Two Little Waifs Part 7

"Back already," exclaimed Mrs. Marton in surprise.

"Oh yes," Leonie 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 princ.i.p.al question," said Mr.

Marton.

"Oh yes," said Leonie. "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, Leonie."

"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----"

Leonie 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 gla.s.s 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. Leonie 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 Leonie'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."

Leonie 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 Leonie 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 Leonie, "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 circ.u.mstances. 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 Leonie to the Ma.r.s.eilles 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."

Leonie 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.

CHAPTER V.

IN THE RUE VERTE.

"The city looked sad. The heaven was gray."

SONGS IN MINOR KEYS.

"Gladdie, are you awake?"

These were the first words that fell on Gladys's ears the next morning.

I cannot say the first _sounds_, for all sorts of strange and puzzling noises had been going on above and below and on all sides since _ever_ so early, as it seemed to her--in reality it had been half-past six--she had opened her eyes in the dark, and wondered and wondered where she was! Still in the railway carriage was her first idea, or on the steamer--once she had awakened enough to remember that she was _not_ in her own little bed at Mrs. Lacy's. But no--people weren't undressed in the railway, even though they did sometimes lie down, and then--though the sounds she heard were very queer--she soon felt she was not moving.

And bit by bit it all came back to her--about the long tiring journey, and no Papa at the station, and Mr. and Mrs. Marton and Leonie all talking together, and the drive in the cab to the crowded narrow street, and the funny old woman with the frilled cap, and the shop full of chairs and sofas, and the queer unnatural long afternoon after their friends went away, and how glad at last she and Roger were to go to bed even in the little stuffy dark room. _How_ dark it was! It must still be the middle of the night, Gladys thought for some time, only that everybody except herself and Roger seemed to be awake and bustling about. For the workroom, as Gladys found out afterwards, was overhead, and the workpeople came early and were not particular about making a noise. It was very dull, and in spite of all the little girl's courage, a few tears _would_ make their way up to her eyes, though she tried her best to force them back, and she lay there perfectly quiet, afraid of waking Roger, for she was glad to hear by his soft breathing that he was still fast asleep. But she could not help being glad when through the darkness came the sound of his voice.

"Gladdie, are you awake?"

"Yes, dear," she replied, "I've been awake a long time."

"So have I," said Roger in all sincerity--he had been awake about three minutes. "It's very dark; is it the middle of the night?"

"No, I don't think so," Gladys replied. "I hear people making a lot of noise."