Two Little Waifs
"Hush, hush, my dear. You shall go to sleep again in a moment," he said. "But what a little vixen she is!" he added, when he had at last got Gladys, red and indignant, deposited in a corner.
"I'm too big to be carried," she burst out, half sobbing. "I wouldn't even let Papa carry me."
But kind Mrs. Marton, though she could hardly help laughing, soon put matters right by assuring Gladys that lots of people, even quite big grown-up ladies, were often lifted in and out of ships. When it was rough only the sailors could keep their footing. So Gladys, who was beginning to calm down and to feel a little ashamed, took it for granted that it had been very rough, and told Mr. Marton she was very sorry – she had not understood. The railway carriage was warm and comfortable, so after a while the children again did the best thing they could under the circumstances – they went to sleep. And so, I think, did their three grown-up friends.
Gladys was the first to wake. She looked round her in the dim morning light – all the others were still asleep. It felt chilly, and her poor little legs were stiff and numb. She drew them up on to the seat to try to warm them, and looked out of the window. Nothing to be seen but damp flat fields, and trees with a few late leaves still clinging to them, and here and there a little cottage or farmhouse looking, like everything else, desolate and dreary. Gladys withdrew her eyes from the prospect.
"I don't like travelling," she decided. "I wonder if the sun never shines in this country."
A little voice beside her made her look round.
"Gladdie," it said, "are we near that place? Are you sure Papa will be there? I'm so tired of these railways, Gladdie."
"So am I," said Gladys sympathisingly. "I should think we'll soon be there. But I'm sure I shan't like Paris, Roger. I'll ask Papa to take us back to Mrs. Lacy's again."
Roger gave a little shiver.
"It's such a long way to go," he said. "I wouldn't mind if only Ellen had come with us, and if we had chocolate for breakfast."
But their voices, low as they were, awakened Léonie, who was beside them. And then Mrs. Marton awoke, and at last Mr. Marton, who looked at his watch, and finding they were within ten minutes of Paris, jumped up and began fussing away at the rugs and shawls and bags, strapping them together, and generally unsettling everybody.
"We must get everything ready," he said. "I shall want to be free to see Bertram at once."
"But there's never a crowd inside the station here," said his wife. "They won't let people in without special leave. We shall easily catch sight of Captain Bertram if he has managed to get inside."
"He's sure to have done so," said Mr. Marton, and in his anxiety to catch the first glimpse of his friend, Mr. Marton spent the next ten minutes with his head and half his body stretched out of the window long before the train entered the station, though even when it arrived there the dim light would have made it difficult to recognise any one.
Had there been any one to recognise! But there was not. The train came to a stand at last. Mr. Marton had eagerly examined the faces of the two or three men, not railway officials, standing on the platform, but there was no one whom by any possibility he could for a second have taken for Captain Bertram. Mrs. Marton sat patiently in her place, hoping every instant that "Phillip" would turn round with a cheery "all right, here he is. Here, children!" and oh, what a weight – a weight that all through the long night journey had been mysteriously increasing – would have been lifted off the kind young lady's heart had he done so! But no; when Mr. Marton at last drew in his head there was a disappointed and perplexed look on his good-natured face.
"He's not here – not on the platform, I mean," he said, hastily correcting himself. "He must be waiting outside; we'll find him where we give up the tickets. It's a pity he didn't manage to get inside. However, we must jump out. Here, Léonie, you take Mrs. Marton's bag, I'll shoulder the rugs. Hallo there," to a porter, "that's all right. You give him the things, Léonie. Omnibus, does he say? Bless me, how can I tell? Bertram's got a cab engaged most likely, and we don't want an omnibus for us three. You explain to him, Léonie."
Which Léonie did, and in another moment the little party was making its way through the station, among the crowd of their fellow-passengers. Mr. Marton first, with the rugs, then his wife holding Gladys by the hand, then Léonie and Roger, followed by the porter bringing up the rear. Mrs. Marton's heart was not beating fast by this time; it was almost standing still with apprehension. But she said nothing. On they went through the little gate where the tickets were given up, on the other side of which stood with eager faces the few expectant friends who had been devoted enough to get up at five o'clock to meet their belongings who were crossing by the night mail. Mr. Marton's eyes ran round them, then glanced behind, first to one side and then to the other as if Captain Bertram could jump up from some corner like a jack-in-the-box. His face grew graver and graver, but he did not speak. He led his wife and the children and Léonie to the most comfortable corner of the dreary waiting-room, and saying shortly, "I'm going to look after the luggage and to hunt up Bertram. He must have overslept himself if he's not here yet. You all wait here quietly till I come back," disappeared in the direction of the luggage-room.
Mrs. Marton did not speak either. She drew Gladys nearer her, and put her arm round the little girl as if to protect her against the disappointment which she felt was coming. Gladys sat perfectly silent. What she was expecting, or fearing, or even thinking, I don't believe she could have told. She had only one feeling that she could have put into words, "Everything is quite different from what I thought. It isn't at all like going to Papa."
But poor little Roger tugged at Léonie, who was next him.
"What are we waiting here in this ugly house for?" he said. "Can't we go to Papa and have our chocolate?"
Léonie stooped down and said something to soothe him, and after a while he grew drowsy again, and his little head dropped on to her shoulder. And so they sat for what seemed a terribly long time. It was more than half an hour, till at last Mr. Marton appeared again.
"I've only just got out that luggage," he said. "What a detestable plan that registering it is! And now I've got it I don't know what to do with it, for – "
"Has he not come?" interrupted his wife.
Mr. Marton glanced at Gladys. She did not seem to be listening.
"Not a bit of him," he replied. "I've hunted right through the station half a dozen times, and it's an hour and a half since the train was due. It cannot be some little delay. It's a pretty kettle of fish and no mistake."
Mrs. Marton's blue eyes gazed up in her husband's face with a look of the deepest anxiety.
"What is to be done?" she said.
CHAPTER IV
"WHAT IS TO BE DONE?"
"That is the question."Hamlet.Yes, "what was to be done?" That was certainly the question. Mr. Marton looked at his wife for a moment or two without replying. Then he seemed to take a sudden resolution.
"We can't stay here all the morning, that's about all I can say at present," he said. "Come along, we'd better go to the nearest hotel and think over matters."
So off they all set again – Mr. Marton and the rugs, Mrs. Marton and Gladys, Léonie and Roger – another porter being got hold of to bring such of the bags, etc., as were not left at the station with the big luggage. Gladys walked along as if in a dream; she did not even wake up to notice the great wide street and all the carriages, and omnibuses, and carts, and people as they crossed to the hotel in front of the station. She hardly even noticed that all the voices about her were talking in a language she did not understand – she was completely dazed – the only words which remained clearly in her brain were the strange ones which Mr. Marton had made use of – "a pretty kettle of fish and no mistake." "No mistake," that must mean that Papa's not coming to the station was not a mistake, but that there was some reason for it. But "a kettle of fish," what could that have to do with it all? She completely lost herself in puzzling about it. Why she did not simply ask Mrs. Marton to explain it I cannot tell. Perhaps the distressed anxious expression on that young lady's own face had something to do with her not doing so.
Arrived at the hotel, and before a good fire in a large dining-room at that early hour quite empty, a slight look of relief came over all the faces. It was something to get warmed at least! And Mr. Marton ordered the hot chocolate for which Roger had been pining, before he said anything else. It came almost at once, and Léonie established the children at one of the little tables, drinking her own coffee standing, that she might attend to them and join in the talking of her master and mistress if they wished it.
Roger began to feel pretty comfortable. He had not the least idea where he was – he had never before in his life been at a hotel, and would not have known what it meant – but to find himself warmed and fed and Gladys beside him was enough for the moment; and even Gladys herself began to feel a very little less stupefied and confused. Mr. and Mrs. Marton, at another table, talked gravely and in a low voice. At last Mr. Marton called Léonie.
"Come here a minute," he said, "and see if you can throw any light on the matter. You are more at home in Paris than we are. Mrs. Marton and I are at our wits' end. If we had a few days to spare it would not be so bad, but we have not. Our berths are taken, and we cannot afford to lose three passages."
"Mine too, sir," said Léonie. "Is mine taken too?"
"Of course it is. You didn't suppose you were going as cabin-boy, did you?" said Mr. Marton rather crossly, though I don't think his being a little cross was to be wondered at. Poor Léonie looked very snubbed.
"I was only wondering," she said meekly, "if I could have stayed behind with the poor children till – "
"Impossible," said Mr. Marton; "lose your passage for a day or two's delay in their father's fetching them. If I thought it was more than that I would send them back to England," he added, turning to his wife.
"And poor Mrs. Lacy so ill! Oh no, that would never do," she said.
"And there's much more involved than our passages," he went on. "It's as much as my appointment is worth to miss this mail. It's just this – Captain Bertram is either here, or has been detained at Marseilles. If he's still there, we can look him up when we get there to-morrow; if he's in Paris, and has made some stupid mistake, we must get his address at Marseilles, he's sure to have left it at the hotel there for letters following him, and telegraph back to him here. I never did know anything so senseless as Susan Lacy's not making him give a Paris address," he added.
"He was only to arrive here yesterday or the day before," said Mrs. Marton.
"But the friends who were to have a nurse ready for the children? We should have had some address."
"Yes," said Mrs. Marton self-reproachfully. "I wish I had thought of it. But Susan was so sure all would be right. And certainly, in case of anything preventing Captain Bertram's coming, it was only natural to suppose he would have telegraphed, or sent some one else, or done something."
"Well – all things considered," said Mr. Marton, "it seems to me the best thing to do is to leave the children here, even if we had a choice, which I must say I don't see! For I don't know how I could send them back to England, nor what their friends there might find to say if I did – nor can we – "
"Take them on to Marseilles with us?" interrupted Mrs. Marton. "Oh, Phillip, would not that be better?"
"And find that their father had just started for Paris?" replied her husband. "And then think of the expense. Here, they are much nearer at hand if they have to be fetched back to England."
Mrs. Marton was silent. Suddenly another idea struck her. She started up.
"Supposing Captain Bertram has come to the station since we left," she exclaimed. "He may be there now."
Mr. Marton gave a little laugh.
"No fear," he said "Every official in the place knows the whole story. I managed to explain it, and told them to send him over here."
"And what are you thinking of doing, then? Where can we leave them?"
Mr. Marton looked at his watch.
"That's just the point," he said. "We've only three hours unless we put off till the night express, and that is running it too fine. Any little detention and we might miss the boat."
"We've run it too fine already, I fear," said Mrs. Marton dolefully. "It's been my fault, Phillip – the wanting to stay in England till the last minute."
"It's Susan Lacy's fault, or Bertram's fault, or both our faults for being too good-natured," said Mr. Marton gloomily. "But that's not the question now. I don't think we should put off going, for – another reason – it would leave us no time to look up Bertram at Marseilles. Only if we had had a few hours, I could have found some decent people to leave the children with here, some good 'pension,' or – "
"But such places are all so dear, and we have to consider the money too."
"Yes," said Mr. Marton, "we have literally to do so. I've only just in cash what we need for ourselves, and I couldn't cash a cheque here all in a minute, for my name is not known. But something must be fixed, and at once. I wonder if it would be any good if I were to consult the manager of this hotel? I – "
"Pardon," said Léonie, suddenly interrupting. "I have an idea. My aunt – she is really my cousin, but I call her aunt – you know her by name, Madame?" she went on, turning to Mrs. Marton. "My mother often spoke of her" – for Mrs. Marton's family had known Léonie's mother long ago when she had been a nurse in England – "Madame Nestor. They are upholsterers in the Rue Verte, not very far from here, quite in the centre of Paris. They are very good people – of course, quite in a little way; but honest and good. They would do their best, just for a few days! It would be better than leaving the dear babies with those we knew nothing of. I think I could persuade them, if I start at once!" She began drawing her gloves on while she was speaking. And she had spoken so fast and confusedly that for a moment or two both Mr. and Mrs. Marton stared at her, not clearly taking in what she meant.
"Shall I go, Madame?" she said, with a little impatience. "There is no time to lose. Of course if you do not like the idea – I would not have thought of it except that all is so difficult, so unexpected."
"Not like it?" said Mr. Marton; "on the contrary I think it's a capital idea. The children would be in safe hands, and at worst it can't be for more than a couple of days. If Captain Bertram has been detained at Marseilles by illness or anything – "
"That's not likely," interrupted Mrs. Marton, "he would have written or telegraphed."
"Well, then, if it's some stupid mistake about the day, he'll come off at once when we tell him where they are. I was only going to say that, at worst, if he is ill, or anything wrong, we'll telegraph to Susan Lacy from Marseilles and she'll send over for them somehow."
"Should we not telegraph to her at once from here?"
Mr. Marton considered.
"I don't see the use," he said at last. "We can tell her nothing certain, nothing that she should act on yet. And it would only worry the old lady for nothing."
"I'm afraid she's too ill to be told anything about it," said Mrs. Marton.
"Then the more reason for waiting. But here we are losing the precious minutes, and Léonie all ready to start. Off with you, Léonie, as fast as ever you can, and see what you can do. Take a cab and make him drive fast," he called after her, for she had started off almost with his first words. "She's a very good sort of a girl," he added, turning to his wife.
"Yes, she always has her wits about her in an emergency," agreed Mrs. Marton. "I do hope," she went on, "that what we are doing will turn out for the best. I really never did know anything so unfortunate, and – "
"Is it all because of the kettle of fish? Did Papa tumble over it? Oh, I wish you'd tell me!" said a pathetic little voice at her side, and turning round Mrs. Marton caught sight of Gladys, her hands clasped, her small white face and dark eyes gazing up beseechingly. It had grown too much for her at last, the bewilderment and the strangeness, and the not understanding. And the change from the cramped-up railway carriage and the warm breakfast had refreshed her a little, so that gradually her ideas were growing less confused. She had sat on patiently at the table long after she had finished her chocolate, though Roger was still occupied in feeding himself by tiny spoonfuls. He had never had anything in the way of food more interesting than this chocolate, for it was still hot, and whenever he left it for a moment a skin grew over the top, which it was quite a business to clear away – catching now and then snatches of the eager anxious talk that was going on among the big people. And at last when Léonie hurried out of the room, evidently sent on a message, Gladys felt that she must find out what was the matter and what it all meant. But the topmost idea in her poor little brain was still the kettle of fish.
"If Papa has hurt himself," Gladys went on, "I think it would be better to tell me. I'd so much rather know. I'm not so very little, Mrs. Marton, Mrs. Lacy used to tell me things."
Mrs. Marton stooped down and put her arms round the pathetic little figure.
"Oh, I wish I could take you with me all the way. Oh! I'm so sorry for you, my poor little pet," she exclaimed girlishly. "But indeed we are not keeping anything from you. I only wish we had anything to tell. We don't know ourselves; we have no idea why your father has not come."
"But the kettle of fish?" repeated Gladys.
Mrs. Marton stared at her a moment, and then looked up at her husband. He grew a little red.
"It must have been I that said it," he explained. "It is only an expression; a way of speaking, little Gladys. It means when – when people are rather bothered, you know – and can't tell what to do. I suppose it comes from somebody once upon a time having had more fish than there was room for in their kettle, and not knowing what to do with them."
"Then we're the fish – Roger and I – I suppose, that you don't know what to do with?" said Gladys, her countenance clearing a little. "I'm very sorry. But I think Papa'll come soon; don't you?"
"Yes, I do," replied Mr. Marton. "Something must have kept him at Marseilles, or else he's mistaken the day after all."
"I thought you said it was 'no mistake!'" said Gladys.
Mr. Marton gave a little groan.
"Oh, you're a dreadful little person and no – there, I was just going to say it again! That's only an expression too, Gladys. It means, 'to be sure,' or 'no doubt about it,' though I suppose it is a little what one calls 'slang.' But you don't know anything about that, do you?"
"No," said Gladys simply, "I don't know what it means."
"And I haven't time to tell you, for we must explain to you what we're thinking of doing. You tell her, Lilly. I'm going about the luggage," he added, turning to his wife, for he was dreadfully tender-hearted, though he was such a big strong young man, and he was afraid of poor Gladys beginning to cry or clinging to them and begging them not to leave her and Roger alone in Paris, when she understood what was intended.
But Gladys was not the kind of child to do so. She listened attentively, and seemed proud of being treated like a big girl, and almost before Mrs. Marton had done speaking she had her sensible little answer ready.
"Yes, I see," she said. "It is much better for us to stay here, for Papa might come very soon, mightn't he? Only, supposing he came this afternoon he wouldn't know where we were?"
"Mr. Marton will give the address at the station, in case your Papa inquires there, as he very likely would, if a lady and gentleman and two children arrived there from England this morning. And he will also leave the address here, for so many people come here from the station. And when we get to Marseilles, we will at once go to the hotel where he was – where he is still, perhaps; if he has left, he is pretty sure to have given an address."
"And if he's not there – if you can't find him – what will you do then?" said Gladys, opening wide her eyes and gazing up in her friend's face.
Mrs. Marton hesitated.
"I suppose if we really could not find your father at once, we should have to write or telegraph to Miss Susan."
Gladys looked more distressed than she had yet done.
"Don't do that, please," she said, clasping her hands together in the way she sometimes did. "I'd much rather stay here a little longer till Papa comes. It would be such a trouble to Miss Susan – I know she did think we were a great trouble sometimes – and it would make Mrs. Lacy cry perhaps to have to say good-bye again, and she's so ill."
"Yes, I know she is," said Mrs. Marton, surprised at the little girl's thoughtfulness. "But you know, dear, we'd have to let them know, and then most likely they'd send over for you."
"But Papa's sure to come," said Gladys. "It would only be waiting a little, and I don't mind much, and I don't think Roger will, not if I'm with him. Will they be kind to us, do you think, those friends of Léonie's?"
"I'm sure they will; otherwise you know, dear, we wouldn't leave you with them. Of course it will only be for a day or two, for they are quite plain people, with quite a little house."
"I don't mind, not if they're kind to us," said Gladys. "But, oh! I do wish you weren't going away."
"So do I," said Mrs. Marton, who felt really very nearly breaking down herself. The sort of quiet resignation about Gladys was very touching, much more so than if she had burst out into sobs and tears. It was perhaps as well that just at that moment Mr. Marton came back, and saying something in a low voice to his wife, drew her out of the room, where in the passage stood Léonie.
"Back already," exclaimed Mrs. Marton in surprise.
"Oh yes," Léonie replied, "it was not far, and the coachman drove fast. But I thought it better not to speak before the children. It is a very little place, Madame. I wonder if it will do." She seemed anxious and a little afraid of what she had proposed.
"But can they take them? That is the principal question," said Mr. Marton.
"Oh yes," said Léonie. "My aunt is goodness itself. She understands it all quite well, and would do her best; and it would certainly be better than to leave them with strangers, and would cost much less; only – the poor children! – all is so small and so cramped. Just two or three little rooms behind the shop; and they have been used to an English nursery, and all so nice."
"I don't think they have been spoilt in some ways," said Mrs. Marton. "Poor little Gladys seems to mind nothing if she is sure of kindness. Besides, what else can we do? And it is very kind of your aunt to consent, Léonie."
"Yes, Madame. It is not for gain that she does it. Indeed it will not be gain, for she must find a room for her son, and arrange his room for the dear children. They have little beds among the furniture, so that will be easy; and all is very clean – my aunt is a good manager – but only – "
Léonie looked very anxious.
"Oh I'm sure it will be all right," said Mr. Marton. "I think we had better take them at once – I've got the luggage out – and then we can see for ourselves."
The children were soon ready. Gladys had been employing the time in trying to explain to poor little Roger the new change that was before them. He did not find it easy to understand, but, as Gladys had said, he did not seem to mind anything so long as he was sure he was not to be separated from his sister.
A few minutes' drive brought them to the Rue Verte. It was a narrow street – narrow, at least in comparison with the wide new ones of the present day, for it was in an old-fashioned part of Paris, in the very centre of one of the busiest quarters of the town; but it was quite respectable, and the people one saw were all well-dressed and well-to-do looking. Still Mr. Marton looked about him uneasily.
