The Adventures of Herr Baby

But to-day there was no time to be wasted.

Auntie took Baby by the hand, persuading him to let her carry the precious jugs, as Minet and the money-box were already more than enough for him. And, even with her help, it was not so easy to manage at all, and auntie was very glad to meet Mademoiselle Lucie a little way down the street, and get her to carry part.

Mademoiselle Lucie was delighted, as you can fancy, to see Herr Baby again. She had been coming back in great trouble to look for auntie; for very unluckily, as she thought, she had found that her brother was out, and she had not therefore gone to the police office.

"A very good thing, after all," said auntie; "it would only have been giving trouble for nothing, as we have found him."

But she said to Mademoiselle Lucie, in a low voice, to say nothing about the police before Herr Baby, as it might frighten him.

"Would it not, perhaps, be a good thing to frighten him a little?" said Mademoiselle Lucie; "he would not run off again."

Auntie shook her head.

"Not in that way," she said. "We will make him understand how he has frightened us. That will be the best way."

"How did he mean to get home alone, I wonder," said Mademoiselle Lucie; "how could he have carried all he had, and Minet too?"

"I don't know, I'm sure," said auntie. "How did you mean to carry everything home, Baby dear?"

Baby looked puzzled.

"Him doesn't know," he said. "P'r'aps him thought Minet would carry some," he added, with a smile.

Auntie smiled too. Mademoiselle Lucie looked up for auntie to explain to her, for she did not understand Baby's talk any better than he did hers.

Suddenly another idea struck auntie.

"How did you manage to tell the old man in the shop what you wanted to buy?" she said.

Baby considered.

"Him sawed the pitty little girl," he said; "her was looking at the shiny glasses —always– her was keeping them for him. Him asked her to. Then him touched them; him climbed up on a chair in the shop and touched them, and then him showed all him's pennies to the old man; but the lady wif the baby knowed the best what him wanted. Her were very nice, but the pitty little girl were the goodest, weren't her?"

Auntie listened quietly, for Baby spoke quite gravely.

"It would be nice to have that pretty picture, wouldn't it, Baby?"

"Yes," said Baby; but he didn't look quite pleased. "Auntie," he said, "him doesn't like you to call her a pitcher. Him thinks her's a zeal little girl, a zeal fairy little girl. Her tookened care of the shiny glasses so nice for him, didn't her?"

And auntie smiled again.

CHAPTER IX.

"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.

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,