CHAPTER III.
A PRETTY KETTLE OF FISH.
"The cab-wheels made a dreamy thunder In their half-awakened ears; And then they felt a dreamy wonder Amid their dream-like fears."
LAVENDER LADY.
Gladys said something of the same kind to herself when, looking roundher in the railway carriage on that same Thursday morning, she realisedthat the long, long looked-forward-to day had come. She and Roger hadactually started on their journey to Papa! Yet her eyes were red and herface was pale. Little Roger, too, looked subdued and sober. It had neverbeen so in their plays; in their pretence goings to Papa they werealways full of fun and high spirits. It was always a beautiful sunny dayto begin with, and to-day, the real day, was sadly dull and dreary, andcold too; the children, even though the new ulsters were in all theirglory, shivered a little and drew closer together. The rain was fallingso fast that there was no use trying to look out of the window, whenfields and trees and farmhouses all seem to fly past in a mistyconfusion. Mr. Marton was deep in his _Times_; Mrs. Marton, aftersettling the children in the most comfortable places and doing all shecould think of, had drawn a book out of her travelling-bag and was alsobusy reading. Roger, after a while, grew sleepy, and nodded his head,and then Mrs. Marton made a pillow for him on the arm of the seat, andcovered him up with her rug. But Gladys, who was not at all sleepy, satstaring before her with wide open eyes, and thinking it was all verystrange, and, above all, not the very least bit like what she hadthought it would be. The tears came back into her eyes again when shethought of the parting with Mrs. Lacy. She and Roger had hardly seentheir kind old friend the last few days, for she was ill, much more illthan usual, and Susan had looked grave and troubled. But the eveningbefore, she had sent for them to say good-bye, and this was therecollection that made the tears rush back to the little girl's eyes.Dear Mrs. Lacy, how very white and ill she looked, propped up by pillowson the old-fashioned sofa in her room--every article in which wasold-fashioned too, and could have told many a long-ago tender littlestory of the days when their owner was a merry blooming girl; or,farther back still, a tiny child like Gladys herself! For much of Mrs.Lacy's life had been spent in the same house and among the same things.She had gone from there when she was married, and she had come backthere a widow and childless, and there she had brought up thesechildren's father, Wilfred, as she often called him even in speaking tothem, the son of her dearest friend. All this Gladys knew, for sometimeswhen they were alone together, Mrs. Lacy would tell her little storiesof the past, which left their memory with the child, even though at thetime hardly understood; and now that she and Roger were quite gone fromthe old house and the old life, the thought of them hung about Gladyswith a strange solemn kind of mystery.
"I never thought about leaving Mrs. Lacy when we used to play at going,"she said to herself. "I never even thought of leaving the house and ourown little beds and everything, and even Miss Susan. And Ellen was verykind. I wish she could have come with us, just till we get to Papa," andthen, at the thought of this unknown Papa, a little tremor came overthe child, though she would not have owned it to any one. "I wonder ifit would have cost a very great deal for Ellen to come with us just fora few days. I would have given my money-box money, and so would Roger, Iam sure. I have fifteen and sixpence, and he has seven shillings andfourpence. It _could_ not have cost more than all that," and then sheset to work to count up how much her money and Roger's added togetherwould be. It would not come twice together to the same sum somehow, andGladys went on counting it up over and over again confusedly till atlast it all got into a confusion together, for she too, tired out withexcitement and the awakening of so many strange feelings, had fallenasleep like poor little Roger.
They both slept a good while, and Mr. and Mrs. Marton congratulatedthemselves on having such very quiet and peaceable smallfellow-travellers.
"They are no trouble at all," said young Mrs. Marton. "But on the boatwe must of course have Leonie with us, in case of a bad passage."
"Yes, certainly," said her husband; "indeed I think she had better bewith us from London. They will be getting tired by then."
"They are tired already, poor pets," said Mrs. Marton, who was littlemore than a girl herself. "They don't look very strong, do they,Phillip?"
Mr. Marton took the cigarette he had just been preparing to enjoy out ofhis mouth, and turned towards the children, examining them critically.
"The boy looks sturdy enough, though he's small. He's like Bertram. Thegirl seems delicate; she's so thin too."
"Yes," agreed Mrs. Marton. "_I_ don't mind, and no more does Leonie; butI think it was rather hard-hearted of Susan Lacy to have sent them offlike that without a nurse of their own. If she had not been so worriedabout Mrs. Lacy's illness, I think I would have said something about itto her, even at the last. Somehow, till I saw the children, I did notthink they were so tiny."
"It'll be all right once we get to Paris and we give them over to theirfather," said Mr. Marton, who was of a philosophical turn of mind,puffing away again at his cigarette. "It will have saved some expense,and that's a consideration too."
The children slept for some time. When they awoke they were not so veryfar from London. They felt less tired and better able to look about themand ask a few modest little questions. And when they got to London theyenjoyed the nice hot cup of tea they had in the refreshment room, and bydegrees they began to make friends with Leonie, who was very bright andmerry, so that they were pleased to hear she was to be in the samecarriage with them for the rest of the journey.
"Till you see your dear Papa," said Leonie, who had heard all theparticulars from her young mistress.
"Yes," said Gladys quietly--by this time they were settled again inanother railway carriage--"our Papa's to be at the station to meet us."
"And we're to have a new nurse," added Roger, who was in a communicativehumour. "Do you think she'll be kind to us?"
"I'm sure she will," said Leonie, whose heart was already won.
"She's to teach us French," said Gladys.
"That will be very nice," said Leonie. "It is a very good thing to knowmany languages."
"Can you speak French?" asked Roger.
Leonie laughed, "Of course I can," she replied, "French is my tongue."
Roger sat straight up, with an appearance of great interest.
"Your tongue," he repeated. "Please let me see it," and he stared hardat Leonie's half-opened mouth. "Is it not like our tongues then?"
Leonie stared too, then she burst out laughing.
"Oh, I don't mean tongue like that," she said, "I meantalking--language. When I was little like you I could talk nothing butFrench, just like you now, who can talk only English."
"And can't everybody in France talk English too?" asked Gladys, openingher eyes.
"Oh dear no!" said Leonie.
Gladys and Roger looked at each other. This was quite a new and ratheran alarming idea.
"It is a _very_ good thing," Gladys remarked at last, "that Papa is tobe at the station. If we got lost over there," she went on, nodding herhead in the direction of an imaginary France, "it would be even worsethan in London."
"But you're not going to get lost anywhere," said Leonie, smiling."We'll take better care of you than that."
And then she went on to tell them a little story of how once, when shewas a very little girl, she had got lost--not in Paris, but in a muchsmaller town--and how frightened she was, and how at last an old peasantwoman on her way home from market had found her crying under a hedge,and had brought her home again to her mother. This thrilling adventurewas listened to with the greatest interest.
"How pleased your mother must have been to see you again!" said Gladys."Does she still live in that queer old town? Doesn't she mind you goingaway from her?"
"Alas!" said Leonie, and the tears twinkled in her bright eyes, "mymother is no longer of this world. She went away from me several yearsago. I shall not see her again till in heaven."
"
That's like us," said Gladys. "We've no Mamma. Did you know?"
"But you've a good Papa," said Leonie.
"Yes," said Gladys, rather doubtfully, for somehow the idea of a realflesh-and-blood Papa seemed to be getting more instead of lessindistinct now that they were soon to see him. "But he's been away sucha very long time."
"Poor darlings," said Leonie.
"And have you no Papa, no little brothers, not any one like that?"inquired Gladys.
"I have some cousins--very good people," said Leonie. "They live inParis, where we are now going. If there had been time I should haveliked to go to see them. But we shall stay no time in Paris--just runfrom one station to the other."
"But the luggage?" said Gladys. "Mrs. Marton has a lot of boxes. I don'tsee how you can _run_ if you have them to carry. I think it would bebetter to take a cab, even if it does cost a little more. But perhapsthere are no cabs in Paris. Is that why you talk of running to thestation?"
Leonie had burst out laughing half-way through this speech, and thoughshe knew it was not very polite, she really could not help it. The moreshe tried to stop, the more she laughed.
"What is the matter?" said Gladys at last, a little offended.
"I beg your pardon," said Leonie; "I know it is rude. But, Mademoiselle,the idea"--and here she began to laugh again--"of Monsieur and Madameand me all running with the boxes! It was too amusing!"
Gladys laughed herself now, and so did Roger.
"Then there are cabs in Paris," she said in a tone of relief. "I am gladof that. Papa will have one all ready for us, I suppose. What time do weget there, Leonie?"
Leonie shook her head.
"A very disagreeable time," she said, "quite, quite early in themorning, before anybody seems quite awake. And the mornings are alreadyso cold. I am afraid you will not like Paris very much at first."
"Oh yes, they will," said Mrs. Marton, who had overheard the last partof the conversation. "Think how nice it will be to see their Papawaiting for them, and to go to a nice warm house and have breakfast;chocolate, most likely. Do you like chocolate?"
"Yes, very much," said Gladys and Roger.
"I think it is not you to be pitied, anyway," Mrs. Marton went on, forthe half-appealing, half-frightened look of the little things touchedher. "It's much worse for us three, poor things, travelling on all theway to Marseilles."
"That's where Papa's been. Mrs. Lacy showed it me on the map. What along way! Poor Mrs. Marton. Wouldn't Mr. Marton let you stay at Pariswith us till you'd had a rest?"
"We'd give you some of our chocolate," said Roger hospitably.
"And let poor Phillip, that's Mr. Marton," replied the young lady, "goall the way to India alone?"
The children looked doubtful.
"You could go after him," suggested Roger.
"But Leonie and I wouldn't like to go so far alone. It's nicer to have aman to take care of you when you travel. You're getting to be a man, yousee, Roger, already--learning to take care of your sister."
"I _have_ growed a good big piece on the nursery door since mybirthday," agreed Roger complacently. "But when Papa's there he'll takecare of us both till I'm quite big."
"Ah, yes, that will be best of all," said Mrs. Marton, smiling. "I dohope Papa will be there all right, poor little souls," she added toherself. For, though young, Mrs. Marton was not thoughtless, and shebelonged to a happy and prosperous family where since infancy every carehad been lavished on the children, and somehow since she had seen andtalked to Gladys and Roger their innocence and loneliness had struck hersharply, and once or twice a misgiving had come over her that in heranxiety to get rid of the children, and to waste no money, Susan Lacyhad acted rather hastily. "Captain Bertram should have telegraphedagain," she reflected. "It is nearly a week since he did so. I wish Ihad made Phillip telegraph yesterday to be sure all was right. TheLacys need not have known anything about it."
But they were at Dover now, and all these fears and reflections were putout of her head by the bustle of embarking and settling themselvescomfortably, and devoutly hoping they would have a good passage. Thewords meant nothing to Gladys and Roger. They had never been on the seasince they were little babies, and had no fears. And, fortunately,nothing disturbed their happy ignorance, for, though cold, the sea wasvery smooth. They were disappointed at the voyage being made in thedark, as they had counted on all sorts of investigations into themachinery of the "ship," and Roger had quite expected that his serviceswould be required to help to make it go faster, whereas it seemed tothem only as if they were taken into a queer sort of drawing-room andmade to lie down on red sofas, and covered up with shawls, and that thenthere came a booming noise something like the threshing machine at thefarm where they sometimes went to fetch butter and eggs, and then--andthen--they fell asleep, and when they woke they were being bundled intoanother railway carriage! Leonie was carrying Roger, and Gladys, as shefound to her great disgust--she thought herself far too big for anythingof the kind--was in Mr. Marton's arms, where she struggled so that thepoor man thought she was having an attack of nightmare, and began tosoothe her as if she were about two, which did not improve matters.
"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 gotGladys, red and indignant, deposited in a corner.
"I'm too big to be carried," she burst out, half sobbing. "I wouldn'teven let _Papa_ carry me."
But kind Mrs. Marton, though she could hardly help laughing, soon putmatters right by assuring Gladys that lots of people, even quite biggrown-up ladies, were often lifted in and out of ships. When it wasrough only the sailors could keep their footing. So Gladys, who wasbeginning to calm down and to feel a little ashamed, took it for grantedthat it had been very rough, and told Mr. Marton she was very sorry--shehad not understood. The railway carriage was warm and comfortable, soafter a while the children again did the best thing they could under thecircumstances--they went to sleep. And so, I think, did their threegrown-up friends.
Gladys was the first to wake. She looked round her in the dim morninglight--all the others were still asleep. It felt chilly, and her poorlittle legs were stiff and numb. She drew them up on to the seat to tryto warm them, and looked out of the window. Nothing to be seen but dampflat fields, and trees with a few late leaves still clinging to them,and here and there a little cottage or farmhouse looking, likeeverything else, desolate and dreary. Gladys withdrew her eyes from theprospect.
"I don't like travelling," she decided. "I wonder if the sun nevershines 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 bethere? I'm so tired of these railways, Gladdie."
"So am I," said Gladys sympathisingly. "I should think we'll soon bethere. But I'm sure I shan't like Paris, Roger. I'll ask Papa to take usback 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 Ellenhad come with us, and if we had chocolate for breakfast."
But their voices, low as they were, awakened Leonie, who was besidethem. And then Mrs. Marton awoke, and at last Mr. Marton, who looked athis watch, and finding they were within ten minutes of Paris, jumped upand began fussing away at the rugs and shawls and bags, strapping themtogether, and generally unsettling everybody.
"We must get everything ready," he said. "I shall want to be free to seeBertram 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 catchsight of Captain Bertram if he has managed to get inside."
"He's sure to have done so," said Mr. Marton, and in his anxiety tocatch the first glimpse of his friend, Mr. Marton spent the next tenminutes with his head and half his body stretched out of the window longbefore the train entered the station, though even when it arrived therethe dim light would have made it difficult to recognise
any one.
Had there been any one to recognise! But there was not. The train cameto a stand at last. Mr. Marton had eagerly examined the faces of the twoor three men, _not_ railway officials, standing on the platform, butthere was no one whom by any possibility he could for a second havetaken for Captain Bertram. Mrs. Marton sat patiently in her place,hoping every instant that "Phillip" would turn round with a cheery "allright, here he is. Here, children!" and oh, what a weight--a weight thatall through the long night journey had been mysteriouslyincreasing--would have been lifted off the kind young lady's heart hadhe done so! But no; when Mr. Marton at last drew in his head there was adisappointed and perplexed look on his good-natured face.
"He's not here--not on the platform, I mean," he said, hastilycorrecting himself. "He must be waiting outside; we'll find him where wegive up the tickets. It's a pity he didn't manage to get inside.However, we must jump out. Here, Leonie, 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, Leonie. Omnibus, does he say? Bless me, how canI tell? Bertram's got a cab engaged most likely, and we don't want anomnibus for us three. You explain to him, Leonie."
In another moment the little party was making its waythrough the station.]
Which Leonie did, and in another moment the little party was making itsway 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 Leonie and Roger, followed by the porter bringing up the rear. Mrs.Marton's heart was not beating fast by this time; it was almost standingstill with apprehension. But she said nothing. On they went through thelittle gate where the tickets were given up, on the other side of whichstood with eager faces the few expectant friends who had been devotedenough to get up at five o'clock to meet their belongings who werecrossing by the night mail. Mr. Marton's eyes ran round them, thenglanced behind, first to one side and then to the other as if CaptainBertram could jump up from some corner like a jack-in-the-box. His facegrew graver and graver, but he did not speak. He led his wife and thechildren and Leonie to the most comfortable corner of the drearywaiting-room, and saying shortly, "I'm going to look after the luggageand to hunt up Bertram. He must have overslept himself if he's not hereyet. You all wait here quietly till I come back," disappeared in thedirection of the luggage-room.
Mrs. Marton did not speak either. She drew Gladys nearer her, and puther arm round the little girl as if to protect her against thedisappointment which she _felt_ was coming. Gladys sat perfectly silent.What she was expecting, or fearing, or even thinking, I don't believeshe could have told. She had only one feeling that she could have putinto words, "Everything is _quite_ different from what I thought. Itisn't at all like going to Papa."
But poor little Roger tugged at Leonie, who was next him.
"What are we waiting here in this ugly house for?" he said. "Can't we goto Papa and have our chocolate?"
Leonie stooped down and said something to soothe him, and after a whilehe 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 thanhalf an hour, till at last Mr. Marton appeared again.
"I've only just got out that luggage," he said. "What a detestable planthat registering it is! And now I've got it I don't know what to do withit, 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 stationhalf 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 nomistake."
Mrs. Marton's blue eyes gazed up in her husband's face with a look ofthe deepest anxiety.
"What _is_ to be done?" she said.