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 round
her in the railway carriage on that same Thursday morning, she realised
that the long, long looked-forward-to day had come. She and Roger had
actually started on their journey to Papa! Yet her eyes were red and her
face was pale. Little Roger, too, looked subdued and sober. It had never
been so in their plays; in their pretence goings to Papa they were
always full of fun and high spirits. It was always a beautiful sunny day
to begin with, and to-day, the real day, was sadly dull and dreary, and
cold too; the children, even though the new ulsters were in all their
glory, shivered a little and drew closer together. The rain was falling
so fast that there was no use trying to look out of the window, when
fields and trees and farmhouses all seem to fly past in a misty
confusion. Mr. Marton was deep in his _Times_; Mrs. Marton, after
settling the children in the most comfortable places and doing all she
could think of, had drawn a book out of her travelling-bag and was also
busy 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, and
covered him up with her rug. But Gladys, who was not at all sleepy, sat
staring before her with wide open eyes, and thinking it was all very
strange, and, above all, not the very least bit like what she had
thought it would be. The tears came back into her eyes again when she
thought of the parting with Mrs. Lacy. She and Roger had hardly seen
their kind old friend the last few days, for she was ill, much more ill
than usual, and Susan had looked grave and troubled. But the evening
before, she had sent for them to say good-bye, and this was the
recollection 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 pillows
on the old-fashioned sofa in her room--every article in which was
old-fashioned too, and could have told many a long-ago tender little
story 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 back
there a widow and childless, and there she had brought up these
children's father, Wilfred, as she often called him even in speaking to
them, the son of her dearest friend. All this Gladys knew, for sometimes
when they were alone together, Mrs. Lacy would tell her little stories
of the past, which left their memory with the child, even though at the
time hardly understood; and now that she and Roger were quite gone from
the old house and the old life, the thought of them hung about Gladys
with 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 our
own little beds and everything, and even Miss Susan. And Ellen was very
kind. I wish she could have come with us, just till we get to Papa," and
then, at the thought of this unknown Papa, a little tremor came over
the child, though she would not have owned it to any one. "I wonder if
it would have cost a very great deal for Ellen to come with us just for
a few days. I would have given my money-box money, and so would Roger, I
am sure. I have fifteen and sixpence, and he has seven shillings and
fourpence. It _could_ not have cost more than all that," and then she
set to work to count up how much her money and Roger's added together
would be. It would not come twice together to the same sum somehow, and
Gladys went on counting it up over and over again confusedly till at
last it all got into a confusion together, for she too, tired out with
excitement and the awakening of so many strange feelings, had fallen
asleep like poor little Roger.
They both slept a good while, and Mr. and Mrs. Marton congratulated
themselves on having such very quiet and peaceable small
fellow-travellers.
"They are no trouble at all," said young Mrs. Marton. "But on the boat
we must of course have Léonie with us, in case of a bad passage."
"Yes, certainly," said her husband; "indeed I think she had better be
with us from London. They will be getting tired by then."
"They are tired already, poor pets," said Mrs. Marton, who was little
more 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 of
his mouth, and turned towards the children, examining them critically.
"The boy looks sturdy enough, though he's small. He's like Bertram. The
girl seems delicate; she's so thin too."
"Yes," agreed Mrs. Marton. "_I_ don't mind, and no more does Léonie; but
I think it was rather hard-hearted of Susan Lacy to have sent them off
like that without a nurse of their own. If she had not been so worried
about Mrs. Lacy's illness, I think I would have said something about it
to her, even at the last. Somehow, till I saw the children, I did not
think they were so tiny."
"It'll be all right once we get to Paris and we give them over to their
father," 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 very
far from London. They felt less tired and better able to look about them
and ask a few modest little questions. And when they got to London they
enjoyed the nice hot cup of tea they had in the refreshment room, and by
degrees they began to make friends with Léonie, who was very bright and
merry, so that they were pleased to hear she was to be in the same
carriage with them for the rest of the journey.
"Till you see your dear Papa," said Léonie, who had heard all the
particulars from her young mistress.
"Yes," said Gladys quietly--by this time they were settled again in
another 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 communicative
humour. "Do you think she'll be kind to us?"
"I'm sure she will," said Léonie, whose heart was already won.
"She's to teach us French," said Gladys.
"That will be very nice," said Léonie. "It is a very good thing to know
many languages."
"Can you speak French?" asked Roger.
Léonie 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 hard
at Léonie's half-opened mouth. "Is it not like our tongues then?"
Léonie stared too, then she burst out laughing.
"Oh, I don't mean tongue like that," she said, "I mean
talking--language. When I was little like you I could talk nothing but
French, just like you now, who can talk only English."
"And can't everybody in France talk English too?" asked Gladys, opening
her eyes.
"Oh dear no!" said Léonie.
Gladys and Roger looked at each other. This was quite a new and rather
an alarming idea.
"It is a _very_ good thing," Gladys remarked at last, "that Papa is to
be at the station. If we got lost over there," she went on, nodding her
head in the direction of an imaginary France, "it would be even worse
than in London."
"But you're not going to get lost anywhere," said Léonie, 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 she
was a very little girl, she had got lost--not in Paris, but in a much
smaller town--and how frightened she was, and how at last an old peasant
woman on her way home from market had found her crying under a hedge,
and had brought her home again to her mother. This thrilling adventure
was 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 going
away from her?"
"Alas!" said Léonie, and the tears twinkled in her bright eyes, "my
mother is no longer of this world. She went away from me several years
ago. 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 Léonie.
"Yes," said Gladys, rather doubtfully, for somehow the idea of a real
flesh-and-blood Papa seemed to be getting more instead of less
indistinct now that they were soon to see him. "But he's been away such
a very long time."
"Poor darlings," said Léonie.
"And have you no Papa, no little brothers, not any one like that?"
inquired Gladys.
"I have some cousins--very good people," said Léonie. "They live in
Paris, where we are now going. If there had been time I should have
liked to go to see them. But we shall stay no time in Paris--just run
from one station to the other."
"But the luggage?" said Gladys. "Mrs. Marton has a lot of boxes. I don't
see how you can _run_ if you have them to carry. I think it would be
better to take a cab, even if it does cost a little more. But perhaps
there are no cabs in Paris. Is that why you talk of running to the
station?"
Léonie had burst out laughing half-way through this speech, and though
she knew it was not very polite, she really could not help it. The more
she tried to stop, the more she laughed.
"What is the matter?" said Gladys at last, a little offended.
"I beg your pardon," said Léonie; "I know it is rude. But, Mademoiselle,
the idea"--and here she began to laugh again--"of Monsieur and Madame
and 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 glad
of that. Papa will have one all ready for us, I suppose. What time do we
get there, Léonie?"
Léonie shook her head.
"A very disagreeable time," she said, "quite, quite early in the
morning, before anybody seems quite awake. And the mornings are already
so 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 part
of the conversation. "Think how nice it will be to see their Papa
waiting 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, for
the half-appealing, half-frightened look of the little things touched
her. "It's much worse for us three, poor things, travelling on all the
way to Marseilles."
"That's where Papa's been. Mrs. Lacy showed it me on the map. What a
long way! Poor Mrs. Marton. Wouldn't Mr. Marton let you stay at Paris
with 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, "go
all the way to India alone?"
The children looked doubtful.
"You could go after him," suggested Roger.
"But Léonie and I wouldn't like to go so far alone. It's nicer to have a
man to take care of you when you travel. You're getting to be a man, you
see, Roger, already--learning to take care of your sister."
"I _have_ growed a good big piece on the nursery door since my
birthday," agreed Roger complacently. "But when Papa's there he'll take
care of us both till I'm quite big."
"Ah, yes, that will be best of all," said Mrs. Marton, smiling. "I do
hope Papa will be there all right, poor little souls," she added to
herself. For, though young, Mrs. Marton was not thoughtless, and she
belonged to a happy and prosperous family where since infancy every care
had been lavished on the children, and somehow since she had seen and
talked to Gladys and Roger their innocence and loneliness had struck her
sharply, and once or twice a misgiving had come over her that in her
anxiety to get rid of the children, and to waste no money, Susan Lacy
had acted rather hastily. "Captain Bertram should have telegraphed
again," she reflected. "It is nearly a week since he did so. I wish I
had made Phillip telegraph yesterday to be sure all was right. The
Lacys need not have known anything about it."
But they were at Dover now, and all these fears and reflections were put
out of her head by the bustle of embarking and settling themselves
comfortably, and devoutly hoping they would have a good passage. The
words meant nothing to Gladys and Roger. They had never been on the sea
since they were little babies, and had no fears. And, fortunately,
nothing disturbed their happy ignorance, for, though cold, the sea was
very smooth. They were disappointed at the voyage being made in the
dark, as they had counted on all sorts of investigations into the
machinery of the "ship," and Roger had quite expected that his services
would be required to help to make it go faster, whereas it seemed to
them only as if they were taken into a queer sort of drawing-room and
made to lie down on red sofas, and covered up with shawls, and that then
there came a booming noise something like the threshing machine at the
farm where they sometimes went to fetch butter and eggs, and then--and
then--they fell asleep, and when they woke they were being bundled into
another railway carriage! Léonie was carrying Roger, and Gladys, as she
found to her great disgust--she thought herself far too big for anything
of the kind--was in Mr. Marton's arms, where she struggled so that the
poor man thought she was having an attack of nightmare, and began to
soothe 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 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."
[Illustration: In another moment the little party was making its way
through the station.]
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.