A FALL DOWNSTAIRS.
"Oh! what's the matter? what's the matter?"
GOODY BLAKE.
Some days passed; they were much the same as the first, except that the
children--children-like--grew used to a certain extent to the things and
people and manners and ways of the life in which they found themselves.
Roger now and then seemed pretty contented, almost as if he were
forgetting the strange changes that had come over them; so long as every
one was kind to him, and he had Gladys at hand ready, so far as was
possible for her, to attend to his slightest wish, he did not seem
unhappy. But on the other hand, the least cross word, or one of
Mademoiselle Anna's sharp looks, or even the want of things that he
liked to eat, would set him off crying in a way he had never done
before, and which nearly broke Gladys's heart. For she, though she
seemed quiet and contented enough, was in reality very anxious and
distressed. She was of an age to understand that something really
serious must be the matter for her and Roger to be left with strangers
in this way--no letters coming, no inquiries of any kind being made,
just as if she and her little brother were forgotten by all the world!
She could write a little, and once or twice she said to herself that if
it went on very long she would try to send a letter to Miss Susan; but
then again, when she remembered how glad that young lady had been to get
rid of them, how she had disliked the idea of their staying with Mrs.
Lacy after her marriage--for all this by scraps of conversation, remarks
of servants, and so on, Gladys had been quick enough to find out--she
felt as if she would rather do anything, stay anywhere, rather than ask
Miss Susan to take them back. And then from time to time hope would rise
strong in her, and she would wake in the morning firmly convinced that
"Papa would come to-day"--hopes, alas, only to be disappointed! She was
beginning to understand a little of what was said by those about them.
Madame Nestor was as kind as ever, and her son, who had taken a great
fancy to Roger, was decidedly kinder than he had been at first. With
them alone Gladys felt she would not have minded anything so much; but
she could see that Anna's dislike to them increased, and the child
dreaded the hours of the meals, from the feeling of the hard scornful
looks that Anna was then sure to cast on her.
One day she overheard some talking between her and Madame Nestor. The
young woman seemed angry, and the old one was remonstrating with her.
Gladys heard that they were speaking about money, and also about some
one going away, but that was all she could make out, though they were
talking quite loud, and did not seem to mind her being there.
"If only Anna was going away," thought Gladys, "I wouldn't mind
anything. I wouldn't mind the not having baths, or tea, or bread and
butter, or--or all the things we had at home, if only there was nobody
to look so fierce at us. I'd almost rather be Madame Nestor's little
servant, like Françoise, if only Anna would go away."
It almost seemed as if her wishes had been overheard by some fairy, for
the next morning, when they were called to the second breakfast--which
the children counted their dinner--Anna's place was empty! Gladys
squeezed Roger's hand under the table, and whispered to him: "She's
gone, I do believe she's gone." Then looking up at Madame Nestor she saw
her kind old face looking decidedly jollier than usual.
"Yes," she said, nodding her head; "Anna is away. She has gone away for
a few days."
Gladys understood her partly but not altogether, but she did not mind.
She was only too pleased to find it true, and that was the happiest day
they had since they came to the Rue Verte. Madame Nestor sent out to the
pastry-cook's near by for some nice little cakes of a kind the children
had never tasted before, and which they found delicious, and Monsieur
Adolphe said he would get them some roasted chestnuts to eat if they
liked them. He found the words in a dictionary which he showed Gladys
with great pride, and pointed them out to her, and was quite delighted
when she told him how to pronounce them, and added: "I like roast
chestnuts _very_ much."
"Mademoiselle shall give me some lessons of English," he said to his
mother, his round face beaming with pleasure. "You are quite right, they
are little gentlepeople, there is no doubt of it; and I feel sure the
Papa will come to fetch them in a few days. He will be very grateful to
us for having taken such care of them--it may be a good thing in the end
even from a business point of view, for I should have no objection to
extend our English connection."
No thought of gain to themselves in any way had entered Madame Nestor's
head; but she was too pleased to see her son in such a good humour about
the children to say anything to disagree with him.
"He has a good heart, my Adolphe," she said to herself. "It is only Anna
that makes him seem what he is not; if she would but stay away
altogether! And yet, it would be difficult to find her equal in other
ways."
"Speaking of English," she said aloud, "reminds me that those English
ladies will be getting impatient for their curtains. And the trimming
has not yet come; how slow those makers are! It is a fortnight since
they promised it for the end of the week."
"It does not matter much," said Adolphe, "for no one can make them up
properly except Anna. She should not have gone away just now; she knows
there are several things that require her."
"That is true," said Madame Nestor, and so it was. Mademoiselle Anna
seemed purposely to have chosen a most inconvenient time for going off
on a visit to her family, and when Madame Nestor reproached her for this
she had replied that with all the money the Nestors had received for the
two little strangers, they could well afford to engage for the time a
first-rate workwoman to replace her. This was the conversation Gladys
had heard and a little understood. Poor Madame Nestor, wishing to keep
up the children's dignity, had told every one that Mr. Marton had left
her plenty of money for them, making the most of the two or three pounds
which was all he had been able to spare, and of which she had not as yet
touched a farthing.
But whether Anna's absence was inconvenient or not, it was very pleasant
to most people concerned. Adolphe himself took the children out a walk,
and though Gladys was at first not quite sure that it was not a little
beneath her dignity to let the young man be her "chaperon," she ended by
enjoying it very much. Thanks to his broken English and the few French
words she was now beginning to understand, they got on very well; and
when he had taken them some way out of Paris--or out of the centre of
the town rather--in an omnibus, she was obliged to own that it was by no
means the gray, grim, crowded, noisy, stuffy place it had seemed to her
those first days in the Rue Verte. Poor little Roger was delighted! The
carriages and horses were to him the most beautiful sight the world
could show; and as they walked home down the Champs Elysées it was quite
difficult to get him along, he wanted so constantly to stand still and
stare about him.
"How glad I am we had on our best things!" said Gladys, as she hung up
her dark-blue braided serge jacket and dress--for long ago Madame Nestor
had been obliged to open the big trunk to get out a change of attire for
the children--"aren't you, Roger?" She smoothed dawn the scarlet breast
on her little black felt hat as she spoke. "This hat is very neat, and
so is my dress; but still they are very plain compared to the things all
the children that we saw had on. Did you see that little girl in green
velvet with a sort of very soft fur, like shaded gray fluff, all round
it? And another one in a red silky dress, all trimmed with lace, and a
white feather as long--as long as----"
"Was it in that pretty big wide street?" asked Roger. "I saw a little
boy like me with a 'plendid coat all over gold buttons."
"That was a little page, not a gentleman," said Gladys, rather
contemptuously. "Don't you remember Mrs. Ffolliot's page? Only perhaps
he hadn't so many buttons. I'd like to go a walk there every day,
wouldn't you?"
But their conversation was interrupted by Madame Nestor's calling them
down to have a little roll and a glass of milk, which she had discovered
they liked much better than wine and water.
"If only there would come a letter, or if Papa would come--oh, if Papa
would but come before that Anna comes back again, everything would get
all right! I do hope when he does come that Papa will let me give a nice
present to Mrs. Nest," thought Gladys to herself as she was falling
asleep that night.
The next day was so bright and fine, that when the children saw Monsieur
Adolphe putting on his coat to go out early in the morning they both
wished they might go with him, and they told him so. He smiled, but told
them in his funny English that it could not be. He was going out in a
hurry, and only about business--some orders he was going to get from the
English ladies.
"English ladies," repeated Gladys.
"Yes; have you not seen them? They were here one day."
"We saw them," said Gladys, smiling, "but they did not see _us_. They
thought we were mice," but the dictionary had to be fetched before
Adolphe could make out what "mice" meant, even though Roger turned it
into "mouses" to make it plainer. And then he had to hurry off--it was a
long way, he said, in the Avenue Gérard, close to the Champs Elysées,
that these ladies lived.
"Avenue Gérard," repeated Gladys, in the idle way children sometimes
catch up a name; "that's not hard to say. We say _avenue_ in English
too. It means a road with lots of trees. Are there lots of trees where
those ladies live, Mr. 'Dolph?"
But "Mr. 'Dolph" had departed.
After these bright days came again some dreary autumn weather. The
children "wearied," as Scotch people say, a good deal. They were even
glad on the fourth day to be sent out a short walk with Françoise.
"I wonder if we shall see that nice gentleman again if we go up that big
street?" said Roger.
"I don't think we shall," said Gladys. "Most likely he doesn't live
there. And it's a great many days ago. Perhaps he's gone back to
England."
It was indeed by this time nearly a fortnight that the little waifs had
found refuge in the Rue Verte.
The walk turned out less disagreeable than their first one with
Françoise. They did go up the Boulevard, where the servant had some
commissions, but they did not meet the "nice gentleman." They came home,
however, in very good spirits; for at the big grocer's shop, where
Françoise had bought several things, one of the head men had given them
each an orange. And chattering together about how they should eat
them--whether it was nicest to suck them, or to cut them with a knife,
or to peel them and divide them into what are familiarly called
"pigs"--the two children, with Françoise just behind them, reached the
shop in the Rue Verte.
The door stood open--that was a little unusual, but they did not stay to
wonder at it, but ran in quickly, eager to show their oranges to their
kind old friend. The door leading to the room behind the shop stood open
also, and the children stopped short, for the room was full of people,
all talking eagerly and seemingly much excited. There were all the
workpeople and one or two neighbours, but neither Madame Nestor nor her
son. Françoise, who had caught sight of the crowd and already overheard
something of what they were saying, hurried forward, telling the
children as she passed them to stay where they were, and frightened of
they knew not what, the two little creatures took refuge in their old
corner behind the blue sofa.
"What can it be?" said Gladys.
"P'raps Papa's come," suggested Roger.
Gladys's heart gave a great leap, and she sprang up, glancing in the
direction of the little crowd of people. But she quickly crouched down
again.
"Oh no," she said. "It can't be that. Françoise would not have told us
to stay here. I'm afraid somebody's ill. It seems more like that."
Her instinct was right. By degrees the talking subsided, and one or two
of the workpeople went off to their business, and a moment or two after,
when Adolphe Nestor suddenly made his appearance, there was a general
hush, broken only by one or two voices inquiring "how she was."
"Do you hear that, Roger?" whispered Gladys, nudging her brother;
"they're asking how she is. That means Mrs. Nest, I'm sure. She must be
ill."
Roger said nothing, but listened solemnly.
"Her was quite well when us went out," he observed, after a considerable
pause.
"Yes, but sometimes people get ill all of a sudden," said Gladys. Then,
after a moment, "Roger," she said, "I think I'll go and ask. I shall be
_so_ unhappy if poor Mrs. Nest is ill."
"So will I," said Roger.
They got up from the floor, and hand in hand crept timidly towards the
door. Françoise was still standing there, listening to Adolphe, who was
talking to the two or three still standing there. Françoise turned at
the sound of the children's footsteps, and raised a warning finger. But
Gladys put her aside, with what "Walter" would have called her imperious
air.
"Let us pass," she said. "I want to speak to Mr. 'Dolph."
The young man heard the sound of his own name.
"What is it?" he said quickly, in French.
"I want to know what's the matter. Is Mrs. Nest ill?" asked Gladys. But
she had to repeat her question two or three times before Adolphe
understood it He was flurried and distressed--indeed, his eyes looked as
if he had been crying--and that made it more difficult for him to catch
the meaning of the child's words. But at last he did so.
"Ah!" he exclaimed. "Yes, there is much the matter. My poor mother--she
has fallen downstairs and broken her leg."
Gladys clasped her two hands together.
"Broken her leg," she repeated. "Oh, poor Mrs. Nest! Oh, it must hurt
her dreadfully."
At this Roger burst out crying. Adolphe turned round, and picked him up
in his arms.
"Poor little fellow," he said, "yes, he, too, is very sorry. What we are
to do I know not. Anna away, too. I hope you will be very good and quiet
children. Françoise, too, will be so busy--you will do all you can to
give no trouble, will you not? I wish we had news of the Papa!" he
added, as he turned away.
He did not speak at all unkindly, but he seemed very much troubled, and
with his broken English it was very difficult for Gladys to follow all
he said.
"May I go and see poor Mrs. Nest?" she said timidly.
"No, no; you cannot see her for a long time," replied Adolphe hastily,
as he left the room.
"I must send a telegram to Mademoiselle Anna," he added to Françoise,
and unfortunately for her peace of mind, Gladys understood him. She
turned away, her lips quivering.
"Come upstairs, dear," she said to her little brother. "Come to our room
and I will take off your things."
Roger followed her obediently. Françoise had disappeared into the
kitchen, where more than ever she was needed, as there was no one else
to see about the dinner--so the two little things climbed upstairs by
themselves. It was already growing dusk--the dull little room looked
cheerless, and felt chilly. Roger looked up into Gladys's eyes as she
was unfastening his coat.
"Are you crying, Gladdie?" he said, in his little soft sad tone.
Gladys turned away a moment to wipe her eyes. If she had not done so she
would probably have burst into a terrible fit of tears, for never had
she felt so miserable and desolate. Her pride, too, was aroused, for she
saw most plainly that she and Roger were more than ever a sad burden and
trouble. But what could she do? What could any little girl of seven
years old have done in such a case?
The sight of Roger's meek sad face gave her a kind of strength. For his
sake she must keep up anyway the appearance of cheerfulness. So she
kissed him, and answered quietly:
"I am very sorry for poor Mrs. Nest. She has been so kind to us."
"Yes," said Roger. Then a bright idea struck him. "I'll say my prayers
for her to be made better to-night. Will you, Gladdie?"
"Yes," said Gladys, and there was comfort in the thought to her, for it
brought with it another. "I'll ask God to help _us_," she thought to
herself, "and when I go to bed I'll think and think, and perhaps He'll
put something in my head. _Perhaps_ I must try to write to Miss Susan."
The loss of Madame Nestor's constant kindness was quickly felt. No one
came near the children, and when Gladys crept downstairs there was no
light in the little sitting-room--no glasses of milk and plate of rolls
waiting for them on the table, as had become a habit. And Roger was cold
and hungry! He had asked Gladys to go down and look if there was any
"goûter," as they had learnt to call this afternoon luncheon, and when
she came up again and told him "no," the poor little fellow, frightened,
and cold, and hungry, burst into loud sobbing. Gladys was so afraid it
would be heard, and that they would be scolded for disturbing Madame
Nestor, that she persuaded Roger to get into bed, where she covered him
up warmly, and promised to tell him a story if he would leave off
crying.
It was not easy to keep her promise--she felt so on the point of
bursting into tears herself that she had to stop every now and then to
clear her throat, and she was not sorry when, on one of these occasions,
instead of Roger's shrill little voice urging her to "go on. What do you
stop for, Gladdie?" she heard by his regular breathing that he had
fallen asleep. She had no light, but she felt about to be sure he was
well covered, and then, leaning her head on the side of his bed, she
tried to "think."
"I would not mind anything so much if Anna was not coming back," she
said to herself. "But if she is here, and poor Mrs. Nest shut up in her
room, she can do anything she likes to us, for Mr. 'Dolph wouldn't know;
and if I told him he'd think I was very naughty to bother him when his
mother was ill. I think I must write to Miss Susan--at least, if Anna is
_very_ unkind, I will--unless--unless--oh, if it _would_ but happen for
Papa to come to-morrow, or a letter! I'll wait till to-morrow and
see--and _perhaps_ Anna won't come back, not--not if Papa's in the
train--she'd run away if she saw him, if he had Mrs. Nest's cap on,
she'd"--and that was all, for before Gladys had settled what she would
do, she too, as you see, had fallen asleep.
She slept some time--an hour or two--and she awoke, feeling cold and
stiff, though what had awakened her she did not at first know, till
again, bringing with it the remembrance of having heard it before, the
sound of a voice calling her reached her ears.
"Mademoiselle--Mademoiselle Gladees," it said, "why do you not come? The
dinner is all ready, and I have called you so many times." It was
Françoise, tumbling up the narrow stair in the dark. Gladys heard her
fumbling at the door, and called out "Françoise!" Then Roger woke and
started up, trembling. "What is it--what is the matter, Gladdie?" he
cried, and Gladys had to soothe and pet him, and say it was only
Françoise; and Françoise in the meantime had got into the room,
exclaiming at their having no light, and pulling a box of matches from
her pocket, struck one, and hunted about till she found a bit of candle.
It was a rather melancholy scene that the end of candle lighted up.
"So--you have been asleep!" exclaimed the servant; "well, perhaps it was
the best thing. Well, come down now, Monsieur Adolphe is asking for
you," and she would scarcely let them wait to dip their hands in water
and smooth their tumbled hair.
"What will become of them when _she_ comes back and poor Madame ill in
bed, who can say?" the peasant girl muttered to herself as she led them
downstairs. "I wish their friends would come to fetch them--I do. It's
certainly very strange for rich people to leave their children like
that," and Françoise shook her head.
Monsieur Adolphe received the children kindly. He had been a little
alarmed when Françoise had told him she could not find them in the
sitting-room, for he knew it would trouble his poor mother greatly if
she found her little favourites were neglected, for the thought of them
was one of the things most troubling the poor woman in the middle of her
suffering.
"If but the Papa would come for them," she had already said to her son.
"I know not what to do. I think we must ask some advice. Anna dislikes
them so; and if she comes back to-morrow----"
"She may not come till the day after," said Adolphe. "Do not trouble
yourself about anything just now. The children are all right for the
moment."
"And you will be kind to them at dinner, and give them nice pieces. They
do not eat much, but they are used to more delicate cooking than ours."
"Reassure yourself. I will do all as you would yourself. And if you keep
quiet, my good Mamma, perhaps in a day or two you can see them for
yourself. The great thing is to keep quiet, and that will keep down the
fever, the doctor says," repeated poor Adolphe, who was really a good
and affectionate son.
"Ah, yes," thought poor Madame Nestor, "that is all very well, but at my
age," for she was really old--old to be the mother of Adolphe, having
married late in life, "at my age one does not break one's leg for
nothing. But the good God knows best. If my time has come, so be it. I
have no great anxiety to leave behind me, like some poor women, thank
Heaven! Only these poor children!"
And thanks to what Madame Nestor had said, and thanks in part, too, to
his kind feelings, Adolphe was very friendly to the children at dinner;
and in reply to their timid inquiries about his mother, told them that
the doctor thought she was going on well, and in a day or two they
might see her, if they were very good and quiet. So the meal passed off
peacefully.
"After all," thought Adolphe, "they do not cost one much. They eat like
sparrows. Still it is a great responsibility--poor little things!"
He took Roger in his arms and kissed him when he said good-night, and
Gladys would have gone to bed feeling rather less unhappy, for Françoise
put in her head to say she would come in half an hour to help to undress
"Monsieur Roger," but for some words she overheard among some of the
young workwomen, which she understood only too well--that Mademoiselle
Anna was returning the next morning!
"I _must_ write to Miss Susan," thought the little girl, as she at last
fell asleep.