The Girls and I Part 7

'You'd better go to Lady Nearn's, Barstow,' said mums at last, 'though it seems such a mere chance. How could they have known what house it was, scarcely having heard the name, and certainly not having been told the number!'

That was what we all thought.

But Barstow was off--like a shot, I was going to say, but it wouldn't be a very good description,--as like a shot as a stout elderly butler _could_ be, we'll say.

And poor mums began walking up and down the room, squeezing her hands together in a way she has when she's awfully worried.

'If only Alan were at home,' I heard her say. 'Oh dear! is it a punishment to me for having made too much of the loss of that unlucky brooch? It would seem less, far less than nothing, in comparison with any harm to the children. Oh, if only Anne were less thoughtless and impulsive, what a comfort it would be!'

And I must say, when I saw the poor, dear little thing-- I can't help calling mums a little thing sometimes, though of course she's twice as tall as I am, but she's so sweet and soft, and seems to need to be taken care of--when I saw her, I say, so dreadfully upset, it was all I could do not to feel _very_ angry with Anne; and yet, you understand, till I could see with my own eyes that she and Serry were all right, I didn't _dare_ to feel angry.

And all sorts of things began to come into my head, and I am sure they were in mother's already. The one that seemed the plainest was that they had been run over: the streets are not at all well lighted about where we live; there are no shops, and the London gas is horribly dull. Still, it wasn't likely that they'd both been run over and hurt so badly that they couldn't speak to tell who they were or where they lived. There was some comfort in that. But-- I looked at the library clock, which always keeps good time: father sees to it himself--it was getting on for two hours since they had been out! Where _could_ they be?

Suddenly there came a ring at the bell--rather a sharp ring--and as Alfred flew to open the door, we heard the sort of little bustle that there always is if it is a carriage or cab arriving--tiny clickings of the harness and the coachman's voice. Yes, it was a carriage. We ran out into the hall and saw a footman in a buff greatcoat standing on the steps, up which came two little dark figures, who ran in past him. Then the door was shut, the carriage drove off, and we saw that it was Anne and Serry.

'Oh, children! oh, Anne!' cried mother. 'Where _have_ you been?'

And we all called out in different voice, '_Oh_, Anne! _oh_, Serry!'

But before she said anything else Anne rushed up to mother.

'Oh, mums, it _wasn't_ it after all. It was a star with a pearl in the middle. I was _so_ disappointed!'

That shows how silly Anne is. She had planned, you know, to say nothing about it to mother, and then she bursts out as if mums had sent her to find out about it! Indeed, for that matter, it was only thanks to clever little Maud that any of us knew where they had been, or had any idea rather. For as to _knowing_, we had not known; we had only guessed.

'Then you _were_ there, after all,' said Maud. 'I thought so.'

'But how did you get the address without going to the Barrys for it?'

said Hebe. 'We sent there. Barstow went himself. Oh, Anne, you have frightened us so, especially poor darling mums!'

Then at last Anne and Serry began to look rather ashamed of themselves.

Mother, after the first exclamation, had not spoken. She went back into the library, looking whiter than before almost, and I felt too disgusted with Anne's thoughtlessness to ask any questions. Still, I _was_ very curious to know all about it, and so were we all.

Anne followed mums into the library--she was really frightened by this time, I think.

'Tell me all about it,' said mother.

So they did--Anne first, of course, and Serena putting in her word now and then. It was just as we had thought about the first part of it. They had gone to find out about the brooch. Rodney Square wasn't far off, and Anne was sure she knew the way there, and would be back directly. But after all, it wasn't so easy to find as she expected. It makes a great difference when it's dark--the turnings are so like each other, especially where there are no shops. They did get to Rodney Square at last, but they must have gone a very roundabout way, and when they _were_ there, there was a new difficulty: they knew the Barrys' house by sight, or they thought they did, but they didn't know the number, only that it was a corner one. They came to one corner, one that looked something like it, and Anne thought they'd better try. So they went up the steps and rang the bell, and a footman opened.

'Does Mrs. Barry live here?' asked Anne.

'No,' he said,' that's not our name.' But he must have been good-natured, for he went on to say he'd get the red book if they liked, and look for it.

'Bury--was that the name?' he said when he had got the book.

'_Barry_,' Anne was just going to say, when a new thought struck her. It was no good going to two houses when she might get the information she wanted at one. 'It isn't really Mrs. Barry's house I need,' she said. 'I was only going to ask there for another address--Lady Nern, or some name like that.'

'Oh,' said the man, 'Lady Nearn's!--that's next door, miss. I don't need to look it up.'

They thanked him and set off again, thinking they had been very lucky, though _I_ thought if Anne had remembered the name as close as that, she might have looked it up in our own red book at home before starting.

They rang again next door, and again a footman opened; but he wasn't so good-natured as the other, and he was stupid too.

'Is Lady Nearn at home? Can I see her?' asked Anne quite coolly. Anne is as cool as anything when she's full of some idea. Nothing puts her out or frightens her.

It was rather dark, and of course no one expects little _ladies_ to be walking about alone so late. So it wasn't much wonder the man thought they were errand girls, or beggars of some kind possibly.

'No,' he said, 'my lady's not at home; and if she was she wouldn't be to no tiresome children like you.' (We made Anne and Serry tell us exactly all that was said.) 'She leaves word if she's expecting any of her school brats, but she's said nothing this time, so it's no use your teasing.'

If _I'd_ been Anne I'd have been in a fury, but Serry said she didn't seem to mind.

'Oh, please,' she said, 'we're not school-children, and we've come about something very particular indeed. Don't you think Lady Nearn will be in soon?'

That was Anne all over. She'd no intention of giving up now she had got so far.

I suppose the footman heard by her voice that she wasn't a common child.

'Can't you leave a message?' he said rather more civilly.

'No,' said Anne. 'It's something I must see Lady Nearn herself about.'

She had the sense not to speak of the found ornament to him. Of course it would have been no use, as Lady Nearn wouldn't have left it with a servant.

'We're friends of--at least we know Mrs. Barry's children,' Anne went on. 'Can't you let us come in and wait, if Lady Nearn will be in soon?'

For it was very chilly on the doorstep, and indeed both Anne and Serry were very tired by this time--coming straight from the dancing, and losing their way to Rodney Square, and it being past tea-time and all.

The footman seemed to consider.

'Step inside,' he said at last; 'I'll see what--somebody--says,' They didn't catch the name.

It wasn't nearly such a grand house as the one next door. The hall was quite small, and there was no fireplace in it.

'You can take a seat,' said the man, and he went off. 'Somebody' must have taken a good while to find, for he didn't come back for ever so long. I suppose once he saw them in the light, he was satisfied they weren't beggars or anything like that.

They were glad to sit down, and it felt warm in the hall compared to outside. There was a door close to where they were. It was one of those houses that have the dining-room at the back and the library to the front, you know, and the door was the library door.

[Ill.u.s.tration: 'The door opened a little wider, and two faces appeared.'--c. v. p. 74.]

After a moment it opened, very slowly and softly, and some one peeped out; then Anne and Serena heard some whispering, and the door opened a little wider, and two faces appeared. It was two children--a boy and a girl, though their heads looked much the same, as they had both short, dark, curly hair, and they both wore sailor tops. They gradually opened the door still more till they could be seen quite well. They were about six or seven, and they stood smiling at the girls, half shy and half pleased.

'Won't you come in here?' said one of them. 'It must be so cold out there. We're having tea in here all by ourselves. It's such fun.'

'We're to stay here till mamma comes home,' said the other. 'We've been by ourselves all day, because Lilly and Tom are ill--we mustn't be in the nursery to disturb them.'

Anne and Serry walked in. 'They didn't see why they shouldn't,' said Serry, and these dear little children were so kind and polite. They handed them the cake and bread-and-b.u.t.ter, and they would have given them tea, only they hadn't cups enough, and they didn't seem quite sure about ringing for more.

George, the footman, was rather cross sometimes, they said. But it wasn't often he was so rude as to leave any one in the cold hall. They'd tell mamma when she came in.