CHAPTER XXIV.
"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 unregeneratedwomanhood, and had declaimed on this subject in his own whimsicalfashion at Cleveland Terrace, much to the delight of his young friendthe humourist.
"It is womanhood pure and simple, and unadulterated by civilisation," hecontinued, blandly, as he twisted his Mephistophelian moustache. "It isthe savage mother, and no mistake, with all her crude grand humours.Sometimes she is benevolent, fairly brimming over with the milk ofloving kindness. She has her sportive moods, when she bubbles over withsmiles and mirth--a May day, for example--when she walks through theland as meekly as a garlanded lamb."
"Hear, hear!" observed Noel, _sotto voce_; but Mollie, who was deeplyimpressed, frowned him down.
Mr. Ingram paused, as though for well-deserved applause. He felt himselfbecoming eloquent, so he took up his parable again.
"But the savage mother knows how to sulk and frown, and her tear-stormsand 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 grandperoration Mr. Ingram gave his moustache a final twist, and, as Noelphrased it, brought down the house.
Waveney thought of Monsieur Blackie's parable--for of course it had beenduly retailed to her in Mollie's weekly budget--when the weather changeddisastrously before Christmas. The Frost King no longer touched theearth with his white fingers; the wintry sunshine had faded from thelandscape; the skies were grey and threatening, and the raw cold madeone's flesh creep. "Hardly Christmas weather," Althea observed,regretfully, as she looked out from the library window at the blackenedgrass and sodden, uninviting paths. Only under the wide verandah of thePorch House a crowd of birds were feeding. Waveney was, as usual,watching them.
"I am afraid it will rain before evening," returned Doreen. "Thebarometer is going down fast. I do so dislike a wet Christmas." And tothis Althea cordially agreed.
But no amount of impending rain could damp Waveney's pleasurableexpectations, for she had a delightful programme before her. That yearChristmas day fell on Saturday, and as Althea and Doreen always dinedwith Mrs. Mainwaring, Althea proposed driving her to Cleveland Terrace.
"Aunt Sara would be delighted to see you, dear!" she said--"indeed, youwere included in the invitation. But I told her that you would farrather be with your own people."
"Oh, thank you, thank you," returned the girl, gratefully. But her joywas unbounded when Althea suggested that she should not return to theRed House until Tuesday afternoon. "I shall need all my helpers then,"she finished, smiling; and Waveney understood her. The Christmasprogramme had been duly unfolded to her. There was to be a grand tea andentertainment for Althea's girls at the Porch House, a festive eveningat the Home for Workers, a supper for the Dereham cabmen, and anotherfor the costermongers; and on Twelfth Night the servants at the RedHouse always entertained their relations and friends in the RecreationHall. "In fact," as Doreen expressed it, "no one would have time to sitdown comfortably until the feast of Epiphany had passed." But, thoughDoreen spoke in a resigned tone of a weary worker, it might be doubtedif any one enjoyed more thoroughly the bustle and preparation.
The day before Christmas was a busy one for all the inmates of the RedHouse. Doreen was at the Home all day superintending the Christmasdecorations, and Althea spent most of her time at the Porch House, wherea band of voluntary helpers were making garlands of evergreens, andframing Christmas mottoes in ivy under her skilful direction.
Waveney would willingly have helped in the work, but Althea had otheremployment for her. Some of her pensioners lived on the other side ofthe river, and Waveney, who often acted as her almoner, went off earlyin 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 theirvarious ailments, so it was quite dark before the little gate of thealmshouse garden closed behind her. For some time she had heard thepattering of the rain against the window-panes, and knew that she wouldhave a long, wet walk home.
"Aye, but it is a wild night," observed Mrs. Bates, lugubriously, as shestirred her bright little fire afresh, "and it makes one shiver to one'svery 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 hopeyour rheumatism will soon be better." And then Waveney unhasped theupper half of Widow Bates's door, and peered out into the darkness.
It was not inviting, certainly. The cold, sleety rain was falling intorrents. A wild night, assuredly, and one that meant mischief. ButWaveney wore a stout waterproof cloak that Althea had lent to her, andthought she would be proof against any amount of rain or sleet. True,her umbrella was just a little slit, but she would soon have itre-covered.
A narrow, winding passage, resembling a cathedral close, led to HighStreet. A few old-fashioned houses fronted the garden wall of theVicarage. Here it was so dark that Waveney was rather startled when sheheard 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 wasimpossible to see the child's face; but Waveney's ear was never deaf toany childish appeal.
"Oh, you poor little thing," she said, kindly, "where do you live, andwhat 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, withUncle Theo and Aunt Joa." Then, in spite of the wet, Waveney stoopeddown and put her arm round her.
"Why, it is my little friend, Betty," she said, in a puzzled tone. "Whyare you out alone this dreadful night? Oh, you poor darling, your frockand jacket are quite soaking. Come, come, we must go home as fast aspossible. Give me your hand, dear, and come closer to me, so that myumbrella may shelter you."
"Is it my little lady?" asked Betty, in a perplexed voice. "She didspeak 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 byyourself?"
"I wanted to meet dad," returned Betty, with a little sob. "Aunt Joa wasout, and I was so lonely all by myself, and Jemima was busy and told meto run away, and I was aching dreadful because it was Christmas Eve anddad did not come; and I thought"--and Bet sobbed afresh--"it would besuch fun to see him pass me, and then I should call out loud, 'Here'sBet, 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, andI fell down and hurt myself, and then I got frightened. Are youfrightened in the dark, too?"
"No; I am only frightened of doing wrong things, Betty dear. I am afraidyou have been very naughty, and that poor Aunt Joa will be anxious. Canyou walk faster, darling?" But Bet, tired and miserable, felt as thoughher poor little legs were weighted with lead. But for the umbrellaWaveney would have carried her; it hurt her to hear the child sobbing toherself quietly in the darkness. It was a cruel night for any child tobe out. Mr. Ingram's "savage mother" was in her fiercest mood, andseemed lashing herself up to fresh fury.
There was scarcely a foot-passenger to be seen on the bridge, but a fewshivering men and women were in the town making their Christmaspurchases.
Bet cheered up a little when the bridge had been crossed. "We shall soonbe 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 s
hall know him some day. See howpretty all those lights look! Yes, this is the house," as Betty pulledat her hand. And the next moment they were standing on the doorstep.
To Waveney's surprise, Mr. Chaytor opened the door. He regarded themwith 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 wasnothing to Betty. In the lamplight she looked the most abject littlechild possible. She was splashed with mud from head to foot, and herplait of fair hair was so wet that Mr. Chaytor hurriedly withdrew hishand.
"Why, she is wet through!" he said, in a shocked voice. Then Waveneyhurriedly explained matters.
"I am afraid Betty has been rather naughty," she said, quickly. "Shewent out by herself in the hope of meeting her father. And then she lostherself, and got frightened. She was just by Aylmer's Almshouses whenshe 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 backfor an hour, and Jemima has gone to the General Post-Office. And thechild 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," shereturned, quietly, "and get off her wet things. And if you could get hersomething hot to drink--milk, or tea--anything, so that it is hot." ThenMr. Chaytor looked relieved.
"I could make her a cup of tea," he returned, "if you are sure that willdo. 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 torestrain her tears. Her poor little lips were blue with cold, and herteeth were chattering. And her fingers were so numb that they could notturn 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 gaveit an air of comfort. A child's cot stood beside the bed. There weresome fine old prints on the walls, and the silver and ebony brush on thetoilet-table, and the quilted silk eiderdown on her bed, spoke of betterdays.
Waveney took off her dripping waterproof and hat, and then she set towork, 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, andensconced in the big easy-chair. Then Waveney sat down on the rug andrubbed the frozen little feet.
"Betty," she said, coaxingly, "I do wish you would be a good child andgo straight to bed." But Betty puckered up her face at this, and lookedso miserable that Waveney did not dare to say more.
"It's my dad's birthday, and Christmas Eve," she said, in a heart-brokenvoice. "Dad would not enjoy his tea one bit unless I buttered his toastand gave him his two lumps of sugar."
"Well, then, you must tell me where to find you some dry, cleanclothes," returned Waveney, with a disapproving shake of her head. Butjust then there was a tap at the door, and when she said, "Come in," toher surprise, Mr. Chaytor entered with two large cups of steaming tea inhis hands.
"Jemima is still playing truant," he said, apologetically, "so I wasobliged to bring the tea myself." And then he set down the cups on alittle table, piling up Joanna's small possessions in a most ruthlessfashion, to make room for them.
Perhaps the novelty of the situation bewildered him, or something in thelittle fireside scene appealed to him; for he stood beside Betty's chairfor two or three minutes without speaking. Betty, in her scarletdressing-gown, was certainly a most picturesque-looking little object,but Thorold's eyes rested longer on the girlish figure on the rug, atthe busy ministering hands, and the damp, curly hair, still glisteningwith wet.
"Do please drink your tea, before it cools," he said, pleadingly. "WhenJemima comes back, I shall send her up to help you, and clear all thewet things away." And then he went downstairs, and set on the kettleagain to boil; and all the while the memory of a bare little footresting on a girl's soft, pink palm, haunted him. "It is the eternalmotherhood," he said to himself, "that is in all true women. No wonderBet loves her. How could she help it?--how could she help it?" And thenthe door-bell rang, and Jemima entered with profuse apologies at hertardiness.
She was sent upstairs with a supply of hot water and towels, and as soonas Betty had finished her tea, her face and hands were washed, her hairdried 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 ChristmasEve," exclaimed Betty, with a quaint little caper. "Oh, I am sure dadmust 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 withcritical eyes while Waveney tried to bring the unruly locks into order.
"Aunt Joa has such long, long hair," she observed. "When she sits downit almost touches the floor. But yours is nice baby hair, too--it islike little rings that have come undone; but it is pretty, don't youthink so?"--feeling that Waveney must be the best judge of such apersonal matter. Jemima giggled as she picked up the little muddy boots.
"Law, Miss Bet," she said, reprovingly, "how you do talk! No littleladies that I ever knew said such things. There's your pa, he isdownstairs and a-waiting for his tea." But Bet heard no more.
"Come, come," she said, pulling Waveney by the dress. "Dad isdownstairs, and the curls don't matter one bit." Then Waveneyreluctantly followed her; her hat and gloves were drying; she could notpossibly put them on for another half-hour, and she could hardly stayruminating in Miss Chaytor's bedroom.
Joanna had not yet returned; she was evidently weather-bound at somefriend's house, but a good-looking, weather-beaten man, in a rough greycoat, 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 thelittle lady was helping me to dress up again."
"Yes, I know, Bet;" and then her father kissed her a little gravely, andheld out his hand to Waveney.
"I am very grateful to you, Miss Ward. My brother has been telling me ofyour kindness to my little girl; she has been a very naughty child, I amafraid." 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 andtruly?"
"Yes, darling, really and truly." And then Tristram took her on hisknee. "What would dad have done without his little Betty?--and she mighthave been lost or run over."
"Oh, I would have found my way back," returned Bet, with a wise littlenod of her head. "But I won't never do it again." And then her littlearms went round his neck, and she rested her head against the rough greycoat; for her childish heart was full to the brim. "Miss Ward," observedThorold, in rather a pleading voice, "as my sister is absent, may I askyou to pour out the tea." Then Waveney, blushing a little at theunexpected request, took her place quietly at the tea-tray.