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  CHAPTER IV.

  "I SUPPOSE IT WAS AN HOUR."

  "Poor dear James is the worthiest soul, but he has no more brains thana pin--the small kind of pin that you get in change for a farthing!"

  "James always seemed to me a good footman."

  "Rupert! He is an admirable footman. I haven't a word to say againsthim in that capacity. He does his duties with the beautiful regularityof an automatic machine. But move James from his own dear littlebeaten track, and he is lost, hopelessly, irrevocably lost!"

  "What beaten track has he left? and why is he rousing your ladyship'swrath?"

  Lady Cicely Redesdale, lying back in the cosiest chair of her cosyboudoir, swung her pretty foot to and fro, and glanced up at her tallcousin with one of her gay little laughs. Rupert Mernside, the son ofher mother's sister, had always been to her more of elder brother thancousin, and from their earliest youth there had existed between them afrank _camaraderie_ which had never degenerated into flirtation, ordrifted into any sentimental relationship. Cicely was in the habit ofsaying that Rupert was the person of all others from whom she would notonly ask, but take, advice; because his judgment was so sound and hepossessed a really well-balanced mind. This opinion of him had beenendorsed by her late husband, who had only qualified it with onelimitation.

  "Rupert's got as sound and balanced a mind as any man could wish for,but once let the right woman get hold of him, and she will twist himround her little finger."

  Those words of her husband recurred to Cicely now, as she lifted hereyes from their contemplation of her own dainty shoes and looked upinto Rupert's rugged face.

  "I should rather like to see a woman twist you round her littlefinger," she said irrelevantly.

  "A woman--me? What on earth have a woman and I got to do with James'sdelinquencies?"

  "There is method in my madness, but the lane that led from James toyour little finger, and the not impossible she, is so long that I can'ttake you back along its windings. It all comes of the power ofassociation. I shall have Baba taught everything by association. I amplanning a scheme of education that----"

  "Where does James come in to the plan for Baba's education?" Rupertcontrived to ask, his grey eyes shining, a whimsical smile playinground his mouth.

  "Oh! my dear boy, I had completely forgotten James, though talking ofBaba would soon have reminded me of him--poor silly thing! Baba ranaway two days ago in that appalling fog--and----"

  "_Baba ran away?_"

  "Well, the door was open; I suppose the outside world looked ratherfascinating and mysterious, and she has no nurse just now, you know; sothere was no one with her; and, of course, Jane, the nursery maid, wasfetching something from the kitchen--and--well, the long and the shortof it was that Baba ran out into the street, and was promptly swallowedup by the fog."

  "My dear Cicely!"

  "Providentially, as I now consider it, I was out. I had an earlyappointment with Mathilde."

  "Your dressmaker?"

  "My dressmaker. Wasn't it kind of luck, or whatever it is, to let itall happen when I wasn't there. Rupert, if I had been at home, andthey told me Baba was lost, I should have gone straight off my head."

  "That would have been an eminently useful and practical thing to do,"was the dry retort.

  "You have never been a mother; you don't know what a mother feels likeabout her only child," Cicely said with an attempt at dignity that satquaintly upon her small person and drew an amused laugh from hercousin. "I believe it would kill me if anything really happened toBaba," she went on, more gravely; "you think I'm just a silly,frivolous thing, but--Baba is all the world to me."

  "I know, dear; I know quite well," Rupert answered kindly; "and nobodycould think you silly. But go on and tell me what happened two daysago. We haven't got to James's shortcomings _yet_."

  "Baba ran out into the square, and nobody missed her at first. Then,when that goose of a Jane came back from her wanderings in the kitchen,she found the nurseries empty, and Baba nowhere to be found. There wasa tremendous hue and cry; the servants seem to have been on the vergeof distraction, and ran off in all directions like frightened hens,leaving James on guard at the door. And, after a few minutes, when thefog lifted, James caught sight of Baba in a strange girl's arms,evidently quite at home with her, and very happy. You know Baba'sducky way of making friends with everybody. James flew out, seizedBaba, seems to have thanked her rescuer, and bustled back to the housewith the child, without ever dreaming of asking the stranger her name."

  "What sort of a person was she?"

  "Oh! I don't know. When I asked James he could only say: 'Well, mylady, she seemed a nice respectable young person'; but heaven knowswhat James means by a young person. He further volunteered that shewas rather shabbily dressed; and I can't bear to think that she wentaway with no thanks from me, and with no reward."

  Rupert smiled down into his cousin's pretty, eager face.

  "Perhaps the thought of reward never entered her head? There are stillsome disinterested people left in the world. And Baba is a veryfetching little being to rescue from the dangers of a fog."

  "She looked so fetching that morning, too. I came in just after shewas brought back, and there she was, the little monkey, in her redcloak which she had found in the hall, where, needless to say, it oughtnot to have been; with no hat, and all her curls in a delicious tangle,her face so soft and pink, and her eyes shining. She looked adelectable baby, but, Rupert, she had on the most valuable lace frock,and pearls round her neck. Only think what might have happened if somehorrible person had found her. My pretty baby," and Cicely's face grewsuddenly white and grave, whilst she shivered at the picture conjuredup by her own mind.

  "I asked James why he hadn't told the 'young person' to give him hername and address, and he could only say feebly that 'it never crossedhis mind.' Poor James, I don't believe he's got a mind."

  "You could advertise for the young lady. If you really want to findher, an advertisement in some leading paper should unearth her for you.Perhaps, too, if she was shabbily dressed, a reward might be a god-sendto her."

  "Oh, Rupert! perhaps she's fearfully poor. Do, do advertise for me. Ican't bear to think that a girl may be in difficulties when I have moremoney than I know what to do with. Will you advertise for me?"

  "Yes; of course."

  "I don't know what I should do without you," she continued, looking athim gravely, but with no hint of coquettishness in her glance. "I domiss John so dreadfully; I do want a man to help me and advise me."

  "You can have me whenever you want me," her cousin answered with equalgravity, knowing that her words, which in another woman's mouth mighthave implied a desire to change their friendly relations for somethingmore lover-like, on Cicely's lips held merely their surface meaning--nomore.

  "I always hope that some day you will marry again," Rupert went on withbrotherly frankness; "you have been alone three years now. Your greatproperty is a big handful for a woman to manage, and John would wishfor your happiness above everything else in the world."

  "John never thought of anything but my happiness," was the gentleanswer. "I don't think any girl ever had a better, dearer husband.People thought, perhaps you thought so, too, that I just married himfor his money. It wasn't true. At first--quite at first--when fathershowed me what a huge difference it would make to them all if I marrieda millionaire, I _did_ think more of John's fortune than of himself.But, it was only quite at first. After that, I knew I would ratherlive in a cottage with him than in a palace with anybody else.I--don't think--I shall marry again--unless I find I am too weak andsilly to manage Baba's fortune by myself."

  Rupert looked silently down at her bent, bright head, a new reverencestirring within him for the little cousin. Hitherto, he had regardedher with the kindly affection of an elder brother for a small sisterwhom he considers scarcely more than a child; but this grave Cicely wasshowing him depths of whose existence he had never been even dimlyaware.
r />   "But that's enough of being solemn," Cicely exclaimed, shattering hisnew conception of her with characteristic suddenness; "talking ofmarriage, the thing I hanker for most in the whole world is to see youmarried, Rupert. You don't look a bit like a soured old bachelor, andyet--here you are, more than thirty-five, and not one single woman'sname has ever been mentioned in connection with yours."

  "For which mercy let us be humbly and devoutly thankful," her cousinanswered, laughing, though how sincere was his thankfulness only hisown heart knew, and into that heart there flashed as he spoke thevision of a white face and dark eyes, deep with unfathomable mystery;"if I don't want to marry, why hustle me into the holy estate? Ibelieve the Prayer Book strongly urges us not to undertake it lightlyor unadvisedly."

  "Now, you are flippant. As if you would be marrying lightly orunadvisedly, if you wait until you are within five years of forty,before choosing a wife. When I think of the hundreds of reallycharming girls I've introduced you to, with----"

  "With a view to matrimony," Rupert ended the sentence, punctuating hiswords with a laugh. "Let me recommend you to study the matrimonialcolumns of some of the papers. You will possibly find an eligiblehusband there for some of your charming girls."

  "_Rupert!_ don't be so incorrigibly low and horrid. As if any girlwith a rag of decency or self-respect would answer one of thoseadvertisements. Why, men who advertise for wives can only be seedyadventurers, the sort of person one reads of in books and never meetsin real life."

  "Seedy sort of adventurers," Rupert repeated slowly, turning, as if bychance, to survey his own reflection in the mirror over themantelpiece; "there are adventurers and adventurers. Perhaps some ofthose who advertise do it--for a joke."

  "Just like a man if they do," his cousin answered vehemently; "and thensome poor girl takes the wretched creature seriously, and thinks hemeans his stupid joke. I should despise a girl who answered such anadvertisement, but I should much more despise the man who inserted it."

  "Don't scorn them too much. Everybody has different ideals, and ittakes all sorts to make a world. Your sort don't advertise forhusbands and wives, but our section of society is not so faultless thatwe can afford to throw stones even at people who marry through amatrimonial bureau."

  "It's so low. The sort of thing a shop girl might do."

  "Not lower than displaying your daughters in the best market, as theSociety mother does," Rupert answered sternly; "not lower than runninga man to earth, as shoals of women do, and do it without an ounce ofshame."

  "But, answering an advertisement like that is almost asking a man tomarry you."

  "Perhaps, and when poor old Donkin lost his wife a year ago, a lot ofwomen wrote and proposed to him. Yes, _actually wrote and offered tomarry him_! He told me so himself, and those were women of your class,well born and well educated. Well, we have the consolation of knowingthat he refused the lot."

  "Horrid beasts! no wonder you men lose your respect for women, if youthink we are all capable of doing that sort of thing."

  "We don't think so," Rupert's contemptuous tones grew gentle again; "weknow the difference between the womanly woman and the others. ThankGod, there are plenty of the right sort left," and Rupert stoopedsuddenly and took his cousin's two small hands into his.

  "You aren't going?" she exclaimed. "I wanted you to see Baba, andthere are thousands of things I meant to say to you."

  "So sorry, but the thousands of things must be postponed. I have anappointment at five, and I must keep it."

  "You will advertise for the 'young person'?"

  "Yes; I won't forget the 'young person'--and--by the way, Cicely," aslight trace of embarrassment showed on his face, "didn't you tell meyou wanted to find a sort of nursery governess for Baba?"

  "Certainly, I do; but, my dear boy, what do you know about nurserygovernesses?"

  "I don't know anything about them," was the reply, but Cicely's quickeyes still noted embarrassment in both voice and manner, "but I heardthe other day of a girl who--who might be wanting a post."

  "A girl who might be wanting a post," Cicely exclaimed mockingly; "theperson I engage for Baba, would have to be somebody much less vaguethan that, and she must have unimpeachable references."

  "Unimpeachable references," Mernside reflected as he left his cousin'shouse; and, side by side with Cicely's words, other words tossed to andfro in his brain, words written in a clear, girlish hand that had anodd character of its own.

  "I cannot find work, and I need a home very much."

  "Probably she is quite impossible," his reflections ran on. "Cicelyhad a good deal of right on her side when she talked about shop girlsand matrimonial advertisements. I daresay I shall find C.M. belongs tothat class of girl, and if so, what am I going to do about her? Ah!well; Margaret will help."

  It was this thought that buoyed him up during his walk across the parkfrom the Redesdale's mansion in Eaton Square, to the small white housein Bayswater; but as he pushed open the familiar gate and walked up thegarden path, a shock of surprise awaited him. The blinds of the roomto the right of the front door were pulled down, and his repeatedringing of the bell brought no response from within. The bell clangedin the kitchen regions, its echoes dying away forlornly, but nofootstep sounded in the hall, no hand lifted the latch of the door, andas he stepped back and looked up at the house, Rupert saw that no smokewas coming from the chimneys. A sick fear smote at his heart. Whathad happened? What could have happened? The day before, he had beenhere, sitting with Margaret in that very room over whose windows theblinds were now so closely drawn. She had seemed tired, it was true,but not more tired than he had often seen her, and he had no reason tosuppose that she was more ill than usual. She was always fragile; hewas accustomed to find her one week on the sofa, another weeksufficiently strong to be moving about the room, and even going out ofdoors. But that her house should be barred and bolted against him wasinexplicable. He felt as though the ground had been cut away fromunder his feet, as if the very foundations of his life had been shaken.Why! to-day was the day she had herself fixed for his interview in herhouse with the girl of the advertisement. Margaret had arranged thehour; it was by her suggestion that he had written to C.M., proposing ameeting at 100, Barford Road, and now he found the house locked up andapparently empty, with no word of explanation or apology. CouldMargaret have been suddenly taken ill? If so, why had she not let himknow? Yet, if she was ill, she would be in the house, and Elizabethwith her. Somebody would have answered his ringing, which had grownmore and more imperative as each ring remained unanswered. Could shehave gone away? Gone away without letting him have the slightest hintof her intended going? Was that more conceivable than his theory ofsudden illness? Again, sick dismay knocked at the door of his heart,and with it came a wave of hot anger against Margaret. Surely hisyears of faithful devotion, of willing service, had entitled him tomore consideration than this at her hands. He had made few demandsupon her, but this sudden and unexplained disappearance was a strainwhich even the merest friendship should not be called upon to bear.

  Once again he pealed the bell, and even knocked vigorously at theknocker, but neither sound produced the slightest effect, and he wasperforce turning away, when the gate clicked and he saw a breathlesspersonage of the charwoman class hurrying up the path.

  "I'm sure I beg your parding, sir," she panted; "just like my luck toa' popped out for a minute twice in the afternoon, and each timesomebody called."

  "Are you in charge of this house?" Rupert asked, his own agitationmaking him speak more sternly than the occasion quite warranted.

  "Yes, sir; and I'm truly sorry, sir," the woman whimpered, wiping hermuch-heated face with a grimy apron; "come here yesterday, I did, allof a sudden, Mrs. Stanforth and Miss Herring, her maid, going awayunexpected, and me havin' a extra lot of washin' and all. But I saysto Jem, my son, 'Jem,' I says----"

  "Yes, yes," Rupert interrupted impatiently, "but where is Mrs.Stanforth? Did she leave any mess
age? Any note? Did she tell you tosay anything to people who called?"

  "Lor', no, sir. Went off in a hurry and didn't leave no messages nornothin'. And I'm sure I'm sorry I wasn't 'ere when you come, but I'dpopped out for a minute, and let out the kitchen fire, too, and I just'ad to see to my bit o' washin', and there, I run back a half an 'ourago, and there was a young lady in a rare takin' then, and so----"

  "A young lady," Rupert again broke into her stream of words.

  "Pore young thing, she did seem upset over it, too. Said she wasexpected, and she was to be 'ere at five, and all. There! I was sorryfor 'er. Seemed to strike 'er all of an 'eap when she see the shut up'ouse. She says quite 'urt like: 'Well, I s'pose it was an 'oax.'Them was 'er very words."

  "I suppose you explained to her that the lady had gone awayunexpectedly?" Rupert exclaimed with growing irritation; "you didn'tlet the young lady think she had been brought here for a _joke_?"

  "Well, o' course, sir, I didn't know nothin' about it," was theoffended retort; "if you ask me, I should say there was somethin' queerin tellin' somebody to come to an 'ouse at five o'clock, and then forthe 'ouse to be shut up. Which I should say it was a pore joke meself.She says: 'Ain't Mr. Mernside 'ere?' and I says, 'I don't know nothin'about nobody o' that name,' and she looks as took aback as if I'd 'it'er, and so----"

  Rupert uttered a smothered oath, then mastered himself, and asked morequietly:

  "And how long has the young lady been gone?"

  "Best part of a quarter of a hour. Quiet young lady she was, too;dressed very plain; you might say shabby; and went orf lookin' fit tocry with disappointment. And I just popped out agin to git me bit o'relish for tea, and _you_ come; lor', it do seem strange."

  The good lady was left to address her rambling remarks to the shrubs inthe garden, for Rupert, unable to bear more of her discursiveness,turned and fled, shutting the garden gate with a sharp clang behindhim, and feeling that his world had all at once gone wrong, very wrongindeed.