CHAPTER XII.
PAPA AT LAST.
"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 tolddistinctly the object of his journey. They were allowed to know that hemight 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 themap; but that was all, for Auntie wished to save them any more of thenervous 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 ofthe sorrow, really worse than any they had yet known, which she oftendreaded might be in store for them.
"Let us make them as happy as ever we can for these few days," she saidto Rosamond. "Nothing like happiness for making children strong andwell, 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 madeof. The ladies were too wise to overdo it; they found too that it wasvery easy to amuse these simple little creatures, who had never knownsince they were born the slightest approach to "spoiling" or indulgence.Everything pleased them. The mere living in the pretty luxurioushouse--the waking up in the morning to the sight of the bright daintyroom, where already a cheerful little fire would be blazing, for theweather continued exceedingly cold. The tempting "little breakfast" ofreal bread-and-butter and tea--for both Gladys and Roger found they hadgot very tired of chocolate--the capacious bath and abundance of hotwater--above all, the kind and loving and gentle looks and words whichsurrounded them--all these would have been enough to make them happy.And a drive in Auntie's beautiful carriage, either into the centre ofthe town "to see the shops," or now and then to visit one of thewonderful old churches with their mysterious height of roof and softlybrilliant windows, and _sometimes_, still better, the beautifulswelling organ music which seemed to them to come from nowhere, yet tobe everywhere. Ah! those expeditions were a delight Gladys had nevereven dreamt of, and which little Roger could scarcely take in. They verymuch changed their opinion of Paris in those days, and no longer calledit "an ugly dirty town," as it had seemed to them in their firstexperience 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 backall her pretty childish hope and trust in that "coming."
"Yes, dear," said Rosamond. But then she began quickly to speak to thelittle girl of the pretty colours of the still remaining beech leaves inthe Bois de Boulogne, through which for a change they were that daydriving. For she could not reply with any confidence in her tone, andshe did not want the child to find out her misgiving. Walter had beengone three days and had written twice--once a hurried word to tell ofhis arrival, once the following day to tell of failure. He had been totwo or three of the hotels but had found no traces of Captain Bertram,but there still remained several others, and he hoped to send by hisnext letter if not good yet anyway more certain news.
So Auntie still put off writing to "Miss Susan," for though since seeingthe announcement of Mrs. Lacy's death she did not blame her as much asat first, she yet could not feel it probable that the young lady wassuffering great anxiety.
"In any case I had better wait till Walter tells us _something_," shesaid to Rosamond. "And when I do write I do not know how to address theletter. Gladdie is sure she was to be married a very few days after theyleft, but she cannot remember the name of the gentleman, whom she hasonly seen once or twice, as he lived at a distance, and had made MissSusan's acquaintance away from her home."
"Address to her maiden name--it would be sent after her," suggestedRosamond.
"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 fromher aunt. She is such a baby in some ways. I am sure she has not theslightest idea what _our_ surnames are. You are 'Rosamond' and I am'Auntie.'"
"Or 'Madame' when she speaks of you to the servants. She is getting onso nicely with her French, Auntie. That reminds me Louis has been tothe Rue Verte, and has brought back word that Madame Nestor is muchbetter, and would be so delighted to see the children any day we cansend them."
"Or take them," said Auntie. "I would not like them to go without us thefirst time, for fear they should feel at all frightened. And yet it isright for them to go. They must always be grateful to Madame Nestor, whodid 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 willfeel as if they were going back to _stay_ there, and as if _this_ wouldturn 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 thatshe may feel _she_ isn'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 isdead--what is to be done?"
"We must find out all we can--through that Miss Susan, I suppose--as towho are the children's guardians, and what money they have, and allabout 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 causescomplications. Besides, it is not likely that they have _no_ relations."
"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 itsaid:--
"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 onlyenough to rouse our curiosity."
"We must say nothing to the children yet," decided Auntie.
"I do hope, as he is alive," said Rosamond, "that he's a nice good sortof man. If he weren't, that would be worse than anything--having to giveup the children to him," and she looked quite unhappy.
"Don't let your imagination run away with you so, my dear child," saidAuntie. "It's very unlikely that he's not nice in every way. Rememberwhat 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; _my_fears are about his health, poor fellow."
The children went the next morning with Rosamond and her maid to seeMadame Nestor, and Rosamond brought back with her to show her aunt aletter Madame Nestor had just received, which threw a little light onone part of the subject. It was from Leonie telling of Mr. and Mrs.Marton's arrival at their destination, and alluding to the children asif she had no doubt that they had only been left two or three days atthe Rue Verte. "Monsieur," meaning Mr. Marton, "was so glad," she wrote,"to find at Marseilles that the children's Papa was going on to Parisalmost 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 hadtime to write to the ladies in England to tell how it had all been. Andshe was writing by this mail to ask for news of the "dear littlethings," as she called Gladys and Roger. They had thought of them allthe way, and Madame thanked Madame Nestor so much for her kindness.She--Leonie--hoped very much she would see them again some day. Then shepresented her compliments to her cousin Adolphe, and promised to writeagain soon--and that was all."
"It is still mysterious enough," said Auntie; "but it shows the Martonswere not to blame. As Mr. Marton has written to England again, we shallprobably be hearing something from 'Miss Susan' before long. It _is_strange she has not written before, as she has had the
Rue Verte addressall this time, I suppose."
And here, perhaps, as 'Miss Susan' is not, to my mind nor to yourseither, children, I feel sure, by any means the most interesting personin this little story, though, on the other hand, she was far fromwithout good qualities, it may be as well to explain how it had come topass that nothing had been heard of her.
Mrs. Lacy grew rapidly worse after the children left, but with hergentle unselfishness she would not allow her niece's marriage to be putoff, but begged her on the contrary to hasten it, which was done. Twodays after it had taken place, Susan, who had gone away for a very shorthoneymoon, was recalled. She never left Mrs. Lacy again till she died. Ithink the saddest part of dying for the dear old lady was over when shehad said good-bye to her little favourites. For some time Susan felt noanxiety about the children, for, from Marseilles, she had heard fromyoung Mrs. Marton of Captain Bertram's not having met them in Paris, andof the arrangement they had been obliged to make. But, that arrived atMarseilles, they had found he had gone two days before to Nice, to lookfor a house for his children, the landlord said, whom he was going toParis to fetch. He had left all his luggage there, and had intended tobe back this day or the day before, the landlord was not sure which, andto go on to Paris. No doubt he would be returning that same evening,only, unfortunately, his newly-arrived friends Mr. and Mrs. Marton wouldhave gone, but he faithfully promised to deliver to him at once theletter Mr. Marton wrote and left for him.
"It seems the only thing to do," added young Mrs. Marton, "and I dohope it will be all right. Captain Bertram must have mistaken a day.Anyway he will know where to find the children, I enclose their addressto you too--at least I will get it from Leonie before I shut thisletter, for I do not remember it, so that in case you do not hear soonfrom Captain Bertram you can write there."
But in her hurry--for just as she was finishing the letter, her husbandcalled to her that they must be off--the young lady forgot to enclosethe address! So there was nowhere for Susan to write to, when, as thedays went on and no letter came from Captain Bertram, she did begin togrow uneasy, not exactly about the children's safety, but about theirfather having gone for them.
"Still," she said to her husband, "if he had _not_ got them with him, hewould have written to ask where they were. He was never a very goodcorrespondent. But I wonder he hasn't written to ask how my aunt is. Ihope there is nothing the matter. I _hope_ I did not do wrong in lettingthem go without actually knowing of his being in Paris."
Of course her husband assured her she had not. But her conscience wasnot at rest, for Susan had grown gentler now that she was happilymarried, and she was softened too by the thought of her kind aunt'sstate. All through the last sad days the children kept coming into hermind, and though Mrs. Lacy was too weak even to ask about them, Susanfelt 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 humanbeings she loved best," and she wrote over and over again to CaptainBertram at the Marseilles hotel, begging him to send her news of thechildren, and when Mrs. Marton's letter came from India repeating whatshe had before written from Marseilles, but with of course no furthernews, and no mention of the Paris address, poor Susan became so unhappythat her husband promised to take her over to make inquiries in personif no answer came to another letter he sent to Marseilles to thelandlord of the hotel, begging him to tell all he knew of CaptainBertram's movements. This letter brought a reply, as you will hear, fromCaptain Bertram himself.
It was evening before Walter arrived. Gladys and Roger were in bed andasleep. Auntie and Rosamond were waiting for him with the greatestanxiety to hear his news. He looked bright and cheery as he came intothe room, still enveloped in his wraps, which he began to pull off.
"It's nice and warm in here," he said; "but, oh, it's so cold outside.And it was so mild and sunny down there; I would have liked to stay aday or two longer. It was to please _him_ I hurried back soquickly--poor man, he is in _such_ a state about the children!"
"But, Walter, what is the meaning of it all? Why has he not comehimself?"
"Do you like him?" put in Rosamond.
"Awfully," said Walter boyishly. "He's just what you would expect theirfather to be. But I'm forgetting--I haven't told you. He's beendreadfully ill--he can only just crawl a step or two. And all thistime he's not had the slightest misgiving about the children, exceptthe fear of not living to see them again of course. He's not had theleast doubt of their being safe in England; and only just lately, ashe began to get well enough to think consecutively, he has wonderedwhy he got no letters. He was just going to try to write to thatplace--Market-Lilford--when I got there. So he was mystified too! But wegot to the bottom of it. This was how it was. He was feeling ill atMarseilles--he had put off too long in India--and he thought it was theair of the place, and as he had some days to pass before he was due inParis, he went on to Nice, thinking he'd get all right there and be ableto look about for a house if he liked it. But instead of getting allright he broke down completely. He wrote out a telegram to tell MissSusan that he was ill, and that she must not start the children. Itwould have been in plenty of time to stop them, had she got it, but shenever did."
"Never got it," repeated both ladies.
"No; the waiter told him it was all right, but it wasn't. His writingwas so bad that at the office they couldn't read the address, and themessage was returned from London the next day; and by that time he wasso ill that the doctor wouldn't allow them to ask him a thing, and heprobably wouldn't have understood them if they had. This, you see, he'sonly found out since I got there. The doctor was meaning to tell him,but he took his time about it, and he did not know how important it was.So, in a way, nobody was to blame except that Miss Susan. That's whatBertram says himself; but while I was there he telegraphed to Marseillesfor his letters. There were several from her, and the last so franticthat he's writing to say it's all right; especially as she's been verycut up about the poor old lady's death. But she shouldn't have startedthe children till he telegraphed _from Paris_. Besides, he had told herto send a maid with them for the journey. It wasn't the Martons' fault;they did their best."
"Was he distressed at hearing of Mrs. Lacy's death?" asked Auntie.
"_Very_," said Walter; "it put him back, the doctor said; but he'll beall right when he sees the children. If you had seen him when I told himabout their finding their way to us, not even knowing our names, allover Paris! He didn't know whether to laugh or cry. He's weak still, youknow. And then he's so _dreadfully_ grateful to us! I was glad to getaway."
"And when does he want them?" said Rosamond dolefully.
"As soon as possible. He can't come north this winter. And he's notrich, I can see. So I was thinking----"
"What, my boy?"
"It _is_ so cold here," repeated Walter; "it really feels terrible tocome back to. Supposing we all go down there for a couple of months orso, to escape the cold? We could keep the children till Bertram isstrong again and able to make his plans. I think we'd feel quite queerwithout them now. Besides, I promised him to bring them back to him."
"What do you say, Rosamond?" said Auntie.
"I should like it very much. It would be so nice not to part with themjust yet."
So it was decided. You can imagine how much had to be told to thechildren the next day. Mingled sadness and happiness--warp and woof ofthe web of life!
But when they found themselves once more on the railway, with the kindfriends they had learnt to know so well, really on the way to "Papa," Ithink the happiness was uppermost.
He proved to be the dearest of Papas; not the very least like what theyhad imagined him. "Of course not," Gladys said; "people and things arenever like what one fancies they will be." But though he was older andgrayer, and perhaps at first sight a little _sadder_ than she hadexpected, he grew merry enough in the great happiness of having themwith him, and as he gradually got strong and well again he seemed, too,to become younger.
"
Anyway," said Gladys, a few weeks after their arrival at Nice, "he_couldn't_ be nicer, could he, Roger?" in which opinion Roger solemnlyagreed.
"And now he's getting better," she added; "it's not a bad thing he'sbeen ill, for it's made the doctor say he must never go back to Indiaagain."
* * * * *
Is that all there is to tell about the "two little waifs?" I think Imust lift the curtain for an instant "ten years later," to show youlittle Roger a tall strong schoolboy, rather solemn still, but biddingfair to be all his father could wish him, and very devoted to a tinygirl of about the age at which we first saw Gladys, and who, as hermother is pretty Rosamond, he persists in calling his "niece," and withsome show of reason, for her _real_ uncle, "Walter," is now the husbandof his sister Gladys!
And long before this, by the bye, another marriage had come to passwhich it may amuse you to hear of. There is a new Madame Nestor in theRue Verte, as well as the cheery old lady who still hobbles aboutbriskly, though with a crutch. And the second Madame Nestor's first nameis "Leonie." She is, I think, quite as clever as Mademoiselle Anna, andcertainly _very_ much better tempered.
And whenever any of the people you have heard of in this little bookcome to Paris, you may be sure they pay a visit to the little old shop,which is as full as ever of sofas and chairs, and where they alwaysreceive the heartiest welcome from the Nestor family.
I wish, for my part, the histories of all "little waifs" ended ashappily!
THE END.