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Christina

<h3> CHAPTER VI. </h3> <h4> "BABA LOVES YOU VERY MUCH." </h4> "Will the lady who on Monday morning brought Baba home out of the fog, kindly call at 100, Eaton Square, any time between eleven and one o'clock?" The words seemed to start from the printed page before Christina's eyes, and she read them over and over again with growing wonder. It was Friday morning, two days after her two disastrous visits—one to the shut-up house in Bayswater, the other to the insolent jewellers—and with difficulty she had managed to crawl round to the Free Library, feeling that she dared leave no stone unturned in a fresh search for work. The day before she had perforce spent in bed, for her day of fatigue, emotion, and exposure to the weather, had been followed by a night of fever and aching limbs; and on the Thursday morning she could scarcely lift her head from the pillow. But on Friday, realising affrightedly that each day brought her nearer to absolute destitution, she made a herculean effort, got up and dressed, and, feeling more dead than alive, dragged herself to the library, to study the monotonous advertisement columns of the newspapers. And having wearily glanced down the familiarly-worded lines, in which nursery governesses and companions were asked for, at wages that would not satisfy the average kitchen-maid, she turned to the front page of the Morning Post, and found herself confronted with the advertisement that now held her astonished eyes: "Will the lady who on Monday morning brought Baba home out of the fog, kindly call at 100, Eaton Square, any time between eleven and one o'clock." Unless there were two Babas in the world, and two ladies who had taken them home out of the fog, she herself was clearly the person indicated by the advertisement; and as the square in which the bewitching baby had been taken from her by an excited footman, was certainly Eaton Square, she had little doubt but that the advertiser wished to thank, and perhaps to reward, her. A hot flush came into her white cheeks as the word "reward" entered her mind; all her instincts revolted against the notion of being rewarded for doing what had been a most obvious duty. But with the instinct of revolt came also a little rush of hope. To the tired girl the advertisement seemed like a friendly hand outstretched towards her; and though pride whispered to her to pay no heed to it, and to ignore it altogether, the sense that kindliness towards a total stranger had prompted the advertisement, fought hard with pride. After all, if she went to 100, Eaton Square, she need accept nothing at the hands of the inmates: that they should wish to thank her for the safe return of their little one was only natural, and it would be churlish of her to refuse to be thanked. In her excitement, she omitted to take down any addresses of employers; for the first time since she had begun to haunt the Free Library, she went out of its doors without a list of names to which letters must be written, setting forth her own qualifications for tending children, or amusing the elderly. She had actually forgotten to draw from her pocket the sheet of notepaper she never failed to bring with her on her morning quest, so full was her mind of the coming visit to Eaton Square. Her weary limbs still refused to hurry, and she walked slowly back to her lodgings, "to make herself tidy," as she put it, before venturing into what was to her an actually new world. Her heart was beating very fast as she rang the bell of the great Eaton Square mansion, and, thanks partly to nervousness, partly to fatigue, her legs were trembling so much, that she was obliged to clutch at the wall for support, to prevent herself from falling. A footman flung open the door—a tall, rather supercilious footman, whose face was not the good-natured, foolish face of the James who had lifted the red-cloaked baby from her arms. This man looked the visitor up and down with a comprehensive stare, which held in it both enquiry and contempt, and had the effect of banishing Christina's small remnant of courage. "Could I—see—the lady of the house?" she asked. "What might you want with her?" the servant demanded with a sniff. "There was an advertisement in to-day's Morning Post," the girl answered, her voice shaking with nervous weariness; "it said, 'call between eleven and one'—and I came to——" "Come after the place, have you?"—the footman's tone changed to one of huge condescension. "Oh! well, step in, and I'll see if her ladyship can see you." "The place!—her ladyship!" Christina looked at the man with bewildered eyes, and said faintly—"I don't know anything about a place. I have not come for that. Only the advertisement said, 'call between eleven and one o'clock.'" "Step inside," came the short order, whilst Henry, the first footman, inwardly remarked that he wished her ladyship wouldn't go putting in advertisements, and not mentioning them to the establishment. "Take a seat there, and I'll ascertain whether her ladyship is disengaged." Had Christina been in her normal health, the man's grandiloquent manner and language would have amused her. With her nerves at high tension, her limbs trembling, and her whole frame exhausted and weary, she felt only a great inclination either to flee out of the front door, or to sit down and cry. The hall, softly-carpeted and warm, fragrant with the flowers massed in great pots at the foot of the staircase, and quiet with the stillness of a well-ordered house, oppressed her. The solemn voice of a grandfather clock in the corner, had only the effect of making the prevailing silence more noticeable, and Christina experienced a wild longing to scream, or to burst into uncontrollable laughter, just to break the stillness which weighed upon her like a nightmare. "Will you come this way, please?" She started violently as the footman's voice sounded close to her. His footstep on the thick pile of the stair carpet had been quite inaudible, and she was surprised to see him once more beside her. At his bidding she rose mechanically, and followed him up the wide staircase, whose soft carpet was a bewildering novelty to the girl accustomed to the simplest surroundings, across a landing, fragrant, like the hall, with growing roses and exotic plants, into a small boudoir, in which she found herself alone. In all her twenty years of life she had never before been in a room like this room, and, standing in the centre of it, just where her guide had left her, she looked round her timidly, and drew a long breath of admiration and amazement. The murkiness of the November day that darkened the world outside, did not appear to enter into this lovely apartment, which gave Christina a sense of summer and sunshine. "It is just like a pink rose," she said to herself, her eyes wandering from the walls, delicately tinted a soft rose colour, to the sofa and chairs upholstered in a deeper shade of the same colour, and the carpet, whose darker tint of rose harmonised with the paler hues. Every table seemed to the girl to overflow with books and magazines; bowls of flowers, vases of flowers, pots of flowers, stood on every available shelf, and in every possible corner. The windows were draped with rose-coloured silk curtains, that made even the grey sky beyond them look less grey, and the pictures on the walls drew a gasp of delight from Christina's lips. They were mainly landscapes, and in almost every case they represented wide spaces, open tracts of country, that gave one a sense of life and freshness. Here was an expanse of sea, blue and smiling as the sky that stooped to meet it; there, long green rollers swept up a sandy beach, whilst clouds lit up by a rift of sunshine, lay on the horizon. On this side was a moorland, purple with heather, bathed in the glory of the setting sun; on that side, a plain, far-reaching as the sea itself, soft and green and misty, bounded by mountains, whose snow-crowned summits stood out in serried stateliness against the faint blue sky. In a looking-glass hanging on the wall, Christina caught sight of her own reflection, and a shamed consciousness of her white face and shabby clothes, gave her a sense of the incongruousness between her own appearance, and the loveliness around her. But this uneasy sense of discrepancy had barely entered her mind, when the door opened, and there entered a tiny personage, whose daintiness made Christina all at once feel huge, awkward, and ungainly. "It was sweet of you to come," the little lady exclaimed, holding out to the girl a white hand flashing with diamonds, "you are the kind lady who brought my Baba home? Henry was very incoherent; he always is, in a grand, long-winded way of his own. But I gathered from his meandering remarks, that you had come in answer to my advertisement." "Yes," Christina answered; "I saw it—the advertisement—in the Morning Post to-day. I thought it was so kind of you to advertise, that I came. But, of course, when I brought the darling baby home, I only did what everybody else would have done," she added, rather breathlessly. "A lady—and very proud," the thought ran through her listener's brain; but aloud the little lady only said: "I can't put into words how grateful I am to you, all the same. You see, my little girlie is my ewe lamb—my only child—and she is very precious. If anything had happened to her, I—oh! but we mustn't talk about dreadful things that might happen, when I hope they never will. Baba was a naughty monkey to run out alone. But she is rather a sweet monkey, isn't she?" "She is one of the dearest babies I ever saw," Christina answered simply, sitting down in the chair her hostess pushed forward for her, and feeling some of her awkwardness slipping from her, in presence of this kindly, dainty little lady. With girlish enthusiasm her eyes drank in the loveliness of the other's fair face, its delicate colouring, its crown of bright hair; the perfection of the tiny form, the gracefulness of the dead black gown, that fell in exactly the right folds, and was hung as no dress of poor little Christina's had ever been persuaded to hang. "Baba—we call her Baba, because her own name, Veronica, is so big for such a baby—has managed to get rather out of hand since her nurse left. We do try not to spoil her, but we don't always succeed very well. I think you must be very fond of children—aren't you? You made a great impression on Baba." "I love little children," Christina answered, with the simplicity and sincerity which characterised her; "since I have had to earn my own living, I have been a nursery governess." "It is very absurd, but I don't even know your name, and I daresay you are equally ignorant of mine?" the little lady in the armchair exclaimed, with a gay laugh. "Rupert did not put any name in the advertisement; he said it was wiser not—but I am Lady Cicely Redesdale, and Baba, as I say, is my only child, and—very precious." Lady Cicely's blue eyes looked thoughtfully at Christina, her last words were spoken absently. "I did not even know into which house the small girl was carried on Monday," Christina replied, laughing also; "the footman ran along the pavement when he saw us, and until I read your advertisement to-day, I had no idea which number in the square was the one he had come from. My name is Moore—Christina Moore—and I live in Maremont Street." "In Maremont Street? But—isn't that rather a—wretched neighbourhood for you? Do your people live there?" "I have no people," the girl answered, an unconscious wistfulness in her eyes that appealed to Lady Cicely's kind heart. "I lost my father and mother three years ago, and since then I have been living with some friends, and taking care of their children. But now they have gone to Canada and I am alone in the world." It was said without any arri�re pens�e; no thought of exploiting her loneliness crossed Christina's mind. The sympathetic glance of the blue eyes watching her, led her on to frankness of speech, and to speak to an educated lady again was a delight, to which for the past few months she had been an entire stranger. "And you—are obliged to work for yourself?" Lady Cicely put the question with hesitating kindliness. "Oh, yes"—a faint smile crossed Christina's face—"and just now it is rather hard to get. Nobody seems to want the sort of work that I can do. You see, I have had very little education—not enough to teach big children—and I have no certificates or diplomas, or anything. I don't think my father ever dreamt that I should have to earn my own living, or he would have had me trained to do it." "But you have taken care of little children?" again Lady Cicely's eyes searched the girl's face earnestly—"and you are very fond of them?" "I love them," Christina said, for the third time, "and I am never tired of being with them, and taking care of them. But there are such lots of other girls like me, with very few qualifications, and so, though I answer ever so many advertisements, I can't get a place." "Do you mind waiting here just a moment?" Lady Cicely asked abruptly. "I—I should like you to see Baba before you go; perhaps we might find—we might think——" and with this vague sentence, the small lady went out of the room, leaving Christina puzzled and wondering. Lady Cicely meanwhile hurried downstairs to the library, where a man sat looking over a mass of legal papers. "Rupert," she exclaimed impetuously, "it is the girl who brought Baba back, and my brain is teeming with plans for helping her." "Is she a young person?" "No, no—a lady. Very shabby, very tired-looking, very poor, I should guess; but unmistakably a lady. And—I'm so sorry for her, Rupert; she is just a slip of a girl, who looks as if she wanted mothering." "Now, Cicely, do you wish to embark on the mother's r�le? As one of your trustees, let me warn you I shan't allow any quixotism." "Leave those tiresome old papers for five minutes, and come and see this girl. I don't want to be quixotic, and I am ready to abide by your judgment, but come and look at Miss Moore." "The tiresome old papers are fairly important deeds connected with your estate, and the future inheritance of your daughter, Miss Veronica Joan Redesdale," her cousin answered with a laugh; "but I suppose your ladyship's whims must take precedence of your property. Where is Miss Moore?" "In my boudoir, and very shy. I am sure she was afraid at first that I meant to offer her money, there was a sort of proud shrinking in her eyes—and she has very pretty eyes, too. Of course, my idea had been to offer her money, because I imagined she would be of the shop-girl type, but I should as soon think of offering you money, as of suggesting giving it to Miss Moore." "Come along, then; let us get the inspection over. But, if you can't give her money, what do you propose to do with her?" "I—thought"—Lady Cicely paused, glanced into her cousin's grave face, and glanced away again—"I fancied, perhaps, I might help her to get work. She is horribly poor, and she looks half-fed, and so tired. I—well—I—really and truly, Rupert, I wondered whether she could come here as nurse to Baba." A low whistle was Rupert's response, then he said slowly— "You didn't suggest this to her, did you? You are so kind, so impulsive, but, remember this girl is a perfect stranger. She may be—anything. As you yourself told me two days ago, you must have unimpeachable references with anyone who takes charge of Baba." "Of course I said nothing to her. Now, Rupert, I know I am impulsive, but I am not entirely devoid of all common sense. Come and give me your opinion, and I promise—yes, I absolutely promise—to be guided by you." Rupert's grey eyes smiled down with brotherly affection into his little cousin's face, and he followed her obediently from the room, and upstairs, wondering vaguely why it was, that, much as he cared for and admired Cicely, she had never inspired him with any deeper affection. Like an elder brother to her from her earliest childhood, the brotherly relation had continued between them after Cicely's marriage, and it had been by her dead husband's most earnest wish, and specified instructions, that Mernside was one of her trustees and Baba's guardians, and Mr. Redesdale had bidden his wife consult Rupert about everything connected with the estate and its baby heiress. On the landing at the head of the stairs a small figure with flying golden curls, and filmy white frock, flung herself upon her mother, shrieking delightedly. "Baba's runned away from Jane. Now Baba come with mummy." "Oh, Baba, you are not a good baby," Cicely exclaimed, with an attempt at severity, which only produced a chuckle from the small girl; "it is time mummy found a very stern nurse. Nevertheless her appearance is opportune," she said, sotto voce, to Rupert. "I told Miss Moore I would fetch Baba, and I don't want her to feel she is being inspected. Run on into mummy's boudoir, sweetheart," she added aloud to the child, "there's somebody there for Baba to see." It was a pretty sight which greeted the two elders when, a moment later, they entered the rose-coloured room; and Rupert paused for an instant in the doorway, to look and smile. Baba, after one short glance at the stranger, who had risen from her chair, made a rush across the room towards her, clasped her round the knees, and cried fervently— "Dat's Baba's lady, what found her in the ugly fog. Kiss Baba," and, at the moment of their entrance, Rupert and Cicely saw the girl stoop and lift the baby in her arms, with a tenderness that marked a true child lover, and an absence of self-consciousness induced by her ignorance that two pairs of eyes were fixed upon her. "Baba loves you very much," the child babbled on, her soft fingers touching Christina's white face, "and thank you for bringing Baba home. Pretty lady," she added suddenly, "Baba like when the pinky colour goes all up and down your cheeks." For, at that moment, the girl had become aware of the presence, not only of Lady Cicely, but of a tall stranger with grave grey eyes, and a rosy flush swept over the whiteness of her face. "Baba has not forgotten you," the former said, with her gay little laugh. "Rupert, this is Miss Moore, who so kindly brought naughty Baba home out of the fog. My cousin is Baba's guardian, Miss Moore, and he is as grateful to you as I am." Christina, in her embarrassment, did not observe Lady Cicely's omission of the tall stranger's surname; Cicely herself was unconscious that she had not said it, and Rupert was only intent on setting the girl at her ease. "Baba seems to be bestowing her own thanks in her own violent way," he said, as the child's dimpled arms were flung again round Christina's neck, and her soft face pressed against the girl's flushed one; "but we all owe you a debt of gratitude for having found, and brought her back. London streets are not the safest place for little babies of that age, with pearl necklaces round their necks." "That was what I thought," Christina exclaimed impulsively; "at least—I mean," she stammered, "I couldn't help being glad that I was the first person to find her, and that it was not one of the dreadful people who do prowl about in fogs, who saw her first." "We are most thankful for that, too," Rupert answered; and then, being a man of the world, he skilfully led the conversation to more general subjects, until Christina was soon talking quietly and naturally, with no more tremors or self-consciousness. When, a few minutes later, she rose to go, Lady Cicely held her hands in a clasp that was very comforting to the weary girl, and said gently— "I am not going to worry you with more thank-yous; but I want you to come and see me again in a day or two. I think, perhaps, I may be able to hear of some work that would suit you." As Christina wended her way homewards, she felt, tired though she was, as if her feet trod on air. Hope was once more fully alive within her. Lady Cicely's lovely face and charming manner had bewitched the girl, and she was sure—quite, quite sure—that if the sweet little blue-eyed lady said she would do something for her, that something would infallibly be done. And—the tall cousin, with the grave grey eyes, and the mouth that seemed to Christina to be set in lines of pain? Those grey eyes and that firmly-set mouth, haunted her during the whole course of her walk, and through her mind there flashed unbidden the thought— "I—wish I could comfort him. I am sure he is unhappy." Her way led her past the newspaper shop kept by Mr. Coles, and the little man himself was standing at his door surveying the world. "There is a letter in here for you, miss," he said good-naturedly; "it came yesterday morning, and the wife and I made sure you'd be in for it." Christina started. The events of the day had obliterated from her mind all recollection of the matrimonial advertisement, and the letters that were to be addressed to Mr. Coles's shop. The memory of Wednesday's disappointment came back to her, and as Mr. Coles put into her hand a letter addressed "C.M." in the same bold, strong hand that had addressed the other letter, her momentary inclination was to return it to its writer unopened. "Perhaps there is some explanation," was her next and saner reflection; and, walking along the street, she opened, and read the letter, feeling a certain compunction as she did so. The address was still that of the newspaper office, and the letter ran— "DEAR MADAM,— "I deeply regret that you found the house, at which I had asked you to call, shut up. I reached it a few minutes after you had left, and to my own great surprise found—as you had done—no one there but a caretaker. My friend must have been called away suddenly, for on Tuesday, when I saw her, she most kindly arranged that her house should be at my disposal. Please forgive what must have seemed to you most strange. Would it suit you to arrange any meeting-place that would accord with your wishes? With renewed apologies. "Yours faithfully,     "R. MERNSIDE." <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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