"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.
"Dreadfully crowded place," he said; "must be very stuffy in warm
weather. I'm glad it isn't summer; we _couldn't_ have left them here in
that case."
And when the cab stopped before a low door leading into a long narrow
shop, filled with sofas and chairs, and great rolls of stuffs for making
curtains and beds and mattresses in the background, Mr. Marton's face
did not grow any brighter. But it did brighten up, and so did his
wife's, when from the farther end of the shop, a glass door, evidently
leading into a little sitting-room, opened, and an elderly woman, with a
white frilled cap and a bright healthy face, with the kindliest
expression in the world, came forward eagerly.
"Pardon," she said in French, "I had not thought the ladies would be
here so soon. But all will be ready directly. And are these the dear
children?" she went on, her pleasant face growing still pleasanter.
"Yes," said Mrs. Marton, who held Gladys by one hand and Roger by the
other, "these are the two little strangers you are going to be so kind
as to take care of for a day or two. It is very kind of you, Madame
Nestor, and I hope it will not give you much trouble. Léonie has
explained all to you?"
"Oh yes," replied Madame Nestor, "poor darlings! What a disappointment
to them not to have been met by their dear Papa! But he will come soon,
and they will not be too unhappy with us."
Mrs. Marton turned to the children.
"What does she say? Is she the new nurse?" whispered Roger, whose ideas,
notwithstanding Gladys's explanations, were still very confused. It was
not a very bad guess, for Madame Nestor's good-humoured face and clean
cap gave her very much the look of a nurse of the old-fashioned kind.
Mrs. Marton stooped down and kissed the little puzzled face.
"No, dear," she said, "she's not your nurse. She is Léonie's aunt, and
she's going to take care of you for a few days till your Papa comes. And
she says she will be very, very kind to you."
But Roger looked doubtful.
"Why doesn't she talk p'operly?" he said, drawing back.
Mrs. Marton looked rather distressed. In the hurry and confusion she had
not thought of this other difficulty--that the children would not
understand what their new friends said to them! Gladys seemed to feel by
instinct what Mrs. Marton was thinking.
"I'll try to learn French," she said softly, "and then I can tell
Roger."
Léonie pressed forward.
"Is she not a dear child?" she said, and then she quickly explained to
her aunt what Gladys had whispered. The old lady seemed greatly pleased.
"My son speaks a little English," she said, with evident pride. "He is
not at home now, but in the evening, when he is not busy, he must talk
with our little demoiselle."
"That's a good thing," exclaimed Mr. Marton, who felt the greatest
sympathy with Roger, for his own French would have been sadly at fault
had he had to say more than two or three words in it.
Then Madame Nestor took Mrs. Marton to see the little room she was
preparing for her little guests. It was already undergoing a good
cleaning, so its appearance was not very tempting, but it would not have
done to seem anything but pleased.
"Anyway it will be _clean_," thought Mrs. Marton, "but it is very dark
and small." For though it was the best bedroom, the window looked out on
to a narrow sort of court between the houses, whence but little light
could find its way in, and Mrs. Marton could not help sighing a little
as she made her way back to the shop, where Mr. Marton was explaining to
Léonie about the money he was leaving with Madame Nestor.
"It's all I can possibly spare," he said, "and it is English money. But
tell your aunt she is _sure_ to hear in a day or two, and she will be
fully repaid for any other expense she may have."
"Oh dear, yes," said Léonie, "my aunt is not at all afraid about that.
She has heard too much of the goodness of Madame's family to have any
fears about anything Madame wishes. Her only trouble is whether the poor
children will be happy."
"I feel sure it will not be Madame Nestor's fault if they are not," said
Mrs. Marton, turning to the kind old woman. It was all she could say,
for she felt by no means sure that the poor little things would be able
to be happy in such strange circumstances. The tears filled her eyes as
she kissed them again for the last time, and it was with a heavy heart
she got back into the cab which was to take her husband and herself and
Léonie to the Marseilles station. Mr. Marton was very little happier
than his wife.
"I wish to goodness Susan Lacy had managed her affairs herself," he
grumbled. "Poor little souls! I shall be thankful to know that they are
safe with their father."
Léonie was sobbing audibly in her pocket-handkerchief.
"My aunt will be very kind to them, so far as she understands. That is
the only consolation," she said, amidst her tears.