens."
"We are not waiting for Nelly, father dear," said mother. "I don't know
why dinner isn't ready yet, but I think it can't be long. I will hurry
them," and she got up to ring herself.
"But the children--why aren't they down?" said grandfather again.
Mother hesitated--
"It is rather late for them," she said. "The girls have been a long walk
and are tired."
She did not know what to say, poor thing. She had not dared to let the
three children come into the drawing-room, for fear their white faces
and red eyes should make grandfather find out that there _was_ something
wrong, and indeed neither Celia, nor Denny, nor Fritz, would have been
able to stay still in the room for five minutes. They were peeping out
of the nursery every few seconds, running along to the end of the
balcony, and straining their eyes and ears in trying to see or hear
anything coming in the shape of good news.
Long, long afterwards they used to speak in the nursery, with deep
breaths, of "that _terrible_ evening when Herr Baby was lost."
But it was, of course, the worst for poor mother. It was bad enough in
the nursery, where the tea, that nobody had cared to touch, was set out
as neatly as usual on the table; the chairs drawn round, the one that
Baby always had with a footstool on it--to make up for there being no
high chair at the Villa--in its place, though the well-known, funny
little figure was not perched on it. And Lisa, with a face swollen so
that no one would have known her, fussing away to have the kettle
boiling, so that her darling should have some hot tea as soon as ever he
came in--for she wouldn't allow but that he would soon come in, though
sad little stories kept running through Celia's and Denny's heads about
children that had been lost and never found, or found only when it was
no longer they themselves but only their poor little bodies, drowned,
perhaps, or "choked in the snow," as Denny said. And she got rather
cross when Celia reminded her that there was no snow, so it couldn't be
_that_, any way.
All this was bad enough, but still they were free to talk about their
fears, and to cry if they felt inclined, and to keep running to the
window or the door. But for poor mother, as you can fancy, it was _much_
worse. There she had to sit smiling and talking as if everything were
quite nice and comfortable, not only for the sake of the friends who had
come to dine with them, but still more for poor grandfather's sake, who
kept growing more and more fidgety and put out, and at the bottom of his
heart, though he would not own it even to himself, really frightened and
anxious.
At last his patience was exhausted.
"May," he said, speaking across the fireplace to mother. She was talking
to the lady beside her, and did not at first hear him. "_May_," said
grandfather again, and if the children had been in the room I think his
voice would have made them jump, "it is using our friends very badly to
keep them waiting so long for dinner. Be so good as to ring again and
tell the servants we will _not_ wait any longer."
Poor mother--she looked up--it was all she could do not to burst into
tears!
"Yes," she said, "I will tell them."
She was half rising from her seat, whispering to the lady beside her
(the lady who _did_ know all about it), "I don't know _how_ I shall get
through dinner," when--what was it?--no bell had rung, there was no
sound that any one else heard, what could it have been that _mother_
heard? I don't know what it was, and I daresay mother herself could not
have told, but something she did hear. For she stopped short, and a sort
of eager look came into her eyes and a flush into her cheeks. And then
the other people in the room seemed to catch the infection, and
everybody else looked up to see what was coming, and in the silence a
sort of fumbling was heard at the door. It only lasted a second or two,
then somehow the handle turned, much more quickly than was usually the
case when it was Baby's small hands that were stretching up to reach
it--I rather think some one must have been behind to help him--the door
opened and--oh such a funny little figure came in! You know who it was
of course, but it would be very difficult to tell you exactly what he
looked like. He was dressed just as he had been for playing in the
garden--a little short thick jacket over his holland blouse, which was
no longer very clean; his short scarlet socks and oldest boots on his
legs, the bare part of which looked very red and cold, and what had been
his best straw hat with part of the brim dangling down, on his curly
head. But he seemed quite pleased with himself--that was another of
Herr Baby's "ways"; he always did seem quite pleased with himself, best
of all, I think, when he had his oldest clothes on--he trotted into the
room just as he would have trotted into the garden, even though there
were a good many rather finely-dressed ladies and gentlemen sitting
round--for his whole mind was filled with the thoughts of two big paper
parcels which he carried in his arms. They could not have been as heavy
as they were big, or else he could not possibly have carried them! And
close at his heels, making him look still funnier, came Minet, very
pleased, I am sure, to find herself again in sight of a fire.
Herr Baby looked round him for a moment, only for a moment, for though
the lights in the room and the number of people dazzled and puzzled him
a little, _he_ did not need to look round for which was mother.
Forgetting all about everything, except that her baby was found, up
jumped mother, a rosy flush coming over her face which had looked so
white and sad, pretty mother with her silvery silky dress and her sweet
eyes filled with tears, and rushing over to Baby caught him up in her
arms, poor little cold, tired, red-legged Herr Baby, and for a minute or
so, greatly to grandfather's surprise, she hid her face somehow among
the wee man's curls without speaking.
[Illustration: Forgetting all about everything, except that her baby
was found, up jumped mother.--P. 170.]
Grandfather was surprised but not alarmed, for just behind in the open
doorway stood auntie, who came quietly forward and explained to him that
Baby had gone out on his own account and they had been afraid of his
losing his way, that was what had kept her out so late, and she was _so_
sorry. Auntie had such a nice clear simple way of speaking,
grandfather's vexation seemed to melt away as he listened. He glanced at
the little figure still clasped in mother's arms, and a queer look came
into his eyes.
"Poor children!" he said, "poor children! May, you should have told me."
But he knew why they hadn't told him. The ladies and gentlemen came
round auntie to hear what she was saying. They were all very kind and
very sorry and very glad. But it was difficult not to smile when a
little voice was heard saying,
"Mother, p'ease put him down. Him's got somesing _so_ pitty, but him's
afraid of breaking them."
And sliding down to the ground, he managed somehow to set the two
parcels safely on the floor, and began undoing them. They all watched
him, but he didn't care, and he would let nobody help him. He got one
out at last, and held it up with a beautiful happiness in his little
face.
"See, mother!" he cried, "shiny jugs! Him's got them all himself wif
him's own pennies. Two! Them's for you, mother, 'cos him boked you's
'nother ones. Him founded them himself in a shop. Him's been as quick as
him could, 'cos of mother's party, to make the table pitty."
"My darling," said mother, hugging him again, and when she looked up
half smiling, half crying, and tried to say to the ladies and gentlemen
that she hoped they would not think her silly, there were tears in some
other eyes besides in hers.
But Herr Baby was quite himself.
"You _is_ p'eased," he said contentedly. "Then him'll go to tea, for
him's raver hungry. But p'ease put the shiny jugs on the table to make
it pitty."
He held up his face for another kiss. Then grandfather came forward and
in his turn lifted the little truant into his arms.
"He is tired, the poor little man," he said, looking round: "you are so
kind; I should ask you to forgive our want of politeness, but I am sure
you will. I will be back in a moment."
And it was grandfather himself who carried off Herr Baby and gave him
over to Lisa, weeping for joy now, as she caught her darling in her
arms.
There _was_ a happy tea in the nursery that night after all. Baby was
very tired, but so exceedingly pleased with himself that his face grew
rosy and his eyes bright, as if he had only just wakened up in the
morning, as he sat at the table answering all the questions of Celia and
Denny and Fritz and Lisa about his adventures. How had he found his way?
How had he made the old man understand what he wanted? Hadn't he been
frightened? Had he been pleased to see auntie? Had he carried Minet all
the way? Oh, there were more questions than I could tell you--almost
more than Herr Baby could answer; and Minet, too, came in for a share of
the petting.
When they had got most of their questions answered, they all found out
they were very hungry, and they set to work at their tea, and for a
while there was silence in the nursery. Suddenly Baby leant his two
elbows on the table and looked round.
"It were all the pitty little girl that keeped the shiny glasses for
him. Her _are_ so pitty."
"What little girl?" said the children, all together.
"Do you mean the young woman's little girl in the shop?"
"No," said Herr Baby, "not that kind of little girl. Him means a little
girl up on the wall--a _pitcher_ girl; but him thinks her are a
_fairy_."
And having thus given his opinion, Baby looked round again with great
satisfaction, and Celia and Denny whispered to each other that really
Baby sometimes said very funny things for such a little boy!
They were all dressed as usual, and Denny and Baby went in to dessert,
while Celia and Fritz waited, as became such _big_ young people, in the
drawing-room. Everybody was very kind to the children, and Baby, had he
been any one else _but_ Herr Baby, would have been spoilt by all the
petting the ladies wanted to give him. But his eyes were fixed on one
thing, or rather on two things, on the table, one in front of mother at
one end, one in front of grandfather at the other, there they stood, two
queerly-shaped glass jugs, sparkling and shining with many colours like
a rainbow, filled with the brightest and clearest water which might have
been drawn at a fairy well. And what pleasure shone in Baby's face as he
looked at them.
"You _is_ p'eased?" he said again to mother, as he bade her good-night.
It was a little difficult for mother to have to make "him" understand
that much as she loved him for remembering how sorry she had been to
have the first jugs broken, and how sweet she thought it of him to have
got her new ones, that still he must never again think of doing such
things by himself and without telling or asking any one.
She did not say anything to him that night; she could not bear to spoil
his pretty pleasure, but the next day she made him understand; and Baby
"p'omised" he would never again set off on his own account, or settle
any plan without asking mother or auntie, or perhaps Celia, about it.
And so the end of the story of the broken jugs was quite a happy one.
* * * * *
Herr Baby's birthday came in the late spring. They were all back in
England by then. The old garden was no longer "lonely," for the
children's voices were heard all over it, and the sunlight through the
leaves flickered on to their curly heads as they ran about in delight,
seeking for all their old favourite corners. The "labbits" were well and
happy; Jones and Thomas had come to meet them at the railway station
with broad smiles on their honest faces; all the house looked bright
and smiling, too, it had been so well rubbed up to receive
them--altogether Herr Baby thought "coming back" was a very nice and
happy thing, though he had enjoyed himself so much at Santino that he
told Lisa he didn't think he would much mind if they _did_ go there
again next winter, when it began to get cold at home, as was already
spoken of, as Santino had done grandfather so much good this time.
So, as I was saying, it was a very happy little man, indeed, that woke
up in his "own dear little bed,"--which, wonderful to say, had not grown
too small for him all the months they had been away,--on the morning of
Herr Baby's fifth birthday. He could hardly stand still to be dressed,
so eager was he to run off to mother's room to get her birthday kiss,
and to see the presents which he knew would not have been forgotten.
They turned out even prettier than he had expected; indeed, it would
take me too long were I to tell you all about the beautiful box of
bricks, big enough to build real houses almost, Baby thought, from
grandfather, and the lovely pair of toy horses with _real_ hair, in a
stable, from mother, and the coachman's whip to crack at them from
Fritz, and the pair of slippers Celia and Denny had worked for him, one
foot each, and the birthday cake all snowed over with sugar, and with
his name on in pink, from grandfather and mother together, "'asides
their other presents." It quite took Herr Baby's breath away to think
all these lovely things were for him; he sat at the nursery table quite
unable to eat his breakfast, something like Fritz the morning they were
starting on their journey, do you remember? till Lisa persuaded him to
eat, by telling him if he didn't, he would be so tired that he wouldn't
enjoy his birthday at all, which made him set to work at his bread and
milk. Lisa, too, had remembered the day, for she had made him the
prettiest little penny purse you ever saw, knitted in bright-coloured
silk, so that now he was very well off, indeed, with his "scented" purse
for his gold and silver, and Lisa's one for pennies and halfpennies, and
his money-box to store up the rest in when the purses were full. He had
all his presents set out in a row, so that he could see them while he
was eating, and just when he was at nearly the last spoonful, he was
quite startled by a voice beside him, saying, "And what about _my_
present, Baby, dear? Did you think I had forgotten your birthday?"
It was auntie. She had come in so quietly that Herr Baby had not heard
her. She leant over his chair, and he put his arms round her neck and
kissed her.
"Him is so happy, auntie dear," he said; "him has such lots of p'esents,
him never thought about your p'esent."
"Didn't you, dear?" said auntie, smiling. "Well, _I_ didn't forget
it--indeed, I thought of it a long time ago, as you will see. Come with
me, for I see you have finished your breakfast."
Auntie took him by the hand. Baby wondered where she was going to, and
he was rather surprised when she led him to his own room--that is to
say, to the pretty nursery where he and Denny had their two little white
beds side by side.
"Look up, Baby," said auntie.
And looking up, what do you think he saw? On the wall, at the side of
his own little bed, where his eyes could see it the first thing in the
morning, and the last at night, hung the picture of the blue-eyed little
girl, the dear little girl of long ago, with her sweet rosy face, and
queer old-fashioned white frock, smiling down at him, with the sort of
wise, loving look, just as she had smiled down at him in the old shop at
Santino.
"Oh, auntie, auntie!" cried Baby. But then he seemed as if he could say
no more. He just stared up at the sweet little face, clasping his hands,
as if he was _too_ pleased to speak. Then, at last, he turned to auntie
and _hugged_ her.
"Oh, auntie!" he said again. "Oh, him _is_ so p'eased to have him's own
pitty little girl always smiling at him. Him will _always_ have her,
won't him, auntie?"
"I hope so, dear. She is your very own."
"Him will keep her till him is _kite_ old. Him will show her to him's
children and him's g'anchildren, won't him?" went on Baby solemnly.
"I hope so, dear," said auntie again, smiling at his flushed little
face.
"Her _is_ so pitty," said Baby. "Her is as sweet as a fairy. Auntie, him
would _so_ like to hear all the story about her. Couldn't you find it
out, auntie?"
"Perhaps," said auntie, "or, what would be still better, perhaps the
little girl will whisper it to you some night when you are asleep."
"That _would_ be nice," said Baby. Then another thought struck him.
"Auntie," he said, "will you ask mother to let him bring up the shiny
jugs to show them to the pitty little girl? Her would like to see them
so nice, and not brokened at all wif the packing. Oh, auntie, what a
bootiful birfday--him are _so_ happy!"
THE END.
_Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, _Edinburgh._