Lady Cicely meanwhile hurried downstairs to the library, where a man sat looking over a ma.s.s 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 role? 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 embarra.s.sment, 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 grat.i.tude 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 advertis.e.m.e.nt, 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."

CHAPTER VII.

"A VERY BEAUTIFUL PENDANT, WITH THE INITIALS 'A.V.C.'"

With all her undoubted strength of character, Christina was only human, and the courteous apology she had received from the man signing himself "Rupert Mernside," sorely tempted her. Curiosity to see the writer, and a lurking feeling that he might really be able to find work for her, were mingled with a girlish longing for adventure, and for some of the youthful joys she had missed; and all these sensations made her more than half inclined to a.s.sign a meeting-place to this Mr. Mernside.

She had known few men, either in her quiet Devonshire home, or when she was in the Donaldsons' service, and any pleasant social intercourse with the other s.e.x had never come in her way at all. There rose before her a vision of meeting this man of the bold, characteristic handwriting--of perhaps being taken by him to tea in one of those tea-rooms about which she had heard--tea-rooms where the waitresses were ladies, dressed in soft lilac gowns, with dainty muslin ap.r.o.ns, and where delicious music was played to the fortunate tea-drinkers. To have tea in such a place, with a man whose business it was for the moment to look exclusively after her and her well-being, would be such a treat as she had never enjoyed in all her life. Her parents had not encouraged any social gaiety; thinking over it now, it seemed to Christina that for some inexplicable reason they had avoided society, and actually warded off those of their neighbours who were inclined to be friendly. And with a sudden revolt against her own loneliness and dullness, the girl felt as though at any cost she must seek friendship, amus.e.m.e.nt, distraction.

"Of course, I haven't any clothes in which to go to a really smart tea-room," she thought, when, in the shelter of her own small room, she read her letter for the second time; "but there maybe somewhere not too smart, where he could take me; and he leaves me to decide where to meet him--and--oh! I do want some fun; I do dreadfully want it!"

The man who would be the central figure of the entertainment, entered little into her calculations. She was far more interested in her vision of tea-rooms, and the smart folk she might be fortunate enough to see there, than in the man whose "open sesame" was to admit her to the sacred precincts. And only when some chance train of thought reminded her of her recent interview with Lady Cicely, did she reflect that the person who would sit beside her, and attend to her wants at the tiny table in the enthralling tea-room, would be a stranger to her, perhaps even an objectionable stranger.

With the remembrance of her visit to Eaton Square, came also the recollection of the tall man with the grave grey eyes, the man introduced to her by Lady Cicely, as "my cousin," and a hot flush of shame rushed to her face, as she wondered what he would think of her, if he knew she was planning to meet a person she had never seen, and of whom she had only heard through a matrimonial advertis.e.m.e.nt.

He would certainly despise her; and it was not nice to contemplate the kindly glance of those eyes turned to scorn and contempt.

Although she knew it was absurd to suppose that Lady Cicely's cousin could ever be aware of, or interested in, the doings of so insignificant a person as herself, she shrank oddly from doing anything of which he would disapprove.