Anna opened the door sharply, as she did everything, and in so doing overthrew the small person of Roger.
"Ah, yes," Anna went on in her honeyed tones, "it is really too sad. It was—but will not Mademoiselle come out of the cold, and I will tell her about it," she went on, backing towards the glass door. It opened inwards; the children, very much interested in watching the little scene in the shop, and not quite understanding Anna's intention, had not thought of getting out of the way. Anna opened the door sharply, as she did everything, and in so doing overthrew the small person of Roger, whose short fat legs were less agile than the longer andthinner ones of his sister. Gladys sprang away like a kitten, but only to spring back again the next moment, as a doleful cry rose from poor Roger.
"You're not hurt, darling, are you?" she said, as she knelt down to pick him up.
Roger went on crying softly. He preferred to take his time about deciding that he wasn't hurt. And in the meantime the stranger young lady had come into the room and was looking round her in some surprise.
"Has the little boy fallen down?" she asked in French. "Poor little fellow! Are they Madame Nestor's grandchildren?"
"Oh dear, no," replied Anna, casting a contemptuous glance at Gladys and Roger, who, crouching on the floor in a corner of the always dusky little room, could not be very clearly distinguished. "Get up," continued she, turning to them, "get up at once and go to your own room."
Frightened by her tone and by Roger's continued sobbing, Gladys dragged him up from the floor as well as she could, and escaped with him by the door leading upstairs, near to which they happened to be. Something in the sudden change of Anna's tone roused the young lady's suspicions.
"Who are they, then?" she asked again. "And are you sure the little boy is not hurt?"
"He cries for nothing, Mademoiselle—he is always crying. They are children our good Madame has taken in out of charity; it is very difficult to manage with them just now, poor little things. They have been so neglected and are so troublesome; but we must do our best till our dear Madame gets better," and then she went on into a long description of the accident, how she herself had just gone to spend two days with her sister, whom she had not seen for years, when she had been recalled, etc., etc., all told so cleverly that Rosamond went away, thinking that after all she must be a very good sort of young woman, and that it was not right to yield to prejudice. Yet still she could not quite forget the glimpse she had had of the two little creatures taken in "out of charity," and the sound of Roger's stifled sobs.
Gladys and he stayed upstairs till they were called down to "déjeûner." It was cold, but they minded the cold less than sharp words and unkind looks. Gladys wrapped Roger up in a shawl and pulled a blanket off the bed for herself, and then they both cuddled down together in a corner, andshe told him all the stories she could think of. By twelve o'clock they were very hungry, for in spite of Françoise's endeavours they had had much less breakfast than usual, but they had no idea what time it was, and were too frightened to go down, and there they would have stayed, all day perhaps, if Adolphe, reminded of them by his poor mother's constant questions, had not sent one of the apprentice boys to fetch them down, and meek and trembling the two poor little things entered the long narrow room where all the members of the household were seated round the table.
But there was no kindly welcome for them as at dinner the day before. Monsieur Adolphe's usually good-humoured face looked worried and vexed.
"Sit down and take your food," he said coldly. "I am very sorry to hear from Mademoiselle Anna how troublesome you have been this morning. I thought you, Mademoiselle, as so much older than your brother, who is really only a baby, would have tried to keep him quiet for the sake of my poor mother."
Gladys's face turned scarlet; at first she could scarcely believe that she had heard aright, for it was very difficult to understand the young man's badEnglish, but a glance at his face showed her she was not mistaken. She clasped her hands in a sort of despair.
"Oh, Mr. 'Dolph," she said, "how can you think we would be so naughty? It was only that Roger fell down, and that made him cry."
"Do not listen to her," said Anna in a hard indifferent tone, "naughty children always make excuses."
But the sight of the real misery in Gladys's face was too much for kind-hearted Adolphe. He noticed, too, that both she and Roger were looking pale and pinched with cold, and he had his own doubts as to Anna's truthfulness, though he was too much under her to venture to contradict her.
"Don't cry, my child," he said kindly. "Try to be very good and quiet the rest of the day, and eat your déjeûner now."
Gladys made a valiant effort to choke down her tears.
"Is Mrs. Nest better to-day," she asked.
The son shook his head.
"I fear not," he replied sadly; "she has a great deal of fever. And I am, unfortunately, obliged to go into the country for a day or two about some important business."
"You are going away! oh, Mr. 'Dolph, there will be no one to take care of us," cried Gladys, the tears rushing to her eyes again.
The young man was touched by her distress.
"Oh yes, yes," he said; "they will all be very kind to you. I will speak to them, and I shall be soon back again, and you and my little Roger will be very good, I am sure."
There was nothing more to be said. Gladys tried to go on eating, though her hunger had quite left her, and it was difficult to swallow anything without crying again. Only one thought grew clearer in her mind—"I must write to Miss Susan."
During the rest of the meal Adolphe kept talking to Anna about the work and other things to be seen to while he was away.
"You must be sure to send to-morrow early to put up those curtains at the English ladies'—9 Avenue Gérard."
"9 Avenue Gérard—that is their new house," said Anna, and the address, which she had already heard twice repeated, caught Gladys's ear.
"And tell the one who goes to ask for the patterns back—those the young lady took away to-day. Oh, by the bye, did she see the children?" asked Adolphe.
"No, you may be sure. That is to say, I hurried them out of the way, forward little things. It was just the moment she was here, that he, the bébé there, chose for bursting out crying," replied Anna.
"I hope she did not go away with the idea they were not kindly treated," said Adolphe, looking displeased.
"She thought nothing about them—she hardly caught sight of them."
"She did not see that they were English—her country-people?"
"Certainly not," replied Anna. "Do you think I have no more sense than to bother all your customers with the history of any little beggars your mother chooses to take in?"
"I was not speaking of all the customers—I was speaking of those English ladies who might have taken an interest in these children, because they too are English—or at least have given us some advice what to do. I have already been thinking of asking them. But now it may be too late if they saw the children crying and you scolding them; no doubt, they will either think they are naughty disagreeable children or that we are unkind to them. Either will do harm. You have made a great mistake."
He got up and left the room, afraid perhaps of saying more, for at this moment he could not afford to quarrel with Anna. Poor man, his troubles seemed to be coming on him all at once! Gladys understood very little of what they were saying, but she saw that Adolphe was not pleased with Mademoiselle Anna, and it made her fear that Anna would be still crosser to Roger or her. But she took no notice of them, and when they had finished she called Françoise, and told her to take them into the sitting-room and make up the fire.
"P'raps she's going to be kind now, Gladdie," said Roger, with the happy hopefulness of his age. But Gladys shook her head.
Monsieur Adolphe set off that afternoon.
For the first day or two things went on rather better than Gladys had expected. Anna had had a fright, and did not dare actually to neglect or ill-treat the children. So Gladys put off writing to Miss Susan, which, as you know, she had the greatest dislike to doing till she saw how things went on. Besides this same writing was no such easy matter for her. She had neither pen, ink, nor paper—she was not sure how to spell the address, and she had not a halfpenny of money! Very likely if she hadspoken of her idea to Adolphe he would have been only too glad for her to write, but Anna was a very different person to deal with.
"If I asked her for paper and a pen she would very likely scold me—very likely she wouldn't like me to write while Mr. 'Dolph is away, for fear he should think she had been unkind and that that had made me do it," reflected Gladys, whose wits were much sharpened by trouble. "And Idaren'tmake her angry while we're alone with her."
Thus the letter was deferred. Things might possibly have gone smoothly till Adolphe's return, for Annawishedto avoid any upset now she saw how strongly the Nestors felt on the subject. But unfortunately bad-tempered people cannot always control themselves to act as their common sense tells them would be best even for themselves. And Mademoiselle Anna had a very bad and violent temper, which often got quite the mastery of her.
So the calm did not last long.
"One foot up and the other foot down,For that is the way to London town.And just the same, over dale and hill,'Tis also the way to wherever you will."Old Rhyme.
It was a very cold day, colder than is usual in Paris in November, where the winter, though intense while it lasts, seldom sets in before the New Year. But though cold, there had been sufficient brightness and sunshine, though of a pale and feeble kind, to encourage the Mammas of Paris either to take out their darlings themselves or to entrust them to the nurses and maids, and nursery governesses of all nations who, on every fairly fine day, may be seen with their little charges walking up and down what Roger called "the pretty wide street," which had sotaken his fancy the day of the expedition with Monsieur Adolphe.
Among all the little groups walking up and down pretty steadily, for it was too cold for loitering, or whipping tops, or skipping-ropes, as in finer weather, two small figures hurrying along hand-in-hand, caught the attention of several people. Had they been distinctly of the humbler classes nobody would have noticed them much, for even in this aristocratic part of the town one sometimes sees quite poor children threading their way among or standing to admire the little richly-dressed pets who, after all, are but children like themselves. And sometimes a burst of innocent laughter, or bright smiles of pleasure, will spread from the rich to the poor, at the sight of Henri's top having triumphed over Xavier's, or at the solemn dignity of the walking doll of five-year-old Yvonne.
But these two little people were evidently not of the lower classes. Not only were they warmly and neatly dressed—though that, indeed, would hardly have settled the question, as it is but very seldom in Paris that one sees the children of even quite humble parents ill or insufficiently clad—but even though their coats and hats were plain and unfashionable,there was about them a decided look of refinement and good-breeding. And yet they were alone!
"Who can they be?" said one lady to another. "Just see how half-frightened and yet determined the little girl looks."
"And how the boy clings to her. They are English, I suppose—English people are so eccentric, and let their children do all sorts of thingswewould never dream of."
"Not the English of the upper classes," replied the first lady, with a slight shade of annoyance. "You forget I am half English myself by my mother's side, so I should know. You take your ideas of the English from anything but the upper classes. I am always impressing that on my friends. How would you like if the English judgedusby the French they see in Leicester Square, or by the dressmakers and ladies' maids who go over and call themselves governesses?"
"I wouldn'tlikeit, but I daresay it is often done, nevertheless," said the other lady good-naturedly. "But very likely those children donotbelong to the upper classes."
"I don't know," said the first lady. She stopped as she spoke and looked after the children, who hadnow passed them, thoughtfully. "No," she went on, "I don't think they are common children. I fancy there must be something peculiar about them. Can they have lost their way? Antoinette," she added suddenly, turning round. "You may think me very foolish and eccentric—'English,' if you like, but I am going to run after them and see if there is anything the matter. Look after Lili for a moment for me, please."
Antoinette laughed.
"Do as you please, my dear," she said.
So off hastened, in her rich velvet and furs, the other lady. It was not difficult to overtake the children, for the two pairs of legs had trotted a long way and were growing weary. But when close behind them their new friend slackened her pace. How was she to speak to them? She did not know that they were English, or even strangers, and if they were the former that did not much mend matters, for, alas! notwithstanding the half British origin she was rather fond of talking about, the pretty young mother had been an idle little girl in her time, and had consistently declined to learn any language but her own.Now, she wished for her Lili's sake to make up for lost time, and was lookingout for an English governess, but as yet she dared not venture on any rash attempts. She summoned up her courage, however, and gently touched the little girl on the shoulder, and all her suspicions that something unusual was in question were awakened again by the start of terror the child gave, and the pallid look of misery, quickly followed by an expression of relief, with which she looked up in her face.
"I thought it was Anna," she half whispered, clutching her little brother's hand more tightly than before.
"Mademoiselle—my child," said the lady, for the dignity on the little face, white and frightened as it was, made her not sure how to address her. "Can I do anything to help you? You are alone—have you perhaps lost your way?"
The last few words Gladys, for she of course it was, did not follow. But the offer of help, thanks to the kind eyes looking down on her, she understood. She gazed for a moment into these same eyes, and then seeming to gather confidence she carefully drew out from the pocket of her ulster—the same new ulster she had so proudly put on for the first time the day of the journey which was tohave ended with "Papa" and happiness—a little piece of paper, rather smudgy-looking, it must be owned, which she unfolded and held up to the lady. On it were written the words—
"9 Avenue Gérard."
"Avenue Gérard," repeated the lady; "is that where you want to go? It is not far from here."
But seeing that the child did not take in the meaning of her words, she changed her tactics. Taking Gladys by the hand she led her to one side of the broad walk where they were standing, and pointing to a street at right angles from the rows of houses bordering the Champs Elysées.
"Go along there," she said, "and then turn to the left and you will see the name, 'Avenue Gérard,' at the corner."
"Go along there," she said, "and then turn to the left and you will see the name, 'Avenue Gérard,' at the corner."
She pointed as she spoke; then she stooped, and with the sharp point of the tiny umbrella she carried, traced in lines the directions she had given, in the gravel on which they were standing. Gladys considered for a moment in silence, then she lifted her head and nodded brightly.
"I understand," she said, "and thank youverymuch."
Then taking Roger's hand, which, while speaking to the lady she had let go, she smiled again, and whispering something to her brother which made him pluck off his little cap, the two small pilgrims set off again on their journey. The lady stood for a moment looking after them, and I think there were tears in her eyes.
"I wonder if I could have done more for them," she said to herself, "Fancy Lili and Jean by themselves like that! But they know where they have to go to—they are not lost."
"How kind she was," said Gladys, as she led her little brother in the direction the lady had pointed out. "It is not far now, Roger, dear—are youverytired?"
Roger made a manful effort to step out more briskly.
"Not sovery, Gladdie. But oh, Gladdie, I was so frightened when I felt you stop and when I saw your face. Oh, Gladdie, I thought it washer."
"So did I," said Gladys with a shiver.
"Would she have put us in prison?" he asked.
"I don't know," said Gladys. "I heard her say something to Françoise about the police. I don't know if that means prison. But these ladies won't let her, 'cos you know, Roger, they'reEnglish, like us."
"Is all French peoples naughty?" inquired Roger meekly.
"No, you silly little boy," giving him a small shake, "of course not. Think of Mrs. Nest, and Françoise, and even that lady—oh, I didn't mean to make you cry. You're not silly—I didn't mean it, dear."
But Roger could not at once stop his tears, for they were as much the result of tiredness and excitement as of Gladys's words.
"Gladdie," he went on plaintively, "what will you do if those ladies aren't kind to us?"
"They'll help me to send a tele—you know what I mean—a letter in that quick way, to Miss Susan," replied Gladys confidently. "That's all I'm going to ask them. They'd never refuse that."
"And could Miss Susan get here to-day, do you think?"
Gladys hesitated.
"I don't quite know. I don't know how long it takespeopleto come that way. But I'm afraid it costs a good deal. We must ask the ladies. Perhaps they'll get us a little room somewhere, where Anna can't find us, till Miss Susan sends for us."
"But," continued Roger, "what will you do if they'reout, Gladdie?"
Gladys did not answer. Strange to say, practicalas she was, this possibility had never occurred to her. Her one idea had been to make her way to the Avenue Gérard at once, then it had seemed to her that all difficulties would be at an end.
"What's the good of saying that, Roger," she said at last. "If they're out we'll——"
"What?"
"Wait till they come in, I suppose."
"It'll be very cold waiting in the street—like beggars," grumbled Roger. But he said it in a low tone, not particularly wishing Gladys to hear. Only he was so tired that he had to grumble a little.
Suddenly Gladys pulled up.
"There it is," she said. "Look up there, Roger; that's the name, 'Av-e-nue Gér-ard.' It's just a street. I thought an avenue would have been all trees, like in the country. Nine—I wonder which is nine?"
Opposite to where they stood was No. 34. Gladys led Roger on a little bit and looked at the number on the other side. It was 31, and the next beyond that was 29.
"It's this way. They get littler this way," she exclaimed. "Come on, Roger, darling—it's not far."
"But if we've to wait in the street," repeatedRoger faintly, for he was now possessed by this new idea.
Gladys said nothing—perhaps she did not hear.
"Twenty-seven, twenty-five, twenty-three," she said, as they passed each house, so intent on reaching No. 9 that she did not even feel frightened. Between seventeen and fifteen there was a long space of hoardings shutting off unbuilt-upon ground—nine seemed a very long time of coming. But at last—at last!
It was a large, very handsome house, and Gladys, young as she was, said at once to herself that the English ladies, as she had got into the way of calling them, must beveryvery rich. For she did not understand that in Paris one enormous house, such as the one she was standing before, contains the dwellings of several families, each of which is often as large as a good-sized English house, only without stairs once you have entered, as all the rooms are on one floor.
"I wonder which is the front door," said Gladys. "There seem so many in there." For the great doors of the entrance-court stood open, and, peeping in, it seemed to her that there was nothing but doors on every side to be seen.
"We must ask," she at last said resolutely, and foraging in her pocket she again drew forth thecrumpled piece of paper with "No. 9 Avenue Gérard," and armed with this marched in.
A man started up from somewhere—indeed he had been already watching them, though they had not seen him. He was the porter for the whole house.
"What do you want—whom are you looking for?" he said. At first, thinking theywerelittle beggars or something of the kind, for the courtyard was not very light, he had come out meaning to drive them away. But when he came nearer them he saw they were not what he had thought, and he spoke therefore rather more civilly. Still, he never thought of saying "Mademoiselle" to Gladys—no children of the upper classes would be wandering about alone! Gladys's only answer was to hold out the bit of paper.
"Avenue Gérard, No. 9," read the man. "Yes, it is quite right—it is here. But there is no name. Who is it you want?"
"The English ladies," replied Gladys in her own tongue, which she still seemed to think everybody should understand. She had gathered the meaning of the man's words, helped thereto by his gesticulations.
"The English ladies—I don't know their name."
Only one word was comprehensible by the porter.
"English," he repeated, using of course the French word for "English." "It must be the English ladies on the second floor they want. No doubt they are some of the poor English those ladies are so kind to. And yet—" he looked at them dubiously. They didn't quite suit his description. Anyway, there was but one answer to give. "The ladies were out; the children must come again another day."
Gladys and Roger, too, understood the first four words. Their worst fears had come true!
If Gladys could have spoken French she would perhaps have found courage to ask the man to let them come in and wait a little; for as, speechless, still holding poor Roger by the hand, she slowly moved to go, she caught sight of a cheerful little room where a bright fire was burning, the glass door standing half open, and towards which the porter turned.
"That must be his house," thought Gladys in a sort of half-stupid dreamy way. It was no use trying to ask him to let them go in and wait there. There was nowhere for them—he seemed to think they were beggars, and would perhaps call the police if they didn't go away at once. So she drewRoger out into the street again, out of the shelter of the court, where the wind felt rather less piercing, and, without speaking, wandered a few steps down the street they had two minutes ago toiled along so hopefully.
"Where are you going, Gladdie? What are you going to do? I knew they'd be out," said Roger, breaking into one of his piteous fits of crying.
Gladys's heart seemed as if it was going to stop. Whatwasshe going to do?
Wait in the street a little, she had said to Roger. But how could they? The wind seemed to be getting colder and colder; the daylight even was beginning to fade a little; they were not only cold, they were desperately hungry, for they had had nothing to eat except the little bowl of milk and crust of bread—that was all Françoise had been able to give them early that morning. She had been out at the market when the children ran away from Anna in one of her terrible tempers, so Gladys had not even been able to ask her for a few sous with which to get something to eat. Indeed, had Françoise been there, I daresay they would have been persuaded by her to wait till Adolphe came home, for he was expected that evening, though they did not know it!
"Roger,darling, try not to cry so," said Gladys, at last finding her voice. "Wait a moment and I'll try to think. If only there was a shop near, perhaps they'd let us go in; but there are no shops in this street."
No shops and very few passers-by, at this time of day anyway. A step sounded along the pavement just as Gladys had drawn Roger back to the wall of the house they were passing, meaning to wipe his eyes and turn up the collar of his coat to keep the wind from his throat. Gladys looked up in hopes that possibly, in some wonderful way, the new-comer might prove a friend in need. But no—it was only a man in a sort of uniform, and with a black bag strapped in front. Gladys had seen one like him at the Rue Verte; it was only the postman. He glanced at them as he passed; he was a kind-hearted little man, and would have been quite capable of taking the two forlorn "bébés" home to his good wife to be clothed and fed—for there are many kind Samaritans even in careless, selfish big towns like Paris—but how were they to guess that, or how was he to know their trouble? So he passed on; but a house or two farther on he stopped again, being accosted by a gentleman coming quickly up the street in the other direction,just as he was turning in to the courtyard of No. 9.
"There is only a paper for you, sir," he said to the young man, whom he evidently knew, in answer to his inquiry. "Will you take it?"
"Certainly," was the reply; and both, after a civil good-evening, were going on their way when a sound made them stop. It was Roger—all Gladys's efforts had been useless, and his temper as well as his courage giving way he burst into a loud roar. He was too worn out to have kept it up for long at such a pitch, but while it lasted it was very effective, for both the gentleman and the postman turned back.
"I noticed these children a moment ago," said the latter. "I wondered if they had lost their way, but I dared not wait."
"I'll see what it is," said the young man good-naturedly. But the postman lingered a moment.
"What's the matter?" asked the young man in French. "What's the little boy crying for?" he went on, turning to Gladys.
But her answer astonished him not a little. She stared blankly up in his face without speaking for a moment. Then with a sort of stifled scream she rushed forward and caught his hands.
"Oh you're the nice gentleman we met—you are—don'tsay you're not. You're the English gentleman, aren't you? Oh, will you take care of us—we're all alone—we've run away."
Walter kept her poor little hands in his, but for half a moment he did not speak. I think there were tears in his eyes. He had so often thought of the little pair he had met on the Boulevards, that somehow he did not seem to feel surprised at this strange meeting.
"My little girl," he said kindly, "who are you? Where have you run away from? Not from your home? I remember meeting you; but you must tell me more—you must tell me everything before I can help you or take you where you want to go."
"No. 9 Avenue Gérard; that's where we were going," replied Gladys confusedly. "But they're out—the ladies are out."
"And we have to wait in the stre-eet," sobbed Roger.
Walter started.
"9 Avenue Gérard," he said; "how can that be? Whom do you know there?"
"Some ladies who'll be kind to us, and know what we say, for they're English. I don't know their name," answered Gladys.
Walter saw there was but one thing to be done. He turned to the postman.
"I know who they are," he said rapidly in French, with the instinctive wish to save this little lady, small as she was, from being made the subject of a sensational paragraph in some penny paper. "I have seen them before. They had come to see my aunt, who is very kind to her country-people, and were crying because she was out. It will be all right. Don't let yourself be late. I'll look after them."
And relieved in his mind the postman trotted off.
Walter turned to Gladys again.
"Ilive at No. 9," he said. "Those ladies are my aunt and my sister. So the best thing you can do is to come in with me and get warm. And when my aunt comes home you shall tell us all your troubles, and we will see what to do."
"And you won't give us to the police?" asked Gladys, with a sudden misgiving. "We'venotdone anything naughty. Will the ladies come soon?"
For though on the first impulse she had flown to Walter with full confidence, she now somehow felt a little frightened of him. Perhaps his being on such good terms with the postman, whose uniform vaguely recalled a policeman to her excited imagination, orhis speaking French so easily and quickly, had made her feel rather less sure of him. "Youwon't give us to the police?" she repeated.
Walter could hardly help smiling.
"Ofcoursenot," he answered. "Come now, you must trust me and not be afraid. Give me your hand, my little man; or stay, he's very tired, I'll carry him in."
And he lifted Roger in his arms, while Gladys, greatly to her satisfaction, walked quietly beside them, her confidence completely restored.
"He's very polite, and he sees I'mbig," she said to herself as she followed him into the court, past the porter's bright little room, from whence that person put out his head to wish Walter a respectful "good-evening," keeping to himself the reflection which explains so many mysteries to our friends across the water, that "the English are really very eccentric. One never knows what they will be doing next."
"They felt very happy and content and went indoors and sat to the table and had their dinner."—The Almond Tree.
"They felt very happy and content and went indoors and sat to the table and had their dinner."—The Almond Tree.
Brothers Grimm.
Rosamond and her aunt had a good many commissions to do that afternoon. They had not long before this changed their house, and there were still a great many pretty things to choose and to buy for the new rooms. But though it was pleasant work it was tiring, and it was, too, so exceedingly cold that even in the comfortable carriage with its hot-water bottles and fur rugs, the young girl shivered and said to her aunt she would be glad to be at home again, and to get a nice hot cup of tea.
"Yes," said her aunt, "and it is getting late. At this time of year the days seem to close in so suddenly."
"I'm afraid it is going to be a severe winter. I do so dislike severe winters, Auntie," said Rosamond, who had spent some part of her life in a warm climate.
"So do I," said her aunt, with a sigh, "it makes everything so much harder for the poor. I really think it is true that cold is worse to endure than hunger."
"You are so kind, Auntie dear," said Rosamond. "You really seem as if you felt other people's sufferings your own self. I think it is the little children I am most sorry for. Perhaps because I have been such a spoilt child myself! I cannot imagine how it would be possible to live through what some children have to live through. Above all, unkindness and neglect. That reminds me——"
She was going to tell her aunt of the children she had seen at Madame Nestor's, and of the sharp way the young woman in the shop had spoken to them, but just at that moment the carriage turned into the courtyard of their house, and the footman sprung down and opened the door.
"I wonder what put those children in my head just now?" thought Rosamond, as she followed her aunt slowly up the wide thickly-carpeted staircase."I suppose it was talking of the poor people, though they were not exactly poor."
But a moment or two later she really felt as if her thoughts had taken shape, or that she was dreaming, when she caught sight of the most unexpected picture that presented itself to herself and her aunt on opening the door of their pretty "little drawing-room."
Walter was having a tea-party!
The room was brightly lighted, the fire was burning cheerily—not far from it stood the low afternoon tea-table covered with a white cloth and heaped up with plates of bread-and-butter and cakes—while the tea-urn sang its pleasant murmur. And the group round the table? That was the astonishing part of it. Walter was having a tea-party!
For an instant—they had opened the door softly and he was very much taken up with his guests—the aunt and niece stood looking on without any one's hearing them. Walter was seated in a big arm-chair, and perched on his knee was a very tiny little boy in an English sailor dress. He was a pretty fair child, with a bright pink flush on his face, and he seemed exceedingly happy and to be thoroughly enjoying the cup of hot but mild tea and slice of cake which his host was pressing on him. And on a small chair justopposite sat a pale-faced dark-eyed little girl with an anxious look on her face, yet at the same time an expression of great content. No wonder; she was only seven years old! Fancy the relief it must have been to delicate little Gladys to find herself again in a room like this—to have the comfort of the delicious fire and the food even, to which she was accustomed—above all, to see Roger safe and happy; if only it would last!
"Thistea isn't too strong for him, is it, Gladys?" Walter said.
And Gladys leaning forward examined it with a motherly air, that was both pathetic and amusing.
"No, that's quite right. That's just like what he had it at home."
The aunt and niece looked at each other.
"Whocanthey be?" whispered the aunt; but Rosamond, though she had scarcely seen the faces of the children in the Rue Verte, seemed to know by instinct. But before she had time to speak, Walter started up; the whisper, low as it was, had caught his ear and Gladys's too. She too got up from her seat and stood facing the ladies, while her cheeks grew still paler, and the anxious look quite chased away the peaceful satisfaction from her poor little face.
"Auntie!" said Walter, and in his voice too there was a little anxiety, not lost on Gladys. For though he knew his aunt to be as kind as any one could be, still itwasa rather "cool" thing, he felt, to have brought in two small people he had found in the street without knowing anything whatever about them, and to be giving them tea in her drawing-room. "Auntie," he repeated, "this young lady, Miss Gladys Bertram, and her little brother had come to see you, to ask your help. I found them waiting in the street, the concierge had told them you were out; it was bitterly cold, and they had come a very long way. I brought them in and gave them tea, as you see."
His face had flushed as he spoke, and there was a tone of appeal in his voice; he could notbeforeGladys add what was on his lips: "You are not vexed with me?"
"You did quite right, my dear boy," said his aunt heartily. "Rosamond and I are cold and tired too. We should like a cup of tea also, and then these little friends of ours will tell us all they have to tell."
"I have seen them before," added Walter in a lower tone, going nearer his aunt under pretext of getting her a chair. "You remember the children onthe Boulevards I told you about the other day? It is they."
But Gladys, who till then had stood still, gazing at the ladies without speaking, suddenly sprang forward and almost threw herself into "Auntie's" arms.
"Oh, thank you, thank you!" she exclaimed, bursting into tears. "I was just thinking perhaps you'd be vexed withhim," she pointed to Walter, "and he's been so kind, and itisso nice here. Oh, we couldn't, wecouldn'tgo back there!" and clasping her new friend still more closely she sobbed as if her overcharged heart would break.
Auntie and Rosamond soothed her with the kindest words they could find, and then Auntie, who always had her wits about her, reminded Gladys that they too were very anxious to have a cup of tea, would she help to pour it out? She evidently knew all about it, whereupon Gladys's sobs and tears stopped as if by magic, and she was again the motherly capable little girl they had seen her on entering the room.
Tea over—before thinking of taking off their bonnets—Auntie and Rosamond, and Walter too, made Gladys tell them all she had to tell. It was a little difficult to follow at first, for, like a child shemixed up names and events in rather a kaleidoscope fashion. But at last by dint of patience and encouragement and several "beginnings again at the beginning," they got a clear idea of the whole strange and yet simple story, all of which that was known to Gladys herself, you, my little readers, already know, except the history of the last miserable day in the Rue Verte, when Anna's temper had got the better of her prudence to such an extent as to make Gladys feel they could bear it no longer. She had struck them both in her passion that very morning when Françoise was at the market, and wild with fear, more for Roger than herself, Gladys had set off to ask help and advice from the only people she knew of in all great Paris who could understand her story.
"Excepthim," added Gladys, nodding at Walter, "but we didn't know where he lived. I couldn't write to Miss Susan, for I hadn't any paper or envelopes. I thought I'd wait till Mr. 'Dolph came home and that he'd let me write, but I don't know when he's coming, and I hadn't any money, and ifshe—oh! if she had struck Roger again it might have killed him. He's so little, you know," and Gladys shuddered.
There was silence for a few moments. Then Auntie turned to Walter.
"The first thing to be done, it seems to me, is for you to go to the Rue Verte to tell the Nestors—Madame Nestor, that is to say—where these little people are. She will be very uneasy, I fear, poor woman."
"Anna won't tell her, I don't think," said Gladys. "Poor Mrs. Nest—she is so kind. I shouldn't like her to be unhappy."
"And," continued the lady, "you must ask for the children's clothes."
Gladys's eyes glistened.
"Do you mean, are you going to let us stay here?" she said; "I mean till to-morrow, perhaps, till Miss Susan can come?"
"Where else could you go, my dears?" said Auntie kindly.
"I don't know; I—I thought perhaps you'd get us a little room somewhere, and Miss Susan would pay it when she comes. I thought perhaps you'd send her a tele—, you know what I mean, and perhaps she could come for us that way. It's so quick, only it costs a great deal, doesn't it?"
Auntie and Rosamond had hard work to prevent themselves laughing at this queer idea of Gladys's,but when her mistake was explained to her, she took it very philosophically.
"Then do you think I should write to Miss Susan to-day?" said Gladys. "You'llhelp me, won't you?" she added, turning to Rosamond. "I don't know very well how to write the address."
"Of course I will help you, dear," said Rosamond, but her aunt interrupted.
"I do not think little Gladys need write to-night," she said. "Indeed, perhaps it may be as well for me to write for her to the lady she speaks of. But now, Walter, you had better go off at once, and bring back the children's belongings with you. What were you going to say, dear?" for Gladys seemed as if she were going to speak.
Gladys's face grew red.
"Anna said once that she would sell our big trunk and all our best clothes—I mean she said Mrs. Nest would—to get money for all we had cost them. But I'm sure Mrs. Nest wouldn't. And when Papa comes he'll pay everything."
The elder lady looked at Walter.
"Try and bring away everything with you," she said. "Take Louis, so that he may help to carry out the boxes. Do your best anyway."
It turned out easier than Auntie had feared, for Walter found Adolphe Nestor already returned, and in a state of frantic anxiety about the children. Knowing that they could not be in better hands than those in which they had placed themselves, he was only too thankful to let them remain there, and gave Walter all the information he could about Mr. and Mrs. Marton, who had confided the children to his mother's care.
"She can tell you all about the family better than I," he said. "I think even she has the address of Madame Marton's mother, where her cousin was so long nurse. Oh, they are in every way most respectable, and indeed one can see by the children themselves that they are little gentlepeople. There must be something sadly amiss for the father not to have come for them. I fear even that he is perhaps dead."
Then he went on to tell Walter that he had told Anna he could no longer keep her in his employment, and that all was at an end with her.
"And indeed," he said, his round face getting very red, "I think no man would be happy with a wife with such a temper," in which Walter, who at eighteen considered himself very wise, cordially agreed.
Adolphe had not told his mother of the children's flight, for she was still very feverish and excitable; but he said she would be relieved to know where they had found refuge. And then he gave Walter the English money which Mr. Marton had left for their use, and which his mother had kept unbroken.
Walter took it, though reluctantly, but he saw that it would have hurt Adolphe to refuse it; and he also reflected that there were other ways in which the Nestors could be rewarded for their kindness. And so he left the Rue Verte with all the children's belongings safely piled on the top of the cab, and with a much more friendly feeling to the upholsterer than he had expected to have, promising to let him know the result of the inquiries his aunt intended immediately to set on foot; and also assuring him that they should not leave Paris without coming to say good-bye to him and his kind old mother.
When the two tired but happy little people were safely in bed that night, their three new friends sat round the fire to have a good talk about them.
"It is a very strange affair, really," said Walter. "I'm more than half inclined to agree with Nestor that the father must be dead."
"But even then," said Auntie, "the friends inEngland who had charge of them would have known it, and would have sent to inquire about them."
"That 'Miss Susan,' as they call her, seems to me to have thought of nothing but the easiest way to get rid of them," said Rosamond indignantly. "She should never have let them start without a letter or a telegram of Captain Bertram's being actually in Paris, and, as far as I can make out from little Gladys, she had not got that—only of his arrival at Marseilles and hisintentionof coming."
"Did Gladys mention Marseilles? Does she know where it is?" asked Walter.
"Yes, she said the old lady whom they were very fond of showed it to her on the map, and explained that it was the town in France 'at which the big ships from India stopped,' Gladys is quite clear about all that. She is a very clever child in some ways, though in others she seems almost a baby."
"Nothing about her would surprise me after her managing to find her way here," said Auntie. "Just fancy her leading that baby, Roger, all the way here from the Rue Verte!"
"Do you know how she did?" said Rosamond. "She tore a little piece of paper off the edge of a newspaper and wrote the address, 'Avenue Gérard 9,'on it with an end of pencil she found lying about; and she showed this bit of paper to anybody 'kind-looking' whom they met, and thus she got directed. Was it not a good idea? She said if she hadaskedthe way the French people would not have understood her speaking."
"Then what do you decide to do, Auntie?" said Walter. "Shall I telegraph in the morning to this Miss Susan, or will you write?"
Auntie hesitated.
"Idon't see how you can do either with much chance of it reaching her," said Rosamond. "Gladys, you know, said she was going to be married."
"Well, supposing in the first place," said Auntie, "we were to telegraph to the principal hotels at Marseilles and ask if Captain Bertram is there—it would do no harm—it is just possible that by some mistake he is all this time under the belief that the children are still in England."
"That's not likely," said Walter; "no one would stay on at a hotel in Marseilles all this time for no reason—three weeks, it must be. But it's not a bad idea to telegraph there first."
"Gladys would be so pleased if it proved not to be necessary to send to 'Miss Susan' at all," saidRosamond, who seemed to have obtained the little girl's full confidence.
"Well, we shall see," said Auntie. "In the meantime the children are safe, and I hope happy."
"Mr. and Mrs. Marton must be in India by this time," said Walter. "Theydon't seem to have been to blame in the least—they did the best they could. It might be as well to write to them if we had their address."
"Perhaps old Madame Nestor may have it," said Rosamond. "The maid—her niece or cousin, whichever it is—may have left it with her."
"We can ask," said Auntie. "But it would take a good while to hear from India, and very likely they would have very little to tell, for there is one thing that strikes me," she went on thoughtfully, "which is, theMartonscannot have thought there was anything wrong when they got to Marseilles, otherwise they would have written or telegraphed to the Rue Verte, and certainly to the friends in England."
She looked up as if to read in the faces of her two young companions how this struck them.
"That's true," said Walter.
"But it only adds to the mystery," said Rosamond.
"Supposing," said Walter, "that the address hasbeen lost—that of the Nestors, I mean—and that all this time Captain Bertram is hunting up and down Paris for his children?"
"That does not seem to me likely," said Auntie. "He would have telegraphed back to England."
"Where it wouldn't have been known, Rosamond," said Walter. "Rather to Mr. Marton in India."
"If he hadhisaddress," said Walter again.
"Well, anywaythatcould be got in England," said Auntie, a little impatiently. "No, no, Walter, it can't be that. Why, supposing Captain Bertram were here looking for his children, thepolicecould have found them for him in a couple of days. No; I very much fear there is more wrong than a mere mistake. Poor little dears—they still seem to have such unbounded faith in 'Papa's coming.' I only trust no harm has come over him, poor man."
Walter telegraphed the next morning in his aunt's name to the two principal hotels at Marseilles, to inquire if Captain Bertram was or had been there. From one came back the answer, "No such name known." From the other the information that Captain Bertram had not yet returned from Nice, and that letters and his luggage were waiting for him at the hotel.
"Just read this, aunt," he said, hurrying into the drawing-room, and Auntie did so. Then she looked up.
"It is as I feared, I feel sure," she said. "Walter, you must go to Nice yourself, and make inquiries."
"I shall start to-night," said the young fellow readily.
"Stay a moment," said Auntie again. "We have theTimesadvertisements for the last few days; it may be as well to look over them."
"And the Saturday papers, with all the births, marriages, and deaths of the week put in at once," said Rosamond. "You take theTimes," she added to her brother, going to a side-table where all the papers were lying in a pile, "and I'll look through the others."
For a few moments there was silence in the room. Gladys and Roger were very happy with some of their toys, which they had been allowed to unpack in the dining-room. "Bertram, Bertram, no, I see nothing. And there's no advertisement for two lost cherubs in the agony columns either," said Walter.
Suddenly Rosamond gave a little exclamation.
"Have you found anything?" asked Auntie.
"Nothing about Captain Bertram," she replied. "But I think this must be the old lady they lived with. 'Alicia, widow of the late Major-General Lacy,' etc., etc., 'at Market-Lilford on the 16th November, aged 69.' I am sure it is she, for Gladys's second name is 'Alicia,' and she told me it was 'after Mrs. Lacy.'"
"Poor old lady—she must have been very kind and good. That may explain 'Miss Susan's' apparent indifference. It was fully a fortnight ago, you see."
"Must I tell Gladys?" said Rosamond.
"Not yet, I think," said Auntie. "We may have worse to tell her, poor child."
"I don't know that itwouldbe worse," said the young girl. "They can't remember their father."
"Still, they have always been looking forward to his coming. If it ends ingoodnews, it will make them—Gladys especially—very happy."
"As for Roger, perfect happiness is already his," said Rosamond. "He asks no more than weak tea and bread-and-butter, Gladys always at hand, a good fire, and nobody to scold him."
"And now, indeed, there lacked nothing to their happiness as long as they lived."—The Golden Bird.
"And now, indeed, there lacked nothing to their happiness as long as they lived."—The Golden Bird.
Brothers Grimm.
Walter went off to Nice that night. The children were not told distinctly the object of his journey. They were allowed to know that he might be passing near "the big town by the sea," which poor Mrs. Lacy, in her kind anxiety to make all clear, had pointed out to Gladys on the map; but that was all, for Auntie wished to save them any more of the nervous suspense and waiting of which they had had so much. She wished, too, to save them any suffering that could be avoided, from the fear of the sorrow, really worse than any they had yet known, which she often dreaded might be in store for them.
"Let us make them as happy as ever we can forthese few days," she said to Rosamond. "Nothing like happiness for making children strong and well, and they will soon forget all their past troubles."
And Rosamond was only too ready to give her assistance to the kind plan, so that in all their lives Gladys and Roger had never been so much made of. The ladies were too wise to overdo it; they found too that it was very easy to amuse these simple little creatures, who had never known since they were born the slightest approach to "spoiling" or indulgence. Everything pleased them. The mere living in the pretty luxurious house—the waking up in the morning to the sight of the bright dainty room, where already a cheerful little fire would be blazing, for the weather continued exceedingly cold. The tempting "little breakfast" of real bread-and-butter and tea—for both Gladys and Roger found they had got very tired of chocolate—the capacious bath and abundance of hot water—above all, the kind and loving and gentle looks and words which surrounded them—all these would have been enough to make them happy. And a drive in Auntie's beautiful carriage, either into the centre of the town "to see the shops," or now and then to visit one of the wonderful old churches with their mysterious height of roof and softly brilliant windows,andsometimes, still better, the beautiful swelling organ music which seemed to them to come from nowhere, yet to be everywhere. Ah! those expeditions were a delight Gladys had never even dreamt of, and which little Roger could scarcely take in. They very much changed their opinion of Paris in those days, and no longer called it "an ugly dirty town," as it had seemed to them in their first experience at the Rue Verte.
"And when Papa comes, we'll take him to see all these beautiful places, won't we?" said Gladys, for with rest and peace of mind had come back all her pretty childish hope and trust in that "coming."
"Yes, dear," said Rosamond. But then she began quickly to speak to the little girl of the pretty colours of the still remaining beech leaves in the Bois de Boulogne, through which for a change they were that day driving. For she could not reply with any confidence in her tone, and she did not want the child to find out her misgiving. Walter had been gone three days and had written twice—once a hurried word to tell of his arrival, once the following day to tell of failure. He had been to two or three of the hotels but had found no traces of Captain Bertram, but there still remained several others, and he hoped tosend by his next letter if not good yet anyway more certain news.
So Auntie still put off writing to "Miss Susan," for though since seeing the announcement of Mrs. Lacy's death she did not blame her as much as at first, she yet could not feel it probable that the young lady was suffering great anxiety.
"In any case I had better wait till Walter tells ussomething," she said to Rosamond. "And when I do write I do not know how to address the letter. Gladdie is sure she was to be married a very few days after they left, but she cannot remember the name of the gentleman, whom she has only seen once or twice, as he lived at a distance, and had made Miss Susan's acquaintance away from her home."
"Address to her maiden name—it would be sent after her," suggested Rosamond.
"But Gladdie is not sure what that is," replied Auntie, half laughing. "She doesn't know if it is 'Lacy,' or if she had a different name from her aunt. She is such a baby in some ways. I am sure she has not the slightest idea whatoursurnames are. You are 'Rosamond' and I am 'Auntie.'"
"Or 'Madame' when she speaks of you to the servants. She is getting on so nicely with herFrench, Auntie. That reminds me Louis has been to the Rue Verte, and has brought back word that Madame Nestor is much better, and would be so delighted to see the children any day we can send them."
"Or take them," said Auntie. "I would not like them to go without us the first time, for fear they should feel at all frightened. And yet it is right for them to go. They must always be grateful to Madame Nestor, who did her very best for them."
"Gladys confided to me she would be a little afraid of going back, though she knows that Anna is no longer there. But she says she will feel as if they were going back tostaythere, and as ifthiswould turn out to be only a beautiful dream."
"Poor little dear," said Auntie.
"And she's going to take her new doll—both to show her off, and that she may feelsheisn't a dream! She has such funny ideas sometimes. Auntie——"
"What, dear?"
"If Walter can't find the father—I suppose I should say if he is dead—what is to be done?"
"We must find out all we can—through that Miss Susan, I suppose—as to who are the children'sguardians, and what money they have, and all about it."
"I wish we could adopt them," said Rosamond. "We're rich enough."
"Yes; but that is not the only question. You are almost sure to marry."
"I don't know that," said Rosamond, but her face flushed a little.
"And Walter, too, some day."
"Oh, Auntie! Walter! Why he's only eighteen."
"Well, all the same, time goes on, and adopting children often causes complications. Besides, it is not likely that they havenorelations."
"Well, we shall see what the next letter says," said Rosamond.
It was not a letter after all, but a telegram, and this was what it said:—
"Found Bertram. Will explain all. Returning to-morrow."
The aunt and niece looked at each other.
"He might have said a little more," said the latter. "This is only enough to rouse our curiosity."
"We must say nothing to the children yet," decided Auntie.
"I do hope, as he is alive," said Rosamond, "thathe's a nice good sort of man. If he weren't, that would be worse than anything—having to give up the children to him," and she looked quite unhappy.
"Don't let your imagination run away with you so, my dear child," said Auntie. "It's very unlikely that he's not nice in every way. Remember what Gladys says of his kind letters, and how fond Mrs. Lacy was of him, and how she always taught them to look forward to his return. No;myfears are about his health, poor fellow."
The children went the next morning with Rosamond and her maid to see Madame Nestor, and Rosamond brought back with her to show her aunt a letter Madame Nestor had just received, which threw a little light on one part of the subject. It was from Léonie telling of Mr. and Mrs. Marton's arrival at their destination, and alluding to the children as if she had no doubt that they had only been left two or three days at the Rue Verte. "Monsieur," meaning Mr. Marton, "was so glad," she wrote, "to find at Marseilles that the children's Papa was going on to Paris almost at once. He had left a letter for Captain Bertram at the hotel, as he had gone to Nice for a day or two;and Madame had only just had time to write to the ladies in England to tell how it had all been. And she was writing by this mail to ask for news of the "dear little things," as she called Gladys and Roger. They had thought of them all the way, and Madame thanked Madame Nestor so much for her kindness. She—Léonie—hoped very much she would see them again some day. Then she presented her compliments to her cousin Adolphe, and promised to write again soon—and that was all."
"It is still mysterious enough," said Auntie; "but it shows the Martons were not to blame. As Mr. Marton has written to England again, we shall probably be hearing something from 'Miss Susan' before long. Itisstrange she has not written before, as she has had the Rue Verte address all this time, I suppose."
And here, perhaps, as 'Miss Susan' is not, to my mind nor to yours either, children, I feel sure, by any means the most interesting person in this little story, though, on the other hand, she was far from without good qualities, it may be as well to explain how it had come to pass that nothing had been heard of her.
Mrs. Lacy grew rapidly worse after the childrenleft, but with her gentle unselfishness she would not allow her niece's marriage to be put off, but begged her on the contrary to hasten it, which was done. Two days after it had taken place, Susan, who had gone away for a very short honeymoon, was recalled. She never left Mrs. Lacy again till she died. I think the saddest part of dying for the dear old lady was over when she had said good-bye to her little favourites. For some time Susan felt no anxiety about the children, for, from Marseilles, she had heard from young Mrs. Marton of Captain Bertram's not having met them in Paris, and of the arrangement they had been obliged to make. But, that arrived at Marseilles, they had found he had gone two days before to Nice, to look for a house for his children, the landlord said, whom he was going to Paris to fetch. He had left all his luggage there, and had intended to be back this day or the day before, the landlord was not sure which, and to go on to Paris. No doubt he would be returning that same evening, only, unfortunately, his newly-arrived friends Mr. and Mrs. Marton would have gone, but he faithfully promised to deliver to him at once the letter Mr. Marton wrote and left for him.
"It seems the only thing to do," added young Mrs.Marton, "and I do hope it will be all right. Captain Bertram must have mistaken a day. Anyway he will know where to find the children, I enclose their address to you too—at least I will get it from Léonie before I shut this letter, for I do not remember it, so that in case you do not hear soon from Captain Bertram you can write there."
But in her hurry—for just as she was finishing the letter, her husband called to her that they must be off—the young lady forgot to enclose the address! So there was nowhere for Susan to write to, when, as the days went on and no letter came from Captain Bertram, she did begin to grow uneasy, not exactly about the children's safety, but about their father having gone for them.
"Still," she said to her husband, "if he hadnotgot them with him, he would have written to ask where they were. He was never a very good correspondent. But I wonder he hasn't written to ask how my aunt is. I hope there is nothing the matter. IhopeI did not do wrong in letting them go without actually knowing of his being in Paris."
Of course her husband assured her she had not. But her conscience was not at rest, for Susan hadgrown gentler now that she was happily married, and she was softened too by the thought of her kind aunt's state. All through the last sad days the children kept coming into her mind, and though Mrs. Lacy was too weak even to ask about them, Susan felt almost guilty when she finally tried to thank her for her goodness.
"I don't deserve it," she thought, "I was not kind to the two human beings she loved best," and she wrote over and over again to Captain Bertram at the Marseilles hotel, begging him to send her news of the children, and when Mrs. Marton's letter came from India repeating what she had before written from Marseilles, but with of course no further news, and no mention of the Paris address, poor Susan became so unhappy that her husband promised to take her over to make inquiries in person if no answer came to another letter he sent to Marseilles to the landlord of the hotel, begging him to tell all he knew of Captain Bertram's movements. This letter brought a reply, as you will hear, from Captain Bertram himself.
It was evening before Walter arrived. Gladys and Roger were in bed and asleep. Auntie and Rosamond were waiting for him with the greatest anxiety to hear his news. He looked bright and cheery ashe came into the room, still enveloped in his wraps, which he began to pull off.